Down the winding slope they went, with wheels lashed to hold the wagons back. As the stars throbbed in the darkening sky, they reached a fork in the road beyond the pass. Here the army halted and set up camp. Conan flung his sentinels out wide, to guard against a night attack from the foe across the river. But nothing disturbed the weary troopers except the snarl of a prowling leopard, which fled at a sentry's shout.
The following morning, Trocero and his contingent departed along the right branch of the fork, headed for the lord of Tunais. Conan and Prospero, with their forces, continued down the left branch until, shortly before noon, they retched another fork. Here Prospero with his small detachment bore to the right, for the central ford of Nogara. Conan, with the remaining horse and foot, continued westward to seek out the ford of Mevano.
Section by section, squad by squad, Conan's rebels filed down the narrow roads. They camped one more night in the lulls and went on. As they descended the final range of foothills, between clumps of conifers they again caught glimpses of the broad Alimane, which sundered Argos from Poitain. True, Argos claimed a tract of land on the northern side of the river-a tract extending to the junction of the Alimane with the Khorotas. But under Vilerus III the Aquilonians had overrun the area and, being the stronger, still retained possession.
As Conan's division reached the flatlands, the Cimmerian ordered his men to speak but little and only in low voices. As far as possible, they were to quiet the jingle of their gear. The wagons halted under heavy stands of trees, and the men pitched camp out of sight of the ford of Mevano. Scouts sent ahead reported no sign of any foe, but they brought back the unwelcome news that the river was in flood, rampant with the springtime melting of the highland snows.
Well before the dawn of a cloud-darkened day, Conan's officers routed the men from their tents. Grumbling, the soldiers bolted an uncooked breakfast and fell into formation. Conan stalked about, snarling curses and threatening those who raised their voices or dropped their weapons. To his apprehensive ears, it seemed as if the clatter could be heard for leagues above the purl of the river. A better-trained force, he thought sourly, would move on cats' paws.
To diminish the noise, commands were passed from captains to men by hand signals instead of by shouts and I trumpet calls; and this caused some confusion. One company, signalled to march, cut through the ranks of another. Fisticuffs erupted and noses bled before the officers ended the fracas.
A heavy overcast blanketed road and river as Conan's troops neared the banks of the Alimane. Mounted on his black stallion Fury, Conan drew rein and peered through the curtaining drizzle towards the further bank. Beyond his horse's I hooves, the high water, brown with sediment, gurgled past.
Conan signalled to his aide Alaricus, a promising young Aquilonian captain. Alaricus manoeuvred his horse close to that of his general.
'How deep, think you?' muttered Conan.
'More than knee-deep, General,' replied Alaricus. 'Perhaps chest-high. Let me put my mount into it to see.'
Try not to fall into a mudhole,' cautioned Conan.
The young captain urged his bay gelding into the swirling flood. The animal balked, then waded obediently towards the northern shore. By midstream, the murky water was curling over the toes of Alaricus's boots; and when he looked back, Conan beckoned him.
We shall have to chance it,' growled the Cimmerian when the aide had rejoined him. 'Pass the word for Dio's light horse to make the first crossing and scout the farther woods. Then the foot shall go single file, each man grasping the belt of the man before him. Some of these clodhoppers would drown if they lost their footing whilst weighted with their gear.'
As sunless day paled into the sombre sky, the company of light horse splashed into the stream. Reaching the further bank, Captain Dio waved to indicate that the woods harboured no foe.
Conan had watched intently as the troopers' horses sank into the swirling flume, noting the depth of the water. When it was plain that the river bed shoaled beyond midstream and that the other bank was clear, he signalled the first company of foot to cross. Soon two companies of pikemen and one of archers breasted the flood. Each soldier gripped the man in front, while the archers held aloft their bows to keep them dry.
Conan brought his stallion close to Alaricus, saying: 'Tell the heavy horse to ford the stream, and then start the baggage train across, with Cerco's company of foot to haul them out of mudholes. I'm going out to midstream.'
Fury stumbled into the river, gaskin-deep in the rushing brown water. When the charger flinched and whinnied, as if unseen danger, Conan tightened his grip on the reins and forced the beast through the deepest part of the central channel.
His keen eyes searched the jade-green foliage along the southern shore, where a riot of flowering shrubs, their colours tinted by the overcast, surrounded the boles of ancient trees. The road became a dark tunnel amid the new-leaved oaks, which seemed to bear the weight of the leaden sky. Here was ample room for concealment, thought Conan sombrely. The light cavalry still waited, bunched into the small clearing where the road dipped into the river, although they should have searched far into the surrounding woods before the lust foot soldiers reached the northern bank. Conan gestured angrily. 'Dio!' he roared from the midstream shallows. If any foe was present, he would long since have observed the crossing, no Conan saw no point in keeping silence. 'Spread out and heat the bushes! Move, damn your soul!'
The three companies of infantry scrambled out on the northern bank, muddy and dripping, while Dio's horsemen broke into squads and pushed into the thickets on either side if the road. An army is at its most vulnerable when fording . stream, this Conan knew; and foreboding swelled in his barbaric heart.
He wheeled his beast about to survey the southern shore, The heavy cavalry was already knee-deep in the stream, and the leading wains of the baggage train were struggling through the flood. A couple had bogged down in the mud of the river bottom; soldiers, heaving on the wheels, manhandled them along.
A sudden cry ripped the heavy air. As Conan swung around, he caught a flicker of movement in the bushes nt the junction of road and river. With a short bark of warning Conan reined his steed, and an arrow meant for him flashed past his breast and, swift as a striking viper, buried itself in the neck of the young officer behind him. As the dying man slumped into the roiling water, Conan spurred his hor forward, bellowing orders. He must, he thought, command the troops in contact with the foe, whether they faced paltry crossing guard or the full might of Procas's army.
Suddenly Fury reared and staggered beneath the impact! of another arrow. With a shriek, the animal fell to its knees, hurling Conan from the saddle. The Cimmerian gulped a swirl of muddy water and struggled to his feet, coughing! curses. Another arrow struck his cuirass, glanced off, and tumbled into the torrent. All about him, the stagnant calm of the leaden day hung in tatters. Men howled war cries, screamed in fear and pain, and cursed the very gods above.
Blinking water from his stinging eyes, Conan perceived a triple line of archers and crossbowmen in the blue surcoat of the Border Legion. As one man, they had leaped from the lush foliage to rake the floundering river-bound rebels with a hail of arrows.
The screeching whistle of arrows mingled with the deeper thrum of crossbow bolts. Although the arbalesters could not; shoot their cumbersome weapons so fast as the longbowmen, their crossbows had the greater range, and their iron bolts could pierce the stoutest armour. Man after man fell, screaming or silent, as the muddy waters closed over their heads and rolled their bodies along the scoured shoals.
Wading shoreward, Conan searched out a trumpeter to call his milling men into battle formations. In the shallows he found one, a tow-headed Gunderman, staring dumbly at the carnage. Growling curses, Conan splashed towards the awestruck lout; but as he sought to seize the fellow's jerkin, the Gunderman doubled up and pitched head-first into the water, a bolt buried in his vitals. The trumpet fell from his weakened grip and was tumbled out of reach by the current. A
man paused to catch his breath, glaring about like a cornered lion, an augmented clatter from the clearing riveted his attention. Aquilonian cavalry — armoured lancers and swordsmen on sturdy mounts - thundered out of the woods and swept down upon the milling mass of rebel light horse infantry. The smaller horses of the rebel scouts were brushed aside; the men on foot were ridden down and trampled. In a trice the north bank was cleared of rebels. Then, with clock-like precision, Procas's armoured squadrons opened out into a troop-wide rank of horsemen, which plunged into the water to assail those rebels who struggled in the deeps.
'To me!' roared Conan, brandishing his sword. 'Form ranks!'
But now the survivors of the débâcle, who had been swept Inn k into the river by the Aquilonian cavalry, thrashed through the water in panic flight, pushing aside or knocking over comrades who floundered northward. Through the turbulent current pounded Procas's horse amid fountains of spray. Behind the second line, a third line opened out, and then another and another. And from the flanks, Procas's archers continued their barrage of missiles, to which the rebel archers, with unstrung bows, could not reply.
'General!' cried Alaricus. Conan looked around to see young captain breasting the water towards him. 'Save yourself! They're broken here, but you can rally the men for a stand on the southern bank. Take my horse!'
Conan spat a curse at the fast-approaching line of armoured horsemen. For an instant he hesitated, the thought of rushing among them single-handed, hewing right and left, flickering in his mind. But the idea was banished as soon as it appeared. In an earlier day, Conan might have essayed such a mad attack. Now he was a general, responsible for the lives of other men, and experience had tempered his youthful recklessness with caution. As Alaricus started to dismount, Conan seized the aide's stirrup with his left hand, growling:
'Stay up there lad! Go on, head for the south bank, Crom blast it!'
Alaricus spurred his horse, which struggled towards the Argossean shore. Conan, gripping the stirrup, accompanied him with long, half-leaping strides, amid the retreating mass of rebels, horsed and afoot, all plunging southward in confused and abject flight.
Behind them rode the Aquilonians, spearing and swording the laggards as they fought the flood. Already the muddy waters of the Alimane ran red below the ford of Mevano. Only the fact that the pursuers, too, were hampered by the swirling stream saved Conan's advance units from utter' annihilation.
At length the fugitives reached a company of heavy cavalry that had broached the river behind the rebel infantry. The fleeing men pushed between the oncoming horses, yammering their terror. Thus beset, the frightened beasts reared and plunged until their riders, also, joined the retreat. Behind them, mired in the river bottom, teamsters strove to turn their cumbersome supply wagons around or, in despair, abandoned them to leap into the water and splash back towards the southern shore. Coming upon the abandoned vehicles, the I Aquilonians butchered the bellowing oxen and pressed on. Sodden corpses, rolled along by the current, wedged together into grisly human log jams. Wagons were overturned; their loads of tent canvas and poles, bundles of spears and sheaves of arrows floated downstream on the relentless flood.
Conan, shouting himself hoarse, struggled out on the south bank, where the remaining companies had awaited their turn to cross. He tried to rally them into defensive formations, but everywhere the rebel host was crumbling into formless clots of fleeing men. Throwing away pikes, shields and helmets, they sought safety, running in all directions out of the shallows and across the flats that bordered the river. All discipline, so painfully inculcated during the preceding months, was lost in the terror of the moment.
A few knots of men stood firm as the Aquilonian cavalry reached them and fought with stubborn ferocity, but they were ridden down and slain or scattered.
Conan found Publius in the crush and seized him by the shoulder, shouting in his ear. Unable to hear his commander above the uproar, the treasurer shrugged helplessly, pointing. At his feet lay the body of Conan's aide, which Publius was lifting from the rough boots of the fleeing soldiery. Alaricus's horse had disappeared.
With an angry bellow, Conan dispersed the crowd around him by striking about with the flat of his blade. Then he hoisted Alaricus to his shoulder and headed southward at I ing trot. The stout Publius ran puffing beside him. Not far behind, the Aquilonian cavalry clambered out of the river to pursue the retreating rebels. They enveloped the line of wains drawn up along the shore, awaiting their turn to breast the flood.
Further inland, some of the teamsters managed to turn their clumsy carts and lashed their oxen into shambling back towards the safety of the hills. The road south was littered with fleeing men, while hundreds of others darted off into the meadows to lose themselves in the sheltering woods.
Since the day was young and the Aquilonian forces fresh, Conan's division faced annihilation at the hands of their well-mounted pursuers. But here occurred a check-not a great one, but enough to give the fugitives some small advantage. The Aquilonians who had surrounded the supply wagons, instead of pushing on, pulled up to loot the vehicles, despite the shouted commands of their officers. Hearing them, Conan panted:
'Publius! Where's the pay chest?'
'I - know - not,' gasped the treasurer. '’twas in one of the last wains, so perchance it escaped the wreck. I — can — run no further. Go on, Conan.'
'Don't be a fool!' snarled Conan. 'I need a man who can reckon sums, and my young mealsack here regains his wits.'
As Conan set down his burden, Alaricus opened his eyes and groaned. Conan, hastily examining him for wounds, found none. The captain, it transpired, had been stunned by a crossbow bolt, which merely grazed his head and dented liis helmet. Conan hauled him to his feet.
'I've carried you, my lad,' said the Cimmerian. Now 'tis your turn to help me carry our fat friend.'
Soon the three set out again for the safety of the hills, Publius staggering between the other two with an arm about the neck of each. Rain began to fall, gently at first and then in torrents.
The winds of misfortune blew cold on Conan's head that night as he sat in a hollow of the Rabirian Mountains. The day was plainly lost, his men dispersed - those who had survived the battle and the bloody vengeance meted out by the royalist general and his searching parties. In a few hours it seemed, their very cause had foundered, sunk in the muddy, bloodstained waters of the River Alimane.
Here in a rocky hollow, hidden amid oak and pine, Conan, Publius and five score other rebels waited out the dark and hopeless night. The refugees were a mixed lot: renegade Aquilonian knights, staunch yeomen, armed outlaws and soldiers of fortune. Some were hurt, though few mortally, and many hearts pounded drumbeats of despair.
The legions of Amulius Procas, Conan knew, were sniffing through the hills, bent on slaughtering every survivor. The victorious Aquilonian evidently meant to smash the rebellion for all time by dealing speedy death to every rebel he could catch. Conan grudgingly gave the veteran commander credit for his plan. Had Conan been in Amulius Procas's place, he would have followed much the same course.
Sunk in silent gloom, Conan fretted over the fate of Prospero and Trocero. Prospero was to have feinted at the ford of Nogara, drawing thither the bulk of Procas's troops, so that Conan and Trocero should have only minor contingents of crossing guards to contend with. Instead, Procas's massed warriors had erupted out of concealment when Conan's van, waist-deep in the Alimane, was at a hopeless disadvantage. Conan wondered how Procas had so cleverly divined the rebels' plans.
Gathered around their fugitive leader, in the lonely dark, huddled men who had been soaked by rain and river. They did not light a fire lest it become a beacon guiding forces to their destruction. The coughs and sneezes of the fugitives tolled the knell of their hopes. When someone cursed the weather, Conan growled:
'Thank your gods for that rain! Had the day been fair, Procas would have butchered the lot of us. No fire!' he barked at a soldier who tried to strike a light with flint an
d steel. 'Would you draw Procas's hounds upon us? How many aic we? Sound off, but softly. Count them, Publius.'
Men responded 'Here! 'Here!' while Publius kept track with his fingers. When the last 'Here!' had been heard, he said:
'One hundred thirteen, General, not counting ourselves.'
Conan grunted. Brightly though the lust for revenge burned in his barbarian heart, it seemed impossible that such a paltry number could form the nucleus of another army. While he put up a bold front before his rebel remnant, the vulture of despondency clawed at his weary flesh.
He set out sentries, and during the night exhausted men, guided by these sentinels, stumbled into the hollow in ones mul twos and threes. Towards midnight came Dexitheus, the priest of Mitra, limping along on an improvised crutch, leaning heavily on the arm of the sentry who guided him and wincing with the pain of a wrenched ankle.
Now there were nearly twice a hundred fugitives, some Bravely wounded, gathered in the hollow. The Mitraist priest, despite the pain of his own injury, set to work to tend the wounded, drawing arrows from limbs and bandaging wounds lor hours, until Conan brusquely commanded him to rest.
The camp was rude, its comforts primitive; and, Conan knew, the rebels had little chance of seeing another nightfall. But at least they were alive, most still bore arms, and many could put up a savage fight if Procas should discover their hiding place. And so, at last, Conan slept.
Dawn mounted a sky where clouds were breaking up and dwindling, leaving a clear blue vault. Conan was awakened by the subdued chatter of many armed men. The newcomers were Prospero and his diversionary detachment, five hundred ' strong.
'Prospero!' cried Conan, struggling to his feet to clasp his friend in a mighty embrace. Then he led the officer aside and spoke in a low voice, lest ill tidings should further depress! the spirits of the men. 'Thank Mitra! How went your day? I How did you find us? What of Trocero?'
'One at a time, General,' said Prospero, catching his breath. I We found naught but a few crossing guards at Nogara, and! they fled before us. For a whole day, we marched in circles, blew trumpets and beat drums, but no royalists could we I draw to the ford. Thinking this strange, I sent a galloper I downstream to Tunais. He reported hard fight there, with Trocero's division in retreat. Then a fugitive from your I command fell in with us and spoke of your disaster. So, not I wishing my small force to be caught between the millstones I of two enemy divisions, I fell back into the uplands. There, other runagates told us of the direction they had seen you take. Now, what of you?'
The Conan Chronology Page 597