Roland Green: Conan The Valiant

By the time he was halfway down, his hands were sweating and all his limbs had begun to tremble. He knew he should not be so tired so soon. Was the sorcery of the light-maker sapping his strength?

He drove the thought away. It could only bring fear, which would sap his strength and wits alike. He found a foothold, shifting first his right and then his left foot to it, then sought the next.

Below, the emerald light came and went. It now seemed to be a beam, like a lantern's. When it shone, he thought he saw dim figures in a ragged circle. Their form seemed other than human, but that might be the mist.

At last he reached a ledge of rock wide enough for sitting. To the right, toward the light, the cliff plunged straight to the valley floor, and the ledge vanished. Only a bird could find its way down there.

To the left, the slope was much easier. A carrion reek hinted of a lion's den, but lions were hard to rouse at night. Halfway down the slope, a sentry paced back and forth, a short bow on his shoulder and a tulwar in his hand.

Bora unwound the sling from inside his shirt: That sentry had to die. Unless he were deaf, he would hear Bora climbing down behind him. Even if Bora passed him going down, he would be well-placed to cut off retreat.

A stone dropped into the cup. The sling rose and whirred into motion, until no human eye could have seen it. Nor could any human ear more than fifty paces away have heard its sound.

The sentry was thrice that far. He died between one heartbeat and the next, never knowing what flew out of the night to crush his skull. His tulwar flew out of his hand and clattered down the slope.

Bora stiffened, waiting for some sign that the sentry's comrades might have heard the clatter. Nothing moved but the mist and the emerald light. He crept along the ledge, half-crouching, the loaded sling in one hand.

The carrion reek grew, clawing at his nose and chest. He took shallow breaths, which helped little. There was more than carrion in that reek. Ordure and filth he dared not name lay behind it. No lion laired here. The thought of sorcery returned, this time not to depart.

Perhaps that thought saved his life by sharpening his ears. He heard the clawed feet on the rocks while their owners were still inside their cave. He was already recoiling when they burst into the open.

There was nothing dim about those shapes, for they shone with their own light. It was the same emerald demon-light that had drawn Bora into the valley. Now it showed monstrous travesties of men—taller, broader, scaled and clawed, their eyes blazing and fanged mouths gaping wide.

They neither spoke nor made any sound as they rushed toward Bora. They did something far worse, reaching into his very thoughts.

Stay a while, lad. Stay a while, and have the honor of serving us who serve the Master. Stay, stay.

Bora knew that if he obeyed for even a moment, he would lose the will to leave. Then he would indeed serve the servants of the Master, as the lamb serves the wolf.

His sling moved as if his arm had its own will. The being's skull was of more than human thickness, but then, the range was short. The stone drove in deep above the right eye, flinging the being into the arms of the one behind it. They toppled together.

The rearmost leaped over his fallen comrades. Bora felt his will attacked once more:

Obey me, or lose pleasures and treasures undreamed of by those who do not serve the Master.

In truth, Bora had never dreamed that being eaten alive could be a pleasure. He saw no cause to think otherwise now. His feet and hands carried him up the cliff as if they were wings.

The being hissed like a snake. Raw rage tore at Bora's mind. Almost, his fingers abandoned their search for holds.

The being leaped high, its clawed hands searching for Bora's ankles, its clawed feet scrabbling for a hold. It found neither. The being slid down, overbalanced, and toppled backward off the ledge. A final desperate hiss ended in a thud and the sliding of a body on stone.

Bora did not stop, and barely breathed until he reached level ground. Even then, he only stopped long enough to reload his sling. He had heard in tales the words "as if demons were after him." Now he knew their meaning far too well.

If he lived to return home and find anyone to believe his tale, he would have the secret of the mountain demons.

Unseen behind him, the beam of emerald light abruptly died.

When Eremius stood at the Altar, he closed his ears. He remained deaf to the falling tulwar. Only the call of the Transformed reached him, appealing to whomever they saw before them. Their appeal, then the death cries of first one, then the second.

Eremius shivered as if he were standing naked in the wind from a glacier. The syllables of the Transformation Spell grew muddled. On the slab, the nearly-complete Transformed writhed. Muscles writhed and heaved, strengthened by magic and driven by madness.

The ankle chains snapped first. Flying links scattered like sling stones. The Transformed rolled, freeing first one wrist, and then the other. It was on its hands and knees when Eremius launched his staff like a spear, smiting the Transformed across the forehead.

Eremius flinched at the cry in his mind. The Transformed sprang to its feet in one convulsion, then toppled off the Altar. It rolled over on its back, kicking and writhing. Then its outlines softened, as scales and claws, muscle and bone sagged into red- and green-streaked jelly. The jelly turned to liquid, and the liquid sank into the rock, leaving a greenish-black stain. Even with his human senses dulled, Eremius gagged at the stench.

He turned from the Altar, letting his arms fall to his sides. His concentration was broken, his spells uncontrolled, the night's Transformations ended.

A captain of sentries hurried forward and knelt. "Revered Master, Kuris has been found slain. A stone fell from the cliff and struck him on the head. Two of the Transformed are also slain, one by another stone and the other by a fall."

"A stone—?" Rage and contempt drove Eremius beyond speech. Those dead Transformed were pursuing some intruder when they died. One now probably beyond reach, thanks to this witling's blindness.

The staff came down on the captain's shoulders, twice on each side. He only flinched. Unless Eremius willed it so, the staff held no magic. The captain would still have bruises.

"Go!"

Alone, Eremius raised both hands to the sky and shrieked curses. He cursed the sorcerers of ancient Atlantis, who found or made the Jewels of Kurag so strong together and so weak apart. He cursed the weakness of his Jewel, that forced him to use such human servants. If they were not witlings by nature, they had to be made such lest they escape his control.

Above and beyond all else, he cursed Illyana. Had she been more loyal to him, or less shrewd in her escape—

Such thoughts were as futile now as ever. Bossonia was ten years gone and as unchangeable as the Ibars Mountains. It was the future that held hope—hope of human allies, who might still crown his quest with victory.

Bora stalked out of the gray dawn and into Crimson Springs before anyone was awake to see him. Before his own house, he stopped. Did he hear the sound of lamentation from within?

He knocked. The door opened a crack. His sister Caraya appeared. Red eyes and a puffy, tear-streaked face marred her beauty.

"Bora! Where have you been?"

"In the mountains. Caraya, what is it? Have they executed—?"

"No, no! It is not Father. It is Arima. The demons took her!"

"The demons—"

"Bora, have you been out all night? I said, the demons took Arima!" Suddenly she was pressing her face into his shoulder, weeping again.

He patted her hair awkwardly and tried to urge her inside. It finally took both him and Yakoub: Bora helped her to a chair, while Yakoub shut the door. From the other room, the sound of lamentation began again.