Conan the Mercenary

by Andrew J Offutt

  Next day Conan, who had no mail coat at all, parted with Khashtris's ruby-set ring. Armour was not cheap. In addition to the peaked Turanian helmet, hug white cloak and a crotch-protector of woven chain over leather over cloth, he was able to purchase only a sleeveless mail-vest of no great length. Happy with the ring, the merchant made a to-do of adding a padded coat to be won under the thirty pounds of linked chain.

  Conan advised the pleased merchant that he also required two bearers for the litter of a smallish noblewoman; he d not name her nationality or their destination. The man swiftly procured two Ophirean brothers down on their luck. Conan spent a few minutes carefully questioning them and several more assuring each that lack of loyalty would result! in their employer's having the unpleasant chore of wiping! a lot of blood off his blades.

  The mail coat was new arid the helmet had doubtless once, adorned the head of a bluish-bearded man now dead. Conan liked them well enough. There was something manly in their weight and sheen.

  He cut quite the figure and knew it, riding so tall in his mail through Shadizar. He bestrode one horse while leading another, apparently accompanied by two retainers from the meadowlands of a nation whose knights oft wore gilded armour. These wore sleeveless shirts of saffron and of blue, breech clouts, long daggers, strapped sandals, and a good deal of hair.

  Conan's chin tilted and his eyes automatically narrowed to appraise upper-storey windows. Stupid, he reminded himself. He was no longer a thief. He had a patron whose moonstone ring he wore on his left little finger; he was employed as guard to a noble lady. And what might he have done with himself otherwise? Broken into the soiled temple of Erlik Enthroned, where white kittens were used red in sacrifice to the yellow-eyed god of death? The edge of Conan's mouth twitched, though he did not smile.

  Erlik.

  His right hand rose to toy with the leathern cord about his neck. The amulet it supported, under tunic and haqueton and mail-vest, was nothing: a diamond-shape of moulded or glazed pottery set with a bit of glass; a barbarian's amulet that any would assume furthered some northern superstition. Anyone could see that it was a nothing, worthies.

  Conan's mouth set grimly. Aye, a nothing... for which several had died including a mighty wizard, and which was Bought after by the rulers of several countries. The Cimmerian had cleverly disguised the valuable Zamboulan amulet called the Eye of Erlik. So it would remain, embedded in hardened clay, until he decided what to do with it, this thing he had of a sorcerer of Zamboula who was more lately of Arenjun... and still more lately deceased, with Conan's aid.

  The Eye of Erlik, he mused. Well, just now it was of no importance to him or his needs. He had a far more serious need. It involved his very soul. His hand moved behind him, to touch the carefully-wrapped packet behind his saddle; apparently a leather-wrapped cushion in the Iranistani style. No cushion, surely, had ever been of such importance to any individual.

  Thus reflected the Cimmerian while riding through Shadizar to the Thirsty Lion, accompanied by the two he had hired on behalf of his new employer. With both one guard and one bearer having run off last night, Lady Khashtris was of no great competence at choosing men, he thought -without taking into consideration her employment of him.

  At the inn, he found Khashtris disappointingly swathed in travelling robes of white and yellow. She and Shubal were ready to depart-with two new bearers they had contracted with. Both men were of Shadizar, though a parent of one had certainly come here by way of Stygia.

  'Good,' Conan said. We will need four bearers, to spell each other. Let us hope they can fight too, if need be.'

  Arid that was that. He was outsized, and forceful, and not ill-favoured; the Lady Khashtris was wealthy and inclined to accept his word, even considering his youth. He had after all saved her life, and was beautiful in helmet and that arm-baring jerkin of linked chain.

  Conan asked, 'And the guard who fled last night?'

  'Not a sign of the white-livered dog,' Shubal said.

  'Hmp! I'd not expected him to be here, to try to hire on again,' Conan said and he and the Shemite exchanged a look and a tiny smile: two men of weapons who had downed four, they would inspect the hue of the coward's liver if ever they laid eyes on him.

  Milady's other guard remained ill. He must remain here and travel home alone when he could. Khashtris had to be back, for her cousin awaited some of the goods she'd purchased. Conan nodded, noting her four well-laden sumpter beasts. He appraised Shubal's horse, a handsome bay that would surely have been welcomed as mount by a knight of Aquilonia. The Cimmerian magnanimously announced that the off-duty bearers could take turns riding his sumpter-horse.

  'Would be so much easier if women rode horses,' he said, while he and Shubal assisted Khashtris into her chair with its curtains of yellow, broidered with a red-fruited tree in green.

  'A noble of Khauran does not bestride a horse,' she said, with a natural austerity that was not sententious or insulting. She drew in a bare leg.

  'Not even the men, Lady?'

  'Only to battle,' she assured him.

  Conan nodded. 'Lady... might one ask if the Noble Khashtris knows the King of Khauran?'

  She sighed and her face took on an expression of pensive sadness. 'Khauran of the Unhappy Queens has no king,' she said. 'The queen is daughter of my mother's sister.'

  Elation leapt up in Conan like a cool spring. Cousin to a queen! And the horrid theft perpetrated on him by Hisarr Zul could be righted only by one who wore a crown. Aye, so had said the mage; a crowned person, he had said, not even man! Conan stared into her eyes and spoke earnestly.

  'Lady Khashtris, there is that which only your cousin can help me. For her it is nothing; for me, everything. Aid mi in that and I will return your ring and serve you half a year without wage.' And he held out her moonstone-set made of graven silver.

  She could not miss the intensity of his gaze or tone.

  'Why, Conan... there is no need of such rash promises. I live today because of your bravery and sword-skill of last night. I will see that you meet my royal cousin, and I will intercede for you. You will tell me what it is that only she

  in do; queen of a land you heard of only yesterday?'

  'Noble Lady, I will!'

  And he caught up her hand to press the ring on her. Dropping back then, Conan saluted the surprised woman with the loyalty sign he had offered no one since that day now two years ago when, just before the attack on the invaders in Venarium, he had been proclaimed warrior.

  lie had far more reason than a few pieces of gold to protect the life of this woman; she represented the return of Ins soul!

  And so the lady Khashtris, queen's cousin of Khauran, employed as bodyguard the son of a barbarian smith, and with a gesture he pledged her a depth of loyalty she'd not have accepted, had she known the sign. As it was, smiling, she turned in her seat and drew the curtain. She was lifted on the shoulders of all four bearers. Before rode the Shemite, Shubal; behind the litter paced five sumpter-beasts, lour laden, and behind all rode the giant in the arm-baring blued steel and the peaked Turanian helmet with its steel curtains that left bare only the forefront of his head and throat. The cavalcade paced through Shadizar and was soon passed through the south gate, on to the Road of Kings.

  A bit later that afternoon, others followed.

  III

  Swords in the Dark

  Once they were on that broad caravan track called Road of Kings, Conan and Shubal rode just behind the litter. An off-duty bearer rode Conan's second horse and held the lead-rein of the first pack animal; the others docilely followed.

  Shubal was of the asshuri, a Shemite warrior clan, Conan learned while the two men conversed. Soon they would swing west off the broad road, and into Khauran.

  'Why "of the Unhappy Queens"?' Conan asked.

  'The curse. Long and long ago a queen of Khauran mated with a demon. I believe the result is assurance of royal fecundity and Khauran's continued independence, or some-such; I am not sure. The blessing carri
ed with it a curse: once in each century a queen gives birth to a demon-child, ' a witch. She is easily recognised by the crescent mark on her bosom.'

  'Every time, eh? What a belief!'

  'Don't scoff, Conan. It's true. Each one is named Salome, after the first witch-and each is slain. Seven years ago, Queen lalamis bore twin girls. One had the mark. She was given the dread name, and exposed to die on the desert. Princess Taramis, the witch's twin, does not know. She will be told during her Rite of Womanhood, in five or so years when she reaches age thirteen. Khauran's Queen lalamis the Sad is a lonely and unhappy woman, widowed soon after she caused her own daughter to be slain. It is the dual curse of the queens of Khauran, for they seldom keep consorts.'

  'Someone should console lalamis that she has saved her daughter; the princess is at least spared any possibility of bearing a demon! And who do the queens of Khauran wed, then?'

  Shubal said, 'Strong and brave men!'

  Then they rode on, with Conan reflecting dolorously on ill- unhappy woman whose aid he so needed. They met a lint: caravan, and towards sundown a squad of uniformed Inisemen, Zamoran soldiers, passed them. Later still, Conan swore when a couple of youngsters galloped past, exciting Khashtris's beasts and raising a cloud of yellowish dust. They departed the road then, to make camp.

  One horse bore tents; they set them up so that Conan mid Shubal shared one and the four bearers another, while Khashtris had the tall green one to herself. They were on their way again shortly after sunrise.

  Eventually the small cavalcade was pacing into the rich inlands of little Khauran. Khashtris avowed that the very in was sweeter now, and had her curtains open. She even merged now and again to walk for a space. Conan kept careful track of which bearer's turn it was to ride, and he mid Shubal were not unhappy at having nothing else to do but watch the flash of their lady's fine legs.

  On one of his employer's emergences from her litter, Conan dismounted to walk beside her.

  'It is fine fertile country you are blessed with, Lady.'

  'Aye, Conan – and just hear the birds! See how the farm folk smile and wave when we pass. All are happy in Khauran...' And she stopped suddenly, frowning.

  'Except the queen herself,' Conan said.

  'Aye.'

  'Shubal has told me of the Curse of Khauran's Queens. Would that I could break it, Lady, for you.'

  'Think you so much of me, Conan?'

  'You are certainly neither insensitive nor heartless, Lady Khashtris! I admit I'd defend you against odds, though, because of your promise to present me to the queen, with my petition.'

  'Will you tell me of it now?'

  'Aye, in brief. In Arenjun, I fell afoul of a certain mage, Hisarr Zul,' Conan said, seeing no reason to mention that he had been engaged in trying to rob the mage at the time, and had fallen into a trap. 'He stole from me my very soul. I-'

  'Your soul?' Khashtris was incredulous.

  Conan glanced around, then at the plump cushion behind his saddle. 'Aye, just so. I think I've not smiled since, nor

  known a perfect night's sleep. My... soul is encased in a mirror. Thus the mage forced me into a mission for him. In the course of that I succeeded in laying a ghoulish ghost a sand-lich on the desert between Arenjun and Zamboula! From that thing I learned the means of causing Hisarr Zul's death. When I returned he sought to slay me, but I turned his own poison-dust back on him. He is dead. My soul, my very essence, remains trapped in the mirror. He could have removed it, but I had to slay him or die myself. If the mirror is broken, I am soulless, yet alive. I have seen such creatures: such served the wizard, and I had rather be dead and eaten by vultures! Yet if the mirror is broken by a crowned ruler... my soul is returned to me. So said the sand-lich, who has been Hisarr's brother, and murdered by him.'

  'Oh, Conan! Ishtar and Ashtoreth – how horrible! Khashtris paused to turn to him, her elaborate coiffure spiring high as his forehead. Would that I wore a crown, that I might make you whole, my poor unfortunate! My cousin will end your torment, though, on our arrival. There is no doubt or question, Conan. It will be done.'

  And now you know, my most attractive lady of two score years, why I would defend you against Old Set himself, Conan mused, and returned to his horse that he might be in better position were he needed as mercenary bodyguard, rather than companion.

  He was not so needed, that day.

  That night, Conan awoke to sounds that should not have existed. He knew what he had heard. Though Shubal lay a few feet away, breathing heavily in sleep, Conan elected to make no sound. He rose silently. Without taking time to don padded shirt or mail-vest, he buckled his weapons-belt over his breech clout with a silence few would have believed. Just as silent, he crept from the tent. Even thumping Shubal with his foot might bring the man awake with a cry or a groan, and someone outside was most interested in stealth. Conan adopted the same measure.

  No more than ten good paces separated Khashtris's tent from his and Shubal's. Beyond it and angled a bit so as to form a triangle, the bearers' tent loomed against the night. He was just able to distinguish men there-and another less than five paces from him, his back to Conan. This one cut over still another, and a slender blade dripped on the alien form. Conan knew he had heard a muffled yelp of mm or dying. The moonlight brought a glitter to upturned, blood red eyes, and Conan recognised one of the Ophirean conjurers he had employed.

  The Cimmerian crept forward like a stalking panther. Seconds later there were two corpses on the ground. The man Conan had just slain was one of the bearers hired by Khashtris; he had murdered the Ophirean. Crouching, a snarl twisting his face, the Cimmerian peered about. The other three had not heard this killing. They were moving, very stealthily, upon Khashtris's tent.

  Conan made instant decision, faded around his own tent, aid came in behind Khashtris's, so that it was between him and the skulkers. Four, eh? Someone had followed them, then —someone in league with the two litter bearers the lady had employed. Now Conan squatted behind Lady Khashtris's tent. Moments later the fabric was neatly slit.

  The queen's cousin awoke with a huge hand covering her lower face from cheek to cheek, from nose to chin. Her struggle was stilled by a brief whisper: 'It's Conan. Be still.'

  With her heart pounding and her mouth covered and his brawny arm a heavy pressure on her breast, the high-coiffed lady waited in the darkness, and wondered whether she was being protected or menaced. The darkness and silence had become horror, so that her heartbeat sounded like the tympani of a marching army. She felt the swift beat of his heart too, beneath the massive chest bare against her bare

  back.

  The flap of her tent was drawn aside from without, to admit a pallid pool of moonlight. A stooping man entered as if walking on eggs. Another. Another, bearing a sword. Conan thrust his noble employer roughly from him as he rose. In the silence and the darkness of the tent his snarled words were as a ferocious growl to freeze the limbs of any skulking murderers.

  'What seek you, murdering dogs? Death?'

  And he pounced one step to strike such a blow as he'd never have risked against sighted foes. He could see dimly, and they had just entered the tent and surely could not; he risked. His sword clove meat and a man groaned horribly. Instantly Conan was twisting his blade free of its victim's flesh and muscle. He pounced aside then, and there came the sound of a falling body.

  'Who-who struck? Baranthes?'

  'Struck, slimy dog. You've come to do murder-do it!' The voice was as much animal growl as human, and the skin of Khashtris horripilated no less than that of the two men.

  'Son of Set- it's that Conan!'

  This time Conan said nothing; squatting, he extended his sword and swung. The arm was two feet long, to the wrist; the sword it wielded added nearly three feet more of reach. When the rushing edge struck, no groan arose; a man howled hideously in the dark as his calf was chopped more than half through. Even while he toppled, the silent Conan moved again, this time with unerring instinct towards Khashtris. Le
aning towards the tent's flap, he chopped down towards the floor as if seeking to split a fallen log. His blade did not reach the ground, but was arrested by a semi-yielding bulk. The ugly bubbling sound from a human throat told him he had found either lung or neck of the man he had already crippled: a treacherous litter-bearer from Zamora by way of Stygia;

  Conan did not care which; he twisted free his steel and lunged rightward.

  The whish he heard to his left was the third man's sword; did the fellow know he was now without companions?

  'Best flee, slime,' Conan told him, growling low. 'You are all alone. I've slain three this night, and both Shubal and Khashtris live!'

  Rather than accept sensible advice, the man struck wildly. Conan was already amove. With a loud chopping sound, the would-be murderer drove his sword into the tent's single pole with such force than he groaned at impact. The pole crumpled.

  As the tent came down over them and Khashtris squeaked in terror, Conan pounced. He did not stab another unseen foe in the dark; he found an arm, which he broke, and then a neck. He broke it, too.

  The Cimmerian stood alone, with the sagging tent draped over him so that he formed a human pole in a darkness that was absolute. The third stalker of Khashtris lay at his feet. Again the lady of Khauran made a squeaky, whimpering sound.

  'There were three,' Conan said, and forced his way towards her voice, and squatted. The tent fell over them. Grasped by a shivering Khashtris, Conan held her close, and remained. Hardly old, the woman was nevertheless more than twice his age. But no woman, Conan learned, was old, in darkness.

  Just at dawn a horrified Shubal hauled the tent away, and stared. Conan showed him an animal's ugly grin.

  'Good morning, Shubal. You do sleep soundly.' The Cimmerian waved casually with a hand whose little ringer wore a band of silver set with a moonstone. 'Drop the tent again, will you? Just for a few moments.'

  Unable to speak though his mouth was open, Shubal did. Conan reared up to form a human tent pole, while the Lady Khashtris hastily clothed herself.