by Roland Green
It also brought the Cimmerian within easy reach of a fallen spear. He dove for it and came up holding it like a quarterstaff, while with one foot he kicked upward. He was aiming at Lysinka’s stomach or knee, but as she thrust again on a low line, his boot crashed into her wrist. Her sword in its turn clattered on the ground.
Conan kicked again, this time sending Lysinka’s fallen blade skittering out of both fighters’ reach. Lysinka dove, to rearm herself with the Aquilonian’s heavier blade. Conan reached it first, slamming a heavy foot on it. The woman thrust again at his thigh with her dagger, this time from below.
Conan reversed the spear and thrust down hard with the butt end. He caught Lysinka’s forearm; her fingers went limp and the dagger joined the sword on the ground. Before she could withdraw this time, Conan was on top of her, bearing her to the ground with his weight, kneeling with one leg to either side of her, and pressing the spear firmly against her throat.
“Well, Lysinka of Mertyos,” Conan said. “I have won, but perhaps you need not lose. We can sing the song of this battle together.”
The thin face twisted in what might have been an attempt at a smile. “My voice is no better than yours, Conan. We would drive all life from the forest.”
“The Rangers are here only to drive bandits back into peaceful lives. There are pardons for those who wish them.”
“After we’ve rotted in stinking cells on rations of slop and mould for years, so that none of us are fit to do more than beg,” Lysinka snapped. “Pardons these days go only to those with gold.”
Conan had heard as much, so he could not find words to convince Lysinka otherwise. He prudently changed the subject to one closer to his heart. He knew that neither Aquilonian law nor Klarnides had given him authority to negotiate, but here was a golden moment that would not wait on anyone else’s permission.
“We’ve halved your strength at least, and we can do the same again any time we please,” he said, in his harshest voice. It would have frightened most men and even some gods, save for Crom.
Lysinka laughed. “Have I not persuaded you that we would rather rot here in our forest than in Numedides's dungeons?”
“Can I persuade you to another choice? A truce, so that we can each gather up our dead and wounded. Meanwhile, you can speak with your comrades and learn what they think.”
She laughed again but softly. “Why do you think I would listen to my followers?”
“Because you look like a leader with sense, and such listen to those they’ve led into battle. Otherwise they’ve been known to find a spear in their back in some night brangle. Then they rot, without grave or honour, where they fall,”
“Cimmerian, may I call you more longheaded than most?”
“Call me what you please, but the truce is all I can offer. I’ll have to speak to my captains while you speak to your men for anything more.”
“Very well. Let me stand and take back my weapons, then we shall call truce. I will bring you an answer from my men as soon as they give it.”
“So be it.”
Conan descended the slope to find a number of ugly sights, beyond the normal litter of dead and dying men of both sides—and a few women bandits as well.
“None of them fought like that she-cat you bested,” Tharmis Rog said, “and for that my thanks. But they were none of them to be taken lightly, either, even the small ones with naught but daggers.”
Tharmis Rog was one of the ugly sights. He was sitting up, arm and leg swathed in strips of cloth that had mostly already turned red. Conan hoped his friend’s wounds looked worse than they felt.
Rog seemed to read the Cimmerian’s thoughts. “Oh, I’ve taken worse in tavern brawls.” He spat. “That she-cat was playing with me, I’d wager. A good piece of work, that, you teaching her not to do so too often.” The master-at-arms lowered his voice. “Best watch your back. Nestorinus is down and Klarnides looks more than a bit restless over your proclaiming truce without his leave.”
Conan said nothing of what Klarnides could do with his leave. It would be a waste to say it to anyone but the captain. He gripped Rog’s hand, then continued downhill.
He came to the second ugly sight almost at once. Nestorinus lay on his side, wounds gaping in back and belly from a spear thrust completely through him. Conan looked at the wounds a second time and realized that the spear had entered from behind.
“He was advancing so boldly that a foe came up behind him unnoticed and did this,” a high-pitched voice said from behind the Cimmerian. “Let that and only that be said of his death.”
Conan turned, to see a Klarnides who looked ten years older than he had this morning, for all that his voice once more sounded like a eunuch’s. But the blood and grime, not to mention the hacked sword blade, told plainly enough that he had played the part of a man in today’s fight “As you wish,” Conan said.
“I do not wish,” Klarnides snapped, then swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was both lower and softer. “I command. I also command that you explain that truce, which you called without my leave.”
“Simple enough. It was that or kill Lysinka. Kill her, and every man of hers would try to kill us or die trying. We’d do well if a score of us saw sunset today, or any of us left the forest alive.”
“How do you come to know so much about the bandits of Thanza, Conan of Cimmeria?”
Conan’s hand tightened on his sword. Klarnides stood, bloody arms crossed on his chest, the smile of an older and wiser man on his grimy boy’s face.
“So I enlisted under a false name,” Conan growled. “Punish me for that, and you’ll have to punish two Rangers out of three. Also, you’ll have people talking about how Nestorinus really died, and I doubt his kin will thank you for that!”
For a moment, Conan feared he might be at sword’s point with Klarnides, a man whom he wanted to kill even less than he had Lysinka. He carefully kept his hands away from the hilts of his blades, trusting that his speed and longer reach would save him when Klarnides struck first.
Instead, the captain thrust his sword into its scabbard, worked his mouth, and finally spat on the bloody ground.
“That for your threats, Conan. I wasn’t going to turn you over to thief-catchers or Ophireans. I wanted to see if you knew more than swordplay.
“I wouldn’t yield the command of the Rangers to a stranger called Sellus the Northerner. Conan the Cimmerian is another man entirely. One I would follow, if it gave us victory and brought the Rangers home.” Conan had perhaps the time of three heartbeats to consider Klarnides’s offer. Then the captain’s mouth opened. Before the shout of warning left it, Conan heard stealthy footfalls behind him.
Then a hot iron seemed to sear his left side, granite boulders fell on him from the sky.
Conan went down under the impact, but managed to twist so that his head struck none of the rocks littering the hillside. He rolled—and his attacker punched him savagely in the throat.
For a moment the world faded around the Cimmerian, almost to black. It remained grey for another moment, but he had the strength to grope for his opponent and grapple the first thing that came to hand.
That turned out to be the man’s jaw. The attacker howled as Conan dislocated it, and he tried to bite the Cimmerian’s fingers. Conan jerked his hands clear, and with his vision returning, smashed both fists against the man’s nose. A riposte took him in the stomach, and once again the Cimmerian’s breath left him.
But Conan could roll again, even if he could not stand; and when he was clear of his opponent, he saw the man’s blood on his fists. Now the man lurched to his knees, his face a bloody mask as more blood dripped from his mouth. The attacker lunged for the fallen knife that was coated with the Cimmerian’s gore.
The lunge fell short, as Conan slammed one fist down on the man’s wrist. Bone cracked, and the man screamed. Then the Cimmerian’s other hand smashed into his opponent’s stomach. The man flew backward, and when he fell, his head found a rock. The life was out of his e
yes by the time Conan was able to kneel beside him.
“Mitra have mercy,” Klarnides exclaimed, as he unwound his sash. “Here, Conan. That gash in your side is going to bleed you on to a pallet if it’s not staunched.”
“Do as you please,” Conan said. The wound was beginning to hurt, and he felt enough blood flowing to suspect that Klarnides was right. But there were more important matters to settle first, before he lay down and let Klarnides fuss over him like a woman.
“Lysinka!” Conan roared. The shout was almost as loud as his battle cry. Again echoes rolled around the hillside.
“Lysinka! Come down here and explain this truce-breaking or there is no truce! Come down now!”
Then he added, quite as loudly, “If any man so much as frowns at her when she comes, I’ll kill the whoreson with my own two hands!”
“You’ll kill nobody but yourself, Conan, if you don’t let me dress that wound!” Klarnides snapped. “You haven’t taken up the command yet. I can still give you an order; and by Erlik, you will obey it!” “Yes, my lord,” Conan said, with an elaborate bow that sent pain like a fire up and down his side. He cursed. “But be quick about it.”
Conan was roughly dressed by the time Lysinka came down. He thought her eyes were wider than before, but she seemed otherwise unchanged. Then Conan saw that she wore no knives, that her sword was roughly peace-bonded into its scabbard with rawhide thongs, and that she carried herself rather more like a prisoner going to the block than a war leader coming to negotiate.
“The truce is broken,” she said, before either Ranger captain could say a word. “But I ask that if you wish vengeance, it fall on me alone, and only after I have spoken.”
“Speak, then,” Klarnides said. “Conan praises your honour. Show it and I may do likewise.”
The two men listened to Lysinka’s explanation of how the Rangers had fought two bands, hers and a self-named lord of Thanza’s. Grolin’s men had done most of the attacking, although hers had provided most of the archery.
“That swine”—she pointed at Conan’s dead assailant—“was one of Grolin’s men.”
“Did you tell him of the truce?” Conan asked.
“My most trusted man went to him. Grolin knows that Fergis speaks with my voice.”
Grolin seemed like a man not apt to listen to any voice save his own ambition, but Conan held his peace. Before either he or Klarnides could find words for a reply, another shout came from the hilltop.
“Lysinka! Grolin’s men have cut and ran! Come back to us now!”
Lysinka cupped her hands. “Fergis, don’t be a fool! I’m safe enough—”
“If you’re safe, I’m a Stygian! If you won’t come up, then we’ll come down and fight—”
“No, curse you!” Lysinka screamed. “If anyone steps one pace this way, he’ll be foresworn and I’ll have his blood!”
“And I’ll help you,” Conan added, so quietly that only Lysinka could hear. “Friend-—if I can call you that—you’ve been betrayed. You and yours can die with honour—or live with it.”
“How mean you?”
“You owe Grolin nothing. Help us bring him to earth, and you can have either a pardon or a free path back to the forest, my life on it.”
One pair of ice-blue eyes sought the truth in another and found it. Lysinka rested a hand on Conan’s shoulder, and he realized that she did not have to reach up very far to do this. Nor would he have to bend very far to find her lips.
“I will surrender to the Thanza Rangers, not to the crown of Aquilonia,” Lysinka said. “I cannot promise more from my people.”
“We need not ask more,” Conan said, “Need we, Captain Klarnides?” As the command had not yet actually passed to the Cimmerian, they had to play out the comedy.
Klarnides nodded so vigorously that Conan was reminded of a puppet on strings, and half-expected the captain’s head to fall off. That would be a pity, now that the man had proved his head was of some use.
“By the authority of my warrant as captain over the Thanza Rangers,” Klarnides said, “I accept the surrender of the band of Lysinka of Mertyos. This on condition that they prove their lawful intent by aiding in the pursuit and arrest of one Grolin, self-named lord of Thanza.”
Then Klarnides blew out all his remaining breath in a long sigh, and both Conan and Lysinka laughed.
VII
Lord Grolin had ordered his men to charge in a disciplined manner, not like a pack of howling savages. He had, after all, been trained in civilized warfare. It had been his intention that his men hold Conan’s advance so that the Rangers could become the target for Lysinka’s archers.
Instead, his men charged madly, and died under Conan’s blade or from the steel* of men they might otherwise have bested. In less time than it took to eat a venison pasty, Grolin had lost half his fighting strength.
Lysinka was in better case, but instead of continuing the fight, what had she done? Made a truce for both of them without asking his consent!
Hope rose afresh in Grolin’s agile mind when Dimaskor made his desperate attempt on the big northerner’s life. But his plan died again with Dimaskor. Grolin then looked down on the battlefield and knew there was only one thing to be done. Flee, and do so before Lysinka and her new friends made common cause against him.
With his dozen men remaining, Grolin set a good pace. By noon they outdistanced even the possibility of pursuit. They had taken a route away from the baron’s citadel, knowing that their enemies were already across the path toward it. If they avoided the trails where their enemies could lay an ambush, they might find a safe way home.
Only—what would Grolin’s band do when they reached home? They had too few men to hold their position against assault or if the enemy discovered the hidden way to the citadel. They certainly lacked the strength to break a siege, and their friends from Nemedia might not care to challenge besiegers who were under Aquilonian command.
For the moment there was peace between the two realms, and many on both sides wished this happy condition to continue. They would not find in Grolin sufficient cause for changing their minds.
The baron considered all these aspects of his problem, then walked off into the forest. He was not sure why, where he was going to stop, or whether he would stop at all before nightfall or exhaustion brought him to a halt.
Perhaps his surviving men could make their peace with Lysinka and the Aquilonians, if he were dead; and they could blame the truce-breaking on him.
“Cease thinking of leaving your men, Grolin. Those with you are the best you had, certain to endure with you, and sufficient for the task.”
The face seemed perched amidst a large clump of ferns. The ferns lent a distinctly greenish hue to its complexion at first. Even when its colours took on their final form, Grolin noticed a fern leaf seemingly protruding from the face’s left nostril.
He did not dare to laugh at this, but it somewhat eased his mind. It was impossible to be terrified of a sorcerer who sprouted fern leaves.
“Do you wish me to prove how terrible I can be?” the face’s voice boomed in Grolin’s mind. For a moment his skull felt like a vast cave in which someone had just struck hammer to anvil.
When his ears and brain had stopped ringing, Grolin frowned. “If you prove it by frightening either me or my men witless, you will have none of the human help you say you need.”
“I have already proved it. I entered the minds of your weaker men, driving them into that mad charge. Then I thrust myself into Dimaskor’s already failing wits, and turned him into a berserker truce-breaker.
“You know that Dimaskor would have been a leader rallying others against you, had your band remained strong enough to survive. He was not one to deal with potent magic but rather to grovel to old wives’ tales and priests’ teachings.”
The words chilled Grolin, as if he had tumbled into an icy mountain stream. It was an uncannily accurate description of Dimaskor. Was the rest perhaps also the truth?
Had t
he sorcerer proved his power as friend or foe, so that Grolin had two choices—become the sorcerer’s human ally or to die—and his men with him?
Experience told Grolin to wait. The tone of the face’s voice told him that waiting would be fatal.
And if the sorcerer truly needed a human ally for the Soul of Thanza, he might do more for Grolin than Lysinka ever could have done, even if she had remained faithful.
“I am at your service,” Grolin said. “But if you slay any more of my men on a whim, I will free them from all duty to me. They may depart, whether I allow it or
not.”
The face laughed aloud. “Let them try to flee, and watch how far they travel,” it said. Grolin could not mistake notes of both mockery and menace in the words.
“If there is no Soul, they will be better off dying as free men rather than living as your slaves.”
“Oh, but there is a Soul of Thanza. Soon you will know the truth. Then you will regret ever having doubted.”
The face vanished before Grolin could begin to think of a reply to that threat. He backed away from the ferns, so intent on keeping them under his eye that he backed into one of his men.
“Lord, who was that you spoke to?” the man asked. Grolin noted that the man was sweating in spite of the cool air of the forest, and pale in spite of his weathered skin and rough beard.
“Myself,” Grolin said. “We must see to finding new strength, to take vengeance on that treacherous bitch. I was practising what I might say to our friends in Nemedia.”
“Aye, that would be well,” the man said. He sounded polite and respectful rather than convinced. “Where do we go from here, being as how we’ve shaken off pursuit?”
“We go around Kringus Hill and from there along Bluesand Creek back to the citadel. We do not wish to leave anyone or anything there as easy prey for Lysinka.”
How Grolin’s men, those with him and those at the citadel, were going to evacuate their quarters in time was a question that the baron could not answer.
