Karela stared at him in amazement. Was this some attempt to draw her off guard, it was most surely a strange one. “What interest can you have in it?”
“More than you can possibly know. Speak, woman!”
“It was like a man,” she said slowly, “except that it had too many fingers and toes, and claws on all of them. There were four horns, and three eyes. And a reek of evil as strong as yours.”
His smile returned, but not for her this time. To her surprise it was a smile of triumph. “Forget Inaros,” he said. “Bring me that figure, and I will give you five hundred pieces of gold.”
“Think you I’d still take your gold,” she said incredulously, “after this?”
“I think you’d take five hundred pieces of it if it came from Erlik himself. Think, woman. Five hundred!”
Karela hesitated. It was a tempting amount. And to think she could earn it at the Cimmerian’s expense made it more so. But to deal with this one. “Done,” she was surprised to hear herself say. “How shall we meet again, when I have the thing?”
He tugged off his brilliant red surcoat, revealing gilded armor beneath. “Have a man wearing this over his tunic stand before the main gate of the royal palace when the sun is at its zenith, and on that day at dusk I will come to this hut with the gold.”
“Done,” Karela said again. “I will leave you, now, and I advise you to wait the time it takes to count one thousand—an you can count—before following, else you will discover whether that pretty armor will avail you against crossbow bolts.” With that she backed from the hut, and scrambled into her saddle.
As she rode into the forest she found that she almost felt like singing. Five hundred pieces of gold and another stroke against the Cimmerian, if a small one. But there would be greater, the first already under way. This time it would be Conan who was forced to flee, not her. He would flee, or he would die.
Synelle paced the floor of her sleeping chamber like a caged panther, hating her agitation yet unable to quell it. Silver lamps lit the room against the night at the windows, lending a sheen to the gossamer hangings about her bed. Her pale hair hung damp with sweat, though the night was cool. Normally she guarded her exotic beauty jealously, never allowing a curl to be out of place or the slightest smudging of rouge even when she was alone, but now turmoil filled her to the exclusion of all else.
For the hundreth time she stopped before a mirror and examined her full, sensuous lips. They looked no different than they always had, but they felt swollen. With a snarl of rage she resumed her pacing, her long robe of canescent silk clinging to every curve of her body. She was aware of every particle of the sleek gray material sliding on the smoothness of her skin.
Ever since that … that barbarian had kissed her she had been like this. She could not stop thinking about him. Tall, with sh
oulders like a bull and eyes like a winter lake. A crude, unmannered lout. Wild and untamed, like a lion, with arms that could crush a woman in his embrace. She felt like bubbling honey inside. She could not sleep; already this night she had tossed for hours in torment, filled to the brim with feelings she had never before experienced.
Why had she even taken the Free-Company in service? Only to spite Antimides, as had always given her pleasure in the past. There was no reason to keep it, except that Antimides would certainly think he had won in some fashion if she dismissed them. And there was the barbarian.
Desperately she tried to force her mind away from Conan. “I will not give myself to him!” she cried. “Not to any man! Never!”
There were other things to think about. There had to be. The women. Yes. Of the bronze image of Al’Kiir, she was certain now. The men Taramenon had sent after Galbro would bring it to her. But she needed a woman for the rite, and not any woman would do. This woman must be beautiful above all others about her, proud to the point of fierceness. Proud women there were, but plain or old or disqualified on a score of other points. Beautiful women abounded, and some had pride, but where was the fierceness? Without exception they would tremble at a man’s anger, give way to his will eventually, for all they might resist a time.
Why did they have to be so? Yet she could understand a little now. What woman could resist a man like the barbarian. Him again! She pounded a small fist on her sleek thigh in frustration. Why did he continually invade her thoughts?
Suddenly her face firmed with determination. She strode to a marble-topped table against the tapestried wall, touched her fingers to a twist of parchment there. Within were three long, black, silky hairs, left on her robe when the barbarian … . Her hand trembled. She could not think of that now; her mind must be clear. It must be.
Why did it have to be him? Why not Taramenon? Because he had never affected her as Conan did? Because she had toyed with him so long that only the pleasure of toying remained?
“It will be Conan,” she whispered. “But it will be as I wish.” Her hand closed on the parchment, and she swept from the room.
Slaves, scrubbing floors in the hours when their mistress was not usually about, scrambled from her path, pressing their faces to the marble tiles in obeisance. She took no more notice of them than she did of the furnishings.
Straight to her secret chamber she went, closing the door behind her and hurriedly lighting lamps. Triumph sped her movements, the certainty of triumph soon to be realized.
At the table covered with beakers and flasks she carefully separated one hair from the packet. One would be enough, and that would leave two in case further magicks must be worked on the huge barbarian.
On a smooth silver plate she painted the sign of the horns, the sign of Al’Kiir, in virgin’s blood, using a brush made from the hair of an unborn child and handled with a bone from its mother’s finger. Next two candles were affixed to the plate, one on either side, and lit. Black, they were, made from the rendered tallow of murdered men, stolen from their graves in blessed ground.
Haste was of the essence, now, but care, too, lest disaster come in place of what she sought. Gripping her tongue between her teeth, she painted the final symbols about the edge of the plate. Desire. Lust. Need. Wanting. Passion. Longing.
Quickly she threw aside the brush, raised her hands above her head, then lowered them before her, palms up, in a gesture of pleading. In the arcane tongue she had learned so painfully, Synelle chanted, soft spoken words that rebounded from the pale walls like shouts, invoking powers linked to Al’Kiir yet not of him, powers of this world, not of the void where he was imprisoned. In the beginning she had attempted to use those powers to make contact with Al’Kiir. The result had been a fire that gutted a tower of her castle, lying halfway to the Aquilonian border, a burning with flames that no water could extinguish, flames that died only when there was not even a cinder left to burn. For long after that she had feared to try again, not least for the stares directed at her and the whispers of sorcery at the castle of Asmark. To cover herself she had brought charges of witchcraft against a woman of the castle, a crone of a scullery maid who looked the part of a witch, and had her burned at the stake. Synelle had learned care from that early mistake.
Slowly the candles guttered out in pools of their own black tallow, and Synelle lowered her hands, breathing easily for the first time in hours. The painted symbols on the plate, the hair, all were ash. A cruel smile touched her lips. No more was there need to fear her desires. The barbarian was hers, now, to do with as she would. Hers.
11
Conan’s skin crawled as he walked across the dusty courtyard of the house where his company was quartered. The hairs on his body seemed to move by themselves. Bright sunlight streamed from the golden globe climbing into the mourning sky; chill air seemed to surround him. It had been so ever since he woke, this strangeness, and he had no understanding of why.