'We must use caution, master,' said Khopshef as he hurried up with a score of armed men. 'There may be more of them downwind. These may be a feint to draw us away. Keep a strong guard near you.'
'You are wise,' commended Sethmes. 'Proceed with care.'
'Time to leave,' said Conan, tapping Goma on the shoulder. They rose to a crouch and began to scuttle away from the fire. Behind them the line of apemen shuffled through the skimpy, dry brush. Small night creatures fled from their path with shrill squeals.
'Men ahead,' Goma whispered. A small file of soldiers were
spreading out, seeking to entrap the quarry between themselves and the bumbana.
'Flank them on the left,' Conan ordered, turning his own steps that way. He knew it was their great good fortune that the enemy did not know their numbers and thought they might be desert-wise nomads. Had they known there were only two, the whole force would have turned out and fallen upon the spies in a compact mass.
It quickly became clear that they were not going to flank the pincer line before they were enclosed. They would have to attack.
'Take the two men on the end,' Conan hissed urgently. 'No war cries!'
Goma obeyed, but he began a quiet chant. Conan could see that the men before them were squinting into the moonlit dimness, unable as yet to see their quarry. That was all to the good. With his spear held low in his left hand, Conan drew his sword with his right. Soot-treated, it gave forth no betraying gleam.
They were upon the others like spirits of the desert night. Conan speared one in the throat above his cuirass, and hewed down another with his sword. He did not see Goma's axe strike, but he heard two impacts that came one after the other, so quickly they sounded almost as one. Then he heard the clatter of armoured men falling to the hard desert ground.
The surviving soldiers began to call to one another, asking what had happened. In the confusion Conan speared another. Now the apemen were bearing down upon them, bellowing brutish battle cries, thirsty for blood.
'Don't fight the bumbana,' Conan said, no longer bothering to whisper. 'They are too strong and too many. Now, run!' Amid shouts and confusion, the two began to sprint the way they had come. Hearing screams and clashes, Conan risked a look back over his shoulder. In the darkness and uproar, some of the bumbana had attacked some soldiers. He laughed aloud. Ahead of them came a challenge.
'Who is that? What is happening back there?' A pair of
sentries peered toward them. More luck. The officer had not yet arrived to double the guard. Conan and Goma hewed the men down in passing and loped away into the surrounding gloom.
' 'None follows,'' said Goma after a half hour of speedy flight. The two slowed to a steady lope. Neither was sweating, nor was their breathing laboured.
'That was a good fight,' said Goma, his teeth reflecting the moonlight in a broad smile. 'But now they know we are aware of their pursuit.'
'Not so,' said Conan.
'How can they not?' asked Goma. 'They detected us and saw us.'
'They think we might be desert nomads.' Goma had not understood the conversation between Sethmes and his officers, so Conan sketched it briefly. 'They know the sailors are not desert-wise, and the Aquilonians are from a fat, soft land. They think I am a mere hillman from a cold land, and they may not even know about you. Desert nomads are the only explanation for being set upon by so great a band.'
'So great a band? But we are only two.'
Conan laughed aloud. 'When they count their dead they will never believe that two men slew so many in so short a time, then escaped. You have fought in wars, you know warriors. Every man will swear that he saw fifty of us.'
'Aye! No warrior wants to think he was bested by an inferior enemy. By morning, they will even believe it.'
'Exactly. So they will think that our party is still unaware of them. Let us keep it that way. As far as the rest are concerned, we went out hunting tonight. Say nothing to them about those who follow.'
'Not even the yellow-bearded warrior?' Conan could feel the frown in his words. 'But he is our leader.'
'Aye, and I'll not betray him, but there is much about this mission that troubles me. They keep too many secrets. I will feel better holding a few secrets of my own. You are a warrior, Goma, and this may be strange to you—'
'I am no low dog of the coast, Conan,' said Goma. 'I know the ways of kings and nobles. Treachery and deceit are as the breath of life to them. They never trust and are always suspicious. Loyalty to a prince is usually rewarded with ruin or death.'
'Aye, men of power are alike the world over. I always rejoice that I come of a people that civilised men call barbarians, that never knew a lord higher than a clan chief, and even they are a disagreeable breed.'
By the time they came within sight of the awakening camp, they had a pair of plump gazelles across their shoulders.
'I think,' Conan said before they reached the fringes of the camp, ' 'that you come of a background that none of us suspects, my friend.'
Goma nodded as if considering sage words. 'That may well be. But whatever lies and deceits plague this mission, you know that I have not lied to you, warrior.'
'That is true, by Crom,' said Conan, 'for you've said nothing at all!'
'And that is an excellent way to avoid lies, is it not?'
XI
The Horns Of Shushtu
Two more were dead. Both of them were sailors. One had failed to shake out his boots in the morning before donning them. A scorpion had taken up residence in one of the boots during the previous night, and had resented the sudden intrusion. The leg had swollen so swiftly that the screaming man was able to tug it only half off. The boot had to be slit down one side to get it the rest of the way off. The men had improvised a litter to carry him, but after a day of screaming that lapsed into babbling delirium, he had died.
The other had staggered along for the last days as they approached the final water hole. All of the men were like walking ghosts, mere wraiths dressed in rags, staggering blindly in the tracks of their leaders. Their reddened eyes saw nothing, their swollen tongues protruded from their mouths as if seeking moisture from the very air.
The man fell, his breath so weak that he seemed in danger of suffocation. The men were too weakened to carry him. Conan had squatted by the man and pressed an ear to his chest.
'He might live if we can get him to water,' Conan had said. 'Goma says the next water hole is near.'
'Leave him,' Ulfilo had said. 'He is finished and we cannot be slowed. The rest are nigh as close to death as he.'
'Aye,' Wulfrede said. 'It is foolish to risk all to save one, and he cannot be saved.'
Wordlessly, Conan hoisted the man to his shoulder and set out. The others had shrugged. Springald, Goma, and Malia had regarded him with distinct approval, but he did not notice. He knew that even his great strength could not survive much more of this. But it was not in him to abandon a comrade who might live.
They had trudged on through the day, some of the men collapsing but somehow able to get up and stagger on. Someone groaned and pointed. There were small trees ahead. The water hole. No sooner had they seen it than the man Conan had been carrying most of the day had shuddered and died. The Cimmerian dropped the dead weight to the desert floor.
'A man should not give up too easily,' he had said. Springald had come up and clapped him on the shoulder.
'It was his time. You did all a man could be asked to do, and far more.' Springald's words came through his dry throat like the croakings of a frog, and the Cimmerian appreciated the effort they cost the schoolman.
Now they bathed in the cool, clear waters of the oasis. They drank and bathed and then drank again. Bleeding, festering wounds were washed and wrapped with the newly laundered rags of shirts and breeches.
The spring emerged from a cluster of rocks, an abundance of clear liquid that filled a large pond and flowed for another quarter mile before plunging once again beneath the sands and stones of the desert. It was su
rrounded by small trees, brush, and abundant grass.
'Dates!' crowed a sailor whose tongue had shrunk to its wonted size, allowing him to speak. 'Ripe dates in the trees!'
They had all looked up and saw that, indeed, the trees were in fruit. Instantly, revived sailors had scrambled up the trunks and cast down fruit. To men who had survived on stringy meat for clays, the luscious fruit was as the food of the gods.
'Figs!' shouted another. 'Figs over here!'
'Someone has planted this place as an orchard,' said Springald.
'Nomads, most likely,' said Conan, 'so that they can get food as well as water when they pass this way.''
'Take care,' called Wulfrede. 'Else all this fruit and water will have your bellies griped for days!'
'Much good that will do,' said Ulfilo. 'Your men have no sense of moderation.'
'Nor have I,' said Malia, stuffing a handful of dates into her mouth, wincing at having to stretch her sore, cracked lips. The desert had robbed her of much of her beauty. She had kept covered as well as she could, but the desert sun was unavoidable and it had burned her. It did not merely stream down from above, but it reflected from the stones and sands as from a mirror. Dehydration and lack of sustaining food had reduced her slender body to fleshless bones. Her beautiful hair lay lank and dingy against her fine-boned skull, and her sunken eyes were haunted above dark circles.
'We must rest here a while,' Conan announced.
'We are close to the Horns now!' Ulfilo protested. 'There is no great desert trek ahead of us now. One more push and we are there!'
'Aye,' Conan said. 'But there is another mountain to climb before we reach the Horns. The sailors are weak, we warriors are not at our best, and your sister-in-law is likely to be dead before we reach the pass. She has been surviving by pure heart for days and is nigh as close to death as the man who died today.'
'He speaks the truth, brother-in-law,' she said. 'One more day and I will not care whether we ever find Marandos or the treasure. I must have rest.'
'Very well, then,' said Ulfilo, stiffly. 'We will rest here for two days.'
'We will rest here as long as it takes to recover,' Conan corrected him. 'Else this whole weary expedition were worthless from the start.'
Ulfilo glared at him. 'I am the leader here, barbarian!'
'You are the employer,' Conan said. 'You engaged me to lead you to your brother. No other man could have served you better than I.'
'You two could always fight it out,' Wulfrede said idly. 'But my money would be on the Cimmerian.'
Indeed, by this time even Ulfilo's formidable strength was all but gone and his vigour was little more than posturing. Conan, on the other hand, was much revived by a little water and he looked more dangerous than ever. The desert had burned the last traces of civilisation from him. Near-naked, his hair grown long and shaggy, burned darker than any of them save Goma, he stood with spear and sword like the very essence of savagery.
'No sense fighting one another, my friends,' Springald said soothingly. 'We are so close. The desert has set us all on edge. Let us rest here a while. Things will look better by and by.'
Ulfilo put upon it the best face he could. 'I suppose you are right. We rest here until Malia is fully recovered.'
'I hate to miss a good fight,' Wulfrede said. 'But it is probably for the best.'
They built fires, ate and drank some more, then slept. Conan awoke just after sunset and sat up alertly. No watch had been set, and all were sleeping like the dead. It did not bother him as it might at another time, for he knew that the pursuers were deliberately keeping their distance. He got to his feet, feeling better than he had since the desert trek began. With his phenomenal powers of recovery, he was almost as good as new. The rest would need days to regain ninety percent of their former strength, longer yet to recover fully.
Spear in hand, he walked along the rim of the pond. Animals came and went, needing the water but avoiding the end where the strange intruders camped. Conan did not molest them. The party needed meat but it was a bad idea to kill near a water hole, where a desert truce was observed. It would upset the wildlife and the local spirits might be angered. In such a hostile place Conan did not want to irritate even a small god.
Walking along the overflow stream, the Cimmerian heard splashing noises ahead. Instantly on guard, he proceeded stealthily to a clump of brush and parted the foliage slowly. Here water from the stream filled a small, stone-lined side pool. Something white and ghostly occupied the centre of the pool, making the splashing noises. The hair at the back of Conan's scalp prickled, but he quickly cursed his foolishness. Ghosts did not swim. And there was only one thing that white for a thousand miles.
He watched as Malia scooped up water in both hands and raised it overhead to flow along her arms, spill onto her scalp, and cascade over her shoulders and breasts. She stood in water above her waist, luxuriating in the cool liquid. Conan strode to the edge of the pool.
'Do you realise how foolish it is to come out here alone?' he demanded.
She sighed. 'I suppose a little privacy was too much to expect. You yourself told me that the killers do not hunt at the water holes.'
'I was thinking about the sailors.'
She laughed. 'Them? All those men want now are water, food, and sleep. I have known marching armies and plundering armies, and I know that the basic necessities must be satisfied before the hot blood flows.' She scooped up more water and poured it over her, letting it trickle down her lean flanks. Even in the moonlight, every rib was plain.
He sat upon a rock. 'I am not so reduced.'
She gave him a lazy, knowing smile. 'So you are not. At another time I might be embarrassed and cover myself in maidenly modesty, but not now. I know that I am not a sight to excite a man's lust just at the moment. Let me fill out a bit and I will prepare to fight you off.'
'Some of us like skinny women,' he teased. 'And you are the only woman for hundreds of leagues. A man in these parts cannot be too picky.'
She giggled, sounding almost girlish. 'You will ruin me with such flattery.'' She wrung the water from her long white hair, then ducked below the surface to soak it once more. When she reemerged, she spoke more seriously. 'There are men whose attentions I would fight off more stoutly.''
He spoke as seriously. 'And you said no word to prevent Ulfilo and me from fighting today.'
'Because I knew you would win,' she said, facing him squarely standing now in shallower water that came well below her hips.
'You do not care if he dies?'
She shrugged her water-sparkled shoulders. 'Only a woman without intelligence or spirit esteems a man who treats her like a beloved pet dog.'
'And your husband, Marandos?'
'I lost him long ago to this mad quest for ancient treasure. I do not expect to find him alive, and if I do, what would I have found?' Her eyes now were hard and far too experienced. 'If he lives, by now he is a madman, not the young captain I wed. No sane man, no man who cared for his family or his wife would have made that demon's bargain with the Stygian priest. Even if we find him alive, I could slay him for that!'
'Women have murdered husbands for less,' said Conan.
'And yet I learned from my mother that a woman must have a man if she is to live in this world. If she would know wealth and comfort, it must be a strong man, one who can win that wealth, and protect both his wealth and his woman. For those who are not born to ease, safety, and comfort, it is the only way.' She ran her gaze up and down his powerful frame. 'I think there are few who could take from you that which you
have grasped.' She walked slowly forward, until the water came only to her knees. 'And I assure you that, properly cared for, I look far better than this.' Her invitation was as open as any he had ever seen.
Conan rose. 'Aye, I know that well. But I do not trifle with other men's wives. Should we find that Marandos is dead . . .'—he paused and weighed his words—'then we must talk of this further.'
He turned and walked b
ack through the brush. Behind him he heard her tinkling laughter, then a splash as she dove out into the deeper water once more. He readied his spear for some hunting out in the desert, for he knew he would get no more sleep that night.
The days of rest did everyone unmeasured good. Everyone put on flesh with the abundant game Conan and Goma brought in and the fruit of the oasis. The sailors were able to make some repairs to their garments. More importantly, they had carried the hides of the game animals as they marched, and it was now dry enough to craft new soles for their footwear.
When all were rested and recovered, it was decided to resume the march upon the morrow. That day, Goma came to Conan.
'I saw a spy to the west when I was hunting this morning,' said the guide.
'Aye,' Conan said. 'They must have been there for some time. That was a reason I insisted upon a long stay here. I wished to deny them this water hole as long as I could.'
'That was a dangerous game,' said Goma. 'For if they had become desperate, they might have come and seized it by force.'
'No, for they have been in no wise as hard-pressed as we. They have had it easier all along, with a large, well-organised expedition of disciplined men. We had only ourselves and some sore-footed sailors to bear water across the desert. They had the bumbana, who are far stronger than true men, and can carry far greater burdens.'
'Ah, this is a deep game. So you wished to make them suffer,
weaken them so that we will have a better chance should they try to attack?'
'Aye. By now, they cannot be in much better condition than we. And while the bumbana are strong, their feet are not much better for walking than those of apes. I'll wager they've lost a number of them in the desert.'
'But they are still many, and well armed.'
The Conan Chronology Page 529
