Olgerd Vladislav filled his jeweled goblet with crimson wine from a
golden jug and thrust the vessel across the ebony table to Conan the
Cimmerian. Olgerd's apparel would have satisfied the vanity of any
Zaporoskan hetman.
His _khalat_ was of white silk, with pearls sewn on the bosom. Girdled
at the waist with a Bakhauriot belt, its skirts were drawn back to
reveal his wide silken breeches, tucked into short boots of soft green
leather, adorned with gold thread. On his head was a green silk turban,
wound about a spired helmet chased with gold. His only weapon was a
broad curved Cherkees knife in an ivory sheath girdled high on his left
hip, _kozak_ fashion. Throwing himself back in his gilded chair with its
carven eagles, Olgerd spread his booted legs before him, and gulped down
the sparkling wine noisily.
To his splendor the huge Cimmerian opposite him offered a strong
contrast, with his square-cut black mane, brown scarred countenance and
burning blue eyes. He was clad in black mesh-mail, and the only glitter
about him was the broad gold buckle of the belt which supported his
sword in its worn leather scabbard.
They were alone in the silk-walled tent, which was hung with gilt-worked
tapestries and littered with rich carpets and velvet cushions, the loot
of the caravans. From outside came a low, incessant murmur, the sound
that always accompanies a great throng of men, in camp or otherwise. An
occasional gust of desert wind rattled the palm-leaves.
'Today in the shadow, tomorrow in the sun,' quoth Olgerd, loosening his
crimson girdle a trifle and reaching again for the wine-jug. 'That's the
way of life. Once I was a hetman on the Zaporoska; now I'm a desert
chief. Seven months ago you were hanging on a cross outside Khauran. Now
you're lieutenant to the most powerful raider between Turan and the
western meadows. You should be thankful to me!'
'For recognizing my usefulness?' Conan laughed and lifted the jug. 'When
you allow the elevation of a man, one can be sure that you'll profit by
his advancement. I've earned everything I've won, with my blood and
sweat.' He glanced at the scars on the insides of his palms. There were
scars, too, on his body, scars that had not been there seven months ago.
'You fight like a regiment of devils,' conceded Olgerd. 'But don't get
to thinking that you've had anything to do with the recruits who've
swarmed in to join us. It was our success at raiding, guided by my wit,
that brought them in. These nomads are always looking for a successful
leader to follow, and they have more faith in a foreigner than in one of
their own race.
'There's no limit to what we may accomplish! We have eleven thousand men
now. In another year we may have three times that number. We've
contented ourselves, so far, with raids on the Turanian outposts and the
city-states to the west. With thirty or forty thousand men we'll raid no
longer. We'll invade and conquer and establish ourselves as rulers. I'll
be emperor of all Shem yet, and you'll be my vizier, so long as you
carry out my orders unquestioningly. In the meantime, I think we'll ride
eastward and storm that Turanian outpost at Vezek, where the caravans
pay toll.'