“… I know not who betrayed my plan; but some treacher must have forewarned the rebel chieftain."
Alcina replied: “Perhaps not. Master. The barbarian pig has senses keener than those of ordinary men; he might have detected the coming cataclysm by some stirring of the air above the earth. What do you now?”
“I must needs remain here to guard that ninny Numitor against some asinine misjudgment, until Count Ulric arrives. The stars inform me of his coming in three days’ time. Yet I am weary. Calling up the spirits of the earth has prostrated me. I can work no further spells until I recoup my psychic forces."
"Then pray, come back forthwith!" urged the vision of Alcina. "Ulric will surely arrive before the rebels can surmount the cliffs, and I have need of your protection."
"Protection? Why so?"
“His maggotty Majesty, the King, importunes me constantly to join him in his bestial amusements. I am afraid."
"What has this walking heap of excrement been urging you to do?"
“His desires beggar all description. Master. At your command, some men I have lain with, and some I have slain. But this I will not do."
“Set and Kali!" exclaimed the dry male voice. “When I have finished with Numedides, he'll wish he were in hell! I shall set forth for Tarantia on the morrow."
“Have a care that you fall not into rebel hands along the way! Insurgent bands have been reported along the Road of Kings, and the barbarian pig might lead a swift raid into loyal territory. He is a worthy adversary."
The male voice chuckled faintly. “Fear not for me, my dear Alcina. Even in my present depleted state, I can with my peculiar powers slay any mortal at close quarters. And now, farewell.”
The voices fell silent, and the vision faded. Conan shook himself like one awakening from a vivid dream. With Thulandra gone from the scene of battle and Ulric not yet arrived, he had a chance to fall on Numitors army and rout it—^if only he could reach the plains above before the Count of Raman came with reinforcements.
He needed air to clear his rampant thoughts and rose to leave his narrow sleeping quarters. In the adjacent section of the tent, the bodyguards whom Prospero had assigned him were so engrossed in a game of chance that none looked up as Conan, soundless as a shadow, glided past them.
Outside, the sentries, used to his night prowls, supposed that he was making an inspection. They saluted as he wandered to the edge of the encampment and continued into the nighted woods. Prospero, he thought with a grim smile, would be perturbed to know that Conan once again had given his bodyguards the slip.
He fumbled in his wallet for the bone whistle Cola had given him, retrieved it, and fingered it. The satyr had said that if he ever wanted help from the people of these woods, he had but to blow upon it. Half in jest, he put the tiny whistle to his lips and blew. Nothing happened. More urgently, he blew another silent blast.
Perhaps the remnant of the satyrs had departed from the scene of their destruction. Even if they heard the call, they might need time to come to him. Conan stood motionless with the wary patience of a crouching panther waiting for its prey, listening to the buzz and chirp of insects and the rustle of a passing breeze. Now and then he put the soundless whistle to his lips and blew again.
At length he felt a movement in the shrubbery.
"Who you, blow whistle call satyr?" asked a small high-pitched voice in broken Aquilonian.
"Gola?’'
“Nay, me Zudik, chief. Who you?" The shrubbery parted.
“Conan the Cimmerian. Do you know Gola?” Conan, whose eyes had adjusted to the darkness, could see this was a bent and ancient satyr, whose pelt was tinged with silver.
“Aye,” replied the satyr chieftain. “He tell about you. Save him and four others. What you want?”
“Your help to kill the men atop the cliff.”
“How Zudik help big man like you?”
“We need a pathway to the top,” said Conan, “now that the Giant’s Notch is filled with rocks. Know you another way?”
The night sang with the sound of insects in the silence. Then Zudik answered slowly: “Is small path that way.” The satyr pointed eastward.
“How far?” The satyr replied in his own language, and his words were like the caws of crows.
Puzzled, the Cimmerian asked: “Can we get there within a day’s march?”
“Walk hard. Can do.”
“Will you show us the way?”
“Aye. Be ready before sunup.”
Later Conan sought out Publius and said: “We move at dawn for a path the satyrs say leads to the bluff; but it’s too narrow for the wagons. You will take the baggage train back to Pedassa and follow the road thence to the Khorotas. If we join you on the road to Tarantia, we shall have vanquished Numitor; if not”— Conan drew, a finger across his throat—"you'll go alone.”
The second gap in the escarpment was much narrower than the Giant’s Notch. From below it was invisible, hidden by lush greenery and overhanging rocks. The horsemen had to lead their mounts across the brook that gurgled at the bottom of the cleft and up the rocky way. More than one horse, frightened by the narrowing canyon walls, held up the others while it whinnied, rolled frightened eyes, and reared.
The men afoot, walking in single file, could just squeeze through. When dusk made the path darker and more sinister, Conan urged each man to grasp the garments of the man ahead and stumble forward. Morning saw the last man through.
While the Army of Liberation rested from their forced march and arduous climb, Conan sent scouts to probe Numitor s position. On their return the leader reported:
"Numitor has struck his camp and fallen back for several leagues along the road. His men have pitched camp in the forest, straddling the highway.”
Conan looked a question at his officers. Pallantides said: “What’s this? Even if Numitor is stupid, I’ve never heard he was a coward!"
“More likely,” Trocero put in, “he learned that we have found a way up the escarpment and feared we would drive him to the precipice.”
"The sorcerer might have warned him,” ventured Prospero.
“That is not all. General,” said the chief scout “Four more regiments have arrived to reinforce the enemy. We recognized their banners.”
Conan grunted. “Numitor has stripped the Wester-marck of regulars, leaving the defense against the Picts to the local militia. So we are again outnumbered; and the Royal Frontiersmen are skillful fighting men. I’ve fought beside them and I know.” He paused a moment, then added: “Friends, that satyr Gola said something about using pipes against a foe. What think you that he meant?”
None knew. At last Conan said: “I see I must consult our little folk again.”
As dusk drew a gray veil of mist along the tumbling stream, Conan worked his way down the narrow path up which his men had so laboriously clambered. He stood alone in the enshrouding dark of the Brocellian Forest, listening in vain for any footfall. He blew on the bone whistle and, as before, he waited in the shadow of an ancient tree. When at last his call was answered, he was relieved to find it was Zudik, the satyr who had directed his army to the pass. In answer to a question, Zudik said:
“Aye, we use pipes. Make your men stop up ears.”
"Plug up our ears?” asked Conan wonderingly.
"Aye. Use beeswax, cloth, clay—so can no longer hear. Then we help you.”
Numitor’s Frontiersmen lay in a crescent across the highway to Tarantia. The prince seemed prepared to stand on the defensive until the arrival of Count Ulric. His men were digging earthworks with implanted pointed stakes to impede an attacker. Because of the dense stands of trees, the rebels could not outflank the royalists’ long line.
Silently, the Army of Liberation spread out before the crescent, their presence hidden by the shrubbery. But when a royal sentry perceived a movement in the bushes, he sounded an alarm. Men dropped their shovels, snatched weapons, and took positions on the line.