“We tried to be careful last night. From now on, let them be careful of me.” Conan swung up into the saddle and had to catch hold of the high pommel as his head spun. Grimly he forced himself erect.
“Let them be careful of me,” he repeated and kicked the Bhalkhana stallion into motion.
CHAPTER IX
Sand dunes quickly gave way to plains of tough, sparse grass and low, isolated hills. Scrub growth and thorn bushes dotted the land, though to the east taller trees could be seen along the banks of the Zaporoska. To the south the grayness of mountains, the Colchians, rose on the horizon. The sun climbed swiftly, a blazing yellow ball in a cloudless sky, with a baking heat that sucked moisture from man and ground. A puff of dust marked each hoof-fall.
Throughout the day Conan kept a steady pace, one the horses could maintain until nightfall. And he intended to maintain it that long and longer, if need be, despite the heat. His sharp eyes had easily located the tracks left by the Vendhyans and their pack mules. No effort had been made to conceal them. The harsh-voiced man had been concerned with swiftness, not with the unlikely possibility that someone might follow his trail. Enam and Shamil proved to be good hands with a bow, making forays from the line of travel that soon had half a score of lean brown hares hanging from their saddles.
The Cimmerian ignored suggestions that they should stop at midday to cook the hares. Stops to give the horses a drink from cupped hands he tolerated, but no sooner had he pushed the plug back into his water bag than he was mounted again and moving. Always to the south, though drifting slightly to the east as if not to get too far from the Zaporoska. Always following the tracks of two score of mounted men with pack horses.
The sun dropped toward the west, showing a display of gold and purple on the mountains, and still Conan kept on, though the sky darkened rapidly overhead and the faint glimmerings of stars were appearing. Prytanis was no longer the only one muttering. Hordo, and even Ghurran, joined in.
“We will not reach Vendhya by riding ourselves to death,” the old herbalist groaned. He shifted on his saddle, wincing. “And it will do you no good if I am too stiff and sore to mix the potion that keeps you alive.”
“Listen to him, Cimmerian,” Hordo said. “We cannot make the journey in a single day.”
“Has one day’s riding done you in?” Conan laughed. “You who were once the scourge of the Zamoran plains?”
“I have become more suited to a deck than a saddle,” the one-eyed man admitted ruefully. “But, Erlik blast us all, even you can no longer see the tracks you claim to follow. I’ll believe much of those accursed northern eyes of yours, but not that.”
“I’ve no need to see the tracks,” Conan replied, “while I can see that.” He pointed ahead where tiny lights were barely visible through the thickening twilight. “Have you gotten so old you can no longer tell stars from campfires?”
Hordo stared, tugging at his beard, then finally grunted, “A league, perhaps more. ’Tis all but full dark now. Caravan guards will not look with kindness on strangers approaching in the night.”
“I will at least be sure it is the right caravan,” Conan said.
“You will get us all killed,” Prytanis grumbled loudly. “I said it from the first. This is a fool’s errand, and you will get us all killed.”
Conan ignored him, but he did slow the stallion to a walk as they drew closer to the fires. Those fires spread out like the lights of a small city, and indeed he had seen many respectable towns that covered a lesser expanse. A caravan so large would have many guards. He began to sing, somewhat off tune, a tavern song of Sultanapur, relating the improbable exploits of a wench of even more improbable endowments.
“What in Mitra’s name?” Hordo growled perplexedly.
“Sing,” Conan urged, pausing in his effort. “Men of ill intent do not announce themselves half a league off. You would not wish a guard to put an arrow in you just because you came on him suddenly in the night. Sing.” He took up the song again, and after a moment the others joined in raggedly, all save Ghurran, who sniffed loudly in disapproval of the lyrics.
The bawdy words were ringing through the night when, with a jingle of mail, a score of horsemen burst out of the darkness to surround them with couched lances and aimed crossbows. They wore Turanian armor for the most part, but mismatched. Conan saw a Corinthian breastplate and helmets from three other lands. He let the song trail off—the others had ceased in mid-word—and folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle.
“An interesting song,” one of the lancers growle
d, “but who in Zandru’s Nine Hells are you to be singing it here?” He was a tall man, his features hidden in the dark by a nasaled Zamoran helm. At least his voice was not a harsh rasp.
“Wayfarers,” Conan replied, “journeying to Vendhya. If you also travel in that direction, perhaps you could use a few extra swords.”
The tall lancer laughed. “We have more swords than we can use, stranger. A few days past Karim Singh himself, the wazam of Vendhya, joined this caravan with five hundred Vendhyan cavalry sent to escort him from the shores of the Vilayet.”
“A great many Vendhyans,” Conan said, “to be this close to Turan. I thought they stayed beyond Secunderam.”
“I will tell Yildiz of it the next time I speak with him,” the lancer replied dryly. A few of his men laughed, but none of the weapons was lowered.
“Do you have other latecomers in your caravan?” Conan asked.
“A strange question. Do you seek someone?”
Conan shook his head as though he had not noticed the creak of leather and mail as the caravan guards tensed. In the long and often lawless passages between cities, caravans protected all of their members against outsiders, no matter the claims or charges. “I seek to travel to Vendhya,” he said. “But if there are other latecomers, perhaps some of them need guards. Possibly some of your merchants feel less safe, not more, for the presence of five hundred Vendhyans. Soldiers have been known to have their own ideas of what taxes are due, and how they should be collected.”
The lancer’s long drawn-out breath told that the idea was not a new one to him. Caravans had paid one tax to the customs men before, and then another to the soldiers supposedly sent to protect them. “Eight swords,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Two score and three parties of merchants make up this caravan, stranger, including seven who have joined us since we rounded the southern end of the Vilayet. There are always those—no offense intended—who think to make the journey alone until they see the wastes of the Zaporoska before them and realize the Himelias are yet ahead. Then they are eager to join the first caravan that appears, if they are lucky enough that one does. I will pass the word of your presence, but you must understand that I can allow you to come no closer in the night. How shall I tell them you are called, stranger?”
“Tell them to call me Patil,” Conan replied. Hordo groaned through his teeth.