Roland Green - Conan and The Mists of Doom

Khezal was still a man to ride with, more so than ever now that the wisdom of years and the experience of many battles had joined his native wits. It was as well to have such a comrade on a quest, particularly one that showed every sign of sprouting new mysteries as fast as the old ones were answered.

Conan had sworn to ride north to aid Khezal in the Kezankian Mountains, and he would not break that oath if all the tribes of the desert and all their intriguing chiefs and chiefs' sons stood in his path. But he would not expect to come back alive, either.

Ten

They were four days' ride north of the battle against the Girumgi. The Kezankian Mountains were peering over the northern horizon, with the eternal snowcaps of the higher peaks glinting pink at dawn and sunset. The breeze told of a world beyond the desert, at which Conan and the Afghulis rejoiced.

Khezal was less joyful, and thought he had cause, for all the Cimmerian's rough jests.

"Here we are, not far from the caravan routes," Conan said. "Yet you complain. There are wells for water, trees for shade, and even refuges for any of our men who fall ill or are taken by the sun. What do you want—dragons to fly us to the Kezankians in a trice?"

"I would rather bind them to seek out the mysteries in the mountains and bring us back word of what they learn," Khezal replied.

"Not slay the wizards outright?"

"I'd not wager a dragon's power against wizards fit to do the half of what the tales say has happened," Khezal said, with a shrug. "Besides, I'm of your mind about dealing with spellcasters. Don't play their games, but close and feed them an arm's length of steel."

Conan nodded his approval. "Then what ails you, my friend?"

"Riding into yet another mystery is what ails me, and don't pretend you are any the less uneasy in your mind about that. Also, we have slain two score Girumgi, and if they are not in rebellion against the king, they will surely call themselves at blood-feud with us."

"Hah. There will be few Girumgi left to rebel if they stand to face us. Moreover, as long as we face that battle, your folk and mine will be readier to forget that they ever so much as exchanged harsh looks."

Khezal looked back at the Afghuli riding in a compact knot behind Conan. Certainly some Turanians rode easily beside them, chatting as if they'd been comrades for years. Other Greencloaks, however, kept their distance and wore baleful looks. The Afghulis, in turn, kept a sharp lookout and their sword hands free.

"Speak for your own men, as no doubt you can," Khezal said. "I am sure of most of mine, but there is always one with a heritage of blood-feud or grief for a lost comrade who can ruin the best-planned discipline. I'll guard your back, Conan, but I can hardly promise that will be enough."

"You're a warrior, not a god," Conan said, slapping Khezal on the shoulder nearly hard enough to tumble the slight Turanian from the saddle. Khezal mock-glared, then turned his eyes forward once more.

"We'd best start looking for a campsite near water," he said, after a moment. "In the middle of the camp, would be my choice."

"How so?"

"See that haze on the horizon?" Conan followed the other's pointing finger and nodded. The horizon did indeed seem blurred, as might be after an evening's drinking.

Except that no one among the riders had touched wine for longer than it was pleasant to remember.

"Sandstorm?"

"I see you have not forgotten everything you learned in the Turanian service."

"No, although one of the things I did forget was your tongue. Some day Yezdigerd may have it out by the roots."

"And you'll stand drinks for the executioner, of course?" The brittleness in Khezal's voice told Conan more than he cared to know about the uneasy situation honest men could face under the ruthless young king.

"I'll wring his neck and snatch you to life and freedom," the Cimmerian replied. "But I won't expect thanks for it."

"You know me well," Khezal said. "And now, if you know this desert, let us seek that campsite. At this time of year it's death to ride in a sandstorm and no small risk even to camp in one away from water. They can blow for days at a time."

The wind moaned steadily outside Muhbaras's quarters, occasionally rising to a shriek. He shivered, not so much at the wind's cry but at the man sitting across the room from him.

Through the smoke from the bronze brazier Ermik's face looked even more complacent and self-satisfied than usual. It was hard to believe, but all the man's time in the mountains had not cost him any flesh. Muhbaras wondered how much money he had spent in bribes squeezing banquets from the rocks, or perhaps how many pack animals he had killed bringing supplies from more civilized lands or even from Khoraja itself.

The spy had come to speak of a rumor abroad in the valley. After three cups of Muhbaras's wine, he had yet to put it into plain words.

Muhbaras hardened his voice. "I ask you for the last time. Put a name to the rumor or hold your piece."

"And what will you do if I do neither?" Ermik taunted.

"Do you wish to test me to the point of learning?" Muhbaras said. His voice was low, and to his own ears, that of a man dangerously near the end of his patience.

Ermik shrugged. "I have as many friends as before, and you have as few," he said. "What I speak of concerns how we may both have more friends here."

"We will have few friends and many enemies if you have been roaming where our men are not allowed," Muhbaras said wearily. "That also remains as true as it was before."

Ermik shrugged. "I doubt that your fears are wise counselors—"

"Either do not call me a coward or be prepared to lose your tongue," Muhbaras snapped.

This time Ermik did seem to recognize danger, at least when it took the form of a man within a heartbeat of drawing steel. He bowed his head, in a gesture at once graceful and contemptuous.

"I beg your pardon. I do not call you coward. Do you not call me fool, unless I give more proof of it than I think I have so far."

Ermik drew in breath.

"The Maidens say that the Lady of the Mists desires you, as a woman does a man. They did not say how they knew this, as this no doubt is part of the mysteries of the Valley of the Mist and its Lady. But the Maiden who told me swore such oaths by gods I knew, as well as by those I knew not, that I do not doubt she spoke the truth as far as she apprehended it."

That was unusual care in choosing words for Ermik, but surprise did not make Muhbaras less alert. He folded his hands across one silk-trousered knee. (Actually he folded the hands across the homespun knee patch on the silk. The trousers and several other silk garments were a gift from his sister, who had died in childbirth two years ago. Hard wear on campaign and in the mountains was rapidly reducing them to a state in which Muhbaras would hardly care to be buried in them, for all his affection for his sister's memory.)

"So we face a sorceress who has begun to think with her loins, as do many common women. Many common women also command their loins, or at least do not roam about like starving she-lions in search of a man to serve them."

"Many do, the more fools they when there are any number of willing men," Ermik said. "But I do not think the Lady of the Mists is one of them."

If the truth be known, neither do I . Red-hot pincers and boiling oil could not have drawn from the captain a description of the Lady's face, for Ermik's delectation. Of course, if the Maidens were women enough to recognize desire, the spy might not need such a description, either…

"Why me?" Even to his own ears, Muhbaras's words sounded pathetic.

Ermik laughed outright. "Why not you? I have not a woman's eye for judging a man, but no doubt the Lady sees in you what she needs."