The Sword of Skelos (22 page)

Whether the Eye of Erlik was of value to Akter Khan or no, he believed it so, and that made it of value. It was presumably true that it could be used against him—the very fact of its being stolen nigh terrified the man.

“I wish I’d handed it directly to you, Balad,” the Cimmerian growled.

“So do I, Conan,” the plotter said, not without some wistfulness before he returned to pragmatic plottery.

Never mind that Conan had been serving his own interests the while, and had hardly entered into this whole long series of events with any view toward helping Akter Khan of Zamboula. He had put that out of his mind. He substituted righteous bitterness and anger. He had given much of himself to provide a service to this treacherous and ungrateful man. Indeed he had given Akter Khan several months of his life; a half year, were he to set out now to return to Zamora. So had Isparana given much, sacrificed much. And the khan,
her
khan, had proven an egregiously ungrateful lord indeed! Now Isparana was his prisoner, somewhere within the palace—if she yet lived—and Conan was free only through chance and Balad.

Thus Conan was bitter, and angered, and disappointed in himself for suspecting nothing of Akter Khan. He must have satisfaction; vengeance. Thus he joined Balad. Nor had it taken him long to become aware of Balad’s problems.

He would help Balad. And thus, he had no need of telling himself, he would nobly and heroically aid the people of Zamboula. Akter was no worthy ruler— if such existed, which Conan doubted; Akter, in any event, was even worse than most of those who grew callous of brain and soft of backside by sitting thrones. Indeed it was the khan himself who provided Balad’s key. Conan merely saw how to employ it. Akter had committed a worse than reprehensible crime, in murdering the adolescent who’d been a gift of the chieftain of the Shanki. As it turned out, that murder had also been stupid. It provided the key.

It was Conan the Cimmerian who caused Hajimen of the Shanki to be escorted to the keep of Balad the revolutionary, whose agreement Conan had secured: Hajimen would confer alone with Conan in this room.

They spoke quietly together, the trousered man of the desert and the Cimmerian in the newly made tunic of plain russet.

“You know that the Shanki cannot hope to conquer Zamboula,” Conan said to the son of Akhimen Khan, “or even breach its walls. The Shanki are not enough.”

“One young warrior among the Shanki is worth five Yoggites,” —Hajimen spat—“and three of the Zamboulans, in all their coats of iron rings!”

Conan nodded. “True. I know that. It is not enough. The best warriors among the Zamboulans outnumber those among the Shanki far more than three to one—and are within these walls besides.”

Hajimen sighed, rose to pace, returned to sink into the cushion before the one on which Conan sat. He had elected to interview the Shanki in the Shanki mode, though his impatience with their divagative manner of address was making itself more and more plain. Indeed, his efforts had succeeded somewhat, with this young son of the khan; he was actually able, now and again, to call Conan “you” and “Conan.” Not this time:

“Conan knows that I know the truth of what he says,” Hajimen said, looking gloomy as a priest at a state funeral. “Nevertheless, there is Shanki honor and my father’s pride. Does
he
know that it were foolish to attack this place?”

“The point is, will he understand and accept that not Zamboula, but Akter and his mage, slew your sister? There is no need of war with the Zamboulans, who do not like or respect their khan. The quarrel is between the Shanki—no; between your father and Akter, and Zafra.”

“And I, Conan! Yes, I see that. I know it. Best that I do not go to tell my father. Best that I remain here and avenge my sister myself—somehow,” he added, cheerlessly, “and then bear the news of her death and our vengeance to the Khan of the Shanki, both at once.”

Conan shook his head. “That is not best. That is brave, and foolish, and both of us know it.”

Hajimen glowered at the other man in this chamber in the villa of Count Shihran; the villa now of Balad the plotter who would be Balad Khan. After a few moments Conan put out a hand to touch the other’s arm, in warmth; the proud warrior of the desert drew away. Seeing that, and inwardly sighing as he recognized it as foolish, Conan learned something of himself, and honor, and pride.

“Come, Hajimen. You know what I mean. Neither of us believes that you would get so close to Akter as to be able to kill him. And
if
you did,
somehow
, as you said, you would never live to tell your father of it. Then he would be without a daughter and his son. You know what he would do then. Attack, and die.”

His face working, Hajimen stared. Then he swung away, paced to a slitted, open window. “Conan has wisdom. Theba’s name—how old are you, Conan?”

The Cimmerian smiled. “Old enough to give advice I probably would not have sense enough to take!”

His back turned, Hajimen snorted. “What would Conan have us do? Act as if nothing had happened at all? This man accepted my sister as gift of our father, and slew her as if she had been a thief or a Yoggite!” Hajimen spat, and continued to show Conan his broad, yellow-shirted back.

“No. Heed me, now. The very biggest a man could be would be to keep it to himself, to prevent his father’s acting foolishly in honor and pride, and knowing, that vengeance is impossible—but may someday be possible. I know that neither Hajimen nor Conan is that big! No, Hajimen son of Akhimen, I speak you direct. Attend me. Not even the soldiers of Zamboula favor Akter Khan. I would have you see that your sister’s death is avenged, Hajimen! At the same time, the Shanki can be heroically aiding the Zamboulans in ridding themselves of this unworthy creature who habits their palace. Hajimen! Listen! I would have you—I would beg you ride to your father fast as you can, and return with warriors. Let them be girded for war, on the swiftest of your camels. All should pause well outside the city’s walls, and send arrows
at
the walls, not loft them over into Zamboula. And all the while, bellow charges and challenge to Akter Khan!”

Hajimen had whirled back to face the big man with the blue eyes. “Ah!” His face showed excitement and hope; yet the question lurked in his eyes below the tribal scar of the fierce and twice-proud Shanki. “But —such a man will not come forth!”

“No, he will not. He will sit in his palace and know that his soldiers will soon beat off this ridic—this unwise attack. The soldiers from the garrison will turn out against you, happy for the action and eager to slay. And then the Shanki must do that which is brave, and noble—and difficult. You must flee.”

“Flee!” In horror Hajimen spat the word alien to his nature.

“Aye, Hajimen!” Conan let his voice rise excitedly; he had to enlist the Shanki to this plan. “Aye! Let them come forth, and charge you. Give them a running fight. Flee, and flee. When at last they desist from following, as they will, halt and form up to watch them take a good lead in returning to the city. Then race after them!”

“Ah! And then, we pursue those jackals, and fall on them from behind, and slash them on the run! Thus can we reduce the odds!”

Conan heaved a great sigh, and made sure that Hajimen saw. “They are not jackals, Hajimen my friend. They are young men and youths as we are, brave, and serving a bad khan. No, they will turn, form to meet your charge. You must then swerve and ride away again without slowing, so that they follow. If it is possible, a small party of Shanki should race toward a city gate. That will create some fear in those who will be watching from the walls. They may call for reinforcements—from the palace.”

“In none of this do I see honor, or the way of the Shanki, Conan. What is the purpose of all this harmless racing about on the plain outside these walls?”

“Ah! Hajimen, you
are
big! That you can ask, rather than bluster; that is the mark! You will succeed Akhimen indeed, Hajimen, and the Shanki will be well led! Consider. The Shanki can gird and put into the saddle… what? Perhaps three hundred men, if we include boys just past puberty and men well past prime?”

“And a hundred women and girls! Our women are not weak playthings such as those I have seen in this encampment of walls!”

“—While there are over two thousand soldiers quartered here. So many would slay you all, and women and girls too, while Akter sat safe in his palace—and later commanded the annihilation of the Shanki. Thus I am showing you that you must ally yourself with those who would topple Akter. They can do so only with the help of the Shanki, Hajimen!”

Khanson Hajimen regarded him thoughtfully. “Conan and Balad.”

“And others, aye,” Conan said, nodding with energy. “I can get into the palace. I will. Balad can attack, and prevail, and depose Akter Khan… if the khan’s warriors are busy chasing phantoms on the desert.”

“Phantoms? Shanki!”

“Aye!” Conan cried, seeing and hearing Hajimen’s excitement and talking faster and higher of voice to spur it. “And then Balad will recall the troops, and reveal that the Shanki are allies—and your people will be beloved in Zamboula, and allies of its new ruler.”

“Ha! The horse-warriors of the Zamboulans chase the Shanki
phantoms
, while our friends Conan and Balad invade the palace! Balad gains the crown; and Zamboulans gain a new and better ruler—and Conan and Hajimen gain vengeance; justice!”

Conan’s grin was nothing that made his face handsome. “Aye, warrior.”

Hajimen came to him, and then of a sudden stood stiff and put on a stony face. “And Akter Khan, if he lives, must be turned over to the Shanki for punishment!”

Such a promise Conan knew he could not make, and he knew he could be in trouble. He found a way to put it: “Hajimen! You should be riding to the tents of your people, right now! Instead… would the Shanki turn Akhimen Khan over to the Zamboulans for punishment, did he offend them, no matter how grievously? Consider! Akter Khan has committed more offenses against his people than against yours. They must punish him. He is theirs, of them. I have no doubt he will be executed… if he survives our attack. Certainly the allies of Balad Khan will be present to see him die!”

After a long while, Hajimen nodded. “You did not have to say all that. You could merely have said ‘Aye,” and sought to persuade me later.”

“True. Shall I lie to my friend who is the son of my friend?”

Within an hour, Hajimen and his party were riding out of Zamboula. With them, in Shanki garb, went Balad’s man Jelal. His own clothing was in the pack of his sumpter-beast and his Shanki kaffia shadowed the face someone at the gate might recognize. A few days hence, when Shanki outriders found them within less than a day of Zamboula, Jelal would return: horse-mounted and in his own clothing. He would report to Balad. Thus would the diversion from the desert be coordinated with the true attack from inside Zamboula’s walls.

After the departure of Jelal and the Shanki, Conan spent most of an afternoon conferring with Balad and his co-conspirators. This did not sit well with the Cimmerian who, afflicted with the wispy patience of both youth and the barbarian, preferred less plotting and the more direct approach of sharp-edged action. In this endeavor, Hajimen’s headstrong insistence on being nobly foolish had forced Conan into a new, more thoughtful and persuasive role. He who would one day captain bands and then squadrons and then armies and then an entire nation was not yet eighteen, and he was learning, and aging.

Part of his bold plan sat no better with Balad. He and the others with him pointed out that Conan’s desire—decision, but they said desire—to enter the palace, there to free Isparana and begin the attack from within, was foolish and headstrong.

He who had wisely counseled and persuaded the insistent Hajimen remained insistent, and was unpersuadable.

Thus, a few nights later, an accomplished thief lately of Shadizar and Arenjun and Cimmerian scaled two walls and entered the palace of Akter Khan. In less than two hours he was captive of him who had become the real ruler of Zamboula: Zafra the mage.

He remembered torture. He remembered it dimly, mistily, as though he had been drugged or ensorceled. He remembered the insistent touch of the swordpoint at his back, in the center, above his coccyx. He remembered being forced between two floor-set poles less than two feet apart. The swordpoint touched his back while a second man bound each leg, ankle and thigh, to one of the poles, which were thick as his calves. The swordpoint touched his back in constant reminder, and he did not move while his wrists were bound before him. The leather thongs were knotted and re-knotted. The pinpoint pressure at his back increased, urging him forward. With his legs immobilized he could go nowhere; he could only lean, from the waist. The swordpoint brought a trickle of warm blood. He felt it. He bent, from the waist. His linked wrists were pulled down between his bound, spread legs. He bent. The long rope attached to the wrist-cord was caught behind and drawn up tightly, behind him. He grunted. The rope was secured to an iron brazier in the wall, seven or eight feet behind him. The floor was chill beneath his bare feet, or had been;