delicate golden links from which depended a teardrop of clear crystal. The crystal she clasped tightly in her left hand, and her right pointed to the rough altar. “See now what is your seeking, Conan.”
From between her fingers closed about the crystal came a pulse of crimson light. Among the encircling warriors horses snorted nervously. Only Taramis’ mount was still, although with eyes rolling and flanks trembling. Once more came the flash, and again, and again, until an unceasing glow of purest vermilion shone from her fist.
Suddenly there were flames on the bare stone of the altar, and the warriors’ mounts danced and reared in terror. Had Conan sought to flee then, he would have found none opposing, for every rider’s whole energy was given to controlling his fear-struck animal, but the big Cimmerian did not even notice them. Among the flames lay a figure, a woman, long blonde hair arranged over her shoulders, firm-muscled body sleekly curved and unblemished.
He clamped his teeth on a name, and muttered instead, “Sorcery!”
“Aye, sorcery.” Taramis’ voice was soft, but it cut unnaturally through the terrified screaming of the horses. “Sorcery that can give you what you seek, Conan. Valeria.”
“She is dead,” Conan said roughly. “Dead, and there’s an end to it.”
“Is it an end, barbar?” Within the fires, the form’s head turned. Clear blue eyes gazed into Conan’s. The womanly shape sat up, held out a hand to the Cimmerian. “I can give her back to you,” Taramis said. “I can return her to this world.”
Conan snarled. “As a living corpse? I have encountered such. Better to remain dead.”
“No corpse, barbar. Warm flesh. Supple flesh. I can give her to you, and make her as you wish. Would you be certain of her devotion for all time? I can assure it. Would you have her crawl to your feet, worship you as a god? I—”
“No!” The Cimmerian’s breath was ragged in this throat. “She was a warrior. I will not have … .” He let his hoarse words die.
“So you believe, now?” The dark-eyed woman gestured; the flames and Valeria’s image alike vanished, leaving bare, unscorched stone. About her neck the teardrop crystal hung clear once again. “I can do as I say.”
Slowly Conan’s sword lowered. He had no liking for sorcery, not even when practiced by those mages he knew to have no malign intent, and such were few indeed. But … a debt to be repaid. A life freely given in place of his. “Free Malak,” he said wearily.
Bombatta sneered. “Having cleaned the streets of Shadizar of a thief, you think we would loose the little scum? He is no use to anyone in this world.”
“One thief more or less will make no difference in Shadizar,” Conan said, “and he is a friend. Either he goes free, or our further talking will be done with steel.”
The huge warrior opened his mouth again, but Taramis silenced him with a look. “Free the little thief,” she said quietly.
Bombatta’s face was a tight mask of anger and frustration. Viciously he pulled his horse around and galloped to those who guarded the net-wrapped Malak. In moments the ropes had been cut and the wiry man was rolled out on the stony ground.
“They nearly broke my bones,” Malak called as he trotted toward Conan. “What was that with the fire? Why are we still ali—?” His eyes fell on Taramis and widened. “Aiiee!” He began to jerk fawning bows, all the while casting frantically questioning looks at the Cimmerian. “We are honest men, O most honored princess, no matter what you may have heard from lying tongues in Shadizar. We … hire ourselves out as … as caravan guards. Why, never have we taken so much as a pomegranate without payment. You must believe—”
“Begone, little man,” Taramis said, “before I tell you how much truth I know of you.”
Eying Conan doubtfully, Malak took a hesitant step toward their horses.
“We must part for a time,” Conan told him, “even as we
From between her fingers closed about the crystal came a pulse of crimson light. Among the encircling warriors horses snorted nervously. Only Taramis’ mount was still, although with eyes rolling and flanks trembling. Once more came the flash, and again, and again, until an unceasing glow of purest vermilion shone from her fist.
Suddenly there were flames on the bare stone of the altar, and the warriors’ mounts danced and reared in terror. Had Conan sought to flee then, he would have found none opposing, for every rider’s whole energy was given to controlling his fear-struck animal, but the big Cimmerian did not even notice them. Among the flames lay a figure, a woman, long blonde hair arranged over her shoulders, firm-muscled body sleekly curved and unblemished.
He clamped his teeth on a name, and muttered instead, “Sorcery!”
“Aye, sorcery.” Taramis’ voice was soft, but it cut unnaturally through the terrified screaming of the horses. “Sorcery that can give you what you seek, Conan. Valeria.”
“She is dead,” Conan said roughly. “Dead, and there’s an end to it.”
“Is it an end, barbar?” Within the fires, the form’s head turned. Clear blue eyes gazed into Conan’s. The womanly shape sat up, held out a hand to the Cimmerian. “I can give her back to you,” Taramis said. “I can return her to this world.”
Conan snarled. “As a living corpse? I have encountered such. Better to remain dead.”
“No corpse, barbar. Warm flesh. Supple flesh. I can give her to you, and make her as you wish. Would you be certain of her devotion for all time? I can assure it. Would you have her crawl to your feet, worship you as a god? I—”
“No!” The Cimmerian’s breath was ragged in this throat. “She was a warrior. I will not have … .” He let his hoarse words die.
“So you believe, now?” The dark-eyed woman gestured; the flames and Valeria’s image alike vanished, leaving bare, unscorched stone. About her neck the teardrop crystal hung clear once again. “I can do as I say.”
Slowly Conan’s sword lowered. He had no liking for sorcery, not even when practiced by those mages he knew to have no malign intent, and such were few indeed. But … a debt to be repaid. A life freely given in place of his. “Free Malak,” he said wearily.
Bombatta sneered. “Having cleaned the streets of Shadizar of a thief, you think we would loose the little scum? He is no use to anyone in this world.”
“One thief more or less will make no difference in Shadizar,” Conan said, “and he is a friend. Either he goes free, or our further talking will be done with steel.”
The huge warrior opened his mouth again, but Taramis silenced him with a look. “Free the little thief,” she said quietly.
Bombatta’s face was a tight mask of anger and frustration. Viciously he pulled his horse around and galloped to those who guarded the net-wrapped Malak. In moments the ropes had been cut and the wiry man was rolled out on the stony ground.
“They nearly broke my bones,” Malak called as he trotted toward Conan. “What was that with the fire? Why are we still ali—?” His eyes fell on Taramis and widened. “Aiiee!” He began to jerk fawning bows, all the while casting frantically questioning looks at the Cimmerian. “We are honest men, O most honored princess, no matter what you may have heard from lying tongues in Shadizar. We … hire ourselves out as … as caravan guards. Why, never have we taken so much as a pomegranate without payment. You must believe—”
“Begone, little man,” Taramis said, “before I tell you how much truth I know of you.”
Eying Conan doubtfully, Malak took a hesitant step toward their horses.
“We must part for a time,” Conan told him, “even as we
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