The chief rose and looked down coolly at Conan. "We have a few days' ride to join Bartatua. You shall have ample time to prove your worth. What is your name, foreigner?"
"Conan."
"Know that I am Boria, of the Blue Stag clan of the Arpad tribe. I am a fifty-leader, and I will test you along the way. If there is anything to you besides talk, I will know of it by the time we join the great chief. It may be my pleasure to say to him a few words in your favour. It may be his pleasure to act upon those words."
"This is foolishness!" said the one called Torgut. "What use can the great Bartatua have for this city-dwelling, swine-eating ape?" He spat, but was careful to stay out of range of Conan's feet.
"That is not for you to say, Torgut," said Boria. "The ways of a great Kagan are not the concern of a common saddle pounder. Do you wish to dispute my judgement?"
Torgut raised the back of his hand to his forehead. "I meant no disrespect, commander." He shot Conan a look of close-reined hatred.
"See that it is so." Boria turned to the men by the fire. "Give the prisoner some of the dried food from his saddlebag." He turned back to Conan. "At dawn we ride. Your journey shall not be easy. You may not
survive it. This means little to me. I shall know more when we reach the great camp."
The officer left and one of the others, a man tattooed from shoulders to knees in animal designs, tossed a few strips of dried meat near Conan. The Cimmerian had to inch over on his side and pick up the strips with his teeth. Boria had called him "prisoner" instead of "slave," and that might mean something. He choked down one of the tough, leathery pieces of meat.
"Water," Conan called. The tribesmen ignored him. Boria finished cleaning the bone he had been gnawing on, then spoke to the man who sported the elaborate tattoos. That one rummaged in his saddlebags and brought out a shallow bowl. He filled this with liquid from a skin and set it near Conan, who wrinkled his nose at the smell but knew better than to be finicky about what he ate and drank. There was an ordeal ahead, and he would need all his strength in order to meet it.
The bowl was not filled with water but with fermented milk, whether that of sheep, cow, goat, yak or mare, Conan neither knew nor cared. The steppe peoples lived largely off their flocks and milked the females of all their animals. He noticed that the bowl had been cut from the top of a human skull. Awkwardly he emptied the vessel. Bound as he was, there was no possibility of finding comfort, but with the coming of night, he did his best to sleep. His fitful rest was tormented by stinging insects, and dawn came all too soon.
"There is no need to tire our horses with your bulk," said Boria as he fastened a halter around Conan's thick-muscled neck. "You who dwell in cities and villages are accustomed to using your feet. Keep up with us, or you will be dragged."
When the men were mounted, they set out at an easy trot, their path taking them eastward. Conan ran with the remounts, carefully judging the gait of the slowest horse and pacing himself with it. If these arrogant riders hoped to see him dragged gasping upon the ground, they were in for a surprise. Conan was a matchless runner, and he kept up easily.
As the morning progressed, the Hyrkanians would occasionally glance back at him and each time they did, their eyes went a bit wider to see him trotting with the horses, his tether swinging loose, his breathing light. To these men who never walked more than a score of paces save in dire emergencies, it was inconceivable that a man could keep pace with a horse. At this easy pace, Conan knew mat he could run all day. To a Cimmerian hillman, running came as naturally as breathing or fighting.
But Conan knew, too, that he had trouble when Torgut took his tether from the man who had been holding it. "Our prisoner looks bored and low in spirits. Perhaps some exercise will improve his humour." With that, the Hyrkanian kicked his horse's flanks and the beast began a steady lope.
As the tether drew taut, Conan lengthened his stride. He had expected that something like this might happen. He could trot as long as any horse. At this speed, he could run longer than any other man, but not as long as a good horse. If the Hyrkanian put the animal to a rapid gallop, Conan would have to take desperate measures or be dragged. Sweat began to run into his eyes and-his breathing grew deep and hard. He was far from exhausted, but he would reach that state eventually.
The other riders drew level, laughing and shouting at this rare sport. Conan caught Boria's cool, evaluating gaze as the tall, dry grasses flashed by him. He considered catching the rope in his teeth and trying to bite through it. Success would be unlikely; he had never encountered rope so thin and yet so strong. And they would only drop another noose around his neck anyway.
Torgut looked back and saw that Conan was keeping up. Fury knotted his features and he lashed his horse's rump with a short quirt. The mount sprang forward at a full gallop. Conan took a deep breath and began to run at top speed before the rope could grow taut and jerk him off balance. With his hands bound, he lacked his customary superb equilibrium. The ground was rough and should he fall, the long dragging that would ensue would result in severe lacerations at the very least. More likely it would be a race between strangulation and a broken neck. Boria might be displeased, but Torgut hated the Cimmerian. To a barbarian, what was a mere dressing-down by a superior compared to the sweetness of revenge?
Conan ran with a purpose now. He sought a stone, a stump, any protrusion that might give him purchase. If he was to die here, he wanted the pleasure of taking Torgut with him. Then he saw what he was looking for. A few hundred paces ahead was one of the rare trees of the steppe. Low, stunted, gnarled and twisted by the wind, it was little more than a shrub. But Conan knew that it had a tortured, scrawny trunk of amazing strength. He knew also that his luck was with him, for one might encounter no more than four or five of these tiny trees in a day of travel on the steppe.
As they neared the tree, Conan saw that Torgut was going to pass close by it on the right. The Cimmerian inclined his steps slightly to the left so as to pass the tree on the other side, with the rope between. Boria, riding somewhat behind Conan, saw his plan and called out, "Torgut!" But he was too late. Conan darted to
the tree, ran completely around it and leaned back, snubbing the rope effectively around the trunk.
Torgut had time only to look back. Then he was jerked violently from his saddle by the rope that was wrapped around his wrist. He struck the earth with a bone-jarring shock that drove the air from his lungs. Grinning, Conan ran back around the tree and made for the man.
The others were slowing and turning their mounts, but they could not reach Torgut before Conan. The Cimmerian, still a few paces from the inert Hyrkanian, leaped as nimbly as an antelope. He came down with both feet in Torgut's midriff, causing what little breath the man had left to explode from his lungs in a pain-filled bellow. Conan then dropped to his knees and was rewarded with a gratifying snap of ribs.
He sprang to his feet and prepared to jump onto Torgut's face when Boria rode up behind him. In one hand the leader held his unstrung bow, and he swung it with all of his considerable strength. The heavy, whip-like construction of wood and horn cracked into the base of Conan's skull with the force of a spear butt swung with intent to kill. A red sunburst blazed before the Cimmerian's eyes, and he collapsed across his unconscious enemy.
II
A lurid crimson glare outlined the spires of the city as the sun settled beyond the steppeland to the west. Two riders sat their mounts atop the escarpment overlooking the small but fertile valley in which beautiful Sogaria nestled like a great jewel on a cushion of green silk. All around was the arid plain, but within this tiny valley, water worked its ancient magic and caused the land to blossom. Many caravan trails converged upon this land of well-kept fields and orchards, where the very field hands wore silk, which was bartered in Sogaria as cheaply as was cotton in Vendhya or linen in the western kingdoms. "The gongs will sound soon, my lady," said the man, whose flat features and tilted eyes identified him as a member of one of the eastern Hyrkan
ian tribes, those renowned for their terrible periodic raids into Khitai. "They will shut the great gates for the night." He spat upon the ground. "That is the way of the dwellers in cities, so fearful that they must lock themselves within their walls at night, then go to their homes and bolt the doors and shutters against the clean air. You will not be able to enter until morning."
"I know what cities are like, Bajazet," said the woman impatiently, "and I will find a way in. We waste time here."
The two coaxed their horses gently down the escarpment. The animals were eager to descend once they smelled the water below, and had to be restrained from taking dangerous steps in the uncertain, treacherous footing.
The man wore the typical dress of the steppe nomad, although in the heat of summer he had stripped off all but his loose trousers and his high, soft boots. He was heavily armed, but only his dagger was belted directly upon him. Lance, bow and sword hung about his saddle. To a Hyrkanian, weapons borne on a mount were the same as those borne on the person.
The woman wore an all-enveloping garment that covered her from scalp to ankles, the black cloth pierced only by a pair of holes for the hands and a narrow slit for vision. The vision-slit was itself covered by a band of fine netting, so that nothing of the woman's face could be seen. Boots and gloves covered what little of her the cloak left exposed.
As they neared the city, they came into an area of pens and common pasture where the camels, horses and oxen of the visiting caravans were kept. Nearer the gates were the camp grounds occupied by those caravaneers who had arrived after the closing of the gates or by those who chose to sleep without the walls. Around the smoky fires were spoken a score of languages as men told tales in the cool of the evening, continuously switching their fly whisks against the night-flying insects.
The woman dismounted and handed her reins to Bajazet. "I will be back before the sun is up. Take the horses where they can find grass and water and be back here with them at first light. And stay sober." The
weakness of the steppe men for strong drink was legendary.
"As you command, my lady."
Bajazet led the beasts away and the woman began to make her way among the camp fires. The caravaneers paid her not the slightest attention. She might as well have been invisible. A veiled woman was another man's property and not to be acknowledged.
There were other women moving among the camp-fires, though, as well as boys and men who were plainly not from the caravans. The women were for the most part unveiled and engaged in selling a multitude of wares: food, wine, trinkets or, occasionally, themselves. There were fortune-tellers and letter-writers, musicians and mountebanks, all of them eager to provide weary caravaneers with goods and entertainment, as well as with a few items and services forbidden within the walls of the city.
The woman traced this colourful stream back to its source: a small, door-sized gate set into one of the great wooden gates of the city. Beneath a small lantern, a single guard leaned on a spear and passed through any who could show him a lead seal stamped with the mark of some magistrate's office. The veiled woman walked up to the guard as soon as there was no one else near him.
The man regarded her curiously. "May I help you, lady?" Surely only the woman of an important man would be veiled so heavily.
"I wish to enter the city," she said.
"Have you a license?"
The universal passport appeared in her gloved hand: a glint of gold in the light of the lantern. The guard looked about swiftly, assured himself that no one stood near. The gold disappeared into his belt and he jerked his head toward the city. The woman stepped through the gate and disappeared.
Khondemir stood upon his high balcony, studying the stars. On one of the marble rails rested a delicate, intricate device of brass and crystal. The mage peered silently through the artefact, his long, thin fingers making minute adjustments. Finally he straightened and crossed to a table where he dipped a quill in ink and noted upon fine parchment the exact day and hour when the carmine planet would enter the House of the Serpent.
Then a sound from below drew his attention and he looked over the railing and down into the street. He lived in an area of the most sumptuous homes, and it was rare that any walked abroad at night. In the light of the lanterns that hung from poles every twenty paces, he saw a black-swathed figure approaching the gate of his courtyard. He knew who it was by the confident stride and he returned to his study. At the tug of a bell pull, a servant appeared.
"There is a lady without the garden gate. Admit her and bring her hither immediately. Then fetch wine and refreshments." The servant bowed profoundly and left. A few minutes later there was a scratching at the door. "Enter."
The servant bowed the woman into the room and departed. The instant the door was closed, she grasped the hem of her cloak and pulled off the garment, shaking a wealth of rich black hair over her bare shoulders.
"I thought I would suffocate in this thing!" she said. "Greeting, Khondemir."
"Greeting, Lakhme," said the mage.
The woman thus addressed bore the features of the upper castes of northern Vendhya. Though small, her form had the voluptuousness of the temple sculptures of that land, and beneath the cloak she wore naught but a narrow silken loincloth and knee-length boots. Her beauty was dazzling, but most striking of all was the perfect ivory whiteness of her skin, protected from sun and wind every day of her life and kept soft with scented oils.
"I have little time," she said, stripping off her gloves. "The great horde of Bartatua shall set forth this season, before the turning of another moon."
"So I have already detected," said Khondemir portentously. "The stars have foretold it, as have certain spirits with whom I commune."
Her beautiful eyes cast him a look of weary cynicism. "You wizards always try to pretend that your powers give you knowledge of the future and of events far away. I would wager that your human spies are of far greater value to you. Else what use would you have for me?"
His thin lips turned up at their corners in the faintest of smiles. "Truly, my human agents are of a certain value, to confirm that which I already know, you understand. As for having another use for you..." He stepped forward and placed his arms around her.
She put a hand against his chest and looked up at him mockingly. "Did your wizardly mentors not tell you that indulging your carnal nature would seriously sap your magical powers?"
"They did," he said. "It was one of several matters in which they spoke foolishly." He released her as a discreet noise at the door announced the arrival of the servant. Lakhme stood behind the door as the man entered, set the tray on a low table and backed out.
The Vendhyan woman took the goblet of wine proffered by Khondemir and paced slowly about the room, admiring its furnishings. She was as unselfconscious in her near nudity as an infant. "It is good," she said, "to be among civilized things again. The Hyrkanians have no appreciation of the sensual pleasures of life save for a joy in good horses and bestial drunkenness." She ran her fingers across a casket of fragrant sandalwood inlaid with mammoth ivory.
"Some of them," Khondemir observed, "have a taste for beautiful women."
She shrugged her smooth shoulders, causing her alabaster breasts to quiver. "As mere battle trophies. Bartatua values me highly because he took me from Kuchlug, the greatest of his enemies. When his followers see me, they are reminded that the great Bartatua slew Kuchlug with his own hands and took his woman." She grasped a handful of embroidered drapery and drew it to her face, inhaling the scent of incense that clung to it. She began to rub the cloth languorously over her body. "You have no idea of what it is like to live in the squalid tents of those savages, to have to do without the simplest pleasures of life." She dropped the hanging and went to the tray, selecting a skewer of grilled meat rolled in herbs and wrapped in vine leaves.
Lakhme read the wizard's eyes and breathing far more accurately than he could read the stars. "Bartatua's first prize is to be Sogaria. It has wealth and a str
ategic position between east and west. There are no cities nearby to offer assistance, and the city is soft and fat. It has not known war in a generation."
With an effort of will, Khondemir dragged his thoughts away from her soft white body. "It has walls, and granaries full of grain. Even if he can unite the tribes, how will men who know only how to shoot from horseback lay siege to such a city?"
"He is a savage," she said, dropping the bare skewer and picking up a sugared date, "but he is not stupid. He has plans for that eventuality. And a siege of Sogaria
will be good practice for other conquests. He has a mind to be a conqueror of nations."
"Turan?" Khondemir asked.
"He wants to take Khitai first, before turning west." Her kohl-rimmed eyes studied his every expression.
"That army," Khondemir half-whispered, "will take Turan ere I am done with it."
She stepped close to him and traced with a fingernail the outline of a dragon embroidered on the breast of his robe. "But that is not Bartatua's plan," she said.
"You and I shall take care of Bartatua," said the wizard. Once more he sought to enfold her. This time she pushed him away forcefully.
"Not so soon, wizard! Bartatua killed my former master to possess me, and you must do the same. I'll be a conqueror's woman, but I yield to no lesser man. If you would have me, slay Bartatua and take control of Ms army."
Khondemir took a deep, shuddering breath. "You place a high value on yourself, woman. Be glad that you are of use to my plans." He was dizzy with a combination of rage and lust.
"I must be away," she said, gathering up her cloak and gloves. "Bartatua believes that I need these ten days to myself every six moons for certain religious rites. I must be back in his tent within five days or face questions I would rather not have to answer. Swiftly now, tell me what you would have me do."
As the lovely body disappeared beneath the cloak, the wizard found himself in better control of his thoughts. "To advance our aims, I must first gain mastery of Bartatua's mind and soul. For that, there is no aid more powerful than substances recently taken from his person. These things give my spirit servants a
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