Conan the Marauder (26 page)

Manzur attacked at once. His opponent raised a tulwar and managed to parry two blows before the poet's blade swept across his throat and he went down with a ghastly liquid gasp. Two more assailants pressed Manzur and the young man was forced to defend himself desperately, unable to make an attacking move without laying himself open to a death blow.

Conan slapped aside a gutting lunge from a short sword and split the swordsman's skull. For an instant he was clear, and with a backhanded blow he removed one of Manzur's assailants before returning his attention to the two men before him. One had a mace and the other held a dagger and a torch. They looked at Conan, then at each other. As if at a signal, the torch dropped to the ground and the two took to their heels. The others had no more heart and beat a hasty retreat while calling for reinforcements.

Conan turned to Manzur in time to see the youth pass his sword through his last assailant's body. Manzur surveyed the scene of carnage with delight, no doubt composing a poem on the spot.

"Come, let us away!" Conan said. As if in a daze, Manzur looked at him vacantly. Then his eyes cleared as he heard the clamour of the aroused camp.

The two ran for the rampart. Behind them the pursuit was confused as men blundered about in the dark, blinded by their own torches. Conan and Manzur ran up the grassy slope and paused at its top. Manzur caught a glint of teeth in the Cimmerian's blackened face.

"Let this be a lesson to you," Conan said. "Where you chase a man who hides in the dark, stay in the dark yourself, else you'll never see him. Men do not bear torches in the dark because it helps them search, because it makes them feel better."

"I shall remember," Manzur said. They ran down the opposite slope and across the rolling ground toward their horses.

There was no pursuit beyond the rampart, although they saw a line of men atop the earthwork, holding torches aloft.

"What was that all about?" Manzur asked as they paused for breath. "Why did you wish to fight them? We did not reduce their numbers by much."

"There is much conspiring and double-dealing going on in that camp," Conan said. "Khondemir thinks that he is in control of it all. I thought it would not hurt to toss a new and puzzling factor into events. Thus his confidence will be undermined and distrust has been planted."

"And to do this, you were willing to take on such odds?" Manzur said admiringly.

Conan shrugged his massive shoulders as he cleaned the blood from his sword. "What odds?"

Commander Jeku sat before his tent in the first light of morning. An attendant handed him a steaming cup of herb tea, and the officer raised it to his lips just as a delegation of men came from the Turanian camp. Khondemir was at their head, and close behind him were the men he recognized as Bulamb and Rumal. The rest were sub chiefs of the Turanian host. Their bearing and attitude were not friendly. If anything, they were hostile.

"Greeting, Lord Khondemir," said Jeku. "Have some

tea. I trust you have come to tell me that you are done with your spells and that we may ride from this dreary place."

"I have come for no such thing, as you know well," said the wizard icily. "Six of my men were killed last night, murdered by spies from your camp."

"So that's it, eh?" said Jeku, smiling beneath his moustache. "I send no spies. It isn't gentlemanly. Your men brawled among themselves, as they do every night, and some were killed. They concocted this story of a fight with my men in order to escape disciplinary action." He looked down his long nose. "Not that your rabble have any discipline to escape. Take my advice and hang a few as an example to the rest. Do not trouble me with the bloody doings of your pack of deserters and runaway serfs."

"They were spies," Khondemir insisted, "and they came from here. Where else could they have come from? The trackless steppe? One called himself Conan of Cimmeria. The other said nothing."

Jeku barked a short laugh. "Just two? And they did for six of your men and walked from the midst of the rest unharmed? I can see why you think they were real soldiers." His face lost its humour and he glared at the Turanians. "Cimmeria! It is a land from travellers' tales! No foreigner has ever served in the Red Eagles, but only Sogarian men of good family. Now begone with your accusations, back to your riff-raff. And be quick about your charlatan's magic, for I have lost patience. Tomorrow at first light the Red Eagles ride, with or without you and your Turanian scum!"

The one called Bulamb stepped forward. "No pompous ass of a foreigner speaks thus to our sovereign." His hand was upon the hilt of his dagger.

"Sovereign, is it?" Jeku raised a hand to his shoulder. "Look about you, dogs."

The Turanians looked, and saw at least forty Sogarian guards with bows in their left hands, arrows nocked and drawn to the ear. Bulamb's hand fell away from his hilt.

"If I lower my hand," Jeku said, "you will all be riddled with shafts. My men could use the practice. You may try your spells, wizard, but I never heard of magic that was swifter than an arrow's flight."

"You'll not slay us," Khondemir said, "with your assassins or with your arrows. And you'll not be riding from this place at morning light."

"My arm grows weary, wizard, and my tea grows cold. Do not vex me further."

Snarling, Khondemir whirled on his booted heel and stalked off. His followers fell in behind. When the delegation was far enough from the captain, Jeku's guardsmen lowered their bows and returned their arrows to their belt quivers, disappointed.

The captain smiled again as he sipped the pungent herbal brew. The wizard, he was sure now, was a fake. Jeku could return to Sogaria and report that the prince had been gulled and that the supposedly great mage was nothing but a Turanian conspirator, one of the many pretenders to the throne of the late King Yildiz.

He began to compose his report. It would have to be couched in diplomatic language of course, so that the prince would not come out of it looking like an idiot. There would have to be some lowly advisor or chamberlain to take the blame. It was going to be difficult.

"He lies, master!" hissed Bulamb as the Turanian party returned to its tents. "Those men had to come from the Sogarian camp! Let us get our men together and force the foreigners to turn the murderers over to us!"

"Aye," said Rumal. "They were naught more than worthless scum, but the insult to you is intolerable! We cannot let these Sogarians, inhabitants of a small and unimportant city, think they can insult the greatest king in the world with impunity!"

"No, my friends," Khondemir said. "We shall come to a settlement with that insolent dog soon enough. Now is not the time for a split between the forces. We shall face the Hyrkanians before the day is out. We can only chew on our gall and plan our revenge." He turned to Bulamb. "That name, Conan of Cimmeria. Did you inquire among the former soldiers about it?"

"I did, majesty. A few said that they have heard the name, although none has met the man. It seems that a few years ago there was an officer of that name in your beloved father's army. There was some sort of scandal, and in some way he fell afoul of the usurper, Yezdigerd." They all spat ceremoniously.

"One told me," said red-bearded Rumal, "that it is one of the names that is always to be seen on the annual kill-or-capture list. He said he remembered it because of the size of the reward offered: a thousand in gold plus immediate promotion of one grade."

"What would this notable malefactor be doing in this place?" Khondemir mused. "Perhaps he enlisted in the Sogarian service to escape the wrath of the usurper. It is no matter. We shall find him and his companion when we winnow the Red Eagles, after we need them no longer. We have more important things to concern us now."

"The men are upset," said an officer. "They do not like it that aliens come into their midst to slay."

"What of it?" said Khondemir in disgust. "Most nights more than six are killed in their nightly brawling."

"But these are foreigners!" said another.

"Enough," Khondemir barked, making a chopping gesture with one be-ringed hand. "We have preparations to see to. Let us get back to our command tent."

"What now?" Manzur asked. "All seems quiet. What can we do?"

The two men sat upon a rise of ground overlooking the City of Mounds. With the sun at their back, they ran little risk of being spotted. Should their enemies come after them, their horses were tethered nearby and they could easily outdistance any pursuit.

"We do nothing," Conan said. "We rest. Soon the Hyrkanian horde will be here, and then we shall have plenty to do."

"The Hyrkanians," Manzur said. There was a chill in his blood at the name. "What shall we do when they arrive?"

"That we shall have to play like gamblers, using every advantage that fortune tosses our way. We are between two hosts that would kill us out of hand, but if I can gain an interview with Bartatua, I may win us some time."

The Cimmerian got up and brushed off stray bits of grass. "You may yet win your princess, and I may yet gain the head of Khondemir, with which to buy off Yezdigerd. It all depends upon whether I can speak to Bartatua before that accursed whore of his does."

"That is a large gamble to take with our lives," Manzur noted.

"That is what being a hero is all about," said Conan.

XV

The Hyrkanian host swept across the steppe like the shadow of a cloud, darkening all in its path for a moment, then vanishing as if it had never been. The horses'-tail standards fluttered in the wind of their passing, and there was little sound except for the steady drumming of hooves and the occasional shouts of officers dressing the order of their tens, their fifties, their hundreds, their five hundreds and their thousands.

They had paused only to water the mounts. Men slept in the saddle, giving then" reins to companions. All had been left behind except men, horses, the clothing and armour they wore and die weapons they bore. All else— tents, camp gear, loot and other goods—would follow behind, borne on pack beasts led by servants. Thus it was that a mere two days after breaking off the siege of Sogaria, the hordes of Bartatua encircled the City of Mounds.

Shamans came out before the host, shaking their rattles and beating their drums, calling upon gods, ancestors and the Everlasting Sky to witness the infamy of their enemies and the justice of the Hyrkanian cause. There were loud chantings, and many of the shamans went into their whirling dances, strings of bones and amulets standing out from their bodies as they twirled. New arrivals had swollen the ranks of the tribal magicians, depleted since the night of Oman's escape.

The tribesmen sat silently as the shamans went through their rituals. This was serious business and had none of the merriment that attended a common battle. Here there would be no loot and little glory, only the cleansing of a defiled holy place and the working of a terrible vengeance.

A single horse stepped out a few paces before the lines of warriors and the swirling group of shamans. Bartatua sat upon a swift, dappled mare, and the wrath upon his face was awesome to behold.

He wore a spired helmet of Khitan make, its rim rich with the luxuriant fur of the black sable. As he sat staring at the City of Mounds, men swarmed atop its earthen rampart, waving weapons and shouting defiance.

A small group of Kagans rode up even with Bartatua. Their glares of fell hatred were as fierce as his own.

"There are two groups, Ushi-Kagan" said a thousand-commander of the Ashkuz. "See, they stand a little apart from one another. The ones who are all dressed alike must be the Sogarian Red Eagles. The rest will be the other band that joined them some little way back. Turanians, if we read the signs correctly."

"That is what they are," Bartatua said. "Khondemir is from that land, although he shall never see it again. I would know," he swept his gaze over his followers, "what they are doing here?"

"What does it matter?" said the scar-faced eastern Kagan who had given him advice on dealing with pestilence in a besieged city. "We are going to slay them all anyway. Their business here will die with them."

"There is some reason," Bartatua said, "and on another day some other man may have the same reason. I do not wish to do this twice. Save some alive so that we may question them."

"Not Khondemir!" said the Kagan of the Budini, fingering an amulet at his neck. "The curse of a dying wizard is more potent than that of ordinary spells. Slay him swiftly."

"An officer, then," said Bartatua, "though it grieves me sorely to give Khondemir a quick, clean death."

"Sometimes revenge must be deferred," said the easterner. "When the day comes that we take Turan, we shall not allow the Turanians to forget that their countrymen performed this sacrilege and caused us so much inconvenience."

"Aye, and Sogaria as well," said the Gerul Kagan, the green tattoos of his face writhing like a basket of snakes. "The feet of Sogaria's soldiers befoul a Hyrkanian burial place. I rejoice that the Gerul burial place is on the far northern steppe, where sacrilegious city-dwellers will never find it."

"Sogaria shall pay, too," Bartatua said. "Of that be assured. I was minded to deal gently with the city-dwellers, but no more. Where the city now stands, there shall be a pasture for sheep. The stones shall be carried back to their quarries and covered with earth. No man, woman, child or beast shall live. The orchards will be cut down, the tilled fields sown with grass. In future years when travellers shall ask, 'Where is the great city of Sogaria of which the poets sang?' none shall be able to tell them."

The others nodded solemnly. This was vengeance as Hyrkanians understood the word.

"When do we attack, Ushi-Kagan?' asked the easterner. His narrow eyes squinted at the angle of the sun. "There is yet time for an assault."

"Nay," said Bartatua. "That leaves no time to instruct the men. This will be a style of fighting with which they are not familiar. How many of us have ever fought on foot, with naught but swords and lances in our hands?"