Conan the Marauder (6 page)

"When first your prince suspected that the Hyrkanian barbarians had designs against Sogaria, he summoned me hither that I might put my sorcerous powers at your disposal, and I have wielded them unstintingly in his service." The audience applauded politely, tapping their fly whisks upon the floor. "My supernatural agents have confirmed your worst fears. The savage Bartatua has gathered the greatest host the nomads have seen in a generation, and he shall lead it against the city within thirty days."

At this there was much agitation. One of the men in military dress rose to speak. "Can we be sure of this? We have had nothing but the reports of travelling merchants thus far. They have said only that the hordes gather. The target could as well be Malikta or Bukhrosha." There were those who agreed with him.

"Honoured sir," Khondemir said in mock humility, "I must insist that my sources of information are infinitely more reliable than those of these travellers."

"What boots it in any case?" asked a magistrate whose turban sported a pearl the size of a child's fist. "If the savage means to take one of the caravan cities, he will want to take them all. Whether we are first or last, he will come to Sogaria in time."

The Turanian inclined his head toward the magistrate. "Exactly, sagacious sir. With the Hyrkanian nation on horseback, it is no good to wait until their raids begin. They campaign at a gallop, and they will be before the gates of your city before you know that they have crossed your borders."

Amyr Jelair turned to a somewhat younger man whose features resembled his own. "My brother, as governor of the city, you must see to it that the granaries are full and that all appropriate livestock are brought within our walls." To another man: "Master of the armouries, see to it that all weapons are in order and ready to be issued to the citizens at need."

Khondemir suppressed a grim smile at the thought of these merchants and artisans taking up arms against the wild warriors of Bartatua. "These preparations are noble and proper, my prince," he said, "but I have weapons at my disposal that will be of far more use to you. Your pardon for my saying so," he bowed toward those in military dress, "but your warriors, though they be brave as lions, have spent their lives on routine

patrols and in chasing bandits across the plain. Sogaria has not seen real war since your father's day."

"I have the utmost confidence," Amyr Jelair said, "in your great powers. Tell us of your plans."

"What need have we of sorcery?" asked a tall captain in a gold-chased breastplate. "Are the walls of Sogaria not strong? Have these unwashed sub-humans not come here before? Arrows cannot take a great citadel. We can stand atop our walls and jeer at them while they rage, sicken and die. In the end, they will look for easier prey: unwalled villages and helpless caravans."

"This chieftain, Bartatua," Khondemir continued, "knows more of war than did his predecessors. He has gathered a great host of slaves for his siege works. Your walls will be undermined, your ramparts assaulted by siege towers. Even if the siege were not successful, your land would be ravaged, the outlying villages destroyed, the profits of many caravans lost. Sogaria would be many years in recovering from such devastation."

"These are words of wisdom," Amyr Jelair said. "And your proposal?"

"I know of a way to draw this horde away from the city. Then, once it is in the place where I shall lead it, I shall call upon the most powerful of my demon servants to smite it."

"Can you truly do this?" Amyr Jelair asked in awed tones.

"I have not wasted such of my time here as I have not devoted to the wizardry arts," said the Turanian. "I have spent many hours in the city archives poring over ancient writings that tell of the steppe tribes. In one of them I discovered a fascinating tale."

He had their total attention now, and the room sat quiet as they followed his story like children in the marketplace listening to the fables of a master storyteller.

"Some five centuries ago, when Sogaria was a part of the short-lived kingdom of Katchkaz, that kingdom suffered the raids of one of these hordes. The king at that time, one Karun, was a warlike sovereign, so he gathered his army and gave chase. For many days they pursued the will-o'-the-wisp horsemen, who always fled mockingly before them. Sometimes the raiders would turn, ride within bowshot and loose a brief hail of arrows. Then they would flee once more, before King Karun could catch them.

"Finally, in exasperation, Karun sent an envoy under a flag of truce. The envoy bore the king's words to the chief of the raiders: 'Why, oh warriors, do you flee before me? Come and fight us, for we fear you not. Come and give us battle, lest the world mock you for cowards.'

"The chief of the raiders answered thus: 'Wherefore should we do battle with you at your pleasure when it is not ours? We have already invaded your land and seized your treasure and your women. What profit for us lies in battle at this time? Yet if you would feel the full weight of our wrath, you may find the tombs of our forefathers near here. Molest those tombs and see whether we will come to fight you.'

"But," Khondemir went on, "the king and his host were already short of water and food. Instead of seeking out these tombs, they prudently turned their steps homeward.''

As if at random, the wizard stepped across the mosaic floor, crossing the line of caravan cities and moving onto the steppe to the north. "I found this story to be fascinating, for it means that there is one solid, rooted place in the lives of these restless people. They have burial grounds that are sacred to them, and they will stop whatever they are doing to defend those necropolises. I summoned spirits of the steppe, and I sent them forth to find the burial ground sacred to Bartatua. This day they brought me word of their success. They found it... here." He pointed to the mosaic beside his slippered foot; it was a featureless yellow field of topaz.

Amyr Jelair leaned forward to look. "The Steppe of famine! Surely there is nothing in that desert place save he bones of dead men bleaching in the sun."

"There is no mistake. This is where the ancestors of Hartatua's people rest, in a place they call the City of Mounds. Give me a strong wing of cavalry, and certain other items, and I shall lead the horde there, and there I shall summon such a creature as shall wipe the barbarians from the face of the earth as though they had never been."

"A wing of cavalry," mused the soldier who had spoken earlier. "It is foolishness to send away so many men when the city most needs them."

"But if Khondemir is correct," said the prince, "the city may need no protecting."

"You said that this place is sacred to Bartatua," said I lie prince's brother. "Will the others of his horde seek to protect the tombs?"

"It matters little," said Khondemir with a wave of his hand. "Bartatua and his Ashkuz will come. Without him and his people, the others will fall out and break up. They would never attempt anything as ambitious as a major siege without his leadership."

"I can spare you perhaps a thousand men," said Amyr Jelair. "Even so, they would be little protection against such a host."

"They will be more than adequate, sire," Khondemir assured him. "For I have learned other things about

these people. By the time they reach us, we will be well within the City of Mounds. These tribesmen have many superstitions and taboos. Among them, none may ride a horse within sight of the mounds. Better yet, none may shoot an arrow into the necropolis. Dismounted, with only their swords and lances, these barbarians will be no more formidable than any other undisciplined rabble. Give me good swordsmen under the command of capable officers and we need have no fear of any number of mere tribesmen."

"That sounds quite reasonable, does it not, my advisors?" Some agreed heartily, some less so. Then another thought struck the prince. "Good Khondemir, you mentioned that besides the cavalry, you would need 'other items.' What sort of items?"

"Oh, minor things having to do with my needs upon the trip. A pavilion, wherein I may work my craft during the halts, certain pieces of furniture for the same purposes... and one other thing."

"And what might that be?" Amyr Jelair asked.

"You must understand, sire, that summoning one of the great powers of another world is not like simply hiring a soldier or a workman. The rituals involved are quite complicated. Since this rite is being performed in your behalf, ideally you should be there in person." At the prince's look of alarm, the wizard put forth a forestalling hand. "I know, of course, that it is unthinkable to take you from the city in the midst of its preparations for siege. Someone of your blood will do nicely. Best of all would be a child of yours."

Amyr Jelair paled. "One of my sons? How could I bear to part with one of my sons?"

"I did not say a son, sire. A daughter will do quite as well."

The prince sat back in relief. "A daughter? That is different. I have several daughters. Ishkala is the eldest. She is difficult, and I despair of ever making a good match for her. You may take Ishkala."

"Very well, sire. Barring accident, she will return to you unharmed. Now, sire, if I am to conform to the schedule I have drawn up tor this plan, I must have the soldiers and your daughter ready to depart at dawn on the tenth day from today,"

"It shall be done," the prince said. "Now that business has been taken care of, let us repair to dinner."

That evening as Khondemir was conveyed back to his mansion, he congratulated himself on having carried out his plan so well. The prince was credulous and unused to situations of such urgency. Even had he been a sharper and more suspicious man, though, the result would have been the same. The plan was a good one, and everything the wizard had said was true... except for what he really planned to do when he reached the City of Mounds.

While Khondemir was being carried from one banquet, another celebration was still rollicking along in the city of Sogaria. A crowd of young men made merry in one of the many taverns bordering the city's bazaar. These taverns catered to the caravan trade, but this one was frequented by the better-educated classes: the students, the higher artisans, and the more disreputable sons of the nobility.

One table was especially noisy this night. The men who sat around it were very young, and they had been there since early evening. The wine flask had made many rounds in that time, and had been refilled frequently. One young man in particular was holding forth,

and his words were forceful, although he stumbled over them upon occasion.

"We live in decadent times, my friends," he proclaimed. "The men of this age care for nothing but amassing money, buying palaces and objects of art, and overindulging themselves with food and wine."

"What is wrong with money, Manzur?" asked a companion. "What is wrong with palaces and objects of beautiful art?"

"And what is wrong with food and wine?" asked another. "You have done more than justice by such as has come your way this night." The table roared with laughter.

"There are greater things!" said the one called Manzur. He was young even in this company, and the suns of scarce eighteen summers had shone upon him. His garments were a bit threadbare and not nearly so fine as those worn by some of his friends, but his features were aristocratic, straight, narrow and cleanly formed. The soft new beard that framed his jaw was chestnut in colour, and many a serving maid let her gaze linger upon him. The lad seemed to have no interest in them, though.

"What greater things, oh Manzur?" cried one, and his tone made it clear that this raillery was a common thing among these young roisterers.

"Glory! And adventure! And love eternal! Where in this soft age is the clash of steel, the whir of arrows, the shouts of brave men in battle?"

"Not far from here, if the rumours be true," said an older friend. But Manzur paid no attention.

"How may a man prove himself to his fellows and to his lady-love save by great deeds?" he demanded.

"Tell us!" chorused his friends.

"It just so happens," said the young man, "that I

have with me some verses I have composed upon this very subject.'' He rummaged within the breast of his robe and under tunic. "Let me see, I know they are here somewhere." He fumbled at his sash and opened a case in which he kept his writing instruments.

"By the gods, we are doomed!" shouted one in mock despair. "Manzur wants to read us his poetry!" There were groans and curses.

"I must fortify myself for this ordeal," said another, hastily pouring himself a fresh goblet of wine.

"There are some things a man simply cannot endure," said a youth who wore the sleeveless robe of an architect's apprentice. From his sash he drew a short, carved dagger, placed its tip against his breast and pretended to attempt suicide.

Manzur paid them no attention, at length locating his errant verses tucked into the top of his boot. "Ah, here they are! Attend me closely, my friends. In years to come you may tell your children that you were present at the first recital of these verses."

Hand spread over his heart, papers held at arm's length, Manzur began to recite:

Where, Gods, are those warriors, Lion-brave, who in our fathers' time Did hold their battle lines against nomad fierce and Turanian proud, Not to mention the scurvy Bukhroshans...

As many of those at the table leaned over, feigning the symptoms of severe illness, the would-be suicide tugged at the poet's striped robe. "Manzur, as highly as we all esteem your poetic works, it is about your ladylove that we wish to hear."

"Ah," sighed the youth, "my beautiful—but I may not let her divine name pass my lips where others may hear." He folded his verses and put them away. Those seated about the table made gestures of gratitude to the gods.

"Why is there such mystery about this lady, Manzur?" asked a youth in a student's turban. "For a fortnight you have sighed and moped about her, and yet we have naught but your word that she is worthy of such suffering." He refilled Manzur's goblet in hope of loosening his tongue, an operation the poet scarcely required.