Conan the Marauder

by John Maddox Roberts

"Friend Danaqan," said Conan heartily, "there seems to be some misunderstanding between us. I wish only to serve the Kagan as best I may. If I have inadvertently given offence to your gods, please tell me how I may make restitution to them. You are a mighty shaman,! one who speaks directly with the spirit world. Surely you can settle things between the gods and me."

  The shaman tried to rise, but another squeeze of the powerful fingers caused him to cease his struggle. "It may be," he said hesitantly, "that something could be arranged. My magic is strong and the spirits listen to me."

  "Good!" Conan approved. "Come, walk with me and we will discuss this privily. There should be no I enmity between reasonable men of goodwill such as I we."

  The fingers dug into the old man's shoulder and hauled him erect. "Yes," Danaqan managed to grate out, "let us speak together, foreign captain."

  Conan smiled at his men. "Now get you to bed, for we are off again upon the Kagan's business on the morrow. This good shaman and I shall settle matters and all shall be fair again."

  His men looked relieved, but the boy with the skull-drum had a countenance full of fear. Conan favoured him with a bone-chilling glare, and the kohl-outlined eyes ' rolled up in his head, the drum fell from his hands, and the boy keeled over sideways in a dead faint.

  "He seems to be in a spirit trance," Conan said. "Do not wake him lest the spirits be angered."

  He led the old shaman from the firelight until they were at the very edge of the camp, near the line of sentries. There Conan placed his palm in the middle of the shaman's back and thrust him forward, sending him I sprawling upon his face. The old man sprang to his feet and began to gesture at the Cimmerian, growling out I spells in a deep, sepulchral voice. Conan slapped him with his open palm, sending the shaman flying several

  paces through the air to land in a rattle of bones and amulets.

  "Who was it?" Conan demanded. "Who bought you, shaman? Who paid you to place your piddling curses on me? I'll have the answers out of you, so you might as well speak now."

  "Cursed foreigner! You shall die—" The old man's evil eyes bulged as Conan ripped his sword from its sheath and slashed out and down in a single motion too swift to see. The ragged, filthy clothes began to shred away from the Hyrkanian's body. Strings of charms and amulets dropped to the ground, and the old shaman looked in horror for signs of damage to himself. The moonlight revealed that his withered flesh was untouched.

  "It could have been through flesh and bone, wizard," Conan said. "I could have hewn your filthy, cowardly heart in twain. Think upon that while I decide where next to strike."

  "It was the Vendhyan woman," Danaqan said in a defeated voice. "The Kagan's concubine came to us, desiring your life."

  "And secret murder is your trade," Conan said. "She came to a poor craftsman. Why does she want me dead?"

  The man shrugged. "She is jealous. You have risen too far too fast. The Kagan favours you, and she would that he has no other favourites, only herself."

  "Then I must speak to her as well. I hope that she will see reason as readily as you, shaman. I know now that your paltry spells cannot harm me. I suspect that you will next try poison. I urge you to reconsider. Even a powerful poison can take hours to kill a strong man. The moment I feel a bellyache, I shall come and kill you, along with the rest of your scurvy breed. Go now, and be glad that you found me in a merciful mood."

  As he walked back to his tent, Conan was satisfied that he was safe from the shaman for the moment. He was glad that he had decided to handle the problem himself instead of taking it to Bartatua. The difficulty had originated in the Kagan's very tent. He shook his head. King, priest, concubine. It was deadly to stand within such a triangle. Here things were as corrupt as in any civilized court.

  As he entered his tent, Rustuf and Fawd looked up from where they sat passing a wineskin back and forth.

  "How went it?" Rustuf asked.

  "He saw wisdom at last. However, I think it would be a good idea if we three were to keep fast horses close at hand from now on."

  "I always do," Rustuf said.

  IX

  As the sun began to lower, the city of Sogaria shut its gates for the final time, not to be reopened until the enemy were no longer in Sogarian territory. Trumpets brayed and gongs tolled out their thunder as the huge wooden valves closed and the great locking-beams slid across to settle into their iron-bound brackets. Masons began to sheathe the gateways with dressed stone. From now on only small sally ports, each capable of admitting a single file of horsemen, would be permitted to remain, for they were easy to defend against enemy incursion.

  Atop the walls, citizens impressed into the defence forces stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the soldiers who readied the engines that would drop hot oil and weighty missiles upon the attackers. From the highest towers of the city, lookouts kept watch for the terrible raiders from the steppes.

  At last a cry arose from those atop the wall. To the west, a column of horsemen advanced along the crest of a low range of hills. Then, to the south, another, wider column advanced up a broad highway. Fingers pointed to the north, where countless horsemen stood looking down from the great escarpment that defined the beginning of the steppe country.

  The innumerable mounted savages were a terrifying sight, but the wiser and more-experienced of the city people knew that they were not the greatest threat. The real danger would be in the innocuous-looking rabble of siege workers, who would slowly, laboriously, undermine the walls of Sogaria, fill in its ditches and carry the ladders to scale its walls.

  And many there wondered where was the wing of Red Eagles that had left the city some days before, led by the Turanian wizard, Khondemir.

  At that moment Khondemir and his escort were crossing the Steppe of Famine, an aptly named stretch of dry plain where water was rare and grazing was sparse. The pack train slowed progress, but it carried the grain the horses required, else every day hours would be lost while the mounts scattered wide in search of forage.

  The Princess Ishkala rode in her lurching carriage, thoroughly miserable and frightened. She wondered what glorious plot her devoted but foolhardy lover, Manzur, had hatched to rescue her. She knew him better than to expect him to do her bidding and remain in Sogaria until she should return.

  Her thoughts on that prospect were no less troubled. The wizard, Khondemir, was remote and cold, and his manner toward her was little more than civil. She heard strange sounds from within his tent each night. In the mornings he released a pigeon, a small tube attached to its leg. Each evening a different bird would arrive and he would carry it into his tent. No one ever saw what messages the birds carried. Messenger pigeons were common enough, she thought, but what manner of bird could find its way to an ever-moving column?

  She leaned from her carriage and signalled to Captain Jeku, commander of the escort. The glittering officer rode to her side and saluted with his short silver-mounted whip. "Yes, my lady?"

  "Captain, what think you of the Turanian, Khondemir?"

  "Think, my lady?" He frowned as if at some utterly alien concept. "Why should I think about him? I have been given orders to escort him to a destination that he shall choose. That is what I am doing."

  "Of course," she said impatiently, "I realize that you must obey my father's orders. But does it not seem odd to you that Khondemir keeps sending out and receiving messenger pigeons?"

  The captain looked away uncomfortably. "I know naught of the ways of wizards, my lady. As long as he does nothing treasonous to my prince, I'll not interfere with him."

  Resignedly she sat back within her heavily padded carriage and shut the curtain. She had been raised in a palace, and her new surroundings appeared decidedly odd. The carriage was luxurious compared to the circumstances endured by the troopers outside, but she had not even a single maid here. She missed the company more than the help, for her requirements were very few on this trek.

  It was on the sixth day of the slow journey that she heard the troopers shouting, and
the sound of trumpets and drums. From earlier drills she knew that the trumpet call was the alert, signifying enemy in sight. The troopers outside were not behaving as if this were a drill, but were forming battle order in deadly earnest.

  "What is it?" she called as Jeku rode past her carriage.

  "The savages come, Princess," he called. "Stay within your carriage. We shall protect you."

  From what she had heard of the Hyrkanians, she doubted that even the bravest of Sogarian cavalry would be much protection. She got out and climbed to the top of the carriage, taking a seat beside the driver. Near her were Jeku and his staff. The Red Eagles were formed up in four ranks, facing the approaching horsemen. At a call from Jeku, all lances were lowered toward the enemy.

  "There is no sense in standing here and awaiting their arrows," said the captain. "As soon as they are within bowshot, sound the charge."

  "Stop!" The voice was that of Khondemir. The mage rode up to Jeku and his staff. "These are not Hyrkanians."

  "Say you so?" said Jeku, glowering fiercely. "Then who may they be, pray?"

  "They are allies, friends of mine. From Turan. We are not in Sogarian territory any longer, Captain."

  "And why are they joining you here? My prince gave me no instructions concerning this situation. This is quite irregular.''

  "Irregular or not, Captain, I have need of these men. The reasons for that need not concern you. Suffice it to say that they are allies. They will strengthen our band should we face the Hyrkanians. I assume that you have sufficient control over your men to prevent ugly incidents?"

  Jeku's face darkened like a thundercloud. "My men are perfectly disciplined, sir. You may rest assured of it. I shall expect you to keep rein on these men who seem to belong to you. We have been at peace with Turan for many years, so there is no cause for enmity.

  However, when we return to Sogaria, I shall report this... peculiar circumstance.''

  "The prince will have no cause for complaint," Khondemir said.

  The Turanians were now within bowshot, but they made no hostile demonstration. They rode to within a few-score yards of the Sogarians, then halted at an order from a leader. A small group detached itself and rode to the small band of staff surrounding Khondemir. A black-bearded man bowed deeply to the mage.

  "Greeting, my Lord Khondemir. We, your followers, stand ready to escort you to your rightful place, the—"

  "Very good, Bulamb," said Khondemir, cutting off the man's words. "Have your men fall in beside our esteemed allies, the Sogarians. We ride for a place deep within this arid plain, and we are now near our destination."

  The one named Bulamb regarded Jeku and his staff with an expression of insolent irony. "I am always delighted to meet... allies, my lord. I shall relay your orders."

  "Excellent. We make camp an hour before sunset. Attend me in my tent this evening," Khondemir said. The Turanian rode off.

  Now that they were closer, Ishkala studied the foreigners. She knew by the style of their dress, arms and horse trappings that these were Turanians. She had little experience of military men, but these seemed to lack the smartness and fine discipline of the Red Eagles. There was no uniformity in their equipment, and many had the raffish, brutal look of common adventurers rather than the mien of respectable, professional soldiers. In number they roughly equalled the Sogarians. All were mounted, a necessity on the empty plain.

  The Turanians had a sizeable pack train, presumably loaded with forage for the horses and waterskins for man and beast. The Sogarians eyed them askance, the way that professional military men always regard amateurs, especially those who bear more the aspect of bandits than that of soldiers.

  Ishkala resumed her seat in her carriage, but when next she saw Captain Jeku riding past, she beckoned him to her again. "Well, Captain, what think you of the Turanian wizard now?"

  Jeku frowned furiously. "This surpasses belief! Not only does the man drag us out into this wasteland when our city lies in danger, but he foists upon us a pack of... of Turanian riff-raff! Your father shall hear of this, Princess, never fear!"

  Manzur leaned on his spear and stared gloomily over the host encamped around the walls of Sogaria. Already he had found out that a siege had a single, all-pervasive quality: boredom. He wore his sword, an old shirt of bronze scales from the city armoury, and a spired helmet won at dicing with a city guard. He had felt quite soldierly upon taking his assigned post atop the city wall. That had been two nights earlier. The excitement of the novelty had not outlasted the first night.

  He had tried to compose verses full of the clash of arms, the neighing of war-horses, the bray of trumpets and the thunder of drums. Unfortunately, what was happening around Sogaria had no such stirring aspect. During the day there was only the occasional whisper of an arrow as the Hyrkanians amused themselves by taking pot-shots at the guards atop the wall. At night he could hear the digging of the slave train as it sought to undermine the great walls of the city.

  A breeze from behind brought him the stench of a massive overcrowding of man and beast within the restricting walls of the city. The old poems had never mentioned that aspect of war, he thought. The siege could drag on for weeks, or even for months. The thought was unendurable. Manzur was certain that he was made for better things. He was also frantic with worry over the fate of Ishkala. But how might he escape Inevitable death from boredom and join his beloved?

  A sound from below drew his attention. He leaned over the parapet between the newly erected arrow shields of thick wicker. From the gloom below, came the creaking sound of one of the sally ports as it was opened. The thudding of muffled hooves came up to him; then the hoofbeats faded into the distance. Once again the sally port creaked and he heard its bars slide back into place. He resumed his sentry post and turned to a companion.

  "Another messenger off to seek reinforcements," he said. "I wonder how many ever pierce the lines."

  "Few, I would wager," said the man, an old veteran called back into service for the emergency.

  "But if they capture our messengers," Manzur said, "why do they not display them before the walls and attack us for our efforts?"

  "This savage is too clever," said the veteran, gnarled hands locked about his spear shaft. "This way, we never know who has made it through and who has not. Also, if we grew discouraged, we might stop trying to send messengers. As it is, every one he captures he can torture to learn about the conditions within our walls."

  Manzur nodded. A thought formed in his mind.

  "The messengers must be very brave. I would like to speak with such courageous men. Know you where they may be found?"

  "The Messenger Corps frequents the tavern called

  the Weary Horseman, near the cavalry barracks," the older man replied.

  At midnight Manzur was relieved. Instead of going home, he went in search of the Weary Horseman. The streets were crowded with refugees lying on pallets. He stumbled in the gloom, for since the rationing of oil had been instituted, only one street lamp in four was lighted at dusk.

  The inn was not difficult to find, for there were a half-score of horses tethered at its forecourt. This was a I rare sight within the walls of the city, but this tavern had leave to keep the beasts unpenned, for the messengers had to be ready to mount and ride on a moment's notice.

  Inside, Manzur found the mood subdued. The patrons ate and drank desultorily, and conversed in low voices. The depressing atmosphere of the besieged city had spelled an end to the carefree roistering of the city's taverns, He saw that on a long table amidst the men there rested a casque bearing the yellow plumes of the Messenger Corps. These men were never truly off duty, and all were dressed in the light armour of their highly mobile service.

  Soon Manzur saw what he was looking for. In a corner by himself sat a man who silently and gloomily stared into the lees swirling at the bottom of his wine cup. Manzur knew the situation well: a man with a flat purse, a man who had spent his last coin on wine and whose companions seemed disinclined to a
dvance him the price of more. Manzur crossed to the table.

  "Excuse me, sir," said the youth.

  The man looked up at him with red-shot eyes. "Yes? Who are you, another summoner from the palace with a suicide mission for the only soldiers doing this city any good?"

  Manzur paid no attention to the man's sneering belligerence. It merely meant that the fellow was already half-drunk, which would make his task that much easier.

  "Pray forgive my intruding upon your privacy," Manzur said, "but I have heard wonderful things about you men of the Messenger Corps. I would be most honoured if you would allow me to buy you a cup or two of wine. I would greatly enjoy hearing of your adventures. I am a poet, and I intend to compose an epic about this war when we have driven away the savages."

  At the mention of wine, the man brightened somewhat. "There may be few ears to listen to your verses when this is over, but have a seat anyway. Yes, we are the finest service in the army, all picked men, mounted on the finest steeds, and this," he slapped the gold-washed message tube at his sash, "is our passport to anywhere in the allied nations. If I encounter a duke when I am on duty and my horse is tired, I may demand that he exchange mounts with me and he can do no more than ask restitution of the prince."

  The pitcher of strong wine arrived and Manzur poured generously into the messenger's cup, stingily into his own. "Tell me more," he urged.

  For the next two hours the man regaled Manzur with tales of his adventures. Toward the end he grew incoherent and took to repeating himself. At last he began to slump forward onto the table. Manzur grasped him and hauled him to his feet.

  "Time for you to return to barracks, my friend," Manzur said. "Let me help you."

  No one bothered to look up as Manzur half-carried the drunken man from the tavern. Apparently his companion was not popular among the other messengers. Instead of guiding him to the barracks, Manzur stepped into the alley separating the inn from a back wall of the military stables. When he re-emerged, he was dressed in the uniform and armour of the Messenger Corps. He had retained only his own sword and dagger, for these weapons were not standardized within the corps, each man instead bearing such arms as he fancied.