Olgerd glared, his quick temper irritated.
'What do you mean, _you_ think not? I do the thinking for this army!'
'There are enough men in this band now for my purpose,' answered the
Cimmerian. 'I'm sick of waiting. I have a score to settle.'
'Oh!' Olgerd scowled, and gulped wine, then grinned. 'Still thinking of
that cross, eh? Well, I like a good hater. But that can wait.'
'You told me once you'd aid me in taking Khauran,' said Conan.
'Yes, but that was before I began to see the full possibilities of our
power,' answered Olgerd. 'I was only thinking of the loot in the city. I
don't want to waste our strength unprofitably. Khauran is too strong a
nut for us to crack now. Maybe in a year--'
'Within the week,' answered Conan, and the _kozak_ stared at the
certainty in his voice.
'Listen,' said Olgerd, 'even if I were willing to throw away men on such
a hare-brained attempt--what could you expect? Do you think these wolves
could besiege and take a city like Khauran?'
'There'll be no siege,' answered the Cimmerian. 'I know how to draw
Constantius out into the plain.'
'And what then?' cried Olgerd with an oath. 'In the arrow-play our
horsemen would have the worst of it, for the armor of the _asshuri_ is
the better, and when it came to sword-strokes their close-marshaled
ranks of trained swordsmen would cleave through our loose lines and
scatter our men like chaff before the wind.'
'Not if there were three thousand desperate Hyborian horsemen fighting
in a solid wedge such as I could teach them,' answered Conan.
'And where would you secure three thousand Hyborians?' asked Olgerd with
vast sarcasm. 'Will you conjure them out of the air?'
'I _have_ them,' answered the Cimmerian imperturbably. 'Three thousand
men of Khauran camp at the oasis of Akrel awaiting my orders.'
'_What?_' Olgerd glared like a startled wolf.
'Aye. Men who had fled from the tyranny of Constantius. Most of them
have been living the lives of outlaws in the deserts east of Khauran,
and are gaunt and hard and desperate as man-eating tigers. One of them
will be a match for any three squat mercenaries. It takes oppression and
hardship to stiffen men's guts and put the fire of hell into their
thews. They were broken up into small bands; all they needed was a
leader. They believed the word I sent them by my riders, and assembled
at the oasis and put themselves at my disposal.'
'All this without my knowledge?' A feral light began to gleam in
Olgerd's eye. He hitched at his weapon-girdle.
'It was _I_ they wished to follow, not _you_.'
'And what did you tell these outcasts to gain their allegiance?' There
was a dangerous ring in Olgerd's voice.
'I told them that I'd use this horde of desert wolves to help them
destroy Constantius and give Khauran back into the hands of its
citizens.'
'You fool!' whispered Olgerd. 'Do you deem yourself chief already?'
The men were on their feet, facing each other across the ebony board,
devil-lights dancing in Olgerd's cold gray eyes, a grim smile on the
Cimmerian's hard lips.
'I'll have you torn between four palm-trees,' said the _kozak_ calmly.
'Call the men and bid them do it!' challenged Conan. 'See if they obey
you!'
Baring his teeth in a snarl, Olgerd lifted his hand--then paused. There
was something about the confidence in the Cimmerian's dark face that
shook him. His eyes began to burn like those of a wolf.
'You scum of the western hills,' he muttered, 'have you dared seek to
undermine my power?'
'I didn't have to,' answered Conan. 'You lied when you said I had
nothing to do with bringing in the new recruits. I had everything to do
with it. They took your orders, but they fought for me. There is not
room for two chiefs of the Zuagirs. They know I am the stronger man. I
understand them better than you, and they, me; because I am a barbarian
too.'
'And what will they say when you ask them to fight for Khauran?' asked
Olgerd sardonically.
'They'll follow me. I'll promise them a camel-train of gold from the
palace. Khauran will be willing to pay that as a guerdon for getting rid
of Constantius. After that, I'll lead them against the Turanians as you
have planned. They want loot, and they'd as soon fight Constantius for
it as anybody.'
In Olgerd's eyes grew a recognition of defeat. In his red dreams of
empire he had missed what was going on about him. Happenings and events
that had seemed meaningless before now flashed into his mind, with their
true significance, bringing a realization that Conan spoke no idle
boast. The giant black-mailed figure before him was the real chief of
the Zuagirs.
'Not if you die!' muttered Olgerd, and his hand flickered toward his
hilt. But quick as the stroke of a great cat, Conan's arm shot across
the table and his fingers locked on Olgerd's forearm. There was a snap
of breaking bones, and for a tense instant the scene held: the men
facing each other as motionless as images, perspiration starting out on
Olgerd's forehead. Conan laughed, never easing his grip on the broken
arm.
'Are you fit to live, Olgerd?'
His smile did not alter as the corded muscles rippled in knotting ridges
along his forearm and his fingers ground into the _kozak's_ quivering
flesh. There was the sound of broken bones grating together and Olgerd's
face turned the color of ashes; blood oozed from his lip where his teeth
sank, but he uttered no sound.
With a laugh Conan released him and drew back, and the _kozak_ swayed,
caught the table edge with his good hand to steady himself.
'I give you life, Olgerd, as you gave it to me,' said Conan tranquilly,
'though it was for your own ends that you took me down from the cross.
It was a bitter test you gave me then; you couldn't have endured it;
neither could anyone, but a western barbarian.
'Take your horse and go. It's tied behind the tent, and food and water
are in the saddle-bags. None will see your going, but go quickly.
There's no room for a fallen chief on the desert. If the warriors see
you, maimed and deposed, they'll never let you leave the camp alive.'
Olgerd did not reply. Slowly, without a word, he turned and stalked
across the tent, through the flapped opening. Unspeaking he climbed into
the saddle of the great white stallion that stood tethered there in the
shade of a spreading palm-tree; and unspeaking, with his broken arm
thrust in the bosom of his _khalat_, he reined the steed about and rode
eastward into the open desert, out of the life of the people of the
Zuagir.
Inside the tent Conan emptied the wine-jug and smacked his lips with
relish. Tossing the empty vessel into a corner, he braced his belt and
strode out through the front opening, halting for a moment to let his
gaze sweep over the lines of camel-hair tents that stretched before him,
and the white-robed figures that moved among them, arguing, singing,
mending bridles or whetting tulwars.
He lifted his voice in a thunder that carried to the farthest confines
of the encampment: '_Aie_, you dogs, sharpen your ears and listen!
Gather around here. I have a tale to tell you.'