Conan was raised before the golden eyes, and he returned their gaze unafraid. Fear had been purged from him by the blood-red madness that screamed to slay or die.
The Cimmerian laughed as he let his sword fall and seized the horn; it was like seizing lightning, yet he voiced his deathly grim laughter. Massive shoulders knotted, he tore the golden horn from that monstrous head. Pain flared in the god’s xanthic eyes, and the fanged mouth opened wid
er to rip at the human who had wounded him. But the insane rage of the attacker had not left Conan. As he ripped the horn free, he reversed it, thrust it point first into one of the golden globes that stared at him, shoved it deep with all his might.
The howl that Dagoth had loosed before was a whisper to the scream that came from him now. Conan was flung through the air, spinning end over end, to crash to the marble tiles. Higher and higher the shriek rose. Suddenly it could not be heard at all. but now the Cimmerian’s skull vibrated, and white-hot daggers bored at his ears. Clawing at his head, he struggled to rise. He must fight. He must kill. He must … .
A measure of sanity returned to him amid the pain as he realized that he was seeing stars. Through Dagoth. The gigantic shape still loomed in the center of the courtyard, clawed hands clutching its face, blood like rubies welling between the taloned fingers, the blood of a god dropping to shatter like crystal on the marble beneath his feet, but even as the Cimmerian watched the form grew dimmer, less distinct. In gossamer outline Dagoth hung against the night sky. Abruptly he was gone, and with him the pain from Conan’s head.
Unsteadily the Cimmerian surveyed the courtyard. The priests were fled, and of the black-armored guards none remained save those he and Malak had slain. Zula crouched beside Jehnna, cradling the slender girl in her arms. “She collapsed,” the black woman told Conan, “when you tore out that horn. But it is only a sleep, I think. She will be well.”
“Hey, Conan,” Malak called. The small thief was propped against the marble pillar of the colonnade. Akiro, who moved as if he were one bruise from head to foot, was binding a cloth about Malak’s bloody thigh. “I took a spear, but we won. Hannuman’s Stones, man, we won!”
“Perhaps,” Conan said tiredly. He grasped the dragon amulet on his chest as if he would crush it. “Perhaps.”
epilogue
From an alabaster balcony of the vast marble palace that had once been Taramis’, Conan watched the sun rise from the far horizon. It was the second time he had watched a sunrise from that same spot. A day and a night to rest and think, to reach decisions. He had made his decisions, then given a few commands, and showed a handbreadth of steel when those commands were questioned.
“My Lord Conan,” said a servant behind him, “the Princess Jehnna b-begs your presence.” The woman blushed, flustered at stammering, flustered because a Zamoran noblewoman never begged. Most especially not a princess.
“I am not a lord,” Conan said, then quickly added, “Take me to the Princess Jehnna,” before she could become flustered further.
The tapestry-hung chamber to which he was led was meant for informal audiences, with a dais only one step high and an unadorned, high-backed chair of polished ebony for a throne. Jehnna looked well on it, he thought, in her robes of white silk. The others were much recovered from their ordeals as well, Malak surreptitiously fingering a golden bowl, Akiro looking impatient with a bundle of tightly rolled scrolls under his arm, Zula leaning on her staff near Jehnna’s throne as if she were a bodyguard.
“Conan,” Jehnna said brightly as he entered, “it has come. King Tiridates has invested me as Princess Royal of Zamora and confirmed me in Taramis’ estates.”
“I congratulate you,” he said, and she frowned at him doubtfully.
The frown cleared quickly though, and she said, “I have asked you all to come to me this morning because I have a favor to ask of each of you. You, first, Malak.” The small man jerked his hand from the bowl as if burned. “I ask you to remain here with me, Malak,” she went on, “living in my palace. Thus I will always be reminded that a man can be a fool, yet be brave and good.”
“Even my mother never called me good,” Malak said slowly. His eyes drifted to the bowl. “But I will stay in your palace. For a time.”
“Best to put a guard on him, then,” Akiro said drily, and grinned at the offended glare he got from Malak.
“You, also, Akiro,” Jehnna said, “must stay with me. You are a man of great wisdom, and I will need wise counsel in the days, the years, to come.”
“Impossible,” the wizard replied. “You have given me the Scrolls of Skelos, and some bushshamans on the Kothian border are carrying on vile practices that I have vowed to end.”
“I can put soldiers at your disposal to deal with the shamans,” Jehnna told him, then added slyly, “And Taramis gathered several rooms full of magical volumes and instruments which you would be free to study for as long as you remained here.”
“Soldiers,” Akiro mused. “I suppose soldiers could deal with such hedge-shamans as those. Ah, how many rooms full, exactly?”
“Many,” Jehnna laughed. “Zula, you must stay, as well. You have showed me that a woman need not be confined by others’ boundaries, but there is much yet to teach. The staff, for instance.”
The black woman sighed regretfully. “I cannot. I owe a life to Conan, and I must follow him until I can re—”
“No!” Conan said sharply. “The debt cannot be repaid in that way.”
“But—”
“It cannot, Zula. It has come to me that some debts cannot be repaid directly the one owed. Find another life to save, and I will be repaid by that.”
Zula nodded slowly before turning back to Jehnna. “I will stay, Jehnna, and gladly.”
“Conan,” Jehnna said, and hurried on when he opened his mouth. “Listen to me, Conan. Stay with me. Sit beside me.”
“I cannot,” Conan said gently.