Conan the Marauder (21 page)

With an evil laugh, Kamchak cleaned his blade on his late opponent's vest as he accepted the plaudits of his companions. They praised his excellent dirksmanship and slapped his back with sycophantic good fellowship.

Ishkala stared in wide-eyed horror as the huge man advanced upon her. His torso, slick with sweat and blood, gleamed in the lurid firelight. His right arm was red from elbow to fingertips as he re-sheathed his now-clean dagger. He leered dementedly, ignoring his wounded thigh and reaching for the woman.

"Haul that carrion away," he said, grasping Ishkala's jewelled girdle and pulling her to him. The overpowering reek of him turned her stomach, but she took a deep breath, preparing to voice the most powerful scream of her life. Surely someone would hear.

"Stop." The order, quietly spoken, resulted in instant stillness. Even Ishkala abruptly ceased in mid-breath her effort to scream. Khondemir stepped into the firelight, and a shudder of superstitious dread shook even this hardened pack of killers.

"Release her," the mage ordered.

The group of men around the fire fell back, leaving Ishkala and her Turanian bandit-captor standing alone. She expected Kamchak to obediently let her go, but the man was in no mood for any such action. He had just slain a rival in hand-to-hand combat for this woman, and he was not going to surrender his prize at the behest of some posturing sorcerer.

"Release her?" The Turanian's voice rose to a shriek and his head shook uncontrollably, showering Ishkala with sweat and spittle. "I took this woman by my own hand, wizard. Get thee elsewhere with your chantings and spells! Or else get a dagger and fight with me for her, as Hazbal did." The powerful arm tightened around Ishkala's waist, squeezing the breath from her.

"The knife, is it?" said Khondemir. "Very well, the knife it shall be."

The wizard raised one long-fingered hand, and light flashed in a multitude of colours from the lacquered nails as the fingers performed an unearthly dance. Ishkala watched closely, but she could not quite credit her own eyes, for surely human fingers were not capable of such contortions. So hypnotized was she by the uncanny motions that she barely noticed when the arm fell from her waist, releasing her.

Kamchak stood as if stunned, body and face slack. Slowly one hand went to his sash and closed around the handle of his dagger. He drew it, an inch at a time.

Ishkala thought the man was preparing to attack the mage, and she could not decide which of the two she would rather see dead. When Kamchak had the dagger drawn, though, he stared at it as if he had never seen it before. As he held it high before him, his eyes opened wide with horror, and Ishkala realized that the man's body was no longer under his control. With torturous slowness, Kamchak reversed the dagger in his grip and took its handle in both hands.

The wizard's fingers continued their unnatural dance as the Turanian placed the tip of the knife against the flesh of his lower belly. With a look of utter madness upon his sweating face, the bandit began to thrust the blade in. He screamed blood-curdling as the tip of the weapon disappeared beneath his skin, and continued to scream as the blade slowly penetrated. As he thrust, there was little blood, no more than a trickle beneath the initial cut. Then he twisted the dagger, bringing its convex edge upward. Gradually he began to drag the blade toward his breastbone.

As the weapon made its ghastly path up the capacious belly, the cut below widened and a mixture of blood and entrails spilled out. For a moment the knife was halted by the solidity of the breastbone. Then, impossibly, it continued its progress with a clearly audible rending of bone, separating sternum and collarbones and splitting the larynx. When at last Kamchak fell backward into the fire, sending up a shower of sparks together with a cloud of foul smoke, the dagger was lodged in his lower jaw.

There was utter silence except for the sizzling and popping noises the fire made. The men dared not move as they eyed the wizard with horror. Khondemir stood as still as a statue, his fingers now at rest, although their tips still glowed faintly. Behind him now stood Bulamb, drawn by the commotion.

"What has happened here, lord?" said Bulamb.

"There has been a slight breach of discipline," said the mage. "I trust there will be no more such lamentable lapses."

"There shall be none, lord," Bulamb assured him.

"Princess," said Khondemir, "come with me." He beckoned with his still-glowing fingers and she obeyed. She was not under compulsion, but she had just seen demonstrated the utter futility of defying the wizard. From the nerveless hand of a Turanian onlooker she took her robe and veil and resumed the garments, then followed the wizard from the firelight.

They passed through the camp to an open space near the earthen rampart, where Khondemir had pitched his tent. The wizard said nothing as he went within, and the princess meekly followed. The interior of the tent was unexpectedly lavish, with low, folding tables, carpets and hangings. A small brazier cast up scented smoke, and several finely wrought bronze lamps illuminated the scene. She saw many books and parchments spread upon the tables, and a number of curious instruments of bronze, silver and crystal, some of them glittering with gold and jewels. These she took to be wizardly paraphernalia. Gratefully she noted that there seemed to be no spirits, familiars, or other supernatural creatures about.

"Why, Princess, were you in the Turanian camp in the dark of night?" The wizard's look was severe, but Ishkala determined not to be intimidated.

"And wherefore not? I am a princess of royal blood, wizard, and I am not accustomed to explaining my actions to any but my father, the prince." She hoped that her regality hid her fear.

Khondemir favoured her with a faint smile. "And yet

it was an act of the sheerest folly. Those men care nothing for your high pedigree. You found that out to your great discomfort. No, my lady, do not play the haughty princess with me. There can be only one reason for your irregular behaviour. You were spying. What was it that you wished to learn among the Turanians?"

' 'Spying? How can one spy upon allies, Khondemir? Surely such friends as we cannot be holding secrets from one another."

"Do not try my patience, Ishkala," said the wizard. He raised a hand and his fingertips began to glow.

"I wanted to know what we are doing here," she said hastily. Clearly, defiance was out of the question. She decided to settle for cold dignity. "I found by listening to your Turanian rogues that you plan to seize the throne of Turan for yourself. I know that my father knows nothing of this. With the Hyrkanians besieging Sogaria, the last thing he would want is a war with Turan. You cannot embroil us in your mad scheme, wizard, whatever the services you have promised our city!"

Khondemir waved a calming hand. "Have I asked Sogaria to support my claims upon the Turanian throne in any fashion? Of course not. Please, Princess, take your ease and we shall discuss this." He poured wine from a ewer and handed her a goblet. He gestured toward a low hassock, and she seated herself.

"Explain, then," she said.

"My dispute with King Yezdigerd, the usurper, is a just one, but I have no intention of asking my adopted city of Sogaria to take my part in what is a civil war. I am the true heir to the throne of Turan. My mother, Princess Konashahr, was the first wife of King Yildiz of Turan. Some months before I was born, certain political considerations caused Yildiz to put my mother away

and take another wife, the daughter of a northern satrap whose aid he needed in order to secure his own claim to the throne. That woman is Yezdigerd's mother. She wished to assure that no impediment would stand between her son and the throne of Turan, so she had my mother strangled and ordered that I be slain as well, though I was but a babe of less than two years. Whether Yildiz knew of these things I know not. He was a weak man, and easily led by clever advisors and wives."

The sorcerer gazed broodingly into his wine, as if descrying the future in its depths. "But I was not slain. Among the men sent to carry out the foul deed was a guardsman who was a distant kinsman to my mother. He was unable to save his kinswoman, but he managed to slay the assassins before they reached the nursery. He spirited me to the family lands, bordering the desert north of Samara. There I was placed with obscure relatives and given an education in the arts of true power, while slowly, over the years, my family was stripped of lands and possessions, accused of plotting against the throne, and weakened by the drafting of its young men into military units destined for suicide missions in hopeless wars.

"When Yezdigerd assumed the throne, he continued these persecutions until nothing remained of my family but a few isolated, terrified households in the desert lands... and myself. I swore that I would use the dark arts I had mastered so as to take my rightful place upon the throne and restore the fortunes of my family. I will expunge even the memory of the usurper, Yezdigerd, from the histories of Turan!"

"I see," said Ishkala judiciously. She did not bother to give the story either credence or denial. She was wise enough in the ways of nations to know that with the accession of each new monarch, other claimants sprang from the ground like mushrooms. Long-lost sons and brothers of the dead king appeared in abundance, each with a little following of fortune-hunting lackeys prepared to swear to the legitimacy of the claim.

"Excellent. You will appreciate, then, that my meeting with my supporters here has nothing to do with my services on behalf of your father. It merely provided me with a convenient opportunity to carry out certain policies of reorganization without these actions coming to the attention of Yezdigerd. Meanwhile, our numbers are doubled, always an advantage in perilous times when attack may take place at any moment."

"Very wise, Khondemir, and very efficient." She sought to refrain from sounding sarcastic. Khondemir seemed satisfied, but she suspected that his attitude was more that of disdain than of concern. This gave her much food for thought. If he was little concerned with whatever report she tendered her father, was it because he did not expect her to live long enough to see her father again? A sudden chill seized her. "Will you tell me why I am here?"

The mage waved a hand airily, and streaks of coloured light hung for a moment in the space through which his fingers had passed. "A mere... linkage, my dear. I labour on behalf of your distinguished father. Since he cannot be present at the time the major ritual is performed, I must have an... assistant who is of his near blood. He needs his sons in the defence of the city, so his eldest daughter was a logical choice. Do not be alarmed, child. I shall only require your aid briefly, in one short but crucial phase of my ritual. After that, the threat of the Hyrkanians shall be no more and you may go as you please."

Ishkala was well aware that the wizard's words, even if true, carried a double meaning. She was in

deadly danger. "When," she asked, "is this ritual to take place? I am anxious to return to my city."

"On the fifth night from this," Khondemir said, "the moon shall be waking, the stars shall be in their proper order, and all shall be ready. Then we shall dispose of the Hyrkanian threat."

"Very well, Khondemir," she said with her best attempt at regality. "I wish you had told me these things ere now. It would have saved us both much trouble and embarrassment this night."

"Trouble, Princess?" Khondemir echoed, his eyebrows arching. 'What trouble?"

As Ishkala returned through the dark, brooding night to her tent, she knew that her danger was intense. Where was Manzur? Just now she needed a rescuer, however unrealistic he might be.

XII

Conan awoke when his horse started, jerking the rein tied around the Cimmerian's wrist. He sprang from the ground where he had been sleeping, his hand on the hilt of his sword. What had disturbed the beast?

As Rustuf had predicted, they had ridden into the dust storm with the pursuing Hyrkanians visible in the distance behind them. In the storm they had managed to shake pursuit, but they had also become separated. As the wind subsided, Conan saw no sign of the Hyrkanians or of his two companions. He had spent the last hours of darkness in fitful sleep, ever ready to leap up and ride at the first sign of the Hyrkanians.

The dawning light of day paled the sky above the eastern horizon, and against that light Conan saw the silhouette of a lone horseman. Was it Rustuf or Fawd, or perhaps a Hyrkanian separated from his fifty? He decided to await the rider's arrival. If it were an enemy, a single man was not sufficient threat to give Conan cause for flight.

As the man neared and the light grew, Conan saw that the horseman wore the uniform of a Sogarian messenger, complete with light armour and yellow plumes. The man appeared to be dejected, staring gloomily at the ground as his mount ambled along at a leisurely pace. What might this apparition portend?

"Good day to you," said Conan as the man drew near. The rider, whom Conan could now see was a very young man, looked up in great astonishment.

"What manner of savage are you?" he demanded.

"The best kind, a Cimmerian. And what might you be doing out here on the steppe? Surely there can be few recipients for messages in this desolate waste."

"I am not a messenger. I am Manzur Alyasha, poet and hero. By my own hand, I slew two Hyrkanians with two strokes of my sword."

So this was the mad poet and swordsman of whom the youths at the inn had spoken. Conan smiled grimly. Every youth thought himself the mightiest of warriors after his first blooding. The boy, thin-skinned and touchy, saw the smile and took it for an insult.

"I see that you do not believe me. Trifle not with Manzur the Poet, foreigner. I was trained by the greatest of Sogarian sword-masters. Doubtless you are some caravan guardsman and think yourself to be a warrior, but do not confuse yourself with the likes of me." He stared down haughtily, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by his helmet, which sat slightly askew.