by Adam Craft

In appreciation of Robert E. Howard, and dedicated to Joshua Clark. Two snakes, indeed, my friend.

1. A Cry in the Dark 

For three days Conan of Cimmeria had trekked on foot through fertile grasslands; oceans of green that moved in the breezes like water, at times as deep as his hips, fragrant and alive with the trilling of countless birds. Hills rolled away to the north west, rising slowly until they eventually reared up to the sky in leaping crags and knife-edged ridges; the southernmost spine of the Yimkar Mountains. To the south east, the traveler knew, the grasslands abruptly turned to marsh, and from there to a vast expanse of heavily fronded wetlands that became, in time, the northernmost edges of the Jungles of Shakar, kingdom of the Venayans.  

He turned aside neither toward the mountains nor toward distant jungles; he was ill-prepared for either, and time was against him. He was a wolf fleeing the pursuit of other wolves, and had no desire to be caught between unforgiving climes and the swords he knew must be pursuing him even now. Five days past he had fled the walled city of N’grell, blood slick and heavy on his knife, with no less than a dozen slain men behind him. Conan smiled grimly, and absently touched the pouch tied at his belt; the jewel he carried was the prize of the priests of N’grell, and would be more than enough to fit him with gear and supplies, and to buy his way on a ship. He planned to sail south along the Talon Coast, to the port of Venay, and from there into the jungle. Conan had heard tales of great riches to be found in the jungles of Shakar, tales of temples buried beneath earth and tree and rock, piles of gold to be had by he that was strong enough to take. 

For now, though, he kept his sights ahead of him, due east. The green haze of a forest floated above the grasses before him; he would reach the edges of it by nightfall, if he pushed hard. Beyond the forest, on the far side of a wide and deep flowing river, was the city of Chal. From there, by horseback, another two days east would take him to Aaryk, which sat at the edge of the Talon Coast. 

Conan adjusted the sling at his back, packed with dwindling supplies and what horsemeat he had cut away from his stallion after it had twisted its leg in a cursed burrow three days past. Of all his luck, to lame his horse when speed was what he needed most! No matter; his feet would carry him just as well, though slower. His grim smile widened, knowing that if he were caught out in the open, with no horse and no means of escape, he would likely not send his pursuers alone when they went to stand before Crom. 

. . . 

The assassins of N’grell, three men atop horseback, had thundered from the gates nearly a full hour after the Cimmerian. Their deep red robes flowed out behind them in the wind of their speed. Their faces were covered in the fashion of their guild; only their eyes shone from the space between matte-burnished skull cap and face-covering, eyes painted in purple and aglow with murderous intent. The barbarian had stolen into their holiest of temples, slain the guards there, and taken the Stone of Kareesh, the most precious of artifacts.  

In addition, the brigand had set fire to the temple, bringing chaos and confusion. Acolytes had run this way and that, some on fire, their dark robes blazing like torches. Priests had called to Kareesh to strike the thief dead, to extinguish the flames, but the temple had merely burned. From this chaos, the Cimmerian had ridden like a devil, laughing into the wind and fleeing through the gates nearly unhindered. 

For two days, the assassins had chased the thief, pushing their horses to the edge of endurance, but the Cimmerian had stayed ahead of them. They followed him through the low hills surrounding N’grell, tracking him across streams and through rocky shallow cliffs, down shadowed vales, and up sparsely tree-covered ridgelines. Never before had they encountered a man with such audacity, arrogance, and abandon. They had been tasked with retrieving their most holy relic, and, if they could, to bring the thief back alive to be prostrated before the High Priest of Kareesh as an offering and sacrifice. If not alive, however, they would take his carcass back as a testament to the power of Kareesh in vengeance. 

As the sun went down on the second day, setting low behind distant N’grell to the west, the riders found the remains of the horse the barbarian had ridden. The hills and true boundary of N’grell ended where the long grasslands began. Ahead of them was a darkening sea of grass and the chorus of a million birds, chirping bugs, and the droning call of frogs. The horse had been butchered, the remains left behind for scavengers and birds to pick at. Indeed, when the three horsemen approached at a slow trot, suspicious and wary, the horse's body was covered in black feathered vultures, gory and fattening amid the flies and the waning heat of the day. 

But of the thief, there was no sign. He had vanished like a mountain cat amid the grasses, and though the assassins were full of fury at missing him while at such a disadvantage, they did not lose hope; they took the dead horse as a sign: Kareesh was working against the thief.  

They would find him soon, they knew. They had only to remain faithful. 

. . . 

The woods were shrouded in full darkness when Conan made the line of trees. He walked warily, his steps making no sound, his large and sinewy form moving like a shadow among shadows. The barbarian was familiar with wilderness, knew the rhythms and flow of the natural order, and understood the brutal and uncaring language of the wilds. He was a predator, a hunter, and now, as he stepped through leaf-littered moss and rich-smelling loam, his hackles were up. He glared into the darkness and strained his ears. His senses came together in one gestalt of pure focus, one trembling chord of poised muscle. His fist closed about the hilt of his knife. 

He could hear nothing alive around him—no call of night bird, no chirp of cricket or frog. The only sounds to be heard were the rustle of the leaves above his head the creak and rub of limbs shifting in the occasional breeze. He continued walking, always due east, but now he walked as one who expects attack or ambush from the unknown. There was a spell upon these woods, an omen of ill will or dark forces, of that the Cimmerian was certain. 

Conan followed the lay of the land, moving steadily down as the terrain dipped and fell away. Gorges and ravines, overhung with gnarled and twisting roots, curtains of moss slick with moisture made the going slower than he would have preferred, but he did not think about stopping. He climbed slowly, sometimes scaling nearly vertical walls, other times stepping from stone to stone like some spirit of the wilderness walking the pathways of its realm. Ground fog had risen the further he stalked, the temperature of the air dropping several degrees and chilling the delicate beads of sweat that stood on his skin from his exertion. He was getting close to water, and, in fact, after a while longer, he could hear the sounds of it sliding and whispering close by in front of him.

The Cimmerian stepped finally into a clearing at the edge of a wide, shallow-seeming river. A full moon rode the star flung sky, and by its light Conan could clearly see the bank of the river, the far trees across the white-tipped crests that bespoke of rocks beneath. It was a moonlit scene of cold beauty that was lost on the barbarian. Where there should have been untold thousands of frogs singing their croaking songs there was only quiet. Conan glared at the river, the banks, the trees around the clearing. The fog here was thick, moving in sluggish, roiling coils and tendrils that reminded him of fever dreams and witch stories. He made an involuntary growl in the back of his throat. 

He could all but feel the sorcery in the air. He bared his teeth at the elf lighted scene before him, muscles trembling with anticipation unreleased. The air felt heavy and close, the chill of it at odds with the heat of his skin. 

A scream rent the night, the sound of a man dying in pain and terror. Conan knew the sound well, had heard it a hundred thousand times on the field of battle. Without thought to his actions, acting on instinct and the primal awareness of his ancestors, the barbarian leapt into motion. Like a wolf he hurtled himself toward the sound, fleet, almost preternaturally quiet. His knife was in hand, glinting in the occasional flash of moonlight lancing from the foliage above. Down the bank of the river he ran, turned southeast, leaping downed trees and bounding over boulders and rock. He came finally upon another clearing, this one small, with a large black stone carven with the time-worn symbols of a wyrding language. Fog twisted and twined about the clearing; water babbled and slithered in the darkness nearby. But all of these details were secondary for the Cimmerian, taken in at a glance. His focus was directed toward the figures he saw there, a man and a woman. The man was elderly but of long limb and previously hale look. His white hair and white beard were splattered in blood, nearly black in the moon’s cold light. His entrails lay about him in steaming coils, the smell of viscera heavy in the chill damp air. Nearby a woman, young by the looks of her, lay on her side. She was neither dead –as was evident by the sobbing rise and fall of her protectively curled body- nor was she aware of him. Conan stalked to the edge of the clearing and hissed his words through gritted teeth while his eyes took in every shifting bank of fog and shadowy hidden form beneath. 

“By Crom,” he said, startling the girl into sitting upright pressing her fists to her mouth, “What has happened here?”

Watching her in the moonlight, Conan could see that terrified though she was, her face was comely. Her hair gleamed coldly in the light, her eyes pale and white and round as they stared at him. Her clothes, like the man’s, were the rough spun sort of this country. Her bosom heaved in her distress, and her voice was the barest of whispers, unintelligible and lost in the darkness around her. 

She glanced once at the dead man beside her, then her fear-rounded eyes jumped frantically and erratically all about her. She opened her mouth once more to speak, or perhaps to scream, but her distress overcame her. She fell back to the ground in a faint, eyes closed and limbs limp beside her. 

2. The Three Sided Mark 

The girl awoke to the sound of a crackling fire, the heat of it warming her skin. The terror she’d felt still clung to her, clouded her thoughts, and fueled her emotions. She started, as if from a nightmare, and found herself tense and poised to flee. For the moment, she wasn’t sure what was real, a dream, and what was horrid, waking reality. 

“Sit down, girl,” said a deep, even voice. “There’s nowhere to go unless you fancy being alone out there in the dark with whatever beast sent your elder to Crom.” 

She jerked at the words, unaware at first of another presence nearby. Timidly, hesitantly, she turned and looked across the fire at the man sitting there. He was a brute of a specimen, much larger than the people of her lands. His hair was dark and thick and worn long past the ears and cut straight at the brow. His eyes, in the light of the fire, looked to be like chips of dark ice glittering back at her. Those eyes watched her now with an appraisal that made her think of a wild animal whose belly was full for the time being. His face was cruel, at odds with the savage nobility of his bearing. He was eating a shank of meat, with another roasting on a spit above the outer edges of the flames.

“What is your name, girl?” he asked, tearing a strip of the dark meat with his fingers and eating it whole. 

“Kavelle,” she said, still trying to find her voice amid the shock that was only now wearing off. “My name is Kavelle. I am from the village town at the western edge of the Krin delta.” She said this as if he would have meaning, but the other showed no sign of recognition. 

He nodded, his ice-chipped eyes never leaving her. “And the old man?” 

Again terror and grief stabbed the girl, and she looked away before answering. The fire cracked and snapped, a knot popping with a small shower of sparks and embers. 

“His name was Navin. He was my master; I was his apprentice.” 

“An apprentice?” The man raised his eyebrows as if amused by the notion. “An apprentice for what?” 

“A healer. Navin was known among my people as the greatest healer in the delta.” Tears welled in her eyes. “We were going to Chal, but got lost in the darkness. The waters seemed to flow wrong somehow. Navin tied our boat to a tree at the bank of the river, and we were going to make camp and figure out path in the light of day. The woods,” she started, looking around. “The woods were so quiet. Navin said it wasn’t natural. He said there was something wrong with the land.” She shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes unheeded and rolling down her cheeks. “He was a good man.” 

“What killed him?” Asked the man across from her, finished now with his shank of meat, and resting his thick forearms easily on his knees where he sat cross-legged. 

“I’ve told you my name,” said Kavelle, emotion heating her words and lending them an edge. “Can I not have the courtesy of yours? Or are you to question me all night instead?” 

The man laughed, a soft but resonant sound. The edges of his mouth curled in a tight smile. There was fire in this girl’s belly, a trait the Cimmerian could appreciate. 

“I am Conan. And if we’re talking courtesy, than show courtesy for my carrying your limp hide away from the body of your master instead of leaving you at the river’s bank. Here, take this; you need it, I’m sure.” Deftly, he picked up the spit-roasted meat and tossed it over to her. Kavelle caught it gingerly in her palms, eyed it momentarily, and began eating. She found she was ravenous, and the meat, while gamey and tough, settled her nerves and calmed her mind. 

“Now,” said Conan, “What killed your master?” 

Kavelle shook her head, her eyes clouded with a distant fog of fear and forgetfulness.  

“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t see it. I didn’t hear it. I was at the boat, getting the last gear for our camp, when I thought I…I smelled something. It was a putrid, rotten smell. I thought perhaps something dead in the water had surfaced, but then I heard Navin scream. I heard him, ” Her voice trailed, and she closed her eyes against the memory.  

Conan grunted and glanced around at the darkness. For the first time, Kavelle took stock of where they were. The chill in the air was lessened; the ground fog merely wisps twining about the base of the trees surrounding them. No sound of the river could be heard. Conan had carried her quite a ways from the water’s edge. There was still no other sound except the fire devouring the sticks that burned therein and the whispering rustle of leaves when the breeze occasionally moved them. 

“Sleep, if you can.” Said Conan. “I intend to be in Chal by midday tomorrow at the latest. You can travel with me if you find that courteous enough.”  

“I have supplies and gear in the boat,” said Kavelle. “Coin to pay the apothecary in Chal. I have to go back.” 

Conan grunted, tossing more wood on the fire. “Then you’ll go alone, girl. Whatever sent your master to his grave tore him nearly in half. I have no fear of fighting, but I’ll not go out of my way in a witch-tainted wood for a girl I’ve already dragged once to safety.” His eyes found hers again. “And what of that stone in the clearing? What sorcery was carven upon it?” 

Kavelle thought for a moment and then shook her head.  

“I’ve been to Chal three other times,” she said. “I am familiar with this land only a little, but I know those stones are scattered about. They hold no power I’ve heard of, and Navin paid them no mind; they are old stones from a lost people, nothing more.”

The barbarian made a noise in the back of his throat. 

“As you say,” he said. “Now, sleep or not. But at first light, I move, and I travel fast, girl. You’ll need your rest to keep up, and I don’t intend to carry you to Chal.” 

Kavelle eyed him a moment, unsure how to feel about her rescuer. He was blunt, roguish, and dangerous, should he choose to be. But he had fed her, and while his eyes roamed her body in a way that made her very aware of herself, he had done nothing to give her reason to fear him. 

She lay down, close enough to the fire to be warm, and tried to make herself as comfortable as possible. Her thoughts were of Navin, of the boat and the supplies that would now, it seemed, be lost to her. She thought of the foul reek at the river and could hear the screams of her master in her mind, playing over and over. She shifted her weight, her eyes closed, praying to the gods of healing and hearth to survive this ordeal and return home to her people once more. As she adjusted her body, a sharp pain in the hollow of her left shoulder caused her to gasp and sit back up. 

“What is it?” asked Conan, who had been watching her. 

“I don’t know,” said Kavelle. Gently, she pulled aside the fabric of her bodice, revealing one creamy white and supple shoulder. The skin was unblemished and shone with health in the fire’s orange flickering light, but there was something else there. A mark, blood crusted and raised, like skin that had been branded, showed out from that shallow hollow. 

“What is this?” said Kavelle, her voice rising in the first tones of panic since she had awakened at Conan’s fire.  

“Be still, girl,” he said. He stood and stepped around the fire, crouched next to Kavelle, and leaned close to see the mark better. Kavelle was very aware of his presence so close to her; it was like being next to a wild animal somehow, or, perhaps, like being enveloped in the presence of a man the likes of which no longer walked the face of the earth. She grew quiet while he examined her, breathing his scent and feeling the heat of him against her.

The mark was as wide as a coin and triangular in aspect. The three points of the triangle showed gouges in the girl’s flesh, deep enough to have drawn blood, which had crusted and dried against the inside of the wool top she wore. Arrayed within the triangle were seven red dots, each a small bloodied puncture. They were evenly spaced, the skin around them raised and warm. It had an evil look. 

“When did this happen?” asked Conan, scowling. 

Kavelle looked away from the intensity of his stare. There was a ferocity in the Cimmerian that was hard to endure while so close to him.  

“I don’t know,” she said, meeting his eyes again. “I have no memory of it. After I heard Navin scream, I ran to him to help. I remember nothing more until hearing your voice from the darkness and seeing him dead before me.” 

“Whatever gutted your master would have had no trouble with you,” said Conan, leaning back on his heels and appraising her again. “You were left alive and marked, girl, for some dark reason only Crom knows. Your master was a fool to ignore his warnings about these woods.” 

The barbarian stood back up and stepped around the fire. His icy gaze took in the darkness around them, his tall and heavily muscled form looking both at ease and yet ready for an instant response. He reminded Kavelle of a mountain cat, like the ones that roamed and hunted the deeper hills and vales of her own land. After a moment he looked down at her where she sat, pulling the bodice back over her shoulder. If his eyes lingered on her she made no protest and met his gaze as he measured what was in his mind. He resumed his seat as before, settling down into the cross-legged manner of the people of Turan. He looked to Kavelle like a myth from an ancient story of fabled kings and giants who lived among the hills and away from civilized lands. 

The night wore on and Conan sat in watchful silence, his attention focused outward, attuned and alert. After a while Kavelle lay down upon the ground, and seemingly able to find a spot comfortable enough, gave in to the stress and shock of the day. She slept, turned toward the fire, hair the color of polished bronze falling about her face and over the twined fingers beneath her cheek. 

Conan studied the woman, admiring the shape of her as she lay there. She was a creature of curves and ripening womanhood; the Cimmerian could see the hint of her even under the rough spun wool of her garments. She seemed more suited to hearth and home than finding herself alone in the wilderness with the barbarian. But, Conan reflected, glancing away for a moment at some unseen noise in the darkness, she hadn’t trembled herself into uselessness at finding herself as she did. He’d seen grown men who’d done worse under less unsettling circumstances. Conan believed he had judged rightly when he guessed at the fire in this one’s belly. 

3. The Green Idol 

Conan awoke from a light sleep, back resting against the twisted form of a mist-slicked tree. The fire had died down to embers; curls of white smoke drifted up from the burnt ends of sticks and twigs fallen outside the consuming heat of the flames, forming a crude ring like the drawing of a primitive sun. The Cimmerian sat still, only his eyes snapping open, focusing on the thick fog that had rolled over them while resting. 

It was chill and heavy; Conan’s skin was wet with it, his long hair dripping once, twice, while he sat there listening. Across from the guttering remains of the fire, Kavelle had pulled into herself, cradling her arms to her bosom, her knees pulled up close for warmth. Her face was drawn as if in fear; Conan could see she walked in a dream and one that was none too pleasant. He stepped across the space between them and nudged her with the end of his boot. 

“Wake, girl,” he said, his eyes on the trees and his hand resting easily against the pommel of his knife. “The woods have changed yet again. Can you feel it in the air? Sorcery!” The Cimmerian spat on the ground and patted the pouch at his side. The Stone of Kareesh was a reassuring weight. He’d get to Chal and buy his way along the coast by Crom, and he intended to be drinking a drought of wine by the time the moon was up, and seeing perhaps how this girl felt on his knee while he did so.

“We move,” he said, giving her a look before stepping away to put his pack back across his shoulder. Kavelle stood up, and brushed the feel of the fog from her hands and neck, her cheeks and hair. 

“I can feel it, yes,” she whispered, answering Conan but speaking more to herself. “It pushes at my mind, presses against me.” She took a step closer to the barbarian, who was looking about him doubtfully. “I don’t like the touch of it.” 

The Cimmerian agreed. He led the way from camp, moving in what he hoped was northwest, back along the way of the river and closer to Chal. They walked in silence for what felt like hours. If the sun came up it did little more than cast a pall on the fog about them; sorcery indeed. Conan moved at a steady and quick pace, and before long Kavelle found herself nearly running at times to keep up with him. More than once she nearly stumbled in the thick fog and obscuring haze, though Conan seemed to move unerringly, uncanny, like a creature born to this sort of oppressive haze and ghost-touched wilderness. The landscape changed, climbing steadily upwards, at first at a gentle slope, but eventually Conan and the girl found themselves grunting in effort, scaling thickly green-covered boulders and black-stoned cliffs that rose like the keels of ships out of the fog, running with moisture. There should have been the chorus of a million animals and bugs, but there was only the sound of water falling from the leaves all about them, an almost gentle rain of gathered dew that dripped, dripped continuously. 

Finally Conan called a halt while they rested atop a small rock cliff that looked down onto fog shrouded ferns and rich dark loam below them. 

“By Crom,” he snarled, “whatever sorcery this is that hides the land in fog hides the way out as well! We’re lost.” He glared out at the dream-touched landscape before them. “I’d swear I’ve steered us a straight course, but damn my eyes if I haven’t seen that rock twice now!” He spat, glaring about them. “The land is funneling us back down after this, it seems.” He studied the terrain a moment, his hard-planed face still and almost contemplative. The barest edges of his mouth turned up in a brief smile. “Sorcery though it is, these woods do remind me of my home, distant and uncaring Cimmeria. Rougher mountains than these moss-covered hills, the crags and vales of my land are blanketed in a gray forest, forever shrouded in mists much like these, though there is not the feel of spell-craft in Cimmeria. Crom will have no witches so close 

to his throne. The tops of the highest trees touch the clouds of the sky that sits so near, a sky that never sees the sun. It is a harsh land, a land where only the strongest can live. One day, perhaps, I shall return.” Conan trailed into silence, pulling apart strips of dried horsemeat, leathery and tough, and passed some to Kavelle. They ate in silence and drank sparingly from the water skin affixed to his pack.  

“Drink nothing from either spring of pool,” Conan said. “Whatever spell has befallen this land may very well be in the water itself.”  

. . . 

The assassins had found at last the trail left by Conan, though it had taken them far longer than they had anticipated. The thief was wily, cunning, and had nearly vanished into the grasslands like a ghost. But by the grace of Kareesh, they had found his trail and followed it to the very edge of the woods. They, too, were unsettled by the absence of any living sounds; no bird nor beast or crawling beetle could be heard. Three red robes quietly walked into the forest, horses left behind at the edge of the grasses, obedient and trained to wait for their masters. The red of their robes very quickly faded into the thick, chilled fog now flowing around the boughs of the trees, sluggishly rolling like dreamscape waves over boulders, twining and obscuring the terrain in a dripping blanket of misdirection and treacherous footing. 

They walked quietly, scimitars out and ready, each pair of black eyes fixed on the shrouded veil before them. At what felt like midday they ate in silence, each of them offering prayers in their minds and hearts to Kareesh; each of them felt, very keenly, the sinister pall that hung over the woods and chilled the air around them. They knew they were lost, turned around by whatever magic was at work, but they trusted to Kareesh, to the wisdom of His Thought. Kareesh would guide them, and in that way they followed the land as it directed them, climbing when they needed, descending fog embanked slopes dripping with ferns and trailing moss, rotten pine and cedar trunks covered in scaled lichen and the alien-twisted forms of mushrooms vividly colored in the gossamer haze. 

They walked the path of the faithful, and the edge of their blades never wavered. . . .

Midday found Conan and Kavelle making their way down a sharp and steep-sided ravine, as if a great axe had clove a tear in the rock of the mountain itself. The footing was treacherous, with loose stone and sharp edged boulders at every moment a danger to both flesh and bone. The way down was long, arduous, and slow going. They reached the bottom and found themselves on what appeared to be flatter ground. Kavelles’s bosom heaved in her exertion, her cheeks flush with blood. Conan stood as he was; quiet and still, wide nostrils flaring as he breathed deeply of the air. Twisting limbs of trees, black and sinuous, faded in and out of focus as the fog moved, the ground before them there, and then gone in the next step. It was thicker here; the air colder than it had been at the top of the declivity. Additionally, they had been passing more and more of the weather-worn black stones. They appeared out of the fog and haze like the stubs of black teeth, rounded and pitted by time and the elements. The carvings were shallow, most of them all but obscured by the centuries, but what could be discerned had a writhing, evil look. At the base of the ravine were a scattering of the stones, the most they had seen in one place. The barbarian eyed them as one might a coiled snake. Conan took Kavelle by the wrist in one large hand and guided her past the stones; for one unbelievable second the Cimmerian thought she was about to lean down and put her hands against them. He walked quietly, measuring his steps, head cocked to one side. His other fist was wrapped firmly around the handle of his thick-bladed hunting knife. Kavelle matched his stride as best she could, her eyes straining to make out objects before they materialized directly in front of them.  

More of the stones began to appear, and it was not long before the two of them realized they were walking on a path bordered by the hateful black markers with their crude scrawlings. Conan’s eyes narrowed as they passed, the muscles of his arms all but trembling in anticipation. They walked in this fashion until they began to discern low, squattish shapes in the mists before them. The path of black stones led them, wary and tense, to what seemed the outer edges of a small village. They found themselves standing directly next to a stone hut, piled with river rocks and crude-hewn blocks, mortared with clay and hair. The walls ran with moisture and were covered with a slick, unclean looking slime or moss. The slatted and thatch-covered roof was hung with tendrils of dripping vine, and a smell of decay and something sweeter beneath lay about the dwelling. Two more huts of the same fashion could be made out in the mists on either side of them, with more clustered ahead, ghostly and repellent.

Kavelle trembled at his side, staying close, her eyes moving over the hut and the trailing fog all around. 

“Do you think we’re alone here?” she asked, her voice low, almost a whisper. 

The Cimmerian didn’t answer. Instead he stood, taut as a wolf, alert and on edge. The feel of sorcery was strong here, the very air setting Conan’s nerves on fire. He let go of Kavelle’s wrist and pulled the knife from its sheath. Her eyes widened at the gesture, but to her credit she didn’t clutch at him or call out in distress. Instead she gave him enough room to move freely, but kept herself within easy reach of his protection should she need it. They walked deeper into the village, passing several more stone huts, each one as slimed and green-stained as the last, each one a slow rotting and crumbling ruin. 

“People still dwell here,” whispered Kavelle, disbelief at the realization tinting her words with something like dread. “Do you see?” She gestured to a wooden bucket, dirty and forlorn, but obviously used in the very recent past. A cook-fire in front of one hut showed bits of wood with char only a day or two old at most. These and other small signs of habitation, however neglectful and repellent, showed themselves to the keen eye. Still Conan said nothing but continued toward the center of the village. The smell of rot and decay grew heavier the nearer to the center they drew, until a miasma of what smelled like putrid fish and lake slime pervaded their nostrils. The Cimmerian bared his teeth at the stench, and stepped into the clearing at the center of the scattering of dwellings. 

“Crom,” he breathed, loathing and a wave of immediate and natural repulsive anger flaring up in his chest like a great heat. 

Before them reared an idol, carven of a stone like jade, but with a sickly hue and cast. It depicted a tall, three sided altar in the form or a pyramid. The top was flattened, and perched there was a thing unlike any Conan had behold before. The body was manlike in aspect, but carried more of the dragon in joint and hide and bony protrusions. Long flapping and webbed feet curled down from beneath twisted haunches, the toes carven like snakes or long feelers, twisting about the corners of the pyramid below. Wide hands were splayed atop bony knees, the fingers, like the toes, crawled down the legs like creeping, living roots. A pair of wings lay folded against the stooped and ridged back, but it was the head that truly drew and held the mind. 

Like an octopus of demonic birth, the head sat atop the rest in a parody of repose and majestic grace. The sculptor had shown his skill here; tentacles fell from the face like a hellish beard, a writhing clutch of seeking, grasping appendages. A set of great and evil eyes slanted off on either side of the head, bulging and curving outward like the eyes of a kraken. The skull was long and bulbous, and lay against the top of the spine like a diseased and bloated thing. The three sides of the altar were inscribed with noxious and unwholesome symbols and runes, some of them elder when Stygia was but a crawling plain of mud. Scattered about the base of the idol was a litter of human bones. There were the skulls of adults as well as children, leg bones and ribs, most old enough to be overtaken with mould and the browning decay of rot, some of them gleaming new and pale in the fog. All of them had the look of having been gnawed upon. 

Conan curled his nose at the site, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. 

They came screaming from between the stone huts, leaping and clamoring from the fog and mists, materializing like phantoms. Conan roared, whirling to meet them. Three were upon him before he fully understood what manner of creature he faced. Faces, perhaps once human, snapped and tore at him with mouths more like that of fish and filled with rows of small sharp teeth. Hands and feet, naked and clawed and webbed, gripped and tore at him in slime-coated swipes and grabs. They wore tatters of clothes, some of them, but others were naked as they leapt and bound into sight. Like beasts they brayed and croaked and barked, mingling grunted words in a language unknown that skittered over Conan’s ears like poison. 

Conan’s knife was a blur, his great shoulders heaving and twisting with the violence of his attack. The foul bodies dropped amid stinking ichor and gore. Kavelle screamed and Conan saw two of the things fall upon her, mouths and claws eager and brutal. There were as many as a dozen of them capering and clawing and barking around them. Conan disemboweled another that got too close and jumped toward where Kavelle lay. As he stepped near one of them arched backwards, chattering and gibbering in pain, holding its webbed paws to its eye. Black blood oozed and spurted from the wound. Conan severed most of its neck with a savage swipe of his knife from behind, and kicked the other it its ribcage. Bones shattered and caved in; Conan hurled the thing aside and stood above Kavelle. She came up to a crouch, holding what looked like a small root knife in her fist. The blade was covered in dark, oily blood. 

A ring of the corrupted hybrids had gathered, croaking and pointing, some darting nearly close enough to feel the bite of Conan’s knife. Conan backed himself and Kavelle to the side of one of the stone hovels, protecting his back as best he could. 

“Stay down,” he snarled at Kavelle, his eyes locked on the half human abominations before him. The reek of them was thick, their barking and croaking a chorus of voices from hell. Smoldering battle lust shone in his eyes as he glared out at them; this was what the Cimmerian understood, this was the lesson that had been taught to him all those years ago in the land of his fathers: there was only blood and death; tooth, claw, and steel. Galvanized, Conan roared his challenge and the swarm surged forth.  

Black blood sprayed and splattered, coating Conan’s knife arm, painting the fog-sodden ground in stinking, steaming splashes. The Cimmerian was savage in his ferocity, overcome with a driving need to destroy what he saw before him. These were creatures born of foul arts, not the stuff of life known to the lands of Hyboria; they were twisted by malignant forces from beyond, and as such Conan was compelled in his need for their destruction. He tore and slashed and struck like a man possessed, the barking of the hybrids taking on notes of fear and panic. More pallid and scaled forms dropped, piling at Conan’s feet, trampled upon in the melee, kicked and crushed and torn. 

A raking paw found its way past his guard, and Conan grunted in pain as his flesh was torn and red blood splattered to mingle with the black. The Cimmerian repaid the blow with a thrust of his blade that nearly picked the creature off its webbed feet. It dropped dead atop the trampled pile, black eyes clouding. From the mist and fog more of the hybrids could be heard coming to join the battle, their croaks and guttural, glottal screams breaking over the preternatural silence, a wave of nightmare sound.  

“Come, dogs!” roared the barbarian, his mind giving in to the savage animal that crouched always within him. “Come for Conan of Cimmeria, and I’ll send every damn one of you to Crom!” Leaping like a great cat away from the wall, Conan fell upon those croaking hybrids that were in front. They tried in vain to flee, to fall back, but the new abominations coming up from the rear blocked the way. Conan was a storm of death and fear among their foul and rank hides. His knife was gore-slicked and black with blood, his arms and chest coated in it. The beasts slashed and bit and tore, but theirs was a retreating fight, a desperate route that found itself caught between those rushing in from the back, and the Cimmerian in the front. The sound of their battle echoed dully through the fog, muted, a reaper’s dirge shrouded in cloaking whiteness. 

The fight moved away from the wall of the stone hut, leaving Kavelle momentarily alone and isolated in the vapors and pile of dead white-bellied carcasses. She stood, holding her small knife in her fist, her heart hammering in her chest, her eyes wide and staring desperately at the battle raging away from her. Unseen behind her a pair of articulate, long fingered hands reached out towards her. From the fog they came, the hands pale, the fingers adorned with rings of ancient and dark inscriptions, set with jewels that gleamed as red eyes from twining dragon’s heads, shone pale and hateful on slender gold and silver bands. 

“Sleep, child.” Said a voice in tones rich and tremulous, eyes from the gloom at Kavelle’s back glowing out faintly green and luminous. 

She fell where she stood, struck down by a darkness like slumber, but deeper and more profound, legs folding slowly and supplely beneath her. In the dimness beyond, the barbarian raged and the hybrids croaked as they retreated and died, and alone into the fog Kavelle was pulled away by pallid and long fingers, until it was as if she had never existed. 

Heedless of Kavelle, the Cimmerian fought on relentless and without mercy, his knife a bloody arc, his fist and hand crushing and breaking rubber-skinned arms and jaws, leaving behind a wandering trail of pale lifeless and dying forms. Like animals they slashed back at him, raking his skin and leaving smears of red flowing blood behind. Enraged, maddened, nearly beyond reason, Conan gave one last mighty push against the few of them that still stood and fought. Like a wave lifting ships beneath it, the barbarian’s surge carried the hybrids up in a cluster of arms and legs, the whole mass of them a writhing chaos of gore and violence. And then, without warning, the ground was gone beneath them. 

They plummeted, the speed and power of Conan’s charge taking them far out into the void of fog and space before them. They fell, vanishing into the whiteness below, trapped in the wind of their descent for heart-stopping moments. Limbs and the catching ends of branches snatched suddenly at them, drawing blood razor-thin over their flesh. Conan hit water before he was aware he’d stopped falling. Cold rushing blackness swallowed him, the croaking of his enemies and the churning of water fading quickly, and for a time he remembered no more.  

. . . 

The three assassins walked slowly through the crouching hulks of the stone huts, scimitars out, their purple painted eyes wide with the horror of the hybrids themselves, and the carnage that one man had left in his wake. The thief they pursued was not, they began to reason, like other men. 

After finding his trail leading into the forest, and being lost shortly thereafter in the covering mists, the assassins had tried to keep as near to the river as they could, in hope of picking up a place where the thief had crossed or made camp. They found the camp left behind by Conan, and soon realized that there were now two people wandering the fogs with them; the second one a woman by the looks of her tracks. 

Once they had found the camp and new sets of tracks, the assassins were keen to stay with them. Like hounds they quietly and meticulously followed the trail set by the wide flat boots and the small, more slender wilderness shoes. Many times they had to pause and re-orient themselves, sometimes backtracking painfully and slowly; the thief was as light-footed as a cat and left almost no prints to be seen. If not for the less skilled stumbling of the woman, they might have lost their quarry entirely. In this way they came upon, finally, the village of the idol and the dead grotesqueries that littered the ground and stank like rotting fish in the sun. Of the idol they took great notice, recognizing, if not specifically, than certainly an enemy of this reality, and elder god whose very likeness could drive one mad if glimpsed by human eyes. They conferred with one another silently, using the secret language of their hands, of symbols and words shaped by fingers and gestures. There was great evil stirring in this wilderness, of that only the blind could not see. The idol, however, lent the aspect of sorcery a much more sinister and foreboding visage. This was an olden totem, the scrawling symbols and glyphs along the three sides of the pyramidal altar seemed to swim as the assassins tried to interpret their meaning. The truth crawled just out of the edge of reason and understanding, which the killers counted as a blessing of Kareesh; only the mad and the damned would speak this tongue under the light of moon or sun. It had been foolish of them to try.

It was not difficult, after that, to find where the thief and the woman had made a stand against the rough, moisture-fouled wall of the stone building. Nor was it hard to follow the path of destruction left in the wake of the enraged Cimmerian. The bodies at their feet were repugnant to look upon, blasted by the corruption of powers from beyond. Though they still seethed with anger and were driven by the vows of vengeance for the desecration of their temple, they were thankful to the thief for ridding the earth of such monstrous bastards as these. 

They found where the last of the fight had taken the combatants over the cliff's edge. Because of the vapor and fog, they could not see how far down the drop fell away beneath them, but they could faintly hear the moving of water below and guessed it was at least enough to break bones if not outright kill a man. They found as well where the female had been dragged away into the gloom behind the village. That trail they lost almost immediately but knew from the taste of the air in their nostrils that dark magic had been worked there. 

They gathered at the edge of the cluster of huts, their red robes diluted through the haze like blood diffused in water, ghostly and deadly, only their hands and eyes moving. Ultimately, they returned to the cliff's edge and began working their way slowly to the bottom; if Kareesh had wanted them to follow an easier path, he would have shown them one. 

4. Iron and Stone 

Conan awoke to the sound of chanting, an insidious rhythm that eased into the blackness of his unconsciousness and swam upwards with him to full waking. The sky was dark overhead, scattered with clouds and occasional stars. The moon's light shone brightly against the tops of the trees, the twining edges of the fog, and the fleeing edges of the clouds above. He was chained to a black rock, carven like the smaller black markers in the forest, but fully half again as tall as himself and easily as wide. It was covered in scrawled runes and ancient fetish script. Heavy iron chains looped around the stone at least three times, crossing over Conan’s pushing chest and shoulders, biting and digging into the skin of his thighs and arms. 

In front of Conan was a rough stone altar, cut from a single slab, with a crawling and horror-tainted rune carved into the front base. In front of the altar was a fire pit, deeply dug and lined with stone, filled with large chunks of ash and oak. The fire leapt and burned and cracked, casting leaping and eldritch shadows over the open space where the black rock stood. 

Behind the altar was a man. He was short, hardly coming to Conan’s shoulder, and pale of skin and dark of hair. His eyes were like black coals, and his torso was bare. His waist was girded in a white schendyt, traced in gold thread, and set with pale green stones. His face was sharp like a hatchet, nose, chin, and brows all drawing down to an inbred and aristocratic mien.  

“Struggle as you will, barbarian,” said the priest, glancing up from the altar when he heard Conan testing the strength of the chains. “My power keeps you bound; it is more than enough for a mortal of flesh and blood.” The pale face leered at Conan, then the eyes closed and the chanting continued.  

Stygian, thought Conan, after hearing the other speak. He eyed the priest with murderous intent in his glare, his nostrils flaring and his neck thick with effort. 

“Conan,” said a voice, and the Cimmerian turned to see Kavelle lashed against a tree, the rough bark biting into her arms, her face pale and strained and desperate. She looked at him, and it seemed as if hope had faded from her eyes. 

“Stygian!” roared Conan, straining against his bonds. 

The priest smiled, amused it seemed. 

“You witness something few others get to see, Cimmerian.” The priest cocked his high domed head and looked earnestly at Conan. “You will make such a brood by your sacrifice that what you slew in the village would be as children to what will come after tonight.” The priest threw back his head and laughed like the pained howling of a fox mad with sickness. “See what I am, whelp of Crom! See what power I command!” Striding away from the altar, the priest went to where Kavelle cowed back against the bark of the tree. With a savage motion, he tore the bodice from her shoulder, exposing smooth, white skin, the curve of her bosom, her slender and arched neck. The three-sided brand in her flesh stood out in the firelight like a sore, the bite mark of plague.  

The priest turned to look at Conan, and the light in his eyes shifted from black and dull to green and glowing. The pale radiance fell on the sharp ridges of his cheeks the thin bridge of his nose. He opened his mouth and made a noise in his throat as if he were gagging and choking at the same time. He tossed his head back and shuddered, and when he looked back down at Kavelle, she screamed, pulling away from the priest as if there were fire and she was about to be consumed utterly. 

Conan pulled and fought against the iron of the chains, but they held fast. His teeth were clenched, the cords of his neck standing out in sharp relief to the shadows around him. The priest turned and looked to Conan, and the Cimmerian shouted in shock and rage at what was before him. The priest’s tongue had grown, twisting and slithering through the air like a snake or large worm. The end of the hideous appendage tapered down to a clawed mouth, shaped like a three-sided triangle and filled with what looked like needle-tipped fangs. He eyed Conan with his glowing green eyes, the thick tongue clogging his throat in glottal tones. 

“I have given her the kiss of union! I have marked her for what is to come!” The priest shuddered again, and this time there was a note of pain in the sound. He clutched himself about the middle and doubled over, his face nearly level to the ground. Conan could hear wet heaving and a muffled shriek through clenched teeth. After a moment the priest stood straight and wiped one arm across his mouth; blood trailed behind his lips. He was smiling again, and walked back to stand behind the altar. 

“A great and terrible emissary comes this night, Cimmerian,” said the priest, watching the stars and as they were glimpsed through the veil of fog and cloud. “I have planned long for this night, and have made many and difficult preparations and sacrifice. This is a glorious alignment of stars, a night of consummation and birth! I had thought myself constrained to use the flesh and blood of the weak hearts that beat in this land for my sacrifice, but not now! You, Cimmerian, will be a feast that even gods would acknowledge as good. I prepared for this night! I called forth the old ways and chanted the old words! I chose the brood mother that would bear the squirming litter of the emissary and gave her the kiss to seal her fate this night!” The priest laughed again, a quiet, contemplative sound, and looked toward Kavelle. “She will swell great with the horde he will deposit within her. She will be the mother of the children of the idol.” 

“I will see you in hell this night, Stygian,” grated Conan, his lips flecked in spittle from his efforts, his body bruised and battered and bloodied. “By Crom, I’ll send you there myself!” 

The priest looked at Conan, his eyes measuring the Cimmerian, taking in his stature and power, all bound by words of power that knew no rival among living tongues. 

“You are arrogant, Cimmerian, bastard child of Thuria. There are older gods than Crom and Mitra, older powers that once ruled the cosmos! You stand in the presence of a Priest of Ka’Tulu, Herald of the Abyssal Gods, High Priest of the Nothing at the center of All! Your strong heart shall be the offering I make in honor of this night of union. Your blood will be the milk that feeds what comes forth, barbarian. Consider yourself thusly honored.” The Stygian raised his be-ringed fists to the bottomless sky and cold stars above, his face contorted in madness and rage, eyes glowing again with a faint green luminance. 

Conan spat and strained as far as he could toward the Stygian. “Neither Mitra nor Ka’Tulu stand here with us, priest, and by Crom I will see you in Hell this night!” Conan railed against the chains binding him to the stone, but the heavy irons, black and crude-edged, held him fast; the Stygian had formed the links himself, had spoken words of power that gave them the endurance to hold even the might of the scion of Atlantis standing before him now. 

The priest laughed at Conan’s futile attempts at freedom, running spider-leg fingers over the sinuously curved edge of a ceremonial dagger atop the altar at his side. 

“Your words matter not, Cimmerian,” he said, trailing one slender finger along the snake grooved cannelure down the middle of the blade before grasping the gold-wired handle. “Only your blood is important, only the life that beats in your heart.” 

He stepped forward, knife in hand, and stood before Conan. 

“You die this night, animal, you die like a lamb at pagan hearth.” He pulled the dagger back, high above his head, and shouted, “Ia! Ia! Gt’tagan neth! Neth ul’noth, Ka’Tulu! Neth ul’noth, Ha’non! Neth nr’oqk Ka’Tulu! Ka’Tulu kal’noth!” His voice had risen to a screeching wail, the unintelligible words blending into one long undulating vomitous keening. The lust of madness in his eyes, the Priest of Ka’Tulu screamed his words and at the end, when his voice was highest, plunged the dagger deep into the Cimmerian’s flesh. Blood flashed red across the naked torso of the priest and Conan grunted in pain. 

. . . 

The Stygian Priest of Ka’Tulu had spoken true when he told Conan of Cimmeria there were older gods than Crom and Mitra. In the time before matter, when only darkness and thought ruled the deep abysses of space, there was an Awareness known as Kareesh. Kareesh the Vast, Kareesh of the Void, Kareesh the Lord of Thought. After a time unmeasured there came into being planets and life and light, and Kareesh was diminished. From life came other minds, and from those minds came the will to power, and Kareesh was diminished further. And as he diminished other powers that had lain quiet and still in the blackness of the nothing now crept closer to the dwindled might of what was Kareesh. 

A great war raged in those empty spaces beyond the keenness of all knowledge. Elder gods and eldritch beings brought their might against Kareesh, and among those beings was one known as Ka’Tulu, High Priest of the Nothing at the Center of All, Priest of the Abyss. Ka’Tulu was mightiest in his efforts against Kareesh, and caused the Lord of Thought much pain and great loss. Kareesh and the elder gods fought for what man would count in centuries until finally Kareesh withdrew into the very substance of the cosmos, among the finest particles and particulate of matter itself. The last of Kareesh fell among those planets and crawling life forms as smooth gems and stones, each imbued with an infinitesimal shining heart of what had once been Kareesh of the Void. 

And now, in a pouch at Conan’s side, the gem that lay in darkness began to glow. However small, olden and diminished it was, the part of Kareesh that still existed in the gem could feel the never-forgotten corruptive resonance that flowed from the power that Ka’Tulu gave. The last of what was Kareesh-within-the-gem flared to wrathful life, burning like a brand against the leather of the pouch the skin of Conan’s straining thigh. Clean blue light burned forth like the birth of a star in miniature; at the same time the chains around Conan flared a sickly green, secret and corrupted runes appearing along the links in a blazing wave of green light that flashed along the links as quick as a raging wave cresting at sea. 

Conan had been straining since he’d woken against the stone, all of his force, all of his focus on the single task of shattering what held him in place. Every muscle trembled in effort, the links groaning around his deep chest, grinding together at his shoulders and across his straining and sweat-slicked arms. As the green light flared and washed up the length of the chains, muscle and will won out against shoddy-wrought iron without their magic wards to hold them together. With a shattering like splitting rock, the links exploded under the Cimmerian’s relentless might. 

The dagger, which had sunk nearly a quarter of the way into the left side of Conan’s chest, heaved and bled as the barbarian lunged forward, hands out and grasping for the priest. In one great stride, the barbarian gripped the priest by the throat in his massive fist, carrying him off his feet and into the air. The Stygian writhed like a snake in Conan’s grasp, hands clawing and raking at the bronzed and thickly muscled limb, leaving bloody runnels and scratches. His sharp face was pitched backward, his bulging eyes unfocused on the stars above him. Gurgling sounds and a shrill whistling came from his skull-grimaced mouth. 

Conan glared at the priest, cords rising out in his forearm as he gripped tighter, the struggling form held fully above the ground, feet kicking less now as life fled. With one final snapping motion of his wrist, Conan broke the thin neck and dropped the priest to the ground. The barbarian stared down at the body at his feet, rage still burning hot behind his eyes, flowing down his shoulders and arms to his fists. He was breathing like a ram, his breath streaming in the chill air. 

And then the stench hit his nostrils. The smell of every rotten fish in every scum-rimed harbor flowed into the clearing, washing over Conan like a wave. Nearby, Kavelle screamed, a high-pitched hysterical sound trailing up and up like the fluttering wings of a bird. Conan heard the shift of weight on the ground behind him. 

The Cimmerian turned, pulling the blade from his chest and swinging into a low, ready crouch.

Standing before him was a thing of a nightmare, a creature from the deepest places of the sea, perhaps the emissary from beyond. As tall as Conan, it stood with a stooped power in his wide, lean shoulders. It was green in the light of the moon and the burning pit before the altar, bile green and foul, a thing shaped by a mind never touched by human reason or thought. Its head was long and bulbous, with two gleaming red eyes set at a slant on either side of what appeared to be its face. The mouth was a nest of writhing tentacles that crawled and slithered across its chest, through the air, grasping and moving like worms. A pair of wings, small for the creature's size, spread out from behind the shoulders. The structure seemed more spindly than functional; the webbing was torn and thin like rotted eel skin. Shaped in the likeness of Ka’Tulu, the beast emitted a low wailing chitter, adrip with slime and fetid stink. 

Conan roared at the horror, his teeth bared and his eyes wild. There was madness in his glare, the burning fires of murder and death in his cold blue eyes. 

“And now, by Crom,” he bellowed, “I’ll send you to hell behind him!” 

The Cimmerian lunged, powerful as a bull, dagger whickering through the air in a savage arc, his own blood flying away from the blade like tiny smooth rubies in the flickering elf light. The blade cut deep into the thing’s side, black blood spraying forth in a sickening filthy slick. Their bodies locked, scaled and taloned fingers clenched against forearm, tearing against chest. They strove together, Conan heaving and roaring in his wrath, his muscles jumping and trembling in their effort.  

Behind them on the ground lay the Stone of Kareesh. The glow had dwindled down to the faintest of pale blue radiance; a star newly born dying already on the damp and unknowing ground. As the fragment of Kareesh faded so to it lent itself against the being who tore at the Cimmerian, against the agent of Ka’Tulu, lending Conan what strength it could. Back and forth Conan and the beast heaved, tearing and cutting in turn. Red blood and black splattered the ground, stained the stone and the chains. It leaned close, the tentacles of its face wrapping themselves about the barbarian’s head and throat, prying at his eyes and the corners of his mouth. 

“Damn you, by Crom!” he roared, wild with rage and an almost genetic, ancestral need to destroy this thing of darkness and corruption, of madness and evil incarnate. Conan roared again, eyes rolling in animal fury, and plunged the knife straight down into the top of the flabby, slime-coated head. The bulbous flesh gave with a rubbery resistance, smashing in under the force of the massive blow. The fang-tipped end of the dagger pierced the tough outer hide of the beast and punched through the heavier, bonier layer beneath, burying itself to the hilt. A hot geyser of black blood sprayed up from the wound and the sinewy foul body writhed in pain and panic.  

“Damn you, by Crom,” the Cimmerian roared again, grabbing a fistful of tentacles in one hand, hauling the head back and bringing the knife down savagely on the exposed neck. “Damn you to hell!” Thrice more the wicked steel of the curved blade bit into the thick, wet hide of the beast. With a rending, tearing sound Conan cut through the last of the cords holding the head to the body; with a final growl of savage victory, he pulled the grisly trophy from the body howled like an animal in pure animal lust.  

On the ground behind him the Stone of Kareesh gave one last flash of pale blue light and shattered. The sound was as a crack of thunder, startling and sharp, nearly blasting the Cimmerian to his knees. Conan whirled around in time to see the altar break, the stone splitting across the ugly and unwholesome symbol carved therein. The ground shook, staggering Conan once more, but the tremor quickly passed. 

“By Crom,” he breathed, something approaching wary awe in his voice. In his fist, nearly forgotten, the severed head of the beast began to shift in his grasp. He looked down, unsure what new horror he would face, and saw that the tentacles, the ruined skull, the face, and the eyes were melting. They were dissolving even as he watched, giving forth such a stench that he reeled as if stricken, one hand flying up to cover his face. He dropped the head and moved away, the dagger still clutched and coated in green black gore, the point unwavering. He watched as the body and the head broke down, rotted and deflated, running at the edges until it was little more than an oily slick that reeked evilly and curdled the earth beneath. 

“Enough,” growled the Cimmerian, taking another step back as the ooze trailed slowly to its final outer edges. Kavelle ran to him, threw herself against him. The barbarian could feel her trembling at his side, could feel the curve and form of her, the heat of her body, the swell of her bosom and hips, and found these things good.

“What now?” she said, her face moving up from his still heaving side to catch him with almond shaped eyes the color of gray amber in the moon. 

“Now, by Crom, we get to Chal.” He picked her up and carried her, as one would a child; protectively against him, his great arms about her and holding her close. They left the clearing and the ruined Stone of Kareesh behind them. They left the broken altar and the dark stain that would from here on mark this site as unclean and unfit. The darkness took them, the Cimmerian once more the jungle cat, quiet and alert, Kavelle a quiet and still form at his side. 

Around them the first of the frogs and the crickets began to sing in the night, their voices few at first and timid, as if waking from a dream of forgetfulness into slow life. The barbarian slipped through the shadows and the moon-glow, fading into the waking darkness of the living forest, one more predator among the wild. 

. . . 

The next dawn saw three horses thundering West, away from the forests and back toward the walled city of N’grell. The sun rose behind the riders, painting their shadows long and thin before them in the dew shrouded grasses that soaked their leggings and their boots. Their red robes snapped and whipped in the passing of their speed, the breath of the horses like steam in the early morning air.  

They had many strange and forbidding tidings to report to the High Priest of Kareesh, many disturbing portents and omens to decipher. They knew the punishment for returning without either the Stone or the thief would be great; costly, in fact, to their very lives, but still they rode West with conviction in their hearts and the wildfire of zealot in their eyes. The assassins of Kareesh were as new men reborn into their beliefs by having beheld a miracle as they had lain in wait and watched the battle unfold before the altar of Ka’Tulu; they had witnessed Kareesh Himself acting through the muscle and sinew of Conan of Cimmeria!