“Me? No, Master; I lack the skills to take your place.”
“I will instruct you. First, you will learn to use the Mirror of Ptahmesu to commune with me.”
“But we are without the necessary talisman!”
“I can project images by the propellant power of my mind, though you could not. Come, we have no time to waste.”
From the royal paddocks Hsiao led out the single horse that drew his master's carriage. To a casual observer, the animal appeared to be a large black stallion; but a closer inspection of its hide revealed a strange, metallic sheen. The beast, moreover, neither pawed the ground nor lashed its tail at flies. In fact, no flies alighted on it, although the stable yard buzzed with their myriad wings. The stallion stood quiescent until Hsiao uttered a command unintelligible to any who might hear it; then the creature obeyed him instantly.
Hsaio now led the ebony stallion to the carriage house and backed it into the stall where stood Thulandra's chariot When a careless hoof struck against one of the lowered carriage shafts, a metallic ring reverberated through the silent air.
The vehicle, a boxlike two-wheeled cart, lacquered in vermilion and emblazed with a frieze of writhing serpents worked in gold, was furnished with a seat across the back. A pair of carven posts, upthrust on either side, supported an arched wooden frame, covered with canvas. No ordinary cover this; it was embroidered with strange symbols beyond the ken of all who gazed upon it, save that the astute among them might discern the likeness of the moon and the major constellations of the southern hemisphere.
Into the chest beneath the seat of this singular vehicle, Hsiao placed all manner of supplies, and on the broad expanse above, he piled silken cushions in profusion. And as he worked, he hummed a plaintive song of Khitai, full of curious quarter-tones.
Conan and Trocero watched the sheeting rain from the governors mansion. At length Conan growled: “I knew not that your country lay at the bottom of an inland sea, my lord.”
The count shook his head. "Never in half a century of living have I seen a storm of such intensity. Naught but sorcery could account for it Think you Thulandra Thuu— “
Conan clapped his companion of the shoulder. “You Aquilonians see magic lurking in every passing shadow! If you stub your toe, it’s Thulandra’s doing. In my dealings with these wizards, I've seldom found them so formidable as they would wish us to believe… . Aye, Prospero?” he added, as the officer bustled in.
"The scouts have returned. General, and report all roads are utterly impassable. Even the smallest creeks are bursting into raging torrents. It were useless to send the column forward; they’d not advance a league beyond the city.”
Conan cursed. "Your suspicion of that he-witch in Tarantia begins to carry weight, Trocero."
"And we have visitors," continued Prospero. "The northern barons, who set out for home before we reached Culario, have been overtaken by the storm and forced to return hither.”
A smile illumined Conan’s dark, scarred face. "Thank Crom, good news at last! Show them in.”
Prospero ushered in five men in damp woolen traveling garments of good quality, mud-splattered from top to booted toe. Trocero presented the Baron Roaldo of Imirus, whose demesne lay in northern Poitain. A former officer in the royal army, this hardy, gray-haired noble had guided the other barons and their escorts to Culario and now introduced them to the Cimmerian.
Conan judged the lordlings to be men of divers characters: one stout, red-faced, and full of boisterous good humor; another slim and elegant; still another fat and obviously privy to the pleasures of the table and the jug; and two of somber mein and given to few words. Differing though they did among themselves, all heartily supported the rebellion; for their tempers were rubbed raw by Numedides’ grasping tax collectors, and their ancient pride affronted by the royal troops stationed on their demesnes to wrest a yearly tribute from landowner and peasant. They avidly desired the downfall of the tyrant, and their questing gaze sought to discover Numedides' successor, so they might court their future monarch’s favor.
After the barons had rested and donned fresh raiment, Conan and his friends heard their tally of complaints and drew out their hidden hopes. Conan promised little, but his sympathetic demeanor left each with the impression that, in a new regime, he would occupy a position of importance.
"Be warned, my lords,” said Conan, “Ulric, Count of Raman, will move his troops across your lands as he travels south to confront our rebel army."
"What troops does that graybeard count command?” snorted Baron Roaldo. "A ragtail lot, I'll warrant. The Cimmerian frontier has long been peaceful and needs but a weak force to keep it safe."
"Not so," replied the Count of Poitain. "I am informed that the Army of the North is nearly up to strength and boasts veterans of many a border clash. Indeed, Raman himself is a master strategist who escaped from the sack of Venarium, many years ago."
Conan smiled grimly. As a stripling, he had joined the wild Cimmerian horde that plundered Fort Venarium, but of this he made no mention. Instead, he told the northern barons:
“Numedides will, I doubt not, send troops from the Westermarck; and being nearer, they will arrive the sooner. You must harry these northern contingents in a delaying action, at least until we rout the Bossonian royalists."
Count Trocero eyed the barons keenly. "Canst raise a fighting force without alerting the king’s men stationed amongst you?”
Said Baron Anmiian of Ronda: “Those human grasshoppers swarm only at harvest time to consume the fruit of our labors. They’ll not arrive, the gods willing, for another month or two."
“But," argued the fat Baron Justin of Armavir, “such a conflict, waged on our lands, will ruin both our purses and our people. Perchance we can delay Sir Ulric, but only till he burns our fields, scatters our folk, and wrecks vengeance on our persons.”
"If General Conan fail to take Tarantia, we are beggared in any case,” countered the hard-featured Roaldo. “Word will soon reach the tyrant’s spies that we have joined the rebel cause. Better to game for a golden eagle than for a copper penny.”
“He speaks sooth,” said Ammian of Ronda. “Unless we topple the tyrant, we shall all have our necks either lengthened or shortened, no matter what we do. So let us dare the hazard, and from encompassing dangers boldly pluck our safety!”
At last the five agreed, some with enthusiasm, others doubtfully. And so it was decided that, as soon as the weather cleared, the barons would hasten northward to their baronies, like chaff blown before an oncoming storm, to harass Count Ulric’s Army of the North when it sought passage through their property.
After the barons had retired for the night, Prospero asked Conan: “Think you they will arrive in time?”
“For that matter,” added Trocero, “will they hold true to their new alliance, if Numedides strews our path with steel or if Tarantia stands firm against us?”
Conan shrugged. “I am no prophet. The gods alone can read the hearts of men.”
The sorcerer s chariot rumbled through the streets of Tarantia, with Hsiao, legs braced against the floor-boards, gripping the reins and Thulandra Thuu in hooded cloak seated on the pillow-padded bench. Citizens who remarked the vehicle’s approach turned away their faces. To meet the dark sorcerer’s eyes might focus his attention, and all deemed it expedient to escape the magician’s notice. For none there was who failed to hear rumors of his black experiments and tales of missing maidens.
The great bronze portals of the South Gate swung open at the vehicle’s approach and closed behind it Along the open country road, the strange steed paced at twice the speed of ordinary horseflesh, while the chariot bounced and swayed, trailing a thin plume of dust More than forty leagues of white road unrolled with every passing day; and neither heat, nor rain, nor gloom of night stayed the iron stallion from its appointed task. When Hsiao wearied, his master grasped the reins. During these periods of rest, the yellow man devoured cold meats and snatched a spell of fitful sleep. Whether his master ever closed his eyes, Hsiao knew not.