Conan and the Manhunters

by John Maddox Roberts

  Ubo grinned and nodded. 'Aye, that's an order I'll not hesitate to obey! These farm-boy recruits will never hear us pass by them in the night.' The others nodded happily. Pleased by their loot, they were not at all bothered by the death of several comrades.

  Conan found Volvolicus brooding over the scene of slaughter. He had taken no part in the fighting, but had ridden his horse to one side and whiled away the time avoiding the flying weapons and seeking to keep the gouting blood from his clothing.

  'You are an efficient killer, my friend,' the mage said to him.

  'Often it is a matter of necessity,' Conan told him. 'With Captain Mahac, it was also a pleasure.'

  'If all evil men were slain,' the wizard pointed out, 'the world would soon be depopulated.'

  'Aye, I'd not want that to happen,' Conan concurred. 'Besides being numerous, it is the bad ones that make life interesting.'

  The two men made their preparations, then rode off toward the oasis town of Green Water.

  The gatekeeper of Shahpur shook his head as another strange man entered the city. He had thought most of the colourful characters had departed with the end of the catastrophic festival, but lately a strange assortment had arrived, men of nations seldom seen in these parts and some of them bizarre of appearance even for strangers from remote parts of the world.

  The day before, there had been the fat Vendhyan whose turban seemed to glow. Then there was the Nemedian so thin he might have been suffering from a plague, but whose movements were unnaturally swift. Now there was this man from Khitai, whose robes were rich but whose face was covered with a veil.

  It was all most puzzling, but he was shaken from his reverie when Sagobal came riding toward the gate, returned from one of his unending patrols and looking to be in a killing mood. At such times, a man did his best not to attract the guard commander's attention. The gate guard stiffened to attention, his face blank of expression as Sagobal rode past, the weird foreigners forgotten.

  X

  The Cimmerian and the Turanian wizard rode back to the caravan town of Green Water. All appeared much as it had upon their first arrival at the oasis. Camels and horses drank from the lake among the palms. Other animals were picketed in areas all around the greenery, and men had set up camp, cooking and brewing at small fires, some having erected tents, others preferring to take their chances with the weather. Few paid any attention to the two riders. Cavalry horses were still tethered in their orderly picket lines.

  When the two rode through the gateway, they once again heard the strains of exotic music coming from the square. This time they made a small detour down a side street. In a lot between two shops in a food market, they bought a large bundle of well-seasoned firewood tied with twisted withies. With this balanced across the pommel of the mage's saddle, they rode on into the public square of the town.

  Music played there, and the dancers gyrated. The riders ignored them and proceeded on toward the government building, above which still towered the royal banner and the personal banner of General Katchka. They drew to a halt at the base of the wide stairs leading up to the portico.

  As the officers seated at the long table noted who had ridden up, their talk fell off and then there was silence. General Katchka was still seated in his accustomed place, and when he noticed that his men had gone silent, he looked to see what was wrong. His eyes were red and bleary and he moved slowly as he turned to face the riders. Next to him, the Vizier Akhba looked up, his eyes going wide with surprise at sight of the Cimmerian and the wizard.

  'What is this?' Katchka demanded, his voice even more hoarse than usual. 'Cimmerian! You were not away for' long!'

  'I do not waste time, General,' Conan said.

  'Where is Captain Mahac?' Akhba inquired. 'He was to meet you on your way back and escort you here, lest you be pursued by the rebels.' He was recovering from his surprise, and his customary look of smooth slyness reclaimed his features.

  'Doubtless the captain is in a suitable place,' Conan said. 'Where is the woman, Layla?'

  'Where is the head of the pretender, Idris?' Katchka countered.

  'Bring the woman to me and you shall have the head,' Conan replied.

  'We do not believe you, barbarian,' Akhba said.

  'Then behold.' Once again Conan took the bloody sack from his saddlebag. He reached into it. When his hand emerged, his fingers gripped a head by its long black hair. The face was that of a handsome youth.

  'It is he!' cried Akhba. 'This is the spit of the old king.'

  'Aye,' Katchka rumbled. 'It can be no other.'

  'The woman,' Conan urged.

  'A moment,' said Akhba. He turned and shouted a few words into the building. Minutes later, two women servants came out with Layla between them. Her face was sullen and apprehensive, but her expression brightened when she saw in her father and the big barbarian.

  Now,' Akhba said, 'the head.' He held his hands out like a boy waiting to catch a ball.

  'Let the woman come over here first,' Conan demanded.

  'We waste time,' said Akhba. He began to call orders to the guards nearby, but at that moment the wizard cast the bundle of firewood to the pavement between the horses. He pointed at the wood with a long finger and called out a string words that rang through the square with uncanny resonance. Instantly, the wood burst into intense blue flame. The horses sidled in fright, but Conan forced his own mount to stand still and he held the head dangling by its long hair above the flame.

  'If I drop it, it will be consumed instantly,' he said. 'You'll have no trophy to bear to your king with your stories of danger and heroism. Give us the woman.'

  Katchka could not take his eyes off the ghastly head, his pig-like eyes glittering with greed. 'The woman is nothing,' lie said. 'Let her go!'

  Akhba nodded to the servants, and Layla began to move forward. She descended the steps and walked to her father's horse. Gracefully, she placed a foot in a stirrup and mounted behind him. For once, she had no taunting words for the Cimmerian, who held the head rigidly over the fire.

  'Go,' he said to Volvolicus. The mage wheeled and galloped from the now-silent square.

  'Very well, you have her,' said Akhba. 'Fulfil your part of the bargain.'

  'How about my three thousand ounces of gold?' Conan smiled at their expressions of consternation, but not for long. The magical fire was dying down, leaving only crackling, blackened twigs.

  Katchka was about to shout something to his guards, but his jaw snapped shut when the Cimmerian tossed the head toward him. Forgetting all else, the general reached out and caught the bundle, laughing with glee. The barbarian wheeled and set spurs to his horse. The magnificent beast bounded fit the nearest exit.

  'Kill him!' Akhba shouted. Then he, too, was caressing the youthful head.

  Conan had almost reached one of the side streets before two of the soldiers grabbed for his reins. He drew his sword and halved the skull of one, then kicked the other back. He ducked a spear that whistled viciously over his head, and then he was off down the street, heading for the gate.

  The general and the vizier ignored the bustle around them as their half-drunken officers scrambled to mount their horses and give chase.

  'So, Idris!' Katchka said. 'You thought to put yourself on the throne?' He spat into the face and laughed.

  'This repays you for dragging me here,' said Akhba, 'Making me leave the court and come to this bleak province to chase a stripling and his primitive kin!' Then he, too, spat.

  As the spittle struck the face, its skin began to writhe and shift, roiling like liquid in a boiling kettle. Katchka cried out in shock and surprise and dropped the head as if it had suddenly grown red-hot. The glossy black hair became lank and brown, and the pale, aristocratic complexion darkened. The general and the vizier cried out in rage and horror. Staring up at them from the top step was the familiar face of Captain Mahac.

  Conan roared with laughter as he thundered down the main street of the town. People stared at him, doubtless wond
ering at the cause of this reckless horsemanship. The mage and the woman had ridden that way minutes before in a similar hurry. He heard the snarling of trumpets from behind him and knew that now the chase would begin. He had left some angry men back there.

  He passed through the gate and rode between the rows of palms, past the oasis and into the desert beyond. Minutes later, he caught up with Volvolicus and Layla. The woman was now astride the mount they had brought with them outside the oasis. It was another of Sagobal's stolen mounts.

  Now we must ride, my friends,' Conan said. 'Men thirst for our blood!' Still he whooped with laughter, like a boy who has just gotten away with a particularly naughty trick. Layla rode alongside him, smiling broadly and, for once, without malice. 'Accept my apologies, Conan,' she said, struggling to be heard above the drumming of their horses' hooves on the soft desert ground. 'It is true. You are very and truly the hero you make yourself out to be.'

  'It was a pleasure to do those swine a bad turn,' he said, grinning. 'Had you any hurt from them?' He looked back but nothing save his billowing cloak and the desert beyond. The pursuit was not yet in sight.

  'I would have, but both Katchka and Akhba drank themselves into a stupor each night. I do not know how long that would have lasted, though. It was well you came when you did.'

  'Men behind us!' Volvolicus announced. Conan turned once more. A broad line of horsemen came over a rise of the round far behind them, the men and their mounts little more than black dots in the distance.

  'Can they catch us?' Layla asked, her face now worried.

  'It will be close,' Conan admitted. 'Our horses are better, and while they are fresh, we'll have the advantage of them. But you can safely wager that each of those troopers has two or three remounts. They can keep up the pressure, with some of them riding full speed to make us do the same, others of hem hanging back and hoarding their strength. It is the chase of the wolf.'

  'That has an ill sound,' she said dubiously.

  'Wizard!' Conan called. 'Can you whistle us up a sandstorm?'

  'One does not summon wind elementals by whistling, northerner. I have told you of the difficulties of working magic under these circumstances.'

  'Deeds, magician!' Conan called impatiently. 'We need deeds, not words!'

  'I will try,' Volvolicus said.

  For hours they travelled, the horses growing lathered, breathing hard. Conan and Layla rode in silence, saving their breath. Volvolicus mumbled loudly, trying to work his magic. He seemed to have little success. When the sun was below the horizon and the first stars gleaming overhead, a sudden great wind began, raising clouds of sand and dust.

  'It will not last,' said the mage. 'We must take advantage of it now.'

  'An hour out of their view will help greatly,' said Conan. The men behind them had drawn much closer during the evening. Now, in the shrouding curtain of dust, the three were able to take some evasive action unseen: riding down side draws, turning onto stony paths where they had to slow down, but where they left no tracks. In time, Conan called a halt and they rested the horses. Beasts and riders were covered with dust, and the Cimmerian used the rest-time to rub the animals down and inspect their hooves.

  'This cannot last,' said Layla. 'We will ride these horses to death keeping up this pace.'

  'Aye, it grieves me to abuse the beasts,' said Conan. 'But if we must ride them to death, we shall, lacking any other choice.' With his dagger-point, he dug a tiny rock from between a horse's shoe and hoof. 'I hope Katchka is leading the pursuit personally.'

  'Why do you wish that?' she asked.

  'For one thing, should they catch us, it would give me great pleasure to have a chance to hew him down. For another,' he released the animal's hoof and straightened, 'no horse can make its best speed with that great hulk in its saddle. He will slow down the whole chase if he is with them.'

  The wind died down and they rode on beneath the stars, travelling cautiously, with Conan in the lead. To his fiercely trained senses, the stars and the pale crescent of the moon supplied sufficient light for them to maintain a swift trot, even so, there was never true safety to riding at night. Even eyes as keen as Conan's could miss an animal's burrow large enough to admit a horse's hoof, and it was beneath the stars hat the bigger desert predators hunted. Lynxes and foxes were numerous. Harmless in themselves, their sudden appearance could cause a horse to shy. Once, in the distance, the Cimmerian descried a pair of lionesses out hunting, seeking the gazelles and oryx that frequented the desert fringe and the land near the river.

  'Have we lost them?' Layla asked as the eastern horizon began to turn grey.

  'No chance of that,' Conan said. 'They can spread wide and sweep the riverland like a great net. But if we are far enough ahead when they see us again, we may make it.'

  The grey turned to pale rose; then the sun broke ferociously over the horizon, and the fleeing trio cast long shadows as they rode their weary horses into the cultivated fields near the river, where for centuries the dour peasants of the area had dug irrigation ditches to bring water to the parched land.

  'Men coming!' Volvolicus shouted. The wizard was far more worn down than his daughter or the Cimmerian, for he lacked the youth of the one and the iron strength and endurance of the other. He reeled in the saddle as he pointed to their left, where a line of riders in glittering armour bore down upon them. In their van, Conan recognized the brutish figure of General Katchka. Roaring with triumph, the Iranistani drew his sword and whirled it overhead, urging his men on. Riders on fresher horses, carrying less bulk, began to draw ahead.

  'To the river!' Conan shouted. 'Kill your horses if you must!' He dug in his spurs, and Layla tore the belt from her slender waist, using it to flog her mount to greater speed. But the horses were capable of no final burst of effort. They were near the end of their strength.

  'Men to the right, now,' Volvolicus said wearily.

  Conan looked and cursed. An even larger group of horsemen bore down from that side. 'Caught in a vice!' He drew his sword. 'You two go on to the river. I am going to kill that swine!' Layla cried out for him to stop as he wrenched his horse's head around and faced the oncoming general, trying to calculate his chances of getting in a killing blow before he was inevitably cut down by the others.

  'Conan!' the wizard shouted. 'These are not Katchka's!

  But the Cimmerian had no attention to spare for the mage's enigmatic words. His mind and will had focused narrowly upon the oncoming general and the sword in his own hand. Then, abruptly, something happened. The men riding toward him slowed. The outriders rejoined the main body and the whole formed a compact mass, with the general in the middle.

  Conan risked a brief look behind him and saw that the men bearing down from that direction were not clad in glittering armour, but rather, in the dingy, battered gear of the rebels. In their forefront rode Hosta and Eltis, and behind them he could see the youthful figure of Idris, riding between two hulking guards.

  With a howl of pure joy, the Cimmerian charged straight for the enemy line. The men opposite snarled and cursed, but they behaved like the hardened professionals they were. The first to block Conan's advance was hewn from shoulder to saddle, his lighter horse bowled over on its back by Conan's larger mount. Vaulting the sprawling animal and its halved rider, Conan swung his great sword with both hands, taking out a trooper with each glittering arc of steel.

  Then the two battle lines collided and were instantly intermixed. It was a slashing, hewing, spearing chaos, without sense or order as each man sought to kill as many of the enemy as he could before eating steel. Horses and men screamed alike as weapons made music against other weapons, with a bass undertone: the sickening smack of sharp steel into yielding flesh, the staccato snap of bone.

  Then Conan saw the raging, roaring figure of General Katchka before him. A rebel rider rode in and sought to thrust his lance through the big belly, but Katchka contemptuously batted the vicious point aside with his sword, and with his return blow, flicked the s
harp edge across the man's neck. The rebel rode on headless, a column of scarlet blood fountaining three feet into the air from his severed neck.

  'Barbarian!' the general screamed. 'You tricked me! You insulted me before my men! Dog!' He seemed to run out of words with which to express his rage. With an inarticulate howl, he charged toward Conan. Gleefully, the Cimmerian rode to meet him. Steel rang against steel in a swift exchange of blows, each man swinging his weapon with both hands. With a dexterous twist of his sword, Conan caught Katchka's blade between his own blade and its long cross-guard, locking the two weapons in place. As the horses circled, the men twisted at their hilts, each seeking to wrench the weapon from his enemy's hand.

  Feeling his grip weaken, Katchka did not seek to prolong the struggle but released his sword. In the instant that the Cimmerian was off balance from the sudden lack of resistance, the Iranistani butted him in the face with his steel helmet, throwing one massive arm around Conan and with the other, drawing his dagger.

  The blow to his face caused white light to flash in Conan's head, almost blinding him. Instinct, though, was swifter than thought. He released his own weapon and grabbed the general by the upper edge of his cuirass even as his other hand shot out and found the hand that held the dagger, gripping the thick wrist in fingers like steel. Katchka tried to drag Conan closer to his own blade. Conan held him at arm's length as he twisted the heavy arm, bending it inward, slowly bringing the knife closer to Katchka's own body.

  It was a titanic straggle of human strength, but it could not last. Katchka's face twisted with rage, then his eyes bulged with horror as, by inches, his dagger drew ever closer to his own neck. He tried to release the weapon, but Conan's relentless grip held his hand paralysed.

  The general began to scream as the tip of the curved, razor-edged blade touched the flesh beneath his jaw. The trickle of blood became a stream as the blade slowly penetrated. Then the scream rose in pitch as the point rose upward through his tongue. Blood mixed with foam bubbled from his lips as the point pierced the roof of his mouth. Still he tried to hold Conan's arm back, and did not relent until the knife pierced through his brain. Then all his muscles relaxed at once and General Katchka toppled from his saddle like a huge sack of animal guts in a slaughterhouse.