Conan the Hunter Part 8

Madesus s.h.i.+fted in the seat of an uncomfortable wooden chair and rubbed his tired eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep. Since he had touched the bracelet the day before yesterday, strange dreams had disturbed his repose. Yet when he had awakened, he had remembered nothing of the dreams. Last night he had decided to learn more of the bracelet's origin. Conan had claimed no knowledge of its history. Madesus had had no choice but to perform the rites of loretelling, and to pray to Mitra to reveal the nature of the strange bracelet, which had radiated such strong evil.

From sunset yesterday until dawn this morning, Madesus had chanted, while in his brazier burned the acrid leaves of the Maljorna, the holy tree of knowledge. Sometimes he wondered sacrilegiously if Mitra actually had a sense of humor. Why else would the G.o.d have chosen the harsh-smelling Maljorna as his holy tree, which stank more than smoldering cow dung, instead of something with a more pleasant fragrance that would have served as well? Madesus's eyes still burned from exposure to the smoke, and he felt strangely light-headed. To make matters worse, his loretelling prayer had apparently failed. He lowered himself into the wretched cot that served as his bed, praying that his sleep might be less fitful than it had been the night before last.

Closing weary eyes, he began breathing deeply and fell into a fitful doze.

At the sound of his creaking door opening, he awoke. Feeling refreshed but still light-headed, Madesus rose to see who was at his chamber. His eyes widened in surprise at what he saw, and his throat suddenly felt very dry. Standing in the doorway was his old mentor, Kaletos.

"Master! 'Tis good to see you, after all these years. Why, just recently I considered returning to Corinthia to see how you and the temple fared. Your health looks to be as good as ever. The years have been kind to you."

"Madesus." The old man in the doorway wore voluminous, bright white robes and spoke in a deep voice, roughened by advanced age. Eyes of bright green blazed like emeralds, contrasting with his pale, wrinkled face and skin. He was bald but for a few thin tufts of shockingly white hair above each ear. Around his neck was an amulet similar to Madesus's, a seven-pointed silver star with a multifaceted amethyst mounted in the center. He leaned on a birch staff, not unlike Madesus's but bowed after decades of bearing the venerable priest's weight.

"Master?" Madesus asked hesitantly.

"Forgive me, Madesus, for entering unbidden. The cold moon of Derketo hath waxed and waned threescore times since our parting, and the curiosity of an old man hath grown since that time. Thy brow is furrowed with worry. What troubles thee, my young friend?"

Still feeling fuzzy from his sudden awakening, and recovering from the surprise of seeing his old tutor, Madesus cleared his head with effort and spoke. "I have slept poorly these past days, Master. I fear that an ancient evil is stirring in this city. This object-" he pointed to the jeweled silver bracelet on his table "-is somehow linked to it. I have prayed for guidance, but holy Mitra did not find me worthy of it last night. Strange but fortuitous that you should appear in the city in my hour of need. Still, I would not impose upon you to intervene in a matter that has fallen to me. How have you fared these past years, Master? What news from the temple in Corinthia?"

"The weight of many years rests heavily upon my shoulders, Madesus. All is well at the temple, but I wished to see what befell thee after our parting, before Mitra at last puts my weary bones to rest and claims my soul. You were my best acolyte, and the burden I laid upon thee at our parting was great. 'Tis not an easy path thou hast chosen; I followed it for many years, until holy Mitra, in his boundless wisdom, directed me to the temple of Corinthia, where I initiated thee into the ancient and secret Order of Xuoquelos. In time, thou wilt tutor another, as it hath been for centuries uncounted. Thou art the last of an Order that hath watched the world since the age of the Lemurian Empire.

"Thou hast been drawn here, to this place, for a purpose yet unclear.

Cast aside thy doubts about thy unworthiness and worry not about 'imposing' upon an old fool! Hand me the bracelet; let us lift the veil that conceals the face of evil from us. This simple floor will serve as a font from which the knowledge we seek will flow, Mitra willing.

Prepare for the Rite of the Font."

Madesus reached over to a clay pot on a corner table of his room and dipped water out with a wooden ladle. He poured it out onto the floor of the small room, forming a thin, oval pool several feet in diameter.

Replacing the dipper, he carefully picked up the bracelet and pa.s.sed it to Kaletos. The old man took it gingerly, turning it over in his hand and closing his eyes, his brow furrowed with concentration. Moments later, a scintillating silver nimbus appeared around his hand, expanding to encompa.s.s the bracelet and his upper arm. As the nimbus flickered and grew, Kaletos's amulet began to glow brightly, like a seven-pointed star in the night sky. A cone of white light blazed from the amethyst to the shallow pool of water, which began to steam.

"Behold, the view in the pool!" exclaimed Kaletos. "Observe the font with caution, for its visions can oft lead one astray."

On the surface of the pool, through the steam, Madesus could see the image of an ancient stone building. The view in the pool was like a painting made by an artisan with a keen eye for color and depth; it was so realistic that he felt he was standing before the building itself.

The scene changed, and he could now see inside the structure. He recognized the trappings of a primeval temple.

Then the pool clouded before clearing once more to reveal the familiar figure of Conan. This new scene was even animated, portraying the barbarian stalking through the streets of the city, like a jungle beast in search of prey. Madesus could see Conan approaching the edifice present in the previous scene. The Cimmerian beat futilely on the building's huge doors in a vain effort to gain admittance. Madesus tried to pinpoint the building's location; there was something very familiar about its stone walls, which he could not quite recognize. He had the feeling that he had pa.s.sed by it before, in the not-too-distant past.

The view s.h.i.+fted again to the inside of the building. In the dimly lit interior stood a woman wearing a long black cloak, the hood cast back.

Although only her head was exposed, Madesus could see that she was young and beautiful. Her straight, raven-black hair cascaded down over her shoulders and onto her back like an ebon waterfall, contrasting with the flawless white skin of her perfectly formed face. Her full lips looked as smooth and moist as rain-washed red roses.

A tall, stately man of middling years stood before the woman. With a start, Madesus saw that the man was none other than Eldran, King of Brythunia. She led him toward a large stone block at one end of the building, which looked like some sort of crude altar. When she reached the altar she turned to Eldran and smiled invitingly, then opened her cloak, letting it slide down to the floor. She wore nothing beneath it.

Reaching for him, she pressed the bared ivory globes of her full, firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his muscular chest and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him with wanton abandon.

Eldran returned her pa.s.sionate advances eagerly, stroking and embracing her with increasing intensity as the fires of his l.u.s.t flamed hotter.

Madesus's face reddened at the sight of the two lovers, writhing obscenely in the view revealed by Kaletos's amulet and the thin pool of water. Then he gasped in shock as the scene suddenly changed before his eyes, or rather as the woman changed. He first noticed that her eyes now glowed redly like smoldering embers. Her nails had grown, transforming into wickedly curved black talons. She opened her mouth wide, revealing row upon row of sharp, cruelly hooked black teeth, which she sank into the unsuspecting king's neck.

Struggling to free himself, he thrashed and kicked, but to no avail. As Madesus watched in horror, Eldran's struggles weakened and the teeth remained fastened in his flesh, draining his lifeblood like pointed ebon leeches. She paused, leaning back from the p.r.o.ne form of the king, and let a few droplets of blood drip to the hard stone floor. Then she looked up suddenly, staring straight at Madesus, as if he had been looking in at her through a window. The surface of the water rippled, the view blurred, and the thin pool of water slowly evaporated in a hissing cloud of steam.

Kaletos stood quietly in place, watching Madesus. The room was silent for several minutes as the healer struggled to interpret the gruesome and bizarre revelations of the pool. Finally he spoke, his voice filled with dread and loathing.

"Mutare. The woman in the pool looked exactly like a Mutare priestess, from the drawings in the iron-bound Books of Skelos. I have seen it, but I cannot believe my eyes. The Mutare were a corrupt cult, descendants of the decadent Thurian serpent-people who were obliterated centuries ago! How is it possible?"

"The Mutare hath long been dead, and the last Thurian died several millennia hence," said Kaletos solemnly. "Yet thine eyes have not deceived thee. Truly, thou hast seen a Mutare priestess in the font.

Remember, great as their powers were, the Mutare were but upstart pupils of their Thurian masters. Many a sage hath sworn that the Thurians laid much of their lore down in tomes, lost when their empire fell into ruin. No matter how deep these vile tomes were buried, they were bound to surface in time. Holy Mitra hath brought thee here to face this ancient evil and drive it back to the h.e.l.l from which it hath risen. Thy path hath been revealed, my young friend. To this fate hast Mitra consigned thee!"

Madesus sat down wearily on his crude cot and a.s.sumed a resigned expression. "So this is the evil I have sensed here in the city... a Mutare priestess. My only links to her are this bracelet, King Eldran, and Conan of Cimmeria." Sighing, he pondered his predicament for several moments before speaking again. "Master, although I have read much from the Books of Skelos, I remember little about the Mutare. The drawings were hauntingly familiar, but the pa.s.sages describing this degenerate post-Thurian cult were obscure. What knowledge have you of the Mutare?"

Kaletos leaned against the wall of Madesus's small room, rubbing his snowy-white beard thoughtfully. "I recall only bits and pieces, Madesus. The subject is taboo, spoken of in whispers by foolish old loremasters. Thou must not rely completely on the writings in the Books of Skelos. Many of the pa.s.sages art subject to interpretation. As much as I can recall, I will relate to thee. The Mutare were terrible, hideous beings. Once human, they twisted their souls with frenzied rituals of blood and sacrifice. They hungered not for wealth, nor for the pa.s.sions of the flesh. Their motives were those of hate and chaos, and they sought the power to bring pain and suffering to mortals. They despised humans, though they had once been human themselves, for humans have what the Mutare had lost forever: their souls.

"Using forbidden knowledge of demon-haunted Thuria, they traded their souls for the power to perform feats of sorcery that were far beyond the capacity of other mages and priests of the time. Their power was exceeded only by their malice; they thrived on the woe and travail of hapless humans. During the century of their dominion, they slaughtered thousands of innocents every day with pestilence, famine, or outright butchery. They incited war among the peoples of their time, and revived grievances among men that would otherwise have remained forgotten. The most notorious of the Mutare was Skauraul, a cruel, self-proclaimed monarch of the southern land now known as Shem. His palace, a breeding ground for obscenity and horror, was surrounded by thousands of sharpened poles, upon which any who defied him were skewered like meat on a spit. He reveled in the groans and screams of the dying, sounding all hours of the day and night outside his palace, as the wretches he tortured so brutally would die slowly from their ghastly wounds. Other tales of similar atrocities abound from this era.

"As with all evil, the Mutare proved to be their own worst enemy. Their numbers grew, but the numbers of available victims decreased, so the Mutare quarreled among themselves over the rights to human death and misery like a flock of desert vultures over a pile of carca.s.ses. The lesser Mutare were eradicated quickly in violent confrontations, until of the original hundreds, naught but a dozen remained. Some preferred to avoid the risk of conflict and withdrew into places of hiding. The others were eventually overthrown, including Skauraul, who was himself impaled on a silver spike. The spike was forged and, by one of our Order, ensorcelled with spells to bring about his downfall. A great scouring took place; sages tell of priests who spent their lifetime searching out and destroying any books or magicked items of the Mutare.

Much that was recorded of them was lost in this crusade.

"Still, bits and minutia of Mutare history can be gleaned, as you have done, from such works as the Books of Skelos. Legends say little of the physical details of Mutare. They may appear as normal humans, or as humanoids with eyes that glow as hot and red as the flames of the abyss, obsidian-black fangs and talons, and unnatural voices that ring hollowly.

Some claimed that Skauraul never aged, that his was the power to withstand even the ravages of time. The Mutare were hard to kill. They bled not, nor did they feel pain from injuries that would mortally wound a normal man. More deadly to them were the symbols and prayers of good.

"Madesus, if thou must face a Mutare, thou must first steel thyself in heart and mind, and rely on thy resolve and the powers of thy amulet.

It will serve thee well in such a conflict, but let it not stray from thy grasp! This is all I can say now to thee. I grow weary, and must needs rest these creaking bones. At my age, I have not the strength to help thee face this challenge, but my prayers go with thee. Take not the time to rest-go forth now, for the Mutare's powers will grow with every pa.s.sing moment. I will take my leave of thee, but perhaps we will meet again soon. Until such time, I bid thee farewell and confer upon thee the blessings of guidance and goodness, which holy Mitra hath given us. Fare thee well, my young friend!"

With a feeble wave, Kaletos straightened up somewhat, turned slowly, and hobbled out of the room, closing the door behind him. Madesus watched him leave, then rubbed his eyes and splashed water over his face. After a short prayer, he rose from his knees, his mind made up.

He would first visit King Eldran again, now with the certain knowledge that the king was dying from the foul sorcery of the Mutare. The amulet's power might lift the curse, or at least stop the wasting disease from progressing. Madesus took his cloak from the peg on the wall and donned it hastily. He tied a large pouch to his belt and left for the palace.

It was a short walk from the temple to the palace gates. The healer reached the gates quickly. Below him, in the palace's dungeons, Salvorus was dying slowly as Conan moved through the winding dungeon corridors.

Madesus persuaded the bored-looking guards at the palace gates to admit him. One tall, lanky guard, his breath reeking of cheap spirits, led Madesus to the palace's main double doors, standing like huge monoliths of wood and iron in the moonlight. The guard drew his sword and pounded the flat of its blade loudly on the left door, three times in succession. Set at eye level in the door was a small panel that slid open. A gruff voice called out to the guard in a thick Zingaran accent.

"Gevaro! Get ye back t' the gate! 'Tis not dawn yet, by Erlik's black beard, ye lazy sack o' dung! Eh? What's this, a visitor at this hour-and a priest from the temple o' Mitra, by the look. What do ye want, priest?"

Madesus smiled wanly at the man's banter. Zingaran buccaneers were seldom seen this far east of their homeland. "I am on urgent business concerning the king. Please admit me at once!"

"Ha! Me, admit the likes o' ye, what with no papers an' such, in the wee hours o' the mornin'? I'll admit no man without reason, priest or no!"

"Listen to me carefully, Zingaran," Madesus said slowly, gripping his amulet and wrinkling his brow in concentration. "You will open the door for me. Then you will send this guard back to his post. After I enter, you will forget that we have ever met." He spoke in a voice imbued with authority as he evoked an enchantment that would convince the stubborn doorkeeper to let him in.

"I-I-I'll open the door for ye, priest. Gevaro! Get back t' yer post, afore I nail ye up t' keep ye there!"

Madesus could hear the Zingaran's keys jangling, and moments later, the door swung open. He stepped in, wondering if getting to the king would be even more difficult once he was inside the palace. Still concentrating on the spell, he spoke again to the bewitched doorkeeper, obtaining directions to the king's chambers. He traversed several of the palace's long, narrow corridors, hoping that the doorkeeper had given him the right information. He would have expected the king to live on one of the palace's upper floors, but the Zingaran had told him that Eldran preferred to dwell on the ground floor.

So far, he had seen no one else in the halls, not even guards or servants. The whole palace must be dozing peacefully, at least until daybreak, when the corridors would be full of the clamor and bustle of a typical day. Madesus was surprised by the apparent desertion, but pleased that he had not been seen. After making just a few more turns, he would be at the door to the king's outer chambers. His heart began to pound, antic.i.p.ating a battle to release Eldran from the curse of the Mutare. He could expect resistance, and he could not be sure of the outcome. Would the priestess's powers prove greater than his own? He would soon find out.

He reached a short, wide corridor that the doorkeeper had described. He would have to go through the door on the right. He noticed two doors on the left. One stood wide open, hanging crookedly on bent hinges that were barely fastened to the corridor side of the door. The latch-and-bolt mechanism, also on the corridor side, appeared to have been torn apart, their stout iron plates ripped like sheets of parchment. This seemed odd to Madesus, since the rest of the palace was kept in very good repair. His curiosity aroused, he moved toward the damaged door to take a quick look and nearly cried out in surprise when he felt himself being seized from behind. A huge hand clamped over his mouth and pulled him backward, so abruptly that he almost fell.

"Sssst! Madesus!" a rough, familiar-sounding voice whispered into his ear. " 'Tis Conan! Do not make a sound. I need your help!"

Madesus nodded, quietly wondering what the Cimmerian was doing at the palace. He felt the hand lift from his mouth as Conan freed him. The tall barbarian gestured toward the wrecked door and motioned to the priest to follow him. Madesus noticed that the other door, closed only moments ago, was now open. The Cimmerian must have been concealed behind it. The priest marveled at the catlike stealth of which this black-haired giant was capable; Madesus had not heard a sound, and even the slightest sc.r.a.pe would have echoed in the empty hallway.

The priest hesitantly followed Conan into the room beyond the ruined door. He could see now that this had been the outer door to some sort of dungeon, explaining why the hinges were on the corridor side of the door. He suspected that the damage was more of Conan's handiwork. He had healed the barbarian's broken wrist only a few days ago. Surely, these Cimmerians possessed remarkable strength and powers of recuperation. Judging from the damage, he surmised that Conan had been imprisoned here.

Inside the room was another open door, in similar condition to the outer door. The crumpled forms of two palace guards, their limbs twisted, lay slumped against the doorway in pools of blood. Beyond the door, a narrow stone staircase led down, presumably into the dungeon.

Conan took a few steps downward, again beckoning Madesus to follow.

Frowning at the sight of the dead guardsmen, Madesus stepped past the bodies to the top step, where he halted.