'The boy must have been mad to try such a thing. Well'—he looked around at the warriors—'it seems that your king and his heir are both dead. We shall burn them both at sun up, with full honours due royalty. Will you see this fight to the end, with me as your leader?' He carefully did not use the word king yet.
'We were Odoac's sworn men,' said an elder warrior, 'not yours.'
'And as such you should have avenged him,' Totila said blandly. 'Yet you did not. I did. Do you owe no service to your king's avenger?'
The Thungians turned shamefaced. Events were happening too fast. It was easiest to let custom decide their immediate actions. 'Aye, that is true,' said the same elder.
'Then follow me until this matter is settled. Then we may sit and discuss the future of your tribe.' With a scrap of coarse cloth, Totila cleaned off the bits of scalp and hair clinging to his sword. He sheathed it, turned, and strode away, his cloak of men's hair swinging behind him.
'Does this mean that the Torman is our king now?' demanded someone.
'We must talk of this,' said the elder warrior. He looked down at the two hulks upon the ground. 'What
possessed the lad to do such a thing? Had he waited, Odoac could not have lived much longer. Then we could have haled him back to be our king. We all loved the boy.'
'Perhaps,' said a man in elkskin armour, 'he was overcome with shame and rage at this alliance with the Tormanna. It might have robbed him of his wits.'
'We may never know what happened,' said the elder, 'but now we are faced with a problem: Odoac and Leovigild were the last of the royal house. We have no king now. There are only Totila and Alcuina, and on the morrow Totila will have her.'
They were all silent for a while. The man listening from just outside the firelight had heard enough in any case. Conan, dressed in his black wolfskins and his face blackened with soot, snaked his way backward through the sparse brush of the plain toward the garth. He could do this as silently as any Pict. When he was far enough from the men, he rose and loped to a place at the base of the wall where a rope dangled from the palisade. Swiftly as a squirrel, he pulled himself up the wall and greeted the guards at the top. Many of the men were sleeping at their places on the wallwalk, lest the enemy try a surprise assault in the darkness.
Conan quickly made his way to Rerin's hut and barged in. The old man was performing some spell before his fire, but he looked up as Conan entered. 'You were right,' Conan announced. 'Lilma made his move tonight.'
'I knew it! Early this evening I felt his workings.'
Conan briefly outlined the events he had observed since the fall of night, and the things he had heard spoken among the enemy.
'I wondered how he would do it,' Rerin said musingly. 'It would have been difficult to do in battle, because few men would have seen it. Totila destroyed the false Leovigild's head because it would soon have ceased to resemble him. So now the Thungians have no king.'
'No,' Conan corrected. 'They have one; they just don't know it.'
Slowly, both men smiled.
XV
War of Three Nations
When Totila rose and girded himself for battle it was with the deep satisfaction of a man who has planned well and now sees his plans coming to full fruition. He belted on his sword and strode from his tent.
'Are the pyres ready?' he asked one of his men. The man pointed to where two great heaps of wood rose above the plain near the Giants' Stones. 'Then let us go and get these carcasses burned,' Totila said impatiently. 'We've a battle and a royal wedding to accomplish this day.'
The Thungians were already gathered around the pyres, which they had toiled all night to build. The Tormanna lounged about, leaning on their spearshafts and showing scant respect for the dead. According to custom, those who had fallen in the battle the day before would be burned when the fighting was over, or carried home for burial if distance and transport permitted.
Lilma joined Totila on the way to the pyres. 'Have I not wrought well, my king?'
'Very well, indeed,' said Totila. He smiled benignly at his mage. 'I was quite close to killing you not long ago, so much had you failed me. But now it looks as if all is working out for the best.'
'The best is all I wish for my king,' Lilma insisted. He had lost much of his arrogance in recent days, and now he wondered if his craft was under the influence of some baleful star. But how could his latest working fail? He could see no way at all.
Without preamble Totila picked up a torch and thrust it into the larger of the pyres. 'Thus I give final rest to the spirit of my brother king, Odoac of the Thungians.'
He walked to the lesser pyre and there was grumbling from the Thungians. A funeral oration for a king was supposed to last for hours. This was not proper, but they were about to be shocked still further.
'The Cambres come!' shouted someone.
They all whirled to face the garth. In open-mouthed stupefaction, they saw that the whole host of the Cambres were crossing the plain. In the forefront they could see Alcuina.
'Sacrilege!' said Totila with more wonder than anger in his voice. 'Surely even the most desperate of men would not violate a funeral!'
'They bear their spears point-down,' said the elder of the Thungians. 'And they bring Alcuina with them. Perhaps they wish to pay their final respects.'
A broad smile divided Totila's beard. 'No. They have come to surrender. Why else would Alcuina come herself? Well, we must prepare to receive her properly.' He strode toward the arriving party with Lilma close at his side. 'Greeting, Alcuina,' he called when they were a few paces apart. 'It is good to see that you
have come to your senses and decided to end this without further bloodshed.'
'What do you mean,, Totila?' Alcuina asked. 'I have come to attend your double funeral. Royalty should not fail to attend such ceremonies.'
'Especially since one of the pyres is mine!' called a voice.
Speechless, Totila watched as the crowd parted, and four thralls emerged, carrying a litter. Upon the litter lay Leovigild, pale, bandaged, but unmistakable. The Thungians goggled in disbelief, then cheered and began to surge toward the youth. He pointed a finger at Lilma.
'That wizard made the phantom that bore my appearance! The phantom slew Odoac, not I!'
Without hesitation, Totila whirled, drawing his sword. Before Lilma could so much as blink, the king's blade sheared through his shoulder and did not stop until it reached his waist. Totila placed a foot against the dying carcass and pushed it free of his sword. He turned back to face Alcuina.
'Thus do I punish such wickedness! I assure you, lady, that I had no knowledge of this thing. I thought that I had avenged the death of Odoac.' He gestured at the body of the wizard. 'Now I have.'
Alcuina's lips curved slightly. 'You are truly a man of quick decision, but it will not save you this time. Men will not follow cunning and treachery for long.'
As if in confirmation of this, the Thungians were drawing away from the Tormanna and ranging themselves beside the Cambres.
Totila dropped his mask of amiability, and snarled. 'They'll follow a real king if there are no others alive!' He advanced upon Alcuina and Leovigild, but now the black-haired champion stood before him with shield and drawn sword.
'It is time that you and I got acquainted,' said Conan.
'Aye,' said Totila. 'For too long has my cloak been destitute of a black scalp. If you can make me tarry with you a while, you may earn a place on my cloak.'
He took the famous garment off and tossed it to a retainer. Another man brought his shield. The people backed away to give them room, and there was a collective sigh of anticipation. This would be a rare spectacle.
King and champion circled, crouched well behind their shields. Totila attacked first, springing in to swing a swift horizontal chop at Conan's head. Instead of blocking with his shield, the Cimmerian ducked, cutting at Totila's waist. But the blow was deliberately short and passed in front of Totila's shield. Quick as thought, Conan reversed the blo
w and cut a backhand blow at Totila's unshielded side. Instead of bringing his shield across his body, Totila reversed his own blow, bringing his blade downward and across to block Conan's sword with his flat, a finger's width from his waist.
A huge cheer went up at the brief exchange, in praise of the men's masterful swordsmanship and the incredible strength of arm and wrist needed to reverse two such heavy swords in mid-swing. Other men would have sprung apart for the next attack, but these two kept up a dazzling exchange of blows, cutting at leg, flank, shoulder, and head with bewildering rapidity. Time and again, blade rang on cuirass, helm, and shield. So cunning were the fighters that the blows never landed squarely,
but always glanced from the armour with little harm done.
It seemed impossible that mortal men could sustain such a pace in their combat, but these two showed no signs of tiring. Their shields were hacked and their armour gouged and dented, but as the sun shone higher in the sky they continued to attack one another with the relentless fury of male beasts fighting over their harems. Neither would abate his attack until the other lay stretched stark upon the ground.
In the end they proved to be mortal after all. Closely matched as they were, they had to tire. Attacks grew less precise, defence lost its swiftness, timing became fractionally less perfect. Sweat poured from both men, and their breathing grew as laboured as a smith's bellows. Both bled freely from small wounds on arm and leg.
For the first time, they drew apart. To the watchers it looked as if the two were resting for another prolonged bout. The two combatants knew better. They were equally tired, and the shield arm wears out more quickly than the sword arm. Another blow, perhaps two or even three, and the battle would be decided.
'Thank you for a magnificent fight, Cimmerian,' said Totila. 'However it falls out, it will be one to remember.'
'I salute you, Totila,' Conan gasped. 'You should have stayed a warrior and not sought to be a king.'
'The road of kings is one a man must tread when he knows that greatness is writ upon his brow. Now, let's finish this.'
Totila raised his shield once more. Only his eyes showed above its rim. With a shout, he advanced. Silently, Conan did the same. Conan began a charge, but blood trickling from a thigh wound made the sole of his boot slick; he slid on the grass, barely stopping himself from falling. Totila exploited the instant's imbalance, swinging a terrific overhand slash. In doing so, he lowered his shield a few inches, and that was all the advantage Conan needed.
For the first time, Conan used the point. Recovering from the feigned stumble, he darted his arm out to full extension and threw the whole weight of his body behind his blade. The point entered Totila's screaming mouth, crunched through teeth, palate, and skull, and emerged two hands-breadths beyond the splendid helm. Conan wrenched the blade free, and for a moment the huge body stood upon its feet. Then Totila toppled stiffly as a falling tree.
Conan turned to the Tormanna. 'Who follows his king into the dark?'
The Tormanna warriors, so confident an hour before, were utterly demoralized. They found themselves without a king, outnumbered in an alien land. Finally the elder who had spoken the night before strode up to Alcuina.
'Lady, our king was of no line and left no heir. If Cambres and Thungians are to unite, then the Tormanna will become your men, too, if we all be treated as equals.'
Alcuina glanced at Leovigild, and he nodded slightly. She turned back to the elder. 'So be it.' The pledging of fealty was a simple matter in the North. She turned to Totila's corpse. 'Throw this carrion on the pyre with the false Leovigild. Totila was no real royalty.'
'No!' bellowed Conan. 'Build him a pyre higher than Odoac's! This was a true king. If I have to, I'll build him one myself, by Crom!'
Alcuina regarded him for a moment, then said, 'Do as my champion says. Burn him with sword and helm, and with his cloak.'
Dawaz the merchant looked up from the unloading ship to see a familiar figure striding toward his trading post. The long black hair swinging in the breeze was unmistakable, even at a distance.
'Conan!' he shouted, waving.
He dropped his bill of lading and rushed to meet the warrior. As he drew nearer, he saw that Conan no longer wore his bronze armour and carried a long Aquilonian sword. His arms blazed with several gem-set golden bands.
'Greeting, Dawaz,' said Conan. 'When does the ship sail south?'
'Tomorrow, as soon as my goods are loaded. How did it go? Did you find the North to your liking?'
Conan did not break stride, and Dawaz turned to follow him. 'It was a good winter; not nearly as dull as I had feared. Did the ship bring any good southern wine?'
'The best Turanian. But what of your adventures? You must have wrought prodigies to win so much gold.'
At the trading post Conan paused for a moment. 'Let's have some wine, and I'll tell you. There is little to tell, though. I have had far more exciting winters.'
Together the two men went into the post.
The Road of the Eagles
L. Sprague de Camp
The loser of the sea fight wallowed in the crimson wash. Just out of bow-shot, the winner limped away toward the rugged hills that overhung the blue water. It was a scene common enough on the Sea of Vilayet in the reign of King Yildiz of Turan.
The ship heeling drunkenly in the blue waste was a high-beaked Turanian war galley, a sister to the other. On the loser, death had reaped a plentiful harvest. Dead men sprawled on the high poop; they hung loosely over the scarred rail; they slumped along the runway that bridged the waist, where the mangled oarsmen lay among their broken benches.
Clustered on the poop stood the survivors, thirty men, many dripping blood. They were men of many nations: Kothians, Zamorians, Brythunians, Corinthians, Shemites, Zaporoskans. Their features were those of wild men, and many bore the scars of lash or branding iron. Many were half naked, but the motley clothes they wore were often of good quality, though now stained with tar and blood. Some were bareheaded, while others wore steel caps, fur caps, or strips of cloth wound turbanwise about their heads. Some wore shirts of chain mail; others were naked to their sash-girt waists, their muscular arms and shoulders burnt almost black. Jewels glittered in earrings and the hilts of daggers. Naked swords were in their hands. Their dark eyes were restless.
They stood about a man bigger than any of them, almost a giant, with thickly corded muscles. A square-cut mane of black hair surmounted his broad, low forehead, and the eyes that blazed in his dark, scarred face were a volcanic blue.
These eyes now stared at the shore. No town or harbour was visible along this stretch of lonely coast between Khawarism, the southernmost outpost of the Turanian kingdom, and its capital of Aghrapur. From the shoreline rose tree-covered hills, climbing swiftly to the snow-tipped peaks of the Colchians in the distance, on which the sinking sun shone red.
The big man glared at the slowly receding galley. Its crew had been glad to break away from the death grapple, and it crawled toward a creek that wound out of the hills between high cliffs. On the poop, the pirate captain could still make out a tall figure on whose helmet the low sun sparkled. He remembered the features under that helmet, glimpsed in the frenzy of battle: hawk-nosed, black-bearded, with slanting black eyes. That was Artaban of Shahpur, until recently the scourge of the Sea of Vilayet.
A lean Corinthian spoke: 'We almost had the devil. What shall we do now, Conan?'
The gigantic Cimmerian went to one of the steering-sweeps. 'Ivanos,' he addressed the one who had spoken, 'you and Hermio take the other sweep.
Medius, pick three besides yourself and start bailing. The rest of you dog-souls tie up your cuts and then go down into the waist and bend your backs on the oars. Throw as many stiffs overboard as you need to make room.'
'Are you going to follow the other galley to the creek-mouth?' asked Ivanos.
'Nay. We're too waterlogged from the holing their ram gave us to risk another grapple. But if we pull hard, we can beach her on that h
eadland.'
Laboriously they worked the galley inshore. The sun set; a haze like soft blue smoke hovered over the dusky water. Their late antagonist vanished into the creek. The starboard rail was almost awash when the bottom of the pirates' galley grounded on the sand and gravel of the headland.
The Akrim River, which wound through patches of meadow and farmland, was tinged red, and the mountains that rose on either side of the valley looked down on a scene only less old than they. Horror had come upon the peaceful valley dwellers, in the shape of wolfish riders from the outlands. They did not turn their gaze toward the castle that hung on the sheer slope of the mountains, for there too lurked oppressors.
The clan of Kurush Khan, a subchief of one of the more barbarous Hyrkanian tribes from east of the Sea of Vilayet, had been driven westward out of its native steppes by a tribal feud. Now it was taking toll of the Yuetshi villages in the valley of Akrim. Though this was mainly a simple raid for cattle, slaves, and plunder, Kurush Khan had wider ambitions. Kingdoms had been carved out of these hills before.
However, just now, like his warriors, Kurush Khan was drunk with slaughter. The huts of the Yuetshi lay in smoking ruins. The barns had been spared because they contained fodder, as well as the ricks. Up and down the valley the lean riders raced, stabbing and loosing their barbed arrows. Men howled as the steel drove home; women screamed as they were jerked naked across the raiders' saddle bows.
Horsemen in sheepskins and high fur caps swarmed in the streets of the largest village―a squalid cluster of huts, half mud, half stone. Routed out of their pitiful hiding places, the villagers knelt, vainly imploring mercy, or as vainly fled, to be ridden down as they ran. The yataghans whistled, ending in the zhukk of cloven flesh and bone.
A fugitive turned with a wild cry as Kurush Khan swooped down on him with his cloak spreading out in the wind like the wings of a hawk. In that instant the eyes of the Yuetshi saw, as in a dream, the bearded face with its thin, down-curving nose, the wide sleeve falling away from the arm that rose grasping a curving glitter of steel. The Yuetshi carried one of the few effective weapons in the valley: a heavy hunting bow with a single arrow. With a screech of desperation he nocked the arrow, drew, and loosed, just as the Hyrkanian struck at him in passing. The arrow thudded home and Kurush Khan tumbled out of the saddle, instantly dead from a cloven heart.
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