Conan The Hero (31 page)

After a moment the Kushite, tolerant of Conan’s silent moods, barked another laugh and continued the onesided conversation. “But then, after all, who could have refused Yildiz’s offer? His decree, rather: a field promotion for you to the rank of captain, and guaranteed berths for both of us in the Imperial Honor Guard once we return—if we return! And that will hardly be the limit of your success with His Resplendency, I think, if you do nothing to foul it up!”

Turning his gaze aside to Conan’s cross-kneed, pensive form, the Kushite frowned a little petulantly. “I could confess to having some jealousy over that; why should he choose to promote you, the junior of us two, after it was I who cut him down from the devil-tree and nursed him back to life?” Juma shook his head resignedly. “You are his pet, it would seem, Conan; welcome to the privilege, and good luck surviving it!” He sighed mightily. “But ‘tis no matter—once we deliver his Imperial proclamation and return to Aghrapur, life will be pullets and gravy for both of us.”

Juma rattled on good-naturedly, patting the scroll-case lying in the fighting-box before both of them. The ornate metal tube contained Yildiz’s decree that the war would cease and the Turanian forces be withdrawn. As his friend touched the case, Conan also did so protectively; turning to face his friend, he opened his mouth to speak at last. But just then there came a shout from their elephant-driver and they turned to see their mount’s bat-winged ears fluttering in warning. Squinting ahead, they spied horsemen approaching on the road.

The riders were some two hundred troops, Turanian by their costume, weary and ragged astride mud-spattered mounts. They reined in gratefully just ahead of the halted infantry column, although their faces were too grim to show much rejoicing at the friendly reinforcements. Conan recognized their commander and called down to him from the howdah. “Greetings, Shahdib, what news?”

“The worst, Conan—Captain, I mean,” he amended, eying his questioner’s gold-medalled turban with respect. “The rebels are up in arms, more of them than we have seen before. The city of Venjipur fell in a single day! The smaller outposts have all been wiped out, and the forts are heavily besieged. Yesterday we escaped the fall of Karapur—”

“What of Sikander?” Conan asked abruptly.

“Sikander has been embattled for days. If it still exists, ‘tis by a miracle; in any case it cannot hold for long.” The officer cast his head down as he shook it, seeming reluctant to meet Conan’s eyes. “The main rebel activity has been in that area; we dared not try to relieve the fort—”

“Then dare to do it now,” Conan told him, waving a signal to his infantry officers. “Fort Sikander is where we are going.”

The column started forward with a weary scuffing and stamping, the horse troops reluctantly turning their mounts to march at the fore.

“Otumbe’s lightnings!” Juma muttered grimly at Conan’s side. “Affairs have come to a sorry pass since we left! You are right, we have no choice but to venture into the tiger’s jaws, and try to save what few of our friends have not yet been chewed up and swallowed. I hope the rebels will accept our withdrawal; peace is our only hope.”

“Perhaps.” Conan sat cross-legged once again, watching the smoky valley unrolling ahead. “On the other hand, our force is a seasoned one, and may grow larger with stragglers from other battles. Revolutions have triumphed before in a single day, only to go down in defeat the next.”

“Conan, you would not dare to defy the emperor?” Juma glanced at Conan’s hand, which held the scroll-case containing the imperial decree. In his massive grip, with its flaring, bronze-capped ends, it resembled, more than any peace treaty, a sceptre of royal rank.

“Would Yildiz complain if Venjipur were handed to him on a platter?” Conan’s face, stern and a little haggard-eyed, flashed his friend an icy look. “This war has been poorly waged from the start; you and I can correct that. As for the rebels—if they have harmed Sariya, I will not feel much inclined to offer them peace!”

The road to Sikander was strangely free of armed resistance. In places the muddy track streamed with refugees, and with larger groups of Venjis who seemed purposeful and organized. Possibly these bands were rebels, yet they yielded the road to Conan’s troop and made no threatening gesture; in any case they were too numerous to attack, so the troopers passed them by. The distinction between rebels and friendly peasants had always been a chancy one at best.

Later, even when the scarred palisades of Fort Sikander loomed in sight, the rebels did not contest the road. Conan marched his column past the site of his cottage, which now existed only as a litter of charred timbers beneath felled forest trunks. The village outside the fort likewise had been burned, its rubble converted to makeshift offensive bastions facing the gate. Conan had his men take up positions there as he and Juma ambled their elephant up to the main approach. The gate stood half-open, with Venjis and weaponless Turanian troopers milling before it.

Conan recognized some of the men by the half-closed portal: one-eared Orvad and a handful of Conan’s other fellow-troopers, who saluted him with guarded nods and smiles; yet he noticed that all the faces along the rampart were Venji, and none too trusting. Ordering his elephant halted, he swung down its precipitous flank and confronted the familiar, gray-haired senior officer.

“Murad, what has happened here? Has Fort Sikander fallen, then?”

The Captain’s gray eyes met Conan’s only briefly, and with brooding suspicion. “Ask your girlfriend!” he replied, shrugging.

“Why? Is she within?” Conan shot a quizzical glance at Juma, who stood by his side seeming equally puzzled. They both looked up then to see the fort’s double-valved gate swinging the rest of the way open before them. Within, before a wooden altar heaped high with palm fronds and flowers, stood an assembly of brightly clad Venjis: chieftains, priests, Hwong warriors and maidens, with a remarkable-looking female standing at the fore.

She was taller than any of the others, wrapped in a white robe belted with spangled snakeskin. Garlands of jungle flowers draped her hair, and from her neck dangled charms that looked more mystical in purpose than ornamental. One of her beringed hands gripped a tall wooden stave topped with a bulky emblem: the skull of a forest pig, its razored tusks entwined with flower-vines. Ruby pinpoints twinkled from the eyeholes, and small bits of silver and gemstone had been inlaid elsewhere about it. Remembering the talisman from the roof-pole of his ruined hut, Conan’s eyes traveled back down the staff to recognize its owner.

“Sariya, girl, ‘tis you! Are you a captive? But no matter, I see they have not mistreated you!” Conan strode forward, extending an arm to embrace her. “It warms my heart to see find you here.”

“No, do not touch me,” the woman replied with a remote, regal air. Though she remained steadfastly facing him, two frightened-looking Venji maidens, one on either hand, edged forward as if to protect her. “I am now priestess, and yours no longer, Conan of Hyboria! For know you, Venjipur has but one Priestess! Our time together is past.”

“Sariya, what…?” Conan halted in his tracks, speechless with amazement, scanning the stiff faces and ceremonial dress of the tribesfolk and elders arrayed behind his stately lover. Abruptly his hand closed on his sword-hilt. “If this is something they mean to force on you, Sariya…! Some new enchantment of Mojurna’s—”

“Mojurna is dead, Captain.” Her words foreclosed coldly on his. “When her magic died she could not live on for long—for Mojurna was a woman, as you have learned.” Raising her free hand, she gestured aside her to the flowered altar; it was a pyre, Conan realized. In its midst, lying amid fronds and blossoms, he spied the wizened face and shriveled breasts of an ancient crone.

“And now,” Sariya was saying, “the time has come for me to take her place… the role I was trained for, yes, and conceived for…”

“Sariya, when I first saw you, Mojurna wanted to kill you!” It was Conan’s turn to interrupt, pointing angrily at the funeral bier. “Or else sacrifice you alive to a deathless demon! That vile old witch—”

“Yes, ‘tis true, she would have broken with our age-old custom.” Sariya’s voice rang firm, clearly intended for other listeners besides Conan. “For Mojurna was a harsh priestess, strong-willed and ruthless when commanding her followers in battle. Perhaps she thought the war would never end, or that I was too weak to win it. For my own part, I still hope someday to be priestess over a land at peace.” Her lustrous almond-shaped eyes scanned the watchers with remote, inhuman calm. “She sought to steal my youth and, with the goddess Sigtona’s help, prolong her own life. If she was fanatic, even maddened at the end by the awful burdens she bore, still I must forgive her—knowing that she was my mother.”

To this horror there was no possible reply. Conan stood slackly before the gate, reeling with the magnitude of it all as from a hammer-blow to his brain. Juma moved up beside him and laid an arm across his shoulders to steady him. Meanwhile Sariya spoke gravely on.

“Whatever the cruelty of her methods, they have led us near victory—though none knows what the morrow may bring. My own way was more subtle, yet it was chosen just as carefully for the good of our land. I defied Mojurna, led my own faction among the faithful, and spread my beliefs. No other Venji than I could have resisted her magic or shielded the heretics. For my own protection in a violent time, I clung to one who was invincible in battle, a natural leader. I counseled him, healed his wounds and strengthened him further.” For the first time, as Sariya’s gaze returned to Conan, he heard the merest quaver of sentiment in her firm, level voice. “We learned the ways of the home together. And the ways of love, as every Priestess should. But those days are gone.”

A long silence ensued, eerie under the smoke-yellowed sun. At last Conan, searching in his taut throat, found a ragged, grating voice. “Mojurna’s magic was strong enough for your purpose, Sariya—almost too strong. Yildiz sues for peace.” Reaching to his belt, he drew forth not his sword, but the tube containing the imperial decree. He stepped clear of Juma’s comforting arm and held the proclamation out to Sariya.

“No surprise, I confess,” the priestess answered. “Venji magic was always stronger than the smug faith of Turan.” She nodded to one of her chieftains, who came forward and accepted the scroll. “I will call a halt to the various sieges and set your men free. That will lessen the suffering, but not end it; the Venjis who served your cause will have to decide whether to go with you, or risk staying. It may bring peace—if your soldiers will obey you and follow you from Venjipur, never to return.”

“A more welcome order could not be given”—Conan lingered, facing Sariya—“for most of them.” He searched her eyes. “For myself, I still wonder if this is truly your wish.”

“Fear not, Conan.” She met his gaze with utter composure. “I desire nothing more than to live out my destiny as Priestess. Be assured that after me, the line will continue.” She leaned on her heavy, skull-headed staff, waving a slim hand toward the defeated Turanians. “For you and these others, there is no longer any place here.”

“Well enough then, Sariya. Goodbye!” Raising a hand to her cheek, he touched her dark hair and her smooth, amber skin a final time. Then he turned to address his troops before the gate. His words, though brittle and rasping, were repeated throughout the ranks, and a cheer began to build, spreading to every throat within and without the wall.

“Send word to the embattled outposts: all expeditionaries are to ride forth and join us here. Then we head northward, dogs, and home!”