"Juma! 'Tis long I have waited to see you!" Setting down his water buckets, Conan strode to the uprising trooper and embraced him roughly.
"How have you fared, old friend?"
"Busily, with your command as well as my own to look after!" Juma
grinned and held his friend away at arm's length. "But 'tis good to see you striding so boldly, Conan. Even in a woman's wrap"―the Kushite's smirk was tolerant―"you look ten times the man who came crawling from the jungle a fortnight ago."
"Aye." Conan nodded good-naturedly, setting his buckets down by the fire-ring. "The trek from the ruined shrine was hellish hard, though it would have been less than an hour's jog for a healthy man." Moving to the porch, he dropped his sarong on the matting and walked onward to the door, unabashedly naked. "Have you heard the tale? I could not make the thrice-blasted elephant carry me any farther than the ruins." He took his leather sword-breeks from inside the hut door, stepped into them, and buckled them across the flat of his belly. "I had to throw myself down from the creature's back while he nuzzled and slobbered at the ancient carvings.
Lucky it is that I found my way back to the fort." Returning to the fireplace, he settled down on a stone beside the ashes.
"To find you here, after ransacking the taverns and brothels of Tarqheba and giving you up for dead…!" Juma shook his head, squinting in dubiety. "Still, Conan, I would think your story of the elephant as mad as your other ravings of those first days, if I did not know that one of the beasts had saved you before."
"No, his account is to be believed." Sariya, coming from the garden with an armful of melons and tubers, laid them on a flat stone and began washing them from a bucket. "The long-nosed ones' friendship with mankind is based on mutual respect. They have their gods and customs, and were themselves worshiped by humans in Venjipur's past centuries.
Sometimes they aid one who honors the ancient faith, as you have seen."
"My mate is steeped in the ancient mysteries," Conan said. He began tenting tinder and dry twigs together from separate covered baskets to build a fire. "If I did not know her so… personally, I would think her a sorceress."
"She must have some magic about her, to have brought you back from gasping death two times now." Juma looked from his host to his hostess with simple frankness. "Even your much-boasted barbaric fitness could not have pulled you through those scrapes all by itself."
Sariya did not meet Juma's gaze, but spoke with a veiled smile. "My training as priestess of Sigtona was to care for the sick with medicinal
herbs, as well as prayers and rituals." She knelt beside Conan as he struck the flint and cupped his hands to blow the faint spark to life. "But my talents would have meant little without you and Babrak to guard Conan and restrain him during his fevers."
Juma nodded. "Aye, 'twas worse than the last time. Even bound hand and foot, your lover was no kitten in his fits of lotus-craving!" He shook his head in grim recollection. "But your herb concoctions helped to soothe him even then, Sariya. If he is truly free of the drug, then he is living, breathing proof of your wizardry!"
Conan, alerted by their talk, had been scanning the surroundings of the hut as he stoked the flames to crackling vigor. Now he arose and walked near Juma, reaching up to the ragged thatching. "Did you bring this?" he asked, taking down a small, leaf-wrapped packet that dangled from the eaves.
"No, I did not. Is it one of Sariya's fetishes?"
Conan shook his head, unwrapping the dry, papery leaves. He sniffed their contents cautiously, his nostrils flaring at their pungency. Frowning, he strode to the fire and threw the packet in, stepping away briskly to avoid the pale smoke that went feathering skyward.
"Lotus," he told Juma, walking over to take a seat beside him. "Left for me by a well-wisher―Phang Loon's agent, no doubt. I find such presents about the place frequently. But no matter." He shrugged, his face shaded by some faint cloud of memory. "I will catch the scoundrel someday." He smiled and reached around to clap a hand on Juma's broad back. " 'Tis as good to see you well, old friend, as to be well myself! Tell me, what is the news from the fort?"
Juma kept silent a moment. He watched Sariya's knife flash, as, kneeling gracefully before a plank, she sectioned the tubers. Then he spoke. "You are the news, Conan. But I did not want to tell you until I was certain you were fit to hear it. You have been recalled to Aghrapur." He continued watching Sariya, whose knife paused in midair. "Not for punishment, though; and not permanently, I am told. The dispatch says they want to proclaim you a hero and pin a bauble to your turban in a public ceremony. The order is signed by Staff General Abolhassan, issued in the name of the emperor himself."
"Proclaim me hero… Yildiz himself." Conan sat inert a moment, watching the middle distance. Then he stirred where he sat, restlessly.
Then he swung back his arm and dealt Juma a clap on the shoulder that sent the big man rocking forward, choking and sputtering.
"A hero, by Crom! Now I will have some say around here!" Conan swung to his feet with an effortlessness that remembered no spear-wound.
"Now I will hound Phang Loon to the gallows, and keep the weak-livered Jefar Sharif from playing hob with our war! I will advance to the rank of Staff General myself! Hmm, Abolhassan, I have heard that name before… but no matter! Sariya, I will keep you in noble style and dress you in costlier, scantier garb!" He strode to meet her uprising form and clasp her in a smothering embrace.
"This is a great day for us all!"
"A day of peril, you mean." Still clearing his throat, Juma arose to lean against a bamboo pillar. In response to the others' surprised looks, he frowned more sternly. "In my view, Conan, 'twould be hard to imagine a greater catastrophe befalling you! Now you are exposed, and exposure in war means danger." The burly black grimaced with unease that would have been difficult to feign. "Bethink yourself, Conan―'twould be safer to lead the point of a light infantry phalanx against archers, cavalry, and fire-throwing elephants. But above all, since you may not be able to squirm out of it, this threat calls for caution―if your wild northern nature includes such a trait!"
"Juma, why rave so?" Conan moved toward his friend, drawing Sariya along at his side in an enfolding arm. "Who am I supposed to be in such pallid fear of, anyway?"
"Why, the very ones you named before! Jefar Sharif, whom you nearly strangled, the warlord Phang Loon, the garrotes, and a dozen others right up to the emperor himself! Is there any Turanian you have not given cause to crave seeing your guts shredded? Can you not understand that for all these enemies, and for as many more imagined rivals, this proud distinction, this great honor our emperor seeks to bestow on you, ahem…"
Juma leaned against the pillar, gagging momentarily on his own bitter sarcasm, before he resumed. "Why, it lends urgency and purpose to all their old grudges! They must act swiftly to destroy you, before you unleash your newly empowered wrath on them!" The Kushite thrust himself from the pillar, striding the porch in agitation.
"Worse, it takes you away from your friends on a long, hazardous journey to hostile territory, the treacherous capital! And it leaves Sariya here in jeopardy…"
"Nay, she will travel with me! Won't you, love…?" Conan looked to the woman he clasped at his side, his speech trailing off at the sorrowful look she turned up to him.
"Oh, Conan, this is a great opportunity for you! You must not let me hold you back―but I cannot leave my duties here. There are sick villagers who need my care for weeks to come, and more needs that will arise later."
"Aye, I know," Conan sighed. "And your church school―as before, when I wanted you to come with me to the city."
"Yes, I must go on teaching the children."
"So that they can teach their parents, no doubt! Sometimes I wonder what it is that you teach them." He shook his head, loosening his grip on her shoulders. "The two of you surely know how to turn a triumph into a sorrow." He looked to Juma, who was sunk too deep in thought to heed his reproach. "But Sariya, will you be safe here without
me?"
"Yes." Gravely, the girl kissed Conan's shoulder, then knelt to resume her meal preparation. "As before, I can stay with families in the village.
They will watch out for me―hide me, if need be. But the rebels have not attacked near here lately."
"Nay." Conan moved heavily back to his place on the porch and sat down. "Nor have my enemies. But take care, girl; remember, the ancient shaman Mojurna tried to kill you once! Juma or Babrak can help watch over you if I go north alone." He turned to the Kushite. "And what of Babrak? I have not seen him in days." He tried to lighten their glum mood with a smile. "Is he still silent about his adventures in the city?"
"Aye. The code of Tarim forbids him to boast of his exploits with the softer sex." Juma grinned back heartily. "But he still looks as smug as the fox who ate the pheasant; the tavern matron must have been kind to him."
Continuing to speak in this light-hearted vein, they dined on the juicy yellow flesh of the melons and a spiced, sweet mash of boiled roots. Juma pitched in alongside host and hostess, content to eat a second breakfast
and stay on as bodyguard. After belching politely, Conan donned his tunic, turban, and weapons. Making a tearless parting with Sariya, he went to Fort Sikander.
He chose the main gate and the most frequented ways, striding with aggressive confidence in the day's mounting heat. After Juma's warnings, he was keenly aware of the looks every eye flashed at him―some friendly, a few of the watchers even stopping him to exchange pleasantries. But the majority eyed his passing with mute surprise, or with more veiled feelings.
As he passed the black, yawning tent-mouths, he fancied he could hear the feverish murmur of odds being laid for and against his survival.
Rounding the end of the palm-fringed staff barrack, he nodded a half salute to the guards, stepped up into the shade of the porch, and waited. A grunt from Captain Murad summoned him inside. He saw that Jefar Sharif was also seated in the dimness, busy having his cavalry boots polished by a kneeling lackey.
"Reporting for duty, sir!" He kept his tone blunt, avoiding any courtly flourishes, while praying to the god of fools that the sullen Sharif would keep his mouth closed. "I am fit for action."
"Good, Sergeant." The captain's voice was equally restrained. "We have fresh orders for you. You can take charge of the assigned troops at once, and march by noon."
Conan felt his throat clenching, yet he had to speak. "So… so soon, Captain? Aghrapur is many leagues away, it will take me time to prepare…"
"Aghrapur!" Jefiar Sharif's voice rang out from the corner of the room in wry amusement. "Nay, that order is not passed down yet. When it is, I will be pleased to accompany you north to the capital as your superior officer! But not just now; the order your captain refers to is a battle command."
"Aye, Sergeant." Gray-turbaned Murad finished scribbling on a stub of parchment and pushed it across his map-table, as if the Cimmerian could read it. "Our scouts have located an enemy camp at the base of the Durba Hills, here!" The captain kept his eyes on his stubby finger as it point at the stained, tattered map, refusing to look up and meet Conan's gaze. "A probative assault is ordered. You will command two companies of heavy
foot."
"Aye, barbarian!" Jefar's laugh scratched in Conan's already buzzing ears. "Here is a chance for you to earn the title of hero!"
Chapter 13
The Suicide Command
Battle surged along the jungle ridge, breaking in a shouting, red-foaming tide against low promontories of clanking shields. On all sides arrows flocked through air like swooping seabirds, while green, drooping fronds and flower-vines thrashed and toppled like sea-wrack, driven relentlessly by weapon-strokes and swirling attacks.
"Reform the square! You, trooper, move up and fill that gap! We must hold our formation at all costs―and keep advancing!"
Conan's shouts, already grating out hoarsely, were in this instance wasted; for the trooper he harangued tumbled to earth, plucking at an arrow lodged in the unarmored flesh of his calf. His commander muttered an oath; the rebel bowmen were loosing their arching shafts high overhead, or straight downward from the trees. They might spell the Turanians' end, Conan knew, unless the armored troop somehow managed to seize higher ground.
The Cimmerian himself strode forward to fill the embroiled gap, not bothering to pick up the fallen soldier or his shield. He drew and swung his yataghan swiftly to hack off a spearpoint that probed inside the marching square; then he slashed the arm of its owner, and the face of another knife-wielding Hwong who pressed dangerously close. Abruptly the shield-walls on either side of him closed once more against the yelling crowd of rebels, and Conan was swallowed back inside the scant breathing-space of the square formation.
"Keep up the advance, Turanians! Close ranks behind," his voice grated doggedly above the battle-din. "Ahead are ruins, where we can hold off these monkeys until the tolling of Set's black doom! Steady, men, and forward!"
Fluidity was an advantage of the moving formation, even among the obstructing tree-boles and jungle shrubs; another boon was the chance of
escaping the most concentrated arrowfire. Conan tried not to dwell on the sole disadvantage of movement: the brutal choice it called for, whether to drag their wounded with them or leave them behind, mercifully slain as time permitted.
"Conan, what of our reinforcements?" Babrak jostled up behind his sergeant, keeping his eye on the rear of the formation, which was his own newly designated command. "If we march too far through this jungle, will they be able to find us?"
"Reinforcements! Two hundred Venji Imperials…!" Conan's laugh was bitter, his voice low to keep from spreading bad morale. "Even if our courier reaches them, I would be surprised to see them come running to our aid. Methinks whoever assigned us such a paltry reserve was the same fool who under-reckoned the number of our foes by forty score!" He stepped forward, swinging his sword to cut down a fallen rebel who appeared to be stirring and groping for a weapon underfoot; after wiping his blade clean on the man's bright green sash, he veered back to Babrak's side. "Nay, if we survive, 'twill be by our own grit and discipline! Then I shall have a word to say about it to our commanders." His voice abruptly swelled above the yells and moans to a raw shout, a battle cry to cover his own gloom. "Fight on, Turanians! Know you, each man of you is worth ten of these howling rebels!"
His cry raised but scattered, breathless shouts in answer. True, an armored infantryman, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder in line, might account for ten naked attackers and more. But as every veteran trooper knew, once their formation broke up into a disorganized retreat through the forest, their armor would slow them fatally, making them easy prey for their jungle-swift foes. So they braved the sleets of arrows and the yelling hordes, hacking their way onward along the crest toward the brushy jumble of stones and tents that had been pointed out from the hilltop as their objective.
"Ahead, sir, lies the gate of the ruined town!" Babrak muttered in his commander's ear. "See there, the wall is but a brushy hillock! Thank Tarim they have not repaired the defenses! But who is that, standing atop the broken tower?"
Conan followed Babrak's pointing finger, shading his eyes to pinpoint a figure stooping beneath a long cloak bright with colored feathers. Leaning on a tall stave, whose upper end terminated in a familiar, glinting sphere,
the ancient-seeming one glared down at the battle a long moment before yielding to the insistent tugs of two half-visible rebels behind him. Then he shuffled down out of sight beyond the gap-toothed battlement.
"Mojurna! So this is where the devil has been lurking!" Conan clutched Babrak's shoulder, loosening his grip only after his friend's face registered real pain. "That was the old witch-man himself, high priest of all the Hwong; I have seen him before this! We must storm the camp without delay!"
"Aye, Sergeant―if you say so." Though disciplined enough not to show undue fear, the junior officer pressed close to offer his counsel. "Know you, Conan, there is a risk in breaking our square
amidst a superior enemy."
"A risk indeed, old friend; we must weigh it against the chance of winning this war with a single swordstroke!" Conan wasted no more time in deliberation. "Our best strength must go to the fore―you fight on my left, Babrak!" Raising his bloody yataghan high, he forced his rasping voice once again to a husky bellow. "Turanians, form a wedge! Follow me to take the camp! A year's extra pay to the man who slays the warlock Mojurna!"
Conan's shouts raised a furor among the embattled troops. Drawing fearful looks from some, blood-lusting shouts from others, the giant northerner strode swiftly to the center of the reforming line. "Kill Mojurna, troopers! Let no rebel live! For Tarim and Yildiz… charge!"
A threshing, slaying machine was then set in motion through the jungle. Swords hacked through flesh and foliage, spears plowed up their moist red tilth, and shields breasted the lashing jungle to part its green waves like the prow of a racing war-galley. The line chanted now as it moved―a deep, throaty song older than Tarim or the land of Turan itself, primal as a heartbeat, setting a savage rhythm for step and thrust, slash and shield-stroke. The Turanians' line moved faster than before, fast enough to keep the press of enemies ahead of them off balance and retreating, briskly enough to outrun attacks on their vulnerable rear and the worst of the arrowfire.
Conan, striding at the center of the human wedge, fought like an enraged demon. His sword slashed and thrust in a mad, blinding frenzy, stitching death across the ranks of faceless mortality that pressed up before him. Its remorseless metal trailed screams and bright ribbons of
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