Then the butt of a lance came down on his shoulder. It jarred even Conan's muscle-armored limb to the bone, and his sword turned in his hand as he slashed at the lance-bearer. The barbarian opened the man's chest, even through a coat of good Turanian mail, but Conan's sword stuck for a moment.
Another lance thrust forward, ripping across Conan's forearm. The shock, more than the pain or the damage, forced open his hand. His sword fell. Conan drew his dagger and leapt for the first horseman he could see—which left him open to three on his left and rear whom he could not.
All struck with lance-butts, and the darkness of the desert night poured into Conan's brain and swallowed up his being.
The young captain reined in just outside sword's reach from the circle of men around the fallen Afghuli leader. He did not doubt the obedience of his men, even though his orders had doubtless cost some their lives and more blood and pain. He did doubt that after such a fight in such darkness, all saw clearly.
"Who passes there?"
Good, it was Sergeant Barak. He was as hard to excite as a sand dune, and nearly as hard to move.
"The scarred captain." Why did he name himself so? The man on the ground might be the wrong one, and if he was the right one, he was still most likely as senseless as a prayer carpet.
No matter. It had been an impulse, of the sort the captain had learned to trust over many years. Trusting them was one of the things that had guarded his back from his enemies and his king alike—if in fact these were different.
"Make way for the captain," Barak called, pitching his voice to carry without raising it to his normal bull's roar. The captain dismounted as the circle of men opened, and stepped forward to see what lay on the ground within it.
It was the man the captain had been seeking. He was breathing and looked to be intact as to limb and vital organs. If this was so, even if the blood that covered him was partly his, he would heal swiftly and be fit to fight soon enough for the captain's plans. The best part of ten years had not taken much from the man's colossal vitality, unless all the tales of him that had reached the captain's ears were lies.
"How many of our comrades are dead?"
Muttered answers said little, until the sergeant called for silence and asked a few sharp questions.
"Nine, lord, and five more gravely hurt."
"I will reward the kin of all who died here tonight, and the living who are past service will likewise be free of want."
Whether shaken, respectful, or merely prudent when no one knew who spied where, the men were silent. None asked, "With what?" which would have been a more than reasonable question to anyone who did not know the captain's hidden resources.
Not even their being hidden could save a single brass piece, however, if this plan miscarried. The captain misliked hiding even part of the truth, but he had to admit that this was no time to pour out all of it, like flinging the contents of a chamber pot from an attic window.
"How many men had he with him?" was the captain's next question.
"We slew or took seven," the sergeant said. "Most likely there was a handful more, from the horses. But they've run off the gods alone know where."
The sergeant, like the wise of his kind, knew how to tell an officer distasteful truths without putting them into words. The man's tone and, even in the darkness, his stance told him that the men would not readily charge off into the desert night, seeking the last Afghulis.
Nor was there any need for them to do so. Those who fled were of small concern. The captives, on the other hand—
"How many taken?"
"Two who will live, and one who will not see dawn."
"Cut his throat and say proper rites over him. Bind the others' wounds, likewise this one's, and prepare horse litters for them. We ride for the Virgin's Oasis when this is done."
Barak was not the only one to bow his head and say, "As you command, my lord." He also was not the only one whose face showed doubt as to the cause of this—if it had any cause but their captain's sudden madness!
Five
Conan awoke in a tent. This was no surprise. Nor was it any surprise that his feet were chained to a stout stake driven into the ground in the middle of the tent. Wrist irons connected by another length of chain restrained his hands, but left him free to reach a jug of water and a plate of flat Turanian bread on the ground beside him.
The real surprise was his being awake and alive at all. The captain clearly had more than common control over his men, that they obeyed his orders to capture the Cimmerian alive after such a bloodbath as the final fight. Conan felt bruises, grazes, and one or two gashes, but none were more than he had expected, and all seemed to have been cleaned, poulticed, and even dressed.
Somebody—call him the captain—wanted Conan alive. For what purpose, the Cimmerian could only guess. He vowed to ask the first man who came in, and if the answer was not to his liking—well, there was enough scope in the chains that he could strangle at least one man. And if he could break the chains, as he had broken chains at least as stout when he was younger and had nothing but bull-strength—a broken chain made a weapon wise men feared.
Conan sat up, thirst crackling in his mouth and throat and thunder rumbling in his head. Awkwardly, he lifted the jug and emptied it in a few swallows. He was reaching for the bread when he saw movement behind one flap of the tent door.
"Call this food!" he shouted. "Bring me some meat fit for a man, or send your captain and I'll devour him!"
The tent flap shook violently as the Cimmerian's wrath propelled the unseen listener out into the open, then fell still. Conan's laughter sent bread sliding off the plate. Then he was too busy making the bread disappear to care further about the fugitive.
The bread had been coarse when fresh and was now stale as well, but food meant strength for the next fight. There would be such a fight, too. Even had Conan been disposed to submit meekly to whatever death the Turanians intended for him, there were a dozen sworn comrades to properly avenge.
There were two death sentences in force in this Turanian camp this day. The first was that which the Turanians had passed on Conan. The second was the one that Conan had passed on the men who tried to carry out the first.
By the time he had taken that resolve, Conan had emptied the plate as well as the jug. He belched in satisfaction, then cautiously tested the strength of his chains.
The test pleased him. The chains were heavy enough, but the rivets holding them to the rings were another matter. Even on that first cautious test, Conan had sensed weakness there that pleased him—and also offended him.
His father would never have taken a king's silver for such shoddy work!
The captain had awakened from a dream of breaking his fast on perfumed wine, honey cakes, and fresh fruit, in a bed furnished with silk sheets and shared with a comely lady now some years dead.
His actual fast-breaker was water, bread, and a slab of sausage. He could not recognize what meat had gone into the sausage; after three bites he decided he did not wish to know. Appetite, however, kept him eating until the sausage was down and settling, however uneasily, in his stomach.
He was trimming his mustache with his dagger when Sergeant Barak entered.
"The big prisoner is awake."
"How does he fare?"
"Healthy enough to curse the guards into fits, or so I've heard."