Conan the adaptable, p.47
Conan the Adaptable, page 47
“Rest and be at ease,” growled Conan. “You live—and so do I.”
He loosed the cords that had cut deep into the flesh of Blaos’s wrists and set himself to gently rub and massage the numb arms. Slowly the delirium faded from the youth’s eyes. Like Conan, he too came of a race that was tough as spring steel; an hour’s rest and plenty of water, and his intense vitality asserted itself.
“How long have you hung from this gibbet?” asked Conan.
“Since dawn.” Blaos’s eyes were grim as he rubbed his lacerated wrists. “Nureddin and Kosru Malik said that since De Gissclin once hanged one of their race here, it was fitting that one of De Gissclin’s men should grace this gibbet.”
“Tell me how De Gissclin died,” growled the Cimmerian warrior. “Men hint at foul tales—”
Blaos’s fine eyes filled with tears. “Ah, Conan, I who loved him, brought about his death. Listen—there is more to this than meets the casual eye. I think that Nureddin and his comrade-at-arms have been stung by the hornet of empire. It is in my mind that they, with various dog-soldiers among the Franks, dream of a mongrel kingdom among these hills, which shall hold allegiance neither to Yildiz nor any king of the West.
“They begin to broaden their holdings by treachery. The nearest friendly hold was that of Ali-El-Yar, of course. De Gissclin was a true soldier, peace be upon his fair soul, and he must be removed. All this I learned later—would to God I had known it beforehand! Among Nureddin’s slaves is a Persian girl named Yulala, and with this innocent tool of their evil wishes, the twain sought to ensnare my lord—to slay at once his body and his good name. And God help me, through me they succeeded where otherwise they had failed.
“For my lord De Gissclin was honorable beyond all men. When in peace, and at Nureddin’s invitation, he visited El Ghor, he paid no heed to Yulala’s blandishments. For according to the commands of her masters, which she dared not disobey, the girl allowed De Gissclin to look on her, unveiled, as if by chance, and she pretended affection for him. But De Gissclin gave her no heed. But I—I fell victim to her charms.”
Conan snorted in disgust. Blaos clutched his arm.
“Conan,” he cried, “bethink you—all men are not iron like you! I swear I loved Yulala from the moment I first set eyes on her—and she loved me! I contrived to see her again—to steal into El Ghor itself—”
“Whence men got the tale that it was De Gissclin who was carrying on an affair with Nureddin’s slave,” snarled Conan.
Blaos hid his face in his hands. “Mine the fault,” he groaned. “Then one night a mute brought a note signed by Yulala—apparently—begging me to come with De Gissclin and his men-at-arms and save her from a frightful fate—our love had been discovered, the note read, and they were about to torture her. I was wild with rage and fear. I went to De Gissclin and told him all, and he, white soul of honor, vowed to aid me. He could not break the truce and bring Yildiz’s wrath upon the cities, but he donned his mail and rode forth alone with me. We would see if there was any way whereby we might steal Yulala away, secretly; if not, my lord would go boldly to Nureddin and ask the girl as a gift, or offer to pay a great ransom for her. I would marry her.
“Well, when we reached the place outside the wall of El Ghor, where I was wont to meet Yulala, we found we were trapped. Nureddin, Kosru Malik and their warriors rose suddenly about us on all sides. Nureddin first spoke to De Gissclin, telling him of the trap he had set and baited, hoping to entice my lord into his power alone. And the Shemite laughed to think that the chance love of a squire had drawn De Gissclin into the trap where the carefully wrought plan had failed. As for the missive—Nureddin wrote that himself, believing, in his craftiness, that De Gissclin would do just as indeed he did.
“Nureddin and the man offered to allow De Gissclin to join them in their plan of empire. They told him plainly that his castle and lands were the price a certain powerful nobleman asked in return for his alliance, and they offered alliance with De Gissclin instead of this noble. De Gissclin merely answered that so long as life remained in him, he would keep faith with his king and his creed, and at the word the Shemites rolled on us like a wave.
“Ah, Conan, Conan, had you but been there with our men-at-arms! De Gissclin bore himself right manfully as was his wont—back to back we fought and I swear to you that we trod a knee-deep carpet of the dead before De Gissclin fell and they dragged me down. ‘Christ and the Cross!’ were his last words, as the Turanian spears and swords pierced him through and through. And his fair body—naked and gashed, and thrown to the kites and the jackals!”
Blaos sobbed convulsively, beating his fists together in his agony. Conan rumbled deep in his chest like a savage bull. Blue lights burned and flickered in his eyes.
“And you?” he asked harshly.
“Me they flung into a dungeon for torture,” answered Blaos, “but that night Yulala came to me. An old servitor who loved her, and who had dwelt in El Ghor before it fell to Nureddin, freed me and led us both through a secret passage that leads from the torture chamber, beyond the wall. We went into the hills on foot and without weapons and wandered there for days, hiding from the horsemen sent forth to hunt us down. Yesterday we were recaptured and brought back to El Ghor. An arrow had struck down the old slave who showed us the passageway, unknown to the present masters of the castle, and we refused to tell how we had escaped though Nureddin threatened us with torture. This dawn he brought me forth from the castle and hanged me to this gibbet, leaving that one to guard me. What he has done to Yulala, God alone knows.”
“You knew that Ali-El-Yar had fallen?”
“Aye,” Blaos nodded dully. “Kosru Malik boasted of it. The lands of De Gissclin now fall heir to his enemy, the traitor soldier who will come to Nureddin’s aid when the Shemite strikes for a crown.”
“And who is this traitor?” asked Conan softly.
“The baron Von Gonler, whom I swear to spit like a hare—”
Conan smiled thinly and bleakly. “Swear me no oaths. Von Gonler has been in Hell since dawn. I knew only that he refused to come to De Gissclin’s aid. I could have slain him no deader had I known his whole infamy.”
Blaos’s eyes blazed. “A De Gissclin man to the rescue!” he shouted fiercely. “I thank thee, old war-dog! One traitor is accounted for—what now? Shall Nureddin and the man live while two men wear De Gissclin steel?”
“Not if steel cuts and blood runs red,” snarled Conan. “Tell me of this secret way—nay, waste no time in words—show me this secret way. If you escaped thereby, why should we not enter the same way? Here—take the arms from that carrion while I catch his steed which I see browses on the moss among the rocks. Night is not far away; mayhap we can gain through to the interior of the castle—there—”
His big hands clenched into iron sledges and his terrible eyes blazed; in his whole bearing there was apparent a plain tale of fire and carnage, of spears piercing bosoms and swords splitting skulls.
IV
The Faith of Conan
When Conan of Cimmeria took up the trail to El Ghor again, one would have thought at a glance that a man rode with him. Blaos de Blois rode the bay Turanian steed and wore the peaked Turanian helmet. He was girt with the curved scimitar and carried the bow and quiver of arrows, but he did not wear the mail shirt; the hammering hoofs of the plunging stallion had battered and brayed it out of all usefulness.
The companions took a circuitous route into the hills to avoid outposts, and it was dusk before they looked down on the towers of El Ghor which stood, grim and sullen, girt on three sides by scowling hills. Westward a broad road wound down the steeps on which the castle stood. On all other sides ravine-cut slopes straggled to the beetling walls. They had made such a wide circle that they now stood in the hills almost directly east of the keep, and Conan, gazing westward over the turrets, spoke suddenly to his friend.
“Look—a cloud of dust far out on the plain—”
Blaos shook his head: “Your eyes are far keener than mine. The hills are so clouded with the blue shadows of twilight I can scarcely make out the blurred expanse that is the plain beyond, much less discern any movement upon it.”
“My life has often depended on my eyesight,” growled the Cimmerian. “Look closely—see that tongue of plainsland that cleaves far into the hills like a broad valley, to the north? A band of horsemen, riding hard, are just entering the defiles, if I may judge by the cloud of dust they raise. Doubtless a band of raiders returning to El Ghor. Well—they are in the hills now where going is rough and it will be hours before they get to the castle. Let us to our task—stars are blinking in the east.”
They tied their horses in a place hidden from sight of any watcher below down among the gullies. In the last dim light of dusk they saw the turbans of the sentries on the towers, but gliding among boulders and defiles, they kept well concealed. At last Blaos turned into a deep ravine.
“This leads into the subterranean corridor,” said he. “Ishtar grant it has not been discovered by Nureddin. He had his warriors searching for something of the sort, suspecting its existence when we refused to tell how we had escaped.”
They passed along the ravine, which grew narrower and deeper, for some distance, feeling their way; then Blaos halted with a groan. Conan, groping forward, felt iron bars, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, made out an opening like the mouth of a cave. Solid iron sills had been firmly bolted into the solid rock, and into these sills were set heavy bars, too close together to allow the most slender human to slip through.
“They have found the tunnel and closed it,” groaned Blaos. “Conan, what are we to do?”
Conan came closer and laid hands tentatively on the bars. Night had fallen and it was so dark in the ravine even his catlike eyes could hardly make out objects close at hand. The big Cimmerian took a deep breath, and gripping a bar in each mighty hand, braced his iron legs and slowly exerted all his incredible strength. Blaos, watching in amazement, sensed rather than saw the great muscles roll and swell under the pliant mail, the veins swell in the giant’s forehead and sweat burst out. The bars groaned and creaked, and even as Blaos remembered that this man was stronger than King Richard himself, the breath burst from Conan’s lips in an explosive grunt and simultaneously the bars gave way like reeds in his iron hands. One came away, literally torn from its sockets, and the others bent deeply. Conan gasped and shook the sweat out of his eyes, tossing the bar aside.
“By the saints,” muttered Blaos, “are you man or devil, Conan of Cimmeria? That is a feat I deemed even beyond your power.”
“Enough words,” grunted the Poitanian. “Let us make haste, if we can squeeze through. It’s likely that we’ll find a guard in this tunnel, but it’s a chance we must take. Draw your steel and follow me.”
It was as dark as the maw of Hades in the tunnel. They groped their way forward, expecting every minute to blunder into a trap, and Blaos, stealing close at the heels of his friend, cursed the pounding of his own heart and wondered at the ability of the giant to move stealthily and with no rattling of arms.
To the comrades it seemed that they groped forward in the darkness for an eternity, and just as Blaos leaned forward to whisper that he believed they were inside the castle’s outer walls, a faint glow was observed ahead. Stealing warily forward they came to a sharp turn in the corridor around which shone the light. Peering cautiously about the corner they saw that the light emanated from a flickering torch thrust into a niche in the wall, and beside this stood a tall man, yawning as he leaned on his spear. Two other Shemites lay sleeping on their cloaks nearby. Evidently Nureddin did not lay too much trust in the bars with which he had blocked the entrance.
“The guard,” whispered Blaos, and Conan nodded, stepping back and drawing his companion with him. The Cimmerian's wary eyes had made out a flight of stone steps beyond the warriors, with a heavy door at the top.
“These seem to be all the weapon-men in the tunnel,” muttered Conan. “Loose a shaft at the waking warrior—and do not miss.”
Blaos fitted notch to string, and leaning close to the angle of the turn, aimed at the man’s throat, just above the hauberk. He silently cursed the flickering, illusive light. Suddenly the drowsy warrior’s head jerked up and he glared in their direction, suspicion flaring his eyes. Simultaneously came the twang of the loosed string and the man staggered and went down, gurgling horribly and clawing at the shaft that transfixed his bull neck.
The other two, awakened by their comrade’s death throes and the sudden swift drum of feet on the ground, started up—and were cut down as they rubbed at sleep-filled eyes and groped for weapons.
“That was well done,” growled Conan, shaking the red drops from his steel. “There was no sound that should have carried through yonder door. Still, if it be bolted from within, our work is useless and we undone.”
But it was not bolted, as the presence of the warriors in the tunnel suggested. As Conan gently opened the heavy iron door, a sudden pain-fraught whimper from the other side electrified them.
“Yulala!” gasped Blaos, whitening. “‘Tis the torture chamber, and that is her voice! In Ishtar’s name, Conan—in!”
And the big Cimmerian recklessly flung the door wide and leaped through like a charging tiger, with Blaos at his heels. They halted short. It was the torture chamber, right enough, and on the floor and the walls stood or hung all the hellish appliances that the mind of man has invented for the torment of his brother. Three people were in the dungeon and two of these were bestial-faced men in leathern breeches, who looked up, startled, as the Franks entered. The third was a girl who lay bound to a sort of bench, naked as the day she was born. Coals glowed in braziers nearby, and one of the mutes was in the very act of reaching for a pair of white-hot pinchers. He crouched now, glaring in amazement, his arm still outstretched.
From the white throat of the captive girl burst a piteous cry.
“Yulala!” Blaos cried out fiercely and leaped forward, a red mist floating before his eyes. One of the beast-faced mutes was before him, lifting a short sword, but the young Frank, without checking his stride, brought down his scimitar in a sweeping arc that drove the curved blade through scalp and skull. Wrenching his weapon free, he dropped to his knees beside the torture bench, a great sob tearing his throat.
“Yulala! Yulala! Oh girl, what have they done to you?”
“Blaos, my beloved!” Her great dark eyes were like stars in the mist. “I knew you would come. They have not tortured me—save for a whipping—they were just about to begin—”
The other mute had glided swiftly toward Conan as a snake glides, knife in hand.
“Crom!” grunted the big warrior. “I won’t sully my steel with such blood—”
His left hand shot out and caught the mute’s wrist and there was a crunch of splintering bones. The knife flew from the mute’s fingers, which spread wide suddenly like an inflated glove. Blood burst from the fingertips and the creature’s mouth gaped in silent agony. And at that instant Conan’s right hand closed on his throat and through the open lips burst a red deluge of blood as the Cimmerian's iron fingers ground flesh and vertebrae to a crimson pulp.
Flinging aside the sagging corpse, Conan turned to Blaos, who had freed the girl and now was nearly crushing her in his arms as he gripped her close in a very passion of relief and joy. A heavy hand on his shoulder brought him back to a realization of their position. Conan had found a cloak and this he wrapped about the naked girl.
“Go, at once,” he said swiftly. “It may not be long before others come to take the place of the guards in the tunnel. Here—you have no armor—take my shield—no, don’t argue. You may need it to protect the girl from arrows if you—if we, are pursued. Haste now—”
“But you, Conan?” Blaos lingered, hesitant.
“I will make fast that outer door,” said the Cimmerian. “I can heap benches against it. Then I will follow you. But don’t wait for me. This is a command, do you understand? Hasten through the tunnel and go to the horses. There, instantly mount the Turanian horse and ride! I will follow by another route—aye, by a road none but I can ride! Ride ye to De Vaile, Seneschal of Khoraja. He is our friend; hasten now.”
Conan stood a moment in the doorway at the head of the stairs and watched Blaos and the girl hurry down the steps, past the place where the silent sentries lay, and vanish about the turn in the tunnel. Then he turned back into the torture chamber and closed the door. He crossed the room, threw the bolt on the outer door and swung it wide. He gazed up a winding flight of stairs. Conan’s face was immobile. He had voluntarily sealed his doom.
The giant Cimmerian was an opportunist. He knew that such chance as had led him into the heart of his foe’s stronghold was not likely to favor him again. Life was uncertain in Khoraja; if he waited for another opportunity to strike at Nureddin and Kosru Malik, that opportunity might not come. This was his best opportunity for the vengeance for which his barbaric soul lusted.
That he would lose his own life in the consummating of that vengeance made no difference. Men were born to die in battle, according to his creed, and Conan of Cimmeria believed firmly that Crom would judge him fit if he were to take many lives in dying well. Blaos, having found the girl, had instantly forgotten the original plan of vengeance. Conan had no blame for him; life and love were sweet to the young. But the grim Cimmerian warrior owed a debt to the murdered De Gissclin and was prepared to pay with his own life. Thus Conan kept faith with the dead.
He wished that he could have bade Blaos ride the black stallion, but he knew that the horse would allow none but himself to bestride it. Now it would fall into Shemite hands, he thought with a sigh. He went up the stairs.
