At that instant, the other three rushed in. One desperate sword-stroke caught Conan on the helmet, denting it and dizzying him. Stars swam before his eyes, but he ripped viciously upward and was rewarded by a hoarse, gurgling scream. A dagger point broke on the stout links of mail covering his right side, but a sword gashed his left arm.
When he hastily wiped the blood from his face he saw that he faced but one enemy, as the Stygian, his dagger broken, had stepped back to pick up a weapon from the floor. The tall leader was rising from his fall.
Conan stepped forward to close with his foe, but his foot slipped in a pool of blood. He fell heavily.
The assassin confronting him shrieked in triumph and rushed forward, lifting his sword. Conan’s foot lashed out and knocked the man’s leg from under him, so that his blow went awry and he fell on top of the Cimmerian, impaling himself on the dagger that Conan thrust up to meet his falling form.
Conan flung the body aside and, with catlike speed, sprang again to his feet to meet the attack of the rearmed Stygian. The dusky giant rushed towards Conan, eyes blazing with dark fires and lips foaming with impassioned hatred. Ducking the swipe of the Cimmerian’s sword, he whipped his white cloak around the blade, imprisoning it in the heavy folds. The knife that the Stygian had picked up was driven against Conan’s side with such force that mail links snapped and the point pierced the Cimmerian’s body.
But Conan ripped into the brown torso with swift and murderous thrusts of his own dirk. The Stygian’s mouth flew open in awful pain, his dagger clattered to the floor, and he doubled up and followed it.
Conan tore his sword free from the folds of the Stygian’s dress and advanced upon the unwounded leader.
“You’ve forgotten your knightly oaths since I kicked you off your estate, eh, Baraccus? ” he snarled. “I should have had your head when I found out your treason, but this time will do as well as any!”
Conan presented a terrible aspect. From beneath his dented helmet, blood flowed down the side of his sweaty face. His right side was red with gore, and a bloody rent showed in his mailshirt. But the will to kill burned unquenched in his terrible glance. Baraccus, remembering the horrific legends of the Cimmerian’s former deeds, lost his nerve and whirled to flee. With a grating laugh, Conan tossed up his sword, caught the hilt reversed, and hurled the weapon like a javelin.
The point smashed through the backplate of Baraccus’ corselet. Baraccus pitched forward at full length, the sword standing upright in his back and a stream of blood running from his mouth.
Conan relaxed a little, surrounded by enemies dead or unconscious. Then a voice behind him aroused his barbarian senses. He wheeled in a flash, expecting another attack.
A fat man stood in the back door, wringing his pudgy hands. “Oh, mercy, what has happened to my fine house?”
he wailed, his face creased by worry. “Blood all over! Furniture ruined!”
Two strides brought Conan to the taverner, under whose chin he poised the point of his dagger. “You had a hand in this, you yapping dog!” he roared. “They could not have set this ambush without your help.”
“Mercy, lord! They threatened to cut my throat otherwise! That would have been almost better than this! They said it would be swift and silent!”
Conan slapped the man’s face with such force that the taverner was thrown against the door jamb. He reeled, and blood ran down his chin from a cut lip.
“Silence!” rumbled Conan, his anger appeased a little. “Be glad I don’t flay you an inch at a time!”
“Yes-yes, lord!” The man wept, in abject terror.
“Now fetch a jack of wine, before I split your head! And of the best! Also some clean cloths to bind up these scratches.”
As the terrified taverner hurried off, Conan kicked a corpse out of the way and sank down wearily upon a bench.
A thought struck him. Where was the handsome wench who had started all this? She was not in the room.
The host returned on trembling legs, holding a flask and a pewter goblet. With an impatient curse, Conan tore the bottle from him and upended it over his parched gullet. When the whole of the contents had poured down without interruption, to the wonder of the unwilling host, Conan set down the empty container with a crash, wiped his mouth on his bloody sleeve, and turned his blue eyes upon the man.
“Killing dries a man’s throat,” he said. “Now tell me: Where is the girl who was here with these men before I entered?”
The fat taverner, green with fear, shook his head. “Noble lord, I never saw her until she came here yesterday, dressed in outlandish garments. She changed her garb in her room on the upper floor. I know not her name or aught else about her.”
Conan heaved himself to his feet, only a little troubled by wounds that would have incapacitated an ordinary man for days. Tearing his sword out of Baraccus’ body, he thundered: “Lead me to her room at once! And should this prove another trap, your soul will rot on the black floors of Hell within the instant!”
Knees knocking, the flabby Khanyrian led the way up the narrow stair.
The Cimmerian followed, his eyes scanning every cranny with wolfish wariness. On the upper floor, his guide paused before a door and chose a key from the great bunch at his girdle. He unlocked the door and opened it wide to reassure the edgy barbarian.
Conan decided that there was no chance of another ambush in that narrow room. The only furniture was a bed and a small table. On the bed lay green silks, a golden sash, a turban strip with an emerald pin, and a filmy veil.
Conan stood silent with startled recognition. This was the garb of a Hyrkanian noblewoman, from the great and growing eastern empire of Turan, from Akif, Shahpur, or Aghrapur itself.
Wheeling and retracing his steps, Conan pondered this new enigma with clouded brow.
With nostrils flaring and sword in hand, Conan stepped alertly from the tavern door. His limbs had become a little stiffened from his wounds and his side ached from the dagger thrust, but he still had vigor enough to spring into the saddle of his waiting horse.
He was mystified by the assault. He well knew that many men of different creeds, races, and stations thirsted for his blood and would have loved to roast his guts over a slow fire. On this mission, however, he had ridden swiftly, silently, and anonymously. Only Trocero and Prospero knew which way he was going, and their loyalty was beyond question. Yet armored foes had ambushed him with gleaming blades.
Something or someone had brought Baraccus from the West and the Hyrkanian woman from the East together to try to trap him.
Conan shrugged the puzzle from his mind with the fatalistic equanimity of the barbarian. As he could not now grasp the whole picture behind the recent incident, he was content to wait until further information came to light.
He cantered leisurely through the streets with eyes darting into the shadows. The only light came from an occasional flickering taper in a window. His thoughts came back to the beautiful woman who had nearly led him to his death. The sight of her well-molded form had fired his blood, and he had meant to take a kiss at the very least as a reward for helping her. But now she was gone as if by magic.
Emerging upon a wide, deserted square, Conan, aided by the dim light of the clouded moon, saw the outline of a spired edifice, pointing like a finger to the heavens. In the deepening darkness it gleamed dull yellow like the reflex of a dying sun. This was the tower where Pelias secreted himself from the undesired company of his fellow men.
A broad expanse of trimmed gardens and lawns surrounded the yellow tower. No walls, fences, or forbidding gates ringed it. They were not needed. Horrid legends, whispered in the dark of evening, had taught the Khanyrians to keep away from sorcerers’ abodes, into which an intruder might enter but from which he would probably never return.