Conan the Mercenary

by Andrew J Offutt

  He had not been challenged. Though obviously a youth with his erect posture, smoothly muscled arms and face free of lines, he was nevertheless manifestly formidable. The sheath of worn shagreen leather at his left hip was not new. It showed wear. The hilt standing from it was not ornamented, hinting at a serviceable sword. Neither was there ornamentation on the bone handle of his dagger. A glance into his eyes, a swift appraisal of his posture, his gait, his, roving gaze, his huge, ready hands and their thick wrists below extraordinary biceps; these told potential accosters they were better advised to seek prey elsewhere. Something I about this young man bespoke that the dagger had been I used on meat other than cooked. Surely the sword would " be sharp, and wielded with expertise and power, and had in past been wiped of scarlet smears.

  Conan was reconnoitring, seeking. He was about his business.

  Part of that business was stealing, and he felt himself above mere footpads and cut-purses. He was swift, and could climb and be stealthy. An integral part of his chosen profession involved sniffing, observing and reconnoitring that would have made him a good general or military spy. He could be still, eventually; just now he was not quite eighteen, and still learning.

  He was an agile and facile thief who had learned a certain quickness and cleverness – not without cost. Certainly he wished he'd never sought to rob the Elephant Tower of Vara the priest or the keep of Hisarr Zul the wizard.

  He reached the end of the Street of Erlik Enthroned, and he saw that which the nameless girl had fled, and warned him against.

  Why the cross-street was called Khauran he did not know; who owned the decorated and curtained litter resting against the far north-west wall he could not say. Nor did In: care. He knew not whether the litter was occupied —or if it were, whether that person was alive or dead, wounded or swooned. Conan did know that the foreigner who had himself carried about this part of the city at night was stupid: two men had borne the litter while one guarded. In the Desert of the Lower City, three were not enough, mid doubly so when two of them were not trained men of weapons.

  One bearer was down, twitching in his blood when Conan came upon the scene. The other fled up Khauran Way in the manner of one who'd not even pause for breath until he was somewhere in the eastern hills of Brythunia, Zamora's northward neighbour.

  None of the four attackers pursued him. Three beset the mailed, helmeted guard, who'd got his back against a wall and was sweeping his sword in horizontal figure-eights low enough to keep from being skewered. He could not maintain that rapid exertion forever, and his assailants knew it. Now the fourth was leaving the body of the downed bearer, to join them. He carried a trencherman's dagger and another; the second had a blade as long as his forearm. It dripped. Two of the others had swords, no matter that such were so expensive; the fourth, to the beleaguered guard's right, was also armed with two daggers.

  'Never mind,' one of the attackers told the fourth. We have him-just drag the rabbit out of its burrow and start stripping it of jewels. If it resists – see if it bleeds! Uh!'

  The speaker had said too much, partially turning his head towards his companion of the bloody dagger. No pool fighter, the guard swiftly altered his sweeping defence just enough, advanced one foot just enough, to send the firm inch of his blade slicing through the man's throat. He staggered back, unable to speak, and dropped his weapon to clutch his neck. It was leaking badly. Making hideout gargling noises, the man continued to stagger away. Conan watched him sag.

  I salute you, warrior, the Cimmerian thought, and decided it was time he took a stranger's advice and followed him back up towards the Upper City.

  It was then that the man with the bloody dagger laid hand on the curtains concealing the litter's interior. A beringed and braceleted wrist flashed from within. The thief cried out in shock and pain as his hand was slashed by the short blade of a dagger whose jewels flashed even in the dimness of the street and the flickering light of a pole set lamp.

  A woman, Conan realised – and one of wealth! That bracelet was of gold. Even so it was gem-set, and the rings were surely not glass. She even stabbed at an attacker with a jewelled knife! To aid such a person might be more profitable than stealing-and surely little more dangerous, judging from the ragged appearance of the three assailants.

  A complication arose even as the Cimmerian arrived at that intelligence. Bleeding from one hand, the thief clamped' it against his tunic while he obviously prepared to send his long blade stabbing through the curtain into the litter.

  What Conan bawled out did not matter; perhaps it was 'KAWAAAH!' or some such. Only the sound was important, and he was on the move even as he shouted. Naturally, the man beside the litter interrupted his activity to look around.

  He saw six or so feet of broad-shouldered, thickly muscled man rushing at him, black hair blowing about his head. His long sword was carried at the waist with wrist turned slightly outward. Even so the fellow was foolish enough to stand and meet that rush, and it was necessary that Conan strike twice rather than once. The first blow clanged his sword blade against the other's dagger with such force that the man grunted in pain and the weapon went flying to clang off a stone wall, striking sparks, and clunk in the street. There it skittered and fetched up against the mill', base with another clang.

  The man's second stroke was in truth merely the back-swing of the first: it sliced the man open from right hip to left. The thief hadn't even dropped to his knee ere Conan was winding away, knowing him done, and turning his icy gaze on the other two thieves.

  Neither had as yet got past the guard's defence – which, Conan was impressed to note, was not yet faltering. Nor had either been so much as wounded.

  Which one shall I run through from behind?'

  The horrible question was snarled in Conan's most vicious tones. Had there been twenty with their backs to him, they might have turned. One of the attackers was wise enough in slip several paces aside while he turned; the other forgot it and twisted his head about to snatch an over-the-shoulder look.

  Once again the litter's guard saw opportunity, and swiftly took it. In truth it was beautifully done; he took this man just as he had the other, with the very tip of his blade cross the throat. It was enough; bone and vital artery were exposed, and another man gushed blood on to the street of Khauran.

  Grinning like a snarling wolf, Conan pounced to within three feet of the other, showing the guard his unprotected side. He stared into the eyes of a sword-wielding thief in a dirty brown tunic-who had set out this night with three companions and was now ineffably alone.

  'See to your employer,' Conan said, without taking his eyes off his chosen foe.

  'Ha!' the thief, a Kothian sure, struck at Conan, who sidestepped and watched the sword rush past. He watched the backstroke, too. It was awkward; the fellow had so little knowledge of combat that he began the necessary twisting of his wrist far too late. A fair enough thief, perhaps, Conan mused; but the fellow was a complete failure as a swordsman.

  'You'd better run off,' the astonished Kothian was told.

  'Here, that's my business,' the guard said. 'I'm paid to -'

  'Tonight Conan snarled, staring at the thief but answering the guard, 'you were paid to die by an employer too

  mean or too stupid to hire adequate protection for this part of town by day, much less at night! You were a dead man, Shemite; think on that! See to your heartless employer now, lest she cut herself on one of her precious damned jewels — hunh!'

  The final grunt was occasioned by the remaining thief attempt to take off Conan's head with a magnificent sweep of his sword. That all-out beheading stroke made the Kothian's blade a speeding horizontal stripe of silver.

  Both Conan's knees bent to drop him straight down into a squat below the mighty cut. He heard the wind-noise of the rushing blade, too close above his head. And then Conan showed the Kothian thief why such a mighty cut was unwise, too great a risk: straightening, the Cimmerian faced him and, before the now desperately begun backstroke w
as fair under way, struck the man straight through the middle.

  The backstroke was never completed. The Kothian's arm twitched and wavered; his eyes went huge while he sucked in an audible sobbing gasp. Backing mechanically off the cold sliver of steel that had opened his stomach and belly and those organs it found within, he thumped against a mud-brick wall. It alone supported him. Glowering, his chest heaving, Conan waited.

  The man's arm dropped. Slowly the sword hilt eased from the grip of fingers going helpless. Just as slowly, the Kothian thief of Shadizar slid down the wall. His head hung bowed while lifeless eyes stared at what came out of him, in shining bloody coils.

  Conan paced over to his first foeman.

  'Hurt?' the Cimmerian asked. 'It will never heal, but you needn't die slowly, in stench and pain.' He slew that man then, and wiped his sword with care on the hem of the corpse's tunic.

  'Name of Ishtar,' the guard said in a low voice. 'You're a bloody one!'

  Conan stared at a tall man, young and not unhandsome, in yellow-plumbed helmet and a fine coat of Kothian mail, though he was no Kothian.

  'It's called mercy,' Conan said quietly, and sucked in a great breath to still his voice's slight quiver of excitement;

  Adrenaline still flooded his system. 'Is there no mercy in Shem? Would you leave a man to die slowly of so awful, a wound, with his guts starting to stink with green rot and him screaming in agony and smelling his own death?;

  It was then that a ring-bedizened hand swept aside the litter's curtain from within, and the hand's owner thrust out her head to spew her vomit on the street. Conan stepped back two paces, mindful of the splash.

  II

  Employment for a Thief

  Shaking his head, Conan glanced around. No one was astir on the streets of Khauran or Erlik Enthroned. Those within the buildings lining both avenues had heard the sounds of combat, and not only remained inside but had probably extinguished whatever glims they had lit. Naturally anyone who'd been approaching was now heading precipitately in the other direction.

  Again he looked down at the woman who hung out of the grounded litter. Now she dry heaved over the noisome pool that had been her dinner. Her appearance was most unusual indeed, even to Conan. He knew he'd never been in her homeland, or seen another from there either.

  Her black hair was so high-piled that he realised its glossy sheaves must be wrapped about a cone of some sort, perched atop her skull. Pearls were woven into the sheaves, and the star-like gleam of gems against hair black as the night sky meant they formed the heads of long pins. A carcanet of gold wire, cloth-of-gold, and what appeared to be a million pearls surrounded her neck and covered her upper chest. Its bi-oblate lower curves were carelessly trapped in a bandeau of white silk that revealed the flesh tints within. Her great heavy girdle was also jewelled, and supported a long and voluminous skirt of pale yellow, shockingly side-slit. The leg that emerged from the little chamber formed by framework, roof and curtains atop the litter poles was handsome, and narrowed into a small foot shod in a gilded sandal. Its lifted heel clacked when she set it down. Gold wire pierced each of her earlobes to dribble two strands of four large pearls. The lobes were elongated from years of bearing such gemmy weights, and the face that looked wanly up at Conan was that of a woman of perhaps two-score years. It was a handsome face, rather than pretty, with fine cheekbones and startling eyes under long black lashes stiff with lacquer.

  Both her arms were half-covered with jewels.

  'The bearer fled,' Conan blandly informed her, 'and the other is dead. No wonder; you came down here looking what looks like crown jewels, and guarded by only one man.'

  She gazed up at him from beneath those long stiff lashes. They glistened.

  'Why... you're very young, aren't you?'

  Conan stared whimsically at her. 'That is what you have to say to me.' He gave his head a jerk and looked at her bodyguard;

  'Who are you?' that man asked.

  'And that is what you have to say. You both live because I ignored a warning to avoid this area, and you can say only that I am young and unknown to you.'

  A movement caught his peripheral attention; he looked upside and down to see a hand extended up to him, a hand bearing four rings, though thumb and forefinger were bare. The nails were scarlet. Conan deliberately took his time sheathing his sword. Just when the extended hand started to waver, he took it and drew its owner up from her litter. Her Shemite guard was nigh as tall as Conan; even in her noisy heels, the woman was short. Perhaps all her people were, and thus the elaborate high coiffures.

  'I am the Lady Khashtris, of Khauran. This is my personal guard, Shubal. And we are indeed very grateful to you. Tug my rings, and they will come off.'

  'I am Conan, a Cimmerian. And I'll not strip your rings, Lady Khashtris.'

  She released his hand and used her other to strip the light of three of its four rings. She held them out in her list; after a moment's hesitation, Conan accepted them as the price of her life.

  'They are only baubles,' she said. 'You have saved my life, Conan, Cimmerian. Both our lives.'

  He opened his big fist to inspect its flashing, faceted contents. 'You mean these are not gold and silver set with a topaz, and a moonstone, and a ruby?'

  'Oh yes, Conan, they are that. And now they are only tokens of gratitude. We came up from Khauran to purchase cosmetics and other goods from eastern lands. Though nm of my guards lay ill, I was foolish enough to want to traverse this particular street – Khauran Way – ere we head for home on the morrow. Another guard fled when the attack began. You did not see him, I suppose. I am not it heartless and greedy, you see. And Shubal is easily one of the two bravest men in Shadizar; he stood against four which obviously meant his death. It would be my good fortune now if you were to be seeking employment, Conan the Cimmerian, at say twenty coins of the best silver for the next month, for then I should have both the bravest met in Shadizar to protect me from the lawless ruffians of the wicked city, of a land foreign to me and hardly so gently as Khauran.'

  A bit long of wind and hyperbole, Conan thought – even while being charmed by Khashtris's pretty speech. In addition, she seemed sincere. It was only that she tended to speak at such length, he supposed. Khauran might be land a man might swiftly tire of. Within a month, perhaps... That she had cited his calling her heartless was nothing he saw as cause for embarrassment or concern. If she showed anger, he'd consider apology. She did not, and he did not. "You are talking about employing us both,' he said, noting the dark look given him by Shubal of Shem. 'Of course.'

  'And Shubal, who has seen me rewarded, of course ha a reward coming also, as the bravest man in Shadizar.'

  The Lady Khashtris of Khauran nodded. 'Of course. You are forward in all things, aren't you, Conan of... is it Cimmeria? Is that a city?'

  'A country,' Conan told her with studied aplomb, 'north of Aquilonia... and the Border Kingdom. It is no more than twice Zamora's size,' he added, exaggerating. 'Is Khauran a city?'

  The Shemite turned his face away lest his employer see his smile. In truth Cimmeria, Zamora and Khauran could have been stuffed into sprawling Shem, with room to spare for Khoraja and perhaps more territory as well.

  'A country,' milady Khashtris said equably, 'about half the size of Zamora – and I am sorry not to know your land, Conan. But why not see for yourself, and enlighten me as well. We leave for Khauran on the morrow. Will you join me?'

  'I suppose I could get my affairs in order by... noon,' the man said, just as coolly. 'I have a pair of horses... but my chain coat is being repaired.'

  Khashtris of Khauran looked at him from beneath arched brows and lacquered lashes. 'We too have horses... and no bearers.'

  You do not ride, Lady?'

  I do not.' She looked at the litter, and back at her saviour, who noted she had not lowered her eyes to sweep the bodies around them. 'As for tonight...'

  'Guardsmen to a noble lady,' Conan advised, 'do not often use carry litters. If you will walk, though
, I shall carry the chair.' Stepping past his employer and ignoring her sound of surprise, he lifted her empty conveyance with ease, and soon had it adjusted on one shoulder. 'Shubal: well met. No bad blood exists between Shem and Cimmeria, or Cimmeria and Khauran.'

  'Nor between us, Conan,' the tall Shemite said, for his dark looks had vanished with Conan's affirming their co-employment and pushing Khashtris to promise a reward.

  'Milady,' Conan said, bending forward just a little and lilting rightward away from his load, 'well met. Do we go now to your inn?'

  'Shubal,' she said, and then, 'No, wait; do you follow with me betwixt you. I shall guide Conan. Will you join us, Conan?'

  'I have my own accommodations,' he said, realising that he was surely in for considerable walking. While the Foaming Jack was but a few streets away, the noblewoman must be staying in the Upper City, in far finer surroundings.

  They set off up the Street of Erlik Enthroned. Mailed, helmeted Shemite bodyguard; huge, bronzed, black-maned Cimmerian thief carrying a side-turned sedan chair; and between them the short, heavily bejewelled woman with heels that clack-clacked loudly at every step and elaborate coiffure that stood nearly a foot above her head.

  When they reached better lighted areas they found others abroad. Most stared. None, however, challenged or interfered with the strange trio. And Conan was right; the inn at the sign of the Thirsty Lion was indeed far uptown and he had a long walk back. He spent the rest of tin evening squandering the topaz ring on a woman of Shadiz with more paint and cheap jewellery than clothing or culture. Still, she was beyond girlhood, and Conan learned much from her. As she was charmed by his youth and massiveness – as well as the ring of real gold set with real gem – the exchange was more than equal. Ring or not, bruises or no, both considered it a night well spent.