Conan the Swordsman

by L. Sprague De Camp

  They were camped in a stretch of forest east of Khorshemish when Rhazes said: "I must cast our horoscope to ascertain if danger awaits us in the capital of Koth."

  He took his calculating box from the large leathern sack, which contained his magical apparatus. He studied the stars overhead, peering through the branches of the surrounding trees, and turned the silver knob, watching the dials by the flickering firelight. At last he said:

  "Indeed, peril awaits us in Khorshemish. We had best take the back roads around the city. I know the route." The astrologer frowned at his instrument, made small adjustments, and continued: 'T am puzzled by an indication of another danger, close to hand."

  "What sort?" said Conan.

  "That I cannot tell, but we had best be on our guard." Rhazes carefully returned his machine to the sack, in which he fumbled and brought forth a length of rope. "I'll show you a trick of petty magic, which I learned from a sorcerer in Zamora. See you this? Catch it!"

  He tossed the rope to Conan, who shot out a hand. Then Conan leaped up with a startled oath, hurling the object from him, for in midair it had turned into a writhing serpent. Falling to earth, the snake changed back to an inert piece of rope.

  "Damn your hide, Rhazes!" snarled Conan, half drawing his sword. "Do you seek to murder me?"

  The astrologer chuckled as he retrieved the rope. "Merely an illusion, my dear General. ' Twas never aught but a rope. Even if it had truly been a serpent, it was—as anyone could see—a snake of a harmless kind."

  "To me, a snake is a snake," grunted Conan, resuming his seat. "Count yourself lucky your head still rides atop your shoulders."

  Imperturbably, Rhazes returned the rope to his bag, saying: "I warn you not to pry into this pack. Some of the things therein are not so harmless. This casket, for example."

  He drew out a small, ornately carved copper chest, larger than the calculating device, and soon returned it to the bag.

  Fronto grinned an elfish grin. "So the mighty General Conan fears something after all!" he chortled.

  "Indeed," growled Conan, "when we sight the towers of Ianthe, we shall see who fears—"

  "Do not move!" said a harsh voice in Kothic. "You are covered by a dozen drawn bows."

  Conan turned his eyes as a man stepped out of the shadows—a lean man in ragged finery, with a patch over one eye. A movement among the trees revealed the presence of his fellows.

  "Who are you?" grated Conan.

  "A distressed gentleman, collecting his fee for the use of his demesne, to wit: this greenwood," said the man, who called to his men, "Come closer, lads, and let them see the points of your shafts."

  There were only seven archers in the robber band, but they were quite enough to keep three travelers covered.

  Conan bent his knees beneath him, as if preparing to spring erect. Were he alone, he would have instantly attacked, trusting to the mail shirt beneath his tunic; but the fact that his comrades would surely perish if he did so made him hesitate.

  "Ah!" said the leading robber, bending over Rhazes's leathern sack. "What have we here?" Thrusting in a hand, he brought out the copper casket. "Gold—not heavy enough. Jewels—mayhap. Let us see—"

  "I warn you not to open it," said Rhazes.

  The one-eyed man gave a small snort of laughter, fumbled with the catch, and raised the lid of the box. "Why," he exclaimed, "'tis empty—or full of smoke—"

  The robber chief broke off with a shrill scream and hurled the box away. From it had issued what looked in the firelight like a cloud of sooty smoke. The cloud, like a living thing, swelled to man-size and wrapped itself around the one-eyed robber, who staggered about, thrashing his arms and beating his clothes as if to put out enveloping flames. As he danced, he continued screaming. Rhazes sat motionless, muttering to himself.

  The box lay open where it had fallen, and from it poured another animated cloud and yet another. Shapeless, amorphous presences, they billowed through the air, like some shapeless creatures swimming through the depths of the ocean. One fastened on a second robber, who also began to leap about and yell.

  The remaining robbers loosed their arrows at the inky clouds, which continued to roll out of the copper casket, but the shafts met no resistance. The robber chief and the archer ceased writhing and lay still. In a trice, the remaining archers vanished from the fire-fight, their pounding feet and shouts of terror receding into the silence of the forest.

  Rhazes pushed himself erect and recovered his box. Holding it open, he raised his voice in a weird chant, and one by one the smoky clouds drifted toward him and poured into the casket. They seemed to have no trouble crowding back into their pen.

  At last Rhazes snapped shut the lid and turned the catch. "He cannot say I did not warn him," said the astrologer with a smile. "Or, I should say, his ghost cannot so accuse me."

  "You're more of a sorcerer than you care to own," growled Conan. "What were those spooks?"

  "Elemental spirits, trapped by a powerful spell on this material plane. In darkness they obey me, but they cannot endure the fight of day. I won the casket from a magician of Luxur in Stygia." He shrugged. "The stars foretold that I should win the game."

  "Seems like cheating to me," said Conan.

  "Ah, but he tried to cheat me, too, by enchanting the dice."

  "Well," said Conan, "I've gambled away more gold and silver than most men see in a lifetime; but Mitra save me from being lured by a wizard into a game of chance!" Conan poked the fire thoughtfully. "Your man-eating clouds saved our gear and perhaps our necks as well. But had I not been listening to your chatter, I should have heard the men approach and not been surprised like a newborn lamb. Now stop the talk and go to sleep. I'll take the first watch."

  -

  Rhazes guided the party over little-traveled roads around Khorshemish, until they were again on the main road to Ophir.

  As the leagues fell behind them, Conan grew more and more uneasy. It was not the prospect of breaking into King Moranthes' stronghold that daunted him; he had survived many such episodes. Nor was it fear of torture; and death had been his companion for so long that he paid it less attention than he would a fly.

  He finally found the source of his unease: their journey so far had been too free of trouble. Whenever they were stopped by road patrols, Rhazes talked their way past them as handily as with the border guards. There had been no magical menace, no desperate combat, no wild pursuit. Conan smiled at the irony of it. He had become so hardened to peril that its absence made him uncomfortable.

  At last they came in sight of Ianthe, straddling the Red River. A short, sharp rainstorm had swept the air clean, and the setting sun sparkled on the metal ornaments that crowned the city's domes and towers. Over the wall stared the red-tiled roofs of the taller houses. Fronto said:

  "To cross the river by the floating bridge, one must enter the city—a questionable plan. Or we can ride half a league upstream to the nearest ford."

  "Is the tunnel entrance on the northern side?" asked Conan.

  "Aye, General."

  "Then we'll go upstream to cross." Rhazes looked sharply at Fronto. "Can we reach the tunnel by midnight?" "I'm sure of it." The astrologer nodded.

  -

  The moon, a thick crescent waxing toward the half, flitted palely through the trees as the three men dismounted in a grove on the northeast side of the city. A bowshot away, the crenellated city walls rose black against the star-strewn sky. Conan took from his saddle bags a bundle of torches—long pine sticks with one end wrapped in rags that had been soaked in lard.

  "Stay with the horses, Rhazes," muttered Conan. "Fronto and I will enter the tunnel."

  "Oh, no, General!" said the astrologer firmly. "I'll go with you. The tethered beasts will be quite safe. And you may need my bag of magic tricks ere you get Khossus out alive."

  "He's right, General," said Fronto the thief.

  "He's too old and fat for acrobatics," said Conan.

  "I am more active than you think," re
plied Rhazes. "Further, the stars foretell that you will require my aid to bring off your enterprise."

  "Very well," growled Conan. In spite of himself, Conan had been impressed by some of Rhazes' prognostications about such things as weather and accommodations at inns. "But if you lag behind and Ophir-eans seize you, do not expect me return to rescue you!"

  "I am prepared to take my chances," said Rhazes.

  'Then let's go!" hissed Fronto, fidgeting. "I cannot wait to flesh my dagger in one of Moranthes' villains!"

  "No stabbing for mere pleasure!" growled Conan. "This is no pleasure hunt in the greenwood. Come on."

  Muttering, the thief led his companions through the grove and into a clump of shrubs a few yards beyond the palace wall. Above them, the moonlight twinkled on the helmet and spear of a sentry pacing his rounds upon the parapet. All three froze, like hunted animals; and they held their positions, scarcely breathing, until the sentry passed out of sight.

  In the center of the thicket, shielded on all sides from view by the circle of bushes, they found a patch of earth where the grass grew thin. Fronto scrabbled in this meager ground cover until he found a bronzen ring. Seizing it, he tugged upward, but nothing moved.

  "General," he breathed, "you are stronger than I; try raising it."

  Conan took a deep breath, stooped, grasped the ring, and heaved. Slowly, with a grating sound, the buried trapdoor rose. Conan peered down into fetid darkness. The moonlight outlined a flight of stairs.

  "My father planned the thing aright," whispered Fronto. "Even so tall a man as you, Conan, can walk upright without butting the ceiling."

  "Stay here to lower the trapdoor, after I light a torch," said Conan, feeling his way down the steps.

  At the bottom, he went to work with flint and steel. After striking sparks for some time without result, he growled:

  "Crom's devils! The rain has gotten into my tinder. Has anybody some that's dry?"

  "I have that which will do in its stead," said Rhazes, leaning over Conan's shoulder. "Stand back, pray."

  From h is leather bag the astrologer produced a rod, which he pointed at the torch while muttering an incantation. The end of the rod glowed red, then yellow, then white. A beam of bright light speared the torch, which smoked, sputtered, and burst into flame. The rod's glow faded, and Rhazes returned the implement to his bag.

  "Lower the trapdoor, Fronto!" said Conan. "Gently, you fool! Banging it down that way will alert the guards!"

  "Sorry; my hand slipped," said Fronto, scuttling spiderlike down the stairs. "Give me the torch; I know the way."

  In silence the three men plodded along the dark passage. It was lined with stone slabs on floor and sides and roofed with massive timbers. Moss and fungus splotched the crude stones and squelched noisomely underfoot. Rats squeaked and fled from their approach, red eyes glinting like accursed rubies in the blackness, claws scraping the damp stones as they fled.

  Through the dripping darkness they proceeded, guided only by the flickering torch that Fronto held aloft. They said nothing. Was it out of inborn caution, or was it unwillingness to acknowledge the clammy breath of fear that followed them through the gloom and whispering darkness?

  Conan looked about him, grimly. The flickering orange flames of the torch painted black shadows across the lichen-encrusted stones—shadows that swooped and billowed like enormous bats. The subterranean passage had for years been sealed away from the outside world; for now the air was vitiated and stifling, thick with the unwholesome odors of decay.

  After a time Conan growled: "How much farther, Fronto? We must have walked clear across Ianthe and are beyond the city now."

  "We are not halfway yet. The palace lies in the midst of the city, where once stood the citadel."

  "What noise is that?" asked Rhazes when a rumble as of thunder reverberated overhead.

  "Just an ox cart on Ishtar Street," said Fronto.

  At last they reached the tunnel's end. Here a flight of steps led upward to a trapdoor like the other. Conan took the torch and examined the trap.

  Conan asked softly: "Where in the dungeons does this passage lead?"

  Fronto rubbed a reflective hand over a stubbled jaw. "To the far end of the south branch," he said.

  "And King Khossus is held prisoner in the middle branch, parallel to this," murmured Rhazes from behind them. Conan, suddenly suspicious, shot him a glance.

  "How do you come to know that?" he demanded sharply.

  The plump seer spread both hands in a disarming gesture. "By my stars. General. How else?"

  Conan muttered something that sounded like a curse.

  The eager thief pushed up the trapdoor a fingers breadth at a time, pressing an attentive ear against the rough wood. At last he whispered: "There seem to be no guards in this part. Come."

  Despite a faint squeal of hinges, he thrust the trap , up all the way and beckoned to his companions.

  Conan let his breath out with a sigh and set the torch down so that it leaned against the side of the tunnel and burned with a dim but welcome light. Then he followed Fronto to the dungeon. After him panted Rhazes.

  They emerged into a corridor some twenty paces long and saw a row of untenanted cells on either side. The air was heavy with the prison stench of decay and mold and ordure. The only light came faintly from a torch mounted in a bracket on the wall of a trans-, verse passage at the far end of their corridor, save that a roseate glow emanated from the torch Conan had set against the dank wall of the tunnel below them. To extinguish this telltale glow, Fronto began to lower the trap, but Conan hastily set a coin between the trap and the strut on which it rested, propping the door up ever so slightly; so that, by the slight irregularity of flooring, they could find it when they again had need of it.

  Conan's sword whispered from its sheath as he turned and led his strange companions toward the distant torch. Under drawn brows, his blue eyes darted from side to side, scanning the cells. Most were empty, but in one a pile of bones gleamed whitely in the semidarkness. In another a living prisoner, ragged and filthy, his face all but invisible behind a tangled mass of grizzled hair, shuffled up to the bars and silently watched the invaders. So quietly did they move along the narrow hall that the very silence seemed to roar.

  When they reached the corner of the corridor where the bracketed torch belched smoke, Fronto pointed to the right. Moving like a pride of hunting lionesses, they paced the cross-passage unseen, and turning left again, they reached another cell-lined passageway. As they proceeded noiselessly along it, Fronto jerked a thumb to draw Conan's attention.

  This cell was twice the size of the others. In the dimness, Conan made out a chair, a small table, a wash-stand, and a bed. A man sitting on the bed rose as the three silent figures stopped outside the bars that held him. The man could not clearly be discerned, but from his stance and outline, Conan perceived that he was young and handsomely attired.

  "Get to work, Fronto," whispered Conan. The thief pulled from his boot a slender length of bent wire and inserted it into the keyhole, his feral eyes agleam in the flickering torchlight. After a momentary fumble, the lock clicked back and Conan shouldered in the door.

  The prisoner recoiled as, sword in hand, Conan strode in. "Has Moranthes sent you here to murder me?" he whispered hoarsely.

  "Nay, my lad; if you be Khossus of Khoraja, we've come to rescue you."

  The young man stiffened. "You must not speak so to an annointed king! You should address me—"

  "Lower your voice," snarled Conan. "Are you Khossus, or are you not?"

  "I am he; but you should say 'Y our Maj—'" "We've no time for such courtesies. Will you come or stay?"

  "I'll come," grumbled the youth. "But who are you?"

  "I'm Conan, general of your army. Now come quickly and quietly."

  "First lend me your sword, General."

  "What for?" said Conan in astonishment.

  "The captain of the guard here has used me with spite and contumely. He has insult
ed the honor of Khoraja, and I have sworn to fight him to the death. And I'll not leave until it's done!"

  Khossus' voice rose as he spoke until it echoed in the narrow cell. Conan glanced at his companions, shook his touseled mane, and brought his huge fist up against Khossus' jaw. With a click, the king's teeth came together, and Khossus fell back against his cot.

  An instant later, Conan with the king's unconscious body draped across one shoulder, led his companions from the cell. As they turned into the transverse passageway, they heard the tramp of booted feet and the clank of metal accouterments.

  "Run for the tunnel. I'll stand off the guard," hissed Conan.

  "Nay, you hear the king. You go ahead; I'll harry the lout," whispered Rhazes, fumbling in his bag.