Conan the Great

by Leonard Carpenter

  “On my honour.,” he thought he heard the old man reply. It did not matter, for Conan was already on the bridge. Holding the lamp out for balance, he stepped gingerly in the places he had seen the other step. The bridge held, though he felt stones shift and scrape beneath his feet. He reached the centre of the span, watching shadows sway with the swaying of his lamp.

  Evidently the pond in the pit had remained aflame, for blue ghost-fires still eddied and shimmered across its surface far below. The bubbling at its centre had also been provoked to greater activity, perhaps by the heat; now gurgling echoes drifted up that almost had the timbre of distant, angry shouts. Conan had not intended to look down, and the giddiness that followed caused him to shift his weight too abruptly. He felt the stones beneath him grate and slip dangerously.

  “Old man, what—?” He should have known, his weight was far greater than the rat-catcher’s, too much so to risk crossing. He did not essay a leap, for he knew the stones would never withstand the force. He felt them starting to twist and separate beneath him anyway, and saw the old scoundrel watching him with that cursed blank, interested look of his “—What should I do?”

  “You must decide for yourself.” The voice boomed all around him as the bridge disintegrated and hurled him into the abyss. Falling toward the flames, he gazed up at the crooked shape of the old man and gave one last, despairing shout.

  “Crom!”

  An instant later he awoke. His narrow camp cot had toppled over and pitched him to the floor, driving the breath out of him; but the croaking cry he issued must have been real. Now guards rushed in through the entry flap and stood about him, lanterns raised high, their eyes searching the recesses of the tent for intruders.

  “To your ease!” Conan ordered, sitting up from the floor. “’Twas nothing of consequence.”

  The flap fluttered again, admitting Delvyn and Amlunia and a breath of evening chill. “Alas,” the dwarf said with a look of perplexity, “bad dreams are more catching lately than saddle ticks!”

  Amlunia hurried forward to succour the king. But he shook her off, arising by himself and setting his bunk aright as he did so. Then Prospero burst into the tent, causing Conan to bark out impatiently, “Enough, I say! It was nothing but an evil dream. And in truth, not so much evil as... unsettling. I do not need anyone’s help.”

  “I know nothing of your dreams, my liege,” Prospero declared. “In sooth, I wish that what I had just heard was a mere dream. But one of our forward scouts has just returned to camp pell-mell.” The count looked gravely round the circle of watchers before delivering his news. “A large host of Kothian troops has been spied ahead of us, approaching the pass.”

  XVIII

  Pass Sinister

  Moon dawned at the hour of deepest night. By then, additional parties had been sent from the Aquilonian camp to reconnoitre the pass. They were ordered to proceed with utmost stealth in hope of readying an ambush, or of detecting one laid by the hostile force. King Conan insisted on faring forth too, so important was the choice of terrain on which battle would be joined.

  Progress was difficult by the light of cold, careless stars. But when the coarse horn of a half moon jutted over the stony flank of the nearest Karpash crag, the view began to pale. The problem became one of evading discovery by enemy scouts and pickets.

  So far the Karpash Mountains had not lived up to their evil repute. No vampires had swooped out of the sky, and no ghost fogs had settled on the invaders to wilt and sicken them as they slept. But the highest reach of the pass would have seemed an eerie place even by day. The rising moon gleamed on shards of granite as white as splintered bones, and the vegetation between them was stunted at best, limited to man-sized, brittle-leaved trees, rough gorse, and rank grass.

  Some concealment for troops was offered by clumps of boulders that littered the landscape here and there, feathered with crooked fern. By night it was hard to decide whether these stones had lain here since the gods forged the mountains or whether, as in places it seemed, they were the fallen, primeval ruins of some earthly race. At the fringes of the plateau, the stones turned to fields of scree that trailed off into boulder-choked stream beds. Ranging from fist-sized to oxen-sized stones, this rubble appeared impassable to horses and treacherous to infantry.

  In spite of the desolation the climate remained curiously warm. No harsh winds blew; only mild, fragrant breezes wafted up from the canyons. Looking ahead, Conan could see the land beginning to fall away to southward. There was no doubt that this was the very top of the pass: an odd, fateful place for armies to meet, a potential triumph or disaster for his hopes of conquest.

  From hour to hour his scouts reported the size and disposition of the enemy force. Conan was led up the side of a rocky outcrop, to be given an intimidating view of tents and watchfires stretching down the further valley. By all accounts it was a host at least equal of his own, ten thousand and more men afoot and mounted.

  A fine prize, Conan thought while riding back, if they could be caught in disarray on this harsh, broken terrain—but there was little hope of springing such an ambush. His scouts had already glimpsed enemy outriders; quite likely some were watching him and his patrol right now, making similar appraisals of his force. He shifted in his saddle, suddenly wary at the keening of a night bird startled up from the gorse at one side; one of his Black Dragons tugged his reins and cantered over to investigate.

  No, Conan told himself, the main task would be avoiding any traps the enemy set for his troops. The Kothian generals were shrewd tacticians; if the cunning Armiro himself were here... dared Conan hope?... then victory might be hardest of all to seize.

  Gone, at any rate, were his plans of striking freely at his enemy’s vulnerable heartland; gone his schemes of snatching throne and country out from under the young tyrant. There would be no swift manoeuvre, no free-wheeling raids, no chance of catching the Kothians divided and whittling them down in a series of unequal battles, to seize their empire by elegant indirection. All would now be settled by a clash of roughly equal forces on field harsh and alien to both.

  Timing, tenacity, and ferocity would be the deciding factors. Losses would be heavy, and the loser, even if only loser by the narrowness of a hair, would be driven to retreat down a steep, treacherous path. He would be hunted to death by the victor almost certainly. Destruction would be total, victory slim or illusory.

  Here, then, lay destiny. This was the sort of epochal battle that dream and legend had prepared Conan for all his days. He was chosen to lead the army of earth’s greatest empire against that of its second greatest, so to decide the fate of the world. Such would be his name and his fame—win or lose, live or perish. A splendid fate for a warrior, this, the stuff of his deepest, grimmest cravings. Why then did he baulk at the prospect? Why did the thought bring a furrow to his brow and a taut, bitter flare to his nostrils?

  First came the uneasy question, what was Armiro’s force doing here? If the Koth meant to strike at Conan where he was vulnerable, why would he march to the empire’s eastern edge, where he was sure to find Aquilonian force in full strength and readiness? Did he mean to add his forces to those of Corinthia and Brythunia? A poor investment, that; and Conan could not imagine Corinthia any more willing to admit Kothian troops into its lands than Aquilonian ones. The assault on Aquilonia's underbelly through Argos sounded like the princeling’s insidious way, but this...? It made no sense, unless it concealed some devious intent or advantage on Armiro’s part.

  Second, after this battle, what would become of Aquilonia? The loser’s empire would certainly be forfeit, more probably to greedy neighbours. and rebellious factions than to this battle’s victor. The winner, with his army sorely weakened and dispersed throughout the Karpash, might easily find himself bereft of his own empire by similar perils. And when Conan thought of gentle Zenobia and Conn, and of his glittering kingdom, undespoiled as yet, the stakes of battle began to seem uncomfortably high.

  Interwoven through his thoughts
were memories of the dream that had startled him awake that very evening. There was much truth in dreams, he guessed, whether they were sendings of the gods or only well-springs of one’s own deepest wisdom. In consequence, he felt less arrogant than he had the day before, and a good deal more inclined to walk lightly.

  The mounted guardsman returned from the flank; behind him trotted a Bossonian scout on a lighter horse.

  “Sire,” the Black Dragon told Conan, “this man returns from a skirmish with enemy scouts. He says his partner was slain and the Kothians fled.” The outrider reined his horse around in confirmation, revealing a dark bloodstain at one side of his head.

  “By Bel,” Conan swore, “let him return to camp with me! There is much to be done. I will have the troops deployed by sun-up.”

  The fireless, sleepless Aquilonian camp stirred wearily in the light of false dawn. Weapons clanked, hooves rattled stones, and officers passed down orders in voices sharp with tension. All thought of rest was forgotten in the imminence of battle. Around a heap of doused ashes, the leaders of the campaign paced and discoursed. They paused to hear reports and rap out fresh orders to the subordinates who brought them before continuing their debate.

  “The enemy is manoeuvring up to a line, as we are,” Prospero insisted. “We may expect an attack at any moment; but more certainly we can expect an immovable defence.” With hands braced on his weapon belt, he looked across the cold fire with a frown near-invisible in the gloom. “On this broken, constricted ground, to attack with cavalry would be suicide.”

  “But remember,” Conan rumbled back, “they are defending Ophir and Koth. We are the invaders! If there is no fight, they win.” The king, though plainly out of sorts due to early hours and battlefield surprises, kept his voice in check, preserving a spirit of tactical debate rather than argument. “As I see it, if we strike at dawn before their force is in place, we can start them on a retreat that will soon become a rout.”

  “But, Sire,” Prospero said doggedly, “their army is no more scattered along the trail than ours is. Besides, it does not take an army to defend this pass! A handful of their force will serve to hold it, and the full weight of our legions cannot be brought to bear in such a narrow, broken space.” The Poitanian shook his head in exasperation. “There is no advantage in speed or numbers and no flank of weakness to exploit. The ones who attack will be the fools; better they be Kothian.”

  Conan’s rejoinder was slow in coming, and the strum of a lute from atop a flat stone nearby heralded a pronouncement of the jester Delvyn. “Might I say, King Castle-breaker,” the voice observed mellowly, “’tis not like you to argue. That you deign to do so tells me you do not think attack a wise course either.”

  “True, true, mayhap,” the king muttered vaguely. Eager for any distraction, he turned to hear the report of a cavalry captain who had dismounted and who knelt by his side.

  “Sire,” the captain said, arising, “a returning scout reports the presence of 3 royal pavilion and of imperial household troops in the Kothian camp. He thinks these things signal the presence of Prince Armiro himself.

  “Good, excellent!” Conan said. “What of the enemy deployments?”

  “Sire, their front line now crosses the pass, lying as near as a hundred paces to our own in some places. They have seized cover and high ground where possible, but they refuse the open tracts and the temple at the centre.”

  “Temple?” Conan demanded. “What temple? You mean the declivity?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty. I thought you had been told of it.” The captain spoke hurriedly, covering his nervousness with military brevity. “There are remnants of an ancient building in the low spot. Our men can see them in the dawning light—columns and paves only, Sire, nothing defensible. Apparently the Kothians regarded the place as a dangerous salient, as we did.”

  “Aye, well enough,” the king said. “Send forward a sentry or two, otherwise hold our troops shy of the place for now.” He clapped a hand on the man’s brass epauliere firmly enough to be felt through the armour. “And stand ready for orders, Euralus! Dismissed.” When the man had remounted and waved farewell, Conan turned back to his associates with a muttered curse. “Crom, must there now be a heathen temple in the midst of my battlefield? I dreamt of one last eve! Such things make the troops uneasy—and give their commander a chill, too!”

  Delvyn drew his fingers musically across the dry, taut entrails of his lute. “Perhaps due to the creeping plague of dreams lately,” he observed.

  “Aye, that,” Conan agreed, “and a long and dire experience of haunted temples before it. Anyway, Prospero,” he said with a nod to his friend, “you speak rightly. We shall not attack at dawn, but wait and see if Armiro does. Meanwhile the rest of our column can move up to the fore.”

  “Excellent, Your Majesty,” Prospero concurred. “Patience may triumph where impetuousness cannot.” “Indeed,” Conan said. “In a long face-off, I may be able to goad the stripling Armiro into something rash. But for now we have only to wait—and perhaps to dine. Where is Amlunia?”

  Prospero shrugged, showing no great concern. “Is she dozing in your tent, milord?”

  “Nay.” To make certain of it, Conan strode to the open entry of his own pavilion, and then to one other. “She is not here.”

  The dwarf shifted in his cross-legged seat on the rock. “Did she not find you earlier, King Jabber?” he piped up ingenuously. “She rode to join you on your scouting mission forward. I assumed you had left her off to rest somewhere.”

  “Crom’s hounds!” Conan exclaimed. “You mean she has not been seen since moonrise? A woman alone in this nest of roughnecks and ravishers...!”

  “She is not exactly defenceless,” Prospero pointed out. “You might set a page to find her.”

  “Nay,” Conan growled irritably. “Come, Delvyn, you be my page and we’ll seek her out ourselves. Breakfast can wait.”

  The jester sprang upright and strode to his mount, which stood saddled near Conan’s, dwarfed by the larger horse. “A wise thought, my king! Face-saving, in case we find her ravishing some poor, defenceless lancer or engineer.”

  “Your Majesty, you will not be gone long....?” Prospero solicited. “In the event of an attack—”

  “In an attack, old friend,” Conan said gruffly from the saddle, “you know what to do, as does every Aquilonian blade. Should you need me, look for me where the killing is thickest.”

  XIX

  Judgement

  In the grey dawn, made greyer and tardier by mists rising between the Karpash peaks, the king and his dwarf circled the unquiet, half-empty camp. They rode forward to the defensive line; on the way they passed troopers shuffling groggily to battle, crouching in weeds to dine on hardtack and pemmican, and waiting with their heads pillowed against stones in the morning chill.

  Discreet questions gave them a direction to follow— because Amlunia, as the most provocative, perilous, scandalous woman in the expeditionary column, went nowhere without being amply observed. An awed subaltern directed them toward the centre of the host on the highest, broadest part of the plateau. A hulking Bossonian corporal nodded them quietly forward to where his company sat, honing and oiling their broad-bladed axes behind a stand of boulders. Where they rounded the pile, the scout crouching on duty, a half-Pict female, merely flicked her eyes contemptuously toward the open, uncontested ground.

  There, some way off, could be seen the trim, powerful stallion Conan had given Amlunia. It grazed peacefully among the pale stone columns and pediments rising from the dewy grass.

  A shout might have availed nothing; or it might have called forth retaliation from the enemy host that lurked—reportedly, at least—in the field just beyond. To bring along a squad of horsemen might have launched a small war with Amlunia as the prize; Conan was not ready to provoke his adversaries thus, at least not yet. So he and Delvyn, hoping to be overlooked by the enemy’s sentries, spurred their mounts forward into no man’s land, unescorted.

 
; As they descended through damp, misty meadow their surroundings subtly changed. Slopes of dewy grass shouldered up around them to hide the outlines of the cold, barren Karpash tors. Slender stone pillars, ancient but unmarred by time, rose gradually taller and statelier on either hand—although, as Conan noted, they were shaped out of granite too hard for human tools to hew and polish. The paves of antique streets and plazas scuffed beneath their horses’ hooves. Morning mists congealed and curled skyward in the depression, shrouding the view of the military line they had just left.

  And so at last, the place took on a haunting familiarity redolent of dream. There before them stood the oft-glimpsed row of columns and entablatures, squarely linked against the sky; there the low-walled court, and there the stone-curbed pond of glossy black, whose ripples had spread so insidiously through so many nightmares. Conan had never trodden this elder courtyard, but had dreamt it. As he eyed the unnatural stirring of the water, the scene resonated dread and wonder in his soul.

  Amlunia stood but a short walk beyond her tethered horse. She leaned against one of the low balustrades with her weapons sheathed and her bare arms folded across her breast. As Conan and Delvyn dismounted, she left off contemplating the dark water of the pond to turn and address them.

  “So, you come at last! I know not what drew me here, but I sensed you would follow. There is something... thrilling about this spot, is there not, Conan?” Detaching herself from the balustrade, she moved sinuously toward the king and laid a black-gloved hand on his shoulder. The look on her upturned face was a seductive one.

  Her overtures were interrupted by a clink of harness at the far side of the court. There, from behind the square comer of a pediment, emerged a lone warrior in brightly polished breast-armour, leading a horse—a fine beast, royally groomed and fitted out. Conan recognized the man and his imperial trappings instantly: the crested helm, the studded gauntlets, the shield striped with the bastard bar.