Conan the Barbarian Page 17

  The sun was a fiery ball low in the west when the last piece of driftwood was laid on the funeral pyre. Atop the largest mound it stood, amid the burial places of ancient warriors and kings; and the slabs that marked their resting places formed a guard of honour all around it. Thither Conan carried Valeria and gently laid her down. There in the rosy sunset, she looked very young, a child asleep.

  Subotai helped the old wizard up the slope with a lighted taper in his trembling hands. Conan regarded his love with brooding eyes and slowly chanted a mournful Pit-fighter’s song:

  Blood and vengeance

  My sword is singing

  Through bone and flesh.

  The way of the warrior

  Is ever death.

  Having bid Valeria a last adieu, the Cimmerian reached for the flaming torch and, stepping forward,

  touched the flame to the dry wood.

  The fire licked up around her alabaster beauty, burning with an incandescent brilliance. A breeze, sighing from the sea, lifted her hair in gentle fingers and was gone. Unwavering, the smoke rose into the darkening sky, as if reaching for the evening star.

  Conan stood like a figure carved in stone. Subotai cobbed softly, tears running down his cheeks. The wizard, roused from mumbling incantations, stared at him.

  “Why weep you so, Hyrkanian? Was she so much to you?” he asked.

  Subotai wiped away a tear and cleared his throat.

  “She was a friend to me, but she was everything to him,” the small man said. “But he is a Cimmerian and must not weep. So I do weep for him.”

  The shaman nodded as he pondered the diverse ways of men from foreign lands.

  The fire burned to coals and then to ash, and the night wind scattered the ashes far and wide. Through it all, Conan stood motionless. Then, when the last ash vanished, he turned to Subotai and the shaman, saying, “Now we must get ready.”

  “Ready for what?” asked Subotai.

  “For them to come against us.”

  XVI

  The Battle

  There was little sleep in the shaman’s hut that night. The old wizard huddled in his shabby cloak and watched the young giant whose life had been so dearly bought. Conan sketched battle plans with charcoal on the well-scrubbed hearth. Subotai kept an eye on Yasimina, who lay in the old man’s bed, tied to a bedpost.

  When dawn burnished the still waters of the Vilayet Sea, the small house became a beehive of activity. Pallets were rolled up and the stew pot set to warming on its hook above a fresh-lit fire. Subotai slipped out to forage for supplies of war. The old man puttered among his piled effects for remnants of arms and armour or for things that might be so employed.

  Yasimina sat on the side of the bed, staring at the Cimmerian. Her eyes sparkled with anger; her rose-petal mouth was inverted by a sneer.

  “Enjoy this day, barbarian dog,” she spat, “for it will be your last.”

  Conan looked around at her and raised his heavy brows.

  “My serpent king knows where you are,” she continued. “He has seen your fire and will come, as surely as the sun has risen in the east. And he will slay you.”

  “Are you a prophetess, then?” growled Conan. “I think not—just a foolish girl. I know not why your father loves you so.”

  He walked over to the irate princess, seized her chin in his large hand, and glared down into her fiery eyes. Softly, he said: “I was born on a battlefield.... The first sound I heard was a scream.... The prospect of a battle does not frighten me.”

  “It frightens me no more!” Yasimina flung back at him. “For my lord will lead his minions to my rescue. My lord... and future husband, Thulsa Doom.”

  Conan smiled grimly. “Then you shall see the battle, blow by blow. And be right there to greet him when he comes for you.”

  The girl paled slightly as the barbarian untied her from the bedpost and flung her, sack-like, over his shoulder. Striding up the side of the nearest mound, he tethered her.

  “Here you can see it all. And he who comes for you can find you readily.”

  Subotai called from below, and Conan descended the slope to find the Hyrkanian cradling an armful of bamboo poles. These he dropped with a clatter.

  “They’ll do for stakes,” he said, picking one up and slicing an end at an angle to make a crude spear.

  “Where did you find them?” asked Conan, beginning to whittle points on the ends of other poles.

  “Down by the sea—behind the tall grasses.” Presently, when the last sharpened stake lay on the pile, Subotai said: “Doom’s likely to come directly from the mountain. Should we not dig the trench on the far side of the mound?”

  “Aye,” said the Cimmerian, “and we’ll cover it with thin poles strewn with sod.”

  “If we have time,” said Subotai dourly. “I’ll fetch shovels from the wizard’s root cellar.”

  Soon the two men were hard at work. All morning the earth flew, and the trench took shape. Although the small thief had to rest from time to time, Conan continued like a tireless machine. His mighty muscles, fuelled by implacable hatred and lust for revenge, endowed him with a reserve of power beyond imagining, and he excavated thrice as much as an ordinary man.

  The trench was dug and the sharpened poles well-seated when the wizard brought them bread and cheese and a draft of home-brewed beer.

  “Do you plan to make your stand here?” he asked.

  “Here, or up on yonder mound,” said Conan.

  The oldster’s glance followed Conan’s pointing finger. He nodded. “Many battles were fought here in the ancient time,” he said. “At night the shades of the slain chant grisly tales of combat.”

  “Today there’ll be a battle like no other—two against many. Old man, if we fall, perhaps you’ll sing a song of us when we are gone,” said Conan.

  “Or to us, if we stay a while,” added Subotai cheerfully.

  “I’ll take some food and drink to Osric’s spitfire,” said Conan. “We can’t have her a ghost if we hope to claim a ransom.”

  Climbing the mound, the barbarian offered Yasimina some of the wizard’s humble food. She made a face at the rude fare and glared at the giver, but Conan noted with amusement that she ate and drank with eager speed.

  Still, she was not mollified. After finishing her meal, she taunted him. “It won’t be long now.”

  Conan answered, “No, not long.”

  Rejoining Subotai, who was busy fashioning arrows to replenish his supply, Conan set about cleaning and sharpening their swords. As he burnished the great Atlantean blade, he thought of his boyhood, of the power of bis arch-enemy, of the skills and cunning that a fighting man must have to overcome weight of numbers and brute force.

  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.