terror-stricken sharif dragged back against the platform. The spectral handgrip doubled abruptly, shifting to his neck; meanwhile, a skull-white face, scarcely recognizable as human, snarled into his ear. “Where were our reinforcements, rogue? Why did you betray us?”
“Enough! Restrain him at once!” Murad leaped to Jefar Sharif’s side, gesturing troopers up onto the dock to lay hold of the vengeful, undead sergeant and pry his hands from his gasping commander. One of them was Juma, who murmured urgent, soothing phrases to the half-delirious Conan while forcing him back onto the planks.
“Hold him down, and shut up his raving!” Murad supported the red-faced sharif, slapping his back to help him draw breath. “The man is wild with spear-poison! Tend to him; save him if he can be saved.”
“Aye, we will try,” Juma said, clasping Conan’s shoulders.
“Aarghhauh!” Waving an arm, Jefar tried to shout in wrath or fear from a throat still too constricted to form sounds.
“Take him to the infirmary—the Cimmerian, not the sharif,” Murad added, keeping hold of his frenzied superior officer. “And guard him carefully. Though doubtless he will lose that leg!”
Chapter 7
Wizard’s War
“So, Ibn Uluthan, how go your divinations?” General Abolhassan strode officiously among the chests and tables cluttering the star-patterned tiles of the Court of Seers. “The eunuchs say that the Venji magic still defies your best efforts.” Stopping at the center of the echoing dome, the black-turbaned warrior folded his arms across his chest in an imperious, mocking pose. “Can you and your apprentices yet foresee a day when you will be of any real value to the war effort?”
Azhar and the lesser acolytes, meekly apprehensive, kept their heads bent over scrolls and magical paraphernalia. But their master, Ibn Uluthan, looked up with an air of irritated righteousness from his carved lectern and the sheaf of yellowed pages on it.
“No, Abolhassan, I confess that we have made negligible progress, to your lord and land’s regret.” Pale and hollow-eyed from his nightlong vigils, the mage squinted skeptically at his military visitor, whom he equaled in height if not in robustness. “Although we, unlike some, labor selflessly and whole-spiritedly for our emperor’s aims, using every conceivable means”—Uluthan swept one arm wide, indicating the array of materials and workbenches assembled to deal with the Venji riddle—“I cannot always claim that our exertions are blessed with quick or easy success. Nor do I see why our misfortune, and your emperor’s, should be a source of noxious levity.”
“Nay, Wizard, I meant you no insult.” Smiling, Abolhassan shifted his broad, black-draped shoulders easily without actually changing position. “Even if at times I have said the support of our imperial treasury for your arcane tampering may be… excessive… still, I would not want you to think that I question your sincerity.” The general’s smile became placid, tolerant. “I meant only to express my surprise that a seer as illustrious as yourself could fail to triumph over old-fashioned jungle taboos and dried lizard fetishes!”
“My good General.” Ibn Uluthan’s reply was patient. “Age can hardly be said to weaken a religion or a spell. And the Venji have possessed powerful empires of their own, as their temple ruins clearly show. In the remote past, some of their dynasties may even have rivaled or exceeded our modern Turanian splendor.” The sage shook his turbaned head. “But these influences have faded; our great obstacle is still Venjipur’s distance from here.”
Drawn once again to consider the problem, he spoke thoughtfully. “Supreme as our power is in Aghrapur, it scarcely bears exportation to a wild land of few folk and fewer Faithful, lacking true shrines or relics, and never even traversed by the holy feet of our mystics. A savage place it is, gripped by degraded, elemental
“Enough! Restrain him at once!” Murad leaped to Jefar Sharif’s side, gesturing troopers up onto the dock to lay hold of the vengeful, undead sergeant and pry his hands from his gasping commander. One of them was Juma, who murmured urgent, soothing phrases to the half-delirious Conan while forcing him back onto the planks.
“Hold him down, and shut up his raving!” Murad supported the red-faced sharif, slapping his back to help him draw breath. “The man is wild with spear-poison! Tend to him; save him if he can be saved.”
“Aye, we will try,” Juma said, clasping Conan’s shoulders.
“Aarghhauh!” Waving an arm, Jefar tried to shout in wrath or fear from a throat still too constricted to form sounds.
“Take him to the infirmary—the Cimmerian, not the sharif,” Murad added, keeping hold of his frenzied superior officer. “And guard him carefully. Though doubtless he will lose that leg!”
Chapter 7
Wizard’s War
“So, Ibn Uluthan, how go your divinations?” General Abolhassan strode officiously among the chests and tables cluttering the star-patterned tiles of the Court of Seers. “The eunuchs say that the Venji magic still defies your best efforts.” Stopping at the center of the echoing dome, the black-turbaned warrior folded his arms across his chest in an imperious, mocking pose. “Can you and your apprentices yet foresee a day when you will be of any real value to the war effort?”
Azhar and the lesser acolytes, meekly apprehensive, kept their heads bent over scrolls and magical paraphernalia. But their master, Ibn Uluthan, looked up with an air of irritated righteousness from his carved lectern and the sheaf of yellowed pages on it.
“No, Abolhassan, I confess that we have made negligible progress, to your lord and land’s regret.” Pale and hollow-eyed from his nightlong vigils, the mage squinted skeptically at his military visitor, whom he equaled in height if not in robustness. “Although we, unlike some, labor selflessly and whole-spiritedly for our emperor’s aims, using every conceivable means”—Uluthan swept one arm wide, indicating the array of materials and workbenches assembled to deal with the Venji riddle—“I cannot always claim that our exertions are blessed with quick or easy success. Nor do I see why our misfortune, and your emperor’s, should be a source of noxious levity.”
“Nay, Wizard, I meant you no insult.” Smiling, Abolhassan shifted his broad, black-draped shoulders easily without actually changing position. “Even if at times I have said the support of our imperial treasury for your arcane tampering may be… excessive… still, I would not want you to think that I question your sincerity.” The general’s smile became placid, tolerant. “I meant only to express my surprise that a seer as illustrious as yourself could fail to triumph over old-fashioned jungle taboos and dried lizard fetishes!”
“My good General.” Ibn Uluthan’s reply was patient. “Age can hardly be said to weaken a religion or a spell. And the Venji have possessed powerful empires of their own, as their temple ruins clearly show. In the remote past, some of their dynasties may even have rivaled or exceeded our modern Turanian splendor.” The sage shook his turbaned head. “But these influences have faded; our great obstacle is still Venjipur’s distance from here.”
Drawn once again to consider the problem, he spoke thoughtfully. “Supreme as our power is in Aghrapur, it scarcely bears exportation to a wild land of few folk and fewer Faithful, lacking true shrines or relics, and never even traversed by the holy feet of our mystics. A savage place it is, gripped by degraded, elemental
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