"But they guard Ishkala!" Manzur protested.
"You must abide here," Conan said. "I shall be first into the City of Mounds. If it is at all possible, I will find your little princess and bring her out. Perhaps in the confusion the two of you may make your escape."
"No!" said Manzur obstinately. "I will go down there and die with my countrymen!"
Conan sighed. "I feared this. Well, there is only one thing I can do."
Without warning, his great knotted fist flashed out. The heel of his hand cracked into the side of Manzur's head below the edge of his helmet. The youth crumpled to the ground like a sack of oats. The Cimmerian checked his breathing and was satisfied that the lad was merely unconscious. He slung the boy over his shoulder and went in search of a gully where Manzur might wait out the day of battle, securely bound and gagged.
It was growing light as the two guards conducted Lakhme to her tent. She knew how she would manage her escape and decided that the sooner the better was the best policy. She had studied her guards closely. They were ordinary Ashkuz tribesmen, not extraordinary men such as Bartatua and Conan. This would be easy.
As she ducked into the tent, she turned to the two guards. "Surely you must come inside with me. How
else may you be certain that I will not kill myself?" The two followed her in.
The interior of the tent was small and cramped so that the guards had to stand close to her. "Is this not more pleasant than going to fight a battle on foot?" she said teasingly. "And am I not more pleasing company than the blades of your enemies?"
"Silence, woman," said one. "We are here to guard you, not to converse with you."
"But you have not searched me," she said. "After all, I might bear some hidden weapon." She let her black robe fall to the ground, and the eyes of the men betrayed her effect. Never had they seen the Kagan's woman save in her all-enveloping robes, and now she stood before them attired only in a brief loincloth and low boots.
"Am I not fair?" she asked, stroking her silken flesh. "I am a Vendhyan pleasure-slave, schooled in the arts of pleasing men. I know all the hundreds of ways to give a man the ultimate pleasure, ways that common soldiers could never hope to experience." One hand lifted a perfect breast as if offering and pleasuring herself at the same time. The men stood as though hypnotized.
"But you have not finished your search." She stepped from her boots; then her hands went to one hip as she began to unfasten her loincloth. As the silk fell away, she deftly kept her dagger masked by the cloth. "There," she said. "Now I can conceal nothing. But if you would be sure, you may search me more closely." She stepped toward them.
Slowly one of the guards put forth a hand to touch her unearthly white flesh. Her dagger flashed out and scratched a red line across his palm. In an instant it streaked across the face of the other guard, scoring his cheek. She sprang back as the two sought to gather their wits, so swiftly had seduction turned to violence.
"Slut!" said one. He dragged at his sword; then a look of surprise enveloped his face as he found that drawing the weapon required a terrible effort. He tried to say something to his companion, but his tongue would not move.
Lakhme laughed with delight as the men toppled to the ground and lay there gasping. Their backs arched, their eyes started from their sockets, and their stiffened fingers clawed at the empty air.
"Did you really think that you could have me?" she taunted as she stepped across their bodies, flaunting her nakedness at them. "Common warriors were never born to enjoy the wisest and most beautiful woman in the world, soon to be the most powerful as well. Men like you live only to be sacrificed to my purposes." She continued to laugh as, with a final drumming of heels on the ground, the two guards died.
Quickly Lakhme resumed her clothing. A glance out the door of the tent told her that no man stood within sight. All were at their stations, preparing for battle. She began to hurry toward the tethered horses.
Conan stood at the fore of the horde that waited in the dry riverbed to the south-east of the necropolis. He did not like the position at all. The men lay on their bellies, packed together like stock fish in a jar, and they were strung out for hundreds of paces. There was much ground to cover between this place and the rampart, and they would be exposed to arrow fire for most of the distance. There was no other way, though. This was the only place in the entire rolling plain where so many
men could escape being seen from the highest of the mounds.
Besides mail shirt and helmet, Conan carried the largest shield he had been able to find. It was less than two feet across, but it was made of fine Vendhyan steel and it might suffice to protect him from arrows until he was past missile range and could use his sword.
There came a sound of shouting from the necropolis. Then there were trumpets braying and drums beating, followed by a pounding of hooves.
"They begin!" cried Bartatua, who stood next to Conan.
"Give them a few more minutes," said the Cimmerian. He saw his men stir restlessly, inflamed by the sounds of battle.
"No man stands until I give the word!" said Conan. ' 'Each of you shall soon have plenty of opportunity to die. Be not so eager!"
Carefully the Cimmerian gauged the din from the necropolis. When the greater part of the noise had faded away toward the north, he stood and waved his shield overhead.
'' Forward!" he bellowed.
With a howl of bloodlust, the men sprang to their feet and swarmed over the rim of the draw. With his shield ready for the storm of arrows, Conan began to run. But as the sounds of the horde behind him faded away, he turned and was dismayed to see that he was far in front of the Hyrkanians.
"Run, you sons of whores!" he shouted. "You are nothing but archery targets if you walk!"
Some of the men broke into an awkward shuffle, and Conan realized that most of these men had never run in their lives. Few of them had even walked more than a few-score paces at a time. Their bandy-legged waddle
would have been laughable except that he knew they were now within arrow range.
As they continued their maddeningly slow progress toward the rampart, it seemed that the wall was all but undefended. A lone warrior stood atop the crest, and Conan did not at all like the look of the situation. When the horde was still two hundred long paces from the rampart, the lone soldier raised a silver trumpet and blew a long, snarling blast. Within moments warriors stood shoulder-to-shoulder atop the rampart. Each held a bow raised at a high angle. A dark cloud arced lazily toward the Hyrkanians.
Conan raised his shield and crouched as much of his body behind it as he could. He heard shafts glance from its surface and he heard the shrieks of stricken men. All around him bodies toppled, transfixed by long shafts.
"Faster, curse you!" he shouted. They continued their slow, sullen advance, and Conan sensed the heart going out of them. This was not their kind of warfare. Already he could see men in the garb of many tribes lagging behind. Almost all of the men in front were Ashkuz tribesmen, for it was their ancestral tombs that lay under defilement.
As the attackers drew nearer to the rampart, the archers began training their bows downward. Suddenly behind the line of bowmen there appeared mounted men. From the saddle, these fired over the heads of the standing men, increasing the fire-power of the defenders by at least one third.
Conan groaned to see so many of the tribesmen dropping. And they had yet to inflict a single casualty upon the enemy! "Up on the rampart now!" he shouted. "Another few paces and they can't use their bows."
At that moment a thunder of hooves cut across his shouting. From around the east and west comers of the necropolis came two wings of the Red Eagles. This was the kind of fighting for which heavy cavalry was made, and they sliced through the lightly armoured footmen like a spear piercing smoke. Axes and swords fell, and rose bloodied to fall again. Spears thrust, and no thrust failed to bury a sharp steel point in the entrails of a Hyrkanian raider. Each time the spiked head of a mace descended, the flanks of horses we
re spattered with blood and brains. Here and there a horse was hamstrung and its rider mobbed and slain, but for the most part, the charge was little more than a slaughter of stymied men.
The two lines of horsemen smashed into the great mob of nomads who were trying to force their way into the gateway. Here the butchery was truly terrible, as the horsemen cut back and forth through the footmen like the blade of a scythe harvesting wheat.
Conan cut a man from the saddle and turned to Bartatua, who was wrestling with a warrior he had hauled from his speared horse.
"This is no good!" Conan said as the Ushi-Kagan pulled his bloody dagger from the horseman's body. "We must fall back and regroup. At this rate, they'll kill us all!"
"Aye," said Bartatua. An arrow narrowly missed his face and buried itself in the throat of a nearby tribesman. The man went down with a torrent of blood spraying from his lips.
"Fall back!" Bartatua shouted. He signalled to the nearest men, as did Conan. Gradually, all along the line, men began to break away and flee. Many who did so fell upon their faces, arrows in their backs.
Conan backed away, always keeping his shield between himself and the enemy. Once a shaft brushed his thigh, making a shallow cut. Another nicked his ankle. His skill and his armour saved him from serious injury.
When they were out of arrow range, the men regathered. The Ushi-Kagan surveyed the scene of carnage with dismay and rage. "How many have we lost?" he demanded.
"Thousands. And I doubt that we slew a hundred of them. Probably not half that many." Conan surveyed the shattered warriors who sat upon the ground. "And at least one man in three is wounded, many seriously."
They were rejoined by the northern party. These tribesmen had not suffered as badly, for the feint had not been pressed far within arrow range and the northern wall had been thinly defended. Nor had this horde met with a heavy cavalry charge. After receiving his chief's report, Bartatua led Conan a distance away from the others and spoke with him.
"They knew," he said. "They knew that the attack from the north was to be a feint. They were fully prepared to savage my horde, with archers and horsemen waiting below the southern rampart until we were within range. They had their heavy cavalry massed at the eastern and western walls, ready to ride over the rampart and take us in both flanks." He brooded for a few minutes. "It was Lakhme. When that witch went into the City of Mounds last night, she told them of my strategy. How long before my Kagans figure that out, Conan? Who will respect a leader who reveals his most important secrets to a foreign slave woman?"
Conan said nothing. When Bartatua wanted advice for the next attack, he would say so.
"And too many of those who died were Ashkuz, my own tribe. They are the strong pillar that upholds my sway. Must I start all over again, building my power among the tribes, reforging the broken alliances that
were built upon their trust in my invincibility?" Conan saw that the most self-confident man he had ever known was beginning to doubt himself. "Well, Conan, tell me how I may retrieve this sorry situation."
"For one thing, we do nothing for the rest of the day," said the Cimmerian. "Let the men rest and regain heart. Let them also brood upon slain comrades and kinsmen. We shall strike at sunset. That will leave enough light for those who fear to die in the dark." He looked toward the ramparts, where warriors had descended to finish off the wounded and retrieve arrows from the bodies.
"Their concentrated defence is too much to face," he continued. "We will divide into four groups and assault all four sides at once. There will be many slain, but nothing like this morning. The enemy will be spread too thin to concentrate its fire. If your men could just run, their losses would be far fewer, but that is asking the impossible."
"At least we shall be able to avenge our honour," said Bartatua, "whatever happens after that."
"You brood overly much," said Conan. "Perhaps you will have to defer your campaign for another year. Once you give your men victories and much booty, they will love you as before. Warriors are easily replaced. A new crop of youths comes of age with every passing year. This is a valuable experience. Now you know how the people you attack feel when you slaughter them and they have no way of striking back."
The Ushi-Kagan managed a grim smile. "It is a good thing that I do not require much sympathy, for you give very little."
Conan shrugged. "I never felt the need of it, why should you? Leaders of men have more important things to do than to feel sorry for one another."
"So they have," said Bartatua. "Come, let us brief the men." He was about to turn away when something caught his attention. A horse was galloping across the rolling ground toward the gate in the grassy rampart. Its rider wore flowing black robes.
"The witch has done it again!" Bartatua shouted. "May all the gods curse the flesh from her bones!"
"I suppose," said Conan, "that it is too much to hope that some archer will put a shaft through her delightful body."
Such hope indeed proved futile, and Lakhme rode through the gate unmolested. "No matter," Bartatua said. "I vowed to kill her in the City of Mounds, and so I shall. We must be careful not to slay her in the fighting. That would be too quick. Come, let us make our dispositions."
XVII
The sun was touching the horizon as Khondemir prepared his great spell-casting. This was a summoning more ambitious than any he had ever before attempted. He had no doubt of its outcome, though, for his faith in his destiny was absolute. Bound before him on the altar was the Princess Ishkala, her tender limbs pinioned. It had been a simple matter to send men to her tent while the Red Eagles were occupied with the morning's battle. Since then, the Sogarians had been busy with preparations to repel another assault. It had not occurred to them to check on Ishkala's welfare.
In the red light of sunset he could see the enemy arrayed in four hordes. As the sun began to slide below the horizon, the hordes surged forward.
"They come!" cried Lakhme. Attired only in her silken loincloth, she stood next to the altar. She had assisted Khondemir in his final preparations. It had been she who had stripped the clothing from the Sogarian princess, strapping the girl down upon the altar with a kind of unholy pleasure on her face. Even now she stroked Ishkala's white flesh as she would a favourite pet.
"No matter," Khondemir said. "In a few minutes they shall see that which will stop them in their tracks. Let us begin."
With his sorcerous apparatus assembled before him, the wizard began to chant, casting upon a fiery brazier the items Lakhme had brought him. Gradually the sky above the altar changed in colour. Ishkala's eyes filled with terror, but her screams were confined within her throat by a tight gag across her mouth. Lakhme stroked the princess's brow and crooned soothing words as the girl eyed the sharp dagger in Khondemir's hand.
"When they know they are defeated," Bartatua shouted to his men, "some will try to break away. I want no man to seize a horse and give chase. It is sacrilege to go mounted in a burial ground. I have already detailed a thousand men on the swiftest horses to chase down any who flee. They are stationed beyond the limits of the City, in territory where it is lawful for men to ride. You have heard Conan's words, and you remember what happened this morning. Cover the ground as swiftly as possible. The arrow fire will not be as intense this time, and their cavalry cannot attack all four hordes at once. Now go to your places. When the sun touches the horizon, we attack!"
The host split into four divisions and each began making its way to its attack point.'Even with their depleted numbers, few had been able to hear the Ushi-Kagan's words, but their officers had delivered the gist of them. Morale had been restored, and they were determined to avenge their honour.
Side by side, Conan and Bartatua prepared to charge with their men. Once again the assault would be from the south, whence they would head for the great entrance gate. Bartatua had determined to keep up with the Cimmerian and to stay well before his men. If all could see him, they would be less likely to falter. It would be unendurable disgrace for
Hyrkanians to allow their Ushi-Kagan to plunge alone among the enemy.
They gripped their weapons tightly as they watched the sun. The bloody orb was at the horizon. As the fiery edge touched the steppe, Bartatua raised his arms.
"Forward!" shouted the Ushi-Kagan. The shout was echoed by his tribesmen and was soon taken up by the men surrounding the other walls.
Conan started out at a steady lope. Beside him, Bartatua tried to match stride. As they covered ground, the Cimmerian looked back to see if the men were keeping the formation he had ordered. They were in four ragged lines, with plenty of space separating them. This was because the great enclosing square would contract as they neared the rampart. If they charged as a single mob, they would be crammed together shoulder-to-shoulder by the time they reached the rampart. They would become an easy target for arrows and would be unable to use then- weapons when they had the opportunity
The sleeting arrows began to fall among them. As Conan had predicted, the fire was not as heavy and concentrated as that of the morning. The men were no longer quite so helpless either, as the lighter arrow fall and their recent experience allowed them to make better use of their small shields. Many had equipped themselves with extra armour, taken from the wounded and slain.
As they drew within a hundred paces of the gate, a thunder of hooves betokened another cavalry charge. The Red Eagles came storming through the gate, splitting into two wings as they emerged. They smashed into the Hyrkanian line at two points. On this occasion their progress was not as easy as it had been that morning. As the first cavalry entered the horde, nooses snaked out to encircle mount and rider. Horse and man crashed to the ground, to be mobbed and overwhelmed by footmen.
Following riders toppled over the fallen. As others swerved to avoid the bloody, kicking heaps, they made easy marks for more cast ropes. The cavalry charge began to falter, then completely halted in a wild melee of slashing horsemen and screaming, blood lusting footmen.
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