It would not matter that the reason for which the captain wished the man taken alive served Turan. Accusations of treason floated about freely now in the kingdom, like rotten lilies in the scum atop a stagnant pond. Even if the charge stopped short of treason— popular, because it carried the death penalty, and the captain had enemies who would not sleep easy as long as he lived—it could mean demotion.
That in turn could mean a choice between returning to his family's estates, and living there until some further intrigue snatched him away, or a post counting horseshoes and saddle blankets so far to the south that the nomads spoke Iranistani. Here was a post of honor, more honorable still in that he commanded Greencloaks and had won their respect. He would not part with it alive.
The desert breeze did blow through the captain's mind one final thought. If the man leading the Afghulis was the one the captain sought, the matter of life or death might not be altogether the captain's choice. He had seen the man fight years ago, and by all reports, he was as hardy as ever and seasoned by many more battles and journeys during those years.
The captain put an end to his fretting and raised his lance. Beside him a sergeant raised his lance, with a small one-eye lantern dangling from the tip like a pennon.
Three hills away, a similar lantern glimmered against the stars, then faded as its bearer turned away, to pass the signal on. The captain waited until the soft jingle of harness and taut, shallow breaths around him told of veterans ready to ride out.
Then the captain drove in his spurs, and his horse surged down the wash as clouds drifted toward the moon.
Conan cursed briefly, but this time not softly, as the riders swarmed out of the wash. It was no comfort to have been right when it was too late for being right to matter.
He would have cursed again, but he had better uses for his breath at this moment, and besides, he feared to dishearten the Afghulis. Stout warriors as they were, they were also at the end of their endurance. What small hope they had of winning free now depended on every man fighting so that the first few enemies to come within his reach died swiftly and bloodily.
After that, the new Turanians might be as disheartened as the old ones.
And elephants might turn purple—in the daylight, in the sight of sober men.
Conan pulled the mare's head toward the left. The right of a line might be the post of honor in civilized hosts, but here was neither civilization nor host. The post of honor was that closest to danger, and to enemies who would feel the Cimmerian's steel before either he or they died.
"Spurs in, swords out, and heads down!" he called, as he drew up in the leftmost place.
"What—?" someone began. Someone else snarled in wordless fury, at the folly of not seeing that the time for arguing was past.
The first speaker fell silent. Then there was no human sound from Conan's band, or at least none heard over the thud of the hooves, the panting of the horses through flared nostrils, and the rising thunder of the pursuing Turanians.
It was a long bowshot even for the best archer, and night shooting was a chancy business when arrows were scant. Before long the clouds reaching out for the moon blotted out the silver-sheened disk and a deeper darkness fell over the desert. Now the race for life was up to the horses.
No Afghuli horses had fallen, but half were staggering and foam-flecked, when Conan heard a war trumpet cry out to the stars from behind his band. Then the desert night grew colder, a coldness that thrust into his bowels like an enemy's spear, when he heard the trumpet answered ahead.
It was some distance off, as far as the Cimmerian's keen and seasoned ears could judge, but it surely lay across the Afghulis' path to whatever safety the open desert might offer tonight. Now the Turanians would not even have to wolf-pack their prey. They could close and crush by sheer weight of numbers, once they had blocked the path.
Conan's eyes searched the shadows, looking for even a few scattered rocks that might help in a last stand. They faced nothing better, but it mattered to him how many foes he took with him, and the Afghulis were warriors of the same stamp.
Nothing but sand and gravel revealed itself, dunes swelling and sinking down to washes and ravines too shallow to hide a mounted man. The clouds held their veil over the moon; everything beyond half-bowshot vanished in the shadows even to Conan's keen night-sight.
Both horns sounded again, and both now closer. Conan listened, trying to judge if the Turanians ahead were drawing across his path, or were still off to one flank. If they were on one flank, and either good going for the horses or cover for the men lay on the other—
Conan's ears searched the night, and he realized that he had clutched his sword hilt so tightly that his nails dinted the shagreen grip. Then he laughed, and no sane man would have heard that laugh without fear colder than the night, for it held a Cimmerian's battle rage.
The Turanians ahead were still some ways to the left of the path of Conan's band. In the darkness, they might not realize this until it was too late. The trap had been well set and now was truly sprung, but might it not be too weak to hold such formidable prey?
This might be whistling into the desert wind, but Conan held that thought in his mind as a starving wildcat grips a squirrel. He had led too often to doubt that in such moments the men of a war band could all but read their leader's thoughts. They had best read hope and courage there, or the battle was lost before it was fairly joined.
The ground to the right did lie open, but it also rose steeply between two shallow ridges. Conan's eyes raked the ridge crests, found nothing up there, but then saw an Afghuli's mount stumble. The rider bent over to whisper encouragement and at the same time apply the spur, but the horse was spent. It went down, flinging its rider clear. The horseman leapt to his feet, darted for one of the spare mounts, gripped the saddle, and swung himself into it without the fresh horse missing a step.
"Ya-haaaaa!" Conan shouted. With such men under him, the Turanians would have another battle to remember before they shoveled him under the sand or left him for the vultures. They might even win free, if they reached the top of the slope and found no enemies there.
The Afghulis reached the top of the slope, but in no way fit to flee beyond it. The climb had been too much for their horses, one of whom flung its rider off at once. Conan heard the deadly thud of a skull striking rock, and saw that the man did not move after he fell.
"Ya-haaaa!" Conan shouted again, and wheeled his mount. Beyond the ridges to either side lay darkness and perhaps ground fit to conceal a man on foot. This was no desert for a man on foot, unless he was as hardy as an Afghuli and as ready to make those pursuing him wary of closing.
But there was only one way to buy time for the Afghulis, and only one man fit to pay the price. Conan's horse staggered as he brutally jerked her head around, until she was facing down the slope. Then he drove in his spurs.
As his charge gathered way, he heard a voice rise above the hoof thunder of the onrushing Turanians. Half-lost in the blare of trumpets, it seemed from all sides, it yet sounded curiously familiar. But the man whose name the voice conjured up would never have given such a mad order as the one Conan heard now.
"Take the big one alive, at all costs!"
Someone cared little for the lives of his men tonight or their obedience tomorrow, if he thought that would be an easy task against the Cimmerian.
In the next moment the night seemed to turn solid with the onrushing shapes of mounted men. They bore lances, and crouched in the saddle both to pro-tect themselves and to thrust low. They did not succeed in doing the first. Conan cut five men out of the saddle as his mount crashed through their line.
But three lances and a sword left a cruel mark on Conan's mare. She screamed like a damned soul and had the strength to rear so violently that the Cimmerian lost his seat. He slid backward, landing spring-legged as his horse fell, blood flowing from her mouth as well as her wounds. His drawn sword hissed in a deadly arc before him and to either side, and the screams of Turanian horses drowned out the mare's death rattle.