I
The sensations were familiar: the blazing pain in his head, the raging thirst, the itchy irritation of rotten straw beneath his back, the pervasive stench. At least being able to sense all these things, however unpleasant, meant that he was alive. It was not the first time the Cimmerian had awakened in a dungeon. Of course, there were certain dungeons where being alive was not an advantage.
By straining the muscles in his face, he managed to wrench his gummy eyelids open and felt a certain relief when they parted. He knew there was a judge in this province whose favourite punishment was to order a felon's eyelids sewn shut. Through his blurred vision, he could make out stone walls, stone ceiling, and morning light slanting in through the close-set bars of a tiny window high on one wall. He longed to get to that window and breathe some fresh air.
This longing compelled him, slowly and carefully, to sit up. The back of his head, glued by dried blood, parted reluctantly from the floor, and as it came free, a handful of straw remained plastered to his black mane. He heard a clink of metal as he moved and looked down at his scarred hands and heavily muscled arms. Manacles had been fastened around his thick, swordsman's wrists, the dingy brown iron secured by shiny new rivets. Similar fetters confined his legs. A quick touch told him that another ring encircled his corded neck. All the rings were attached by chains to staples buried deep in the stone floor and walls.
Clearly, he had impressed someone as a dangerous man. That made sense, because he, Conan of Cimmeria, was the most dangerous man he knew. He managed to stand, but he found that there was no chance of reaching the window. Standing, he could move no more than a stride in any direction. As the blood began to flow freely through his veins, he became fully aware and tried to remember what had brought him to this pass.
The face of a woman swam into his consciousness. Minna? No, Minata. He had come into the town the night before to visit her, as had become his custom. He had ridden in from the hills to the south, swathed in a hooded desert robe. There was a price on his head throughout this kingdom. He had intended to clear out months ago, to ride south into Iranistan, but he stayed on because of the woman. Even in his pain and predicament, the memory of her huge grey eyes and raven hair, her ripely lissome body, still stirred him.
He had passed the gate guard with a small bribe, such as was customary in this land when a traveller wished to pass through the foot-gate after sunset. He had made his way through the maze-like huddle of tenements in the Foreigners' Quarter, climbed a rickety stair and rapped upon the door of Minata the Zamoran. She was a 'priestess' in the ill-famed Temple of Ishtar. He cared not what she did with her days so long as she saved her nights for him.
The door had opened and the woman had stood before him, beautiful as ever in the candlelight, her body scarcely veiled by a robe of Vendhyan gauze. But on her lips was no welcome for him. As he stepped within the room, he saw her eyes widen with dread.
'Conan, I...' His memory of the night ended with those words. Whoever had struck him from behind had had a strong arm and a thorough knowledge of his craft, because Conan knew that he must have lost consciousness instantly.
So Minata had sold him. He would settle things with her, if he ever got loose from these chains and these walls. He cursed himself for a fool. He knew better than to trust any woman, especially where such a reward was involved. And yet, knowing that, it was something he often did, usually to
his regret.
'Jailer!' he shouted, his voice raspy from his dry throat. He rattled his chains and took the opportunity to try their strength, his muscles standing in chiselled relief as he strained at the restraining rings. They were old and rusty, but they were sound. He would not get loose through his strength alone.
A man shuffled back along a narrow corridor and came to the barred door. 'What do you want, barbarian?' He was a fat lout with patchy, greying hair and a mouth full of brown
teeth.
'Water,' Conan bellowed.
'Why?'
'Because I thirst, you fool!'
'What is that to me? You will die soon and it will be a waste of water.' He turned and walked away with a jingle of the keys fastened to his belt by a stout ring.
Conan could not argue with such logic, but he raged anyway, his fury doubled by the fact that he could do absolutely nothing, not even move. Then he was distracted by a voice close by.
'Be easy, man. The wretch will bring you food and water presently. You are not to die just yet. The viceroy is saving you for a special occasion.'
The voice came from a wall to Conan's right. By squinting, he could just make out a face regarding him through a small, square hole in the wall. 'Who are you?' Conan grunted.
'Osman the Shangaran, here through a shameful miscarriage of justice.' A lopsided grin gave irony to the words.
In spite of himself, Conan grinned back. 'I'll wager you're even more worthy of this place than I.'
'The judge thought so,' Osman sighed. 'And all because his wife's jewels somehow appeared in my pouch when I was arrested.'
'And why were you arrested?' Conan asked, wanting some amusement.
'Some fellows accused me of using loaded dice in a friendly game!' His eyes went wide with wounded innocence. 'I offered them my dagger in amends, but in their clumsiness, they managed to fall against the blade and were injured. A mere misunderstanding, followed by an accident.' 'And how did you explain the presence of the jewels?' 'What could be simpler? Clearly, a baleful wizard wished to do me harm and placed them there through his black arts.' 'Was that the best you could do?' the Cimmerian asked. 'You deserve to hang for being such a poor liar.'
'I feel pity for judges,' Osman said. 'They hear the same excuses over and over again. I hoped, by affording this one some amusement, to mitigate his wrath, especially since he suspects gained access to his wife's belongings in a manner that casts doubt upon her virtue.'
'Enough of this,' Conan said, giving his bonds a final tug. 'What was this you said about me being saved for a special occasion?'
'Ah, that! Know then that Torgut Khan, the viceroy, is preparing a great festival to celebrate the dedication of the new Temple of Ahriman. Besides the usual feasting and revelry, there is to be a mass execution of prisoners to clear out the jails and start the new year with a clean slate. He has been saving felons for months and has brought in a famous torturer from Aghrapur. You are to be the centrepiece.'
'I see. And when is this great occasion to be celebrated?'
'In a fortnight. So you see, the jailer must bring you water soon. He dares not risk harm to Torgut Khan's prize exhibit!'
The chamber was fitfully illuminated by candles set in sconces of bronze wrought in the shapes of serpents or of flowering vines. Two men sat with a small table between them. In the centre of the table was a pitcher of wine and before each man was a cup of hammered silver.
'I do not like this plan,' said the elder of the two. He was a portly, heavy-featured man in clothes of the finest silk. 'It is too complicated. It leaves much to chance.'
'It leaves nothing to chance,' said the other. On his body was a cuirass of etched steel and on his head was a spired helmet. Its veil of fine, silvered steel-mesh framed a harsh, hawk-featured face. His drooping black moustache framed a mouth that was no more than a tight, straight line. 'I know men and I know gold, and I know what one will do to get the other. Leave me to my work and we will bag the lot.'
'There will be trouble,' mused Torgut Khan, 'and bloodshed.'
'Worthless blood,' snorted the other.
'Be that as it may, it will mar my festival. I wish to make it especially magnificent, an occasion that will be remembered forever.'
'And so it shall be,' said the armoured
man impatiently. He took a drink to calm himself. One hand caressed the ivory hilt of his long, curved sword. The nicked, age-yellowed grip showed many years of hard use. 'Think of it,' he went on. 'After a brief excitement, no more than an entertaining break in the ceremonies, you will be able to put the lot of them upon the scaffold even now being erected before the new temple and have them all put to death as imaginatively as that torturer—whom you have brought in at such great personal expense—can devise.'
Torgut Khan's eyes glittered. 'It would be a fitting cap to the festivities.'
'You see? And I need hardly tell you how pleased his majesty will be that you have suppressed brigandage so skilfully.'
Torgut Khan nodded tentatively, then decisively. He slapped the table with his open palm. 'Let it be so, then. You have my leave to carry out your plan.'
The man rose from the table and saluted, clasping a fist to his steel-sheathed breast. 'At once, Excellency.'
'And, Sagobal?' the viceroy said as his minion was about to leave.
The man turned, his hand on the latch. 'Excellency?'
'Do not fail, else you forfeit your own head.' The viceroy's murky gaze was torpid but menacing, like that of a fat, lazy dragon who yet had power and a poisoned breath.
Sagobal inclined his head. 'Yes, Excellency.'
He left the chamber and shut the door behind him. Only then did he let his face express his feelings. The guardsmen he passed stared rigidly ahead, anxious to avoid the notice of their commander. He was dangerous in the best of moods, and when he was like this, he could be deadly. Wine on a man's breath, a speck of rust on a spear-point, even a dangling bootlace at such a time, were sufficient provocation for him to draw that ivory-hilted sword and sweep a man's head from his shoulders so swiftly that he was wiping the blood from his blade before onlookers realized he had set hand to hilt.
Sagobal was furious that the man he had served so loyally and well treated him with disdain. It was ever the same. The viceroy was always a royal cousin or an influential nobleman and came to his powerful and lucrative office through family connections. Whether he was an able administrator had no bearing on the matter. By contrast, Sagobal, a fine soldier, would never be more than a captain of the provincial guard. That was because he was the mere second son of a minor landowner and had earned his rank through skill, courage and a life of hard soldiering.
No more, by Set! No more! he thought as he strode toward his quarters. I'll not serve another fat, perfumed courtier who bought his rank with gold and flattery!
Two men sat upon a bench outside the door to Sagobal's quarters and at his approach, they rose and bowed. 'Come with me,' he said peremptorily. He passed within and they
followed.
Inside, he doffed his helm and set it carefully upon a stand atop his arms chest. His black hair lay sleekly against his skull. He turned to glare at the two men. They were nondescript, wearing the clothes of ordinary townsmen, but they possessed skills of which he had need.
'Here is what you must do,' he said.
By the third day of his captivity, the Cimmerian thought he would go mad. There were others imprisoned in the dungeon, but only the man in the next cell, Osman, could he see and hear. At least the fellow was an amusing companion, with an endless store of tales and scurrilous gossip, mostly concerning the officials of Turan. Also their wives, about whom he seemed to know more than was healthy for a man who valued his neck.
'Enough,' Conan said after a particularly unedifying tale about the former viceroy and how he had punished his unfaithful wife. 'We have to find a way out of this place, else we'll grace the temple dedication, and I've little taste for that.'
'You have been saying that for three days,' Osman pointed out, 'yet your chains bind you as tightly as ever.'
'You are such a fount of cleverness I was hoping you had come up with an idea.'
'What about your band of brigands?' Osman asked. 'Might they not come hither and rescue you?'
'Them!' Conan barked a laugh. 'The only thing that will tempt them here is to see me killed on the scaffold.'
'I thought you roving robbers were a band of brothers,' Osman said in mock reproach.
'Aye, the same as the cutpurses and assassins of the cities,' Conan said. 'They valued me for my strong sword arm and my skill at raiding. Once you are separated from such men, though, they do not pine for you.'
'How tragic,' Osman said.
Conan sat on the floor and tried to come up with some stratagem that would allow him to escape. Every, thought was foiled by the simplicity of the arrangements. The bonds were too strong for him to break and they were too short to let him get close to the walls, window or door of the cell. The keeper never got near enough to seize. By simple neglect, he was kept secure.
He was roused from his brooding by the sound of voices outside. He knew that the cell window opened onto ground level on a small, paved square. The sun shone through it in the morning but by mid-afternoon, it lay in shade, and people sometimes stood there to escape the heat of the day. He could make out the shape of a pair of feet wearing military boots.
'No wine!' said one man. 'What sort of festival is it to be if we cannot even drink?'
'Not until the treasure is secured upon the third day, by Set!' said the other. 'Only then can we soldiers stand down from alert and take part. To disobey is death.'
'If Sagobal promises death, he will deliver, by Asura! But what treasure is this? I have heard of none such.'
'Keep your voice down,' said the other. 'I stood watch at the treasury yesterday and I heard the clerks speaking of it. All the tax revenues of the province, they said, are to be concentrated in the vault beneath the new temple. At another time, it might attract attention on the road, but with all the wagons coming to the festival, no one will notice. Until every last coin is in the vault and Torgut Khan has put the royal seal on it, not a drop of wine for us!'
Presently the men wandered off and Conan was left to his brooding.
'Heard you that, Cimmerian?' Osman hissed.
'I heard, much good does it do me now.'
Osman's voice grew cunning, insinuating. 'Such treasure might tempt your robber band, might it not?'
'Surely. What of that? They could accomplish nothing against the whole garrison, which is sure to be on alert.'
'But you are a clever raider,' Osman said, again insinuatingly. 'Surely you could find a way to purloin it.'
'You chatter idly,' Conan said. 'My band is in the hills. I am here, and likely to stay here until the festival, at which time I will have things on my mind other than treasure.'
'Suppose I were able to get you out of here?' Osman asked.
Conan hissed. 'You have a plan?'
'Perhaps, perhaps. Of course, I would require certain assurances from you.'
'Assurances?'. Conan echoed, infuriated. 'Talk sense, man!'
'What I say makes perfect sense to me. I want a share of the treasure.'
'Are you not getting a little ahead of yourself?' the Cimmerian said. 'You, too, are a prisoner.'
'Not for long. If I help you escape, will you come take the treasure and give me a double share?'
Conan decided to humour the man. 'Aye. A double share for you if you can get me out of here. Now, how do you plan to do this?'
'There is a way. I am not chained like you. It would be no great difficulty for me to overpower the stupid jailer and get his keys. But to get out of here, I would have to get through the guardroom atop the stairs. This prospect has given me some pause.'
'And what is your solution?'
'You are a great warrior. If I get you loose, can you fight our way out through the guardroom?'
'Aye. There remains the little problem of these chains,' the Cimmerian said, rattling them significantly.
'That is the one difficulty. Atop the landing, before the guardroom, there rests an anvil used in fastening and breaking the fetters worn by dangerous prisoners such as yourself. If I can get it down here, with a h
ammer and a chisel, can you carve off your iron jewellery?'
'By Crom!' Conan said, feeling a stirring of hope. 'If you can get that anvil down here, with the hammer and chisel, I will have this iron off faster than a Zamoran harlot gets out of her clothes!' Then, suspiciously: 'I can see little of you, but you do not strike me as a powerful man. Can you get this anvil down the stairs before anyone misses the jailer?'
'Well,' Osman said, grinning crookedly, 'we shall find out, shall we not?'
That night Osman set up a groaning. After an hour of it, the jailer came to investigate.
'What ails you?' he called, shuffling along the dank floor.
'A thousand demons have invaded my belly!' Osman cried. 'It is the poisoned food you have brought me! Get me to a leech, else I shall die and you will take my place on the scaffold, rogue!' He vented another prolonged groan.
'It is not as bad as all that,' grumbled the jailer. He came to the door of Conan's cell and raised his torch. Conan feigned sleep, making sure that his fetters were visible from the door. Satisfied that the Cimmerian was secure, the jailer went back to Osman's cell. There was a rattle of a key in a lock, the sounds of shuffling and low, grumbling talk, then of a blow and a sharp cry, then of another blow. 'I am free, Conan!' Osman said.
'No you are not. You are still down here with me. Get me out of these irons and I will make you free.'
Osman came to the door with the key ring and worked his way through the keys until he found the right one. The door I swung wide. 'I go to fetch the anvil now,' he said. 'Less talk and more action,' Conan advised. 'Hurry!' The thief dashed off and Conan heard the patter of his feet skipping up the stairs. Then there was a scraping, grinding noise, then a groan. It seemed to go on forever, the groaning and the scraping, with frequent clanks of heavy steel against stone. The Cimmerian was in an agony of impatience until the thief appeared again in his cell doorway, staggering with the weight of the anvil cradled in his arms. He all but collapsed at Conan's feet.
Conan grasped the anvil in his powerful hands and righted it. 'Quick, man, the hammer and chisel!'
'Think you,' Osman gasped, 'this anvil was such a trifling burden that I could bear the other tools in my free hand?'
Conan and the Manhunters Page 1
