Conan the Marauder

by John Maddox Roberts

  "By all means," said Bartatua. He looked at Conan and graciously waved a hand over the low table before him. It was still covered with food and wine. "Excellent fight, Cimmerian. Here, refresh yourself before your next bout."

  "Why?" Conan asked. "Do I look tired?"

  Bartatua slapped his thigh in high amusement. "Never have I seen such arrogance! You shall provide us rare sport. What is your favoured weapon?"

  "The sword." He eyed the chests of weapons, seeking a blade to his taste.

  ;"Then you shall fight with the lance!" said Bartatua. The Hyrkanians rocked with laughter at this example of singly humour.

  Conan shrugged. "It is all one." He picked up a slender lance of Vendhya. It was about seven feet long and made of tough ash wood. At one end was a ten-inch point, razor-edged. At the other end was a steel ball the size of a child's fist. He had handled spears since earliest youth and was expert in their use, but the lance was far from his favourite weapon. Within the confines of the tent, he would not be able to use it to best advantage.

  The next man to be led in was a lean Turanian, tall and saturnine.

  "Choose your weapons," said Bartatua. The man looked through the chests and came back with a long tulwar in one hand and a round steel buckler in the other. The buckler was convex, with four bosses on its face, and was about twenty inches in diameter.

  "Begin," said Bartatua.

  The Turanian leaned forward and closed with Conan, his shield held well out from his body for best protection from the thrust of a lance. Had Conan been armed with a sword, the man would have held the shield higher, for then the greatest danger would have been a cut to his unhelmeted head. For a spear, though, the prime target area was the torso, and the Turanian knew it.

  Conan thrust for the throat. It was a shrewd and unexpected move, but the Turanian turned it with the edge of his shield and replied with an almost simultaneous cut to Conan's leading thigh. The Cimmerian had to abandon the attack and leap back swiftly. He cursed the surroundings in which he had to fight. In the hands of an expert, the spear was a deadly and versatile weapon, but only if the spear man had room to manoeuvre. Otherwise, it was useful primarily for fighting in formation, shoulder-to-shoulder with other spearmen. Against a disciplined body of spearmen, even fine cavalry could find themselves helpless.

  To add to his disadvantage, the Turanian had two weapons, one offensive and the other defensive. As he had shown with his last move, the Turanian could block an attack with one hand while launching an attack of his own with the other. Now the Turanian came in, cutting low at Conan's legs while keeping his shield no higher than before, secure in the knowledge that the Cimmerian's weapon was not useful for an attack to the head.

  Conan had to give ground, but he decided to disabuse the man of the idea that he could not be brained in this fight. Grasping the spear after the manner of a quarter-staff, Conan stabbed downward as if to pin the man's foot to the ground; then, as the shield lowered to protect that extremity, he swung the steel-weighted butt at his opponent's temple. The Turanian escaped a shattering blow only by retreating hastily with his shield, held above him like a turtle's shell.

  When they resumed combat, both men moved with great caution. Each had the other's measure now, and knew he faced a skilled and wily opponent. Conan, though, was aware of something else: He was here not only to survive, but to make an impression on Bartatua. This was settling down to a protracted fight. He had no doubt that he would win in time, but he had to take the audience into account. A group of Vanir, or Kothians or Aquilonians, if they were themselves experienced warriors, would be enthralled by this display of two experts with mismatched weapons feeling each other out, testing one another's strengths and weaknesses and battling cautiously to a decision—or to the death. This pack of horse-archers, on the other hand, might quickly become bored, and Conan could not afford to bore them.

  A decided change in tactics was in order. So far, his opponent's major advantage was in possessing both an offensive and a defensive weapon. Conan had an answer to that. As the Turanian essayed a shrewd offensive attack with the shield, punching with its edge, Conan leaped back as though this manoeuvre had taken him unawares. Then he placed the middle of his lance in his mouth, bit down hard and snapped it in twain.

  "He surrenders!" shouted some in disgust. "He throws himself on the other's mercy and destroys his weapon! Kill him!"

  But Conan was far from surrendering. In his left hand he now held the half of the lance that bore the point. In his right hand was the half terminating in the small steel ball. In effect, he held a short stabbing spear, such as certain Kushite tribes of his acquaintance favoured, and a light truncheon. The latter weapon was not a true mace, but it was perfectly adequate for braining an unarmoured man. He now slid in swiftly and stabbed beneath the shield. As the shield lowered, he swept the ball at the Turanian's head. At the last moment he had to use the right-hand weapon to block the sword, but the Turanian had become unnerved. Conan had gained a slight advantage, for both of his weapons were equally adept for offence or defence.

  The Turanian knew that he had to win quickly. To the Hyrkanians it looked an even match, with the Turanian perhaps somewhat the favourite. That wily warrior, however, was under no such misapprehension. He recognized that in Conan he faced an enemy deadlier than any he had known. His only hope was to take swift and full advantage of his shield and sword.

  With a blood-freezing war cry, the Turanian rushed in, shield held close to cover his torso, while with his sword he sought to split Conan's skull. He risked an almost certain spearhead through his leading thigh, but that was the sort of risk a warrior was accustomed to.

  Instead, Conan dropped to the ground and rolled. The Turanian could not check his rush and fell headlong. Before he could scramble to his feet, Conan was standing behind him. A swift blow of the steel ball paralysed the man's elbow, and the tulwar dropped to the ground. Another blow to the shoulder rendered the shield useless. Conan rolled the man onto his back and presented the spear point to his throat.

  "Slay him," said Bartatua after the others had finished cheering.

  Conan withdrew his spear point and signalled for his erstwhile opponent to leave the tent. After the man had gone, he turned to the Kagan of the Ashkuz.

  "Why?"

  'Why?'' demanded Bartatua, his face growing crimson at this defiance. "What kind of warrior leaves a defeated enemy alive?"

  "When a man attacks me unprovoked," Conan said, tossing the shattered bits of his lance back into a chest, "I rarely fail to slay him. But why should I slay a fine swordsman who fights me merely because we are both prisoners of a chief who likes to see men fighting?"

  As Bartatua sat dumbfounded, the Cimmerian stepped up to his table and said: "I will now trouble you for some of that refreshment you offered earlier. This was a harder fight than the first." He poured a brimming cup of wine and took a long drink; then he picked up a handful of raisins and began tossing them into his mouth. The Hyrkanians stared at him as if at a ghost come to life.

  Bartatua broke into hilarious laughter. "This man surpasses all expectation. Such insolence is tolerable only in a court fool. Could you entertain us as a fool, Cimmerian?"

  "I am a warrior," Conan reiterated. "Put me to work as a warrior and you shall soon know my value. Fools are those who misuse their fellow men."

  There was deadly silence for a few moments. At last Bartatua said, "Very well, there is more proving to be done. What next, my friends?"

  "He says he is good with the sword," said the older of the two flanking chiefs. "Let him prove it. Give him a sword and set him against another swordsman."

  "So be it!" cried Bartatua. "Go choose yourself a sword, foreigner."

  Conan complied. There were many swords in the chests, from many different nations. He preferred the straight sword of the western lands, but all the swords he could see were of the east. At last he found a Vendhyan sword that had a straight blade. The hilt was too short for his big hand,
but he could achieve a comfortable grip by looping his forefinger over the cross-guard. The blade was broad but light and somewhat whippy. He would not have chosen this sword for battle, but against an unarmoured man, it would be adequate.

  "Bring in the next," called Bartatua.

  The next man who came in was Rustuf. Neither prisoner wasted time on curses or recriminations. Rustuf went to the chests and came back with a sword of Iranistan, slightly curved and single-edged, with a flat, oval guard. Its long handle could be used by one or both hands.

  "Begin," Bartatua ordered.

  The two faced off and Rustuf immediately started a combination attack, cutting high, low and in between. Conan blocked the cuts efficiently and replied with thrusts from the strong back third of his blade. The weapon was not well designed for the action, but a good swordsman could make do with almost any blade.

  Conan closed in with quick strides and began an attack at the Kozak's head. Rustuf blocked efficiently and replied with repeated attacks at Conan's waist. Conan fell into a routine of cutting high and blocking low, and then Rustuf cut yet lower and nicked the Cimmerian's knee, bringing blood for the first time in the fight.

  "Hah!" said the Kozak. "I am not quite the child that the other two were, eh, Cimmerian?"

  "Save your breath for fighting, Kozak!" said Conan.

  The pair fell to with a will, and for many minutes steel rang on steel as they advanced and retreated around the righting space allowed. At one point Rustuf pushed Conan back across a table, both blades crossed under the Cimmerian's throat. With a superhuman effort, Conan pushed him away, and the swords licked back and forth like the tongues of fighting serpents.

  The tent resounded with cheers, and warriors from without crowded in to see the spectacle. After one especially vicious exchange, Rustuf threw away his sword and snatched up another that was not hacked into lie semblance of a saw.

  "Prepare now to die, Cimmerian!" shouted Rustuf as fie launched a furious attack.

  Conan was driven back until he fell sprawling upon the spread of meats, fruits, bread and wine flasks before them. Rustuf leaped through the air and fell upon him, cutting furiously. Conan caught his sword wrist and twisted the weapon away from himself, driving the Kozak across the room and leaping upon him in turn.

  With both hands he forced his blade down upon Rustuf's throat.

  "Yield, dog!"

  "Cut and be damned!" said the Kozak. "I yield to no man!"

  Conan turned to Bartatua. "Kagan, I ask leave to spare this man. He is a superb swordsman, and he would be an asset to your army."

  In the excitement of the splendid fight, it did not occur to Bartatua that the Cimmerian had not thought it fit to ask of him the disposition of the first two combatants.

  "Very well. Spare him." The Hyrkanians acclaimed the Kagan's magnanimity.

  Conan straightened, his chest heaving. "Have you any more opponents for me?"

  "Nay, this has been a good evening's work. You have proven yourself, Cimmerian. You are slave and prisoner no longer. I name you fifty-leader in my own horde. Does that please you?"

  "It pleases me well, my lord," said the Cimmerian. He looked about the tent and saw that most were glaring at him. They had enjoyed the tights, but that was not' the same thing as accepting him as a fellow officer. He knew this situation as well. Bartatua was a born general, and he valued nothing but ability in his subordinates. Bartatua's men, however, were different. No foreigner, however skilful he might be, was the equal of a Hyrkanian. He would have to watch his back.

  "What would you have of me?" Bartatua asked. "You shall have horses, armour, weapons in plenty. What else?"

  "My lord is generous," said Conan, knowing that it was time to be diplomatic. SI would like to have my last two opponents under my command."

  "As you will," said Bartatua. "Is there anything else?"

  "I would like to have one of your Hyrkanian bows and an expert instructor to teach me in its use."

  "What?" asked Bartatua mockingly. "Such a master of weapons, and yet you are not an archer?"

  "I had thought so," Conan said, "until I saw your men shoot."

  "See?" said Bartatua. "This man is no braggart. He is a master in the fighting styles practised by our enemies, but he knows that we have much to teach him in I he way of the bow. Would that all my men had such honesty. Go, Cimmerian. We shall talk on the morrow."

  Conan bowed politely and took his leave. Bartatua eyed his retreating back with approval. From behind Bartatua's dais another pair of eyes, beautiful but pitiless, watched him with much less favour.

  Outside, Conan found Rustuf and sat down next to him. "It worked out just as we planned."

  The Kozak rubbed his sore jaw. "A good thing, too. When you fed me that clout on the twenty-third pass, I leaned into it by mistake. By Mitra, but I saw stars! And had you not pulled your leg back on that last exchange, I'd have laid your thigh open to the bone. It was too late for me to stop."

  "It worked, so let us not worry about what might have been. We had to make it look real. Now we have positions in his army, and a chance to make our fortune."

  "Aye," said Rustuf. "It will be good to have a horse under me again, and a sword at my waist, and all the wide steppe to roam in."

  "Spoken like a true Kozak," Conan said. Unlike the Hyrkanians, who were tied to their herds and pastures, and who seldom strayed from their tribes, the Kozaki were raiders pure and simple, and a Kozak with the wanderlust on him frequently would ride abroad alone, seeking adventure.

  The Turanian came up to them, rubbing his elbow. "Is it true what I hear, that you have freed me to join the Kagan's army?"

  "If it is your wish," Conan said. "I'll have no reluctant soldiers behind my back, though."

  "Think you I would rather stay in the slave pit or, be chained to a fighter's post? I am your man, and you have my thanks." He put forth his hand, and Conan took it. "My name is Fawd."

  A servant arrived with a key and removed their neck rings, and they followed the man to their new quarters.

  VI

  When Conan arose in the morning, it was in a tent he now shared with Rustuf and Fawd. The structure was round, with a domed roof supported by an interior lattice. There were no ropes or pegs with which to fasten it to the ground, yet he had been told that such a tent would stay firm in the most violent wind storm. He pushed aside the door-hanging and went outside, in time to see a group of soldiers laying out a heap of arms and armour, and tethering a trio of horses to a stake driven into the ground.

  "These are for you and your companions," said a servant. "You have nine more horses, and your men five each. When you wish to look them over, I will guide you to where the mounts of your fifty are penned."

  Conan examined the three horses and selected the largest and strongest for himself. The saddles were all but identical, mere heavy pads innocent of pommel or cantle. Broad loops of leather served for stirrups. He could find none of the armour to fit him, and he made a mental note to search out Boria and retrieve his mail shirt and his helmet. The Vendhyan sword he had used the evening before was among the weapons and he belted it on, along with a broad-bladed dagger. There was a selection of the felt caps favoured by the nomads, with their hanging neck- and ear flaps, but he eschewed these. To his delight, he found a pair of the soft knee-high boots, with their upturned, pointed toes. He added a loose tunic with billowy sleeves.

  There was even a selection of barbaric jewellery, from which he chose a pair of broad bracelets made of a pale electrum alloy and worked into designs of fighting eagles. Satisfied that he now looked like an officer rather than a ragged prisoner, he examined the bows. There were two for each man, in covered cases that were heavily embroidered. He drew one from its case and studied it.

  Unstrung, the bow was an almost complete circle. In design it was similar to bows with which he was familiar. The archers of Koth, Turan and Shem used such bows, but this one was half again as thick and looked to be far more powerful. He itched to
take it to the archery range and try it out, but he had other matters to take care of first. He saw a rope such as he had been captured with and added it to his new belongings. This was another weapon whose mysteries he was determined to learn.

  He went back to the tent flap. "Rise, you sluggards. We have work to accomplish!"

  Yawning and scratching, his two followers emerged. Rustuf's eyes widened. "You have improved in appearance since last I saw you." Then his eyes went wider. "What is this? Loot! And we have yet to fight a battle!"

  "Dress and arm yourselves," Conan said. "I want to inspect my new command."

  "Already you are talking like an officer," Rustuf complained as he pulled on a pair of boots. He selected a coat from Iranistan, thickly quilted, with small plates of steel stitched between the layers of cloth. Its collar stood higher than his ears and protected the back of his neck. Fawd found weapons and armour to suit him, and I lie three men saddled their mounts.

  "It is good to be a warrior again," said Rustuf with the air of a man at peace with the world.

  "Do not expect to have it easy," Conan warned. "These Hyrkanians think they are the lords of the earth, mid they will resent being under the command of a foreigner. You will be proving yourself to them every day."

  "That shall not be difficult," Rustuf retorted. "The Kozaki are the true lords of the earth, and I shall make these tribesmen acknowledge the fact."

  They followed the servant to a small encampment at the edge of the great camp. Near a small fire, a group of men lounged about, drinking and conversing. None looked up when the three companions arrived.

  "This is your fifty, lord," said the servant.

  "Not yet," Conan muttered, "but they shall be." He dismounted and walked into the midst of the Hyrkanians. His voice tore through the camp with the force of a stone hurled by a catapult. "On your feet when your commander comes among you!"

  They looked up curiously. One rose slowly and came stand before Conan. "Why should we be led by a foreigner?"