Hurriedly Manzur examined the mounts hitched before the tavern. He did not wish any of the messengers to see him leaving the establishment. Then he found the name of his erstwhile companion stamped upon a saddle skirt. He unhitched the horse and led it away by the bridle. As soon as he was a distance from the tavern, he mounted and picked a careful way through the refugee-clotted streets.
At the north gate, the small contingent of guards looked up to see the yellow plumes nodding above the rider's head. "Another message to go out tonight?" asked the senior guard. "Where do you ride, messenger?"
"You know better than to ask such questions," Manzur said, bluffing.
"Your pardon," said the guard. "You are right. We shall have the sally port open in a moment. You had best ride like the wind if you would be well beyond the savages by daybreak. Will you dismount now?"
"Dismount?" Manzur said, puzzled.
"Yes, so that we may muffle your horse's hooves. The ground is hard-packed just beyond the walls and you may hear a horse for half a mile."
"Of course," Manzur said. "It had slipped my mind. Difficult to get used to, the idea of Sogaria being under siege." He hoped that his airy tone was sufficient to deter suspicion, and he fretted silently while the guards tied clumsy shoes of thick-plaited straw over his mount's hooves.
When they were finished, he remounted and waited as they opened the sally port. The horse stamped impatiently, trying to shake off the unfamiliar, muffling shoes. Slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, he rode through. Tensed for the impact of innumerable arrows, he let out a long sigh of relief when none greeted his exit.
In the distance he could see the low-burning fires of the encamped Hyrkanian army. As he heard no patrols nearby, he sat his horse for a few minutes, getting his bearings. Then he began to ride to the north-west. As a boy, he had often visited a modest farm owned by a kinsman near the edge of the cultivated land surrounding the city. The farm was no doubt in ruins, but the land was bisected by the dry bed of an ancient stream and the gully might provide him with a path through the enemy lines unseen.
An hour's easy trot brought him to the edge of the farmland. A brief excursion to the right should bring him to the dry wash and a path to freedom. With his attention on the ground just before his horse's hooves, he was caught by surprise when a voice to his left hailed him. "Who are you? What horde?"
Manzur could barely understand the words, spoken in the barbarous dialect of the steppes. He did not want to run until he knew where the gully was, and he preferred not to be pursued. Feverishly he tried to remember all that he had heard of the tribesmen. For one thing, they were notorious drunks. Manzur slumped over his saddle, humming an ancient sheep herder’s song.
"I said who are you!" barked the voice. Then Manzur heard the hooves of two horses approaching.
"Another drunk," said a different voice disgustedly. "Fool, the Kagan will have the hide from your back for this."
A hand grabbed Manzur's left arm and roughly jerked him erect. "This is no—" But before the tribesman could finish, Manzur was drawing his sword and cutting upward. The blade caught the man below the chin, cleaving up through the teeth and into the brain. Only with a powerful wrenching could he free the sword from his enemy's skull. In the dimness he barely saw the other Hyrkanian thrust at him with a lance. Manzur leaned back and let the point pass before him. With his left hand he seized the shaft and jerked the Hyrkanian forward. His right hand swept the tip of his sword across the man's throat in a move as precise as his years of training could make it. The Hyrkanian toppled from the saddle with little noise.
Manzur found the gully a few paces away and rode into it. He had to restrain himself from shouting in triumph. He had slain two enemies with two blows of his sword! What a poem he would be able to write when he had the leisure! He felt that if he were not the greatest warrior in the world, he had at least made a good beginning and would probably hold that title before the war was over. He rode on through the night in a state of high exaltation.
By sunrise the city was far behind and Manzur risked riding out of the gully. A quick scan of his surroundings told him that no one was near him and that he must be far past enemy lines. He began to quarter the land before him. Sooner or later even the greenest amateur should be able to find the trail of a thousand mounted men.
By midday he had found the tracks of the Red Eagles. Somewhere in their midst would be his beloved, Ishkala. He began to ride on their trail. This was far more exciting than sitting atop a wall in a besieged city. The fact that he would almost certainly be hanged upon his return did not bother him. Something would happen to prevent it, no doubt. In any case, he intended to return as a hero.
Somewhat more unsettling was the state of his provisions, or rather, his lack of them. He had a large skin of water and a small bag of dried fruit and parched grain. The water would last him for several days, but no more than two if he had to share it with his horse. He would have to find a stream or water hole, no easy task in this arid steppe. He refused to worry. The gods always provided for a hero.
He deliberately avoided the thought that in most poems the hero came to a bad end, eventually.
X
Conan rode into the Kagan's compound in the late afternoon, when the sun was past its zenith and the shadows of the skull-and-horses'-tail standards grew long upon the ground. His day had been busy. The Kagan had given him orders to assess the state of the siege and its prospects for success, and to investigate untoward incidents. As a man with no clan affiliation, Conan was a natural to investigate disputes between tribesmen, leaving the Kagan to adjudicate.
To aid in his assessment, he had obtained permission to take a well-educated prisoner with him to interpret. He also made use of the man to improve his own skill with the dialect spoken in Sogaria. To a man with Conan's wandering urge, a facility with many tongues was a matter of survival.
Conan dismounted and tossed his reins to a serving man, then entered the tent. He found the Kagan surrounded by his higher officers. He seemed not to notice the Cimmerian's entrance, but by now Conan knew that the Kagan missed absolutely nothing that happened around him. Before the Kagan was a model of the city fashioned by an artisan prisoner, complete with walls and the buildings within the walls.
"Conan," said Bartatua when he had finished another conversation, "what are the prospects of constructing siege towers?"
"None," Conan replied. "There is no timber to speak of in all of Sogarian territory. The only trees are in the orchards, for the growing of fruits, olives and nuts. They are small, and much of the wood is unsuitable in any case. Fruit wood is too soft. Olive wood is strong but so oily that one fire arrow would transform a siege tower into a funeral pyre. Besides, the destruction of the orchards would devastate the city."
"What care we for the woes of city people, foreigner?" asked a haughty chieftain whose face was a snarl of tattooed serpents.
Conan stared him in the eyes. "It will devastate the Kagan'& city, not the Sogarians'." The chieftain looked away, grumbling.
"The timber is also little good for mine shorings," Conan continued. "And we can't even use cut stone for the purpose, since all the outlying structures are of mud brick. The only cut stone is in the city itself. The lack of good timber also rules out a battering ram."
"I had not known that timber was so important to a siege!" the Kagan said angrily. "What do you propose, Cimmerian?''
"There are three courses we might take," Conan suggested. "One is a masonry ramp. Nearby are quarries from whence the city gets its stone. There is an abundance of rough stone, and we can set the slaves to hauling it. Under cover of hide and wicker shields, we could build a ramp to the top of the wall. The whole army could then assault that single spot. It is certain
victory but slow and laborious, and large numbers of the slaves will die."
Bartatua flicked a hand deprecatingly. "No matter. We have plenty of slaves. What else?"
"We can make ladders. There
is sufficient wood for that. Without the support of siege towers, though, the casualties among the soldiers would be terrible. It is the riskiest way to storm a fortification, especially when the walls are so high. The third way is to sit here and do nothing. Soon starvation and pestilence will force the city-dwellers to capitulate. By then, though, there may be pestilence among ourselves as well."
"You have not mentioned the fourth possibility," said the Kagan. "We might suborn traitors within the city to open the gates for us."
Conan could guess the source of that suggestion. "That is not my realm, Kagan. If you have agents within the city who can do this, well and good. By now, though, the Sogarians have sheathed the great gates with brick or stone and left only small sally ports. We cannot enter the city in sufficient numbers that way."
Bartatua wasted no time in discussion. "It is the ramp, then." He turned to a small man who stood nearby. Conan recognized him: a Khitan who had been on a caravan bound for Sogaria. He had presented himself as an expert engineer and had offered his services on the siege works, for suitable compensation. "Can you build it?" the Kagan asked.
"Lead me to the quarries and give me the slaves," the man said, "and you shall have the ramp."
"It is done, then," said Bartatua. "See that you fail me not." He turned back to the Cimmerian. "Now, Conan, what of the two men found dead this morning?"
"They were killed by a messenger who left the city
last night," Conan reported. "Near their bodies were the marks of straw-muffled hooves, and whoever slew them was an expert with the sword. It was as neat a bit of bladework as I could have done myself. His tracks led to a dry wash and thence north-west. There was no sense in pursuing since the man had such a wide lead."
"Very well," Bartatua said. "He will have no city to return to anyway, so our men will be avenged. Have you anything else to report?"
"Just one curious matter," Conan said. "My fifty-commander, the Kozak Rustuf, took out a patrol yesterday to the north-west. He found the trail of at least a thousand horsemen. From the spoor, he estimates that they must have passed that way a day or two before we arrived around Sogaria. For some reason, they are headed into an empty waste called the Steppe of Famine."
Conan was astonished at the shouts of surprise from Bartatua and some of the assembled officers. He noted that all of those who were agitated belonged to Bartatua's own people, the Ashkuz.
"The Steppe of Famine!" barked one. "That is—"
"We will discuss this later!" snapped Bartatua with a ferocious glare. Now what, thought Conan, does this mean? "All of you leave me now," said Bartatua, "except for the Cimmerian. You have your orders."
The others filed out of the tent, many of them glowering at Conan. He glowered back. He was resigned to being unpopular with these clannish men. He had lived with worse.
"Pour us some wine, Conan," said the Kagan. Conan poured two cups from a golden ewer and handed one to his chief. The Kagan took a long draught and said, "You tell me that your Cimmeria is a country of mountains and rock, Conan?"
"It is that, Kagan," Conan said, wondering where this might be leading.
"I suppose that a Cimmerian lad must learn to climb at an early age, not so?"
"Very true. I climbed many a rocky spire to rob bird nests of eggs or warm down. And I descended many a cliff to find a broken-legged ewe or to ambush a wolfs lair."
"Excellent," said Bartatua. "Tonight I want you to climb the walls of Sogaria and bring me news of what goes on inside."
He might have known. It was like the Kagan to shower a man with favours and then send him on a suicide mission. A clansman might have resentful kinsmen, but a wandering adventurer such as himself had none to protest on his behalf. He did not hesitate. ' 'Of course, Kagan. Had you a particular destination for this reconnaissance?"
Bartatua pointed at a large structure in his model. "Here, the prince's palace. With the city packed with refugees, you should have little trouble in making your way there once you are over the wall. If you can sneak within the premises and find a good point of vantage, you might overhear much that would be of value to me."
Conan wondered whether the man had the slightest concept of how deadly this mission was. He decided that the Kagan knew, but did not care. Other lives were mere counters in his game of power. Conan was a very small counter indeed.
"Anything else?" Conan asked drily.
"A survey of the defences would not come amiss, as well as an estimate of the number of horses in the stables. I would also like to know the state of morale among the troops and refugees, but that may wait for another night, another mission."
"Another mission, as you say. Well, Kagan, I should go to prepare myself for this night's work."
"Do so," said Bartatua, turning his attention to his model. "And Conan—" The Cimmerian turned back. "Yes, Kagan?" "Fail me not."
"This is madness, Conan!" said Rustuf. The two men sat in their tent. Fawd was away on a patrol. "Do not do it," urged the Kozak. "Let's you and I take our best horses and be away from here. This siege will drag on for months, and probably nothing will remain but a heap of ashes to loot at the end of it. Come, I have laid by some emergency stores and a bag of dice winnings. Let us go find some sensible army to serve in, where there is no mad leader who wants to wipe out the whole world in order to own it. I want to do my fighting in an army that values the important things: loot and women and good wine."
"I have laid by some stores as well," said the Cimmerian, donning a belted tunic he had taken from a prisoner. "And I may make use of them yet. But it is not my habit to desert a leader under whom I have taken service. Should he play me false, it will be different, but thus far he has dealt fairly and raised me from prisoner to high rank."
"And now gives you an assignment that is certain death!" the Kozak said.
Conan shrugged. "What war leader does not send his men into danger? If it were something whimsical or needlessly cruel, I would not hesitate to mount and ride away, but it is not. He needs intelligence of the enemy's condition within the city, and it so happens that he has a man skilled at scaling walls and with a knack for languages. It is a sensible plan. And do not be so sure that it is certain death. I am not easy to kill."
Rustuf threw up his hands in exasperation. "There is such a thing as carrying courage and loyalty too far!"
Conan stood at the base of the city wall and reached high into the night over his head. His fingers found purchase in the crack between two courses of great stones, and he began to climb. To one not raised among the rocky slopes of Cimmeria, the wall might have seemed unscaleable. Years spent as a thief in the rich cities had honed his skills to such an extent that an ancient, wind-scoured wall such as this was nearly as climbable as a ladder.
The true trick was in not being seen or heard. He had chosen a dark tunic for this purpose and had further stained his skin with soot. To avoid the likelihood of noise, he was unarmed except for a dagger thrust through his sash in back. His sandals were hung by a lace around his neck as he climbed, and every so often he stopped and listened for sounds from above.
He had spent the evening observing the walls and had chosen a spot where the guards seemed to be fewest and least vigilant. As he had anticipated, there was a place where the wall was high and the nearby terrain was rough and rocky. Because nobody expected a serious attack across such ground, there were only a few sleepy guards atop the battlements, and such attention as they devoted to duty was given over to the far encampment of the enemy.
As he neared the top of the wall, he paused. Just above him was a guard leaning on a spear and talking to a distant comrade. Suddenly, to his right, a swarm of fire arrows arched over the wall and the guards on that sector cried out in alarm. One of them drew back from the battlement, snatching at a burning shaft embedded in his shield.
With a sublime disregard for proper discipline, the guards above Conan left their post and rushed to see what was happening. He had counted on just such unprofessional
behaviour from drafted civilian troops. The soldiers would be reserved for the points of likely attack.
The instant the post above him was vacated, Conan was over the parapet in a tiger-like surge of perfectly honed muscles. Once on the wall-walk, he crouched for a moment, getting his bearings. The fire arrows were still causing a commotion to his right. He had instructed several of his men to fire the blazing shafts for a few minutes after he reached the top of the wall. To his immediate left he saw a stair leading down to the streets below, and he darted silently to the top step and descended. Halfway down he paused at the sound of voices from above.
"They've stopped shooting," said a guard. "Any fires?" demanded an authoritative voice. "All out," reported another voice. "Shall we raise the alarm, sir?"
"Nay," said the voice of authority. "It was just harassing fire. They want to keep us sleepless and wear down our nerves. And just what are you two rogues doing away from your posts? Get back to your places or I'll have you flogged at sunrise for dereliction of duty!" Conan grinned. He knew well the woes of an experienced soldier forced to command untrained louts. He faded into the twisting lanes of the city. There were many people in the streets, most of whom were rolled into blankets and robes, seeking the relief of sleep before the dawn of another monotonous day.
The sound of gushing water drew him. At a corner, a fountain poured from a shell-shaped pitcher, held by a little goddess, into a marble basin. Hurriedly he washed the soot from his face and limbs.
With his appearance restored, he was able to walk more openly. There was no great risk of attracting attention. The city was packed with people, many of them foreigners from the caravans, and Conan bore not the slightest resemblance to any of the Hyrkanians. With plenty of time before sunrise, he made a leisurely ' progress in the direction of the prince's palace.
Conan the Marauder Page 13
