Conan the Rebel (18 page)

Conan nodded. A glance upward, at the clean blaze of stars and silvery cataract of Milky Way, drove out his fears. 'Aye, that makes sense,' he replied. 'A good thing we did not try heading out to sea, eh? Well, what shall we do?'

'Let us go on south for a few miles,' Daris proposed. 'I recall a place where we can also conceal the boat fairly well – in these troublous times, when nobody wanders freely about. We will have more of an overland journey than we hoped, but nothing beyond our power.'

Her companions agreed. Seyan disappeared behind. The spot Daris meant proved to be a cleft in a stone bluff, so narrow that they could barely manoeuvre through, so deep that the anchored hull would not be visible from the river. They decided they might as well get a night's rest aboard before setting off.

At dawn they scrambled to the heights. From stores in the boat they had equipped themselves well. Their garb was a tunic and rolled-up blanket for each; in addition, the men bore footgear, and kaftans and burnooses against the midday sun. They had dried rations for several days and a waterskin that would see them through to springs and streams which Daris could find. Besides their knives, Conan had his ax, the best weapon for him that had been available; Falco had found a sabre and small round shield made in Iranistan; Daris carried bow, full quiver, and the belt that had served her before.

Throughout that day they strode westward. The country rose fast, hills shouldering toward blue-hazed mountains, cliffs, hollows, ravines, ruddy crags, strewn boulders. It was a stern country, dry, treeless save for tamarisk or acacia growing far apart, mostly decked with waist-high tawny grass which whispered and rustled in the wind, often snatching at legs with the cruel hooks of thorn bushes. That wind boomed warm across distances which stood sharp to vision in the utterly clear air. It smelled like hay and thunder. Sometimes the travellers passed a stone shelter or saw traces of kine, but herders had fled. Wild animals remained, or had drifted back after man departed – antelope of various kinds, giraffe, zebra, quagga, baboon, lion, seen afar. Butterflies danced gaudy, finches and cranes and francolins flew by, vultures wheeled aloft. Beyond them soared a lone golden eagle.

As she fared, Daris grew ever more happy. 'This is my land,' she exulted. 'I was born to these steep reaches, this huge sky, I am of those who range yonder heights, I have come home!'

Conan made no response. He was a child of Cimmeria in the North, snowy peaks, gloomy forests, chill rains, fugitive sun. Though he might never return there, and though the austere domain around him spoke to something in his spirit, he knew he could not long stay content in this parched brilliance.

Unless he left his bones here, he thought sardonically.

Toward evening of the second day, trouble sprang once again at their throats.

It happened suddenly. With a tor for landmark, Daris had been guiding her party toward a watercourse they could follow for much of the way. Long yellow light-rays in their faces, long shadows at their backs, they climbed a root of the hill and started down its other side. That slope was sharp, into a winding gulch. At the bottom the brook ran fast, noisy, bright in the shade, over smooth-worn rocks. Grass, herbs, rushes, dwarf trees along its banks were startlingly green after mile upon mile of the veldt above. Coolness welled upward.

'Hold!' Conan barked.

His gaze flew ahead. Beside the stream, some two score men had been pitching camp for the night. Large burdens lay stacked beside several pack mules. Cut thorn bush did not actually make a defensive zareba in the manner of the Black Coast, but a low ring of it would discourage intruders and give warning of them. Animal chips burned in small flames; chopped deadwood ought to provide a larger fire after dark. The men were variously clad in hides or tattered cloth garments or grass skirts, but they were all of the same breed, and it was not Taian. They were purely Negro.

'Travellers from Keshan?' wondered Daris in a tautened voice. She shaded her eyes against glare from the west and squinted into the early dusk below. 'No, they have not quite that appearance.'

'They look like dwellers along the sea coast of southern Kush,' said Conan. 'What might have brought them this far?'

The strangers had likewise seen his group. Yelps rose from them. They grabbed weapons and elliptical shields. Leaping over the thorn-ring, a few bounded uphill, well to right and left of the newcomers. The intent of these was clearly to see if there was anyone else. The majority drew into combat formation and advanced directly, at a slow walk.

'I like this not,' Conan growled.

'You cannot blame them for being suspicious,' Falco said.

'Well, no. We will try for peace, but keep ready to fight.' Conan lifted both hands, widespread. 'We are friends,' he called in Stygian.

A man who must be the leader stepped a little forth from the line of shields. Unlike the rest, who were young and lean, he was grizzled on his woolly pate and had a substantial paunch above his leopardskin kilt. His frame was big enough to carry it easily. Brass bracelets sheened on his thick arms; a golden torque coiled under his double chin and the wide-nosed, full-mouthed visage above. 'Who you?' he demanded. The almost unintelligible accent made clear that his knowledge of the language was slight. 'You from where? Why for?'

'We will go,' Conan offered. 'Now.'

Above him, the scouts waved and called. The leader paused for a moment, then his laugh rolled. 'Ho, ho, ho!' He bawled orders in his own tongue.

The blacks deployed, carnivore-swift. Half sprinted right and left, to reinforce the scouts or to move directly inward at Conan's band. The rest came straight on. 'You drop weapons,' the leader cried in Stygian. 'You be nice, we no kill.'

'No,' Conan sneered, 'you will only take us for the slave market.

And first Daris -' He unslung his ax. His tone became a roar. 'Better men than you have tried!'

Within, he thought that be-like this was the end, for his comrades and himself. It was bitter to be destroyed by nothing more than blind chance; but what else did a soldier of fortune have any right to await? He brought his lips close to the woman's ear and said, 'Whatever happens, they will not get you alive. I swear.'

Her bowstring twanged. Immediately she snatched a fresh arrow. 'Thank you, dearest man,' she said, never looking from her targets. 'If my last kiss is of your ax, I will still know it is given in -in love, and bless you. May we meet again in the halls of Mitra.'

He had no such faith, but her calm eased the anguish in him, and he grinned as he took stance for battle.

'Yaah!' screamed Falco, and started to dash ahead. Conan clapped hold of his shoulder and jerked him to a halt. 'No, you fool,' the Cimmerian snapped. 'We stand back to back. Thus we will slay more of them.'

Daris' arrows caused two or three flesh wounds, but otherwise stuck in shields or missed. As the foe closed in, she dropped the bow, unbuckled her belt, and drew her dirk. Falco's sabre glittered through arcs of challenge. Conan stood ominously poised.

The first man came against him, knobkerrie raised. Conan's ax leaped, smashed through a wood-and-leather shield, clove the neck behind. Blood fountained, a head fell and rolled, a body collapsed. 'Bêlit, Bêlit!' Conan shouted. He battered a short sword from the owner's grasp. At the corners of his eyes he saw Daris drive her knife into an arm, Falco slice open a leg. A Suba war cry he had heard on the pirate galley ripped out of him. 'Wakonga mutusi! Bêlit, Bêlit!'

The leader jumped backward. He ululated. At that signal, his followers withdrew. Headless corpse at his feet and weapon red in his grip, Conan thought wildly that a faint hope of his might have been realized. His group was still surrounded by armed men who glowered, but at a distance of two or three yards. Maybe the chief had decided three slaves were not worth casualties which might prove high, and would let his intended victims go.

The big-bellied Negro trod closer to confront the Cimmerian.

He uttered something. 'I do not know that language,' Conan told him in Stygian, though it sounded familiar.

'Do you know this?' the stranger asked in the lingua franca of the seaboard.

Conan's pulse fluttered. 'Yes, I do,' he responded likewise. 'See here, we are willing to let bygones be bygones if you are, and betake ourselves hence.'

'You cried a name,' said the black slowly. 'And words of the Suba. Do you know what those words mean?'

'Not really.'

The other's chuckle and grin were engaging, in a rascally fashion. 'I would render them as, 'Death be damned; charge!'' He sobered. 'You cried a name. Say it anew, and tell me who bears it.'

For a moment, Conan bristled. However, he knew of no harm his obedience could do; and maybe it would help, if he had indeed stumbled upon members of that one tribe.

Pride rang in his answer. 'I called on Bêlit, because I am her man. She is daughter to Hoiakim of Shem, he whom the Suba entitled Bangulu.'

Awe and delight made the gross countenance almost comely. 'And I am Sakumbe, who knew Bangulu of old and dandled infant Bêlit on my knee,' the Negro said. 'Welcome, welcome!' He dropped his assegai and lumbered forward to enfold Conan in a smelly embrace.

The uncountable stars of Taia wheeled in majesty above its loneliness. Down where a brook chimed, a fire snapped high. Red and yellow light glowed in its pungent smoke and on the men who sat cross-legged around.

As had been the case at sea, the Suba held no grudge for a fellow slain or for injuries, none very serious, that others had sustained. In riotous cordiality, they offered shelter, food, what sour wine was left to them after their trek. They crowded close to listen, albeit none but their chief had a proper command of the lingua franca. From time to time he summarized for them, evidently in phrases more flamboyant than those he had heard.

'Aye,' Sakumbe related of himself, 'these have been bad years, since the Stygians found us. Weakened, we have been prey, over and over, to raiders from rival folk. Bêlit and her seafarers have made things better; the loot they bring home hires warriors from farther south for protection. Nevertheless we are but a wraith of what we were in the days of Bangulu. I, who had many cattle and yams and wives, am but a poor tramp who must seek his fortune wherever he can.

'I thought of joining Bêlit, but remembered how seasick I get. So I collected these lads and we fared off as traders. From the coast we bore mainly salt, for little else was left. Inland, we swapped this for ivory, feathers, rare woods, and the like. In Keshan we bartered to get ironwork, jewellery, unguents, spices... and mules, to be sure, to be sure.' He picked up a wineskin, squirted his mouth full, belched, and passed the drink on. 'Rather than retrace our steps, I took us over the mountains, for word had come that south-eastern Stygia was having woes, which might mean poor honest men could glean a trifle extra.'

'Including slaves,' Conan said.

'Why, yes, if that chance came along,' Sakumbe replied, unabashed. 'In fact, often on our trip have we bought a slave or three, to sell farther on at a bit of a profit. But in the case of this realm, well, says I to myself, the Stygians won't be keeping the tight control on trade they usually do; and there might even be a minikin of loot lying about in need of a caretaker.' He gusted a sigh. 'Thus far, though, we have only marched through desolation. You '. can't blame me for wanting to take three handsome, juicy people like you to market. How glad I am for my mistake! Too bad about Dengeda, of course, but, ah, well -' He slapped the Cimmerian's back. 'Any friend of Bêlit's is a friend of mine. And you are her husband, you say? Ho, ho, were I not a kind of uncle to the dear girl, I could envy you that!'

Conan grew sombre. 'Best you turn back at dawn, over the pass to Keshan,' he advised. 'This land is in a sore plight. Not only tyranny and war are loose, but the worst kind of sorcery.'

'What?' Sakumbe registered uneasiness.

'You heard my tale. I do not think the magicians have stopped

Sakumbe frowned, coughed, and said, 'Let me take counsel.' He indicated one who sat opposite him. Though younger than the chief, this person was older than the rest of his company, gaunt, hard-visaged, bleak-eyed. Cicatrices drew curious patterns over face and torso. 'Gonga is a witch doctor,' Sakumbe explained. 'Not as powerful as Kemoku, his master at home, no, not anywhere near as powerful. As yet, he has learned but a part of the lore. However, neither is he aged and infirm. I figured I would be wise to bring somebody along who knows something about magic. Let me question him.'

While the Suba words went back and forth, Conan related what he had heard to Daris at his side and Falco beyond her, in low-voiced Stygian. 'Honour demanded I warn our host to go back,' he finished. 'Yet I have an idea these bully boys might be useful allies, if we can recruit them. Shall I try?'

The woman nodded. 'Why not? My father needs every spear he can get. My country does.'

'Besides,' Falco added as his grin flashed forth, 'would it not be something if we, three fugitives, arrived at his headquarters with a platoon at our heels?'

After a while, Sakumbe told Conan: 'Against the mighty wizards of the Black Ring, Gonga says he can do nothing. Not even Kemoku could. Gonga does caution against lesser magics, such as are common among the Kushites and have drifted north into Stygia. Above all, body magic.'

'What is that?' the Cimmerian asked.

'Always be careful about anything that is from your body – nail clippings, hair, spittle, blood, sweat, anything – lest it falls into the hands of an enemy. If that enemy knows the spells, he will use the stuff to bring harm or death upon you. Reclaim it if you can, that Gonga may annul the charm. If you cannot, then at least give him a sample of the same, and he will try to use it defensively.'

Conan shrugged. When Falco, curious, inquired what had been communicated, the Cimmerian repeated the information, but added, 'Care about something like that is like care about poison. A measure of forethought is sensible, but too much will soon make a man into a snivelling coward,' He laughed. 'Whatever we do, we