She sat up weakly, wincing, chafing her rope-marked wrists.
'Fat swine there had some wine and meat over by his pallet,' she said. 'How sweetly you talk, lover, to a poor sweet innocent girl you left in an inn for Akter Khan's pigs and dogs! Oh… Conan… I'm sorry, but I think I am going to faint…'
'There isn't time, 'sparana. It's just the blood running down out of your head, anyhow—how long since you have stood?' He fetched the wine, shaking the jug and smiling at its sloshing sounds, and gave her first long sip. He aided her to her feet, and suddenly she was fiercely hugging him.
'Oww,' she uttered, and pushed back from him.
'I understand gratitude and undying love, 'sparana, but I'd never hug anyone wearing mail.'
From under her brows, she rolled her eyes to look up at him. 'You really are a small-souled barbarian pig, Conan, do you know it?'
He tightened his face. This was accomplishing nothing save perhaps to release a bit of tension, for which time did not pause, and she was starting to sound too serious besides.
'Perhaps, my sweet lady of Zamboula, but I've just slain Zafra, three of the Khan's Thorns, and several hundred pounds of torturer to come and get you out of here.'
'Oh—oh Conan,' she said, and squeezed his forearms—which were slippery with the blood of others— and looked down. 'You should not turn serious on me so suddenly; you know I'm grateful, and that I love you.' After a moment, when he had said nothing, she looked up with bright eyes: 'Zafra?'
'Aye. With his own sword—that is it. I will tell you about it another time. Are you ready to be a warrior woman again, 'sparana?'
'NAKED?'
'The torturemaster's pallet is nice and soft and scented… it seems to be composed of the clothing of more women than you. I did recognise that pretty red fluff you wore the night they came for you, though.'
'Ugh. I'd rather not wear anything he has been sleeping on…' She glanced around. 'Still, that seems the single choice. If only the slime did not have fleas.' She went naked into the shadows where Baltaj had lain. 'I cannot tell you how delighted I am about Zafra, Conan—or how sorry I am that you gave this pig Baltaj so swift a death! They have done a lot more than merely use me, you know.'
Conan nodded. 'Merely' being 'used,' he knew, would have been far far more to another woman, or the girl Isparana was not. Perhaps she had contrived to gain some enjoyment of it; he hoped so. He was glad he was male, and never had to make such a statement about 'merely' being used.
'You are a warrior, Isparana,' he said quietly.
'You sound so formal, suddenly.'
'Impressed with you,' Conan said. 'Are you interested in a coat of mail with blood on it?'
'A good idea,' she said, dressing. 'Couldn't you wipe it a bit with his tunic or something?'
Just as he'd got the tunic off the younger dead man with the ruined arm and broken neck, Conan's peripheral vision reported a movement well above. He looked up. He recognised one of Akter Khan's bodyguards, Farouz. The thick, middle-aged guardsman smiled down at him.
'Fine. I have ever abhorred that scum Baltaj anyhow.'
Conan, squatting, wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword at his side. He stared balefully up at Farouz, who stood just inside the door. There would be no reaching him before he was on its other side and securing it.
'A good place for you, barbarian. I will just close this door while my lord Khan decides what he wishes done with you two!'
Conan drew the sword. 'Yog take you, Farouz, you would have to come along just now, wouldn't you! You sure you're not ready to change masters?'
'Hardly. I am well taken care of, Conan. We will see you two later—several of us.'
Weirdly, a tiny smile tugged at the corners of the Cimmerian's mouth. He pointed the sword at the man twenty feet above him. 'Slay him,' he muttered, and opened his hand.
Zafra's sword fell to the dungeon floor.
Farouz laughed. 'Ah, I thought that was—so it won't work for a barbarian, eh, barbarian?'
'Damn!' Conan snarled. 'That dog Zafra—the spell worked only for him! It's just a sword!'
As he squatted to pick up the sword, a slim hand snaked from the shadows in the unlit corner of the pit, and plucked up Baltaj's dagger. Conan scooped up Zafra's sword and hurled it in desperation, just as Farouz was backing out. The sword clanged off the stone wall. Farouz laughed and waved an arm in japish farewell— and the dagger thrown by Isparana proved that from below, the leathern skirt of his tunic was not quite long enough; Baltaj's dagger drove into the guardsman's groin. Croaking, puking, his eyes enormous and glazed with agony, Farouz fell backward.
Conan whirled to Isparana. She had emerged into the light, ridiculously motley-dressed even for this chamber. 'I didn't know you could throw a knife that way twice!'
'Fortunately for you, I can. There have been many times I would have put one into you, my dear, if only I had the chance. I did not—again, fortunately for you.' She was gnawing the meat off a big greasy bone, with relish.
Conan stared, thinking back on all the times she might easily have slain him—back when she was of a mind to—had she possessed a dagger balanced for throwing. This woman, calmly eating, slew with the mental ease and aplomb of a Cimmerian! 'Uh! All gods be thanked that all you ever used against me was the sword! Let's not forget to talk about that—some other time. That dagger was heavy, too.'
'Aye. I am not weak. But I could use your help, getting into that mail.'
'Oh.'
While he assisted her in getting thirty or so pounds of seamless, linked chain down over her head and mass of black hair—which at present was dirty and sweat-matted—Isparana asked him an embarrassing question:
'What was that strange business with the sword? You said 'Slay him'—and dropped it?'
Swiftly he told her how Zafra had used the sword, and what he had said of it, and how it had chased Conan—and plunged into its ensorcellor.
'Yog's fangs,' the woman said with a little shudder, 'what a ghastly bit of magic! I'm glad he is gone and that we have the sword now—and you think that it was so magicked as to obey only Zafra's order?'
'Well,' Conan said as they headed for the steps, 'it didn't obey mine! Nor did I throw it well at all— but for you we'd be prisoners awaiting a horde of armed men.'
'Two would have been enough,' Isparana said, 'with bows or crossbows. So Zafra plotted for all, did he—and would Akter not have demanded such a weapon as that sword had he known about it!'
Conan smiled grimly, and nodded. Moments later they had booted Farouz into the pit of torment, and both were armoured and doubly armed. None of the helms fit Isparana properly; she had too much hair. They swung to the open door. Her hand caught his.
'I cannot believe well ever get out of the palace alive, Conan. I want to tell you that—'
'Let's get help, then,' he said, and flung wide the door.
'Wait—Conan! I wanted to say—get help? What do you mean? Conan!'
He wasn't waiting, and with a nasty face she hurried along with him, into the corridor and along it. 'What do you mean, get help, damn you?'
'You're doubtless right that we could never fight free of the palace, and certainly we cannot sneak out. None who sees us at more than a glance will believe we are Khan-Khilayim! Well, there is one here who can help us get out—by being our captive! We'll find him in the throneroom.'
She gasped. 'You cannot mean to kidnap Akt—' She broke off, and slowly a smile spread over her features. 'You can! You do! And if anyone can do it—we can, Conan!'
'You could try calling me Fouzle, or something,' he said in exasperation. 'There's no use trumpeting my name to see how much attention we can attract!'
'Sorry, Fuzz,' she said, and they strode the palace halls as if they owned them.
One, then two and soon a third servant fled their grim-faced approach, an armoured giant and an armoured woman whose hair was tangled and whose face and legs bore both dirt and grease. Still a fourth servant saw
them, and hesitated, and fled. Two members of the Khilayim should have done. Conan and Isparana left one dead and the other groaning in his blood while they moved in on the doors that opened into Zamboula's hall of royalty.
'Nice of him to have no guards standing out here,' Conan said with an ugly smile. 'Ready?'
'Ready.'
Conan and Isparana hurled open the two big doors and walked into the broad long throneroom.
Nigh fifty feet away Akter Khan sat enthroned, regally robed and scarlet-shod. Between him and the two invaders stood eleven guardsmen. They were surprised; Conan and Isparana were worse than surprised. Twelve pairs of eyes stared at them. Above the eyes of one, a helmet sprouted yellow plumes, and it was that man who spoke.
'Take them.'
XX
The Sword on the Wall
'Wait!'
That counter-command came from Akter Khan, and the ten members of his Thorns paused, poised, hands on hilts. The khan's face showed excitement as he sat forward in his silver-inlaid chain of fruitwood.
'Conan,' he went on, 'Isparana: move aside, both of you. Clear a way to the door. Captain Hamer: take your men out into the corridor. All of them. I wish to talk with these two.'
The man in the plumed helmet jerked his face toward Akter, without turning. 'Lord Khan! These are enemies—and armed!'
Conan attentively watched satrap and captain. He saw no sign pass between them. The officer seemed genuinely horrified at his ruler's seeming insanity. Across his shoulder, Akter looked at Conan.
'Will you pass over your weapons? There will be no tricks, Conan. I do want only the three of us alone in this hall.'
'Why?'
The Cimmerian's single word rode the air like a snarl amid the silence of the great hall.
'I will tell you,' Akter Khan said, surprising all but Conan. 'Perhaps you have some knowledge of just why a small horde of camel-warriors is giving my army so much trouble, even now. I remember that you arrived in Zamboula in the company of some of those Shanki… and I do hate to wipe them out, which both you and they know I can do. I would talk with you and Isparana, alone.'
Just above a whisper, Isparana said, 'Don't believe him!'
Aloud Conan said, 'I believe him.'
'Lord Khan—' Captain Hamer began in a pleading tone.
Showing some anger, Akter waved a hand. 'Enough! You will leave this hall and remain close to hand in the corridor, Captain, you and your men. I will accept some disrespect from this mighty man of weapons, Hamer, who feels that I betrayed him. But I'll not argue with you, whom I appointed because you were the brother of a one-time wh—mistress. Remain close outside, mind; enough of my Thorns have left the palace already, to be sure those desert rats on their mangy camels make no sudden attack on the gate!'
Again Akter Khan looked from Hamer to Conan. 'Your weapons? You do understand that I cannot have you here alone with me, and armed.'
'I understand. No foreigner should approach a king in his chamber under arms.'
'Co-nan—' Isparana tried again.
Conan paid no more heed to her remonstrations than Akter did to Hamer's. Like two great lords, the enthroned satrap of Turan's empire and the seventeen-year-old hillman youth from Cimmeria kept their gazes locked—while Conan, stooping, laid both his long blades on the floor. He hesitated, staring, and then laid down both daggers as well. A khan and twelve Zamboulans watched, scarcely breathing, and the sprawling chamber's air seemed to thicken.
'Isparana,' Conan said.
'Conan… we are just—'
He stripped his gaze from Akter's face long enough to let her see the blaze of volcanic blue eyes in his stern face. She stared back, and tried to fill her eyes with sensible pleading.
'I am disarmed, Khan of Zamboula,' he said, without looking from Isparana. 'As this Zamboulan refuses, let her leave with Hamer and his thorny squad.'
Now her stare was of blackest menace—and slowly and with reluctance, Isparana duplicated the Cimmerian's act. Four swords and four daggers lay on the smooth tiled floor. Conan remained half-squatting, ready to snatch up long blade and short.
Again Hamer looked to his khan—hopefully. His men remained poised. A word, a sign, and they would draw and pounce, to splash the blood of this ex-thief of their city and the big sullenly snarly, arrogant foreigner from whom their khan accepted deliberate disrespect. Realizing that he was holding his breath, Conan expelled it, sucked in another, expelled it; these had become will-directed acts.
'Captain Hamer,' Akter Khan said, and Conan's muscles tensed—as did those of the guardsmen who glared at him—'leave.' '
Conan forced himself to relax, only a little.
'You last, Captain,' Akter Khan said. 'Take those blades of theirs.'
In a set of movements so full of hateful eye contact and tension it seemed to last hours, ten men filed past Isparana and Conan. His and Hamer's eyes met.
'Will you step away, Conan?' the khan called.
'I will not. Her blades first, Captain.'
Isparana objected. Without taking his eyes off the Shemite guardsman, Conan insisted, He stood erect now; were the captain to start to pull sword from sheath, a sudden charge and smashing knee and forearm would stretch him on the floor. And then it would begin, as his men came boiling back in…
'Isparana!' Conan snapped. 'Move!'
Face working, Isparana did. Moving two paces, the captain set a foot on her daggers and separated them. One by one, his foot sent them skittering out into the corridor. Her sword followed. Her other sword. Waiting, staring, armed men took them up, two sheathing their own blades.
Hamer looked at Conan and their eyes met. Conan took one pace aside.
'My daggers,' he said, and watched the Shemite take a wary step, then with a thrust of his foot send a knife after the other blades. The second dagger followed; it had been Baltaj's.
A full minute was required before both Conan's swords were gone. Now he was sure that Isparana and Hamer felt a heightening of tension. That was his edge; his own had lessened. Only he knew that if Akter spoke treachery and Hamer started to tug out his sword, he'd have agony in his groin and a smashed face. Conan waited. Setting hand to hilt and backing two paces, the captain of the khan-guard turned to look questioningly at his ruler. With a little jingle of armour and the merest whisper of shod feet, Conan advanced two paces, on Hamer.
'Captain Hamer… get… out.'
Even before the khan's last word was completed Conan was sprinting ten paces to his own right, and then forward. He halted. He was as close to the khan as was Hamer, and far from the uniformed Shemite.
His face full of misgivings mingled with a glitter of eye that bespoke his desire to slay, the captain followed his Khilayim out of the hall.
'Close the doors,' Akter Khan commanded.
'My Lord Khan . . .'
Akter Khan pounced to his feet and pointed. 'CLOSE THE DOORS!'
The khan seemed at last to have gone insane.
Perhaps it was his well-known drinking. He had given orders, and thirteen people were witness. He had gone suicidal—after sorely embarrassing and demeaning Hamer, before his own men and enemies. Mentally Hamer shrugged. If the damned drunk, his Gored Ox of a khan, wished to commit suicide… let him. He gestured.
Captain Hamer himself took a hand in closing the doors.
It was done.
Two thieves were alone in the throneroom with the Khan of Zamboula.
They were unarmed, and both were profoundly aware of it, and of the men bunched behind them, just on the other side of those doors, which opened inward. Conan concentrated on his breathing and kept his glance from straying to the handsomely jewel-hilted sword on the wall of the throne's left; Oh yes, he knew it was there. Perhaps Akter Khan thought he had forgotten, or not noticed it. Perhaps he thought Conan would note its position, and not be wary. Conan was not that sort; Akter Khan, he remembered, was left-handed.
Tension rode silence in the sprawling hall like a deadly eagle hovering ab
ove wary prey.
The khan had let Conan know that the plan had come to action. It had begun.
Outside the city, the Shanki were carrying out their part of the plan. The force from the garrison chased them; men from the palace were at the gate, far from here. Somewhere, Balad and his force were moving toward the palace. And within it—Conan and Isparana stood before Akter Khan, alone with Akter Khan, and Conan was aware of the sword he did not look at. Nor did the Satrap of Zamboula.
He will never make it, Conan thought. He would be there before Akter had the blade half out of its ornamented sheath.
Best, come to think, that the Cimmerian draw closer to the weapon himself. Perhaps Akter had a sword concealed in his high-backed chair of state. That full-skirted robe of Shahpur purple could conceal all manner of daggers… No, Conan thought. He did not need to fear the sword on the wall; if anyone wielded it, it would be he.
The guards, of course, still waited just outside the high doors…
'Ispa,' Conan called, without looking from the Khan, 'bar the doors.'
Akter Khan only smiled and leaned back while Isparana let the enormous, counterbalanced beam drop into the brackets that were doubly braced on the doors. Now Conan smiled, only a little, trying to imagine the captain's face and the contents of his mind as he heard himself cut off utterly from his khan.
Aye, the good Shemitish captain would be most troubled, just now!
The point was, why was Akter Khan smiling?
Did he know the swirling contents of Conan's mind?
'So, Cimmerian. You have seen Zafra's sword.'
'I have seen it. I have eluded it and beaten it. I have used it. Your ex-slut's brother just kicked it out into the corridor.'
The khan's fingers tightened on his chair's arm. Conan's eyes did not miss the reflex. 'That sword,' Akter breathed. 'You had—'
Conan nodded.
'So,' Akter said. 'And Zafra—'
'—directed it against me. I evaded it and leapt out of the room, and shut the door behind me,' Conan said, noting without concern that he had to hand nothing such as the tall brazier he had used to ward off the sorcery-directed glaive. 'While I held the door shut, Zafra's sword continued its business. It carried out his command. He told it to do murder. It did… while he was alone in the room with it.'
The Conan Chronology Page 52