Part 5 (2/2)

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 riven 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 wors.h.i.+p since the day long ago when he had arrived among them. He united their bickering clans and led them in raids so daring, b.l.o.o.d.y, and rewarding that tales of them were still told around the campfires. Their superst.i.tious 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 a.s.sault,” 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 bur 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 pa.s.sed 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.

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