Conan the Liberator

by Lyon Sprague de Camp

  After the barons had retired for the night, Prospero asked Conan: “Think you they will arrive in time?”

  “For that matter,” added Trocero, “will they hold true to their new alliance, if Numedides strews our path with steel or if Tarantia stands firm against us?”

  Conan shrugged. “I am no prophet The gods alone can read the hearts of men.”

  The sorcerer s chariot rumbled through the streets of Tarantia, with Hsiao, legs braced against the floor-

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  boards, gripping the reins and Thulandra Thuu in hooded cloak seated on the pillow-padded bench. Citizens who remarked the vehicle’s approach turned away their faces. To meet the dark sorcerer’s eyes might focus his attention, and all deemed it expedient to escape the magician’s notice. For none there was who failed to hear rumors of his black experiments and tales of missing maidens.

  The great bronze portals of the South Gate swung open at the vehicle’s approach and closed behind it Along the open country road, the strange steed paced at twice the speed of ordinary horseflesh, while the chariot bounced and swayed, trailing a thin plume of dust More than forty leagues of white road imrolled with every passing day; and neither heat, nor rain, nor gloom of night stayed the iron staUion from its appointed task. When Hsiao wearied, his master grasped the reins. Dming these periods of rest, the yellow mam devoured cold meats and snatched a spell of fitful sleep. Whether his master ever closed his eyes, Hsiao knew not.

  After following the east bank of the river Elhorotas for several days, Thulandra Thuu’s chariot neared the great bridge that King Vilerus I had flung across the river. Here the Road of Kings, after swinging around two serpentine bends in the river, rejoined the stream and promptly crossed it to the western bank. The bridge, upraised on six stone piers that towered up from the river bed, was furnished with a wooden deck and a steeply sloping ramp on either end.

  At the sight of the emblazoned chariot, the toll taker bowed low and waved the carriage through; and as the vehicle ascended to the deck, Thulandra scanned the countryside. When he perceived a cloud of dust, swirling aloft from the road ahead, a meager smile of satisfaction creased his saturnine visage. If the pounding hooves of Prince Numitor’s cavahy roiled the loose soil and bore it skyward, his careful calculations

  of time and distance had been correct. They would meet where the Bossonian Road conjoined with the highway to Poitain.

  The chariot thundered down the western ramp and continued southward, and within the hour Thulandra overtook a column of horsemen. As the painted chariot neared, a trooper at the column’s tail recognized the vehicle. When word ran up the ranks, the cavahymen hastily pulled their mounts aside, leaving an unobstructed path for the royal sorcerer. The horses shied and danced as the black metallic steed sped past, and the milling remounts and frightened pack animals reared and plunged and much discomfited their handlers.

  At the head of the column, the magician found Prince Numitor astride a massive gelding. Like his royal cousin the king, the prince was a man of heavy build, with a reddish tinge to hair and beard. Otherwise he presented quite a different aspect; guileless blue eyes graced a broad-browed, sun-browned face that bore the stamp of easy-going geniality.

  “Why, Mage Thulandra!” exclaimed Numitor in amazement, when Hsiao reined in his singular steed. "What brings you hither? Do you bear some urgent message from the king?”

  ‘Trince Numitor, you v^dll require my sorcerous arts to check the rebels’ northward march.”

  The prince’s eyes clouded with perplexity. 'T like not magic in my warfare; it’s not a manly way to fight. But if my royal cousin sent you, I must make the best of it.”

  A glint of malice flared up in the sorcerers hooded eyes. “I speak for the true ruler of Aquilonia,” he said. “And my commands must be obeyed. If we proceed with haste, we can reach the Imirian Escarpment before the rebels. Are these two regiments of horse all that you bring with you?”

  “Nay, four regiments of foot follow. They have not

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  yet reached the junction of the Bossonian Road with, this.”

  “None too many, although we face naught but a rabble of undisciplined rogues. If we can hold them below the cliff wall until Count Ulric arrives, we shall pluck their fangs. When we attain the crest of the escarpment, I wish you to detail five of your men— experienced hunters all—for a certain task.”

  “What task is that, sir?”

  “Of this I shall inform you later. SuflBce it to say that skilled woodsmen are necessary to the spell I have in mind.”

  At last the rain ceased in Culario. The northern barons and their entourage slogged along the muddy road, where vapor steamed from puddles drying in the summer sun. Shortly thereafter, the Army of Liberation set out upon the same highway, leading northward to the central provinces and thence to proud Tarantia on the far bank of the Khorotas.

  At every town and hamlet that they passed, the legions of the Liberator were infused with new recruits: old knights, eager to take part in one last glorious affray; battle-battered ex-soldiers who had served with Conan on the Pictish frontier; lean foresters and huntsmen who saw in Conan a nature-lover like themselves; outlaws and exiles, drawn by the promise of amnesty for those who fought beneath the Golden Lion; yeomen, tradesmen, and mechanics; woodcutters, charcoal burners, smiths, masons, pavers, weavers, fullers, minstrels, clerks—all hard-eyed men eager to adventure in the army of the Liberator. They so drained the armory of weapons that Conan at last insisted each recruit come already armed, if only with a woodsman’s axe.

  Conan and his ofiBcers plunged into the arduous task of welding these eager volunteers into some semblance of a mihtary force. They told the men off

  CONAN THE LIBERATOR

  into squads and companies and appointed sergeants and captains from those experienced in war. During halts, these new oflBcers exercised their road-weary men in simple drills; for, as Conan warned them:

  "Without constant practice, a horde of raw recruits j hke these dissolve into a mass of shrieking fugitives 1 when the first blood is shed.”

  Between the farm lands of southern Poitain and the Imirian Escarpment stretched the great BroceUian Forest, through which the highway glided like a serpent amid a bed of ferns. As the rebels neared the forest, the songs of the Poitanian volunteers diminished. More and more, Conan noted, the recruits tramped along in glum silence, apprehensively eyeing the overarching foliage.

  “What ails them?'’ Conan asked Trocero as they sat of an evening in the command tent. “Anyone would think these woods writhed with venomous serpents.”

  The gray-haired count smiled indulgently. “We have only the common viper in Poitain, and few of those. But the folk hereabouts are full of peasant superstitions, holding the forest to harbor supernatural beings who may work magic on them. Such beHefs are not without advantage; they preserve a splendid hunting ground for my barons and my friends.”

  Conan grunted. “Once We scale the escarpment and gain the Imirian Plateau, theyTl doubtless find some new hobgoblin to obsess them. I have not seen this part of Aquilonia before, but by my reckoning the cliff wall rises less than a day’s march ahead. How runs the pass to the plateau?”

  “There’s a deep cleft in the cliff, where the turbulent Bitaxa River, a tributary of the Alimane, cascades across the wall of rock. The road, winding upward to the plateau, is borne upon a rock ledge thrust out from one side of the cleft. The gorge below —^which we call the Giant’s Notch—is slippery, steep, and narrow. An evil place to meet a cliff-top foe! Pray

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  to your Crom that Numitor’s Frontiersmen do not reach the Notch ahead of us.”

  “Crom cares but little for the prayers of men,” said Conan, “or so they told me when I was a boy. He breathes into each mortal man the strength to face his enemies; and that’s all a man can reasonably ask of gods, who have their own concerns. But we must not risk attack in this murderous trap. Tomorrow
at dawn, take a strong party of mounted scouts to reconnoiter the escarpment.”

  Pubhus waddled in, arms fuU of ledgers, and Trocero left Conan studying the inventory of supplies. The count sought out the tents of his Poitanian horsemen and chose from amongst them forty skilled swordsmen for the morrow’s reconnaissance.

  The Giant’s Notch loomed high above Trocero’s company, its beetling cliEs hiding black wells of darkness from the midday sun. The count and his scouts sat their saddles, staring upward at the crest, searching in vain for the telltale sparkle of sunlight on armor. Neither could they observe upon the elevation the smoke of any campfires. At length Trocero said:

  “We shall circle round the woods and meet again upon the road, a quarter-league back, where a high rock ledge overhangs the forest path. Vopisco, take your half of the detachment east and meet me thither within the hoiu'. I shall go westward.”

  The detachment divided, and the horsemen forced their mounts through the dense foUage that spilled out into the road. Once past this obstacle, they encountered little underbrush beneath the thick trunks of the virgin oaks.

  For a short while Trocero’s party rode in silence, their horses’ hooves soundless on the thick carpet of moldering leaves. Suddenly the forester in the lead flung up a hand, turned in his saddle, and murmured: “Men ahead, my lord. Mounted, I think.”

  CONAN THE LIBERATOR

  The troop drew together, the men tense and apprehensive, their horses motionless. Through the shadowed ranks of trees Trocero’s eyes detected a disquieting movement; his ears, a mutter of strange voices.

  “SwordsI” whispered the count. ”Prepare to charge, but strike not till I command. We know not whether they be friend or foe.”

  Twenty swords hissed from their scabbards, as the riders eased their beasts to right or left, until they formed a line among the trees. The voices waxed louder, and a group of horsemen sprang into view beyond the rugged boles of immemorial oaks. His upraised sword a pointing finger, Trocero signaled the attack.

  Weaving around the trees, the score of Poitanians rode at the strangers. In a few heartbeats they came within plain sight of them.

  “Yield!” shouted Trocero, then reined his horse in blank amazement. The animal reared, eyes rolling, forelegs pawing the insubstantial air.

  Five mounted men, unarmored but wearing white surcoats adorned with the black eagle of Aquilonia, paused to stare. All but one led captive creatures by cruel ropes noosed tightly about their necks. The captives—^three males and a female—^were no ‘larger than half-grown children, their nakedness partly veiled by a thin coat of fawnlike, light-brown fur. Above each snub-nosed, humanoid face rose a pair of pointed ears. When their captors dropped the leashing ropes to draw their swords, and the freed creatmres timied to run, Trocero saw each bore a short, furry tail, like that of a deer, white on the underside.

  The leader of the Aquilonians, recovering his composure, shouted an order to his men. Instantly, they spurred their mounts and charged.

  “Kill theml” cried Trocero.

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  Aquilonian Eogle

  As the five royalists, bending low over their horses’ necks, pounded toward the Poitanians, death rode in their grim eyes. The rebel swordsmen could not present a sohd line, spread out as they were among the trees, so the Aquilonians aimed for the gaps. The leader rode at Trocero, his blade thrust outward like a lance. To right and left, the count’s men, avenging furies, rushed headlong at the foe.

  There was an instant of wild confusion, raked by shouts and illumined by the white Hght of terror in the eyes of men flogged by the fury of their desperation. Two troopers converged upon a galloping Aquilonian, whose upraised sword whirled murderously above his tousled head. One drove his steel into the soldier’s sword arm; the other struck downward with all his might, tearing a long gash in the speeding horse’s hide. But the screaming animal pressed forward, and the man ran free.

  A rebel’s sword darted past a blade that sought to slash him and sheathed six inches of its point into an eagle-emblemed midriflE. The lean, muscle-knotted Aquilonian leader lunged at Trocero, who parried with a clang, and the hum of steel on steel was a song of death. Then the five horses were through and away, like autumn leaves in a gale, with four of their riders. The fifth lay supine on the leaf mold of the forest floor, with a bloodstain spreading slowly across his white surcoat.

  “Gremiol” shouted the count. “Take your squad and pursuel Try to capture one aUvel’'

  Trocero turned back to the trampled turf, which bore mute testimony to the furious encounter. Spying the fallen man, he said: “Sergeant, see if that fellow lives."

  As the sergeant dismounted, another trooper said: "Please, my lord, he spitted himself on my steel as he rode past. I know he’s dead.”

  “He is,” nodded the sergeant, after a quick examination.

  Trocero cursed. '‘We needed him for questioning!”

  “Here’s one of their captives,” said the sergeant, kneeling beside the nude creature, flung like a discarded garment against a fallen log. "Methinks it was knocked down by a flying hoof and stunned in the melee.”

  Trocero bit his underlip in thought. “It is, I do believe, a fabled satyr, whereof the countryfolk tell fearsome old-wives’ tales.”

  A look of superstitious terror crossed the sergeant’s face, and he snatched back his questing hands. “What shall I do with it, sir?” he said, rising and stepping backward.

  The satyr, whose wrists were bound together by a narrow thong, opened its eyes, perceived the ring of hostile mounted men, and scrambled to its feet. Trembling, it sought to run; but the sergeant, grabbing

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  the rope that trailed from its neck, tugged and brought it down.

  When it had been subdued, Trocero addressed it: “Creature, can you talk?^

  “Aye," the captive said in broken Aquilonian. Talk good. Talk my tongue; talk Uttle yours. What you do to me?”

  "That’s for our general to decide,” replied Trocero.

  "You no cut throat, like other men?”

  "! have no wish to cut your throat. Why think you that those others so would do?”

  “Others catch us for magic sacrifice.”

  The count grunted, “l see. You need fear naught of that from us. But we must bring you back to camp. Have you a name?”

  “Me Gola,” sgid the satyr in his gentle voice.

  "Then, Gola, you shall ride pillion behind one of my men. Do you understand?”

  The satyr looked downcast. "Me fear horse.”

  "You must overcome your fear,” said Trocero, giving his sergeant a signal

  "Up you go,” said the soldier, swinging the small form aloft; and, lifting the noose from Cola’s neck, he bound the rope firmly about the satyr’s waist and that of the trooper on whose horse the creature sat.

  "Youll be quite safe,” he laughed. Swinging into his saddle, he turned the column around.

  The squad sent in pursuit of the royalists arrived at the base of the Ciant’s Notch in time to see the fugitives disappear up the steep tunnel of the gorge. Fearing ambush, the Poitanians pressed the pursuit no further.

  Later, in the command tent, Trocero reported on his mission to the assembled leaders of the rebellion. Conan surveyed the captive and said: ‘'That binding on your wrists seems tight, friend Cola, We need it not”

  He drew his dagger and approached the satyr, who cringed and screamed in mortal terror: “No cut throat! Man promise, no cut throat!”

  “Forget your precious throat!’' growled Conan, seiziug the captive’s wrists in one gigantic hand. “I would not harm you.” He slashed the thong and sheathed his poinard, while Gola flexed his fingers and winced at the pain of returning circulation.

  “That’s better, eh?” said Conan, seating himself at the trestle table and beckoning the satyr to join him. "Do you like wine, Gola?”

  The satyr smiled and nodded; and Conan signaled to his squire.

&n
bsp; “General!” exclaimed Publius, holding up a finger to stay the execution of the order. “Our wine is nearly gone. A few flagons more and we’re all back on beer.”

  “No matter,” said Conan. “Wine we shall have. The Nemedians have a saying: 'In wiae is truth,’ and this I am about to test.”

  PubUus, Trocero, and Prospero exchanged glances. Since he first clapped eyes upon the satyr, Conan displayed a curious aflBnity for this subhiunan being. It was as if, a scarce-tamed creature of the wild himself, he felt instinctive sympathy for another child of nature, dragged from its native haunts by civilized men whose ways and motives must be utterly incomprehensible.

  Half a wineskin later, Conan discovered that two regiments of royaUst cavalry held the plateau above the Imirian Escarpment. They were encamped, not at the cliff-top where they could attack if the rebels ascended the flume of the Giant’s Notch, but several bowshots—^perhaps a quarter-league—back from the edge. And for several days royalist hunting parties had clambered down the Notch to sweep the neighboring woods for satyrs. Those they caught, they dragged alive back to their camp and penned them, still bound, in a stockade built for the purpose.

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  "My folk move from Notch/' said Gola, sadly. “Had no pipes ready.”

  Ignoring that strange remark, Conan asked: “How know you that they plan to use your peoples’ blood for magical sacrifices?”

  The satyr gave Conan a sly, sidelong glance. “We know. We, too, have magic. Big magician on cliffs above.”

  Conan pondered, studying the small creature intently. “Gola, if we push the bad men from the upper plain, you need no longer fear mistreatment. If you help us, we will restore your woods to you.”

  “How know I what big men do? Big men kiU our people.”

  “Nay, we are your friends. See, you are free to go." Conan pointed to the tent flap, arms spread wide.