Conan the Liberator

by Lyon Sprague de Camp

  '^ou fool necromancer!” grumbled Numitor. "Since you would resort to magic, you should have waited tiU the Notch was filled with rebels. Thus we had slain them aU. Now they have fled with little scathe.”

  “You do not imderstand these matters. Prince,” replied Thulandra coolly. “I withheld the final step of the enchantment until I saw that something—or someone—had warned the rebel leader of the trap and the rebels had begun to flee. Had I withheld my hand the longer, they would have aU escaped scot-free. In any case the flume is blocked. The rebels must needs march east to the Khorotas or west to the Alimane, for they cannot now breach the escarpment

  “And now Your Highness must excuse me. The spell has drained my psychic forces, and I must rest.”

  “I never did think much of miracle-mongers,” growled Nimiitor as he turned away.

  In the sheltered forest camp that evening, Conan and his oflBcers reviewed a map. “To bypass the escarpment,” said Conan, “we must return to the village of Pedassa, whence the roads depart for the two rivers. But that’s a lengthy march.”

  SATYRS BLOOD

  “If there were some little-known break in the long cliff wall,” said Prospero wistfully, “we could, by moving quietly through the woods, steal a march on Numitor and fall upon him unawares."

  Conan frowned. "This map shows no such pass; but long ago I learned not to trust mapmakers. You re lucky if they show the rivers flowing in the true direo tion. Trocero, know you any alternate route?”

  Trocero shook his head. “Nay.”

  “There must be streams other than the Bitaxa that cut a channel in the cliff.”

  Trocero shrugged helplessly. Pallantides entered, saying: “Your pardon. General, but two men of Serdicus’ company have deserted.”

  Conan snorted. “Every time we win, men desert from the royalists to join us; every time we lose, they desert us for the king. It is like a game of chance, following Fate’s decree. Send scouts to look for them and hang them if you catch them; but do not make a pubUc matter of it. Order woodsmen at dawn to study the cliff face in both directions for the distance of a league to see if they can find a pathway to the top. And now, friends, leave me to ponder finiiier on the matter.”

  Beside his camp bed Conan brooded over a flagon of ale. He restudied the map and cudgeled his braia for a way his army might surmount the escarpment

  Absently he fingered the half-circle of obsidian, which once had himg between the opulent breasts of the dancing girl Alcina, and which was now clasped around his massive neck. He stared down at the object, thinking how right had been his friend Trocero’s suspicion that she had caused the death of old Amulius Procas.

  Little by little, the pieces of the puzzle fitted together. Alcina had been sent—either by the king’s spymaster or by the royal sorcerer—to try to miurder

  CONAN THE LIBERATOR

  him. Later she succeeded in slaying General Procas. Why Procas? Because with Conan in his grave, Procas was no longer needed to defend Aquilonia’s mad king. Hence, neither she nor her master knew, at the time of Procas’s death, that Conan had recovered from her deadly elixir.

  Well, thought Conan, not without bitterness, he must hereafter be more cautious in choosing his bed-mates. But why should Procas die? Because Alcina's master, whoever he might be, wanted the old man out of his way. This thought led Conan to Thulandra Thuu, for the rivalry between the sorcerer and the general for the king’s favor was notorious.

  Conan gripped the ebon talisman as this enlightenment burst upon him. And as he did so, he became aware of a curious sensation. It seemed that voices carried on a dialogue within his skull.

  A shadowy form took shape before his eyes. As Conan tensed to snatch his sword, the vision solidified, and he saw a female figure sitting on a black wrought-iron throne. The vision was to some extent transparent —Conan could dimly see the tent wall behind the image—and too nebulous to recognize the woman’s features. But in the shadowy face burned eyes of emerald green.

  With every nerve atingle, Conan watched the figure and hearkened to the voices. One was a woman’s dusky voice, and her words followed the movements of the shadow’s lips. The voice was Alcina’s, but she seemed unaware of Conan s scrutiny.

  The other voice was dry, metallic, passionless, and spoke Aquilonian with a siblant slur. Conan had never exchanged a word with Thulandra Thuu, although he had seen the mage across the throne room during courtly fimctions in Tarantia when he was general to the king. But from descriptions of the wizard, he imagined the king’s favorite would speak thus. The voice proceeded:

  SATYRS BLOOD

  “… I know not who betrayed my plan; but some treacher must have forewarned the rebel chieftain.’'

  Alcina replied: “Perhaps not. Master. The barbarian pig has senses keener than those of ordinary men; he might have detected the coming cataclysm by some stirring of the air above the earth. What do you now?”

  “I must needs remain here to guard that ninny Numitor against some asinine misjudgment, until Coimt Ulric arrives. The stars inform me of his coming in three days’ time. Yet I am weary. Calling up the spirits of the earth has prostrated me. I can work no further spells until I recoup my psychic forces."

  ‘Then pray, come back forthwithl" urged the vision of Alcina. "Ulric will sm'ely arrive before the rebels can simnoimt the cliffs, and I have need of your protection."

  "Protection? Why so?"

  “His maggotty Majesty, the King, importunes me constantly to join him in his bestial amusements. I am afraid.'’

  "What has this walking heap of excrement been urging you to do?"

  “His desires beggar all description. Master. At your command, some men I have lain with, and some I have slain. But this I will not do."

  “Set and Kali!" exclaimed the dry male voice. “When I have finished with Numedides, he'U wish he were in helll I shall set forth for Tarantia on the morrow."

  “Have a care that you fall not into rebel hands along the wayl Insurgent bands have been reported along the Road of Kings, and the barbarian pig might lead a swift raid into loyal territory. He is a worthy adversary."

  The male voice chuckled faintly. “Fear not for me, my dear Alcina. Even in my present depleted state, I can with my peculiar powers slay any mortal at close quarters. And now, farewell.”

  The voices fell silent, and the vision faded. Conan shook himself like one awakening from a vivid dream. With Thulandra gone from the scene of battle and Ulric not yet arrived, he had a chance to fall on Numitors army and rout it—^if only he could reach the plains above before the Coxmt of Raman came with reinforcements.

  He needed air to clear his rampant thoughts and rose to leave his narrow sleeping quarters. In the adjacent section of the tent, the bodyguards whom Prospero had assigned him were so engrossed in a game of chance that none looked up as Conan, soundless as a shadow, glided past them.

  Outside, the sentries, used to his night prowls, supposed that he was making an inspection. They saluted as he wandered to the edge of the encampment and continued into the nighted woods. Prospero, he thought with a grim smile, would be perturbed to know that Conan once again had given his bodyguards the sHp.

  He fumbled in his wallet for the bone whistle Cola had given him, retrieved it, and fingered it. The satyr had said that if he ever wanted help from the people of these woods, he had but to blow upon it. Half in jest, he put the tiny whistle to his lips and blew. Nothing happened. More urgently, he blew another silent blast.

  Perhaps the remnant of the satyrs had departed from the scene of their destruction. Even if they heard the call, they might need time to come to him. Conan stood motionless with the wary patience of a crouching panther waiting for its prey, listening to the buzz and chirp of insects and the rustle of a passing breeze. Now and then he put the soundless whistle to his hps and blew again.

  At length he felt a movement in the shrubbery.

  SATYRS BLOOD

  'Who you, blow whistle call satyr?^ asked a small
high-pitched voice in broken Aquilonian.

  Xola?’'

  “Nay, me Zudik, chief. Who you?" The shrubbery parted.

  “Conan the Cimmerian. Do you know Gola?” Conan, whose eyes had adjusted to the darkness, could see this was a bent and ancient satyr, whose pelt was tinged with silver.

  “Aye,” repHed the satyr chieftain. “He tell about you. Save him and four others. What you want?”

  “Your help to kill the men atop the cliff.”

  “How Zudik help big man like you?”

  “We need a pathway to the top,” said Conan, “now that the Giant’s Notch is filled with rocks. Know you another way?”

  The night sang with the sound of insects in the silence. Then Zudik answered slowly: “Is small path that way.” The satyr pointed eastward.

  “How far?” The satyr repHed in his own language, and his words were like the caws of crows.

  Puzzled, the Cimmerian asked: “Can we get there within a day’s march?”

  “Walk hard. Can do.”

  “Will you show us the way?”

  “Aye. Be ready before sunup.”

  Later Conan sought out Publius and said: “We move at dawn for a path the satyrs say leads to the bluff; but it’s too narrow for the wagons. You v^dll take the baggage train back to Pedassa and follow the road thence to the Khorotas. If we join you on the road to Tarantia, we shall have vanquished Numitor; if not”— Conan drew, a finger across his throat—^"you11 go alone.”

  The second gap in the escarpment was much narrower than the Giant’s Notch. From below it was invisible, hidden by lush greenery and overhanging

  rocks. The horsemen had to lead their mounts across the brook that gurgled at the bottom of the cleft and up the rocky way. More than one horse, frightened by the narrowing canyon walls, held up the others while it whinnied, rolled frightened eyes, and reared.

  The men afoot, walking in single file, could just squeeze through. When dusk made the path darker and more sinister, Conan urged each man to grasp the garments of the man ahead and stumble forward. Morning saw the last man through.

  While the Army of Liberation rested from their forced march and arduous cUmb, Conan sent scouts to probe Numitor s position. On their return the leader reported:

  "Numitor has struck his camp and fallen back for several leagues along the road. His men have pitched camp in the forest, straddling the highway.”

  Conan looked a question at his officers. Pallantides said: “What’s this? Even if Numitor is stupid, I’ve never heard he was a cowardi"

  “More likely,” Trocero put in, “he learned that we have found a way up the escarpment and feared we would drive him to the precipice.”

  "The sorcerer might have warned lum,” ventured Prospero.

  “That is not all. General,” said the chief scout “Four more regiments have arrived to reinforce the enemy. We recognized their banners.”

  Conan grunted. “Numitor has stripped the Wester-marck of regulars, leaviiig the defense against the Picts to the local militia. So we are again outnumbered; and the Royal Frontiersmen are skillful fighting men. I’ve fought beside them and I know.” He paused a moment, then added: “Friends, that satyr Gola said something about using pipes against a foe. What think you that he meant?”

  None knew. At last Conan said: “I see I must consult our Httle folk again.”

  SATYBS BLOOD

  As dusk drew a gray veil of mist along the tumbling stream, Conan worked his way down the narrow path up which his men had so laboriously clambered. He stood alone in the enshrouding dark of the BroceUian Forest, listening in vain for any footfall He blew on the bone whistle and, as before, he waited in the shadow of an ancient tree. When at last his call was answered, he was relieved to find it was Zudik, the satyr who had directed his army to the pass. In answer to a question, Zudik said:

  “Aye, we use pipes. Make your men stop up ears.”

  Tlug up our ears?” asked Conan wonderingly.

  "Aye. Use beeswax, cloth, clay—so can no longer hear. Then we help you.”

  Numitor’s Frontiersmen lay in a crescent across the highway to Tarantia. The prince seemed prepared to stand on the defensive imtil the arrival of Count Ulric. His men were digging earthworks with implanted pointed stakes to impede an attacker. Because of the dense stands of trees, the rebels could not outflank the royaHsts’ long line.

  Silently, the Army of Liberation spread out before the crescent, their presence hidden by the shrubbery. But when a royal sentry perceived a movement in the bushes, he sounded an alarm. Men dropped their shovels, snatched weapons, and took positions on the line.

  Conan signaled to his aides, whose ears were plugged, to tell the archers to ply the foe with arrows; and presently, the thrum of bowstrings and the whistle of arrows rent the air. But Conan’s men heard nothing.

  To the royalist defenders on the ends of the line came a chilling soimd—a shrill, ululating, imearthly piping. It came from nowhere into everywhere. It made men’s teeth ache and imbued them with a strange, unreasoning panic. Soldiers dropped their

  CONAN THE LIBERATOR

  weapons to clutch at pain-racked heads. Some burst into hysterical laughter; others dissolved in tears.

  As the sound drew nearer, the feeling of dire doom expanded until it overflowed their souls. The impulse to be gone, which at first they mastered, overcame their years of battle training. Here and there a man tinned from his position on the line to run, screaming madly, to the rear. More joined the flight, until the outer limits of the line dissolved into a mass of terrified fugitives, running from they knew not what As the prince’s flanks were swept away, the unseen pipers moved toward the center, until that, too, disintegrated. Trocero’s cavalry rode down the fleeing men, slaying and taking prisoners.

  “Anyway,” said Conan as he looked at the abandoned royalist camp, “they left us weapons enough for twice our number. So now we can recruit whatever volimteers we find."

  “That was an easy victory,” exulted Prospero.

  "Too easy,” replied Conan grimly. “An easy victory is oft as false as a courtiers smile. Ill say the road to Tarantia is open when I see the city walls, and not before.”

  THE KEY TO THE CITY

  The Army of Liberation tramped unopposed through the smiling land, where Poitain’s herds of fine horses and cattle grazed on luxiuiant grass, and castles reared their crenelated towers of crimson and purple and gold. The rebel army serpentined its way through pillow-rounded mountains, lush with vegetation, and at last approached the border between Poitain and the central provinces of Aquilonia.

  But as Conan sat his charger on an embankment to watch his soldiers pass before him, his gaze was somber. For, although Numitors Frontiersmen had scattered like leaves in an autumn gale, a new foe, against which he had no defense, now assailed his army. This was sickness. A malady, which caused men to break out in scarlet spots and prostrated them with chills and fever, raced through his ranks, an invisible demon, felling more soldiers than a hard-fought battle. Many men were left abed in villages along the way; many, fearing the dread disease, deserted; many died.

  “What do we niunber now?^ Conan asked PubHus of an evening, as the army neared the border village of Elymia.

  The former chancellor studied his reports. “About eight thousand, counting the walking sick, who number nigh a thousand.”

  CONAN THE LIBERATOR

  “Croml We were ten thousand when we left the Alimane, and hundreds more have joined since then. What has become of them?^

  Trocero said: “Some come to us in a roseate glow, like a bridegroom to his bride, but think better of their bargain when they have sweated and slogged a few leagues from their native heath. They fret about their families and getting home to harvest."

  “And this spotted sickness has claimed thousands,” added Dexitheus. '1, and the physicians imder me, have tried every herb and purge to no avail. It seems magic is at work. Else an evil destiny doth shape our ends.”

 
Conan bit back scornful words of increduHty. After the earthquake he dared not underestimate the potent magic of his enemy or the wanton cruelty of the gods.

  "Could we have persuaded the satyrs to march with us, bringing their pipes,” said Prospero, “our paltry numbers would be of Httle moment.”

  “But they would not leave their homes in the BroceUian Forest,” said Conan.

  Prospero rephed: "You could have seized their old Zudik as a hostage, to compel them.”

  “That’s not my way,” growled Conan. “Zudik proved a friend in need. I would not use him ill.”

  Trocero smiled gently. “And are you not the man who scorned Prince Numitor for his high-flown ideals of chivalry?”

  Conan grunted. “With savages, the chief has little power; I have dwelt amongst them, and I know. Besides, I doubt if even great love for their chieftain’s weal would overcome the Httle people’s fear of open country. But let us face the future and not raise ghosts from the dead past Have the scouts reported signs of Ulric’s army?”

  “No reports,” said Trocero, “save that today they

  THE KEY TO THE CITY

  glimpsed a few riders from afar, who quickly galloped out of sight. We know not who they are; but I would wager that the northern barons delay Count Ulric still.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Conan, "I shall take Gyrto’s troop to scout the border of Poitain, whilst the rest march for Elymia.”

  “General,” objected Prospero. “You should not use yourself so recklessly. A commander should stay behind the lines, where he can control his units, and not risk his life like a landless adventurer.”

  Conan frowned. “If I am commander here, I must conmiand as I think best!” Seeing Prosperous stricken face, he added with a smile: “Fear not; I’ll do naught fooHsh. But even a general must betimes share the dangers of his men. Besides, am I not myself a landless adventm’er?’'

  “Methinks,” grumbled Prospero, “you merely indulge your barbarian lust for combat hand-to-hand.” Conan’s grin widened wolfishly, but he ignored the comment