The Conan Chronology, page 608
Conan signalled to his aides, whose ears were plugged, to tell the archers to ply the foe with arrows; and presently, the thrum of bowstrings and the whistle of arrows rent the air. But Conan's men heard nothing.
To the royalist defenders on the ends of the line came a chilling sound - a shrill, ululating, unearthly piping. It came from nowhere into everywhere. It made men's teeth ache and imbued them with a strange, unreasoning panic. Soldiers
dropped their weapons to clutch at pain-racked heads. Some burst into hysterical laughter; others dissolved in tears.
As the sound drew nearer, the feeling of dire doom expanded until it overflowed their souls. The impulse to flee, which at first they mastered, overcame their years of battle training. Here and there a man turned from hi position on the line to run, screaming madly, to the rear. More joined the flight, until the outer limits of the line dissolved into a mass of terrified fugitives, running from they knew not what. As the prince's flanks were swept away, the unseen pipers moved towards the centre, until that, too, disintegrated. Trocero's cavalry rode down the fleeing men, slaying and taking prisoners.
'Anyway,' said Conan as he looked at the abandoned royalist camp, 'they left us weapons enough for twice our number. So now we can recruit whatever volunteers we find.'
'That was an easy victory,' exulted Prospero.
'Too easy,' replied Conan grimly. 'An easy victory is oft as false as a courtier's smile. I'll say the road to Tarantia is open when I see the city walls, and not before.'
XI
The Key to the City
The Army of Liberation tramped unopposed through the smiling land, where Poitain's herds of fine horses and cattle Brazed on luxuriant grass, and castles reared their crenelated lowers of crimson and purple and gold. The rebel army serpentined its way through pillow-rounded mountains, lush with vegetation, and at last approached the border between Poitain and the central provinces of Aquilonia.
But as Conan sat his charger on an embankment to watch his soldiers pass before him, his gaze was sombre. For, although Numitor's Frontiersmen had scattered like leaves in an autumn gale, a new foe, against which he had no defence, now assailed his army. This was sickness. A malady, which caused men to break out in scarlet spots and prostrated them with chills and fever, raced through his ranks, an invisible demon, felling more soldiers than a hard-fought battle. Many men were left abed in villages along the way; many, fearing the dread disease, deserted; many died.
What do we number now?' Conan asked Publius. of an evening, as the army neared the border village of Elymia.
The former chancellor studied his reports. 'About eight thousand, counting the walking sick, who number nigh a thousand.'
'Crom! We were ten thousand when we left the Alimane, and hundreds more have joined since then. What has become of them?'
Trocero said: 'Some come to us in a roseate glow, like a bridegroom to his bride, but think better of their bargain when they have sweated and slogged a few leagues from their native heath. They fret about their families and getting home to harvest,'
'And this spotted sickness has claimed thousands,' added Dexitheus. 'I, and the physicians under me, have tried every cure and purge to no avail. It seems magic is at work. Else :in evil destiny doth shape our ends.'
Conan bit back scornful words of incredulity. After the earthquake he dared not underestimate the potent magic of his enemy or the wanton cruelty of the gods.
'Could we have persuaded the satyrs to march with us, bringing their pipes,' said Prospero, 'our paltry numbers would be of little moment.'
'But they would not leave their homes in the Brocellian Forest,' said Conan.
Prospero replied: 'You could have seized their old Zudik as a hostage, to compel them.'
'That's not my way,' growled Conan. 'Zudik proved a friend in need. I would not use him ill.'
Trocero smiled gently. 'And are you not the man who scorned Prince Numitor for his high-flown ideals of chivalry?'
Conan grunted. 'With savages, the chief has little power; I have dwelt amongst them, and I know. Besides, I doubt if even great love for their chieftain's weal would overcome the little people's fear of open country. But let us face the future and not raise ghosts from the dead past. Have the scouts reported signs of Ulric's army?'
'No reports,' said Trocero, 'save that today they glimpsed a few riders from afar, who quickly galloped out of sight. We know not who they are; but I would wager that the northern barons delay Count Ulric still.'
'Tomorrow,' said Conan, 'I shall take Gyrto's troop to scout the border of Poitain, whilst the rest march for Elymia.'
'General,' objected Prospero. 'You should not use yourself so recklessly. A commander should stay behind the lines, where he can control his units, and not risk his life like a landless adventurer.'
Conan frowned. 'If I am commander here, I must command as I think best!' Seeing Prospero's stricken face, he added with a smile: Tear not; I'll do naught foolish. But even a general must betimes share the dangers of his men. Besides, am I not myself a landless adventurer?'
'Methinks,' grumbled Prospero, 'you merely indulge your barbarian lust for combat hand-to-hand.' Conan's grin widened wolfishly, but he ignored the comment.
The road was a golden ribbon before them, as Conan's troop trotted through the misty morning. At the column's head rode Conan, clad in chain mail like the others, and Captain Gyrto rode at his side. With lance fixed into a stirrup boot, each cavalryman rode proudly through the rolling countryside. A few detached outriders cantered in wide circles across the fallow fields but skirted the simple farmsteads and the stands of ripening grain.
Rustics at work on furrow or vine paused in their labours to lean on rake or hoe and stare, as the armed men rode past. One or two raised a cautious cheer, but most remained stolidly non-committal and silent. Now and then Conan caught a flash of red or yellow petticoat, as a woman rushed to hide herself from the passing soldiery.
'They wait to see who wins,' said Gyrto.
'And well they might,' said Conan, 'for, if we lose, all who aided us will suffer for it.'
Beyond the next rise, Elymia squatted in a shallow vale. A small stream meandered sluggishly past the mud-brick houses, wending its way eastward towards the Khorotas, while willows contemplated their reflections in the dark, slow-moving water.
The village, which sheltered less than two hundred souls, lacked protection; for decades of peace had so beguiled the villagers that they allowed the old wall of sun-dried brick to crumble utterly. Inhabitants - if any there were who laboured in the hamlet —were nowhere to be seen.
'It's too quiet for me,' muttered Conan. 'People should be up and about on a fair day like this.'
'Perchance they are sleeping off their midday meal,' suggested Gyrto. 'Or all but the babes and ancient crones are working in the fields.'
'Too late for that,' growled Conan. 'I like it not.'
'Or perchance they are in hiding, fearing robbery or murder.'
Conan said: 'Send two scouts through the village; we'll wait here.'
Two troopers hastened down the gentle slope and disappeared into the maw of the narrow, winding street. Soon the street disgorged them; and galloping towards their fellows, they signalled that all was quiet.
'Let's take a look ourselves,' growled Conan. And Gyrto waved his hundred lancers forward at a brisk trot.
The sun was a gigantic orange disc as it slipped to the western horizon; and the houses of Elymia stood black and sinister against its fiery glow. The rebels glanced about them with a touch of apprehension; for still there was no sign of human habitation in the squalid street or behind the shuttered doorways.
'Perhaps,' suggested Gyrto, 'the people heard of two approaching armies and fled, fearing to be caught betwixt hammer and anvil.'
Conan shrugged, loosening his sword in its scabbard. On each side of the roadway rose low cottages, their roofs thick-thatched. The front of one house was open, with a counter set before it. A painted mug above the humble door proclaimed it the village ale shop, the town being too small to boast an inn. Down the short street a ramlike building thrust itself back from the road. Scattered iron bars, a pincers and a brazier proved it a smithy; but no clang of metal issued from it. Something-he knew not what-raised the hairs on Conan's nape.
Conan twisted in the saddle to look back, as the last of his double column trotted into the deserted street. The pairs of horses pressed close against the walls of crowding houses, so meagre was the way.
'A mean place for an attack,' said Conan. 'Signal the men to hurry through.'
Gyrto waved an order to his trumpeter, when another
trumpet blared, close at hand. Instantly the doors of all the cottages burst open, and royalist soldiers boiled out, rending he dusk hideous with battle cries. They struck at Conan's troop from either side, their swords and pikes thirsty for blood.
Ahead three ranks of pikemen sprang into position, blocking the road with a wall of pointed steel. Slowly they moved forward, with battle lust in their eyes and spearheads glowing a dull crimson in the rays of the setting sun.
'Crom and Ishtar!' yelled Conan, sweeping out his sword, 'we're in Death's pocket! Gyrto, turn the men around!'
The din of battle rose - the shouts of angry men, the neighs of plunging steeds, the grind of steel on steel, the clash of swords on riven shields, and the dull thud of fallen bodies. Attacked from three sides by superior numbers, Conan's troopers were at a disadvantage. The confined space prevented them from bunching into a compact formation or working up speed for a charge. A lance in the hand of a charging horseman is more formidable than in the hand of that same horseman forced to halt.
The rebel troopers, spurred by fear and fury, set their lances and jabbed at their assailants. Some dropped their lances and, drawing swords, slashed downward at their attackers, raining well-aimed blows. Men swore loud oaths to their assorted gods. Injured horses reared and screamed like fiends in hell. One, disembowelled, fell kicking, pinning its rider; and the royalists swarmed upon the man, slashing and battering, until he lay incarnadined with gore.
Another rider, caught by an up-flung spearhead, was lofted out of his saddle and tossed beneath the steel-shod hooves of a plunging steed. Still another was unhorsed, but he set his back to the wall of a house and stood off his attackers with the darting tongue of his sweeping blade.
Some of Count Ulric's soldiers went down beneath the rebels' lance points and swinging swords. Blood laid the dust on the earthen road, as wounded men shrieked in agony, the death rattle in their throats.
Roaring like a lion, Conan beat his way back along the
column, squeezing between his milling men and the enclosing walls. His great sword swung upward and descended; with nearly every blow, a royalist crumpled or fell dead. Thrice his down-directed cuts sheared arms from shoulders, and thrice blood spurted bubbling from the ghastly wounds. As Conan hewed, he shouted lustily.
'Out! Out! To the rear, march! Out of the village! Rally on the road!'
Powerful as was his voice, his words were drowned in a torrent of cacophony. But little by little his men wrenched their horses' heads around and pushed southward. Behind Conan, Captain Gyrto and two veteran lancers fought a desperate rear-guard action against the massed pikemen who pressed forward behind their bristling steel. Lances at the ready, they spurred their terror-stricken beasts against the wall of steel; but as one spear man fell, another leaped in to take his place. And so, despite their grim intent to win or die, they could not overwhelm the relentless surge of steel-clad men. And there one lancer died.
Conan's steed stumbled over a supine body. He jerked up on the bridle to prevent the animal's inadvertent fall. He swung a back-hand blow at a royalist swordsman, who caught the vicious stroke on his shield; but the sheer force of the blow hurled the soldier to his knees in a battered doorway, and kneeling, he cradled a broken arm, tears streaming down his face.
Finally, Conan glimpsed the last remnant of his troopers fighting free of their attackers and galloping up the slope beyond the scene of the débâcle. Between him and the retreating men, the narrow street was filled with royalists afoot, slipping on the bloodstained entrails of men and horses, swaying with fatigue, but like human bloodhounds, smelling out their prey, coming closer, ever closer to the three horsemen caught in the cruel jaws of the clever trap. Glancing to the right, Conan perceived between two cottages a narrow alley, a mere footpath among the weeds.
'Gyrtol' bellowed Conan. 'This way! Follow me!'
Abruptly turning his horse into that meagre alley, Conan paused only long enough to make sure the others followed closely. The lengthening shadows of a cottage enshrouded the fleeing men in darkness, and for a moment there was no yapping at their heels.
In the momentary respite, Conan reined in his exhausted mount and allowed the beast to pick its way among the crumpled vegetation. Suddenly, despite the gloaming, he descried a pigsty, its entrance barred by a battered panel, rope-bound to the adjacent fencing. With his bloodstained blade he severed the heavy rope, and the crude door swung open.
Gyrto and his companion stood aghast, wondering whether the heat of battle or a heavy blow had unseated their leader's reason. Then with an upraised finger pointing forward, Conan spurred his horse and, followed closely by his loyal troopers, sped down the narrow passageway.
A wave of racing royalist foot soldiers, interspersed with mounted men-at-arms, swirled round the corner of the cottage and crested in the slender channel of the alley.
Gyrto yelled to Conan: 'Ride man, ride! They're hot upon our trail.'
Conan bent low above his horse's neck, face buried in the creature's flowing mane. And then, at the alley's end, a tall fence, scarce visible in the gathering gloom, barred the way to safety.
Conan's horse, gathering its mighty haunches, rose magnificently and cleared the obstruction, with Gyrto's partner Sardus close upon its flying tail. But Gyrto was less lucky. His animal, too weary to take the jump, slammed into the barrier, and screamed with the agony of a broken neck,
Gyrto, thrown clear, leaped to his feet and drew his sword, prepared to sell his life dearly. Suddenly, the pursuing riders drew rein and swore at their rearing, dancing mounts, which in their panic pressed swordsmen against the cottage walls or struck them wicked blows from flailing hooves.
Gyrto marvelled at the hiatus in his almost sure destruction, 'Magic again?' he muttered between clenched teeth.
Then he spied the cause of his salvation. A sow and twenty piglets had ambled from their pen and, coated with evil-smelling muck, ran squealing through the weeds, rooting for edibles.
He heard Conan call: 'Climb the fence, man, quickly!' And, hesitating no longer, he flung himself at the rough barricade, dragged himself up, and scrambled over, just as the royalists reached the other side.
'Catch my stirrup!' roared Conan. 'Don't try to mount!'
Gyrto seized Conan's stirrup strap and bounded along with giant strides as the spurred beast gathered speed. At an easy canter they crossed the darkling fields, leaving the royalists behind.
When the village grew small in the distance, Conan pulled up. Peering about the fading landscape, he said, We shall catch up with the column presently. First I want a look at the enemy base. That hillock yonder may give a view of it.'
From the hilltop Conan stared across the intervening swells and hollows of the earth; and north of the village, he discovered a field encampment. It had been hidden from the village by a low rise; but seen from this height, its large expanse was evident. Scores of cooking fires twinkled in the twilight, and thin blue plumes of smoke wavered in the gentle breeze.
'There's Count Ulric's army,' said Conan. flow many would you judge there be, Gyrto '
The captain thought the matter over. 'From the number of fires and the size of the camp, General, I should say a dozen regiments. What say you, Sardus?'
'At least twenty thousand men, sir,' said the veteran cavalryman. 'What standard's that, flapping atop a flagstaff over to the right?'
Conan squinted, forcing his catlike eyes to see despite the gathering dark. Then he exclaimed: 'Damn me for a Stygian, if that is not the standard of the Black Dragons!'
'Not the king's household guard, General?' exclaimed Gyrto. That cannot be, unless Numedides himself is marching with Count Ulric.'
'I do not see the royal standard, so I doubt it,' rumbled Conan. 'Time we rejoined our comrades. It's a long road back to camp.'
Sardus mounted behind his footsore captain, and the trio began a cautious sweep around the village, wherein lay so many of their dead. Reaching the road at length, they hastened towards a stand of trees beneath which the survivors of the battle waited. At least a third of the sixty men were missing. Many wearing bandages helped to bind up their comrades' wounds.
As Conan, Gyrto and Sardus trotted up, the dispirited troopers raised a faint hurrah. Conan growled:
'I thank you all, but save your cheers for victory. I should have searched the houses ere leading you into a tyro's trap. Still, lads, you gave them better than you got. Now let's be on our way and hope to find our army camp by dawn.'
Next morning Conan told the tale of his adventures. Prospero whistled. 'Twenty thousand men I In a pitched battle they'd eat us alive.'
After swallowing a huge mouthful from a joint of beef, Conan said: 'Breathe not such thoughts, lest the prophecy invite its own fulfilment. Rout the men out-all save the scouts who fought at Elymia - and set them to fortifying the camp. With such numbers, Count Ulric might risk a night attack. Without ditch or stockade to detain him, he could crush us like insects beneath a wagon wheel,'
'But the Black Dragons!' cried Trocero. 'It is a thing incredible that Numedides should send his household troops to strengthen Ulric, leaving his person unprotected I'
Conan shrugged. 'I am sure of what I saw. No other unit carries for its symbol a winged monster on a field of black.'
Pallantides said: 'Sending the Black Dragons hither may leave Numedides vulnerable to attack, but it does naught to lessen our present problem.'
