Conan and the Mists of Doom Part 7

Conan rode north in the vanguard of fifty Green-cloaks. Farad and Sorbim rode beside him, their gazes making a complete circle around their chief every few moments.

Ten paces to the Cimmerian's right, Khezal rode with three picked Greencloaks.

They kept a similar watch out for his safety.

"Conan," Khezal called, across the gap. "What would you have done if I had refused to let you ride north?"

"I remember a wise captain who said that 'if is a word for priests and scribes, not fighting men."

"I remember that when the wise captain said that, he was teaching a young Cimmerian who has since become a wise captain in his own right." "Indeed, I would have owed the other captain an answer to such a question," the Cimmerian said, in a dangerously level voice. "Do I owe you as much?"

"He taught me also, and there is another reason for you to think carefully before you refuse. I do not teach. I lead men, who, like me, must know how far we can trust you."

Conan muttered a few oaths, but within he was rallying his thoughts. Indeed, Khezal was in a position wherein the trust of his men was life or death.

Anything that could help strengthen that trust, and would not weaken Conan, was Khezal's right.

"So be it," Conan said. "Had you refused, I would still have gone north, with Farad and Sorbim. No Greencloak would have suffered, save those foolish enough to stand in our path. We might even have saved the captives."

"And if you could not?" one Greencloak said. Khezal shot the man a barbed look, but Conan held up a hand.

"No, the answer's his right as well as yours. If they had to die, they would have died as whole men, or at least not without rites."

The Greencloak looked more content than his captain. Conan spat into the sand.

Khezal was wiser than the Cimmerian intended to tell him for some while, but there was much he needed to learn about Afghulis and those the tribesmen called chief.

Seven.

Conan rode well to the fore, flanked by Farad and Sorbim. They were careful to keep their distance from the Greencloaks, without moving out of bowshot. That would smell of an attempt to escape, and no goodwill that Khezal bore the Cimmerian would stay the captain's command to his archers to shoot.

There also might be other men of warlike disposition roaming this patch of desert, besides Turanians and Afghulis. Among them, the three riders left no part of the horizon unwatched, nor the ranks of Turanian riders behind them.

Khezal had said the place where peacemaking was direly needed might be two hours away at a fast pace, as much as three at one that spared the horses. Conan stood silent as to which pace they should use, but gave the world a dusty grin as he saw the Turanians settle down to a pace that their mounts could keep up all day.

This was much as he had expected, Khezal being no fool. However, even wise men had been known to hasten unwisely, if they thought this would show loyalty and help keep their heads on their shoulders.

Conan had no quarrel with any such desire in Khezal. He only insisted that Khezal's head not survive at the price of his and his Afghulis'.

Everyone's head remained not only on his shoulders but clear and alert during that first hour. They were riding out from a well-supplied, well-watered camp, and even the newest to the ranks of the Greencloaks was a veteran of at least five years' service.

Watching the ranks of desert-wise riders behind him and remembering their gallant fight at the rocks, Conan felt a twinge of regret at his flight from Turanian service. The officer whose mistress he had "stolen" (a word he always resented, considering how willingly the lady had come to him) had been a friend of then-Prince Yezdigerd. Even if others had been able to patch up a truce between Conan and the officer, the lady would surely have suffered. The truce would also have ended the moment Yezdigerd felt himself secure enough on the throne to do such minor favors for his friends as handing them a Cimmerian's head...

No, it was as well to be out of Turanian service. It would have been better to be out of Turanian reach altogether, but Conan had small choice if he was to do his duty by the Afghulis who had exiled themselves out of loyalty to him. He could trust Khezal for everything the n.o.bleman could control, and as for the rest, the Cimmerian trusted to his sword arm and steel-which had kept him above ground for a good many years and had not grown slack or dull in Afghulistan.

They were halfway through the second hour of their journey when Conan saw the horseman on a distant ridge to the north.

Danar son of Araubas looked rather better than his captain had expected when the two Khorajans met in the low rocky chamber where the younger man was confined awaiting execution. A second look told Muhbaras that the walls had once been bricked, more centuries ago than he cared to think about.

What he faced now was quite sufficiently disagreeable-and as nothing compared to what Danar might face if his luck were out.

Four Maidens had escorted the captain to the entrance of the chamber, so low that he had to stoop to enter-and he was not tall for a Khorajan. Four other Maidens were already on guard, which seemed none too few when the captain saw that the door itself was only a woven screen of rushes. A child with a toy dagger could have cut his way through that to a brief freedom, before the guards cut him down.

But none of the Maidens approached it, and on the floor the captain saw a dead mouse and more than a few dead insects. When a Maiden did open the screen, she did it with the bronze point of a spear whose shaft was carved into unpleasantly familiar if still incomprehensible runes. She also wore an amulet of feathers and small rose- and amethyst-hued stone beads, and moved as cautiously as if the floor might open up and swallow her at a misstep.

The captain had seldom moved with such exquisite care as when he stooped and entered Danar's chamber. He would have gone down on his hands and knees to avoid touching the screen if it had been necessary.

To his mild surprise, the Maiden with the spear raised the screen high enough to spare him that humiliation. He said his thanks to her in his heart, knowing that even if she would keep the secret, her comrades would not. The Lady of the Mists kept her Maidens, if not at one another's throats, at least looking over one another's shoulders.

Doubtless the Lady knew that this could do harm in a battle against a serious foe. Comrades who had to fear one another's tongues as much as they did the enemy's steel could hardly be called comrades at all.

Just as certainly, the Lady was more concerned about keeping the Maidens loyal to her. A serious foe, she no doubt thought, would not enter the Valley of the Mists before her work was done.

It was no pleasure to Muhbaras to realize that the Lady of the Mists was quite probably right.

Even Conan's hawk-keen sight could make out little about the rider, other than that he rode a horse and wore dark robes.

"Which is the garb of half the tribes in this land," Khezal said when he rode up to move level with the Cimmerian. Otherwise they made no change of pace or formation, so that from a distance the watcher might think they had not seen him.

"Yes, and no doubt the garb of the other half when they go long enough without washing," Farad said.

"Speak for yourself, rock-crawler," Sergeant Barak muttered, before a glare from both Conan and Khezal silenced their followers.

The watcher seemed to have chosen a good post, overlooking the easiest march route but not actually on it. As they drew closer, the watcher drew back, and Conan saw that he was retreating toward a nightmarish tangle of ravines and rocks. A band half again the size of the Turanians could hide in that land, and seeking one man in it would take the rest of the day before they had to admit failure.

A few hundred paces farther on, the ground before the Turanians also grew rough.

They could slow to a trot that made for easy conversation without revealing anything to the watcher.

The conversation was brief.

"The tribes could not have sent too many men into this area," Khezal said.

"Otherwise the patrol's messenger could not have returned to camp to warn us."

"Unless they let the messenger through with the purpose of drawing us out into an ambush," Conan added.

"We have still done more than before, in keeping the large bands to the south and west," Khezal insisted. "One doubts that our number of Greencloaks has much to fear from any number of tribesmen who may lie ahead."

It would be unwise to dispute with Khezal before his own men, and Conan had little wish to do so. The Turanian captain might even be right. Still...

"Far be it from me to speak against your men," the Cimmerian said. "But what of your men and my Afghulis? I wager that the tribesmen consider all alike lawful prey. If the tribesman have surrounded them since last night-"

"You see clearly. Yet only a large tribal band could maintain such a siege and still mount an ambush against us."

Conan had paid with his own blood and seen comrades pay with theirs for a captain's saying that "the enemy could not do so-and-so." Prophecy was a matter for sorcerers and the less honest sort of priest (which to the Cimmerian's mind was most of the breed).

Once again, the Cimmerian would not undermine Khezal's authority or flaunt his doubts of the prowess of the hosts of Turan (which, if half the tales he had heard were true, had indeed notably increased under Yezdigerd the Ambitious).

This left him with few choices.

"I think we still need to fear an ambush. Is there another route to our destination, besides the shortest one? You know this land better than I."

"Indeed, and most of my men, better than I. There is such a way, longer and rougher."

"Does it offer more or less to ambushers?"

"Less, if my memory serves."

"It had better still serve for more than remembering which wench is willing, my friend. I suggest that you send six of your Greencloaks with me and my Afghulis, and we ride the main route. Those waiting will have to strike at us, or let us strike their comrades from the rear. Meanwhile, you take the rest of your men by the longer route."

Khezal looked at his men and then at the desert ahead. He nodded.

"I mislike the danger to you, but it's no worse than you have survived. Just bring my Greencloaks back safe, or at least give proof of their honorable pa.s.sing."

"If they pa.s.s any other way, I shall go with them," Conan said.

"Do not be too eager to go where there is neither wine, women, nor good battles," Khezal said with a grin. "We shall never be able to properly celebrate our victories on this quest, I fear. I still do not wish to turn down cups to absent comrades!"

"How fare you, Captain?" Danar asked, when the dim oil lamp allowed him to recognize his superior.

Muhbaras started. He had expected Danar to be physically and mentally a ruin, already halfway to death. He had not expected the young soldier to be concerned about his captain's health!

The younger man grinned. "I have not been mistreated, save for eating bread that is mostly husks and sh.e.l.ls. I think it is what they feed to those half-men in the fields."

"No doubt," the captain said. He gazed at the walls and the ensorceled rush screen with what he hoped was an eloquent glance.

Danar shrugged. "I know the walls have ears and probably eyes. If you have any last gift for me, it is that you do not think me a fool."

Muhbaras a.s.sured Danar that he thought no such thing. He wished he could a.s.sure himself that there was some way of giving Danar a lawful or even easy death, and that he could communicate it to the man. Without some preparation, it would be hard to do anything swiftly enough to avoid the notice and wrath of the Lady of the Mists.

The captain knew he could not face that peril. He did not care what happened to him, save that his death would doubtless put Ermik in command of the mission to the valley. Then every sort of dire fate would loom over the men.

It was possible that Danar might have to face a hard death, for the sake of his comrades. How to tell him that, and how to sleep at night after it happened?

I grow too old for intrigues, Muhbaras decided. Give me a last battle against a worthy foe, and I will not care if I survive it.

"Do you know if the Lady seeks your-'life essence' or whatever they call it in their priest-talk?" the captain asked.

Danar shrugged again. "Perhaps, hence the good treatment. Perhaps not, also, if they think it has been corrupted by unlawful l.u.s.t."

"Knowing that a woman like one of the Maidens is fair is never unlawful,"

Muhbaras snapped. "Only a blind man could avoid doing so, and I am sure the Lady does not wish to be served by blind men or eunuchs."

It was Danar's turn to look meaningfully at the walls. "No," he said, but he did not meet the captain's eyes. Also, there was something in his voice, even in that single word...

I will not even think the question, "Did anything happen between you and the Maiden, more than glances?"

Wrapped in a kerchief in his belt pouch, Muhbaras had a small bronze knife, suitable to rest under a lady's pillow but capable of letting out life if applied in the right place. Now he pulled out the kerchief and bent over Danar, seemingly to wipe sweat or perhaps dew from the soldier's forehead.

Before he could touch Danar, the younger man's hand seemed to float up and grip the captain's wrist. It was a grip that would have looked gentle from a few paces away, but was actually as unbreakable as an iron shackle without more effort than the captain cared to make.

With his mouth only a hand's breadth from his captain's ear, Danar whispered, "Guard yourself for my comrades, and do not worry about me. I have other friends."

The words left as much mystery behind as ever, but the tone was that of a man walking to meet his fate with firm step and open eyes.

May I do as well as Danar, if my time comes while I am within reach of the Lady of the Mists.

After that there was nothing to say but formal words that would make easy hearing for listening ears, a final grip of forearms, and the captain's departure. He even deferred his prayers of thanks to Mitra until he was not only outside the chamber but out of sight and hearing of the Maidens on guard.

Even farther along the path, he wondered if the madness was spreading. And if so, was this the Lady's ultimate prize-or did she have something still worse in hand for the Valley of the Mists and all within it?

Khezal added one stratagem to the plan he and Conan had conceived. He detached a dozen or so Greencloaks to remain behind both of the other bands, to ride in circles and raise a prodigious cloud of dust.

"Even the most desert-wise tribesman will think that the more dust, the more men," Khezal said. "More unfriendly eyes will be on them, fewer on the rest of us as we slip off about our lawful occasions."

Conan made a Cimmerian gesture of aversion. Khezal nodded. "That is not all they will do, either. Once they have thrown dust in our enemies' eyes, they will follow us by yet a third route. Slowest of all, it will still let them come to the aid of either of the other bands. They may even be able to slip behind an ambush and turn it against those who laid it."

Conan grinned, and this time made an Afghuli gesture for hailing an honored chief. There was not much he could teach Khezal about arraying men for battle, and he would waste no more time trying.

Instead he signaled to his men, as one of Khezal's sergeants rode out with the dozen dust-raisers. The two Afghulis cantered up and drew rein, the Green-cloaks a.s.sembled under the watchful eye of Sergeant Barak and their captain, and the dust rose high.

It also rose thick, thanks to the dropping of the wind. Thus Conan led his men off down the dry wash that opened their chosen route with little fear of unfriendly eyes counting them, let alone seeing them. He still kept his eyes searching the rocks and ridges to the left, while Farad searched to the right, and Sobrim studied their Greencloak comrades.

Conan did not think that cold-blooded treachery was in the Greencloaks. But no discipline could keep from a soldier's mind the thought of avenging a comrade or kin, and men with such losses might well be riding at Conan's back. It was a circ.u.mstance he had survived more than a few times, but only by taking nothing for granted.

Then the dry wash gave on a real valley, with rocky slopes rising, it seemed, halfway to the sky on either side. The floor of the valley was level, fit for quick movement if one cared little for the endurance of one's horses.

Conan held the pace to a trot while he studied the slopes. The rocks could hide a small army of ambushers, but there were broad stretches of ground where a dog could not hide and a surefooted horse could descend at a good pace.

So far, Khezal had not sent them into any place where aid could not reach them-if aid were sent.