A Witch Shall Be Born Once More

by Roberta E. Howard

could you expect? Do you think these wolves could besiege and take a city like Khauran?'

  'There'll be no siege,' answered the Cimmerian. 'I know how to draw Constantia out into the plain.'

  'And what then?' cried Olgerda with an oath. 'In the arrowplay our horsewomen would have the worst of it, for the armor of the asshuri is the better, and when it came to sword-strokes their close-marshaled ranks of trained swordswomen would cleave through our loose lines and scatter our women like chaff before the wind.'

  'Not if there were three thousand desperate Hyborian horsewomen fighting in a solid wedge such as I could teach them,' answered Conyn.

  'And where would you secure three thousand Hyborians?' asked Olgerda with vast sarcasm. 'Will you conjure them out of the air?'

  'I have them,' answered the Cimmerian imperturbably. 'Three thousand women of Khauran camp at the oasis of Akrel awaiting my orders.'

  'What?' Olgerda glared like a startled wolf.

  'Aye. Women who had fled from the tyranny of Constantia. Most of them have been living the lives of outlaws in the deserts east of Khauran, and are gaunt and hard and desperate as man-eating tigers. One of them will be a match for any three squat mercenaries. It takes oppression and hardship to stiffen women's guts and put the fire of hell into their thews. They were broken up into small bands; all they needed was a leader. They believed the word I sent them by my riders, and assembled at the oasis and put themselves at my disposal.'

  'All thim without my knowledge?' A feral light began to gleam in Olgerda's eye. She hitched at her weapon-girdle.

  'It was I they wished to follow, not you.'

  'And what did you tell these outcasts to gain their allegiance?' There was a dangerous ring in Olgerda's voice.

  'I told them that I'd use this horde of desert wolves to help them destroy Constantia and give Khauran back into the hands of its citizens.'

  'You fool!' whispered Olgerda. 'Do you deem yourself chief already?'

  The women were on their feet, facing each other across the ebony board, devil-lights dancing in Olgerda's cold gray eyes, a grim smile on the Cimmerian's hard lips.

  'I'll have you torn between four palm-trees,' said the kozak calmly.

  'Call the women and bid them do it!' challenged Conyn. 'See if they obey you!'

  Baring her teeth in a snarl, Olgerda lifted her hand--then paused. There was something about the confidence in the Cimmerian's dark face that shook her. Her eyes began to burn like those of a wolf.

  'You scum of the western hills,' she muttered, 'have you dared seek to undermine my power?'

  'I didn't have to,' answered Conyn. 'You lied when you said I had nothing to do with bringing in the new recruits. I had everything to do with it. They took your orders, but they fought for me. There is not room for two chiefs of the Zuagirs. They know I am the stronger woman. I understand them better than you, and they, me; because I am a barbarian too.'

  'And what will they say when you ask them to fight for Khauran?' asked Olgerda sardonically.

  'They'll follow me. I'll promise them a camel-train of gold from the palace. Khauran will be willing to pay that as a guerdon for getting rid of Constantia. After that, I'll lead them against the Turanians as you have planned. They want loot, and they'd as soon fight Constantia for it as anybody.'

  In Olgerda's eyes grew a recognition of defeat. In her red dreams of empire she had missed what was going on about her. Happenings and events that had seemed meaningless before now flashed into her mind, with their true significance, bringing a realization that Conyn spoke no idle boast. The giant black-mailed figure before hers was the real chief of the Zuagirs.

  'Not if you die!' muttered Olgerda, and her hand flickered toward her hilt. But quick as the stroke of a great cat, Conyn's arm shot across the table and her fingers locked on Olgerda's forearm. There was a snap of breaking bones, and for a tense instant the scene held: the women facing each other as motionless as images, perspiration starting out on Olgerda's forehead. Conyn laughed, never easing her grip on the broken arm.

  'Are you fit to live, Olgerda?'

  Her smile did not alter as the corded muscles rippled in knotting ridges along her forearm and her fingers ground into the kozak's quivering flesh. There was the sound of broken bones grating together and Olgerda's face turned the color of ashes; blood oozed from her lip where her teeth sank, but she uttered no sound.

  With a laugh Conyn released her and drew back, and the kozak swayed, caught the table edge with her good hand to steady herself.

  'I give you life, Olgerda, as you gave it to me,' said Conyn tranquilly, 'though it was for your own ends that you took me down from the cross. It was a bitter test you gave me then; you couldn't have endured it; neither could anyone, but a western barbarian.

  'Take your horse and go. It's tied behind the tent, and food and water are in the saddle-bags. None will see your going, but go quickly. There's no room for a fallen chief on the desert. If the warriors see you, maimed and deposed, they'll never let you leave the camp alive.'

  Olgerda did not reply. Slowly, without a word, she turned and stalked across the tent, through the flapped opening. Unspeaking she climbed into the saddle of the great white mare that stood tethered there in the shade of a spreading palm-tree; and unspeaking, with her broken arm thrust in the chest of her khalat, she reined the steed about and rode eastward into the open desert, out of the life of the people of the Zuagir.

  Inside the tent Conyn emptied the wine-jug and smacked her lips with relish. Tossing the empty vessel into a corner, she braced her belt and strode out through the front opening, halting for a moment to let her gaze sweep over the lines of camel-hair tents that stretched before her, and the white-robed figures that moved among them, arguing, singing, mending bridles or whetting tulwars.

  She lifted her voice in a thunder that carried to the farthest confines of the encampment: 'Aie, you dogs, sharpen your ears and listen! Gather around here. I have a tale to tell you.'

  5 The Voice from the Crystal

  In a chamber in a tower near the city wall a group of women listened attentively to the words of one of their number. They were young women, but hard and sinewy, with a bearing that comes only to women rendered desperate by adversity. They were clad in mail shirts and worn leather; swords hung at their girdles.

  'I knew that Conyn spoke the truth when she said it was not Taramin!' the speaker exclaimed. 'For months I have haunted the outskirts of the palace, playing the part of a deaf beggar. At last I learned what I had believed--that our king was a prisoner in the dungeons that adjoin the palace. I watched my opportunity and captured a Shemitish jailer--knocked her senseless as she left the courtyard late one night--dragged her into a cellar near by and questioned her. Before she died she told me what I have just told you, and what we have suspected all along--that the man ruling Khauran is a warlock: Salom. Taramin, she said, is imprisoned in the lowest dungeon.

  'This invasion of the Zuagirs gives us the opportunity we sought. What Conyn means to do, I can not say. Perhaps she merely wishes vengeance on Constantia. Perhaps she intends sacking the city and destroying it. She is a barbarian and no one can understand their minds.

  'But this is what we must do: rescue Taramin while the battle rages! Constantia will march out into the plain to give battle. Even now her women are mounting. She will do this because there is not sufficient food in the city to stand a siege. Conyn burst out of the desert so suddenly that there was no time to bring in supplies. And the Cimmerian is equipped for a siege. Scouts have reported that the Zuagirs have siege engines, built, undoubtedly, according to the instructions of Conyn, who learned all the arts of war among the Western nations.

  'Constantia does not desire a long siege; so she will march with her warriors into the plain, where she expects to scatter Conyn's forces at one stroke. She will leave only a few hundred women in the city, and they will be on the walls and in the towers commanding the gates.

  'The prison will be left all but unguarded. When we
have freed Taramin our next actions will depend upon circumstances. If Conyn wins, we must show Taramin to the people and bid them rise--they will! Oh, they will! With their bare hands they are enough to overpower the Shemites left in the city and close the gates against both the mercenaries and the nomads. Neither must get within the walls! Then we will parley with Conyn. She was always loyal to Taramin. If she knows the truth, and he appeals to her, I believe she will spare the city. If, which is more probable, Constantia prevails, and Conyn is routed, we must steal out of the city with the king and seek safety in flight.

  'Is all clear?'

  They replied with one voice.

  'Then let us loosen our blades in our scabbards, commend our souls to Ishtar, and start for the prison, for the mercenaries are already marching through the southern gate.'

  This was true. The dawnlight glinted on peaked helmets pouring in a steady stream through the broad arch, on the bright housings of the chargers. This would be a battle of horsewomen, such as is possible only in the lands of the East. The riders flowed through the gates like a river of steel--sombre figures in black and silver mail, with their curled beards and hooked noses, and their inexorable eyes in which glimmered the fatality of their race--the utter lack of doubt or of mercy.

  The streets and the walls were lined with throngs of people who watched silently these warriors of an alien race