Michael Stackpole - Conan the Barbarian

Conan looked up. “Where is your master?”

The bailiff regarded him curiously. “So, the hill ape can speak. As you might surmise, our master is currently . . . otherwise engaged.”

The thief cried out again, clearly in pain.

The bailiff made impressions with the stylus, then pointed it at Conan. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance with him very soon.”

“I would rather it be now .”

Conan smashed his manacles together and the left one popped open. Coming to his feet, the Cimmerian shouldered one guard into the wall and dropped the other with a fist to the face. As the first guard rebounded, Conan kicked him in the chest. That slammed him against the wall again. He bounced harder, then collapsed on top of his companion.

The bailiff, horror on his face, had risen and turned to run. Conan pounced, looping the chain around the man’s neck, and yanked the bailiff back against his chest. “You will take me to Lucius now.”

“You’ll never get in. The door is locked from within.” The bailiff clutched at the chain. “They will only open the door for me.”

IN RESPONSE TOthe insistent pounding on the chamber’s stout door, a guard slid back the peephole cover. The bailiff stared at him. Cursing, the guard closed the peephole then slid the bolts back. “He does not want to be disturbed.”

Conan delivered a heavy kick to the door, driving it into the guard’s face. He reeled back, stumbling into a table and upsetting it. Dice flew along with the coins being wagered on the outcome of throws. Before the other three guards could rise, the Cimmerian had entered the room and flung the bailiff’s severed head. It caught one guard full in the face, spilling him backward. A quick slash cut one man down, a thrust opened another’s throat, and Conan gutted a third. He left the blade in that man’s belly, then caught the door guard by the ears. With a quick twist, the Cimmerian snapped his neck.

Before the body hit the floor, Conan burst from the antechamber and into Lucius’s den. The fat man, who had been bent over a table, tightening screws on a device that had trapped Ela’s wrists, looked up. This close and in good light, there was no mistaking his identity. He was the man from Cimmeria.

Lucius spun away from Ela and reached for his sword, which hung on the wall. Conan reached it first, drawing it in a heartbeat. He drove the pommel into Lucius’s forehead, just hard enough to daze him and open a small wound, then shoved the man back into a chair.

Conan pressed the blade to Lucius’s throat with one hand while releasing Ela with the other. “Do you remember me, fat man?”

Lucius narrowed piggish eyes. “Should I?”

Conan nodded, then tore away the man’s mask, exposing the gaping holes in the middle of his face. “I did this to you.”

Blood drained from the Aquilonian’s face. “Impossible.”

Conan dragged the table with the clamps on it over in front of Lucius. “Fix his hands.”

The thief left off rubbing his own wrists and wrestled Lucius’s into the torture device. Conan would have bet the little man would have failed, but grim determination contorted his face. He locked the shackle bar over the Aquilonian’s wrists, then gave the screw enough twists to elicit a hiss from mine’s master.

“Please, Cimmerian, we can be civilized about this.” Lucius forced a smile. “I have gold. I can make you rich.”

Conan snorted. “I want the man who destroyed my village. I want Klarzin.”

“Klarzin?” Lucius blinked. “You want Khalar Zym?”

The Cimmerian’s icy eyes narrowed. Khalar Zym . Weariness and delirium had contracted the name into Klarzin. Hearing it again brought back memories, sharpening recollections that years and dreams had done much to dull. The cruel face, the hawk nose, the curved blade, and the memory of the blood that Conan had drawn; all of these things came back to him.

“Yes. Khalar Zym.” Conan nodded grimly. The name felt like a curse on his tongue, meant to be spat with contempt.

“This is perfect.” Lucius smiled and half turned, spitting at a banner on the wall. “There, you see his crest. The tentacled Mask of Acheron. I spit on it.”

Ela gave the screw another half turn.

“Stop, stop, I tell you the truth. We are allies, barbarian.” Lucius, tears brimming in deep-set eyes, opened his hands innocently. “He was once my master, but no more. I know how you can get him. I know where he is.”

Conan nodded. “Speak.”

“You have me at a disadvantage.” Lucius nodded toward his wrists. “Please.”

The Cimmerian nodded at Ela, who loosened the screw.

Lucius smiled carefully. “I will tell you everything I know, Cimmerian. You will find it all useful, but on your word of honor, promise you will not kill me.”

Conan nodded. “Speak. I won’t kill you.”

“You won’t regret this, my friend.” The noseless man licked his lips. “Khalar Zym . . . he traveled the world and promised us great power. In your village, we found the last piece of the Mask of Acheron. It had been shattered and divided millennia ago. We thought, with it complete, he would become a god. He told us so.”

The Cimmerian turned away and found a pair of pliers, which he placed on a small brazier. “You make much noise, but I hear nothing of value.

Lucius looked from Conan to the pliers and back. “Wait. Wait. He said there was another component. Something he needed to activate the mask. To bring it to its full power. I could not wait, so I left his service. But I know he lairs at Khor Kalba. And your friend here, he knows the way through Khor Kalba. With him I was going to steal the mask.”

Conan arched an eyebrow.

Ela smiled sheepishly. “What he says is true—half true. I know of Khor Kalba. I have studied it. I intended to enter, but then Khalar Zym took possession.” He tightened the screw another turn. “But I was no partner to this one.”

Lucius smiled weakly. “We would have reached an agreement, Ela Shan. You needed to take me seriously.”

“Is Khalar Zym at Khor Kalba now?”

“No, Cimmerian, no. But I do know where he is. I do.”

Conan turned back to the pliers, which had begun to glow a merry red. “Where?”

“The Wastes, the Red Wastes.”

“You lie. There is nothing there.”

“What is there is hidden, Cimmerian; and what he seeks is hidden well.” Lucius smiled. “And he shall return to Khor Kalba through the Shaipur Pass.”

Ela nodded. “That is a welcome place for an ambush.”

But does Lucius seek to have me ambushed or his former master? Conan picked up the glowing pliers. “What does Khalar Zym want in the Wastes?”

“Foolishness. He and that witch spawn of his seek a girl.”

Conan laughed. “The world is full of girls.”

“A special one, of special blood.” Lucius’s eyes focused past the pliers. “Her blood will activate the mask and make the wearer a god.”

The Cimmerian shivered involuntarily. He had no use for sorcery, and no inclination to tolerate those who lusted after such power.

He shook his head, leaning in closely, letting the pliers singe a lock of Lucius’s hair. “I think you lie to me, Aquilonian dog. You seek to send me into the Wastes on a fool’s mission.”

“I agree.” Ela gave the screw a full turn.

“No, no! I speak the truth!” Tears streamed down the fat man’s face. “By all the gods, you must believe me. I hate him as much as you do. I have no loyalty to him.”

Your loyalty is only to yourself. Conan stared at the man, lost in distant recollections of their first meeting.

“Please, Cimmerian. I have upheld my end of the bargain. You promised.”

Conan nodded. “I did. Ela, the ring of keys on the wall. Find the one that would free the slaves.”