Crassides, the burly captain of the guard at the Western Gate, stroked his graying beard and muttered. Strangers often passed into the city, but seldom such curious strangers as today’s arrivals. Early this afternoon, in a cloud of dust stirred up from the desert sands, had come a troop of seven. The rider in the lead was a lean fellow of vulture look, his narrow mustache framing a thin line of mouth. He was armed like a Western knight, though his cuirass and helm were plain, without any device. By his side rode a huge Stygian on a black horse. A khalat enshrouded the Stygian’s form, and his only visible weapon was a massive war bow.
The other five were all well armored, wearing serviceable swords and daggers at their sides and holding lances in their hands. They looked like hardy rogues, as ready to slit a throat as to bounce a wench.
It was not the custom of the Khanyrian city guard to stop strangers without good reason, for here East and West met to mingle, haggle, and trade tall tales. Nevertheless, Crassides cast a searching glance at the seven as they jingled away towards the northern quarter. They disappeared into the profusion of smoky taverns with mongrels yapping about their horse’s hooves.
The rest of the day passed quietly, but now it seemed that the trickle of odd strangers must go on. As the sun flung its last rays across the darkening heavens, a tall, burnoosed foreigner reined in before the closed gate and demanded entrance.
Crassides, called to the gate by one of the guards on duty, arrived just as the remaining guard shouted down: “What seek you here, rogue? We let no outlanders in at night to cut our throats and debauch our women! State your name and errand before I clap you in irons!”
The stranger’s glowing eves, half hidden beneath his kaffia, regarded the trooper icily. “My friend,” said the stranger in a barbarous accent, “for words less than those I have slit a hundred gullets. Let me in or, by Crom, I’ll raise a horde to sack this bunch of hovels!”
“Not so fast! ” said Crassides, thrusting the guard aside. “Get down, you young fool, and I’ll teach you how to speak to strangers later. Now, you, sir! ” He spoke to the horseman. “We want no quarrels in Khanyria, and as you see the gate is closed for the night. Ere we open it, you must account for yourself.”
“Call me Arus,” growled the stranger. “I seek Pelias the sorcerer.”
“Let him in,” said Crassides. The heavy bolts were drawn. Two watchmen strained at the bronze handles, and one of the door valves swung slowly open. The stranger cantered through, not even glancing at those around the gate. He headed for the northern district, and the click of his horse’s hoofs dwindled in the distance.
The discomfited young guard spoke to his captain with restrained heat: “Why do we let this insolent lout ride in as if he were lord of the city? Why not put a shaft through his ribs? ”
Crassides smiled through his beard. “Years may teach you wisdom, though I doubt it. Have you never heard how, years ago, a northern barbarian like this one was captured by the warlord of one of the little city-states of Shem to the south? And how he escaped, rounded up a band of outlaw Zuagirs, and came back for vengeance?
And how the savage horde stormed the city, putting the people to the sword, flaying captives in the public square, and burning everything except the pole on which the warlord’s head was stuck? This fellow might be one of that sort. But alone, he can do us little harm. And if he mean us ill, Pelias will know it by his arcane arts and take measures. Now do you begin to see? ”
Conan knew that Pelias lurked in a tower of yellow stone at the northern end of the city. He planned to visit the wizard first and later to seek board and lodging. Anything would do. His body and tastes had not been softened by his years of civilized life. A loaf of bread, a hunk of meat, and a jack of foaming ale were all he wanted. For sleep, why, he could use the floor of a tavern if all else failed.
Conan had no wish to spend the night in Pelias’ abode, for all its luxury. Too many dark and nameless things were apt to stalk the nighted corridors of the sorcerer’s dwellings.
There came a muffled oath and a cry of fear. A door to the right flew open, and a young girl flung herself into the street.
Conan reined in. The girl was shaped like one of the mekhrani, that people the pleasure houses in the paradise of Erlik’s true believers.
This Conan could readily see, for her simple dress was torn to tatters, leaving her but scantily covered. Brushing back the jet-black tangle of hair from her face, she cast a terrified glance towards the door, which had closed behind her. Then her large eyes turned to Conan, sitting his horse like a statue. Her hand flew to her mouth in terror.
“Now, lass, what’s eating you? ” spoke the Cimmerian roughly, bending forward. “Is your lover cross with you, or what? ”
The girl rose with a lithe motion. “Two drunken soldiers tried to rape me. I came to buy wine for my father.
They took my money, too.”
Conan’s eyes flashed as he jumped to the ground.
His barbaric code of chivalry made him hate a man’s inflicting wanton brutality on a woman.
“Steady, lass. We’ll pull their beards yet. Just open the door. Are they the only guests? ”
Nodding in terrified confirmation, she led him to the tavern. After a moment’s hesitation she opened the door. In two long strides Conan was inside. The door clicked shut behind him.
But no such scene as he had expected confronted him. Here were no drunken soldiers to be quieted by a couple of buffets. Seven alert armed men ranged the walls, swords and daggers gleaming in their hands.
The determination to kill was in their eyes as they instantly rushed upon Conan.
A civilized man would have been stunned by surprise one second and cut down in the next, but not the giant Cimmerian. His keen primitive instincts gave him a flash of warning as he crossed the threshold, and his lightning reflexes went instantly into action. No time now to draw the great sword, before he had it out, they would be upon him like a pack of wolves. His only chance lay in instant attack, surprising his attackers by its very boldness before they could ring him and close with him.
A mighty kick sent a bench whaling against the legs of three of his adversaries as they rushed forward. They fell in a clattering, cursing tangle. Conan ducked a whistling sword stroke of one of the other four and smashed his right fist into the man’s face before the latter could recover his balance. Conan felt the man’s bones crack under the blow, which cast him back against his advancing comrades.
Taking advantage of the confusion, the Cimmerian burst clean through the ring of foes, wheeled with the speed of a panther, grabbed a heavy oaken table and, with a muscle-wrenching heave, hurled it into the faces of his enemies. Weapons clattered to the floor, and oaths and cries of pain rent the air. The lull in the fight gave Conan time to rip the great sword from its sheath and snatch out his dagger with his left hand.
He did not wait for a renewed attack. His barbarian blood was roused by this treacherous ambush. A red mist swam before his eyes, and his mind was crazed with the lust of killing. Rushing in to attack, single-handed against the six who were still in action, Conan with a furious kick caved in the ribs of one rascal still on hands and knees.
As he parried a thrust with his dagger, a savage swipe of his heavy sword sheared off the sword arm of another.
Arm and sword fell to the floor, and the man crumpled up, glassy-eyed and screaming, with blood spurting.
That left four, advancing warily in a half-circle. The tall, wolfish leader feinted at Conan’s legs but almost lost his head to the Cimmerian’s whistling countercut. He escaped by throwing himself to the floor. Just before he did so, Conan recognized the man as Baraccus, an Aquilonian noble he had exiled for plotting with the Ophireans.