Conan the Marauder (2 page)

The Hyrkanian forced himself to his hands and knees, gasping hoarsely and clutching at his belly. He glared at Conan with feral rage. When he had breath, he staggered to his feet. As he made his painful way back to Conan, he drew a wickedly curved knife.

"Perhaps you are not good slave material, ape," he said, grinning. "Perhaps I will skin you instead. I need a new bridle and saddle cover."

Conan stared into the man's eyes. "Cut me loose and we'll see. I've seen toads under a rock show more spirit than you."

"Cut you loose?" echoed the man, honestly puzzled. "What manner of fool gives an advantage to one he intends to kill?"

"Of what use is it," Conan barked back, "to speak of courage or honour to a Hyrkanian?" He prepared himself for a last effort. If nothing else, he would bury his teeth in this one's throat before the others knifed him.

"Put up thy blade, Torgut!" someone called. The man addressed stepped back and sheathed the knife instantly. Conan squinted toward the fire to see who had spoken. The command had not been phrased as conversational speech. It was an imperative form of the language, meant to be obeyed. A man with a black moustache and wispy chin beard rose from his place and walked toward the Cimmerian. He looked little different from the others, but Conan caught the glint of gold earrings and bracelets. His felt tunic was embroidered with animal designs. This man might be a sub-chief, commander of this little band. He squatted before Conan fearlessly. The trick would not work twice.

"Of what land are you, slave?"

Ostentatiously, Conan looked to right and to left, as if searching for someone. "I see no slaves here. Do you refer to those baboons by the fire, or perhaps this lout with the sore belly who stands beside you?"

Dispassionately, the sub-chief slapped him. "You need not convince us that you have spirit, man. We know that. Do not try my patience. What is your homeland?"

"Cimmeria," Conan grumbled. He had made his point. They might kill him, but they would not seek to degrade him further.

"I have never heard of this land," the man said. "Your arms and armour are from Vendhya and Turan and the border hills."

Conan looked at the pile of gear by the fire, near where this man had been sitting. "Yours are from Khitai and Iranistan. What of it?"

"Listen closely." The man's blue eyes stared into Conan's own. "We are Hyrkanians. We are of the Arpad people, of the noble horde of the Ashkuz. We go to join the great chief, Bartatua, who is gathering all the clans and minor hordes for a campaign such as has not been seen in many generations. Bartatua has sent out orders that all who come are to bring in prisoners from among the inferior peoples. I know not what his purpose is. It is possible mat you might survive what he has in store for his prisoners. You will not survive my displeasure should you keep upon your present course."

Conan shrugged and spoke as though he were making some great concession. "Very well, I'll go with you. I am a warrior by trade. Perhaps this Bartatua will have better employment for my skills than that of slave labour."

To his chagrin, the Hyrkanians broke out hi shrill laughter. "You!" said the man he had kicked. "You

ride like a ten-year-old child. You shoot less expertly than such a child."

Conan's face burned with humiliation when he remembered how easily these men had ridden him down and captured him. "I could carve the lot of you to dog meat with my sword," he said. "There are other ways of fighting besides shooting from a distance off the back of a horse."

"We have no use for such ridiculous styles of fighting," the chief said. "We have encountered such things before. The armies of the cities come out against us. They stand in lines or ride in formations and seek to tempt us into coming within reach of their spears and swords. We laugh as we shoot and then go to gather up our arrows from the corpses."

"If you are so mighty and invincible," Conan mocked, "why have you not taken the world?"

The man shrugged. "Why do we need the world? We have the limitless steppe and the Everlasting Sky." He and the others made a gesture of reverence, and Conan understood that the man had named their deity.

"Cities?" he went on. "They are good for sacking. What other use have we for them? We are the only free men beneath the sky. Should we become tax collectors, or spend our days watching farmers trudge behind their bullocks so we can make sure they are not cheating us?" He spat in disgust. "Never! When one is free to hunt and hawk upon the steppe, one would be a fool to covet such a life. We overawe and terrify the princes of the world with our invincible hordes, and we take their tribute as our rightful due. Thus we gain the gold and silks and perfumes that it is our pleasure to use. It is fitting that the contemptible dwellers in cities should toil to produce these things for us, for we are the true

princes of the earth." The other Hyrkanians shouted their approval of these words.

"Give me a horse," Conan said, "and in the turning of a moon I will be a horseman better than any of you. Give me one of those bows to practice with, and in the same time I will be a better archer than any Hyrkanian. I have never taken up a fighting skill without excelling at it."

The chief rose and looked down coolly at Conan. "We have a few days' ride to join Bartatua. You shall have ample time to prove your worth. What is your name, foreigner?"

"Conan."

"Know that I am Boria, of the Blue Stag clan of the Arpad tribe. I am a fifty-leader, and I will test you along the way. If there is anything to you besides talk, I will know of it by the time we join the great chief. It may be my pleasure to say to him a few words in your favour. It may be his pleasure to act upon those words."

"This is foolishness!" said the one called Torgut. "What use can the great Bartatua have for this city-dwelling, swine-eating ape?" He spat, but was careful to stay out of range of Conan's feet.

"That is not for you to say, Torgut," said Boria. "The ways of a great Kagan are not the concern of a common saddle pounder. Do you wish to dispute my judgement?"

Torgut raised the back of his hand to his forehead. "I meant no disrespect, commander." He shot Conan a look of close-reined hatred.

"See that it is so." Boria turned to the men by the fire. "Give the prisoner some of the dried food from his saddlebag." He turned back to Conan. "At dawn we ride. Your journey shall not be easy. You may not

survive it. This means little to me. I shall know more when we reach the great camp."

The officer left and one of the others, a man tattooed from shoulders to knees in animal designs, tossed a few strips of dried meat near Conan. The Cimmerian had to inch over on his side and pick up the strips with his teeth. Boria had called him "prisoner" instead of "slave," and that might mean something. He choked down one of the tough, leathery pieces of meat.

"Water," Conan called. The tribesmen ignored him. Boria finished cleaning the bone he had been gnawing on, then spoke to the man who sported the elaborate tattoos. That one rummaged in his saddlebags and brought out a shallow bowl. He filled this with liquid from a skin and set it near Conan, who wrinkled his nose at the smell but knew better than to be finicky about what he ate and drank. There was an ordeal ahead, and he would need all his strength in order to meet it.

The bowl was not filled with water but with fermented milk, whether that of sheep, cow, goat, yak or mare, Conan neither knew nor cared. The steppe peoples lived largely off their flocks and milked the females of all their animals. He noticed that the bowl had been cut from the top of a human skull. Awkwardly he emptied the vessel. Bound as he was, there was no possibility of finding comfort, but with the coming of night, he did his best to sleep. His fitful rest was tormented by stinging insects, and dawn came all too soon.

"There is no need to tire our horses with your bulk," said Boria as he fastened a halter around Conan's thick-muscled neck. "You who dwell in cities and villages are accustomed to using your feet. Keep up with us, or you will be dragged."

When the men were mounted, they set out at an easy trot, their path taking them eastward. Conan ran with the remounts, carefully judging the gait of the slowest horse and pacing himself with it. If these arrogant riders hoped to see him dragged gasping upon the ground, they were in for a surprise. Conan was a matchless runner, and he kept up easily.

As the morning progressed, the Hyrkanians would occasionally glance back at him and each time they did, their eyes went a bit wider to see him trotting with the horses, his tether swinging loose, his breathing light. To these men who never walked more than a score of paces save in dire emergencies, it was inconceivable that a man could keep pace with a horse. At this easy pace, Conan knew mat he could run all day. To a Cimmerian hillman, running came as naturally as breathing or fighting.

But Conan knew, too, that he had trouble when Torgut took his tether from the man who had been holding it. "Our prisoner looks bored and low in spirits. Perhaps some exercise will improve his humour." With that, the Hyrkanian kicked his horse's flanks and the beast began a steady lope.

As the tether drew taut, Conan lengthened his stride. He had expected that something like this might happen. He could trot as long as any horse. At this speed, he could run longer than any other man, but not as long as a good horse. If the Hyrkanian put the animal to a rapid gallop, Conan would have to take desperate measures or be dragged. Sweat began to run into his eyes and-his breathing grew deep and hard. He was far from exhausted, but he would reach that state eventually.

The other riders drew level, laughing and shouting at this rare sport. Conan caught Boria's cool, evaluating gaze as the tall, dry grasses flashed by him. He considered catching the rope in his teeth and trying to bite through it. Success would be unlikely; he had never encountered rope so thin and yet so strong. And they would only drop another noose around his neck anyway.

Torgut looked back and saw that Conan was keeping up. Fury knotted his features and he lashed his horse's rump with a short quirt. The mount sprang forward at a full gallop. Conan took a deep breath and began to run at top speed before the rope could grow taut and jerk him off balance. With his hands bound, he lacked his customary superb equilibrium. The ground was rough and should he fall, the long dragging that would ensue would result in severe lacerations at the very least. More likely it would be a race between strangulation and a broken neck. Boria might be displeased, but Torgut hated the Cimmerian. To a barbarian, what was a mere dressing-down by a superior compared to the sweetness of revenge?

Conan ran with a purpose now. He sought a stone, a stump, any protrusion that might give him purchase. If he was to die here, he wanted the pleasure of taking Torgut with him. Then he saw what he was looking for. A few hundred paces ahead was one of the rare trees of the steppe. Low, stunted, gnarled and twisted by the wind, it was little more than a shrub. But Conan knew that it had a tortured, scrawny trunk of amazing strength. He knew also that his luck was with him, for one might encounter no more than four or five of these tiny trees in a day of travel on the steppe.

As they neared the tree, Conan saw that Torgut was going to pass close by it on the right. The Cimmerian inclined his steps slightly to the left so as to pass the tree on the other side, with the rope between. Boria, riding somewhat behind Conan, saw his plan and called out, "Torgut!" But he was too late. Conan darted to

the tree, ran completely around it and leaned back, snubbing the rope effectively around the trunk.

Torgut had time only to look back. Then he was jerked violently from his saddle by the rope that was wrapped around his wrist. He struck the earth with a bone-jarring shock that drove the air from his lungs. Grinning, Conan ran back around the tree and made for the man.

The others were slowing and turning their mounts, but they could not reach Torgut before Conan. The Cimmerian, still a few paces from the inert Hyrkanian, leaped as nimbly as an antelope. He came down with both feet in Torgut's midriff, causing what little breath the man had left to explode from his lungs in a pain-filled bellow. Conan then dropped to his knees and was rewarded with a gratifying snap of ribs.

He sprang to his feet and prepared to jump onto Torgut's face when Boria rode up behind him. In one hand the leader held his unstrung bow, and he swung it with all of his considerable strength. The heavy, whip-like construction of wood and horn cracked into the base of Conan's skull with the force of a spear butt swung with intent to kill. A red sunburst blazed before the Cimmerian's eyes, and he collapsed across his unconscious enemy.

II

A lurid crimson glare outlined the spires of the city as the sun settled beyond the steppeland to the west. Two riders sat their mounts atop the escarpment overlooking the small but fertile valley in which beautiful Sogaria nestled like a great jewel on a cushion of green silk. All around was the arid plain, but within this tiny valley, water worked its ancient magic and caused the land to blossom. Many caravan trails converged upon this land of well-kept fields and orchards, where the very field hands wore silk, which was bartered in Sogaria as cheaply as was cotton in Vendhya or linen in the western kingdoms. "The gongs will sound soon, my lady," said the man, whose flat features and tilted eyes identified him as a member of one of the eastern Hyrkanian tribes, those renowned for their terrible periodic raids into Khitai. "They will shut the great gates for the night." He spat upon the ground. "That is the way of the dwellers in cities, so fearful that they must lock themselves within their walls at night, then go to their homes and bolt the doors and shutters against the clean air. You will not be able to enter until morning."

"I know what cities are like, Bajazet," said the woman impatiently, "and I will find a way in. We waste time here."

The two coaxed their horses gently down the escarpment. The animals were eager to descend once they smelled the water below, and had to be restrained from taking dangerous steps in the uncertain, treacherous footing.