Part 44 (2/2)

A roaring Cimmerian battle cry eclipsed both piping and chanting.

Guards and Pougoi swarmed through the trees to join Conan.

”Archers!” Conan thundered.

Every one of his men who had a bow seemed to nock and draw in a moment.

Arrows skewered twenty Pougoi and as many baggage animals. The shooting would have won no prizes in Turan, but this was not Turan. Conan's archers had all the skill they needed against the target before them.

Before the Pougoi could recover, Conan was leaping forward. Also, those of his men who bore crossbows had time to nock and shoot. Some of their bolts pierced dead men or baggage animals.

One bolt, unheralded, pierced a Star Brother's thigh. He broke his chanting to scream and lurched against his comrade.

The star-spells did not break, but their masters no longer commanded them. Some of the Pougoi closest to the Star Brothers grew old in an instant, their faces as wizened as babes and their heads either white or bald.

Their comrades stared at them, then stared at one another. The berserk spells were striking wildly and doing worse than aging those within reach.

Conan saw a man with all of his guts, and his heart and lungs as well, on the outside of his body. He saw a man suddenly grow purple scales with green spots, and claws on both hands and feet. He retained his thumbs, however, and came at the Cimmerian with a battle ax.

Conan leaped back before the lizard-man's rush. He wanted s.p.a.ce between himself and the spells. He also wanted to give his archers another clear shot. He would ask no man to face these abominations hand-to-hand.

Now some of the baggage animals were also developing scales. Others grew batlike wings, which beat frantically and knocked down most of the Pougoi not ensorceled into something other than human.

The few left human and on their feet leaped from the circle of baggage wagons and ran screaming in mortal terror. Blind with fear, most of them ran straight into the ranks of their fellow tribesmen. Thyrin's men laid on with a berserk fury, as if every servant of the Star Brothers they killed was one more cleansing of the tribe's honor.

The sound of a cracking and cras.h.i.+ng rose above the din of magic and fighting men. A huge pine beyond the ring of wagons swayed, jerked roots loose from the rocky soil, then toppled. It came down with a crash that made every other sound before seem like a mother cooing to a babe. It smashed wagons, beasts, men and not-men with blind impartiality.

As the echoes of the forest giant's fall died away, so did the piping.

Conan felt a sharp pang of doubt that he would not yet call fear. Then Marr the Piper thudded down at the Cimmerian's feet as if he'd leaped from a high wall. In one outflung hand he gripped the shattered pipes.

Conan had one moment of seeing his death waiting; then he saw his duty just as clearly. He leaped onto the trunk of the fallen tree, bare for most of its hundred paces. Running as fast as on level ground, he leaped down beside the Star Brothers.

The one with the bolt in his thigh lay twitching feebly in a pool of blood. His comrade was still upright, though ashen-faced and chanting softly.

Conan's sword leaped at the wizard's bearded head. Leaped, then rebounded as if it had struck a castle wall. Five times Conan struck, with the same futile results.

The sixth time, the chanting grew louder and his sword not only rebounded, but flew from his hand. Conan stooped to retrieve it, but as he gripped the hilt, the blade began to smoke. A moment later the whole weapon was too hot to touch, and the sharkskin binding of the hilt was on fire.

Conan did not wait for the sword to turn into a puddle of molten steel.

The last Star Brother was building a new spell, and there was no Marr the Piper to content with him... only a Cimmerian ready to trade his life for the lives of those he led.

His sword useless, Conan s.n.a.t.c.hed up the first weapon that came to hand, the shattered tongue of an ox-wagon. Wielding it as he would a quarterstaff, he lunged at the Star Brother. The weapon pa.s.sed through the spell's barrier and drove hard against the Star Brother's ribs. All the breath hfffed out of him, and he flew backward to lie sprawled and writhing.

Whatever power the spell had against iron, it had none against wood.

Conan lunged again. This time the splintered end of the wagon tongue drove deep into the Star Brother's chest. His last spell died un-uttered on his lips as he coughed blood onto the three plaits of his beard, looked for one last time at the sky, and lay still.

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