Free Conan The Indomitable by Steve Perry Page A

reach of the magic or dead, the latter being somewhat more unlikely. Still,
either way boded ill for the wizard’s plans. If the prey had managed to somehow
elude the cyclops and move beyond Rey’s range to speak to his servant, that was bad. If Wikkell were somehow indisposed
and unable to answer Rey’s call, that was also bad. Not for a moment did the
magician consider that the cyclops might ignore his hail. So either of the two
choices was unacceptable, and yet one of them must indeed be the case.
    Katamay Rey moved to a chest of assorted magical impedimenta and began to
rummage through it. There was no help for it, then. He would have to gather
supplies and a retinue and go find Wikkell, or the barbarian, or both.
    Damn. Why was it that anything of consequence always seemed to require his
own hand? Did he have to do
everything
around this place?
     
    Chuntha’s patience was ended. That slithering servant of hers was beyond her
dreamcasting range, blast him! Who knew what evil might have befallen Deek? The
man—the big, strong, handsome,
virile
man—might be escaping her clutches
even as she lay upon her bed dreading the very thought.
    No. It would not do.
    She sighed. She supposed that she should have learned by now not to send a
worm to do a witch’s job. It had seemed so simple, to merely fetch the man to her—but
no, by the Demon Sensha’s Hairy Mound, some laughing fate wished to cheat her
of her just due. Perhaps the wizard had a hand in it. An
unpleasant thought.
    Chuntha raised her naked form from the sodden bed and moved to gather a
collection of certain items of magical power. Very well. She had not always been a stay-at-home ruler. She would go and fetch the man
herself. And if Deek lived and was whole, he would be made to suffer for her
extra labors, too.
     
    The blind white thing responded to the Harskeel’s questions, speaking in a
tongue that sounded like a tortured monkey’s wails. Fortunately, one of the
Harskeel’s men was familiar with a mountain dialect that was similar enough
that some sense could be made of the creature’s replies.
    “I am only interested in the one called ‘Conan,’ ” the Harskeel
said . “ Ask it about him.”
    The pikeman did so.
    A stream of babble came from the beast.
    “M’lord, he says there was a large man and that he and his brothers
were sent to fetch him.”
    “Ask it who sent it.”
    More gratings upon the ear.
    “He says he works for the one-eyed monster, who in turn works for the
wizard of the caves.”
    The Harskeel shook its head. Treading on a wizard was bad business. There
was no help for it, though.
    When they had obtained as much information as the Harskeel thought itself
apt to get from the white thing, it drew its sword and snapped a quick but
powerful cut at the creature’s neck. Razor steel met flesh, and the startled
cry died even as it was born. The severed head fell, trailing blood, and
bounced along the cave floor.
    So much for that.
    Leading its remaining men, the Harskeel moved off.
     
    Using his sword and Tull’s knife, Conan hewed several shallow compartments
and numerous footsteps into the flesh of the dead fish. A pair of riblike bones,
each fastened to portions of fin with strings cut from his former cape, made
passable paddles with which to propel the once-living raft. He also cut some of
the fish’s flesh into small chunks for eating, though in truth the raw fish
held little appeal to his or Elashi’s appetite.
    “Here,” Tull said. “Watch.”
    With that, the ragged man clambered down from the fish’s side—now the top of
their raft—and splashed onto the nearest shore. After a moment he returned with
a yellowish mushroom he had found at the base of the cave wall. Then he picked
up a hand-sized slab of the cut fish and squeezed the fungus over it. Juice
from the fungus fell upon the translucent fish, and as it did, the flesh became
opaque.
    Conan’s keen nose noted an acidic tang to the juice, and he remarked