Conan the Hunter Part 7

The Zamoran eyed the vessel suspiciously, but Valtresca raised his with enthusiasm, ignoring Ha.s.sem's distrustful expression. 'To the death of the savage who slew the princess!" The general drank deeply. Relaxing, Ha.s.sem also sipped from his goblet. Then he took a long pull of it, realizing that it was indeed a surpa.s.sing vintage, from a land of world-renowned vineyards.

Valtresca smiled with satisfaction and tossed the pouch to the floor beside Ha.s.sem's chair. It clinked loudly, and a glint of gold was visible from within. Ha.s.sem knelt to pick up the pouch, then coughed and clutched at his throat, dropping the goblet. "Bry-Brythunian d-dog," the spluttering thief cursed as he reached feebly for the dagger in his belt, fumbling at the hilt and drawing it out unsteadily.

Valtresca deftly slid out his sword and stepped toward Ha.s.sem. At that moment, a loud knock sounded at the door.

"General Valtresca? I heard the sounds of a struggle-" said Salvorus, who had been approaching from the far end of the hall outside the general's antechamber. The wooden door, which had not been latched firmly, swung inward from the considerable force behind Salvorus's knock. Reacting quickly as the door opened, Valtresca savagely kicked Ha.s.sem in the face with his boot. The Zamoran's mouth erupted in a spray of blood and teeth before he pa.s.sed out on the hard stone floor.

"Salvorus!" the general panted, pointing at the fallen Ha.s.sem. "I have learned that this sc.u.m was the Cimmerian's accomplice. He turned Conan in after an argument over how the princess's jewels were to be split up. The fool tried to knife me! If he still lives, take this subhuman slime down to the dungeon and chain him. At dawn, the headsman will have two necks to cleave!"

Valtresca smiled again, congratulating himself on the improvisation that he had just executed so perfectly. An hour before, he had taken a draught of a special oil that would prevent the poisoned wine from affecting him. The poison was not deadly anyway; he had purchased it from a Khitan merchant who told him when imbibed, it would only temporarily cut off the flow of air into a man's lungs, long enough to render him unconscious. On the morrow, the last men who could connect him with the death of the princess would be silenced forever. Only he and Lamici would know the secret.

The general looked down with irritation at his polished boots; Ha.s.sem had soiled them with his b.l.o.o.d.y face. He contemptously wiped the blood on the fallen Zamoran's tunic. A pity that the lying miscreant had decided to cheat him. Valtresca had hired Ha.s.sem to spy on Lamici, and to make sure that the eunuch disposed of the princess's corpse as planned, without trying to implicate Valtresca. He had paid Ha.s.sem generously for this task.

In the past, he had used Ha.s.sem for many similar schemes; the Zamoran had always proved reliable. Ha.s.sem's payment for spying on the eunuch was to be the bracelet and the amulet from the princess's body, to be fenced in the wicked city of Shadizar after Ha.s.sem left for Zamora.

When Valtresca had learned that the avaricious Ha.s.sem had broken his part of the pact, he knew that he must find the treacherous Zamoran and silence him forever. Valtresca stood quietly as Salvorus leaned over the fallen thief, checking for signs of life.

The huge captain extracted the daggers with which Ha.s.sem had liberally equipped himself, then picked up the unconscious Zamoran. Salvorus thought it strange that the Cimmerian would work with Ha.s.sem, and even stranger that Ha.s.sem would be fool enough to attack Valtresca in the general's own chambers. However, he reasoned that his experience with the Zamorans and Cimmerians was limited, and he had seen many strange and inexplicable actions during his tour of duty in the city. Shaking his head, he slung Ha.s.sem over one burly shoulder and began his trek to the unpleasant depths of the palace dungeons. He never ventured into their stinking halls and cells unless he was personally responsible for a prisoner interred there.

Only an hour before, he had hauled Conan into one of the small dungeon's dank and mildewy cells, and had chained the barbarian securely to the wall. He had marveled at Conan's size and physique; these Cimmerians were a hardy folk indeed. Salvorus's own strength had been great enough for him to lift Conan without aid, but his arms had felt the strain by the time he reached the dungeon. Salvorus had never met a man stronger than himself; much of his fame in soldiering had been brought about by feats of strength impossible for most men.

His father had been a stonecutter, and Salvorus had worked as an apprentice, lifting heavy slabs of rock, often holding them in place while a difficult cut or chip was made. Later, Salvorus had labored in rock yards, chiseling stone out of quarries and bearing it to wagons, carting it to a future site of some n.o.bleman's wall or fortress.

When Salvorus had come of age, he had taken up soldiering-partially for the excitement it offered, but mostly for the opportunity to set aright the grievances his family had suffered at the hands of invading armies.

Slavers had caught his mother while he and his father were off at a quarry. Afterward, his father had never been the same man, gradually sinking into a listless depression that lasted until his death, some eight years later. Salvorus had no brothers or sisters, so for a while, the Brythunian army had become his family.

For years after joining the army, he had courted women steadily, seeking the hot embraces of sensual, full-bodied, l.u.s.ty Brythunian women. His career as a soldier took him away from his amorous encounters before they could develop into relations.h.i.+ps; as a result, he had found no woman to settle down with and have a family. His rapid rise in the ranks of the army had prevented him from making close friends with many of his fellow soldiers since he moved about the region, serving under various commanders. His best friends were back in the border legion he had commanded as lieutenant. The city guards were a sort he had trouble mingling with. They were men who had been given "preferred" positions, not because of their fitness for the work, but rather, because of their relations.h.i.+p to n.o.bles, or because of the favors owed to their families by the aristocracy.

Yes, he mused, he was a loner. He still enjoyed the caresses of many willing women he had met in the city, and he had filled many a night with bouts of lovemaking. While enjoyable, these encounters offered only short-lived companions.h.i.+p. He believed that several of the women would have accepted a proposal of marriage gladly, but he avoided seeing them repeatedly, deliberately letting any bonds of friends.h.i.+p dissipate.

He supposed that he preferred to be a loner, free to pursue his career without being tied down to the docile life of a typical city soldier, who gripped an ale mug far more often than the hilt of a sword. He knew of such men, who eventually retired, spending their evenings in taverns, swilling cheap wine and making exaggerated claims of their prowess in battle.

Such an end would be undignified, Salvorus felt. He would retire when his sword was pried from his dead hand, perhaps after having fallen in battle. The death of a soldier should be a death with honor and purpose. He would continue to serve, taking risks because he must to feel alive. As he descended into the palace dungeon with Ha.s.sem draped over his shoulder, he reflected on this thought, realizing that his recent move to the city had probably been a mistake. His only way out would be to prove himself worthy as a leader of men, fit to command as colonel, or even as general. Perhaps he would try drilling these sluggards who served him as city guards, and begin instructing them in the arts of proper soldiery.

Salvorus mentally planned a regimen of drills to improve the performance of his company of guards, so preoccupied that he did not notice that Ha.s.sem was regaining consciousness. The s.h.i.+fty-eyed Zamoran a.s.sessed his position as he bounced uncomfortably on one of the ma.s.sive captain's brawny shoulders. His head, arms, and upper body dangled down over Salvorus's back, while his legs were gripped securely by one of the huge man's arms. Ha.s.sem felt weak; his breath came in uneven wheezes as the poison coursed through his body. His jawbone throbbed in agony, and the thick, oily taste of blood filled his mouth. Small droplets of blood trickled out between his smashed lips occasionally, falling to the cold stone floor. When he ran his swollen tongue along his gums, he could feel jagged stumps where several of his teeth had been. Risking a glance at his surroundings, he guessed that he was being carried to the dungeons below the palace. He had escaped from them once, years before, but not without help. They were constructed in a confusing maze of corridors, like a labyrinth.

He noticed that his daggers were missing, but he could see their hilts protruding from a bag that dangled temptingly from Salvorus's broad belt. If he could just reach one of them, he could slip it right between his captor's shoulder blades, then try to find the pathway he had once used to escape. He concentrated on feigning unconsciousness, while judging the right moment to make his move.

He focused on one particular dagger, his "black dragon," which had been rubbed generously with a paste made from the deadly leaves of the black lotus. One scratch from his black-dragon dagger would be enough to bring down a man and kill him swiftly with its poisonous bite.

Valtresca had not kicked out all of Ha.s.sem's teeth, he thought grimly; the general would find that Ha.s.sem could still bite. Waiting patiently, the Zamoran maintained his ruse of immobility, like a serpent coiled to strike.

Unmindful of the imminent danger from behind, Salvorus continued his long march to the cells. The dungeon's mazelike corridors were lit by spa.r.s.ely placed lamps, burning dimly. Salvorus knew the secret of the maze, a simple method of navigating its endlessly branching pathways by interpreting symbols marked on the lamps, cleverly disguised as part of each lamp's ornamentation. He was nearing the cellblock; he could tell this by the smell permeating the area: a strong odor of urine, feces, and decay. As he turned a corner, he saw that his nose had not lied to him.

The cramped compartments were arranged side by side along one long wall of the dungeon corridor; each was narrow and long, designed to hold up to a half-dozen occupants. The corridor providing access to them was only three feet wide. Conan had been placed in the first cell. Through the bars, the captain could see that the barbarian was still hanging in heavy shackles, suspended from the wall by stout iron bolts. Salvorus reached for his key ring and selected a large, rusty iron key, which he fitted into the cell door's lock. Just before he turned the key, he felt a sharp, deep pain in his side.

"By Erlik's beard!" he cursed in shock, dropping Ha.s.sem. His hand went to his left side, where he could see a thin-bladed dagger protruding.

The Zamoran must have regained his senses! For the second time in the last few days, he had underestimated an opponent. Roaring in anger, he swept his heavy-bladed sword from its well-oiled scabbard and aimed a vicious cut at the groggy thief, still dazed from his tumble to the hard floor. Salvorus's murderous stroke never descended; without warning, he toppled over as if poleaxed.

Shaking the cobwebs from his aching head, Ha.s.sem got unsteadily to his feet. He could barely walk; his dagger-thrust had taken all the energy he could muster. Even then, the stroke had gone wide of its intended target, its thin, serrated blade sliding miraculously into a tiny unmended patch in the mail s.h.i.+rt. He noticed for the first time that his captor had been none other than Captain Salvorus himself. If his wits had not been so hazy from the poison and his injury, he would have recognized this sooner. Ha.s.sem cared not who he killed. He had slain many men less deserving than this buffoon.

Ha.s.sem's skill with the dagger had served him well. As he stood, he pulled his black dragon roughly from the fallen captain's side, its serrated blade making a rasping noise as several more links of chain mail were torn loose. Salvorus lay motionless on the floor; the black lotus was sending him into a slumber from which he would never awaken.

One final detail remained: Ha.s.sem must arrange the body to create the illusion that Conan had struggled with Salvorus and fatally stabbed him. The jailer would find the corpses in the cell, each clutching a dagger in his hand. He turned the key in the cell door and stepped in.

The commotion had roused Conan. Ha.s.sem was pleased to see the barbarian shackled tightly, without slack, in chains fastened to thick iron rings set solidly in the stone wall. Conan looked very much the worse for wear; his dirt-encrusted body was an aching ma.s.s of b.l.o.o.d.y contusions.

Nevertheless, the Zamoran approached him cautiously, his dagger ready.

"We meet again, witless brute," Ha.s.sem taunted. His normally deep, tonal voice had degenerated to a rasping, guttural growl. "This time, I will have the personal pleasure of sending you to h.e.l.l, or whatever black pit the souls of barbarians are sent to," he continued, gloating.

"Now I will finish what I began, after I convinced this dull-witted fool-" he gestured to the p.r.o.ne form of Salvorus "-that the princess died by your hand. If only this dog knew that his master, his precious general, was the one who really had her killed!" His laughter came in short, choked bursts. Coughing, he spat a mouthful of blood and tooth fragments into Conan's face.

Conan struggled to break free of the chains, but he knew that in his weakened condition, he would need hours to snap their stout iron links.

He strained with all his might, chest heaving, cords standing out on his bulging arm and leg muscles, but to no avail. "Erlik take you, Zamoran gutter-rat! Send me to h.e.l.l, but know that I will be waiting for you there!" He spat a curse at Ha.s.sem, drew in a breath, and made a final effort to break out of the chains.

Ha.s.sem stepped forward, a.s.suming an expert knife-fighter's stance. He lowered the dagger, preparing for a disemboweling slash at Conan's unprotected belly. "Your death will be slow and painful, barbarian pig-uuungh!"

Conan watched in astonishment as Ha.s.sem pitched forward onto the cell floor. A heavy, iron-hilted throwing-knife protruded from the thief's back, buried to the hilt squarely between his shoulder blades. Ha.s.sem had fallen on his own serrated dagger; its thin blade had pa.s.sed completely through him, sticking out next to the hilt of the iron throwing-knife.

Salvorus knelt at the door to the cell, his arm still extended from throwing the blade. Leaning against the door frame for support, he raised himself slowly to his feet. He felt certain that the Zamoran's dagger had been poisoned; his side was afire with its venom. The puncture made by Ha.s.sem's dagger was minor; Salvorus had suffered far worse injuries in the border wars. Whatever the poison was, its potency was considerable. He fought its effects, but he did not know how long his strength would last.

"By Crom and Mitra!" Conan burst out when he saw that Salvorus had saved him. "That was a mighty throw! I had not looked forward to our next meeting, but now I say well-met, Captain Salvorus." He saw that Salvorus was off balance, and eyed the rent that Ha.s.sem's dagger had made in the mail s.h.i.+rt. Blood seeped from it slowly, staining Salvorus's tunic and pooling on the floor.

"Conan," the captain began, "I now believe you are innocent... foul treachery of the worst kind, treason in a high place, here at the palace! Hard to believe, General Valtresca a traitor..." His voice was unsteady, as if he were in great pain. "I must bring news of this to the king, news of this..." he faltered, as though forgetting what he was going to say "... will free you, then come with me to see King Eldran and Kailash."

Fumbling, Salvorus took the keys from the cell door and unlocked one of the shackles on Conan's ankles. He blinked his eyes as if to clear them, and shook his head slightly. He began unlocking another shackle, but his great strength finally failed him, overcome by the lethal black lotus blossoms of far-off Khitai. A lesser man would have been killed instantly, but Salvorus possessed a vitality not unlike that of the Cimmerian. He lived, but he was in the sleep of the black lotus, a sleep of strange dreams that ended in death.

Guessing rightly that Ha.s.sem had poisoned Salvorus, Conan cursed the ill luck that continued to plague him. Now the only man who could exonerate him of the crime he was accused of lay dying on the floor of the dungeon cell. If only he could reach the keys that lay by Salvorus's outstretched hand! At least one of his legs was freed. He bent it at the knee, bracing himself, and pressed off the brick wall with all his might. His tortured body ached with the effort, but he knew he must keep trying.

After what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, he felt one of the bricks loosen, its mortar crumbling as it succ.u.mbed to the combined force of Conan's mighty arms and legs. He continued pulling, concentrating on the brick. Finally it slid out of the wall with a grating sound, nearly pulling Conan's arm out of its socket as it did so. Now he had at least one free leg and the partial use of one arm.

Swinging the block of stone like a club, he hammered it against the chain by his foot. More than once he struck his foot, sending waves of pain up his leg. Gritting his teeth, he continued, until the iron chain-link finally parted under the pounding. The stone block was badly cracked and chipped, but he had only to free his other arm and he could escape this accursed cell. Heaving, he strained against the last ring set into the brick wall. The mortarwork was too solid. He paused to chip at the brick with the remnant of the stone block that hung from the end of his free arm's shackle. Without warning, the iron ring he struggled with broke loose of the brick, sending him cras.h.i.+ng to the floor.

He grabbed the keys and unlocked the shackles, then bent to see if Salvorus was still breathing; the captain's chest rose and fell in shallow, even breaths. He tore off Ha.s.sem's cloth tunic and stuffed it beneath the captain's mail shut to stanch the flow of blood from the knife wound. The edges of the puncture were a sickly, purplish-black color, and a ghastly odor rose from the wound. If he left Salvorus here, the man could die from this poison before proclaiming Conan's innocence. Perhaps the healer, Madesus, could be sent to tend his wounds. He had told Conan that he was an expert in healing poison victims.

Conan wrestled with his options, finally deciding that he would make better time unburdened by the huge captain's slumbering body. He must find Madesus quickly; if anyone could heal Salvorus, it would be the strange priest who had restored Conan's wrist. He disliked abandoning the captain, who had saved him from an unpleasant end on the blade of Ha.s.sem's knife. Now, if not for Salvorus, Conan would be burning in the hot fires of the lowest pits of h.e.l.l. Silently he vowed to help Salvorus, though the man was in part responsible for Conan's recent woes.

Taking the keys and arming himself with the captain's huge sword, he emerged from the cell, looking each way down the corridor. He had been out cold when dragged into the cell, so he had no clear idea of the way to take. He began walking in the direction that Salvorus and Ha.s.sem had come from. After a short while, he discovered that the mazelike corridors of the dungeon were laid out in a random series of forks and turns, like in a maze. Fortunately, there were dim lanterns at some of the junctures; after his brush with death in the city sewers, he had little desire for another journey in the dark.

Still, he must be very careful to avoid getting lost in this labyrinth.

Time was a luxury he did not have; he had to reach Madesus as quickly as possible. As he tried to think of a way out, he caught a glimpse of a small, wet spot on the corridor floor. He wiped at it with a finger, then held the finger closer to the lantern. Blood! Fresh, too, from the look of it. Ha.s.sem's face had been bleeding when he had arrived at the cell door with Salvorus. The wretched thief had unwittingly left Conan a trail to follow!

Relaxing a little, readying his sword, Conan swiftly followed the crimson path, which he knew would eventually lead him out of the musty corridors... to fresh air and freedom.

Seven.

The View in the Pool --------------------.

Trembling, Madesus laid the jeweled bracelet down on a rough-hewn corner table in his cramped, crudely furnished room. Tarocles, the balding, scrawny high priest of the city's poorest temple to Mitra, had permitted him to use this tiny room. Normally, it was reserved for acolytes.