Conan the Marauder (5 page)

The Kozaki were not a true people, but a polyglot collection of horseback bands comprised of runaway serfs, outlaws, former pirates and other dregs of the surrounding nations, united only by their courage, love of adventure, and fierce independence. The different bands were called after the rivers, rapids and river islands where they made their camps. They were by turns bandits, raiders and irregular cavalry for the civilized armies.

"Tell me," Conan said, "have any of you planned an escape?''

Rustuf laughed sourly. "Where would you have us escape to? Truly, they do not even need this pit to confine us. We could force our way up the ramp, but then we would simply be out on the steppe, where they would ride us down for their sport. Even if we could seize some of their horses and bows, look at this lot!" He waved a massive arm disdainfully at the huge mass of apathetic slaves. "They've no spirit. If they had the guts of real men, I would still chance it. Among five thousand fleeing horsemen, a few of us might hope to make our escape. But most of these cannot ride and are too fearful to run."

"It is as I thought," Conan said. "And yet there must be some way out of here. Perhaps alone, and at night."

At that moment a drum thundered and the slaves rose lazily to their feet. Men appeared at the rim of the pit, dragging great skin bags that they proceeded to dump over the edge. The slaves swarmed toward the piles of food, showing their first signs of spirit as they fought and argued over the bounty.

Conan and Rustuf strode to the nearest pile and shoved aside a knot of scrambling men. Conan picked up a flat, round loaf. It was not much, but it might keep him alive. It was made of coarse, dark meal, gritty and bristling with chaff, slave fare of the roughest sort. He bit into it and choked down a mouthful.

"Is there water here?" he asked.

"When the sun is lower, they will march us out in small groups, under guard, to the stream," Rustuf told him. "There we may flop on our bellies and lap up water with our tongues, like curs."

"Then we had better hope that Bartatua moves out soon," Conan said, "for before long we will weaken and die on such fare."

The Kozak led him to a relatively uncrowded spot, and the two men sat on the ground and ate, a laborious process since they had nothing with which to wash down the dry bread.

"There may be a way," said Rustuf in a low voice.

"Speak on," Conan urged.

"Bartatua likes to have sport at his banquets. He sets slaves and captive warriors to fighting one another as entertainment for his guests."

Conan saw the possibilities. "Wrestling? Fist strokes? Or with weapons?"

"All manner of combat," replied the Kozak "He likes to see how other peoples fight. He thinks it is good for his officers to see these things as well."

"Is it to the death?"

"They fight until one is finished. Bartatua does not care greatly whether the defeated man dies or not." Rustuf picked a small pebble out of his bread and tossed it away. "I have for some time considered getting myself chosen for these fights. It may be that should a man fight mightily enough, Bartatua might enrol him in his army. Better a soldier than a slave, and I would

not be ashamed to follow such a man. A conqueror is a conqueror, even if he is a dog of a Hyrkanian." "Why have you hesitated to take this path?" Conan

asked.

"It has a certain drawback," the Kozak replied, "that causes even a warrior like me to question the wisdom of such a course."

"And what might that be?"

"I have spoken with some of the slaves who have been called up to serve at these banquets. Bartatua usually has a banquet whenever some allied chief joins him here. Often when a man triumphs skilfully in such a fight at one of these entertainments, the onlookers enjoy it so much that they wish to see him fight again."

"And so they pit him against another opponent immediately," Conan said.

"That is true. Sometimes there will be five or six bouts in succession. Eventually even the greatest fighter tires and is defeated by a man perhaps no more skilful than he, but less weary."

"It is also," Conan said, "a good way to eliminate the most-likely troublemakers among his prisoners and

slaves."

Rustuf grinned, nodding. "That, too, has occurred to me. And yet, a small number of men have impressed him enough to earn a place in his army."

"The chances may be slender," Conan observed. "But anything is better than being a slave. How do we get chosen for these fights?"

The Kozak laughed. "I could tell that you are a man of spirit and quick decision. Wait until they take us for water this evening. At that time we will make ourselves

known."

"What if they pit us against one another?" Conan asked.

"Then," said Rustuf, clapping him on the shoulder, "we will find out which of us is the greater fighter."

Conan lay on his belly, easing his parching thirst for the first time that day. The water had already flowed through the camp, but it did little good to worry about that for it was the only water for many leagues. When he had drunk his fill, he rejoined the crowd of slaves waiting to be led back to the pit. He stood next to Rustuf, but the two men ignored one another.

"Back to your kennel, dogs!" shouted a slave master with a snap of his whip. "Move smartly now. Your brethren of the lash want to drink as well."

The slaves began to shuffle back toward the pit. Conan and Rustuf stood on the edge of the group. As a slave master passed, Rustuf stumbled; knocking Conan directly into the man, who snarled and struck at Conan with his lash. "Keep your distance from your betters, dog!"

"No man lays a lash on me!" shouted the Cimmerian. Before the startled Hyrkanian could defend himself, Conan leaped in and grabbed him by the throat. Snatching the whip from the man's grasp, he reversed it and struck a tremendous blow with its weighted butt. He was careful, though, to strike at the lower edge of the man's helmet. His captors would not take a killing lightly. The slave master dropped unconscious, and several more guards came rushing up, drawing swords.

As the first came in slashing, Rustuf stuck out a booted foot and the man fell sprawling. The Kozak twisted the blade from his hand and gave him a rap with its pommel. As another charged in, his blade descending to split Conan's skull, the Cimmerian grabbed him by the wrist and belt, lifted him and slammed him to the ground. Appropriating the weapon from the stunned

man, he was now armed and ready to take on the rest of the guards.

Two came slashing in from his left and he leaped joyously to meet them. Although they were matchless archers, he found that the Hyrkanians were indifferent swordsmen, especially when on foot. He parried their clumsy strokes without difficulty and dropped one of them with a blow of the flat of the blade to the side of his head. The other cursed and cut, but Conan batted his sword aside and kicked him in the belly. As the man doubled forward, Conan smote him on the back of the neck with the base of his fist.

He turned to see Rustuf lustily engaging another two Hyrkanians and rushed to join him. Conan took charge of one, and the ring of steel on steel continued for a few moments longer before a band of horsemen surrounded them.

"Hold!" shouted the head slave master The combatants stepped back and lowered their arms. Conan saw that a dozen arrows were trained on them, the bows at full draw.

"Drop your weapons!" the slave master ordered. Sullenly, they complied. The slave master came closer. "So, you two are fond of fighting? Then we must find something better for you than mere slave work." He turned to the bowmen. "Take them to the Great Enclosure."

They were herded toward the centre of the camp. There a large area had been enclosed by a huge curtain that kept out the cutting, dust-laden winds of the plains. The curtain was fifteen feet high and covered with barbaric decorations. Towering above it were the equally barbaric standards of the Hyrkanian chieftains: poles topped with horns, horses' tails and the skulls of beasts.

The slave master arrived on his mount and led them within the windbreak. There were perhaps twenty large tents inside, each with a standard before its entrance. Beside the largest of the tents stood the highest pole. From the spreading yak horns topping it there dangled nine white horses' tails. This, Conan thought, must be the tent of Bartatua.

Well away from the tents, near the windbreak, was a small area enclosed by a folding lattice-fence. Within were a number of thick stakes buried deep in the ground. From a ring at the top of each stake hung a six-foot chain ending in an iron neck ring. Conan counted twenty-five men already chained to these stakes, and there were several neck rings still awaiting an occupant.

"It is good that you have so fine an urge to fight," the slave master said. "Our chief holds a great banquet this night, and he also enjoys close combat. Get in there."

The two did as they were told, having little choice. The bowmen still followed, and their strings were still taut. Only when Conan and Rustuf were firmly locked in the neck rings did the guards relax their weapons and leave.

"We have been successful thus far," Rustuf said. "Although a chain and a neck ring are no more comfortable than the slave pit."

Conan stood and gripped the chain. He tugged on it, but the stake would not budge. He stood directly over the stake and tried with all his might to pull it up. It did not move. He knew then that not only was the stake buried many feet deep, but that its base was fastened to a crosspiece. Even his strength would not be sufficient to uproot it,

"The company seems to be no better here, either," said Rustuf.

Conan studied their neighbours. They were a hard-

bitten lot, scarred and burly, with the look common to soldiers, bandits and pirates: an air of truculence that expressed belief in their own strength and very little else.

Nearest him was a huge man whose features were eastern but who belonged to no people that Conan knew. "Who are you?" Conan asked in the tongue of the nomads.

"I am the one who will kill you at this evening's fights, dog."

The man was grim but he did not bluster. He meant every word, and Conan did not seek to draw him out further. Instead, sat down and leaned against the stake, conserving his strength against the evening's work.

IV

Khondemir gazed into his scrying glass and saw there visions that only a wizard could interpret. Vague, inhuman faces appeared and spoke to him, although no sound was heard. At last he waved a hand over the glass in a gesture of dismissal. The glass cleared and he replaced it in its chest.

From a tower nearby came the call of the watch-keeper, giving the citizenry notice that the gates would dose in one hour. The wizard had an important appointment upon that hour, and he began to prepare himself. He donned his finest robe and his best collar of gold and jewels. He combed out his forked beard and wrapped his tall skullcap in a turban of jewelled silk. He was a man of considerable height, lean and well formed. His features were those of the Turanian aristocracy, and he could move with confidence in any civilized court.

The servant appeared at his ring. "Have my sedan chair waiting at the garden gate in one half hour," he commanded. The servant bowed and left to do his bidding. Khondemir would take with him none of his sorcerous paraphernalia. The fathers of the city knew well his powers, and he had no need to impress them. As his chair was carried through the bustling streets, the mage admired the surrounding beauty. Sogaria was indeed a splendid city. Its public buildings were towers of white marble, and the homes of the wealthy were only slightly less magnificent. Few were truly poor in the city, which was founded on the rich caravan trade rather than upon the estates of the nobles.

From the balconies and the flat rooftops a profusion of hanging plants swayed in the wind, for like all dwellers in arid regions, the Sogarians loved gardens. Flowers grew in profusion everywhere, and rich hangings were aired in the sunlight daily, adding to the brilliant colours of the city. The streets were paved with cut stone, and fountains played at most of the street corners. The palace of the prince, Amyr Jelair, stood upon a low hill surrounded by gardens raucous with the cries of exotic birds brought from far lands. The brilliance of their plumage outshone even the spectacular, ever-blooming flowers. Khondemir took deep pleasure in the splendour of the place, and in the knowledge that one day soon he would possess many such palaces.

The bearers set the sedan chair down in a courtyard in which fountains of coloured and perfumed water splashed. An officer of the palace bowed deeply and conducted the wizard into a great audience chamber, where a number of distinguished men of the city sat on cushions around the periphery. Tall windows freely admitted air and light, and the floor was a splendid mosaic that formed a map upon which the caravan cities were depicted in precious stones and the features of the surrounding lands were identified in lettering of obsidian. Khondemir seated himself upon a cushion and held his silence while the others conversed in low tones. Some of them he knew to be magistrates and officials, others were soldiers. There were several present whom he did not recognize, but that did not surprise him. He had been in the city for but a short time and his circle of acquaintance was not wide.

All bowed to the floor when Amyr Jelair entered. He was a portly man of middle years who wore a harried look. He acknowledged their salutes and seated himself on a low couch.

"I have summoned you here," Jelair said without preamble, "because the emergency we have long anticipated may soon be upon us. I wish all of you to hear the words of the great mage, Khondemir, who has come from Turan to aid us in this time of peril."

At Jelair's nod, Khondemir stood. "My prince, distinguished nobles, most of you know me. Since I was cast out of my native land by the usurper, King Yezdigerd, you have taken me in and made me one of you. I have come to regard Sogaria as my home, and this danger to my adoptive city strikes me as deeply as it does you." A courtier by training as well as a necromancer, Khondemir knew well the value of honeyed words.