With tigerish swiftness, he charged the soldier to the right. He knew he risked a scimitar in the back from Hamar Kur, but it was never his way to await the foe’s attack. The Turanian tried to parry the crashing blow, but to no avail. Splintering the curled blade with its terrible force, the Cimmerian’s sword smashed helmet and skull like a ripe orange.
Conan wheeled like a panther in the nick of time. He just managed to catch Hamar Kur’s whistling blow on his sword hilt. There was a momentary exchange of cuts and parries as the straight blade of the West and the curved blade of the East whirled about each other in a coruscating dance of death. Then a quick thrust from Conan pierced his enemy’s breast. The point drove through the fine Turanian mail and on through the ex-amir’s body.
Hamar gave a ghastly scream and fell heavily. Conan braced his legs to tear his dripping blade free.
The Cimmerian wiped his sword on his enemy’s sash and looked swiftly around. He had heard a sound from behind, and his senses and temper were on edge. He waited warily as a tattered figure half slid and half rolled down the slope almost to his feet. It was the Zuagir. Rising on shaky legs, he spat upon the prostrate form of Hamar Kur. Then he turned his burning eyes on Conan. As he took in the gigantic figure in worn mail, the rage and fury in his eyes gave way to recognition and joy. Lifting his bound hands, he cried: “Praise be to Kemosh, for he has answered my prayers and sent these dogs to the floors of Hell! And more, he has brought back the great warlord who led us to plunder long ago! I greet you, Hawk of the Desert! There will be feasting and dancing in the villages! The Turanian dogs will cower in their towers as the cry goes forth from the desert:‘Yamad al-Aphta has returned!’ ”
Conan shrugged his broad shoulders and thrust his sword back into the scabbard. His horse had risen from its fall, and Conan unslung his waterskin and pack from the saddle.
“Here, wolf,” he grunted, “you look a little the worse for wear. Have a draught, but take care you are not overfilled.” Conan brought out bread and dried meat and shared them with the Zuagir. “Now tell me: What is afoot in the desert? How did you fall into the hands of the Hyrkanians?”
The nomad answered between gulps and champings: “I am Yar Allal of the Duali tribe. I was riding in haste and alone for our camp when these dogs caught me. They shot my horse from under me and stunned me with a blow on the head. They were bringing me back to Fort Wakla for questioning and death.”
“Whence your hurry?” asked Conan. “And why alone? These hills swarm with Turanian patrols.”
The voice of the Zuagir took on a burning edge as he answered. “A terrible misfortune has struck our tribe.
Listen, my lord. For days we lay in wait in the ruins of the Gharat temple, fifty miles to the south. Word had come that a rich caravan was approaching from the west, bringing the wealth and person of the lady Thanara.”
“Who’s that?”
“A yedka of Maypur, famed for her beauty and riches. Furthermore she is high in the favor of King Yezdigerd.
Could we but capture her, a fabulous ransom would be ours as well as the spoils from the camel train. We lay there with knives whetted and bows newly strung until we thought the dogs of traders would never come. And then, one day, we heard the camels’ bells in the distance. The long line of men, beasts, and wagons came into view. We waited until they were almost upon us. Uttering our war cry, we swept down upon them. We expected an easy conquest of the merchants and their retainers. Then, suddenly, the merchants and servants threw aside their khalats. Instead of timid civilians, mailed lancers in the white turbans of the Imperial Guard rushed against us! There must have been a hundred of them hidden in the wains. They rode through our ranks like reapers mowing down a field of wheat. Half of us perished in the first attack. The rest were driven apart and scattered into small bands. We fought mightily against the odds, and many a Turanian plunged to earth with a Duali spear through his throat or a curved knife in his guts.”
“But our courage was of no avail as the steel-clad ranks closed in upon us. I saw my brother felled by a stroke from the amir’s scimitar. Then Yin Allal, my father, caught a blow on the head that knocked him stunned from the saddle. I spurred my horse; smiting and thrusting I won through and away. They pursued me for hours, but their horses were wearier than mine and they gave it up. I was on my way to raise the tribe as I was caught. By now the caravan is safely within the walls of Fort Wakla. There will be rejoicing among the Turanians tonight; not for decades have they captured a Zuagir chief alive!”
“How know you he is alive?”
“In the last moment ere I raced off, I looked back and saw two of them carrying him back toward the carts. He was moving, though feebly.”
Conan digested this tale. He well remembered Yin Allal, one of his staunchest supporters of old, when he, as war chief of three united Zuagir tribes, had led them in daring raids against the Turanians.
Confronted by this new problem, he did not wish to leave an old friend unaided in the hands of his enemies. He sprang up, his blue eyes flashing with determination.
“Catch yourself a horse!” he snapped. “We ride for the Duali oasis at once. We shall be there by nightfall, and if my name is not forgotten I’ll raise the tribes again. I will save my old friend. We’ll pull those dogs’ beards yet, by Crom!”
With a laugh he flung himself into the saddle. Gesturing to his companion to follow, he spurred his horse into a fierce gallop over the sands.
The oasis lay enfolded in the black arms of the desert night. Stars twinkled like gems on a dark mantle studded with diamonds; the fronds of the palms, now and then moving before the slight evening breeze, were silvered by the cold moonlight. In the shadow of the foliage were strewn a profusion of tents, a large Zuagir camp.
Earlier in the day, this had been a quiet place. The desert sun poured its golden rays upon the camel’s-hair dwellings. Veiled women went about their primitive duties, fetching water from the well and broiling strips of meat over the campfires. Snores and snuffles sounded from the nomadic abodes as the tribesmen took their siesta.
Now the Duali oasis was a center of frantic activity. In the middle rose a tent whose size indicated its importance. From this tent, now and then, a lean desert hawk emerged. The Zuagir would hurry with flapping khalat to his horse, spring into the saddle, and urge the mount into a mad race out over the desert. Others returned from their missions, flinging themselves from foam-flecked steeds to hasten toward the big central tent. Zuagirs from the neighboring tribes of the Kharoya and Qirlata had been pouring in all day. Now the area covered by dun-colored tents was thrice as large as the day before.
Conversations were whispered behind the door flaps; men went to and fro on urgent errands. There was an orderly bustle such as is seldom seen in a desert camp.
The hearts of the robed and bearded chiefs in the central tent swelled with pride and affection. The huge figure in worn mail, seated in the place of honor, had become the center of legendry and hero worship since the day long ago when he had arrived among them. He united their bickering clans and led them in raids so daring, bloody, and rewarding that tales of them were still told around the campfires. Their superstitious minds regarded the return of the big Cimmerian as a good omen. This opinion was strengthened by having occurred at the same time that their raiding party had been nearly wiped out and one of their mightiest chiefs captured.
Petty inter-tribal quarrels were swept away by the return of the Hawk of the Desert. Savage expectation was mirrored in their dark eyes as Conan lectured them.
“The fort is impregnable to a straight assault,” he said bluntly. “We have no ballistae or other siege engines to reduce it by force. It is well provisioned, like all these Turanian outposts, and might hold out for a year.
Moreover, a determined sally by their seasoned squadrons would scatter our irregular ranks. Our chance is to come to grips with them inside the walls, where cavalry tactics cannot be used and we have the advantage of numbers. Trickery must be use
d. Let us equip a caravan train from the loot stored here in this oasis. Fifty of us, garbed as merchants, slaves, retainers, and camel drivers shall take the caravan to the fort, as if we were on the road to Kherdpur. At the twelfth hour we shall cut down the guards at the gate, open up, and let in the horde. Our main goals are the barracks, the officers’ quarters, and the governor’s palace. We shall pillage, burn sack, and slay until the streets run red with Turanian blood!”
The Cimmerian rose, hitching at his scabbard. “To work, desert dogs! Before sunrise, I want such a camel train as would make any Zuagir’s mouth water!”
Camel bells tinkled. The feet of men and beasts raised clouds of dust as the long line passed through the gate of Fort Wakla. At the gate, the lean merchant in the lead declared: “Lord, I am Zebah, a Shemite of Anakia. I have come up from Yukkub to barter my goods in Kherdpur. ”
“Who is this?” asked the gate captain, pointing to a huge man wrapped in a capacious khalat. His kaffia hid the lower part of his face, so that only his piercing blue eyes could be seen.
“This is my personal servant and bodyguard,” declared the leader, “a Stygian. The others are hired guards, camel drivers, and slaves. By Ashtoreth, it is good to be safely within walls again! I had feared attacks from the Zuagir bands. My men are well armed, as the noble captain can see. But the gods protected us, so none of those stinking vermin of the desert assailed us.”
The captain of the watch grinned. “Your precautions were wasted, my man. Just now a woman could ride alone and unmolested along the caravan trail. Yesterday a squadron of the Imperial Guards smashed a host of the desert rats and captured their chieftain. We think only one of the dogs got away.”
“Ah! ” said the Shemite. “That is indeed glorious news.”
“All in the day’s work. But at least this show of force should stop the raids for a while. Veziz Shah has ordered us to slay any Zuagir, man, woman, or child, caught by our patrols. By the time you return to Yukkub, you will be able to travel the length and breadth of the Zuagir desert without fear.”
“I will burn an offering to Bel as a measure of my gratitude,” said the merchant, as the last of the camels shambled through the gate. Four guardsmen closed the gate; its ironclad valves swung creakingly shut on hinges as thick as a man’s leg. The massive bolt bars clanged into their cradles.
The fort was really a small city. A high, crenelated wall of stone girded the mass of buildings with parapets and battlements. Watchful bowmen ranged the breastworks. The space within was roomy, and merchants and thieves found their means of support in the profusion of buildings. Isolated as it was, Fort Wakla must contain within itself the means of civilized living, with drinking shops and gambling houses to keep the garrison happy.
At the spacious market place in the center, mailed soldiers in spired helmets and robed merchants with exotic wares and veiled women milled about. The space resounded with the cries of hawkers and auctioneers.
To one side rose the mighty citadel where the governor lived, a fortress in itself with gray stone walls, narrow windows, and heavy copper doors. Those who had been inside, however, averred that the interior belied the grimness of the outside. It was heaped with art treasures, fitted with comfortable furniture, and stocked with fine wines and viands.
Evening had come. The sky darkened swiftly, and here and there candles and lamps illuminated the windows.
Sweating taverners bore wine casks from their cellars for the evening rush of customers. Gamblers rolled dice with practiced twists and turns. The colorful night life of a Hyrkanian city was beginning.
In the quarters by the western wall, reserved for visiting caravans, arguments raged around the campfires of Conan’s band. Nearly all advocated staying there in safety, unsuspected, until the appointed hour had come. But Conan was of another mind. With a good two hours to spare, he meant to find out as much as he could about the disposition of the enemy. The quarters of the officers and common soldiers he had already located, close by the main gate, but he did not know the number of the troops quartered there.
“May the fiends cut off your tongues!” he rumbled. “I will do as I have said. In the tavern district there will be scores of drunken soldiers off duty. From one of them I shall get the information I want if I have to wring it from him like a sodden cloth!”
The iron determination of the Cimmerian swept aside the objections of his followers. He wrapped his khalat about him and strode away, hiding his face under the kaffia. There was no reason to upset their carefully laid plans by letting some Turanian with a good memory recognize him.
The fumes of sour wine, stale beer, and sweat struck Conan in the face as he entered the first drinking shop. The carousal was in full swing.
Wenches hurried to and fro with jacks of foaming ale and flagons of wine, while painted hussies dawdled on the knees of half-drunken soldiers who emptied their wine cups and yelled for more. The interior was much like that of a western tavern, though the garb was more colorful.
Seeking out a small, secluded table in a darker corner, the big barbarian sat down upon a creaking chair and ordered a tankard of beer.
Slaking his thirst in gulps, he looked around. A pair of drunken lancers were wrestling on the floor amid shrieks and titters from the women. Taut muscles rippled under their tawny, sweating skins. A game of dice was in progress at a neighboring table. Gleaming coins and flashing gems wandered from one side to the other across its rough-hewn and wine-spattered surface. The Cimmerian relaxed. Nervousness seldom assailed him, but his senses had been on edge as he entered the enemy’s lair.
“What about a drink, you silent dullard?”
With a crash of overturned chairs, a giant man-at-arms pushed through the throng, leaving a train of furious curses in his wake. He flung himself down upon the unoccupied seat at Conan’s table. His eyes were glassily belligerent, and his gilded mail and silken sash were splashed with wine from his cup.
Conan’s eyes narrowed. The man wore the scarlet mantle and white turban of the Imperial Guards. The turban sported a peacock feather, the emblem of a captain of these elite troops. No doubt he belonged to that detachment that routed the Zuagirs and took Yin Allal prisoner. In fact he might have commanded that company. Here was an opportunity sent by the gods if Conan could but use it.
With a show of bluff intimacy, the big Cimmerian leaned forward, his face still hidden in the shadow of Its kaffia. “Do not wonder that I find this place dull. I came in only to slake my thirst.” He gave the soldier a friendly punch in the shoulder. “I’m on my way to a pleasure house where the women are so fair and skilled as to rival the courtesans of Shadizar!”
The captain hiccupped, shook his head, and focused his eyes with an effort. “Huh? Women? Good idea. Who are you, anyway?”
“Hotep of Khemi, bodyguard to the merchant Zebah. Come along with me, man! A visit to this place will surfeit you for a month.”
Conan was not an expert dissembler. His performance would have aroused the suspicion of a shrewd and sober man. However, the drunken stupor of the Turanian left room for nothing but his most primitive instincts.
Breathing hard with aroused lust, he leaned forward with a loud belch.
“Lead me there, man! I have wandered too long over the cursed desert without a woman.”
“Were you with the party that ambushed the Zuagirs?”
“With them? I commanded them!”
“Good for you!”
“Aye; that was a noble fight. But the only wench in the caravan was the yedka Thanara, may the gods smite her haughty body with boils!”
“She refused you?”
“Worse! She slapped me when I tried to kiss her in her tent!”
“The insolence of her!” said Conan.
“Nor was that all. Would you believe it, she threatened to have me flayed in the great square at Agrapur if I did not behave? Me, Ardashir of Akif! Behave myself! As if any red-blooded man could control himself when casting his eyes upon her!”
&
nbsp; “It is shameful, how women treat us.”
“Enough of that. Lead me to your pleasure house, Stygian. I need forgetfulness and surcease.”
Rising unsteadily, the Turanian pushed through the throng. Conan followed. In the street, the cool night air was like a slap in the face with a wet cloth. The captain sobered visibly as he walked. Suddenly curious, he peered at the half-hidden face of his companion, who hurried silently along at his side.
“Ho,” he said, “Wait a moment, my fleet-footed friend! You have not described the whereabouts of this magical house of women, of which I have never heard …though I know Wakla well. Let’s have a look under your headsheet!”
Ardashir’s speech was cut short by a powerful hand on his throat.
Corded muscles of unimaginable strength held him as in a giant vice.
Normally accounted the strongest man in his company, he was, in his unsteady condition, helpless against the suddenness of the assault and the gorilla like power of the Cimmerian.
He was swiftly dragged into a dark lane, struggling for breath and clawing at the hands that throttled him. When he was almost unconscious, he was swiftly trussed with his own sash. Roughly turned over on his back, he felt the burning eyes of his captor upon him as the barbarian spoke heavily accented Hyrkanian in a sibilant whisper: “You asked my name, eastern dog! Have you heard of Conan, called Yamad al-Aphta by the Zuagirs? Chief of the kozaki and the Vilayet pirates?”
The Turanian could do no more than make a choking sound in his bruised throat. Conan continued: “I have returned from the West, and now I will have information from you if I have to burn out your eyes or skin the soles of your feet to get it!”
Though a tough and courageous man, Ardashir was paralyzed with shock.
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