Conan the Marauder (16 page)

"There is no sense in standing here and awaiting their arrows," said the captain. "As soon as they are within bowshot, sound the charge."

"Stop!" The voice was that of Khondemir. The mage rode up to Jeku and his staff. "These are not Hyrkanians."

"Say you so?" said Jeku, glowering fiercely. "Then who may they be, pray?"

"They are allies, friends of mine. From Turan. We are not in Sogarian territory any longer, Captain."

"And why are they joining you here? My prince gave me no instructions concerning this situation. This is quite irregular.''

"Irregular or not, Captain, I have need of these men. The reasons for that need not concern you. Suffice it to say that they are allies. They will strengthen our band should we face the Hyrkanians. I assume that you have sufficient control over your men to prevent ugly incidents?"

Jeku's face darkened like a thundercloud. "My men are perfectly disciplined, sir. You may rest assured of it. I shall expect you to keep rein on these men who seem to belong to you. We have been at peace with Turan for many years, so there is no cause for enmity.

However, when we return to Sogaria, I shall report this... peculiar circumstance.''

"The prince will have no cause for complaint," Khondemir said.

The Turanians were now within bowshot, but they made no hostile demonstration. They rode to within a few-score yards of the Sogarians, then halted at an order from a leader. A small group detached itself and rode to the small band of staff surrounding Khondemir. A black-bearded man bowed deeply to the mage.

"Greeting, my Lord Khondemir. We, your followers, stand ready to escort you to your rightful place, the—"

"Very good, Bulamb," said Khondemir, cutting off the man's words. "Have your men fall in beside our esteemed allies, the Sogarians. We ride for a place deep within this arid plain, and we are now near our destination."

The one named Bulamb regarded Jeku and his staff with an expression of insolent irony. "I am always delighted to meet... allies, my lord. I shall relay your orders."

"Excellent. We make camp an hour before sunset. Attend me in my tent this evening," Khondemir said. The Turanian rode off.

Now that they were closer, Ishkala studied the foreigners. She knew by the style of their dress, arms and horse trappings that these were Turanians. She had little experience of military men, but these seemed to lack the smartness and fine discipline of the Red Eagles. There was no uniformity in their equipment, and many had the raffish, brutal look of common adventurers rather than the mien of respectable, professional soldiers. In number they roughly equalled the Sogarians. All were mounted, a necessity on the empty plain.

The Turanians had a sizeable pack train, presumably loaded with forage for the horses and waterskins for man and beast. The Sogarians eyed them askance, the way that professional military men always regard amateurs, especially those who bear more the aspect of bandits than that of soldiers.

Ishkala resumed her seat in her carriage, but when next she saw Captain Jeku riding past, she beckoned him to her again. "Well, Captain, what think you of the Turanian wizard now?"

Jeku frowned furiously. "This surpasses belief! Not only does the man drag us out into this wasteland when our city lies in danger, but he foists upon us a pack of... of Turanian riff-raff! Your father shall hear of this, Princess, never fear!"

Manzur leaned on his spear and stared gloomily over the host encamped around the walls of Sogaria. Already he had found out that a siege had a single, all-pervasive quality: boredom. He wore his sword, an old shirt of bronze scales from the city armoury, and a spired helmet won at dicing with a city guard. He had felt quite soldierly upon taking his assigned post atop the city wall. That had been two nights earlier. The excitement of the novelty had not outlasted the first night.

He had tried to compose verses full of the clash of arms, the neighing of war-horses, the bray of trumpets and the thunder of drums. Unfortunately, what was happening around Sogaria had no such stirring aspect. During the day there was only the occasional whisper of an arrow as the Hyrkanians amused themselves by taking pot-shots at the guards atop the wall. At night he could hear the digging of the slave train as it sought to undermine the great walls of the city.

A breeze from behind brought him the stench of a massive overcrowding of man and beast within the restricting walls of the city. The old poems had never mentioned that aspect of war, he thought. The siege could drag on for weeks, or even for months. The thought was unendurable. Manzur was certain that he was made for better things. He was also frantic with worry over the fate of Ishkala. But how might he escape Inevitable death from boredom and join his beloved?

A sound from below drew his attention. He leaned over the parapet between the newly erected arrow shields of thick wicker. From the gloom below, came the creaking sound of one of the sally ports as it was opened. The thudding of muffled hooves came up to him; then the hoofbeats faded into the distance. Once again the sally port creaked and he heard its bars slide back into place. He resumed his sentry post and turned to a companion.

"Another messenger off to seek reinforcements," he said. "I wonder how many ever pierce the lines."

"Few, I would wager," said the man, an old veteran called back into service for the emergency.

"But if they capture our messengers," Manzur said, "why do they not display them before the walls and attack us for our efforts?"

"This savage is too clever," said the veteran, gnarled hands locked about his spear shaft. "This way, we never know who has made it through and who has not. Also, if we grew discouraged, we might stop trying to send messengers. As it is, every one he captures he can torture to learn about the conditions within our walls."

Manzur nodded. A thought formed in his mind.

"The messengers must be very brave. I would like to speak with such courageous men. Know you where they may be found?"

"The Messenger Corps frequents the tavern called

the Weary Horseman, near the cavalry barracks," the older man replied.

At midnight Manzur was relieved. Instead of going home, he went in search of the Weary Horseman. The streets were crowded with refugees lying on pallets. He stumbled in the gloom, for since the rationing of oil had been instituted, only one street lamp in four was lighted at dusk.

The inn was not difficult to find, for there were a half-score of horses tethered at its forecourt. This was a I rare sight within the walls of the city, but this tavern had leave to keep the beasts unpenned, for the messengers had to be ready to mount and ride on a moment's notice.

Inside, Manzur found the mood subdued. The patrons ate and drank desultorily, and conversed in low voices. The depressing atmosphere of the besieged city had spelled an end to the carefree roistering of the city's taverns, He saw that on a long table amidst the men there rested a casque bearing the yellow plumes of the Messenger Corps. These men were never truly off duty, and all were dressed in the light armour of their highly mobile service.

Soon Manzur saw what he was looking for. In a corner by himself sat a man who silently and gloomily stared into the lees swirling at the bottom of his wine cup. Manzur knew the situation well: a man with a flat purse, a man who had spent his last coin on wine and whose companions seemed disinclined to advance him the price of more. Manzur crossed to the table.

"Excuse me, sir," said the youth.

The man looked up at him with red-shot eyes. "Yes? Who are you, another summoner from the palace with a suicide mission for the only soldiers doing this city any good?"

Manzur paid no attention to the man's sneering belligerence. It merely meant that the fellow was already half-drunk, which would make his task that much easier.

"Pray forgive my intruding upon your privacy," Manzur said, "but I have heard wonderful things about you men of the Messenger Corps. I would be most honoured if you would allow me to buy you a cup or two of wine. I would greatly enjoy hearing of your adventures. I am a poet, and I intend to compose an epic about this war when we have driven away the savages."

At the mention of wine, the man brightened somewhat. "There may be few ears to listen to your verses when this is over, but have a seat anyway. Yes, we are the finest service in the army, all picked men, mounted on the finest steeds, and this," he slapped the gold-washed message tube at his sash, "is our passport to anywhere in the allied nations. If I encounter a duke when I am on duty and my horse is tired, I may demand that he exchange mounts with me and he can do no more than ask restitution of the prince."

The pitcher of strong wine arrived and Manzur poured generously into the messenger's cup, stingily into his own. "Tell me more," he urged.

For the next two hours the man regaled Manzur with tales of his adventures. Toward the end he grew incoherent and took to repeating himself. At last he began to slump forward onto the table. Manzur grasped him and hauled him to his feet.

"Time for you to return to barracks, my friend," Manzur said. "Let me help you."

No one bothered to look up as Manzur half-carried the drunken man from the tavern. Apparently his companion was not popular among the other messengers. Instead of guiding him to the barracks, Manzur stepped into the alley separating the inn from a back wall of the military stables. When he re-emerged, he was dressed in the uniform and armour of the Messenger Corps. He had retained only his own sword and dagger, for these weapons were not standardized within the corps, each man instead bearing such arms as he fancied.

Hurriedly Manzur examined the mounts hitched before the tavern. He did not wish any of the messengers to see him leaving the establishment. Then he found the name of his erstwhile companion stamped upon a saddle skirt. He unhitched the horse and led it away by the bridle. As soon as he was a distance from the tavern, he mounted and picked a careful way through the refugee-clotted streets.

At the north gate, the small contingent of guards looked up to see the yellow plumes nodding above the rider's head. "Another message to go out tonight?" asked the senior guard. "Where do you ride, messenger?"

"You know better than to ask such questions," Manzur said, bluffing.

"Your pardon," said the guard. "You are right. We shall have the sally port open in a moment. You had best ride like the wind if you would be well beyond the savages by daybreak. Will you dismount now?"

"Dismount?" Manzur said, puzzled.

"Yes, so that we may muffle your horse's hooves. The ground is hard-packed just beyond the walls and you may hear a horse for half a mile."

"Of course," Manzur said. "It had slipped my mind. Difficult to get used to, the idea of Sogaria being under siege." He hoped that his airy tone was sufficient to deter suspicion, and he fretted silently while the guards tied clumsy shoes of thick-plaited straw over his mount's hooves.

When they were finished, he remounted and waited as they opened the sally port. The horse stamped impatiently, trying to shake off the unfamiliar, muffling shoes. Slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, he rode through. Tensed for the impact of innumerable arrows, he let out a long sigh of relief when none greeted his exit.

In the distance he could see the low-burning fires of the encamped Hyrkanian army. As he heard no patrols nearby, he sat his horse for a few minutes, getting his bearings. Then he began to ride to the north-west. As a boy, he had often visited a modest farm owned by a kinsman near the edge of the cultivated land surrounding the city. The farm was no doubt in ruins, but the land was bisected by the dry bed of an ancient stream and the gully might provide him with a path through the enemy lines unseen.

An hour's easy trot brought him to the edge of the farmland. A brief excursion to the right should bring him to the dry wash and a path to freedom. With his attention on the ground just before his horse's hooves, he was caught by surprise when a voice to his left hailed him. "Who are you? What horde?"

Manzur could barely understand the words, spoken in the barbarous dialect of the steppes. He did not want to run until he knew where the gully was, and he preferred not to be pursued. Feverishly he tried to remember all that he had heard of the tribesmen. For one thing, they were notorious drunks. Manzur slumped over his saddle, humming an ancient sheep herder’s song.

"I said who are you!" barked the voice. Then Manzur heard the hooves of two horses approaching.

"Another drunk," said a different voice disgustedly. "Fool, the Kagan will have the hide from your back for this."

A hand grabbed Manzur's left arm and roughly jerked him erect. "This is no—" But before the tribesman could finish, Manzur was drawing his sword and cutting upward. The blade caught the man below the chin, cleaving up through the teeth and into the brain. Only with a powerful wrenching could he free the sword from his enemy's skull. In the dimness he barely saw the other Hyrkanian thrust at him with a lance. Manzur leaned back and let the point pass before him. With his left hand he seized the shaft and jerked the Hyrkanian forward. His right hand swept the tip of his sword across the man's throat in a move as precise as his years of training could make it. The Hyrkanian toppled from the saddle with little noise.

Manzur found the gully a few paces away and rode into it. He had to restrain himself from shouting in triumph. He had slain two enemies with two blows of his sword! What a poem he would be able to write when he had the leisure! He felt that if he were not the greatest warrior in the world, he had at least made a good beginning and would probably hold that title before the war was over. He rode on through the night in a state of high exaltation.

By sunrise the city was far behind and Manzur risked riding out of the gully. A quick scan of his surroundings told him that no one was near him and that he must be far past enemy lines. He began to quarter the land before him. Sooner or later even the greenest amateur should be able to find the trail of a thousand mounted men.