Conan the Invincible

by Robert Jordan

  Rage fueled his muscles, and suddenly the stake tore free of the ground. Immediately he rolled to his right, clutching that cord in both hands and pulling with all his might. Slowly the second stake pulled out of the hard-packed earth.

  Conan’s bones creaked as he sat up. The lacerated flesh of his wrists had swollen to hide the cords. Diligently he worked to loose them, then freed his ankles. The craving in him for water was enough to send another man for the nearest water-bag, but he forced himself to work some suppleness back into his stiffened muscles before he moved. When he rose, if he was not at full strength he was nonetheless a formidible opponent.

  In pantherine silence he moved among the sleeping men. It would have been easy for him to slay them where they lay, but killing drunken men in their stupor was not his way. He retrieved his sword and dagger and fastened them on. His red Turanian half-boots he found discarded by the coals of a burned-out fire. Of his cloak there was no sign, and he had no hope of recovering the coins from his purse. He would have to search every man there. Still, he thought as he stamped his feet to settle his boots, as soon as he could get to their horses he would be back on the trail of the pendants. He would take the precaution of scattering the rest of the mounts before he left. There was no need to leave the brigands able to pursue.

  “Conan!” The shout rolled through the hollow as if launched from a dozen throats, but there was only one shape approaching the camp.

  The Cimmerian cursed as bandits stirred from their sodden sleep and sat up. He was in their midst with no way out short of fighting, now. He drew his broadsword as a light appeared in Karela’s striped tent.

  “Conan! Where are the pendants?”

  That booming voice stirred something in Conan’s mind. He was sure he had heard it before. But the heavily muscled man approaching was unfamiliar. A spiked helmet covered the man’s head, and a chain mail tunic descended to his knees. In his right hand he gripped a great double-bladed ax, in the other a round buckler.

  “Who are you?” Conan called.

  The brigands were all on their feet now, and Karela was before her pavilion with her jeweled tulwar in hand.

  “I am Crato.” The armored man came to a halt an arm’s reach from Conan. Beneath his helm his eyes were glassy and unblinking. “I am the servant of Imhep-Aton. Where are the pendants you were to bring him?”

  A chill ran down Conan’s back. He knew the voice, now. It was the voice of Ankar.

  From behind Conan the voice of Aberius rang out. “He was telling the truth. There are pendants.”

  “I don’t have them, Ankar,” Conan said. “I’m chasing the men who stole them, and a girl I made a promise to.”

  “You know too much,” the big man muttered in Imhep-Aton’s voice. “And you do not have the pendants. Your usefulness is at an end, Cimmerian.”

  With no more warning the ax leaped toward Conan. The Cimmerian jumped back, the razor steel drawing a fine red line across his chest. The possessed man recovered quickly and moved in, buckler held across his body, ax at the ready well to his side. If a sorcerer controlled the body, the man whose once it had been was an experienced ax fighter.

  Conan danced back, broadsword flickering in snakelike thrusts. A slashing attack would leave him open, and that ax could cut a man half in two. Crato continued his slow advance, catching each sword thrust with his buckler. Watching those lifeless eyes was useless, Conan quickly realized. Instead he watched the massive shoulders for the involuntary movements that would foretell the big man’s attacks.

  The mailed right shoulder dipped fractionally, and Conan dropped to his heels as the ax whistled over his head. His broadsword darted out to stab through the mail at a thigh, then he was rolling away from the return ax-stroke to come once more erect facing his opponent. Blood ran down the axman’s leg, but he came on.

  Conan circled to the other’s right, toward the ax. It would be more difficult for Crato to strike at him, thus. The ax slashed out in an awkward backhand blow. Conan swung, felt his blade bite through bone, and ax and severed hand fell together. On the instant Crato hurled his buckler at Conan’s head and threw himself in a roll across the ground. Conan ducked, beat the round shield aside with his sword, but even as he recovered Crato was coming to his feet with the battle-ax in his left hand.

  Blood pumped from the stump in regular spurts, and the man—or the sorcerer possessing him—seemed to know he was dying. Screaming, he rushed at the Cimmerian, ax slashing wildly. Conan caught the haft on his blade and smashed a knee into the other’s midriff. The big Shemite staggered, but his great ax went up for another stroke. Conan’s broadsword slashed into the man’s shoulder, half-severing the ax arm. Crato sank to his knees, his mouth opening wide.

  “Conan!” Imhep-Aton’s voice screamed. “You will die!”

  Conan’s blade leaped forward once more, and the helmeted head rolled in the dust. “Not yet,” the Cimmerian said grimly.

  When he raised his gaze from the headless body on the ground Conan found the bandits had formed a ring around him. Some had swords in hand, others merely looked. Karela faced him with the curved blade of her tulwar bare. She glanced at the dead man, but kept her main attention on the big Cimmerian. Her gaze was oddly uncertain, her head tilted to watch him from the corner of her eye.

  “Trying to leave us, Conan?” she said. “Whoever this Crato was, we owe him thanks for stopping you.”

  “The pendants!” someone called from among the gathered men. “The pendants are real.”

  “Who spoke?” Hordo demanded. The Red Hawk’s bearded lieutenant lashed them with his eye, and some dropped their heads. “Whatever’s real or isn’t, the Red Hawk says this man deserves to die.”

  “Twenty thousand gold pieces sound very real to me,” Aberius replied. “Too real to be hasty.”

  Hordo’s jaw worked angrily. He started for the smaller man, and stopped with a surprised look at Karela as she laid her blade across his chest. She shook her head without speaking and took the sword away.

  Conan eyed the woman, too, wondering what was in her head. Her face was unreadable, and she still did not look directly at him. He had no intention of sharing the pendants, but if her mind was changing on the matter he might yet leave that hollow between the hills without more fighting.

  “They’re real, all right,” he said loudly. “A king’s treasure, maybe worth more than twenty thousand.” He had to pause to work enough moisture into his throat to speak, but he would not ask for water. The slightest sign of weakness now, and they could well decide to torture what he knew from him. “I can take you to the thieves. And mark you, men who steal from kings are likely to have other trinkets about.” He turned slowly to catch each man’s gaze in turn. “Rubies. Emeralds. Diamonds and pearls. Sacks bulging with gold coin.” Avarice lit their eyes, and greed painted their faces.

  “Gold, is it?” Hordo snorted. “And where are we to find all this wealth? In a palace, or a fortress, with stone walls and well-armed guards?”

  “With the men I follow,” Conan said. “Hooded men claiming to be pilgrims. They took five women when they stole the rest. Dancing girls from the court of Yildiz. One of those is mine, but the other four will no doubt he attracted to brave men with gold in their fists.” Lecherous laughter rose, and one or two of the brigands swaggered posingly.

  “Hooded men, you say?” Aberius said, frowning. “And five women?”

  “Enough!” Hordo roared. “By the Black Throne of Erlik, don’t you all see there are sorcerers in this? Did none of you look closely enough at this Crato to see he was possessed? Didn’t you see his eyes, or listen to him speak? No mortal man has a voice like that, booming like thunder in the distance.”

  “He was mortal enough,” muttered a thick-set man with a broad scar across his nose. “Conan’s steel proved that.”

  “And what is sought by wizards,” Conan said, “is doubly valuable. Did anyone ever hear of a wizard grasping for something that was not worth a king’s crown?”
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  Hordo looked uncertainly at Karela, but she stood listening as if the talk had no connection to her. The one-eyed man muttered under his breath, then went on. “Where do we seek these hooded men? The country is wide. What direction do we ride? Conan himself has said he has no idea. He followed the Red Hawk thinking she’d lead him to them.”

  “I saw them,” Aberius said, and stared about him defiantly as everyone turned to look at him. “I, and Hepekiah, and Alvar. Two days gone, riding to the east. A score of hooded men, and five bound women on camels. Speak, Alvar.”

  The thickset man with the scarred nose nodded heavily. “Aye, we saw them.”

  “They were too many for the three of us,” Aberius went on hurriedly, “and when we came here to the meeting place, the Red Hawk had not yet come, so we didn’t speak of it. You never let us make a move without her, Hordo.” A mutter of angry assent rose.

  Hordo glared, but there was satisfaction in his voice when he said, “Two days gone? They could be in Vendhya for all the good it does us.”

  The mutter grew in intensity, and Aberius took a step toward the huge, bearded man. “Why say you so? All here know I can track a lizard over stone, or a bird through the air. A two days’ trail is a beaten path for me.”

  “And what of Hepekiah?” Hordo growled. “Have you forgotten the Cimmerian’s blade in your friend’s ribs?”

  The weasel-faced man shrugged. “Gold buys new friends.”

  Hordo threw up his hands and turned to Karela. “You must speak. What are we to do? Does this Conan die, or not?”

  The auburn-haired woman looked fully at Conan for the first time, her tilted green eyes cool and expressionless. “He’s a good fighting man, and we may have need of such when we overtake these hooded men. Strike camp, and bring his horse.”

  Shouting excitedly and laughing, the bandits scattered. Hordo glared at the Cimmerian, then shook his head and stalked away. In an instant the camp was a stirred anthill, the pavilion going down, horses being saddled and blankets rolled. Conan stood looking at Karela, for she had not moved an inch, nor taken her eyes from his face.

  “Who is this woman?” she said suddenly. Her voice was flat and expressionless. “The one you say is yours.”

  “A slave girl,” he replied, “as I said.”

  Her face remained calm, but she sheathed her sword as if slamming it into his heart. “You trouble me, Conan of Cimmeria. See you do not come to trouble me too much.” Spinning on her heel she marched toward the horses.

  Conan sighed and looked to the east, where the red sun was just broaching the horizon. The night’s dew had cleared the dust from the air, and it seemed he could see forever.

  All he had to do now was find the hooded men, free Velita and take the pendants, all the while watching his back for a knife from some brigand who decided they had no need of him after all, and keeping an eye on Karela’s mercurial temper. Then, of course, there was the matter of relieving the bandits of the pendants in turn, not to mention finding a new purchaser, for in Conan’s eyes Crato’s attack had finished his agreement with Ankar, or Imhep-Aton, or whatever his real name was. It was just his luck the man seemed to be a magician. But he had a tidy enough bundle without adding that worry to it. All he needed now, he thought, was the Zamoran army. He went in search of his cloak. And a water skin.

  X

  Puffs of dust lifted beneath the hooves of the column of Zamoran cavalry, a company strong, as they crossed rolling hills sparsely covered with low scrub. Their lance points and chain mail were blackened against reflecting the sun. They rode in a double line, round shields hanging ready to hand beside their saddles, with Haranides at their head, hard men, hand-picked by the captain, veterans of campaigning on the borders.

  Haranides unconsciously shifted his buttocks on the hard leather of his saddle as he turned his head continually from side to side, watching, hoping, for a flash of light. With naught to go on but a direction, he had had to take a chance. Half his command was scattered in a line abreast on either side of him, and then only when both topped a hill. Every one of them had a metal mirror, and if any sign of a trail was found … .

  He grimaced as his second in command, Aheranates, galloped up beside him from his place immediately before the column. A slender youth with smooth-shaven fine-featured face and big dark eyes more suited to flirting with a palace wench than looking on death, Aheranates had been foisted on him at the last minute. Ten years younger than Haranides, in two he would outrank him. His father, much in favor with the king, wanted his son to gain a touch of seasoning, and incidentally to share in the glory of bringing the Red Hawk before the king bound in chains.

  “What do you want?” Haranides growled. If he succeeded on this mission, he would not need the good opinion of the youth’s father. If he failed, the man could not save him from the king’s threat.

  “I’ve been wondering why we’re not pursuing the Red Hawk,” Aheranates said. Haranides looked at him, and he added, “Sir. Those were our orders, were they not? Sir?”

  Haranides restrained his temper with no little effort. “And where would you pursue, lieutenant? In what direction? Or is it just that this isn’t dashing enough for someone used to the glitter of parades in the capital?”

  “Not the way I was taught to handle cavalry. Sir.”

  “And where in Sheol were you taught … .” A flash of light to the east caught his words in his throat. Once. Twice. Thrice. “Signal recall, lieutenant. By mirror,” he added as the other pulled his horse around. “No need to let every running dog know we’re out. And bring the company around.”

  “As you command. Sir.”

  For once Haranides did not notice the sarcasm. This had to be what he sought. By Mitra, it had to be. He could barely restrain himself from galloping ahead of his troop, but he forced himself to keep the march to a walk. The horses must be conserved if there was a pursuit close at hand, and he prayed there would be.

  The men strung out to the east waited once they had passed on the signal, each man falling in behind the column as it reached him. Those beyond the man who first flashed his sighting would be riding west to join them. If this was a false alarm, Haranides thought … .

  Then they topped another hill, and before them was a small knot of his men. As he rode closer another rider rejoined from the east. Haranides finally allowed himself to kick his mount into a gallop. One of the soldiers rode forward, touching his forehead respectfully.

  “Sir, it looks to have been a camp, but there’s … .”

  Haranides waved him to silence. He could see what was unusual about this hollow between two hills. Black-winged vultures, their bald heads glistening red from their feeding, stood on the ground warily watching the quartet of jackals that had driven them from their feast.

  “Wait here until I signal,” Haranides commanded, and walked his horse down into the hollow. He counted the ash piles of ten burnt-out fires.

  The jackals backed away from the mounted man, snarling, then snatched bones still bearing shreds of scarlet flesh and loped away. The vultures shifted their beady-eyed gaze from the jackals to Haranides. A half-eaten skull showed the thing on the ground had once been a man, but it could never have been proven by the scattered bones, cracked by the jackals’ powerful jaws. Haranides looked up as Aheranates galloped down the hill.

  “Mitra! What’s that?”

  “Proof there were bandits here, lieutenant. None else would leave a dead man for the scavengers.”

  “I’ll bring the men down to search for—”

  “You’ll dismount ten men,” Haranides said patiently, “and bring them down.” He could afford to be patient, now. He was sure of it. “No need to grind what little we might find under the horses’ hooves. And lieutenant? Tell off two men to bury that. See to it yourself.”

  Aheranates had been avoiding looking at the bloody bones. Now his face abruptly turned green. “Me? But—”

  “Now, lieutenant. The Red Hawk, and your glory are getting fur
ther away all the time.”

  The lieutenant stared open-mouthed, then swallowed and jerked his horse around. Haranides did not watch him go. The captain dismounted and slowly led his horse through the site of the camp. Around the remains of the fires was scruffed ground where men had slept. Perhaps fifty, he estimated. Well away from the fires were holes from the pegs and poles of a large tent. Four other holes, though, spaced in a large square, interested him more.

  A short, bowlegged cavalryman trotted up and touched his sloping forehead. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the lieutenant said I was to tell you he found where they had their horses picketed.” His voice became flatly noncommittal. “The lieutenant says to tell you there was maybe a hundred horses, sir.”

  Haranides looked to where two men were digging a hole in the hillside for the remains of the body. Aheranates apparently had decided he should search rather than oversee their work as ordered. “You’ve been twenty years and more in the cavalry, Resaro,” the captain said. “How many horses would you say were on that picket line? If the lieutenant hadn’t said a hundred, of course,” he added when the man hesitated.

  “Not to contradict the lieutenant, sir, but I’d say fifty-three. They didn’t clear away the dung, and they kept the horses apart enough to keep the piles separate. Some would be sumpter animals, of course, sir.”

  “Very good, Resaro. Go back to the lieutenant and tell him I want … .” He stopped at the strained look on Resaro’s face. “Is there something else you want to tell me?”

  The stumpy man shifted awkwardly. “Well, sir, the lieutenant said we was mistaken, but Caresus and me, we found the way they went when they left here. They brushed their tracks some, but not enough. They went east, and a little north.”