Conan the Unconquered

by Robert Jordan

  But Conan strode on; the rest could follow or not, as they chose. He would not spend precious moments in convincing them. With the old astrologer struggling to keep up he plunged ahead. Neither spoke. Breath now was to be saved for walking.

  Where the horses had struggled to pass there were spaces where a man might go more easily. Akeba and the Hyrkanians were soon lost to sight, had either chosen to look back. Neither did.

  There was no smooth highway for them, though. Even when the sandy ground was level, their boots sank to the ankles, and rocks lay ready to turn underfoot and throw the unwary into thornbushes boasting black, finger-long spikes, that would rip flesh like talons.

  But then the ground was seldom level, except for occasional stretches of muddy beach, pounded by angry waves. For every beach there were a pair of headlands to be descended on one side and scaled on the other, with steep hills between, and deep gullies between those. Increasingly the land became almost vertical, up or down. One hundred paces forward took five hundred steps to travel, or one thousand. The horses would have been useless.

  Of course, Conan reasoned, sweat rolling down his face, grit in his hair and eyes and mouth, he could move inland to the edge of the plain. But then he would not know when he reached the beach where the galley lay. He would not let himself consider the possibility that it might no longer be there. Too, on the plain they would leave even clearer traces of his passage for their hunter, and most of the time gained by traveling there thus would be lost in struggling to the beaches when they were sighted.

  A crashing in the thick brush behind them brought Conan’s sword into his hand. Cursing, Akeba stumbled into sight, his dark face coated with sweat and dust.

  “Two more horses died,” the Turanian said without preamble, “and another went lame. Tamur is right behind me. He’ll catch up if you wait. The others were arguing about whether to abandon the remaining horses when I left, but they’ll follow as well, sooner or later.”

  “There is no time to wait.” Resheathing his blade, Conan started off again.

  Sharak, who had no breath for speaking, followed, and after a moment Akeba did as well.

  Three men, the young Cimmerian thought, since Tamur would be joining them. Three and a half, an he counted Sharak; the old astrologer would be worth no more than half Akeba or Tamur in a fight, if that much. Mayhap some of the other nomads would catch up in time, but they could not be counted on. Three and a half, then.

  As Tamur joined them, plucking thorns from his arm and muttering curses fit to curl a sailor’s hair, fat raindrops splattered against the back of Conan’s neck. The Cimmerian peered up in surprise at thick, angrily purple clouds. His eyes had been of necessity locked to the ground; he had not noticed their gathering.

  Quickly the sprinkling became a deluge, a hail of heavy pounding drops. A wind rose, ripping down the coast, tearing at the twisted scrub growth, howling higher and higher till it rang in the ears and dirt hung in the air to mix with the rain, splashing the four men with rivulets of mud. Nearby, a thick-rooted thornbush, survivor of many storms, tore lose from the ground, tangled briefly in the branches around it, and was whipped away.

  Tamur put his mouth close to Conan’s ear and shouted. “It is the Wrath of Kaavan! We must take shelter and pray!”

  “’Tis but a storm!” the Cimmerian shouted back. “You faced worse on Foam Dancer!”

  “No! This is no ordinary storm! It is the Wrath of Kaavan!” The Hyrkanian’s face was a frozen mask, fear warring plainly with his manhood. “It comes with no warning, and when it does, men die! Horses are lifted whole into the air, and yurts, with all in them, to be found smashed to the ground far distant, or never to be seen again! We must shelter for our lives!”

  The wind was indeed rising, even yet, shaking the thickets till it seemed the scrub was trying to tear itself free and flee. Driven raindrops struck like pebbles flung from slings.

  Akeba, half-supporting Sharak, raised his voice against the thundering wind and rain. “We must take shelter, Cimmerian! The old man is nearly done! He’ll not last out this storm if we don’t!”

  Pushing away from the Turanian, Sharak held himself erect with his staff. His straggly white hair was plastered wetly to his skull. “If you are done, soldier, say so. I am not!”

  Conan eyed the old man regretfully. Sharak was clinging to his staff as to a lifeline. The other two, for all they were younger and hardier, were not in greatly better condition. Akeba’s black face was lined with weariness, and Tamur, his fur cap a sodden mass hanging about his ears, swayed when the wind struck him fully. Yet there was Yasbet.

  “How many of your nomads followed, Tamur?” he asked finally. “Will they catch up if we wait?”

  “All followed,” Tamur replied, “but Hyrkanians do not travel in the Wrath of Kaavan. It is death, Cimmerian.”

  “Jhandar’s henchmen are not Hyrkanian,” he shouted against the wind. “They will travel. The storm will hold the galley. We must reach it before the wind does and they put to sea. They, and Yasbet, will surely be aboard by then. If you will not go with me, then I go alone.”

  For a long moment there was no sound except the storm, then Akeba said, “Without that ship I may never get Jhandar.”

  Tamur’s shoulders heaved in a sigh, silent in the storm. “Baalsham. Almost, with being declared outlaw, did I forget Baalsham. Kaavan understands revenge.”

  Sharak turned southward, stumping along leaning heavily on his staff. Conan and Akeba each grabbed one of the old man’s arms to help him over the rough ground, and though he grumbled he did not attempt to pull free. Slowly they moved on.

  Raging, the storm battered the coast. Stunted, wind-sculpted trees and great thornbushes swayed and leaned. Rain lashed them, and grit scoured through the air as if in a desert sandstorm. The wind that drove all before it drowned all sound in a demonic cacophony, till no man could hear the blood pounding in his own ears, or even his own thoughts.

  It was because of that unceasing noise that Conan looked back often, watching for pursuit. Tamur might claim that no Hyrkanian would venture abroad in the Wrath of Kaavan, but it was the Cimmerian’s experience that men did what they had to and let gods sort out the rights and wrongs later. So it was that he saw his party had grown by one in number, then by two more, and by a fourth. Rain-soaked and wind-ravaged, the grease washing from their lank hair and the filth from their sheepskin coats, the rest of Tamur’s followers staggered out of the storm to join them, faces wreathed in joyous relief at the sight of the others. What had driven them to struggle through the storm—desire for revenge on Jhandar, fear of their pursuers, or terror of facing the Wrath of Kaavan alone? Conan did not care. Their numbers meant a better chance of rescuing Yasbet and taking the galley. With a stony face that boded ill for those he sought, the huge Cimmerian struggled on into the storm.

  It was while they were scaling the slope of a thrusting headland, a straggling file of men clinging with their fingernails against being hurled into the sea, that the wind and rain abruptly died. Above the dark clouds roiled, and waves still crashed against cliff and beach, but comparative silence filled the unnaturally still air.

  “’Tis done,” Conan called to those below, “and we’ve survived. Not even the wrath of a god can stop us.”

  But for all his exuberant air, he began to climb faster. With the storm done the galley could sail. Tamur cried out something, but Conan climbed even faster. Scrambling atop the headland, he darted across, and almost let out a shout of joy. Below a steep drop was a length of beach, and drawn up on it was the galley.

  Immediately he dropped to his belly, to avoid watching eyes from below, and wriggled to the edge of the drop. The vessel’s twin masts were dismounted and firmly lashed on frames running fore and aft. No doubt they had had time to do little more before the storm broke on them. Two lines inland to anchors in the dunes, to hold the ship against the action of the waves, and the galley had been winched well up the beach, yet those waves had climbed the
sand as well, and still clawed at the vessel’s sides. Charred planks at the stern, and the blackened stumps of railing, spoke of their first meeting.

  As each of the others reached the top of the headland they threw themselves to the ground beside Conan, until a line of men stretched along the rim, peering at the ship below.

  “May I roast in Zandru’s Hells, Cimmerian,” Akeba breathed, “but I did not think we’d do it. The end of the storm and the ship, just as you said.”

  “The Wrath of Kaavan is not spent,” Tamur said. “That is what I was trying to tell you.”

  Conan rolled onto one elbow, wondering if the nomad’s wits had been pounded loose by the storm. “There is no rain, no wind. Where then is the storm?”

  Tamur shook his head wearily. “You do not understand, outlander. This is called Kaavan’s Mercy, a time to pray for the dead, and for your life. Soon the rain will come again, as suddenly as it left, and the wind will blow, but this time it will come from the other direction. The shamans say—”

  “Erlik take your shamans,” Akeba muttered. The nomads stirred, but were too tired to do more than curse. “If he speaks the truth, Cimmerian, we’re finished. Without rest, a troupe of dancing girls could defeat us, but how can we rest? If we don’t take that ship before this accursed Wrath of Kaavan returns … .” He slumped, chin on his arms, peering at the galley.

  “We rest,” Conan said. Drawing back from the edge, Conan crawled to Sharak. The aged astrologer lay like a sack of sodden rags, but he levered himself onto his back when Conan stopped beside him. “Lie easy,” the Cimmerian told him. “We’ll stay here a time.”

  “Not on my account,” Sharak rasped. He would have gotten to his feet had Conan not pressed him back. “This adventuring is a wet business, but my courage has not washed away. The girl, Conan. We must see to her. And to Jhandar.”

  “We will, Sharak.”

  The old man subsided, and Conan turned to face Akeba and Tamur, who had followed him from the rim. The other nomads watched from where they lay.

  “What is this talk of waiting?” the Turanian demanded. “Seizing that galley is our only hope.”

  “So it is,” Conan agreed, “but not until the storm comes again.”

  Tamur gasped. “Attack in the face of the Wrath of Kaavan! Madness!”

  “The storm will cover our approach,” Conan explained patiently. “We must take the crew by surprise if we are to capture them.”

  “Capture them?” Tamur said incredulously. “They have served Baalsham. We will cut their throats.”

  “Can you sail a ship?” Conan asked.

  “Ships! I am a Hyrkanian. What care I for …” A poleaxed expression spread over the nomad’s face, and he sank into barely audible curses.

  In quick words Conan outlined his plan. “Tell the others,” he finished, and left them squatting there.

  Crawling back to the rim, he lowered himself full-length on the hard, wet ground, where he could watch the ship. The vessel could not sail until the storm had passed. With the patience of a great cat watching a herd of antelope draw closer, he waited.

  The rain returned first, a pelting of large drops that grew to a roaring downpour, and the wind followed close behind. From the south it screamed, as Tamur had predicted, raging with such fury that in moments it was hard to believe it had ever diminished.

  Wordlessly, for words were no longer possible, Conan led them down from the height, each man gripping the belt of the man ahead, stumbling over uneven ground, struggling against the wind with grim purposefulness. He did not draw his sword; this would be a matter for bare hands. Unhesitatingly Conan made his way across the sand, through blinding rain. Abruptly his outstretched hand touched wood. The side of the ship. A rope lashing in the wind struck his arm; he seized the line before it could whip away from him, and climbed, drawing himself up hand over hand. As he scrambled over the rail onto the forepart of the galley he felt the rope quiver. Akeba was starting up.

  Quickly Conan’s eyes searched the deck. Through the solid curtain of rain washing across the vessel, he could see naught but dim shapes, and none looked to be a man, yet it was his fear that even in the height of the storm a watch was kept.

  Akeba thumped to the deck beside him, and Conan started aft with the Turanian close behind. He knew the rest would follow. They had nowhere else to go.

  A hatch covered the companionway leading down into the vessel. Conan exchanged a glance with Akeba, hunched against the driving rain. The Turanian nodded. With a heave of his arm Conan threw the hatchcover back and leaped, roaring, down the ladder.

  There were four men, obviously ship’s officers, in the snug, lantern-lit cabin, swilling wine. Goblets crashed to the deck as Conan landed in their midst. Men leaped to their feet; hands went to sword hilts. But Conan had landed moving. His fist smashed behind an ear, sending its owner to the deck atop his goblet. A nose crunched beneath a backhand blow of the other fist, and his boot caught a third man in the belly while he still attempted to come fully erect.

  Now his sword came out, its point stopping a fingerbreadth from the beaked nose of the fourth man. The emerald at his ear and the thick gold chain about his neck named him captain of the vessel as surely as their twin queues named all four sailors of the Vilayet. The slab-cheeked captain froze with his blade half drawn.

  “I do not need all of you,” Conan snarled. “’Tis your choice.”

  Hesitantly licking his lips, the captain surveyed his fellows. Two did not stir, while the third was attempting to heave his guts up on the deck. “You’ll not get away with this,” he said shakily. “My crew will hang your hearts in the rigging.” But he slowly and carefully moved his hand from his weapon.

  “Why you needed me,” Akeba grumbled from a seat on the next-to-bottom rung of the ladder, “I don’t see at all.”

  “There might have been five,” Conan replied with a smile that made the captain shiver. “Get Sharak, Akeba. It’s warm in here. And see how the others are doing.” With a sigh the soldier clattered back up the ladder into the storm. Conan turned his full attention on the captain. “When are those who hired you returning?”

  “I’m a trader here on my own—” Conan’s blade touched the captain’s upper lip; the man went cross-eyed staring at it. He swallowed, and tried to move his head back, but Conan kept a light pressure with the edged steel. “They didn’t tell me,” the sailor said hastily. “They said I was to wait until they returned, however long it might be. I was of no mind to argue.” His face paled, and he clamped his lips tight, as if afraid to say more.

  While Conan wondered why the galley’s passengers had affected the captain so, Akeba and Tamur scrambled down the ladder, drawing the hatch shut on the storm behind them. The Turanian half-carried Sharak, whom he settled on a bench, filling a goblet of wine for him. The astrologer mumbled thanks and buried his face in the drink. Tamur remained near the ladder, wiping his dagger on his sheepskin coat.

  Conan’s eyes lit on that dagger, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing. Putting a hand on the captain’s chest, he casually pushed the man back down in his seat. “I told you we need these sailors, Tamur. How many did you kill?”

  “Two, Cimmerian,” the nomad protested, spreading his hands. “Two only. And one carved a trifle. But they resisted. My people watch the rest.” A full dozen remain.”

  “Fists and hilts, I said,” Conan snarled. He had to turn away lest he say too much. “How do you feel, Sharak?”

  “Much refreshed,” the astrologer said, and he did seem to be sitting straighter, though he, like all of them, dripped pools of water. “Yasbet is not here?”

  Conan shook his head. “But we shall be waiting when she is brought.”

  “Then for Jhandar,” Sharak said, and Conan echoed, “Then for Jhandar.”

  “They resisted,” Tamur said again, in injured tones. “There are enough left to do what they must.” No one spoke, or even looked at him. After a moment he went on. “I went down to the rowi
ng benches, Conan, to see if any of them were hiding among the slaves, and who do you think I found? That fellow from the other ship. What is he called? Bayan. That is it. Chained to a bench with the rest.” Throwing back his head, the nomad laughed as if it were the funniest story he had ever heard.

  Conan’s brow knitted in a frown. Bayan here? And in chains? “Bring him here, Tamur,” he snapped. “Now!” His tone was such that the Hyrkanian jumped for the ladder immediately. “Tie these others, Akeba,” Conan went on, “so we do not have to worry about them.” With his sword he motioned the captain to lie down on the deck; fuming, the hook-nosed seaman complied.

  By the time the four ship’s officers, two still unconscious, were bound hand and foot, Tamur had returned with Bayan. Other than chains, the wiry sailor from Foam Dancer wore only welts and a filthy twist of rag. He stood head down, shivering wetly from his passage through the storm, watching Conan from the corner of his eye.

  The big Cimmerian straddled a bench, holding his sword before him so that ripples of lantern light ran along the blade. “How came you here, Bayan?”

  “I wandered from the ship,” Bayan muttered, “and these scum captured me. There’s a code among sailors, but they chained me to an oar,” he raised his head long enough to spit at the tied figure of the captain, “and whipped me when I protested.”

  “What happened at Foam Dancer? You didn’t just wander away.” The wiry man shifted his feet with a clank of iron links, but said nothing. “You’ll talk if I have to let Akeba heat his irons for you.” The Turanian blinked, then grimaced fiercely; Bayan wet his lips. “And you’ll tell the truth,” Conan went on. “The old man is a soothsayer. He can tell when you lie.” He lifted his sword as if studying the edge. “For the first lie, a hand. Then a foot. Then … . How many lies can you stand? Three? Four? Of a certainty no more.”

  Bayan met that glacial blue gaze; then words tumbled out of him as fast as he could force them. “A man came to the ship, a man with yellow skin and eyes to freeze your heart in your chest. Had your … the woman with him. Offered a hundred pieces of gold for fast passage back to Aghrapur. Said this ship was damaged, and he knew Foam Dancer was faster. Didn’t even bother to deny trying to sink us. Muktar was tired of waiting for you, and when this one appeared with the woman, well, it was plain you were dead, or it seemed plain, and it looked easy enough to take the woman and the gold, and—”