Michael Stackpole - Conan the Barbarian

More importantly, dark shadows moved within the water, jerking sharply away from the light.

Conan frowed. “What manner of sorcery—”

“Not sorcery, my friend. Magick can always be detected.” Ela Shan moved along the path, spreading more crystals before him. “A different form of the lichen provides the light, and oil of the red eucalyptus provides most of the crystal. Not many creatures can abide it, and as long as there is light, the path is safe.”

Conan followed the thief to the other side, then stopped as they reentered their tunnel. “The water is colder.”

The thief crouched. “Fresher, too, much fresher. There must be a bigger channel, a massive one, that draws colder water from the deep. Why they’d need it, however, I have no idea.”

The Cimmerian remembered the baleful eye he’d seen on the Hornet . “I do.”

“Yes . . . ?”

From above, distant yet powerful, drums began to pound. “It’s begun. Let’s move.”

“Conan, what are we facing?”

The Cimmerian turned toward the thief, his face taut. “I hope you have more of your crystals.” He turned, and plunged into darkness.

MARIQUE PACED AROUNDTamara, admiring and hating her at the same time. Tamara stood there in Maliva’s gown, her hands and ankles bound with long chains. The set of her shoulders and the way she raised her chin reminded Marique of her mother. At the end . . .

“I do believe you are properly prepared.”

Tamara’s eyes flashed. “Do you not wish to drug me again, Marique? After all, I might try to escape.”

Marique’s right hand rose, the Stygian talons sharp and bright. “Such a precaution might please me, but I would not have my mother addled when she takes your form. But you thought yourself clever, didn’t you? You want me to drug you so my mother will fail.”

Tamara said nothing.

“But failure is not something we shall know this night.” Marique went to the throne room’s window and pointed to the courtyard below. “Already, fighting men flock to my father’s banner, filling his ranks. Word has gone out. And trust me, child, any that even barely resemble your Cimmerian will be killed. He may have escaped my assassins, but he will not arrive in time to rescue you.”

“I care not for rescue. It is enough he kills your father and destroys the mask.” Tamara smiled slowly. “And he will kill your father. He would have done so at Shaipur save for your intervention.”

Marique let pride smother the spark of fear in her belly. “Nothing will stop my father.”

She turned and took the Cimmerian sword from the stand where it rested. She meant to brandish it triumphantly, but when she touched the cool metal, she felt a spark of fear reignite in her breast. That Conan and the blade were linked had never been in doubt. He had had a hand in its creation. She glanced at the metal, seeking illumination in its reflections, but saw nothing. This reassured her for a moment, before she realized that she should have seen a reflection of her right hand, the hand holding the blade.

Is he that close? Marique snorted and lifted her gaze from the blade. “Did you know I met your barbarian as a boy? I took this sword from him.”

The monk’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “He said nothing of you. You were not memorable.”

“Oh, I remember him.” Marique licked her lips. “I tasted him long before you ever did. I’m told that Cimmerian steel is sharper and harder than any other . . . that when it cuts, the pain is close to pleasure . I know it will please you.”

Tamara did not reply.

“It will please me as well, Tamara.” Marique glided in, whispering in the monk’s left ear. “You see, once you are my mother, I shall make your Cimmerian mine. He shall be my consort. As you have known him, I shall know him. What was once yours will be mine, and you, little Tamara, will fade from the world’s memory.”

Tamara turned, her voice low. “I will kill you.”

“You will never have the chance.”

“If I do not, I will make certain your mother does .”

Marique hissed, then withdrew to the chamber doors. She shouted at the soldiers and acolytes lining the corridor. “Strike the drums. Come guide your goddess to her destiny. Any man who fails in his duty will know my wrath, and terrible indeed it shall be.”

TWENTY YARDS FURTHERalong, the tunnel became much steeper. Conan cut right and Ela Shan left onto narrow walkways that paralleled the spillway. They raced up steps and the tunnel broadened out before them. A massive iron grating worked in a tentacular design covered a deep pool from which water splashed at the bottom of a cylindrical cavern. Cages on chains hung from the shadowed heights, and stone steps combined with drawbridges twisted around the cylinder in a double helix, leading up to Khor Kalba’s main fortress.

Conan took all this in with a glance, then focused on the giant rising from a stone throne across the cavern. Chains swathed the man, taking Conan back to Cimmeria, to his father’s forge, and the last of Khalar Zym’s minions. Khalar Zym’s last lapdog, Akhoun . As Conan and the thief started up the steps, Akhoun hauled on chains and drawbridges rose, trapping them.

The giant pointed at the interlopers. “Kill them, now!”

Other men in leather harnesses brought weapons to hand. By dress and location they marked themselves as torturers instead of warriors. They carried whips and red-hot branding irons, rushing around the grate’s perimeter. So used to having terror on their side as they plied their trade on their victims, they advanced without realizing just how dangerous some men can truly be.

Ela Shan worked his way up the stairs, hands flashing. Blackened steel spikes and sharp-bladed knives flew. One torturer reeled away, blood spurting from his opened throat. He stumbled onto the grate, then went to his knees. As he struggled to get back up, a gray tentacle rose from the water, curled itself around him, and pulled him under.

Conan roared forward, his sword coming up in an arc that opened a man from hip to shoulder. He fell back, slowing another man. A third torturer lunged with a branding iron. Conan sidestepped it, then took the man’s arm off at the elbow. The Cimmerian caught the branding iron in his left hand, then backhanded another man with the glowing end. The man stumbled back, then fell through the grate, bobbing for a heartbeat before disappearing beneath the water’s dark surface.

Akhoun brandished a heavy mace, whirling it in time with the drums’ resonant pulsing. He moved along toward where Conan had won through the torturers. “Come, Cimmerian, you will trouble my master no more.”

Conan went for him, and would have fallen into a trap save for Ela Shan’s cry of warning. One of the thief’s throwing knives clattered against the grate. Conan turned toward the sound, then ducked as a tentacle swept through the air. As it came sweeping back, Conan sliced at it. Though the cut was a full six inches in depth, it was but a scratch to the monster, which watched Conan through the grate.

Akhoun’s laughter boomed through the cavern. “My pet will never let you harm me.”

Conan darted two steps forward, then one back, as the beast attempted to grab at him again. “Coward!”

“Smart, not craven.” Akhoun opened his arms. “The Dweller will be more kind to you than I.”

“Conan, get ready.”

His left hand firmly wrapped about a chain, the Shemite thief leaped from the stairs and arced out into the middle of the cavern. His right hand came forward and down. A glass bottle broke against the grating edge, at the central hole. Smoke began to rise from the metal as the thief sailed away again.