by Roland Green
He hoped so. They had to beat down the fleeing tribesmen before their comrades below realized what was going on. If they came up to help, they could still catch Conan's men between two fires.
It was the fleeing tribesmen who were overwhelmed in the next few moments. Each of Conan's men fought like two, and although there were more tribesmen than the Cimmerian had reckoned, in the end that made no difference.
Conan had just found a moment to catch his breath and roughly clean his blades when more shouting broke out below. Mingled with the human cries were the frightened neighs and agonized death-screams of horses.
Again, some of those war cries were Turanian.
Conan had just time to think that this battle was growing mysteries when more fleeing tribesmen came in sight. These appeared to come from the valley below, and they seemed as eager to climb the hill as their comrades had been to descend.
Like their comrades, they outnumbered Conan's band even had it been at full strength. As Conan had seen at least one Afghuli lying dead or gravely hurt, that strength had to be less full than a captain could wish.
"Crom!" the Cimmerian swore. "These tribal lice won't let a man even stop to clean his sword."
Then he strode forward to strike the new foes, but leaped backward as arrows hailed about him, and one tore at his left forearm. The wound would slow him by nightfall, but the battle would not last that long, and he had fought all day with half a dozen such wounds.
The arrow did the Cimmerian no great hurt. What nearly ended his career was a dying Girumgi who had been lying directly behind the Cimmerian. As Conan retreated, he grabbed Conan's ankles and jerked. Most men might as well have tried to shift the Kezankian Mountains, but the tribesman was a large man with the strength of the dying, and he caught Conan off balance.
Conan toppled, lashing out as he did. His fist grazed the man's jaw, but his head did not graze a protruding rock. A skull less thick than the Cimmerian's would have cracked open. Even the Cimmerian saw flame-shot darkness—and then the dying Girumgi rolling on top of him, dagger thrusting for his throat.
It never reached its goal. Suddenly a slight figure stood behind the tribesman, and a gold-hilted sword descended like the wrath of Crom. The tribesman's skull split apart, and his dagger thudded harmlessly on Conan's chest.
By now the Cimmerian could focus his eyes well enough to recognize the swordsman.
"Khezal. By Erlik's helm, you are timely come!"
"You must be seriously hurt, my friend. Such courtly speech from you goes against nature."
"Would you like me to rise up and strangle you to prove otherwise?"
"Hardly. I might ask for some of those jewels—"
"From my share, perhaps. If you take any from the Afghulis' portion, I will drop you headfirst down a dry well and then bury you in camel dung!"
Khezal pretended to cringe, then turned his head to listen to a distant sound beyond the reach of Conan's ears. (They were still ringing, and his stomach was grateful for being nearly empty.)
"That's the sergeant who was besieging your runaway Afghulis," Khezal said.
"What is he doing here?"
"When I learn, you will be the first to know. But he just told me that he and his men have driven off the horses of the tribesmen in the valley, and are pursuing the fugitives on foot."
"Better them than me," Conan said. He tried to sit up, and the ground swayed only moderately.
"Ho, a litter for Captain Conan!" Khezal shouted.
"I've had worse hurts falling out of my cradle," the Cimmerian grumbled.
"That was not so far to fall as it will be now with you full-grown," Khezal said. He pushed the Cimmerian back down. The fact that the Turanian could do it and that Conan did not care to resist proved to Conan that perhaps he should leave the rest of the battle in Khezal's hands.
It was, after all, thoroughly won, even if it would be a while before he knew exactly how, What would take longer to discover, he feared, was whether this was the last battle of the quest into the Kezankian
Mountains—or, as he very much suspected, only the first of many.
That was too sobering a thought for a man with an aching head, so Conan found a comfortable position and waited for the litter.
Captain Muhbaras rode down the path from the gate to the Valley toward his quarters. He normally walked, the path being rather too steep for horses, and a warrior's dignity prohibited an ass.
Tonight, however, he would lose even more dignity by falling on his nose and perhaps rolling down the hill than he would be riding an ass. His legs had not felt so weak since the first time he did a dawn-to-sunset march with a full pack.
The Lady of the Mists had been appraising him as a man. This he now could no longer doubt. She had also been doing it in full view of Maidens who might be neither loyal nor discreet. Thus whatever was in the Lady's thoughts might already be no secret.
Having a sorceress contemplating one in such a manner could hardly end happily, even if one had no thought for one's personal honor. The tales were many and various about the fate of a witch's lover, but none of them held much hope of avoiding a harsh fate.
However, offending the Lady of the Mists held out no hope of safety for Muhbaras's men. He had risked them to save his honor once, and by a miracle or the whims of a sorceress who was yet a woman, he and they alike had escaped. This good fortune would not come a second time.
Muhbaras bore that thought as one might bear a wounded comrade at the end of a long day's battle, as he rode down the trail into shadows little relieved by the lanterns at the door of his quarters.
"So the Girumgi are at least toying with rebellion?" Conan asked.
"So it would seem," Khezal replied.
"One mystery solved," Conan grunted, and poured more wine into his cup.
"Are you sure—?" Khezal began.
"I am sure you did not learn war from Khadjar and your father to serve as my nurse," the Cimmerian growled. "My head barely aches. I see only what is held up in front of me. I have not spewed or fallen asleep."
"Which proves that Cimmerian heads really are harder than stone," Farad put in.
Conan threw up his hands in mock disgust. "Since my head is fit to hold thoughts, shall we think what to do next?"
The prisoner Conan had taken was from the Stone Clan of the Ekinari. The son of the chief of the Ekinari was sworn blood-brother to the chief of the Girumgi. This explained why Ekinari rode with Girumgi, but not altogether why they had not fought side by side.
"Even had you known the tribal speech, you could not have got from that man answers he did not know himself," Khezal went on. "Nor did it help matters that the rest of the Stone Clan or whoever were his comrades ran off as it fifty demons were at their heels."
"Demons, or perhaps all the surviving Girumgi," Farad said.
"Few enough of those, by Mitra's favor," Khezal said.
Being overconfident had brought better captains than Khezal to lonely graves, but Conan thought in this case the Turanian had the right of it. It seemed that Khezal was not the only one to march to the sound of Oman's battle.
The Greencloaks had been industriously besieging the fugitive Afghulis when the battle sounds rose. Convinced that the battle had to involve Conan coming to rescue them, the leader of the Afghulis called for a parley and offered truce terms.
The Afghulis would release all their hostages without ransom and return their weapons. In return, the Greencloaks would swear not to harm the Afghulis until they had fought and won against the common foe who was surely not far away.
The Greencloaks accepted this offer, and the truce was sworn to last until both sides were released from it by their respective captains. It seemed that the Greencloaks were as sure of Khezal's coming as the Afghulis were of Conan's, and also wished to join in battle under their beloved captain.
So Afghuli and Turanian rode out together, and made havoc in the rear of the tribesmen in the valley. They had a good plunder of weapons, horses
, and baggage, and the bodies of some fifty tribesmen were feeding the vultures. The new allies had lost no more than seven, and Conan could see the stone cairn where they lay in the light of a dung fire.
Khezal was still a man to ride with, more so than ever now that the wisdom of years and the experience of many battles had joined his native wits. It was as well to have such a comrade on a quest, particularly one that showed every sign of sprouting new mysteries as fast as the old ones were answered.
Conan had sworn to ride north to aid Khezal in the Kezankian Mountains, and he would not break that oath if all the tribes of the desert and all their intriguing chiefs and chiefs' sons stood in his path. But he would not expect to come back alive, either.
Ten
They were four days' ride north of the battle against the Girumgi. The Kezankian Mountains were peering over the northern horizon, with the eternal snowcaps of the higher peaks glinting pink at dawn and sunset. The breeze told of a world beyond the desert, at which Conan and the Afghulis rejoiced.
Khezal was less joyful, and thought he had cause, for all the Cimmerian's rough jests.
"Here we are, not far from the caravan routes," Conan said. "Yet you complain. There are wells for water, trees for shade, and even refuges for any of our men who fall ill or are taken by the sun. What do you want—dragons to fly us to the Kezankians in a trice?"
"I would rather bind them to seek out the mysteries in the mountains and bring us back word of what they learn," Khezal replied.
"Not slay the wizards outright?"
"I'd not wager a dragon's power against wizards fit to do the half of what the tales say has happened," Khezal said, with a shrug. "Besides, I'm of your mind about dealing with spellcasters. Don't play their games, but close and feed them an arm's length of steel."
Conan nodded his approval. "Then what ails you, my friend?"
"Riding into yet another mystery is what ails me, and don't pretend you are any the less uneasy in your mind about that. Also, we have slain two score Girumgi, and if they are not in rebellion against the king, they will surely call themselves at blood-feud with us."
"Hah. There will be few Girumgi left to rebel if they stand to face us. Moreover, as long as we face that battle, your folk and mine will be readier to forget that they ever so much as exchanged harsh looks."
Khezal looked back at the Afghuli riding in a compact knot behind Conan. Certainly some Turanians rode easily beside them, chatting as if they'd been comrades for years. Other Greencloaks, however, kept their distance and wore baleful looks. The Afghulis, in turn, kept a sharp lookout and their sword hands free.
"Speak for your own men, as no doubt you can," Khezal said. "I am sure of most of mine, but there is always one with a heritage of blood-feud or grief for a lost comrade who can ruin the best-planned discipline. I'll guard your back, Conan, but I can hardly promise that will be enough."
"You're a warrior, not a god," Conan said, slapping Khezal on the shoulder nearly hard enough to tumble the slight Turanian from the saddle. Khezal mock-glared, then turned his eyes forward once more.
"We'd best start looking for a campsite near water," he said, after a moment. "In the middle of the camp, would be my choice."
"How so?"
"See that haze on the horizon?" Conan followed the other's pointing finger and nodded. The horizon did indeed seem blurred, as might be after an evening's drinking.
Except that no one among the riders had touched wine for longer than it was pleasant to remember.
"Sandstorm?"
"I see you have not forgotten everything you learned in the Turanian service."
"No, although one of the things I did forget was your tongue. Some day Yezdigerd may have it out by the roots."
"And you'll stand drinks for the executioner, of course?" The brittleness in Khezal's voice told Conan more than he cared to know about the uneasy situation honest men could face under the ruthless young king.
"I'll wring his neck and snatch you to life and freedom," the Cimmerian replied. "But I won't expect thanks for it."
"You know me well," Khezal said. "And now, if you know this desert, let us seek that campsite. At this time of year it's death to ride in a sandstorm and no small risk even to camp in one away from water. They can blow for days at a time."
The wind moaned steadily outside Muhbaras's quarters, occasionally rising to a shriek. He shivered, not so much at the wind's cry but at the man sitting across the room from him.
Through the smoke from the bronze brazier Ermik's face looked even more complacent and self-satisfied than usual. It was hard to believe, but all the man's time in the mountains had not cost him any flesh. Muhbaras wondered how much money he had spent in bribes squeezing banquets from the rocks, or perhaps how many pack animals he had killed bringing supplies from more civilized lands or even from Khoraja itself.
The spy had come to speak of a rumor abroad in the valley. After three cups of Muhbaras's wine, he had yet to put it into plain words.
Muhbaras hardened his voice. "I ask you for the last time. Put a name to the rumor or hold your piece."
"And what will you do if I do neither?" Ermik taunted.
"Do you wish to test me to the point of learning?" Muhbaras said. His voice was low, and to his own ears, that of a man dangerously near the end of his patience.
Ermik shrugged. "I have as many friends as before, and you have as few," he said. "What I speak of concerns how we may both have more friends here."
"We will have few friends and many enemies if you have been roaming where our men are not allowed," Muhbaras said wearily. "That also remains as true as it was before."
Ermik shrugged. "I doubt that your fears are wise counselors—"
"Either do not call me a coward or be prepared to lose your tongue," Muhbaras snapped.
This time Ermik did seem to recognize danger, at least when it took the form of a man within a heartbeat of drawing steel. He bowed his head, in a gesture at once graceful and contemptuous.
"I beg your pardon. I do not call you coward. Do you not call me fool, unless I give more proof of it than I think I have so far."
Ermik drew in breath.
"The Maidens say that the Lady of the Mists desires you, as a woman does a man. They did not say how they knew this, as this no doubt is part of the mysteries of the Valley of the Mist and its Lady. But the Maiden who told me swore such oaths by gods I knew, as well as by those I knew not, that I do not doubt she spoke the truth as far as she apprehended it."
That was unusual care in choosing words for Ermik, but surprise did not make Muhbaras less alert. He folded his hands across one silk-trousered knee. (Actually he folded the hands across the homespun knee patch on the silk. The trousers and several other silk garments were a gift from his sister, who had died in childbirth two years ago. Hard wear on campaign and in the mountains was rapidly reducing them to a state in which Muhbaras would hardly care to be buried in them, for all his affection for his sister's memory.)
"So we face a sorceress who has begun to think with her loins, as do many common women. Many common women also command their loins, or at least do not roam about like starving she-lions in search of a man to serve them."
"Many do, the more fools they when there are any number of willing men," Ermik said. "But I do not think the Lady of the Mists is one of them."
If the truth be known, neither do I. Red-hot pincers and boiling oil could not have drawn from the captain a description of the Lady's face, for Ermik's delectation. Of course, if the Maidens were women enough to recognize desire, the spy might not need such a description, either…
"Why me?" Even to his own ears, Muhbaras's words sounded pathetic.
Ermik laughed outright. "Why not you? I have not a woman's eye for judging a man, but no doubt the Lady sees in you what she needs."
"Yes, but why me, if her need is for a man?"
"Who can know the truth of a woman's will? Of course, you may be right. If she does not care greatly
as to which man comes forward, I might—"
"No!"
"Jealous?"
This time Muhbaras actually rose from his stool, although he stopped short of drawing his sword. He sat down, shaking his head, while Ermik had at least had the decency not to laugh again.
"The whole idea of bedding the Lady is near-kin to madness," Muhbaras said, when he knew he could command his voice. "One does not know what will please Her Magicalness, nor what will displease her, nor what she will do to the man who displeases her.
"Also, she is not being wise in regard to her Maidens. You would not know how this seems, to one who has commanded soldiers in battle."
"You see the Lady as a captain over her Maiden soldiers?"
"Yes, and fighting a war to bring her magic to victory."
"That may be so," Ermik said. Without asking Muhbaras's leave, he went over to the wine jug resting in a stone crock half-filled with cold water. The captain noticed that the spy's hands were not entirely steady as he poured himself another cup, still less so when he drank it off in one gulp.
"It is so," Muhbaras said. "And one rule which wise captains obey is never to take pleasures that you forbid your men. Do you think Khoraja will profit from a mutiny among the Maidens that leads to war in the valley and the ruin of all our plans to bedevil Turan?"
"No," Ermik said. "Nor will our native city profit from a scorned woman turning against us and all our plans. How long do you think we would live if the Lady of the Mists hurled her magic against us?"
Muhbaras said that he doubted that a man could measure so short an interval of time. Ermik nodded.
"Then the Lady should not feel scorned, even if this will make the Maidens jealous. Then, we need not fear so greatly. Nor need we fear them at all if the man goes to the Lady discreetly."
"That certainly means the man cannot be you," Muhbaras said. Then he shut his mouth with a snap of teeth as he realized that he had walked into a cleverly baited trap.