Conan the Marauder (7 page)

"I swore an oath to her," Manzur said, "that I would never reveal her identity. The consequences would be terrible for us both."

"Hah!" said the suicide. "Did I not tell you? She is married! The wife of some fat-bellied merchant, she entertains Manzur amid opulent surroundings while her husband is away on business. Admit it, Manzur."

"Beware!" cried Manzur, fumbling for his sword. "You sully the name of a great lady!"

"How can we do anything to her name?" asked another. "You will not reveal it to us."

Manzur resumed his seat. "Alas, her identity must remain a secret within my heart. She is too high-born for such as me to raise eyes to, and yet I have dared. We have pledged our love, but it is doomed because of the difference in our stations."

His friends were rapt. At last he was speaking of the woman of mystery. "Describe her, Manzur," said one craftily. "Surely a poet must be able to delineate such a beauty in such wise that we may see her without knowing her name."

"Her hair, my companions, is as black as the midnight sky."

"There is scarcely another colour of hair in all Sogaria," said the crafty one, disappointed.

"Her skin is as pale as the rising moon."

"Be more specific, Manzur," said the suicide.

A thought seemed to strike the poet. "But wait! There is a way I may yet tell you of her incomparable qualities." He reached into his other boot and withdrew a sheaf of papers. "This very day I have composed a poem to her. It is a trifling thing, still in rough form, of some two hundred ninety-seven lines, and I — "

He looked up from his verses to see the last of his friends storming out of the tavern by doors and windows. Perplexed, he surveyed the deserted table, then drained the last cup of wine.

"As courage and honour have fled our age," he proclaimed, "so has the appreciation of fine poetry." He looked about for agreement, in time to see the proprietor approaching with the look of a man who expects to be paid. Manzur decided it was time to take to his way outside, he wended his way toward the prince's palace and brooded upon the many tragedies of his life. As a poet and philosopher, he knew himself doomed to a life of neglect, forever misunderstood by his fellow men. As a lover, he was likewise doomed, for only the greatest and fairest of women could stir his heart. While, much to his surprise, he had found just such a lady right in Ms native city, it was inevitable that she should be of the very highest birth and therefore unsuitable for the reprobate son of an impoverished minor noble.

Like many another such youth, Manzur was too proud to work and too poor to have connections at court. Such slight income as he had came from giving lessons in swordsmanship at the studio of Master Nakhshef. It called for little effort, merely the teaching of fundamentals to first-year students, but anything having to do with arms was honourable.

At least he could take pride in his swordsmanship. He had begged his way into the school as a young boy and had endured much scorn from the old master in his first years. Gradually the scorn became acceptance, then approval. Finally the old man took Manzur on as an assistant, and even hinted that someday the youth might replace him as master.

Manzur drew his blade and went through a complicated drill that would have been demanding of a sober man, but his performance was flawless. His sword was a variant of the Turanian tulwar: single-edged, razor-sharp, with the slightest of curves. Light and slender, in the hands of a skilled man it was exceedingly deadly. Master Nakhshef had insisted that he attain proficiency in all weapons, but the light sword was his favourite.

His steps had led him to the rear wall of the prince's palace, and he sheathed his blade in a single, flowing motion. There was an ancient vine growing up the wall, thick and gnarled. He looked along the lane he had come by and saw that it was deserted. The garden facing the wall was likewise deserted. No sentries showed themselves atop the wall. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he began to climb.

It was a sign of the decadence of the times, he thought as he ascended, that a veritable scaling-ladder had been allowed to grow up a wall of the palace. Likewise, that the sentries rarely walked their rounds. I The fact that these derelictions allowed him to visit his love did nothing to dim his indignation.

Once atop the wall, he dropped lightly into the small courtyard beyond. All was quiet. He skirted the central pool and entered a veranda where, during the days, certain ladies of the court took shelter from the fierce sun. Stepping cautiously to an intricate tracery of marble, he whispered urgently, "Ishkala!"

With his heart in his mouth, he waited. Each time he did this, he knew that instead of his lady, a guard might be waiting.

"Manzur?" A slight form in voluminous garments came through the doorway next to the marble lattice. He swept her into his embrace.

"My lady, my love, how I have longed for you since—"

She drew back from him sharply. "Manzur! You have been out carousing with your friends again! You smell as if you had slept in a wine cask."

"I must drink to forget, love, lest thoughts of you so dominate my soul that when called upon by honour to draw my sword, I—"

"Cease this prattle," she hissed. "Something terrible has happened!"

For a moment, he almost sobered. "You have not been betrothed?"

"Almost as bad. That fearsome Turanian wizard visited the court this evening. As usual, I hid behind the throne to hear what was being said. There is to be war!"

"War!" Visions of glory danced in his head.

"The wizard, Khondemir, says that he can prevent this war."

"What a pity," said Manzur, disappointed.

"He plans to take an expedition far into the desert steppe and there wreak some horrible magic to destroy the nomads."

"These wizards have taken all the honour out of warfare," he protested indignantly.

"Worse than that. He claims that he needs me for his spell!"

"You? Perhaps you had better explain from the beginning."

She told him all she had heard from her hiding place. "This night," she went on, "the mayor of the palace came to say that I must prepare for a long journey. We are to be escorted by the Red Eagles. The wizard says I shall not be harmed, but I am not so trusting as my father. I know that the Turanian plots evil against the city!"

"I'll not allow this," Manzur vowed. "I shall demand an audience with the prince."

"You would not get past the gatekeeper, my love," she said. "I must obey my father, even when he acts foolishly."

"I cannot let you do this," he said. "Ever since I felt your heart calling out to mine, forcing me to climb yonder wall and find you—" He went on in this vein for some time.

In truth, he had been passing this way some weeks earlier with a pack of friends after a drunken party, and they dared him to climb the wall of the prince's palace. He accepted the challenge, ascended to the battlement, turned to take a bow, and then lost his balance and fell into the courtyard, straight onto a fragrant bush. When the world stopped swimming about him, he found himself staring up into a vision of loveliness such as he had never dreamed possible. By now he had forgotten the more-embarrassing details of the event and believed the story he had made up for her.

"You must go," she said. "The eunuch guards will be making their rounds. You must forget about me. If I return from this journey, well and good. If not, then find another love." Sobs distorted her last words.

"I shall do something, my love," he said. "I know not what, but I shall find some way to be with you."

They broke apart at the sound of tramping feet and clanking metal. The guard was coming. With a final dash, Manzur ran to the wall and eschewed the tree he slowly climbed, using the more-prosaic gardener's ladder. Lying in the park near the palace, he wandered despondently. How could he contrive a way to be by his lover's side in her hour of need? He considered going to the house of Khondemir and challenging the mage to a 'did. He discarded the thought. Doubtless the man would make use of some dishonourable, wizardly advantage. He watched the beautiful crescent of the moon between two spice trees and considered composing a poem to Ishkala, comparing her beauty to that of the moon. It seemed to be an original idea.

He awoke in the morning with a shattering head and the distinct feeling that he was at the bottom of a great sea. He sat up and saw some men trimming hedges in the garden, paying him no heed. He sought to remember the events of the night before. First, someone had attempted to insult his poetry. Then— Ishkala! Her words came flooding back to him. There had to be something he could do. Shakily he rose on unsteady feet and walked from the garden.

As he descended into the city proper, he became aware of a great deal of untoward activity. People were running hither and yon, officials were proclaiming importantly, armed soldiers were marching up and down. The city was preparing for war. At any other time Manzur would have thrown himself into the thick of things. It was what he had been dreaming of for years. Now, though, he could only think of Ishkala and the terrible fate that might befall her.

A half-squadron of colourful cavalry cantered past, and a wonderful idea came to him. Without bothering to return home to refresh his appearance, he hurried to the southern gate of the city. Here, just without the walls was a vast area of pens, barracks and stables where the soldiery of the city was kept in garrison.

A few questions addressed to several hurrying soldiers brought him to a wide parade field where several squadrons were going through their drill with the precision of seasoned professionals. Because they wore nodding red plumes in their helmets, he knew that these were the famed Red Eagles, the prince's elite cavalry force. He saw an officer observing the drill and he ran to the roan's side.

"I am Manzur Alyasha, sir, and I wish to join the Red Eagles."

The officer's mouth bent into a tolerant smile within his beard. "Now that the city faces war, many young men will want to join. Is there some reason I should take you into the finest cavalry unit of Sogaria? By the state of your clothing, I can tell that no court nobleman is going to procure you a commission."

"I have no court influence," Manzur admitted, "but! I am excellent with a sword." He whipped his weapon forth and executed a dazzling practice form.

"Very pretty," said the officer. "I can see that you have studied the blade long and well. But in the army we do not use those little weapons. Can you wield a man's sword?" He drew his own blade and handed it to Manzur. It was long and broad, with more curvature, than that of Manzur's sword. It had the reach a cavalryman needed, and the weight to split armour.

Manzur thanked the gods that old Nakhshef had made him practice with weapons of war. He went through a heavy-sabre form, its motions simpler and more forceful than those used for the light sword.

"That is nice," said the officer, "but can you ride?"

"I can," Manzur asserted confidently. He was an adequate horseman, although he lacked the special skills of the cavalryman.

"Then go to yonder compound, where all the nags are being gathered. A new troop is forming, and if you out there soon enough, you might have a mount."

"No," Manzur insisted, "it must be the Red Eagles."

"Young man," said the officer, "you cannot simply ask to be admitted to the Red Eagles. Many apply for a lowly trooper's place and are turned back, though they be seasoned warriors. Only the most proven are admitted. Go join some other regiment. After you have a few years of experience within your armour, apply to me again."

Manzur turned away, his hopes dashed. Somehow he had to find a way to follow Ishkala into the Steppe of Famine.

V

As the sun lowered, a meal was brought to the men who sat chained to the posts. A slave deposited a platter and a flask between Conan and Rustuf, and the two fell upon them with gusto. There was bread of good quality, and cheese, but best of all, there was plenty of smoking meat.

"At least the food here is better than that of the pit," said Rustuf. He seized a joint and tore at it with his teeth.

With more moderation, Conan did likewise. It was the first decent meal he had eaten in many days. "Like men about to be crucified," he said, "we are well fed. Go easy, though. No man fights his best on an overfull stomach." He took the flask and drank. It was a decent wine, diluted with water.

"Aye," said Rustuf through a mouthful of lamb. "Our companions are not so delicate." The others in the enclosure were seizing their food like feeding jackals, quarrelling over the prize bits and throwing blows when they could reach one another. Conan snorted disgust at such lack of self-control.

As they were finishing their dinner, a visitor arrived in the compound. It was a woman, cloaked and scarved so that only her face showed. She was accompanied by the head slave master, and she began looking over the prisoners like a buyer at a cattle market. As she approached, each man stood for her inspection.

Conan ignored her as she reached him. "You!" said the slave master. "Stand for my lady."

Conan brushed some crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

"Is he deaf?" asked the woman. "Or does he not understand the language?"

"This one understands," said the slave master. "He is arrogant, though. Bested a parcel of my guards this afternoon. The warrior who brought him in said that he is prouder in bonds than most men walking free." He rapped on Oman's shoulder with his coiled whip. "Stand, hero. You shall have plenty of opportunity to show off your courage this night."

Slowly Conan unwound to his full height. The woman looked him over, missing nothing: the long legs, the deep chest, the thick neck, the arms heavily cabled with muscle. She walked around him, cataloguing his scars, admiring his size and symmetry. She felt an arm, kneading the tough muscle. She punched his midsection with a small, gloved fist. Her hand bounced back as if it had hit a tree trunk. Last of all, she studied his face.

"Cleaned up and properly shaved," she said to the slave master, "it might be presentable." Then, to Conan: "How do you fight, foreigner?"