Conan the Rebel

by Poul Anderson

  For a moment he recalled his stark homeland. Far indeed had he wandered from it, and wild had been his adventures. Finally he had come upon love, but he knew that was by the same blind chance that -could at any instant reave it away again. He squared his shoulders. It behoved a man – or a woman- to stand up to every onslaught of the fates, unquelled.

  Besides, he thought with a quick grin, it did look like a fine scrap ahead. The freighter's crew did not include many full-fledged warriors, to judge by their conduct, but they outnumbered the pirates, and every sailor learned early on how to handle himself in a tussle.

  Arrows began to fly from her decks. Archers among the Suba returned the barrage, while their comrades gibed and howled at the foe. Sunlight glittered off spears shaken aloft. A shaft thunked into the figurehead of Tigress, an inch from Bêlit, and Conan snarled. She laughed. Down below, a Negro took one in his right thigh. He wrenched it loose, staunched the wound, and resumed his eager stance at the rail. A man aboard the Stygian vessel lurched, smitten in the throat, crumpled, and toppled over the side. As he splashed, a triangular fin cruised forward.

  Bêlit yelled orders. Tigress drew upwind of her quarry. Hauled sharply about and poled out, her sail brought her toward the other hull. A huge ebon warrior amidships whirled a grapnel over his head and let it fly. Trailing a cord, it bit fast in the bulwarks. Immediately he sent another. 'Wa-ho-ah!' roared his fellows, and hauled so the muscles moved like snakes under sweat-shiny hides. Stygian axmen sought to cut the lines. A volley of arrows dropped some and drove the rest back. Planks banged together. Tigress shuddered from the impact but lay hard alongside.

  'Get aboard before they torch us!' Conan bawled. He had seen what fire could do to a ship. His sword flared free, and he sped along the catwalk.

  Crewmen of his had already brought up a boarding plank. Its teeth crunched into a rail several feet higher than that of Tigress. Conan shoved through the group and was first in their attack. Behind him stormed those few who had the armour to serve as shock troops. Most bore simply kilts or tunics, with the plumes and! weapons of their native country, but they seemed all the more fearsome for that as they gathered to follow. 'Wakonga mutusif!' Their screams overran the shouts of the merchant sailors.

  Three men in Stygian military mail stood shoulder to shoulder at the head of the plank. Conan's blade whirred on high and sang downward. It belled on the metal of a shield. The bearer staggered from the force, but thrust from behind his protection. Conan's clumsy assault had been a ruse. His steel chopped sideways, caught the enemy's wrist, and raised a gout of blood. The man stared unbelieving at his dangling hand and reeled back, to sit down and die.

  Conan had already used his own shield to catch that of his opponent on the left by the rim, hook it aside, and leave a leg exposed to a murderous sweep. As he smote, he gave a further twist that threw his foe against the one on the right. While the first wailed and sagged, the barbarian turned on the second. That fellow was more skilled. He kept his shield before him, moving it just enough to counter blows, and worked around its sides. Conan stepped back a pace to gain room. When the short sword probed after him, his own long blade rang down upon it. Sheer impact tore it loose from the Stygian's grasp. He retreated. Conan sprang forward and onto the freighter's main deck.

  He had needed scarcely three minutes to clear the way. Honed metal gathered nigh, in a frantic attempt to slay him and close the gap. He bellowed for glee and laid about him. Most of the defenders, like most of the pirates, had little more than shields to aid them, if that. Their bare brown bodies were terribly vulnerable to his blows as he drove back or brought low. And now Bêlit's warriors were coming aboard.

  The Stygian captain shouted from the poop. His men heard. They were a well-drilled crew. Such of them as were able formed into a tight squad and retreated aft. They inflicted as well as took losses. Suba were mainly engaged with those who had not managed to that band but nevertheless put up a stiff battle. Thus a score of the merchant seamen gained the higher deck.

  She hurried over red-running planks, writhing wounded, assorted dead, to Conan. Arrows from the poop whistled after her. He drew her close to him and held up his shield for whatever safety it afforded. 'They can stand us off, where they are, for a long while,' He said. 'There is ample shipping in these waters, and pirates are the vicinity of every seafaring nation. They can hope another vessel will pass by in time to help them. Then I fear we must make off.'

  'We can plunder this – No,' Conan decided. It would be impossible to transfer cargo under a barrage. Already the buccaneers had been forced to take shelter behind deckhouse, mast, and bollards. He felt an arrow ram into his shield and urged Bêlit out of the way.

  'Well, we can at least set her afire!' she said viciously.

  The wastefulness of that offended Conan's sense of workmanship. 'Hold,' he said. 'I have a notion. They can keep the ladder against us, aye... they have nobody at their backs.' He was now forward of the deckhouse. 'Help me, will you?' He dropped the shield.

  'What -' she began. He told her. For a heartbeat she stood appalled, then understanding flamed in her, and she barked a she-wolfs laughter. 'You are mad, Conan, but you are wonderful! Yes!' She kissed him, so hard that her teeth drew blood from his lips, and knelt to unlace his boots.

  He sent his encumbering chain mail rattling to the deck and slung his sword across his back. Barefoot, garbed merely in breeches and helmet, he darted forth. At the mast he studied the rigging for a moment, chose a halyard, and drew his dirk to cut it across. Thereafter he sought a rail and the shrouds on that side. His fingers and toes gripped tarry ratlines. Swift as a squirrel, he scampered

  The Stygians did not appear to have noticed him. Bêlit had gotten her own archers to keep them occupied. A bulwark around the poop protected them fairly well, but they must keep their heads beneath except when rising briefly for a return shot.

  Perched on the yardarm above the slatting sail, Conan hauled in the severed line. The back stay offered him a way down, but one that would be fatally slow. Instead, he cut the halyard again at its block and ran out along the pole. Unsteered, the ship wallowed in billows, her mast drawing wild arcs across the sky. Conan balanced himself without thinking. Near the tip of the yard he slashed enough of the sail loose that it would not interfere with him. Having gauged what length he wanted, he made the line fast. Taking the free end in both hands, he sprang.

  He fell, shocked to a halt as the cordage drew taut, and swung forward over deck, cabin, warriors, Tigress, and ever-hungry sea swept, jubilating like the boy who had once played this game in the, treetops of Cimmeria. Back aft he whirled, low above the poop, and let go.

  His feet caught the bulwark, a brunt that went through his bones. He rebounded and came to a crouch even as his sword hissed from its sheath. Shield-less, he drew dagger as well. A sailor gaped at him, stupefied. Conan hewed. A skull clove.

  'Hoy-ho!' Conan trumpeted, and smote right and left. A pike jabbed at him. He used his sword to deflect it, and slithered inward. His dirk found the pike man’s throat. He hurled the dying body against another, and brought his blade around in bare time to fend off an ax. No single, unarmoured man could stand before a massed attack; but he forced himself in among the Stygians, where they could not work together, and sowed havoc.

  A short sword grazed him. He smashed the pommel of his own weapon into the face behind and felt bone crunch. His edge sliced over the man's shoulder before that one could fall, and laid a belly open. Meanwhile he had locked the guard of his knife into that of another sword. He held it immobilized until he was ready to twist about and chop through the arm that wielded it.

  Towering over the tumult, he saw Bêlit's black fighters dash to a ladder now undefended. Abruptly he heard a laugh, long, savage, ascending. Bêlit flew onto the poop, in the same wise as he had before. He gasped. He had not intended that. She bounced about, her hair a-flicker. He roared. The fury of his combating redoubled. He would kill every last Stygian wretch aboard befo
re any of them could harm his beloved!

  The event, he did not, for her men arrived and soon completed in- task.

  Sails furled, the linked ships rolled easily in the marching seas. More chilly than exuberant Bêlit, Conan took stock. Their crew had lost three, and five had such bad wounds that they would be out of action for a while, if infection did not take them off. No Stygians appeared to remain. The buccaneers had thrown all overboard, dead or alive; hey were not in the slave trade. However, Conan saw that eventually Bêlit would have to do what she had done before, return in Suba country for fresh recruits. She said there was no dearth of those.

  Hatches yawned where men had gone below to find out what cargo they had acquired. He heard happy noises and gathered that it was not only valuable but readily transferable – spices, perhaps. He himself approached the deckhouse, Bêlit at his side. Both had cast off their bloody, sweaty garb. Her glorious body still shimmered wet from the bucket of seawater she had dashed across them both. They kept swords in hand; predators who have not learned caution reach no great age.

  Before them, a cabin door suddenly swung open. The man who came forth wore the iron collar of a slave. Yet his tunic was white and clean, and he bore his slender frame with a certain elegance. Darker-hued and finer-featured than his shipmates, he seemed foreign to them.

  'Greeting,' he said calmly, and bowed his head above folded hands. The rest of his words were lost on Conan, who knew almost nothing of the Stygian language.

  Bêlit answered him in her own limited vocabulary. He smiled and broke into Shemitish, which Conan did know fairly well: 'Congratulations upon your victory, my lord and lady. In what may Otanis of Taia serve you?'

  'Huh!' grunted Conan. 'You are quick to change masters, you.'

  Otanis shrugged. 'What loyalty do I owe him who made property of me?' His gaze intensified. Yearning filled his voice. 'Perhaps you will make a man of me, in your kindness. That would earn you, in truth, the devotion that never dies.'

  Bêlit explained to Conan: 'He is a Taian. His people are not Stygians, though their land has long been a province of the kingdom, and they have often risen against their rulers. It has always been in vain, but you must admire their courage the more for that.' She addressed the other. 'What was your fate?'

  Otanis frowned. 'Once more the war arrow goes among the clans and Taia strives for her ancient freedom,' he said. 'I was captured in an engagement and sent to the slave market.'

  Conan studied him and observed shrewdly: 'You do not seem to have suffered too much.'

  'No, I was fortunate, if such a thing as good fortune can exist in a cage,' Otanis replied. 'The Stygian who bought me, a merchant of Khemi named Bahotep, has the wit to recognize that one gets more out of an animal if it is properly treated. I happen to be literate – not very common among Taians in these sad years, as my lady doubtless knows – and he put me in his counting house. Lately he appointed me his supercargo for this precious shipment. He had come to truss me, you see; besides, he charged the captain to keep me under guard while in port.' Otanis shrugged again. 'Well, if we balance the fact that he is not unkindly against the fact that he claims me for his slave, I seem to owe him nothing, good or ill. Therefore, my lord and lady, I am at your service.' He repeated his bow. 'May I ask who you are?'

  'I am Bêlit, of the corsair Tigress,' the woman said proudly, 'and this is my fellow captain Conan -' She broke off. Otanis stood agape 'What is the matter?'

  'You... are Bêlit... of Shem and the Black Coast?' he inquired.

  Light rippled along her obsidian-dark tresses as she nodded. 'Yes,' she said, 'I am Bêlit, who like you has much to avenge upon Stygia.'

  'Why, I – I know your brother,' Otanis stammered.

  Bêlit stiffened. 'What?' she said in a shuddering breath.

  'Yes, Jehanan, is he not your brother? How often and with what has he told me of you.'

  Bêlit's sword clattered to the deck. She seized Otanis by the arm. Her nails dug into his flesh till he winced. He stood fast, hough, which Conan liked. The Cimmerian's own broad palm lay on the shoulder of his beloved. Beneath the silken skin, he felt her flesh tensed and shivered.

  'Tell me!' she commanded. 'Tell me everything!'

  'Why... well, there is a great deal,' Otanis said hesitantly. 'We became close friends, he and I.'

  'He is no longer the victim of that Ramwas beast?' she cried.

  Otanis shook his head. 'No. He is not.'After a search for words, he proceeded: 'He has told me how Ramwas bought you both, and you apparently got away. He dared hope for no more than that you met a decent death. How overjoyed he would be to see you here, queen of battle! But in any case, Jehanan had made such trouble on his own that Ramwas decided to get rid of him and put him up for sale. My master Bahotep bought him. As I said, Bahotep knows better than to make afield hand of a gifted and educated man. Jehanan responded well to reasonable treatment.' Otanis cast a smirk at Conan.' We may even visit a certain female he keeps, once a week, if we behave ourselves.' He grew serious anew, met Bêlit's tearful regard, and went on: 'Yes, Jehanan works beside me, or did until I was sent on his voyage. Of course, his heart ever hungers for freedom. But he is too intelligent to risk what he has, little though that be, unless the Gods give him a better chance of escape than has yet appeared.'

  'Jehanan- in Khemi? Jehanan!' Bêlit wailed. She cast herself into Conan's arms and sobbed. He held her close, stroked her hair and back, murmured what comfort he could. Such of her men as were topside stared white-eyed but did not venture near.

  'Where is he, Otanis?' Bêlit tore loose from her lover and whirled on the other man. 'We will make a raid. Guide us to him, and all the gold in Stygia shall be yours!'

  Conan understood, down to his marrow, what she was feeling. Yet because he was, in some measure, still an outsider, he was able to maintain calm. Beneath it, rage and eagerness seethed in him. To give Bêlit this gift! But he had the power to stand back and study how the thing might be done.

  He pinioned her, made her look at him, and said most carefully:' 'My dearest, you rave. One ship against a city and a fleet? That is rescue, that is suicide. Let us use our brains as well as our blades,' tone strengthened, 'and Jehanan will indeed walk the decks Tigress.'

  She hauled herself, almost hand over hand, back toward steadiness. 'Yes, you are right, of course,' she could finally say. 'We need a plan. But this is going to be what we live for – Jehanan's freedom – until we have won it.'

  Conan's ice-blue gaze went above her head and speared Otanis. 'We shall require your help,' the Cimmerian said. 'No doubt the venture will be dangerous. You have fought for your country. Now be true to us, and you shall have not only your liberty, but shiploads of wealth. Would those not buy plenty of mercenaries for your cause?' He pondered a moment, silent amidst the sea wind. 'If you fail us,' he finished bluntly, 'you die.'

  Otanis smiled. 'It may not even be so difficult,' he responded. 'Shall we talk further?'

  Bêlit put the first mate in charge of transshipping cargo, and accompanied the two men beside her into the former captain's cabin. She and Conan sat down at its table. Otanis fetched wine and joined them. A sunbeam sickled through a glazed window, back and forth as the vessel rolled. There came sounds of men talking and laughing at work, creak of wheeling gulls, whoosh and smack of waves. Though the room was small and sparsely furnished, air blew past a door secured half open, to fill it with salty breath and hope.

  Otanis took a sip from his goblet, leaned back, bridged his fingers, and said: 'Bahotep's mansion and warehouse are not heavily watched. His slaves know they have the best – the least bad -master in Khemi, and are anxious to stay in his good graces. Yes, Jehanan likewise, unless and until a clear chance to run away comes along. My lady Bêlit must have had incredible luck in her own escape. I would be interested to hear what happened.'

  'I stole a boat,' the woman snapped.

  'And were not intercepted before then – by a sacred python, for example?' Otanis clicked his t
ongue. 'Moreover, when a missing slave and a missing craft were reported next morning, certainly three

  in lour ships went out in search. The Stygians always want to make examples of contumacious underlings, and a ship has greater hull speed than a boat. It was sheer fortune that none chanced to sight you, and that nobody thought it worthwhile to ask a magician to scry your exact whereabouts, until too late. Jehanan can not expect similar luck; and a flight overland would be more futile yet. Remember, the punishment for a fugitive slave is not death -not for lays.'

  He paused. Conan drank deep of the acid Stygian wine and regarded him dourly. Otanis resumed:

  'However, as I said, Jehanan would have no special difficulty in leaving Bahotep's place. He, like me, often does, on this or that errand. He could readily invent a reason to be absent for two or three lays, a reason that would convince the guard, such as a message to bear to the superintendent of one of Bahotep's plantations. It is unlikely that the guard would query the master about this. I could send him a note instructing him about it – give it into the hand of some mutual, illiterate friend in the household, as soon as that person passes by the spot where I lurk. He and I could then hasten to the boat that brought me ashore, take off well ahead of any pursuit, and seek back to this ship, my lady.'

  Wine slopped from the cup that Bêlit raised to her lips.

  'You are very glib, Otanis,' Conan growled. 'Why should we believe we have not seen the last of you, once you are in that boat?'

  'A good question, sir,' the dark man replied, unruffled. 'My answer is threefold. First and least, you have offered great reward for my service – reward not only to me but my poor oppressed motherland. Second, I am truly a friend of Jehanan. If you doubt this, let me spend a few hours telling you what he has told me about himself – and about you, my lady – yes, tales reaching far back into childhood. You know your brother; you know he would not relate intimate matters to anyone whom he did not feel was trustworthy. Third, I am a Taian, a mountaineer, no sailor. I will need someone to man the boat that carries me. It is also best I bring a strong sword arm along, in case something goes awry.'