Conan and the Emerald Lotus Part 5

"I am well aware of that," growled Conan, feeling the faint stirring of hope.

"Heng s.h.i.+h wanted to keep you shut up until the morning so as not to disturb milady. But I am of a mind to take you to Lady Zelandra and have you tell her your story. Do you swear by your G.o.ds that you will neither attempt to harm me nor escape if I free you from the cell?"

"You have the word of a Cimmerian."

Replacing the throwing dagger in its sheath, Neesa turned and pulled a stout set of manacles from a peg on the wall behind her. She pushed them through a hole in the grate, and Conan received them without comment. The manacles were of oiled steel and separated by a mere three links of heavy chain. The Cimmerian closed the manacles about his thick wrists one at a time. Each fastened with a metallic snap that rang disproportionately loud in the narrow stone cell. When he looked up, his gaze locked with the woman's for a long moment.

What Neesa saw in the barbarian's eyes she could not name, but she produced a jingling ring of keys from another wall peg. The key turned in the lock with a rust-choked rasp and the door swung wide, keening in protest. The hulking Cimmerian paused briefly in the open stone portal, then stepped free into the corridor. Neesa felt a surge of fear that dissipated when she saw Conan's face. He was grinning broadly.

"Lead on," he said. "By Crom, it's good to see I still have some luck left this ill-favored night."

Chapter Seven.

Shakar the Keshanian paced restlessly within the vaulted marble walls of his bedchamber from the side of his canopied bed, laden with silks and exotic furs, across the exposed marble floor, to a circular table of carved and polished oak. The tabletop was bare except for a small, intricately chased silver cask that sat alone at its center. The black sorcerer halted before the table, staring fixedly at the box. This time he could not wrench himself away to continue his nervous pacing.

Instead, he extended a gloveless hand, webbed with veins as prominent as those of a man twice his age, and laid it reverently upon the lid of the silver casket. A trembling coursed through his body as he opened the box. The inner lining of the cask was seamless and polished to a mirror surface. In one corner was a small pile of powder as deeply green as the needles of a northern pine. Beside it lay a tiny silver spoon of the' kind used to feed infants. Shakar gazed hungrily at the emerald powder, his lips drawing back from yellowed teeth set in receding gums.

"So little left," he breathed. He snapped the box's lid shut with a convulsive movement and turned forcibly away to resume his pacing. He reached the bed and turned, robes hissing on the smooth floor, and felt his resolve crumble. The silver box on the table drew him forward until he found himself standing over it, opening the lid and seizing the spoon in a desperately eager hand.

At that moment, just beyond the circular table, a silent ripple of roseate light danced across the naked wall. Shakar stiffened, fearful that his craving for the emerald dust had addled his mind. Slow streams of multicolored light were running fluidly over the wall of his bedchamber. As he watched, they began lacing themselves together, weaving their glowing fabric into a luminous haze. Soon a rainbow-hued expanse of churning fog covered the full breadth of the wall. Shakar watched in mute astonishment as the colors dimmed, giving way to a brilliant white light. The dark silhouette of a man solidified there, suspended motionless in the pale blaze of phosph.o.r.escent mist. The head, as dark and featureless as a shadow, turned toward Shakar and regarded him.

"Sweet Set!" The black sorcerer took a faltering step backward, bringing a spoonful of the green powder to his open mouth and thrusting it beneath his tongue. His body jerked as though struck by a heavy blow, and the spoon dropped to jingle merrily on the marble floor. An incoherent cry of rage burst from his lips and resounded in the still room. Savage strength radiated through his wasted limbs, and his face lit with an unholy glee.

"Invade my chambers and die, fool!" howled Shakar, spittle flying from his lips. His hands described a swift sequence of complex signs in the air before him. At their conclusion, his left hand shot up and twisted into a crooked talon. He extended it toward the figure floating in its luminous cloud and barked a series of guttural syllables, words in a language that was ancient before the oceans drank Atlantis.

An ethereal ring of rolling darkness solidified around his left wrist.

Sharp pinpoints of white light winked in the black coil and a bone-numbing chill radiated from it, turning Shakar's panting breath into plumes of steam. The Keshanian's hand drew back and then lashed forward, casting the black ring as a man might throw a stone. It moved toward the suspended silhouette with easy speed.

The figure lazily raised a shadow-hand amid the bright vapor. The dark coil hit the outstretched hand and shredded into fading black streamers.

Shakar gasped aloud. The invader had just shrugged off the most lethal death-spell in his repertoire. A flat, metallic laugh emanated from the suspended silhouette and a sourceless light shone upon the featureless mask of darkness. A face was revealed, and it was a face that Shakar the Keshanian knew well.

"Eldred!" cried the man in green. "Why do you torment me?" He fell to his knees on the hard floor, hands held out in shaking supplication. "I must have more of the Lotus! Anything I have is yours! What do you want of me? What must I do? Eldred?"

The fog of light upon the wall began to draw in upon itself, fading at its edges, hiding the dark figure from view.

Shakar's voice rose in frantic despair. "Eldred! Don't leave me!" But the sorcerous projection shrank and thinned until it was merely a few stray wisps of dispersing vapor.

Then he was facing a blank marble wall. Hot tears rose in the black warlock's eyes, spilling down his haggard cheeks despite his best efforts to contain them.

There was someone at his door.

"Master! Master, what troubles you?" Gulbanda's voice came m.u.f.fled through the door's heavy panels. "Are you unwell?" Shakar stood unsteadily, drawing a velvet sleeve across his face.

"Enter, Gulbanda. All is well. I had... an ill dream." He faced away from the door as it opened, admitting the bearded bodyguard, who looked quizzically around the bedchamber. Gulbanda's eyes narrowed as they fell upon the open silver box. Shakar composed his features, but did not turn to look upon his servant. He,cleared his throat.

"Has the Cimmerian returned?"

"No, master. I would notify you at once. There are but four hours until dawn."

"The barbarian may still succeed. He does not seem to be a man easily thwarted. Still, go to the house of Lady Zelandra and keep watch over the gates. He may need your a.s.sistance in escaping. Go now."

Gulbanda grimaced in disapproval, his scar making a pallid flash in his black beard, but nodded obediently. The dark-armored bodyguard stepped out of the room, then hesitated in drawing the door closed.

"Master, if he returns without the cask, or even with it, may I have him? It will be months before I can wield a sword with any skill. It seems a small favor to grant to one as loyal as I."

"If he does not return, I shall slay him with my amulet.

If he does return to this house, then he is yours, faithful Gulbanda."

The bodyguard grinned with clear pleasure. "Thank you, master. I would have him in the chair again, repenting that he ever took my fingers."

"Good evening, Gulbanda."

The door closed, leaving Shakar alone in his bedchamber. He walked slowly to his bed and sat, his body weighted with a weariness that left his mind free and ablaze with urgent energy. He considered trying to sleep, or at least lying down to rest for a while, but he didn't move.

Shakar simply sat on the edge of the bed with trembling hands clutched tight in his lap. He tried to fix his black eyes on the floor between his feet, but again and again his gaze rose helplessly to fasten upon the open silver cask.

Chapter Eight.

Conan followed Neesa out of the little dungeon, through a cobwebbed wine cellar and up a worn flight of stone stairs. They made their way silently down taper-lit corridors until they stood before a broad double door inlaid with plaques of carved ivory. Neesa laid a slim hand upon the heavy door and turned to the barbarian.

"Milady is likely awake, but if she still sleeps, you must be silent and allow me to wake her. If startled from sleep she might smite us with some spell." Conan's face went dour and he stroked lightly at Shakar's amulet with one hand.

"By Manannan, it seems the more I strive to avoid sorcery, the more it strives to seek me out," he grumbled. "Lead on."

The doors swung open soundlessly at Neesa's touch, revealing an ornate, painted screen that s.h.i.+elded from view the unlit room beyond. Neesa took a tentative step within and the darkness was abruptly split by a flicker of weird crimson light. The two halted on the threshold as the room was suddenly aglow with a rainbow of brilliant colors. A soft feminine cry, half dismay and half astonishment, came out of the dark.

Hearing it, Conan and Neesa lunged together around the screen and into Lady Zelandra's chamber, where they stopped short in amazement.

Vaporous light coruscated along the wall, illuminating the room with a s.h.i.+fting radiance. A luxurious bed stood against the left wall, flanked by ma.s.sive shelves crammed with books. Tables were set on either side of the bed, and they too were heaped with books. A woman was sitting bolt-upright in the bed, half wrapped in a white froth of silken sheets. She stared at the wall across from her, where foggy strands of many-hued light were interlocking in a grid of translucent fire. The colors died and the wall became a sheet of phosph.o.r.escent mist. An ominous shadow coalesced there.

Conan's instinctive fear of the supernatural seized him in a frigid fist, lifting the hair on the nape of his neck.

"Heng s.h.i.+h!" screamed the woman in the bed. "Heng s.h.i.+h!"

A door on the opposite side of the chamber burst open and a man charged through, sliding to a stop beside the bed. It was the huge Khitan whom Conan had fought in the corridor. In his left hand was the wooden mace; in his right was a heavy scimitar, its flaring blade reflecting the sinister light that bathed the room. Holding both weapons before him, the Khitan advanced expressionlessly upon the black shadow suspended in light.

"Hold!" cried the woman. "Don't touch him, Heng s.h.i.+h." The Khitan stopped his advance but moved sideways to put himself between the sorcerous projection and the woman in the bed.

"Oh, Lady Zelandra. You prove that your wisdom is the equal of your beauty." The voice was deep and resonant. It was not loud, yet seemed to reach into every corner of the room. Conan recoiled, his wilderness-bred senses a.s.suring him that what he seemed to hear was not sound at all. It came from no discernible direction. The black figure spoke directly into the mind.

"Who are you? Why do you trespa.s.s here?" The woman in the bed seemed more enraged than afraid. The invader, etched starkly against s.h.i.+fting veils of white light, laughed and spoke again.

"You know me as Eldred the Trader."