Conan the Avenger Part 6

"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 n.o.ble captain can see. But the G.o.ds protected us, so none of those stinking vermin of the desert a.s.sailed 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 grat.i.tude," 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 ma.s.sive bolt bars clanged into their cradles.

The fort was really a small city. A high, crenelated wall of stone girded the ma.s.s of buildings with parapets and battlements. Watchful bowmen ranged the breastworks. The s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.cious market place in the center, mailed soldiers in spired helmets and robed merchants with exotic wares and veiled women milled about. The s.p.a.ce 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 Oman 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 t.i.tters 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 a.s.sailed 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 gla.s.sily 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 peac.o.c.k 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 G.o.ds 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 Ids 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 Ze-bah. 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 l.u.s.t, 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 n.o.ble fight. But the only wench in the caravan was the yedka Thanara, may the G.o.ds 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 Agra-pur 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 a.s.sault 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 superst.i.tious 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 b.e.s.t.i.a.l 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 ident.i.ty 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.