Normal enemies, such as Zaugir bands, Kshatriya legions, or the defending troops of invaded western nations he had faced with the fatalistic hardihood of the seasoned warrior. But this barbarian giant, kneeling over him with poised dagger, was regarded with superstitious dread by the Turanians. The saga of his daring exploits had invested him with magical powers in their eyes, until his name was spoken like that of a mythical ogre.
Ardashir knew that the barbarian’s threats were not idle. Conan would carry out the most bestial acts of torture without compunction to gain his own ends. Yet it was not the fear of torture but rather the numbing realization of the identity of his captor that loosed Ardashir’s tongue.
By prodding a little with his dagger now and then, Conan gathered his news. The regular garrison of twelve hundred horse was quartered in the barracks by the main gate, while the hundred men of the Imperial Guard were spread over the city in temporary quarters. The desert chieftain was chained in the dungeon beneath the governor’s tower. The lady Thanara was also quartered in the tower. The strength of the guards at the gates the captain did not know.
Conan pondered the situation. He knew that the barracks formed a square with a single exit. He had over two thousand determined nomads at his disposal. But using his new-found knowledge effectively, he counted on gaining victory.
A glance at the moon told him the twelfth hour was near. It was time to hurry. He tested the bonds of his captive, gagged him with his own turban, dragged him farther into the lane, and left him there, glaring and straining.
“I must be growing soft,” Conan said to himself. “Time was when I should have cut the cur’s throat after questioning him. But the Zuagirs will no doubt take care of that when they find him.”
Faint, rapid drum beats filled the luxurious apartment on the second floor of the governor’s palace, where Thanara of Maypur lounged on a silken divan, nibbling fruit from a low table that stood on the thick rug in front of her couch. Her sheerly transparent gown revealed her seductive charms, but the man in the room paid scant attention to these.
This man was a small, bandy-legged, mud-colored fellow, clad in skins and furs. His flat, wrinkled, monkeylike face was painted with stripes and circles of red and black. His long black hair was gathered in greasy braids, and a necklace of human teeth encircled his neck. A powerful stench of sweat-soaked leather and unwashed human hide rose from him. He was a Wigur, one of those fierce and barbarous nomads from the far northeast beyond the Sea of Vilayet.
The little man sat cross-legged on the floor and stared at the thin curl of smoke that rose from a brazier on a tripod in front of him. The wavering blue column soared up from its source for two feet, then rippled and curled up on itself in interwoven arabesques. All the while the man kept up a swift tapping of his finger tips against a small drum, less than a foot across, which he held in his other hand.
At last the staccato tapping stopped.
“What see you, Tatur?” asked the yedka.
“He comes,” said the shaman in a high singsong voice. “He whom you seek is near.”
“How can he be?” said the lady Thanara sharply. “Veziz Shah keeps a sharp watch, and no such conspicuous rogue could gain admittance.”
“Nevertheless, he approaches,” whined Tatur. “The spirits do not lie. Unless you flee, he will soon confront you.”
“He must have entered Wakla in disguise,” mused Thanara. “If he comes upon me, what shall I do? Will your master, he who is not to be named, give me some means to cope with him?” There was a note of panic in her voice, and her hand sought her shapely throat.
“It is the will of him who shall not be named that you should succeed in your mission,” intoned the Wigur. He fumbled inside his sheepskin coat and brought out a small purple vial.
“A drop of this in his wine,” he said, “will render him like one dead for three days.”
“That is good. But the barbarian is wary. His suspicions are aroused in the wink of an eye, as we learned at Khanyria. Suppose he detects the drug and refuses to drink?”
Tartur brought out another object: a small pouch of soft leather. “In that case, this will lay him low if he breathes it.”
“What is it?”
“Pollen of the yellow lotus of Khitai. Use it only as a last resort. For, should a breath of air blow it back upon you, you too will be cast into a swoon. And too deep a breath of it can kill.”
“That is good, but not enough. If your master really expects me to confront the Cimmerian, he should furnish me with a last-minute means of escape if I am trapped. Others may underestimate the Cimmerian, but not I. And your master can do it, and he owes it to me for past services.”
A faint smile creased Tatur’s wrinkled features. “He who is not to be named said truly you are a sharp bargainer. Here.” He brought out an object like a translucent egg. “Break this in your hour of need, and help will come to you from other dimensions.”
Thanara examined the three objects. “Good,” she said at last. “Ride to Aghrapur and tell the king I await Conan here. If all goes well, he shall have his enemy. If not, he will need a new agent. Haste and farewell!”
A few minutes later, Tatur the shaman, astride a small, shaggy Hyrkanian pony, jogged off into the night across the sands at a tireless canter.
The night was cool and quiet. The captain of the watch at the main gate stretched and yawned. From the small guardhouse in the square before the gate, he could see two bowmen patrolling the parapet over the big twin doors.
The pair of spearmen at the pillars flanking the entrance stood erect and still, the moonlight reflected by their polished mail shirts and spired helmets. No need to fear anything; a stroke on the gong at his side would bring a company on the double from the barracks.
Nevertheless, the governor had ordered the guards doubled and their vigilance increased.
The officer wondered. Did Veziz Shah really fear an attack on the fort on account of the captured Zuagir chief?
Let the desert rats come! They would smash their heads against the walls while the archers riddled them with arrows. The governor must be getting old and prone to nightmares. Let him rest. He, Akeb Man, was in charge!
The moon was obscured by clouds. Akeb Man blinked and peered. What had happened? It seemed as if the two archers on the wall had sat down for a moment. Now, however, they had risen again and resumed their measured pacing. Better investigate these lazy devils. He would give them three hours’ drill in the desert sun if they had tried to shirk their duty.
Rising, he gazed out again before opening the door. At that instant the moonlight returned in full force. A shocking sight met his eyes.
Instead of spired helmets and mantles, the archers wore banded kaffias and khalats.
Zuagirs!
How they had gotten in, only the devils knew. Akeb Man snatched at the hammer that hung beside the gong to strike the alarm.
The door of the guardhouse burst in with a crash and fell in a cloud of splinters and dust. Akeb Man wheeled and snatched at his scimitar, but the sight of the man confronting him made him pause in astonishment. No white-clad desert raider was he, but a giant western warrior in black mesh-mail, naked sword in hand.
With a cry of fear and rage, the Turanian lashed out with a low disemboweling thrust. With the swiftness of lightning, the mailed giant avoided the blade and brought his own long straight sword down in a whistling blow.
Blood spurted like a fountain as Akeb Man sank to the floor, cloven to the breastbone.
Conan wasted no time in gloating. Any moment now, an inquisitive guardsman might poke his head through a barracks window or a belated citizen might come wandering by. The big iron-sheathed doors were now opening, and through them poured a swift and silent-footed stream of white-robed nomads.
Swiftly, Conan issued his orders. His tones were low, but the words carried to the ears of all.
“Two men with torches, set the barracks afire. Three hundred archers with plenty of arrows place the
mselves to mow down the soldiers as they pour out. The rest of you hit the fort with torch and sword. Burn and slay, and take any spoils and captives you want. Keep together. Do not break up into bands smaller than twenty. Thabit, bring your fifty with me. I am for the governor’s palace.”
With an imperious gesture, Conan dismissed his subchiefs and beckoned his fifty, who followed his long strides at a dogtrot. Behind them, smoking torches lit the square as the arsonists slunk towards the guardsmens’ lodgings.
Other bands vanished in different directions.
With the armed defenders of the fort wiped out by Conan’s stratagem, there would be little opposition. The lean reavers licked their lips in anticipation of plunder and vengeance as they stalked along the silent streets, arrows nocked and knives and spears gleaming in the moonlight.
Conan led his men straight toward their goal. He intended to save Yin Allal first. Moreoever, he was intrigued by the tale of the beautiful yedka. Here, he thought, he might find a prize precious enough to satisfy his own taste.
Beautiful women had always been one of his weaknesses, and his imagination had been fired by Ardashir’s account He increased his speed, watching the dimmed doorways and nighted lane mouths with smoldering eyes as he hurried past.
As they emerged upon the central square, Conan mouthed a barbaric oath. Four sentries paced in pairs before the copper door of the residence. He had counted on taking the governor by surprise, but that was no longer possible. Swinging his great sword, he raced across the flagstones of the market place. Such was his speed that one of the spearmen was down with his side caved in before the others collected their shattered wits. Conan’s followers were twenty yards behind, unable to match the Cimmerian’s terrific speed.
Two spearmen thrust their weapons against his broad breast, while the third put a horn to his lips and sent forth a bellowing signal. This was cut short by a well-aimed Zuagir arrow, which pierced the trumpeter’s brain. The horn fell to the ground with a clank.
Conan parried the spear thrusts with a fierce swipe of his sword that sheared off the heads of both weapons.
With a vicious thrust he impaled one antagonist on his long blade. The Turanian fell sprawling against the other with a gurgle. The second man’s sword stroke at the Cimmerian’s head went awry and struck sparks from the flagstones. In the next instant, the man was pincushioned with arrows. With a groan and a clatter of mail he fell.
Roused to a vicious lust for killing, Conan sprang forward and tried the copper door. Time was short. In answer to the ringing note of the horn, people thrust their heads out of casements around the square.
Archers appeared on some of the roofs; he must get into the tower before the foe had time to organize a defense.
The door opened before his thrusting shoulder. Leaving ten of his men to guard against attack from the rear, Conan led the rest inside.
With a clink of mail and a flash of sword blades, ten soldiers in the white turbans of the Imperial Guard rushed against him out of a doorway. The Cimmerian’s battle cry rang high as he and his followers closed with their enemies. Many a curved knife or shortened spear found its mark in Turanian vitals, but the flashing scimitars also took a heavy toll. However, the bloodiest havoc wreaked was that of Conan’s cross-hiked sword. He leaped, cut, and thrust with a tigerish frenzy and speed that blurred the sight of his adversaries. In a couple of minutes, the ten Turanians lay in pools of blood, though eight silent figures in bloodstained khalats bore witness to the ferocity of the defense.
Conan swept up to the second floor, taking four steps at a stride. On this floor, he knew, the quarters of the governor were located.
Pausing, he flung swift orders at his followers.
“Ten of you, search for the keys to the dungeon and free Yin Allal. The rest, take all the plunder you can carry.
I’ll pay the governor a visit. ”
As the Zuagirs, howling and laughing, stormed up and down the stairs, Conan broke the sandalwood door before him into splinters with a mighty kick. He found himself in the anteroom of the governor’s apartments.
Crossing the floor swiftly on sound-deadening mats, he halted in midstep. From the other side of the door before him he heard a woman’s voice raised in angry expostulation.
Conan’s brows drew together in a vast frown. He picked up a heavy table and heaved it against the new obstacle. With a crashing impact, the ungainly missile burst open the shattered door. He tossed the remains of the table aside and strode through.
At a table in the middle of the lamplit room stood a tall, powerful man of middle age. Conan knew him by description as Veziz Shah. Silken divans and tables laden with delicacies stood about on the rug-covered floor. On one table rested a flagon of wine with two filled goblets.
A woman rested on the divan. Her wide dark eyes held no trace of fear as she looked upon the invading barbarian. Conan gave a start. This was the girl who had accosted him in Khanyria and almost led him to his death!
No time now to mull over such matters. With a curse, the governor unsheathed his jeweled scimitar and advanced catlike upon the Cimmerian.
“You dare invade my chambers, you red-handed rogue!” he snarled. “I have heard you are on the rove again, and I hoped for the pleasure of having your limbs torn off by wild horses. But as it is …”
He whipped forward in a swift arching stroke. Most men would have been so distracted by his words as to have their throats slit by that whistling edge, but the pantherish speed of barbarian muscles saved Conan. Parrying with his hilt, he lashed out in a vicious countercut.
In the exchange of blows and thrusts, he soon found he faced one of the most skilled swordsmen he had ever met.
But no civilized fencer could match the skill and speed of Conan, hardened in wars and battles since boyhood against foes from all over the world. The skill at arms he had won as a mercenary would by itself have made him master of any ordinary swordsman, for his learning had been pounded into his brain in endless, bloody strife on far battlefields. In addition he retained the flashing, lightning-quick speed of the primordial barbarian, unslowed by civilized comfort.
As the duel continued, Veziz Shah began to tire and his eyes filled with an awful fear. With a sudden cry he flung his scimitar into Conan’s face and raced for the far wall. There his questing fingers probed the surface as if seeking the spring to open a hidden exit.
Conan avoided the missile with a jerk of his black-maned head. The next second his arm was around the neck and his knee in the back of the Turanian amir. His voice was a terrible whisper in Veziz Shah’s ear.
“Dog, remember when you caught ten of my Afghulis when you commanded a squadron in Secunderam? And how you sent me their pickled heads in jars with wishes for a hearty repast? Your time has come. Rot in Hell!”
With a terrible heave, the blood-mad Cimmerian forced his enemy’s body backwards against the thrust of his knee until the Turanian’s spine snapped like a dry twig. A lifeless corpse flopped to the floor.
Sweating and panting, Conan turned to the woman on the divan.
Thanara had not moved during the fight. Now she rose, eyes shining, raised her arms and came fearlessly towards Conan, ignoring the bloody sword in his hand. The blood ran swiftly through his veins at the sight of her.
“You are a real man!” she whispered, pressing herself against his rough mail and twining her arms around his corded neck. “None other could have slain Veziz Shah. I am glad you did. He forced me by threats to come in here to do his bidding.”
Conan felt the hot urge of his racing blood. In his younger days he would have swept the woman into his arms and damned the consequences.
But now the caution of long experience asserted itself. He growled warningly.
“You were clad otherwise when we met in Khanyria,” he said, taking both her wrists in one big paw and drawing her firmly down to the couch beside him. “Tell me the tale behind that ambush, and your part in it. No lies, now, if you know what’s good for you!�
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The dark eyes under the long lashes regarded him without fear. A well-formed hand gently drew itself from his grasp and took one of the goblets of wine from the table. She handed him this vessel and began sipping the other herself. The assurance of a beautiful and intelligent woman colored her actions.
“You must be thirsty after killing. Have a draught of this wine. It is the best from Veziz Shah’s own cellar.
Drink, and I will tell you the story you ask for.”
Conan stared into the depths of the cup as Thanara’s musical voice began: “I am Thanara, a yedka or high-born lady of Maypur. King Yezdigerd has graciously appointed me one of his personal agents …the eyes and ears of the king, as we call them in Turan. When word came that you had embarked on your lonely journey, I was sent to supervise the work of the stupid mercenaries engaged by our agent in Tarantia. I suppose …”
Conan hurled his cup to the floor and furiously turned upon the woman.
He had sniffed the wine and let a little touch his tongue, and his keen barbarian senses told him of the threat that lurked in the cup. One huge hand fastened itself in her long black hair.
“I’ll supervise you, strumpet!” he snarled. “I thought …”
Thanara’s hand came up from behind her and flung into his face a pinch of the pollen of the yellow lotus. Conan jerked back, coughing and sneezing, and let go Thanara’s hair. Holding her breath, she slipped out of his reach and stood up.
Snoring heavily, Conan sprawled upon the couch.
Thanara nodded in satisfaction. For the next two or three days he would be like a man stone dead. Swift action was now necessary.
A rising murmur from without attracted her attention. She stepped to a window overlooking the square and pulled back the curtains. At the sight she saw she jerked back. Houses flamed, fired by the ravaging Zuagir horde.
Shrieks of captive women and curses of battling men echoed. White, ghostly shapes flitted here and there. No soldiery was to be seen. Evidently Conan had entered the fort, not alone as she had thought, but in the company of the desert wolves.
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