Free Conan The Destroyer by Robert Jordan Page B

roasted, and a halffilled basket of small Corinthian oranges was produced from the hut. Finally the last bones were gnawed, and orange peels were tossed into the fire that cast a golden pool before the small hut. Bombatta took a wetstone from his pouch and bent himself to tending his tulwar’s edge. Malak began juggling three of the oranges to the delight of Jehnna, though he dropped one at every second pass.
    “’Tis a part of the trick,” the wiry thief said as he picked an orange from the ground for the fourth time. “To make the later things I do seem even greater by comparison.”
    Akiro touched Conan on the arm and motioned with his head to the darkness. The two men withdrew from the fire; none of the others seemed to notice their going.
    When they had gone far enough that their voices would not carry back to the hut, Akiro said, “Now tell me how Valeria is to be brought back to life.”
    Conan eyed the plump mage speculatively, though he could see nothing of his visage but shadows in the moonlight. Wizards did things in their own way and for their own reasons, even the most benign of them. Not that many could be called benign. Even Akiro, with whom he had traveled before, was largely a mystery to him. But then, was there anyone in all of this whom he could afford to trust totally?
    “Taramis,” Conan began, “the Princess Royal, has promised to return Valeria to me. Not as a shade, nor as an animated corpse, but living, as once she lived.”
    The wizard was silent for a time, tugging at the long mustaches that framed his mouth. “I would not have thought to find one of such power alive in the world today,” he said finally. “Most especially not as a princess of the Zamoran Royal house.”
    “You think she lies?” Conan sighed, but Akiro shook his head.
    “Perhaps not. It is written that Malthaneus of Ophir did this thing a thousand years gone, and possibly Ahmad Al-Rashid, in Samara, twice so far in the past. It could be that it is time for the world to once more see such wonders.”
    “Then you believe Taramis can do as she promised.”
    “Of course,” Akiro continued musingly, “Malthaneus was the greatest white wizard since the Circle of the Right-Hand Path was broken in the days before Acheron, and Ahmad Al-Rashid, it is said, was thrice-blessed by Mitra himself.”
    “You jump about like a monkey,” Conan growled. “Can you not say one thing or another and stick to it?”
    “I can say that this thing has been done in the past. I can say that Taramis may be able to do it.” He paused, and Conan thought his bushy gray brows had drawn down into a frown. “But why should she do it for you?”
    In as few words as possible the Cimmerian told of the quest on which he accompanied Jehnna, of the key and the treasure and the short time that remained.
    “A Stygian,” Akiro muttered when he had finished. “It is said that there is no people without some spark of good in them, but never have I found a Stygian I would trust long enough to turn around twice.”
    “He must be a powerful sorcerer,” Conan said. “No doubt too powerful for you.”
    Akiro wheezed a short laugh. “Do not try that game on me, youngling. I am too old to be snared so easily. I have those accursed hedge-wizards to deal with.”
    “I would not find your company amiss, Akiro.”
    “I am too old to go riding off into the mountains, Cimmerian. Come, let us go back to the fire. The nights are cold here, and the fire is warm.” Rubbing his hands together, the gray-haired mage did not wait for Conan to follow.
    “At least Bombatta will be quieted,” Conan muttered. “He has been afraid Malak or you would upset some part of the prophecy of Skelos.”
    Akiro froze with one foot lifted for his next step. Slowly he turned back to face the big youth. “Skelos?”
    “Aye, the Scrolls of Skelos. They tell what is to be found on this quest, and what must be done for it to succeed, or so says Taramis. You know of this