Conan the Barbarian

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.

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 AROUND Tamara, 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 FURTHER along, 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