They saluted and left. All the rest of that day, soldiers were rounded up, provisions readied, and gear piled into wagons. Before the next morning’s sun had touched the gilded pinnacles of Messantia with its lances of light, tents were struck and companies formed for the line of march. While the ghosts of fog still floated on the lowlands, the army got under way—knight and yeoman, archer and pikeman, all weU guarded by scouts and flankers before, behind, and on the sides.
Conan and his troop of Poitanian light horse had trotted oflF to northward, while darkness veiled the land. The barbarian general did not entirely trust King Milo’s friendship. Many considerations mold the acts of kings; and Numedides’ agents might have already persuaded the Argossean monarch to ally himself with the ruler of Aquilonia, rather than espouse the unpredictable fortunes of the rebels. Surely Argos knew that, if the insurrection failed, Aquilonia’s vengeance would be swift and devastating. And, if a king is bent upon destruction, an army is best attacked while on the march, with the men strung out and encumbered by their gear… .
So the Lions moved north. Company by company, the unseasoned army tramped the dusty road, splashed across the fords of shallow rivers, and snaked through the low Didymian Hills. No one ambushed, attacked, or harassed the marching men. Perhaps Conan’s suspicions of King Milo were unjustified; perhaps the army was too strong for the Argosseans to try conclusions with them. Or perhaps the king awaited a more fehcitous moment to hurl his strength against the rebels. Whether he were friend or secret foe, Conan rejoiced in his precautions.
When his forces had covered the first day’s march without interference, Conan, cantering back from his chosen campsite, relaxed a little. They were now beyond the reach of the spies that infested the winding alleys of Messantia. His scouts and outriders traveled far and wide; if unfriendly eyes watched the army in the countryside, Conan looked to his scouts to sniff their owners out. None was discovered.
The giant Cimmerian trusted few men and those never lightly. His long years of war and outlawry had reinforced his feline wariness. Still, he knew these men who followed him, and his cause was theirs. Thus it never occurred to him that spies might be already in his camp and ill-wishers at his very back.
Two days later, the rebels forded the river Ajstar in Hypsonia and entered the Plain of Pallos. To the north loomed the Rabirian Mountains, a serrated line of purple peaks marching like giants into the sunset. The army made its camp at the edge of the plain, on a low, rounded hillock that would offer some protection when fortified around the top by ditch and palisade. Here, so long as supplies came regularly from Messantia or from nearby farms, the warriors could perfect their skills before crossing the AHmane into Poitain, the southernmost province of Aquilonia.
During the long day after their arrival, the grumbling soldiers labored with pick, shovel, and mattock to surround the camp with a protective rampart. Meanwhile a troop of light horse cantered back along the road by which they had come, to escort the plodding supply wagons.
But during the second watch of that night, ‘a slender figure glided from the darkness of Conan’s tent into a pool of moonhght. It was robed and muffled in a long, full caftan of amber wool, which blended into the raw earth beneath its feet. This figure came upon another, shrouded in the shadow of a nearby tent.
The two exchanged a muttered word of recognition. Then slim, beringed fingers pressed a scrap of parchment into the other’s labor-grimed hands.
“On this map I have marked the passes that the rebels will take into Aquilonia,” said the girl in the silken, sibilant whisper of a purring cat. “Also the disposition of the regiments.”
'T11 send the word,” murmured the other. "Our master will see that it gets to Procas. You have done well, Lady Alcina.”
“There is much more to do, Quesado,” said the girl. “We must not be seen together.”
The Zingaran nodded and vanished into the darkest shadows. The dancer threw back her hood and looked up at the argent moon. Although she had just come from the lusty arms of Conan the Cimmerian, her moonht features were icily unmoved. Like a mask carved from yellow ivory was that pallid oval face; and in the cool depths of her emerald eyes lurked traces of amusement, malice, and disdain.
That night, as the rebel army slept upon the Plain of Pallos in the embrace of the Rabirian Mountains, one recruit deserted. His absence was not discovered until roll call the next morning; and when it was, Trocero deemed jt a matter of small moment. The man, a Zingaran named Quesado, was reputedly a lazy malingerer whose loss would be of Httle consequence.
Despite his feckless manner, Quesado was in truth anything but lazy. The most diligent of spies, he masked with seeming indolence his busy watching, listening, and compiling of terse but accurate reports. And that night, while the encampment slumbered, he stole a horse from the paddock, eluded the sentinels, and galloped northward hour after weary hour.
Ten days later, splashed with mud, covered with dust, and staggering with exhaustion, Quesado reached the great gates of Tarantia. The sight of the sigil he wore above his heart gained him swift access to Vibius Latro, Numedides’ chancellor.
The master of spies frowned over the map that Alcina had slipped into Quesado’s hand and that the Zingaran now handed to him. Sternly he asked:
“Why did you bring it yourself? You know you are needed with the rebel army.”
The Zingaran shrugged. “It was impossible to send it by carrier pigeon, my lord. When I joined that gaggle of rebels, I had to leave my birds in Messantia, under care of my replacement, Fadiiis the Kothian."
Vibius Latro stared coldly. "Then, why did you not take the map to Fadius, who could have flown it hither in the accustomed manner? You could have remained in that nest of traitors to follow the winds of change. I counted on your knife at Conan’s back.”
Quesado gestured helplessly. “When the lady Alcina obtained this copy of the map. Master, the army was already three days’ ride beyond Messantia. I could scarce request a six-day leave to go thither and return without arousing suspicion, whilst to go as a deserter would have meant searches and questions by the Argosseans. Nor could I rejoin the army once I had departed without leave. And pigeons do betimes get lost, or are slain by falcons or wildcats or hunters. For a document of such moment, I deemed it better to carry it myself.”
The chancellor grunted, pursing his lips. “Why, then, did you not bear it straightway to General Procas?”
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Quesado was now perspiring freely. His sallow brow and bestubbled cheeks glistened with moisture. Vibius Latro was no man lightly to displease.
“General P-Procas knows me not.” The spy’s voice grew querulous. “My sigil would mean naught to him. Only you, my lord, command all channels for transmission of such intelligence to the military chiefs.”
A small, thin-lipped smile flickered across the other’s enigmatic features. “Quite so,” he said. “You have done adequately. I should have liked it better had Alcina obtained the map ere the rebels marched north from Messantia.”
“Methinks the rebel leaders had not fully chosen their route before the night of my departure,” said Quesado. He did not know this for a fact, but it had a reasonable ring.
Vibius Latro dismissed the spy and summoned his secretary. Studying the map, he dictated a brief message to General Amulius Procas, with a copy for the long. While the secretary copied Alcina’s crude sketch, Latro summoned a page and gave him both copies of each document.
'Take these to the king’s secretary,” the chancellor said, “and ask that His Majesty impress his seal upon one set. Then, if there be no objection, ride with that set to Amulius Procas in Poitain. Here is a pass to the royal stables. Choose the swiftest horse, and change mounts at each post inn.”
The message came not to the king’s secretary. It was, instead, delivered into the thin, dark hands of Thulandra Thuu by his Khitan servant, Hsiao. As the king’s sorcerer read the message and examined the map in the light of a corpse-fat candle
,, he smiled coldly, nodding approval to the Khitan.
“It feU out as you predicted. Master,” said Hsiao. "I told the page that His Majesty and his scribe were closeted with you, so he handed the scrolls to me.”
CONAN THE LIBERATOR
"You have done well, good Hsiao,” said Thulandra Thuu. “Fetch me the wax; I will seal the scrolls myself. There is no need to distract His Majesty from his pleasures for a trifle.”
From a locked coffer the sorcerer took a duplicate of the king’s seal ring and, folding together one copy each of map and message, he lit a taper from one of the massive candles. Touching the sealing wax to the flame, he dripped the molten wax along the open edge of the packet. Thulandra then stamped the cooling wax with tfie duplicate seal ring and handed the package to the Khitan.
"Give this to Latro's courier," he said, “and tell him that His Majesty desires it to go post-haste to General Procas. Then draft me a letter to Count Ascalante of Thune, at present commanding the Fourth Tauranian Regiment at Palaea. I require his presence here.”
Hsiao hesitated. “Dread lord!” he said.
Thulandra Thuu looked at his servant sharply. ‘Well?”
“It is not unknown to this unworthy person that you and General Procas are not always in accord. Permit me to ask: Is it your wish that he shall triumph over the barbarian rebel?"
Thulandra Thuu smiled thinly. Hsiao knew that the wizard and the general were fierce rivals for the King’s regard, and Hsiao was the only person in the world in whom the sorcerer was willing to confide. Thulandra murmured:
“For the time being. As long as Procas remains in the southern provinces, far from Tarantia, he cannot threaten my position here. And I must risk that he add another victory to his swollen Hst, since neither he nor I would welcome Conan at the gates of Tarantia.
‘Trocas stands betwixt the rebels and their march upon the capital. I intend that he shall crush the insurrection, aye; but in such wise that the credit shall
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fall to me. Then, perchance, an accident may take our heroic general from us in his moment of victory, ere he can return in triumph to Tarantia. Now be on your way.”
Hsiao bowed low and silently withdrew. Thulandra Thuu unlocked a chest of ebony and placed therein his copies of the documents.
Trocero stared in puzzlement at his commander, who paced the tent like a caged tiger, angry impatience smoldering in his fierce blue eyes.
“What ails you, General Conan?” he demanded. "I thought it was lack of a woman, but since you carried off the dancing girl, that explanation is a punctured wineskin. What troubles you?"
Conan ceased his restless pacing and came over to the field table. Glowering, he poured himself a cup of wine.
"Naught that I can set a name to," he growled. "But of late I grow fretful, starting at shadows.”
He broke off, eyes suddenly alert, as he stared into one corner of the tent. Then he forced a gruff laugh and threw himself back in his leather campaign chair.
”Crom, I’m as restless as a bitch in heat!” he said. "Forsooth, I know not what is gnawing at my vitals. Sometimes, when we confer, I half believe that the very shadows listen to our words.”
“Shadows do betimes have ears,” said Trocero. ”And eyes as well.”
Conan shrugged. “I know there be none here save you and me, with the lass at rest, and my two squires burnishing my armor, and the sentries tramping outside the tent,” he muttered. “Still and all, I sense a listening presence.”
Trocero did not scoff, and foreboding grew upon him. He had learned to trusjt the Cimmerian’s primitive instincts, knowing them keener by far than those of civilized men like himself.
CX)NAN THE LIBERATOR
But Trocero was not without instincts of his own; and one of these bade him distrust the supple dancing girl whom Conan had home off as his willing mistress. Something about her bothered Trocero, although he could not put his finger on the reason. Certainly she was beautiful—if anything, too beautiful to dance for thrown coppers in a Messantian pierside tavern. Also, she was too silent and secretive for his taste. Trocero could usually charm a woman into a babbling stream of confidences; but, when he had tried to draw Alcina out, he had no success at all. She answered his questions politely but concommittally, leaving him no wiser than before.
He shrugged, poured himself another cup, and consigned all such perturbations to the nine hells of Mitra. “The inaction chafes you, Conan,” he said. “Once we are on the march, with the Lion banner floating overhead, you’ll feel yourself again. No more listening shadows then!”
"Aye,” grunted Conan.
What Trocero had said was true enough. Give Conan an enemy of flesh and blood, put cold steel in his hand, and he would dare the deadliest odds with a high heart. But, when he strove against impalpable foes and insubstantial shadows, the primitive superstitions of his tribal ancestors crowded into his mind.
In the rear of the tent, behind a curtain, Alcina smiled a slow, catHke smile, while her slim fingers played with a curious talisman, which hung by a delicate chain about her neck. There was only one match to it in all the world.
Far to the north, beyond the plains and the mountains and the river Alimane, Thulandra Thuu sat upon his wrought-iron throne. On his lap, partly unrolled, he held a scroU inscribed with astrological diagrams and symbols. Before him on a taboret stood an oval mirror of black volcanic glass. From one edge of this
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mystic mirror, a semicircular chip was missing, and it was this half-disk of obsidian, bound to the main glass by subtle linkages of psychic force, that hung between the rounded breasts of Alcina the dancing girl.
As the sorcerer studied the chart on his knee, he raised his head betimes to glance at the small water clock of gilt and crystal, which stood beside the mirror. From this rare instrument came a steady drip, drip, inaudible to all but the keenest ears.
When the silver bell within the clock chimed the hour, Thulandra Thuu released the scroll. He moved a clawlike hand before the mirror, muttering an exotic charm in an unknown tongue. Gazing into the mirror’s depths, he became one fti mind and soul with his servant, the lady Alcina; for when a mystic trance linked the twain, at a moment determined by certain aspects of the heavenly bodies, the sights Alcina saw and the words she uttered were transmitted magically to the sorcerer in Tarantia.
Truly, the mage had little need of the men of Vibius Latro’s corps of spies. And truly Conan’s keen senses served him well: even the shadows in his tent had eyes and ears.
THE BLOODY ARROW
Each dawn the brazen trumpets routed the men from slumber to drill for hours upon the Plain of Pallos and, with the setting sun, dismissed them to their night’s repose; and still the army grew. And with the newcomers came news and gossip from Messantia. The moon had shrunk from a silver coin to a sickle of steel when the captains of the rebellion gathered in Conan’s tent for supper. After washing down their coarse campaign fare with drafts of weak green beer, the leaders of the host consulted.
“Daily,” mused Trocero, “it seems King Milo grows more restive/’
Publius nodded. “Aye, it pleases him not to have within his borders so great an armed force, under another’s leadership. Belike he fears that we shall turn upon him, as easier prey then tlie Aquilonian tyrant."
Dexitheus, priest of Mitra, smiled. “Kings are a suspicious lot at best, ever fearful for their crowns. King Milo is no different from tharest/’
“Think you he’ll seek to attack us in the rear?' grov/led Conan.
The black-robed priest turned up a narrow hand. "Who can say? Even I, trained by my holy office to read the hearts of men, dare hazard no guess as to the lurk in King Milo’s mind. But I advise that we cross the Alimane, and soon.”
“^The army is prepared,” said Prospero. ‘The men are trained and as ready to fight as ever they will be. It were well they were blooded soon, ere inaction dulls the edge of their fighting spirit.”
"I agree, Prospero,” said the Cimmerian. “But an equal peril lies in too early a move. Surely Procas in Aquilonia has spies to tell him that we lodge in the mountains of northern Argos. And a general less shrewd than he would guess that we mean to cross the Alimane into Poitain, the most disaffected of all the provinces of Aquilonia. He needs but to mount a heavy guard at every ford and keep his Border Legion mobile, ready to march to any threatened crossing.”
Trocero swept back his graying hair with confident fingers. “All Poitain will rise to march with us; but my partisans keep silent, lest word reach the vigilant Procas in time to act.”
The others exchanged significant glances, wherein hope and skepticism mingled. Days before, messengers had left the rebel camp to enter Poitain in the guise of merchants, tinkers, and pedlars. Their mission was to urge Count Trocero’s Hegemen and supporters to prepare for forays and diversions, to confuse the royalists or to draw them off in futile pursuit of raiding bands. Once these agents had carried out their mission, a “Signal to move would reach the rebel army—a Poitanian arrow dipped in blood. Meanwhile, waiting for the message stretched nerves taut.
Prospero said: “I am less concerned about the rising of Poitain, which is as certain as aught can be world, than I am about the promised deputation from the northern barons. If we be not at Culario by the ninth day of the vernal month, they may withdraw, since planting time will be upon them.”
Conan grunted and drained his goblet. The northern lordlings, in smoldering revolt against Numedides, had vowed to support the rebels but would not evenly commit themselves to a rebellion stigmatized by failure. If the Lion banner were broken at the Alimane, or if the Poitanian revolt failed to take fire, no bond would tie these self-serving nobles to the rebel cause.
Conan the Liberator Page 4