"Finally, in exasperation, Karun sent an envoy under a flag of truce. The envoy bore the king's words to the chief of the raiders: 'Why, oh warriors, do you flee before me? Come and fight us, for we fear you not. Come and give us battle, lest the world mock you for cowards.'
"The chief of the raiders answered thus: 'Wherefore should we do battle with you at your pleasure when it is not ours? We have already invaded your land and seized your treasure and your women. What profit for us lies in battle at this time? Yet if you would feel the full weight of our wrath, you may find the tombs of our forefathers near here. Molest those tombs and see whether we will come to fight you.'
"But," Khondemir went on, "the king and his host were already short of water and food. Instead of seeking out these tombs, they prudently turned their steps homeward.''
As if at random, the wizard stepped across the mosaic floor, crossing the line of caravan cities and moving onto the steppe to the north. "I found this story to be fascinating, for it means that there is one solid, rooted place in the lives of these restless people. They have burial grounds that are sacred to them, and they will stop whatever they are doing to defend those necropolises. I summoned spirits of the steppe, and I sent them forth to find the burial ground sacred to Bartatua. This day they brought me word of their success. They found it... here." He pointed to the mosaic beside his slippered foot; it was a featureless yellow field of topaz.
Amyr Jelair leaned forward to look. "The Steppe of famine! Surely there is nothing in that desert place save he bones of dead men bleaching in the sun."
"There is no mistake. This is where the ancestors of Hartatua's people rest, in a place they call the City of Mounds. Give me a strong wing of cavalry, and certain other items, and I shall lead the horde there, and there I shall summon such a creature as shall wipe the barbarians from the face of the earth as though they had never been."
"A wing of cavalry," mused the soldier who had spoken earlier. "It is foolishness to send away so many men when the city most needs them."
"But if Khondemir is correct," said the prince, "the city may need no protecting."
"You said that this place is sacred to Bartatua," said I lie prince's brother. "Will the others of his horde seek to protect the tombs?"
"It matters little," said Khondemir with a wave of his hand. "Bartatua and his Ashkuz will come. Without him and his people, the others will fall out and break up. They would never attempt anything as ambitious as a major siege without his leadership."
"I can spare you perhaps a thousand men," said Amyr Jelair. "Even so, they would be little protection against such a host."
"They will be more than adequate, sire," Khondemir assured him. "For I have learned other things about
these people. By the time they reach us, we will be well within the City of Mounds. These tribesmen have many superstitions and taboos. Among them, none may ride a horse within sight of the mounds. Better yet, none may shoot an arrow into the necropolis. Dismounted, with only their swords and lances, these barbarians will be no more formidable than any other undisciplined rabble. Give me good swordsmen under the command of capable officers and we need have no fear of any number of mere tribesmen."
"That sounds quite reasonable, does it not, my advisors?" Some agreed heartily, some less so. Then another thought struck the prince. "Good Khondemir, you mentioned that besides the cavalry, you would need 'other items.' What sort of items?"
"Oh, minor things having to do with my needs upon the trip. A pavilion, wherein I may work my craft during the halts, certain pieces of furniture for the same purposes... and one other thing."
"And what might that be?" Amyr Jelair asked.
"You must understand, sire, that summoning one of the great powers of another world is not like simply hiring a soldier or a workman. The rituals involved are quite complicated. Since this rite is being performed in your behalf, ideally you should be there in person." At the prince's look of alarm, the wizard put forth a forestalling hand. "I know, of course, that it is unthinkable to take you from the city in the midst of its preparations for siege. Someone of your blood will do nicely. Best of all would be a child of yours."
Amyr Jelair paled. "One of my sons? How could I bear to part with one of my sons?"
"I did not say a son, sire. A daughter will do quite as well."
The prince sat back in relief. "A daughter? That is different. I have several daughters. Ishkala is the eldest. She is difficult, and I despair of ever making a good match for her. You may take Ishkala."
"Very well, sire. Barring accident, she will return to you unharmed. Now, sire, if I am to conform to the schedule I have drawn up tor this plan, I must have the soldiers and your daughter ready to depart at dawn on the tenth day from today,"
"It shall be done," the prince said. "Now that business has been taken care of, let us repair to dinner."
That evening as Khondemir was conveyed back to his mansion, he congratulated himself on having carried out his plan so well. The prince was credulous and unused to situations of such urgency. Even had he been a sharper and more suspicious man, though, the result would have been the same. The plan was a good one, and everything the wizard had said was true... except for what he really planned to do when he reached the City of Mounds.
While Khondemir was being carried from one banquet, another celebration was still rollicking along in the city of Sogaria. A crowd of young men made merry in one of the many taverns bordering the city's bazaar. These taverns catered to the caravan trade, but this one was frequented by the better-educated classes: the students, the higher artisans, and the more disreputable sons of the nobility.
One table was especially noisy this night. The men who sat around it were very young, and they had been there since early evening. The wine flask had made many rounds in that time, and had been refilled frequently. One young man in particular was holding forth,
and his words were forceful, although he stumbled over them upon occasion.
"We live in decadent times, my friends," he proclaimed. "The men of this age care for nothing but amassing money, buying palaces and objects of art, and overindulging themselves with food and wine."
"What is wrong with money, Manzur?" asked a companion. "What is wrong with palaces and objects of beautiful art?"
"And what is wrong with food and wine?" asked another. "You have done more than justice by such as has come your way this night." The table roared with laughter.
"There are greater things!" said the one called Manzur. He was young even in this company, and the suns of scarce eighteen summers had shone upon him. His garments were a bit threadbare and not nearly so fine as those worn by some of his friends, but his features were aristocratic, straight, narrow and cleanly formed. The soft new beard that framed his jaw was chestnut in colour, and many a serving maid let her gaze linger upon him. The lad seemed to have no interest in them, though.
"What greater things, oh Manzur?" cried one, and his tone made it clear that this raillery was a common thing among these young roisterers.
"Glory! And adventure! And love eternal! Where in this soft age is the clash of steel, the whir of arrows, the shouts of brave men in battle?"
"Not far from here, if the rumours be true," said an older friend. But Manzur paid no attention.
"How may a man prove himself to his fellows and to his lady-love save by great deeds?" he demanded.
"Tell us!" chorused his friends.
"It just so happens," said the young man, "that I
have with me some verses I have composed upon this very subject.'' He rummaged within the breast of his robe and under tunic. "Let me see, I know they are here somewhere." He fumbled at his sash and opened a case in which he kept his writing instruments.
"By the gods, we are doomed!" shouted one in mock despair. "Manzur wants to read us his poetry!" There were groans and curses.
"I must fortify myself for this ordeal," said another, hastily pouring himself a fresh goblet of wine.
"There are some things a man simply cannot endure," said a youth who wore the sleeveless robe of an architect's apprentice. From his sash he drew a short, carved dagger, placed its tip against his breast and pretended to attempt suicide.
Manzur paid them no attention, at length locating his errant verses tucked into the top of his boot. "Ah, here they are! Attend me closely, my friends. In years to come you may tell your children that you were present at the first recital of these verses."
Hand spread over his heart, papers held at arm's length, Manzur began to recite:
Where, Gods, are those warriors, Lion-brave, who in our fathers' time Did hold their battle lines against nomad fierce and Turanian proud, Not to mention the scurvy Bukhroshans...
As many of those at the table leaned over, feigning the symptoms of severe illness, the would-be suicide tugged at the poet's striped robe. "Manzur, as highly as we all esteem your poetic works, it is about your ladylove that we wish to hear."
"Ah," sighed the youth, "my beautiful—but I may not let her divine name pass my lips where others may hear." He folded his verses and put them away. Those seated about the table made gestures of gratitude to the gods.
"Why is there such mystery about this lady, Manzur?" asked a youth in a student's turban. "For a fortnight you have sighed and moped about her, and yet we have naught but your word that she is worthy of such suffering." He refilled Manzur's goblet in hope of loosening his tongue, an operation the poet scarcely required.
"I swore an oath to her," Manzur said, "that I would never reveal her identity. The consequences would be terrible for us both."
"Hah!" said the suicide. "Did I not tell you? She is married! The wife of some fat-bellied merchant, she entertains Manzur amid opulent surroundings while her husband is away on business. Admit it, Manzur."
"Beware!" cried Manzur, fumbling for his sword. "You sully the name of a great lady!"
"How can we do anything to her name?" asked another. "You will not reveal it to us."
Manzur resumed his seat. "Alas, her identity must remain a secret within my heart. She is too high-born for such as me to raise eyes to, and yet I have dared. We have pledged our love, but it is doomed because of the difference in our stations."
His friends were rapt. At last he was speaking of the woman of mystery. "Describe her, Manzur," said one craftily. "Surely a poet must be able to delineate such a beauty in such wise that we may see her without knowing her name."
"Her hair, my companions, is as black as the midnight sky."
"There is scarcely another colour of hair in all Sogaria," said the crafty one, disappointed.
"Her skin is as pale as the rising moon."
"Be more specific, Manzur," said the suicide.
A thought seemed to strike the poet. "But wait! There is a way I may yet tell you of her incomparable qualities." He reached into his other boot and withdrew a sheaf of papers. "This very day I have composed a poem to her. It is a trifling thing, still in rough form, of some two hundred ninety-seven lines, and I — "
He looked up from his verses to see the last of his friends storming out of the tavern by doors and windows. Perplexed, he surveyed the deserted table, then drained the last cup of wine.
"As courage and honour have fled our age," he proclaimed, "so has the appreciation of fine poetry." He looked about for agreement, in time to see the proprietor approaching with the look of a man who expects to be paid. Manzur decided it was time to take to his way outside, he wended his way toward the prince's palace and brooded upon the many tragedies of his life. As a poet and philosopher, he knew himself doomed to a life of neglect, forever misunderstood by his fellow men. As a lover, he was likewise doomed, for only the greatest and fairest of women could stir his heart. While, much to his surprise, he had found just such a lady right in Ms native city, it was inevitable that she should be of the very highest birth and therefore unsuitable for the reprobate son of an impoverished minor noble.
Like many another such youth, Manzur was too proud to work and too poor to have connections at court. Such slight income as he had came from giving lessons in swordsmanship at the studio of Master Nakhshef. It called for little effort, merely the teaching of fundamentals to first-year students, but anything having to do with arms was honourable.
At least he could take pride in his swordsmanship. He had begged his way into the school as a young boy and had endured much scorn from the old master in his first years. Gradually the scorn became acceptance, then approval. Finally the old man took Manzur on as an assistant, and even hinted that someday the youth might replace him as master.
Manzur drew his blade and went through a complicated drill that would have been demanding of a sober man, but his performance was flawless. His sword was a variant of the Turanian tulwar: single-edged, razor-sharp, with the slightest of curves. Light and slender, in the hands of a skilled man it was exceedingly deadly. Master Nakhshef had insisted that he attain proficiency in all weapons, but the light sword was his favourite.
His steps had led him to the rear wall of the prince's palace, and he sheathed his blade in a single, flowing motion. There was an ancient vine growing up the wall, thick and gnarled. He looked along the lane he had come by and saw that it was deserted. The garden facing the wall was likewise deserted. No sentries showed themselves atop the wall. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he began to climb.
It was a sign of the decadence of the times, he thought as he ascended, that a veritable scaling-ladder had been allowed to grow up a wall of the palace. Likewise, that the sentries rarely walked their rounds. I The fact that these derelictions allowed him to visit his love did nothing to dim his indignation.
Once atop the wall, he dropped lightly into the small courtyard beyond. All was quiet. He skirted the central pool and entered a veranda where, during the days, certain ladies of the court took shelter from the fierce sun. Stepping cautiously to an intricate tracery of marble, he whispered urgently, "Ishkala!"
With his heart in his mouth, he waited. Each time he did this, he knew that instead of his lady, a guard might be waiting.
"Manzur?" A slight form in voluminous garments came through the doorway next to the marble lattice. He swept her into his embrace.
"My lady, my love, how I have longed for you since—"
She drew back from him sharply. "Manzur! You have been out carousing with your friends again! You smell as if you had slept in a wine cask."
"I must drink to forget, love, lest thoughts of you so dominate my soul that when called upon by honour to draw my sword, I—"
"Cease this prattle," she hissed. "Something terrible has happened!"
For a moment, he almost sobered. "You have not been betrothed?"
"Almost as bad. That fearsome Turanian wizard visited the court this evening. As usual, I hid behind the throne to hear what was being said. There is to be war!"
"War!" Visions of glory danced in his head.
"The wizard, Khondemir, says that he can prevent this war."
"What a pity," said Manzur, disappointed.
"He plans to take an expedition far into the desert steppe and there wreak some horrible magic to destroy the nomads."
"These wizards have taken all the honour out of warfare," he protested indignantly.
"Worse than that. He claims that he needs me for his spell!"
"You? Perhaps you had better explain from the beginning."
She told him all she had heard from her hiding place. "This night," she went on, "the mayor of the palace came to say that I must prepare for a long journey. We are to be escorted by the Red Eagles. The wizard says I shall not be harmed, but I am not so trusting as my father. I know that the Turanian plots evil against the city!"
"I'll not allow this," Manzur vowed. "I shall demand an audience with the prince."
"You would not get past the gatekeeper, my love," she said. "I must obey my father, even when he acts foolishly."
"I cannot let you do this," he said. "Ever since I fel
t your heart calling out to mine, forcing me to climb yonder wall and find you—" He went on in this vein for some time.
In truth, he had been passing this way some weeks earlier with a pack of friends after a drunken party, and they dared him to climb the wall of the prince's palace. He accepted the challenge, ascended to the battlement, turned to take a bow, and then lost his balance and fell into the courtyard, straight onto a fragrant bush. When the world stopped swimming about him, he found himself staring up into a vision of loveliness such as he had never dreamed possible. By now he had forgotten the more-embarrassing details of the event and believed the story he had made up for her.
"You must go," she said. "The eunuch guards will be making their rounds. You must forget about me. If I return from this journey, well and good. If not, then find another love." Sobs distorted her last words.
"I shall do something, my love," he said. "I know not what, but I shall find some way to be with you."
They broke apart at the sound of tramping feet and clanking metal. The guard was coming. With a final dash, Manzur ran to the wall and eschewed the tree he slowly climbed, using the more-prosaic gardener's ladder. Lying in the park near the palace, he wandered despondently. How could he contrive a way to be by his lover's side in her hour of need? He considered going to the house of Khondemir and challenging the mage to a 'did. He discarded the thought. Doubtless the man would make use of some dishonourable, wizardly advantage. He watched the beautiful crescent of the moon between two spice trees and considered composing a poem to Ishkala, comparing her beauty to that of the moon. It seemed to be an original idea.
He awoke in the morning with a shattering head and the distinct feeling that he was at the bottom of a great sea. He sat up and saw some men trimming hedges in the garden, paying him no heed. He sought to remember the events of the night before. First, someone had attempted to insult his poetry. Then— Ishkala! Her words came flooding back to him. There had to be something he could do. Shakily he rose on unsteady feet and walked from the garden.
Conan the Marauder Page 5
