Part 7 (2/2)
Swiftly, Conan issued his orders. His tones were low, but the words carried to the ears of all.
”Two men with torches, set the barracks afire. Three hundred archers with plenty of arrows place themselves to mow down the soldiers as they pour out. The rest of you hit the fort with torch and sword. Burn and slay, and take any spoils and captives you want. Keep together. Do not break up into bands smaller than twenty. Thabit, bring your fifty with me. I am for the governor's palace.”
With an imperious gesture, Conan dismissed his subchiefs and beckoned his fifty, who followed his long strides at a dogtrot. Behind them, smoking torches lit the square as the arsonists slunk towards the guardsmens' lodgings. Other bands vanished in different directions.
With the armed defenders of the fort wiped out by Conan's stratagem, there would be little opposition. The lean reavers licked their lips in antic.i.p.ation of plunder and vengeance as they stalked along the silent streets, arrows nocked and knives and spears gleaming in the moonlight.
Oman led his men straight toward their goal. He intended to save Yin Allal first. Moreoever, he was intrigued by the tale of the beautiful yedka. Here, he thought, he might find a prize precious enough to satisfy his own taste. Beautiful women had always been one of his weaknesses, and his imagination had been fired by Ardas.h.i.+r's account He increased his speed, watching the dimmed doorways and nighted lane mouths with smoldering eyes as he hurried past.
As they emerged upon the central square, Conan . mouthed a barbaric oath. Four sentries paced in pairs before the copper door of the residence. He had counted on taking the governor by surprise, but that was no longer possible. Swinging his great sword, he raced across the flagstones of the market place. Such was his speed that one of the spearmen was down with his side caved in before the others collected their shattered wits. Conan's followers were twenty yards behind, unable to match the Cimmerian's terrific speed.
Two spearmen thrust their weapons against his broad breast, while the third put a horn to his lips and sent forth a bellowing signal. This was cut short by a well-aimed Zuagir arrow, which pierced the trumpeter's brain. The horn fell to the ground with a clank.
Conan parried the spear thrusts with a fierce swipe of his sword that sheared off the heads of both weapons. With a vicious thrust he impaled one antagonist on his long blade. The Turanian fell sprawling against the other with a gurgle. The second man's sword stroke at the Cimmerian's head went awry and struck sparks from the flagstones. In the next instant, the man was pincus.h.i.+oned with arrows. With a groan and a clatter of mail he fell.
Roused to a vicious l.u.s.t for killing, Conan sprang forward and tried the copper door. Time was short. In answer to the ringing note of the horn, people thrust their heads out of cas.e.m.e.nts around the square.
Archers appeared on some of the roofs; he must get into the tower before the foe had time to organize a defense.
The door opened before his thrusting shoulder. Leaving ten of his men to guard against attack from the rear, Conan led the rest inside.
With a clink of mail and a flash of sword blades, ten soldiers in the white turbans of the Imperial Guard rushed against him out of a doorway. The Cimmerian's battle cry rang high as he and his followers closed with their enemies. Many a curved knife or shortened spear found its mark in Turanian vitals, but the flas.h.i.+ng scimitars also took a heavy toll. However, the bloodiest havoc wreaked was that of Oman's cross-hiked sword. He leaped, cut, and thrust with a tigerish frenzy and speed that blurred the sight of his adversaries. In a couple of minutes, the ten Turanians lay in pools of blood, though eight silent figures in bloodstained khalats bore witness to the ferocity of the defense.
Conan swept up to the second floor, taking four steps at a stride. On this floor, he knew, the quarters of the governor were located.
Pausing, he flung swift orders at his followers.
”Ten of you, search for the keys to the dungeon and free Yin Allal. The rest, take all the plunder you can carry. I'll pay the governor a visit.”
As the Zuagirs, howling and laughing, stormed up and down the stairs, Conan broke the sandalwood door before him into splinters with a mighty kick. He found himself in the anteroom of the governor's apartments.
Crossing the floor swiftly on sound-deadening mats, he halted in midstep. From the other side of the door before him he heard a woman's voice raised in angry expostulation.
Conan's brows drew together in a vast frown. He picked up a heavy table and heaved it against the new obstacle. With a cras.h.i.+ng impact, the ungainly missile burst open the shattered door. He tossed the remains of the table aside and strode through.
At a table in the middle of the lamplit room stood a tall, powerful man of middle age. Conan knew him by description as Veziz Shah. Silken divans and tables laden with delicacies stood about on the rug-covered floor. On one table rested a flagon of wine with two filled goblets.
A woman rested on the divan. Her wide dark eyes held no trace of fear as she looked upon the invading barbarian. Conan gave a start. This was the girl who had accosted him in Khanyria and almost led him to his death!
No time now to mull over such matters. With a curse, the governor unsheathed his jeweled scimitar and advanced catlike upon the Cimmerian.
”You dare invade my chambers, you red-handed rogue!” he snarled. ”I have heard you are on the rove again, and I hoped for the pleasure of having your limbs torn off by wild horses. But as it is-”
He whipped forward in a swift arching stroke. Most men would have been so distracted by his words as to have their throats slit by that whistling edge, but the pantherish speed of barbarian muscles saved Conan. Parrying with his hilt, he lashed out in a vicious countercut.
In the exchange of blows and thrusts, he soon found he faced one of the most skilled swordsmen he had ever met.
But no civilized fencer could match the skill and speed of Conan, hardened in wars and battles since boyhood against foes from all over the world. The skill at arms he had won as a mercenary would by itself have made him master of any ordinary swordsman, for his learning had been pounded into his brain in endless, b.l.o.o.d.y strife on far battlefields. In addition he retained the flas.h.i.+ng, lightning-quick speed of the primordial barbarian, unslowed by civilized comfort.
As the duel continued, Veziz Shah began to tire and his eyes filled with an awful fear. With a sudden cry he flung his scimitar into Conan's face and raced for the far wall. There his questing fingers probed the surface as if seeking the spring to open a hidden exit.
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