With a wild yell the Cimmerian was on them, ensanguined steel slashing. Two corpses fell away from him as he dragged the small thief to his feet, dazed of eye and with scarlet rivulets streaming down his face. The net-bearers were coming once more, he saw, and Malak was barely able to stand, certainly in no shape to fight.
Muscles bulging in a massive shoulder and arm, Conan hurled his companion aside and leaped for the net. His hand closed on it, and he heaved. A surprised warrior was catapulted from his saddle to land atop the grid of thick ropes, tangling in it as he rolled. A club smashed into the Cimmerian’s back, staggering him, but he whirled, roaring, and drove his blade under iron breastplate.
There was no hope of escape. He knew that. Too many men crowded around him, striking with staves and clubs. Dust pounded up by dancing hooves coated his sweated body. The coppery stench of blood was in his nostrils, and his ears were filled with the din of men shouting their rage that he would not fall. Soon he must go down, but he would not surrender. His blade was a whirlwind of razor steel, encarnadining whatever it touched. By fury alone he hacked a way through the press of mounted men, but the mass swirled and enclosed him again.
Loudly the horn sounded, the brazen note slicing through the tumult. And the men who had crowded so about him drew back. With obvious reluctance they abandoned their silent dead and groaning wounded, galloping back to form once more their circle at three hundred paces’ distance.
In wonder Conan watched them go. Blood trickled in the dust on his face, and stained the back and chest of his tunic. Malak was gone, he saw. No, not gone. Captured. Netted, an arm and a leg sticking through the thick mesh, like a pig on its way to market. Regret coursed through the Cimmerian, and a determination not to end so.
Slowly he turned, attempting to keep an eye on all of those about him. Horses wandered riderless between the circle and him. He might seize one of those and fight his way clear, if he was willing to abandon Malak. He made no move toward a horse. Close to him there were bodies, some still, some twitching. A few cried out for succor, or stretched a hand toward the black-armored watchers.
“Come, then!” Conan shouted at the iron circle. “Let us finish it, an you have the stomach!” Here and there a horse moved as if its rider had shifted angrily, but only silence answered him.
The rattle of rocks sliding down the hill announced the arrival of the two who had remained on the hilltop. The big man in the gold-chased armor stopped at ten paces distance from the Cimmerian, but the leather-masked rider halved that before drawing rein. Conan set himself. He could make out little of the one who approached, for the mask covered all but eyes, and a cloak of black wool swathed all else, but if single combat was sought, Conan was ready.
The lone figure’s hands rose to remove the nasaled helmet. Then the mask came off, and the Cimmerian gasped despite himself. A woman faced him, dark eyes smouldering above high cheekbones, raven hair pinned in tight coils about her head. Beautiful she was, with the beauty that can only come to the woman who has left girlhood behind, but there was a fierceness to that beauty, in the firm set to her lovely jaw and the penetrating quality of her gaze. Her cloak was thrown back to reveal riding breeches and tunic of sable silk, clinging to every curve of full breast and rounded thigh. Conan drew a deep breath. Of all women, he had never expected to be confronted by this one.
“You are the one called Conan.” Her voice was sensuous, yet imperious.
Conan did not answer. That she had left her perfumed palace and bright gardens for the heat of the plains was surprise enough, but that she had come seeking him—and such he did not now doubt—was more than merely worrisome. Yet he had lived long enough among those who called themselves civilized and him barbarian to know some rules of survival among them. He would give no information until he knew more.
The mounted woman’s delicate brows drew down at his silence. “You know who I am, do you not?”
“You are Taramis,” Conan replied simply, and her frown deepened.
“Princess Taramis.” She emphasized the first word. His face lost none of its grimness, nor did his sword lower from its ready position. She was tall for a woman, and she drew herself up to the last hairsbreadth of her height. “I am the Princess Royal of Zamora. Tiridates, your king, is my brother.”
“Tiridates is not my king,” Conan said.
Taramis smiled as if she found herself back on a familiar path. “Yes,” she breathed. “You are a northlander, a barbarian, are you not? And a thief?”
Conan stiffened. It was all he could do not to check the encircling horsemen to see if some were drifting closer with their nets, yet he knew the true danger lay with the woman before him. “What do you want of me?” he demanded.
“Serve me, Conan the thief.”
He had had patrons of the moment before, those who gave him gold for a particular theft, and at that moment it seemed his alternative was to battle the remaining black-armored warriors. Yet perversity touched him. “No.”
“You refuse me?” Taramis said incredulously.
“I do not like being hunted like an animal. I am no wild boar to be netted.”
“I can give you wealth beyond your imaginings, titles and position. You could be a lord in a marble palace instead of a thief in squalid alleys.”
Conan shook his head slowly. “You have but one thing in your gift that I want, and I will not ask it of you.”
“Only one? What is that, barbar?”
“My freedom,” the Cimmerian smiled. It was the smile of a wolf at bay. “And that I will take myself.”
The dark-eyed Zamoran princess looked at him wonderingly. “Do you truly believe you can defeat all of my warriors?”
“Mayhap they can kill me, but that is freedom of another sort, to die rather than yield.”
Still staring, she spoke as if unaware that she did so. “The scrolls spoke truly.” Abruptly she shook herself. “I will have you in my service, Conan, and you will ask to enter it.”
The tall warrior in gold-chased armor spoke. “It is not seemly for you to bargain with his sort. Let me face him, and we will carry him back to Shadizar in a net like his accomplice.”
Without taking her eyes from Conan, Taramis gestured as if waving away a gnat. “Be silent, Bombatta.”
One hand she stretched toward the Cimmerian, palm out, fingers moving as if she palped something. The air seemed to stir across Conan’s broad chest, and he felt the hairs on his arms lift. He found he had taken a step back. Planting his feet, he firmed his grip on his sword hilt.
Taramis’ hand dropped, and her eyes went to the crude structure of stones he had built. “All men have a heart’s desire, something they would kill for, or die for.” From the neck of her tunic she drew a chain of delicate golden links from which depended a teardrop of clear crystal. The crystal she clasped tightly in her left hand, and her right pointed to the rough altar. “See now what is your seeking, Conan.”
From between her fingers closed about the crystal came a pulse of crimson light. Among the encircling warriors horses snorted nervously. Only Taramis’ mount was still, although with eyes rolling and flanks trembling. Once more came the flash, and again, and again, until an unceasing glow of purest vermilion shone from her fist.
Suddenly there were flames on the bare stone of the altar, and the warriors’ mounts danced and reared in terror. Had Conan sought to flee then, he would have found none opposing, for every rider’s whole energy was given to controlling his fear-struck animal, but the big Cimmerian did not even notice them. Among the flames lay a figure, a woman, long blonde hair arranged over her shoulders, firm-muscled body sleekly curved and unblemished.
He clamped his teeth on a name, and muttered instead, “Sorcery!”
“Aye, sorcery.” Taramis’ voice was soft, but it cut unnaturally through the terrified screaming of the horses. “Sorcery that can give you what you seek, Conan. Valeria.”
“She is dead,” Conan said roughly. “Dead, and there’s an end to it.�
��
“Is it an end, barbar?” Within the fires, the form’s head turned. Clear blue eyes gazed into Conan’s. The womanly shape sat up, held out a hand to the Cimmerian. “I can give her back to you,” Taramis said. “I can return her to this world.”
Conan snarled. “As a living corpse? I have encountered such. Better to remain dead.”
“No corpse, barbar. Warm flesh. Supple flesh. I can give her to you, and make her as you wish. Would you be certain of her devotion for all time? I can assure it. Would you have her crawl to your feet, worship you as a god? I—”
“No!” The Cimmerian’s breath was ragged in this throat. “She was a warrior. I will not have …” He let his hoarse words die.
“So you believe, now?” The dark-eyed woman gestured; the flames and Valeria’s image alike vanished, leaving bare, unscorched stone. About her neck the teardrop crystal hung clear once again. “I can do as I say.”
Slowly Conan’s sword lowered. He had no liking for sorcery, not even when practiced by those mages he knew to have no malign intent, and such were few indeed. But … a debt to be repaid. A life freely given in place of his. “Free Malak,” he said wearily.
Bombatta sneered. “Having cleaned the streets of Shadizar of a thief, you think we would loose the little scum? He is no use to anyone in this world.”
“One thief more or less will make no difference in Shadizar,” Conan said, “and he is a friend. Either he goes free, or our further talking will be done with steel.”
The huge warrior opened his mouth again, but Taramis silenced him with a look. “Free the little thief,” she said quietly.
Bombatta’s face was a tight mask of anger and frustration. Viciously he pulled his horse around and galloped to those who guarded the net-wrapped Malak. In moments the ropes had been cut and the wiry man was rolled out on the stony ground.
“They nearly broke my bones,” Malak called as he trotted toward Conan. “What was that with the fire? Why are we still ali—?” His eyes fell on Taramis and widened. “Aiiee!” He began to jerk fawning bows, all the while casting frantically questioning looks at the Cimmerian. “We are honest men, O most honored princess, no matter what you may have heard from lying tongues in Shadizar. We … hire ourselves out as … as caravan guards. Why, never have we taken so much as a pomegranate without payment. You must believe—”
“Begone, little man,” Taramis said, “before I tell you how much truth I know of you.”
Eying Conan doubtfully, Malak took a hesitant step toward their horses.
“We must part for a time,” Conan told him, “even as we did after the fight in the Inn of the Three Crowns. Go, and fare you well.”
With a last, helpless look at the surrounding guards, the small man darted for his mount.
When Malak had galloped out of sight over the hill—laying his quirt to his horse and staring back over his shoulder as if he still did not believe he was actually free to go—Conan turned back to Taramis. “What is it you wish me to do?” he asked.
“In good time, you will be told,” the beauteous woman replied. The smile that played on her lips was tinged with triumph. “For now, there are words I would hear from you.”
Conan did not hesitate. “I would enter your service, Taramis.” A debt must be repaid, whatever the cost.
III
Shadizar was a city of golden domes and alabaster spires thrusting toward the cerulean sky from the dust and stones of the Zamoran plain. Crystal pure fountains splashed among fig trees in shaded courtyards, and a glaring sun was reflected from gleaming white walls that sheltered dark cool within. Shadizar the Wicked was the city called, and a score more of names, each less complimentary than the last and all well-earned.
Within the great granite city walls pleasure was sought as avidly as gold, and one was oft exchanged for the other. Sleek lords licked their lips over quivering maidens as over pastries. Hot-eyed ladies stalked their prey like sinuous, sensuous cats. One nobly-born husband and wife, each committed to a life of fleshy delights not encompassing the other, were currently the butt of many jokes, for after intrigues and machinations too involved for recounting they discovered too late that each had managed to arrange an assignation with the other.
Yet if perversion and debauchery were the soul of Shadizar, it was trade that provided the gold to purchase them. From the far reaches of the world they knew came the caravans, from Turan and Corinthia, from Iranistan and Khoraja, from Koth and Shem. Pearls, silks and gold, ivory, perfumes and spices, all provided the music for the licentious pavane of the City of Ten Thousand Sins.
The streets of the city were crowded with commerce as Conan rode into the city with Taramis’ party of black-armored warriors. Rough-tunicked men carrying baskets of fruit dodged the whips of muleteers who drove their trains of braying beasts down streets lined with brightly striped shop awnings and tables displaying samples of the goods to be found within. Haughty, silk-clad nobles and fat merchants in somber velvets, leather-aproned apprentices and harlots wearing little but jingling girdles of coin, all dodged between the long-striding camels of caravans driven by dusty men of foreign mien and greedy eyes. From building to building the air was solid with the bleats and squawks of sheep and chickens bound for sale, the cries of peddlers and strumpets hawking their wares, beggars pleading and merchants bargaining. Over all hung a stench compounded of equal parts of spices, offal, perfume and sweat.
Taramis did not allow herself to be slowed by the congestion of the narrow streets. Half of her warriors drove a wedge before her, using the long clubs they still carried to beat aside those who were too slow to clear the way. The rest of the ebon-armored guards brought up the rear, with Conan and Taramis in the middle. And guards they were, the big Cimmerian thought, for all the talk that he had entered the noblewoman’s service. He bent from the saddle to scoop a fat pear from a fruitmonger’s cart and forced himself to sink into a lazy slouch as he rode, seemingly with no thought but eating the succulent fruit and staring at the crowds.
The teeming throngs of people were driven to the sides of the street, merchants and trulls, nobles and beggars crowded together, trampling blankets of trinkets displayed there, overturning tables before shops. Sullen faces stared at the procession. Bloody faces marked those who had been slow of foot. Most were silent, but the guards just ahead of Taramis shook their clubs at the onlookers and scattered shouts rose of “All hail to the Princess Taramis!” or “The gods’ blessings on Princess Taramis!”
Conan’s eye fell on a caravan forced into a side-street ahead. The lead camel, people jammed about its feet, jerked continually at the halter-rope held by a slim, dark-skinned man in a dirty turban. The camels behind, catching its feelings, grunted and shifted nervously.
As Conan rode past the caravan, he tossed aside the core of the pear. Right into the lead camel’s nose. With a wild bray the dusty gray beast reared, pulling its halter-rope from the turbaned man’s hand. For an instant it seemed not to realize that it was free. Then it bolted, with half a score more camels on its heels, straight through the column of black-armored warriors. The Cimmerian gave his horse its head, and it joined the stampede.
Shouts rose behind him, but Conan bent low over his saddle and let his horse gallop. Scattering peddlers and marketers, the knot of camels, with Conan in its center, rounded a slight bend in the street. The pursuit—there would certainly be pursuit—could not see him, but that shelter could last only moments. He threw himself from the saddle. A heavy blow caught him in the ribs as he rolled beneath the feet of the galloping camels. Then he was springing to his feet, leaping past a staring, open-mouthed tradesman to crouch behind a pile of tight-woven baskets. Hooves pounding the paving stones cleared the street again, and a score of grim-faced warriors in ebon armor thundered by, Bombatta at their head.
Slowly Conan straightened, hitching his swordbelt back into place as the horsemen disappeared down the street. He rubbed at the spot where the camel had kicked him. Camels were malicious beast
s, he thought. Not like horses. He had never been able to get along with camels. Abruptly he realized the basket weaver yet stared at him.
“Good baskets,” Conan told the man, “but not what I want.” The open-mouthed tradesman was still staring when he hurriedly crossed the street and ducked into a narrow alley that stank of urine and rotting garbage.
Down the pinched, twisting alleys the Cimmerian sped, cursing when his feet slid in the slick filth. Whenever he came to a street he paused only long enough to look for men in black nasaled helmets before darting across and into another alley. In a zig-zag pattern he made his way the breadth of Shadizar until, in the shadow of the southern wall of the city, he slipped through the back door of the tavern of Manetes.
The hall inside was dark and cool, though heavy with the smells of bad cooking. Serving girls gave the big Cimmerian startled glances as they hurried to and from the kitchens, for patrons did not ordinarily enter the tavern from the crooked alley behind. Nor did the tall young man with sword and dagger at his belt and blue ice in his eyes look like the usual patron.
In the common room muleteers and camel drivers and carters, outlanders for the most part, filled the tables, the odor of sweat and animals dueling with the smell of sour wine. Supple-hipped doxies in narrow strips of thin, brightly colored silk or less paraded their offerings between the tables scattered across the sand-covered floor. More than one jade eyed the broad-shouldered Cimmerian warmly; some, on the laps of men who had already crossed their palms with silver, earned growls and even cuffs, but the men saved their anger for the wenches. Even those who thought themselves fierce as mastiffs recognized the wolf in the massively muscled youth and directed their thoughts, and their anger, to others than him.
Conan was unaware of the stir he left behind him. Once he was sure the common room held no black-armored warriors he had no interest in who else was there. Swiftly he approached the bar where Manetes held sway.
Tall and thin to the point of boniness, the tavernkeeper’s dark eyes were set deep in a cadaverous face. The man’s starveling looks did not seem to hurt his custom, however, though Conan had never been able discern why.
Conan Chronicles 2 Page 42