Part 48 (1/2)

If he failed, no more would be possible.

Conan had never run so fast in his life, at least after a long battle.

Hillman though he was, he feared his legs would betray him. To stumble now would be worse than fatal, it would be humiliating.

At last he felt level ground under his feet. Ahead he saw Eremius, Jewel-ring at his feet and hands clasped over his ears. What the sorcerer heard that Conan did not, the Cimmerian neither knew nor cared.

He only knew that in another score of paces, he could s.n.a.t.c.h up the Jewel-ring.

Conan had covered half the distance when the Jewel-ring leaped into the air. It did not glow, not with the dazzling emerald fire of before. It did something far worse.

It sang.

It sang with a sad, plaintive note in a voice that uttered no words but somehow held enormous power to paint pictures in Conan's mind. Conan saw a deep-bosomed Cimmerian wench and himself grappled in love before a blazing fire. He saw a snug hut, with children playing before that same fire. He saw dark-haired boys, their features stamped with his own, learning the art of the hunt and the blade from their father. He saw himself with grizzled hair, pa.s.sing judgments in village disputes.

All that he had turned his back on, the Jewel seemed to say, could be his. He need only turn his back on Eremius.

Conan slowed his pace. He had turned his back on Cimmeria with open eyes, but now those eyes were threatening to blur with sorrow for what he had lost. He knew this was no natural sorrow, but the power of it was sweeping away the last of his knowledge.

Another presence hammered its way into Conan's mind. Illyana's Jewel was crying out a song of triumph.

Equally dazzling pictures entered his mind-riding at the head of an army through a city of towering buildings with gilded roofs, under a sky of northern blue. White clouds shone, flowers showered down upon him, clinging to the mane of his steed, the cheers and chants of the crowd drowned out the babble of the Cimmerian village meeting.

As if slamming a door in the face of intruders, Conan willed both Jewels out of his mind. It did not matter which offered what rewards.

Both alike seemed to think that he could be bought. Both were wrong, and their masters with them.

Conan needed no urging to overthrow the creator of the Transformed.

What he might see fit to do with Illyana could be left until later.

Conan's sword lunged. Its point darted through the ring. The sharp blade leaped toward the sky, where the mist was gathering again. The ring and its Jewel slid down the blade to the hilt.

”Run, people!”

The last thing Conan saw as he himself turned to run, was Eremius slumping to the ground, his face in his hands.

Twenty-two.

THEY WERE HALFWAY out of the valley when Illyana stumbled and fell, to all appearances senseless. Conan laid an ear next to her lips and felt her breathing. Then he handed the Jewel-ring to Raihna, who slipped it on her left arm. Sheathing his sword, the Cimmerian lifted the sorceress and continued the climb.

”Let me go on ahead and find an easier path, Captain,” Bora said. ”You are hillborn like me, but I have not fought hand to hand with the Transformed this night.”

”Not yet,” Raihna said. ”We may well have heard the last of Eremius.

About his creations-”

From the swirling mist in the valley came wild cries, inhuman in their quality but clearly from a human throat. Rage, terror, and pain blended horribly in the cries.

Then the howls of the Transformed rose in a nightmare chorus, swallowing the human cries.

”What in Mitra's name was that?” Bora gasped.