A glance at the moon told him the twelfth hour was near. It was time to hurry. He tested the bonds of his captive, gagged him with his own turban, dragged him farther into the lane, and left him there, glaring and straining.
“I must be growing soft,” Conan said to himself. “Time was when I should have cut the cur’s throat after questioning him. But the Zuagirs will no doubt take care of that when they find him.”
Faint, rapid drum beats filled the luxurious apartment on the second floor of the governor’s palace, where Thanara of Maypur lounged on a silken divan, nibbling fruit from a low table that stood on the thick rug in front of her couch. Her sheerly transparent gown revealed her seductive charms, but the man in the room paid scant attention to these.
This man was a small, bandy-legged, mud-colored fellow, clad in skins and furs. His flat, wrinkled, monkeylike face was painted with stripes and circles of red and black. His long black hair was gathered in greasy braids, and a necklace of human teeth encircled his neck. A powerful stench of sweat-soaked leather and unwashed human hide rose from him. He was a Wigur, one of those fierce and barbarous nomads from the far northeast beyond the Sea of Vilayet.
The little man sat cross-legged on the floor and stared at the thin curl of smoke that rose from a brazier on a tripod in front of him. The wavering blue column soared up from its source for two feet, then rippled and curled up on itself in interwoven arabesques. All the while the man kept up a swift tapping of his finger tips against a small drum, less than a foot across, which he held in his other hand.
At last the staccato tapping stopped.
“What see you, Tatur?” asked the yedka.
“He comes,” said the shaman in a high singsong voice. “He whom you seek is near.”
“How can he be?” said the lady Thanara sharply. “Veziz Shah keeps a sharp watch, and no such conspicuous rogue could gain admittance.”
“Nevertheless, he approaches,” whined Tatur. “The spirits do not lie. Unless you flee, he will soon confront you.”
“He must have entered Wakla in disguise,” mused Thanara. “If he comes upon me, what shall I do? Will your master, he who is not to be named, give me some means to cope with him?” There was a note of panic in her voice, and her hand sought her shapely throat.
“It is the will of him who shall not be named that you should succeed in your mission,” intoned the Wigur. He fumbled inside his sheepskin coat and brought out a small purple vial.
“A drop of this in his wine,” he said, “will render him like one dead for three days.”
“That is good. But the barbarian is wary. His suspicions are aroused in the wink of an eye, as we learned at Khanyria. Suppose he detects the drug and refuses to drink?”
Tartur brought out another object: a small pouch of soft leather. “In that case, this will lay him low if he breathes it.”
“What is it?”
“Pollen of the yellow lotus of Khitai. Use it only as a last resort. For, should a breath of air blow it back upon you, you too will be cast into a swoon. And too deep a breath of it can kill.”
“That is good, but not enough. If your master really expects me to confront the Cimmerian, he should furnish me with a last-minute means of escape if I am trapped. Others may underestimate the Cimmerian, but not I. And your master can do it, and he owes it to me for past services.”
A faint smile creased Tatur’s wrinkled features. “He who is not to be named said truly you are a sharp bargainer. Here.” He brought out an object like a translucent egg. “Break this in your hour of need, and help will come to you from other dimensions.”
Thanara examined the three objects. “Good,” she said at last. “Ride to Aghrapur and tell the king I await Conan here. If all goes well, he shall have his enemy. If not, he will need a new agent. Haste and farewell!”
A few minutes later, Tatur the shaman, astride a small, shaggy Hyrkanian pony, jogged off into the night across the sands at a tireless canter.
The night was cool and quiet. The captain of the watch at the main gate stretched and yawned. From the small guardhouse in the square before the gate, he could see two bowmen patrolling the parapet over the big twin doors.
The pair of spearmen at the pillars flanking the entrance stood erect and still, the moonlight reflected by their polished mail shirts and spired helmets. No need to fear anything; a stroke on the gong at his side would bring a company on the double from the barracks.
Nevertheless, the governor had ordered the guards doubled and their vigilance increased.
The officer wondered. Did Veziz Shah really fear an attack on the fort on account of the captured Zuagir chief?
Let the desert rats come! They would smash their heads against the walls while the archers riddled them with arrows. The governor must be getting old and prone to nightmares. Let him rest. He, Akeb Man, was in charge!
The moon was obscured by clouds. Akeb Man blinked and peered. What had happened? It seemed as if the two archers on the wall had sat down for a moment. Now, however, they had risen again and resumed their measured pacing. Better investigate these lazy devils. He would give them three hours’ drill in the desert sun if they had tried to shirk their duty.
Rising, he gazed out again before opening the door. At that instant the moonlight returned in full force. A shocking sight met his eyes.
Instead of spired helmets and mantles, the archers wore banded kaffias and khalats.
Zuagirs!
How they had gotten in, only the devils knew. Akeb Man snatched at the hammer that hung beside the gong to strike the alarm.
The door of the guardhouse burst in with a crash and fell in a cloud of splinters and dust. Akeb Man wheeled and snatched at his scimitar, but the sight of the man confronting him made him pause in astonishment. No white-clad desert raider was he, but a giant western warrior in black mesh-mail, naked sword in hand.
With a cry of fear and rage, the Turanian lashed out with a low disemboweling thrust. With the swiftness of lightning, the mailed giant avoided the blade and brought his own long straight sword down in a whistling blow.
Blood spurted like a fountain as Akeb Man sank to the floor, cloven to the breastbone.
Conan wasted no time in gloating. Any moment now, an inquisitive guardsman might poke his head through a barracks window or a belated citizen might come wandering by. The big iron-sheathed doors were now opening, and through them poured a swift and silent-footed stream of white-robed nomads.
Swiftly, Conan issued his orders. His tones were low, but the words carried to the ears of all.
“Two men with torches, set the barracks afire. Three hundred archers with plenty of arrows place themselves to mow down the soldiers as they pour out. The rest of you hit the fort with torch and sword. Burn and slay, and take any spoils and captives you want. Keep together. Do not break up into bands smaller than twenty. Thabit, bring your fifty with me. I am for the governor’s palace.”
With an imperious gesture, Conan dismissed his subchiefs and beckoned his fifty, who followed his long strides at a dogtrot. Behind them, smoking torches lit the square as the arsonists slunk towards the guardsmens’ lodgings.
Other bands vanished in different directions.
With the armed defenders of the fort wiped out by Conan’s stratagem, there would be little opposition. The lean reavers licked their lips in anticipation of plunder and vengeance as they stalked along the silent streets, arrows nocked and knives and spears gleaming in the moonlight.
Conan led his men straight toward their goal. He intended to save Yin Allal first. Moreoever, he was intrigued by the tale of the beautiful yedka. Here, he thought, he might find a prize precious enough to satisfy his own taste.