Roland Green - Conan and The Mists of Doom

"The gods made you too sensible to be a hero, Cimmerian," Farad chaffed.

"I sometimes wonder what the gods were about when they made me," Conan said. "If they ever tell me the truth, I'll spread the word. Meanwhile, my friend, see to Bethina, and set the sentries. For now, we wait."

Muhbaras reached his Lady just as the ground seemed to turn to jelly under his feet. His final dash to where she lay turned into an undignified sprawl on his face.

He rose bruised and dusty, to see Ermik cowering back against the cliff. The spy was the color of old chalk, and not all of it was the dust on his skin.

"I—I wanted to stop her," Ermik stammered. "I tried to stop her. She was conjuring—she was casting a spell to—I used my dagger. The dagger with the chaos stone. It should have stopped her. I wanted to stop her. I wanted to—"

Muhbaras neither could nor would hear any more of this litany. He walked to the Lady's body. She lay as if in sleep, save for the death-rictus of her lovely mouth and a gaping dagger wound in her back. It must have reached her lung, but there was no sign of blood from her mouth.

The captain knelt and drew out the dagger. It was Ermik's—he recognized the silver mounting and the "chaos stone."

Muhbaras flung the dagger point-first into the ground. It stuck there, quivering even when the ground did not. Then he walked slowly toward the spy. He had not thought he had much strength left after his long run, but now it flowed into him as if from the earth itself—or perhaps the Lady's spirit.

Ermik did not know that he was about to die until Muhbaras seized him by the throat. In the next moment he knew nothing at all, because Muhbaras smashed him back against the rock hard enough to crack his skull.

That was not the end, because Muhbaras kept pounding Ermik's head against the rock and twisting his throat until he heard rocks falling down around him. He heard only three, because the fourth struck him on the shoulder and knocked him down, and the fifth struck him in the stomach as he lay on his back on the ground.

He did not hear the climax of the battle of spells, or anything else for a long time.

Conan and his men kept watch until daylight, except for Farad, who kept watch over Bethina. She was either dead or in a sleep that feigned death, and with her senseless, there was no asking Omyela for the truth.

Dawn came to the valley, and consciousness to Bethina at about the same time, and the silence of the dawn was broken by triumphant Afghuli cries. Bamshir and his men joined in with a will—they knew they owed their lives to the women as much as they did to Conan.

Conan, Bamshir, and a band of fighters that included a few Maidens marched down into the valley as soon as they could travel safely. Even the Maidens who had spent much time there seemed bemused at the changes, and wanted to stop and gape so long that Conan needed brisk words to move them along.

They did not find the Lady until the sun was nearly overhead. They also found Muhbaras, lying beside the Lady, an arm thrown protectively across her. Furrows in the ground showed that the Khorajan had crawled to the Lady from where he had first fallen. How he had done this with two death wounds upon him, Conan did not expect even the gods to know.

He knelt by Muhbaras, sponging his blood-caked lips and listening to the man's last words.

"I—Ermik killed her. That—loosed—what you fought. Are—are the men safe?"

"All who reached the gate yet live, Captain," Bamshir said.

"Good." Muhbaras was silent for so long that Conan thought he had died. But he rolled over, groaning at the pain and effort this caused him, and rested his head upon the Lady's breast.

"Look at her. Look at those eyes. Did you ever see such beautiful golden eyes?"

Those were Muhbaras's last words. His own eyes closed by themselves, so Conan had no need to touch him. Instead he knelt, looking down at the Lady.

Golden eyes? The Lady of the Mist's eyes were larger than most, but they were a rich brown flecked with green. Eyes the color of a forest pool, deep and rich, that a man could drown in. That a man had drowned in—and called himself happy in doing so.

At least Conan now understood how a common man could love a sorceress. One did not love the sorceress. One found the woman inside the sorceress, and loved her.

Conan stood up. The Maidens had drawn apart, to keen and wail for their Lady. From the way some of the soldiers were looking at them, Conan wondered if they were Maidens in truth as well as in name—or would so remain long, if they were now.

He turned to Bamshir. "We will bury them together, if that does not offend you."

"Anything else would offend the captain's spirit," the other said. "Also the Lady's—and I think the valley will be the better for it, if her spirit sleeps content."

Epilogue

Conan rode west again, but this time he was alone. As he looked eastward, to where only the highest peaks of the Kezankian Mountains pierced the horizon, he recalled memories of this latest adventure.

The last two in particular made him smile, and more warmly than was the Cimmerian's custom.

He remembered his final conversation with Bethina. Deciding that she neither could nor would return to her tribe, she had vowed to stay in the Valley of the Mists and become chieftess of a new tribe.

An odd mixture, that tribe would be—the survivors of Khorajan soldiers, tribesmen, Afghulis, Maidens, and the peasants. Not a bad one, though—all of them were proven hardy and industrious, and able to fight when necessary.

"Well enough that while I would still invite you to stay," Bethina said, "I cannot imagine that we need you. Nor would you be happy, which is why I chose Farad even though you were my first man. In your soul you are a loosefoot, although an honest one."

Conan had laughed then. "Ask in Zamboula sometime, and they will tell you how honest Conan the Cimmerian was. Only do not tell them that you are my friend, or they may arrest you on suspicion of receiving stolen goods!"

Then there was the night Conan had used those thief's skills to regain his jewels from Khezal. After all, a man was entitled to a trifle of reward for a mission of such service to Turan, as well as traveling expenses to his next destination.

The reinforcements were up by then, with an array of elegant young captains who swore mighty oaths of frustration when they learned that the victory had been gained without them. It would have been as much as the Cimmerian's life was worth to remain in the camp long, and Khezal had not dared even meet him.

But Sergeant Barak had told Conan which tent was now Khezal's, and when Conan slipped into it that night, it was most scantily guarded. Moreover, the purse contained all the jewels but three, as well as a handful of gold coins and a silver-chased dagger that had not been there before.

Khezal still knew what he was about. Conan hoped that this continued. Yezdigerd might be more formidable a foe with men like Khezal serving him, but without such wise heads, he would be a rampaging monster equal to the Lady's Mists of Doom.

Conan laughed again, in his usual harsh way, at the idea of his wishing Yezdigered any kind of good fortune. Then he prodded his mount to a canter. It was time to be off to Koth and whatever fortune its brewing wars might bring him.

_______________________________

CONAN

AND THE

MISTS OF DOOM

ROLAND GREEN

TOR

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

NEW YORK

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