Conan the Marauder

by John Maddox Roberts

  "Sogaria is merely one city. I shall give you the whole world! Somehow this wizard from Turan has learned of our only vulnerability: that we will abandon any enterprise at any time to protect the resting place of our ancestors. Never again shall this thing be done to us. When we began this siege, it was my plan to deal gently with the Sogarians, to spare all those who would surrender, pay tribute and acknowledge me as their master, but no more."

  He glared at the assembled chiefs who had fallen silent, intimidated and impressed by his intensity. "I swear by the spirits of our ancestors, and by the Everlasting Sky, that when Sogaria is taken, every surviving man, woman and child of that city shall be driven barefoot across the steppe to the City of Mounds. There they shall repair the desecrated mounds and build new ones for those who fall in this campaign. When the work is done, they will be crucified there, that their spirits may serve our dead through all eternity. Thus shall the whole world learn the fate that befalls any who would desecrate the holy place of the Hyrkanian race!"

  He was well satisfied with the ferocious cheers that erupted from his hearers. He had successfully deflected their wrath from himself and turned it against Khondemir, Sogaria and the non-Hyrkanian world in general. His path to world conquest still lay clear before him.

  "Now go to your hordes and tell them to mount. We ride within the hour!"

  As the chiefs stormed from the tent, the Kagan's concubine came from her listening place behind his throne.

  "This is an ill business, my lord," said Lakhme. "But for your quick thinking and powerful speech, our plans might have come down in ruins."

  "Aye," he said, glowering, "it was a near thing. I cannot fathom how this could have happened. How did this wizard know of our burial customs? How did he learn the way to the City of Mounds?" The Kagan took his armour from its peg on a tent post and began to strap it on.

  "The Turanian is a sorcerer," Lakhme said. "What can be kept secret from such a one? Perhaps he learned from the spirits of the air, which fly about the steppe, seeing all under the sky. Ask your shamans."

  He allowed himself a mirthless smile. "I am sorry that the Cimmerian escaped my vengeance, but even in his escape he did me a service. He and his two friends slaughtered half of those bone-rattling frauds. I would no more ask them for advice about a true wizard than I would ask jackals how to fight a lion."

  "How will you deal with the sorcerer when we reach the City of Mounds?" she asked, anxious to steer his thoughts away from the night of the Cimmerian's escape. She lived in continual fear that one of the surviving shamans would betray her part in that night's activities. She was plotting a way to poison them all at once.

  "I know not," he said. "His force of cavalry I count as nothing, although if he truly holds the City of Mounds itself, he has a certain advantage."

  "What might that be?" she asked. She knew the

  answer, but she could not admit it lest Bartatua suspect her collusion with Khondemir.

  "No matter," he said. "We shall kill all the foreign-at whatever cost to ourselves. Now prepare yourself. We have a hard ride ahead. This time I'll not be able to spare your ivory skin."

  "Do not think of such trifles, my lord," she said. "My only concern now is that you maintain your position as Ushi-Kagan of all the Hyrkanian hordes."

  As she made her preparations for departure, Lakhme felt the satisfaction of a plotter whose every plan is coming to fruition. Only one minor factor remained to disturb her confidence. What had happened to the Cimmerian?

  XIV

  Manzur watched with puzzled fascination as Conan made his preparations for their night's foray. The Cimmerian had reserved some charred sticks from their last fire, and now he began to shave finely powdered soot from their ends. The soot he mixed with rendered fat from the antelope he had killed. When he was satisfied with the mixture, he smeared it over his face and exposed limbs.

  "Surely you cannot expect me to cover myself with that nauseating concoction," Manzur said, wrinkling his nose.

  "If you wish to accompany me into that camp, you will," Conan told him. "With odds of a thousand to one, our best plan lies in not being seen. We must be as stealthy as Picts. With water and sand, it washes off in minutes. Wounds last far longer, and death longer yet. Also, you will wear no armour. Carry only your sword and dagger, and see that they do not rattle."

  Shuddering, Manzur began to smear the foul stuff on his face and arms. To his surprise, the experience was not all that distasteful. In fact, the act brought with it a feeling of taking part in some ancient battle ritual, long lost to civilized peoples. He took out a small looking glass and admired the white flash of teeth in his blackened face. He began to feel very fierce indeed.

  Conan caught the look and cautioned the younger man. "Do not think you can take them all on and spirit your Ishkala from their midst. What we seek is knowledge. Once we know their strength, their plans and the state of alliance between the two bands, we will be able to gauge our actions."

  It was a disappointment, but Manzur knew that Conan spoke good sense. Still, he continued to spin fantasies in which he snatched Ishkala from the grasp of her enemies, slew the sorcerer, fought his way from the midst of the host against insuperable odds, and made their escape across the trackless steppe. He even began composing a lengthy epic poem lauding his own feat.

  They set out as soon as it was dark, but Conan called a halt while they were still on the rampart surrounding the City of Mounds.

  "We wait here until the sounds of revelry are well advanced," the Cimmerian explained.

  "Why are we here on the Turanian side?" Manzur asked. "Ishkala is almost certainly with the Red Eagles."

  "We are not here for her," Conan said. "She is probably safe with the Sogarians for the moment. The wizard must be with the Turanians. Besides, the Red Eagles have posted sentries, and they act as if they know their trade. Soon most of the Turanians will be drunk, asleep or both. Wizards do much of their work at night. This will be a good time to pay the mage a visit."

  "Very well," Manzur said. "But this waiting tries my patience."

  "Patience is a virtue you must cultivate if you would be a warrior," the Cimmerian told him. "Too great a thirst for battle has been the death of far more warriors and armies than has the reluctance to fight."

  Manzur was growing weary of these barbarian preachments. "True glory should be a matter of inspiration, not cold calculation," he said.

  "Learn from me," said the Cimmerian, "and you might live longer. I gained my knowledge at a high price. Wounds, chains and slavery were the cost of that learning. If you would temper your rashness with a little thought, you may live to inflict your verses upon your countrymen for many years to come."

  Manzur grumbled, but he sat back and rested against the grassy rampart. The sounds of revelry were loud and continuous, mingled with the noise of quarrelling. He closed his eyes.

  The Sogarian hero-poet awoke with a start as Conan shook his shoulder. "Awake, mightiest warrior of the age," said the Cimmerian. "We go in now. Keep close behind me and make no sound, no matter what you see. If there is any killing to be done, leave it to me. I can do it silently. Keep your blades loose in their sheaths, but do not draw them unless I draw mine. Now, let us be off."

  Once more Manzur had cause to marvel at the Cimmerian's amazing stealthiness. As they progressed through the camp, Conan moved swiftly, yet his bare feet made no sound, and he had an uncanny ability to avoid obstacles in the darkness. Manzur had never heard that such serpent-like grace and silence were praised as warrior virtues. They were qualities he associated with the savages and the dark forests of far lands. Whatever else he was, the barbarian was accomplished in many arts.

  Manzur had always believed that besides courage, a warrior needed only skill with his blades, his lance, his bow and his horse. He was beginning to realize that the warriors of his world were amateurs compared to this barbarian. He was thankful to note that his own awkward attempts at stealth were sufficient. The Turanian
s around the fires were too absorbed in drink, tale-telling and quarrelling to take much note of the darkness surrounding them.

  For, after all, what had they to fear? For all they knew, they were in the midst of the empty steppe, with no enemy for hundreds of leagues. Any who approached would be detected from afar, leaving plenty of time to prepare. In consequence, the Turanians made free with their rations and their wine. Some already lay in drunken stupor, and others had broken out musical instruments. The night resounded to the reedy skirl of pipes, the thump of tambour and the wavering twang of stringed instruments.

  Conan came to a halt a half score of paces from a tent much larger than the others. With his palm out, he signalled for Manzur to lower himself to the ground. When both men were flat on their bellies, Manzur crawled up even with the Cimmerian, who whispered in his ear, "Do as I do."

  Conan took his sword belt from his waist and slung the sheathed weapon across his back. His dagger he tucked behind a leather bracelet on his left forearm. With his weapons out of the way, he began to slither toward the tent. Manzur emulated him, pleased that he managed the slither with something approaching the Cimmerian's skill. He was getting better at this.

  Voices came from inside the tent, but they were too muffled to be understood. With hands widespread, Conan thrust the tips of his fingers beneath the edge of the tent wall. With infinite care he raised the cloth a fraction of an inch at a time. Yellow light poured from beneath the opening to play across their blackened faces.

  They could see that several men were seated on cushions within. More important, they could now hear clearly what was being said.

  "My Lord Khondemir," said a voice, "we must know now what your plans are. Our men grow more quarrelsome by the day, and if we cannot soon show them some action, I fear that our army may break up. The Sogarians grow restive as well. Princess Ishkala has been speaking overmuch with Jeku, their captain. They are of a mind to pick up stakes and return to their city which is under siege."

  "Peace, Bulamb," said a voice that had to be Khondemir's. "Within a day, all shall be changed. Before the sun sets on the morrow, our men will no longer give us trouble. Further, the Sogarians will not be returning to their city. By tomorrow eve, a great host of Hyrkanians shall have this place utterly surrounded and outnumber us by at least forty to one."

  Shouts of dismay shook the meeting, but the one called Bulamb quieted them. "Let us hear what the master has to say," said the second in command.

  "My friends, what gives the Hyrkanians their great power when they are purposeful? I will tell you. It is their matchless horsemanship and mobility, along with their equally splendid archery. What are they without those things? They are a pack of primitive, superstitious, filthy, unwashed savages. They have always been masters of the steppes, but they have never been able to unite for a great foray into the civilized world.

  "That is because their chieftains are as stupid and unimaginative as the poorest tribesman. When they attack, it is mere raiding for tribute, loot and slaves.

  When they take a piece of territory, they do not exploit it but merely slaughter the inhabitants and turn it into more pasture for their goats. The hordes would be a fine instrument in the hands of a true conqueror."

  "I hear that this Kagan, Bartatua, is different," said one.

  "It may be so," acknowledged Khondemir. "He seems to possess gifts, at least by Hyrkanian standards. But I have something he does not suspect: I am in control of his concubine!"

  There was a brief silence. Then the one called Rumal spoke. "My lord, I rejoice that you have found such comfort in your exile, but I fail to see how—"

  "Mitra give me relief from such dullards!" cried Khondemir, his composure slipping for once. "I did not cultivate the woman for her beauty and charm, great though those are. In order to wield magical power over a rival, one must get close to him, and how closer than through a mistress?"

  Conan and Manzur saw the pacing feet of the wizard as he explained as much of his plans as he thought fitting that his followers should know. "When the Hyrkanian horde reaches this place, the woman shall slip from their lines and join me here. She shall bring me that which shall give me power over this Hyrkanian kinglet."

  "That is all very well," came the voice of an older man. "But how are we to resist this Hyrkanian horde in the meantime? Forty to one odds are daunting at the best of times. Out here, with no cover and no city walls, they are suicidal. This earthen rampart will not hold for long, and our men may perish beneath the arrow storm before the Hyrkanians begin their assault."

  "I chose this place," Khondemir said, "for reasons other than its magical possibilities. I have told you how

  primitive and superstitious these steppe horsemen are. This place is surrounded by their taboos. According to the rules of their barbaric religion, no Hyrkanian may ride his horse into the City of Mounds. More important, none may fire an arrow toward it. Do the Hyrkanians now sound so formidable?"

  The men assembled thought this over for a while. "It may be," said one, "that we can hold them at bay for some time, dismounted and without their bows. Our own bowmen will be under no such obligation, and a flying squad of horsemen can be appointed to go to whatever part of the rampart the Hyrkanians may be breaching and reinforce the defenders at that spot. How long must we hold out thus?"

  "Only a brief while," Khondemir said. "It is not my intention that there should be much bloodshed. With that which the concubine shall bring me, and with the aid of the Power which I shall summon, I shall gain complete mastery of the soul of Bartatua. He shall become my puppet, to do with as I wish. The savages would never follow me, or any other who was not of their blood. But they will follow Bartatua, and I shall control him. After his campaign to take the caravan cities, he plans to conquer Khitai. Who knows whether or not he could take that vast land? But he could take Turan, and that is where I shall cause him to direct his hordes."

  The wizard paused, waiting to be certain of the effect of his words. When he heard no objections, he resumed. "That is my plan, my friends. We shall let the steppe tribes take Turan for us. They shall do the dying while we reap the conquest. When we are firmly in power, with myself on the throne and Yezdigerd chained as my footstool, I shall have the puppet, Bartatua, lead his hordes away, toward Khitai or Vendhya or into

  the black lands south of Stygia, what does it matter? They shall have performed their task: putting us back in our rightful place as lords of Turan!"

  There were loud shouts of approval now. The men seemed well satisfied with Khondemir's arrangements. "A bold plan, my lord," said Rumal, "but only bold men may hope to seize and wield power. And what of the princess? Why is she here with her escort?"

  "A trifling business," Khondemir explained. "In order to summon the Power, I must have a sacrifice. For complicated and abstruse reasons concerning history and bloodlines, princesses make superior sacrifices. I requested the escort in order to expand our numbers and to emphasize the importance of my mission. The Red Eagles can bear the brunt of our defence and take most of the casualties in such fighting as takes place before I have complete control of Bartatua."

  At mention of Ishkala's fate, Manzur began to start up, only to find an irresistible pressure at the back of his neck, bearing him inexorably down until his face was pressed against the grassy turf. Only by keeping perfectly still was he allowed to breathe. When he had calmed, Conan removed his hand from the back of the youth's neck and signalled for him to back away from the tent.

  "Ishkala!" Manzur whispered urgently when they were removed. "We must go to the Sogarian camp and warn her, immediately! Nay, we should rescue her!"

  "Rescue her?" Conan said. "From the midst of a thousand defenders? You would earn scant thanks."

  "Then at least let us inform the Red Eagles of what awaits them! They are to be sacrificed to the mad ambitions of Khondemir, just as she is to be sacrificed in his hellish ritual!"

  Conan leaned close. "Lower your voice, idiot! You'll

&nb
sp; have the whole band upon us! Your Red Eagles are nothing to me, and your princess has no call upon my loyalties. Until a few days ago, I was leading forays against Sogaria. Your prince would skin me an inch at a time in the city square if I rescued his whole family from the Kagan's own tent. Do you think his children are more important to him than his territory?"

  "You lie, Cimmerian!" said Manzur hotly. "We will be received in Sogaria as saviours."

  "I would laugh if it would not bring the Turanians down upon us. Suppose you were able to convince the captain of the Red Eagles to take Ishkala and return to Sogaria. What then? They would encounter the Hyrkanian host that comes hither and they would be destroyed in minutes!"

  "Then let us kill Khondemir," Manzur said, mad with frustration.

  "Now you are beginning to think," Conan said, "That is a sensible idea. I came here with the intention of taking his head to begin with. There remains a problem. The Hyrkanians come apace. I do not give Khondemir's magic great credit, but I am certain that without it, this camp will be overwhelmed and destroyed in no great time, even if the Hyrkanians are denied their horses and bows. If we slay the mage now, panic will ensue and all will try to flee. They will be slaughtered."

  "What care we for that?" Manzur asked. "A pack of scurvy Turanian gallows bait? Let them die!"

  "That will leave only a thousand Red Eagles between your Ishkala and certain death. I have seen already what happens when the heavy cavalry of your cities encounters even a small band of Hyrkanian horse-archers. Against such a host, it would not even provide amusement."

  "I'll not allow her to be sacrificed in that fiend's foul rites!" Manzur protested, his hand reaching for his sword. He fumbled at his waist for a moment before remembering that the blade was still slung across his back. He reached for it awkwardly, then began to unsling it instead.