Conan and The Mists of Doom

by Roland Green

  The silence from the camp ran on. Conan cursed in several tongues. Before, he would have given much to send a silent message to the camp for quiet so he could hear the enemy approaching. Now he would have as gladly sent a message to them to sing and dance, so the bandits would not suspect that they had been detected.

  Another whicker, closer, and Conan turned only his head in the direction of the horse-sounds. The mounted bandits were approaching through a dry wash that they thought concealed them completely. But a low part of the bank let Conan's eyes pick them out of the darkness.

  Before darkness, the Cimmerian had ridden over much of the country for several bowshots around the camp. If his memory served him as to the ground in the enemy's path, there was a narrow end to the dry wash, where a handful might block many. A pity not to be able to do the work himself, but being where you were not expected in a night battle was the easiest way known to gods or men to be killed by your friends.

  Conan now turned his head the other way, and this time the curses escaped his lips. Another band of loosefeet had drifted into sight as silently as a moving sand dune. They were marching straight for the mouth of the draw. No barring that to the horsemen now, not even by a Cimmerian's sword.

  A very longheaded captain, the one who led the enemy tonight. Conan would gladly enroll him among the chiefs he had slain and sing a death song for him. He would still more gladly ask him what he did in this land, and who else aided him.

  With his hands, Conan signaled to the six Afghulis at his post. The plan had been for all three outposts to strike the enemy in the rear. But the men in posts closer to the cliff now could not move that fast without being seen or heard and caught on open ground by bandit archers. In that situation, they were to rally on the camp itself and swell the ranks of its defenders—or face the wrath of both Khezal and Conan together.

  The attack from the rear would now rest on broad Cimmerian shoulders—although six Afghulis accustomed to bladework in the dark were no despicable foe either. Together, Conan expected that he and the Afghulis might even be able to keep Bethina alive, although the harder she tried to "take her man," the harder that task would be.

  Conan's chivalry toward women never let him keep one out of a fight she entered of her own free will. But the Ekinari would not be grateful if he led Bethina into battle and did not lead her out again safely. Ungrateful Ekinari could be a menace to the quest or the peace of Turan, and either way a menace to Khezal's future.

  A man did not need to deal with moneylenders, Conan thought, to learn that he could owe too much to too many different people!

  The Afghulis slipped along behind Conan as silently as the Cimmerian, more so than their enemies. Bethina not only kept up, she made hardly more noise than her companions.

  So it was not any of those with Conan who alerted the prowling loosefeet to their danger.

  "Eeeeenaaaa—ha!"

  The war cry split the night. Conan saw shadows swirl and dance as some bandits faced about, to repel attack from their rear. Others dashed forward, hoping to reach the camp in time to find the sleepy or the drunken struggling out of their blankets.

  With battle joined, speed was now more important than silence. Conan broke into a run, slowing his pace only enough to not outdistance his companions too much. Being a match for any three warriors was no reason to go into battle alone when there was no need.

  So Conan struck the bandits only a few paces ahead of Farad, and Farad only a few paces ahead of the other Afghulis. Bethina brought up the rear, but just before Conan drew his sword he heard her shriek.

  "Leave one for me, Conan!"

  Conan cursed and laughed in the same breath. He needed no advice, and Bethina had revealed her presence to the enemy. He would be glad to leave her a live foe or two, but he wondered if her enthusiasm for blooding her steel would survive her first battle. Knowing that you held men's lives on the edge of your sword sobered most warriors, and those it did not sober were as mad dogs, and the faster they were killed, the better for honorable men.

  The ground dropped from under Conan's feet. He turned a stumble into a somersault and came up with gravel in his hair, sand in his mouth, and his sword still in his hand. He also came up so close to his first opponent that he barely had time to parry the first stroke of the man's tulwar.

  Conan's riposte disarmed the man, and as he drew back to make way for better-armed comrades, the Cimmerian let him go. He was fighting against four or five, as far as he could tell. He would not borrow trouble unless his foes knew no more of swordsmanship than children. The children, that is, of other lands than Cimmeria.

  Conan cut down two men without ever seeing them clearly, or so he judged from the way his slashes jarred his arm and the men he slashed screamed. A third proved that he was no child by getting in under the Cimmerian's guard with a long dagger. Conan buffeted the man with his fist, and as he reeled, brought his knee up under the man's jaw. Jaw and neck both sundered by the blow, the man fell lifeless.

  By now the ground about the Cimmerian was slippery with blood and cluttered with the dead or the dying. Fortunately he could give way, because now the Afghulis were up on either flank, and he could hear their steel meeting the bandits' even as he kept his eyes firmly on his own part of the battle.

  So he did not see Bethina running up until she had run past him, into the midst of the enemy. How she escaped being skewered by mistake was a mystery that only the gods of battlefields knew, and Conan doubted that they ever bothered to share their knowledge with honest warriors.

  He could not doubt that Bethina was in mortal danger, or would be the moment the enemy realized she was among them.

  Cimmerian speed and strength saved Bethina, along with the slow wits of her enemies and her own well-wielded blade. She was admirably free of quaint notions about fair play in a desperate fight; she took her first man by stabbing him in the back. His scream warned comrades, but his life was already fleeing as Bethina snatched her dagger free and faced new foes.

  One of these seemed so unmanned by facing a woman that Conan hardly needed steel to end his fighting. A swift kick sent the man down with a shattered knee, and Conan's other foot stamping on his arm sent his tulwar flying.

  Bethina's next opponent was made of sterner stuff. He had only a dagger, but was supple and swift as a cat. He locked blades with the Ekinari girl, then gripped her by the hair. She gasped at the pain and tried to bring her knee up. This threw her off balance, and both opponents fell, the bandit on top.

  Still Bethina fought without crying out or giving up, if not with great skill. Slowly the bandit's greater strength and weight threatened to prevail, as he forced her knife back against her breast and the point of his own closer to her flesh.

  The bandit had at most a heartbeat to savor his coming triumph before death took him. Conan's fingers gripped his hair and yanked him upright, and the Cimmerian's sword slashed in a deadly arc, severing his spine and nearly cutting through his rib cage from the rear.

  Bethina sprang to her feet, pale where she was not covered with her late foe's blood. "Your kill," she said, nodding to Conan. Her eyes were unnaturally wide and her lips parted, although her voice was remarkably steady for so newly fledged a warrior. To the Cimmerian, they seemed fuller than before, and even more inviting, not that he had found fault with them earlier—

  "Look out!" Bethina screamed.

  Conan moved, as it seemed to the man approaching him from behind, in three directions at once. Then his sword came out of nowhere and caught the attacker across the throat. The man's head lolled, nearly severed from his neck, but he remained on his feet long enough to block the passage of a comrade.

  That gave Bethina time to prepare herself. As Conan's victim fell and his comrade worked around the Cimmerian's flank, Bethina struck. She sprang forward from a low crouch, driving her knife up under the man's throat. He was wearing a boiled-leather neck-guard, but instead of warding off or catching Bethina's blade, it deflected it upward.


  The dagger's point ripped into the man's throat. It did not quite reach his brain, the blade not being long enough nor Bethina's arm strong enough to thrust it that far. But it killed the man quite as effectively as ever Conan's own blade could have done.

  "That one is yours," Conan said. "I will stand witness, before gods and men."

  For a moment he thought she was going to kiss or even embrace him, either course a sad folly on a battlefield that would have lowered his opinion of her wits. She held herself back, however, and then the swirl of battle was around them again. They had to stand back to back and defend themselves for a good while, a bad position for kissing even if one had no other work at hand.

  Between them, Conan, Bethina, and the Afghulis put down or drove off most of the bandits. The few survivors who did not flee kept their distance. One had a bow and no fear of hitting friends; his arrows hissed randomly down about Conan and Bethina.

  "Best get down, girl."

  "I am no girl, and that archer could not hit a camel that was inside his own tent."

  "Maybe, but worse archers have killed good men." The Cimmerian lifted Bethina with his hands under each arm, and dropped her into a ditch.

  "Farad?"

  "Here, my chief."

  "Keep this lady company for a while. Sit on her if you must."

  "If you do, Farad, no woman will ever give you pleasure."

  "My heart breaks."

  "I was not thinking of your heart, Farad."

  Bidding the remaining Afghulis to remain where they were, Conan loped off into the darkness. He was going against his own war-wisdom, but something perturbed him. The horsemen had not ridden down on the camp, although he could still hear their mounts not far off.

  Nor was the third force of bandits either engaged or in sight. They might have sunk into the earth or grown wings and flown off to the stars, for all the Cimmerian could see of them. He disliked leaving his Afghulis, but knew that no man among the Turanian ranks was more adept at night scouting than he was. If anyone could unearth the answer to yet another mystery, it was the Cimmerian.

  The Cimmerian also nearly paid with his life twice over for the answers he found. The first time was when he rounded the shoulder of a low sand dune and came hard upon a band of tribesmen lying in wait. They had been so silent that even his ears did not pick their breathing out of the desert night, he so cat-footed that their ears seeking other sounds gave no warning.

  Four arrows flew almost in a single breath, and it was the favor of the gods (not to mention the Cimmerian's own lightning-quick fall and roll) that kept any of them from doing him serious hurt. He rolled to within arm's reach of the nearest tribesman, plucked him from his hiding place like a boy picking a pear from a tree, and drew the man in front of him as a shield.

  "Hold," he whispered. "Who do you follow?"

  "Bethina," someone said, immediately hushed by several others. Then a voice that was, incredibly, that of an aged woman, said:

  "Stand up, that I may see you."

  Conan made a rude suggestion about what the old woman could do with that idea. He heard a soft laugh—a laugh, not a cackle, which might have come from a woman hardly older than Bethina.

  "No. By Crom, Mitra, and all lawful gods, I will curse any who harm you without my leave."

  It struck Conan that if the old woman, whom he had no cause to trust, did give leave, he would be dead before he fell to the ground. Those archers would not miss again.

  But these people were not behaving like blood enemies. If they were not, there was small cause to reveal them. Also, he had now seen the headdress of the man he was using as a shield. It was too dark to make out colors, but the pattern of the headdress was the same as Bethina's.

  Conan stood up, without releasing his prisoner.

  "Let Gorok go." The old woman spoke like someone accustomed to command. Bethina's mother? A tribal sorceress? Whatever she might be, Conan decided it was something to be obeyed—although he drew both sword and dagger before he freed Gorok.

  "Yes-s-s-s-s." The old woman's one hissed word reminded Conan unpleasantly of sounds heard in the temples of Set the Great Serpent, when it was time to feed the sacred snakes.

  Conan vowed that if the woman turned into a snake now, it would be her last act in this world.

  Instead the old woman laughed softly again. "Fools! This is he who saved Bethina! I saw it, and do any of you deny that I have true vision?"

  No one did. The old woman indeed sounded like some ancient village crone of Cimmeria, women honored and more than a Uttle feared even when they were in their right senses.

  "I am a friend to Bethina," Conan said, choosing his words carefully. "If you are kin or friends to her, then I can hardly be your ene—"

  "Hsssst!" someone said. Conan recognized, the universal call for silence and alertness, and went to a crouch. As he did, he understood why the riders had not yet charged in. They were either comrades to these men, and therefore friends, or they had seen these men and were maneuvering against them.

  Which was yet another mystery, in a journey that had already produced far more than an honest warrior could contemplate with any peace of mind. Conan knew of no god who could truly and reliably be bribed with sacrifices. If he had, he would gladly have promised such a god almost anything imaginable for no more than that this journey should hold no more mysteries.

  Perhaps some god did hear part of the Cimmerian's unvoiced wish. Certainly this particular mystery died almost at the moment of its birth. Perhaps the bandit riders had overheard Conan's meeting with those who waited. Perhaps their own comrades signaled for help. Perhaps some underchief among them simply grew tired of waiting.

  Regardless, the rattle of hooves on stones cut off the Cimmerian's words. He leapt for higher ground and saw the others also moving. Only the old woman was not running, and she was walking briskly enough for one of the age her voice revealed.

  Unless it was her laugh that told the truth, and in such case, was she a witch?

  Likely enough, the voice of experience whispered to Conan. It also told the Cimmerian that few magic-wielders ever served any cause but their own. Finally, it told him that if this woman was truly Bethina's friend, then her cause and Conan's might march together.

  That was all the listening to voices Conan had time for, before the loosefoot riders came down upon him and his newfound comrades.

  Four or five of them rode a little behind and to one side of their comrades. Conan's path also separated him a trifle from his. So the mounted bandits found themselves riding at a single man on foot, and let out shrill cries of triumph at sighting this easy prey.

  They were more mistaken than they could know in their remaining moments of life. They were contending against more than his strength, speed, and war-wisdom. They were contending against a man who had been a seasoned warrior before he ever bestrode a horse. Moreover, he was a son of Cimmeria, a land that had never spawned a mounted army but had devoured more than a few. What Conan did not know about how a man on foot might best those on horseback was hardly knowable by mortal man.

  He threw sand in the face of one horse, then darted aside from it and under the slash of its rider's sword to hamstring the next horse from behind. He had to parry another down-cut with his own sword, but that slowed the rider enough to let a Cimmerian hand grip the man's near leg.

  The rider came out of the saddle like the bung from an ale barrel, flew in an arc over Conan's head, and smashed down headfirst. No man could survive an impact that made such a sound of crushing skull and cracking spine.

  The next rider flourished a lance, and squalled triumph as he saw the Cimmerian appear to stumble. The "stumble" was judged very exactly, to take the Cimmerian a finger's breadth clear of the lance point without taking him out of reach of the lancer.

  The lancer discovered this as his horse suddenly staggered. It staggered from the weight of a Cimmerian leaping on its back. Then the rider screamed from the pain of a dagger thrusting into his vitals f
rom behind, and fell with a thud as Conan flung him to the ground like a sack of grain.

  In the confusion the last rider did not notice that his opponent had transformed himself from a helpless footman to sudden death and now to a mounted foe. Conan did not give the man time to repent of this error. He saw that the man's horse had its rump toward him, and mischievously bent out of the saddle and jerked its tail.

  The horse tried to rear and kick out at the same time. It failed to do either, and instead lost its balance and toppled. The rider found himself sliding inexorably backward out of his saddle, then suddenly suspended in the air by one stout Cimmerian arm.

  The man stared into cold blue eyes from which Death itself seemed to look out. Then the harsh dark face that held those eyes split in gusty laughter. The man fainted with sheer relief and never felt himself strike the ground as Conan dropped him.

  Then he was looking over the heads of his new comrades as they shot, pulled, or hacked the remaining mounted bandits out of the saddle, to see Bethina running across the sands. He raised his voice to shout, "Down!" and at the same time raised his sword.

  It came down on the arm of a loosefoot archer drawing on Bethina, and arm, bow, and arrow all tumbled to the ground. The archer followed them a moment later, with a split skull.

  Then Bethina ran lightly through the melee, dagger drawn but giving little heed to other possible dangers, and threw her arms around a small figure standing by an upthrust rock. Conan heard the figure complain, in the old woman's voice:

  "Bethina! Spare my ribs, for the gods' love!"

  The tone was that of an old nurse to a beloved child now grown to womanhood. Conan slipped out of the saddle and flexed his shoulders to ease tension.

  Whoever the old woman's companions might be, they could hardly be enemies to any friend of Bethina, quite apart from the fight that they had made beside Conan against the loosefeet. There were still mysteries aplenty hovering about this quest, like vultures about a poisoned spring, but the answer to this one at least seemed free of danger.