Conan the Liberator

THE IRON STALLION

While Poitain writhed beneath the lash of the most violent storm in the memory of living men, a benign sun smiled on fair Tarantia. Standing in its salubrious rays on a palace balcony, Thulandra Thuu, attended by Alcina and Hsiao, looked out across the gently rolling fields of central Aquilonia, where summer wheat was ripening into spears of gold. To the dancer, now young and beautiful once more, with jewels atwinkle in her night-black hair and a gown of clinging satin sheathing her shapely form, the wizard said:

“The wheel of heaven reveals to me that the spirits of the air have served me well. My storm progresses apace; and after it subsides, the southern roads and every ford will be impassable. Numitor hastens from the Westermarck, and I must forth to join him.”

Alcina stared. "You mean to travel to the field of battle. Master? Ishtar! That’s not your wont. May I ask why?”

"Numitor will be outnimibered by the rebel forces; and despite forced marches, Ulric of Raman cannot reach Poitain until at least a fortnight after the prince arrives. Moreover, Prince Numitor is but an honest blockhead—doubtless the reason why our knavish king has let his cousin live when he has slain or exiled all his other kin. Nay, I cannot trust the prince to hold the Imirian Escarpment until Count Ulric arrives. He will require the assistance of my arcane arts.”

The sorcerer turned to his servant, the inscrutable slit-eyed one who had followed him from lands beyond the seas. "Hsiao, prepare my chariot and gather the necessaries for our journey. We shall depart upon the morrow.”

Bowing, the man withdrew. Turning to Alcina, Thulandra Thuu continued “Since the spirits of the air have well obeyed me, I shall discover what the spirits of the earth will do to aid my cause. And you, good wench, I leave here as my deputy."

“Me? No, Master; I lack the skills to take your place.”

“I will instruct you. First, you will learn to use the Mirror of Ptahmesu to commune with me.”

“But we are without the necessary talisman!”

“I can project images by the propellant power of my mind, though you could not. Come, we have no time to waste.”

From the royal paddocks Hsiao led out the single horse that drew his master's carriage. To a casual observer, the animal appeared to be a large black stallion; but a closer inspection of its hide revealed a strange, metallic sheen. The beast, moreover, neither pawed the ground nor lashed its tail at flies. In fact, no flies alighted on it, although the stable yard buzzed with their myriad wings. The stallion stood quiescent until Hsiao uttered a command unintelligible to any who might hear it; then the creature obeyed him instantly.

Hsaio now led the ebony stallion to the carriage house and backed it into the stall where stood Thulandra's chariot When a careless hoof struck against one of the lowered carriage shafts, a metallic ring reverberated through the silent air.

The vehicle, a boxlike two-wheeled cart, lacquered in vermilion and emblazed with a frieze of writhing serpents worked in gold, was furnished with a seat across the back. A pair of carven posts, upthrust on either side, supported an arched wooden frame, covered with canvas. No ordinary cover this; it was embroidered with strange symbols beyond the ken of all who gazed upon it, save that the astute among them might discern the likeness of the moon and the major constellations of the southern hemisphere.

Into the chest beneath the seat of this singular vehicle, Hsiao placed all manner of supplies, and on the broad expanse above, he piled silken cushions in profusion. And as he worked, he hummed a plaintive song of Khitai, full of curious quarter-tones.

Conan and Trocero watched the sheeting rain from the governors mansion. At length Conan growled: “I knew not that your country lay at the bottom of an inland sea, my lord.”

The count shook his head. "Never in half a century of living have I seen a storm of such intensity. Naught but sorcery could account for it Think you Thulandra Thuu— “

Conan clapped his companion of the shoulder. “You Aquilonians see magic lurking in every passing shadow! If you stub your toe, it’s Thulandra’s doing. In my dealings with these wizards, I've seldom found them so formidable as they would wish us to believe… . Aye, Prospero?” he added, as the officer bustled in.

"The scouts have returned. General, and report all roads are utterly impassable. Even the smallest creeks are bursting into raging torrents. It were useless to send the column forward; they’d not advance a league beyond the city.”

Conan cursed. "Your suspicion of that he-witch in Tarantia begins to carry weight, Trocero."

"And we have visitors," continued Prospero. "The northern barons, who set out for home before we reached Culario, have been overtaken by the storm and forced to return hither.”

A smile illumined Conan’s dark, scarred face. "Thank Crom, good news at last! Show them in.”

Prospero ushered in five men in damp woolen traveling garments of good quality, mud-splattered from top to booted toe. Trocero presented the Baron Roaldo of Imirus, whose demesne lay in northern Poitain. A former officer in the royal army, this hardy, gray-haired noble had guided the other barons and their escorts to Culario and now introduced them to the Cimmerian.

Conan judged the lordlings to be men of divers characters: one stout, red-faced, and full of boisterous good humor; another slim and elegant; still another fat and obviously privy to the pleasures of the table and the jug; and two of somber mein and given to few words. Differing though they did among themselves, all heartily supported the rebellion; for their tempers were rubbed raw by Numedides’ grasping tax collectors, and their ancient pride affronted by the royal troops stationed on their demesnes to wrest a yearly tribute from landowner and peasant. They avidly desired the downfall of the tyrant, and their questing gaze sought to discover Numedides' successor, so they might court their future monarch’s favor.

After the barons had rested and donned fresh raiment, Conan and his friends heard their tally of complaints and drew out their hidden hopes. Conan promised little, but his sympathetic demeanor left each with the impression that, in a new regime, he would occupy a position of importance.

"Be warned, my lords,” said Conan, “Ulric, Count of Raman, will move his troops across your lands as he travels south to confront our rebel army."

"What troops does that graybeard count command?” snorted Baron Roaldo. "A ragtail lot, I'll warrant. The Cimmerian frontier has long been peaceful and needs but a weak force to keep it safe."

"Not so," replied the Count of Poitain. "I am informed that the Army of the North is nearly up to strength and boasts veterans of many a border clash. Indeed, Raman himself is a master strategist who escaped from the sack of Venarium, many years ago."

Conan smiled grimly. As a stripling, he had joined the wild Cimmerian horde that plundered Fort Venarium, but of this he made no mention. Instead, he told the northern barons:

“Numedides will, I doubt not, send troops from the Westermarck; and being nearer, they will arrive the sooner. You must harry these northern contingents in a delaying action, at least until we rout the Bossonian royalists."

Count Trocero eyed the barons keenly. "Canst raise a fighting force without alerting the king’s men stationed amongst you?”

Said Baron Anmiian of Ronda: “Those human grasshoppers swarm only at harvest time to consume the fruit of our labors. They’ll not arrive, the gods willing, for another month or two."

“But," argued the fat Baron Justin of Armavir, “such a conflict, waged on our lands, will ruin both our purses and our people. Perchance we can delay Sir Ulric, but only till he burns our fields, scatters our folk, and wrecks vengeance on our persons.”

"If General Conan fail to take Tarantia, we are beggared in any case,” countered the hard-featured Roaldo. “Word will soon reach the tyrant’s spies that we have joined the rebel cause. Better to game for a golden eagle than for a copper penny.”

“He speaks sooth,” said Ammian of Ronda. “Unless we topple the tyrant, we shall all have our necks either lengthened or shortened, no matter what we do. So let us dare the hazard, and from encompassing dangers boldly pluck our safety!”

At last the five agreed, some with enthusiasm, others doubtfully. And so it was decided that, as soon as the weather cleared, the barons would hasten northward to their baronies, like chaff blown before an oncoming storm, to harass Count Ulric’s Army of the North when it sought passage through their property.

After the barons had retired for the night, Prospero asked Conan: “Think you they will arrive in time?”

“For that matter,” added Trocero, “will they hold true to their new alliance, if Numedides strews our path with steel or if Tarantia stands firm against us?”

Conan shrugged. “I am no prophet. The gods alone can read the hearts of men.”

The sorcerer s chariot rumbled through the streets of Tarantia, with Hsiao, legs braced against the floor-boards, gripping the reins and Thulandra Thuu in hooded cloak seated on the pillow-padded bench. Citizens who remarked the vehicle’s approach turned away their faces. To meet the dark sorcerer’s eyes might focus his attention, and all deemed it expedient to escape the magician’s notice. For none there was who failed to hear rumors of his black experiments and tales of missing maidens.

The great bronze portals of the South Gate swung open at the vehicle’s approach and closed behind it Along the open country road, the strange steed paced at twice the speed of ordinary horseflesh, while the chariot bounced and swayed, trailing a thin plume of dust More than forty leagues of white road unrolled with every passing day; and neither heat, nor rain, nor gloom of night stayed the iron stallion from its appointed task. When Hsiao wearied, his master grasped the reins. During these periods of rest, the yellow man devoured cold meats and snatched a spell of fitful sleep. Whether his master ever closed his eyes, Hsiao knew not.

After following the east bank of the river Elhorotas for several days, Thulandra Thuu’s chariot neared the great bridge that King Vilerus I had flung across the river. Here the Road of Kings, after swinging around two serpentine bends in the river, rejoined the stream and promptly crossed it to the western bank. The bridge, upraised on six stone piers that towered up from the river bed, was furnished with a wooden deck and a steeply sloping ramp on either end.

At the sight of the emblazoned chariot, the toll taker bowed low and waved the carriage through; and as the vehicle ascended to the deck, Thulandra scanned the countryside. When he perceived a cloud of dust, swirling aloft from the road ahead, a meager smile of satisfaction creased his saturnine visage. If the pounding hooves of Prince Numitor’s cavalry roiled the loose soil and bore it skyward, his careful calculations of time and distance had been correct. They would meet where the Bossonian Road conjoined with the highway to Poitain.

The chariot thundered down the western ramp and continued southward, and within the hour Thulandra overtook a column of horsemen. As the painted chariot neared, a trooper at the column’s tail recognized the vehicle. When word ran up the ranks, the cavalrymen hastily pulled their mounts aside, leaving an unobstructed path for the royal sorcerer. The horses shied and danced as the black metallic steed sped past, and the milling remounts and frightened pack animals reared and plunged and much discomfited their handlers.

At the head of the column, the magician found Prince Numitor astride a massive gelding. Like his royal cousin the king, the prince was a man of heavy build, with a reddish tinge to hair and beard. Otherwise he presented quite a different aspect; guileless blue eyes graced a broad-browed, sun-browned face that bore the stamp of easy-going geniality.

“Why, Mage Thulandra!” exclaimed Numitor in amazement, when Hsiao reined in his singular steed. "What brings you hither? Do you bear some urgent message from the king?”

"Prince Numitor, you will require my sorcerous arts to check the rebels’ northward march.”

The prince’s eyes clouded with perplexity. "I like not magic in my warfare; it’s not a manly way to fight. But if my royal cousin sent you, I must make the best of it.”

A glint of malice flared up in the sorcerers hooded eyes. “I speak for the true ruler of Aquilonia,” he said. “And my commands must be obeyed. If we proceed with haste, we can reach the Imirian Escarpment before the rebels. Are these two regiments of horse all that you bring with you?”

“Nay, four regiments of foot follow. They have not yet reached the junction of the Bossonian Road with, this.”

“None too many, although we face naught but a rabble of undisciplined rogues. If we can hold them below the cliff wall until Count Ulric arrives, we shall pluck their fangs. When we attain the crest of the escarpment, I wish you to detail five of your men—experienced hunters all—for a certain task.”

“What task is that, sir?”

“Of this I shall inform you later. Suffice it to say that skilled woodsmen are necessary to the spell I have in mind.”

At last the rain ceased in Culario. The northern barons and their entourage slogged along the muddy road, where vapor steamed from puddles drying in the summer sun. Shortly thereafter, the Army of Liberation set out upon the same highway, leading northward to the central provinces and thence to proud Tarantia on the far bank of the Khorotas.

At every town and hamlet that they passed, the legions of the Liberator were infused with new recruits: old knights, eager to take part in one last glorious affray; battle-battered ex-soldiers who had served with Conan on the Pictish frontier; lean foresters and huntsmen who saw in Conan a nature-lover like themselves; outlaws and exiles, drawn by the promise of amnesty for those who fought beneath the Golden Lion; yeomen, tradesmen, and mechanics; woodcutters, charcoal burners, smiths, masons, pavers, weavers, fullers, minstrels, clerks—all hard-eyed men eager to adventure in the army of the Liberator. They so drained the armory of weapons that Conan at last insisted each recruit come already armed, if only with a woodsman’s axe.

Conan and his officers plunged into the arduous task of welding these eager volunteers into some semblance of a military force. They told the men off into squads and companies and appointed sergeants and captains from those experienced in war. During halts, these new officers exercised their road-weary men in simple drills; for, as Conan warned them:

"Without constant practice, a horde of raw recruits like these dissolve into a mass of shrieking fugitives, when the first blood is shed.”

Between the farm lands of southern Poitain and the Imirian Escarpment stretched the great Brocellian Forest, through which the highway glided like a serpent amid a bed of ferns. As the rebels neared the forest, the songs of the Poitanian volunteers diminished. More and more, Conan noted, the recruits tramped along in glum silence, apprehensively eyeing the overarching foliage.

“What ails them?" Conan asked Trocero as they sat of an evening in the command tent. “Anyone would think these woods writhed with venomous serpents.”

The gray-haired count smiled indulgently. “We have only the common viper in Poitain, and few of those. But the folk hereabouts are full of peasant superstitions, holding the forest to harbor supernatural beings who may work magic on them. Such beliefs are not without advantage; they preserve a splendid hunting ground for my barons and my friends.”

Conan grunted. “Once we scale the escarpment and gain the Imirian Plateau, they'll doubtless find some new hobgoblin to obsess them. I have not seen this part of Aquilonia before, but by my reckoning the cliff wall rises less than a day’s march ahead. How runs the pass to the plateau?”

“There’s a deep cleft in the cliff, where the turbulent Bitaxa River, a tributary of the Alimane, cascades across the wall of rock. The road, winding upward to the plateau, is borne upon a rock ledge thrust out from one side of the cleft. The gorge below—which we call the Giant’s Notch—is slippery, steep, and narrow. An evil place to meet a cliff-top foe! Pray to your Crom that Numitor’s Frontiersmen do not reach the Notch ahead of us.”

“Crom cares but little for the prayers of men,” said Conan, “or so they told me when I was a boy. He breathes into each mortal man the strength to face his enemies; and that’s all a man can reasonably ask of gods, who have their own concerns. But we must not risk attack in this murderous trap. Tomorrow at dawn, take a strong party of mounted scouts to reconnoiter the escarpment.”

Publius waddled in, arms full of ledgers, and Trocero left Conan studying the inventory of supplies. The count sought out the tents of his Poitanian horsemen and chose from amongst them forty skilled swordsmen for the morrow’s reconnaissance.

The Giant’s Notch loomed high above Trocero’s company, its beetling cliffs hiding black wells of darkness from the midday sun. The count and his scouts sat their saddles, staring upward at the crest, searching in vain for the telltale sparkle of sunlight on armor. Neither could they observe upon the elevation the smoke of any campfires. At length Trocero said:

“We shall circle round the woods and meet again upon the road, a quarter-league back, where a high rock ledge overhangs the forest path. Vopisco, take your half of the detachment east and meet me thither within the hour. I shall go westward.”

The detachment divided, and the horsemen forced their mounts through the dense foliage that spilled out into the road. Once past this obstacle, they encountered little underbrush beneath the thick trunks of the virgin oaks.

For a short while Trocero’s party rode in silence, their horses’ hooves soundless on the thick carpet of moldering leaves. Suddenly the forester in the lead flung up a hand, turned in his saddle, and murmured: “Men ahead, my lord. Mounted, I think.”

The troop drew together, the men tense and apprehensive, their horses motionless. Through the shadowed ranks of trees Trocero’s eyes detected a disquieting movement; his ears, a mutter of strange voices.

“Swords!” whispered the count. ”Prepare to charge, but strike not till I command. We know not whether they be friend or foe.”

Twenty swords hissed from their scabbards, as the riders eased their beasts to right or left, until they formed a line among the trees. The voices waxed louder, and a group of horsemen sprang into view beyond the rugged boles of immemorial oaks. His upraised sword a pointing finger, Trocero signaled the attack.

Weaving around the trees, the score of Poitanians rode at the strangers. In a few heartbeats they came within plain sight of them.

“Yield!” shouted Trocero, then reined his horse in blank amazement. The animal reared, eyes rolling, forelegs pawing the insubstantial air.

Five mounted men, unarmored but wearing white surcoats adorned with the black eagle of Aquilonia, paused to stare. All but one led captive creatures by cruel ropes noosed tightly about their necks. The captives—three males and a female—were no larger than half-grown children, their nakedness partly veiled by a thin coat of fawnlike, light-brown fur. Above each snub-nosed, humanoid face rose a pair of pointed ears. When their captors dropped the leashing ropes to draw their swords, and the freed creatures tried to run, Trocero saw each bore a short, furry tail, like that of a deer, white on the underside.

The leader of the Aquilonians, recovering his composure, shouted an order to his men. Instantly, they spurred their mounts and charged.

“Kill theml” cried Trocero.

As the five royalists, bending low over their horses’ necks, pounded toward the Poitanians, death rode in their grim eyes. The rebel swordsmen could not present a solid line, spread out as they were among the trees, so the Aquilonians aimed for the gaps. The leader rode at Trocero, his blade thrust outward like a lance. To right and left, the count’s men, avenging furies, rushed headlong at the foe.

There was an instant of wild confusion, raked by shouts and illumined by the white light of terror in the eyes of men flogged by the fury of their desperation. Two troopers converged upon a galloping Aquilonian, whose upraised sword whirled murderously above his tousled head. One drove his steel into the soldier’s sword arm; the other struck downward with all his might, tearing a long gash in the speeding horse’s hide. But the screaming animal pressed forward, and the man ran free.

A rebel’s sword darted past a blade that sought to slash him and sheathed six inches of its point into an eagle-emblemed middle. The lean, muscle-knotted Aquilonian leader lunged at Trocero, who parried with a clang, and the hum of steel on steel was a song of death. Then the five horses were through and away, like autumn leaves in a gale, with four of their riders. The fifth lay supine on the leaf mold of the forest floor, with a bloodstain spreading slowly across his white surcoat.

“Gremio!” shouted the count. “Take your squad and pursue! Try to capture one alive!"

Trocero turned back to the trampled turf, which bore mute testimony to the furious encounter. Spying the fallen man, he said: “Sergeant, see if that fellow lives."

As the sergeant dismounted, another trooper said: "Please, my lord, he spitted himself on my steel as he rode past. I know he’s dead.”

“He is,” nodded the sergeant, after a quick examination.

Trocero cursed. "We needed him for questioning!”

“Here’s one of their captives,” said the sergeant, kneeling beside the nude creature, flung like a discarded garment against a fallen log. "Methinks it was knocked down by a flying hoof and stunned in the melee.”

Trocero bit his underlip in thought. “It is, I do believe, a fabled satyr, whereof the countryfolk tell fearsome old-wives’ tales.”

A look of superstitious terror crossed the sergeant’s face, and he snatched back his questing hands. “What shall I do with it, sir?” he said, rising and stepping backward.

The satyr, whose wrists were bound together by a narrow thong, opened its eyes, perceived the ring of hostile mounted men, and scrambled to its feet. Trembling, it sought to run; but the sergeant, grabbing the rope that trailed from its neck, tugged and brought it down.

When it had been subdued, Trocero addressed it: “Creature, can you talk?^

“Aye," the captive said in broken Aquilonian. Talk good. Talk my tongue; talk little yours. What you do to me?”

"That’s for our general to decide,” replied Trocero.

"You no cut throat, like other men?”

"I have no wish to cut your throat. Why think you that those others so would do?”

“Others catch us for magic sacrifice.”

The count grunted, “l see. You need fear naught of that from us. But we must bring you back to camp. Have you a name?”

“Me Gola,” said the satyr in his gentle voice.

"Then, Gola, you shall ride pillion behind one of my men. Do you understand?”

The satyr looked downcast. "Me fear horse.”

"You must overcome your fear,” said Trocero, giving his sergeant a signal.

"Up you go,” said the soldier, swinging the small form aloft; and, lifting the noose from Cola’s neck, he bound the rope firmly about the satyr’s waist and that of the trooper on whose horse the creature sat.

"You'll be quite safe,” he laughed. Swinging into his saddle, he turned the column around.

The squad sent in pursuit of the royalists arrived at the base of the Giant’s Notch in time to see the fugitives disappear up the steep tunnel of the gorge. Fearing ambush, the Poitanians pressed the pursuit no further.

Later, in the command tent, Trocero reported on his mission to the assembled leaders of the rebellion. Conan surveyed the captive and said: "That binding on your wrists seems tight, friend Cola, We need it not”

He drew his dagger and approached the satyr, who cringed and screamed in mortal terror: “No cut throat! Man promise, no cut throat!”

“Forget your precious throat!" growled Conan, seizing the captive’s wrists in one gigantic hand. “I would not harm you.” He slashed the thong and sheathed his poinard, while Gola flexed his fingers and winced at the pain of returning circulation.

“That’s better, eh?” said Conan, seating himself at the trestle table and beckoning the satyr to join him. "Do you like wine, Gola?”

The satyr smiled and nodded; and Conan signaled to his squire.

“General!” exclaimed Publius, holding up a finger to stay the execution of the order. “Our wine is nearly gone. A few flagons more and we’re all back on beer.”

“No matter,” said Conan. “Wine we shall have. The Nemedians have a saying: 'In wine is truth,’ and this I am about to test.”

Publius, Trocero, and Prospero exchanged glances. Since he first clapped eyes upon the satyr, Conan displayed a curious affinity for this subhuman being. It was as if, a scarce-tamed creature of the wild himself, he felt instinctive sympathy for another child of nature, dragged from its native haunts by civilized men whose ways and motives must be utterly incomprehensible.

Half a wineskin later, Conan discovered that two regiments of royalist cavalry held the plateau above the Imirian Escarpment. They were encamped, not at the cliff-top where they could attack if the rebels ascended the flume of the Giant’s Notch, but several bowshots—perhaps a quarter-league—back from the edge. And for several days royalist hunting parties had clambered down the Notch to sweep the neighboring woods for satyrs. Those they caught, they dragged alive back to their camp and penned them, still bound, in a stockade built for the purpose.

"My folk move from Notch," said Gola, sadly. “Had no pipes ready.”

Ignoring that strange remark, Conan asked: “How know you that they plan to use your peoples’ blood for magical sacrifices?”

The satyr gave Conan a sly, sidelong glance. “We know. We, too, have magic. Big magician on cliffs above.”

Conan pondered, studying the small creature intently. “Gola, if we push the bad men from the upper plain, you need no longer fear mistreatment. If you help us, we will restore your woods to you.”

“How know I what big men do? Big men kill our people.”

“Nay, we are your friends. See, you are free to go." Conan pointed to the tent flap, arms spread wide.

A glow of childlike joy suffused the satyr’s face. Conan waited for the glow to fade, then said: “Now that we’ve saved some of your folk from the wizard’s cauldron, we may ask help from you. How can I reach you?”

Gola showed Conan a small tube made of bone that was suspended from a vine entwined about his neck. “Go in woods and blow.” The satyr put the whistle to his lips and puffed his cheeks.

“I hear no sound,” said Conan.

“Nay, but satyr hear. You take.”

Conan stared at the tiny whistle as it lay in his huge palm, while the others frowned, thinking the bit of bone a useless toy intended to cozen their general. Presently, Conan slipped the whistle into his pouch, saying gravely: “I thank you, little friend.” Then calling his squires and the nearest sentry, he said: “Escort Gola into the woods beyond the camp. Let none molest him—some of our superstitious soldiers might deem him an embodied evil spirit and take a cut at him. Farewell.”

When the satyr had departed, Conan addressed his comrades: “Numitor lies beyond the Notch, waiting for us to climb the slope ere he signals attack! What make you of it?^

Prospero shrugged. “Meseems he relies much on that 'big magician’—the king’s sorcerer, I have no doubt."

Trocero shook his head. “More likely, he’s fain to give us a clear path to the top, so that we can face him on equal terms. He is a well-meaning gentleman who thinks to fight a war by rules of chivalry.”

“He must know we outnumber him," said Publius, perplexed.

“Aye,” retorted Trocero, "but his troops are Aquilonia’s best, whereas half our motley horde are babes playing at warfare. So he relies on dash and discipline… .”

The argument was long and inconclusive. As twilight deepened into night, Conan banged his goblet on the table. “We cannot sit below the cliffs for day, attempting to read Numitor’s mind. Tomorrow we shall scale the Giant’s Notch, prepared for instant action.”