Conan the Marauder (25 page)

Once more Manzur had cause to marvel at the Cimmerian's amazing stealthiness. As they progressed through the camp, Conan moved swiftly, yet his bare feet made no sound, and he had an uncanny ability to avoid obstacles in the darkness. Manzur had never heard that such serpent-like grace and silence were praised as warrior virtues. They were qualities he associated with the savages and the dark forests of far lands. Whatever else he was, the barbarian was accomplished in many arts.

Manzur had always believed that besides courage, a warrior needed only skill with his blades, his lance, his bow and his horse. He was beginning to realize that the warriors of his world were amateurs compared to this barbarian. He was thankful to note that his own awkward attempts at stealth were sufficient. The Turanians around the fires were too absorbed in drink, tale-telling and quarrelling to take much note of the darkness surrounding them.

For, after all, what had they to fear? For all they knew, they were in the midst of the empty steppe, with no enemy for hundreds of leagues. Any who approached would be detected from afar, leaving plenty of time to prepare. In consequence, the Turanians made free with their rations and their wine. Some already lay in drunken stupor, and others had broken out musical instruments. The night resounded to the reedy skirl of pipes, the thump of tambour and the wavering twang of stringed instruments.

Conan came to a halt a half score of paces from a tent much larger than the others. With his palm out, he signalled for Manzur to lower himself to the ground. When both men were flat on their bellies, Manzur crawled up even with the Cimmerian, who whispered in his ear, "Do as I do."

Conan took his sword belt from his waist and slung the sheathed weapon across his back. His dagger he tucked behind a leather bracelet on his left forearm. With his weapons out of the way, he began to slither toward the tent. Manzur emulated him, pleased that he managed the slither with something approaching the Cimmerian's skill. He was getting better at this.

Voices came from inside the tent, but they were too muffled to be understood. With hands widespread, Conan thrust the tips of his fingers beneath the edge of the tent wall. With infinite care he raised the cloth a fraction of an inch at a time. Yellow light poured from beneath the opening to play across their blackened faces.

They could see that several men were seated on cushions within. More important, they could now hear clearly what was being said.

"My Lord Khondemir," said a voice, "we must know now what your plans are. Our men grow more quarrelsome by the day, and if we cannot soon show them some action, I fear that our army may break up. The Sogarians grow restive as well. Princess Ishkala has been speaking overmuch with Jeku, their captain. They are of a mind to pick up stakes and return to their city which is under siege."

"Peace, Bulamb," said a voice that had to be Khondemir's. "Within a day, all shall be changed. Before the sun sets on the morrow, our men will no longer give us trouble. Further, the Sogarians will not be returning to their city. By tomorrow eve, a great host of Hyrkanians shall have this place utterly surrounded and outnumber us by at least forty to one."

Shouts of dismay shook the meeting, but the one called Bulamb quieted them. "Let us hear what the master has to say," said the second in command.

"My friends, what gives the Hyrkanians their great power when they are purposeful? I will tell you. It is their matchless horsemanship and mobility, along with their equally splendid archery. What are they without those things? They are a pack of primitive, superstitious, filthy, unwashed savages. They have always been masters of the steppes, but they have never been able to unite for a great foray into the civilized world.

"That is because their chieftains are as stupid and unimaginative as the poorest tribesman. When they attack, it is mere raiding for tribute, loot and slaves.

When they take a piece of territory, they do not exploit it but merely slaughter the inhabitants and turn it into more pasture for their goats. The hordes would be a fine instrument in the hands of a true conqueror."

"I hear that this Kagan, Bartatua, is different," said one.

"It may be so," acknowledged Khondemir. "He seems to possess gifts, at least by Hyrkanian standards. But I have something he does not suspect: I am in control of his concubine!"

There was a brief silence. Then the one called Rumal spoke. "My lord, I rejoice that you have found such comfort in your exile, but I fail to see how—"

"Mitra give me relief from such dullards!" cried Khondemir, his composure slipping for once. "I did not cultivate the woman for her beauty and charm, great though those are. In order to wield magical power over a rival, one must get close to him, and how closer than through a mistress?"

Conan and Manzur saw the pacing feet of the wizard as he explained as much of his plans as he thought fitting that his followers should know. "When the Hyrkanian horde reaches this place, the woman shall slip from their lines and join me here. She shall bring me that which shall give me power over this Hyrkanian kinglet."

"That is all very well," came the voice of an older man. "But how are we to resist this Hyrkanian horde in the meantime? Forty to one odds are daunting at the best of times. Out here, with no cover and no city walls, they are suicidal. This earthen rampart will not hold for long, and our men may perish beneath the arrow storm before the Hyrkanians begin their assault."

"I chose this place," Khondemir said, "for reasons other than its magical possibilities. I have told you how

primitive and superstitious these steppe horsemen are. This place is surrounded by their taboos. According to the rules of their barbaric religion, no Hyrkanian may ride his horse into the City of Mounds. More important, none may fire an arrow toward it. Do the Hyrkanians now sound so formidable?"

The men assembled thought this over for a while. "It may be," said one, "that we can hold them at bay for some time, dismounted and without their bows. Our own bowmen will be under no such obligation, and a flying squad of horsemen can be appointed to go to whatever part of the rampart the Hyrkanians may be breaching and reinforce the defenders at that spot. How long must we hold out thus?"

"Only a brief while," Khondemir said. "It is not my intention that there should be much bloodshed. With that which the concubine shall bring me, and with the aid of the Power which I shall summon, I shall gain complete mastery of the soul of Bartatua. He shall become my puppet, to do with as I wish. The savages would never follow me, or any other who was not of their blood. But they will follow Bartatua, and I shall control him. After his campaign to take the caravan cities, he plans to conquer Khitai. Who knows whether or not he could take that vast land? But he could take Turan, and that is where I shall cause him to direct his hordes."

The wizard paused, waiting to be certain of the effect of his words. When he heard no objections, he resumed. "That is my plan, my friends. We shall let the steppe tribes take Turan for us. They shall do the dying while we reap the conquest. When we are firmly in power, with myself on the throne and Yezdigerd chained as my footstool, I shall have the puppet, Bartatua, lead his hordes away, toward Khitai or Vendhya or into

the black lands south of Stygia, what does it matter? They shall have performed their task: putting us back in our rightful place as lords of Turan!"

There were loud shouts of approval now. The men seemed well satisfied with Khondemir's arrangements. "A bold plan, my lord," said Rumal, "but only bold men may hope to seize and wield power. And what of the princess? Why is she here with her escort?"

"A trifling business," Khondemir explained. "In order to summon the Power, I must have a sacrifice. For complicated and abstruse reasons concerning history and bloodlines, princesses make superior sacrifices. I requested the escort in order to expand our numbers and to emphasize the importance of my mission. The Red Eagles can bear the brunt of our defence and take most of the casualties in such fighting as takes place before I have complete control of Bartatua."

At mention of Ishkala's fate, Manzur began to start up, only to find an irresistible pressure at the back of his neck, bearing him inexorably down until his face was pressed against the grassy turf. Only by keeping perfectly still was he allowed to breathe. When he had calmed, Conan removed his hand from the back of the youth's neck and signalled for him to back away from the tent.

"Ishkala!" Manzur whispered urgently when they were removed. "We must go to the Sogarian camp and warn her, immediately! Nay, we should rescue her!"

"Rescue her?" Conan said. "From the midst of a thousand defenders? You would earn scant thanks."

"Then at least let us inform the Red Eagles of what awaits them! They are to be sacrificed to the mad ambitions of Khondemir, just as she is to be sacrificed in his hellish ritual!"

Conan leaned close. "Lower your voice, idiot! You'll

have the whole band upon us! Your Red Eagles are nothing to me, and your princess has no call upon my loyalties. Until a few days ago, I was leading forays against Sogaria. Your prince would skin me an inch at a time in the city square if I rescued his whole family from the Kagan's own tent. Do you think his children are more important to him than his territory?"

"You lie, Cimmerian!" said Manzur hotly. "We will be received in Sogaria as saviours."

"I would laugh if it would not bring the Turanians down upon us. Suppose you were able to convince the captain of the Red Eagles to take Ishkala and return to Sogaria. What then? They would encounter the Hyrkanian host that comes hither and they would be destroyed in minutes!"

"Then let us kill Khondemir," Manzur said, mad with frustration.

"Now you are beginning to think," Conan said, "That is a sensible idea. I came here with the intention of taking his head to begin with. There remains a problem. The Hyrkanians come apace. I do not give Khondemir's magic great credit, but I am certain that without it, this camp will be overwhelmed and destroyed in no great time, even if the Hyrkanians are denied their horses and bows. If we slay the mage now, panic will ensue and all will try to flee. They will be slaughtered."

"What care we for that?" Manzur asked. "A pack of scurvy Turanian gallows bait? Let them die!"

"That will leave only a thousand Red Eagles between your Ishkala and certain death. I have seen already what happens when the heavy cavalry of your cities encounters even a small band of Hyrkanian horse-archers. Against such a host, it would not even provide amusement."

"I'll not allow her to be sacrificed in that fiend's foul rites!" Manzur protested, his hand reaching for his sword. He fumbled at his waist for a moment before remembering that the blade was still slung across his back. He reached for it awkwardly, then began to unsling it instead.

"Quiet!" Conan held up a hand for silence. "Someone comes." The Cimmerian reached behind his shoulder and drew the long blade as easily and smoothly as if it had been sheathed at his hip. Manzur vowed silently that he would master that trick, should he live so long. With his sword properly slung at last, he drew it and stood at guard.

Voices and torches were coming their way. "I heard them over here," said someone. "They were speaking a foreign dialect, and trying not to be heard."

"Probably more Sogarian spies," said another. "We'll corner the fools against the rampart and then cook them over a slow fire. It's an amusing sight, and conducive to great looseness of tongue."

As the torches drew near, three separate groups of hunters could be seen. They had spread wide and were closing in, thinking to herd their quarry toward the rampart and away from the Sogarian camp. Manzur expected Conan to dart away into the gloom, but the Cimmerian did nothing of the sort.

"Should we not be away?" said the younger man.

"You are of a mind to be a hero, are you not?" Conan asked. "Think you that you could do better against these noose-cheaters than you did against me?"

The barbarian continued to amaze him. "I have no doubt of it," Manzur answered.

"Good. Then let us do away with a few of them before we take our leave. It- is not polite to make a call upon someone without leaving a souvenir of one's visit."

Manzur had no idea of why his companion was so keen to fight after counselling so much caution, but it was just what he needed. His feelings of frustration and rage were coming to a head, and he gripped his sword hilt with fierce exultation. Enemies to fight at last! The two he had slain during his escape from Sogaria were not sufficient, and the experience had been over too swiftly to be properly savoured. This promised to be far more gratifying.

Each torch party had three or four men. They were quite close before they realized that the two they sought were standing before them.

"Mitra!" said a one-eyed man in a green vest. "What are these, black Kushites?"

A torch holder leaned forward and squinted with mock studiousness. "I do believe it's a northern savage and a boy. Perhaps the black paint is some new fashion from the east. Soon we'll all be wearing it."

The men held weapons at the ready, and in their confidence, they showed no fear of the intruders. They revealed gap-toothed grins, anticipating a bit of rare sport.

"Soon you will have no need of paint or anything else," Conan said, speaking Turanian as it was spoken by army officers. "But if you would know who I am, ask the deserters among you if they know the name of Conan of Cimmeria."

The men looked at each other and shrugged. "There are no deserters here," said another torch bearer. "We are all honest bandits, and followers of the great Lord Khondemir."

"We waste time," said the one-eyed man. "Take them in hand and let us conduct them to a suitable fire. There is too much spying going on in this camp.'' A man who held a spiky mace raised it and advanced upon Conan. The Cimmerian's blade made a wide arc, too swift to see. He cut the man from shoulder to waist, nearly halving him. The backstroke was horizontal and took a second man across the belly. All of a sudden, the quiet corner of the camp was a nightmare scene of blood and entrails.