Conan downed the draught with one mighty gulp. For a moment he grimaced. His veins seemed afire and his brain whirled and reeled. Then these feelings were replaced by sensations of well-being and content. A vast weight of weariness seemed lifted from his shoulders; he had not realized how fatigued his wounds and exertions had left him.
Pulling off his dented helmet, Conan felt his tingling scalp under the bandage. His hair was still matted with dried blood, but no wound could he find, not even a scar. His side and other wounded parts had stopped aching.
"Truly this is a magical brew, Pelias!" he said.
"It is potent indeed. Apart from the rare ingredients, many potent incantations have been read over it to bring out the full powers of the recipe."
Conan grunted as he pulled off his mailshirt. "Would I had possessed it many a former time in my life!"
"Let us move on to the question of your errand. What brings you alone and in haste? I have not heard of any strife or great wars in the northwest, in which you might need my aid."
"Were it only straightforward war, I would never ask magical help," growled Conan. "But I find myself pitted against dark and unknown powers. I need clues to lead me to where I can smite my foe."
In swift, short sentences he told of the fateful event in Tarantia.
For a long time Pelias brooded with his chin in his hands. His eyes were closed, and some might have thought him asleep. Conan, however, knew that the wizard's brain was working with abnormal speed and keenness behind that deceptive mask. Slowly Pelias' eyes opened.
"A demon of the darkest realms beyond the Mountains of the Night has stolen your spouse. I know how to summon one, but I thought I shared that knowledge with no one else in the West."
"Then fetch this fiend and we'll wring the truth out of him!"
"Not so fast, my hot-headed friend! Do not rush headlong into unknown dangers! It is clear that this demon has been summoned by a sorcerer with powers superior to those of ordinary magicians. Should we drag the fiend hither with spells and incantations, we should have both him and his master to cope with, and that might be too much for us. No; I know a better way. The Mirror of Lazbekri shall give us the answer!"
He rose. Again opening the cupboard, he brought out a dully gleaming cup whose rim was inscribed with curious symbols.
From a small jar the wizard poured a measure of red powder into the cup. Then he placed the cup on a low ebony table beneath the plain, iron-framed mirror. He threw back the folds of silk from his arm and made a cryptic gesture.
Blue smoke began to spiral up from the cup. It thickened until its billowing clouds filled the room. Conan could but dimly discern the motionless form of the wizard, petrified in trance during his concentration.
For an age, it seemed, nothing happened. Conan began to shift his weight with impatience when he heard Pelias' whisper:
"The sorcerer's defenses are strong, Conan. I cannot pierce them. Who is your tutelary deity?"
"It would be Crom, the grim god of the Cimmerians," muttered Conan, "though I have had naught to do with gods for many years. I leave them alone and they leave me alone."
"Well, pray to your Crom for help. We need it."
Conan closed his eyes and, for the first time in decades, prayed: "O Father Crom, who breathes power to strive and slay into a man's soul at birth, help your son against the demon that has stolen his mate ..."
And into his brain he thought he heard the cold words come: "Long have you forsaken me, O Conan. But you are my true son for all that, in your striving and enduring and conquering. Look!"
Conan opened his eyes. The smoke had begun to thin. The Cimmerian saw that the mirror did not, as one might expect, show the reflection of Pelias; indeed, it showed no reflection at all. Its surface was deep gray, as if this were a window to forbidden dimensions. In a low monotone, Pelias chanted an incantation in a tongue that Conan recognized as the secret language used by the priests of Stygia in their clandestine rituals in dark-walled Khemi.
Slowly, so slowly that it was not immediately noticeable, a picture took form in the mirror. At first it was blurred and uncertain; then swiftly it cleared and sharpened. In a bare, stonewalled room, a cowled and robed figure sat at a low table, a scroll in its hands.
The picture grew as if the point of vantage of the watchers moved nearer and nearer the hooded one. Suddenly the figure in the mirror threw up its head and looked full into their faces. The hood fell back from the yellow, hairless pate; the slitted, oblique eyes gazed coldly into theirs. The yellow one's right hand plunged into the folds of his robe and came out again holding a shining ball. The man made a motion as if to throw it—and then Conan exploded into lightning action.
A whistling slash of his heavy sword, held in readiness against the unknown perils of the mirror, sheared the frame in two and shattered the reflecting surface into thousands of tinkling splinters.
Pelias gave a start and shook himself like a man awakening. He said:
"By Ishtar, Conan, you saved us both! That shining thing was as deadly as a nest of cobras. Had he managed to throw it into this room, we should have been torn to bits in a holocaust that might have destroyed half the city. I was spellbound by the necessary concentration and could do nothing."
"The devil with that," grunted Conan, who had never learned to accept praise graciously. "Now, what did all this mean? I saw the man was a Khitan. What has he to do with my quest?"
Pelias' somber eyes rested upon the huge Cimmerian as his answer came from stiff lips. "My friend, these matters are deeper than I thought. The fate of the world may rest upon you."
The sorcerer paused, swilling a draught of wine. Leaning back on his cushions, he continued. Outside, the night was black and still.
"The magicians of the West have long been aware that the effects of certain spells have been weakened or nullified. This condition has been growing more marked in recent years. During the past few months I have buried myself in research, prying for the cause of this phenomenon. And I have found it.
"We are entering a new era. Enlightenment and reason are spreading among the peoples of the West. Aquilonia stands as a bulwark among the nations, strengthening its imperial powers by the naked, elemental force of the healthy barbarian mind. You have rejuvenated the nation, and similar forces are at work in other realms. The bonds of black magic are strained and broken by new factors brought in by the changed conditions.
"Some of the most evil spells would now hardly succeed at all in the Western realms. This resistance of civilization to the magic of darkness is concentrated in the barbarian king of Aquilonia. You have long' been the center of mighty happenings, and the gods look favorably upon you.
"I grow old, I who am already older than men reckon. Nowadays I use my vast knowledge only to furnish a life of ease and comfort and to pursue my scholarly researches. I do not live as an ascetic in ragged robes, summoning red-eyed beings with slavering jaws and ripping claws to wreak havoc among innocent human beings.
"But there is one who has long thirsted for absolute power over the world and all that dwell therein. Years ago he began to lay the groundwork for the gigantic, cataclysmal acts of dark necromancy that should rock the earth to its core and enslave its inhabitants.
"This I learned through my unearthly spies: When, one night, he cut out the living heart of a virgin on an altar in a deserted temple by moonlight and mumbled a terrible incantation over it, he failed to get the results he sought. He was dumbfounded; this was his first attempt upon the Western countries.
"His failure roused him to insensate rage. For days and nights without end he labored to find who opposed him, and at last he succeeded. You are his main obstacle.