VI
Siege
“We hold Ianthe, so let Armiro pound at our gates until his fists are broken and bloodied.”
Thus decreeing, King Conan strode the citadel’s broad battlement. He gazed out over the red-tiled roofs of the city and the winding river, its currents sheened silver by noon sun. “The capital is ours,” he declared, “along with the remnant of the Ophirean army and half the kingdom, to the line of the Red River in the east and the Arond to westward.” He turned back to his handful of advisors with easy confidence. “The Kothians ride fast and fight hard, ’tis true! But there is little they can do against city walls and closely watched river lines.”
“Aye, milord, and yet.. Count Trocero moved nearer his king, though he stayed a little farther back from the low stone curb, which dropped straight away to the black shale of the river cliff. “Prince Armiro will lay a siege. Our watchers on the wall report the Kothians already building breastworks and assault engines.”
“A siege, to be sure.” Conan sniffed, his broad nostrils flaring, then laughed outright. “But to the prince’s misfortune, the city of Ianthe straddles the river. We control both halves, and with them, both bridges! With our line of supply unbroken, his badgering can scarcely be a siege. There will be no starvation within these walls, no plague, no civil strife! We Aquilonians are the country’s liberators, remember—its heroes, with the full welcome of its new and rightful governor, Lord Lionnard.” Conan nodded to the diminutive nobleman, who bowed deeply, his moustaches twitching nervously.
“It is Armiro’s enemies who hold a bridgehead against him,” Conan continued with a sweep of his hand over the grand prospect. “He is the one to fear a siege, so long as he continues to squat on my rightful holdings—your holdings too, of course, good Lionnard.”
“Ours to a common purpose, my liege.” Lionnard flushed deeply and bowed again to Conan.
The view the king commended to his followers was indeed a splendid one. The Red River was a broad, swift stream having its source in the Karpash Mountains, whose foothills were hazily visible to the north-east. Swollen and muddy with spring rains, the torrent wound in a red-tinged swath through lush meadow and woodland to the city.
The high stone promontory on which they stood, and around whose base the river bent, served to narrow the channel to a bridgeable width. It was also the highest point to which the river was navigable by sea-going ships year-round. It was on that outcrop, dim aeons past, that some bandit or river pirate had chosen to raise his stronghold; and there, under his descendants’ feudal protection, that ferrymen, toll takers and merchants had set up business. There, too, the city had slowly grown, around its succession of ever grander forts and bridges.
Now beneath the cliff spread a view of stately domes, towers, and the huddled roofs of humbler shops and dwellings, threaded by narrow streets whose windings would have been impossible to trace even from this high vantage. Two bridges spanned the river, one upstream and one down; the upper one was a straight, many-arched viaduct, the other a broader, angular span piled high with shops and garrets. Boats, too, lay at anchor in the river, though the largest ones were restricted to the downstream side of the bridges. The whole was girdled by a strong, crenellated wall, proceeding in straight segments between towers set a hundred paces or so apart. The wall ended at the river in sturdy buttresses whose bases foamed in the river currents, two upstream and two down.
Near the centre of it all, on the high knoll half-eroded by the river, reared the citadel. And on its highest, southernmost parapet stood the king, surrounded by his retainers. These included Trocero, Lord Lionnard, the officer Egilrude, who now wore an eagle-crested helm signifying captain’s rank, and a handful of other Aquilonian and Ophirean officers. A little apart from the rest, lounging against the chocked wheels of a catapult, the armoured dwarf Delvyn and the leather-girdled warrioress Amlunia listened. Evidently the two were acquaintances from past days at court. Though Delvyn generally had been seen to avoid women, he now exchanged occasional low-voiced comments with the king’s new favourite.
“We are lucky,” Conan mused aloud, “that this fortress lies on the Aquilonian side. Otherwise the Kothian might send log rams or sappers downstream to break the bridges and cut us off. As it is, he will want the bridges intact to reach us.” He waved at the row of sturdy ballistae facing outward along the parapet.“We command the river traffic. These engines can throw stones or fire into any unfriendly vessels that try to pass. The bridges, too, lie within their range, as does a good part of the city.” This last remark the king added with the briefest glance to Lionnard; it made the satrap stir in acknowledgement. “With Aquilonian troops manning the citadel and acting as advisors, I think we can rely on Ophirean forces to defend the walls of their capital.”
Lionnard concurred promptly. “Never doubt it, Your Majesty! No true citizen of Ianthe would let our gates be opened to the ravages of Armiro the Koth!” He cleared his throat. “Even so, Sire, can it be wise to send the bulk of the army off to other campaigns so soon after your... rescue of Ianthe?” He ceased speaking, obviously reluctant to question the king, and looked to the others for aid.
“Indeed, Sire,” Trocero agreed. “Armiro is an energetic commander. He could still cross the river and wreak havoc in the countryside, even encircle the city to complete his siege—”
“Let him try,” Conan interrupted. “The water is high, he would lose half his force in the crossing.” He nodded again to the river, where it coursed swollen through lush green meadows beyond the walls. “The nearest safe ford lies a dozen leagues upstream, in the foothills. And there is no ford downstream, even to the Khorotas River and the sea. When we beat the Kothians in the race to the river, I gave my generals the order to tow all boats and ferries to our side, and bum the docks and boatyards on the far bank. I myself would not risk crossing in Armiro’s teeth, except by these bridges. He will not risk it in ours, unless he is a greater fool than I think him.”
The monarch shook his head resolutely. “Nay, Trocero, ’tis best that we send every unneeded trooper northward to fight in Nemedia. With their king slain, the northern barons will not wait long to name a new one and mount a troublesome war against Aquilonia. My error last time was failing to follow up swiftly and ruthlessly on a victory. I will not err so again.” Trocero nodded, impressed. “If we succeed, a mighty empire will be born.”
“Do not question our success. We can hardly fail!” Conan smote Trocero heartily on the shoulder, making the count stagger uneasily on the brink of the sheer precipice. “General Ottobrand’s march has outpaced the very rumour of King Balt’s death. The Nemedian nobles will be caught off guard and ill-prepared. I told Prospero to seek out some patriot who, like noble Lionnard here, can offer a wiser rulership to his country. I myself shall ride north in a few days, swear him personally to fealty, and then deal with the more warlike barons.” He laid a hand on his retainer’s shoulder. “You, Trocero, I will entrust with the defence of Ianthe—and, until our northern front is subdued, with keeping Armiro at bay.”
“To be dealt with later, no doubt.” Trocero’s gaze roved eastward.
“Aye.” The king nodded. “Driving him out of Ophir can be but a step to the conquest of Koth itself.”
“I see heavy smoke at the south wall, Sire,” Trocero said, giving voice to a fact which had become more evident over the course of a few moments.
“Aye. Armiro is burning the suburbs.” The king watched the grey-brown billows rising beyond the distant battlement, without undue concern. “Let him, I say! ’Tis folly to let hovels and tenements grow up outside a city wall.”
“Yes, but, my noble liege,” Lionnard put in, “and Count Trocero, permit me, please! I have been reading the semaphores.” The bearded satrap pointed to a gleam of reflected sunlight that could be seen winking from atop one of the nearby towers. “The Kothians are mounting an attack under cover of the smoke. Our troops are calling on the garrison for reinforcements.”
“
Are they?” Conan asked, turning to shade his eyes at the flashes. “Well, make sure they get them! I shall come as well.” With his officers at his heels, Conan strode to a hatchway and started down the narrow, spiralling staircase to the stable yard.
The ride across the city was headlong. A pair of Black Dragon guards galloped ahead, ostensibly to part the traffic, yet the king drove his horse Shalmanezer almost on top of them. Trocero and Lionnard rode some way behind, trying to keep the stallion’s massive hindquarters in sight. The riders chose the newer, uncluttered bridge to avoid crowds, but inevitably they encountered throngs on the market avenue leading to the Gate of Oxen, the city’s south gate nearest the rising smoke.
Citizens, startled by thunderous hoof beats, scattered out of the roadway before the riders. On looking up to see Ianthe’s grim-faced conqueror, they gaped with looks of more than supernatural dread, having heard tales of Conan’s sudden appearance in Count Malvin’s palace and the awesome butchery that ensued. But as he thundered past, flanked by the familiar if unrespected figure of Lionnard, they gave the band belated and obligatory homage, bowing their dark-tousled heads and knuckling their brows. Perhaps, if this terrible, remorseless warrior was now bent on preserving their city, things would turn out for the best after all.
Near the south wall, more citizens hurried through the streets away from the smoke-darkened sky. Ahead could be heard hoarse shouting and the whizz and crash of projectiles overshooting the wall.
“You two, hold up!” Conan barked to his guardsmen, who reined in obediently. “Keep the street clear! Use swords if you have to! We cannot have refugees blocking the path of our reinforcements.” The guards, barking acknowledgement., spurred off to comply.
The commanders left their horses tethered to the gatepost and mounted through one of the flanking towers. Atop the wall, smoke hung thick in the air. It poured up over the wall on a gentle southern breeze, forcing the defending troops to crouch tear-eyed and hoarse at the inner edge of the parapet. A glance over the battlement revealed nothing but a blinding smother of fumes.
“Fetch water to the top of the wall, and more wash-tubs, to store it in!” Conan commanded an Ophirean officer. “Tell off a bucket brigade. Your men may need to douse the gate—till then they can use it to rinse their eyes.” As a whizzing sound thrummed in the air, he turned to watch a crenelle struck by a hurtling stone, and a kneeling man knocked from the back of the parapet by its flying splinters. “By Crom’s horny hilt!” the king blasphemed, “where did the Kothians find catapults? They’ve been here but a day and a night!”
Amid the periodic crash of projectiles, poorly aimed in the smoke, Conan and his subordinates paced the wall, goading the sentries to greater courage and readiness. Within moments, however, new masses of smoke were billowing up between the gate towers, this time veined red and gold with living flame. It was clear that some incendiary mass had been brought up against the gate, probably a burning wagon.
By then, fortunately, water had begun to arrive from the aqueduct in the plaza below, raised by means of a pulley existing for the purpose; the buckets were detached and emptied into casks or directly over the battlement, beating down the worst of the flames and smoke.
Conan mistrusted the men on the rampart to watch the wall. Now he strode through one of the gate towers in time to see the head of a boarding ladder clash against the parapet beyond. Up it, through the thinning smoke, Kothian troops came swarming, looking wraith-like and monstrous due to the wet rags draped across the front of their helmets.
“By the Crooked One! To arms, you dogs!” Raising a bellow, the king laid hold of a halberdier who crouched nearby. He dragged both the Ophirean and his weapon to the battlement. Together, as the first attackers reached the top, they used his long, ax-headed pike to thrust the ladder’s mortised timbers out and away. It toppled over invisibly into the smoke, yielding back screams and the sound of crashing armour.
Elsewhere along the wall defenders sprang into action, overturning more ladders and knocking Kothians off the battlement with pikes and axes. Meanwhile, from behind the rampart came the clatter of reinforcements, Ophirean and mercenary, under a cadre of Aquilonian officers.
Conan, finding his commands and exhortations no longer needed, sought out Trocero and departed with him. They left the defence of the city to the soldiers who would doubtless be burdened with it for many days to come.
The common kitchen of the citadel at Ianthe had been cleaned, spruced, and lavishly fitted out for use by royalty. The room’s coarse wooden tables were gone, replaced by gilded wonders from the apartments above; the rough flagstones were now carpeted and cushioned, and the broad oaken mantelpiece burdened by bric-a-brac of silver, crystal and faïence, with a perpetual guard assigned to protect its opulence.
The upper council hall would normally have accommodated the dinners and debauches of high state. But its expanse was too recently sullied by slaughter, the crevices of its inlaid floor too foetid with the blood and bile spewed forth there, to admit of dining and festivity. By the superstitious, it was whispered that the vacant room still echoed with the shrieks and flickered with the shades of the famous and infamous lords butchered in its midst.
And so it was in homier, warmer-lit surroundings that King Conan drank and feasted this night. Before him ranged the new, smaller Ophirean court. In a sable-padded chair, nearly equal in size and lushness to Co-nan’s own, Lord Lionnard sat elevated and vindicated. A handful of his squirely cousins, looking in various degrees awed, rustic, or slack-witted, rested on either hand of sober-faced Count Trocero. Captain Egilrude and two other trim, hard-looking Aquilonian officers muttered together, dicing and drinking more than they ate. In a chimney comer the while, Delvyn strummed tunelessly at his lute.
On a broad seat facing the fire lounged Conan with the woman Amlunia seated close beside him. Since their first charnel meeting, the warrior girl had doffed her cape and sundry outer armaments. She retained her black half-boots, her short, tight-laced trousers of matching black leather, a dagger belt, and a brief leather vest. Though snug at the waist, its laces hung slack about her bosom—a concession, no doubt, to the fire’s heat. By its light, her skin shone stark white against the black accoutrements. The only splash of colour was her red hair, cropped short for comfort beneath the war helmet she sometimes wore. Her hair, short as it was, nevertheless was lavished on Conan’s face and loose-shirted breast with the darting of her limber neck—for Amlunia postured and pouted, whispering in the monarch’s ear and pecking his face with her dark-stained lips in the course of their conversation.
As they talked and drank, Delvyn struck up a ballad to the accompaniment of his lute:
Of players and minstrels who wander the East,
The court of Ianthium harked not the least
When Conan the minstrel, of harpists the king, Played them an air on his harp of one string.
The dwarf seemed to accept the situation at Ianthe, including the passing of his former master King Balt, with equanimity. He showed no unease or jealousy at the intimacy between Conan and Amlunia—unlike Trocero, who seemed abashed at having the murderous wanton, so recently one of their enemies, admitted to dinners and high privy councils. Trocero saw in it further evidence of the change he had sensed recently in Conan. And yet there had been no flagging of the king’s vigour and leadership—rather, the opposite, certainly no ground for complaint. Conan seemed able to juggle these obvious risks, and to parley them into greater glories for himself and Aquilonia. So Trocero held his peace.
He strummed them a ballad so soulful and brave,
’Twould pierce to the heart of the naughtiest knave. He played of ambition, of hate and mischance.
To liven the party, he led them a dance.
They danced all the evening, they danced the night time
To the notes of his harp and his clashing steel chime. Then softly he played, with strummings so deep, So sweetly and softly, he lulled them to sleep.
At the conclusion
of the jester’s song, acclaim and laughter sounded from the company. Amlunia—looking flushed and a little wild-eyed, perhaps from memories of the night memorialised in Delvyn’s tune—reached across the complacent king and snatched his ale jack out of his hand where it rested on the chair arm. Raising the flagon high, she cried out shrilly, “A toast to the emperor, everyone! To King Conan, player of the sweetest funeral dirges!”
She gulped lustily from the jack; then, laughing, she turned it against Conan’s lips and tilted it, so that he had to swallow mightily to keep from choking. When some of the ale sloshed down his face, she jerked aside the flagon and darted to lick the foam greedily from his neck and chin, ending with a deep, passionate kiss on his mouth.
The other revellers set down their flagons and waited, admiring or abashed, while the seemingly endless kiss endured. When at last Amlunia pried free of the king, gasping for breath and clearly unready to resume love-making at once, Trocero spoke up.
“Aye, a skilled player our king is! The question remains, Your Majesty: what kind of ditty shall we play to Armiro as he scrabbles at our city gate?”
“It will have to be a quick-tempoed one, ’tis clear.” Conan sat flushed, recovering his wind with gusty breaths. “The scamp showed us his skill and the zeal of his troops by his attack this noon. He almost carried the wall—thank Crom he will not have slums to burn outside our gate again soon!”
“Armiro the Koth has the reputation of a clever commander,” Lionnard said. “Aye, and ruthless! We can thank Mitra—and Crom too, milord—for that part of it.” The lordling stirred uneasily at Conan’s sudden, suspicious glance. “I mean to say, there are none in Ianthe who would want to open the city gate to him, after the toll he has taken in southern Ophir. Fear of flame and pillage will keep our city’s defenders vigilant.” Lionnard peered anxiously at Conan across Amlunia’s shapely bosom. “After all, O King, your conquest of Ianthe was practically bloodless.”
Conan the Great Page 7