“The devil with that, Pelias!” roared Conan. “D’you think I would let my woman be torn from my side and then stay at home because I am some sort of wizard’s jinx? May the demons of Shaggali eat the marrow of my bones if I care one copper’s worth for kingship, power, lands, or riches! I want my woman back, and I’ll have her if I must carve my way through a hundred thousand swordsmen to reach that bald-pated scoundrel!”
Pelias shrugged. He realized that the savage promptings that guided the barbarian’s actions would not be affected by his disclosure of the deeper causes of the recent events. The only world Conan really cared about was the one that now surrounded him with red-blooded life. He had little concern for the future. Pelias said: “Alas, the Fates have already spun their web, and I cannot change it. Now listen. Paikang, in Khitai, is your goal. There Yah Chieng lives in his purple tower, guarded by two hundred giant Khitan saber-men, the most skilled in the East. He has usurped the power of the rightful rulers, and he governs with flail and whip. Beware his black arts. By a wave of his hand he can blot an army from the earth. I know not if I can help you, but I will try.
Come with me. ”
The lean wizard rose and went to a small, gold-inlaid secretary-table made of some strange wood. There was an oddness about its looks, as if the craft that had fashioned it was not of human origin. Conan was a little mystified.
In all his wanderings he had never seen furniture in this style.
Pelias pressed a projection hidden among the carvings of one leg of the table. A small drawer shot out, and the wizard picked an object from it. It was a ring. Strangely wrought, it did not shine with the fire of gold, nor with the icy gleam of silver, nor yet with the rich red of copper. Its dull-blue luster was not like that of any known metal. All along its band were hieroglyphs of ancient origin. Bending to peer, Conan recognized forbidden symbols found only on the altar friezes of the secret temples of certain inhuman gods worshiped in Stygia.
The seal, also, was strangely fashioned. It was of rhombic shape, with the upper and lower points long and sharp. A careless man could easily prick himself with it.
Pelias gazed at the ring for a moment. Its strange blue gleam was like a sword of icy flame in the room. The Cimmerian, with his fine-whetted senses, could feel the power emanating from the thing. Then the wizard straightened and brushed back a grizzled lock from his forehead.
“Many moons have passed since I won this ring,” he intoned. “For days and nights without cease I fought its owner, a powerful sorcerer of Luxur. The fury of the dark powers we unleashed might have devastated the land had not our spells and counterspells canceled each other. With brain whirling and senses reeling, I strove with him through eons of black time. When I felt I could not continue much longer, he suddenly gave up. He changed his form to that of a hawk and tried to flee. My strength resurged within me: I transformed myself into an eagle, swooped upon him, and tore him to shreds. Ha! Those were the days when I was young and gloried in my powers!
Now, my friend, I want you to wear this ring. It will be a powerful aid on your journey. Have you heard of Rakhamon?”
Conan nodded. The southern countries were rife with legends of the past, but still the name of that dread sorcerer was whispered with caution, though a full century and a half had passed since his end.
Hyrkanian invaders had sacked and burned his city while he lay helpless in the stupor induced by the black lotus.
Many adepts in magic had sought for his secret books, said to be written on the dried skins of maidens flayed alive, but none had found them. If this ring was a relic of Rakhamon’s possessions, it must be powerful indeed.
“Aye, this is the ring of Rakhamon,” said Pelias gravely. “Some of the unnatural beings summoned from the darker realms could not, once called, be controlled by the usual protective spells. Therefore he fashioned this ring of a metal he found in the stone of a fallen star during his travels in the icy North. He invested the ring with unimaginable powers by secret and nameless rituals, in which blood was spilled in profusion and screaming souls were condemned to the deepest and darkest hell. The wearer of this ring can stand against any beast summoned by magical arts, that much I know. As to its detailed use, there is no clue. Probably the knowledge perished with the secret manuscripts. Take it, Conan! This is all I can aid you with. No other spells I know can avail against the evil power of Yah Chieng.”
Conan took the proffered ornament. At first it seemed too small for his massive fingers, but as he tried it on the middle finger of his left hand it slid lightly on. It seemed to have a life of its own; it fitted as if made to order. The Cimmerian shrugged. Decades of experience had made him casual about the pretensions of magical things. The bauble might work, and if not, no harm would come of it. At least, Pelias’ intentions were good.
“To the devil with all this talk,” said the barbarian. “I have a long journey before me. A loaf, a joint of meat, and a skin of wine, and I am for bed. Could you spare me a cot for the night?”
“Any sort of bed you desire, my friend. My servants will fetch food and tend your horse.” Pelias clapped his hands.
“That reminds me,” said Conan, yawning. “I must sacrifice a bullock to Crom ere I set forth tomorrow. Say nothing of it, for, if they knew, people would say: Conan grows old; he is getting religious in his old age!”
CHAPTER 3: Vengeance From the Desert
The sun glinted on spired helmets and whetted spearheads. Spurs jingled and bright silks flashed as three armored riders breasted the long slope of a great sand dune in the wide desert that formed the southwestern marches of Turan. Red turbans were wound about their helmets; sashes of the same color girdled their waists.
White silken shirts, baggy trousers thrust into short black boots, and sleeveless, silvered mailshirts completed their apparel. Curved swords hung at their hips. Upright from the holders that hung from the saddles of two of them rose the ten-foot Turanian lances. The remaining one bore, slung from his saddle, a thick, double-curved bow in a bow case and a score and a half of arrows in a lacquered leathern quiver.
Accompanying them was a fourth figure, bound by both wrists to a rope held by the bowman. Deep gashes in the sand told of this prisoner’s inability to keep up with his mounted captors. He wore the white khalat of the desert Zuagir, though the garment was dirty and torn to shreds.
His lean, dark visage was hollow-cheeked, but implacable hatred lurked in his red-rimmed eyes. He stumbled panting up the slope without a sound of pain or protest.
The Turanian soldiers, separated from the rest of their troop by a two-day sandstorm, were seeking their way back to Fort Wakla, a Turanian outpost deep in the Zuagir desert country. Yesterday they had met the Zuagir. His horse had tumbled under him with an arrow through its heart, and he had been laid senseless on the sand by a blow from a spear butt. The commander of Fort Wakla had lately begun an intense campaign against the desert tribes, who had harried Kuranian caravans overly much of late. Having taken the Zuagir prisoner, the horsemen were bringing him back to the fort to be bled of knowledge before being hanged.
At the top of the dune, the little troop paused to rest. Waterskins were lifted to parched mouths, while the ragged prisoner crawled up on all fours, almost done in. Sand dunes stretched as far as the eye could see. As practiced warriors, the Turanians used the pause to let their hawklike eyes sweep the horizon and the surface of the sands.