Conan the Barbarian

mother’s white flesh.

Hair flowing in the heat, then igniting, her mother threw back her head. Marique, in chains, clutching at her father’s breast, had turned away, anticipating a scream. Instead, in a haunted voice, strong and free of pain, Maliva damned those who had pursued her.

“I curse you all. You can burn my flesh, but my soul you cannot touch. Husband, resurrect me! Bring me back and you shall be as a god!”

Marique’s father held her tighter and his tears wet her hair. Then the wheel collapsed in on itself. Sparks jetted high into the air until they mingled with the stars. Maliva’s murderers waited two days for the coals to cool and be raked before scattering the ashes, then set father and daughter free to wander the world as pathetic examples of the wages of infamy.

Khalar Zym’s mailed fist slammed against his breastplate. “All you did to destroy us was for naught, Fassir.”

“The monks here had no part in your wife’s punishment. They are innocent.”

“Her blood may not be on their hands, but there is other blood, isn’t there?” Khalar Zym again crouched. “Even as one set of enemies sought my wife, you and your fellow monks anticipated me. Was it a vision, or simple calculation, monk? For you acted even before my wife had died.”

“We did what was necessary.”

“We? You seek to shuffle blame onto your own master, a man long-since dead?” Khalar Zym rose again and addressed the monks. “Did he tell you what he did? That two decades ago he went into the world and stole a child?”

“A child your agents had taken, though you did not know what she truly was. I rescued her from your evil.”

“You did more than just that. In fact, I might have admired how you managed it. Incredible skill and stealth, qualities I admire.” Her father shook his head. “It was the other that dooms you, old man.”

“It was necessary.”

“Was it?” He opened his arms. “I seek a woman, pure of blood, descended from the last Acheronian priest- kings. I do not wish to slay her. I merely need some of her blood. A drop, a small vial, nothing she will notice gone, nothing from which she will not recover and be exalted for. For she who provides this would be as a daughter to me. And more.”

Marique shivered.

Khalar Zym thrust an accusing finger at Fassir. “To thwart me, this one went and stole a child from my people. He brought her here. But then . . . then he did the unforgivable—that for which there is no redemption. Once he had placed her here, he sought out her parents. He slew them, and her brothers and her sisters, and her grandparents and her cousins. How many were there, Fassir? How many died to lock my wife away in hell? A dozen? Two? Did you ever count? Can you even remember?”

Fassir drew himself up to his knees and Marique sensed in him a purpose. “Every single one, Khalar Zym, from babes suckled at their mothers’ breasts to a crone so old and in so much pain that she begged for release.”

Marique’s father folded his arms over his chest. “Where is the one I seek? Is she in the coach my men are chasing?”

Fassir said nothing.

“Of course she is.” Khalar Zym shook his head. “And you’re sending her to Hyrkania, aren’t you? Don’t lie. I see it in your eyes. You didn’t think I knew of the monastery there. I’ve not found it, yet, but the road between here and Hyrkania is long. I have many agents watching. You have failed, Fassir. Let that knowledge fill you with regret.”

The old man looked up. “My only regret, Khalar Zym, is that I was not there to watch your witch burn.”

Fury pouring from him in an inarticulate scream, Khalar Zym kicked the monk in the stomach. As Fassir bent forward around his middle, Khalar Zym grabbed the monk’s head. He smashed it again and again into the stone, dashing Fassir’s brains out. Then, chest heaving, he took two steps down and let the blood drip from his hands.

Finally he raised his eyes. “Slaughter them all, man and beast. Raze this place. No stone shall stand upon stone, no well shall be unpoisoned. Fire what will burn, save bodies that you pile to rot, and salt the earth so that for generations to come, this place will stand as a warning against defying the god-king Khalar Zym.”

CHAPTER 20

THE CLOUD OF dust raised by pursued and pursuer alerted Conan to their presence long before he heard hoofbeats or the rattle of the closed carriage. He rode toward them, paralleling their course as nearly as he could, seeking a pass through the hills that would allow him to study them before he made any decision to intervene. Finally he came over a low rise as they streamed out of a narrow cut and along a serpentine road running around the shore of a long-sincedried lake.

The carriage came in the lead, with a man whipping lathered horses into a frenzied gallop. A half dozen similarly attired men, all wearing hooded tunics of rust and homespun pants of gray, rode behind. Their pursuers, a full dozen men in black leather armor, with bows and spears, swords and shields, poured from the cut and lofted arrows toward the wagon. Dust stained their armor, emphasizing the tentacled mask crest on their breasts, but Conan did not need that sign to know they were enemies.

Their leader, a twisted man riding low in the saddle, had not changed since Conan had last seen him at the forge—save for perhaps having become even more ugly. He urged his men on with savage curses. As they split up to engage the carriage’s defenders, he cut to the right, intent on catching the wagon himself.

One of the lofted arrows descended, more by dint of luck than any skill, and caught the wagon’s driver in the back. He spun, clutching at it, but his legs collapsed. He fell from his seat and the wagon bumped over him. The wagon careened onward, outstripping its defenders, the team of four horses racing white-eyed from pursuit.

Conan set heels to his horse’s flanks and the beast leaped forward. The two cut down the hill, picking up speed, and came onto the flat scant yards behind the wagon. The Cimmerian urged his mount on, rising in the stirrups, then leaped into the empty seat and scooped up the reins.

He laughed at himself as arrows whizzed past. Even with his great strength, hauling back on the reins to slow the horses would be difficult. If he slowed them, Khalar Zym’s men would catch up. He might be able to control the horses, thereby preventing the wagon from being wrecked, but hitting a rock or hole at that speed, having a horse break a leg or fall to an arrow, would bring the wild ride to an end quickly, and still leave Khalar Zym’s warriors to deal with.

A small viewport snapped open and a woman looked out. “Who are you?”

“Can you drive a team?”

“What? Of course.”

“Good.” Conan glanced back as two of Khalar Zym’s men came riding fast. He made to hand her the reins through the slit. “Here. Drive.”

“What? No. Wait.” The viewport snapped shut.

Before Conan could muster a curse at womankind’s fickle frailty, the carriage’s door swung open. A slender woman, her long hair flying, arced from the interior, her hands anchored on the door. Her feet came up, then she twisted in the air and landed beside him, a smile blossoming on her lips. She snatched the reins from his hands. “Do you wish me to do more than just drive?”

“Try not to die.” Conan jumped from the seat to the carriage’s roof, drawing off his cloak. He whipped it toward the nearest of Khalar Zym’s riders, and then launched himself in its wake. The cloak wrapped the man in darkness, then Conan tackled him, dragging him from the saddle. They landed hard, the soldier breaking Conan’s fall and a half-dozen ribs in the process, then the barbarian rolled free, drawing his sword in one flowing motion.

The second rider slashed at the Cimmerian. Conan ducked the blow and struck. His cut caught the rider just above his greave, shattering bone and slicing sinew. The lower half of the man’s leg came off, arterial blood pulsing