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Authors: Lyon Sprague de Camp
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pinch of powder, which she sprinkled on the blaze. As the fire flared and sputtered, a curious purple smoke arose, twisting and writhing like a serpent in its death throes. In a low voice, she muttered an incantation in a dialect so archaic that Conan could catch no more than a word or two.
“Hasten, grandmother,” he growled, cocking an ear toward the ever-rising tumult of the pursuit. “They’ll be upon us any time, now.”
“Interrupt me not, boy!” she snapped. It had been years since anyone had dared thus to address Conan, but he meekly submitted to the affront.
From where he sat on a boulder, Conan could sight the end of the gorge, where it opened out into the broader valley up which they had ascended. As his eyes caught a flash of motion, he sprang to his feet and swept out his scimitar. In so narrow a cleft, his foes could come at him only one or two at a time—provided they did not scale the cliff to attack him above, or to get behind him, and provided they had no bows and arrows. Conan was wearing no armor, and he knew that not even his pantherlike agility would enable him to dodge arrows loosed at close range.
Nyssa was still muttering over the fire, when Conan snarled: “Here they come!”
“Speak not, and put away that sword,” quavered the witch. “Now look again!” she said with a note of triumph in her shrill old voice.
Conan stared. The peasants and their dogs were streaming past the mouth of the gully.
“Hold your tongue, boy, and they’ll not hear us!” she hissed.
Soon the rush of dogs, men, and horses had swept past the mouth of the gorge, and the clatter of their passing died away.
“How did you do that, grandmother?” asked Conan in wonderment.
“I cast a glamour, so to those folk the mouth of this ravine appeared as solid rock. If you had shouted, or if the flash of the sun on your blade had reached them, or if one of them had thrust a tool against that seeming wall of rock, the illusion would have been destroyed like a fog beneath the morning sun.” She leaned back wearily against the wall of the gorge. “Help me back into the cave, I pray. I am fordone.”
Conan assisted the old woman into the cavern, in which provisions, bundles of herbs, and other possessions were piled haphazardly. As she sank down, she said: “Young man, I must ask you for one more boon. Can you cook? I am too feeble even to get your supper.”
“Aye, I can cook in my own fashion,” said Conan. “It will be no banquet royal, I assure you; but I’ve camped alone in the wilds often enough to know the rudiments.” He rummaged among the witch’s supplies, then built up the smoldering fire. As he worked, he asked: “Tell me, grandmother, what befell between you and the village?”
She coughed, caught her breath, and spoke: “I am Nyssa of Komath. For many years I have earned a scanty living as the white witch of Zamindi, curing ills of man and beast, foretelling the prospects of young lovers seeking to wed, and predicting the changing seasons. But, as I have told the folk many a time and oft, naught is certain in occult matters, and the final decisions rest ever with the gods.
“Then a disease struck Zamindi. Many were sick, and one night three bairns died. I did what I could, but neither my simples nor my spells availed them. Then voices rose against me, saying that I had cast a malignant spell.
“’T was naught but a rumor set in motion by the headman, Babur, who long had coveted the little patch of land on which my poor hut stood. I enraged him by refusing to sell it to him, even at a reasonable price; so this is his revenge.” A spasm of coughing shook her. “I cast my horoscope yestereve and saw that it portended peril. This morn I was gathering my last supplies to bring to this shelter, which I had prepared for emergencies long ago. But the villeins were too quick for me; they came and dragged me to the village.” She cackled. “But you and I have cheated the omens, at least for
“Hasten, grandmother,” he growled, cocking an ear toward the ever-rising tumult of the pursuit. “They’ll be upon us any time, now.”
“Interrupt me not, boy!” she snapped. It had been years since anyone had dared thus to address Conan, but he meekly submitted to the affront.
From where he sat on a boulder, Conan could sight the end of the gorge, where it opened out into the broader valley up which they had ascended. As his eyes caught a flash of motion, he sprang to his feet and swept out his scimitar. In so narrow a cleft, his foes could come at him only one or two at a time—provided they did not scale the cliff to attack him above, or to get behind him, and provided they had no bows and arrows. Conan was wearing no armor, and he knew that not even his pantherlike agility would enable him to dodge arrows loosed at close range.
Nyssa was still muttering over the fire, when Conan snarled: “Here they come!”
“Speak not, and put away that sword,” quavered the witch. “Now look again!” she said with a note of triumph in her shrill old voice.
Conan stared. The peasants and their dogs were streaming past the mouth of the gully.
“Hold your tongue, boy, and they’ll not hear us!” she hissed.
Soon the rush of dogs, men, and horses had swept past the mouth of the gorge, and the clatter of their passing died away.
“How did you do that, grandmother?” asked Conan in wonderment.
“I cast a glamour, so to those folk the mouth of this ravine appeared as solid rock. If you had shouted, or if the flash of the sun on your blade had reached them, or if one of them had thrust a tool against that seeming wall of rock, the illusion would have been destroyed like a fog beneath the morning sun.” She leaned back wearily against the wall of the gorge. “Help me back into the cave, I pray. I am fordone.”
Conan assisted the old woman into the cavern, in which provisions, bundles of herbs, and other possessions were piled haphazardly. As she sank down, she said: “Young man, I must ask you for one more boon. Can you cook? I am too feeble even to get your supper.”
“Aye, I can cook in my own fashion,” said Conan. “It will be no banquet royal, I assure you; but I’ve camped alone in the wilds often enough to know the rudiments.” He rummaged among the witch’s supplies, then built up the smoldering fire. As he worked, he asked: “Tell me, grandmother, what befell between you and the village?”
She coughed, caught her breath, and spoke: “I am Nyssa of Komath. For many years I have earned a scanty living as the white witch of Zamindi, curing ills of man and beast, foretelling the prospects of young lovers seeking to wed, and predicting the changing seasons. But, as I have told the folk many a time and oft, naught is certain in occult matters, and the final decisions rest ever with the gods.
“Then a disease struck Zamindi. Many were sick, and one night three bairns died. I did what I could, but neither my simples nor my spells availed them. Then voices rose against me, saying that I had cast a malignant spell.
“’T was naught but a rumor set in motion by the headman, Babur, who long had coveted the little patch of land on which my poor hut stood. I enraged him by refusing to sell it to him, even at a reasonable price; so this is his revenge.” A spasm of coughing shook her. “I cast my horoscope yestereve and saw that it portended peril. This morn I was gathering my last supplies to bring to this shelter, which I had prepared for emergencies long ago. But the villeins were too quick for me; they came and dragged me to the village.” She cackled. “But you and I have cheated the omens, at least for
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