Dark face as cold and calm as if he had a lifetime for the task, Basrakan gathered a sampling from each pile of ash, scraping them into folded scraps of parchment with a bone knife four times blessed in rites before the ancient gods of the Kezankians. Ash from each dead man went into a thick-walled mortar of plain, unworked gold. The sorcerer’s movements quickened as he added further ingredients, for speed now was essential. Powdered virgin’s eye and ground firefly. Salamanders’ hearts and the dried blood of infants. Potions and powders, the ingredients of which he dared not even think of. With the thigh bone of a woman strangled by her own daughter he ground the mixture, twelve times widdershins, intoning the hidden names of the ancient gods, names that chilled the marrow and made vapors of frost hang in the air. Twelve times the other way. Then it was done, this first step, leaving the golden vessel filled almost to the brim with black powder that seemed to swirl like smoke in its depths.
Gingerly, for the blending was deadly to the touch now, Basrakan carried the mortar to a cleared space on the pale stone floor. There, dipping a brush tipped with virgins’ eyelashes into the moist mixture, he carefully scribed a precise pattern on the smooth stone. It was a cross, its arms of equal length exactly aligned to north and south, east and west. Tipping each arm was a circle, within which he drew the four idiograms of the ancient gods, the secret signs of earth, air, water, and fire. Next a triangle, its apex at the meeting of the arms of the cross, enclosed the symbol for the spirits of fire, and that same character was placed on each point of the triangle.
Basrakan paused, staring at what he had wrought, and his breath came fast. He would not admit to fear despite a tightening in his bowels, but this was more dangerous than anything he had yet attempted. An error in any phase, one completed or one to come, and the rite would rebound on him. Yet he knew there was no turning back.
Deftly he tipped the last of the powder into a silver censer on the end of a silver chain. Ordinary flint and steel provided the spark and set it smouldering. Aligning his feet carefully on the broad base of the triangle, he swung the censer in an intricate pattern. Wisps of smoke wafted upward from the silver ball, and Basrakan’s incantation rose with the odoriferous vapors. With each swing of the censer one crystalline word rang in the air, words that even the fiery-eyed Imalla could not hear, for they were not meant for human ears, and the human mind could not comprehend them.
Around him the very air seemed to glisten darkly. Smoke from the censer thickened and fell to the stone floor, aligning itself unnaturally with the pattern drawn there. Basrakan’s chant came faster, and more loudly. The words pealed hollowly, like funereal tolling from the depths of a cavern. Within the ropes of smoke now covering the configuration came a glow, ever fiercer and hotter, till it seemed as if all the fires of the earth’s bowels were bound in those roiling thongs of black. Sweat rolled down Basrakan’s thin cheeks from the heat. The glow became blinding, and his words rose higher and higher, the walls shivering under their impact.
Suddenly Basrakan ceased his cry. Silence came, and in that instant, glow and smoke and drawn pattern all vanished. Even the smoke from the censer failed.
Done, Basrakan thought. Weariness filled him. Even his bones felt weak. But what had had to be done, had been done.
A tremor shook him as his eye fell on the remains of his accusers. On each pile of ash, from which all that could be burned had been burned, danced pale flames. Even as he watched they licked into extinction. He drew a deep breath. This was no cause for fear, but rather for exaltation.
Jbeil burst into the chamber, panting, with one hand pressed hard to his side. “The bless … the bless … the blessings … .”
“An Imalla must be dignified,” Basrakan snapped. Returning confidence, returning faith, washed away the dregs of his fear. “An Imalla does not run.”
“But the camps, Imalla,” Jbeil managed past gulps of air.”Fire. Men are burning. Burning, Imalla! Warriors, old men, boys. Even babes unweaned, Imalla! They simply burst into flame, and not water or dirt can extinguish them. Hundreds upon hundreds of them!”
“Not so many, I think,” Basrakan replied coolly. “A hundred, perhaps, or even two, but not so many as you say.”
“But, Imalla, there is panic.”
“I will speak to the people, Jbeil, and calm them. Those who died were of tainted blood. Did the means of their dying tell you nothing?”
“The fire, Imalla?” Jbeil said uncertainly. “They offended the spirits of fire?”
Basrakan smiled as if at a pupil who had learned his lesson well. “More than offended, Jbeil. Much more. And all males of their blood shared their atonement.” A thought struck him, a memory of words that seemed to have been spoken days in the past.”My guards, Jbeil. Did you see them as you came in?”
“Yes, Imalla. As I came to you. The two who were at your door accompanied Ruhallah Imalla on some errand.” His eyes took on a sly cast. “They ran, Imalla. Ruhallah knows little of dignity. Only the urgency of my message brought me to such haste.”
“Ruhallah had his own urgency,” Basrakan said so softly he might have been speaking to himself. He fixed the other man with an eye like a dagger. “Ruhallah is to blame for the fiery deaths this day. He and those false guards who flee with him. Ruhallah led those men of the blood that perished this day into false beliefs and tainted ways.” It could be so, he thought. It must be so. Assuredly, it was so. “Ruhallah and the guards who flee with him must be brought back to face payment for what they have done.” Few things amused Basrakan, but the next thought to visit him brought a smile to his thin lips. “They are to be given to the women of the men who died by fire this day. Let those who lost kith and kin exact their vengeance.”
“As you command, Imalla, so will it be.” Jbeil froze in a half-bow, and his eyes w
ent wide. “Aaiee! Imalla, it had been driven from my mind by the burnings and … .” Basrakan glared at him, and he swallowed and went on. “Sharmal has returned, Imalla. One of those you sent after the Eyes of Fire, Imalla,” he added when the tall holy man raised a questioning eyebrow.
“They have returned?” Basrakan said, excitement rising in his voice. “The Eyes of Fire are mine! All praise to the old gods!” Abruptly he was coldly calm, only an intensity of tone remaining of the emotion that had filled his speech. “Bring the gems to me. Immediately, fool! Nothing should have kept you from that. Nothing! And bring the men, as well. They will not find their rewards small.”
“Imalla,” Jbeil said hesitantly, “Sharmal is alone, and empty handed. He babbles that the rest are dead, and other things, as well. But there is little of sense in any of it. He … he is mad, Imalla.”
Basrakan ground his teeth, and tugged at his forked beard as if he wanted to pull it out by the roots. “Empty handed,” he breathed at last, hoarse and icy. He could not be cheated of his desires now. He would not be. “What occurred, Jbeil? Where are the Eyes of Fire? I will know these things. Put this Sharmal to the question. Strip him of his skin. Sear him to the bone. I will have answers!”
“But, Imalla,” Jbeil whispered, “the man is mad. The protection of the old gods is on him.”
“Do as I command!” Basrakan roared, and his acolyte flinched.
‘‘As … as you command, Imalla, so will it be.” Jbeil bowed deeply, and moved backwards toward the door.
So much had happened, Basrakan thought, in such a short time. There was something he was forgetting. Something … . ‘‘Jbeil!” The other man jerked to a halt. “There are strangers in the mountains, Jbeil. They are to be found, and any survivors brought to me for offering to the true gods. Let it be done!” He gestured, and Jbeil nearly ran from the room.
Chapter 15
“We will make camp now.” Jondra announced while the sun still rose. Arvaneus’ voice rose, echoing her command, and obediently her hunters dismounted and began seeing to the pack animals and their own mounts.
Conan caught her eye questioningly, and she favored him with a smile. “When hunting a rare animal,” she said,”care must be taken not to bypass its feeding grounds. We will spend days in each camp, searching.”