Conan the Rebel

by Poul Anderson

  'I am not afraid!' he flared. 'I didn't have to come along.'

  'Nor did I. But then, Conan is my lord for... as long as he and Mitra will have it so. You, though, would be no coward, would instead, as Sakumbe and his men agreed to do.' 'For plunder! Do you liken me to those savages?' 'I think much more than greed is in their hearts, Falco. I think there is love for Bêlit and the shades of her parents, there is a wish to avenge the rape of their motherland.' Daris paused. 'As for you, you chose to follow Conan because in your heart also he has become your lord for whom you would gladly die. Is that not true?' Falco's knuckles whitened where he held his reins, but he made no reply.

  'Yet this journey has oppressed you more for each day that has passed,' Daris murmured. 'Why? If you would tell your friends, maybe they could help.'

  'Oh, Conan has burdens enough,' the youth blurted, 'and I scarcely know any Taians.'

  'You know me,' Daris said, and reached forth to touch his hand. 'Our comradeship has been short in time, aye, but must go deeper than most, after everything we have done together. Would you like to call on me? I see no more shame in crying for help from a sworn waymate when the soul is beset by devils, than when the flesh is ringed in by enemy swords.'

  Goaded, he turned on her and rasped, 'But you are the cause!' Her dark eyes widened, though the gold-skinned countenance showed compassion rather than surprise. 'In what way?' she responded low. 'Never wittingly or willingly, I swear.'

  'Oh, I – you -' Pride and need struggled inside him. His sunburnt cheeks grew redder still. 'Very well,' broke from him at last, in ragged words, while his own gaze roved everywhere except toward her. 'You came along, the only woman among us, and only for Conan's sake. I have not failed to see how your look is ever straying to him and lingering, how often you find excuses to speak with him, short-tempered though he has grown in this hell-country. Oh, I am not jealous, but you are a goodly sight, Daris, and... you bring back Senufer, who grieves for me in Khemi as I do here for her -' Fist pounded saddlebow.' She comes back to me too much, too fully. At night I cannot sleep, by day I go about in a dream of her, always her dear voice whispers her name till it sings through me like wind through a harp, Senufer, Senufer, Senufer -'

  He gulped air and shuddered his way back toward a degree of calm. 'I'm sorry,' he gulped. 'I spoke wrongly. You are not to blame. But I long for her, Daris, I long for her beyond your understanding.'

  He did not see how uneasiness went through his companion. She smoothed off outward signs of it, rode closer until their knees touched, laid a hand on his arm, and said very softly, 'Thank you, Falco. You do bring me to understand, a little – at least about what is troubling you. Keep it not dammed in your breast, till it overflows and bears your spirit off on its torrent. Talk to me, if no one else. Tell me whatever you need to tell. Let me help you look beyond this span of waiting and yearning, to that dawn when you can begin your life anew. Let me invoke hope in you.'

  Conan, glancing behind, saw them thus. Unreasonable anger brawled suddenly up in him.

  The gorge debouched on a seemingly endless wilderness of ocherous sand dunes. They gritted underfoot. Dust streamed on a droning breeze, to clog nostrils and irritate eyes.

  As the sun neared the horizon and shadows grew gigantic, Tyris the guide approached his commander. He had come through these parts in former years when he worked as a caravan guard. 'Best we camp now,' he advised. Pointing to an eroded outcrop in the distance: 'If they spoke aright when I passed by here, we are within a few hours of Pteion. Not that anybody ever went there, but the traders keep their lore from of old.'

  Conan scowled. 'We can push on for another of those hours this evening, in cooler air,' he said.

  Tyris fingered an amulet on his breast. 'Chieftain, is not our plan that we enter by day, when fiends and phantoms are underground? Well, I do not think we would be wise to sleep any closer than where we are.'

  'As you will,' the Cimmerian said contemptuously.

  Hurt, Tyris rode from him to convey that order. Mounts, remounts, and pack beasts stopped the instant their masters gave signal; grateful snorts and whickerings resounded. Men cared for them with what scanty water, fodder, and grooming were available, hobbled them, and bivouacked. Soon bedrolls lay spread, chips burned blue, and around each small fire squatted several warriors. Taians were generally not a dour folk; beneath their dignity bubbled considerable joy in life. Now, however, a sombreness was upon them and they spoke in few words and hushed voices. Many drew aside to pray, pour out libations, attempt minor magics.

  Conan stalked about inspecting the pickets. Often he spoke gruff reprimands for carelessness. They were not really deserved, and were therefore resented, and he knew as much. It was as if he must slap out at someone.

  Beyond camp, silhouetted black against a green sunset sky, Daris and Falco stood face to face, hands linked, deep in converse. After a while they walked down the far side of the dune and were lost to sight.

  For a moment Conan wondered if the sullenness that had been gathering in him throughout the past few days had any good cause. What son of the North would not grow snappish in these ghastly barrens? He had known countless hardships, but this was the worst, this sucked vampire-like at his very spirit. Yet did it not behove him to refrain from complaint, even in his own mind? Why did he let mere discomfort prey on him?

  Well, there was worse than that. He had gone without a woman for longer stretches in the past than thus far since leaving Bêlit. But lately the time had begun feeling like years. And then that empty-headed Daris had insisted on being in the expedition and kept throwing her presence at him. Could the jill-flirt not see what fires she stoked? Were it not for her countrymen and their disapproval, he might well have kicked his scruples aside and taken her. By Derketa, he might lead her beyond view of the clansmen and do it anyway! Except that now she had begun to play her tricks on that Ophirite brat. What had he done to deserve the enjoyment?

  Ha, if that was what she wanted, let her eat alone when she got back. Conan was hungry.

  He slouched to the place that was his, hers, and Falco's. They had been eating together and spreading their sleeping bags not far apart. The man who had laid out their gear and started a fire for them rose, salaamed, and left. Conan hunkered down. He spitted and toasted slices of dried meat, onions, and peppers; he drank warm, ill-tasting water from a skin; he drew a cloak about his shoulders against the gathering chill. Not sleepy, in no mood for company, he sat alone and considered his wrongs. Bêlit felt unreachably far away. Twilight swiftly became night, and stars crowded forth.

  Daris returned, in a scrunch of sand beneath bare feet. He glanced up. Her form was tall and shadowy above him. 'Hunh,' he grunted. 'At last. Where's Falco?'

  'He decided he would stay off by himself for a while and think over what we talked about,' she replied.

  'Talked? I hope you had a good romp.'

  'What?' She settled down opposite him. Dim firelight glimmered in eyeballs. 'What do you mean?'

  'What do you suppose?' he retorted. 'Oh, I know, I have no claim on you. Do as you please.'

  'Conan!' He had never heard such shock in her before, nor seen it on her. She sat upright, both hands lifted as if to ward off a blow. 'You don't imagine – How could you?'

  'Do you suppose I am blind? He's a pretty boy, whereas I have been dull company of late. I tell you, I don't mind. Eat. I am going to my rest.'

  'But I love you!' Daris nearly sobbed. She caught hold of herself. After a few heartbeats she said quietly but steadily, looking straight at him. 'Hear me. By Mitra I swear, nothing untoward has happened, unless you count a single brief kiss at the end. Falco and I talked, simply talked. He was sick for that Senufer woman in Khemi.'

  'For Nehekba, you mean,' Conan sneered. 'The more fool he.'

  'I did not repeat our idea to him, that the two are the same. That would have driven him from me. No, I got him to talk about himself, no hard task for me. After he had spilled out his sorrow, it I weighted him mu
ch less, and I could lead him back to such fancies of the future as belong to a healthy lad. He is not free of her by any means, but his spirit has returned to him. I think he will sleep well, tonight and be able to fight tomorrow if need be. That is all, Conan, I all that went on... though my own thoughts did not end there.' I

  'I must take your word, of course,' he said with studied indifference.

  She regarded him in a kind of horror. 'Conan, what has been happening? What sorcery has been at work? It is not like you to be this surly, yes, nasty. Nor was it like Falco to wallow in self-pity till he was almost useless. Have demons of the desert possessed you?'

  Her mind racing ahead, she did not see his resentment increase. 'No,' she mused, while her gaze sought the stars, 'not that, when you both kept plodding loyally onward. But a black spell could have played on weaknesses – his infatuation; your vexation by a country never meant for your race, and... yes... even more, no doubt, your yearning for Bêlit. Re-echoing such moods, the spell could worsen them beyond what nature would have allowed.' Her look returned to him. Eagerness entered her tone. 'If I am right, it cannot be an actual binding laid on you. Falco has cast if off him, with my help. Let me next help you, my beloved!'

  'Why should you trouble?' Conan snapped. 'I am surly, nasty, and weak, remember?'

  He saw in the gloom how she flinched, and all at once wanted to take her in his arms and tell her he was sorry. Before he could speak, pride responded to him. The daughter of Ausar rose to her feet under the stars and said, 'We will talk more of this whenever you feel ready. First seek the rest that you desire. Good night.' She took her sleeping bag and walked off into the dark.

  Conan lay long awake, trying to puzzle out what he should have done. They could have argued rights and wrongs till dawn, when he needed his sleep against the morrow. Women!

  The noonday sun made heaven a furnace, the land beneath a bed of coals. Air wavered until dunes at a distance looked uneasy as flames; but there went no ghost of a breeze. Sounds of hoof-beats, creaking harness, jingling metal vanished into an infinity of silence, like raindrops vanishing into an eternal drought.

  Conan slitted his eyes and strove to observe what lay ahead. Glare, mirage, and distance turned the sight unreal, a bad dream. Drifts of sand were piled nearly to the top of what remained of outer walls. Where these had crumbled, he descried buildings within, black stone masses, equally ruinous; yet somehow the shapes kept a hint of the inhuman, too low and narrow for the length, sides slanting at curious angles up to roofs grotesquely decorated. Legend said that most of the city had been underground; it whispered that those vaults and passages were to this day inhabited. A number of monoliths and twisted columns were standing, whether isolated or in groups. At the middle of the city loomed the form of a dolmen, a prehistoric tomb, but built of polished ebon slabs so huge that no man could tell how they had been raised into place.

  There, Conan recalled from Parasan's words, was where the Ax of Varanghi awaited him. Despite his ill humour, despite the primitive fears that surged beneath a hard-held determination, hit pulse leaped. He drew sword and swung it on high for an oriflamme. 'Onward!' he trumpeted, and spurred his horse to a canter.

  His men lifted a ragged cheer and followed. They too felt qualms, but they were all volunteers; if nothing else, the honour of their clans forbade them to be daunted.

  As the troop advanced, a wind sprang up. It whined across illimitable wastes, it plucked at garments and sucked at throats and lungs. Dust devils whirled. Grit scudded; Conan crunched it between his teeth.

  Faster than he thought should be possible, haze boiled over the horizon and across the sky. The sun reddened, dimmed, vanished. Driving darkness hid his goal. The storm lacerated his skin and well-nigh choked off his breath, before he drew a flap of his burnoose around for a veil. His horse stumbled, whinnying in pain. He rowelled the animal savagely and pushed on. If nothing else, he thought amidst the shrill howling, the hiss of dust and sand in flight, his party must find shelter till the weather died down: and where was that but in Pteion?

  Blurred vastness appeared to right and left, pieces of the city wall. He flogged his horse to go in between. Though he got some relief beyond, with those ancient defences for a windbreak, the air was still acrid and murky, and the red-black gloom was thicker still. Ahead, he vaguely made out one or two of the buildings he had seen from afar. A look over his shoulder revealed the nearest of his followers. Those farther back were lost to sight, but doubtless each man kept in view the ones immediately before him. Wind yelled. No – that screech was something different! Conan twisted round in his saddle and saw what came out of the night suddenly laid on this ground, move toward him in attack.

  XVII

  Quest of the Ax

  At first it seemed a troop of human soldiers advanced in a strangely stiff formation from the inner city. The question flashed through him how they could have arrived this fast, when the closest well-populated region in Stygia was remoter than Thuran. He reined in and signalled his men to draw nigh, dismount, secure their animals, prepare for combat. The highlanders had no cavalry tradition. He kept his own stirrups, and gestured Falco to do the same. Theirs were trained war-horses captured from the enemy. A couple of skilled horseback fighters ought to count for much, when yonder force had nobody riding.

  Again a horn screamed, like none that Conan had ever heard before. Overtones ripped at his nerves. The noise did not come from the foe, but from above. The barbarian glanced up. Though scudding dust choked off vision within yards, he thought he glimpsed a deeper darkness in motion there, as if great wings wheeled and soared.

  The strangers came onward. Now Conan saw their front ranks I more clearly. He stiffened. Terror stabbed him. Daris, also still in the saddle, stifled a scream. Falco called on his gods. The Taians wailed.

  Those were not living men, they were dried corpses. Some bore archaic helmets and cuirasses over blackened skin, most wore only cerements gone ragged during millennia. In many, bones jutted through desiccated flesh. The sunken faces were unstirring, empty of expression; what eyes remained were dull, tearless, unwinking; I breasts drew no breath, hearts did not beat behind ribs. Legs moved puppet-like. The company was armed with shortswords of antique shape or spears whose heads flared in the same fashion, hundred or more. The shuffle of their feet was the single sound they made.

  'Ghosts, ghosts,' Daris moaned. 'The tombs of Pteion have yielded their dead to go against us.'

  Aye, thought Conan fleetingly, in this unnatural gloom all sun-shunning horrors could come forth. But who had raised it before raising them? How could anyone in Stygia have known the Taian plan? A second shock pierced him as he remembered what he had earlier chosen to forget, the eagle outside Ausar's tent.

  Tyris the guide screamed. 'Mitra, forgive me that I entered this unholy place!' Conan heard an answering babble among the warriors. He glanced back, saw them assembled but in an array that wavered. At any instant, somebody would bolt. Then blind panic would seize the rest and stampede them forth to perish in the desert.

  The horn above the storm laughed.

  Conan never knew whether sheer desperation drove out his own fear, or the smouldering anger of his journey burst into flame. Battle fury took hold of him. He spurred forward. 'Hai, Crom!' he roared. 'Varuna of the Lightning! Wakonga mutusi! Bêlit, Bêlit!'

  A cadaver in the front line jerkily raised its spear and thrust at him. The point glanced off the chain mail beneath his slit kaftan, which he had donned this morning. He struck it aside. His mount pushed on at his behest, into the throng. He leaned over. The sword blazed in his hand. He felt steel hit, meet less resistance than from living muscle, and shear on through. A head flew free, struck the sand, rolled to a halt. Hideously, the body did not bleed or fall -but it tottered about, spear flailing, as might a decapitated insect.

  Conan reared his charger. Hooves came down, crushed bone, smashed a form to shapelessness that writhed. He smote at a helmet. The impact clanged dully, split ag
e-eaten metal, did not reach the skull but broke a fragile neck. That head lolled as the owner continued striking. Conan hewed off the sword arm.

  Falco had plucked up heart and ridden into the fray. His sabre whirred. Daris, inexperienced in this sort of fighting, nonetheless kept her steed a-dance on the fringes and wielded a spear.

  Yet the dead were not feeble. Slow, awkward, they felt no pain, lost no blood, could only be disabled by the shrewdest of blows. Gashes reddened the horses, surrounded by thrusters and stabbers. The riders began to take flesh wounds, and might at any moment receive worse. Meanwhile most of the deathling troop had rustled past them and fallen on the Taians.

  'Break through!' Conan cried to Falco. In a right-and-left hail of sword-cuts, thunder of kicks and stampings, they did. The corpses they had fought did not pursue, but went on to join battle against the clansmen. Dismembered pieces jerked and squirmed at their rear.

  Conan drew deep, shaken breaths through a fold of his burnoose. Shielding eyes with hands, he looked toward the combat. It raged loud and frightful, men sustained slashes and stabs, men fell dead and they moved no more. But the Taians held fast. War cries and panted clan chants defied hooting wind and sibilant red dust. He had shown them that a strong arm and an undaunted heart could meet even such as these.

  'Shall we attack from behind?' Falco asked. Ardour burned in his eyes.

  'No,' Conan decided. 'We would only be two more, and the outcome of that fight is odds-on at best. Also, we know not what further devilments the enemy has at his beck. Best we take this chance to seek the Ax. If Parasan spoke sooth, that is a weapon to use against hell itself.'

  Daris drew nigh. 'It is fitting that the three of us go,' she said. Her look upon Conan pleaded, May I again be your comrade?

  The Cimmerian shook his head. 'No, best you stay here and encourage the men. Some will see Falco and me leave, and wonder, and their will could break yet. If you abide, though, their princess, I descendant of Varanghi – do you understand?'