Conan the Savage

by Leonard Carpenter

  What broke their silence, it was hard to say. It might have been the sound of a branch cracking in the forest, which could signal the presence of other humans, or it may have been the unfolding of inevitable thoughts and doubts between the two. For whatever reason, Conan stepped forward out of the hanging poolside foliage, resettling his weight on the slimy pebbles of the stream bed. The woman moved similarly, stepping clear of the random spray from the cataract. Then abruptly she was running across the pond, her legs raising lacy cascades as they bore her off with deer-like swiftness.

  Conan’s pursuit, as he lunged across the pool to intercept the woman, was instinctive. This rare prize—this creature of soul-wrenching beauty, a longed-for and long-dreaded link with others of his kind—could not be let go. He bounded after her—staggered into a deep channel, floundered, then waded clear—in pursuit of the strong, lithe flanks and delicate heels flying before him in the forest shade. His pain and fatigue were forgotten, so rich and heady were the blood-humours that coursed through his veins. He felt an exuberant, reckless energy, greater than hunt or battle could bring. She fled swiftly, on feet well-toughened to the barbs and chafes of the forest floor, yet such was Conan’s impulsive, feverish strength that he knew he would overtake her.

  It was later—as the woman’s flashing soles grew dirt-stained, leading him up a loamy forest embankment—that reasons and justifications crept into his awareness, reasons vague and unformed, but imperative even so. The woman must have kin, after all, or a tribe or a nation; he must learn of them before they came seeking him... to slay, torment, or possibly devour him, as was the way of Picts and other wild folk he had known. He must catch and restrain her, somehow dissuade her from giving alarm to her kinsfolk. The fact that she ran in silence now was favourable, if it meant no others were in earshot.

  How he might prevent her—what, precisely, he would do once his grasping fingertips closed on the lush flanks and velvet skin that raced and rebounded before him... once he dragged her to earth—those thoughts never took definite shape, but swirled and receded into a red, dim haze that began to drift before his eyes.

  He was drawing close now. Once, where her foot slipped in the crook of a root just before him as she scaled a stony embankment, he reached out and touched the deft, firm curve of her ankle, which barely slid free of his fingers. At the top, as he laboured up after her with earth sliding loose under his bare soles, she turned and cast a wide-eyed look back at him. She was winded, gasping heavily with soft, reedy overtones to each breath, her full breasts heaving and undulating, her flesh dirt-streaked and sweat-sheened. Her face he found appealing; it was large-featured, a blend of northerly shape and dusky southern colouring. Amazingly, he saw in it no trace of fear.

  Finding footholds, he swarmed up the embankment with an agility that must have surprised her. As she turned away, weaving through the low-hanging branches of a stand of oak, he followed close behind. At last he caught her scent; its musky fragrance wafted to him on the forest breeze, maddening him. With a raw surge of vitality, he bolted forward, lunging straight after her—and suddenly found himself staggering, his vision swimming, stunned as he was by a collision with the oaken elbow of a massive, leaf-screened tree limb.

  The blow to his head smarted sharply, intensely, sending a trickle of blood to mingle with the tears blurring his eyes. Worse, the shock drained away his strength. Staggering forward half-blind, he stumbled on a knotted root and fell to his knees.

  Before him, the woman—a pale, shapely blur in the forest dimness—stood gazing down where he knelt. She stepped nearer, raising one graceful foot from the carpet of dead leaves. Her kick swept high, smiting him on the jaw, and he passed from consciousness.

  VII

  The Healer

  The gateway to the baronial keep of Urbander arched tall and jagged against mottled grey skies. Its dark-weathered heights were in the process of being topped with new, loftier bastions of lighter-hued stone. In spite of winter’s chill and the hard crust of snow that lay in the roof gutters and cobbled angles of the outer bailey, work was yet under way. From the battlements could be heard the shouts of foremen, the creak of frozen tackle, and the patient tap of chisels as stones were dressed and fitted into place.

  Young witch Tamsin had never before been summoned to a provincial capital. Urbander, one of the northernmost cities of the Brythunian Empire, was strongly fortified against attack by the unruly warlords of the Border Kingdoms; it also flourished with trade and raiding spoils from those same exotic lands. Command of such a remote and vital outpost required a firm hand indeed. Along with it, as all Brythunians knew, came considerable autonomy and freedom from the supreme ruler, King Typhas in Sargossa.

  “The baron will receive us at once, I do not doubt,” the armoured officer said as he alighted from the mud-spattered travel wain. Running to the door of the low-slung coach, he offered his hand to help the young woman down. “’Tis close upon noon. His Lordliness will likely have arisen from slumber following his nightly, ah, revel. This is the hour of day when he is usually most desirous of a healer’s care.”

  “Yes, Sir Isembard.” Ignoring the grey-moustached officer’s hand, Tamsin alighted from the chariot in a single, girlish hop. As ever, she carried her conjuring-doll cradled in one arm. It rattled, and its many bright ornaments flashed and jingled with her swift movements. “Ninga will be most pleased to meet Baron Einholtz, as I shall be.” “He is in grave need of your ministrations,” Isembard assured her with an earnest nod. “His Lordliness has been... unfit for some time.” The lieutenant turned briskly to his duty. “Sergeant, assemble the baronial staff, and assign a few guards to keep this rabble clear of the doors.” His curt wave took in a crowd of peasants and city idlers who pressed in at the gate with considerable interest. They had gathered on the track of the mud-encrusted chariot that was rumoured to have carried the famed enchantress so many leagues across the broad empire.

  Isembard, having issued his orders, turned smartly toward the keep. His young guest, flanked by a pair of palace guards who fell in at the rear, followed him up the broad steps and through the arched portal.

  Inside, the place was grand and impressive to one of Tamsin’s humble origins. Its broad, low-vaulted cavern displayed intricate stonework crafted by skilled slaves brought up from the southern conquests. The décor was sternly masculine, fitted out with racks of pikes and stands of shields, adorned about die walls with heads of boar, moose, ram, and bear, and crowded with trestle tables well-hacked and battered by roistering and weapons-play. In spite of this provincial roughness, the carved stone pillars, fretted arches, and soaring balustrades bespoke elegant possibilities; they loomed spectral in the yellow beams flickering from the broad, blazing hearth.

  Before this central fire, in a large armchair surrounded by a half-dozen servants, presided a figure of truly aristocratic shagginess and girth. He was craggy-faced and ruddy-coloured, with whitely tufted eyebrows and white hair spiked and tangled in an unruly hedge around his balding, liver-spotted head. The noble lord, though burly chested and resplendent in his silken blouse, sash, and pantaloons slumped where he sat in a manner indicating some profound bodily unease. The thrust of his grey-bristled face at the approach of the brisk lieutenant hinted at a dyspeptic’s early-morning ill humour.

  “Milord Baron,” Isembard formally began, “at your bidding, I have sent throughout the kingdom for a healer to secure Milord’s ease and relief. This morning I bring a witch who is unequalled at diseases of the mortal frame... as well as being mistress of numerous other conjurations and divinations.” Half-turning in his place with a stiff nod, he indicated the girl beside him. “The seeress Tamsin, from the neighbourhood of faraway Yervash, awaits your pleasure.”

  “My pleasure, eh?” Craning his neck further, the old baron keenly appraised the young woman who waited in her long, flower-painted robe next to Isembard. “If that is what she wants, she may have a very long wait indeed... until tomorrow evening at least, unless she is a
most able healer!” The jest, spoken in coarse eastern accents and followed by a bilious, ill-humoured stare around the company, drew polite, cautious laughs from the lieutenant and one or two other high-ranking servants.

  “But come, child, move over here into the firelight where I can see you without cracking my battle-weary old neck. Ho-ho,” he exclaimed as the young woman silently complied with his wish, “you really are but a child! Isembard knows my tastes well, as I would expect him to, having procured so many young lovelies for my bed and bolster over the years.”

  “Milord Baron,” the lieutenant ventured stiffly, “I remind you that this maid is no mere mattress-trull. She is a famed physician, and a conjuress of unequalled renown—” “Yes, yes, I know!” The baron spoke impatiently, raising one puffy-looking hand to wave aside Isembard’s protest. “Tamsin, is it? I have heard tell of your fame even in this wild outpost—” he fixed the girl with a leer of his grizzled, somewhat bloated and red-seamed countenance “—even though I place no stock in such overblown tales.” The old warrior harrumphed. “Mayhap as my need for such things grows, so will my credulity. In any event, the local healers have accomplished nothing. And the gods know, praying to haughty Lord Amalias and to my native Nemedian war-sprites has availed me little enough. Nay, child, if you can offer me hope, then Isembard has done wisely to fetch you here.”

  “Our thanks, Baron Einholtz.” Tamsin, in spite of her tall, erect bearing and the jingling burden underneath her arm, gave a pretty half-curtsy. “Ninga and I are most eager to serve you.”

  “Ninga? Ah yes, now I remember the gossip. This is the wench who plays with dolls!” Picking a dropsical hand at Tamsin’s spangled fetish, his slack body quivering with hoarse, half-choking laughter, Baron Einholtz shifted in his chair. “She bedizens the village buffoons with her mannikin’s spells and jinxes, and even pretends to be something of a walking religion.” Rocking in his seat, he stifled and sputtered. “See, Isembard, the lass has done me good already, ho-ho, lifting my spirits at this raw hour of the morning!” Wheezing heavily, the old baron settled back into his place. “Tell me, girl, what do you and your tiny friend Ninga propose to do for me—but say, Isembard, what is the meaning of this interruption?” Einholtz’s attention was suddenly diverted by a number of nobles and household guards who filed in through archways at the back of the chamber, taking up positions at either side of the fire. “Are the peasants up in revolt again? Has the alarm been struck? What in Ulfgar’s name is at issue now?”

  “Nay, nothing, Milord Baron,” Isembard said calmly forestalling his commander’s wrath. “’Tis no mischance or emergency. I have merely summoned your most loyal retainers here to your side to witness young Tamsin's cure. For know you, the girl is a miracle-worker of fabled power. Whatever passes here may be spoken of for years to come. ’Twere best, I thought, if some few dozen watchful eyes were present to observe and affirm... or else-wise refute any false tales that could arise later.”

  “Aye... most wise, Isembard.” The baron smiled cannily to his lieutenant. “Better to have witnesses and ready hands, if only for safety’s sake.” His red-rimmed eyes shot a moist glance at Tamsin. “For when I think on it, I have heard tell how this maiden’s soothing magics sometimes have a rough edge to them. Idle stories, to be sure, but daunting enough if one were to believe them. For instance—” he flashed his droll, fish-eyed gaze about the watching company “—are you not renowned to have reared up a mountain in the midst of some southern market-town and set it ablaze with brimstone and pitch, because the townsfolk would not pay your fee?”

  “Baron, you need not fear such a fête at our hands.” Tamsin’s answer was plain-spoken, if not wholly direct. “Ninga and I would not use our powers to harm your fine city, or do anything Sir Isembard has not bidden us to do. Is that not true, Ninga?” The young woman looked down at the doll, reaching to primp its wiry-looking hair with charming, childish innocence. “As for our payment, you need not worry, since we shall not ask you for any. Tb render service to a nobleman as famous as yourself, Baron, is reward enough for us.”

  What seemed so girlish and ingenuous in the young woman’s manner must have struck the old aristocrat as impertinent or subtly threatening, since his response was chill. “You wish no payment?” he rumbled at her. “Very well, then, you will be given none... if you succeed in your cure, that is. If you fail... well, Seeress, if I were you, I should be wary of what payment will then be forthcoming!” With a subtle move, surprisingly quick for one so decayed, the warlord whipped forth a long, gleaming sabre. from beneath his waist sash.

  “Know you, whatever arcane arts you and your little dollikin may command, I am far more adept at the play of steel. What else do you think has made all these warriors loyal to me?” His wave, encompassing the entire hall, was met without quarrel. “Steel, as you may learn, is the bane of sorcery! Enchantments wither in its shadow like petals beneath an early frost. My edge has the keenness, when I wish it—” a quick thrust and slash of the baron’s blade traced a wicked yellow gleam in the firelight “—to come through devious skeins of treachery, and even webs and mazes of sorcerous illusion. Be warned, Seeress!”

  “Yes, Baron Einholtz,” Tamsin answered her employer with a humble nod. ‘ ‘Ninga and I have heard much of you skill at weapons and command. Your prowess as a captain of Nemedian mercenaries is still celebrated from pas times, before the king in Sargossa made you baron of this province. We have heard of your victories in those days as being many and total... have we not, Ninga?”

  Einholtz looked askance at her byplay with the doll. Yet seemed to accept her praise guardedly, putting his blade back in his sash. “Indeed, child, there is no gainsaying it. When old King Typhas created me Lord of Urbander, he was not merely thanking me for my aid in the southern wars... for my swift arrival, with troops fierce and ruthless enough press his campaign through to a victory. No indeed.”

  The old warrior seemed suddenly inclined to seize on this opportunity for a speech before his retainers. “The King was also protecting himself and his royal borders, for in his shrewd kingliness, old Typhas sensed in me the hard ruthless mettle that would be needed to hold down an out post on his northern frontier. He judged rightly that I, Einholtz, could sustain the Order of Barony—” with puffy, dropsical fingers he tugged at the heavy gold medallion pinned to his sagging chest “—not just against raiders and hillmen on the border, but against upstart squires and treacherous serfs brewing rebellion in my own domain. ’ ’ He paused for a moment, cocking an ear toward the main entryway.

  “And say, speaking of rebels, what is that hubbub outside in the alley? Are the village clods up in arms again? Bridling at their winter tax assessments, perhaps, or at our latest levy of young recruits and virgins? If so, then crush them, fellows, as we have always done before!” Einholtz was half out of his chair again, waving his sabre. on high. “The will of the baron is unopposable, never to be challenged by common peasants—”

  “Nay, Sire,” Lieutenant Isembard intervened, hurrying to calm his lord and prevent any of the company from rushing outside. “’Tis nothing to bestir yourself over. A handful of townsfolk have merely gathered to mark the arrival of the noted witch-woman, here. Doubtless they hope to celebrate the occasion of Milord’s miraculous recovery. There is no threat of civil disorder. I have assigned guards to keep them back from the palace, so Milord Baron need not vex himself over it.”

  “What of the bailey-gate, then? Lock them out securely—or aye, drop die cullis down on their gawking necks! That should hold them back.”

  “Milord, during construction, as you know, the gates have been kept open. They are frozen in place by sleet storms, and it would be inconvenient just now to chop them free.” Isembard leaned closer to entreat his master, prevailing on him to put away his sword. “Truly, Sire, we should see this as a chance to cozen the goodwill of the townspeople. I pray Milord, let them have their revel. Later on, once your cure is accomplished, we can celebrate by sending down a cask
of ale to be broached in the town square.”

  “Humm... all right, Isembard, whatever you say.” The baron, suddenly weak from his tirade and his fitful illness, let the matter go without further haggling. He turned back to Tamsin.

  “Well, then, witch-maid, unpack your magic spells. How do you propose to heal my miserable frame?” “First, as to the nature of your ailments.” Tamsin regarded him critically, holding up Ninga as if to afford the doll an equal view. “You seem to be afflicted with a creeping palsy of the extremities.”

  “Yes,” the baron declared. “It is most troubles; when I am at rest,” he added with a defiant glance around the assembled courtiers, “and in the early mornings before I have fortified myself with ale.” After a moment’s hesitation, he raised his mottled old hand from the chair’s wooden arm so that his infirmity could be seen. It was readily apparent: a vague, aimless fluttering of the fingertips, matched by random twitchings of muscles and tendons beneath the splotchy, papery skin of wrist and arm.

  “An advanced case indeed,” die young witch observe in a sombre tone. “Never doubt that it will grow far worse if not treated. Such may be the result of the lush foreign wines and liquors Milord has quaffed in excess, and of too many night-long revels amid the captive spoils of fallen palaces and manor homes.” She murmured something almost inaudible to her doll; then she listened in silence for a moment, as if receiving the valued counsel of a senior physician, before continuing. “Tell me, Baron Einholtz, do you also suffer from gout?”