Conan the Fearless Part 2

"I-I-I know them not, sir," the innkeeper managed to stammer. Sweat rolled from him in fat, greasy drops that plopped onto the floor by his bare feet.

The short rotund man spoke. "Zamorian cutpurses, it would seem. They arrived at the inn only earlier this day."

Conan regarded the man. "I am called Conan of Cimmeria, but late of Shadizar. Who might you be?"

"I am Loganaro, friend, a merchant from Mornstadinos, in Corinthia. I am returning there from a visit to Koth, where I have-ah-business interests."

Conan nodded and turned his gaze back to the innkeeper. "How came these carrion-feeders to my room, owner of this Mitra-cursed dog barn? Not by way of those stairs."

"G-g-good sir, there is a second set of stairs at the far end of the corridor. B-bet-better-constructed ones."

"Aye. Now explain the reasons for the oiled bolt, dog."

"B-b-bolt? It-it was but recently installed, sir. The craftsman would have oiled it." The innkeeper swallowed and nodded. as though he were a puppet with a loosened string. "Yes, that must be it; the craftsman must have done it."

Conan shook his head. "A likely story. I am disposed to look up this craftsman and ask him."

The innkeeper turned an ashen hue. "B-b-but he is no longer in our village. He-ah-left-for Turan."

Conan spat at the floor. He squatted and used the ragged cloak of the dead cutpurse to clean his blade, then inspected the steel for nicks.

There were no fresh marks on the blade; the thief's dagger must have been of poorly made steel.

Smoothly, Conan rose to tower over the trembling innkeeper. "Drag this offal away from my room," he ordered the innkeeper. "I would return to my disturbed slumber."

"S-s-sleep?" The fat man seemed horrified at the idea.

"What else? No c.o.c.k has crowed, and I am tired. Be quick, and I may overlook the matter of the oiled bolt."

Conan grinned as he ate portions of the breakfast the innkeeper had laid before him. The food was well-prepared and hot. If he belched, the owner of the dog kennel called an inn came running to inquire if he could be of service.

As Conan sat there the short merchant approached him. He addressed the Cimmerian. "Do you travel west, by happenstance?"

"Aye. To Nemedia."

"Then you will ride the north fork of the Corinthian road through Haunted Pa.s.s."

"Haunted Pa.s.s?"

The merchant smiled. "A name to scare children, no doubt. The wind sings strange songs as it makes its journey over the rocks. There are hollow places that give back sounds some men find unnerving."

Conan laughed, and tore a final chunk of fresh bread away from the third loaf the innkeeper had brought him. He washed the bread down with a sip of wine. "In the land of my birth we know of such wind-flutes,"

Conan said. "Even small children in Cimmeria have no fear of such sounds, much less a man of eighteen winters."

Loganaro shrugged under his dark brown robe. "There is also a haunted lake, called Spokesjo, near the summit of the pa.s.s."

"And do fish blow bubbles at unwary travelers from this haunted lake?"

Conan laughed again, amused by his own humor.

The merchant's face grew serious. "Nay, no fish swim in this lake.

Those things which do are better left unmentioned, save to say one should avoid the sh.o.r.es of the place in which they dwell."

Conan shrugged. "I travel through Corinthia to Nemedia, and this pa.s.s is the route by which I go, wind-noises and wives' tales notwithstanding."

Loganaro grinned. "Ah, a brave man. As it happens, I will also be returning to my country by this route. Perhaps you would care for a companion?"

Conan shook his head. "Nay, merchant. I travel better when I travel alone."

The merchant shrugged. "As you wish. I shall be before or behind you, in any event. I would not startle you should you note me upon your trail."

"It would take more than a single merchant on the road to startle me, Loganaro."

The short man nodded and said no more, but there was a look of amus.e.m.e.nt about him Conan did not care for. It was as if he withheld some deep and dark secret from the young Cimmerian.

Chapter Two.

The snow lay like a thick and crusty blanket on the rocks girding the pa.s.s. The breath of Conan and his buckskin horse fogged the freezing air as they wound along the trail. Conan took no notice of the temperature, save to pull his fur cloak a bit tighter about him.

The buckskin mount picked its way slowly along the rocky path. There was little wind, but Conan heard a distant howling of air across some hollow. He grinned. Wind-flutes might scare the timid, but not a Cimmerian. The slow clop-clop of the horse's hooves accompanied the faint echo of the wind playing its ghostly tunes.

Ahead, Conan saw the surface of the small lake of which he'd been told.

He shook his head, and his square-cut black hair moved stiffly in the cold. The lake was frozen from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, and Conan would wager half the gold in the sack mounted behind him that the ice was as thick as his own well-thewed leg. It was less than likely any evil spirits would be emerging from that lake.

The trail pa.s.sed within a few yards of the lake's frozen edge. The horse picked its way along in a lazy fas.h.i.+on, lulling Conan with the motion.

Halfway along the length of the lake the horse stopped suddenly and turned its head sideways to stare at the giant slab of ice.

Conan looked, but saw nothing. He dug his heels into the beast's sides.

"Move," he said.

The horse whinnied and shook its head, almost as if answering him. The animal snorted and began to sidestep away from the lake. "Foolish fly-brain!" Conan said. He kicked the horse harder. "I will feast on horseflesh this night if you do not move!"

There came a cracking sound, loud in the silence, and Conan jerked his gaze away from the recalcitrant horse and stared at the lake. A long, jagged fracture appeared on the surface of the ice; quickly, another appeared, then a third. It was almost as if something were pus.h.i.+ng up from under the ice.

The surface of the frozen lake burst asunder, and chunks of ice the size of large dogs flew through the air before smas.h.i.+ng back down. As Conan watched, beings began to clamber from the fissure onto the surface of the lake. And what beings they were! Each was man-sized, but shaped like a great ape. They were pure white, without facial features-no mouths or noses or eyes-and each was as smooth as polished crystal. A dozen of the creatures scrambled from the ice and began to run. For an instant Conan thought them pursued by something and uninterested in him, for they ran at angles away from him. Then he realized what they were doing: cutting off his escape!

Conan dug his heels into the horse's ribs hard, and slapped the beast's rump with one hand, trying to force it to flee. The horse, however, was possessed by primal terror; it reared and bucked, trying to throw its rider. Conan clamped his knees against the sides of the panicked beast, and by sheer force of his ma.s.sive strength managed to hold on. The horse stopped bucking, but then seemed to freeze in its terror, becoming as a statue in the cold air.

The white monsters shambled toward him with hands outstretched, reaching.

To Gehanna with the horse! Conan leaped from the animal and drew his broadsword even as he flew through the air. He landed solidly, never pausing as he charged the nearest of the white monsters. When he came within range, he swung the sword hard.

The blade sheared one of the ice-beast's hands from its arm, and the hand fell to the ground with a thump. But no blood circulated in that frigid body; from the stump of the icy arm there issued instead a gusher of clear liquid, a stream as clear as water!

Cold fingers bit into Conan's shoulder and he spun to face another smooth beast. His sword sang as desperation drove his slash. Luck guided his aim: His blade lopped the water monster's head from its neck. The thing spasmed, then released its hold on him as it fell.

Another fountain of crystal fluid jetted from the falling body.

By Crom, the abominations could die well enough! But there were more than ten against him; bad odds, and Conan was no man's fool. He needed a path out, and he would have to carve it quickly!