Conan The Hero (5 page)

The Cimmerian, with points flying at him from a dozen angles in blinding succession, gave way generously before his foe. In the human dust-devil’s whirling, slicing course it was virtually impossible to see the next deadly stroke coming. Swiftly he fell back and aside, letting his foe measure the ground with acrobatic leaps and prancings. The moves were flamboyant, more likely perfected in taverns and alleys than in any jungle fight.

Conan thought of letting his attacker tire himself out—but an oddly narcotic gleam in the man’s eye warned that his wiry vitality might endure, even increase over the course of the fight, depending on his drug of preference. So he set out to balk the man’s attacks in small ways, shifting sidewise at intervals and striking gingerly at the metal-scything limbs as they flashed by. Each rush brought them closer to the chanting, jeering line of watchers.

A change in the jungle-fighter’s rhythm caught Conan off-balance; desperately he dropped to all fours as a midair leap sent his attacker scything straight over him, daggers and toe-knives whizzing past his ears and kidneys. This raised lusty shouts from the spectators; yet the blood they bayed for did not spurt or trickle. The only wound, made earlier to Conan’s hand, had ceased flowing, clenched inside his massive, dusty fist.

But as the lithe assassin instantly renewed his attack, that same gory fist flew open to dash blinding, red-spattered dust into his face. A simultaneous kick of Conan’s sandal struck the back of the Red Garrote’s hurtling thigh, amplifying his spin and sending him careening into the shouting onlookers.

As he disentangled himself roughly from two victims, one cursing, the other yelping with wounds, Conan saluted the crowd with a raised dagger, winning a lusty cheer from Juma—and from the others, feverish murmurs of bets being revised.

The two fighters squared off again, both panting this time, with no inessential flourishes or feints. Their grim intensity hinted that the match might be settled in one more swift, deadly pass. In the blinding noon sun their shadows made two hovering knots on the earth, each extending a curved talon toward the other. These dark blots gave the only real contrast to the sunwashed scene, blacker than the weathered hues of either man’s harness, deeper than the tan of dusty, sun-browned limbs.

In a pulse the black shadows rushed together, tangling indistinguishably, the red strangler’s kicking assault blocked by Conan’s forward lunge. Blades scraped harshly and bodies met crosswise, tight inside the vicious orbit of hand- and foot-driven knives. The duel closed to a tight grapple marked by short, sharp stabs and desperate kicks. In this earth-rooted struggle, body to body and hand to throat, the warrior whose straining toes were encumbered by metal knife-hasps discovered a disadvantage.

The fighters strained together, crouching low over the ground, and a pair of crescent daggers fell to earth. Slowly, inexorably the red assassin’s slimmer torso was borne uppermost in the knot of striving flesh, arching skyward even as it bent sharply back on itself. A surge of effort tightened the human knot, and a pair of brittle snaps sounded, loud as whipcracks across the dwindling circle of onlookers. There followed a flurry of directionless kicks and twitches, then the strangler’s body flopped to earth, rebounding there with unnatural limpness. A black shadow fell across its lifeless disarray as Conan flexed upright, panting and bleeding, scanning the crowd for any other ill-wishers.

The soldiers’ frenzied excitement at the fight’s outcome threatened to cause a brawl or draw high-ranking attention; as they stood milling and haggling over bets, Conan shook off the lingering pain of the fight and moved deliberately. Striding to Sariya, he clasped an arm across her sun-warm back and pressed a long, probing kiss on her upturned mouth, marking her publicly as his own. Whoops and catcalls from the onlookers told him that his claim had been duly noted. Sweeping the crowd with his defiant gaze, Conan drew the slender girl alongside him. Flanked by his friends, they started away.

“Go carefully from this hour, Conan.” Babrak’s warning was low and grim in his ear. “You have not finished your business with the Red Garrotes; they would slay any outsider to avenge even the least-regarded member of their band.”

“Aye, Conan.” Juma shook his head in mock consternation. “Did you really have to kill him in public like that? Now I hardly feel safe strolling with you.”

Conan led them around the end of a barrack where, out of the mob’s sight, they quickened their pace. “The fight was necessary to serve notice. That fool’s death bought Sariya’s life. Now any who covet her know they must answer to me first.” He led the group toward the timber gate of the inner palisade. “We can take a hut in the village compound, where the officers live with their women.” He kept Sariya close by his side as they walked. “Like it or not, girl, we are together—but I swear I will not force myself on you.”

She was inspecting his injured palm, cradling it between her slim hands. Her accent was as exotic and lilting as he recalled. “My poor, great mongoose, we must be sure that this heals well!” She met his eyes with a frank look. “In all Venjipur there could be no better champion, Conan. I will show you my gratitude.”

The gong sent ripples of brazen sound shimmering from the mosaic vaultings of the imperial chamber. The armed guard who had struck it waited until he saw the emperor’s perfunctory wave of dismissal, then turned and vanished outside the curtained archway. General Abolhassan, whom the still-chiming stroke had heralded, stepped reluctantly forward.

“Your Resplendency, the news I have is not of surpassing urgency. I did not realize that you were… occupied. If it pleases, I can attend you later—”

“Nay, not at all, General! I bid you stay.” Yildiz addressed his visitor from his bed at the center of the chamber, where he lay disporting with harem concubines. “Step forward and state your business.”

“Lord, I wished only to furnish you the latest intelligence from Venjipur; it confirms our suppositions in the matter of the wizard Ibn Uluthan’s recent failure. ‘Tis of no great timeliness, and could easily be postponed…” As he moved nearer, casting reluctant eyes on his emperor’s lush relaxations, his voice trailed off indecisively.

The imperial bed was a thin velvet bolster afloat on a broad, marble-curbed pool of quicksilver. The shining metal lay smooth and unsullied, supporting Yildiz’s considerable weight evenly and without so much as a ripple. It bore with equal ease the pair of dark-haired, dark-eyed houris lying alongside and atop the emperor. These two carried on their leisurely caresses as if the high-turbaned, black-clad general had not entered the room at all. Plump they were, veiled by mere vestiges of their customarily scant harem garb. The emperor himself, mercifully, was mostly clad, and partly draped by a silken coverlet.

“Do not worry, Abolhassan; I am not the least indisposed to your presence here.” Yildiz craned his neck slightly so as to address the general from his reclining posture. “The demands of leadership sometimes force me to entertain a number of projects at once—equally true of yourself, no doubt.” Yildiz reached across the ruffled edge of his mattress with one pudgy arm. “Just be seated and help yourself to wine, if you wish.” So saying, he shoved toward Abolhassan a metal-borne golden tray containing crystal cups and an ewer. It skated across the silver liquid, to bump lightly against the curb and float there, spinning slowly.

“I thank you, Sire.” Abolhassan seated himself on the edge of a marble bench at the poolside, not deigning to reach for the wine-ewer. “To be brief, O Emperor: Fort Sikander confirms that our raiding party did not succeed in killing the Arch-Mage Mojurna. They interrupted some dark ritual he was performing in an ancient Venji temple, but the wretch escaped, whether by cunning or by means of his spells.” As he spoke, the general forced his eyes discreetly to trace the intricacies of the tiled floor. “Unfortunately, Sire, it is therefore to be expected that his mystic emanations will continue, and that the poison of mutiny against your Resplendency’s righteous rule will persist in Venjipur. A regrettable state of affairs, Sire! Many thanks for your attention.”

Abolhassan arose to leave, only to be halted by his emperor’s voice. “The raiding party, then… was it the one we spied through Uluthan’s magic window?”

Reluctantly the general turned back and nodded. “Indeed, Resplendency. Commanded by two petty field officers, Juma and Conan.” He found it awkward to speak, noting that one of the imperial houris was regarding him speculatively from kohl-darkened eyes while she nuzzled and nibbled at her emperor’s stout, hairy belly. “That was my error, Sire,” he added distractedly. “I should have specified that the command be given to someone of noble rank.”

“Conan, yes—a Vanir name, that. Probably the oversized trooper we saw in the magic window.” Yildiz shifted beneath and between his servants like a sow rearranging itself among shoats in a crowded pen. “Truly, that glimpse of military valor was stirring! We need more of that kind of savagery here at court, to inspire new interest in the foreign war. As you may know, General, I often feel that the eunuchs, as a whole, do not faithfully support our southern enterprise. Do you not share that impression? And some of the sharife and their senior wives have spoken out forthrightly in opposition to the war! What can one say about such a lack of spirit?”

“Might I suggest, Resplendency, that since your power is absolute, you simply compel them to change their views?” Detained unwillingly before his master, Abolhassan felt irritated at having to say the obvious. “A few high-placed exiles, floggings, lopped heads, or a dance or two with the strappado can work wonders for a country’s fighting spirit!”

Although his harem girls did not visibly flinch at such violent talk, Yildiz stirred impatiently. “Yes, of course, that is so, Abolhassan. But I would rather have things continue running smoothly here at court. We do depend on the eunuchs as administrators, you know; any disruption in their ranks would sow dissatisfaction in diverse quarters.” Yildiz rolled onto his belly, positioning his back to be kneaded by two pairs of scarlet-nailed hands. “And the nobles too have their rightful powers and prerogatives. I certainly do not want a larger war in my capital than the one in Venjipur.” He grunted, adjusting his posture before his captive audience. “If I am indeed all-powerful, then does it not behoove me all the more to prevail by reason?”

“By reason, Sire, or by any other means, as you wish! Now, if you have no further need of me…”

“Nay, Abolhassan, linger a moment or two more. My dear General, I apologize for my thoughtlessness in taking my pleasure before you without offering you similar diversion. Just be seated, man, and feel free to call for any refreshment you may desire.” From his prone position on the floating mattress, with a snap of his fingers and a flick of his wrist, Yildiz brought a harem-girl scurrying from a curtained alcove to the bench at Abolhassan’s side. She was younger and slimmer than the emperor’s two companions, barefoot in filmy pantaloons and a brief, jeweled-embroidered vest. Her ruby lips and antimony eyes were half-concealed by auburn curls clasped in a circlet of purest gold. She seated herself beside Abolhassan, lavishing on him a lingering caress, which he shook off uncomfortably.

Meanwhile Yildiz cleared his throat. “Now, General, back to business! In my efforts to explain and justify the southern war, I have come up against certain complaints which you, in your military expertise, might help me to address.” Although his handmaidens lavished careful affections on every part of his portly frame, Yildiz seemed to have no difficulty organizing his thoughts; in fact his concentration was quite remarkable. “One such quibble,” he began, “is an allegation of graft: that the bulk of money and provisions dispatched to Venjipur never even find their way there—or else, once they arrive, are diverted to profiteering and high living by unscrupulous functionaries in my service. Of course, you and I know that there is always a certain amount of graft necessary to keep the wheels of any state enterprise turning. I have tried to explain that, yet the critics seem to feel that substantially more is involved here.”

“Outrageous, Sire! Who dares make such irresponsible charges? The lying traitor should be broken on the wheel! I can personally guarantee that no such abuses take place. But I will launch an investigation—” The general found himself momentarily interrupted as the harem-maid, sidling next to him, blew into his ear, fondling the short hairs at the back of his turban. Valiantly he pushed her off, continuing, “If such things are taking place, I shall have the offenders remanded for the harshest penalties.”

“Excellent, General! Henceforth I will speak with more assurance on the subject. Another vexing charge—a related one, perhaps—regards the nature of the diplomatic ties we have formed in Venjipur. It is said that the factions we sponsor there are shallow opportunists or downright criminals, careless of our interests, who will be incapable of ruling the district competently once we secure it for them. What is your analysis of that?”

“Impossible, Sire!” Abolhassan was still fending off his persistent bench-mate; finally he elicited a smothered sob from the girl by means of a remorseless pinch to the flesh of her upper arm. “I myself, of course, have never been to Venjipur. But I can vouch that our allies there are impeccably chosen. They are the land’s hereditary warlords, descendants of past conquerors, embodying the same sound principles of aristocracy and autarchy by which Your Resplendency rules our sacred empire.”

“Very good, Abolhassan! I will remember that argument.” Supine under the intensifying ministrations of his harem women, Yildiz twisted around to flash the general an approving glance. “But I see that you do not avail yourself of the fleshly comforts I have offered—is the wench unsatisfactory? Shall I send her off and fetch you a woman of fuller shape, perhaps, or of more worldly experience?”

“No, Sire!” Abolhassan arose from the bench, flushed with irritation at the shameless questioning. “It is only that I am accustomed to harsh military regimen, Sire—a hard, narrow bed, as they say, and pleasure taken only rarely, in a caravanserai on the eve of battle, or amid the flames and ruins of a conquered city.”