Amalric shrugged and glanced at Sakumbe. The Negro king lolled in his throne, apparently unconcerned. He raised a golden cup to his lips and took a swig of wine. Then he handed a similar cup to Amalric.
“You must be thirsty, white man, after coming in from a long patrol without time to wash or rest,” he said. “Have a drink!”
Amalric shared his drink with Lissa. Across the plaza, the trampling and neighing of horses, the clash of arms, the screams of wounded men merged in an unholy din. Raising his voice to be heard, Amalric said:
“Your Majesty must be very brave, to show so little concern; or else very…” Amalric bit off the end of the sentence.
“Or else very stupid, you mean?” The long laughed musically. “No; I am only realistic. I am much too fat to outrun an active man on foot, let alone a mounted man. So, if I run, my people will cry that all is lost and flee, leaving me to be caught by the pursuers. Whereas, if I stay here, there is a good chance that—ah, there they come!
More black warriors were pouring into the square and adding their weight to the battle. And now the Aphaki mounted force began to give way. Horses, speared, reared and fell on their riders; riders were pulled from their horses by strong black arms or struck from the saddle by javelins. Soon a trumpet sounded harshly; the remaining Aphaki wheeled their mounts and galloped out of the square. The din diminished.
Silence fell, save for the moans of the wounded who Uttered the paving of the plaza. Black women came out of the side streets to look for their men among the fallen, to tend them if alive and to wail for them if dead.
Sakumbe sat placidly on his throne, drinking, until Conan, bloody sword in hand and followed by a knot of befeathered black officers, strode across the plaza.
“Zehbeh and most of his Aphaki got away,” he said. “I had to dent a few of your boys’ skulls to stop them from massacring the Aphaki women and children. We may need them for hostages.”
“It is well,” said Sakumbe. “Have a drink.”
“A good idea,” said Conan, quaffing deeply. Then he glanced at the empty throne beside that of Sakumbe. The black king followed his glance and grinned.
“Well?” said Conan. “How about it? Do I get it?”
Sakumbe gave a giggle. “Trust you to strike while the iron is hot, Conan! You have not changed.”
Then the king spoke in a language that Amalric did not know. Conan grunted a reply, and there was an exchange in this unknown tongue. Askia climbed the stairs of the dais and joined the talk. He spoke vehemently, shooting suspicious, scowling glances at Conan and at Amalric.
At last, Sakumbe silenced the wizard with one sharp word and heaved his huge bulk up out of his throne. “People of Tombalku!” he cried.
All over the plaza, eyes turned towards the dais. Sakumbe continued: “Since the false traitor Zehbeh has fled the city, one of the two thrones of Tombalku is empty. You have seen what a mighty warrior Conan is. Will you have him for your other king?”
After a moment of silence, a few shouts of approval were heard. Amalric noted that the men shouting seemed to be Tibu riders, whom Conan had led in person. The shouts swelled to a roar of approval. Sakumbe pushed Conan into the vacant throne. A mighty yell went up. In the plaza, which had now been cleared of corpses and wounded, the fires were rekindled. Drums began to beat again, this time not for war but for a wild all-night celebration.
Hours later, dizzy with drink and weariness, Amalric dragged himself and Lissa along the streets of Tombalku, under Conan’s guidance, to the modest house he had found for them. Before they parted, Amalric asked Conan:
“What was that speech with Sakumbe, in some tongue I do not know, just before you were enthroned?”
A laugh rumbled deep in Conan’s throat. “We spoke a coastal dialect, which these people don’t understand. Sakumbe was telling me that we should get along fine as co-kings, provided I remembered the color of my skin.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“That it would do me no good to scheme to steal his power, because the pure blacks are now in the overwhelming majority here, and they would never obey a white king.”
“Why not?”
“Because they have been too often massacred and plundered and enslaved by marauding bands of white men from Stygia and Shem, I suppose.”
“What about the wizard, Askia? What was he haranguing Sakumbe about?”
“He was warning the king against us. He claimed his spooks have told him that we shall be the cause of woe and destruction to Tombalku. But Sakumbe shut him up, saying he knew me better than that; that he trusted me farther than he trusted any medicine man.” Conan yawned like a sleepy lion. “Get your little girl to bed before she falls asleep on her feet.”
“How about you?”
“Me? I’m going back. The party has hardly started!”
IV.
A month later, Amalric, covered with sweat and dust, reined in his horse as his squadrons thundered past in a last, grand charge. All morning, and for many earlier mornings, he had drilled them over and over in the elements of civilized cavalry tactics: “Forward, walk!”
“Forward, trot!”
“Forward, canter!”
“Charge! “Wheel!”
“Retreat!”
“Rally!”
“Forward, walk!” And so on, over and over.
Although their evolutions were still ragged, the brown desert hawks seemed to be learning at last. At the start there had been much grumbling and sour looks at these strange foreign methods of fighting. But Amalric, backed up by Conan, had overcome resistance by a combination or even-handed justice and tough discipline. Now he was building a formidable fighting force.
“Give them, ‘form column,’” he said to the trumpeter at his side. At the blast of the trumpet, the riders reined in and, with much jostling and cursing, sorted themselves out in a column. They trotted back toward the walls of Tombalku, past fields where half-naked black peasant women stopped work to lean on their hoes and watch.
Back in Tombalku, Amalric turned in his horse at the cavalry stables and sought his home. As he neared the house, he was surprised to see Askia, the wizard, standing in the street in front of the house and talking with Lissa. The latter’s servant, a Suba woman, stood in the doorway, listening.
“How now, Askia?” said Amalric in no very friendly tone as he came up. “What are you doing here?”
“I watch over the welfare of Tombalku. To do that, I must needs ask questions.”
“I do not like strange men to question my wife in my absence.”
Askia smiled a crooked, malevolent grin. “The fate of the city is more important than your likes and dislikes, white man. Fare you well until next time!”
The wizard walked off, his plumes nodding. Amalric, frowning, followed Lissa into the house. “What was he asking you about?” he asked.
“Oh, about my life in Gazal, and how I had come to meet you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him what a hero you are, and how you slew the god of the Red Tower.”
Amalric frowned in thought “I wish you had not revealed that. I do not know why, but I am sure lie means to make trouble for us. I ought to go to Conan about it, right now… Why, Lissa, you’re weeping!”
“I—I’m so happy!”
“About what?”
“You acknowledged me as your wife!” Her arms were around his neck as she poured out endearments.
“There, there,” he said. “I should have thought of it before.”
“We must have a wedding feast, tonight!”
“Of course! But meantime, I ought to see Conan—”
“Oh, let that wait! Besides, you are dirty and tired. Eat, drink, and rest first, before your face these fearful men!”
Amalric’s better judgment told him that he ought to go to Conan at once. But he was apprehensive about the meeting. While he was sure that Asltia harbored some nefarious plan against him, he had no definite charge to br
ing against the! wizard. In the end, he allowed Lissa to persuade him. What with eating and drinking and washing and lovemaking and sleeping, the afternoon slipped away. The sun was low when Amalric set out for the palace.
King Sakumbe’s palace was a large compound—like all the rest of Tombalku, of dun-colored mud brick—just off the central plaza. Sakumbe’s bodyguards, knowing Amalric, quickly passed him into the interior, where thin sheets of beaten gold covered the brick walls and dazzlingly reflected the ruddy glare of the setting sun. He crossed a wide courtyard swarming with the lung’s wives and children and entered the king’s private apartment.
He found the two kings of Tombalku, the white and the black, sprawled on mounds of cushions on a large Bakhariot rug, which in turn covered a mosaic floor. In front of each was a pile of golden coins from many lands, and at the elbow of each stood a large winecup. A slave stood ready with a pitcher to refill each cup.
Both men were bloodshot of eye. Evidently, they had been drinking heavily for many hours. A pair of dice lay on the rug between them.
Amalric bowed formally. “My lords—”
Conan looked blearily up; he wore a bejeweled turban like that which Zehbeh had worn. “Amalric! Flop down on a cushion and take a few throws with us. “Your luck can’t be any worse than mine tonight!”
“My lord, I really cannot afford—”
“Oh, to hell with that! Here’s a stake for you.” Conan scooped a fistful of coins from his pile and slammed it down on the rug. As Amalric lowered himself to the floor, Conan, as if struck by a sudden thought, looked sharply at Sakumbe.
“I’ll tell you, brother King,” he said. “Well make one threw each. If I win, you’ll order the army to march against the king of Kush.”
“And if I win?” said Sakumbe.
“Then they don’t, as you prefer.”
Sakumbe shook his head with a chuckle. “No, brother King, I am not caught so easily. When we are ready, then we shall march, and no sooner.”
Conan struck the rug with his fist “What in Hell’s the matter with you, Sakumbe? You’re not the man you were in the old days. Then you were ready for any adventure; now, all you care about is your food, wine, and women. What’s changed you?”
Sakumbe hiccupped. “In the old days, brother King, I wanted to be a king, with many men to obey my commands and plenty of wine, women, and food. Now I have these things. Why should I risk them in unnecessary adventures?”
“But we must extend our boundaries to the Western Ocean, to gain control of the trade routes that come up from the coast. You know as well as I that Tombalku’s wealth derives from control of trade routes.”
“And when we have conquered the king of Kush and reached the sea, what then?”
“Why, then we should turn our armies eastward, to bring the Ghanata tribes under our rule and stop their raiding.”
“And then, no doubt, you’ll want to strike north or south, and so on forever. Tell me, man, suppose we conquered every nation within a thousand miles of Tombalku and possessed wealth greater than that of the kings of Stygia. What should we do then?”
Conan yawned and stretched. “Why, enjoy life, I suppose: deck ourselves in gold, hunt and feast all day, and drink and wench all night. In between times, we could tell each other lies about our adventures.”
Sakumbe laughed again. “If that is all you want, why, we are doing just those things now! If you want more gold, or food, or drink, or women, ask me and you shall have it.”
Conan shook his head, grunting something inaudible and frowning in a puzzled way. Sakumbe turned to Amalric. “And you, my young friend, did you come here with something to tell us?”
“My lord, I came to ask the lord Conan to visit my house and confirm my marriage to my woman. Afterwards, I thought he might do me the favor to remain for a small repast.”
“Small repast?” said Sakumbe. “Not so, by Ajujo’s nose! We shall make a grand revel of it, with whole roast oxen, rivers of wine, and our drummers and dancers! What say you, brother King?”
Conan belched and grinned. “I’m with you, brother King. Well give Amalric such a wedding feast that he won’t wake up for three days afterwards!”
“There was another matter” said Amalric, a little appalled at the prospect of another celebration of the kind these barbarian kings preferred but not knowing how to refuse. He told about Askia’s interrogation of Lissa.
The two kings frowned when he had finished. Sakumbe said: “Fear not Askia, Amalric. All wizards need to be watched, but this one is a valued servant of mine. Why, without his sorcery—” Sakumbe glanced toward the doorway and spoke: “What would you?”
A bodyguard, standing in the doorway, said: “O Kings, a scout of the Tibu riders would speak with you.”
“Send him in” said Conan.
A lean black in ragged white garments entered and prostrated himself. As he flopped down on his belly, a cloud of dust arose from his garments.
“My lords!” he gasped. “Zehbeh and the Aphald march against us! I sighted them yesterday at the oasis of Kidessa and rode all night to bring word.
Conan and Sakumbe, both suddenly sobered, lurched to their feet Conan said: “Brother King, this means that Zehbeh could be here tomorrow. Order the drums beaten for the muster.” While Sakumbe called in an officer and gave this command, Conan turned to Amalric. “Do you thick you could surprise the Aphaki on the way here and smash them with your riders?”
“Perhaps I can,” said Amalric cautiously. They will outnumber us, but some ravines to the north would be suitable for an ambush…”
V.
An hour later, as the sun set behind the dun brick walls of Tombalku, Conan and Sakumbe mounted the thrones on the dais in the plaza. As the drums thundered the muster, black men of military age streamed into the square. Bonfires were lit Plumed officers pushed warriors into line and thumbed the heads of the men’s spears to assure themselves that these were sharp.
Amalric strode across the square to report to the kings that his riders would be ready to move out by midnight His mind teemed with schemes and stratagems: Whether, if the Aphaki refused to break at the first onslaught, he should break off the fight and retire, to attack again when the Aphaki were spread out and dismounted to attack the walls of Tombalku…
He mounted the steps to where the kings sat, surrounded by black officers to whom they were issuing orders. “My lords—” he began.
A screech interrupted him. Askia appeared beside the throne, pointing at Amalric and shouting at the kings.
“There he is!” screamed the wizard. “The man who slew a god! The man who slew one of my gods!”
The Negroes around the thrones turned startled faces toward Amalric. In the firelight, eyeballs gleamed whitely against dark skins. Their expressions had in them something of awe and fear. Clearly, it was inconceivable to them that a man should slay a god. One who did so must be, in some sort, a god himself.
“What punishment were cruel enough for such blasphemy?” continued Askia. “I demand that the slayer of Ollam-Onga and his wench be turned over to me for torture! Gods, they shall suffer such pain as no mortal has ever suffered in all the aeons—”
“Shut up!” roared Conan. “If Amalric killed the spook of Gazal, the world is better for it. Now get out of here and stop bothering us; we have business.”
“But, Conan—” said Sakumbe.
“These white-skinned devils always hang together!” yelled Askia. “Are you king any longer, Sakumbe? If you are, then order them seized and bound! If you do not know what to do with them— “
“Well—” said Sakumbe.
“Listen!” cried Conan. “If Gazal is no longer haunted by this so-called god, we can capture the place, put its people to work, and get them to teach us their sciences. But first get rid of this prancing he-witch, before I try my edge on him!”
“I demand—” screamed Askia.
“Get rid of him!’” bellowed the Cimmerian, hand on his hilt. “By Crom, do
you think I’d deliver an old comrade like Amalric to the mercy of a devil-worshiping cutthroat?”
Sakumbe at last roused himself and sat up straight on his throne. “Go, Asiria!” he said. “Amalric is a good warrior, and you shall not have him. Rather, busy yourself with sorceries to defeat Zehbeh.”
“But I—”
“Go! The fat arm pointed.
Askia foamed with rage. “Very well, I go!” he shouted at last “But you have not heard the last of me, you two!” And away rushed the witch doctor.
Amalric resumed his report on the Tibu riders. What with the constant coming and going of messengers, and of officers reporting on the strength of their commands, it was some time before he had laid his entire plan before the king. Conan made a few suggestions and then said:
“It looks good to me, eh, Sakumbe?”
“If you like it, brother King, it must be good. Go, Amalric, and muster our riders—aieee!” An awful scream suddenly broke from Sakumbe, whose eyes seemed to be starting from his head. He staggered up from his throne, clutching at his throat “I burn! I burn! Save me!”
A terrible phenomenon was taking place on the body of Sakumbe. Although there was no sign of visible fire, no sensation of heat, it was plain to be seen that the man was in fact burning, as surely as if he had been tied to a stake over lighted faggots. His skin blistered, then charred and cracked, while the air was filled with the odor of burning flesh.
“Pour water on him!” shouted Amalric. “Or wind Anything you have!”
Scream after scream from the tortured throat of the black king. Someone threw a bucketful of liquid over him; there was a hiss and a cloud of steam, but the screams continued.
“Crom and Ishtar!” swore Conan, glaring furiously about, “I ought to have killed that dancing devil while he was in reach.”
The screams died away and ceased. The remains of the king—a shriveled, shapeless object, not at all like the living Sakumbe—lay on the surface of the dais in a pool of melted human fat. Some of the plumed officers fled in panic; some prostrated themselves, calling upon their various gods.
The Other Tales of Conan Page 45