Conan the Victorious

by Robert Jordan

  Conan stood on the rickety dock with the dark cloak he had from Ghurran pulled about him so that he blended with the night. He was the only one there besides Hordo who knew that the one-eyed man privately called that boat Karela, after a woman he had not seen in two years, but looked for still. Conan had known her, too, and understood the smuggler’s obsession.

  While others loaded the ship, the Cimmerian kept an eye out for the rare watchman who might actually be trying to earn his coin or, more likely, for a chance patrol of the King’s excisemen. A slight ache behind his eyes was the only remaining effect of the poison he could detect.

  “The old man’s potion works well,” he said as Hordo climbed up beside him from the boat. “I could almost think the poison was gone completely.”

  “It had better work,” his friend grunted. “You had to promise him those hundred gold pieces when he was ready to settle for herbs.”

  “My life is worth a hundred gold pieces to me,” Conan said dryly. Muffled cursing and thumping rose from the boat. “Hordo, did you truly take on every blind fool you could find for this voyage?”

  “We may wish we had twice as many blades before this is done. And with half my men vanished into wine pitchers, I had to take the best of what I could find. Or would you rather wait another day? I hear the City Guard cut an albino into dog meat just at twilight, mistaking him for a northlander. And they’ve set out to search every tavern and bordello in the city.”

  “That will take them a century,” Conan laughed. A soft cooing caught his ear, and he stared in amazement as a wicker cage of doves was lowered onto the boat, followed by another cage of chickens and three live goats.

  “One of the new men suggested it,” Hordo said, “and I think it a good idea. I get tired of choosing between dried meat and salt meat when we are at sea.”

  “As long as they are not more of the crew, Hordo.”

  “The goats are no randier than some outlanders I know, and the—” The bearded man cut off as a light flared on the boat below. “What in Zandru’s Nine Hells…”

  Conan did not waste time on oaths. Leaping to the deck, he snatched a clay lamp from the hands of a tall, lanky Turanian and threw it over the side.

  The man stared at him angrily. “How am I to see where to put anything in this dark?” He was a stranger to Conan, one of Hordo’s new recruits, in the turban and leather vest that was the ubiquitous garb of the harbor district.

  “What is your name?” the Cimmerian asked.

  “I am called Shamil. Who are you?”

  “Shamil,” Conan said, “I will just assume you are too stupid to realize that a lamp could also be seen by others.” His voice grew harder. “I will not even think you might be a spy for the excisemen, trying to draw their attention. But if you do that again, I will make you eat the lamp.”

  Hordo appeared beside him, testing his dagger on a horny thumb. “And after he does, I will slit your throat. You understand?” The lanky man nodded warily.

  “Blind fools, Hordo,” Conan said and turned away before his friend could speak.

  The Cimmerian’s earlier mirth had soured. Men such as this Shamil might well get them all killed before they ever saw the Zaporoska. And how many others like him were among the newcomers? Even if they were not done in by foolishness like lighting a lamp where stealth was required, how many of the new could be trusted did matters come to a fight on the other side of the Vilayet?

  Muttering to himself, Ghurran stumbled his way down the dark deck and thrust a battered pewter cup into Conan’s hands. “Drink this. I cannot be sure what effect the pitching of sea travel will have. It is best to have a double dose and be safe.”

  Conan took a deep breath and emptied the cup in one gulp. “It no longer tastes of camel,” he said with a grimace.

  “The ingredients are slightly different,” the herbalist told him.

  “Now it tastes as though a sheep was dipped in it.” Conan tossed the cup back to Ghurran as Hordo joined them.

  “The chests are lashed below,” the smuggler said quietly, “and we are as ready as we are likely to be. Take the tiller, Cimmerian, while I get the men to the oars.”

  “See if they can keep from braining one another with them,” Conan said, but Hordo had already disappeared in the dark, whispering muted commands.

  The Cimmerian moved quickly aft, wincing at the clatter of oars as they were laid in the thole pins. As the craft was pushed out from the dock, he threw his weight against the thick wooden haft of the tiller, steering the boat toward open water. The sounds of Hordo quietly calling the stroke came over the creak of the oars. Phosphorescence swirled around the oar blades and in the wake.

  Scores of ships in all sizes were anchored in the harbor, galleys and sailing craft from every port on the Vilayet. Conan directed a zig-zag course that kept well clear of all of them. The navy’s biremes were berthed in the northernmost part of the bay, but some of the merchantmen would have a man standing watch. None would raise an alarm, however, unless the smugglers’ craft came too close. The watches were to guard against thieves or pirates—some of whom were bold enough to enter the harbor of Sultanapur, or even Aghrapur—not to draw unnecessary attention to ships whose captains often carried goods not listed on the manifest.

  The offshore wind carried not only the smells of the city, but picked up the harbor’s own stenches as well. The aromas of spice ships and the stink of slavers blended with the smell of the water. Slops and offal were tossed over the side whether a ship was at sea or in port, and the harbor of Sultanapur was a cesspool.

  The vessel cleared the last of the anchored ships, but instead of relaxing, Conan stiffened and bit back a curse. “Hordo,” he called hoarsely. “Hordo, the mole!”

  The long stone barrier of the mole protected the harbor against the sharp, sudden storms of the Vilayet that could otherwise send waves crashing in to smash vessels against the quays. Two wide ship channels, separated by more than a thousand paces, were the only openings in the great breakwater, and on either side of each channel was a tall granite tower. The towers were not yet visible in the night and would usually be manned only in time of war. What was visible, however, was the gleam of torchlight through arrow slits.

  Pounding a fist into his palm, Hordo slowly backed the length of the deck, staring all the while toward the slivers of light. They became less distant by the moment. He spoke quietly when close enough for Conan and no other to hear. “It must be this Mitra-forsaken assassination, Cimmerian. But if they’ve manned the towers…”

  “The chains?” Conan said, and the bearded man nodded grimly.

  The chains were another precaution for time of war, like the manning of the towers. Of massive iron links capable of taking a ramming-stroke blow from the largest trireme without breaking, they could be stretched, almost on the surface of the water, to effectively bar the harbor entrances even to vessels as small as the one the smugglers rode.

  Conan spoke slowly, letting his thoughts form on his tongue. “There is no reason for the towers to be manned unless the guard-chains have been raised. In the night they are little better than useless as watch posts. But there is no war, only the assassination.” He nodded to himself. “Hordo, the chains are not to keep ships out, but to keep them in.”

  “Keep them in?”

  “To try to keep the High Admiral’s assassin from escaping,” the Cimmerian said impatiently. “There are no city gates here to close and guard, only the chains.”

  “And if you are right, how does it aid us?” Hordo grunted sourly. “Chains or gates, we are trapped like hares in a cage.”

  “In war there would be a hundred men or more in each tower. But now…. They expect no attack, Hordo. And how many men are needed just to guard against someone trying to loose an end of the chain? As many as to guard a gate?”

  The one-eyed man whistled tunelessly between his teeth. “A gamble, Cimmerian,” he said finally. “You propose a deadly gamble.”

  “I have no choic
e. The dice will be tossed, one way or another, and my life is already wagered.”

  “As you say. But do not ask me to like it, for I do not. We will have to try one of the towers on the part separated from land. Otherwise we might have a few score guardsmen to contend with before our business is done.”

  “Not you,” Conan said. “If we both go, how long do you wager the ship will wait for us? The new men will not outstay the old, and the old are not overly eager for this voyage.”

  “They all know I would follow any man who left me, and in my own ship,” Hordo rumbled. “Follow him to the end of the world, if need be, and rip out his throat with my bare hands.” But he took the tiller from the Cimmerian. “See who will go with you. You cannot do it alone.”

  Conan moved forward to the mast and stood astride the yard on which the sail was furled, lying fore and aft on the deck. The pace of rowing, already ragged without Hordo to call a stroke, slowed further. Even in the dark he knew every eye was on him.

  “The trouble in the city has given us a problem,” he said quietly. “The guard-chains are up. I intend to lower one and open a way out of the harbor for us. If it is not done, we have come this far for nothing. We will have a few chests of spices—or so I was told they were—that only the Vendhyans want, and the Vendhyans will keep their gold.” He waited. Gold was always a good place to end, for the word then loomed large in the listeners’ minds.

  To his surprise, Hasan drew in his oar and stood silently. Ghurran shifted and wrapped his cloak tighter about himself. No one else moved.

  Conan ran his gaze down the two shadowy lines of men, and some of those who had been with Hordo before his coming stirred uncomfortably on their rowing benches. It would not be easy convincing them. Outright cowards did not last long among the Brotherhood of the Coast, but neither did those too eager to seek battle. As well to start with the hardest to convince.

  “You, Prytanis?”

  The slit-nosed Nemedian’s teeth showed white in what could have been a smile or a snarl. “You want this journey, northlander? You lower the chain then. I’d as soon be back ashore with a mug of ale in my fist and a wench on my knee.”

  “A much safer place, it is true,” Conan said dryly and there was a small laugh from the others. Prytanis hunched angrily over his oar.

  Shamil, pulling an oar almost by Conan’s side, had made no move to rise, but there was an air of watching and waiting about him that was plain even in the dimmooned night.

  “What of you, lighter of lamps?” the Cimmerian asked.

  “I merely waited to be asked,” the lanky man answered quietly. His oar rattled against the thole pins as it was pulled inboard.

  Abruptly two men stood who had been with Hordo when Conan arrived in Sultanapur. “I would not have you think only the newlings are with you,” said one, a Kothian named Baltis. Thick old scars were layered where his ears had been none too expertly removed in the distant past. The other, a hollow-faced Shemite who called himself Enam, did not speak but simply drew his tulwar and examined the blade’s edge.

  “Fools,” Prytanis said, but he said it softly.

  Conan waved his arm in signal to Hordo, only a gray blur in the stern, and the vessel curved toward the mole. The great breakwater reared before them, a granite wall rising from the dark waters, more than the height of a man, higher than the vessel’s deck. Even the new men knew enough of boats to know what was needed now. They backed water smoothly; then those on the side next to the mole raised their oars to fend the craft off from the stone.

  The big Cimmerian wasted no time on further words. Putting a foot on the strake, he leaped. His outstretched hands caught the top of the mole, and he pulled himself smoothly up onto the rough granite surface. Grunts and muttered curses announced the arrival of the others, scrambling up beside him. There was no dearth of room, for the breakwater was nearly twenty paces wide.

  “We kill them?” Hasan asked in a low voice.

  “Perhaps we’ll not need to,” Conan replied. “Come.”

  The square, stone watch-tower occupied all of the end of the mole except for a narrow walkway around it. Its crenelated top was fifty feet above them, and only a single heavy wooden door broke the granite walls at the bottom. Arrow slits at the second level showed the yellow gleam of torchlight, but there were none higher.

  Motioning the others into the shadows at the base of the tower, Conan drew his dagger and pressed himself flat against the stone wall beside the door. Carefully gauging distance, he tossed the dagger; it clattered on the granite two long paces from the door. For a moment he did not think the sound had carried to those inside. Then came the scrape of the bar being lifted. The door swung open, spilling out a pool of light, and a helmetless guardsman stuck his head through. Conan did not breathe but it was the dagger at the edge of the light that caught the Turanian’s eye. Frowning, he stepped out.

  Conan moved like a striking falcon. One hand closed over the guardsman’s mouth. The other seized the man’s sword-belt and heaved. A splash came from below, and then cries.

  “Help! Help!”

  “The fool’s fallen in,” someone shouted inside, and in a clatter of booted feet, four more guardsmen rushed from the tower.

  Without helmets, one carrying a wooden mug, it was clear they had no presentiment of danger. They skidded to a halt as they became aware of the young giant before them, and hands darted for sword-hilts, but it was too late. A nose crunched under Conan’s fist, and even as that man crumpled, another blow took one of his companions in the jaw. The two fell almost one atop the other.

  The rest were down as well, Conan saw, and no weapons had been drawn. “Throw their swords in the harbor,” he ordered, retrieving his dagger, “and bind them.” The cries for help still rose from the water, louder now, and more frantic. “Then make a rope of their belts and tunics, and haul that fool out before he wakes the entire city.”

  Sword in hand, he cautiously entered the tower. The lowest level was one large room lit by torches, with stone stairs against one wall, leading up. Almost the entire chamber was taken up by a monstrous windlass linked to a complex arrangement of great bronze gears that shone from the fresh grease on them. A long bar ran from the smallest gear to a bronze wheel mounted on the wall below the stairs. Massive iron chain was layered on the windlass drum, the metal of each round link as thick as a man’s arm, and unrusted. It was said the ancient Turanian king who commanded that chain to be made had offered the weight in rubies of any smith who could produce iron that would not rust. It was said he had paid it, too, including the weight of the hands and tongue he took from the smith so the secret would not be gained by others.

  From the windlass the chain led into a narrow, round hole in the stone floor. Conan ignored that, examining the gears for the means of loosing the chain. One bronze wedge seemed to be all that kept the gears from turning.

  “Look out!”

  At the shout Conan spun, broadsword leaping into his hand. Toppling from the stairs, a guardsman thudded to the stones at the Cimmerian’s feet. A dagger hilt stood out from his chest and a still-drawn crossbow lay by his outstretched hand.

  “He aimed at your back,” Hasan said from the door.

  “I will repay the debt,” Conan said, sheathing his blade.

  Quickly the Cimmerian worked the wedge free, tossed it aside, and then threw his weight against the bar. It could as well have been set in stone. By the length of the thick metal rod, five men at least were meant to work the windlass. Thick muscles knotted with effort, and the bar moved, slowly at first, then faster. Much more slowly the windlass turned, and huge links rattled into the hole in the floor. Conan strained to rotate the device faster. Suddenly Hasan was there beside him, adding more strength than his bony height suggested.

  Baltis stuck his head in at the door. “The chain is below the water as far out as I can see, Cimmerian. And there is stirring on the far side of the channel. They must have heard the shouting for help.”

  Reluct
antly Conan released the bar. A boat would be sent to investigate, and though it would not likely carry many men, the purpose was escape, not a fight. “Our craft draws little water,” he said. “It will have to do.”

  As the three men hurried from the tower, Shamil and Enam straightened from laying the fifth guardsman, bound and gagged with strips torn from his own sopping-wet tunic, in a row with the four who were still unconscious. Without a word they followed Conan onto the narrow walkway that led around the tower. Hordo’s one eye, the Cimmerian knew, was as sharp as Baltis’s two. And the bearlike man would not waste precious moments.

  Before they even reached the channel side of the tower, the soft creak and splash of oars was approaching. The vessel arrived at the same instant they did, backing water as it swung close to the breakwater.

  “Jump,” Conan commanded.

  Waiting only to hear each man thump safely on deck, he leaped after them. He landed with knees flexed, yet staggered and had to catch hold of the mast to keep from falling. His head spun until it seemed as though the ship were pitching in a storm. Jaw clenched, he fought to remain upright.

  Ghurran shuffled out of the darkness and peered at the Cimmerian. “Too much exertion brings out the poison,” he said. “You must rest, for there is a limit to how much of the potion I can give you in one day.”

  “I will find the man responsible,” Conan said through gritted teeth. “Even if there is no antidote, I will find him and kill him.”

  From the stern came Hordo’s hoarse command. “Stroke! Erlik take the lot of you, stroke!”

  Oars working, the slim craft crawled away from Sultanapur like a waterbug skittering over black water.

  With a roar Naipal bolted upright on his huge round bed, staring fixedly into the darkness. Moonlight filtered into the chamber through gossamer hangings at arched windows, creating dim shadows. The two women who shared his bed—one Vendhyan, one Khitan, each sweetly rounded and unclothed—cowered away from him among the silken coverlets in fright at the yell. They were his favorites from his purdhana, skilled, passionate and eager to please, yet he did not so much as glance at them.