Part 7 (1/2)
”What see you, Tatur?” asked the yedka.
”He comes,” said the shaman in a high singsong voice. ”He whom you seek is near.”
”How can he be?” said the lady Thanara sharply. ”Veziz Shah keeps a sharp watch, and no such conspicuous rogue could gain admittance.”
”Nevertheless, he approaches,” whined Tatur. ”The spirits do not lie.
Unless you flee, he will soon confront you.”
”He must have entered Wakla in disguise,” mused Thanara. ”If he comes upon me, what shall I do? Will your master, he who is not to be named, give me some means to cope with him?” There was a note of panic in her voice, and her hand sought her shapely throat.
”It is the will of him who shall not be named that you should succeed in your mission,” intoned the Wigur. He fumbled inside his sheepskin coat and brought out a small purple phial.
”A drop of this in his wine,” he said, ”will render him like one dead for three days.”
”That is good. But the barbarian is wary. His suspicions are aroused in the wink of an eye, as we learned at Khanyria. Suppose he detects the drug and refuses to drink?”
Tartur brought out another object: a small pouch of soft leather. ”In that case, this will lay him low if he breathes it.”
”What is it?”
”Pollen of the yellow lotus of Khitai. Use it only as a last resort.
For, should a breath of air blow it back upon you, you too will be cast into a swoon. And too deep a breath of it can kill.”
”That is good, but not enough. If your master really expects me to confront the Cimmerian, he should furnish me with a last-minute means of escape if I am trapped. Others may underestimate the Cimmerian, but not I. And your master can do it, and he owes it to me for past services.”
A faint smile creased Tatur's wrinkled features. ”He who is not to be named said truly you are a sharp bargainer. Here.” He brought out an object like a translucent egg. ”Break this in your hour of need, and help will come to you from other dimensions.”
Thanara examined the three objects. ”Good,” she said at last. ”Ride to Aghrapur and tell the king I await Conan here. If all goes well, he shall have his enemy. If not, he will need a new agent. Haste and farewell!”
A few minutes later, Tatur the shaman, astride a small, s.h.a.ggy Hyrkanian pony, jogged off into the night across the sands at a tireless canter.
The night was cool and quiet. The captain of the watch at the main gate stretched and yawned. From the small guardhouse in the square before the gate, he could see two bowmen patrolling the parapet over the big twin doors. The pair of spearmen at the pillars flanking the entrance stood erect and still, the moonlight reflected by their polished mail s.h.i.+rts and spired helmets. No need to fear anything; a stroke on the gong at his side would bring a company on the double from the barracks.
Nevertheless, the governor had ordered the guards doubled and their vigilance increased.
The officer wondered. Did Veziz Shah really fear an attack on the fort on account of the captured Zuagir chief? Let the desert rats come! They would smash their heads against the walls while the archers riddled them with arrows. The governor must be getting old and p.r.o.ne to nightmares. Let him rest. He, Akeb Man, was in charge!
The moon was obscured by clouds. Akeb Man blinked and peered. What had happened? It seemed as if the two archers on the wall had sat down for a moment. Now, however, they had risen again and resumed their measured pacing. Better investigate these lazy devils. He would give them three hours' drill in the desert sun if they had tried to s.h.i.+rk their duty.
Rising, he gazed out again before opening the door. At that instant the moonlight returned in full force. A shocking sight met his eyes.
Instead of spired helmets and mantles, the archers wore banded kaffias and khalats.
Zuagirs!
How they had gotten in, only the devils knew. Akeb Man s.n.a.t.c.hed at the hammer that hung beside the gong to strike the alarm.
The door of the guardhouse burst in with a crash and fell in a cloud of splinters and dust. Akeb Man wheeled and s.n.a.t.c.hed at his scimitar, but the sight of the man confronting him made him pause in astonishment. No white-clad desert raider was he, but a giant western warrior in black mesh-mail, naked sword in hand.
With a cry of fear and rage, the Turanian lashed out with a low disemboweling thrust. With the swiftness of lightning, the mailed giant avoided the blade and brought his own long straight sword down in a whistling blow. Blood spurted like a fountain as Akeb Man sank to the floor, cloven to the breastbone.
Conan wasted no time in gloating. Any moment now, an inquisitive guardsman might poke his head through a barracks window or a belated citizen might come wandering by. The big iron-sheathed doors were now opening, and through them poured a swift and silent-footed stream of white-robed nomads.