Part 35 (1/2)

With their bellies packed to repletion, the Transformed were like any great flesh-eater. Their one thought was sleep. Eremius watched them drifting away from the field of carnage in twos and threes, to seek comfortable sleeping places. When he was not watching them, his eyes were on the Jewel at his feet.

He was unsure of the safest course to follow with it, other than to wear it as little as possible and use it still less. Tonight he had used it only to send the sounds of Well of Peace dying across the miles to all those who might hear and be frightened. Then he had laid it down, ring and all, and kept close watch upon it without so much as thinking of using it.

Slowly dawn laid bare the little valley, splashed halfway up either side with blood and littered with reeking fragments. The carrion birds circled high overhead, black against the pallid sky, then plunged.

Their cries swiftly drowned out the full-bellied snores of the Transformed.

When the red valley had turned black with the scavengers, Eremius sought his own sleeping place. His last act was to cautiously pick up the Jewel, ring and all, and drop it into a silk pouch. The spells cast by the runes on that pouch should at least give him time to s.n.a.t.c.h it from his belt and fling it away!

Eremius did not know which will, other than his, was now at work in his Jewel. He would have given his chance of vengeance against Illyana to know.

Sixteen.

CONAN UNSLUNG HIS bow and nocked an arrow from the quiver on his back.

For his target he chose a vulture feeding on some unidentifiable sc.r.a.ps of carrion. The smears of blood on the vulture's sable breast showed that it had long been feeding here.

Shot from a Turanian horsebow drawn by ma.s.sive Cimmerian arms, the arrow transfixed the vulture. It squawked, flopped briefly, and died. A few of its mates turned to contemplate its fate, then resumed feeding.

Others lacked even the will to notice. They sat as motionless as the blood-spattered stones, too gorged even to croak.

Conan turned away, resisting the urge to empty his quiver. Even the G.o.ds could now do no more than avenge the people of the sadly misnamed village, Well of Peace. When the time came for men to avenge them, there would be better targets than vultures for Conan's arrows.

From behind a boulder came the sounds of Bora spewing. Hard upon his silence came booted feet crunching upon the gravel.

Khezal emerged from behind the boulder. ”Your lady Illyana says that this was demon work. Has she-arts-to learn this?”

Conan would rather not have answered that question. With a man of Khezal's shrewdness, a lie would be even worse. The death of Well of Peace had taken the matter out of his hands.

”It takes no art to see who must have done this,” Conan said, sweeping his arm over the valley. ”All the tigers of Vendhya together couldn't have done it. But to answer you-yes, she has certain arts.”

”I confess myself hardly surprised,” Khezal said. ”Well, we shall place the lady in the middle of the column. There can be no safety, but there may be less danger. Also, Raihna can guard Illyana's back when she isn't guarding her own.”

”Did Dessa leave your captain still hungry for a woman? Or is he only short of wits?”

Khezal's answer was a silent shrug. Then he said, ”If my father still lived, I might long since have arranged matters better at Fort Zheman.

With no resources save my own...” He shrugged again.

”Who was your father?”

”Lord Ahlbros.”

”Ah.”

Ahlbros had been one of the Seventeen Attendants, and in the eyes of many the shrewdest of them. As soldier, diplomat, and provincial governor, he had served Turan long and well. Had he lived a few years longer, he might have discerned the menace of the Cult of Doom and left Conan with no battles to fight against it.

”Your father left a mighty name,” Conan said.

”But you are on the road to making one yourself, I judge.”