Conan and the Manhunters

by John Maddox Roberts

  'Aye,' said Katchka. 'Since you and your men are strangers here, and have no connection to the throne of Iranistan, I you could go to the island and enter the fort without causing trouble between the nations.'

  'I am pleased that you think us fit for such duty,' Conan said, 'but my band is much depleted. Surely we could not overcome a force that was sufficient to cause you so much difficulty.'

  'It was their swift flight that troubled us, not their numbers,' Katchka growled.

  'Indeed, they are but a handful,' said the Vizier Akhba. 'But, truthfully, we do not ask you to go and fight them,'

  'Then what service do you wish?'

  'We want you to join them!' said Katchka, breaking into I laughter. It sounded like a tiger coughing.

  'I see,' Conan said, feeling the words as a noose around

  his neck. 'I presume that you wish intelligence of these rebels, their numbers and disposition, the weaknesses of their fort?'

  'No, all that is of little use to us,' said the general. 'I want you to kill this rebel 'leader,' this pretender to the throne. Bring me his head and I will pay you three thousand ounces of purest gold, enough to keep you and your rogues drunk for a year!' Again he released the tiger-cough laugh.

  The Cimmerian's mind had been working swiftly while the general spoke, so he did not betray himself with any hesitation.

  'Done!' he cried. 'For three thousand ounces of gold, I would go and assassinate the king of Turan himself!'

  At these words, general and vizier laughed heartily and pounded their guest upon the back. The general refilled Conan's cup with his own hand.

  'Have you a name and a description of the pretender?' Conan asked.

  'His name is Idris. None of us have laid eyes upon the stripling, but he is sixteen years of age. If he is truly the king's son, he will be rather small, with fine features. His mother was a great beauty, else she would not have been a royal concubine. You may assume therefore that he is a handsome lad. If they display some hulking, ugly boy as Idris, you will know that this is an imposter with whom they wish to deceive assassins. Look for a comely youth to whom all defer, even though he be dressed like a beggar and called by some other name.'

  'They'll not gull me,' Conan assured them. 'I have done this sort of thing before.'

  'Excellent!' said the vizier, beaming. He heaped Conan's platter with sweetmeats and called for wine from the general's private stock.

  An hour later, Conan returned to his table outside the tavern. Layla and her father had joined Ubo, Chamik and Auda. He unhooked his sword and resumed his seat, his face grim.

  'You and the general seemed to be getting along famously,' Layla said. 'I am surprised you can still walk.'

  'There is an art to keeping your wits when men ply you with strong wine,' he said. 'Now listen to me, all of you. We are in mortal danger.'

  'Say on, Chief,' said Ubo.

  Quickly, Conan sketched out the offer Katchka and Akhba had made him. The eyes of the bandits lit up when he mentioned the gold.

  'Not just a mercenary and a bandit,' Layla said, 'but an assassin as well! I did not know you for a man of so many talents.'

  'I do not see the problem, Chief,' said Chamik. 'The job may be a little risky, but no more so than riding into Shahpur. For three thousand ounces, the risk is worth it.'

  'Aye,' said Auda. 'Not to mention the danger of trying to back out.'

  Conan spat on the pavement. 'Do you fools really think that armoured pig is going to pay us three thousand ounces of gold? Even if we succeed, he will merely take the boy's head and kill us all to conceal their cowardice and treachery. Then he and that scheming courtier will go back to the king and show him the head and tell him of the great battle with the rebels in which they won their trophy. They will reap rewards and titles while we feed the jackals in the desert.' 'Oh,' Ubo said. 'I see.' 'Then what are we to do?' Chamik asked. 'We ride out as if to undertake this mission,' Conan said. 'We will have to ride at least as far as the island, for Katchka will have his hounds following us every step of the way. I propose we ride right on past the rebel fort and cross the river-loop on the far side.'

  'Into Turanian territory?' asked Volvolicus. He seemed to be fully recovered from his weakness earlier in the day. 'Do we not then run the risk of meeting with Torgut Khan's patrols?'

  'Aye,' Conan said, 'but just now I adjudge that to be the lesser risk.'

  'Then it seems that we must do as the general wishes,' said Volvolicus.

  The next morning, Conan rounded up the rest of his little band, dragging some of them from the floors of low taverns, forcing them with cuffs and curses to find their horses and gear, saddle up and mount. Glum of expression, some of them reeling in the saddle, they rode from the town. At the edge of the oasis, they found a party of mounted troopers waiting for them.

  'Captain Mahac,' Conan said, saluting, 'what brings you here? A formal military farewell is scarcely necessary.'

  'But my general insists that you be honoured with an escort for the first part of your heroic mission.' He favoured them with an evil grin as he surveyed the bleary-eyed group. Then his gaze fastened upon Layla. He pointed at the woman. 'All except for her. She stays here.'

  Conan's hand went to his hilt. Then it paused there as a hundred troopers drew their bows against him. 'Explain yourself, Captain!' he hissed.

  'I need not explain myself to you, barbarian, nor does my general. However, he graciously consents to tell you that this lady is to remain here as his guest. She will receive the finest accommodation, and she will not be molested in any way. But she stays here.'

  Conan fumed, but Layla placed a hand upon his arm. 'It seems I am to be the general's guest. It will be foolish to resist. Go on and accomplish your mission. I will be here when you return.' She looked at her father. 'I will be safe.'

  Mahac snapped his fingers and a trooper took her reins. He led her horse back into the town, and Layla did not look back. The captain inspected the band of outlaws once more and burst into raucous laughter.

  'Surely there is no sight more stirring than the warriors of an elite unit setting off on a mission!' The rest of his troop roared with mirth, while the bandits sat their horses in frustrated anger.

  'Lead on, Captain Conan,' Mahac said. 'My soldiers and I shall be following behind, but not too close. Even the common troopers have noses too sensitive for that!'

  Almost choking on his rage, Conan spurred his horse to a trot and rode past the sneering officer, vowing revenge. Behind him rode his little band of outlaws.

  IX

  'I do not understand it,' Osman said, still reeling in his saddle, his head throbbing from the previous night's debauch. 'Why can the wizard not spirit his daughter hither with his magic arts? Has she no spell of invisibility whereby she may simply walk from the town and steal herself a horse?'

  'Once again,' said Volvolicus, 'you reveal your ignorance of magic. Mine are not the arts of petty conjurers, such as entertain the masses at fairs! Great magic is not a matter merely of knowledge and spoken words. I am far from my books and instruments, my objects of power. The swinish general has me in a vice like the rest of you.'

  'He and that vizier must have guessed that Layla was not my mistress, for they would know that she would be a hostage of little worth if that were true,' Conan said.

  'I do not see how she is so valuable a hostage as it is,' Mamos said. 'I, for one, have no aversion to riding away and leaving her back there.'

  Conan rounded upon the scarred man, snarling. 'I'll not abandon her and neither will you. If you wish to ride off now, you'll not get far.' He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. Behind them rode Mahac's troop.

  Ubo thumbed the edge of his curved knife. 'And should you try to ride on into Turan without the rest of us, what are we to think except that you intend to go back and grab the treasure for yourself? We stay with the chief, Mamos.'

  'I am not disloyal,' Mamos said sullenly, 'but I think it foolish for good men to risk their necks for a
single wench. The wizard was not a part of our band.'

  'We are all together now,' Conan said. 'And we stay together until this business is done with and the treasure divided among us. I will find a way to satisfy Katchka and get the woman back safely.'

  'How?' Osman asked.

  'All in good time,' Conan told him. They rode on toward the river.

  'You mean to say that Volvolicus's demons drove you away?' asked Sagobal with an expression of utmost scorn. 'I thought you made of sterner stuff. I could almost suspect that you found the treasure and think to frighten me away from it.'

  'Do not speak like a fool,' said Berytus coldly. 'If I had found that treasure and wanted to keep it for myself, do you think I would have come back here?' The men sat in Sagobal's chambers in Shahpur. 'Instead, I have lost three good men and now I have to listen to your insults. If you think you can do better without my services, I will gladly go elsewhere.'

  Sagobal bridled his anger. 'Nay, I spoke hastily. The way these base rogues have eluded me gives me great annoyance. Torgut Khan is almost mad with fear, for the king's revenue officers will be here any day. Daily, I must listen to his ravings and blubberings.' He went on in a calmer tone. 'So, my friend, this wizard has protected his property with terrible spells? I suppose such may be overcome with counter-spells, if a mage of sufficient power were to be found.'

  'I wouldn't waste my time,' Berytus told him. 'I think there to be very little chance that the treasure is in the wizard's house.'

  'Why say you so?'

  'The mage was with the bandits when they crossed into Iranistan. Why would he stay with them if the treasure were in his own home? I think it is because he is now a part of the hand and the treasure has yet to be shared out. At most times, bandits will fly apart like thistledown in the wind, each man going where he pleases. But they stick together like rings in a shirt of mail when the loot is yet to be divided, each man jealous and suspicious of the others.'

  'You speak wisely,' Sagobal said. 'I believe you have the truth of the matter.'

  'We must watch for them,' Berytus went on. 'I think it likely that the treasure was stashed in one of the bandit hideouts. They wait for pursuit to die down to come back and share it out.'

  'Then you and your men go back south and ride the river. When you find them, follow but do not let them know they are detected. Send a messenger to inform me that they have been found and stick close.'

  Berytus rose. 'It shall be as you wish.' He turned and strode from Sagobal's quarters.

  The river-crossing was easy, the water shallow and the current slow. The Cimmerian stopped near the middle, bent from his saddle and scooped water over his face and head with cupped palms. The day was hot and the weedy banks of the river buzzed and clicked with the noises of insects.

  'Our friend Captain Mahac is no longer behind us,' Osman reported, turning in his saddle to look back along the path they had taken.

  'He is not in sight, you mean,' Conan corrected. 'No, it would not help our mission were the rebels to see that we have an escort of Iranistani regular cavalry.' He kicked his horse into a trot and the animal rushed up the opposite bank in a spray of water, mud and reeds.

  'Where do we ride, Chief?' Ubo asked.

  'North. The island is a small one. We should see the fort before we have gone far. More likely, the rebels will intercept us before we see it.'

  'If they are any sort of real rebels,' Chamik said, 'they will have spies in Green Water. They may already know who we are.'

  'Just leave the talking to me,' Conan instructed.

  They rode for less than an hour before they saw the first rebel lookout. He was a single man on horseback, stationed atop a low hill. A long red pennant fluttered from the tip of his slender lance, and sunlight flashed from the polished steel of his small, round shield.

  'There's a bold devil,' said Volvolicus. 'He cares not who sees him.'

  'Aye, that bespeaks confidence,' Conan said. 'That is good for us.'

  'How so?' asked the wizard.

  'Frightened men are more likely to attack than those who are secure in their strength.'

  Another quarter-hour of riding brought them within sight of the fort. It was a rude structure of earth and logs, with a crude lacing of undressed stone. From its open gate rode a file of horsemen in armour.

  'Reception party,' said Ubo, spitting on the ground.

  'Smile and be friendly,' Conan warned them. 'Remember, we have come to join them. If they are weak, they will not scorn the aid of armed adventurers, even if we care nothing for their cause and only want to fight for loot.'

  The riders drew closer and the Cimmerian saw that their armour was in the same style as that of Katchka's troopers, but much of it was old and dingy. Upon the breast of each cuirass had been crudely painted a blue dragon against a black background. There were about forty of them, and they reined in forming a semicircle between the bandits and the fort.

  'I am Hosta,' announced a man in worn but serviceable armour, 'troop leader in the army of His Majesty, King Idris the Seventh of Iranistan. Who might you be, and what is your business here?'

  'I am Conan, captain of free-lances. We have ridden from Turan, and word reached us that your king might want the services of professional fighting-men in his war against the usurper, Xarxas. Hence, we rode hither.' The Cimmerian smiled broadly, as did all his men. The rebels remained grim, with levelled lances.

  'His Majesty is served by loyal retainers,' said Hosta. 'However, I cannot presume to speak for him and I will take you into the stronghold for an interview. You will all surrender your weapons now.' At this, the bandits bridled, but Conan held up a hand for quiet.

  'By all means. We wish only to display our goodwill toward your king, and we wilfully entrust ourselves to his.' Conan unbuckled his weapon-belt and handed it over to Hosta. Slowly, reluctantly, the bandits did likewise. There was a perceptible relaxation among their escort when they were disarmed.

  In silence they rode within the confines of the fort. It had no true gate. Instead, heavy timbers were piled behind them, wedged between others buried deep in the ground. Warriors patrolled the earthen parapet, which was topped with a timber palisade. Conan had long experience of war, and he knew this place would not last a day against a determined enemy with sappers, siege-engineers and determined infantry. It was barely adequate against a cavalry force such as Katchka's.

  Within the crude walls were a half-score of buildings and many tents, among which perhaps four hundred men drilled and practised combat while women washed, cooked and mended the sick and wounded. There was a significant number of the latter. Many of the men drilling in the open areas wore bandages. Others hobbled between the tents upon crutches. These men had seen some hard fighting and they seemed to he determined.

  Conan and his men were escorted to an open area in the centre of the fort, where a wooden dais was set up beneath a tall staff from which depended a long black banner bearing the figure of the blue dragon. A small crowd stood upon the dais, surrounding a single, seated figure.

  'Wait here,' commanded Hosta. While the bandits sat on their horses in silence, the captain rode to the dais and dismounted.; He said something to the men assembled there in a voice too; low for Conan to hear. Their escort now formed a line behind them, spears levelled at their backs.

  'Come forward, the one of you named Conan,' called a man with a stentorian voice. The Cimmerian rode forward and halted at the dais. There he dismounted and stood before the platform. Its sole piece of furniture was a massive chair of wood, richly carved. Upon this field-throne sat a youth in blue robes. He was burly, with curly red hair and a sullen look. Around him stood a number of men in their middle to elder years, better dressed than the bulk of the rebels. Conan guessed these to be the family chiefs who had raised the pretender in a bid for power.

  'Foreigner,' said a white-bearded man, 'you stand before King Idris the Seventh, rightful ruler of Iranistan. What is your business before His Majesty?'

  C
onan looked at the youth upon the throne; then his gaze slid beyond, past the older men and down the line to where a slight, dark-haired boy stood between towering guardsmen.' The Cimmerian looked back to the one on the throne.

  'Get off me chair, boy,' Conan said. The men upon the dais bristled, some of them grasping weapons. With an insolent smile, Conan strode until he stood before the slim, fine-featured youth. 'Your Majesty, I would like to offer you my services and those of my men.'

  The youth laughed delightedly and turned to the older men. 'I told you it wouldn't work! No real soldier would take a foot-slogger for a true prince.'

  'As to his status,' said the white-bearded man, 'that we have yet to determine.' He snapped his fingers at the youth on the throne. 'Back to your pike drill, boy.' Hastily, the lad got up and stripped off his blue robe. The smaller youth slipped on the robe and took his seat.

  'Wherefore should we wish your services, foreigner?' the white-bearded man demanded coldly.

  'Just a moment, Grandfather,' said the boy. 'What sort of outlander are you, Captain Conan?' he asked eagerly. 'I have never beheld your like before.'

  'I am a man of Cimmeria,' Conan said. 'My clan's hearth-Fires burn far to the north, amid mists and rocky crags. We are a warrior people, fighting with our neighbours and each other year in and year out. In fact, we are the greatest warriors on earth. Years ago, when I was about your age or even younger, I took part in the sack of Venarium, when the warriors of Cimmeria drove the Aquilonians from our land, slaying the Gundermen and the Bossonians with whom the Aquilonians thought to colonize our ancestral territory.'

  'Venarium!' the boy said. 'I have heard of that battle!'

  'A northern skirmish is little qualification for one who would serve the rightful king of Iranistan,' said the man Idris had addressed as his grandfather. The boy ignored him.

  'Who are your gods, Conan?'

  'Our god is Crom, who dwells in a sacred mountain deep within Cimmeria. Crom is just like us, caring only for battle. For untold centuries he has fought Ymir, the god of the Æsir and Vanir. When we are born, he gives us strength and courage and a fighting heart. Beyond that, he cares little for us.'