Akter squeezed shut his eyes and ground his teeth, hearing of the death of his ward, his adviser, his valued young mage whom he had made Wizard of Zamboula. At last he opened his eyes, opened his mouth as he regained control of himself. His voice came very soft.
'Very—clever of you. Zafra had no means to protect himself against his own spell?'
'I know nothing of that,' Conan said with a shrug. 'Once I was out of the room there was but one man there, with the sword and its command, and Zafra had said it would not rest until it had slain. He bade it 'Slay him.' Zafra, not I, became the him.'
Akter Khan sighed. 'I will miss him, though he was a man I could never have trusted. Never totally. Isparana—whom I should not have trusted—I will not miss at all.'
'Try walking through me to get to her, Khan of Zamboula.'
'I am that,' Akter intoned meaningfully. 'I am Khan of Zamboula. One called Balad opposes me, with a few other traitorous malcontents, and they will never succeed. You made friends with those Shanki barbarians out on the desert, and now they come against Zamboula. I am Khan of Zamboula.'
Carefully Conan kept his face impassive. So you are, this hour, this minute, Akter. He has not yet connected Balad, and me, and the Shanki 'attack'; only me with the Shanki. Continue preoccupied with me, Khan of Zamboula—continue stupid!
Akter Khan smiled. 'Aye; I am Khan of Zamboula. And you… poor barbarian. How little you know. It is just brawn, isn't it, and sword-skill!'
'I have little genius, it's true. Only a few weeks ago I was weary and angry at being called 'barbarian' by all you city-bred jackals who think walls around houses in collection make something you call 'civilisation.' Now I am not angry at all; I am proud. Call me barbarian. I slay, but I do not murder. You, Khan of Zamboula, murder. I am learning, you see.'
'You are learning, lad from the hills of… where-ever it is. But Conan… you have not learned enough, and not rapidly enough. You I will not miss at all.'
Conan only glared. He willed himself to be loose, in readiness for anything. He did not look at the sword. He did not look at Isparana. No matter which way Akter moved, Conan would leap directly for the sword on the wall. He had naught to fear of it; the khan did, whether he felt so or not.
'Did Zafra tell you that the sword knows no gender, Conan, no pronoun, and does not cease until it has slain—at which point it has only to be told again? To it, Isparana is a 'him' the same as you.'
The Cimmerian shrugged boldly. 'Whatever the meaning of that—what boots it? That sword isn't going to come through these doors, even if Zafra were alive to command it. He isn't.'
Conan saw no reason to tell Akter that the sword apparently obeyed—had obeyed, without care for its victim's identity—only the late sorcerer. Meanwhile… why was Akter so confident, seemingly gloating?
What is he planning? What does he know that I don't?
Conan glanced at the wall to his right. He knew that door opened into Zafra's chamber. Perhaps the captain was going to—no. Conan was convinced that no signal had passed between khan and Khan-Khilayim; nor had they reason to believe that he and Isparana would come charging up from that dungeon pit and make for this hall rather than for the nearest exit. Nevertheless, the Cimmerian paced one step closer. Toward Akter Khan. Toward the sword on the wall.
He sought to thrust his mind out from him, seeking. He could not scan the room, for he durst not take his eyes off the treacherous murdering piece of slime in the chair of state he desecrated. What made the man so confident? For what reason did he smile? Why was he able to? He had not wanted Conan and Isparana alone here with him to ask about the Shanki attack, as he had said; he did not fear it and did not suspect that it was a diversion, result of the three-way plan laid by Conan and Balad and Hajimen. He wanted them here for another reason. What was it? Why did he smile? It was a gloating smile. Why, and how?
Conan did not know. Akter was right, the Cimmerian thought; he was young, and did not know enough. His mind was not sufficiently devious, though he had thought himself brilliantly so, in devising the plan to topple this drunken, treacherous ruler. Akter was right. Conan's weapons were swiftness and strength and the sword, not his brain.
Tensely instructing his body not to be tense, he could but wait to learn what trick Akter Khan held ready. A trick up his sleeve… perhaps literally? A dagger? No matter. This man could not throw faster than the Cimmerian could move. Nor could he possibly possess Isparana's skill at throwing a dagger; nor was he man enough to attempt to close with the big youth he so glibly called 'barbarian.' Conan's patience was far from infinite, far from what it would be in his later years—if he survived this day.
He began, slowly, to pace toward the dais, and on it the throne of silver-gleaming fruitwood, and on it the man in the violet robe.
'Ah, Conan, Conan! You see, barbarian… you see, Zafra laid the spell of Skelos on two swords.' And the khan smiled, almost beamed.
'Conan!'—Isparana's alarmed cry.
Instantly Conan's eyes had swerved to stare at the sheathed sword on the wall. In that same instant he knew that he was lost, that he was dead, and in the next he thought that he might at least save Isparana. The sword did not differentiate between sexes and pronouns, eh? It would kill them both, then, one after the other, on two commands… unless she opened the doors and Captain Hamer's guards boiled in all over her. Would the sword then, having slain Conan, drive at them as a reaper in a sprawling field of tempting corn?
' 'sparana! Unbar the door!'
'Conan! The sword—'
'Slay him.'
Sweat popped forth to run down the Cimmerian's flanks, and down his forehead. His eyes stared at the wall-mounted sword, the spell-wrapped sword that would be his ultimate doom, beyond the man who had enchanted it and had met his own doom. Conan stared. It was as if the Cimmerian's blue eyes were attached to the jewel-set hilt by heavy chains.
The burning moment of tension lengthened. Conan's entire body quivered as he waited. He stared at the sword.
It did not move.
It was a sword, sheathed, hanging in golden brackets on a throneroom wall. Throughout the world, so hung thousands of others.
'Slay him!' This time the khan spoke a little more loudly. Demand approached beseeching.
At the great barred doors, Isparana was frozen, hands on the counterbalance lever, neck twisted, her gaze fixed on the sword.
The sword did not move. Akter Khan's hands gripped the lion-carved arms of his great chair and his knuckles were white while he swiveled to stare at the sword.
'Slay him! Slay HIM!'
'Drop the bar, Isparana.'
The bar thumped back into place. Khan stared at challenger. Sword hung on wall.
'Akter Khan: Zafra's own sword obeyed him but not me.' Sweat ran into Conan's eyes and squeezed them shut and jerked his head. He wished he could sit down. He felt a chill. The tension was leaving; the sweat was evaporating. 'Either the spell ended with his death, or…'
'That treacherous dog!'
A nervous female laugh rippled. 'Lord Khan? Does it occur to you that your judgement is excellent, but that you learn too slowly? You could have trusted us. Rewarded, we were happy and loyal. You could not trust Zafra!'
In the pit… when he had called Baltaj up to his side, Akter remembered… and directed the sword at that Aquilonian girl, Mitralia. Zafra had stepped back, beside but behind him. Akter had thought he heard a swift sibilance from the man, but then the marvelous sword had leapt down into the pit to carry out his bidding—so he thought—and he had paid no heed to aught else, in his delight and his elation. His bidding? No! What he must have heard was Zafra, quietly saying 'Slay her'—or 'him.'
Now he stared at the two invaders of his throne-room, the two he had caused to be left alone with him, the two he in his confidence and dependence on the Sword of Skelos had suffered even to lock the doors, and suddenly he was very alone on his throne, and he seemed to shrink within his robes.
'Do not call out to
your men, Akter Khan,' Conan said, the while he approached the throne. 'You will be strangled and decomposing by the time they give up trying to chop through the doors with their swords and send for ram or axes. And to what avail, for you?'
Conan paced toward the khan on his dais, and at that moment sounds rose on the other side of the huge barred doors: the shouts and clangor of combat.
XXI
The Throne of Zamboula
The distance of twice his body's length from the dais on which rested the throne of Zamboula, Conan paused. He stared at the great doors, as did Isparana and Akter Khan. Outside in the corridor, men shouted curses and warnings and challenges. Men screamed and groaned loudly as they received woundy blows. armour jingled and clashed. Sharp blades rang off helms and armour and other sharp blades. One struck the door with a chunking thump; someone had aimed a mighty blow and its intended recipient had ducked. Conan's experience told him that the wood of this door held the blade, and he assumed that the man who had struck that misfortunate blow was dead or wounded, for in combat a few seconds of helplessness were enough. The shouts and steely clangor continued. Now the Cimmerian was sure there were fewer shouts, fewer cries of pain or anguish, and aye, fewer blades striking.
And then there were fewer still. Someone fell back against the door. Conan knew the sound he heard next: a lifeless body sliding slowly down the portal to the floor. And then there was silence.
Conan glanced at Isparana, and saw that she was staring at him.
'Balad,' he muttered.
A fist—no, a sword hilt, definitely—banged on the door—which hardly took note in its strength and height and thickness. The great bar did not so much as rattle.
'AKTER!' a voice bawled, and Conan knew it. 'Your guards are slain or surrendered. The Khan-Khilayim are no more. Hamer lies badly wounded. Jhabiz has long since surrendered and asked to join and serve me! It is Balad, Akter; remember me, your old friend? The palace is ours. OPEN THE DOORS, Akterrrr!'
For a long while Akter, once khan, sat frozen, staring at the carven doors.
Conan ambled past him, took the sword easily off the wall, and started to hitch the sheath to his belt. He paused, frowning, Then he hurled the sheathed Sword of Skelos to clatter and skid along the pink and red tiles. It came to a stop a few feet from the barred entry-way.
Akter had never glanced at him. He stared at the doors, where again a swordhilt rapped.
At last, very quietly, Akter said, 'Unbar the doors.'
Not so quietly, Isparana said, 'I won't.' And she paced away from the tall portals and the sword lying sheathed before them.
Akter stared at her. Then he turned his dark eyes and wan face on Conan. The Cimmerian stood gazing equably at him, arms folded.
'Conan…'
'No, Akter K—Akter. You lift the bar. Wronging the Shanki child was your great mistake. Wronging Isparana and me was your next to last. Placing all your hopes and trust in that ensorcelled sword was your last. I've no notion how many others you wronged, how many in addition to the Shanki girl you murdered, or ruined. But… it has come time for you to make payment. You have ceased being satrap, Akter, and you have ceased to be khan, and to rule. You open the door to those who represent the people you have spat and trodden upon.'
For a long while Akter continued to stare at Conan. No hatred glowed in those dark eyes, or anger; they seemed to plead. Slowly the crowned head turned again to face the portals of wood that separated him from those who had toppled him. More long seconds crept like snails while he gazed at the doors and thought the thoughts of defeat. And remorse? Conan doubted it.
Akter rose, thrusting himself heavily up with both hands on the arms of his chair of state. He descended the dais steps to the tiled floor. Automatically catching up a few folds of his robe in his left hand, he paced, seeming to glide, those fifty feet. After the hesitation of but a few moments, he lifted the small lever that in turn caused the huge bar to rise from across the doors. He turned, glanced at Conan and at Isparana and at the sword lying nearby on the floor, and he walked back to his throne. Conan watched him ascend the steps in the manner of a weary old man, and turn. Akter sank back down on his high seat. After another moment, he set his feet together, rested a hand on each of the chair's arms, and sat erect.
Conan was impressed with the man's bravery, and his dignity. It's true I'd have taken up that sword and met them as a warrior to go down fighting, the Cimmerian thought. But then I am neither satrap nor king, and I have no royal blood. Akter has—and dignity. The Cimmerian was not delighted to be impressed with this man, with such a man, but he was constituted that he could have no other feeling.
Akter Khan gave his last order. 'Enter.'
Both those tall doors were hurled wide by armed men in mail. They did not boil into the hall of the throne; they stood in the doorway, and in their centre was Balad, mailed. His head was bare but the wet strands of his hair showed that he had only just removed the helmet he had worn to battle.
Into the throneroom was flung a slim female body in tatters of silk. It landed with a soft thump, and the neck swung loosely, and the eyes of Chia the Tigress seemed to stare at her master.
Balad lifted his hand; he held a bow, arrow to string. He lifted his other hand, sighted briefly—and sent an arrow into the man on the throne. Akter grunted as he was slammed back in his great chair; then, fingers clawing at its arms, he rose. Balad loosed again. Behind him, his followers muttered and the faces of some showed horror. The second arrow had driven into Akter with a wet thump. Two slender wands tipped with grey-white feathers stood from his abdomen.
'Balad!' Conan roared. 'He opened the doors to you—he sat with the dignity of a king! He is not even armed! This is no fight—this is butchery!'
He glared, and Isparana saw nothing handsome in his face. 'You men! Will you continue to follow a murderous khan? Who swears fealty to one who gains your throne and slays its occupant not by trial, or by combat, but by murder—from a distance?'
And men muttered. And Balad turned a bright-eyed gaze on the Cimmerian, who stood very alone.
Isparana, alarmed, spoke warningly: 'Conan …'
Balad and Conan glared at each other while Akter sank and rolled down the steps of the dais and lay still on the tiles.
'Conan? I am khan, now! Khan of Zamboula!' Balad threw high his hands, one of which held the murderous bow. 'You are due to be rewarded, man!'
'Akter,' Conan said, 'ruled like a beast, but he was ruler and he showed it just now. He sat like a king to accept his deposing—and was slain like a criminal, by a man who used the distance weapon of a coward or the lowliest hunter!'
Balad strode a few paces forward, possessively walking into the throneroom he claimed. He set a foot carelessly on the tip of the sheath of the ensorcled sword. He looked at Conan, and he spoke in a voice made the more deadly by its being so quiet.
'Speak not so to me, Conan. This monster deserved only death, and we have no time for trials! There is too much to do, for Zamboula! As to you, Conan, foreigner but loyal aide—how does the post of personal bodyguard to the Khan sound to your ears?'
Isparana gazed on Conan, and chewed her lip. Balad gazed on him, and waited, and on him already was the cool imperiousness of rule. Conan stared darkly back at him. Armed and mailed, blooded men waited in the broad doorway.
At last Conan said, 'I'd not guard your body, Balad. You met me by lying, fearful even to let me know it was you I met, not one Jelal. Because of me and Hajimen and his camel warriors, you have gained the palace. When I want a throne I will slay for it, too—but only if the ruler has a blade in his hand. I joined you to oppose an unjust murderer—and I will not turn then to guard a murderer!'
Again tension hung like laden clouds in the great hall, and silence.
Then Balad, the muscles of his face working tightly, reached over his shoulder for another arrow.
He was drawing it from its quiver when his eyes swerved from Conan to stare at something behind him. Conan tur
ned to glance, and tarried to stare. A door swung open. A hand appeared, on the floor. Into the throneroom, dragging himself by his right arm, crawled a bloody Zafra. Conan's eyes were huge and round and intensely blue and he felt the hairs rise on his nape. Slowly he stepped away, so that he could see both Zafra and Balad without turning more than his head.
Zafra's voice was low, and halting, and scratchy. It came and went, in lurching spurts between throbs of pain. His left hand as he lay on his side was clutched to his bloody chest.
'One so… steeped in… wizard-ry as I… is… is not so—so eeeasy to slaaaay, Cimm-erian. We sh-should have been allies-s-s… Balad, is it?' Even a sprawled, bleeding, surely dying man could sneer. 'Only a spell… set long a-go-o-o'… keeps me alive to… to see you, Bal-aad. Balad, on this-s-s throne? Even… that dog Ak… were better! Sslay... him.'
Out in the hall, a soldier with a trophy screamed and the cry ended in a horrid gurgle as Zafra's sword unerringly found his heart. At the same time, the sword on the floor backed from the sheath on which rested Balad's foot. He had not moved, poised in the act of drawing another arrow to end Conan's life and tongue. Now it was Balad who went still forever, for the sword's prey was to hand and it had no decision to make; it rose, and leveled in air, and drove like an expertly thrown spear into the breast of the nearest man.
Conan had erred in one surmise, he saw; having slain, each sword went quiescent until commanded again. Zafra lay gasping on the floor; Balad lay still with the Sword of Skelos standing above him.
Amid a ghastly silence, the Cimmerian strode across the broad hall to the stricken clot of men at the door. They had slain a king; the man with whom they would have replaced him had survived him only by minutes.
'Here, give me that,' Conan said, and twisted a sword from the limp fingers of a Balad partisan ere the man could come awake.
The Conan Chronology Page 53
