Roland Green - Conan The Valiant

Then he sighed, stepped back, and began to test the fitness of his staff for use. As it passed one test after another, his confidence began to return.

With the staff alone, he could still command the Transformed well enough to doom Crimson Springs. He could not command the Jewel, for Illyana had bound his Jewel and hers into a spell of mutual opposition. She also could not command her Jewel, and had no more power against him than he against her.

Did that matter to her? Had she sought to destroy his

Jewel, even at the risk of her own? She had always seemed as ambitious as himself to possess both the Jewels. Was she now ready to abandon supreme power for a modest prize? Being known as she who destroyed the Jewels of Kurag would certainly bring little, compared to what might come from possessing them both!

Enough. The Transformed awaited his commands. Eremius composed himself and began forming a picture of the village in his mind.

The door of Illyana's chamber quivered, then fell off its hinges. Conan and Raihna leaped back. Raihna nearly knocked the innkeeper back down the stairs he had just mounted.

The innkeeper looked at the ruined door, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, then handed Raihna a basket.

"Mostly bread and cheese. The cooks not only fled, they took most of the larder with them!" The innkeeper sat down and buried his head in his hands.

Illyana staggered out of her chamber and nearly fell into Conan's arms. After a moment she took a deep breath, then knelt and tore the cover off the basket. Without bothering to don any garments, she began wolfing bread and cheese.

Conan waited until she stopped for breath, then handed her a cup of wine. It vanished in two gulps, followed by the rest of the basket's contents. At last Illyana sat up, looked ruefully at the empty basket, then stood.

"I'm sorry, but—Cimmerian, what are you laughing at?"

"You're the first sorceress I've ever seen who'd admit to being hungry!"

A brief smile was the only reply. Raihna went to gather Illyana's clothes, while Conan handed the empty basket to the innkeeper.

"Again? I suppose I can expect to be paid by the time King Yildiz's grandson ascends the—"

A furious pounding on the street door broke into the man's speech. The innkeeper rose and handed the basket to Conan.

"Time to go down and play my part. Ah well, if I can no longer keep an inn, there are always temple pageants needing actors! Best make haste, though. I heard some outside say that Lord Achmai had reached town. If he takes a hand, I will not make an enemy—"

"Achmai?"

"So they said. He's a great name in these parts. I've heard—"

"I've heard all the tales told of him, and more besides," Conan snapped. "Now—is there a place on the roof where I can overlook the town without being seen?"

"Yes. But what—?"

"Show me."

"If this is against Lord—"

"It's for all of us! Now choose. Show me to the roof, keep the rest of your promises, and take your chances with Achmai. Or be stubborn, fear him more than me, and die here."

The innkeeper looked at Conan's drawn sword, measured his chances of escaping it, and judged wisely.

"Down the hall and to the right. I'll show you."

From downstairs, the pounding redoubled, and curses joined it.

Bora's own rasping breath drowned Out the struggles of those around him to climb the hill. He was younger and stronger than most, but tonight he had run five times as far as any.

Any, that is, except the demons, and they knew not human limits. Most of them, at least—the demons could be slain, hurt, or made cautious. Otherwise, they seemed as insensate as an avalanche or an earthquake.

Stopping to look downhill, Bora saw most of the laggards had somebody helping them. Thank Mitra, the Powder had done its work well. The people of Crimson Springs might be homeless, but they were still a village, not a mob ready to fight each other for the smallest chance of safety.

Bora waited until most of the laggards had passed him. Then he walked downhill, to meet the half-dozen strongest youths and men who'd formed themselves into a rearguard. To his surprise, Ivram was among them.

"I thought you were long gone," Bora nearly shouted.

"You thought an old fat man like me could outstrip a youth with winged feet like yours? Truly, Bora, your wits are deserting you."

"He came back down to join us," Kemal said. "We spoke as you doubtless will, but he would not listen."

"No, so best save your breath for climbing the hill again," Ivram added. "I confess I had hopes of taking one more look at a demon. The more we know—"

"He hoped to make one senseless with the last of the Powder, so we could carry it to Fort Zheman!" one of the men shouted. "Ivram, have you gone mad?"

"I don't think so. But—would anyone but a madman have imagined those demons, before—?"

"For the Master!"

Four robed shapes plunged down the hill toward

Bora and the rearguard. Their human speech and their robes told him that they were not demons. The swords gleaming in their hands showed them to be dangerous foes.

Bora's hands danced. A stone leaped into the pouch of his sling. The sling whined into invisibility, then hurled the stone at the men. Darkness and haste baffled Bora's eye and arm. He heard the stone clatter futilely on the hillside.

Then the four swordsmen were among the rearguard, slashing furiously at men who had only one sword for all seven of them. The man who had complained of Ivram's plans was the first to fall, face and neck gaping and bloody. As he fell, he rolled under the feet of a second swordsman. His arms twined around the man's legs and his teeth sank into a booted calf. The swordsman howled, a howl cut off abruptly as a club in Kemal's hands smashed his skull.

A second swordsman died before the others realized they faced no easy prey. Tough hillmen with nothing to lose were not a contemptible foe at two to one odds.

The third swordsman's flight took him twenty paces before three villagers caught him. All four went down in a writhing, cursing tangle that ended in a choking scream. Two of the villagers rose, supporting the third. The swordsman did not rise.

The fourth swordsman must have thought himself safe, in the last moment before a stone from Bora's sling crushed his skull.

Bora was counting the stones in his pouch when a faint voice spoke his name.

"Bora. Take the rest of the Powder."

"Ivram!"

The priest lay on his back, blood trickling from his mouth. Bora held his gaze on the man's pale face, away from the gaping wounds in belly and chest.

"Take it. Please. And—rebuild my shrine, when you come back. You will, I know it."

Bora gripped the priest's hand, wishing that he could at least do something for the pain. Perhaps it had not yet struck, but with such a wound, when it did—

As if Bora's thoughts had been written in the air, Ivram smiled. "Do not worry, Bora. We servants of Mitra have our ways."

He began to chant verses in a strange guttural tongue. Halfway through the fourth verse he bit his lip, coughed, and closed his eyes. He contrived a few words of a fifth verse, then his breathing ceased.

Bora knelt beside the priest until Kemal put a hand on his shoulder.

"Come along, Bora. We can't stay here until the demons get hungry."

"I won't leave him here for them!"

"Who said we would do anything of the kind?"

Bora saw now that the other unwounded men had taken off their cloaks. Kemal was taking off his when Bora stopped him. "Wait. I heard a horse on the hill. Did you save Windmaster?"

"I freed him. The rest he did himself. I always said that horse had more wits than most men!"

Not to mention more strength and speed than any other mount in the village. "Kemal, we need someone to ride to Fort Zheman. Can it be you?"