Then they spread their arms, howled like lost souls, and plunged downhill toward Conan. A carrion reek rode the night breeze before them.
Nature had given the Cimmerian the art of being able to move backward nearly as fast as he could move forward. Since he had learned that retreating was not always the act of a coward, it had saved his life several times.
Tonight it did so again. Before the onrush of the demons was well begun, Conan had reached the boulder. He leaped over it and landed on the downhill side. The two foremost demons ran past the boulder, one on either side. Conan slashed at one"s legs, with a strength that would have amputated any human leg.
The demon howled, stumbled, clutched at a gaping wound, but did not fall. Instead it came at Conan from the front. In the same moment the Cimmerian sensed the other demon coming at him from behind.
He leaped clear, felt his feet slip on loose stone, and turned the fall into a roll. He came up in the perfect position for two quick slashes.
One took the second demon in the groin, the other disabled the first one"s other leg. Once again Conan would have expected one or both to go down, but drew only howls of agony.
The demon struck in the groin clapped one taloned hand to its wound.
The other lashed out at Conan as he closed, with terrible speed and strength. Conan twisted so that the talons only cut the air. His twisting lent extra force to his riposte. The demon"s arm should have flown from its shoulder; instead it only sagged limp and torn.
Seeing that arm from close at hand, Conan ceased to be surprised at the slight damage he was doing. The arm was armored thickly in overlapping scales. His sword had hewn flesh, but barely touched bone or sinew. As for blood, only now was it flowing into the wound.
Fear swept through the Cimmerian like a gust of winter wind. It was not fear of the demon itself. Hideously transformed though its flesh might be, no flesh could stand up against a well-wielded sword. Archery, too, should have its effect, if the archers" hands were steady and their eyes clear.
Conan feared the magic that had conjured these creatures into being. It stank of ancient evil, for all that Illyana also used it. Must use it tonight, if the soldiers and villagers were not to die screaming under talons and teeth.
The demon wounded in the groin now hurried off down the hill, crouching low but moving at the pace of a man walking briskly. The demon with the two disabled legs had finally toppled to the ground. It lay hissing and growling at Conan"s feet. Clearly it was past fighting for tonight, and too many demons in rude health had already pa.s.sed between Conan and the camp.
He gave the fallen demon one last look, and his stomach writhed as he saw the shape of its groin and chest. Whatever this demon was now, it had been born into the world a woman.
Conan disliked torturing enemies as much as he disliked killing women.
As he pa.s.sed his sword over the fallen she-demon, he knew it would take an iron will for him to give Eremius an easy death.
From downhill, the howls of the demons now mingled with the voices of soldiers, shouting the alarm, crying out in fear, or screaming as teeth and talons rent their flesh. Conan looked to either side, then plunged downhill like a boulder unleashed in a land-slide.
Bora had heard any number of soldiers" tales and survived the demons"
attack on Crimson Springs. He had still never imagined that a battle was so loud.
The war cries and death cries of both men and demons, the clash of weapons, the hiss of arrows from those few archers who had unlimbered their bows and found targets-all smote his ears savagely and endlessly.
He forced both the sounds and the sights of the battle out of his awareness, turning all his attention to rallying the men of Crimson Springs.
Only a few needed rallying. This handful had exhausted their courage in the first battle and were now empty wineskins. They might have fled, had they not encountered Iskop the Smith.
"You puling jackal-sp.a.w.n!" he roared. "Choose now! The demons or me!"
He flourished a hammer in either hand.
One man tried to brush past Iskop. He misjudged the length of the smith"s arm. A hammer lunged, catching him on the side of the head. He threw up his arms and fell as if pole-axed.
The rest of the would-be fugitives chose the demons as the lesser danger.
"My thanks, Iskop!" Bora shouted.
Then there was no time for speech, as the demons closed all along the lines of the villagers. Arrows thrummed, axes and swords rose and fell, spears leaped and thrust. A handful of the demons fell. More had flesh torn and pierced, but came on. Far too many bore no wound at all when they reached the line of the villagers.
The men of Crimson Springs still held their ground.
Some died, but few as easy victims, and more of the demons suffered.
When three or four men faced one demon, they might all take wounds.
Sooner or later one would slash or thrust hard enough to pierce even the scaly armor.
Bora ran back and forth behind the line, sling in hand. As clear targets offered themselves, he launched stones. Quickly he exhausted his supply of picked stones and was reduced to scrabbling on the ground for more. Few of these flew truly. He shifted his aim to the demons coming downhill behind the ones fighting the villagers. They were a target that even the most misshapen, ill-balanced stone could scarcely miss.
Once while he sought fresh stones Bora wondered why he did not feel fear clawing at his mind. In the battle at the village, only the Powder of Zayan had lifted the burden of fear. Now he and his people seemed to be fighting the demons with no more fear than if they had been misshapen men.
A quick look behind him told Bora that if he felt no fear, it was not for lack of someone"s efforts. On the north side of the valley, a man-high wall of green fire danced along the crests. Sometimes long tongues licked downward, almost reaching the camp.
The flames were dazzling and terrible, but were they doing what their master intended? To Bora, it seemed that they were filling the men around him with an iron will to stand and fight. Better the demons who could be slain than the fire that could not!
Three demons flung themselves in a wedge at the men of Six Trees. The line sagged, bent, came apart. Headman Gelek ran to rally his men. A demon leaped completely over the head of the men in front of Gelek. It landed before him, as he thrust with his spear. A taloned hand snapped the spear like a straw. A second raked across Gelek"s face. His scream turned Bora"s bowels to water.
Its victim disarmed and blinded, the demon gripped him with both hands.
Gelek rose into the air, and there he was pulled apart like a rag doll.
Stopping only to gnaw on a piece of dangling flesh, the demon flung the body into the ranks of the villagers.
Gelek"s death was beyond enduring, for many of those who witnessed it.
They broke and ran screaming, throwing away weapons and boots.
Bora felt his own courage beginning to fray. Desperately he sought to calm himself by seeking another stone and a target for it.
Again Iskop the Smith saved the villagers. "On the left, there! Pull back. Pull back, I say, or the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds"ll be behind you. Oh, Mitra!"
Still cursing, Iskop flung himself into the ranks of the demons. Their armor of scales served well enough against swords and spears, not ill against arrows. Smitten on the head by hammers wielded by a man who could lift a half-grown ox, the demons were as helpless as rabbits.
Iskop smote four of them to the ground before he went down himself.
Bora and an archer killed two more out of those tearing at Iskop"s body. By then the men of Crimson Springs no longer presented a naked flank to the foe.
The demons still came on. They were fewer, though. At their rear, Bora now saw a towering figure, taller and broader than any demon. A b.l.o.o.d.y sword danced in his hand, and he roared curses in half a score of tongues and invoked thrice that many G.o.ds or what Bora hoped were G.o.ds.
"Hold! Hold, people, and we have them! Mitra, Erlik, defend your folk!"
Bora cried. He knew he was screaming and did not care. He only cared that the Cimmerian was driving at least some of the demons straight into the arms of the villagers.
The G.o.ds willing, it would be the demons" turn to feel doomed and terror-stricken.
Conan knew that he must be making a splendid show in the eyes of the villagers. The mighty warrior, driving the demons before him!
The mighty warrior knew better. Few of those demons had taken serious hurts. Too many remained not only alive but fighting. If enough pa.s.sed through the lines to reach Illyana, all would know how little the demons had been hurt. Also what magic their master could bring to bear, where his servants failed!
Conan"s legs drove him forward. He hurled himself through the demons without stopping to strike a blow. A wild cut here and there was all he allowed himself. Even the preternatural swiftness of the demons did not allow them to strike back.
As Conan pa.s.sed the ranks of Crimson Springs, he saw Bora unleash his sling. The stone flew like an arrow from a master archer"s bow. A demon clutched at its knee, howling and limping.
"Go on, go on!" Conan shouted, by way of encouragement. He had seldom seen a boy becoming a man more splendidly than Bora son of Rhafi.
Conan heard no reply. Stopping only to cut at the head of a demon sitting alone, he reached the little rise where Illyana stood.