ed faintly.
“Being given to the living god whose image that is,” Boros answered, “to be his plaything for all eternity. Such may well have been the fate of the women given to Al’Kiir.”
Julia swayed, and Conan snapped, “Enough, old man! You frighten her. I remember now that you mentioned this Al’Kiir once before, when you were drunk. Are you drunk now? Have you dredged all this from wine fumes in your head?”
“I am deathly sober,” the gray-bearded man replied, “and I wish I were pickled in wine like a corpse. For that is not only an image of Al’Kiir, Cimmerian. It is a necessary, a vital part of the worship of that horrible god. I thought all such had been destroyed centuries ago. Someone attempts to bring Al’Kiir again to this world, and did they have that unholy image they might well succeed. I, for one, would not care to be alive if they do.”
Conan stared at the bronze gripped in his big hand. Two men had died attempting to take it from him in the shop. Three more perished in the second attack, and that that had been for the same thing he no longer doubted. Before he himself died, sly-face had accused Conan of slaying about eight of his men. The numbers were right. Those who wanted to bring back this god knew the Cimmerian had the image they needed. In a way he was relieved. He had had stray thoughts that some of these attacks, including the one just done, were Karela’s work.
The men fetching the hot water and bandages entered the room; Conan thrust the image under his blanket roll and signed the others to silence until they were gone.
When the three were alone again, Julia spoke. “I’ll tend your wound, but not if you again remove that evil thing from its hiding. Even there I can sense it.”
“I’ll leave it where it is,” the young Cimmerian said, and she knelt beside him and busied herself with bathing and bandaging his wound. “Go on with your telling, Boros,” he continued. “How is it this god cannot find his own way to the world of men? That seems like no god to fear greatly, for all his horns.”
“You make jokes,” Boros grumbled, “but there is no humor in this. To tell you of Al’Kiir I must speak of the distant past. You know that Ophir is the most ancient of all the kingdoms now existing in the world, yet few men know aught of its misty beginnings. I know a little. Before even Ophir was, this land was the center of the worship of Al’Kiir. The strongest and handsomest of men and the proudest and most beautiful of women were brought from afar for the rites of which I have spoken. But, as you might imagine, there were those who opposed the worship of Al’Kiir, and foremost of these were the men who called themselves the Circle of the Right-Hand Path.”
“Can you not be shorter about it?” Conan said. “There’s no need to dress the tale like a storyteller in the marketplace.”
Boros snorted. “Do you wish brevity, or the facts? Listen. The Circle of the Right-Hand Path was led by a man named Avanrakash, perhaps the most powerful practitioner of white magic who has ever lived.”
“I did not know there was such a thing as white magic,” Conan said. “Never have I seen a sorcerer who did not reek of blackness and evil as a dunghill reeks of filth.”
This time the old man ignored him. “These men made contact with the very gods, ‘tis said, and concluded a pact. No god would stand against Al’Kiir openly, for they feared that in a war between gods all that is might be destroyed, even themselves. Some—Set, supposedly, was one—declared themselves apart from what was to happen. Others, though, granted those of the Right-Hand Path an increase in powers, enough so that they in concert could match a single god. You can understand that they would not give so much to a single man, for that would make him a demigod at the least, nor enough to all of them that they could not be vanquished easily by as few as two of the gods in concert.”
Despite himself Conan found himself listening intently. Julia, her mouth hanging open in wonderment, held the ties of the Cimmerian’s bandages forgotten as she followed Boros’ words.
“In the battle that followed, the face of the land itself was changed, mountains raised, rivers altered in their courses, ancient seas made desert. All of those who marched against Al’Kiir, saving only Avanrakash, perished, and he was wounded to the death. Yet in his dying he managed with a staff of power to sever Al’Kiir from the body the god wore in the world of men, to seal the god from that world.
“Then came rebellion among the people against the temples of Al’Kiir, and the first King of Ophir was crowned. Whole cities were razed so that not even their memory remains. All that kept so much as the name of Al’Kiir in the minds of men was destroyed.
“The earthly body of the god? Men tried to destroy that as well, but the hottest fires made no mark, and the finest swords shattered against it. Finally it was entombed beneath a mountain, and the entrances sealed up, so that with time men should forget its very existence.
“They both succeeded and failed, they who would have destroyed the god’s name and memory, for the name Tor Al’Kiir was given to the mountain, but for centuries gone only a scattered few have known the source of that name, though all men know it for a place of ill luck, a place to be avoided.
“I believed I was the last to have the knowledge I possess, that it would go to my funeral fires with me. But I have seen lights in the night atop Tor Al’Kiir. I have heard whispers of knowledge sought. Someone attempts to bring Al’Kiir back to this world again. I was sure they would find only failure, for the lack of that image or its like, but do they get their hands on it, blood and lust and slavery will be the portion of all men.”
Conan let out a long breath when the old man at last fell silent. “The answer is simple. I’ll take the accursed thing to the nearest metalworker’s shop and have it melted down.”
“No!” Boros cried. A violent shudder wracked him, and he combed his long beard with his fingers in agitation. “Without the proper spells that would loose such power as would burn this city from the face of the earth, and perhaps half the country as well. Before you ask, I do not know the necessary spells, and those who do would be more likely to attempt use of the image than its destruction.”
“That staff,” Julia said suddenly. “The one Avanrakash used. Could it destroy the image?”
“A very perceptive question, child,” the old man murmured. “The answer is, I do not know. It might very well have that power, though.”
“Much good that does,” Conan muttered. “The staff is no doubt rotted to dust long ago.”
Boros shook his head. “Not at all. ‘Tis a staff of power, after all, that Staff of Avanrakash. Those men of ancient times revered its power, and made it the scepter of Ophir, which it still is, though covered in gold and gems. It is said ’twas the presence of that scepter, carried as a standard before the armies of Ophir, that allowed Moranthes the Great to win his victories against Acheron. If you could acquire the scepter, Conan … .”
“I will not,” Conan said flatly, “attempt to steal King Valdric’s scepter on the off chance that it might have some power. Zandru’s Nine Hells, the man uses the thing as a walking staff! It’s with him constantly.”
“You must understand, Cimmerian,” Boros began, but Conan cut him off.
“No! I will put the thrice-accursed beneath the floor boards yonder until I can find a place to bury it where it will never be found. Crack not your teeth concerning any of this until I can do so, Boros. And stay away from the wine till then as well.”
Boros put on a cloak of injured dignity. “I have been keeping this particular secret for nearly fifty years, Cimmerian. You’ve no need to instruct me.”
Conan grunted, and let Julia lift his arm to finish her bandaging. It was yet another rotten turnip to add to the stew before him. How to destroy a thing that could not be destroyed, or as well as could not, given the lack of trustworthy sorcerer, and such were as rare as virgin whores. Still, he was worried more about Karela than any of the rest. What, he wondered, was that flamehaired wench plotting?