The sorcerer turned to his servant, the inscrutable slit-eyed one who had followed him from lands beyond the seas. 'Hsiao, prepare my chariot and gather the necessaries for our journey. We shall depart upon the morrow.'
Bowing, the man withdrew. Turning to Alcina, Thulandra Thuu continued: 'Since the spirits of the air have well
defied me, I shall discover what the spirits of the earth
will do to aid my cause. And you, good wench, I leave here
as my deputy.'
'Me? No, Master; I lack the skills to take your place.' 'I will instruct you. First, you will learn to use the Mirror
of Ptahmesu to commune with me.'
'But we are without the necessary talisman
'I can project images by the propellant power of my mind,
though you could not. Come, we have no time to waste,'
From the royal paddocks Hsiao led out the single horse that drew his master's carriage. To a casual observer, the animal appeared to be a large black stallion; but a closer inspection of its hide revealed a strange, metallic sheen. The I east, moreover, neither pawed the ground nor lashed its tail at flies. In fact, no flies alighted on it, although the stable yard buzzed with their myriad wings. The stallion stood quiescent until Hsiao uttered a command unintelligible to ;my who might hear it; then the creature obeyed him instantly.
Hsiao now led the ebon stallion to the carriage house and backed it into the stall where stood Thulandra's chariot. When a careless hoof struck against one of the lowered carriage shafts, a metallic ring reverberated through the silent
air.
The vehicle, a boxlike two-wheeled cart, lacquered in vermilion and emblazon with a frieze of writhing serpents worked in gold, was furnished with a seat across the back. A pair of carven posts, up-thrust on either side, supported an arched wooden frame, covered with canvas. No ordinary cover this; it was embroidered with strange symbols beyond the ken of all who gazed upon it, save that the astute among them might discern the likeness of the moon and the major constellations of the southern hemisphere.
Into the chest beneath the seat of this singular vehicle, Hsiao placed all manner of supplies, and on the broad expanse above, he piled silken cushions in, profusion. And as he
worked, he hummed a plaintive song of Khitai, full of curious quarter-tones.
Conan and Trocero watched the sheeting rain from the governor's mansion. At length Conan growled: 'I knew not that your country lay at the bottom of an inland sea, my lord.'
The count shook his head. 'Never in half a century of living have I seen a storm of such intensity. Naught but sorcery could account for it. Think you Thulandra Thuu-'
Conan clapped his companion on the shoulder. 'You Aquilonians see magic lurking in every passing shadow! If you stub your toe, it's Thulandra's doing. In my dealings with these wizards, I've seldom found them so formidable as they would wish us to believe . . , Aye, Prospero?' he added, as the officer bustled in.
'The scouts have returned, General, and report all roads are utterly impassable. Even the smallest creeks are bursting into raging torrents. It were useless to send the column forward; they'd not advance a league beyond the city.'
Conan cursed. 'Your suspicion of that he-witch in Tarantia begins to carry weight, Trocero.'
'And we have visitors,' continued Prospero. The northern barons, who set out for home before we reached Culario, have been overtaken by the storm and forced to return hither.'
A smile illumined Conan's dark, scarred face. Thank Crom, good news at last! Show them in.'
Prospero ushered in five men hi damp woollen travelling garments of good quality, mud-splattered from top to booted toe. Trocero presented the Baron Roaldo of Imirus, whose demesne lay in northern Poitain. A former officer in the royal army, this hardy, grey-haired noble had guided the other barons and their escorts to Culario and now introduced them to the Cimmerian.
Conan judged the lordlings to be men of divers characters: one stout, red-faced and full of boisterous good humour; another slim and elegant; still another fat and obviously privy to the pleasures of the table and the jug; and two of sombre mien and given to few words. Differing though they will among themselves, all heartily supported the rebellion; for their tempers were rubbed raw by Numedides's grasping tax collectors, and their ancient pride affronted by the royal hoops stationed on their demesnes to wrest a yearly tribute from landowner and peasant. They avidly desired the down-fall of the tyrant, and their questing gaze sought to discover Numedides's successor, so they might court their future monarch's favour.
After the barons had rested and donned fresh raiment, Conan and his friends heard their tally of complaints and drew out their hidden hopes. Conan promised little, but his sympathetic demeanour left each with the impression that, in a new regime, he would occupy a position of importance.
'Be warned, my lords,' said Conan, 'Ulric, Count of Kaman, will move his troops across your lands as he travels .south to confront our rebel army.'
'What troops does that greybeard count command?' snorted l!;iron Roaldo. 'A ragtail lot, I'll warrant. The Cimmerian frontier has long been peaceful and needs but a weak force to keep it safe.'
'Not so,' replied the Count of Poitain. 'I am informed that the Army of the North is nearly up to strength and boasts veterans of many a border clash. Indeed, Raman himself is , master strategist who escaped from the sack of Venarium, many years ago.'
Conan smiled grimly. As a stripling, he had joined the wild Cimmerian horde that plundered Fort Venarium, but of this he made no mention. Instead, he told the northern barons:
'Numedides will, I doubt not, send troops from the Westermarck; and being nearer, they will arrive the sooner. You must harry these northern contingents in a delaying action, at least until we rout the Bossonian royalists.'
Count Trocero eyed the barons keenly. 'Canst raise a fighting force without alerting the king's men stationed amongst you?'
Said Baron Ammian of Ronda: Those human grass-hoppers swarm only at harvest time to consume the fruit of our labours. They'll not arrive, the gods willing, for another month or two.'
'Hut argued the fat Baron Justin of Armavir, 'such a conflict, waged on our lands, will ruin both our purses and our people. Perchance we can delay Sir Ulric, but only till he burns our fields, scatters our folk and wrecks vengeance on our persons.'
'If General Conan fails to take Tarantia, we are beggared in any case,' countered the hard-featured Roaldo. 'Word will soon reach the tyrant's spies that we have joined the rebel cause. Better to game for a golden eagle than for a copper penny.'
'He speaks sooth,' said Ammian of Ronda. 'Unless we topple the tyrant, we shall all have our necks either lengthened or shortened, no matter what we do. So let us dare the hazard, and from encompassing dangers boldly pluck our safety!'
At last the five agreed, some with enthusiasm, others doubtfully. And so it was decided that, as soon as the weather cleared, the barons would hasten northward to their baronies, like chaff blown before an oncoming storm, to harass Count Ulric's Army of the North when it sought passage through their property.
After the barons had retired for the night, Prospero asked Conan: 'Think you they will arrive in time?'
'For that matter,' added Trocero, 'will they hold true to their new alliance, if Numedides strews our path with steel or if Tarantia stands firm against us?'
Conan shrugged. 'I am no prophet. The gods alone can read the hearts of men.'
The sorcerer's chariot rumbled through the streets of Tarantia, with Hsiao, legs braced against the floorboards, gripping the reins and Thulandra Thuu in hooded cloak seated on the pillow-padded bench. Citizens who remarked the vehicle's approach turned away their faces. To meet the dark sorcerer's eyes might focus his attention, and all deemed
expedient to escape the magician's notice. For none there was who failed to hear rumours of his black experiments and ales of missing maidens.
The great bronze portals of the South Gate swung open at
the vehicle's approach and closed behind it. Along the open country road, the strange steed paced at twice the speed ordinary horseflesh, while the chariot bounced and swayed, railing a thin plume of dust. More than forty leagues of white road unrolled with every passing day; and neither heat, nor rain, nor gloom of night stayed the iron stallion from its appointed task. When Hsiao wearied, his master grasped the reins. During these periods of rest, the yellow man devoured cold meats and snatched a spell of fitful sleep. Whether his master ever closed his eyes, Hsiao knew not.
After following the east bank of the River Khorotas for several days, Thulandra Thuu's chariot neared the great bridge that King Vilerus I had flung across the river. Here the Road of Kings, after swinging around two serpentine I tends in the river, rejoined the stream and promptly crossed it to the western bank. The bridge, upraised on six stone piers that towered up from the river bed, was furnished with a wooden deck and a steeply sloping ramp on either end.
At the sight of the emblazoned chariot, the toll taker bowed low and waved the carriage through; and as the vehicle ascended to the deck, Thulandra scanned the countryside. When he perceived a cloud of dust, swirling aloft from the road ahead, a meagre smile of satisfaction creased his saturnine visage. If the pounding hooves of Prince Numitor's cavalry roiled the loose soil and bore it skyward, his careful calculations of time and distance had been correct. They would meet where the Bossonian Road conjoined with the highway to Poitain.
The chariot thundered down the western ramp and continued southward, and within the hour Thulandra overtook a column of horsemen. As the painted chariot neared, a trooper at the column's tail recognised the vehicle. When word ran up the ranks, the cavalrymen hastily pulled their mounts aside, leaving an unobstructed path, for the royal sorcerer. The horses shied and danced as the black metallic steed sped past, and the milling remounts and frightened pack animals reared and plunged and much discomfited their handlers.
At the head of the column, the magician found Prince Numitor astride a massive gelding. Like his royal cousin the king, the prince was a man of heavy build, with a reddish tinge to hair and beard. Otherwise he presented quite a different aspect; guileless blue eyes graced a broad-browed, sun-browned face that bore the stamp of easy-going geniality.
'Why, Mage Thulandra!' exclaimed Numitor in amazement, when Hsiao reined in his singular steed. 'What brings you hither? Do you bear some urgent message from the king?'
'Prince Numitor, you will require my sorcerous arts to check the rebels' northward march.'
The prince's eyes clouded with perplexity. 'I like not magic in my warfare; it's not a manly way to fight. But if my royal cousin sent you, I must make the best of it.'
A glint of malice flared up in the sorcerer's hooded eyes. 'I speak for the true ruler of Aquilonia,' he said. 'And my commands must be obeyed. If we proceed with haste, we can reach the Imirian Escarpment before the rebels. Are these two regiments of horse all that you bring with you?'
'Nay, four regiments of foot follow. They have not yet reached the junction of the Bossonian Road with this.'
'None too many, although we face naught but a rabble of undisciplined rogues. If we can hold them below the cliff wall until Count Ulric arrives, we shall pluck their fangs. When we attain the crest of the escarpment, I wish you to ; detail five of your men - experienced hunters all - for a certain task.'
What task is that, sir?'
'Of this I shall inform you later. Suffice it to say that skilled woodsmen are necessary to the spell I have in mind.'
At last the rain ceased in Culario. The northern barons and their entourage slogged along the muddy road, where vapour
M earned from puddles drying in the summer sun. Shortly thereafter, the Army of Liberation set out upon the same highway, leading northward to the central provinces and thence to proud Tarantia on the far bank of the Khorotas.
At every town and hamlet that they passed, the legions of the Liberator were infused with new recruits: old knights, eager to take part in one last glorious affray; battle-battered ex-soldiers who had served with Conan on the Pictish frontier; lean foresters and huntsmen who saw in Conan a nature-lover like themselves; outlaws and exiles, drawn by the promise of amnesty for those who fought beneath the Golden Lion; yeomen, tradesmen and mechanics; wood--utters, charcoal burners, smiths, masons, pavers, weavers, fullers, minstrels, clerks-all hard-eyed men eager to adventure in the army of the Liberator. They so drained the armoury of weapons that Conan at last insisted each recruit come already armed, if only with a woodsman's axe.
Conan and his officers plunged into the arduous task of welding these eager volunteers into some semblance of a military force. They told the men off into squads and companies and appointed sergeants and captains from those experienced in war. During halts, these new officers exercised their road-weary men in simple drills; for, as Conan warned them:
'Without constant practice, a horde of raw recruits like these dissolve into a mass of shrieking fugitives when the first blood is shed.'
Between the farm lands of southern Poitain and the Imirian Escarpment stretched the great Brocellian Forest, through which the highway glided like a serpent amid a bed of ferns. As the rebels neared the forest, the songs of the Poitanian volunteers diminished. More and more, Conan noted, the recruits tramped along in glum silence, apprehensively eyeing the overarching foliage.
'What ails them?' Conan asked Trocero as they sat of an evening in the command tent. 'Anyone would think these woods writhed with venomous serpents.'
The grey-haired count smiled indulgently. 'We have only
the common viper in Poitain, and few of those. But the folk hereabouts are full of peasant superstitions, holding the forest to harbour supernatural beings who may work magic on them. Such beliefs are not without advantage; they preserve a splendid hunting ground for my barons and my friends.'
Conan grunted. 'Once we scale the escarpment and gain the Imirian Plateau, they'll doubtless find some new hobgoblin to obsess them. I have not seen this part of Aquilonia before, but by my reckoning the cliff wall rises less than a day's march ahead. How runs the pass to the plateau?'
'There's a deep cleft in the cliff, where the turbulent Bitaxa River, a tributary of the Alimane, cascades across the wall of rock. The road, winding upward to the plateau, is borne upon a rock ledge thrust out from one side of the cleft. The gorge below-which we call the Giant's Notch-is slippery, steep, and narrow. An evil place to meet a cliff-top foe! Pray to your Crom that Numitor's Frontiersmen do not reach the Notch ahead of us.'
'Crom cares but little for the prayers of men,' said Conan, 'or so they told me when I was a boy. He breathes into each mortal man the strength to face his enemies; and that's all a man can reasonably ask of gods, who have their own concerns. But we must not risk attack in this murderous trap. Tomorrow at dawn, take a strong party of mounted scouts to reconnoitre the escarpment.'
Publius waddled in, arms full of ledgers, and Trocero left Conan studying the inventory of supplies. The count sought out the tents of his Poitanian horsemen and chose from amongst them forty skilled swordsmen for the morrow's reconnaissance.
The Giant's Notch loomed high above Trocero's company, its beetling cliffs hiding black wells of darkness from the midday sun. The count and his scouts sat their saddles, staring upward at the crest, searching in vain for the tell-tale sparkle of sunlight on armour. Neither could they observe upon the elevation the smoke of any camp-fires. At length Trocero said:
'We shall circle round the woods and meet again upon the road, a quarter-league back, where a high rock ledge overhangs the forest path. Vopisco, take your half of the detachment east and meet me thither within the hour. I shall go westward.'
The detachment divided, and the horsemen forced their mounts through the dense foliage that spilled out into the road. Once past this obstacle, they encountered little under-brush beneath the thick trunks of the virgin oaks.
For a short while Trocero's party rode in silence, thei
r horses' hooves soundless on the thick carpet of mouldering leaves. Suddenly the forester in the lead flung up a hand, turned in his saddle, and murmured: 'Men ahead, my lord. Mounted, I think.'
The troop drew together, the men tense and apprehensive, their horses motionless. Through the shadowed ranks of trees Trocero's eyes detected a disquieting movement; his ears, a mutter of strange voices.
'Swords!' whispered the count. prepare to charge, but strike not till I command. We know not whether they be friend or foe.'
Twenty swords hissed from their scabbards, as the riders eased their beasts to right or left, until they formed a line among the trees. The voices waxed louder, and a group of horsemen sprang into view beyond the rugged boles of immemorial oaks. His upraised sword a pointing finger, Trocero signalled the attack.
Weaving around the trees, the score of Poitanians rode at the strangers. In a few heartbeats they came within plain sight of them.
'Yield!' shouted Trocero, then reined his horse in blank amazement. The animal reared, eyes rolling, forelegs pawing the insubstantial air.
Five mounted men, unarmoured but wearing white surcoats adorned with the black eagle of Aquilonia, paused to stare. All but one led captive creatures by cruel ropes noosed tightly about their necks. The captives - three males and female - were no larger than half-grown children, their nakedness partly veiled by a thin coat of fawn-like, light-brown fur. Above each snub-nosed, humanoid face rose a pair of pointed ears. When their captors dropped the leashing ropes to draw their swords, and the freed creatures turned to run, Trocero saw each bore a short, furry tail, like that of a deer, white on the underside.
The leader of the Aquilonians, recovering his composure, shouted an order to his men. Instantly, they spurred their mounts and charged.
'Kill them!' cried Trocero.
The Conan Chronology Page 605