Fosull saw a flash of deeply tanned skin behind him as the shadower quickly hid himself in the trees at the roadside, but the instant's view was enough to reveal that the follower was too large to be one of the outswamp men.
As Fosull turned back to his driving, he pondered what he had discovered. It was a Jatte, it had to be. No outswamp man could be that big. But-why was he following the wine wagon?
Or was he following the wine wagon?
Well, yes, to be sure, he was behind it and following it, after a fashion, but was that his true goal? Jatte did not leave their village very often, and then almost always in groups of three or four so as to catch the odd outswamp man. Why would a single Jatte be out here, so far away from home?
Then Fosull recalled the tracks he had seen when he had discovered the wagon's path for the first time. There were Jatte on board the same vehicle that had his son.
Of course. Someone from the giants had come to fetch back his own.
Fosull smiled, this time allowing his teeth to show since there were no outswamp men to see. Well. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. And if not, perhaps he could manage a bit of meat for the communal pot, at the least. If he and Vilken hurried, maybe they could get home before it spoiled.
A pleasant thought.
EIGHTEEN
The first real sign that they were drawing nearer to the caravan was the appearance of rear guards who whirled about and faced Dake's wagon with lances raised. While they could hardly be called a handsome group, they were well-outfitted, with stout leather arm and shin guards, oiled chain-mail vests over thin lanate shirts, and small round shields of layered rawhide hung from wide belts. Each man bore both a short sword ensheathed at the left hip and a slim lance with a double-edged tip, more appropriate to horsemen than foot soldiers, but light and short enough to be carried easily. They all wore stout boots of good cut. Dake, who had had occasion to deal in such items from time to time, could see that the master of these men had not stinted on quality when it came to supplying them.
"Hold, there, wagoneers. Where be ye bound?"
Dake responded politely to the challenge issued by one he assumed was the leader of the six-man troop, a stocky fellow with bandy legs, red hair, a florid complexion, and squinty eyes, the latter of which were seemingly made worse by exposure to the sun's light.
"We make for Shadizar."
Squinty looked at his men, then back at Dake. "Aye, that seems reasonable, being that ye travel the Shadizar road. To what purpose?"
Dake's response was still even-toned, but slightly less polite. "Business."
"What sort of business?"
The mage's patience, never of the strongest metal, bent and nearly broke. "My business, footman, and none of yours."
Squinty seemed taken aback. He blinked, considered Dake's response for a moment, scratched at some small and unseen vermin under his chin. "Well, be that as it may, we shall be obliged to inspect your wagon."
"By what authority?"
Squinty grinned and hefted his lance. "By the authority that will have ye looking like a dart board if ye try and stop us."
Dake grinned, and it was a malevolent expression. "Well, then, by all means, inspect it."
Squinty puffed out his chest and grinned over his shoulder at his men, who nodded. He looked back at Dake. "Any women in there by chance?"
"As it happens, yes. Three."
"Hear that, boys? Women!"
The other five laughed and passed several rude remarks.
As the red-haired trooper eagerly moved toward the rear of the wagon, Dake leaned back and spoke in a low voice into the cloth that separated the passengers from the outside. "Conan, there is an ugly little man about to open the rear door. Knock him silly. Try not to kill him though."
Next to Dake, Kreg grinned.
"And the rest of you back there, there are five more fools out here on the road. When Conan clouts the one, I want you to hurry out here and catch the rest of them. They are armed, so take care that you are not speared or cut. I would like them all alive, if possible."
There was some risk, Dake knew, but it should be very slight. Were he one of the loutish guards, the sight of Dake's troop would be unnerving to say the least. He would be amazed if the five did not take to their heels with the utmost speed when they saw what they would face if they stayed. Teyle alone would frighten the wits from most men; and that combined with the sight of the others . . . well, it would take a brave man indeed to stand and fight.
Behind the wagon, the lustful Squinty reached up to open the door.
The wagon tracks were fresh, but the road upon which they lay had seen a great deal of use recently. Fosull stopped the wine cart several times and alighted to examine the various ruts and tracks, and from his observations, he deemed that a large group of wagons, horses, and men on foot had gone before the six-wheeled vehicle. Those latter tracks were deeper than the others and had characteristic nicks and grooves that Fosull had become most familiar with since he began following them.
More people would make things more difficult, Fosull realized, as he stood and dusted off his knees. A mistake, for that caused some of the dried mud on his palms to flake away, revealing the green underneath. In fact, his disguise was wearing most thin in places, and it was only Balor's constant intoxication that prevented the man from noticing.
How, Fosull wondered, did the fat man ever manage to deliver his goods when he spent so much of his time consuming them?
As the Varg climbed back onto the wagon, he looked surreptitiously back down the road for signs of his giant shadow. He did not see the Jatte but could still feel his presence out there somewhere; there was no reason to believe himself abandoned. Another problem, but one he could consider at a later time. First he had to catch up with the wagon and retrieve his son. The conveyance was only a couple of hours ahead, he reckoned, and by nightfall he might well be abreast of it.
In the back of the cart, the drunken man snored on.
Raseri did not think himself as good a tracker as the Varg, but he was adept enough to know that his quarry lay not far ahead, either in time or distance. The wheel prints were fresher, albeit somewhat harder to discern because of all the other traffic upon the road.
Well. No matter. As long as he could see them.
What to do about the Varg was another thing. It would hardly do to allow the little green animal to foul up the pursuit. Vargs had a certain low cunning, to be sure, but in matters of thought, the Jatte knew them to be lacking, on the average. Which was not to say that the Varg upon the wagon was necessarily average, of course. That he had come so far and managed to fool at least one small man into thinking he was something else was indicative of perhaps a more than rudimentary intelligence. Still, it was hardly proper for Raseri to overestimate the animal's abilities.
The Jatte waited until the wagon was far enough away as to be no more than a small dot he could hide with his thumbtip before he regained the road from his concealment in the rocks. Now and again the Varg did look back in this direction, and it was possible that the creature might have noticed that he was not alone. There was little Raseri could do about it, nor was he particularly worried about a confrontation with a single Varg armed as he himself was; still, 'twas best to keep as many options open as possible. Knowledge, as anyone with half a brain knew, was power.
Raseri strode off after the distant wagon, making alternate plans one after another, trying to serve up every possibility so that he might solve problems in advance. Chance favors a prepared mind, he knew. He was confident he could anticipate virtually everything he might encounter.
When the door to Dake's wagon was opened, Conan was ready. More than ready, he was eager to vent his anger upon anyone remotely deserving of it, and he had heard enough of the conversation between the soldier and Dake to know that the man was arrogant and altogether too officious. True, he would rather be leaping. upon Dake, but failing that, being able to move and focus his rage upon another was
better than nothing. So this fool would bother women, would he?
The door swung wide on its greased hinges, and a grinning red-haired man squinted into the relative darkness of the wagon.
The smile vanished as Conan leaped.
"Mitra!" the man had time to blurt before the Cimmerian was upon him.
For Conan, the scuffle was unhappily short. He swung his fist, knotted into a fleshy hammer, and slammed it into the man's left temple. The guard fell, unconscious, into a heap upon the dusty road.
Crom! He could have put up more of a fight!
Behind him, the doorway of the wagon erupted as the other passengers boiled forth and out to confront the remaining troops. Vilken was first, pointed teeth showing, followed by Penz, Oren, Morja, Tro, Sab, and last, but certainly not the least of them, Teyle.
Dake had not forbidden him to take part, Conan realized, and with that thought, he moved. He grinned and rounded the side of the wagon, voicing a wordless cry as he did so.
At that moment Dake chose to field his red demon.
The stunned looks upon the faces of the five remaining soldiers was as sight to behold. As one unit they turned and started to flee, moving very fast indeed for men hampered with light armor.
Vilken threw his spear and hit one of the men on the unprotected part of his left hamstring; the man stumbled and went sprawling facedown.
Penz sent a loop of his rope through the air and encircled a second trooper. The noose tightened around the man's ankles, and he, too, made a sudden dive to the unforgiving road.
Conan's speed allowed him to overtake the third man, whereupon he shoved with both hands and increased the man's flight so that his legs could not keep up with his new pace. He fell and rolled, ending up on his back, yelling for mercy.
The fourth man fell clutching his head under the combined efforts of the catwoman and four-armed Sab, calling upon various gods as he did so.
The last man dodged from the road and was surrounded by Teyle and her siblings. Big she was, but her long legs gave the giant woman better than average speed once she began moving, and when the final trooper found himself running toward the Jatte woman, he threw down his lance and held his palms out toward her in surrender.
Conan could understand that he and his companions would appear to be formidable, to be sure, but he felt a sense of disgust at how easily the troops had been taken. Whoever paid these six was surely not getting his money's worth.
"Bring them back here," Dake ordered. "I feel that we shall make quite an impression on the caravan when we arrive bearing its rear guards trussed up like pigs for the slaughter!"
There were other guards of course, armed as those now marching in front of Dake's wagon had been. But their amazement at seeing their fellows bound around the arms and shoulders, only their legs free for walking, caused no small stir when finally the entire assemblage arrived at the main body of the caravan.
The caravan was as rich as Dake had forecast. Wagons covered with white and red tents held the center of the train. One of the wagons was larger than Dake's own. The smell of perfume wafted over the sweat stink of the footmen and horses, and the air was also laden with the scent of spice. He heard the soft voices of women coming from one of the larger wagons. The freakmaster would wager that whatever was in the cargo wagons was worth no small amount in the main bazaar at Shadizar.
The line of armed men, at least a score and a half strong, leveled their lances uneasily. Some of the guards made warding-off signs against curses and the evil eye.
"Here, what deviltry is this?" a large trooper called out.
Behind the captured soldiers, Dake stood on the wagon's driving platform and engaged his best voice. "I would speak to your master!"
In due course, a tall and regal man, swathed in the finest blue Aquilonian silk robes and headdress, appeared and moved imperiously toward Dake's wagon. Upon his feet were boots cut from the skins of large desert lizards, and he wore a neatly trimmed full beard, mostly black but shot through with gray, and his nose was nearly a beak under steely blue eyes. A cruel and arrogant face, Dake saw, belonging to a man of wealth and power, the face of one used to getting his way.
Excellent!
"I am the master of this caravan and of those men you have mistreated," the man said, his voice a deep baritone. "Who are you to trifle with my servants?"
Dake, wise in the ways of rich men, knew when to bluster and when to flatter. His voice took on an obsequious tone. "I? I am merely Dake the freakmaster, O great lord. I travel to Shadizar seeking a patron to sponsor the most incredible collection of oddities known to man. I thought only to demonstrate how unworthy these so-called guards are for a man of your obvious greatness."
The caravan master glared at the trussed guards. "Well, that they are unworthy is obvious enough." Then, "Freakmaster?"
Dake stuck his hand through the curtain and gestured. After a moment his thralls emerged from the back of the wagon again, to the gasps and wonderment of the caravan.
"Behold for yourself, my Lord . . . ?"
"Capeya," the caravan master finished. "And not a lord, but only a simple . . . merchant."
"Ah, a man who earned his wealth rather than inherited it."
Capeya smiled, showing strong teeth. "Just so, friend Dake." He looked at the freaks as they drew nearer; he was obviously impressed. "Quite an assembly. I have never seen such a variety, even in Shadizar during the High Festival. A unique collection."
"Just so," Dake said, his own smile more than a match for Capeya's.
"These will draw large crowds when displayed."
"And they are even more than they appear, good merchant." Dake strove to make the word "merchant" sound as much like "milord" as he could. " 'Twas they who subdued the six rear guards with what I must confess was little effort."
"Ah. Even better." Capeya smiled again. "And you are seeking a sponsor, you say?"
"In a word, yes."
"My wagon is appointed in a somewhat comfortable fashion, friend Dake. Perhaps you might join me there to partake of some not-unworthy vintage wine I have recently obtained? We might then speak of things that might be to our . . . mutual benefit."
Dake's joy was unbounded. Finding this caravan was a stroke of fortune almost beyond belief. Shadizar was still days away but he already had a patron, he did not doubt it for a moment, could they but come to terms!
He kept his face bland when he responded.
"Why, certainly I should enjoy that, friend Capeya." Inwardly he grinned like a slackwit. He had never met a merchant who could out-bargain him, and he did not think Capeya would be an exception.
Here, he knew, was the first stop on the road to riches!
NINETEEN
Conan liked it not that Dake seemed to get along so well with the master of the caravan. Alike as two fleas on an alley rat they were, and the Cimmerian could sense a rogues' alliance already aborning. This did not help matters of possible escape. True, should he break free of the curse Dake had laid upon him, he felt he could win through the guards easily enough. He had his sword, and his recent experience with the merchant's small army impressed him little. To a motley collection of hill bandits, these troops would likely appear to be a threat, whereas Conan recognized them for layabouts who looked better than they were. Carving a path through such men would entail some dangers, to be sure, but not enough to worry overmuch about. He was, after all, composed of some what sterner stuff than the average hill bandit. He did not have to best them all, only one or two who stood directly between him and freedom.
For the others, especially the children, things might not be so easy, however, and Conan resolved that he would not go off and leave them behind as Dake's captives. Despite her earlier trickery, Teyle had proven to be a friend, with her ministrations to his wounds and what other comforts she offered in the night. Conan had forgiven her her transgression against him. She had learned her lesson about being a slave, and he was not so small of mind as to deny a repentant woman ano
ther chance. She certain could not depart without her younger brother and sister, and as long as he was bringing three, he might as well bring the rest. Besides, he had grown to like the group; despite their unusual appearance, they were far better men and women than Dake and his cur. Penz was an ugly freak but kindhearted; Kreg was a handsome fellow, but evil to his rotten core. There was a lesson in recognizing this.
Conan marched alongside the freakmaster's wagon, the dust kicked up by the men, animals, and wagons ahead of him filling the air, adding to the dirt of his sweaty skin and making it difficult to breathe. The other thralls fared little better, save perhaps for Teyle, who was tall enough to avoid ingesting much of the disturbed road grit. Would that he had a bath of hot spring water. Might as well wish for a palace of rubies while you are at it, Conan.
Kreg drove the wagon, looking angry. Perhaps he resented being left behind while Dake went to drink and dine with the merchant. Good. Any small discomfort Kreg had to suffer raised Conan's spirits. Maybe the lackey would stab his master in the back in irritation. Stranger things had happened.
Since Dake was occupied some distance away, this might be an ideal time to try an escape, save that it was still daylight and such an attempt would be all too obvious. Conan did not doubt his abilities to overcome a sentry or two once he was free, but were he slowed by his struggle to break the spell, Kreg might well have enough time to plant a spear in his back, or have one of the merchant's troopers do so. He was, after all, the least valuable member of the enthralled collection, and therefore expendable.
So the Cimmerian trudged along, biding his time. Sooner or later that time would arrive, and he would be certain to be ready when it did.
Fosull was surprised when he realized what had happened. In truth, it had never occurred to him that the kidnappers of his son intended to join the collection of wagons further up the road. He knew little of the ways of the outswamp men, and had thought those of the large group ahead of them to be no more than fellow travelers going in the same direction. By the Green God's left testicle, this surely complicated matters!
The Conan Compendium Page 121