Conan the Liberator

by Lyon Sprague de Camp

  Bossonian longbow was much too cumbersome to be handled from horseback.

  Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, Conan saw a host of mounted archers pursuing the fleeing foe until, coming within range, they dismounted to loose shaft after deadly shaft, before spurring away when at last the goaded enemy turned to engage their tormentors. Conan’s explosive roar of laughter startled his camp servants, who gaped like yokels at a circus while Captain Alaricus ran to waken the physician-priest.

  When Dexitheus, clad in scanty clothing, rushed to Conan's tent, Conan grinned at his bewilderment.

  “No,” he chuckled, “the purple lotus has not addled my wits, my friend. But the lord Mitra, or Crom, or some such blessed god has given me an inspiration. Send someone posthaste to bid the Argossean leaders hither.”

  When Prince Cassio and Captain Arcadio, already armed and armored, plodded up the slope to the headquarters tent, Conan roared a greeting, adding: "You say King Milo forbids you to attack the retreating Aquilonians. Does the royal fiat encompass your horses, too?”

  “Chu: horses. General?” repeated Arcadio blankly.

  Conan nodded impatiently. “Aye, yoxu: beasts. Quickly, Captain, an answer, if you will. Our steeds— the few we have—are underfed, as you can see by counting their poor ribs. But yours are fresh and of an excellent breed. Lend us five hundred mounts, and well forswear the service of a single Argossean soldier to send Amulius Procas home with his tail between his legs.”

  As Conan outlined his plan. Prince Cassio grinned. More and ever more he liked this grim-visaged barbarian from the North, who made war in ways as ingenious as implausible.

  “Lend him five hundred horses, Arcadio,” he said. "The king, my father, said naught of that”

  The Argossean officer clanked o£F to issue orders. And presently, below them on the flat where the Bossonian archers lined up for morning roll call, ten score Argossean wranglers led saddled horses into the field behind them. Trocero and Prospero converged upon the startled and disordered foot soldiers and by their authority restored them to disciplined ranks.

  "Fetch me my stallion and strap me to the saddle,” growled Conan. "I must explain my plan to those who’ll carry it out.”

  “General!" cried Dexitheus. “You should not, in your present state—”

  “Spare me your cautions. Reverence. For a month the men have seen me not and doubtless wonder if I’m still alive.”

  As Conan’s squires, with many helping hands, strained to boost Conan’s massive body into the saddle, the Cimmerian chafed at the sluggishness that chained his mighty limbs. His blue eyes blazed with the fire of imconquerable will, and his broad brows drew together with the fury of his effort to drive vitaHty back into his flaccid thews. Strive as he would, the blood flowed but feebly through his numbed flesh; for Alcina had concocted the deadly draft with consiunmate care.

  At length his squires strapped Conan to his saddle, he raving oaths the while and calling upon his somber Northern gods to avenge this foul indignity. And though the palsy shook his biurly body, his eyes, seething with elemental fury, commanded every upturned face to show him neitiber courtesy nor pity, but only the respect that was his due.

  All this Prince Cassio watched, held spellbound by amazement. Back in Messantia, the courtiers had sneered at Conan as a savage, an untutored barbarian whom the Aquilonian rebel nobles had unaccountably chosen to manage their revolt. Now the prince sensed

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  the primal power of the man, his deep reservoirs of elemental vigor. He perceived the Cimmerian’s driving purpose, his originahty of thought, his dynamic presence—quaUties that transformed nobles and common soldiers alike into willing captives of his personality. This man, thought Cassio, was created to command—was bom to be a king.

  Supported by a mounted squire on either side, Conan paced his charger slowly down the ranks toward the battaHon of Bossonian archers. Although his face contorted with the effort, he managed to raise a hand in greeting as he passed row upon row of loyal followers. The men burst into frantic cheers.

  Half a league to the north, a pair of royalist scouts, left behind to watch the rebel army, were breaking fast along the road that led to Saxula Pass. The cheers came faintly to their ears, and they exchanged glances of alarm.

  "What betides yonder?'’ asked the younger man.

  The other shaded his eyes. ” 'Tis too far to see, but something must have happened to hearten the rebel host. One of us had best report to General Procas. ni go; you stay.”

  The second speaker gulped his last bite, rose, untied his horse from a nearby tree, and mounted. The morning air echoed the fading drumbeat of hooves as he vanished up the road.

  Quieting his men with a small motion of his upraised hand, Conan addressed the lines of archers. They were selected, he told them, from the entire army to inflict destruction on the retreating invaders. They were to move on silent hooves against pockets of the enemy and then dismount and nock their shafts. Shooting from cover in twos and threes, they could pick off scores of fleeing men; and when at last the

  enemy turned at bay, they, unencumbered by heavy armor, could quickly remount and soon outdistance the heavy-laden Aquilonian knights sent in piursuit

  Each squad would be commanded by an experienced cavalryman, who would make certain that the beasts were well handled and would hold the horses while the archers were dismounted. As for those who had seldom ridden—^here Conan smiled a trifle grimly —^they had but to grip the saddle or the horse’s mane; for such temporarily mounted infantry, fine horsemanship was unimportant

  Under the command of an Aquilonian soldier-of-fortune named PaUantides, who had once trained with Turanian horse-archers and who had lately deserted from the royalists, the newly moimted Bossonians swept out of the camp at a steady canter and headed north along the clLnbing road that led toward Aquilonia.

  They caught up with the rear guard of the royalist army in the foothills of the Rabirians, short of Saxula Pass; for Procas’s retreat was slowed by his baggage train and his companies of plodding infantry. Spying the enemy, the Bossonians spread out, eased their horses through the brush to shooting range, and then went to work. A score of royalist spearmen fell, screaming or silent, or cursed less lethal wounds, before the clatter of armored horsemen told the rebel archers that Procas’s cavalry was coming to disperse the attack and to cover his withdrawal. Thereupon the Bossonians unstrung their bows and, dashing back to their tethered beasts, silently mounted and scattered through the forest. Their only casualty was an injiuy to one archer who, unused to horseback, fell off and broke his collar bone.

  For the next three days, the Bossonians harried the retreating Aquilonians, like hounds snapping at the heels of fleeing criminals. They struck from the shadows; and when the royalists turned to challenge

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  tbem, they were gone—hidden in a thousand hollows etched by wind and weather upon the wrinkled face of the terrain.

  AmuHus Procas and his officers cursed themselves hoarse, but Httle could they do. An arrow would whistle from behind a boulder. Sometimes it missed, merely causing the marching men to flinch and duck. Sometimes it buried itself in a horse’s flank, inciting the stricken animal to rear and plunge, unseating its rider. Sometimes a soldier screamed in pain as a shaft transfixed his body; or a horseman, with a clang of armor, toppled from his saddle to he where he fell. From the heights above, unseen in the gloaming, a sudden rain of arrows would slay or cripple thrice a dozen men.

  AmuHus Procas had few choices. He could not camp near Saxula Pass, because there Httle open ground and inadequate suppHes of water could be found. Neither could he attack in close order, where his weight of numbers and armor would give him the advantage, because the enemy refused to close with him. If he threw his whole army against them, he could doubtless sweep away these pestilent rebels like chaflF upon the wind; but such an action would carry him back to the Plain of Pallos and thus embroil him with the Argossea
ns.

  So there was nothing for AmuHus Procas to do but plod grimly on, sending out his Hght horse to drive away the enemy whenever they revealed their presence by a flight of arrows. Numerically his losses were trivial, only a fraction of the death toll of a joined battle. But the constant attrition depressed his men s morale; and the wind of chill foreboding, sweeping across his heart, whispered that King Numedides would not forget and still less forgive the failure of the expedition laimched at the kings express conmiand.

  In the throat of Saxula Pass, an avalanche of

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  boulders crashed down upon the hapless royalists. Procas glumly ordered the wreckage cleared, the smashed wagons abandoned, and the mortally wounded men and beasts mercifully put to the sword. On the far side of the pass, his troops moved faster, but the harassment continued unabated.

  Procas realized that his Cinmierian opponent was a master of this irregular warfare; and he shook with shame that his enforced withdrawal had spmred the barbarian’s fecund inventiveness. This stain upon his honor, he swore, he would wash out in rebel blood.

  On the third day of the retreat, as the gray skies turned to lead, the disheartened, exhausted royalists gathered on the southern bank of the Alimane at the ford of Nogara. There for a time Procas lingered, tormented by indecision. Even though the floods of spring had subsided, the river’s reach invited an attack when his fording men were least disposed to counter it. It would be a cruel jest of the capricious gods to ensnare the Aquilonian general in the very trap in which, not two months earlier, he had all but crushed the rebels. Moreover, to essay a crossing in the gloom of coming night would involve an almost certain loss of men and equipment.

  Yet to pitch a camp on the Argossean side would doom sentries and sleeping men to death by flights of phantom arrows from the forest Procas gnawed his lip. Since his troops could not effectively defend themselves against such tactics, the sooner he led them across the Alimane, the safer they would sleep. Although the river was broad and swift, making the fords formidable, it would at least place his army beyond bowshots from the southern shore.

  While these thoughts shambled through the mind of AmuHus Procas, one of his oflBcers approached the chariot in which he stood, atop a small rise along the river bank. The oflBcer, a heavy-shouldered giant of a

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  man—a Bossonian from his accent—with a surly expression on his coarse-featured face, saluted.

  “Sir, we await your orders to begin the fording," he said. "The longer we stay, the more of our men will those damnable hidden archers wing.”

  “I am aware of that, Gromel,” said the general stiffly. Then he heaved a sigh and made a curt gesture. “Very-well, get on with iti Naught’s to be gained by loitering here. But it goes against my grain to let these starveling rascals harry us home without repaying them in their own coin. Were it not for poHtical considerations …"

  Gromel raked the hills behind them with a contemptuous glance. “Curse these poHtics, which tie the soldier’s hands I” he growled. “The cowards wiU not stand and fight, knowing we should wipe them out. So there is nothing for it save to gather on the soil of Poitain, there to stand ready to crush them if they essay the fords again.”

  "We shall be ready,” said Procas sternly. “Sound the trumpets.”

  The retreat across the Alimane proceeded in good order, although night dimmed the twilight before the last company splashed into the river bed. As the men moved away from the southern bank, ten score archers, lurking in the undergrowth, stepped into view with bows stnuig and arrows nocked.

  Procas had left his chariot to heave himself, grunting with pain from ancient wounds, into the saddle of his charger. Commanding a small rear guard of light horse, the dour old veteran was among the last to wade his steed into the darkling flood, while arrows from shore whistled past like angry insects.

  In midstream the general suddenly exclaimed, clapping a hand to his leg. At his cry, the Bossonian oflBcer who had addressed him earHer rode nigh and reined in. He opened thick Hps to ask what was amiss, then spied the rebel arrow that had pierced the old

  man’s thigh above the knee. A gleam of satisfaction flickered in Gromel’s porcine eyes and quickly vanished; for he was a man implacably bent on pursuit of promotion, however he might attain it.

  Stoically, Procas sat his steed across the river; but once amid the bushes that fringed the northern shore, he suffered his aides to lift him from the beast while Gromel trotted ahead to summon the surgeon.

  After plucking forth the barb and binding the woimd, the physician said: "It will be many days, General, ere you wiU be well enough to travel again.”

  "Very weU," said Procas stoHdly. "Pitch my tent on yonder hillock. Here we shall camp and let the rebels come to us, if they’ve the stomach for it.”

  Ghostly among the shadows of the trees nearby, a slender figure clad in the garments of a page, much worn and travel-stained, watched and listened. Had any viewer with catlike eyes perceived the swelling rondure of that youthful figure, he would have recognized a lithe and lovely woman. Now, with a mirthless smile, she unhitched her horse and quietly led the animal to a prudent distance from the camp that the Border Legion was hastily erecting.

  That his rival, Amulius Procas, had been wounded during a cowardly retreat before a rabble would be pleasing news for Thulandra Thuu, thought the Lady Alcina. Now that the mighty Cimmerian was dead, Procas had served his purpose and could safely be sacrificed to her master s vaulting ambition. She must get word to the wizard as soon as the aspects of the stars and planets again permitted the use of her obsidian taHsman. She melted into the darkness and vanished from the scene.

  Bending toward his magical mirror of burnished obsidian, Thulandra Thuu learned with delight of the injury to General Procas. As the image of Alcina faded

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  from the gleaming glass, the sorcerer thoughtfully stroked the bridge of his hawklike nose. Reaching out a slender hand, he raised a metal mallet and smote the skull-shaped gong that hung beside his iron throne, and its sonorous note echoed dully through the piuple-shrouded chamber.

  Presently the draperies drew aside, revealing Hsiao the Hbitan. Arms tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his green silk robe, he bowed, silently awaiting his master’s commands.

  "Does the Count of Thune still wait upon me in the antechamber?” the sorcerer inquired.

  ”Master, Coimt Ascalante attends your pleasure,” mmmured the yellow servant

  Thulandra Thuu nodded. ”Excellent! I will speak to him forthwith. Inform him that I shall receive him in the Chamber of the Sphinxes, and go yourself to notify the king that I shaU presently request an audience upon lurgent business of state. You have my leave to go.”

  Hsiao bowed and withdrew, and the draperies fell back into place, concealing the door through which the Khitan had passed.

  The Chamber of the Sphinxes, which Thulandra Thuu had converted to his own use from a disused room in the palace, was aptly named. TombHke in its barrenness, it was waUed and floored in roseate marble and contained no visible furnishings beyond a limestone seat, placed against the further walL This seat, shaped like a throne, was upheld by a pair of stone supports carved in the likeness of feline monsters with human heads. This motif was repeated in the matching tapestries that hung in rich array against the wall behind the throne. Here, cunningly crafted in gHttering threads, two catlike beasts with manlike faces, bearded and imperious, stared out with cold and supercilious eyes. The only light in this chill

  chamber was provided by a pair of copper torcheres, the flames of which danced in the silver mirrors set into the wall behind them.

  Not milike the sphinxes was Ascalante, ofiBcer-adventurer and self-styled Count of Thune. A tall and supple man, elergantly clad in plum-colored velvet, he prowled around the chamber with a feline grace. For aU his mihtary bearing and debonaire deportment, his eyes, like those of the embroidered monsters, were cold a
nd supercihous; but they were wary, too, and a trifle apprehensive.

  For some time now, Ascalante had awaited an audience with the aU-powerful sorcerer of unknown origin. Although Thulandra Thuu had recalled Ascalante from the eastern frontier and demanded his daily presence at court, the magician had let him cool his heels outside the audience chamber for several days. Now it might be that his fortunes were about to change.

  Suddenly Ascalante froze, his hand instinctively darting to the hilt of his dagger. One of the tapestries lifted to reveal a narrow doorway, within which stood a slender, dark-skinned man, silently regarding him. The cool, amused inteUigence behind those hooded eyes seemed capable of reading a man’s thoughts as if they were painted on his forehead. Recovering his composure, Ascalante made a courtly obeisance as Thulandra Thuu entered the room. Tbe sorcerer bore an ornately carven staff, which writhed with intertwined inscriptions in characters imknown to Ascalante.

  Thulandra strode unhurriedly across the chamber and seated himself on the sphinx-supported throne. He acknowledged the other s bow with a nod and the shadow of a smile, saying: 'T trust you are well. Count, and that your enforced inactivity has not wearied you?”

  Ascalante murmiu:ed a polite reply.

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  “Count Ascalante,” said the magician, “your experience and accomplishments have not eluded those who serve as my eyes and ears in distant places. Neither, I may add, has your lust for high oflBce, nor a certain lack of scruple as regards the means whereby you hope to attain it. I hasten to assure you that the king and I approve of your ambition and of your—ah ■^practicahty.'’

  "I thank you, my lord,” replied the count with a show of composure that aped the suavity of the sorcerer.

  "I shall come directly to the point," said Thulandra Thuu, “for events move ever forward through the passing hoiu-s, and mortal men must scurry to keep abreast of them. Briefly, this is the situation: it has pleased His Majesty to withdraw his favor from the honorable Amulius Procas, conmiander of the Border Legion."