The Return of Conan

CHAPTER 3: Vengeance From the Desert

The sun glinted on spired helmets and whetted spearheads. Spurs jingled and bright silks flashed as three armored riders breasted the long slope of a great sand dune in the wide desert that formed the southwestern marches of Turan. Red turbans were wound about their helmets; sashes of the same color girdled their waists.

White silken shirts, baggy trousers thrust into short black boots, and sleeveless, silvered mailshirts completed their apparel. Curved swords hung at their hips. Upright from the holders that hung from the saddles of two of them rose the ten-foot Turanian lances. The remaining one bore, slung from his saddle, a thick, double-curved bow in a bow case and a score and a half of arrows in a lacquered leathern quiver.

Accompanying them was a fourth figure, bound by both wrists to a rope held by the bowman. Deep gashes in the sand told of this prisoner’s inability to keep up with his mounted captors. He wore the white khalat of the desert Zuagir, though the garment was dirty and torn to shreds.

His lean, dark visage was hollow-cheeked, but implacable hatred lurked in his red-rimmed eyes. He stumbled panting up the slope without a sound of pain or protest.

The Turanian soldiers, separated from the rest of their troop by a two-day sandstorm, were seeking their way back to Fort Wakla, a Turanian outpost deep in the Zuagir desert country. Yesterday they had met the Zuagir. His horse had tumbled under him with an arrow through its heart, and he had been laid senseless on the sand by a blow from a spear butt. The commander of Fort Wakla had lately begun an intense campaign against the desert tribes, who had harried Kuranian caravans overly much of late. Having taken the Zuagir prisoner, the horsemen were bringing him back to the fort to be bled of knowledge before being hanged.

At the top of the dune, the little troop paused to rest. Waterskins were lifted to parched mouths, while the ragged prisoner crawled up on all fours, almost done in. Sand dunes stretched as far as the eye could see. As practiced warriors, the Turanians used the pause to let their hawklike eyes sweep the horizon and the surface of the sands.

Nothing could be seen save endless, rolling yellow plain.

The tallest of the three, the man with the bow and the prisoner’s rope, suddenly stiffened. Shading his dark eyes, he bent forward to get a better view. On the top of a dune a mile away, he had sighted a lone horseman riding at a gallop. The dune had hidden him as they came to their point of vantage, but now the stranger was flying down the near side in a flurry of sand. The leader turned to his fellows.

“By the alabaster hips of Yenagra!” he said, “we have caught another desert rat! Be ready; we will kill this one and take his head on a lance tip back to the fort.”

Knowing there would be no trouble to recover the Zuagir after the fight, he dropped the rope. He spurred his mount down the slope towards the point in the wide valley of sand, where he counted on intercepting the stranger, and in one smooth motion drew the powerful bow from its case and nocked an arrow. His fellow troopers followed with spears poised and slitted eyes agleam, yelping like hounds closing for the kill.

At three hundred paces, the bowman drew and loosed at full gallop with the effortless horsemanship of a Turanian cavalryman. But the shaft did not strike home. Like lightning his intended victim flung his horse aside with a mighty effort that almost threw the steed. With a swift gesture, the stranger shook off the folds of his khalat.

The Hyrkanians halted in consternation. There appeared before them not the half-starved form of a desert man, armed only with knife and javelin, but a powerful western warrior in sturdy mail and steel helmet, equipped with a long sword and a dagger. The sword flashed like a flame in the sunlight as the rider whipped it out. The Turanian leader’s narrow eyes widened with astonishment.

“You dare return to Turan, barbarian scoundrel!” he cried. For the Turanian was Hamar Kur, who had been amir of a troop of horse that Conan, as a leader of the kozaki, had routed years before by an ambush on the Yelba River. Hamar Kur was demoted to common trooper in the frontier guards in consequence and ever since had burned for vengeance.

Drawing his saber, he shouted:

“At him, men! It is Conan the kozak! Slay him, and the king will fill your helmets with gold!”

The Turanian riders hesitated, awed by the memory of gory and terrible legends associated with that name.

Tales told how this man, with two pirate galleys, had sacked and burned the fortified seaport of Khawarizm and then broken through six of the king’s war galleys that had come to trap him, leaving three foundering and the others’ decks awash with blood. They told how he, with a band of Zuagir tribesmen, had harried the outflung Imperial posts in the south until the border had to be drawn back. They told how the savage kozak hordes under his command had stormed the walled city of Khorosun, slaying and burning.

Conan made full use of his enemies’ moment of indecision. Spurring his big horse, he thundered upon them like a one-man avalanche, his sword flashing in circles. Hamar Kur’s mount reared wildly before this crashing charge and was cast to the ground. Its rider was spilled from the saddle.

The two other soldiers couched their lances and spurred fiercely, but lacked time to gain enough speed to make their charge effective. With the fury of a thunderstorm Conan was upon them, smiting right and left.

The head of one man leaped from its trunk on a fount of blood. The next instant, Conan’s blade shattered the other’s lance. The Turanian caught the following blow on his shield but was hurled from his saddle by sheer impact.

Hamar Kur had regained his feet. Skilled in combat against horsemen, he ran to where the slain trooper had dropped his lance. Then he ran swiftly up and thrust the shaft of the weapon between the legs of Conan’s horse.

He cast himself aside at the last moment to avoid the barbarian’s terrible sword.

The desert sands clouded the sky as Conan and his mount crashed to the ground together. With the practiced ease of the hardened mercenary, the Cimmerian threw himself clear. He rose, sword still in hand. With cold blue eyes slitted he watched his two surviving enemies slink towards him, one from either side. Their tactics were obvious: to catch him between them so that one could strike him down from the rear.

With tigerish swiftness, he charged the soldier to the right. He knew he risked a scimitar in the back from Hamar Kur, but it was never his way to await the foe’s attack. The Turanian tried to parry the crashing blow, but to no avail. Splintering the curled blade with its terrible force, the Cimmerian’s sword smashed helmet and skull like a ripe orange.

Conan wheeled like a panther in the nick of time. He just managed to catch Hamar Kur’s whistling blow on his sword hilt. There was a momentary exchange of cuts and parries as the straight blade of the West and the curved blade of the East whirled about each other in a coruscating dance of death. Then a quick thrust from Conan pierced his enemy’s breast. The point drove through the fine Turanian mail and on through the ex-amir’s body.

Hamar gave a ghastly scream and fell heavily. Conan braced his legs to tear his dripping blade free.

The Cimmerian wiped his sword on his enemy’s sash and looked swiftly around. He had heard a sound from behind, and his senses and temper were on edge. He waited warily as a tattered figure half slid and half rolled down the slope almost to his feet. It was the Zuagir. Rising on shaky legs, he spat upon the prostrate form of Hamar Kur. Then he turned his burning eyes on Conan. As he took in the gigantic figure in worn mail, the rage and fury in his eyes gave way to recognition and joy. Lifting his bound hands, he cried: “Praise be to Kemosh, for he has answered my prayers and sent these dogs to the floors of Hell! And more, he has brought back the great warlord who led us to plunder long ago! I greet you, Hawk of the Desert! There will be feasting and dancing in the villages! The Turanian dogs will cower in their towers as the cry goes forth from the desert:‘Yamad al-Aphta has returned!’ ”

Conan shrugged his broad shoulders and thrust his sword back into the scabbard. His horse had risen from its fall, and Conan unslung his waterskin and pack from the saddle.

“Here, wolf,” he grunted, “you look a little the worse for wear. Have a draught, but take care you are not overfilled.” Conan brought out bread and dried meat and shared them with the Zuagir. “Now tell me: What is afoot in the desert? How did you fall into the hands of the Hyrkanians?”

The nomad answered between gulps and champings: “I am Yar Allal of the Duali tribe. I was riding in haste and alone for our camp when these dogs caught me. They shot my horse from under me and stunned me with a blow on the head. They were bringing me back to Fort Wakla for questioning and death.”

“Whence your hurry?” asked Conan. “And why alone? These hills swarm with Turanian patrols.”

The voice of the Zuagir took on a burning edge as he answered. “A terrible misfortune has struck our tribe.

Listen, my lord. For days we lay in wait in the ruins of the Gharat temple, fifty miles to the south. Word had come that a rich caravan was approaching from the west, bringing the wealth and person of the lady Thanara.”

“Who’s that?”

“A yedka of Maypur, famed for her beauty and riches. Furthermore she is high in the favor of King Yezdigerd.

Could we but capture her, a fabulous ransom would be ours as well as the spoils from the camel train. We lay there with knives whetted and bows newly strung until we thought the dogs of traders would never come. And then, one day, we heard the camels’ bells in the distance. The long line of men, beasts, and wagons came into view. We waited until they were almost upon us. Uttering our war cry, we swept down upon them. We expected an easy conquest of the merchants and their retainers. Then, suddenly, the merchants and servants threw aside their khalats. Instead of timid civilians, mailed lancers in the white turbans of the Imperial Guard rushed against us! There must have been a hundred of them hidden in the wains. They rode through our ranks like reapers mowing down a field of wheat. Half of us perished in the first attack. The rest were driven apart and scattered into small bands. We fought mightily against the odds, and many a Turanian plunged to earth with a Duali spear through his throat or a curved knife in his guts.”

“But our courage was of no avail as the steel-clad ranks closed in upon us. I saw my brother felled by a stroke from the amir’s scimitar. Then Yin Allal, my father, caught a blow on the head that knocked him stunned from the saddle. I spurred my horse; smiting and thrusting I won through and away. They pursued me for hours, but their horses were wearier than mine and they gave it up. I was on my way to raise the tribe as I was caught. By now the caravan is safely within the walls of Fort Wakla. There will be rejoicing among the Turanians tonight; not for decades have they captured a Zuagir chief alive!”

“How know you he is alive?”

“In the last moment ere I raced off, I looked back and saw two of them carrying him back toward the carts. He was moving, though feebly.”

Conan digested this tale. He well remembered Yin Allal, one of his staunchest supporters of old, when he, as war chief of three united Zuagir tribes, had led them in daring raids against the Turanians.

Confronted by this new problem, he did not wish to leave an old friend unaided in the hands of his enemies. He sprang up, his blue eyes flashing with determination.

“Catch yourself a horse!” he snapped. “We ride for the Duali oasis at once. We shall be there by nightfall, and if my name is not forgotten I’ll raise the tribes again. I will save my old friend. We’ll pull those dogs’ beards yet, by Crom!”

With a laugh he flung himself into the saddle. Gesturing to his companion to follow, he spurred his horse into a fierce gallop over the sands.

The oasis lay enfolded in the black arms of the desert night. Stars twinkled like gems on a dark mantle studded with diamonds; the fronds of the palms, now and then moving before the slight evening breeze, were silvered by the cold moonlight. In the shadow of the foliage were strewn a profusion of tents, a large Zuagir camp.

Earlier in the day, this had been a quiet place. The desert sun poured its golden rays upon the camel’s-hair dwellings. Veiled women went about their primitive duties, fetching water from the well and broiling strips of meat over the campfires. Snores and snuffles sounded from the nomadic abodes as the tribesmen took their siesta.

Now the Duali oasis was a center of frantic activity. In the middle rose a tent whose size indicated its importance. From this tent, now and then, a lean desert hawk emerged. The Zuagir would hurry with flapping khalat to his horse, spring into the saddle, and urge the mount into a mad race out over the desert. Others returned from their missions, flinging themselves from foam-flecked steeds to hasten toward the big central tent. Zuagirs from the neighboring tribes of the Kharoya and Qirlata had been pouring in all day. Now the area covered by dun-colored tents was thrice as large as the day before.

Conversations were whispered behind the door flaps; men went to and fro on urgent errands. There was an orderly bustle such as is seldom seen in a desert camp.

The hearts of the robed and bearded chiefs in the central tent swelled with pride and affection. The huge figure in worn mail, seated in the place of honor, had become the center of legendry and hero worship since the day long ago when he had arrived among them. He united their bickering clans and led them in raids so daring, bloody, and rewarding that tales of them were still told around the campfires. Their superstitious minds regarded the return of the big Cimmerian as a good omen. This opinion was strengthened by having occurred at the same time that their raiding party had been nearly wiped out and one of their mightiest chiefs captured.

Petty inter-tribal quarrels were swept away by the return of the Hawk of the Desert. Savage expectation was mirrored in their dark eyes as Conan lectured them.

“The fort is impregnable to a straight assault,” he said bluntly. “We have no ballistae or other siege engines to reduce it by force. It is well provisioned, like all these Turanian outposts, and might hold out for a year.

Moreover, a determined sally by their seasoned squadrons would scatter our irregular ranks. Our chance is to come to grips with them inside the walls, where cavalry tactics cannot be used and we have the advantage of numbers. Trickery must be used. Let us equip a caravan train from the loot stored here in this oasis. Fifty of us, garbed as merchants, slaves, retainers, and camel drivers shall take the caravan to the fort, as if we were on the road to Kherdpur. At the twelfth hour we shall cut down the guards at the gate, open up, and let in the horde. Our main goals are the barracks, the officers’ quarters, and the governor’s palace. We shall pillage, burn sack, and slay until the streets run red with Turanian blood!”

The Cimmerian rose, hitching at his scabbard. “To work, desert dogs! Before sunrise, I want such a camel train as would make any Zuagir’s mouth water!”

Camel bells tinkled. The feet of men and beasts raised clouds of dust as the long line passed through the gate of Fort Wakla. At the gate, the lean merchant in the lead declared: “Lord, I am Zebah, a Shemite of Anakia. I have come up from Yukkub to barter my goods in Kherdpur. ”

“Who is this?” asked the gate captain, pointing to a huge man wrapped in a capacious khalat. His kaffia hid the lower part of his face, so that only his piercing blue eyes could be seen.

“This is my personal servant and bodyguard,” declared the leader, “a Stygian. The others are hired guards, camel drivers, and slaves. By Ashtoreth, it is good to be safely within walls again! I had feared attacks from the Zuagir bands. My men are well armed, as the noble captain can see. But the gods protected us, so none of those stinking vermin of the desert assailed us.”

The captain of the watch grinned. “Your precautions were wasted, my man. Just now a woman could ride alone and unmolested along the caravan trail. Yesterday a squadron of the Imperial Guards smashed a host of the desert rats and captured their chieftain. We think only one of the dogs got away.”

“Ah! ” said the Shemite. “That is indeed glorious news.”

“All in the day’s work. But at least this show of force should stop the raids for a while. Veziz Shah has ordered us to slay any Zuagir, man, woman, or child, caught by our patrols. By the time you return to Yukkub, you will be able to travel the length and breadth of the Zuagir desert without fear.”

“I will burn an offering to Bel as a measure of my gratitude,” said the merchant, as the last of the camels shambled through the gate. Four guardsmen closed the gate; its ironclad valves swung creakingly shut on hinges as thick as a man’s leg. The massive bolt bars clanged into their cradles.

The fort was really a small city. A high, crenelated wall of stone girded the mass of buildings with parapets and battlements. Watchful bowmen ranged the breastworks. The space within was roomy, and merchants and thieves found their means of support in the profusion of buildings. Isolated as it was, Fort Wakla must contain within itself the means of civilized living, with drinking shops and gambling houses to keep the garrison happy.

At the spacious market place in the center, mailed soldiers in spired helmets and robed merchants with exotic wares and veiled women milled about. The space resounded with the cries of hawkers and auctioneers.

To one side rose the mighty citadel where the governor lived, a fortress in itself with gray stone walls, narrow windows, and heavy copper doors. Those who had been inside, however, averred that the interior belied the grimness of the outside. It was heaped with art treasures, fitted with comfortable furniture, and stocked with fine wines and viands.

Evening had come. The sky darkened swiftly, and here and there candles and lamps illuminated the windows.

Sweating taverners bore wine casks from their cellars for the evening rush of customers. Gamblers rolled dice with practiced twists and turns. The colorful night life of a Hyrkanian city was beginning.

In the quarters by the western wall, reserved for visiting caravans, arguments raged around the campfires of Conan’s band. Nearly all advocated staying there in safety, unsuspected, until the appointed hour had come. But Conan was of another mind. With a good two hours to spare, he meant to find out as much as he could about the disposition of the enemy. The quarters of the officers and common soldiers he had already located, close by the main gate, but he did not know the number of the troops quartered there.

“May the fiends cut off your tongues!” he rumbled. “I will do as I have said. In the tavern district there will be scores of drunken soldiers off duty. From one of them I shall get the information I want if I have to wring it from him like a sodden cloth!”

The iron determination of the Cimmerian swept aside the objections of his followers. He wrapped his khalat about him and strode away, hiding his face under the kaffia. There was no reason to upset their carefully laid plans by letting some Turanian with a good memory recognize him.

The fumes of sour wine, stale beer, and sweat struck Conan in the face as he entered the first drinking shop. The carousal was in full swing.

Wenches hurried to and fro with jacks of foaming ale and flagons of wine, while painted hussies dawdled on the knees of half-drunken soldiers who emptied their wine cups and yelled for more. The interior was much like that of a western tavern, though the garb was more colorful.

Seeking out a small, secluded table in a darker corner, the big barbarian sat down upon a creaking chair and ordered a tankard of beer.

Slaking his thirst in gulps, he looked around. A pair of drunken lancers were wrestling on the floor amid shrieks and titters from the women. Taut muscles rippled under their tawny, sweating skins. A game of dice was in progress at a neighboring table. Gleaming coins and flashing gems wandered from one side to the other across its rough-hewn and wine-spattered surface. The Cimmerian relaxed. Nervousness seldom assailed him, but his senses had been on edge as he entered the enemy’s lair.

“What about a drink, you silent dullard?”

With a crash of overturned chairs, a giant man-at-arms pushed through the throng, leaving a train of furious curses in his wake. He flung himself down upon the unoccupied seat at Conan’s table. His eyes were glassily belligerent, and his gilded mail and silken sash were splashed with wine from his cup.

Conan’s eyes narrowed. The man wore the scarlet mantle and white turban of the Imperial Guards. The turban sported a peacock feather, the emblem of a captain of these elite troops. No doubt he belonged to that detachment that routed the Zuagirs and took Yin Allal prisoner. In fact he might have commanded that company. Here was an opportunity sent by the gods if Conan could but use it.

With a show of bluff intimacy, the big Cimmerian leaned forward, his face still hidden in the shadow of Its kaffia. “Do not wonder that I find this place dull. I came in only to slake my thirst.” He gave the soldier a friendly punch in the shoulder. “I’m on my way to a pleasure house where the women are so fair and skilled as to rival the courtesans of Shadizar!”

The captain hiccupped, shook his head, and focused his eyes with an effort. “Huh? Women? Good idea. Who are you, anyway?”

“Hotep of Khemi, bodyguard to the merchant Zebah. Come along with me, man! A visit to this place will surfeit you for a month.”

Conan was not an expert dissembler. His performance would have aroused the suspicion of a shrewd and sober man. However, the drunken stupor of the Turanian left room for nothing but his most primitive instincts.

Breathing hard with aroused lust, he leaned forward with a loud belch.

“Lead me there, man! I have wandered too long over the cursed desert without a woman.”

“Were you with the party that ambushed the Zuagirs?”

“With them? I commanded them!”

“Good for you!”

“Aye; that was a noble fight. But the only wench in the caravan was the yedka Thanara, may the gods smite her haughty body with boils!”

“She refused you?”

“Worse! She slapped me when I tried to kiss her in her tent!”

“The insolence of her!” said Conan.

“Nor was that all. Would you believe it, she threatened to have me flayed in the great square at Agrapur if I did not behave? Me, Ardashir of Akif! Behave myself! As if any red-blooded man could control himself when casting his eyes upon her!”

“It is shameful, how women treat us.”

“Enough of that. Lead me to your pleasure house, Stygian. I need forgetfulness and surcease.”

Rising unsteadily, the Turanian pushed through the throng. Conan followed. In the street, the cool night air was like a slap in the face with a wet cloth. The captain sobered visibly as he walked. Suddenly curious, he peered at the half-hidden face of his companion, who hurried silently along at his side.

“Ho,” he said, “Wait a moment, my fleet-footed friend! You have not described the whereabouts of this magical house of women, of which I have never heard …though I know Wakla well. Let’s have a look under your headsheet!”

Ardashir’s speech was cut short by a powerful hand on his throat.

Corded muscles of unimaginable strength held him as in a giant vice.

Normally accounted the strongest man in his company, he was, in his unsteady condition, helpless against the suddenness of the assault and the gorilla like power of the Cimmerian.

He was swiftly dragged into a dark lane, struggling for breath and clawing at the hands that throttled him. When he was almost unconscious, he was swiftly trussed with his own sash. Roughly turned over on his back, he felt the burning eyes of his captor upon him as the barbarian spoke heavily accented Hyrkanian in a sibilant whisper: “You asked my name, eastern dog! Have you heard of Conan, called Yamad al-Aphta by the Zuagirs? Chief of the kozaki and the Vilayet pirates?”

The Turanian could do no more than make a choking sound in his bruised throat. Conan continued: “I have returned from the West, and now I will have information from you if I have to burn out your eyes or skin the soles of your feet to get it!”

Though a tough and courageous man, Ardashir was paralyzed with shock.

Normal enemies, such as Zaugir bands, Kshatriya legions, or the defending troops of invaded western nations he had faced with the fatalistic hardihood of the seasoned warrior. But this barbarian giant, kneeling over him with poised dagger, was regarded with superstitious dread by the Turanians. The saga of his daring exploits had invested him with magical powers in their eyes, until his name was spoken like that of a mythical ogre.

Ardashir knew that the barbarian’s threats were not idle. Conan would carry out the most bestial acts of torture without compunction to gain his own ends. Yet it was not the fear of torture but rather the numbing realization of the identity of his captor that loosed Ardashir’s tongue.

By prodding a little with his dagger now and then, Conan gathered his news. The regular garrison of twelve hundred horse was quartered in the barracks by the main gate, while the hundred men of the Imperial Guard were spread over the city in temporary quarters. The desert chieftain was chained in the dungeon beneath the governor’s tower. The lady Thanara was also quartered in the tower. The strength of the guards at the gates the captain did not know.

Conan pondered the situation. He knew that the barracks formed a square with a single exit. He had over two thousand determined nomads at his disposal. But using his new-found knowledge effectively, he counted on gaining victory.

A glance at the moon told him the twelfth hour was near. It was time to hurry. He tested the bonds of his captive, gagged him with his own turban, dragged him farther into the lane, and left him there, glaring and straining.

“I must be growing soft,” Conan said to himself. “Time was when I should have cut the cur’s throat after questioning him. But the Zuagirs will no doubt take care of that when they find him.”

Faint, rapid drum beats filled the luxurious apartment on the second floor of the governor’s palace, where Thanara of Maypur lounged on a silken divan, nibbling fruit from a low table that stood on the thick rug in front of her couch. Her sheerly transparent gown revealed her seductive charms, but the man in the room paid scant attention to these.

This man was a small, bandy-legged, mud-colored fellow, clad in skins and furs. His flat, wrinkled, monkeylike face was painted with stripes and circles of red and black. His long black hair was gathered in greasy braids, and a necklace of human teeth encircled his neck. A powerful stench of sweat-soaked leather and unwashed human hide rose from him. He was a Wigur, one of those fierce and barbarous nomads from the far northeast beyond the Sea of Vilayet.

The little man sat cross-legged on the floor and stared at the thin curl of smoke that rose from a brazier on a tripod in front of him. The wavering blue column soared up from its source for two feet, then rippled and curled up on itself in interwoven arabesques. All the while the man kept up a swift tapping of his finger tips against a small drum, less than a foot across, which he held in his other hand.

At last the staccato tapping stopped.

“What see you, Tatur?” asked the yedka.

“He comes,” said the shaman in a high singsong voice. “He whom you seek is near.”

“How can he be?” said the lady Thanara sharply. “Veziz Shah keeps a sharp watch, and no such conspicuous rogue could gain admittance.”

“Nevertheless, he approaches,” whined Tatur. “The spirits do not lie. Unless you flee, he will soon confront you.”

“He must have entered Wakla in disguise,” mused Thanara. “If he comes upon me, what shall I do? Will your master, he who is not to be named, give me some means to cope with him?” There was a note of panic in her voice, and her hand sought her shapely throat.

“It is the will of him who shall not be named that you should succeed in your mission,” intoned the Wigur. He fumbled inside his sheepskin coat and brought out a small purple vial.

“A drop of this in his wine,” he said, “will render him like one dead for three days.”

“That is good. But the barbarian is wary. His suspicions are aroused in the wink of an eye, as we learned at Khanyria. Suppose he detects the drug and refuses to drink?”

Tartur brought out another object: a small pouch of soft leather. “In that case, this will lay him low if he breathes it.”

“What is it?”

“Pollen of the yellow lotus of Khitai. Use it only as a last resort. For, should a breath of air blow it back upon you, you too will be cast into a swoon. And too deep a breath of it can kill.”

“That is good, but not enough. If your master really expects me to confront the Cimmerian, he should furnish me with a last-minute means of escape if I am trapped. Others may underestimate the Cimmerian, but not I. And your master can do it, and he owes it to me for past services.”

A faint smile creased Tatur’s wrinkled features. “He who is not to be named said truly you are a sharp bargainer. Here.” He brought out an object like a translucent egg. “Break this in your hour of need, and help will come to you from other dimensions.”

Thanara examined the three objects. “Good,” she said at last. “Ride to Aghrapur and tell the king I await Conan here. If all goes well, he shall have his enemy. If not, he will need a new agent. Haste and farewell!”

A few minutes later, Tatur the shaman, astride a small, shaggy Hyrkanian pony, jogged off into the night across the sands at a tireless canter.

The night was cool and quiet. The captain of the watch at the main gate stretched and yawned. From the small guardhouse in the square before the gate, he could see two bowmen patrolling the parapet over the big twin doors.

The pair of spearmen at the pillars flanking the entrance stood erect and still, the moonlight reflected by their polished mail shirts and spired helmets. No need to fear anything; a stroke on the gong at his side would bring a company on the double from the barracks.

Nevertheless, the governor had ordered the guards doubled and their vigilance increased.

The officer wondered. Did Veziz Shah really fear an attack on the fort on account of the captured Zuagir chief?

Let the desert rats come! They would smash their heads against the walls while the archers riddled them with arrows. The governor must be getting old and prone to nightmares. Let him rest. He, Akeb Man, was in charge!

The moon was obscured by clouds. Akeb Man blinked and peered. What had happened? It seemed as if the two archers on the wall had sat down for a moment. Now, however, they had risen again and resumed their measured pacing. Better investigate these lazy devils. He would give them three hours’ drill in the desert sun if they had tried to shirk their duty.

Rising, he gazed out again before opening the door. At that instant the moonlight returned in full force. A shocking sight met his eyes.

Instead of spired helmets and mantles, the archers wore banded kaffias and khalats.

Zuagirs!

How they had gotten in, only the devils knew. Akeb Man snatched at the hammer that hung beside the gong to strike the alarm.

The door of the guardhouse burst in with a crash and fell in a cloud of splinters and dust. Akeb Man wheeled and snatched at his scimitar, but the sight of the man confronting him made him pause in astonishment. No white-clad desert raider was he, but a giant western warrior in black mesh-mail, naked sword in hand.

With a cry of fear and rage, the Turanian lashed out with a low disemboweling thrust. With the swiftness of lightning, the mailed giant avoided the blade and brought his own long straight sword down in a whistling blow.

Blood spurted like a fountain as Akeb Man sank to the floor, cloven to the breastbone.

Conan wasted no time in gloating. Any moment now, an inquisitive guardsman might poke his head through a barracks window or a belated citizen might come wandering by. The big iron-sheathed doors were now opening, and through them poured a swift and silent-footed stream of white-robed nomads.

Swiftly, Conan issued his orders. His tones were low, but the words carried to the ears of all.

“Two men with torches, set the barracks afire. Three hundred archers with plenty of arrows place themselves to mow down the soldiers as they pour out. The rest of you hit the fort with torch and sword. Burn and slay, and take any spoils and captives you want. Keep together. Do not break up into bands smaller than twenty. Thabit, bring your fifty with me. I am for the governor’s palace.”

With an imperious gesture, Conan dismissed his subchiefs and beckoned his fifty, who followed his long strides at a dogtrot. Behind them, smoking torches lit the square as the arsonists slunk towards the guardsmens’ lodgings.

Other bands vanished in different directions.

With the armed defenders of the fort wiped out by Conan’s stratagem, there would be little opposition. The lean reavers licked their lips in anticipation of plunder and vengeance as they stalked along the silent streets, arrows nocked and knives and spears gleaming in the moonlight.

Conan led his men straight toward their goal. He intended to save Yin Allal first. Moreoever, he was intrigued by the tale of the beautiful yedka. Here, he thought, he might find a prize precious enough to satisfy his own taste.

Beautiful women had always been one of his weaknesses, and his imagination had been fired by Ardashir’s account He increased his speed, watching the dimmed doorways and nighted lane mouths with smoldering eyes as he hurried past.

As they emerged upon the central square, Conan mouthed a barbaric oath. Four sentries paced in pairs before the copper door of the residence. He had counted on taking the governor by surprise, but that was no longer possible. Swinging his great sword, he raced across the flagstones of the market place. Such was his speed that one of the spearmen was down with his side caved in before the others collected their shattered wits. Conan’s followers were twenty yards behind, unable to match the Cimmerian’s terrific speed.

Two spearmen thrust their weapons against his broad breast, while the third put a horn to his lips and sent forth a bellowing signal. This was cut short by a well-aimed Zuagir arrow, which pierced the trumpeter’s brain. The horn fell to the ground with a clank.

Conan parried the spear thrusts with a fierce swipe of his sword that sheared off the heads of both weapons.

With a vicious thrust he impaled one antagonist on his long blade. The Turanian fell sprawling against the other with a gurgle. The second man’s sword stroke at the Cimmerian’s head went awry and struck sparks from the flagstones. In the next instant, the man was pincushioned with arrows. With a groan and a clatter of mail he fell.

Roused to a vicious lust for killing, Conan sprang forward and tried the copper door. Time was short. In answer to the ringing note of the horn, people thrust their heads out of casements around the square.

Archers appeared on some of the roofs; he must get into the tower before the foe had time to organize a defense.

The door opened before his thrusting shoulder. Leaving ten of his men to guard against attack from the rear, Conan led the rest inside.

With a clink of mail and a flash of sword blades, ten soldiers in the white turbans of the Imperial Guard rushed against him out of a doorway. The Cimmerian’s battle cry rang high as he and his followers closed with their enemies. Many a curved knife or shortened spear found its mark in Turanian vitals, but the flashing scimitars also took a heavy toll. However, the bloodiest havoc wreaked was that of Conan’s cross-hiked sword. He leaped, cut, and thrust with a tigerish frenzy and speed that blurred the sight of his adversaries. In a couple of minutes, the ten Turanians lay in pools of blood, though eight silent figures in bloodstained khalats bore witness to the ferocity of the defense.

Conan swept up to the second floor, taking four steps at a stride. On this floor, he knew, the quarters of the governor were located.

Pausing, he flung swift orders at his followers.

“Ten of you, search for the keys to the dungeon and free Yin Allal. The rest, take all the plunder you can carry.

I’ll pay the governor a visit. ”

As the Zuagirs, howling and laughing, stormed up and down the stairs, Conan broke the sandalwood door before him into splinters with a mighty kick. He found himself in the anteroom of the governor’s apartments.

Crossing the floor swiftly on sound-deadening mats, he halted in midstep. From the other side of the door before him he heard a woman’s voice raised in angry expostulation.

Conan’s brows drew together in a vast frown. He picked up a heavy table and heaved it against the new obstacle. With a crashing impact, the ungainly missile burst open the shattered door. He tossed the remains of the table aside and strode through.

At a table in the middle of the lamplit room stood a tall, powerful man of middle age. Conan knew him by description as Veziz Shah. Silken divans and tables laden with delicacies stood about on the rug-covered floor. On one table rested a flagon of wine with two filled goblets.

A woman rested on the divan. Her wide dark eyes held no trace of fear as she looked upon the invading barbarian. Conan gave a start. This was the girl who had accosted him in Khanyria and almost led him to his death!

No time now to mull over such matters. With a curse, the governor unsheathed his jeweled scimitar and advanced catlike upon the Cimmerian.

“You dare invade my chambers, you red-handed rogue!” he snarled. “I have heard you are on the rove again, and I hoped for the pleasure of having your limbs torn off by wild horses. But as it is …”

He whipped forward in a swift arching stroke. Most men would have been so distracted by his words as to have their throats slit by that whistling edge, but the pantherish speed of barbarian muscles saved Conan. Parrying with his hilt, he lashed out in a vicious countercut.

In the exchange of blows and thrusts, he soon found he faced one of the most skilled swordsmen he had ever met.

But no civilized fencer could match the skill and speed of Conan, hardened in wars and battles since boyhood against foes from all over the world. The skill at arms he had won as a mercenary would by itself have made him master of any ordinary swordsman, for his learning had been pounded into his brain in endless, bloody strife on far battlefields. In addition he retained the flashing, lightning-quick speed of the primordial barbarian, unslowed by civilized comfort.

As the duel continued, Veziz Shah began to tire and his eyes filled with an awful fear. With a sudden cry he flung his scimitar into Conan’s face and raced for the far wall. There his questing fingers probed the surface as if seeking the spring to open a hidden exit.

Conan avoided the missile with a jerk of his black-maned head. The next second his arm was around the neck and his knee in the back of the Turanian amir. His voice was a terrible whisper in Veziz Shah’s ear.

“Dog, remember when you caught ten of my Afghulis when you commanded a squadron in Secunderam? And how you sent me their pickled heads in jars with wishes for a hearty repast? Your time has come. Rot in Hell!”

With a terrible heave, the blood-mad Cimmerian forced his enemy’s body backwards against the thrust of his knee until the Turanian’s spine snapped like a dry twig. A lifeless corpse flopped to the floor.

Sweating and panting, Conan turned to the woman on the divan.

Thanara had not moved during the fight. Now she rose, eyes shining, raised her arms and came fearlessly towards Conan, ignoring the bloody sword in his hand. The blood ran swiftly through his veins at the sight of her.

“You are a real man!” she whispered, pressing herself against his rough mail and twining her arms around his corded neck. “None other could have slain Veziz Shah. I am glad you did. He forced me by threats to come in here to do his bidding.”

Conan felt the hot urge of his racing blood. In his younger days he would have swept the woman into his arms and damned the consequences.

But now the caution of long experience asserted itself. He growled warningly.

“You were clad otherwise when we met in Khanyria,” he said, taking both her wrists in one big paw and drawing her firmly down to the couch beside him. “Tell me the tale behind that ambush, and your part in it. No lies, now, if you know what’s good for you!”

The dark eyes under the long lashes regarded him without fear. A well-formed hand gently drew itself from his grasp and took one of the goblets of wine from the table. She handed him this vessel and began sipping the other herself. The assurance of a beautiful and intelligent woman colored her actions.

“You must be thirsty after killing. Have a draught of this wine. It is the best from Veziz Shah’s own cellar.

Drink, and I will tell you the story you ask for.”

Conan stared into the depths of the cup as Thanara’s musical voice began: “I am Thanara, a yedka or high-born lady of Maypur. King Yezdigerd has graciously appointed me one of his personal agents …the eyes and ears of the king, as we call them in Turan. When word came that you had embarked on your lonely journey, I was sent to supervise the work of the stupid mercenaries engaged by our agent in Tarantia. I suppose …”

Conan hurled his cup to the floor and furiously turned upon the woman.

He had sniffed the wine and let a little touch his tongue, and his keen barbarian senses told him of the threat that lurked in the cup. One huge hand fastened itself in her long black hair.

“I’ll supervise you, strumpet!” he snarled. “I thought …”

Thanara’s hand came up from behind her and flung into his face a pinch of the pollen of the yellow lotus. Conan jerked back, coughing and sneezing, and let go Thanara’s hair. Holding her breath, she slipped out of his reach and stood up.

Snoring heavily, Conan sprawled upon the couch.

Thanara nodded in satisfaction. For the next two or three days he would be like a man stone dead. Swift action was now necessary.

A rising murmur from without attracted her attention. She stepped to a window overlooking the square and pulled back the curtains. At the sight she saw she jerked back. Houses flamed, fired by the ravaging Zuagir horde.

Shrieks of captive women and curses of battling men echoed. White, ghostly shapes flitted here and there. No soldiery was to be seen. Evidently Conan had entered the fort, not alone as she had thought, but in the company of the desert wolves.

Swiftly she collected her wits. A seasoned spy, she was already hatching a plan to save herself and further the king’s aims. She grabbed a white robe from one of the chests and donned it She armed herself with a long, gold-hiked dagger. Thrusting aside the broken and staring corpse of the late governor, she searched with swift hands for the spring activating the secret door.

With a grating sound, a section of the wall swung inward, disclosing a spiral staircase leading downwards. She went back to the couch where the unconscious form of Conan rested. Grasping him beneath the armpits, she dragged him inside the secret door, straining her muscles to the utmost to move his great weight. She worked the spring from inside to close the door and laid the Cimmerian to rest on the steps. He lay snoring like a hibernating bear.

Thanara hurried down the steps. Light came faintly from several narrow window slits. On the ground floor she found herself in a small circular chamber. The exit worked in the same way as the entrance to the hidden passage.

She pressed the stud and slipped out, taking good note of the means of reentry.

The fort was a hell. The Zuagirs had broken out the contents of the wine cellars and gotten swiftly drunk, with the light-hearted irresponsibility of the primitive nomad unused to civilized drink.

Their laughing torchmen had set fire to every house. Bands of captive, half-naked women were rounded up and herded, with whiplashes and coarse jests, toward the main gate.

At the barracks the slaughter had been awful. The cornered soldiers, rushing out through the only exit, had run into a hail of arrows from the waiting Zuagir archers. None of them had a chance, blinded by smoke and confused by sleep. Hundreds of pincushioned bodies lay in heaps about the ruins of the barracks, while charred bodies in the debris showed that many had been caught by the flames before they could win out the door to face the arrows.

Among the inner buildings of the fort, bands of blood-mad nomads were still cutting down the remnants of the company of the Imperial Guard who, awakened by the noise, burst out of their scattered lodgings. Such a bloody stroke as tonight’s sack had not been dealt a Turanian stronghold in decades.

Hardened to a life of raw experience, Thanara hurried through the dark streets. The way was lit only by the guttering flames of burning houses. Unfrightened by the corpses choking the gutters, she melted into dark doorways whenever a screaming Zuagir band shuffled by, swinging golden spoils and herding captive women.

When passing the mouth of a small lane, she heard a gurgle. She peered swiftly into the gloom and discerned a prostrate figure. She also saw that it wore the spired helmet and fine-meshed mail coif of a Turanian Imperial Guard.

Hurrying into the narrow space, she bent and removed the gag from the man’s mouth. She at once recognized Ardashir of Akif, half suffocated by the smoke of nearby fires but otherwise very much alive.

She cut his bonds and motioned him to rise and follow her, stifling the imprecations that he started to gasp out by a finger at her lips. With the habits of an old soldier, he accepted her leadership without argument.

The journey back to the governor’s palace was uneventful. The drunken bands seemed satisfied with their spoils and were drawing back out of the fort. Once, however, the Turanians were confronted by a pair of leering, drunken desert raiders, but the Zuagirs could not match the swift strokes of Ardashir’s scimitar by clumsy motions with their curved knives. Leaving their bloodied bodies behind, the couple won unscathed to the tower. They slipped into the secret entrance. Ardashir followed unwillingly as Thanara led the way up the stairs to where Conan lay.

Recognizing his foe, Ardashir snatched at his scimitar with an oath.

Thanara caught his arm. “Calm yourself! Know you not that the king will shower us with gold if we bring the barbarian to him alive?”

Ardashir made a pungent suggestion as to what King Yezdigerd could do with his gold. “The swine has smirched my honor!” he shouted. “I will …”

“Hold your tongue, fool! What will happen to you when the king learns you have lost a whole company of his precious Imperials but escaped without a scratch yourself?”

“Hm,” said Ardashir, his fury abating and giving way to calculation.

Thanara continued:

“The king’s most skilled executioners will have to meet in conclave to invent sufferings hellish enough to atone for the trouble he has given Turan. Take hold of your senses! Will you forsake wealth and a generalship for a moment of personal vengeance?”

Growling but quieted, Ardashir sheathed his sword and helped the girl to tie the barbarian’s hands and feet.

Peering into the deserted quarters of the governor through a secret spyhole, she whispered: “We shall wait until dawn. By then the Zuagir bands will have left, and we shall take horses from some stable.

The drunken raiders must have overlooked some. If we spur hard, we can be out of danger in half a day.

Provisions can be found in this house. We shall ride straight for the capital and drug our prisoner anew during the journey to keep him quiet. In five days he shall lie in the king’s deepest dungeon in Aghrapur!”

Her dark eyes flashed triumphantly as she gazed on the prostrate form of the Cimmerian.