Conan and the Manhunters

by John Maddox Roberts

  Conan yanked him to his feet. 'Run fetch them ere I wring your neck!'

  Osman staggered off, gasping and wheezing. A few minutes later he returned with a short-handled sledge in one hand, a notched chisel in the other. 'I trust you know how to use these?'

  'My father was a blacksmith,' Conan said, snatching them away from the thief. 'I learned the hammer before I learned the sword.'

  Kneeling, he set one foot on the anvil and placed the chisel against a link of the leg-chain next to the ring. With a single explosive blow of the hammer, he hewed through the resisting iron. The sound rang through the dungeon like the tolling of a great bell.

  'They'll hear that above,' Osman said fretfully. 'Hurry!'

  'Do I look like I am wasting time?' Conan demanded. He repeated the action with his other ankle ring. Bending forward as far as he could, he sheared through the chain that bound his neck ring, leaving a few spans of chain dangling. Then he laid his left wrist on the anvil and positioned the chisel. 'Hold this chisel,' he ordered.

  Osman took it gingerly. 'You will not miss and strike my—'

  Conan did not bother to reassure him, but pounded the top of the chisel, breaking the chain. With a curse, Osman dropped the chisel and shook his stinging hands. Now Conan look the hammer in his left hand.

  'Again!' he ordered.

  Osman picked up the chisel doubtfully. 'Can you with your left hand? Surely you might miss.' Then they heard stirrings and voices from above. 'Mitra help me,' Osman said, positioning the chisel and shutting his eyes tightly. With a brutal sweep of the hammer, the last chain was severed.

  The Cimmerian laughed as he sprang up. 'Free!'

  'Free?' Osman said frantically. 'We are in a dungeon and the guards are corning!'

  Conan took the hammer in one hand and the chisel in the other. 'Then we had best be going!' He charged out through the door of his cell, Osman close behind him.

  Up the stairs they went, to meet a pair of astonished guardsmen coming down. The guard in front aimed a sword-blow at Conan's head, but the Cimmerian batted the blade aside with the chisel and in the next instant, brained the man, his hammer crunching the metal of the stout helmet as if it had been parchment. Before the man could fall, Conan shoved him back up the stair to catch the other guard across the legs. The man threw his legs wide to retain his balance and as he did, the Cimmerian rammed the chisel through his breastbone, where it spit his heart and buried its blunt edge deep into the spine beneath.

  As the man fell, Conan snatched his sword, then bounded over both bodies and into the guardroom beyond. There, three other guardsmen were scrambling into their harness and snatching up weapons. One began to raise a shout, but the sword in the Cimmerian's hand swept across his gullet, ending the cry in mid-syllable. Another tried to run out the guardroom's exit door, but Conan hurled the massive hammer and smashed the back of the man's skull like an eggshell.

  The last guard managed to get a shield on his arm and began to raise an ax. Conan's first blow sheared away the shield and much of his arm. The second cleft his skull. Abruptly, the guardroom was silent.

  'Five men!' Osman said with awe. 'Five men slain in the space of a few breaths!'

  'You were of cursed little help,' Conan said, availing himself of the best weapons to be had in the room. None of the helmets or clothing were of a size for him, so he had to re-

  main content with his loincloth and a full panoply of weapons, together with their supporting harness.

  'But you were doing so well!' Osman protested. 'What had I to contribute?'

  'A horse, for one thing. Get outside, find us two mounts quickly and bring them here.' 'By myself?'

  'Aye, by yourself. Look at me!' The near-naked barbarian's giant frame was scratched and bruised, his hair matted and his overall appearance not at all improved by his stay in the dungeon. 'I could not get five paces from the door ere some townsman raised the alarm. Nobody will mistake these iron bands for jewellery. Go steal us some horses, and be quick about it!'

  The small man dashed out the door and Conan waited, fretting and expecting at any second the harness-jingle of guardsmen running to avenge their slain companions. Then he heard the clatter of two horses approaching at the gallop. His perfectly attuned hearing told him that one was ridden, the other not. Seconds later, Osman reined up before the door, astride a splendid charger and leading another. Both mounts wore cavalry saddles.

  'Quick, mount up!' Osman cried. 'There are two troopers back at the inn who are very angry with me and coming this way!' His urging was unnecessary. Before the third word was out of his mouth, the Cimmerian was in the saddle, his heels digging into his horse's flanks. With a whoop, Osman galloped after.

  'Look at this one, Captain,' said a guardsman. The second body was dragged from the dungeon, and the others gaped.

  'By Mitra!' said another. 'Is that a chisel buried in his chest? Thrust clean through the brisket, by Set!' He set a foot against the corpse, grasped the protruding shank of the tool and pulled. It would not come free. 'Set take it!' the man said admiringly. 'It's buried in his backbone! What arm could strike such a blow?'

  'Conan's, fool,' said the first speaker. 'The brigand leader is as strong as men say.'

  Sagobal examined the body and saw that it was true. 'Five guards slain?' he queried.

  'Aye, and the jailer,' said the first speaker. 'That one has a broken neck.'

  Sagobal pointed at four men in succession. 'You four take over guarding this place. The rest, haul the bodies away for burial. I shall report to Torgut Khan.'

  'Do we not pursue, Captain?' asked the first speaker.

  'Nay, they have too great a lead and we are stretched too thin with the preparations for the festival. Doubtless we shall see them anon.'

  The men did his bidding, mystified that the easily enraged Captain Sagobal was taking the incident so philosophically. Shrugging, they did their duties as soldiers without asking questions.

  For his own part, Sagobal went to report to Torgut Khan that his prize exhibit had escaped after wreaking slaughter among the guards. His iron-trap mouth bent almost into a smile of satisfaction that all was going according to plan.

  II

  “It is not far now,' Conan said.

  'I hope you are right,' Osman said, wincing at the pain in his backside. The easy life of a city thief had left him unprepared for the rigours of a hard ride.

  The landscape through which they rode was barren and sere, not much of an improvement upon the desert to the south. The place was dominated by vast boulders instead of rolling dunes, and the only vegetation was scrubby brush. The trails between the boulders and cliffs wound in labyrinthine fashion, and nowhere could a man see farther than a few score paces. It was ideal bandit country.

  Conan glanced at an overhanging crag of stone. 'The scum have grown lax in my absence,' he said. 'There should be a sentry on yon spur of rock. A man can lie there on his belly like a lizard and see all the approaches.'

  They rode another few minutes, entering a narrow defile so deep that the clear blue sky was no more than a ribbon overhead, constrained between beetling cliffs. Abruptly, the path opened up and they were in a small canyon with a bubbling spring in its centre. The spring ran into a pool with no visible overflow. There was a tang of smoke in the air. A score of men sat around a fire and started to their feet when the two intruders rode into the canyon.

  They were a mixed lot: Turanian, Iranistani, and men of a half-dozen desert peoples who ranged the wastelands south of Koth and Turan. They had the predatory look common to outlaws everywhere: gaunt, scarred, many of them branded by the public executioner. More than one had had a hand lopped off for thievery. They regarded the newcomers with uncertainty, except for two men who squatted by the fire and did not rise. These two looked at them with open resentment and hostility.

  'Ho, villains!' called the Cimmerian. 'This is a poor welcome for your old companion, returned from the dead!' He dismounted and swaggered to the fire. 'I know, I know.
You are so overcome with joy that you do not know how to put it into words.' He stared around at them, but they would not meet his lion gaze. Conan inhaled mightily through flared nostrils.

  'I smell dinner cooking, by Set! I've not had real man's food in too long!' He swaggered over to the fire and the others drew back to give him room. A pair of plump, young gazelles roasted over the coals, giving off a savoury aroma. The two ill-favoured men glared at him over the carcasses. The Cimmerian grinned at them as he drew his dagger and sliced off a generous strip of smoking flesh.

  'Arghun, how good to see your sour face again. And I see your toady Kasim is by your side, as always.' He tore off a mouthful of flesh with strong, white teeth, chewed for a few moments and swallowed. 'I might almost think that you did not rejoice to see me alive.'

  One of the men stood. His beard was forked, stiffened to point forward and dyed bright red. 'Things are not as they were, Conan. You were caught like a fool, and such a one cannot be our leader.' He gestured to the man next to him, who stood slowly, never letting his eyes leave Conan's. 'Arghun is our leader now. He is twice the man you are, northern savage!'

  'Aye,' said the other man, a burly brute dressed in bloodstained leathers, his face a mass of scars. 'If you want to run with us, you follow as an ordinary member of the band. I lead now.' His jaw thrust forth truculently and his hand rested on the hilt of a short, curved sword.

  'Is that so?' Conan said, his tone quiet and deadly. 'I have been enjoying the viceroy's hospitality, no more. It changes nothing.'

  'If you think that,' Arghun said, 'then you are a dead man!' He began to draw his sword, but before it cleared the scabbard, the Cimmerian, quick as a tiger, leapt across the lire and buried his dagger in the man's groin. With a vicious twist, he turned the curved edge upward and ripped up until the blade stopped at Arghun's breastbone. Arghun screamed once, then fell, spilling entrails, across the fire.

  Kasim, stunned by the sudden, savage violence, turned to it in, but he got no more than a single pace before the Cimmerian sprang upon him, wrapping his massive hands around the man's neck and wrenching them in opposite directions. There was a popping sound and suddenly Kasim's forked red beard was pointing straight back over his spine. His eyes bulged with disbelief, his last view in the mortal world the sight of Conan's face grinning into his own.

  Conan raised the flopping corpse and hurled it into the water, where it struck with a mighty splash. Then he went to Arghun's scorching body and wrenched his dagger from the left breastbone, wiping its blade on the filthy leathers, staining them yet further. He carved himself another strip of flesh and began to eat.

  'Is everyone satisfied?' he growled around the mouthful of gazelle.

  'It is good to see you again!' shouted a one-eyed Turanian named Ubo.

  'Aye! We all hoped you would come back to us, Conan!' said another, and everyone agreed that this was so.

  A desert man waded into the pond and dragged out the body of the unfortunate Kasim. 'Shame on you, Conan!' the man scolded. 'It is a great sacrilege to defile running water.' He wrung out the hem of his brown-and-black-striped robe. 'I'll warrant he made it no sweeter, Auda,' Conan said. 'But the men provoked me and I lost my temper. Men, this is my friend, Osman. It was his doing that got me out of the dungeon, so he is one of us now.'

  The men welcomed Osman, but they eyed him with calculation. He walked to Conan's side. 'I knew that would happen, after seeing you in action once before. But it puzzles me that they dared defy you, knowing the sort of man you are.'

  'Huh!' Conan snorted, chewing on a rib. He looked around and said in a low voice: 'These dogs? They have the minds of beasts. You have to prove yourself to them every day. Before long, they will have forgotten these two and another of them will think himself my better. Then it will be to do all over again. As you saw, it is best to deal with them quickly and decisively, before defiance spreads.'

  'I understand,' Osman said. He carved off some gazelle and chewed on it, relishing the rich smoky taste. 'What now?'

  'We plan,' Conan said, 'and you will help.'

  'Of course,' Osman assured him. 'I want only to aid you, as I already have. I will be your right hand.' He grinned ingratiatingly.

  The Cimmerian stared at him over the near-stripped thigh bone. 'I already have a right arm,' he reminded Osman.

  Sagobal went over his preparations with satisfaction. His own men were well drilled, and the men he had sent for should be arriving soon. He went into the new Temple of Ahriman through its processional door, carved in the likeness of a huge demon's head, the gaping mouth forming its entrance.

  The iron spikes of its heavy portcullis formed a set of grotesque fangs for the demon's upper jaw.

  New though it was, the interior of the place was oppressive. The only light was provided by small, round windows high in the clerestory. The windows were of scarlet glass, so that the light poured down like sheets of blood. In two rows from entrance to altar stood pillars supporting the roof. The pillars were carved in the form of naked, chained women who were being crushed by the weight they bore on their shoulders, their beautiful, tormented faces twisted with pain.

  Sagobal walked between them until he reached the altar. It was in the form of a great nest of writhing snakes, carved with wonderful skill in a style far older than that of the female pillars. In fact, it was of workmanship so ancient that no man in the city, however learned, knew of its provenance. Hard man though he was, the sight of the sinister altar sent a shudder through Sagobal.

  For centuries, the site of the new temple had been a pile of nibble. Though it lay on the town square, flanked by fine buildings, no one had ever sought to clear the site and build upon it. There was a vague, ancient legend in the town that any who sought to do so would suffer for his presumption.

  Then, two years before, a strange priest had appeared in the city, coincident with Torgut Khan's assumption of the viceroy-ship. The priest's name was Tragthan, and he appeared in the viceroy's court one day, asking for an audience. Tragthan announced that he was a brother in the ancient Order of Ahriman, and he had come to rebuild the Order's derelict temple.

  Torgut Khan had at first been indifferent, but Tragthan proclaimed that the Brotherhood would willingly undertake the expenses. Torgut Khan told him that in such a case, he would have no objection, but there were certain matters of deeds and licensing to be attended to, and these might be facilitated if the priest were to make a contribution toward the renovation of the district treasury, which Torgut Khan had been charged with rebuilding.

  Sagobal knew that at a later, private audience, Tragthan had told Torgut Khan that the deep crypt beneath the temp site would serve well as a treasury, and the temple itself would be so strongly built as to be impervious to attack. Torgut Khan saw immediately that this would be to his advantage. He could now pocket the royal monies already advance for the building of the treasury, together with those already extorted for the same putative project. Sagobal had seen the letters Torgut Khan had sent to the king, claiming that the money had been donated toward building the new temple thus securing for the crown a treasury at far less expense than projected.

  As he pondered these things, Sagobal studied the repellent altar. When the rubble of centuries was cleared away, the altar was uncovered. At first, the workmen fled the disturbing object and refused to go back, despite threats from the priest and the viceroy. In the end, they used convicts to complete the job of uncovering the altar, then wrapping it in heavy cloths so that the workmen would not have to see it as they went about their labours.

  As Tragthan promised, a large crypt lay beneath the floor of the temple, unaffected by the passage of centuries. The new temple rose with unusual speed, for the priest seemed to have limitless funds for hiring the best craftsmen and artists, although some of them looked with distaste upon the drawings and plans Tragthan supplied for their guidance. More than one of them, after too much wine in one of the town's many taverns, said that the parchment upon which they were
drawn was made of human skin. But Tragthan's generous recompense always eased their sensibilities.

  Slowly, Sagobal walked around the horrid altar. Impossibly, the light from all the windows seemed to converge upon it. How, he wondered, could light shine in such a fashion! through windows set in different walls? Had the priest set angled mirrors on the roof, to direct the sun's rays in from each direction? He preferred to believe that it was something so easily explained. One serpent-head in the great tangle shone in the red light with especial luridness, as if it were made of a different substance. Unlike the others, its features were a combination of the ophidian and the human. Sagobal reached to touch it.

  'Touch not the altar of Ahriman!'

  Sagobal whirled and half-drew his blade. Then he slammed it back into its sheath. He prided himself upon his keen hearing, but the priest had come up behind him without sound.

  'I did but admire your altar, priest,' he said, with poor grace.

  'Forgive my abruptness. This is one of the most venerable and sacred relics of my cult. It is to be touched only by consecrated hands.' The priest was tall, his form hidden by a rust-coloured robe, his features all but concealed by its deep cowl, revealing only a skeletal face and strangely luminous eyes.

  'I want to take another look at the crypt,' Sagobal said. 'The day approaches swiftly.'

  'Very well. If you will come with me...' The priest took a key from within his robe as he led the way to a short stair that went beneath the dais upon which the altar squatted in malevolence. At the bottom of the stair was a pair of heavy bronze doors, richly worked with scenes from the myth-cycle of Ahriman, God of Darkness, and his endless struggle with Ormazd, God of Light. By the doors a candle burned in a sconce, and Sagobal took the taper as Tragthan unlocked and swung wide the portals.

  Beyond the bronze doors was another stair, hewn, as was the whole passage, from the solid stone in unthinkable antiquity. The crude marks of the workmen's tools were still plain upon the walls and ceiling. Sagobal knew that this was a particularly hard stone, and he knew also that the greenish stains left in the rough gouges meant that the tools had been made of soft copper. The builders must have had an inhuman lack of concern for the passing of time for the formation of the passage and the crypt beneath had undoubtedly consumed centuries. It would have meant decades for men with tools of iron.