Kye-Dee was not to be outdone in stem acceptance of fate. “Hah!” he cried, laughing in derision. “I will show these despicable worms that a Hyrkanian warrior of the Turtle Clan is better than other men! I want only arms. Then bring on your warriors, your beasts and your demons!”
“Oh, you shall have arms,” Abbadas said. “You would provide precious little entertainment otherwise.”
Omia clapped her hands twice and the music ceased. The dancers ended their performance in mid-note and filed out of the pit through the same portal they had entered: a grated nth on the side opposite Omia’s platform. When the last was through, the metal grate was lowered behind them.
A short flight of steps next to the cage took Kye-Dee and Jeyba to arena level, where a bolted door allowed access. The bolts were withdrawn and the two men were pushed through. A guard went out with them and removed their bonds. Then the guard left the pit and the door was rebelled.
A slave woman entered the arena bearing weapons. These she handed to the two men: for Jeyba, his metal-studded bludgeon and a short-handled ax; for Kye-Dee, his saber with its keen, curved, arm-length blade. The Hyrkanian flourished the blade spiritedly, drawing glittering arcs and patterns in the air.
“This is a fine weapon and I am good with it.” he announced, “but where is my bow?”
“Do you think that we would allow you a weapon you could kill us with?” said Omia with a laugh.
“No,” Kye-Dee admitted, “but it was worth a try.”
The dwarf said nothing, standing as steady as a tree-stump on his short, bowed legs, his club gripped in his right hand and his ax in his left. He was a coiled knot of steel-spring muscles, ready for anything.
“Begin!” Abbadas said.
The grated door that had admitted the dancers opened. Conan studied the four warriors who entered. They were slaves, ~as evinced by their short-cropped hair, but they were somewhat larger and far better built than any he had seen so far. He concluded thai they were special slaves or condemned citizens, trained to fight for the amusement of their betters. They wore oddments of armor on their arms and legs, no two of them armored in quite the same fashion, and gorgets of black steel protecting their throats. None wore helmet or body armor. Each carried a small shield of steel a foot in diameter in his left hand. The right hand of each gripped a short, straight, double-edged sword.
“Four against two!” Achilea spat. “This is not sporting!”
” ‘Sporting’?” said Abbadas languidly. “I am unfamiliar with the word.”
“That I doubt not,” Conan said. “At least let them fight one against one, in sequence.”
“Wherefore?” Omia asked. “These two are to be killed and we wish to be amused. Your wishes and theirs are of no account.” She turned to the crowd of citizens and stood. They rose likewise.
“People of holy Janagar!” she cried. “In an age long past, our gods preserved us from the evil of the sun and taught us how true humans should live!” By the way she chanted her words, Conan guessed that she recited an ancient formula. “Once again we offer thanks for our salvation according to the custom of our ancestors: with blood. This time―” and here her voice departed from its hieratic, ritual phrasing “―we offer not only blood of our own, but that of dwellers beneath the sun. Cursed be the sun!”
“Cursed be the sun!” shouted the crowd of spectators in loud unison.
“A few days ago, I might have joined them in that curse,” Achilea said. “Now I would be burned all over again just for a glimpse of it.”
Omia resumed her seat and so did the audience. “Begin!” Omia cried.
Achilea and her women gripped the bars of the cage, pressing their faces against the cold iron, their eyes fixed upon the scene of the unfolding drama. Conan, chained to the comer bar, still had a clear view.
His face was as immobile as stone, but his heart seethed with hatred and rage.
The four fighting staves spread into a curving line and sought to take the two men from front and flank-The dwarf and the Hyrkanian stood shoulder to shoulder, but their eyes grew wary as the line spread.
“Back to back?” Kye-Dee suggested.
“That were best,” the dwarf rumbled. “Just leave me room.”
So they stood, crouched, separated by a pace while their enemies circled, looking for an opening.
Two darted in upon
Jeyba, one from each side. The one on the right jabbed his sword at the dwarf’s face, but Jeyba ducked low and swung his club backhand at the man’s knee. The slave managed to interpose his shield, but the steel rang like a gong and crumpled inward. The attacker sprang backward grimacing, his left arm half paralyzed from the shock.
At the same time, the slave on the left came in, stooping tow to skewer the dwarf. Thinking that the little man was fully occupied with his other opponent, the slave failed to guard himself properly. The thick blade of the ax came straight op and split his jaw from chin to nose even as his weapon, aimed at Jeyba’s throat, scored instead a shallow wound upon the dwarfs shoulder.
Achilea and me women growled approval while Kye-Dee held his opponents at bay with his longer sword, menacing them with bewildering circles and figure-eights. Conan knew that he could not keep up these tactics for long, for his arm must tire soon. He knew the Hyrkanians to be superb warriors on horseback, but far less effective on foot. Kye-Dee appeared to be better than most of his countrymen with sword.
“Ha!” the Hyrkanian shouted, making a lunge toward the slave on his right The one on me left plunged into the opening, but the lunge was a feint and Kye-Dee pulled back, slashing at the attacker.
The slave raised his shield but succeeded only in deflecting the blade into his face. Even as the man fell back screaming, the other darted in, shield high, and plunged his short sword into me Hyrkanian’s side.
The point struck ribs and was turned, but the wound was bloody and serious, Kye-Dee rammed his elbow into the man’s face, then brought his sword across to sever the tendons and arteries in the man’s neck. The slave staggered back, fountaining blood that his split windpipe churned into an ugly froth.
A low, snarling sound came from the crowd as the brief, violent exchange passed and the fight entered a new phase. Achilea and her women shouted encouragement. Now the odds were even, and all four fighters still standing were wounded.
The dwarf’s remaining opponent was first to renew the attack. The blow he had absorbed did no more than slow his shield-arm, while Jeyba’s cut was painful and weakening, for it bled freely and the muscle of his shoulder was damaged.
Jeyba fended the attacking sword aside with his club and swung his ax at the slave’s neck, but his
injury slowed him and the other was able to avoid the weapon. Still, the dwarf pressed the attack, swinging short forehand and backhand blows of the club at the slave’s unhelmeted head. The slave fended them with his shield, but each blow further injured his left arm and he grimaced with pain. An underhand thrust of his sword cut deeply into Jeyba’s chest, but even as it connected, the ax came across and smashed into his pelvis. Both men collapsed while the crowd growled and snarled.
While Jeyba was thus engaged, Kye-Dee was attacking. He had been wounded far worse than the dwarf and knew it He had to end this fight swiftly, before he weakened. With a high-pitched Hyrkanian battle cry, he leapt upon his opponent, raining sword-strokes. The man fell back, covered with blood from the wound that had removed half of one ear, stripped flesh from his cheek and divided his nose.
Kye-Dee swung a low, horizontal cut. Instead of blocking with his shield, the slave sucked in his belly, allowing the blade to pass a finger’s width from his flesh, and darted in to take advantage of the follow-through. He punched his shield at the Hyrkanian’s face and thrust with his sword. With his free hand, Kye-Dee managed to deflect the sword from his heart, but it caught him just beneath the collarbone even as the rim of the shield connected with his jaw.
The Hyrkanian managed to push himself away from his opp
onent, shaking his head to clear the stars from before his eyes. The slave thought him done for and rushed in to finish him, but Kye-Dee brought his sword across and low, cutting the man’s leading leg from under him, almost severing the limb. The slave fell and the next stroke of the sword passed across his neck.
Jeyba lurched to his feet and placed a foot against his last opponent’s jaw as he levered his ax free of the man’s skull. Then both men were standing, grinning in triumph. Jeyba raised his bloodied weapons in salute to his queen while Kye-Dee sang a wild Hyrkanian victory song. They were both badly wounded and perhaps dying, but for the moment, they stood victorious amid their fallen enemies and they feared nothing.
There, you degenerate dogs!” Conan shouted. “You see the sort of men who are raised beneath the sun!”
“Yes,” said Omia. “I am satisfied on that count.”
“Give them a more interesting opponent!” Abbadas urged, his voice thick with bloodlust.
“No, these two are finished,” she said. “Kill them.”
Instantly, armed figures dashed into the pit. These were not fighting slaves, but masked guards.
There were at least a score of them, and they encircled the two bloody men, their weapons leveled. Then they advanced. Jeyba and Kye-Dee fought with all their waning strength, but their valor was futile. The length of their attackers* weapons made it impossible to reach them and their numbers were overwhelming. They died cursing their enemies through their own blood.
Achilea stared bleakly at the bloody pit as the corpses were cleared away and slaves came out to mop up. Framing her face, the heavy knuckles of her swordsman’s hands went dead white as they gripped the bars. Her three women managed to embrace her simultaneously.
“He was just a man, after all, my queen,” Payna said, clearly meaning the dwarf. Hyrkanians meant less than nothing to the Amazons.
“It was not to die like this that I saved him,” she said, her voice toneless. She tore her eyes away from the pit and stared at Conan. “Cimmerian, how can you look upon this unmoved? They were your friends.”
“They were great fighting-men and they died on their feet, as men should.” be said stonily. “Among my people, there is no higher praise for any man. I salute them and I will avenge them.”
Their voices were low and they were not heard upon the podium. Omia and Abbadas were looking over their prisoners with speculating eyes.
“Who next, think you?” Omia said.
“The three smaller women might make a fine show,” said Abbadas. “Match them against a few trained women fighting-slaves. After the last show, I think we should up the odds. Give each of them three to fight.”
“It is tempting …” Omia stroked her chin, as if pondering deeply. “… but that would be twelve in the arena at once. It would be awfully crowded, and difficult to make out the details of any one combat. Of course, we could bring them out one at a time―”
“No!” Achilea shouted. ‘It is I who interest you, not they! Send me out there and then bring out your fighting-slaves, if you would see some killing!”
Omia smiled. “True, it is the big woman and the even bigger man who intrigue me most. Do you think they would provide us with diverting entertainment?”
Abbadas nodded. “Aye. As for these other three,” he raked them with eyes that burned through his mask, ‘1 may have other uses for them.”
“Guards,” Omia said, “take that woman―” she pointed toward Achilea, then swung her arm toward Conan “―and that man to the arena. Take care. They’ve yet to be domesticated.”
This time, the guards used special caution. With their spears, they backed the three weeping, protesting women into a comer of the cage. Then they conducted Achilea to the arena. She turned as if to say something to her women, hesitated, then walked out with her head high.
When Achilea was in the pit, the guards returned for Conan. His neck ring was unlocked and he was prodded from his place. As he walked past the three women, Lombi hissed at him.
“Cimmerian! Do not let our queen die, or we shall slay you more horribly than these depraved weaklings could dream to!” A combination of fear, rage and hatred glittered in three pairs of eyes.
Conan smiled grimly. “I’ve yet to tremble at the sound of a woman’s voice, but you three could almost accomplish the feat I swear to you mis: If your queen does not come out of thai pit alive, neither shall L This is my oath upon the name of Crom, god of my people.”
The three nodded sternly, their anger still fierce in their eyes. He walked past them to the steps and descended to arena level with the weapons of watchful guards poised inches from his body. The door was unbolted and he stepped through. Achilea watched him with a faint, mocking smile as their bonds were removed, but as the guards left the arena, she spoke to him in a voice pitched too low for any but he to hear her words.
“Do not look too quickly, but high above the seats, on the wall opposite our hosts, I think I saw something. Look and tell me what you see.”
Mystified, the Cimmerian did as she bade. He rubbed his wrists and Hexed his limbs as if working the stiffness from muscles long cramped. In truth, he was as ready for action as ever in his life, but it never did harm to sow deception before enemies. He worked his head around as if to relieve a stiff neck, and as he did, he glanced in the direction she indicated The wall above the tiers of seats was indented with scores of niches, and in each niche was a statue, though whether of humans, gods or demons, he could not guess. Then be saw it: In the highest tier, directly opposite the podium where Omia and Abbadas took their ease, something glowed faintly purple.
Straining his eyes but trying not to stare, he just made out a tiny, manlike form crouching by the painted sculpture of an incredibly voluptuous, nude woman.
“Our little friend from the desert,” he said. “Our stalkers remain persistent.”
“I wish that I knew what it means,” she said.
“Just now we’ve more immediate cares,” he said “Such as how to get out of this cursed pit alive, and who we have to slay to do it”
This time, two slave women entered the arena. Each carried a weapon-belt bearing sword and dagger. Conan took his gratefully, feeling much restored to have its familiar weight settled about his lean hips. Achilea looked equally pleased to buckle her belt around her own rather more generous endowments. Then she stepped to the edge of the pit and picked something up from the floor: Jeyba’s ax, dropped there and forgotten. She tucked its short haft beneath her belt “Jeyba could easily have slain that woman,” she said. “These people seem not to realize that an ax may be thrown. But he did not, just so that I might have a better chance.”
“He was a good man,” Conan averred. “In those final moments, the urge to avenge himself must
have raged powerfully within him.”
“We shall not waste his courage,” she vowed. “But if I am wounded mortally, I shall split her arrogant, masked face with this ere I release my last breath.”
“Do so,” Conan said. “I’ll skewer her partner, Abbadas, with my dagger.” He touched the hilt of the heavy weapon. “I can throw it accurately with either hand.”
“Good,” she said, smiling broadly. “We’ll not die in vain, men.” The Cimmerian smiled back at her.
“You two seem pleased with yourselves, considering your circumstances,” Omia taunted. “Let us see whether you arc as happy with your opponents.”
“Bring them on,” said Conan, flexing his fingers. “I bore easily.” Omia clapped twice and the two waited tensely as the grate opposite them was raised.
“I doubt not there’ll be many of them, since our friends did far four,” Conan whispered. “But they must all come through that door. They can manage no more than double file. As soon as the first is through the door, we attack. I’ll take the file on the left, you take that on the right. Time it right, and we’ll face just one at a time.”
“A good plan,” she acknowledged. “Though I fear our hosts will be disappointed.”
“I can live with the shame.” Conan said with a hard grin. Then a sound came from beyond the gate and they drew their swords. They stood at easy guard, poised on toe balls of their feet the pose of swordsmen who are ready for anything.
But the first thing through the gate was not a living opponent Instead, there came a wave of the humid, fecund river smell. Then a great rush of water gushed through the portal. It was not the crystal water of a spring, but a faintly greenish-brown fluid in which particles of soil, algae and plant debris were suspended.
“What is this?” Achilea gasped as the cool water lapped over her ankles and began to soak her fur leggings. “Do they intend to drown us?”
“They’ve more imagination than that,” Conan said. “Be ready!”
They kept their eyes fixed upon the gate as the level of the water rose to their knees, then to their waists. When the surface was just above their midsections, the flow stopped and the agitated water sloshed and lapped at the sides of the pit. They ignored the bloodthirsty mutter of the crowd and the encouraging cries and prayers of the wild women.
“Something comes!” Achilea said.
“Back up!” Conan ordered. “Let’s have some room.”
Awkwardly, fighting the resistance of the water, they began to back step by cautious step toward the podium. They had managed no more than five paces when something sinuous glided through the portal. Its scaly back―bearing rows of greenish-black spines―cut the surface of the water as a long, powerful tail propelled it at terrible speed for so huge a beast Behind a long snout, a pair of slit-pupiled amber eyes gleamed with ancient malice.
“What is it?” Achilea gasped. “A dragon?”
“Nay,” Conan replied. “A Styx crocodile. ‘Ware the jaws and ‘ware the tail! Go for its belly!” Then the thing was upon them.
The monster was at least thirty feet long and as it attacked, it was impressible to tell from its fixed gaze which of them it had selected for its first target but the two stood a couple of paces distant to give themselves sword-room, and Conan knew that it had to go for one or the other. Its tiny, reptilian brain lacked the capacity for a combined attack. Five feet from them, its head went beneath the water and it began to roll sideways and open its jaws. It had picked the woman.
The Conan Compendium Page 514
