Conan the Unconquered (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 3) - Page 49

“It is here,” he replied, touching the pouch that hung from his belt along with sword and dagger. Within were two small leather bags containing carefully measured powders would weaken the barrier of the Inner Circle enough for him to pass it, one portion for entering and one for leaving.

“The incantation. You remember the incantation?”

“I remember. Do not worry so.”

He tried to put his arms around her, but she stepped back out of his embrace, her face a mask. “The gods be with you, Conan.” She swallowed, and whispered, “And with all of us.”

There was more help in steel than in gods, Conan thought as he went into the night. The moon hung bright in a cloudless sky, bathing the countryside in pale light, filling the camp with shadows. It seemed a place of the dead, that camp. No one was about, and even the guard dogs huddled close to the yurts, only lifting their heads to whine fretfully as he passed. He gathered his cloak against the chill of the wind, and against a chill that was not of the wind.

Akeba, Sharak, and Tamur were waiting, as they had agreed, east of the crescent of yurts. The rest of the Hyrkanians remained in their small camp, so that it should not be found empty. The horses remained in camp as well; the sound of hooves in the night might attract unwanted attention.

Tamur peered bey

ond Conan nervously and whispered, “She did not come with you, did she?”

“No,” Conan said. Tamur heaved a heavy sigh of relief. “Let’s do this and be done,” he went on. “Tamur, you lead.”

Hesitantly, the Hyrkanian started to the east. Akeba followed, horsebow in hand and arrow nocked, to one side of Conan. Sharak labored on the other, leaning on his staff and muttering about the footing despite the bright moonlight.

“Tamur almost did not come,” Akeba said quietly, “so afraid is he of Samarra. Did he hate Jhandar one iota less, he would have ridden for the coast, instead.”

“But he does hate Jhandar,” Conan replied. “He will lead us true.”

“I wonder you have energy for this night, Conan,” Sharak snickered, “after a day and a night with this witch-woman. I saw little of her, not nearly so much as you,” he paused to cackle shrilly, “but I’d say she was a woman to sap a man’s strength.”

“Watch your step, old man,” the big Cimmerian said drily. “I’ve not seen you read your own stars of late. This could be the night you break your neck.”

“Mitra!” Sharak swore, stumbled, and almost fell. “I have not,” he went on in a shaken voice. “Not since Aghrapur. The excitement, and the adventure, and the … .” He stumbled, peered at the sky and muttered, “The brightness of the moon blinds me. I cannot tell one star from another.”

They traveled without words, then, following the dim shape of Tamur until abruptly the Hyrkanian stopped. “There,” he said, pointing to two tall shadows ahead. “Those are the marks of the barrier. I can go no closer.”

Samarra had described the shadowy objects as well as telling Conan what she knew of what lay beyond them. Around the perimeter of the Outer Circle huge pillars of crude stone had been set, thrice the height of a man and four times as thick. To pass those stelae meant death for one of Hyrkanian blood.

“There is no need for me to accompany you, Conan,” Sharak said. “My eyes. I would be more hindrance than help. No, I must remain here and learn what I can of our prospects from the stars.” He suddenly clutched the arm of a surprised Tamur, and though the Hyrkanian tried to shake himself free, Sharak clung tightly, pulling on the other man. “Can you tell one star from another, Hyrkanian? No matter. I will tell you what to look for. Come.” The two moved off to the side, Tamur still jerking futilely at his arm.

“I, at least, will come with you,” Akeba said, but Conan shook his head.

“Samarra told me that any who enters other than myself will die.” She had said no such thing, but what she did say convinced him that two men, or fifty, would have no better chances of survival than one, and perhaps less.

“Oh. Then I will await your return, Cimmerian. You are an odd fellow, but I like you. Fare you well.”

Conan clapped the slighter man on the shoulder. “Take a pull at the hellhorn, an you get there before me, Akeba.”

“What? ’Tis a strange thing to say.”

“Other countries, other customs,” Conan said. “It is a way of saying fare you well.” His amusement faded abruptly as he eyed the stone pillars. It was time to be on with it. His blade slid from its scabbard, steel rasping on leather.

“Strange, indeed, you pale-eyed barbarians,” Akeba said. “Well, you take a pull at the … whatever it was you said.”

But Conan was already moving forward. Without pausing, the Cimmerian strode by the crude pillars, sword at the ready. As he did, a tingle passed through his body, as if nails and teeth had all been dragged across slate at once. The greatest tingle was at his waist, beneath the pouch at his belt. Samarra had warned him of this, and told him to ignore it, but he fumbled for the two smaller sacks anyway. Both were intact.

There was no growth of any kind, not even the tough grass that covered the plains of Hyrkania. The ground was smooth, yet ridged, as if it had flowed then hardened in waves. He had seen such before, where fissures had opened and the bowels of the earth had spewed forth molten rock. The moonlight here was tinged with the xanthous color of flesh gone to mold. Shadows moved furtively in that nacreous light, though no clouds crossed the moon.

Had he been the hero of a saga, he thought, he would seek out those creatures and hack his way to the Inner Circle. But the heroes of sagas always had the luck of ten men, and used it all. He went on, deeper into the Blasted Lands, moving with pantherine grace, yet carefully, as if avoiding seeking eyes. That eyes were there, or something that sensed movement, he was certain. Strange slitherings sounded from the rocks around him, and clickings, as of chitinous claws on stone. Once he did indeed see eyes, three unblinking red orbs, set close together, peering at him from the dark beside a boulder, swiveling to follow his passage. He quickened his pace. The sound of scraping claws came closer, and more quickly. A piping hiss rose, behind and either side, like the hunting cry of a pack.

Abruptly there was silence. Did the shadow creatures attack in silence, he wondered, or had they ceased their pursuit? And if they had, why? What could lie ahead that would frighten … .? The answer came as he skidded to a halt, a bare pace from a pillar marking the deadly Inner Circle.

Despite himself he let out a long breath. But he still lived, and perhaps fear of the barrier would hold whatever followed at bay for a time longer. Behind he heard the hissing begin again. Hastily he pulled one leather sack from his pouch and sprinkled the scintillating powder in a long line by the stone pillar. With great care he spoke the words Samarra had taught him, and a shimmering appeared in the air above the line, as wide as a man’s outstretched arms and reaching nearly as high as the stone marker. Within that shimmer the barrier was weakened, not destroyed, so Samarra said. A strong man could survive passing through it. So she said.

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