Michael Stackpole - Conan the Barbarian

Lucius’s eyes grew wide. “You cannot. They would riot.”

“Calm yourself, Aquilonian.” Conan poured ale from a pitcher into a cup. “I will not kill you. I will not free the slaves.”

“Here.” Ela handed him a small key.

The Cimmerian stared down at where it rested across the scar on his palm, then forced Lucius’s head back. The Aquilonian’s mouth opened in surprise. Conan dropped the key into it, then poured the ale down the fat man’s throat.

Lucius swallowed, then sputtered, ale glistening on his chin and chest. “By Mitra, why?”

“It’s you who invoked the gods, Lucius.” Conan flipped the catch, freeing him from the clamps, then hauled him to his feet. “Come.”

“Wait, what are you doing?”

Conan’s grasp remained firm on the back of Lucius’s tunic. He marched the man out into the sunlight. Conan caught sight of only a half-dozen guards, and all he saw was the back of them as they scurried away. Lips twisted in contempt, he tossed Lucius sprawling to the ground as slaves slowly crept closer.

The barbarian pointed at the blubbering fat man. “The key that unlocks your chains sits in this man’s gullet.”

Lucius, who had scrambled to his knees, stared at Conan. “Cimmerian, you gave your word. You promised you would spare my life.”

“I promised I would not kill you.” Conan turned and walked away, relishing how the crunch of gravel beneath his feet devoured Lucius’s dying screams.

“Northerner . . .” Ela ran to catch up with Conan. “You have earned my gratitude.”

“Have I?”

“And Ela Shan is known to be a man who keeps his promises, honors his debts.”

“Rare qualities among thieves.”

The little man ran in front of Conan and walked backward as quickly as he could. “If you should be so foolish as to pursue this Khalar Zym to Khor Kalba, seek me out in Asgalun. I shall talk you out of it.”

Conan nodded slowly. “And you, Ela Shan, if you hear that the master of Khor Kalba has died in the Wastes, know you have Conan of Cimmeria to thank for clearing your way.”

The little thief smiled. “Then may Bel smile on you, Conan of Cimmeria, and may your sword speed Khalar Zym to hell.”

CHAPTER 15

TAMARA AMALIAT JORVI KARUSHANstood atop the monastery’s eastern battlement, letting the dawning sun’s rays bathe her with their warmth. It had been her habit to do this often in her twenty years. The ritual’s regularity instilled a sense of order. The sun’s presence reminded her that forces more titanic than she ruled the world. And yet, at the same time, she felt she was a critical part of it, made whole by it as she, in turn, helped make it whole.

As the sun cleared the horizon, she bowed to it, then began her morning exercises. Her years of training as a monk had made her an expert in a variety of combat arts. Primarily unarmed, but she was not unacquainted with a bow or a knife. While she recognized them as useful tools, and diligently studied until she had mastered their uses, she preferred unarmed forms. Knives and arrows, after all, could do serious harm even without the intention to do so. As the saying went, “a falling knife has no handle.” Arms and legs, however, feet and fists, could be used to help even more easily than they could be used to hurt.

So, in the early morning, Tamara’s slender body moved from one form to another. Her flowing robes easily accommodated her movements. Her long hair had been gathered back and tied with a band. It delicately brushed her shoulders as her exercises continued. As she did each morning, she battled a succession of shadow warriors, turning their attacks back on themselves, using their force and hatred to destroy them.

The simple flowing motion rooted her in the world. Life itself was energy. She recognized it, moved with it. Just as she would use another’s energy against them, so she used the world’s energy to help her. This was, after all, her role. By doing what she did, she established order in what would otherwise be a chaotic world, fostering peace where there would otherwise be an ocean of misery.

A young novitiate paused at the head of the stairs, then dropped to her knees. She bowed her head, not looking up, unmoving, while Tamara’s exercises continued. Tamara had noticed her immediately, more because she had disrupted her routine than because of any inherent interest the girl may have possessed. She hastened to complete her exercises—an action that left her slightly unsettled.

“Yes, sister, of what assistance may I be?”

The novitiate kept her eyes downcast. “Master Fassir, he has summoned you.”

“Where?”

“The Pool of Visions.”

A thrill ran through Tamara. Master Fassir opened the pool chamber on an irregular schedule. He and his advisers regularly consulted charts of the heavens, drawing lines between planets and stars. They measured the angles and performed complex calculations, which they then compared to horoscopes and prophecies. Most often Fassir walked the chamber’s precincts alone, but on rare occasions other monks would be summoned to hear a pronouncement of grave import.

“Thank you, sister.” Tamara bowed to her, then flew down the stairs and to the cell she shared with another monk. From a chest in the corner she drew a clean white robe. She fitted a square cap on her head, then draped a gauzy veil over her head and shoulders. Keeping her eyes modestly downcast and steps hobbled by humility, she made all allowable haste to the chamber.

Several other monks, all female and similarly attired, knelt at the long sides of a rectangular granite basin. Sunlight streamed into the room from an open eastern door, but the pool’s rippling water reflected none of the light on the opposite wall. At one short end sat Master Fassir, hooded in a white robe, drawing slowly on a pipe. He exhaled fragrant smoke slowly, so it drifted upward like a curtain that further hid his face.

Tamara knelt opposite him and stared down into the shallow pool. She could see nothing but golden tile work at the bottom. She had not expected to see anything, for the pool shared its wisdom with those far older and wiser than she—yet she dared hope that, someday, she would be in Fassir’s place.

She felt Fassir’s gaze upon her. She looked up into her mentor’s face. He had always been old in her sight, but aside from the deepening of lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, he had not changed much. True, time had leached his hair and beard of all color, but his eyes retained their kindness. He smiled as he was wont to do, then glanced down into the pool and exhaled more smoke.

“There comes a man, Tamara. I do not see him clearly—he is not yet close enough. There is a journey, sea and sand to be crossed.”

“His journey, Master, or mine?”

The old man smiled. “Yes and yes. Two journeys become one. This man . . .”

“Is he a knight?”

Fassir’s eyes tightened. “A warrior. A man of destiny. As with your journeys, so shall your destinies merge.”

Tamara frowned. My destiny is to be here. Am I to seek this man and bring him among us? “What destiny, Master?”

Fassir shook his head, his brow furrowing. “Not what, but which, Tamara. Often there is so little to be seen, but here there is so much, one does not know what to ignore.”

Tamara studied him. “Is that all, Master?”

Fassir set the pipe down and rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I fear it is. Things shift faster than expected.” He clapped his hands. “Off with you all, to your duties. All save you, Tamara.”

The other monks rose and noiselessly exited the dimly lit chamber. Fassir stood and wordlessly led Tamara out through the eastern door. They came out onto a veranda overlooking the monastery’s courtyard and gate beyond. The other monks moved about, carefree, attending to their duties.