CONAN AND THE MISTS OF DOOM
by
Roland Green
DUST TO DUST!
The Lady stood in glory and grace and rested both hands lightly on the captive's forehead. He shivered, as if responding to this last human touch—and then between one breath and the next, he was no more. For the space of another breath, a column of silver dust in the shape of a man stood before the Lady.
Then she flung her hands downward, fingers pointing at the cup. The dust leaped, losing human semblance. It rose to the ceiling, then poured down into the cup. The crimson fire within flickered briefly, seemed about to change color, then steadied at a gesture and two soft words from the Lady of the Mists.
Conan Adventures by Tor Books
Conan the Invincible by Robert Jordan
Conan the Defender by Robert Jordan
Conan the Unconquered by Robert Jordan
Conan the Triumphant by Robert Jordan
Conan the Magnificent by Robert Jordan
Conan the Victorious by Robert Jordan
Conan the Destroyer by Robert Jordan
Conan the Valorous by John Maddox Roberts
Conan the Fearless by Steve Perry
Conan the Renegade by Leonard Carpenter
Conan the Raider by Leonard Carpenter
Conan the Champion by John Maddox Roberts
Conan the Defiant by Steve Perry
Conan the Warlord by Leonard Carpenter
Conan the Marauder by John Maddox Roberts
Conan the Valiant by Roland Green
Conan the Hero by Leonard Carpenter
Conan the Bold by John Maddox Roberts
Conan the Indomitable by Steve Perry
Conan the Free Lance by Steve Perry
Conan the Great by Leonard Carpenter
Conan the Guardian by Roland Green
Conan the Formidable by Steve Perry
Conan the Outcast by Leonard Carpenter
Conan the Relentless by Roland Green
Conan the Rogue by John Maddox Roberts
Conan the Savage by Leonard Carpenter
Conan of the Red Brotherhood by Leonard Carpenter
Conan and the Gods of the Mountain by Roland Green
Conan and the Treasure of Python by John Maddox Roberts
Conan, Scourge of the Bloody Coast by Leonard Carpenter
Conan and the Manhunters by John Maddox Roberts
Conan at the Demon's Gate by Roland Green
Conan the Gladiator by Leonard Carpenter
Conan and the Amazon by John Maddox Roberts
Conan and the Mists of Doom by Roland Green
Conan the Hunter by Sean A. Moore
Prologue
The valley slashed into the flank of the Kezankian Mountains like a sword cut. The entrance deceived the casual eye, being but a narrow cleft in a spur of Mount Goadel. The mist often swirling about the heights aided the deception, giving the cleft the air of a place uncanny and unwholesome, where things a sane man would shun might lurk in wait.
Often the wind rose, driving away the mist, but raising a howling as of demons and lost souls as it whipped around the rocks. The wind-cry likewise kept travelers from being too curious about the valley.
It had been many years since travelers had allowed themselves to be curious about the valley, or anything else in this part of the Kezankian range. It was far from any place that concerned civilized folk, and too plainly a good home for bandits, outlaws, and still more debased forms of humanity. There were even tales of tribes of ape-men, kin to those of the Himelian peaks in Vendhya, dwelling above the snow line.
The man who led the column of soldiers up the slope toward the cleft knew more than most of the truth about the valley. It had indeed been home to bandits and outlaws. Some of these now followed him, won to obedience—if not loyalty—by gold in one hand and a whip in the other. Others, he and his company had slain with their own hands. Still others had fled, to become bleaching bones when the vultures were done with them.
About ape-men, Captain Muhbaras knew little and cared less. If they did not trouble him, he would leave them in whatever peace their lofty homes might afford them. He personally doubted that any creature dwelling among eternal snow and ice could have the wits of a louse, but then he had grown to manhood among the gurgling wells and trees sagging with ripe fruit of a Khorajan nobleman's estate.
Long-legged and unburdened save for a shirt of fine Vendhyan mail and an open-faced helm of Nemedian style, Muhbaras had reached the cleft well ahead of his column. Now he turned back to watch it mount the slope, and to count heads for straggling or desertion. Small fear of the latter, when all went in fear of the Lady of the Mists, who could see to the edge of the world, but there were always fools in any company.
One could hardly tell bandits from Khorajans or nomads; all wore the same robes and headdress, sand-hued or dirty white, with boots and belts of camel's hide and a curved sword and dagger thrust into the belts. Some among each folk carried bows and quivers, but a keen-eyed man would have quickly seen that the bows were unstrung and the quivers bound tightly shut with leather thongs.
No man approached the entrance to the Valley of the Mists with ready arrows or strung bow. Not without the Lady's consent, and thus far that consent had not been forthcoming.
What had been forthcoming were harsh punishments for those who flouted the Lady's will. Punishments so dire, indeed, that those who had suffered them might have gladly changed places with the captives in the middle of the column. Their death would have been no less unclean, under the Lady's magic, but it would have been swifter and far less painful.
There were ten of the captives, bound into a single file by stout thongs about their waists. Their hands and feet were free, which meant vigilance by their guards, as the Lady misliked pursuing escapers with her spells, lest this endanger her secrets. There was hardly any choice, however, as no man with hands bound could mount the slopes here. Nor could a band of this size carry many helpless burdens over the rocks and along the ravines.
Escapes were few enough in truth, thanks to the potion the Lady's apothecary doled out to each band of raiders. If one could get enough of it down a captive's gullet, the man, woman, or child would be as docile as a sheep for up to three days. Muhbaras had scented some familiar herbs in the potion, and others he could not name; he suspected that the real secret of the potion was not knowable by common men.
The captives were seven men, if you counted one youth barely old enough to show a beard, and three women. Two with grave wounds and one who had fought to the last against swallowing the potion were vultures' fodder, as well as a warning to anyone who would pursue the raiders.
Muhbaras counted the captives twice, although there was no escape this far into the mountains for anyone who could neither fly like a bird nor sink into solid rock like a spirit. He made a gesture of aversion at that last thought; some of the tribes hereabouts commanded potent magic. It would not be well done to capture one of their shamans or the man's kin.