'I have,' agreed the Cimmerian. 'But the fight's not over. Those fellows are having a hard time of it.'
'Aye, the blues are paying in blood for supporting Nabo. It is sufficient. The survivors will stand high in my favour.' He shook his head. 'That is no way for warriors to fight.'
'Those are not warriors but soldiers, and their loyalty is not to king or general but to their paymaster. Your enemies will not always oblige you be fighting the way you like to fight.'
'How may we resolve this?' Goma asked.
'Stop fighting along the whole line. You just waste your strength that way. Mass your men and charge directly against the centre. The men in front will suffer, but that way you will break their ranks. Then you may roll them up as your warriors pour through.'
'That sounds wise. Let us see what we can accomplish.' Goma called his officers to him, and with the Cimmerian they went among the struggling blues. Making frenzied savages break off from a fight was no easy task, and from time to time Goma had to swat a man with the flat of his axe, but soon they had the blues pulled back and a lull fell over the battlefield.
With Conan's direction, Goma formed up his army in a great wedge with its point directed straight at the Stygian line.
The blues formed the point of the wedge, once more to prove their loyalty with their blood. The rest crowded in without regard to affiliation, for this was not to be a fight of battle lines but a furious, spasmodic struggle in a confined space to exterminate the last resistance to the king.
Upon the wall, the townsmen waited in silent dread. Nabo surveyed the butchered bodies of his warriors with a look of maniacal fury, and Aghla danced about screaming, to all appearances near to death from apoplexy. Of Sethmes there was no sign.
Conan and Goma stood to one side of the wedge. They had done far more than their share of the slaying, and this final stage would be left to the warriors, for it would be a matter of weight
and momentum, rather than of individual prowess. The Cimmerian saw the two officers standing at the right and left ends of the front line. They looked grim but determined. They had survived many a hard-fought battle, and were not about to give way to despair when they were fighting mere savages.
At Goma's command, the wedge surged forward, first at a quick walk, then at a trot, finally at a dead run. The point smashed into the centre of the Stygian line. The line bent, then buckled as men of both sides fell and charging savages leaped over their bodies. A ghastly pileup developed in the centre, as bodies were pierced and blood made the footing treacherous. The first warriors to break through were immediately cut down. With their flanks wide open, effective defence was impossible. But as more men surged into the breach they were able to turn and face the enemy to both sides. The pressure against the Stygian force became intolerable, and the soldiers were broken up into smaller and yet smaller groups. Now discipline meant nothing and the soldiers, expert though they might be, were no match for the horde of maddened, long-limbed spearmen. The remnants of the Stygian formation were swept aside and the warriors poured into the city.
As soon as the gate was cleared, Conan followed Goma through. The warriors were maddened by slaughter and the townsmen fled before them. The warriors did not seem to distinguish between fighting men and non-combatants, but speared both indiscriminately.
'You had better get your men in hand,' Conan cautioned, 'or you will have no people to rule over.'
Goma shrugged. 'The town folk supported Nabo. The killing will stop soon. One thing every ruler learns, my friend: The slain are never irreplaceable. More people are born every day.'
To this brutal philosophy Conan had no answer. Gentle philosophies were rare in Conan's experience and Goma's was not even to be numbered among the worst. In truth, after the first minutes of frenzy the victorious warriors calmed and the murderous fury ceased. Goma instructed his commanders to institute a systematic sweep of the town. He wanted Nabo, Aghla, and Sethmes, preferably alive. On no account was Nabo to be killed.
Conan searched among the dead mercenaries and found no sigh of their officers: the red-bearded Khopshef and black-bearded Geb. Somehow, the two had fought free and fled into the city. Were they with Sethmes, wherever he was?
As Goma's men stretched out and combed the city, they flushed out a few Stygian mercenaries, along with a number of well-known supporters of Nabo, subchiefs who had profited from the usurpation and death of Goma's father. These were exterminated without mercy. At last, they crowded into the plaza before the stone tower. As the victorious warriors cheered ecstatically, Goma strode forward. He mounted the dais and acknowledged the plaudits of the people. He shouted something, then, once again, he lowered his garment, baring himself to the waist. Again there came the awed hush as the people bowed and raised their hands, palms outward.
Now the Cimmerian saw that which Goma revealed. Carved into the flesh of his body was a design in shiny black scar tissue: a wavy-bladed trident enclosed in a crescent. Goma signalled for Conan to join him upon the dias.
'I have shown the people the mark of my legitimacy. For a hundred generations, the king's heir has had carved upon his body the mark of the ancient guardian of the pass.'
'I have seen its like,' Conan acknowledged.
'Now I shall challenge Nabo again to single combat. This time he must accept, having nothing to lose. I want you to watch for treachery.''
'If you wish. But you have won the throne by battle. Why risk losing it?'
'Nabo has been a king, although a usurper. Only a king may slay a king.'
'Then have your men drag him forth so that you may hew his head from his shoulders,' Conan urged. 'Be sensible, man! You have not slept. You marched all night and fought at a run
all morning, then fought in the battle before the city. In that time he had done nothing save watch other men die.'
'Nonetheless, it is the custom. The people must see me defeat and slay Nabo, else I will never sit easy on the throne.' Goma said these words sternly, and as sternly he turned and shouted out his challenge to the man in the tower. There was a long, tense wait, then came a stirring from within the building. A train of royal servants began to emerge: the dancers and serving women and entertainers Conan had seen before, then the skull-faced headsman. Last of all came Nabo himself, stalking with the pride of a doomed lion. Nowhere did he see Aghla. He caught sight of Khefi, and beckoned to the translator to stand by his side.
'You must tell me what is said,' he told the slave.
'Will you speak to the new king on my behalf?' Khefi said, dread in his face and voice.
'Aye, you served me well. Serve me well now and I will urge to Goma that you merely did a slave's duty, no more. I think he will grant you favour. He has already slain Nabo's important supporters.'
'I thank you, master,' said Khefi with great relief.
'Now, tell me: what of my friends?'
'Both Sethmes and the king were most wroth when you so cleverly escaped. Aghla screamed that they must be fed to the lake god at once, but the Stygian priest said that the white woman must be spared, at least. Nabo protested that the lake god was beyond control and must be allowed to sink beneath the surface and grow calm again.
'Last night, the three men were brought forth to be sacrificed, but the god would not come, for all Aghla's summoning. This made her furious beyond her usual state, and she wanted to kill them forthwith, but Nabo said, no, save them for tomorrow night. Now I think he will not live to see that night.'
'Nor do I,' Conan said. 'Where is Aghla?'
'I know not. Since the king returned from viewing the battle, we servants have all been cowering in the great hall to learn our
fate. She came back with the king, the she disappeared into the tower somewhere.'
'And the priest?'
'He came back even before the king. Two of his officers were with him. I saw them running toward the storeroom where the prisoners were kept, then I saw none of them any more.'
'Crom curse the man! What is he
up to?' Conan longed to go within to determine what had happened to his companions, but he had first to determine what was to happen here. The two kings were going through an elaborate ritual that was almost like a dance, circling one another and chanting. Conan asked what was going on.
'The kings challenge one another and sing out their lineage. Since they are uncle and nephew, these are virtually the same. Nabo claims the throne is his and Goma claims likewise. This is for the sake of form, since it is clear to everyone that Goma is truly who he claims to be.'
'And if Nabo should win?' Conan said. 'What then?'
'Then the people must swear their allegiance to him,' Khefi said.
'What?' Conan said, scandalized. 'After all this bloodshed, Nabo could get the throne back by winning a single fight?
'Of course. It means the gods want him to be our king, the rebels could hold out thinking that the old king's son was still alive and would return. If he dies now, they have no one to replace him.'
Conan shook his head. 'I will never understand these people.'
The ritual ended and a servant handed Nabo his weapons: a small shield like Goma's and a short, stabbing spear. Its haft was less than two feet long, its blade as long as a man's forearm and as wide as two palms held together, needle-pointed and viciously edged.
All voices were silenced as the fight began. The two faced one another, then raised their shields. At this gesture, the drummers began a frenetic beat. There was no other sound save the
I
drums. The two men circled warily, their small shields held well before them. Nabo held his spear low, its point directed toward his opponent's belly. Goma held his axe almost casually, as if it were resting across his shoulder. But the Cimmerian could see that the haft of the weapon did not actually touch his shoulder, and that Goma was as tense as a strung bow.
With a howl, Nabo darted in, thrusting at Goma's midsection. The challenger batted the weapon aside with his shield and sent three swift blows in return. The axe flicked out more swiftly than seemed possible, moving mainly from the wrist. By frantic dodging and skilful use of his shield, Nabo managed to save himself. Sweat sprang out on his scar-decorated brow and he showed his white teeth in a ferocious scowl.
Feinting toward Goma's face with his shield, Nabo slashed at this opponent's legs, using the spear like a short sword. Goma sprang over the first slash and jumped back from the return blow, but the spear's tip drew a long cut in his right thigh. Now Nabo grinned and called out something.
'He claims victory already,' Khefi whispered.
'Too soon for that,' Conan muttered. 'It's a trifling wound.'
Goma seemed not to notice the damage. He threw another swift series of cuts at Nabo's head and knees, alternating high and low to draw Nabo's defence away from his body. After a cut with his edge carried well past his opponent, Goma swept in with the back-spike of his weapon. Nabo interposed his shield at the last instant and the spike sunk deep into the hippo hide. Gripping his axe in both hands, Goma jumped back and hauled on it with all his strength. The great surge almost tugged Nabo off his feet, but the shield-strap gave way and Goma had to tear the encumbrance free of his weapon, giving Nabo an instant to regain his balance.
Nabo now took his spear-shaft in both hands and slashed wildly at Goma, driving him back and keeping him too occupied to formulate an attack. Conan knew that the usurper was at a severe disadvantage against the long-handled axe with shield, and Nabo knew that just as well. With a scream, he gripped
Goma's right wrist in his left hand and aimed a gutting thrust at his belly.
Goma brought his shield down just in time to preserve himself, then dropped it to grapple with Nabo. Now each held the wrist of his opponent's weapon hand and each sought to hold that weapon well away from his own body. It was a struggle of brute strength against brute strength, and Conan feared that Goma must be near exhaustion. Then a movement caught his eye. The skull-painted headsman was edging around behind Goma.
Conan saw that Nabo was aware of his henchman's manoeuvre, and was wrestling Goma so that his back would be toward the executioner. Conan could see that Nabo's strength was failing. This desperation move must have been planned beforehand. Apparently, Nabo's respect for tradition was not quite total.
The headsman darted forward, his weapon raised. He was quick, but Conan was swift as a tiger. He leapt forward and his sword described a glittering circle, shearing away the arm that held the beheading sword. A second blow sheared off the skull-painted head, sending it spinning into the crowd, where a warrior caught it neatly and waved it above his own head, grinning. The crowd gasped at this lapse of protocol.
Now it was Goma who grinned as he forced Nabo back toward the edge of the dais. The usurper's face displayed rage, then anguish, then stark terror, his eyes rolling and foamy spittle dripping from his twisted lips. With a surge, Goma wrenched down with his left hand, twisting Nabo's right. Audible above the pounding of the drums was the snapping of Nabo's arm as Goma twisted it inward, ramming the usurper's own spear into his side.
Goma released his grip and stood back as Nabo kept his feet, his face knotted in agony. With a howl of pure, triumphant rage, Goma took his axe once more in both hands and whirled it in a great circle, bringing it down with all his strength, shearing down through Nabo's head, splitting scalp and skull, crashing through teeth, jaw, and neck, splitting the breastbone, stopping
only when it was halfway to the usurper's waist. The tall corpse tottered for a moment, then fell to the dais, scattering blood and entrails over a wide area.
Goma waved his gore-spattered weapon aloft. A pandemonium of adulation broke out among the audience, dwarfing all that had gone before. The dancers broke into a spontaneous dance and all the musicians began to play at once. All the chiefs and captains surged forward to throw themselves at Goma's feet, knocking their brows against the bloody stones in an extravagant display of obeisance.
The valley had a new, undisputed king.
XVII
The Treasure of Python
'Crom take it!' Conan swore. He had run all through the tower and had found no trace of his companions. 'Where are they?' Outside, Goma still received the plaudits of his subjects. Cursing impatiently, he ran out a rear door, onto a terrace overlooking the lake. Far out upon its watery surface, he saw a small object. His keen eyes told him that it was a fishing boat, and he could well guess who was in it. It was headed straight toward the fortress on the opposite side of the lake. He scanned the shore and saw that the fleeing Stygian had not thought to destroy the other boats.
He ran back into the tower and found a great commotion. Goma had entered, and with him came an ecstatic crowd of worshipful subjects. Women brought him clean clothes and ewers of water. While he conversed with his chiefs, the women washed the sweat and blood of battle from their new king. He looked up and grinned at Conan's approach.
'Was that not a fine fight, my friend?'
'It was,' Conan acknowledged.
'I have been told of how you slew the headsman, although I had no attention to spare for it at the time. It was the sort of cowardly act I expected from Nabo, which is why I wanted you near me. I am grateful. Name your reward.'
'No time for that. The Stygian has escaped and even now is upon the lake, headed for the fortress and the treasure. He has my companions with him.'
Goma shrugged. 'I will send men to round them up, by and by. Let us relax and savour our victory.''
'Not until this is finished,' Conan said. 'Aghla is with them, and who knows what mischief that ancient hag may be up to?'
Goma frowned. 'Aghla! I wanted her dead almost as much as Nabo! Aye, we must do something about this.'
'Who mans the fort now?' Conan asked.
'Every warrior of mine above the age of fourteen came hither to fight. We left only women, children, and the aged in the fort, and most of those must be on their way hither even now. I would guess that the place is deserted. There are matters I must attend to here.'
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'Then give me strong men to row a boat and I will chase them down.'
'Very well.' Goma spoke and a score of young men sprang forward. Conan picked six, then he turned to Khefi.
'Come you with me. I may have need of your skills.'
'Upon the lake?' the slave said, queasily.
'Aye. The thing does not come up save at night, does it? Else how would men fish the lake?' Through Khefi he gave the six young warriors their orders.
'Good hunting, Conan,' said the new king. 'Bring back Aghla's ugly head and your reward shall be even richer.'
Conan ran outside and down the long stairway to the lake. By the jetty were ranged a half-score of long fishing boats, their nets spread out nearby to dry. Conan pointed to one he deemed the sturdiest and the warriors pushed it out into the water, then scrambled into the craft and snatched up paddles. Conan and
Khefi did likewise. The paddles flashed and they were off toward the centre of the lake.
Despite his confident words to Khefi, it made the Cimmerian's scalp crawl to be out upon the lake once more. Daylight or dark, it was an evil place, and the thing was down there somewhere. Only the urgent need for haste drove him to venture out onto the thing's domain in a frail fisherman's craft. To pass the time while they crossed the lake, he began to dip his sword into the water to cleanse it, but he stopped himself at the last instant. For all he knew, the taste of blood in the water might draw the monster like a shark.
The Cimmerian tried to descry the boat ahead of them, but a thin mist began to rise from the lake, obscuring any distant object. It was a strange time of day for such a mist, and his apprehensions redoubled. Things began to thrash upon the surface. Ahead of them, a tangle of thin tentacles snapped like whips.
'This is not right,' Khefi said, his eyes rolling at the creatures that appeared on all sides. 'The lake should be quiet at this time.' The warriors were visibly upset. Bravery in battle was one thing. This was something else entirely.
'Paddle harder!' Conan urged. 'The sooner we reach shore, the sooner we will be off this accursed lake!'
The Conan Chronology Page 538
