Lucian brushed past Conan, who stood half-blinded by the scalding, soapy water, took the steps two at a time, rushed through the scattered soldiers, and flung himself into the saddle of his stallion. By the time that Conan could sec again, the horse was disappearing down the street at a mad gallop, clods of mud flying from its hooves.
Laodamas shouted to his dismounted cavalrymen to run to the barracks, mount, and pursue the fugitive.
'You'll never catch him,' said Conan. 'That's the best horse in all the Westermarck. Not that it matters greatly; when our sworn statements reach Tarantia, we shall at least be free of Lucian here. Whether the king chops off his head or inflicts him on some other province - that is his affair.
'Right now we have to stop the Picts from ravishing all of Schohira and drenching it in blood.' To the waiting men below the terrace, he said:
'Gather up this money as best you may, ere it is lost in the mire. Then back to barracks to await my orders. Who conies with me to save the land for Mitra and Numedides?'
VI
Massacre Meadow
'Snakes do not terrify me, but I'll not vouch for my pikemen if those vile things begin to fall on them. All the troops now know about this Pictish magic from yesterday's survivors,' said Glyco.
Laodamas shuddered. 'In battle I am no worse a coward than most, but serpents ... 'Tis no knightly way of war. Let's lure the Picts into open land where there are no trees for serpents to fall from and where my horsemen could cut these savages to bits.'
'I see not how,' grunted Conan. 'Their next thrust is like lo be across South Creek into Schohira, since that's the province Lucian sold to them; and for many leagues south-west that land is naught but forests. The Aquilonians have yet to clear and settle it.'
'Then,' persisted Laodamas, 'why not muster our forces to Schohira, where the open land invites the use of cavalry?'
'We cannot force the Picts to seek us out on ground of our own choosing,' said Conan. 'The settlements of Schohira are scattered, and the Picts could swallow up the rest of the province while we sat like statues awaiting their attack. They walk through woods as water flows through gravel, while our men must be mustered and marched in battle array.'
'What is your plan, then?' asked Glyco.
'I have picked from my archers scouts with forest experience. When they report back, I'll seek the place where they plan to cross the creek and strike them there.'
'But the serpents...' began Laodamas.
'Devils swallow the serpents! Whoever told you that soldiering was a safe trade? The snakes will cease to plague us when Sagayetha is dead. If I can slay him, that I will do. Meanwhile, we must do what we can with what we have and Mitra grant that we have enough.'
Along the trail above the Council Rocks, South Creek ran through a patch of level ground, swampy on both sides of its serpentine bed. Since the creek was broad and shallow and easy to cross at this point, several trails converged there. It was a boggy flatland supported by grasses and brush but trees were rare. Still, Massacre Meadow, as it was known, was more open than most of the great Pictish wilderness.
Back from the open space, where dense forest began, Conan posted his army. Pikemen and archers were arrayed in a crescent beneath the trees, while Laodamas' horse were positioned on Conan's right flank. The riders sat on the ground, throwing dice, and the tethered animals stamped and switched their tails to discourage the tormenting flies.
Conan walked up and down his line, inspecting equipment, encouraging the fearful with rude jokes, and issuing orders.
'Glyco,' he called. 'Have you told off the men who are to makes torches of their pikes?'
'They are preparing them now,' said Glyco, pointing towards the dozen Aquilonians who were binding brushwood to the heads of their spears.
'Good. Light not the fire until the Picts are in sight, lest we reveal ourselves without need.'
Conan strolled on. 'Laodamas! If I'm not here to give the command, order your charge when the Picts are halfway across the creek.'
'That would be taking unfair advantage,' said Laodamas. 'T'were not chivalrous.'
'Crom and Mitra, man, this is no tournament! You have your orders.'
Back among the infantry, he sighted Flavius and said: 'Captain Flavius, are your men ready?'
Flavius beamed at hearing the title of his temporary rank. 'Aye, sir; the extra quivers are laid out.'
'Good. Whether an army is in more peril from having in command an honest idiot like Laodamas or a clever jackal like Lucian, I know not. You I can count upon.' Flavius smiled broadly.
The afternoon wore on amid buzzing flies and grumbling men. Water jugs passed from hand to hand. Conan, sitting on a fallen log, made marks upon a sheet of bark as scouts came to him, reporting the position of the Pictish force. At length he had a rude sketch map from which to plan the coming fray.
As the sun was setting, the first Picts appeared across Massacre Meadow, yelling defiance and brandishing their weapons. More and more poured out of the forest until tho low ground beyond South Creek was thronged with naked, painted men.
Flavius murmured to Conan, 'We are outnumbered here as much as at the battle of the serpents.'
Conan shrugged and rose. Commands rans up and down the Aquilonian line. The pikemen designated as snake destroyers kindled a fire from which to light their improvised torches, while archers drew arrows from their quivers and thrust them into the ground before them.
A drum began to beat like a throbbing heart. Yelping war cries, the Picts splashed across the creek, trotted across the ugly land on the south west side of the meadow, and closed with the Aquilonians. Amid the savage whoops and the shouts of command, arrows whistled across the meadow, like spectres of the damned.
Knots of painted Picts dashed themselves against the lines of pikemen. When one savage was transfixed by a pike and the weight dragged the weapon down, others pushed in through the gap thus created, thrusting with spears and slashing with hatchets. Pikemen of the second line, sweating and cursing, thrust them back. About the meadow, the wounded crawled, twitched, shrieked, or lay still.
Conan himself held the centre of the line, towering like a giant above the stockier Gundermen and Aquilonians. armed with a steel-shafted axe, he reaped a gory harvest of his foe. They came at him like yelping hounds seeking to drag down a boar. But the dreadful axe, which he wielded tirelessly as if it were a willow wand, split skulls, crushed ribs, and lopped off heads and arms with merciless precision. Roaring a tuneless song, he fought, and the mounds of dead grew around him like grain after the scything.
Before long the Picts began to avoid the centre where he stood unconquerable above the heaped corpses. Ferocious, Mood-mad fighters though they were, it seeped into their wild consciousness that the giant figure sheathed in iron and splattered from head to foot with gore was not to be overcome by such as they.
The fighting ebbed for a moment, in one of those lulls that sometimes come in the midst of battle. As Conan leaned upon his axe to catch his breath, his new-made captain hurried over to him.
'Conan,' called Flavius, 'we are sore beset! When will the horse charge?'
'Not vet, Flavius. Look yonder, on the distant meadow.
Not a quarter of the painted ones have yet crossed the stream. This is but a skirmish to probe for our weakness. They'll draw off presently.'
Soon whistles sounded. The Picts trotted back across the meadow and swam the creek, pursued by Aquilonian arrows.
'Archers!' shouted Conan. 'Two men from each squad harvest arrows.'
The archers hastened to push through the pikemen and pull spent shafts from the ground or from the blood-soaked bodies of the fallen, while the remainder cleansed their equipment or drank deeply from the waterskins.
'Whew!' said Flavius, doffing his helmet to wipe hii blood-spattered face. 'If that be but a skirmish, I hate to contemplate the onslaught. How knew you when the fiends would fall back?'
'When savages find a plan that works, they often repeat it
blindly,' replied the Cimmerian. 'Sagayetha's earlier attack destroyed us, so belike he follows the same scheme now. Some civilised officers do likewise.'
'Then will the next assault be one of serpents?'
'No doubt. Hark!'
From the deep woods came the distant sound of a drum and a rattle pounded in the same rhythm as that which preceded the magical assault of the previous battle.
'Twill soon be full dark,' said Flavius, fearfully. 'We shall not see the Picts to shoot nor the snakes to burn.'
'You can do your best,' growled Conan. Tin going after that devil Sagayetha. Pass the word to the other officers.'
Conan strode swiftly down the line to the glade wherein Glyco stood. To this seasoned veteran, Conan repeated his intention.
'But, Conan...'
'Seek not to dissuade me, man! I, alone, may hope to discover the lair of this hyena. The rest of you have orders; to you I give command till I return.'
'If you return,' muttered Glyco, but he found himself addressing empty air. Conan had vanished.
VII
Serpent Magic
The night air throbbed with the songs of insects. Skirting the lines of Aquilonians, Conan picked up the trail to Velitrium. He jogged along it until he was well away from combatants. When the trail wandered close to South Creek, he left it and lorded the stream, cursing beneath his breath as he stepped into a hole and went in up to his neck. Wading and swimming, he gained the other side and pushed through heavy undergrowth along the waterway until he reached the open .lisles of the virgin forest beyond.
The moon, grown to a great silver disk since the defeat on South Creek, rode high in the sky. Guiding his steps by her light, Conan followed a circular course, calculated to bring him around to the rear of the Pictish army. He walked softly, pausing from time to time to listen and taste the air. Although afire with impatience to confront the wizard, he was enough of a seasoned warrior to know that haste would gain him only a swift demise.
Presently he picked up the sound of the drum rattle and stood, holding his breath and cocking his head to locate the direction whence it came. Then he set forth once more.
The rumble of the Pictish army reached his ears, as the bulk of the savages continued to gather on the north-east side of Massacre Meadow, across the creek from the Aquilonian force. Conan moved with more care than before, lest Pictish sentries discover him.
He met no Picts until the drumming and rattling became loud enough to locate the precise source of the clatter. Conan was sure that in daylight he could have seen the wizard's hut from afar. But he was almost upon if before he found H, standing in the deepest gloom between two giant oaks in n glade feebly lit by a few dots of moonlight. Conan's nerves tingled in the presence of magic, like those of a jungle beast in the presence of unknown danger.
Then his keen eyes spied a Pict, leaning against a tree and making in the direction of the massing savages. With ex-
exquisite care, Conan approached the fellow from the rear. The savage heard a twig snap behind him and whirled just in time to receive Conan's axe full in his war-painted face, The savage fell, twitching, his head split open like a melon.
Conan froze, fearing the sound of the blow and the fall might have alerted Sagayetha. There was, however, no immediate let-up in the rhythmic pounding. Conan approached the tent, but as he raised his hand to lift the flap, the ear-splitting sounds died away. At the former battle of the serpents, this silence presaged the serpentine attack from the trees.
Conan lifted the tent flap and stepped in, his nostrils quivering from the reptilian stench. The dim red glow from the coals of a small fire in the centre of the tent provided the only illumination, and beyond the fire, vaguely visible in the roseate dimness, sat a hunched figure.
As Conan stepped around the fire, preparing a swift blow that should end this menace once and for all, the silent figure remained motionless. He saw that it was indeed Sagayctha, in breech clout and moccasins, sitting upright with his eyes closed. He must, thought Conan, be in a trance, sending his spirit out to control the snakes. So much the better! Conan took another step.
Something moved on the floor of the tent. As Conan bent to see more closely, he felt a sharp sting on his left arm below the short sleeve of his mail shirt.
Conan jerked back. A huge viper, he saw, had its fang embedded in his forearm. This must be king of all Pictish vipers; the creature was longer by a foot than the giant Cimmerian was tall. As he jerked back, he dragged the serpent half clear of the earthen floor.
With a gasp of revulsion, Conan struck with his axe. Although ragged and notched from the day's fighting, the blade sheared through the reptile's neck a foot below its head. With a violent shake of his injured arm, he sent the head and neck flying, while the serpent's severed body squirmed and coiled upon the earthen flooring. In its writhings, it threw itself into the fire, scattering coals; and the smell of roasting flesh filled the confined space.
Conan stared at his forearm, cold sweat beading his brow. Two red spots appeared where the fangs had pierced his naked flesh, and a drop of blood oozed from each puncture.
I lie skin around the punctures was darkening fast, and a fierce pain spread to his shoulder.
He dropped the axe so that the spike of its head buried itself in the dirt. Then he drew his knife to incise the skin at the site of the wounds. Before he could do so, the seated figure stirred. Sagayetha's eyes opened, cold and deadly as the eyes of serpents.
'Cimmerian!' said the shaman. The word sounded like the hiss of a monstrous snake. 'You have slain that into which I sent my soul, but I shall...'
Conan hurled his knife. The wizard swayed to one side, so that the implement struck the skin of the tent and stuck there. Sagayetha rose and pointed a skinny arm.
Before the wizard could utter a curse, Conan snatched up Ins axe and reached him with a single bound. A whistling blow ended in a meaty thud. Sagayetha's head flew off, lolled towards the embers, and came to rest on the hard-packed dirt. Blood poured from the collapsing body, soaking into the earth and hissing as it flooded over the hot coals in the centre of the tent. Sinister vapours rose in the dim firelight.
Conan recovered his knife and slashed at his bitten arm. He then sucked blood from the wound and spat it out, sucked and spat, again and again. The dark discolouration had spread over most of his forearm, and the pain was agonizing. He took but an instant to strip the corpse of the belt that supported its loin cloth and made of it a crude tourniquet, which he placed on his upper arm.
As he continued to suck the venom from the wound, the rising roar of battle came to him from afar. Evidently the Picts, impatient at the delay of their serpentine allies, had bunched their own attack. Conan fretted to be gone, to join in the slaughter. But he knew that for a man freshly bitten by a venomous snake to set out at a run would mean immediate death. With a mighty effort of will, he forced himself to continue sucking and spitting.
At last the purplish stain seemed to spread no further. When it receded a little, he bandaged the arm with cloth found among the wizard's effects. Carrying his axe in his good hand and swinging Sagayetha's head by its hair in the other, he left the tent.
VIII
Blood on the Moon
Under the high-riding, heartless moon, an endless stream of Picts crossed South Creek to assail the embattled Aquilonians. Bodies of Aquilonians joined those of Picts in heaps on Massacre Meadow.
'Laodamas!' said a deep, harsh voice in the shadows. Sitting his horse, the cavalry commander turned in his saddle.
'Mitra save us!' he cried. 'Conan!'
'Whom did you expect?' growled Conan.
As the full moon, now near its zenith, fell on Conan's upturned face, Laodamas saw that Conan staggered as ho approached. In that face, he saw signs of exhaustion, as if Conan had pushed himself beyond the limits of endurance. Perhaps it was a trick of the silvery light, he thought, but Conan's mien was deathly pale.
'Why in hell haven't you charged?' continued Con
an. 'More than half the Picts have crossed the creek.'
'I will not!' said Laodamas. 'To take such advantage of the foe while he is thus divided, were unknightly conduct. Tis clean against the rules of chivalry.'
'Ass!' shouted Conan. 'Then we must do it another way!'
Setting down his grisly burden and his weapons, ho grasped Laodamas' ankle, jerked it out of the stirrup, and heaved it up.
'What...' cried Laodamas. Then he was tossed out of the saddle, to fall with a crash of armour into the soft soil on the far side of his horse.
An instant later, Conan swung into the empty saddle. Ho raised his axe on the spike of which he had impaled Sagavetha's head
'Here's your Pictish wizard!' he roared. 'Come on, my friends, by squads, advance!'
The trumpeter winded his horn. Aquilonian horsemen, chafing at Laodamas' long delay, spurred their mounts with a clatter of armour and a creaking of harness. Conan believed:
'Cry 'Sagayetha is dead!' Sound the charge, trumpeter!'
Conan held his gruesome banner high as the troop poured lit of the forest, yelling at the footmen to get out of the way. They scrambled off, and the cavalry thundered through the gap.
The squads of mailed horsemen ploughed through the loose knots of Picts, like an armoured thunderbolt. At their lure rode Conan, his gory axe held in the crook of his left arm, so that the wizard's severed head thrust up above his shoulder, a ghastly standard. With his good right hand, he held the reins and guided the charger he had commandeered.
At his swift heels hurtled the iron-sheathed cavalry, thrusting and smiting to right and left. As they smote the fleeing ranks of the foe, they chanted hoarsely the battle-cry, 'Sagayetha is dead! Sagayetha is dead!' Although the Picts knew not their words, the moonlight silvered the grisly visage of the dead shaman affixed to the shaft of Conan's axe, and they understood the meaning.
Now the infantry took up the chant in a deep, resonant fry. Stout Gundermen and sturdy Aquilonian yeomen armed with pikes splashed across the ford behind the horsemen. Yammering at one another, the savages pointed to the hideous head atop the shaft of Conan's axe; and, wailing in dismay, they broke away on every side, ignoring the shouting of their chiefs. The battle turned into a rout. The lines of painted, howling savages disintegrated into fleeing forms, glimpsed through the shafts of moonlight among the distant trees.
The Conan Chronology Page 580