Conan signaled to his aides, whose ears were plugged, to tell the archers to ply the foe with arrows; and presently, the thrum of bowstrings and the whistle of arrows rent the air. But Conan’s men heard nothing.
To the royalist defenders on the ends of the line came a chilling sound—a shrill, ululating, unearthly piping. It came from nowhere into everywhere. It made men’s teeth ache and imbued them with a strange, unreasoning panic. Soldiers dropped their weapons to clutch at pain-racked heads. Some burst into hysterical laughter; others dissolved in tears.
As the sound drew nearer, the feeling of dire doom expanded until it overflowed their souls. The impulse to be gone, which at first they mastered, overcame their years of battle training. Here and there a man tinned from his position on the line to run, screaming madly, to the rear. More joined the flight, until the outer limits of the line dissolved into a mass of terrified fugitives, running from they knew not what As the prince’s flanks were swept away, the unseen pipers moved toward the center, until that, too, disintegrated. Trocero’s cavalry rode down the fleeing men, slaying and taking prisoners.
“Anyway,” said Conan as he looked at the abandoned royalist camp, “they left us weapons enough for twice our number. So now we can recruit whatever volunteers we find."
“That was an easy victory,” exulted Prospero.
"Too easy,” replied Conan grimly. “An easy victory is oft as false as a courtiers smile. I'll say the road to Tarantia is open when I see the city walls, and not before.”
THE KEY TO THE CITY
The Army of Liberation tramped unopposed through the smiling land, where Poitain’s herds of fine horses and cattle grazed on luxuriant grass, and castles reared their crenelated towers of crimson and purple and gold. The rebel army serpentined its way through pillow-rounded mountains, lush with vegetation, and at last approached the border between Poitain and the central provinces of Aquilonia.
But as Conan sat his charger on an embankment to watch his soldiers pass before him, his gaze was somber. For, although Numitors Frontiersmen had scattered like leaves in an autumn gale, a new foe, against which he had no defense, now assailed his army. This was sickness. A malady, which caused men to break out in scarlet spots and prostrated them with chills and fever, raced through his ranks, an invisible demon, felling more soldiers than a hard-fought battle. Many men were left abed in villages along the way; many, fearing the dread disease, deserted; many died.
“What do we number now?^ Conan asked Publius of an evening, as the army neared the border village of Elymia.
The former chancellor studied his reports. “About eight thousand, counting the walking sick, who number nigh a thousand.”
“Crom! We were ten thousand when we left the Alimane, and hundreds more have joined since then. What has become of them?"
Trocero said: “Some come to us in a roseate glow, like a bridegroom to his bride, but think better of their bargain when they have sweated and slogged a few leagues from their native heath. They fret about their families and getting home to harvest."
“And this spotted sickness has claimed thousands,” added Dexitheus. "I, and the physicians under me, have tried every herb and purge to no avail. It seems magic is at work. Else an evil destiny doth shape our ends.”
Conan bit back scornful words of incredulity. After the earthquake he dared not underestimate the potent magic of his enemy or the wanton cruelty of the gods.
"Could we have persuaded the satyrs to march with us, bringing their pipes,” said Prospero, “our paltry numbers would be of little moment.”
“But they would not leave their homes in the Brocellian Forest,” said Conan.
Prospero rephed: "You could have seized their old Zudik as a hostage, to compel them.”
“That’s not my way,” growled Conan. “Zudik proved a friend in need. I would not use him ill.”
Trocero smiled gently. “And are you not the man who scorned Prince Numitor for his high-flown ideals of chivalry?”
Conan grunted. “With savages, the chief has little power; I have dwelt amongst them, and I know. Besides, I doubt if even great love for their chieftain’s weal would overcome the little people’s fear of open country. But let us face the future and not raise ghosts from the dead past Have the scouts reported signs of Ulric’s army?”
“No reports,” said Trocero, “save that today they glimpsed a few riders from afar, who quickly galloped out of sight. We know not who they are; but I would wager that the northern barons delay Count Ulric still.”
“Tomorrow,” said Conan, "I shall take Gyrto’s troop to scout the border of Poitain, whilst the rest march for Elymia.”
“General,” objected Prospero. “You should not use yourself so recklessly. A commander should stay behind the lines, where he can control his units, and not risk his life like a landless adventurer.”
Conan frowned. “If I am commander here, I must command as I think best!” Seeing Prosperous stricken face, he added with a smile: “Fear not; I’ll do naught foolish. But even a general must betimes share the dangers of his men. Besides, am I not myself a landless adventurer?"
“Methinks,” grumbled Prospero, “you merely indulge your barbarian lust for combat hand-to-hand.” Conan’s grin widened wolfishly, but he ignored the comment
The road was a golden ribbon before them, as Conan’s troop trotted through the misty morning. At the column’s head rode Conan, clad in chain mail like the others, and Captain Gyrto rode at his side. With lance fixed into a stirrup boot, each cavalryman rode proudly through the rolling countryside. A few detached outriders cantered in wide circles across the fallow fields but skirted the simple farmsteads and the stands of ripening grain.
Rustics at work on furrow or vine paused in their labors to lean on rake or hoe and stare, as the armed men rode past. One or two raised a cautious cheer, but most remained stolidly noncommittal and silent Now and then Conan caught a flash of red or yellow petticoat, as a woman rushed to hide herself from the passing soldiery.
"They wait to see who wins,” said Gyrto.
“And well they might," said Conan, “for, if we lose, all who aided us will suffer for it."
Beyond the next rise, Elymia squatted in a shallow vale. A small stream meandered sluggishly past the mud-brick houses, wending its way eastward toward the Khorotas, while willows contemplated their reflections in the dark, slow-moving water.
The village, which sheltered less than two hundred souls, lacked protection; for decades of peace had so beguiled the villagers that they allowed the old wall of sun-dried brick to crumble utterly. Inhabitants—if any there were who labored in the hamlet—were nowhere to be seen.
"It's too quiet for me," muttered Conan. "People should be up and about on a fair day like this."
“Perchance they are sleeping off their midday meal," suggested Gyrto. “Or all but the babes and ancient crones are working in the fields."
“Too late for that," growled Conan. “I like it not."
“Or perchance they are in hiding, fearing robbery or murder.”
Conan said: “Send two scouts through the village; we'll wait here.”
Two troopers hastened down the gentle slope and disappeared into the maw of the narrow, winding street. Soon the street disgorged them; and galloping toward their fellows, they signaled that all was quiet.
“Let's take a look ourselves," growled Conan. And Gyrto waved his hundred lancers forward at a brisk trot.