'It is a good plan, and I shall use it,' he said at last. 'But I shall make one change: shall lead, personally, the force that sweeps the valley.'
Conan frowned. 'That is unwise. The king should not put himself at such personal risk in a battle fought in his name.'
'That may be how it is done in the north, my friend, but not here. My warriors will expect it. Any of my senior chiefs is capable of handling the larger force.'
'As you will,' Conan said. 'When do you propose to make your move?''
'There is nothing to be gained by waiting. The striking force marches out at dusk this evening!'
'You are a man of quick decision,' Conan said approvingly. 'What would you have me do?'
Goma grinned. 'Will you accompany me? We old warhounds can show the young warriors what real fighting is like.'
'Aye, I'm with you.'
'Excellent. Keep that spear. You will need it. And I have something else for you.' He called back over his shoulder and a woman appeared from his hut, carrying something in her hands. The king took it from her and handed it to Conan. The Cimmerian studied it. It was a circlet of copper, and from its forepeak and temples sprang three glossy, black ostrich feathers.
'This signifies that you are one of the king's trusted companions,' Goma said. 'All warriors will give way to you while you wear this.'
Conan adjusted the headband to his liking. 'Tomorrow will be a good day to wet our spears,' he said. Goma translated and the words roused a great, bloodthirsty cheer from the encircling warriors.
XVI
Blood in the Valley
Dusk washed the valley in a purple light as the warriors of the flying force assembled. For this mission Goma had chosen the red-feather regiment. This contained the greatest number of young warriors, eager to make a name for themselves and well fit for the gruelling task before them. Goma had commanded that they spend the day resting, not an easy order to obey, for most were going into their first fight. They had eaten well, and they would carry nothing save their weapons, for there would be nothing for them save marching and fighting until their king was restored to his throne or else he, and they, were slain.
As the first stars twinkled overhead, Goma issued his final orders, and these he translated for Conan: 'There is to be no singing, and no loud chanting while we march. If a man falls, he is to fall silently, then pick himself up if he can and march on. If a serpent bites, the one bitten will suffer and die in silence.' These orders were issued, and received, sternly.
'It is time,' Goma said. 'Let us go.'
Conan stood ready. He had been given a breechclout of leopard skin and bands of long monkey fur. With his new feathers, the only things distinguishing him from the other warriors were his alien features and his long sword. He carried no shield, knowing that if he should need one, he could always take one from a dead man.
The long file of red-feather warriors made its way through the assembled host. By the king's order there was no cheering and no loud salutes, but encouragements were barked out in low, beastlike growls that were more warlike than any amount of extravagant adulation.
When they were in the open the pace of the march picked up, first a quick march, then a double-quick, finally a trot that devoured the miles. In the forefront were a number of the youngest warriors, youths who knew this land well from their numerous cattle-raids. Next came King Goma and his black-feather guard, including Conan. After them came the greater body of warriors, running to a chant that was not far above a whisper.
The moon rose, flooding the valley with pale light. To the surefooted young men, who had spent much of their young lives standing night watch over their cattle, it was almost as good as daylight. In the brush, the great predators kept their distance, lying belly-down as this strange spectacle made its way up the valley. Instinctively, they knew that there would be no full bellies to be had from this band of steel-bristling men. The stupid, near-blind rhinos snorted and trotted away, not liking anything unfamiliar.
Goma called no halts. The night was cool but soon they were streaming with sweat and the whispered chanting grew windy. But no man faltered. It was for this reason that Goma had chosen the regiment of younger men. As the night wore on and the moon made its accustomed crossing of the firmament, some of them began to stagger, but no man fell out of the march. Their breathing grew laboured, then agonized, but to fail would be unendurable disgrace.
Even the strongest were at the end of their strength when they
reached the northern end of the valley. In a broad meadow the king called a halt and the men cast themselves down upon the grass, gasping. Neither Goma nor Conan were breathing especially hard, and their taut-muscled bodies merely glistened with a sheen of sweat. The king wore no decoration whatever. In his left hand he bore a small, round shield of hippo hide. In his right he idly twirled his inseparable axe.
'The sun rises,' Goma said, contemplating the thin band of pale light over the eastern mountain range. 'Soon she will show her face. Before that happens, we must be killing. This is the last dawn of Nabo's kingship. The sun shall set upon the true king of the valley.'
'I'd not want to be king of such a valley,' Conan said. 'It is a fine and fair land, but that lake blights it.'
'That is so. I have seen many lands in my time of wandering, and I am of a mind to lead my people away from here, away from the thing in the lake. We can find another land as good as this, with rich soil for tilling and pastures where our cattle will fatten.'
'Such lands are usually claimed,' Conan pointed out.
'That is the way of life. I encountered no warriors as fine as my people in my wanderings. When we find a land that is right for us, we shall drive away its people and take it for ourselves. Riches are the reward of the strong and the brave. That is how it has always been.'
'Aye, that it has. It is almost time now. I can see for a good half-mile.'
'Aye. Let us begin slaying.' Goma shouted a command and the young warriors flew to their feet. Their teeth glistened in their scowling faces as they prepared for battle. With a final war cry, Goma pointed down the valley with his axe and set out a run. Bellowing the same cry, the warriors set off behind their king.
Conan ran beside Goma, his long legs carrying him as effortlessly as those of a trained racehorse. Within minutes they sighted the first camp. It was situated by a small stream. A few
men were awake, building up fires, and they goggled in amazement at the horrifying spectacle that bore down upon them from nowhere save the realms of nightmare. They sprang to their feet and cried out. Men scrambled from their huts, half blind from sleep, groping for their weapons, but the red-feather warriors were upon them before more than a handful were armed.
It was not battle, but slaughter. The king did not bother to ply his axe. Instead, he stood aside and allowed his warriors to bloody their spears. Conan, likewise, took no part. It was grim but necessary work, of a sort for which he had no taste. When all the enemy warriors were dead, they set out once more. There had been enough blood to rouse the young men to a high pitch of excitement. Those who had no chance to participate were eager for kills of their own.
The next camp was awake and the warriors spotted the attackers in time to arm themselves and form a battle line. They were quickly overwhelmed, but they fought fiercely. Conan saw Goma kill two with swift, flicking blows of his axe, easily batting aside their spear-thrusts with his small shield.
A tall, white-feathered warrior rushed at Conan, his body all but invisible behind a long shield. The Cimmerian held his sword in his right hand, his spear in his left. With his spear he parried that of his foe, sweeping the shield aside with a smashing sword-blow. Serpent-quick, his spear thrust through the unprotected man's body. He looked for another to kill and saw that the fight was all but over. The white-feather warriors were being finished off, but a few red-feathers lay dead or wounded.
'Let us go,' Goma said, shaking blood and brains from his axe. 'The morning is just beginning.'
'It begins well
,' said Conan.
The next camp was occupied by men of the blue-feather regiment. They formed their line, looking most confused. Goma halted his men and harangued the blues. 'I gave them a choice,' he told Conan. 'Join me and kill the whites, or die where they stand. They have the space of twenty breaths to make their decision.'
A few voices jabbered among the blues, then a wild cheering broke out. With their spears held point downward, they rushed to join the reds and their new king. These more than made up the casualties of the earlier fight. Thus reinforced, the war band continued its run down the valley.
And so the morning went. There were short, ferocious skirmishes and the camps of the whites. When the blues saw so many of their fellows among the attackers, they no longer hesitated, but came to join before Goma even called a halt. Singing and raising war cries, the party picked up strength as it went, leaving bloody devastation in its wake.
By the time they sighted the city, every spear streamed with blood. They had suffered slight losses and dealt out devastating punishment. The last few camps had seen the now large party bearing down upon them from a distance sufficient to allow them to take to their heels, and the growing mob of white-feather warriors let out a collective gasp of despair when they saw that there was a far larger force of enemies between themselves and the safety of the city.
As one man, the lines of warriors facing the city whirled about, presenting their shields and their spearpoints to the fleeing, panic-stricken warriors from the encampments. With the despair of the doomed, the whites ploughed desperately into the serried ranks, even as the pursuers fell upon them from behind. Spears plunged amid screams and war cries, and blood reddened the grassy plain before the city.
Conan's spear thrust and his sword slashed, making no distinction between a fleeing man and one who faced him. This butchery had to be accomplished quickly, lest Nabo take advantage of the confusion to launch an attack of his own. A few minutes of frenzied action made a gory shambles of the field. When the slaying was over, Goma issued his orders and the lines reformed.
'I have placed the yellow feathers in front,' he explained to Conan. 'They are the strongest regiment. Next are the greens. It is smaller, but has many older warriors. They are steady and
will not panic should the first line have to retire upon them. Last are the reds, for they are near exhaustion. Our blues I have placed on the far left flank. They are to call their brethren to come join them there.'
Conan scanned the city walls. Many people lined the parapet, but he saw no signs of his companions. It seemed that Nabo was going to make no attempt to defend the city, for there were no warriors upon the wall, and no one laboured to barricade the gateway. Above the gateway stood Nabo himself, surveying the unexpected spectacle. To his right was the withered figure of Aghla. The ancient witch spat imprecations that went unheard amid the uproar. At his left hand was the towering form of Sethmes.
When the preparations were complete Goma turned to Conan. 'I will go now and challenge my uncle. He will claim that I am an imposter, and I will prove that I am not. I will claim the right of single combat and he will decline. Then the armies will fight and we shall destroy them. Slay all you can. No man who fights for Nabo can be allowed to live. But you must not attack Nabo himself. Only a king may slay a king.'
'But he is not a king,' said Conan. 'He is a usurper.'
'Nonetheless, he is mine. I must slay him and all must see me slay him.'
'As you will, but if he comes at me I'll not be responsible. No man who attacks me with weapons escapes with his life.'
'Then avoid him,' Goma said grimly.
When all was ready King Goma strode out before his army. They raised an earthshaking cheer, pounding the backs of their shields with their spear-butts, their cheers coalescing into an ecstatic chant of adulation. White-feather warriors boiled out through the gateway and formed their battle line before the city. Behind them came the blue-feather regiment. Conan made a quick assessment of the relative numbers. Combined, the white and blue warriors almost matched Goma's strength. With the soldiers of Sethmes, the numbers would be about equal. Much would depend upon which way the blues jumped. Already, those on Goma's flank were calling out to their brethren, who stood stone-faced.
Goma raised his axe and the men fell silent. He approached almost within spear range of the enemy and harangued the little group above the gate. Nabo was silent, but Aghla called out something, raising a laugh from the townspeople who lined the walls. Then Goma lowered his tight-wrapped red cloth, baring himself to the waist. Conan could not see what was thus revealed, but a gasp rose from the townspeople, cutting off their laughter. Now Goma shook his axe and called out to Nabo. The usurper answered haughtily. Conan knew that the challenge to single combat and been given and rejected. He saw that the warriors facing them looked unhappy, most especially the blues, and he deduced that a king was expected to accept a challenge to a duel for the throne. Their king's refusal had hurt their morale, which was all to the good.
The Stygian soldiers came out and formed a compact mass before the city gate. He saw no sign of the bumbana. All of them, warriors and soldiers, waited in a nervous silence for the serious, bloody work of the day to begin.
Goma turned his back on the king and began to walk back to his lines. Behind him, a Stygian soldier raised something to his shoulder. Conan was in motion before the crossbowman could depress the trigger of his weapon. The Cimmerian grasped the king's arm and jerked him aside as something hummed past. There came a thud and a loud grunt. In the front rank, a warrior plucked at the feathered bolt that pierced his chest. A neat hole marked the spot where the missile had passed through his hide shield.
Goma scowled. 'They would use coward's weapons against an anointed king?'
'Those are mercenaries,' Conan said, 'and one of them saw a chance to kill the enemy leader.' He favoured Goma with a steely smile. 'I have been a mercenary. I'd have done it myself.'
Nabo screamed something and one of his warriors whirled
and hurled his spear through the body of the crossbowman. Sethmes frowned as the usurper castigated him.
'Dissension between the allies up there,' Conan remarked. 'All the better for us down here.'
'Enough of this,' Goma said. 'It is time to begin. I long to sit in the chair of my ancestors.' He whirled his axe high and brought it down with its stained head pointing toward the enemy. With a howl, the yellow-feather warriors sprang forward. Conan and Goma charged with them, straight for the centre, and the battle for the valley was begun.
There was no art or subtlety to the combat. It was brute force against brute force. Spear thudded on shield or sank into flesh with a sickening sound. War clubs smashed skulls and short swords lopped off limbs and the scent of fresh-spilled blood began to pervade the air. Some men sang, others screamed, others chanted. The townsmen atop the wall shouted abuse or encouragement, and the people from the outlying villages crowded the nearby hills to view the unprecedented battle.
Conan slashed and stabbed in a scarlet frenzy, the battle-madness of his ancestors rising in him like a tide. After killing many, the shaft of his spear snapped when he thrust the weapon against a heavy shield. Taking his sword in both hands, the Cimmerian swung it with redoubled strength to shear through shields at a single blow, never needing more than a second blow to halve the body behind the shield.
Near the Cimmerian, Goma swung his axe in wide arcs, blocking efficiently with his small shield. Before him the enemy warriors were half defeated even before he stuck, so awed were they by his royal lineage. All around the two of them, the elite guard of black-feather warriors made themselves felt.
In the frenzy of slaying the lines lost all cohesion and began to break up into battling mobs. When the fight reached this stage, one of Goma's chiefs shouted an order and the second line of green-feather warriors joined the fray. The whites were desperate now but no man tried the futile gesture of surrender. There was to be no mercy this day.
Whe
n the battle entered this second stage, the commander of the blues made up his mind. He proved himself a crafty man, for the did not order his regiment into the general battle, where the confusion would guarantee that they would be fighting both sides. Instead, at his command, the blues turned and launched a sudden attack against the Stygian mercenaries who blocked the gate. Howling their delight, the blues of Goma's flank rushed to join them.
Thus two separate battles developed: the whites against Goma's multicoloured regiments, and the blues against the Stygians. Immediately, the blues began to suffer heavy casualties. The undisciplined ferocity of the warriors met the cool, methodical discipline of the civilised soldiers. As usually happened in such instances, the soldiers' discipline more than made up for their lack of numbers. In close ranks with each man protected not only by his own shield but by those of his companions to either side, he could concentrate upon killing the warrior before him. With their superior armour, it was difficult for the warriors to inflict much damage upon the soldiers. The wall and the gateway made it impossible to flank or surround them. The battle front became a sausage-machine where naked flesh was hurled against unyielding steel, and the blues lost five men for every Stygian they put out of action.
The other battle was drawing to a close. Abandoned by the blues, their Stygian allies preoccupied, the whites were being overwhelmed. Hopeless now, some of them broke away and tried to flee. The red-feather warriors, now somewhat rested, chased those men down and slew them without thought of mercy. The slaughter was total.
Goma turned from the fight, satisfied that there was nothing left but mopping up. He found Conan standing with his sword-point on the ground, leaning on his pommel. His arms were bloodied to the shoulders, the rest of his near-naked body liberally bespattered. He still wore his copper circlet, but his three black plumes had been shorn away by near misses. He was catching his breath, eyeing the grim struggle at the gate.
'I can see that you have been busy,' Goma said.
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