In the h.e.l.lish cauldron of that tunnel, the wolves knew the kindred ferocity of the young giant who faced them. As Conan fought his way deeper into their pack, they began to slip past toward the pit, seeking easier meat. The n.o.ble lords' angry yells turned to screams as b.l.o.o.d.y wolves raced among them to slay.

Ahead of him Conan saw a light.

"Accursed wolves," a voice snarled from that direction. "You're to kill some fool barbar, not each-"

The man who spoke faltered as he saw Conan coming toward him. He stood with the iron-barred gate at his end of the tunnel half open, a spear in his hand. Instead of stepping back and slamming the gate shut, he thrust at the Cimmerian.

Conan grasped the spear with both hands and easily wrenched it from the other's grasp. Before the man could do more than gape the b.u.t.t of his own spear smashed into his chest, hurling him back through the gate, Conan following close behind. The wolf-keeper scrambled to his feet, a curved blade the length of his forearm protruding from his fist, and lunged.

The spear reversed smoothly in the Cimmerian's big hands. He had not so much to thrust as to let the man run onto the point, spitting himself so that the whole blade of the spear stood out from his back. A cry of both pain and horrified disbelief wrenched from the wolf-keeper's throat.

"Your wolves will not kill this barbar," Conan growled, then realized that his words had been spoken to a dead man.

Letting spear and transfixed man fall, he closed the gate, thrust the heavy iron bar that fastened it into its brackets and shoved the latch pins home. It would take time to get that open from the other side, time for him to escape. Though, from the screams and snarls that yet echoed in the tunnel, it might be some while before the soldiers dealt with wolves and panicked n.o.bles and reached that gate.

Little there was in that chamber to be of use to him. Crude rush torches guttered in rusty iron sconces on the walls, illuminating six large, ironbarred cages mounted on wheels. No weapons were in evidence excepting only the long, curved dagger, which Conan retrieved, and the spear. He left that lodged in the wolf-keeper's body; its length would make it a c.u.mbersome weapon in the narrow confines of the old stone corridors. There was not even cloth to bind his gashes unless he tore from his own breechclout or from the filthy, and now blood-soaked, tunic on the corpse.

The wolf-keeper had, however, brought a clay jug of wine and a large spiced sausage on which to sup while his charges did their b.l.o.o.d.y work.

On these Conan fell eagerly, ripping the sausage apart with his teeth and washing it down with long gulps of sour wine. He had had no food or drink since before his imprisonment. No doubt his jailors had deemed it a waste to feed one who was to die soon. Tossing the empty jug aside and popping the last bit of sausage into his mouth, the Cimmerian took one of the rush torches and set about finding his way out of the Palace.

It did not take him long to discover that those ancient corridors were a labyrinth, never straight, crossing and recrossing themselves and each other. He had no wonder in him that the secret pa.s.sages beneath the Palace had been lost; it would be all men could do to keep track of these.

Suddenly, in crossing another pitch-dark hall, he realized that his footprints had mingled with others. Other fresh prints. He bent to examine them, and straightened with a curse. Both sets were his own. He had doubled back on himself, and could continue to do so until he starved.

Face grimly determined, he followed his own prints until he came to a forking of the pa.s.sage. The trail in the dust went left. He went right.

A short time later he found himself again staring at his own backtrail, but this time he did not pause to curse. Hurrying on to the next turning, he again took the opposite way to that he had taken before.

And the next time. And the next.

Now the pa.s.sages seemed to slope downward, but Conan pressed on regardless, even when he found himself burning a way through. halls choked with cobwebs that crisped drily at the touch of the flame.

Turning back held no more a.s.surance of escape than going forward, only a greater chance of encountering the Golden Leopards.

Coming to a fork, the Cimmerian turned automatically right-he had taken the left at the last and stopped. Far ahead of him was a dim glow, but it was no opening to the outside. Bobbing slightly, it was coming closer.

Hurriedly he turned back, ducked into the other side of the fork. On silent feet he ran twenty paces and hurled the torch ahead of him as far to it would go. The flames flared, fanned by the wind of the torch's flight, then winked out, leaving him in blackness.

Conan crouched, facing the direction of the fork, curved dagger at the ready. If those who approached went on, he would be without light but alive. If not....

Diffuse light reached the fork, brightening slowly, resolving into two torch-bearing figures, swords in their free hands. The Cimmerian almost laughed. Hordo and Karela, but the Karela he had known long ago. Gone were the veils and gray robes of a Nemedian n.o.blewomen, replaced by golden breastplates and a narrow girdle of gold and emeralds, worn low on her rounded hips, from which hung strips of pale green silk. A Turanian cape of emerald green encircled her shoulders.

"Hordo," Conan called, "had I known you were coming I wouldn't have drunk all the wine." Nonchalantly he strolled to meet them.

The two whirled, swords coming up, torches raised. From the other fork men in jazeraint hauberks crowded. Machaon, Narus, more familiar faces from his Free-Company, pushed into the light.

Hordo took in Conan's gashes, but did not speak of them. "'Tis not like you," he said gruffly, "to drink all the wine. Mayhap we could find some more, if we look."

Karela threw the one-eyed man a murderous look and shoved her torch into Machaon's hand. With gentle fingers she touched Conan's wounds, wincing at purpled flesh and dried blood.

"I knew you would change your mind," Conan said, reaching for her.

Her hand cracked across his face, and she stepped back smoothly with blade half raised. "I should throw you back to the wolves," she hissed.

From somewhere in the darkness beyond the armored men, a voice called unintelligibly. Another answered, both fading as the speakers moved further away.

"They hunt me," Conan said quietly. "An you know a way out of here, I suggest we take it. Else we must fight a few hundred Golden Leopards."

Muttering, Karela s.n.a.t.c.hed back her torch and forced her way through the men of the Free-Company to disappear back up the other fork.

"She's the only one knows the way," Hordo said quickly. He hurried after her, and Conan followed. Machaon and the rest fell in behind, their booted feet grating in the dust of centuries.

"How did you get into the Palace?" Conan demanded of the one-eyed man as they half-trotted after the auburn-haired beauty. "And what made Karela decide to let you know who she was?"

"Mayhap I'd best begin at the beginning," Hordo puffed. "First thing that happened was, after you were arrested, a hundred Golden Leopards came for us, and-"

"I know about that," Conan said. "You got away. What then?"

"You heard about that, did you? I'm too old for this running, Cimmerian." Despite his heavy breathing, though, the bearded man kept pace easily. "I took the company to the Thestis. h.e.l.lgate is near the safest part of Belverus these days. Everybody who lives there is up in the High Streets waving a sword and shouting revolution. And maybe breaking into some rich man's house now and again."

"What else did you expect?" Conan laughed grimly. "They're poor, and have riches within their reach. But about Karela."

Hordo shook his s.h.a.ggy head. "She walked into the Thestis this very morn. No, she strode in, looking as if she was ready for her hounds to follow her against a caravan of gold. From what you said, you knew she was here already, eh?"

"Not until I was in the dungeon," Conan replied. "I will explain later."

Suddenly Karela stopped, stretching on tiptoe to reach a rusty iron sconce. She seemed to be trying to twist it.

"Looks like where we came in," Hordo muttered softly. "Looks like twenty places we pa.s.sed, too." Emerald eyes flashed at him scornfully, and he subsided.

Just as Conan was about to step forward to her aid, the sconce turned with a sharp click. A shot distance away on the same wall was another sconce, which Karela treated the same way. It swiveled, clicked, and there was a heavier thunk from deep within the wall. With a grate of machinery long unused, a section of stone wall as high as a man and twice as wide receded jerkily to reveal a descending flight of crude brick stairs.

"If you two can stop chattering like old women for a moment," Karela said bitingly, "follow me. And take care. Some of the bricks are crumbling. It would pain me for you to break your neck, Cimmerian. I reserve that pleasure for myself." And she darted down the steps.

Hordo shrugged uncomfortably. "I told you, she's the only one knows the way."

Conan nodded. "Follow me," he told Machaon, "and pa.s.s the word to watch for crumbling steps." The grizzled sergeant began muttering over his shoulder to those behind.

Taking a deep breath Conan followed Karela down the dark stairs, lit only by her torch, now only a glimmer far below. He did not actually believe that she would come just to lead him into a trap of her own devising rather than let him die at someone else's hands. But then, he did not entirely disbelieve it either.

At the bottom of the long stair, Karela waited impatiently. "Are they all in?" she demanded as soon as he entered the light of her torch.

Without waiting for him to reply she called up the stair. "Is everyone clear of the entrance?"

There was some sc.r.a.ping of feet on stone, then a voice called back hoa.r.s.ely, "We're clear, but I hear boots coming."

Calmly Karela placed both feet on one particular stone, which sank a finger's breadth beneath her weight. The grating of machinery sounded again.

"It's closing," the same man's voice shouted incredulously.

Karela's tilted eyes met Conan's. "Fools," she said, seeming to include all men, but most certainly him. With a quick, "Follow or stay, I care not," she started down a long tunnel, torchlight glinting off damp walls.

Even the air felt moldy, Conan thought as he set out after her.