Free Conan The Fearless by Steve Perry Page B

surround the bodies of the magician and his captive. At first the glow merely shimmered dimly; after a short while, however, the gleam of pale yellow light began to rival that of the lamp on the wall. In a few moments the boy and magician produced a source of illumination too bright to gaze upon without squinting. As Sovartus felt the boy’s energies suffuse him, the magician laughed. Yes!
    Wrapped in the folds of darkness outside of the Milk of Wolves Inn, Djuvula the Witch felt the wind tug at the edges of her black silk veil, stirring the cloth gently. She had determined that the child she sought was ensconced within, along with him of the White Square who was her protector. All it had cost her was money; a few silver coins spread around could oft work more miracles among men than could magic. Aside from the girl, Djuvula also sought some sign of the barbarian who had injured her demon-brother. Surely such a one must be a man with a powerful spirit. And a powerful heart.
    The rising wind also tangled itself about the short form of Loganaro, hiding in the lee of an outhouse close to the inn in which Conan the Cimmerian slept. Loganaro impatiently awaited the arrival of the six cutthroats he had hired, paid for with gold from Senator Lemparius’s bountiful purse. Surely the big youth could be taken by six men, no matter that some of them might be lost in the process. Such had been Lemparius’s decision when Loganaro had reported that Conan had seemed upon the verge of departing the company of the old man, girl, and newly arrived woman. It had been hastily arranged; Loganaro would have preferred a longer time to select his crew, but one worked with what one was given. His major worry concerned not the taking of Conan, but the displeasure of Djuvula when she learned of his switch in allegiance, no matter he had little choice in the matter. This above all played upon his fears, and he wondered where Djuvula might be at the moment. And where those dimwitted cutthroats dallied.
    On a dark street overshadowed by cluttered buildings and unkissed by the light of moon or man, a tawny shape walked. Dogs barked fearfully at the passage of the shape, perhaps startled by the scent of what was far too huge to be any street cat, though cat it surely was. Within the mind of the werepanther a laugh was formed, but when it erupted from between sharp white fangs, the laugh was something else entirely. The dogs of Mornstadinos went silent at the sound, as if they were afraid to draw the attention of the thing by further outcry.
    The dogs need not have worried; the cat-which-was-also-a-man stalked a different prey than dogs: He had grown fond of the taste of a two-legged animal. The city was full of such. Six of those particular animals passed the cat in the darkness, blind to his presence. The werepanther allowed these six to move by unmolested, for beneath the feline brain the mind of the man knew they were about on his business. And such business would bring him a different kind of pleasure than eating.
    The normally peaceful slumber of Conan of Cimmeria was disturbed this night, and the powerful form of the barbarian turned restlessly upon the pallet of straw upon which he lay. He came to wakefulness once again, but once more could identify no threat to him. A dream. he thought, must have infiltrated his sleep. As he fell back asleep the second time that night, only the sound of the night wind came to his ears. Outside, it sounded as if a storm were rising.

Chapter Seven
    The wind howled through the streets of Mornstadinos, searching out every hollow that could announce its passage. Gusts of damp air rattled loose objects and sent trash flying before it. The rain, when it came, exploded upon the cobblestones in fat drops, immediately drenching anything or anyone unprotected from the storm. Lightning turned the night into day in a series of instants; thunder followed in the darkness, booming like the angry grumbles of some irritated god.