He mounted his horse and set out at an easy gait. His weapons rested loose in their sheaths. The saddle beneath him gave forth a soft creaking of leather and wood. The midday sun shone brightly. It was deceptively peaceful, and for all his relaxed mien, the Cimmerian was ready for the sudden, furious outburst of violent action soon to come. He was a warrior, and he lived for battle. That this fight would present difficulties only made life more interesting.
He reined in before the gate, and a man thrust a dirty, shaggy head over the ruined battlement. 'Who are you, and what do you want?' he demanded.
'Lisip sent me,' Conan said, holding high the lead medallion. 'Let me in.'
The man squinted his bloodshot eyes. 'Throw it up here.'
The Cimmerian tossed the seal and the man managed to catch it on the fly. He did some more squinting. 'Looks like Lisip's,' he finally pronounced. 'Let yourself in. I'm not coming down there to help you.'
Conan dismounted and began to tug on the gate bar, making it seem far more of a struggle than necessary. 'What kind of fort is barred from the outside?' he asked.
'This is no fort,' the man answered. 'This is a slave pen. It's a damned nuisance, too. When we want to go out, one or two of us must go down a ladder to unbar the gate.'
'What goes on here?' A bearded face, framed by a steel casque, thrust over the wall. 'Who is this man, and by whose leave does he unbar the gate?'
The thug showed him the seal. 'The chief sent him. This is his pass. I know my master's seal.'
While the armoured man studied the thing, Conan hoisted the bar clear of its retaining brackets. He began to stagger back as if the weight of the iron were too great for him, then he stumbled and dropped it, managing to cast it a few paces farther from the gate. The mercenary looked toward him sharply.
'You clumsy oaf!' the man shouted. 'Must you botch a task so simple?'
'What of it?' Conan shouted up at him as he tugged the gate open, hoping to distract the soldier for a few crucial seconds. 'I will bring my horse through and then climb up there and come back down here by your ladder, then re-bar the gate, then go back up the ladder and pull it up after me. I never saw such a fort!'
'Why, you...' Now the soldier looked up, his jaw dropping as he saw what was coming down the road toward them. The head jerked back behind the rampart, and an alarm bell began to clang.
Hastily, Conan tugged the heavy gate fully open. He heard shouting from within, and his sword was naked in his hand as the first defenders reached the portal.
Suddenly he faced four men who stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder in the gateway. They were Lisip's thugs. All were armed with swords, and for several seconds the Cimmerian had his hands full just defending himself from the licking, glittering blades, with no time to counter-attack. He managed to deal one of the attackers a cut on the sword arm and to stab another in a too-advanced thigh. The wounded men merely backed out of the fight and their places were taken by two other thugs.
The Cimmerian retreated from the gateway as if he were being driven back. As he had anticipated, one incautious man advanced ahead of the others. With a little more room in which to manoeuvre, Conan beat the other's sword to one side with his own blade and ran him through the chest. As the man fell, he caused another to stumble, and Conan clove that one through the shoulder before the man could regain his balance.
The Cimmerian strode forward and re-engaged the defenders of the gateway. Moments later a pack of the miners rushed past him, swinging their crude weapons with terrible effect. They seemed not to care if they were wounded, so long as they could deal death in return. In seconds the gateway was gained and the fighting spilled into the courtyard beyond.
His part of the attack was finished, but the Cimmerian could no more desert a battle well commenced than he could stop breathing. Amid clashing weapons and roaring, smiting men, ho passed beneath the lintel. He saw the armoured man who had challenged him descending a stair and rushed to meet him.
Grinning, his bloodied sword at the ready, the Cimmerian met the soldier at the bottom step. He blocked a chop to his head and parried a swift thrust toward his throat, sending back a series of lightning jabs in return. These the mercenary parried, but he was forced back up the stair, whence he tried to take advantage of his higher position to slash downward at Conan's head and shoulders. As he blocked one of these blows, Conan leaned forward and grasped the man's ankle, tugging it off the step. The mercenary lurched sideways and as he did so, Conan thrust his point into the man's neck just above the gorget. The soldier toppled off the stair with blood in his scream.
The Cimmerian dashed up the stair to the wall-walk. Two of Lisip's men attacked him, but he merely knocked them from the walk into the struggling mass of men below. He surveyed the scene in the courtyard and was satisfied that the miners would have no difficulty in mopping up the rest. Lisip's men were falling everywhere. There were three or four of Ermak's still fighting, but they were being mobbed. The women and children were cheering and crying excitedly.
Sword still in hand, Conan went into the nearest of the gateway towers. The interior was foul-smelling. This one had housed Lisip's men. A quick check of all three levels disclosed no skulking enemies, nor anything of interest.
He crossed the walk over the gateway to the other tower. This one had been used by Ermak's men. The ground floor was an armoury-and-supply room. The second floor had been their sleeping quarters. He ascended the stair to the upper room. This one was full of chests. He whirled at sounds coming from behind, then relaxed as he saw Bellas, holding a child in one arm and leading a pretty young woman with his other hand. A huge grin divided the man's beard, and it struck Conan that this was the first time he had seen one of these people smile.
'I take it that the fighting is over?' Conan said, slamming his sword back into his sheath.
'All done,' Bellas affirmed. 'None of the dogs escaped to bear word of this to Sicas.' More of the miners came up behind him.
'Excellent. Some of you with maces break these chests open. I want to see what Bombas was hiding up here.'
Gleefully, amid much boisterous jesting, the miners did as he had bid them. They were in the highest spirits, and Conan learned that they had taken but few casualties in the brief, vicious battle. Lisip's men had been surprised, terrified, and outnumbered, and the miners fought with no trace of chivalry. Their own few dead and numerous wounded they accounted a small price for getting their women and children back.
'We lose more in a single cave-in,' Bellas said, shrugging off the butcher's bill.
As the Cimmerian had suspected, many of the chests contained silver, some of it in the form of coin, but more in bullion, still bearing the inspector's stamp from the mine. There were other valuables as well.
'You must bear all this back to your village and hide it,' Conan said.
'We did not come here for loot,' Bellas said, holding up his woman's hand as proof of what really mattered.
'This is not loot,' the Cimmerian told him. 'Unless I am much mistaken, most of this belongs rightfully to your king. He may even prove grateful if you keep it safe for him.' Conan had little faith in kingly gratitude, but these people would need whatever leverage they could muster when royal forces finally arrived to set the district in order. Then he noticed a cabinet standing in a corner.
'What is in that?' he asked, pointing. One of the miners turned and with a casual sweep of his mace, smashed the padlock, hasp and all, from the cabinet doors. He opened it and looked inside.
'Just some books,' the man said, shrugging.
Intrigued, Conan went to the cabinet and drew out a stack of large, heavy tomes bound in fine Shemitish leather. He opened the top volume and saw that it contained scant writing, but many columns of numerals.
'What are they?' Bellas asked.
'I am no scribe,' Conan said, 'but I have stood before many a paymaster to collect my wages and I know an accounting ledger when I see one. I will wager that these list how much treasure Bombas has taken in and how much he ha
s paid out, and for what. And I would wager just as much that he has another set of these books in his headquarters, one that he shows the royal treasurer. Those books will show that he took in far less and paid out far, far more. You must take these and hide them as well. With these books, you can assure that Bombas will hang.'
'We will keep them safe,' Bellas vowed.
'Somewhere in there,' Conan said, 'will be his military accounts. He receives pay and rations for a hundred men, together with their mounts, quartering and stabling and all other expenses paid by the Crown. With that, he hires a score of half-dead derelicts and they probably do not receive half-pay. It is paltry compared to what he must be skimming from the mines, but no opportunity to steal is too small for a man like Bombas.'
'What will you do now, Cimmerian?' Bellas asked.
'Return to Sicas. I have a number of other matters to occupy me just now.'
'You play a dangerous game, my friend,' the miner said.
'That is the only kind worth the playing,' Conan told him. 'It is also the most rewarding.'
'Why not come back with us to the village?' Bellas urged. 'When the time is right, you can lead us into Sicas to finish this work.'
Conan shook his head. 'No, I have much to do in the city
before the time is ripe for that. There is great gain to be had there. Why let Bombas enjoy it all?'
'I think you are mad, but know that for this day's deeds, you are our friend for life. When you need us, do not hesitate to call upon us.' It was simply said, and Conan knew that it was meant.
He parted company with the miners as they were finishing their work at the old fort. The chests were being carried away on the strong backs of some of the men as others fired the fort. The sheds and the wooden interiors of the towers were torched, and a great heap of lumber and brushwood had been heaped in the courtyard as a pyre for the corpses of the enemy dead. Their own dead would be buried in the village after the customary rites. Conan rode northward until he lost sight of the great column of smoke that ascended to the heavens behind him.
He did not hurry, but rode at a leisurely pace. Although the sun was down, darkness had not yet fallen. Near the town, he rode through the camp ground where the caravaneers pitched their tents and built their fires. There were few traders at this time of year, and he saw that the party with which Mulvix arrived had
departed.
He passed through the city gate with the usual bribe and rode to the inn. The stableman wore an odd look as the Cimmerian walked his horse into the near-dark of the stalls. Conan was about to ask the man what was wrong when he felt something very solid crash against the back of his head.
The Cimmerian dropped bonelessly, not quite unconscious, but completely unable to make his limbs function. He could feel ropes being tied around his wrists and ankles, and he could do nothing about it. Then a heavy blanket was wrapped around him. The last thing he heard before drifting into unconsciousness was a man's
voice.
'Take him to the dungeon,' said Julus.
XVI
Chaos Descends
He awoke feeling as if a volcano had erupted in his head. Only savage instinct kept him from groaning aloud. Sounds of pain and helplessness might draw predators. He shifted, and straw crackled beneath him. It was not the first time he had awakened lying on a cold stone floor covered with straw, a ferocious pain rending his skull.
Slowly, he raised a hand and felt the back of his head. He touched the stickiness of drying blood. Grimly, stoically, he pressed his fingertips against the scalp, then tightened them as hard as he could, sending spears of blinding agony through his whole body, causing lurid lights to flash behind his eyelids. He ignored the pain. To his great relief, he felt no shifting of bone beneath the skin. His skull was not fractured. His steel cap and dense black hair had been sufficient to spare him a crushed skull.
Now that he knew he would not die of the injury, he struggled to a sitting position. Dizziness washed over him for a few moments, but he willed it away. He had been injured far worse in his time, and he knew that those who had cast him into this place had far worse in store for him. He heard footsteps approaching.
'Well, our prize lives, after all.' He looked through the bars and saw the hulking form of Julus. The man's image wavered, doubling for a moment; then it coalesced into sharp focus.
'Did you think you could kill me?' Conan asked.
'Assuredly, I did not want you to die,' Julus said. 'I gave Atchazi strict orders that you were not to be killed, but he is still full of resentment that you slew his friend, and he struck harder than intended. Think how our fun would have been spoiled had you died.'
'It was the Zingaran?' Conan asked. 'He must have a better arm than I thought.'
'You will see soon enough,' Julus said.
'Why have you dragged me here?' the Cimmerian demanded. 'I have done nothing that is forbidden in this town.'
Julus broke into roaring laughter. 'Do not speak like a fool, foreigner! What care I what you have done or have not done? I want to know what you plan to do. I brought you here to get some answers!'
'That would be a man's task, and I see no men besides myself in this place,' Conan sneered. Apparently they did not suspect him of the events at the fort. Perhaps they did not even know of the raid yet.
'Get in there and chain him up!' Julus commanded. Men crowded into the cell and dragged the Cimmerian from it. He tried to struggle, but simply sitting up had demanded all the strength he could summon. Even such men as these could handle him easily.
A rope was passed between his bound wrists, then passed through a ring set into the stone ceiling. Men hauled on the rope, and soon the Cimmerian's body was stretched painfully, only the balls of his feet touching the floor. Julus approached, an evil grin on his face and a short wooden club in his hand.
'This way,' Julus explained, 'we do not have to pick you up when you fall.' The club flashed out, and pain bloomed in Conan's side. A backhanded swipe smashed into his jaw. Even through the haze of agony, he knew that he would live, and he set himself to wait out the ordeal. Either blow could have splintered bone, but Julus had stopped just short of the necessary force. The man did not intend to beat him to death.
'Why are you here, barbarian?' Julus demanded. He punctuated the question with several blows of. the club to Conan's knees, elbows, kidneys, and beneath the arms. He knew where the nerves were to be found to cause the greatest pain.
'Who sent you? Are you a king's man?' he persisted.
For a long time the Cimmerian said nothing as the stick drew ever greater levels of pain from his body. The punishment was agonizing, but as yet, he had felt nothing of importance give way in his body. A blow landed across his nose and blood gushed out over his face and chest. He could taste it in his mouth as well. At least the brute avoided damaging his jaw and throat. He wanted Conan able to speak. A flurry of blows to his kidneys wrenched a gasp from the Cimmerian.
'I am here to get rich, like everyone else in this town, curse you!' He knew he could take more punishment, but there was no point in it. To speak sooner would arouse the man's suspicions. To wait longer would be to invite crippling injury. Above all, he must avoid that. The Cimmerian could endure pain that would drive a civilized man to death or madness, but his body had to be sound enough for an escape when the opportunity came.
'I do not believe you,' Julus taunted, but now his blows came less forcefully. 'What sort of bargain did you make with Lisip, Cimmerian? And what is your game with Maxio? You seem to be sharing his woman. That bespeaks something more than friendliness. Where do you hide of nights, when you are not at the inn?'
'I carouse in the Pit,' Conan said, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor, 'and I seek better ways to loot this place, same as you, dog.' His nose was swelling, his eyes blackening. He hoped that his eyelids would not swell shut. A blind man had little chance of escape.
Julus struck him across the calf muscles of both legs. Instantly the rock-like mus
cles knotted into vicious cramps. 'The truth,
Cimmerian!' Julus bawled. 'I will have the truth from you!' He rained a shower of blows on Conan's unresisting body.
Conan faded in and out of consciousness. From time to time he managed to mutter words, always sticking to his insistence that he worked alone, to enrich himself.
'I think you like this, Cimmerian,' Julus said, striking him again on the ribs. The man was sweating from the exertion. 'I think you enjoy this as much as I do. The gods have been kind to throw us together this way, have they not?' A commotion behind him caused Julus to turn. A man came running down the
stair.
'What is it?' Julus demanded. 'You had best have good reason to thus interrupt my sport.'
'The Reeve says come!' the man said urgently. 'We must all mount and ride at once! Make haste!'
'Now what is this all about?' Julus muttered. 'We will finish this later, Cimmerian.' With a casual backhanded swing, the club crashed against the side of Conan's head. Crimson light flashed before him, then darkness descended.
When he awoke, he could not feel his hands. He was still as he had been, his arms stretched above him, his feet barely touching the floor. His whole body was a mass of agony, except where it was numb. As near as he could determine, though, nothing was seriously damaged. He had not been cut badly, there were no broken bones, and he did not think that he had sustained any internal injuries, although he might need time to know that for certain. He had great faith in the healing powers of his rugged physique and knew that he would be hale within a few days. But first he must get out of this place, before Julus came back. Slowly, favouring a neck that had gone stiff, he raised his head, finding that his chin had stuck to his chest with dried blood.
For a minute he thought he had gone blind. He could smell the burning wick of an oil lamp, but he saw no light. Gradually he realized that his eyelids were likewise stuck together with dried blood. With much facial contortion, he managed to get one eye partially open and saw the lamp, burning in a sconce. In a chair tilted against a wall sat a jailer, dozing. He was a pot-bellied, shaven-headed man the Cimmerian did not recognize from his earlier stay. A ring of keys hung at the man's belt, and a knife was similarly attached.
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