The following morning, Trocero and his contingent departed along the right branch of the fork, headed for the ford of Tunais. Conan and Prospero, with their forces, continued down the left branch until, shortly before noon, they reached another fork. Here Prospero with his small detachment bore to the right, for the central ford of Nogara. Conan, with the remaining horse and foot, continued westward to seek out the ford of Mevano.
Section by section, squad by squad, Conan's rebels filed down the narrow roads. They camped one more night in the hills and went on. As they descended the final range of foothills, between clumps of conifers they again caught glimpses of the broad Alimane, which separated Argos from Poitain. True, Argos claimed a tract of land on the northern side of the river—a tract extending to the junction of the Alimane with the Khorotas. But under Vilerus III the Aquilonians had overrun the area and, being the stronger, still retained possession.
As Conan’s division reached the flatlands, the Cimmerian ordered his men to speak but little, and only in low voices. As far as possible, they were to quiet the jingle of their gear. The wagons halted under heavy stands of trees, and the men pitched camp out of sight of the ford of Mevano. Scouts sent ahead reported no sign of any foe, but they brought back the unwelcome news that the river was in flood, rampant with the springtime melting of the highland snows.
Well before the dawn of a cloud-darkened day, Conan’s officers routed the men from their tents. Grumbling, the soldiers bolted an uncooked breakfast and fell into formation. Conan stalked about, snarling curses and threatening those who raised their voices or dropped their weapons. To his apprehensive ears, it seemed as if the clatter could be heard for leagues above the purl of the river. A better-trained force, he thought sourly, would move on cat’s paws.
To diminish the noise, commands were passed from captains to men by hand signals instead of by shouts and trumpet calls; and this caused some con' fusion. One company, signaled to march, cut through the ranks of another.
Fisticuffs erupted and noses bled before the officers ended the fracas.
A heavy overcast blanketed road and river as Conan’s troops neared the banks of the Alimane. Mounted on his black stallion Finy, Conan drew rein and peered through the curtaining drizzle toward the further bank. Beyond his horse’s hooves, the high water, brown with sediment, gurgled past.
Conan signaled to his aide Alaricus, a promising young Aquilonian captain. Alaricus maneuvered his horse close to that of his general.
"How deep, think you?" muttered Conan.
"More than knee-deep, General,” replied Alaricus. “Perhaps chest-high. Let me put my mount into it to see.”
"Try not to fall into a mudhole,” cautioned Conan.
The young captain urged his bay gelding into the swirling flood. The animal balked, then waded obediently toward the northern shore. By midstream, the murky water was curling over the toes of Alaricus’s boots; and when he looked back, Conan beckoned him.
"We shall have to chance it," growled the Cimmerian when the aide had rejoined him. “Pass the word for Dio’s light horse to make the first crossing and scout the farther woods. Then the foot shall go single file, each man grasping the belt of the man before him. Some of these clodhoppers would drown if they lost their footing whilst weighted with their gear.”
As sunless day paled the somber sky, the company of light horse splashed into the stream. Reaching the further bank. Captain Dio waved to indicate that the woods harbored no foe.
Conan had watched intently as the troopers’ horses sank into the swirling flume, noting the depth of the water. When it was plain that the river bed shoaled beyond midstream and that the other bank was clear, he signaled the first company of foot to cross. Soon two companies of pikemen and one of archers breasted the flood. Each soldier gripped the man in front, while the archers held aloft their bows to keep them dry.
Conan brought his stallion close to Alaricus, saying: "Tell the heavy horse to ford the stream, and then start the baggage train across, with Cerco’s company of foot to haul them out of mudholes. I’m going out to midstream.”
Fury stumbled into the river, gaskin-deep in the rushing brown water. When the charger flinched and whinnied, as if sensing unseen danger, Conan tightened his grip on the reins and forced the beast through the deepest part of the central channel.
His keen eyes searched the jade-green foliage along the northern shore, where a riot of flowering shrubs, their colors muted by the overcast, surrounded the boles of ancient trees. The road became a dark tunnel amid the new-leaved oaks, which seemed to bear the weight of the leaden sky. Here was ample room for concealment, thought Conan somberly. The light cavalry still waited, bunched into the small clearing where the road dipped into the river, although they should have searched far into the surrounding woods before the first foot soldiers reached the northern bank. Conan gestured angrily.
"Dio!” he roared from the midstream shallows. If any foe was present, he would long since-have observed the crossing, so Conan saw no point in keeping silence. "Spread out and beat the bushes! Move, damn your soul!"
The three companies of infantry scrambled out on the northern bank, muddy and dripping, while Dio’s horsemen broke into squads and pushed into the thickets on either side of the road. An army is at its most vulnerable when fording a stream, this Conan knew; and foreboding swelled in his barbaric heart.
He wheeled his beast about to survey the southern shore. The heavy cavalry was already knee-deep in the stream, and the leading wains of the baggage train were struggling through the flood. A couple had bogged down in the mud of the river bottom; soldiers, heaving on the wheels, manhandled them along.
A sudden cry ripped the heavy air. As Conan swung around, he caught a flicker of movement in the bushes at the junction of road and river. With a short bark of warning, Conan reined his steed, and an arrow meant for him flashed past his breast and, swift as a striking viper, buried itself in the neck of the young officer behind him. As the dying man slumped into the roiling water, Conan spurred his horse forward, bellowing orders. He must, he thought, command the troops in contact with the foe, whether they faced a paltry crossing guard or the full might of Procas’s army.
Suddenly Fury reared and staggered beneath the impact of another arrow. With a shriek, the animal fell to its knees, hurling Conan from the saddle. The Cimmerian gulped a swirl of muddy water and struggled to his feet, coughing curses. Another arrow struck his cuirass, glanced off, and tumbled into the torrent. All about him, the stagnant calm of the leaden day hung in tatters. Men howled war cries, screamed in fear and pain, and cursed the very gods above.
Blinking water from his stinging eyes, Conan perceived a triple line of archers and crossbowmen in the blue surcoats of the Border Legion. As one man, they had leaped from the lush foliage to rake the floundering riverbound rebels with a hail of arrows.
The screeching whistle of arrows mingled with the deeper thrum of crossbow bolts. Although the arbalesters could not shoot their ciunbersome weapons so fast as the longbowmen, their crossbows had the greater range, and their iron bolts could pierce the stoutest armor. Man after man fell, screaming or silent, as the muddy waters closed over their heads and rolled their bodies along the scoured shoals.
Wading shoreward, Conan searched out a trumpeter to call his milling men into battle formations. In the shallows he found one, a tow-headed Gunderman, staring dumbly at the carnage. Growling curses, Conan splashed toward the awestruck lout; but as he sought to seize the fellow’s jerkin, the Gunderman doubled up and pitched headfirst into the water, a bolt buried in his vitals. The trumpet fell from his flaccid grip and was tumbled out of reach by the current.