Michael Stackpole - Conan the Barbarian

Finally he raised his eyes. “Slaughter them all, man and beast. Raze this place. No stone shall stand upon stone, no well shall be unpoisoned. Fire what will burn, save bodies that you pile to rot, and salt the earth so that for generations to come, this place will stand as a warning against defying the god-king Khalar Zym.”

CHAPTER 20

THE CLOUD OFdust raised by pursued and pursuer alerted Conan to their presence long before he heard hoofbeats or the rattle of the closed carriage. He rode toward them, paralleling their course as nearly as he could, seeking a pass through the hills that would allow him to study them before he made any decision to intervene. Finally he came over a low rise as they streamed out of a narrow cut and along a serpentine road running around the shore of a long-sincedried lake.

The carriage came in the lead, with a man whipping lathered horses into a frenzied gallop. A half dozen similarly attired men, all wearing hooded tunics of rust and homespun pants of gray, rode behind. Their pursuers, a full dozen men in black leather armor, with bows and spears, swords and shields, poured from the cut and lofted arrows toward the wagon. Dust stained their armor, emphasizing the tentacled mask crest on their breasts, but Conan did not need that sign to know they were enemies.

Their leader, a twisted man riding low in the saddle, had not changed since Conan had last seen him at the forge—save for perhaps having become even more ugly. He urged his men on with savage curses. As they split up to engage the carriage’s defenders, he cut to the right, intent on catching the wagon himself.

One of the lofted arrows descended, more by dint of luck than any skill, and caught the wagon’s driver in the back. He spun, clutching at it, but his legs collapsed. He fell from his seat and the wagon bumped over him. The wagon careened onward, outstripping its defenders, the team of four horses racing white-eyed from pursuit.

Conan set heels to his horse’s flanks and the beast leaped forward. The two cut down the hill, picking up speed, and came onto the flat scant yards behind the wagon. The Cimmerian urged his mount on, rising in the stirrups, then leaped into the empty seat and scooped up the reins.

He laughed at himself as arrows whizzed past. Even with his great strength, hauling back on the reins to slow the horses would be difficult. If he slowed them, Khalar Zym’s men would catch up. He might be able to control the horses, thereby preventing the wagon from being wrecked, but hitting a rock or hole at that speed, having a horse break a leg or fall to an arrow, would bring the wild ride to an end quickly, and still leave Khalar Zym’s warriors to deal with.

A small viewport snapped open and a woman looked out. “Who are you?”

“Can you drive a team?”

“What? Of course.”

“Good.” Conan glanced back as two of Khalar Zym’s men came riding fast. He made to hand her the reins through the slit. “Here. Drive.”

“What? No. Wait.” The viewport snapped shut.

Before Conan could muster a curse at womankind’s fickle frailty, the carriage’s door swung open. A slender woman, her long hair flying, arced from the interior, her hands anchored on the door. Her feet came up, then she twisted in the air and landed beside him, a smile blossoming on her lips. She snatched the reins from his hands. “Do you wish me to do more than just drive?”

“Try not to die.” Conan jumped from the seat to the carriage’s roof, drawing off his cloak. He whipped it toward the nearest of Khalar Zym’s riders, and then launched himself in its wake. The cloak wrapped the man in darkness, then Conan tackled him, dragging him from the saddle. They landed hard, the soldier breaking Conan’s fall and a half-dozen ribs in the process, then the barbarian rolled free, drawing his sword in one flowing motion.

The second rider slashed at the Cimmerian. Conan ducked the blow and struck. His cut caught the rider just above his greave, shattering bone and slicing sinew. The lower half of the man’s leg came off, arterial blood pulsing hot and red, while the rider slumped to the left and fell. His foot caught in the stirrup, so his mount raced off, bucking and snorting, struggling to free itself from the dead thing dragging beside it.

Conan turned and kicked the first rider in the head before he could rise. He ran for that man’s horse, which had trotted to a stop, and gained the saddle easily. He reined around and quickly took stock of the battle.

The wagon’s defenders had given as good as they got. Their efforts cut the pursuit in half. Four of the defenders lay dead, and two clung to saddles despite being pierced by arrows. One of Khalar Zym’s men went after them, while the other two started down the road after the wagon.

Conan trotted his horse over to block their path.

One of them raised a spear as he reined up. “Delay us and you incur the wrath of Khalar Zym!”

“I will slay him as easily as I slay you.” Conan stabbed his bloody sword forward and kicked his horse in the ribs. The beast leaped forward, then sped toward the enemy. Conan knew better than to charge two armored men, especially when one had a spear and could pluck him from the saddle. But because they had the advantage of numbers, and could easily call their confederates to their aid, if he did not carry the battle to them and quickly, they would regain their wits and trap him.

He raced at them and then, at the last moment, shifted his sword from right hand to left and cut his horse to the right. This forced the spearman to raise his point past his horse’s head to keep it on target. By the time it came down, however, Conan had swept past. His sword whipped in. The spearman’s shield came up, and Conan’s blade sparked from the iron boss. The blade still caught the man in the forehead, denting his helmet instead of cleaving his skull in half.

He spun away, shield flying, spear falling. Conan reined his horse about hard and drove at the swordsman, who’d begun to turn left before he ran into his partner’s horse. Conan came around on his right. The man twisted in the saddle, futilely trying to parry Conan’s blade. The Cimmerian simply lowered his hand, letting the other man’s blade flash past, then stabbed up through his armpit and ripped the blade free.

Conan looked toward where the last of Khalar Zym’s men had ridden, but dust obscured his view. Then a black horse with an empty saddle rode free. Conan allowed himself to believe the last attacker dead, so he kicked his horse into a gallop. He gained ground quickly along the road and came around a bend just as, two hundred yards further on, Khalar Zym’s hunched lieutenant leaped from his saddle onto the coach’s roof.

The barbarian wanted to shout a warning, but the girl would never hear it. And what could she do? He urged the horse on faster, riding low in the saddle. If I cut across the dry lake bed there . . . But even that would have been of no use because Khalar Zym’s minion crept closer and closer. Even if his horse sprouted wings, Conan never could have gotten there in time to save her.

He snarled. Then Khalar Zym shall atone for your death as well.

The girl must have heard something, for she quickly cast a glance behind her. Without hesitation, her left foot came up and around, catching the minion square in the chest. He straightened up, arms milling to regain balance. He succeeded, a triumphant expression lighting his hideous face, then the wagon hit a bump and he flew into the air.

He came down heavily, bouncing once, but managed to catch hold of a cleat at the roof’s rear. His other hand came up, his fingers crashing through the roof. He dragged himself up, slithering on his belly. Inch by inch he pulled himself after her.