For very surely the screams came from the human figure held there in the air before Muhbaras's horror-struck eyes.
Nine
Conan reined in his urge to rush upslope as he would have reined in a pair of fractious chariot horses. Haste on broken ground leads more often to falls than to safe arrival, even for a surefooted hillman.
It also draws an enemy's attention, which Conan wished to avoid as long as possible. His comrades below lacked the numbers to force the enemy's archers to keep their heads down or even to spoil their shooting, if they chose to rejoin the fray.
So Conan moved with the stealth of a leopard, finding cover in cracks and hiding in pools of shadow that a watcher would have thought too small for a man his size. He also moved with the silence of a cobra, testing each handhold and footrest before putting weight on it. Little dust rose to mark his passage, and only the smallest pebbles rolled silently downhill.
As he climbed, the rocks grew smaller but the ground grew otherwise more rugged. At times the only route that offered concealment also required him to call on his mountaineering skills. Fortunately these were fresh in his memory, as much of Afghulistan reared itself up into slopes that challenged even its own goat-footed tribesfolk or even Cimmerians.
Conan finished climbing a short rock chimney with his feet against one side and his back against another. The ground at the upper end offered just enough hiding places to let him stop, catch his breath, spit dust from his mouth (although he still did not care to have his teeth touch one another), and listen to the progress of the battle.
Or rather, listen for the progress of the battle, without hearing it. Both above and below, the enemy seemed to have sat down to wait, not even hurling the occasional arrow or slingstone at a venture into the rocks where Conan's band lay hidden. Conan listened for war cries and curses, but heard only coughs and sneezes, and beyond that the crack of rocks breaking in the heat, the sigh of the wind, and distant birdcalls from high above.
Of course, such a silence had in Conan's experience also meant the enemy slipping into his comrades' position and cutting their throats. But he did not believe that the Turanian had yet been born who could do that to one Afghuli tribesman, let alone half a dozen—unless he was of Afghuli blood himself…
A sound from above cut short the Cimmerian's brief speculations. It was the sound of a man crawling, trying to be silent but having rather less than complete success at it.
Then other sounds joined the first one. Somebody was calling out, trying to be heard close by but not at any great distance. The call abruptly cut off, and Conan heard what sounded remarkably like a struggle. Meanwhile, the crawling man was drawing closer. Conan judged that the man would be close enough to spit on if he continued downhill for as long as it might take to empty a mug of good ale.
Then from above someone cried out in rage, someone else in agony. Neither seemed concerned about being overheard at a distance; indeed both shouted loud enough to be heard in Aghrapur. A frantic scrabbling told of the crawling man increasing his pace.
Then a bearded, wild-eyed head peered over a rock just beyond Conan's reach. Instantly shouts rose from all around the rim, and the Cimmerian heard the whistle of arrows. Whether this man was friend or foe, Conan judged that he must know something that it would be well to learn. Turned into a pincushion by archers, he would die without speaking.
Conan lunged out of cover and grabbed a handful of greasy black hair with one hand, the neck of a patched and weather-faded robe with the other. Then he heaved backward. The man flew over the Cimmerian's head, screaming in panic as he saw himself about to plunge headfirst down the chimney.
He did not do so, because Conan twisted with the agility of an eel, shifting his grip as he did so. His hands closed around the man's ankles. But he was off balance for a moment—the moment in which all the weight of the man came on his wrists.
Conan dug in his feet, but an arrow creased the back of his knees. The sudden sting made him start, and that broke the grip of his toes. At the same moment the man squalled as if he were being impaled, which drew more arrows, and struggled wildly.
The Cimmerian felt himself sliding. Both his own honor and the need to keep the prisoner alive barred him from just letting go. Instead he tried to turn the slide into a leap, but he had no time. He was still turning, trying to get his feet under him to land softly, when he slid over the edge of the chimney and plunged down.
The Lady of the Mists let out a screech like a mating wildcat. The sphere of fire instantly swelled to three times its previous size and leaped toward Danar's suspended form.
Colors that Muhbaras would not have believed possible in Hell blazed in the Lady's eyes. They were mirrored in the sphere. It lost its spherical shape and licked out now more like the tongue of an immense serpent.
Its flame-shot core drove between two Maidens, so close that its fringes touched them. Each fell backward as if kicked by a horse, sprawling on the stone with clatters of armor. Some of their comrades hesitated, but others sprang forward to drag them to safety.
Muhbaras gave scant attention to what was happening on the platform. Instead he stared at what was happening to Danar. He hung in midair like a soap bubble as a web of fire wove itself around him, forming now obscene figures, now gouts of flame in sap-phire and emerald hues, at once dazzling and unwholesome.
Each time the Lady of the Mists raised her hands, the web grew tighter. Each time Muhbaras caught a glimpse of Danar, he bore more signs of torment. His mouth was open in a soundless scream and his back arched until his spine had to be ready to snap.
Then the fire closed around what had been a living man, but his being gone from sight did not mean the end of the torment. Instead the Lady allowed Danar's scream out of the fire—and Muhbaras had never heard a viler sound in all his years of warfare.
Then Muhbaras shut his ears and strode forward with his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. Before anyone, Lady or Maiden, could move spell or steel to halt him, he tossed the dagger, caught it by the point, then flung it into the sphere of fire.
It was long range for anyone who had not learned the art of the throwing knife at ten and won prizes in the bazaar at twelve (and been beaten by his father for dealing with such lowborn folk). Also, Muhbaras had spent little time at practice of late.
His hand and eye still marched together. The dagger vanished into the fire. As it did, Muhbaras saw the Lady turn toward him—and raised his sword until its point thrust into the tongue of fire streaming from the Lady.
Mitra be my witness and guard my men, I cannot do otherwise.
Good fortune was with the Cimmerian and his prisoner in their fall. They landed on sand, with the prisoner uppermost, and Conan's ribs were sheathed in iron-hard muscle. He also had skill in jumping and falling that a carnival tumbler might have envied.
The fall still knocked the breath out of him, and he was slow to rise. Fortunately his captive was as breathless from fear as the Cimmerian was from the fall. The man only attempted his escape after Conan was fit to prevent it, with a large hand clamped firmly around the handiest ankle.
The man cursed and opened his mouth to scream, then appeared to see Conan clearly for the first time. His mouth stayed open, until he croaked words that sounded like:
"You—no—Girumgi man?"
The tongue was Turanian, but such a thick dialect that Conan was not sure what was being said.
"I am not Girumgi," Conan said, in Turanian, as if he were speaking to a child. "I mean you no harm, nor do any of my friends. Come with me."