Free Conan The Destroyer by Robert Jordan

fell back. They were enough to sweep over him by sheer weight of numbers, but some would surely die. They had proof of that, now, and none wanted to be in the forefront. They shuffled nervously, edging forward, darks eyes burning with a mixture of fear and shame at that fear.
    Carefully, not taking his eyes from the slowly approaching spearmen, Conan stepped down from his horse. They would have the advantage, with their long spears, should he remain mounted. Not, he told himself wryly, that there was not some advantage for them merely in outnumbering him twenty to one. Best to take the initiative. He eyed their straggly line, chose the weakest point, and set himself to attack.
    Suddenly a ball of fire shot past his shoulder to strike a ragged spearman in the face and explode in lumps of charred flesh.
    Conan jumped in spite of himself, and looked over his shoulder. Beside the fire Malak capered wildly, grinning like a fool. In front of the wiry little thief stood Akiro, his rough brown tunic and cross-gaitered leggings still smouldering in patches. The old wizard’s lips moved as if he were chanting, but no sound emerged that Conan could hear. Parchment-skinned hands moved in elaborate patterns, ending in a clap at chest height. And when Akiro’s hands parted another fireball hurtled from between his palms. Immediately he began gesturing again, but two corpses with blackened stumps where their heads had been were more than enough. Howling with terror the rag-clad spearmen threw down their weapons and ran into the deepening twilight. Their cries faded quickly to the south.
    “Misbegotten, half-breed spawn of diseased camels!” Akiro muttered. He peered at his hands, blew on his palms, dusted them together. His wispy gray hair and long mustaches stood out in disarrayed spikes. He smoothed them angrily. “I will teach them a lesson to make their grandchildren’s grandchildren shake at the mention of my name. I will make their blood freeze and their bones quiver like jelly.”
    “Akiro,” Conan said. Malak squatted to listen, an interested expression on his face.
    “I will visit them with a plague of boils to the tenth generation. I will make their herds fail, and their manhoods whither, and their teeth fall out!”
    “Akiro,” Conan said.
    The saffron-skinned mage shook a fist in the direction of the fleeing men. “They claimed I maligned their gods. Gods!” He grimaced and spat. “Fool shamans do not know a fire elemental when they see one. I told them if they sacrificed one more child I would bring lightning down on their heads, and by the Nine-Fold Path of Power, I will do it!”
    “Maybe you can’t,” Malak said. “I mean, they managed to tie you up and half cook you. Maybe you had better leave them alone.”
    Akiro’s faced smoothed to an utter lack of expression. “Do not fear, Malak,” he said mildly. “I will not make your stones fall off.” Malak toppled over backwards, staring with bulging eyes at the wizard. “Is that proper respect that I see on your face?” Akiro asked gently. “Then I shall recount what happened. The three shamans, who call themselves priests, managed to put a spell on me while I slept. A minor spell, but it enabled their followers to fall on me and bind me.” His tone hardened as he spoke, and his voice rose higher word by word. “They tied my hands, so I could make no gesture of significance. They stuffed rags into my mouth,” he paused to spit, “so I could utter no words of power. Then they proposed to sacrifice me to their gods. Gods! I will show them gods! I shall be a demon in their pantheon, at least, before I am done! I—. That girl.”
    Conan blinked. He had decided to let Akiro run out of wind—it was the only thing to do when the old mage got the bit firmly between his teeth like this—but the sudden softening of voice and change of subject caught him by surprise. Bombatta, he realized, was finally bringing Jehnna down from the hill. The pair of them were