Conan the Marauder (23 page)

"Then your nostrils are more sensitive than mine," Manzur said. "Perhaps your primitive upbringing, your wide wanderings and frequent conflicts with supernatural enemies, have rendered your senses more acute in such matters. Do you think that some dire wizardry is being wrought near here?"

"It may be so," Conan said. "After all, we trail a wizard. But in some way I feel that it is the quality of this place. I have felt it before, and always in one of those strange, out-of-the-way parts of the world, where other worlds are nigh."

Manzur remained silent, enthralled by this uncharacteristic speech from a man who had seen such things as it is given few men to behold.

"This world is ancient," Conan continued, "far more ancient than the wildest dreams and fancies of philosophers can speculate. I have wandered into places deep in the squalling jungles of the south, and high in the snowy mountains, and in the baking deserts, where things of ancient times survive. In these places I have found buildings of strange green stone, single structures the size of whole cities. I have found races of men and half-men that disappeared elsewhere long before the rise of Acheron, before even Atlantis reared itself from the waves. I have been on an island where bronze statues came to unnatural life."

It began to penetrate Manzur's mind that this Cimmerian was not the inarticulate savage he had at first judged him to be. For a change, he kept his mouth shut and listened.

"Wise men have told me that this earth is covered with strands of sorcerous power as if trapped in a gigantic net. As in a net, mere are places where the strands cross and are knotted together. Where these strands cross,, there is a point of great power. There are some places where more than two of the strands converge, as when an armourer builds a shirt of mail and brings many rows of steel rings together to expand or taper the garment. At such spots there are truly great concentrations of power.

"There are other worlds besides this one, and they are as distant as the stars. But at the points where many lines of power converge, they may be brought close. I feel that we are approaching such a point. It lies ahead of us, and not far."

"Mitra aid us then," said Manzur, deeply shaken. "And may he aid my poor Ishkala, wherever she is."

The two men crawled on their bellies to the crest of the little rise. They had picketed their horses near the stream, which in this place ran through a gully somewhat deeper than the height of a tall man. They had circled far to the west so they could make their reconnaissance with the setting sun directly at their back, thereby lessening the chance of detection.

"A good thing the land is rolling here," Conan said. "Out on the flat, they could have seen us coming half a league away."

"I have always held," Manzur said, "that the gods have a way of preparing things in the favour of heroes." He tried to match the silent, sinuous grace of Conan's progress through the grass, but could only scramble awkwardly, scraping his knees and elbows in the process.

"Then I must not be a hero," said the Cimmerian, "for the gods have always made my path notably rough. No idle talk now. We are at the crest. Raise no more than your eyes above it. Even with the sun at our back, a sharp-eyed man might see us."

Slowly they elevated their heads and soon they were gazing down upon a startling sight. A high, earthen rampart enclosed a huge, irregular space covered with mounds of varying sizes, some of them truly immense. Within the rampart were established two separate camps. One was an orderly array of identical tents, lined up in military fashion, with a somewhat larger command tent in their midst. The other camp was a haphazard assortment of tents in varying sizes, from simple cloth lean-tos to elaborate pavilions. Some of these tents were pitched directly upon mounds. Smoke rose from many small fires.

Near the entrance to the enclosure two corrals had been established, and all the horses were kept therein save those that were in use. They spied some men in Turanian garb who were flying hawks outside the ramparts, trying to bring down the geese that flew high overhead, their broad wedges arrowing toward the north with the waxing summer.

"What manner of place is this?" Manzur asked.

"A burial ground," Conan said. "Great kings and chiefs have been interred here. Think of the labour that must have gone into rearing those huge mounds."

"What people put their dead to rest here?"

"Those are Hyrkanian standards atop some of the mounds. This must be where they bury their great Kagans and Ushi-Kagans."

"But why," Manzur wanted to know, "has Khondemir come to this place? And why are those Turanians there? You can see that there is little love between the two

bands. The Red Eagles have made camp as far as they can get from the Turanians."

"We know too little to guess," Conan said. "But from the mage's choice of a site, and in consideration of its remoteness, I think he plans some mighty work of sorcery here. I have told you of the great power that converges upon such a place. As to the Turanians, I have told you also that Khondemir was involved in an insurrection against Yezdigerd. Perhaps these are supporters of his."

"How can we find out?" Manzur asked. "And how can we learn where Ishkala is being kept?"

"Tonight, very late," Conan said, "I will enter that camp and learn all we need to know."

Manzur gazed at him in open admiration. "Sneak down into that place, where two thousand men guard Ishkala and the wizard? Surely you must be a man without fear! I shall go with you, for I cannot have Ishkala thinking me your inferior in courage."

"Manzur," Conan said seriously, "those two thousand men are a daunting prospect, and I detest the thought of seeking out a powerful wizard. But there is one thing that fills me with far greater dread."

"What could place fear in the heart of such a hero as you?" the younger man asked.

"The prospect of spending another night having to listen to your poems."

XIII

Daily the immense ramp climbed higher on the great wall of Sogaria. The gangs of drafted slaves toiled beneath the blazing sun while, above them, the brazen gongs thundered and a deadly hail of missiles rained down. Flimsy barriers of hide and withes were erected for their protection, but these were soon pierced or crushed, and a constant shower of stones, javelins, arrows and other deadly objects took a continuous toll. The slaves who fell were left where they lay, either on the ground beside the ramp or amidst the rubble used as fill between the stone walls of the structure. In the heat of summer, a fearful stench of death soon blanketed the city, as well as the camp of the besiegers.

Bartatua gazed over the site with satisfaction. The ramp was rising by the daily increments the Khitan engineer had predicted, and the wastage of slaves was no greater than he had foretold. At this rate, the supply of slaves should last easily until the ramp was completed.

Even as he watched, a slave was transfixed by a short javelin cast from the rampart above. The wretched man fell screaming onto the growing pile of bodies next to the wedge-shaped structure. Another slave was driven to the place of the newly slain by an overseer dressed in heavy armour. All along the ramp such overseers plied their whips, protected not only by heavy armour, but by broad, rectangular shields borne by slaves.

Stationed near the foot of the ramp was a line of horsemen whose task it was to shoot down any slave who sought to flee from the work site. The archers sat in their saddles, arrow on string, eagerly scanning the area, A shot at a fleeing slave was a welcome diversion from the monotony of the siege works.

"I do not like this way of making war," said a Kagan who sat his horse next to Bartatua. His swart, eastern-featured face was a mass of scars. "When men cannot ride and shoot, they cannot feel their ancestors riding with them. This kind of war-making," he waved a contemptuous arm toward the ramp, "is no better than farming."

' 'And yet if we would conquer widely,'' said Bartatua, "we must master these skills. Fear not. When we have taken the city and the loot is divided, the men will feel well requited for the tedium of this siege. That city," he extended his arm and pointed to the walls of Sogaria, "contains treasure in greater measure than most of our men can imagine. Gold and jewels, silks and spices, and beautiful women, all there for the taking by men who are fierce and bold. Why should the dwellers in cities have these things when we are strong enough to seize them?"

A broad grin appeared between the scarred cheeks of the other. This;' was the kind of talk a Hyrkanian could understand. "Aye, Kagan, when we have those things in our hands, the hardships of this siege will be forgotten indeed! However," he turned sombre, "all of us can

smell the foul stench from the ramp and the city. This stench portends pestilence. A plague within the city is no matter of concern for us, but how long before a pestilence afflicts our camp? Out on the broad steppe, where the air and water are clean, we rarely suffer from such things. Here, in the midst of all the foulness of a siege, we could lose half our men in the turning of half a moon."

Bartatua nodded sombrely. "Those are wise words, my friend. This night I shall send out a slave gang to douse the bodies of the dead with oil and set them alight. In this way, the work site will be cleansed and the city-dwellers will be discomfited by the smoke. Should pestilence break out within the city, we shall know it when they begin casting the corpses of men and women over the walls. Should it be a truly terrible plague..."He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "It would grieve me to burn the whole city in order to cleanse it, but that would be better than taking the plague ourselves. There would still be much gold to salvage, and there will be other cities."

The other man's narrow eyes twinkled. "There may be no need for such drastic measures, Ushi-Kagan. Let me tell you of an expedient used by my great-grandsire when he took the city of Hiong-Nu, in northern Khitai. Things had fallen out much as at this siege, and pestilence appeared within the city. Of course no man or woman of the city was allowed to come near the forces, but was shot down as soon as within bowshot.

"In time, inevitably, the elders of the city sued for peace. My great-grandsire bade the citizenry come forth, bringing out their dead with them. Then all were marched a half league away and surrounded by mounted bowmen. After that, slaves were sent within the walls to affirm that there were no inhabitants, living or dead, inside the city. Those same slaves were then sent to join the city people. Then all were slain by arrows from a safe distance. The horde waited a full moon, lest the pestilence be lurking for a while in the goods or in the water, after which time they went in and despoiled the place, and the army was never touched by the plague. Was this not a clever way to solve the problem?"

Bartatua laughed loud and long and slapped his fellow Kagan on the shoulder. "Would that all my allies give me such good advice, my friend! That is exactly how we shall handle it should things take such a turn at this siege."

Inwardly his heart exulted. The advice was good, but the address had been better. The man had addressed him as Ushi-Kagan, supreme chief! This was the first time one of his allies had saluted him so, and the man was the most powerful of the eastern Kagans. It meant that they all acknowledged him as the supreme war leader of the Hyrkanian peoples. He knew they would need some time to understand that he was to be their leader in peacetime as well. There was no such concept among them. They would learn, though. They were already beginning to learn. He gazed at his ramp and smiled. The Everlasting Sky was showing all that he, Bartatua, was its favoured son!

The Khitan master of engineers came up to them, riding on a camel. The Kagan's horse tried to shy at the foul-smelling beast, but he kept the mount under taut rein. The Khitan was a mere foreigner, but he was a valuable man and Bartatua was already making plans for him to organize a corps of engineers and sappers for future sieges.

"Greetings, Kagan!" called the Khitan.

"Greetings, Soong-Tzi. The ramp proceeds apace, just as you predicted. I am pleased with the work."

"I live only to please my Kagan" said the Khitan. From another man the words would have sounded obsequious, but the Khitan was never less than arrogant. It was just the customary floweriness of his nation's ways. The Kagan cared not in the slightest whether a man was swaggering or humble as long as he delivered results. For a moment he remembered the Cimmerian with regret. He would have been willing to make such a warrior second only to himself, a general and commander of kingdoms, perhaps even a friend. Why had the man been so undisciplined as to attack the Kagan's own woman? Almost any other offence would have been forgiveable.

"Now that the work has been so well begun, Kagan," said Soong-Tzi, "and the surviving slaves are experienced, we can carry on at night if we but have the light. This will shorten the delay in mounting the first storming of the city."

Bartatua eyed the great piles of bodies next to the ramp on both sides. "Yes, master engineer, I think I can provide you with all the firelight you and your teams need." Beside him, his fellow Kagan whooped with laughter.

The flames from the oil-soaked corpses cast a bloody glare upon the walls of Sogaria. The clouds of billowing black smoke, towering above the groaning and shrieking men who laboured on the ramp, were shot through with crimson streaks. The beautiful city had become an analogue of hell, as certain philosophers and religious sects described that undesirable afterlife.

Bartatua and his sub-chiefs admired the unprecedented sight as they stood outside his great tent. Many drank wine from golden goblets or the skulls of slain enemies. The spectacle of the night time work on the ramp, illuminated by the lurid glare of the corpse pyre, was matched by the defenders of Sogaria, lined atop their wall and shouting futile defiance at the hated foe.

"This siege will make your name immortal, Ushi-Kagan!" shouted a tattooed sub-chief of the Budini.