With a wry grin, Conan clasped his massive hands behind his shaggy head and leaned back against the tapestried wall. 'Why do I stay?' he shrugged. 'I suppose because there is more gold to be gathered here, one way or another; also more things to see and do. Life in a Cimmerian village grows dull after a while - the same old round, day after day, save for petty quarrels with the other villagers and now and then a feud with a neighbouring clan. Now, here - what's that?'
Booted feet tramped upon the stair, and in an instant the door burst open. In the black opening stood Senior Captain Orkhan, jaw sagging with astonishment beneath his spired, turban-wound helmet. Orkhan was a tall, hawk-featured man, less massive than Conan but strong and lithe, although the first grey hairs had begun to sprout in his close-cut dark beard.
As he studied the tableau, and recognition replaced astonishment, Orkhan's face reddened with rising wrath. 'So!' he grated. 'When the cat's away...' His hand went to the hilt of his scimitar.
The instant the door swung open, Narkia had thrown herself back on the bed. As Orkhan spoke, she cried: 'Rape! This savage burst in, threatening to kill -'
In confusion, Conan glanced from one to the other before his brain, caught up in the whirl of events, grew clear. As Orkhan's sword sang from its sheath, the Cimmerian sprang to his feet, snatched up the stool on which he had been sitting, and hurled it at his assailant. The missile struck the Turanian in the belly, sending him staggering back. Meanwhile, Conan dived for his own sword, lying in its scabbard on the floor. By the time Orkhan had recovered, Conan was up and armed.
'Thank Erlik you've come, my lord!' gasped Narkia, huddling back on the bed. 'He would have -'
As she spoke, Conan met a whirlwind attack by Orkhan, who bored in, striking forehand, backhand, and overhand in rapid succession. Conan grimly parried each vicious cut. The blades clashed, clanged, and ground together, striking sparks. The swordplay was all cut-and-parry, since the curved Turanian sabre was ill-adapted to thrusting.
'Stop it, you fool!' roared Conan. 'The woman lies! I came at her invitation, and we have done naught-'
Narkia screamed something that Conan failed to comprehend; for, as Orkhan pressed his attack, red battle rage surged up in Conan's veins. He struck harder and faster, until Orkhan, skilled swordsman though he was, fell hack breathing heavily.
Then Conan's sword, flashing past Orkhan's guard, sheared through the links of the Turanian's mesh-mail vest and sliced into his side. Orkhan staggered, dropping his weapon and pressing a hand against his wound, while blood seeped out between his fingers. Conan followed the first idling blow with a slash that bit deeply into Orkhan's neck. The Turanian fell heavily, shuddered, and lay still, while dark stains spread across the carpet on which he sprawled.
'You've slain him!' shrieked Narkia. 'Tughril will have your head for that. Why could you not have stunned him with the flat?'
'When you're fighting for your life,' grunted Conan, wiping and sheathing his blade, 'You cannot measure out your strokes with the nicety of an apothecary compounding a potion. It's as much your fault as mine. Why did you accuse me of rape, girl?'
Nnikia shrugged. With a trace of a mischievous smile, she replied, 'because I knew not which of you would win; and had I not have used you, and he slew you, he'd have killed me for good measure.'
'That's civilisation for you!' sneered Conan. Before lifting his baldric to slide it over his head, he whirled and slapped Narkia on the haunch with the scabbarded blade, bowling her over in an untidy heap. She shrank back, eyes big with fear.
'If you were not a woman,' he growled, 'it would go hard with you. I warn you to give me an hour ere you cry the alarm. If you do not...' Scowling, he drew a finger across his throat and backed to the window. An instant later he was swarming down the ivy, while Narkia's curses floated after him on the moonlit air.
Lyco of Khorshemish, lieutenant in the King's Light Horse, was playing a plaintive air on his flute when Conan burst into the room they shared on Maypur Alley. Muttering a hasty greeting, Conan hurriedly changed from civilian garb into his officer's uniform. Then he spread his blanket on the floor and began placing his meagre possessions upon it. He opened a locked chest and drew out a small bag of coin.
'Whither away?' asked Lyco, a stocky, dark man of about Oman's age. 'One would think you were leaving for good. Is some fiend after you?'
'I am and it is,' grunted Conan.
'What have you been up to? Raiding the King's harem? Why in the name of the gods, when you have at last attained the easy duty you've been angling for?'
Conan hesitated, then said: 'You might as well know, since I shall be hence ere you could betray me.'
Lyco started a hot protest, but Conan waved him to silence. 'I did but jest, Lyco. I've just killed Orkhan.' Tersely, he gave an account of the evening's event.
Lyco whistled. 'That spills the stew-pot into the fire! The High Priest of Erlik is his sire. Old Tughril will have your heart's blood, even if you could win the King's forgiveness.'
'I know it,' gritted Conan, tying up his blanket roll. 'That's why I'm in a hurry.'
'Had you also slain the woman, you could have made it seem an ordinary robbery, with nobody the wiser.'
'Trust a Kothian to think of that!' snarled Conan. 'I'm not yet civilised enough to kill women out of hand. If I stay long enough in these south lands, I may yet learn.'
'Well, trust a thick-headed Cimmerian to blunder into traps, one after another! I told you the omens were unfavourable tonight, and that my dream of last night boded ill.'
'Aye; you dreamed some foolishness that had naught to do with me - about a wizard seizing a priceless gem. You should have been a seer rather than a soldier, my lad.'
Lyco rose. 'Do you need more coin?'
Conan shook his head. 'That is good of you; but I have enough to get me to some other kingdom. Thank Erlik, I've saved a little from my pay. If you pull the right strings, Lyco, you might get promoted to my post.'
'I might; but I'd rather have my old comrade-in-arms about to trade insults with. What shall I tell people?'
Conan paused, frowning, Crom, what a complicated business! 'Tell them I came in with some cock-and-bull story of a royal message to be carried to - to - what's that little border kingdom south-east of Koth?'
'Khauran?'
'Aye, a message to the King of Khauran.'
'They have a queen there.'
'Tell the queen, then. Farewell, and in a fight never forget to guard your crotch!'
They made their adieus in bluff, soldierly fashion, clasping hands, slapping backs, and punching each other's shoulders. Then Conan was gone, in a swirl of saffron cloak.
The rotund moon, declining in the western sky, gazed placidly down upon the West gate of Aghrapur as Conan leaped up on his big black destrier, Egil. His belongings in the blanket roll were lashed securely to his saddle, behind the cantle.
'Open up!' he called. 'I'm Captain Conan of the King's Royal Guard, on a royal commission!'
'What is your mission, Captain?' demanded the officer of the gate guard.
Conan held up a roll of parchment. 'A message from His Majesty to the Queen of Khauran. I must deliver it forthwith.'
While grunting soldiers pulled on the bronze-studded oaken portal, Conan tucked the parchment into the wallet that hung from his belt. The scroll was in reality a short treatise on swordsmanship, on which Conan had been practising his limited knowledge of written Hyrkanian, and he had counted upon the guards not bothering to inspect it. Even if they had, he felt sure that few, if any, of them could read the document, especially by lantern light.
At last the gate creaked open. With a wave, Conan trotted through and broke into a canter. He followed the broad highway, which some in these parts called the Road of Kings - one of several thoroughfares so named - leading westward to Zamora and the Hyborian kingdoms. He rode steadily through the dying night, past fields of young spring wheat, past luxuriant pastures where shepherds watched their flocks and neatherd
s tended their cattle.
Before the road reached Shadizar, the capital of Zamora, a path led up into the hills bordering Khauran. Conan, however, had no intention of going to Khauran. As soon as he was out of sight of Aghrapur, he pulled off the road at a ; place where scrubby trees bordered a watercourse. Out of sight of passers-by he dismounted, tethered his horse, stripped off his handsome uniform, and donned the shabby civilian tunic and trews in which he had made his ill-fated visit to Narkia.
As Conan changed clothes, he cursed himself for an addlepated fool. Lyco was right; he was a fool. The woman had slipped him a note, inviting him to her apartment while her protector was away in Shahpur; and, tired of tavern wenches, Conan aspired to a courtesan of higher rank and quality. For this, and for the boyish thrill of stealing his commander's girl out from under that officer's nose, he had cut short a promising career. He had never imagined that Orkhan might return from Shahpur earlier than expected. The worst of it was that he had never disliked the fellow; a strict officer but a fair one.
Sunk in melancholy gloom, Conan unwound the turban from his spired helmet and draped the cloth over his head in imitation of a Zuagir kaffiyya, tucking the ends inside his tunic. Then he repacked his belongings, mounted, and set off briskly - but not back to the Road of Kings. Instead, he headed north across country, over fields and through woods where none could track his horse's hoof prints.
He smiled grimly when, far behind, he heard the drumming of hooves as a body of horsemen raced westward along the main road. Travelling in that direction, they would never catch him.
Half an hour later, in the violet dawn, Conan was walking his horse northward along a minor road that was little more than a track through a region of scrubby second growth. So full was his head of alternative plans and routes that for an instant he failed to mark the sound of hooves, the creak of harness, and the jingle of accoutrements of approaching horsemen. Before he had time to turn his horse into the concealing scrub, the riders galloped around a bend in the road and rode straight for him. They were a squad of King Yildiz's horse archers on foam-flecked mounts.
Cursing his inattention, Conan pulled off to the roadside, uncertain whether to fight or flee. But the soldiers clattered past with scarcely a glance in his direction. The last man in the column, an officer, pulled up long enough to shout:
'You there, fellow! Have you seen a party of travellers with a woman?'
'Why-' Conan started an angry retort before he remembered that he was no longer Captain Conan of the King's Royal Guard. 'Nay, sir, I have not,' he growled, with an unconvincing show of humility.
Cursing by his gods, the officer spurred his horse after the rest of the squad. For Conan, as he resumed his northward trot, astonishment trod on the heels of relief. Something must have happened in Aghrapur - something of more moment than his affair with Orkhan. The squad that had rushed past had not even been interested in ascertaining his identity. Could it be that the force pounding westward along the Road of Kings also pursued some quarry other than the renegade Captain Conan?
Perhaps he would unravel the tangle in Sultanapur.
II
The Swamp Cat
Travelling through the Marshes of Mehar proved no less onerous than guiding a camel across a featureless desert or conning a boat on the boundless sea. On all sides reeds, taller than Conan's horse, stretched away to infinity. The yellowed canes of last year's crop rattled monotonously whenever a breeze rippled across them; while below, the tender green shoots of the new growth crowded the earth and provided Egil with fodder.
A rider through the marshes was forced to set his course by sun and stars. A man afoot would find this task all but impossible, for the towering reeds would obscure all view saved that of the sky directly overhead.
From the back of his stallion, Conan could look out across the tops of the reeds, which undulated gently like the waves of a placid sea. When he reached one of the rare rises of ground, he sometimes glimpsed the Vilayet Sea afar to his right. On his left he often sighted the tops of the low hills that sundered the Marshes of Mehar from the Turanian steppe.
Conan had swum his horse across the Ilbars River below Akif and headed north, keeping the sea in view. He reasoned that, to escape his pursuers' notice, he must either lose himself in an urban crowd or seek the solitude of some uninhabited place, whence he could be forewarned of his
pursuers if they picked up his trail.
Conan had never before seen the Marshes of Mehar. Rumour reported them as solitary a lieu as any place on earth. The waterlogged soil was useless for farming. Timber was limited to a few dwarfish, twisted trees, crowning occasional knobby knolls. Biting insects were alleged to swarm in such numbers that even hunters, who might otherwise have invaded the marshes in pursuit of wild swine and other game, forswore to seek their prey there.
The marshes, moreover, were said to be the abode of a dangerous predator, vaguely referred to as the 'swamp cat.' Although Conan had never met anyone who claimed to have seen such a creature, all agreed that it was as deadly as a tiger.
Still, the dismal solitude of the marshes exceeded Conan's expectations. Here no sound broke the silence save the plashing of Egil's muddy hooves, the rustling of the reeds, and the buzz and hum of clouds of insects, which swirled up from the agitated canes. With his turban cloth securely wrapped around his head and face and his uniform gauntlets on his hands, Conan was well protected; but his miserable mount kept lashing his tail and shaking his mane to dislodge the myriad pests.
For days on end, Conan plodded through the changeless reeds. Once he started a sounder of swine of a large, rust-red species. Avid for some fresh pork to vary his dwindling supply of salted meat and hard biscuits, he reached for his bow; but by the time he had pulled the short, double-curved Hyrkanian weapon from its case, the pigs had vanished. Conan decided against the unwelcome delay of an extended hunt.
For three days Conan forged ahead, while the reeds before him still stretched to the horizon. Toward the close of the third day, when a hillock afforded a vista, he found that both the sea on his right and the hills on the western horizon had moved closer than before. Guessing that he was nearing the northern end of the marshes and, beyond that, the city of Sultanapur, he clucked Egil to a trot.
Then, thin in the distance, he heard a human cry; he thought he detected several voices shouting. Turning his head, he located the source of the commotion on a hillock to his left, whence a plume of blue smoke ascended lazily into the sky. Prudence told Conan to ride on, regardless of the cause of the disturbance. The fewer who saw him while he was still in Turan, the better were his chances of escaping that kingdom unscathed.
But prudence had never occupied the first rank among Conan's counsellors; and a camp implied a fresh-cooked meal, and beyond that, the possibility of loot or legitimate employment. Besides, his curiosity was aroused. While Conan was capable of ruthless action in pursuit of his own interests, he could also, on a quixotic impulse, throw himself into some affair that was none of his business when his barbaric notions of honour required it.
On this occasion, curiosity and thoughts of food vanquished caution. Conan turned Egil's head toward the hillock and heeled the horse into a fast trot. As he approached, he descried some agitated figures rushing about on the crest of the knoll, among clumps of spring windflowers whose scarlet, golden, and violet blooms lent a rare touch of colour to the drab landscape.
As he came closer, he perceived that there were five men, moving around a small tent adjacent to their camp-fire Their beasts of burden - four asses, two horses, and a camel - had been securely tethered to a gnarled, dwarfish tree; now terrified, they were bucking and straining at their tethers despite the efforts of one of the men to calm them.
'What's the matter?' Conan roared across the rustle of the reeds.
'Beware! Swamp cat!' shouted one of the men, a lean fellow in a white turban.
'Where?' yelled Conan.
The men around babbled all at once, pointing
in various directions. Then a spitting snarl ripped the air on Conan's right, and out of the reeds hounded a tawny creature whose like Conan hail never beheld. The head and forequarters were those of a large member of the cat tribe, but the hind legs were twice as long as those of a normal feline. The beast progressed by gigantic leaps, its heavy tail held stiffly out behind for balance, presenting to view a bizarre combination of a panther and a gigantic hare.
Sighting the approaching menace, the stallion whinnied in fear and leaped convulsively to one side. During his two years of service with the Turanian army, Conan had become an accomplished rider; but he still lacked the consummate skill of a Hyrkanian nomad, reared in the saddle. Caught by surprise, Conan pitched headlong off his mount, landing heavily on his shoulder in a mass of reeds. With a thunder of hooves, Egil vanished.
In a flash, Conan rolled to his feet and whipped out his scimitar. The swamp cat had alighted within a spear's length of the Cimmerian, with its fur erect and its eyes ablaze. Bracing himself for the attack, he raised his weapon and uttered the fearsome battle cry of the Cimmerian tribes.
At that dreadful, inhuman scream, the cat paused, snarling. Then it leaped - but not at Conan. The beast sprang away at an angle and began to circle the knoll. On the crest of the low eminence, the five travellers rushed to intercept it, armed with spears, daggers, and a solitary sword. But the swamp cat was more interested in the travellers' tethered animals than in human prey.
Conan dashed up the slope to the top of the rise, where the camp-fire crackled cheerfully. Seizing a blazing faggot, he sped on, heading straight for the swamp cat, which crouched in preparation for another of its gargantuan leaps. Conan's quick movement caused the log to blaze up, and he thrust the blazing end into the cat's face.
With a shriek, the creature sprang back, turned, and bounded mewling away into the reeds, leaving a faint trail of smoke from its singed hair and whiskers.
As Conan walked back up the slope, the traveller with the sword and turban stepped forward to greet him. This man, a slender fellow of early middle age, with a pointed black beard, seemed better accoutred than the others and somewhat taller, although all five were small, dark, and slender - mere pygmies compared to the giant Cimmerian.
The Conan Chronology Page 153