Wrenching his great sword free, he lurched away, stepping over bodies strewn like jumble sticks, even tripping on some in his near panic. Then, as he staggered past the hulk of an overturned chariot, a sharp voice beseeched him:
“Nay, killer of the helpless, slay me not! Spare me in the name of Crom, Mannanan, Mitra, or whatever gory god this feast of souls is for!”
The gory shambler peered into the dimness, frozen in feral surprise. A moment later he made out the face and form of the speaker: a stocky, thick-featured man lying supine in the grass a mere half-stride ahead of him. The stranger could pose no threat; the nether part of his body was pinned to earth by an overturned chariot-crushed and crippled, undoubtedly, since the vehicle’s heavy bronze rim had gouged deep into the soil. Its centre pole was further weighted to earth by the carcasses of two matched roan geldings slumping dead in their traces.
Yet the voice had rung out bold and firm, and was answered in the same spirit by the swordsman.
“Why, then, should I spare you?—to make you captive? I am a warrior, not a slave-catcher!” Holding his sword level, the speaker forced his breathing to a steadier cadence, lest he be thought afraid. “As an honest soldier, ’tis my part to slay the wounded cleanly, to accept what humble loot they may offer up in payment, and hope some honourable soul will do the same for me when it is my turn.” The warrior scowled down at the homely, upturned face. “Should I not extend the same kindness to you? ’Tis no more than my duty!”
“An honest soldier?” the fallen one demanded. “Nay, a liar!—because I know you for a king!” The word rang out harshly over the field of slaughter, seeming to echo accusingly to a hundred dead ears in the moment of stillness that followed. “King Conan the Bloody-handed... Conan of the Dripping Ax, royal upstart of Aquilonia!” The speaker, though evidently wounded, showed amazing vitality, his face leering and grimacing froggily beneath the rim of an oversized antique helmet. “As king, you need trouble yourself no more with the petty codes of common soldiers! Has none yet told you that? To you, O King, all things are possible!”
The pause the hulking warrior allowed before answering was judicious. “So say you, stranger, and you seem to know the ways of kings.” He did not trouble to deny his identity; strangely, as a result of this grisly banter with a dying man, he found his soul being teased out of its morbid fears. “And yet I may kill you even so—to ease the pangs of your wound, or for better cause.”
“My wound? Nay, King Butcher, I have no wound! I fought too fiercely to be wounded, even by your back-shooting archers.” The speaker grew animated once again, rolling his eyes up at the king and thrashing both his arms, which looked oddly foreshortened in the moonlight. “I would be fighting still if this chariot had not pinned the skirt of my armour beneath its weight.” He gestured down to where the brass rail cut across the metal leaves, crushing them uniformly flat at thigh level. “’Tis but a cheap, ill-fitting suit, furnished at my insistence on the eve of our march from Ianthe. Such was my frenzy for slaughter that even tight-fisted old King Balt could not deny me! Lord Malvin provided me the chariot—a shame that it lacked an able driver.”
“By Crom, I see... you are a dwarf!” Lowering his sword and easing its grimy point between the chest-plate and skirt-waist of the mashed armour suit, King Conan sawed at the leather strapping he found there, not meanwhile encountering any hips or belly within. At last the upper segment of the armour loosened and twisted free; two booted feet emerged, tentative and turtle-like, from the bottom of the hauberk.
“There, you are unpinned.”
“Yes, at last!” Clambering to his feet, the dwarf stretched out his stocky frame to a height near equal to the midpoint of Conan’s thigh. “And here is my noble sword, Hearts-pang. It has lain just out of reach, and tantalized me since morn.” Stooping, he picked up a somewhat oversized dagger and held it above his head, twisting it to catch the glint of moonlight. He thrust his face up at Conan from beneath his skewed, ungainly helmet and cried out spiritedly, “Which way the fight?” “The fight is over, little man. Your side lost.” “What? I feared as much—a bitter shame!” He cocked his head aside, frowning and looking crestfallen. “And yet,” he added philosophically, “’tis possible to be over-hasty in proclaiming that a war is over, and who the victor is!” He shrugged his shoulders, making the helmet joggle loosely on his head. “But say, O King—if you do not have die pluck left to fight me, and settle matters once and for all—would it be too great a lapse of your royal dignity to help me remove this breastplate? It bangs against my shins when I walk.”
“Why, certainly, fellow—if you swear not to try any tricks!” Reaching down and catching the dwarf’s knife-fist in his own burly hand, Conan plucked the dagger from it, then knelt to ply its point in the vulnerable seams at the sides of the obsolete battle-dress. Before its razored steel, old leather parted, and the armour plates soon clanked free. “What is your name, little man?” “Ow! Careful, King Jabber, I am no lobster for you to gouge the meat out of!” Tugging away from Conan’s grasp, the dwarf shucked the breast and scapular plates off over his head to clatter on the ground. The helmet he retained, straightening it so that it rested more on his shoulders than his brow. “Delvyn is my name. I am, or was, imperial jester to King Balt’s court in Belverus—depending, I suppose, on whether the old gas-bladder still lives and spouts drivel.”
Beneath the armour the dwarf wore a jerkin and pantaloons, well-fitting yet scallop-fringed and clownishly adorned. Their sheen of silk in the moonlight seemed to confirm his boast of high office. “Balt?” the king’s voice rumbled ruefully. “Yes, he lives, in spite of my best efforts. As does his fellow traitor Malvin, as far as I know. I gave orders that none of my troops were to slay them, since I hoped to reserve that pleasure for myself.”
“Then the two of them must have cravenly fled the field! I would have guessed as much.” Delvyn’s grotesque face, canted habitually upward and now facing the moon, creased in a sneer of scorn. “Balt is but a withered hangnail of the warrior he used to be, and Malvin was never anything but a fop. Ah, it pains me to serve such weaklings!” He shook his head in disappointment. “’Tis a rare king nowadays who craves to die at the forefront of his troops—who courts death as a maiden, and so becomes her husband! Though I have heard that you, Conan the Butcher, are one such.” Squaring his shoulders, he strutted up to Conan’s shadow and extended a stubby hand. “Return my noble sword Hearts-pang, I beg you, O King!”
“Nay, little one, not so fast!” Conan slipped the knife into his crusty girdle and turned to grasp the hilt of his own sword, where it stood thrust into the earth. “I fear to return your cutlass to you so soon, and risk being stabbed in the knee. But come along with me, brave Delvyn, you are now my prisoner!” Choosing a path between corpse drifts, he resumed walking, using his own moon shadow as a pointer. “Mayhap I will barter you back to your kingdom for thrice your weight in gold.”
“’Twould be a poor bargain at that rate. I venture to say I am worth thrice your own unwieldy weight and more, O King!” Delvyn shrugged and scuttled along, catching up to his captor with an air of resignation. “Not that the crotchety, bilious old Balt would ever admit my worth or pay it! More likely he would say I bedevilled him, and blame me for his miserable defeat. Just because I counselled him to settle his territorial claims in the only honourable way!”
“King Balt is old and addled indeed, if he heeds the advice of his professional fool.” Conan led the way around an oak tree, its lower branches broken and pruned by flailing weapons, the west side of its trunk furred by a blizzard of arrows. “But ho,” he grunted, “here come riders! If they are my enemies, you may yet win your freedom.” He raised his sword and moved to place his back against the tree. A moment later he lowered the weapon as it became clear that the three horsemen’s mail was black not only with night and soil, but with the glossy lacquer of the Black Dragon guard.
“Glory be unto Mitra!” a familiar voice hailed. “It is the king—he l
ives!” The armoured man, wheeling his galloping destrier to a halt, swung elegantly down from the saddle. Gracefully and silently he caught the weight of his steel suit on the ground, then sank smoothly to one knee at Conan’s feet. There, devoutly, he bowed his head and raised one mailed hand to be clasped in his ruler’s. The other two horsemen, meanwhile, reined up and dismounted less expertly, clanking forward to assume identical postures just behind and to either side of the first rider.
“Come, Trocero! By Crom’s bunions, you know I hate such obeisances!” Reaching down and clasping the armoured man’s shoulder, he hauled him up to his feet.
“Aye, Your Majesty!” Count Trocero reached up to loosen his helmet, lifted it off his head, and lowered it into the crook of his arm with a heavy clank. The face thus exposed was broad and handsome, its nose and cheekbones arching firm above a black moustache shot with grey, its hawk-like dark eyes taking in Conan’s figure intently. “Are you well? Sire, you cannot imagine the agony of doubt we have been through!—searching the whole vast wake of the routed armies, not knowing whether you might be slain or captured, whether Aquilonia still had a king, or whether half the empire would be demanded as your ransom.... Forgive me, Sire, but ’tis well you are here!” Bowing again swiftly, the nobleman seized Conan’s hand and pressed his moustached lips against his king’s blood-grimed knuckles.
“Faugh, enough now! Trocero, I warn you!” With his free hand Conan dealt his friend an ill-tempered buffet to his armoured shoulder, making the solemn knight stagger as he stood upright.
“Aha, a king well-beloved by his army,” Delvyn observed from behind Conan. “Such a one can go far.”
“Nonsense!” Conan muttered over his shoulder. “And blast your impudence, dwarf, I already have gone far!”
“But Trocero speaks true, O King,” affirmed one of the other two knights, rising stiffly to his feet. “We missed you sorely.” He paid no more heed to the watching dwarf than he would have to a child. “Our fears were greatest after we found Lord Elgin, cut down with three of your bodyguards a league and more from here. All were dead, and so there was none left to tell us whither you had gone.”
“Alas, Elgin too!” Conan answered glumly. “The staunch fellows were struck down escorting me through an ambush laid by Ophirean knights. That was our closest approach to the fugitive kings, and still the scoundrels would not turn and fight! By Baalok’s bloody furnace!” His foreign oath was accompanied by a toss of his head and a fierce grimace. “Brave Sheol carried me through, only to be slain a half-mile further on by skulking spearmen. Bless his noble fetlocks, there never was such a horse!” The monarch shook his head in genuine regret. “By then I was the last rider still in pursuit, with any surviving horseflesh too well prized by our fleeing enemies to be found! So I had to walk back, killing a slinking invader when I could. I saw some good men fallen, and other grievous wounded....” His voice rasped away to silence.
“What of your armour, Sire?” Trocero asked attentively. “And your crown?”
“Bah! Cavalry armour only hampers a man afoot! ’Twas but a drag on my sword-arm. As for the crown”— the king scowled tempestuously—“why, ’tis nothing but a damned nuisance! At first glimpse of a crown, a man’s enemies scamper fecklessly away—or else they’ll try to maim and capture you, rather than killing you fairly! It makes it too hard to chase down an honest fight.” Conan shook his shaggy mane, disgruntled. “I cast the thing off into a pile of bodies, somewhere near Sheol’s noble carcass.”
“Your Majesty, if I may suggest...” Trocero’s tone was respectful, his expression grave. “Before we rejoin the other officers, Sire, I want to say to you as a friend... might it not be more prudent, Conan, if you did not press so hard in an attack as to endanger yourself, and outrun your army? We have fought together for many years, and I know your ways. But now things have changed, and it might be wiser to preserve yourself—” “What, Trocero? You mean hang back from a fight, like those cowardly hens Malvin and Balt? I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say it!” As Conan flared at the remark, his bearing grew stiffer and more energetic than it had seemed at any time since the battle. “What, man, are you trying to tell me? That I’m too old, too frail, to fight alongside my troops? I am still an able warrior, remember, Trocero—until some better man takes it into his head to disprove it!”
“Nay, nay, Sire, I did not mean any offence!” The count shook his head, holding his ground broad-shouldered and firm before his commander. “Conan, I did not mean you were unable! Rather, too important— too well-loved, and too vital to the Aquilonian nation to risk throwing your life away in battle! If you would but be content to direct our campaigns and give your officers the full, measured benefit of your judgement, without galloping forth to win every fight yourself—” “No, Trocero, you ask too much.” Conan’s scowl was less tempestuous. “After languishing so long in the boredom of the court, busying myself with a pallid round of domestic trifles, I require action, risk! It makes me young.” Still scowling, he shook his crusted mane. “Battered and weary as I am, I have not in months felt as alive as I do now! Just because a man’s brow glints with grey—or with gem-crusted gold, for that matter— it doesn’t mean his manhood is past. I am more than a king, I tell you—I am still a warrior! When that ends, so does my reign.”
“Yes, Sire. My apologies. I should have known you would see it as a point of honour.” The count bowed deeply and turned to grasp the reins of his waiting mount. “Take my horse, Sire, so that you can hasten back to ease the minds of your staff.”
“Nay, Trocero, I want you to ride along with me.” The king’s nod to his friend was grudgingly accepting. “Let me take Stavro’s mount, here—if he does not mind the walk.” The knight he had named dropped graciously again to one knee and proffered Conan the reins of his steed. “Though I am heavier than you, Sir Knight, I lack armour, so your beast will not be sorely overburdened.” Conan swung himself stiffly up into the saddle.
“And what of me, O King?” Delvyn called from far below, waving his arms to get attention. “My legs will hardly keep pace with a hulking, lumbering knight, much less a troop of horses. And you leave me here disarmed! Am I to find my own way back to Belverus?” “Nay, fool, of course not,” Conan rumbled, his smudged features cracking to a white-toothed laugh at the pathetic sight of the dwarf. “You are my sole plunder from this day’s noble affray! Come, ride along with us. Trocero, you would not mind carrying him on your saddle hump, as you would a sack of turnips? Aye, Sir Stavro, that’s the way! Fling him aboard and we’re off!”
The figures moving about the campfire looked glum and weary. Pale glints of moon and firelight on armour plate, surmounted by pale, downcast faces—all was strangely subdued for the camp of a victorious army. At the sound of hoof beats, faces looked up and brightened, first with firelight, then with elation as the sentry’s hail rang forth.
“It is Count Trocero... and the king!”
“Praise Mitra and Crom,” voices buzzed around the campfire, “the king returns!”
“Huzzah! Conan lives, and so our victory is complete!” The first to come dashing around the fire was a tall, slender man in jerkin and pantaloons, his armour removed except for his breastplate. He ran up as the king reined in; but, catching the gleam of firelight on wet blood at the dismounting warrior’s rib cage, he halted without laying hands on his ruler. “Sire, you are wounded!”
“Nonsense, loyal Prospero, ’tis but a welt!” "Turning from his steed, Conan seized his retainer in both arms and dealt him a friendly clout on the back. “So we have our victory, costly as it is, and our lives—the luckiest of us, anyway!” He addressed the broader, exultant group of faces. “Once again, generous invaders have shed their blood to sweeten Aquilonia’s rich soil!”
As Conan turned with Prospero from the onlookers’ cheers, he heard the nobleman ask, “And what have you there, Trocero, a child? Or is it a Tybor River troll?” His gaze rested on the small figure being helped down by the count from the warhor
se’s high saddle.
“Rarer than that,” Conan told him. “’Tis a dwarfish clown of King Balt’s court. I caught him on the battlefield, helpless as a mouse with its tail in a snare. If we keep him by, he may afford us some amusement.” “I may as well,” Delvyn said, swaggering into the crowd of armoured knights as an equal. “My former master will have little use for me in the days to come— resting and rejuvenating as he probably will be among the randy trollops of Lord Malvin’s harem, in the palace at Ianthe.” The dwarf looked up at them innocently. “’Twas there they planned to retire, I heard them say, in the unlikely event of a military defeat by a ham-fisted western king.”
His joke brought no laughter from his listeners, rather, gruff murmurs. “Silence, rapscallion!” one knight barked.
Another muttered, “Sounds like an ill desert for a pair of treacherous scoundrels!”
It was Trocero who spoke next, bringing up a matter of business. “King Conan, we should recover your crown, methinks. There have been few looters so far, because our army’s swiftness outran the camp followers—”
“Aye, and our enemies’ shameless rout stampeded theirs.” Conan nodded good-naturedly. “But we can easily send troopers after the bauble. Tell them we’ll pay the finder a gold talent; that will simplify matters. But no murdering one another for it, or the prize is void!”
The order was passed, causing an immediate, audible stir in the encampment spreading beyond the fire.
Then it was Prospero’s turn to raise a practical matter. “By the grace of the gods, and by your generalship, Conan, we were able to defeat both enemy forces. They are weakened, I would guess, beyond any hope of prosecuting their war plans.” The Poitanian smiled in the firelight, waving one beringed hand in a gesture of dismissal. “But as you know, my liege, we still have foot-borne companies marching here from the northern and western frontiers, and fresh levies and supply columns coming from my home province. I can send word to have them halted—”
Conan the Great Page 2
