Michael Stackpole - Conan the Barbarian

The slaves withdrew as robed acolytes entered the chamber. They stood Tamara up and stripped her of the towels. They then bid the woman step into a scarlet gown, which she did. They bound her into it, then let her sit again.

Marique waited until they had departed before she slid onto the bench. “My mother wore that gown on her wedding day. It flatters you.”

Tamara’s jaw trembled, then her lips parted. “I am not your mother.”

“But you will be.” Marique laughed. “Do you know why they bathe you in lilac water? It was my mother’s favorite. Do you still taste blueberry on your tongue? Another of her favorites. They will serenade you with the music that she loved. They will tell you tales to which she thrilled. And do you know why?”

Tamara said nothing, but a tear glistened in her right eye.

“My mother will take you—not as your barbarian did, but even more completely. You are a vessel, Tamara. Now they fill you with things my mother will remember. Things that remind her of the joys of being alive. When my father summons her from beyond the grave, your soul, your essence, will drain out and she will flood into you. Up through your toes and your legs, up through your loins and belly and breasts. She will course up your neck, filling you . . . filling you until she turns your pretty blue eyes pitch-black.”

The monk shook. “I would rather die.”

“You will, Tamara, you will . . .”

The chamber door opened and Khalar Zym entered. A smile grew on his face and it took a moment for Marique to realize that, yet again, it was not for her.

He stopped and held out a hand. Tamara resisted, but her hand rose to his, then she stood. He walked around her, admiring her. When he came around again, when Marique could again see his face, his smile had broadened and filled with love.

“So perfect you are, Maliva, my love.”

Marique turned from him and fingered a lock of hair. “She is not my mother.”

“But she shall be, Marique. Her death will herald your mother’s return . . . and the return of Acheron’s glory. Maliva’s sorceries will melt flesh from the bones of kings. Together we, my beloved and I, shall cast all rivals into an ocean of blood.”

“And what of me , Father?” Marique rose, turning slowly, a cold edge seeping into her voice. “Am I to be cast aside? Will you find me weak? Will you find me flawed? Will you forget all I have done in your name?”

Khalar Zym raised his chin, regarding his daughter through slitted eyes. “Do you think I could forget the one who brought me this vessel? Do you think I have forgotten how you found the last shard of the mask? Just because I love your mother so much, it does not mean I love you any the less, Marique.”

He reached out for her with an open hand. “Our enemies will drown, my daughter, in a boiling crimson sea. But you, Marique, the product of our union, you will be raised up. You will reign as our princess.”

Marique took his hand and allowed him to guide her to Tamara’s side. They flanked the monk and stared at their reflections in an obsidian mirror. “Smile, my cruel angel. Soon we will be a family again.”

Marique nodded slowly, seeking shadows in the reflection, listening for treacherous whispers; but she found neither. She smiled and, for a heartbeat, felt almost embarrassed, as a child might. “Yes, my dear father, yes. A family once again.”

CHAPTER 31

KHOR KALBA ROSEfrom the coastal plains defiantly, its bold black lines mocking the ocean’s ability to dissolve even the strongest stone. At the low-tide mark, barnacles and other signs of sea life made themselves visible, but only the most hearty. As Ela Shan and Conan picked their way over algae-slicked stones, pale crabs scuttled away. The two men headed for a large outflow pipe that stank of things noxious, of the creatures that throve in such filth.

Beyond the castle walls, a half mile farther along the coast, lay a stone formation looking very much like the skull of a giant clawing himself free of the earth. It appeared as if the moon’s dark disk was rising from within it. A bright fiery stream of magma flowed over the giant’s tongue and spilled far below to sizzle and hiss in the ocean. It seem to Conan as if the giant could not digest that which lurked in its belly and was vomiting that evil upon the earth.

Ela Shan crouched in the shadows beside the outflow. “The iron grate is new—at least, newer than Khor Kalba. Your Khalar Zym is not completely stupid.”

The Cimmerian moved forward and grabbed the black metal bars. He’d be hard-pressed to pull them apart. Still, there was no other way in.

Ela Shan’s hand landed on his wrist. “Give me a moment. No lock may withstand me, and iron bars I find particularly offensive.”

When they departed Asgalun, Ela Shan had exchanged his finery for dark clothes that made him all but invisible in the night. Over his doublet, in lieu of armor, the thief wore a vest of many pockets and sheaths. Conan estimated that the small man likely carried more steel by weight than he did, but the vests pockets contained yet more. The thief drew a small vial from one pocket, broke the wax seal, then used a bit of shell to smear the viscous liquid from within at the base of two bars.

Both the shell and the metal began to smoke. The thief tossed the bottle and the shell aside into the sea, then drew back upwind of where the potion worked. “You don’t want to breathe any of that.”

Conan nodded and crouched beside the thief. “How long?”

“Close. Foaming like a rabid dog, that’s what we want.” Ela Shan pointed toward a crusty patch on one of the bars. “The things that grow there produce an acid that etches the metal so they can sink roots in it. An alchemist believed it would let him change dross into gold, so he concentrated it. He had an accident and now, lacking hands, he’s willing to trade the secret of his formula with people who will perform services for him. I scratch his back—well, I provide people for that—and—”

The Cimmerian rose and delivered a sharp kick to one of the bars just above where the acid had done its work. The bar parted with a wet crunch, the sound of a soaked cable snapping. The second broke more easily. Conan waited for Ela Shan to wash the edges down with cupped handfuls of water. Conan then grasped the bars and was able to twist and spread them enough to permit passage.

Ela Shan kept to the side of the round conduit to avoid splashing through the stream of raw sewage in the middle, but the Cimmerian had no such option. Even with his head bowed, his shoulders brushed against the top of the pipe. Glowing lichen provided an eerie, pale green light to illuminate their path.

Beneath the first line of walls they discovered a narrow passage extending to the left and right, with the floor sloping upward. Ela Shan could have slipped into it easily, but for Conan it would have been a very tight squeeze. Evenly spaced along it, brick-lined chimneys extended up into darkness.

The thief shook his head. “In other places I’ve used a crossbow and grapnel for ascent. The last thing we want now, however, is for some fat-arsed guardsman to plant himself on a head and hear us coming up at him. Deeper in we’ll find more chances that are shorter climbs, and in portions of Khor Kalba that have gone unused for a long time.

As they pushed on, the tunnel broadened, as did the flow through it. Two more tunnels joined it at a collecting pool, and their path continued on straight across. Fetid bubbles rose to the pool’s turgid surface, bursting through a filthy brown layer. Conan probed with his sword. “It’s not deep.”

The thief restrained him with a hand to the chest. “It doesn’t need to be.” He fished a small box from one of his pouches and poured into his hand what appeared to be salt crystals. He tossed some of them before him, into the pool, as would a farmer sowing seed. As they sank, they began to glow a lurid purple, marking an uneven path.