Conan the Barbarian (22 page)

He noted with satisfaction that Subotai had been a great help, for the canny Hyrkanian was wise about ploys and stratagems. His nomadic people, though a warrior race, were often outnumbered in their feuds and dependent on trickery to worst their enemies; and his knowledge of such matters would prove valuable in the coming contest.

Thus willingly Conan worked with Subotai to strengthen their defences. They set light poles across the trench, and covered them with a thin layer of turf to look like solid ground. They studied the slabs high on the burial mound, and chose those which offered most protection. They set a quiver of arrows, a supply of throwing stones, and a skin of drinking water in their makeshift fort. Yet, surveying these preparations, they found them inadequate.

“The hidden trench should take care of five horses and their riders,” said Subotai, wiping his sweating brow.

“There’ll be many more than that,” growled Conan.

“Perhaps these warrior ghosts will lend a hand,” said Subotai with a mirthless grin. “Two men can do so much, no more.”

“You are dead men walking, for all your preparations,” said Yasimina, with a defiant toss of her sable locks. “When my lord and his people come...”

Yasimina stopped in mid-sentence. The men glanced at each other and reached for their swords. Below them on the hill came the sound of metal scraping metal—a clangour unlike any they had ever heard before. They whirled, sinews tensed for action. Then from Conan’s lungs burst a gargantuan laugh.

Coming toward them slowly was the old shaman clothed in ancient armour from head to knee; in his arms he bore an array of breastplates, helmets, and spears. Subotai raced towards him, shouting excitedly, “Where did you get this stuff, old man?”

“From the dead.” The wizard grinned. “A gift from the dead. You will find more below.” He nodded his head in the direction of his hut.

As Subotai ran down the mound to gather up greaves, swords, axes, arrows, and a bundle of javelins, Conan picked out a fine breastplate and examined it.

“From the dead, you say? But this is strong iron, freshly refurbished. How came it from a grave?”

“You have forgot that I have skill in magic. If I could rekindle your flickering spark of life, it is a lesser feat to beg a gift from those who sleep beneath this mound. Besides, the gods are pleased with you. They will watch the coming battle.”

“And will they help?” asked the Cimmerian.

“No, that they cannot do.”

“They may not like the show they’re watching,” growled Conan. “We’re only two against...”

The wizard interrupted. “We are three.”

“Are you joining us, then, in the fight?” demanded Conan in surprise.

“Why not? Why not?” rejoined the oldster. “If you fall, they will slay me, too, for harbouring you. So I must aid you all I can.” With a fleeting smile, he added, “I still know a trick or two.”

As the shaman wandered off to inspect the defences., the Cimmerian donned a hauberk of fine mesh mail, a steel helmet, and greaves of thin bronze. He placed a sturdy shield and an axe at his chosen stand, and thrust a row of javelins point first into the loose soil, so that they would be ready when needed.

Meanwhile, Subotai had returned, well-armed and brimming with exuberance. Surrounded by his favourite weapons—his sword, his great bow, and plenty of arrows —in addition to his new-found arsenal of knives, and swords, and spears, his indomitable confidence bubbled like a spring of clear water that refreshed his dour companion.

“I wonder why they are so long in coming!” said Subotai. “Are they afraid of us, or have they forgotten us already?”

Yasimina regarded the Hyrkanian as if he were a noxious insect. “Fool, do you not know this is a holy day, set apart by Set for prayers and relaxation? None may bestir himself until the sun goes down.”

“Why didn’t you say so sooner?” rumbled Conan. “You might have had some supper.”

“I would not make things easier for you, barbarian, no matter what I have to do without. You are the enemy of Set.”

The sun hung on the horizon, and purple shadows stole across the plain that stretched between the burial mounds of ancient kings and the brooding Mountain of Power, the heart of Doom’s invisible empire. From their places of concealment, Conan, Subotai, and the wizard stared out at the darkening wasteland and waited. The waiting gnawed at their nerves, for they knew that, once darkness swept up the embers of the dying day, the beast-men would attack.

“What is that sound?” asked Subotai, startled, as an eerie chanting wafted across the mound. Peering cautiously from their hiding places, they saw the princess standing in her bonds, with the wind in her long hair. She was looking out across the barren land toward the mountain and the setting sun. The last rays kissed her upturned face and tinted her naked arms and shoulders a ruddy gold.

The song she sang was strangely melodic; and as its volume rose, its pensive yearning changed to a passionate seduction, which nearly overwhelmed her listeners. Despite her soiled and ragged garments, she looked every inch a priestess and a leader of men.

“What now?” mused the shaman, as he regarded the sensuous writhing of the girl and perceived the seductive magic in her chant.

Subotai, like one entranced, listened to the unearthly melody and murmured, “How beautiful! What is it that she sings?”

“Pay no heed!” said Conan. “It is some snake god’s hymn, designed to lure the innocent to Set and to destruction. Heed it not!”

As the stars filled the dark vault of heaven, Conan in his lonely vigil looked up into the windswept sky. Seldom had he prayed to Crom, god of the Cimmerians, for he had learned that the immortal gods have little interest in the affairs of men. Still, facing almost certain death, the barbarian breathed a supplication.

“Crom, I have no tongue for prayer, and to you the outcome of this battle does not matter. Neither you, nor any other, will remember why we fought or how we died.

“But valour pleases you, Lord Crom, and to me it is important. This night three brave men stand against many —that you may remember.

“And for my courage and my blood, I ask one thing alone: grant me revenge before I die.”

The princess ceased her chanting, and stillness lay upon the darkling land. A wind moaned faintly through the long grasses. A flock of waterfowl, uttering their plaintive cries, passed overhead and vanished into darkness. Somewhere a cricket chirped.

Lulled by the quiet, and depleted from the Herculean labours of the day, Conan rested, leaning on the handle of his axe. Suddenly, he knew not why, he raised his head and stared into the deepening shadows. His barbarian instincts told him that something was about to happen.

Like figures materializing out of Conan’s boyhood nightmares, a score of mounted riders, black against the grey and shrouded passage of the day, exploded into a storm of trampling hooves and clanking armour. They thundered toward the mound on which Conan and Subotai had set up their defences.; above the standard-bearer’s head floated the well-remembered banner of two writhing serpents with fanged mouths, intent upon upholding the black orb of a ragged sun.

Faceless in their ornate helms, the minions of the snake god raised their spears and swords and howled like wolves beneath a gibbous moon. Before they reached the mound, the earth seemed to open up beneath the hooves of the foremost riders, and three horsemen and their mounts pitched into the spear-impaling pit prepared by the Cimmerian and his companion.

Another horse struggled out of the cruel trap and, unmindful of its disabled rider, galloped off across the plain. The beast-man climbed out after it and limped away in futile pursuit of his errant mount.

Other horses, spurred by expert riders, over-leaped the hidden barricade or rode around it, and pounded up the slope to search out the enemy. The barbarian stepped from the protection of a stele and stood, a grim giant in the fading light, for all to see. As one rider thundered down upon him, he hurled a javelin and heard a thud as it struck. A moment later, another rider was upon him. Conan hurled his axe and saw it sink into an armoured chest.

A second javelin speared a horse. The animal bucked and threw its rider; then, galloping a short distance, it collapsed and sank to the ground. The beast-man, disregarding his own safety, rushed at the Cimmerian, bellowing a war cry. He threw his hairy torso upon his adversary, unsheathed sword in hand, and brought Conan to his knees. At that moment, a bowstring snapped; and Conan heard the whistle of an arrow. His attacker threw his hands before his face too late. The shaft pierced his eye and drove him screaming from the mound.

Riding with the fury of a storm, another of Doom’s men hurtled toward the Cimmerian, lance at the ready. The point made contact with Conan’s shield and spun him round. But, even as he turned, the wily barbarian snatched his Atlantean blade from its scabbard, and slashed the beast’s belly. Neighing and rolling its eyes, the terrified animal rose on its hind legs and pawed at the stars, as its rider fell stunned at the barbarian’s feet. One more stroke of the Atlantean sword sundered the head from the supine body.

Another rider, sighting the Hyrkanian crouched behind a grave marker, galloped up the mound. As he neared Subotai’s fragile barricade, the small man straightened up and let fly an arrow. With blood fountaining from his tom body, the beast-man collapsed and rolled from his mount, while the riderless animal cantered away. Uttering a ringing cry of victory, Subotai fitted another arrow into the bowstring.

Two other horsemen, heading up the hillock, wheeled to charge down the mound again. One reached the level ground; the other was impaled on Subotai’s arrow point. He rose in his saddle, shrieking in agony; then, with a booted foot caught in his stirrup, he was dragged along the rough ground by his frantic steed.

Below Conan and Subotai, who held to the high ground, moved the wizard, his polished armour shining faintly in the twilight. Thinking the old man mad, Conan sought to give him an avenue of escape, meagre though it might be. As three of the enemy rode toward the wizard, brandishing their weapons, the shaman’s spear arced out of the darkness and buried its head in the chest of the foremost horseman. The man fell backward, across his horse’s rump; and the tightening of the reins brought the animal up so short that it reared, danced on its hind hooves for a moment, and fell backward, pinning the injured rider to the ground.

The guard’s companions hesitated for an instant to regard their fallen comrade; then, beneath their helmets, the colour drained from their apelike faces. For even as they watched, the shaft of the pinioning spear began to rock back and forth, as if an invisible hand were trying to pluck it from the dying body. A moment later, it pulled free and flew, butt first, into the outstretched palm of the ancient shaman. The wide-eyed companions wheeled and fled.

Conan’s astonishment was short-lived, for another beast-man—this one on foot—moved in on him. The Cimmerian raised his father’s sword and dealt his adversary a terrific two-handed blow. The creature parried with the point of a lance, which glanced off Conan’s helmet. Swinging the great sword again, he cut the haft of the lance in two; and the beast-man staggered, fell, and rolled howling down the hillside.

Then, in answer to a command, the beast-men drew off to re-form their lines on the level ground. Conan glanced up to see Subotai nocking another arrow. One rider alone remained atop the hillock; he was heading for the stele to which the princess’s wrists were bound. As he approached, the girl, who had been crouching in abject terror in the long grass beside the monument during the forays of the beast-men and the spirited defence by the kidnappers, rose with a broad smile on her lips and said: “Rexor, you have come for me! Just sever my bonds and take me to him whom I love.” Rexor paced his warhorse toward the eager girl, who held her wrists up to receive the blow that would set her free. But Rexor’s eyes were stern, his mien forbidding, as he raised the axe, which shone with silvered light beneath the rising moon.

Suddenly the princess realized that the axe was aimed, not at her ropes, but at her slender neck. Instinctively, she fell to her knees, and the axe struck sparks as it cut a gash in the ancient gravestone. The grim rider withdrew with a curse, as Subotai’s arrow clanged with harmless resonance against his helm.

For a brief moment, the embattled three enjoyed a respite. Subotai approached Conan with an ancient sword in his hand and said, “I’ve used my last arrow.”

The wizard clambered up the slope, clutching the spear that had struck its target and returned to the hand whence it was thrown.

“Said I not that I still had a trick or two?” he cackled.

“Get ready!” cried Subotai suddenly. “Here they come again!” The remaining guards had dismounted and now trotted toward the trio in a solid phalanx. Up the slope they came, prepared to search out the small band of defenders should they take refuge once more behind the stones that marked the graves of kings. Then, halfway up the hill, they hesitated.

“Attack!” cried Subotai as, spear in hand, he prepared to leap forward to face the inhuman creatures who approached them.

But Conan restrained his ardour. “Their confusion is more feigned than real. I fear a trap,” he muttered. “Keep to the higher ground. We have the advantage of position—

A moment later, swords clashed in wild confusion. Conan cut one brute down and felt the sting of a wound on his left arm. Subotai speared another beast-man in the throat; but even as he fell, one of his fellows grasped the shaft, wrenched it from the Hyrkanian’s hand, and pointed the blood-stained tip at him. The small man leaped back, stumbled over a broken slab, and lost his balance. Before he could rise, the guard thrust at him with his own spear. The weapon pierced the Hyrkanian’s calf and went on into the earth. As the guard brought up his heavy sword to deal a final blow, the shaman’s javelin sped through the gloom and took the beast-man in the heart.

As before, the point was rocked by invisible forces until, loosened, it flew back to its wielder. On the magic weapon came again, to strike down another brutish guard. A third turned, slack-jawed, and ran toward the level ground; but the false ground gave way beneath him, and he fell screaming into the stake-filled pit.