Conan the Swordsman
Page 8
"What goes on there?" rumbled an angry voice, as its owner, sword unsheathed, appeared around the third prong of the cell block.
As Conan and Fronto sprinted toward the passage in which the trapdoor lay, the astrologer, billowing robes etched by the feeble light of the single torch, drew from his leathern sack that which appeared to be a hempen noose. The prison warden checked his pace and threw up a hand to catch the flying rope. Then shrieking at the writhing thing within his grasp, he flung the serpent from him, turned abruptly, and still yelling like a madman, vanished down the farthest corridor.
Then Rhazes trotted to the open trapdoor, where Conan, still bearing the unconscious king upon his shoulder, reached up a brawny arm to steady his descent. As the astrologer reset his bag strap across his back, Fronto scampered up the steps and lowered the trapdoor carefully.
Conan muttered: "Is there no bolt to secure the trap?"
"I see none," said Fronto. "The fact that the door is masked by several flagstones makes it nigh invisible from the upper passageway."
"Then we must run," said Conan, and shifting the weight of the slender king, he followed Fronto, who darted ahead with upheld torch. Rhazes, like some merchant ship sailing before the wind, panted after them.
During their flight, Khossus revived. When his head cleared, and he realized his undignified position, he complained:
"Why do you carry me like a sack of tubers on the way to market? Put me down instanter! This is no way to treat your king!"
Conan, never slackening his pace, grunted. "When you can run as fast as I, I'll set you down. Unless, perchance you prefer to be overtaken by the prison warden and returned to your cell—or to a worse one. Well?"
"Oh, all right," said the young king sulkily. "But you seem to have no feel for royal dignity."
At the exit from the tunnel, Conan set the king upon his feet and, pushing past Fronto, scrambled up the stairs. With a grunt and a mighty heave, he pushed open the trapdoor. Fronto was at his heels.
"Put out that torch!" he snapped. Fronto obeyed.
Then Conan stepped out into the starlight. The moon had set, and Conan realized that the rescue had taken longer than expected.
With his companions crowding behind him, Conan worked his way through the circle of shrubbery around the open trapdoor and halted. A few paces ahead, standing in the thicket, was a score or more of armed men with crossbows cocked and trained on the fugitives. Behind them, in the grove, he saw the flames of a brisk campfire.
"What's this?" demanded Conan, sweeping out his sword.
"Pray, General," wheezed Rhazes behind him, "I can explain."
"Come out, Rhazes," said one of the dark figures in Kothic, "we should not wish to shoot you by mistake."
The astrologer pushed past Conan and turned. "Dear simple General, you'd best surrender quietly. These are soldiers of my native Koth, whose king I have the honor loyally to serve. Arrangements for this ambuscade were made on our way hither by our border guards. We avoided Khorshemish lest some acquaintance hail me and disclose my small imposture. You have helped me pluck King Khossus out of Moranthes' clutches; and now we'll take the pair of you to Koth. Thus shall we remove the last obstacle to reuniting Khoraja with her mother country."
Conan tensed, rocking forward on the balls of his feet, preparing for action. He trusted to his mailshirt to deflect the crossbow bolts; and if that failed—well, no man can live forever.
"Drop your sword, General Conan!" ordered the soldier who had already spoken.
"You'll have to kill me first!" shouted Conan, rushing forward to meet the Kothian officer.
Then Fronto moved. With a scream of rage, the little thief leaped forward, eyes gleaming in reflected firelight, and drove his dagger into Rhazes' paunch— once, twice, thrice. Two crossbows snapped, but the bolts whistled harmlessly into the dark, as the arbalesters feared hitting their own men.
Silen tl y Rhazes sank down, his fluttering garments billowing like pale fog in the starlight. His leather bag fell open on the ground beside him. Like a jumping spider, Fronto leaped sidewise, snatched up the bag, and ran for the grove of trees. Then another crossbow twanged. Fronto strangled on a blood-flecked cough and dropped headfirst into the fire. The bag he bore likewise landed in the embers.
Conan, defending Khossus, traded blows with several Kothians. His blade whirled and clanged against his foes', as the cold stars glimmered on the steel. One Kothian gave back with a hoarse scream, gripping the stump of his sword arm with his remaining hand. Another fell, his belly ripped open, spilling out his guts. Bounding ahead, Khossus stooped and wrenched the sword from the severed hand in time to save the battling Cimmerian from a sword-thrust in the back.
Then, despite the noise and confusion, Conan perceived the faint jingle of mail, the crackling of broken branches, the tramp of booted feet as more men pushed through the thicket. Drawing Khossus with him, Conan faded into the bushes as a party of Ophir-ean prison guards poured from the tunnel on the trail of their liberated prisoner. Bursting through the thicket, they found themselves face to face with the men of Koth. Conan and his king, hidden in the shadows, heard the snap of a crossbow and shrieks of pain as the new battle was joined.
All was confusion. Kothians fought Ophireans. Men shouted contradictory orders.
"Khossus!" barked the Cimmerian. "Run for the grove—on the left—the horses tethered there."
They broke from their shelter and ran. Then the Ophirean prison warden recognized the slender king and shouted to his men: "To me! Here's the prisoner— and his rescuer! Seize them!"
"Faster!" said Conan, wheeling around to stem the tide of pursuers. He parried a slash from one scarcely seen antagonist and wounded another. He was about to strike down another, a Kothian, when an Ophirean attacked the man, and the fight swirled off into the darkness. In the confusion, Conan and Khossus plunged out of the melee, reached the grove, jumped over the embers of the fire, and raced for their tethered horses.
"Stop them! Stop them!" shouted a chorus of voices as the fugitives disappeared among the trees. Behind them Kothians joined with Ophireans, each intent on recapturing their human prize and his barbarian protector. One Kothian leaped the fire, and Conan, wheeling, struck him down just as a tremendous report shook the earth and showered the fugitives with embers and debris. Rhazes' bag, simmering on the fire, had at last exploded.
As two Ophireans plunged into the grove in hot pursuit, black, smoky clouds boiled up from the ruptured fire. In wave after wave the shadows rose, like huge amoeboids swimming in the deep. One swooped down upon the first oncomer and engulfed him. The man gave a wild shriek of terror and lay still. The other pursuer, whirling in his haste to get away, stumbled over a root and sprawled beneath another undulating cloud.
"Rhazes' shadows," muttered Conan, as another howl of horror from a dying man floated upward. "Untie the horses, fast. Ride one and lead the other ! " With trembling fingers, Khossus obeyed.
The next instant Conan and the king flung themselves into their saddles and spurred out of the grove, faces close to the horses' necks to avoid the lashing branches. But even in their mad flight, Conan looked back to see the billowing shadows hovering like wings of death, impartially, above both the men of Ophir and their Kothian adversaries, whose fleeing cries of pain and terror melded into one indistinguishable shriek.
Conan and the king came out upon a road, and the ringing of their horses' hooves drowned out the clangor of the rout.
-
As the flying hooves cleaved the still night, Khossus called out in a shaky voice: "Conan! This is not the way to Khoraja! We're on the road to Argos and Zingara!"
"Which way do you think they'll go to look for us?" snarled Conan. "Come on, kick some speed out of that nag!" He galloped westward with the king of Khoraja close behind him.
Although the flying pair made exceptional speed by frequent changes of mount, the following nightfall saw them still within the confines of Ophir. None challenged them, since their
flight had outrun the news of their escape. They found a stretch of forest and made camp, eating dried fruits and biscuits from their saddlebags. Khossus, who had abandoned his efforts to make Conan address him in royal style, told how he came to be captured:
"Moranthes proposed an alliance against Strabonus of Koth, and that seemed logical to me. Like a fool, I went to parley with him with a small escort only, carefully bypassing Koth by traveling through the city-states of Shem. Taurus had warned me against Moranthes, but I was sure that no annointed long would sink to trickery. I know better now—for no sooner had I reached Ianthe than the scoundrel clapped me into prison.
"My lot was somewhat better than that of common prisoners. Now and then news of the outside world reached me. Thus I learned of your victory over Natohk at the Shamla Pass." The king peered narrowly at Conan. "I also heard that you had become my sister's lover. Be that true?"
Conan looked up from the fire with a slight suggestion of a smile. "If I had, it would be ungen tl e of me to admit it Whilst no blushing virgin, I do not kiss and tell. But tell me, would you accept me as a brother-in-law?"
Khossus started. "Out of the question, my good General! You—a foreign barbarian and vulgar mercenary —nay, friend Conan, think not upon the matter. I appreciate your heroism and owe my life to you, but I could not admit you into the royal family. And now it is my royal wish to sleep, since I am weary to the bone."
"Very well, Your Majesty," grumbled Conan acidly. "Your royal will be done."
Long that night he sat beside the embers of the fire, his black brows drawn in night-dark thoughts.
The following day they crossed the Argossean border and put up at an inconspicuous inn. After supper, as they dawdled over jacks of ale, Khossus said:
"General, I have been thinking. You deserve well of me." He raised a hand as Conan opened his mouth for a reply. "Nay, deny it not, your rescue of your king from the Ophireans, the Kothians, and your treacherous friend Rhazes' elementals were feats worthy of an epic.
"A man like you should be well settled with a family, and I shall wish to keep you with us to direct our army. Since you cannot wed the princess Yasmela, I will find you an attractive maiden of the middle classes—some small landowner's daughter, perhaps— and unite the twain of you. And I shall likewise choose a royal marriage partner for my sister.
"However, while I wish you to direct our army, one of your lowly origins cannot continue to command Khoraja's knights and noblemen. You had trouble, did you not, with the unfortunate Count Thespides on that same score? So I shall choose a man of suitable rank to bear the name of general, yet he shall ever follow your advice. And I shall create some special, well-paid post, open to commoners, for your express benefit."
Conan looked at the king, his eyes inscrutable. "Your Majesty's generosity overwhelms me," he said.
Oblivious of the sarcasm, Khossus waved away a protest. " ' Tis but your due, good sir. How would the title sergeant-general suit you?"
"Let us leave that till we return," said Conan.
-
Lying awake in the dark room of the inn, Conan pondered his future. He had ever been one to five for the moment and let the future take care of itself. Yet, it was obvious now that his career in Khoraja was headed for trouble. This haughty but well-meaning young ass believed every word he spoke about his royal rights and duties.
True, he could quietly kill the king and return to Khoraja with some cock-and-bull story about the idiot's end. But to risk so much to rescue him, only to murder the fool, would be ridiculous. Yasmela would never forgive him. Besides, he had given his word to save the king, and—this he noted with some small surprises—his passion for Yasmela had begun to cool.
At Messantia, Khossus found a port official who knew him, and who, on the strength of his position, lent him two hundred Argossean gold dolphins, borrowed from a moneylender. The king handed the bag containing this small fortune to Conan for safekeeping, saying:
'It becomes not the dignity of a monarch to carry filthy money."
They found a ship about to sail for Asgalun, whence they could make their way through Shem to Khoraja. As the sailors manned the ropes preparing to cast off, Conan dug into the bag of gold and brought out a fistful of coins.
"Here," he said, handing the money over to Khossus. "You'll need these to get home." . "But—but—what are you doing? I thought—"
"I've changed my mind," said Conan. As the vessel left the pier, he leaped from the ship's rail to the quay. Then he turned and added, "It's time I visited my homeland, and there's a craft sailing for Kordava tomorrow."
"But my gold!" cried the king from the receding deck.
"Call it the price of your life," shouted Conan across the widening stretch of water. "And say farewell to Princess Yasmela for me!"
Whistling an air, he walked away without another backward look.
-
THE STAR OF KHORALA
Conan survives adventures as a leader among the kozaki of the steppes east of Zamora and as a pirate captain on the Sea of Vilayet. He saves Queen Taramis of Khauran from a plot by her evil twin sister, rules a desert band of Zuagir nomads, and gains a fortune but quickly loses it in the stews and gambling houses of Zamboula. He does, however, acquire, by a feat of sleight-of-hand, a ring of supposedly fabulous magical powers—the Star of Khorala.
Conan is now about thirty-one years old. After the events of "Shadows in Zamboula," he rides westward with the Star into the meadowlands of Shem and across the vast stretches of Kot h on his way to Ophir, looking for a substantial reward from the queen of Ophir for the return of her magical gem. He hopes, if not for the rumored roomful of gold, at least for enough to keep him in comfort for a while, with an official post of good pay and power thrown in. Instead, he finds neither the political situation in Ophir nor the occult powers of the gem quite what he had expected.
-
1 • The Road to Ianthe
The wanton river stretched lazily between the kingdoms of Koth and Ophir and smiled at the cloudless sky, when a horse's hooves at the shallow ford shattered the surface of the water into rainbows of spray. The flanks of the mare, sweat-darkened, heaved as she lowered her head to drink; but her rider, giving thought to her welfare, tightened the rein and guided her across to the farther bank. Later, when she had cooled, it would be time enough for her to drink the cold river water.
The rider's dusty face was streaked with runnels, and his attire, once black, was powdered mouse-gray from the dusts of the road. Still, the hilt of the serviceable broadsword, which hung from his belt, bore the luster of meticulous care. For over a month Conan had been traveling the road from Zamboula, pushing through the deserts and steppes of eastern Shem and picking his way along highways and byways of turbulent Koth. He had perforce to keep his weapon ready for instant use.
In his pouch lay a comfortable weight—the Star of Khorala, a great gem set in a ring of gold, which had been stolen some time past from the young queen of Ophir and snatched in turn by Conan from the satrap of Zamboula.
The mighty Cimmerian, ever adventurous, was stirred by the thought of returning the stone to the beautiful Queen Marala. Such service to the ruler of so great a kingdom should earn him—if not the fabled I roomful of gold—at least some hundreds of gold coins, riches enough for many years' comfort. The reward, so ran his thinking, would buy him land, or a commission in a Hyborian army, or mayhap a title of nobility.
Conan despised the people of Ophir, whose kingdom had long been a cockpit of conflict among the feudal factions. The weakling ruler, Moranthes II, leaned for support on the strongest among his barons. It was said that, centuries before, a far-seeing count had sought to force the fractious nobles and their king to sign a charter. Many tales were told about this ancient effort to provide a stable government, but the present state of Ophir showed no lessening of its immemorial turmoil.
Conan chose the shortest route to Ianthe, the capital. His road wound through craggy borderland that huddled,
lone and deserted, save for the ramshackle huts of peasants who eked out a bare living as goatherds. Then, little by little, the country grew fertile; and after seven days of journeying within the kingdom, Conan rode among golden fields of ripening grain.
The countryfolk here, as before, remained surly and silent. Although they permitted the traveler to purchase food and lodging at wayside hostelries, they answered his questioning with grunts and monosyllables or not at all. While Conan himself was not a garrulous man, this reticence irritated him; and to discover the cause of it, he asked the landlord of an inn outside the capital of Ophir to share a cup of wine with him. He asked:
"What ails the people hereabouts? Never have I seen a folk so sour and silent, as if the worm of death were feeding on their guts! I hear of no war, and the land is bursting with fruit and ripening grain. What is wrong in the kingdom of Ophir?"