Conan the Rebel (23 page)

A few bones and traces of grave goods lay covered by dust. Conan ignored them. His whole being seized on the thing against which time had not prevailed.

It was a battle ax such as the Taians used to this day, haft long and straight, edge slightly curved, hammer sharpened to a point. It was larger, though, needing a strong man for its wielding. The helve, of some unknown red-brown wood, had not decayed in the least. Etched into the blade – on either side, Conan soon found -was the emblem of the Sun. That steel shimmered like no metal had ever seen before, blue-white, silken, as if light of its streamed thence.

With unwonted reverence, Conan reached down, lifted the Ax from its burial, and rose to his feet. He gave it a tentative swing. It came alive in his hands, became a part of him, or he a part of it, himself a war god, a sky god. He checked his exaltation and ran a thumb along the edge. In spite of his caution, blood oozed from a cut. The weapon was razor keen. Parasan had said it never needed honing. He laughed aloud and sent it whistling in front of the eidolon.

A demonic screech resounded. Conan whirled about. He remembered the horn that had summoned the dead against his men. Falco was alone out there. Conan ran.

An asp struck at him, missed, and was crushed underfoot.

He burst from the dolmen. Falco crouched against a slab, dirk free, spitting defiance. From red-veiled sky, through dust and murk, descended a new monster. Now Conan understood why the wind had lowered, so that this thing might descend without risk of being blown against some wall.

He recognized that pointed beak, those naked thirty-foot wings. They were moulded into the boat of Set. A tail ending in rudder-like flukes streamed after the reptile. Its talons were small, but they could scoop an eye out, and the bill held fish-hook fangs.

A man bestrode it, in front of the racketing wings. The wind of his passage fluttered a black robe around his gaunt body. His head was shaven, his face aged and like a scimitar. Once more he blew the horn slung at his waist, let it go, and shrieked his own shriek of malice turned into madness.

Conan took stance. Flight-gusts buffeted him. The magician grasped a talisman hung on his breast, the articulated skull of a viper. He made a sign and aimed at the open jaws.

Lightning struck from between them, blinding. Conan staggered. But the bolt had not smitten him, it had hit the head of the Ax – and rebounded. Thunder bawled. A lurid blaze wrapped the Stygian. He was lost in flames.

His steed was almost upon the man. Conan recovered his footing and swung. The Ax sheared through the long neck. The severed head snapped jaws shut on his left forearm, lacerated it, let go, and dropped at his feet. The body crashed against the tomb. For a while, beak clacked and wings threshed, before the creature lay altogether dead. A little distance from it, unrecognisable, huddled a charred corpse.

The wind sank to nothing. Dust drifted earthward. The sun came back in heaven, radiant.

XVIII

A Snare in Pteion

Through a great and blazing silence, the fighters returned.

They meant to skirt the plaza, but a look from behind a heap of shards showed it empty save for remnants of horse and hyena. No reptile could endure desert noonday. Teeth had crumpled Conan's blades, but Falco retrieved his sabre and shield. Aided by his comrade's arm, he limped stubbornly on.

They were about halfway back when a wild metallic sound broke the hush. A thrill in them responded. That was no ugly bray of a wizard's horn, it was a bugle call. 'Hallo-o-o!' Conan shouted. 'Here we are!' By that time, Falco was in such pain he could barely croak his own response.

A rider rounded a corner at a quick trot, saw them, and halted so that sand flew up from hooves. Blood-streaked, in tattered garb, it was Daris. She dropped her spear, leaped from her saddle, and pelted down the street with arms wide. 'Conan, oh, Conan!' she carolled through tears and laughter.

He embraced her. She sobbed while she kissed him. But when she saw what he had rested against a plinth in order to free his own arms, she let go. Wonder and worship lighted her. She went to her knees. 'Is this the Ax of Varanghi?' Her voice trembled. Conan nodded. She looked aloft. 'Mitra, we thank you.'

As she rose, eagerness and pride spoke in a rush: 'And you are the Wielder, the Deliverer, you, my dear love!'

He knew he should have savoured his triumph and her joy. But -was it just the weariness athrob in his bones? - somehow the anger that battle had cleansed him of was rising afresh. Who was she, to claim him for herself? And what kind of military idiots was he condemned to use for troops? They blithely supposed a single weapon, for which he had risked his life that belonged to Bêlit, made victory certain. The attitude almost guaranteed defeat. He had better stamp it down, at once.

'What are you doing here?' he demanded.

She stepped back, bewildered. 'Why, I – I came in search of you.'

'How fare the men?'

'We destroyed many of the foe, but at fearful cost to ourselves. It did not seem we would survive. Then all at once they collapsed, they lay quiet, they were only harmless corpses – and the storm died away and the sun shone – and I knew you had won, Conan, but you might be hurt or – or anything.' Almost timidly, she touched the slash that the flying beast had given him. 'I must see to this.'

'It's naught,' he snapped. 'The blood has started to clot. What of the men?'

'About half are slain or badly wounded. The hale are worn out, dazed. I thought they should rest a while.'

The Cimmerian scowled. 'And you went off alone, into you knew not what peril, and left them leaderless? Ha, the only woman on earth fit for command is my Bêlit!'

Daris paled as if he had struck her, clenched fists, stood stiff but aquiver.

'Welcome, princess,' Falco gasped. Unsupported, he swayed where he kept weight on his good foot. 'You – you do wrong to chide her, Conan... this gallant lady.'

He reeled towards her, stumbled, and fell. A groan escaped him.

'You are hurt!' Daris exclaimed. She knelt beside the youth. 'What is it? How bad?' She stroked his brow. 'Poor darling.'

Ire boiled in Conan. He congratulated himself on how well he hid it, saying merely, coldly, 'He damaged his leg. Nothing that won't heal, but why worsen it when there is no need? Give him your horse and ride behind.'

'No, let him ride, indeed, but we can walk together,' she urged, getting up again.

'Do as I say!' Conan barked. 'I want you back where you belong immediately. Get the men moving. Have them care for the injured, make ready for the road. We must be well away from here before dark. Don't you realize that, you witling? I will come after you.'

She gave him a long look, bit her lip, and turned away to bring the horse over. Conan helped Falco into the saddle. She, already there, slid back onto the rump and held the Ophirite's waist. Wordless, they departed.

The barbarian stood sullen among the ruins in the incandescent day. He thought that he hoped Daris enjoyed her ride, the scatterbrained tease. Finally he mumbled an oath, hung the Ax over his shoulder, and trudged after his vanished companions.

For a while he sensed nothing but heat, stillness, faint squeak of sand under his boots. He did not recognize the buildings he passed. Be-like he had gotten onto a different route, in this accursed maze. No matter; it sufficed to maintain the right general direction. Ahead of him he noticed a façade that was eroded but otherwise whole. Hearing, he saw that above the doorless entrance was inset a ruby the size of his fist. It smouldered blood-red against jet stone. Why had no one removed it when the city was abandoned? Should he?

A figure appeared in the portal. Conan gasped. He seized the Ax and crouched. Each hair on him stood erect.

Laughter trilled sweet. 'What, is the Wielder frightened? And of a woman, at that. For shame. Be at ease. It is only poor Nehekba.'

She stood aglow with beauty, hand on hip in an insolence of allure. Her eyes, her smile enticed. The garb she wore, woven of golden-brown feathers, form-fitting from bosom to thighs, drew the gaze along every curve of her body.

Her voice sang: 'Behold my throat, my fingers, all of me. See, I wear no talisman. It would be useless, did I want to harm you. Only think what happened to Tothapis. The Ax is potent against all magic that strikes from without at its Wielder. Surely Parasan told you that while you bear the holy weapon you are invulnerable to sorcery as long as you yield nothing of yourself to its blandishments, so that it may strike you from within. I repeat his warning in token of the truth that I wish no hurt on such a man as you.'

'What is your aim, then?' he responded hoarsely.

She undulated through a shrug. 'I will not insult you by lying. I came here with Tothapis in hopes of stopping you. But your

destiny was too strong; no, you yourself were, Conan the magnificent. You won the Ax, you killed Tothapis after all the centuries he had lived in power, you are going on to a victory that will shake the house of Set to its foundations. The fall of my master has left me stranded. My enchantments fail, my tower is afar in Khemi, my potions are gone, my goddess has forsaken me. If I stay here I shall die most horribly tonight. If I flee into the desert I shall die miserably tomorrow.'

'And you appeal to me – you?'

She straightened. 'I will not beg.' He must needs admire her steadiness. 'You have much to avenge upon me. But I for my part have much to offer in exchange for my life. I am a skilled healer. I kept my knowledge of spells and how to guard against them. I can tell you well-nigh everything about King Mentuphera, his forces and officers and plans, information a thousand spies could not win for you, that will save countless Taian lives when the final engagement comes.'

Conan frowned. 'I know not which I despise more, a witch or a traitor,' he declared; but his words lacked force. How gorgeous she was!

'I gave no pledges, save to the goddess, and she has votaries in many lands,' Nehekba replied. 'Nonetheless I will plight my faith to you if you are merciful, and never break it. Everything I can do, everything I am, shall be yours, wholly yours.'

He stood dumb. His temples pounded.

'And how gladly I will give you myself,' she went on. 'There is no other man in the world like unto you, Conan. Make me your slave, and I shall rejoice.'

She glided forth. Sunlight sent blue ripples across raven locks; heat brought out a fragrance that overwhelmed his senses. She cupped his face between soft palms and purred, 'Come, let me show you. Inside is a pleasant place that was established for those who awaited you. There is water for washing, salve for your hurts, clean cloth for bandages. Afterwards – oh, I understand you dare not linger here, but your men will not be ready to go for hours. I have wine and chilled fruits for your refreshment, a bed for your ease, myself for your service.'

She kissed him as she had done in Khemi. He hung the Ax again on his shoulder and responded. For minutes they stood straining together, in a cataract of brilliance. At last she slipped free and skipped toward the building, merrily beckoning him on. He followed, an earthquake in his breast.

As she had promised, the interior was cool, dim, well furnished. He could ignore a disturbing frieze that ran below the ceiling.

He must not let this lovely creature perish, he thought. And why should he not take his pleasure of her? If that hurt Daris, why, Daris had brought it on herself. And Nehekba would in truth be an invaluable ally.

Of course, he was no mooncalf like Falco. Conan investigated the room thoroughly. He found nothing that might be magical or a weapon. The inner doorway showed rubble where a section had fallen, so she kept no hidden implements there. All she had were the things she had mentioned: a table bearing ewers, basins, bowls, linens; a couple of chairs; a wide, well-mattressed bed.

He set down the Ax, ready to hand, and took a sip of water. It tasted quite pure, and he hardly supposed she would have thought to bring poisons along when she meant to assist in things far more powerful. 'Ungarb yourself,' she murmured as he quenched his thirst. 'I long to care for you.'

Her fingers aided him to remove his ragged outer garments. While he drew off the hauberk and its underpadding, she knelt to remove his boots. Together they stripped away what was left, and he stood before her naked.

Lust burned high and red in him. Her eyes widened in surprised admiration. He gripped her by the arms. 'Ishtar!' he bellowed. 'Get rid of that feather thing – at once!'

'Conan, you hurt me,' she wailed. He let go. She touched the places he had seized. 'What bruises I shall have.' She smiled, fluttered her lashes, blew him a kiss. 'I will bear them as badges of honour, from the mightiest man on earth.'

'Undress,' he said out of a thick throat.

'Oh, I yearn for you,' she avowed melodiously. 'But you are hurt, beloved. Blood and sweat and dirt hide your splendour. Let me wash you, anoint and bandage you, that you may feel no more pain

or tiredness. Then we will go to our joy.'

'As you wish,' he yielded, and sat down. Still he kept the Ax in reach.

She wet a cloth and scrubbed him, slow, sensual strokes that brought delicious ease even while they raised desire further yet. Her free fingers combed through his mane.

He almost regretted it when she was done. His gaze followed her hotly as she moved off. Limned against the day-lit door, she resembled a golden-edged shadow. He watched her wipe both hands on the bloodstained towel, no doubt to get rid of filth and stray hairs and the like. Yes, she had been right about this. Next she would give him soothing medications in the same playful manner -

'Hoy, where are you going?' he asked in surprise.

She poised at the exit. Her voice fluted mockery: 'Away. I have decided I would rather not travel overland. Farewell, barbarian.'

He surged to his feet. She slipped out. He grabbed the Ax and leaped in pursuit.

The sun dazzled him. For a moment he was nearly blind. When vision returned, he saw that he stood in an empty street.