Conan the Marauder (30 page)

There came a sound of shouting from the necropolis. Then there were trumpets braying and drums beating, followed by a pounding of hooves.

"They begin!" cried Bartatua, who stood next to Conan.

"Give them a few more minutes," said the Cimmerian. He saw his men stir restlessly, inflamed by the sounds of battle.

"No man stands until I give the word!" said Conan. ' 'Each of you shall soon have plenty of opportunity to die. Be not so eager!"

Carefully the Cimmerian gauged the din from the necropolis. When the greater part of the noise had faded away toward the north, he stood and waved his shield overhead.

'' Forward!" he bellowed.

With a howl of bloodlust, the men sprang to their feet and swarmed over the rim of the draw. With his shield ready for the storm of arrows, Conan began to run. But as the sounds of the horde behind him faded away, he turned and was dismayed to see that he was far in front of the Hyrkanians.

"Run, you sons of whores!" he shouted. "You are nothing but archery targets if you walk!"

Some of the men broke into an awkward shuffle, and Conan realized that most of these men had never run in their lives. Few of them had even walked more than a few-score paces at a time. Their bandy-legged waddle

would have been laughable except that he knew they were now within arrow range.

As they continued their maddeningly slow progress toward the rampart, it seemed that the wall was all but undefended. A lone warrior stood atop the crest, and Conan did not at all like the look of the situation. When the horde was still two hundred long paces from the rampart, the lone soldier raised a silver trumpet and blew a long, snarling blast. Within moments warriors stood shoulder-to-shoulder atop the rampart. Each held a bow raised at a high angle. A dark cloud arced lazily toward the Hyrkanians.

Conan raised his shield and crouched as much of his body behind it as he could. He heard shafts glance from its surface and he heard the shrieks of stricken men. All around him bodies toppled, transfixed by long shafts.

"Faster, curse you!" he shouted. They continued their slow, sullen advance, and Conan sensed the heart going out of them. This was not their kind of warfare. Already he could see men in the garb of many tribes lagging behind. Almost all of the men in front were Ashkuz tribesmen, for it was their ancestral tombs that lay under defilement.

As the attackers drew nearer to the rampart, the archers began training their bows downward. Suddenly behind the line of bowmen there appeared mounted men. From the saddle, these fired over the heads of the standing men, increasing the fire-power of the defenders by at least one third.

Conan groaned to see so many of the tribesmen dropping. And they had yet to inflict a single casualty upon the enemy! "Up on the rampart now!" he shouted. "Another few paces and they can't use their bows."

At that moment a thunder of hooves cut across his shouting. From around the east and west comers of the necropolis came two wings of the Red Eagles. This was the kind of fighting for which heavy cavalry was made, and they sliced through the lightly armoured footmen like a spear piercing smoke. Axes and swords fell, and rose bloodied to fall again. Spears thrust, and no thrust failed to bury a sharp steel point in the entrails of a Hyrkanian raider. Each time the spiked head of a mace descended, the flanks of horses were spattered with blood and brains. Here and there a horse was hamstrung and its rider mobbed and slain, but for the most part, the charge was little more than a slaughter of stymied men.

The two lines of horsemen smashed into the great mob of nomads who were trying to force their way into the gateway. Here the butchery was truly terrible, as the horsemen cut back and forth through the footmen like the blade of a scythe harvesting wheat.

Conan cut a man from the saddle and turned to Bartatua, who was wrestling with a warrior he had hauled from his speared horse.

"This is no good!" Conan said as the Ushi-Kagan pulled his bloody dagger from the horseman's body. "We must fall back and regroup. At this rate, they'll kill us all!"

"Aye," said Bartatua. An arrow narrowly missed his face and buried itself in the throat of a nearby tribesman. The man went down with a torrent of blood spraying from his lips.

"Fall back!" Bartatua shouted. He signalled to the nearest men, as did Conan. Gradually, all along the line, men began to break away and flee. Many who did so fell upon their faces, arrows in their backs.

Conan backed away, always keeping his shield between himself and the enemy. Once a shaft brushed his thigh, making a shallow cut. Another nicked his ankle. His skill and his armour saved him from serious injury.

When they were out of arrow range, the men regathered. The Ushi-Kagan surveyed the scene of carnage with dismay and rage. "How many have we lost?" he demanded.

"Thousands. And I doubt that we slew a hundred of them. Probably not half that many." Conan surveyed the shattered warriors who sat upon the ground. "And at least one man in three is wounded, many seriously."

They were rejoined by the northern party. These tribesmen had not suffered as badly, for the feint had not been pressed far within arrow range and the northern wall had been thinly defended. Nor had this horde met with a heavy cavalry charge. After receiving his chief's report, Bartatua led Conan a distance away from the others and spoke with him.

"They knew," he said. "They knew that the attack from the north was to be a feint. They were fully prepared to savage my horde, with archers and horsemen waiting below the southern rampart until we were within range. They had their heavy cavalry massed at the eastern and western walls, ready to ride over the rampart and take us in both flanks." He brooded for a few minutes. "It was Lakhme. When that witch went into the City of Mounds last night, she told them of my strategy. How long before my Kagans figure that out, Conan? Who will respect a leader who reveals his most important secrets to a foreign slave woman?"

Conan said nothing. When Bartatua wanted advice for the next attack, he would say so.

"And too many of those who died were Ashkuz, my own tribe. They are the strong pillar that upholds my sway. Must I start all over again, building my power among the tribes, reforging the broken alliances that

were built upon their trust in my invincibility?" Conan saw that the most self-confident man he had ever known was beginning to doubt himself. "Well, Conan, tell me how I may retrieve this sorry situation."

"For one thing, we do nothing for the rest of the day," said the Cimmerian. "Let the men rest and regain heart. Let them also brood upon slain comrades and kinsmen. We shall strike at sunset. That will leave enough light for those who fear to die in the dark." He looked toward the ramparts, where warriors had descended to finish off the wounded and retrieve arrows from the bodies.

"Their concentrated defence is too much to face," he continued. "We will divide into four groups and assault all four sides at once. There will be many slain, but nothing like this morning. The enemy will be spread too thin to concentrate its fire. If your men could just run, their losses would be far fewer, but that is asking the impossible."

"At least we shall be able to avenge our honour," said Bartatua, "whatever happens after that."

"You brood overly much," said Conan. "Perhaps you will have to defer your campaign for another year. Once you give your men victories and much booty, they will love you as before. Warriors are easily replaced. A new crop of youths comes of age with every passing year. This is a valuable experience. Now you know how the people you attack feel when you slaughter them and they have no way of striking back."

The Ushi-Kagan managed a grim smile. "It is a good thing that I do not require much sympathy, for you give very little."

Conan shrugged. "I never felt the need of it, why should you? Leaders of men have more important things to do than to feel sorry for one another."

"So they have," said Bartatua. "Come, let us brief the men." He was about to turn away when something caught his attention. A horse was galloping across the rolling ground toward the gate in the grassy rampart. Its rider wore flowing black robes.

"The witch has done it again!" Bartatua shouted. "May all the gods curse the flesh from her bones!"

"I suppose," said Conan, "that it is too much to hope that some archer will put a shaft through her delightful body."

Such hope indeed proved futile, and Lakhme rode through the gate unmolested. "No matter," Bartatua said. "I vowed to kill her in the City of Mounds, and so I shall. We must be careful not to slay her in the fighting. That would be too quick. Come, let us make our dispositions."

XVII

The sun was touching the horizon as Khondemir prepared his great spell-casting. This was a summoning more ambitious than any he had ever before attempted. He had no doubt of its outcome, though, for his faith in his destiny was absolute. Bound before him on the altar was the Princess Ishkala, her tender limbs pinioned. It had been a simple matter to send men to her tent while the Red Eagles were occupied with the morning's battle. Since then, the Sogarians had been busy with preparations to repel another assault. It had not occurred to them to check on Ishkala's welfare.

In the red light of sunset he could see the enemy arrayed in four hordes. As the sun began to slide below the horizon, the hordes surged forward.

"They come!" cried Lakhme. Attired only in her silken loincloth, she stood next to the altar. She had assisted Khondemir in his final preparations. It had been she who had stripped the clothing from the Sogarian princess, strapping the girl down upon the altar with a kind of unholy pleasure on her face. Even now she stroked Ishkala's white flesh as she would a favourite pet.

"No matter," Khondemir said. "In a few minutes they shall see that which will stop them in their tracks. Let us begin."

With his sorcerous apparatus assembled before him, the wizard began to chant, casting upon a fiery brazier the items Lakhme had brought him. Gradually the sky above the altar changed in colour. Ishkala's eyes filled with terror, but her screams were confined within her throat by a tight gag across her mouth. Lakhme stroked the princess's brow and crooned soothing words as the girl eyed the sharp dagger in Khondemir's hand.

"When they know they are defeated," Bartatua shouted to his men, "some will try to break away. I want no man to seize a horse and give chase. It is sacrilege to go mounted in a burial ground. I have already detailed a thousand men on the swiftest horses to chase down any who flee. They are stationed beyond the limits of the City, in territory where it is lawful for men to ride. You have heard Conan's words, and you remember what happened this morning. Cover the ground as swiftly as possible. The arrow fire will not be as intense this time, and their cavalry cannot attack all four hordes at once. Now go to your places. When the sun touches the horizon, we attack!"

The host split into four divisions and each began making its way to its attack point.'Even with their depleted numbers, few had been able to hear the Ushi-Kagan's words, but their officers had delivered the gist of them. Morale had been restored, and they were determined to avenge their honour.

Side by side, Conan and Bartatua prepared to charge with their men. Once again the assault would be from the south, whence they would head for the great entrance gate. Bartatua had determined to keep up with the Cimmerian and to stay well before his men. If all could see him, they would be less likely to falter. It would be unendurable disgrace for Hyrkanians to allow their Ushi-Kagan to plunge alone among the enemy.

They gripped their weapons tightly as they watched the sun. The bloody orb was at the horizon. As the fiery edge touched the steppe, Bartatua raised his arms.

"Forward!" shouted the Ushi-Kagan. The shout was echoed by his tribesmen and was soon taken up by the men surrounding the other walls.

Conan started out at a steady lope. Beside him, Bartatua tried to match stride. As they covered ground, the Cimmerian looked back to see if the men were keeping the formation he had ordered. They were in four ragged lines, with plenty of space separating them. This was because the great enclosing square would contract as they neared the rampart. If they charged as a single mob, they would be crammed together shoulder-to-shoulder by the time they reached the rampart. They would become an easy target for arrows and would be unable to use then- weapons when they had the opportunity

The sleeting arrows began to fall among them. As Conan had predicted, the fire was not as heavy and concentrated as that of the morning. The men were no longer quite so helpless either, as the lighter arrow fall and their recent experience allowed them to make better use of their small shields. Many had equipped themselves with extra armour, taken from the wounded and slain.

As they drew within a hundred paces of the gate, a thunder of hooves betokened another cavalry charge. The Red Eagles came storming through the gate, splitting into two wings as they emerged. They smashed into the Hyrkanian line at two points. On this occasion their progress was not as easy as it had been that morning. As the first cavalry entered the horde, nooses snaked out to encircle mount and rider. Horse and man crashed to the ground, to be mobbed and overwhelmed by footmen.

Following riders toppled over the fallen. As others swerved to avoid the bloody, kicking heaps, they made easy marks for more cast ropes. The cavalry charge began to falter, then completely halted in a wild melee of slashing horsemen and screaming, blood lusting footmen.

Conan roared a wild Cimmerian war cry as he charged into the defenders blocking the gateway. As soon as the last of the cavalry had cleared the opening in the rampart, the defenders had blocked it in a shield wall three lines deep. He was out of the range of arrow fire now, and no longer needed to preoccupy himself with defence.

A Turanian raised a lance to cast at Conan, only to lose lance and arm in a single, terrible blow of the Cimmerian's sword. Conan blocked a sword with his shield, then smashed the swordsman's face with the shield's edge as he cut down a man to his right, the blade shearing through light mail, snapping collarbone and ribs and biting deep into the entrails. Blood sprayed over the Cimmerian and those standing nearest him.