In that cleft night held sway at all times, but enough light crept in to show the whiteness of bleached bones within. Even without the bones, the distant but unmistakable reek of rotting flesh made nostrils wrinkle and told anyone passing by what lay within.
What came of the life essence of those whose remains lay within, the Lady trusted that she knew. There could be none other within the valley save the Mist itself, or there would be a battle from which the stars and the gods might shrink in dismay.
As to the fate of a mortal, even a sorceress, caught in such a battle, it was better not to think of such things if one needed sharp wits and untroubled sleep.
For the first few hundred paces, the path ran through stony but well-wooded land. Closely set young pines mingled their acrid scent with the softer aroma wafting from a few colossal cedars, each of which might have yielded timber enough to build an entire temple. They reared above the pines like stags above a pack of wolves, and no one who saw them needed to be told that they had stood far longer.
Beyond the trees the path wound back and forth along the floor of the valley, between terraced fields mingled with huts and more stands of timber. Twilight had already come to the valley; it was hard to make out clearly the forms of those who worked in the fields or chopped wood in the shadow of the trees.
Nor would anyone have been the worse for not seeing clearly those who served in the Valley of the
Mists. Their human semblance did not survive a close look.
At last the path began to rise, past a walled collection of thatched stone huts that almost deserved the name of a village. Here the sentries on the wall had the shape of true men, and hailed the Lady of the Mists with gestures that had been old when the priests of Stygia first tamed their sacred serpents.
Beyond the village the path became a flight of stone steps. As the crests of the mountains to the north began to show the ruddy hues of late afternoon, the five women reached a boulder, tall as two men. On the boulder was daubed, in rough vegetable colors, a crimson eye surrounded by blue swirls.
Beyond the boulder the mouth of yet another cave yawned. Within lay the Eye of the Mist.
Conan did not doubt that if waiting alone was needed, he and his Afghulis had the advantage today. The Turanians lay or stood under the desert sun, baking like flatbread on a griddle, unable to move a finger without being observed. Conan and the Afghulis had concealment, and some at least had shade.
The besiegers might have more water than the besieged; but in this desert, waterskins swiftly ran dry even among the finest regular soldiers. Irregulars would be dry-throated before dawn, with no recourse but to send out a watering party and divide their strength, or else lift the siege.
But the outcome of this siege did not depend on who could squat the longest on hot rock or yet hotter sand. It would depend on whether Conan's band could win free before the Turanians brought up new strength. Then they could hold the Afghulis besieged for weeks or overwhelm them in a single desperate assault, spending lives to save time.
Conan did not think much of the sort of captain who tossed away the lives of his men like a drunkard pissing in the streets. But he also knew far too well that the gods did not always reward virtue, whether in war, love, or thievery.
The Turanians had to be drawn into an attack.
Conan uncoiled, as stealthily as any prowling serpent of the priests of Set. He flattened himself against the side of the cleft and gripped a well-shaped stone the size of a swan's egg.
"Ho, Turanian dogs!" he shouted. "Have any of you the courage to face men? Or did your weaning on vulture's spew take away your manhood?"
Conan went on in similar vein, until among the Turanians heads bobbed up from behind bushes or turned toward the rocks. A sergeant cursed those who had let themselves be baited, and advanced to push them down again.
From aloft, an arrow whistled down, taking the sergeant in the throat. He clawed at the jutting shaft, gobblings turning into chokings as the blood welled up in his throat, then fell backward to kick briefly before life departed.
That was one less leader to force wisdom down the dry throats of foolish Turanians. Soon there might be none to hold back the besiegers from a desperate attack, or rally them when the Afghulis repelled that attack.
Curses and a few arrows replied to the sergeant's death. One Turanian showed folly at once, leaping up to aim his shaft. Conan's heavy-thewed right arm flashed around like the lash of a drover's whip. The stone flew, not as straight as it might have from a sling, but straight enough to strike the Turanian's chest.
Also hard enough to shatter his ribs and drive their jagged ends into his heart. He took longer to die than the sergeant, but his life had just as thoroughly departed when a comrade rushed out to drag the body to shelter.
Loyalty bought only death. Three Afghulis shot together, two hit, and the loyal comrade was dead before he had stretched his length on the sand beside his friend.
From high above, Farad's voice chanted an old Afghuli verse, in honor to a worthy foe. Conan wished Mitra's favor for the dead Turanian—if Mitra or any other god cared much about how men died or had aught to do with their fate once dead.
He also wished the Turanians would either charge or flee. This endless waiting was no pleasure to him either. The sooner this came to strokes at close quarters, the better.
Conan squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand against the glare of the sun. He was seeking the captain, to see how much command he had over his men.
He found the captain swiftly, but for a long time after that, the captain showed all the animation of a temple image. At least it seemed a long time. Flies drawn by the sweat on the Cimmerian's scarred torso buzzed and stung, but he dared not slap at them, for fear the movement might draw a wild shot.
Then movement rippled along the Turanian lines, both the outer one in the distance and the hidden men closer to hand. From the outer line a drum thudded. Another drum replied, not an echo. For a moment Conan feared that the Turanian reinforcements had already arrived.
Then, from the same direction as the second drum, Turanian war cries rose into the sky. The drum redoubled its beat; a horn joined it. From above, Farad's voice howled defiance, wordless but eloquent.
Conan cursed, dry-mouthed. That Turanian captain had more wits than the Cimmerian had thought. He was launching one attack to draw the archers above. Next had to come an attack against Conan himself.
So be it. Even without the bows playing on them from above, the Turanians were about to learn more than was likely to please them about the perils of fighting desperate men.
No steps or path led to the cave of the Eye. Only bare ground lay beneath the women's feet, but ground beaten almost as hard as rock by many feet over the past three years (also, the Lady did not doubt, by feet past counting over years equally beyond her power to number).
The wide mouth of the cave narrowed swiftly to a passage so low that two of the Maidens' hair brushed the ceiling. Rock dust powdered their tresses, and small stones and the bones of bats and other dwellers in darkness crunched underfoot.
No light reached the tunnel once they were beyond the light from the cave mouth. Nor did they light torches. They had been this way many times, the Lady and her Maidens, and the path to the Eye held no surprises. Nor could it grow any, with the Lady's magic searching ahead.
Only the eye of the Lady's memory saw the carvings on the walls. To an uninitiated eye and mind, they might have appeared natural formations, eroded into their bizarre and twisted shapes by water over the aeons. To the Lady's eye, which had looked upon them in full light only once, they spoke of the work of hands so ancient that they might not have been altogether human.