Roland Green - Conan and The Mists of Doom

The range was easy for Turanian or even Afghuli bows against man-sized targets, even when the bowmen were shooting in haste. More tribesmen went down than arrows flew out, as some of the un-wounded runners flung themselves down, out of fear or perhaps to succor the wounded.

This gave Conan more hope for victory or at least seeing the day out. The enemy did not seem to understand that if they had few archers, they had to close quickly against Conan's band or risk being too weak to win the final grapple.

Meanwhile, Conan's men were disappearing into the rugged ground to the right. He heard human curses and equine protests as the men urged their mounts up slopes more suited for goats than horses. He also heard the whine of more arrows flying. At least one tribesman regained his courage, leapt to his feet, and promptly dropped again with an arrow through his throat.

Then human screams joined the horses' neighings from among the rocks. Conan leapt from the saddle, slapped his mare on the rump to send her uphill, and scrambled for the top of the nearest rock. If he had to make a target of himself to see what was going on, that was part of a captain's work.

Conan was not yet halfway up the rock when his questions were answered. He heard Farad shouting, "They've more in the rocks! Rally, rally, rally!" and hoped that the Turanians understood Afghuli.

Then he heard war cries from the running men in the open, sending echoes bouncing off the rocks. No, not echoes. Living throats were blaring those cries, the living throats of new enemies waiting among the rocks for Conan's men to be driven into their hands like sheep into the wolves' jaws.

Conan supposed that he could take some consolation in the skill of the chief who would be able to boast of ending the Cimmerian's career. He was not sure what else the situation had to commend it.

Other, that is, than the certainty of dying with sword in hand and comrades round about, if he didn't sit on this rock gawking like a herdboy at a country fair until the enemy found an archer who could see his hand in front of his face.

"Crom!"

It was not an appeal to the cold god of Cimmeria, for he did not listen to such appeals. It was more in the nature of a reminder, that here a Cimmerian warrior was about to die, and the manner of his death should be properly noted.

The god's name echoed around the rocks, drowning out all other cries human and animal, and left a brief, stunned silence in its wake. In the midst of that silence, Conan gathered himself, then leapt down from the rock, sword in hand.

The procession came up the path toward Captain Muhbaras, eight Maidens before Danar and eight behind. At the very rear walked a figure robed and hooded so thoroughly that she might have been a priestess passing through the marketplace, vowed to shield herself from profane eyes.

Under that hood, though, gleamed the golden cat's eyes, and the flowing, supple gait would have revealed the figure's identity even without the eyes.

The Lady of the Mists was coming as she had promised, to deal death for unlawful desire.

It would be a hard death, too. Danar was bound with thongs holding his hands behind his back and a short length of chain linking his ankles, barely long enough to allow him a shuffling, hobbled gait. His eyes were wide open and alert, although several welts on face and neck showed where he'd learned the unwisdom of looking about him.

Neither drugged nor wounded, he would see his death coming and feel it for as long as the Lady wished him to—which might be hours if she wished to set an example. Muhbaras hardened his heart all over again and wished that he could briefly stop his ears and blind his eyes.

The Maidens guarding the captain drew back, to allow their sisters room to file onto the level rock. By the time all were present, they needed to stand practically shoulder to shoulder around the rim of the platform to leave an open space in the middle.

Into that space Danar marched, as steadily as if he were reporting for roll call. Only the sheen of sweat on his bronzed face betrayed unease of mind.

Muhbaras forced a smile. It was not much of a final gift to a good man. He wanted to cry to the mountains and the skies as well as these accursed women:

"See how a soldier of Khoraja dies, and learn from his death the kind of enemies you make by this madness!"

But the mountains and the skies would not answer; any reply would come from the magic of the Lady of the Mists or the spears and swords of the Maidens.

Conan hoped to land among the ranks of his enemies, like a boulder plunging from a cliff. That could confuse stouter warriors than the tribesmen, and confused opponents did not last long against the Cimmerian.

But either the second part of the ambush had miscarried, or else Conan's men were holding their own for the moment. Neither seemed impossible; rough ground with an enemy lurking around a corner every five paces served both sides equally ill. It reminded Conan of fighting house to house, something he had done often enough to know that he would gladly never do it again.

It was only three paces before he faced opponents, two of them already engaged with a Greencloak. The Greencloak was at a further disadvantage through being pinned by the leg under his dying horse, but he was defending himself with desperate vigor. All his opponents' attention was on him, and they had none to spare for the Cimmerian when he came upon them.

With surprise and an edge in reach, Conan made easy prey of the first tribesman. He fell with his skull split from crown to the bridge of his nose, brains and blood spurting over the dead horse and the fallen Greencloak. His scimitar fell with a clang, in easy reach of the Greencloak, who snatched it up.

For a moment more blades were in action than there was space for their wielding. The Greencloak slashed wildly at his opponent with the scimitar in one hand and his own tulwar in the other. The tribesman tried to parry Conan's broadsword with his own scimitar, while at the same time drawing a dagger for use on the Greencloak.

The clanging as wildly swinging steel collided was worthy of a blacksmith shop. The Greencloak only nicked the tribesman's knee, but the collision of tribal scimitar and Cimmerian broadsword halted both strokes. It also broke the tribesman's grip on his weapon.

It clattered on the rocks, and the tribesman had only time to fling his dagger before Conan closed the distance. Nothing met the broadsword's second swing, until it opened the tribesman's throat and windpipe, nearly taking his head from his shoulders. More blood flowed over the dead horse as the second tribesman collapsed on top of the first.

Conan did not notice where the flung dagger had gone until the Greencloak cried out at the Cimmerian's grip on his shoulder. Then Conan saw the dagger thrust three fingers into the man's left shoulder. He plucked it out, wiped it on his breeches, thrust it into his belt, and finished dragging the Greencloak out from under the horse.

"Best pack that with something," Conan said, pointing at the bleeding shoulder. "Or can you fight left-handed?"

The man nodded.

"Better a right-handed fighter than a left-handed corpse," Conan said. "Now stay close by me, while we find our comrades."

"Ah—eh—if they're dead—?"

"If they were dead," Conan growled, "we wouldn't be hearing any fighting upslope. If they are dead, they may have killed enough foes to let us escape.

And if you don't follow me up the hill, the folk from across the valley will surely kill you if I don't do it first."

He did not quite prod the Greencloak in the small of the back with the point of his broadsword. He did not need to. The soldier lunged up the slope as if he were an unwounded runner on level ground, shouting the motto of the Greencloaks as he went.