Conan The Hero (28 page)

“Mayhap so, mayhap not,” Conan demurred carefully. “But might it not be that the southern war is only a blind? ‘Tis whispered among my troopers that most of the provisions meant for Venjipur are taken as graft, or set aside for use here in Turan, against Yildiz himself—”

“A good thing, then!” Irilya said abruptly. “I never imagined they were put to such a worthwhile end! Death to all these fools and tyrants!” She laughed then in earnest, glancing aside lingeringly at him for the first time. “Strange to hear myself say it! Once I was a woman of peace, seeking nothing but an end to this mad war. But since those days I have garnered so much frustration and pain, and seen so many evils…”

“I can sympathize with you, Irilya!” Debating silently whether to put an arm about her shoulders, Conan decided only to risk patting her lithe back. “After killing so many in Venjipur, I find many here in the capital who are far more in need of killing!”

They had emerged at the top of the hill, where had been decreed a treeless park surrounding a graceful, domed temple. To eastward and southward city lights glimmered. On the northern side, moving beacons of ships traced the Ilbars River’s winding course, with the torches and fire-urns of the palace providing a grandiose centerpiece. The mild air of Persian night, warm and jasmine-scented, was fast restoring the walkers’ hair and garments to comfortable dryness.

“You know, Conan,” Irilya declared, turning to him more charitably than she had yet done, “as I said before, your wisest course would be to leave this place and hie back to your northern wastes. But if you are ambitious, as I suspect, and not too slavish a dog of your imperial masters, there is another avenue open to you. You could join us rebels, turn your fighting skills to our cause, even use your quaint status here to become a leader! Of course, you would have to place your own will second to that of the people.”

“Irilya, it sounds as if your cause has too many leaders already.”

“Nay, but it could be most opportune! Think on it.” She clasped his upper arm in her respectably sized hands, applying gentle force to silence him. “The rebels are set to strike any day now—tomorrow, if chance permits. And tomorrow, if all goes as planned, you will be on a dais, as close to the emperor as I am now to you. Abolhassan will also be nearby, doubtless. If, when Yildiz reaches up to pin his medal on your turban, you would but draw your dagger and plunge it into his breast, thus…!” Her swift, sudden motion had enough of reality in it to make Conan flinch aside from her flashing blade. “Then, for justice’s sake, you might kill Abolhassan too.” Stabbing the night air, she grinned up at him, looking as wild beneath her blond tresses as any Aesir warrior-maid.

Yet the creeping chill he felt was of the here and now. “Nay, girl,” he protested, “you do not know what you are asking! Abolhassan is my enemy—only Abolhassan! Why? Do not ask me; my bones tell me so!” Stubbornly he lashed his damp black hair across his shoulders.

“Tomorrow, when I receive my decoration, I will denounce him before Yildiz and tell the truth about the war in Venjipur, as I have promised my fellow troopers I would. I will explain it all—and mayhap kill the general, if time permits. Explaining may not have worked for you, but it will work for me, I swear! It must work!”

He found that, in his zeal, he had been gripping her shoulders forcibly and shaking her; now she pried herself loose and turned away, angrily rubbing the sore spots. “Very well, then, Sergeant! It appears that we have nothing in common, so we may as well part. I can make my way alone from here.”

“No, wait, Irilya!” Shaking his pounding head again to clear it, Conan strode after her. “I have an appointment at the city barracks at midnight. Can you show me the way?”

She turned back to regard him coolly. “What a coincidence; that is where I am bound. I will take you there—if I can trust you not to betray my friends!”

In Aghrapur’s central district the day’s bustle had subsided, as had the stamp and scuffle of marching feet. The crowds were abed and the blood-runnels long since dried, yet there remained furtive traces of life. Foreign merchants mumbled over campfires smoldering redly before their stalls, and idlers lounged in the porticoes of brokerages, singing ballads and passing around slack wineskins. Elsewhere about the plaza, small bands of restless youths roved, excited by the day’s events, angry and uncertain about what might ensue.

As Conan escorted Irilya across the littered cobblestones, he saw her wave and call out more than once, greeting familiar faces, bandying catch-phrases or bits of news, but never names. “Hail, brother! Make ready for the morrow! Citizen, have you heard, the port guards refused to charge the crowd—they stand with us! Strength to our cause!”

As the spike-topped wall of the civil barrack loomed ahead, loiterers grew scarce and Irilya became more discreet. But to Conan’s surprise, as soon as they drew nigh the postern gate, she strode straight up to it and knocked boldly. A light winked in the peephole, and the portal opened inward. She entered to the sound of murmured greetings, with Conan crowding in close behind her.

“You see, these are soldiers faithful to the people’s will. And my escort, here”—Irilya introduced Conan to three troopers who wore looks of mingled suspicion and recognition—“is an officer pledged to secrecy, who may yet learn the merit of our cause.”

“Well enough, sister, if you vouch for him. Now come—the captain has heard our demands, and is about to render his answer!”

The troopers, leaving one of their number posted at the door, led the visitors to the archway of an inner chamber. It was overflowing with garrison troops strangely alert and ready-looking for this time of night; the armored crowd extended out into the hallway, blocking the entry. From within the room, a firm voice could be heard addressing them.

“… I have read your petition and I agree that, after this day’s slaughter, such a thing must not be repeated. I am prepared, therefore, to review any future orders of my superiors in the light of what I consider to be the public good—my stipulation being, of course, that you men will continue to obey me personally and unquestioningly. But I promise to heed the spirit of your protest; never again will the civil guard be turned against innocent citizens, in the service of an unrighteous cause!”

The shouts and cheers that greeted this statement demonstrated the troopers’ renewed commitment to their leader. Promptly they were hushed as the speaker continued, “Many forces have been at odds during the recent, troublous days. Tomorrow bodes to be specially turbulent, in view of the ceremonies and public meetings planned. Therefore, I order that all troops remain armed and mobilized from this hour forward.”

This speech was greeted with more cheers, and Irilya clasped Conan’s shoulder excitedly. “Did you hear, he is with us, and tomorrow is the day!”

But the Cimmerian, brows knit in suspicion, pressed forward through the crowd of grinning, departing troopers. Shoving into the doorway, he gained a look at the speaker lounging on the edge of table on the far side of the briefing-room. It was, as he had guessed, Captain Omar.

Glancing up unsurprised at Conan, the captain calmly finished addressing a turbaned functionary beside him. “I have passed the order; now make sure the mounts are fed and readied by dawn. Before I take my place in the staff room, there is an errand I must attend to. Go, and I will meet you there shortly.”

As his flunky hurried from the room, Omar’s voice shifted to a more courtly, insinuating tone. “Well, barbarian, my suppositions about your cowardice were too hasty, perhaps.” He glanced around with arch humor to the few who remained in the place. “Being late to a fight, after all, is not quite so dishonorable as shirking it entirely. Trooper, lend our guest your sword!”

The guards and civilians looked from him to the Cimmerian sharply, showing by their abrupt, retreating movements that they knew or guessed what was afoot. The soldier whom Omar had commanded drew his yataghan, handed it hilt-first to Conan, and hurriedly stepped aside. The Cimmerian slashed the sword before him, finding it to be of standard infantry balance, reliable enough, perhaps.

“I do not understand, Sergeant,” Irilya demanded at his elbow. “You have already met Captain Omar, then? What is the matter?”

Ignoring her, Conan strode among benches toward the lamplit head of the room. Omar had drawn his own sword and now held it ready before him. “More honorable if we met at lance-point, perhaps—but this will teach you that a cavalry officer is no coward, afoot or in the saddle!” So saying, he lunged, sending his point darting at Conan’s throat. His entire body arched behind the thrust, which Conan needed all the strength and quickness of his arm to deflect and send clanging past his ear; from that instant, he knew he faced a deadly opponent. Omar’s swift, tidy grace left no opportunity for a riposte. The two blades slithered together twice again, each smoothly neutralizing the other’s murderous tendings; then the fencers stepped apart to breathe.

“Conan, what are you trying to do?” Irilya, instead of keeping clear of the fight, complained shrilly at the Cimmerian’s back. “Captain Omar is an ally of ours, a friend of the cause! We cannot afford to lose him in some childish brawl—come, end this fracas at once!” Suddenly, to his alarm, the Cimmerian felt her hands clutching at his elbow, tugging his sword-arm back out of action. Omar, quick to see the opening, danced forward, his blade raised in a slash well aimed to take off that same arm at the shoulder.

By an impossible duck-and-twist, Conan stepped forward into the stroke. Simultaneously, levering his weapon up with both hands, he deflected the hard-swung sword and sent it skating a hairsbreadth from his shoulder. Shaking off the still-protesting Irilya with a snarl, he spun to parry two more swift cuts. As Omar stalked him further, the Cimmerian froze in a defensive crouch, striving to regain his former, icy calm; he knew he could not allow himself the luxury of anger against this enemy.

“Sergeant, cease this duel, or I will kill you myself.” Wild-eyed, Irilya had drawn her dagger. Conan edged away from her, his eyes darting uneasily between his two foes.

But to his gut-churning surprise, the captain’s next stroke was sideward, toward Irilya. The flat of his blade lashed forth deftly, striking the woman’s cheek with an audible slap; from it she staggered back, fingering the pale welt where the steel had crossed her delicate skin.

“Madam,” Omar proclaimed then to the whole company, “need I inform you that this is an affair of honor? Your importunings on my behalf are unwelcome—nay, insulting, and so I suggest that you leave here. In fact, messengers, our confederate—the highly placed one who cannot be named—has requested to see the Lady Irilya tonight. You two may as well take her to the palace… at once!”

Before Irilya could turn and bolt, the two turbaned aides Omar had commanded stepped forward, seized her arms, and marched her toward the door. The troopers in the room stood watching uncertainly. They were cowed by the spectacle of the duel, no doubt, and by their captain’s capable, steel-edged authority.

But Conan could restrain himself no longer; growling curses, he sprang to attack the hypocritical Omar. His sword volleyed blows, chiming and grating against the captain’s infallibly raised steel, slashing and flailing at his foe in savage, murderous cuts.

The Turanian’s blade countered the strokes by a seemingly magical omnipresence. Weaving a web of invulnerability in vacant air, the swordsman unfailingly met the hazards from each new angle. Elegantly the captain paced, sidestepped, retreated, conserving strength in the face of his attacker’s angry, profligate efforts. The wave of every attack must peak, as expert fencers knew—and afterward topple and dissipate, in a seethe of vulnerability a clever fighter knew how to exploit.

The climax came as Conan’s whistling brand drove downward in a mighty overhand stroke. Omar, penned between table and wall, could not evade it; only a brute parry was possible. The two blades met overhead with a clash that could have shattered one or both; instead, they locked in air, grating and grinding together in a pointless stalemate. No fine fencing here, and no elegant resolution possible, either; just brute effort… until Conan disengaged his sword and turned easily away, leaving the jeweled hilt of his dagger protruding from Omar’s belly.

As the captain crumpled, the watching troopers rushed forward to his side. Conan strode to the doorway, pausing only to tell them, “You may keep the dagger, since it is lodged in your commander’s ribs. Would that I could use it to carve the lies out of his gullet, the way pearls are cut from an oyster! But I must go now and undo a small part of his mischief!”

Conan overtook Irilya and her captors in a deserted lane a short distance from the barrack. The three were already engaged in a scuffle; one of the men came stumbling back, propelled by a kick, to fall on the Cimmerian’s all-too-ready sword. Conan, once he had shaken off the writhing body, sprang to Irilya’s side—only to find the second man already kneeling before her, choking on the dagger she had stuck in his throat.

The woman, trembling with reaction, clutched Conan’s arm tearfully to steady herself. After long, panting moments she addressed him, rough-voiced. “Captain Omar is dead, then?”

“Aye, or soon to be! He was no true friend of your rebels; more likely a pawn of our common foe.”

“Perhaps.” Irilya sighed raggedly, letting Conan lead her away from the reeking, trickling bodies. “With so many plots and deceits afoot this night, how can we be sure of anything? It all seems so wild… maybe chaos will descend tomorrow, after all!”

“Who can say? We are not gods.” Conan clasped her shoulder. “‘Tis hard even to know whether a single mortal can make a difference.”

After walking some distance, keeping to dim, deserted lanes, they came to a broad, softly splashing public fountain. To Conan’s surprise, Irilya let go his arm, stepped across the sculpted rim, and waded into the moon-silvered water.

Turning, she smiled at him for the first time, alluringly. “We are both soiled again, this time with evildoers’ blood.” Undoing her gown at the neck, she let it slip from her creamy shoulders into thigh-deep water, then stepped out of its floating folds. “We would be wise to wash it off,” she said, stretching her ivory arms to him. “Come, hero, let me cleanse you!”