Conan the Hunter Part 22

Brandis.h.i.+ng his new weapon, Kulg tottered in place, pausing to decide which foe to strike first. Conan immediately closed his hand around his sword-hilt and raised the blade with grim ferocity. Malgoresh backed off, turning to retrieve Wenak's knife from the ale barrel.

Crouching unseen less than ten feet away, Lamici chose this moment to make his move. All backs were to him, including Madesus's. The priest wore no leather jerkin to turn aside Lamici's point. The eunuch advanced on the unsuspecting priest, who chanted over Kailash in the corner of the taproom. The high table, lying on its side, hid him partially from view. Lamici slid along the wall, reaching up his sleeve for the concealed stiletto. He was close enough to hear the priest's soft chanting. He freed the stiletto from its wrist sheath, then froze as the priest suddenly became silent.

Madesus finished the prayer of healing and opened his eyes. Kailash coughed, stirring weakly. The priest heard a sharp hiss from behind his back and looked over his shoulder in time to see a thin tongue of steel plunging toward him. Alarmed, he sprang up, but could not avoid the blade's deadly arc. As he pivoted, the stiletto slashed open his left arm and bit into his shoulder. He reached out, his fingers grabbing hold of Lamici's sleeve. The wound in his shoulder was shallow; he would easily heal it later.

Lamici let out a hissing laugh between clenched teeth. "Meet thy doom, fool! Pay the price for thy crimes against my country!"

A torrent of unbearable agony suddenly coursed through Madesus's veins.

Poison! The priest fell to the floor, dropping his amulet. As Lamici grabbed it, the amulet flared up brightly, searing his palm and blinding him. With the amulet in one hand and his stiletto in the other, the eunuch pulled back, pivoted, and beat a hasty retreat. The amulet cooled, and its light subsided. He stuffed it into a pocket of his cloak and felt his way along the taproom wall, until he reached the doorway.

Madesus clutched vainly at his healer's pouch, praying desperately to Mitra as the searing pain from the shoulder wound spread into his heart. Convulsing, he tried to cry out for help, but no air would come from his still lungs. Praying silently to Mitra, he closed his eyes and quietly departed from the world of mortal men.

Conan whirled as he saw the flash of light, and wrenched his dripping, gore-stained blade from Kulg's motionless corpse. Ten feet from him, a gray-cloaked form was moving rapidly along the wall, clutching a thin-bladed knife in one hand. The barbarian drew in a sharp breath as he looked toward the back corner of the taproom, his mind reeling with shock. The overturned table blocked most of his view, but lying in plain sight was Madesus's limp, outstretched arm. All around it was a rapidly spreading pool of blood.

Acting purely on impulse, Conan made straight for the fleeing, gray-hooded knife-wielder. The Cimmerian plunged like a stampeding bull through the sparring villagers. He gained quickly; his dark-garbed quarry moved uncertainly, groping along the wall like a blind man, unaware that Conan was looming nearby. The barbarian's face was a dark thundercloud of fury, and he uttered the bone-chilling war cry of his native Cimmeria as he closed the distance. He was near enough to see blood still glistening wetly on the knife, and he had no doubt that the blood was the priest's.

Conan extended his sword in preparation for a thrust that would skewer the man like a boar on a spit. At that instant, the irksome Wenak, still cowering beneath a table, stuck his foot out. The Cimmerian lost his sword first, then his balance. The blade clattered to the floor, several feet away from the sprawling Cimmerian, as Lamici slipped out of the doorway and into the night.

Enraged, the frustrated Cimmerian went berserk. Glaring through the red mist that swam before him, he seized Wenak by the ankle and hauled him out from under the table. Wenak screamed shrilly, squirming in his captor's viselike grip.

"Motherless whelp! Join your brother in h.e.l.l!" Conan heaved Wenak up and dashed his head against the taproom's hard stone wall. Wenak's skull burst open with a sickening, m.u.f.fled crack, like the splintering of rotting timber, and left an odious smear of reddish-gray pulp on the wall.

Conan's blood raced through his veins; his temples throbbed with hot fury. He s.n.a.t.c.hed his dropped sword from the floor and heaved a table out of his way, intent on finding and slaying the priest's attacker.

Behind him, a battle-crazed villager was swinging a sizable chunk of wood, striking wildly at everyone who came within his reach. Raising up his crude but effective weapon, he landed a mighty blow on the base of the oblivious Cimmerian's neck. So forceful was the blow that the wood splintered on impact. Conan took several faltering steps toward the door before tumbling to the taproom floor, still clenching his sword.

He crawled for a few more feet before his eyes closed and his head sagged against the frame of the doorway.

When Conan awoke, the morning sun had already climbed into the eastern sky. It shone through the window in his room at Malgoresh's inn.

Startled, the disoriented Cimmerian lurched to his feet and instinctively groped for his sword. Then the memory of last night's ill-boding events returned to him. He slumped back down on the crude cot he had been sleeping on and rubbed his aching neck, wincing as his fingers found a lump the size of a date protruding from the base of his skull.

Conan's head was pounding like a Pictish war drum. He felt queasy from rising so quickly, but he managed to rise again and shuffle across the floor toward a bowl of water he had seen in the corner. From the room's appearance, he judged that he was in one of the village's stone buildings, maybe the inn next to the tavern.

He downed a few swallows of water and poured the rest of it over his throbbing head. He had no idea of who or what had felled him, but he hoped that his attacker had fared worse. Gratified to find his sword leaning against the wall, he picked up the weapon and moved on. By some miracle, his pouch of gold still hung from his belt. Silently he thanked Crom for giving him the strength to recover so quickly from last night's foray. With sword in hand and a bag of gold at his belt, the Cimmerian's spirits were lifted somewhat.

He found that his judgment had been correct; he had spent the night in one of the inn's cottages. The taproom was less than thirty paces distant. He saw a small cl.u.s.ter of villagers milling about by the taproom's main door and wondered what had become of Kailash and Malgoresh.

Madesus, he felt with grim certainty, had not survived last night's encounter. The sight of the priest's limp arm, with its pale hand thrusting out from a blood-soaked sleeve, filled him with rage and despair. His heart burned like a fiery coal at the memory, and a voice inside him cried out for revenge. He would find Madesus's a.s.sailant and deal with him later. First he would see what had happened to Kailash.

The taproom's main doorway had been barricaded. A few sullen looks were cast at Conan by several of the villagers, who lowered their voices and moved away as the Cimmerian approached. Two old men remained, staring at him as he came closer. The barbarian doubted that these two graybeards had been in the taproom last night.

"Where is Malgoresh?" he asked gruffly, being in no mood to exchange pleasantries.

One of the men harrumphed indignantly at Conan's tone and did not answer. The other, whose craggy face was as roughened and weatherworn as the Karpas.h.i.+an Mountains themselves, paused before responding.

Leaning forward on a worn walking-stick, the old man finally spoke, through a mouth entirely bereft of teeth.

"Inside. Been 'oled up in there for th' whole o' th' mornin'," he told Conan, his tone indifferent and his words barely understandable.

Conan stepped past them, stopping at the wooden barricade. He pounded on it with his fist, bellowing Malgoresh's name in a voice loud enough to crack stone. Impatiently, he shoved the heavy wooden barricade back and stomped into the taproom.

Malgoresh stood inside, his pale face and slumped shoulders conveying much news to the Cimmerian. The Turanian had evidently been making a halfhearted effort to clean up the taproom. "I put up the barrier last night to keep everyone out," he said. "There is a back door, if you would have waited-"

"Never mind the barrier." Conan barged in. "Where are Kailash and Madesus?"

"I took you and Kailash to separate rooms last night, to let you recover from your wounds. I've no doubt that he still sleeps. His wound was dire enough to send a lesser man to the grave. That blow you took would have stopped a charging boar in its tracks. Yet here you stand!"

"Madesus...?" Conan asked, dreading the answer.

Malgoresh pointed to a table against one wall of the taproom. The priest's p.r.o.ne, motionless form lay atop it. Conan rushed over and drew back the cloak that had been pulled over Madesus's face. The sight of his dead companion filled him with grief and renewed anger.

"The only mark he bears is a wound on his shoulder," Malgoresh said quietly.

Conan examined the shoulder wound, frowning. He saw nothing to explain how the priest could have died. The wound was deep but small, and it had missed Madesus's vitals. The priest's killer must have envenomed his blade with a lethal poison. This was no accident in a brawl-it was cold, deliberate murder.

Keeping his fury in check, Conan looked the body over for signs of any other wounds. Malgoresh had retrieved the priest's leather bag and placed it on the table.

"The battle broke up shortly after you fell," he told Conan. "Those who had the most inclination to fight were the least apt. You slew Kulg and Wenak; their brother died during the night. Aside from them, your friend was the only casualty. We've had it happen before, but not always here in the taproom. Kulg and his two brothers were Hyrkanian sc.u.m, pa.s.sing through on their way to Zamora. Fate has blown an ill wind your way."

"I saw the a.s.sa.s.sin as he fled," Conan muttered. "When I catch him, he will learn what it means to cross a Cimmerian."

Malgoresh shuddered at the determination and menace behind Conan's words. He was grateful that no Cimmerian had ever borne him a grudge.

"How will you find him? His trail is cold. He must be hours away!"

"How many paths lead out of this village?" Conan asked.

"By horse, only two-the east and the west roads. On foot, a good many more."

"Find out if anyone has seen a gray-cloaked stranger fleeing on either road. Not everyone's wits were soggy with your ale last night. I offer gold to any who saw him leave!"

Conan gave Malgoresh the best description of the stranger that he could, omitting a few details to screen out any false news. Before Malgoresh left, he brought a jug of water, a small loaf of hard bread, and a cold joint of beef to Conan. Although he had no appet.i.te, the Cimmerian chewed at the loaf and joint, puzzling over the strange manner of the priest's death.

Conan had found two very disturbing clues when he had looked the body over. One was a small sc.r.a.p of blue silk, clasped tightly in Madesus's clenched hand. The other clue was something he really had not found: the priest's amulet. It had either been picked up in the battle or stolen by the a.s.sa.s.sin. Conan found the latter explanation far more likely. As he forced his throbbing head to work on the problem, a familiar-looking face appeared in the doorway.

"Conan!" Kailash called out, shuffling unsteadily into the room. "Have you seen Madesus?"

Wordlessly, Conan stepped aside so the Kezankian could see the face of the man lying on the table.

"Mitra!" The hillman choked, his face a pale mask of shock. "How can this be? How?" He clenched his fists and slammed them against the wall, then turned his face away. "This is the work of the priestess, or of some evil ally of hers! 'Tis the only explanation. The first night of our quest and we are beaten!"

Conan remained silent.

Grief and hopelessness gripped Kailash's voice. "Beaten! Without his power, she cannot be destroyed. He said so himself. The priestess has won, and Eldran is doomed. We are all doomed!"

"We are not beaten until we lie cold upon a slab of wood or stone, like Madesus," Conan said. "Whatever may befall us-or Eldran-we have a duty to Madesus. I saw his murderer, but was felled 'ere I could catch him.

Malgoresh will find news from any who may have seen him flee the village."

"Aye, you are right, by Mitra," said the Kezankian, pulling himself together. "We must track this fiend, hew his worthless body with a thousand sword-strokes, and leave it to be torn by buzzards! No death could be too ign.o.ble. Then we will decide what to do about the Mutare."

Kailash was unable to overcome his fatalistic sentiments, but he could at least push them aside temporarily.