Conan the Mercenary

by Andrew J Offutt

  Conan removed his vest of mail and the padded jack beneath. The fat dumpling of a maid's fatter sow of a mother, also blonde, measured him. The mistress had instructed her to make two tunics for the new member of the household. Evriga muttered while she measured. When her daughter wondered aloud if the big youth was big every place, Evriga ordered her out of the chamber. Daughter left; mother rounded on the Cimmerian.

  'You are not to lay so much as one of these huge hands on that girl, do you hear?'

  Conan had not considered it, and might have done so only were he and the girl marooned on a small and unpeopled island far out to sea, with certain knowledge of remaining there, alone, beyond six months. Nevertheless he replied without rancour, without smiling. Beyond Evriga, Shubal was making ridiculous faces at his fellow bodyguard.

  'I hear and obey,' Conan said quietly.

  'Hmp. Glibly spoke,' Evriga said.

  Would you like me to swear?'

  Evriga reiterated her 'Hmp' and resumed her taking of measurements.

  Standing very still, towering over Evriga, Conan swore not to touch her daughter: 'This I vow by Crom, grim Lord of the Mount, and by Badb, and Lir and Macha, and Mannanan and Morrigan as well, and Nemain, Venomous Nemain.'

  'I never heard of any of them,' Evriga said. 'Ishtar-what arms I'

  'I swear too by Ishtar, who as all know is of Nemedia, and by Set and I swear too by Derketo-'

  'Never mind that Stygian slut-god, barbarian!'

  'And by Yog,' Conan solemnly intoned, 'King of Demons.'

  'All right,' the woman said, 'all right.' And measurements completed, she left them.

  Immediately Conan and Shubal fell to laughing. Shubal interrupted to assure Conan that it was Evriga who truly had designs on him, and erupted anew. Conan did not reply; Evriga might have made a fair mother, he thought, or an excellent mattress.

  'Two tunics! I have never owned three tunics at once in my entire life, Shubal!'

  'All that long!' the Shemite grinned. 'How old are you, Conan?'

  'Twenty.'

  'Urn. In a way, I'd have thought you older. In another, you seem younger. I too am twenty, my fellow guardian of the body of Khashtris.'

  Conan, who was eighteen, nodded and they went to take the evening meal. Spartus, Khashtris's head of household, presented the newcomer with a single silver coin.

  'Three of these would purchase the sword you wear; eight would buy a good mare, Conan. This is against your wages, that you might not be penniless in Khauran.'

  'What,' Conan asked of Shubal, 'is the price of a mug of ale at Hilides?'

  'Two for a copper. That silver coin will exchange for twenty good coppers.'

  'I am almost rich enough to be drunk,' Conan said, and made the silver Queenhead vanish.

  Shubal rose laughing, said he had business, and departed. Conan, who knew the nature of that 'business', knew longing. He also felt that he was new, and on duty, whether in Khauran there was danger to Khashtris or no. Finishing his dinner, he went out to examine the gardens behind the house. He sought to pass the time of evening with the gardener. Amid the cool verdure, beneath gently rustling trees, that man had no care for a stranger's need of companionship. He affected rude manners and talked but little.

  It was not pleasant to be new in a city, and to know that one's only friend was with a woman, and to have no companionship whatever. Conan returned to his and Shubal's room.

  Shubal was very absent. There Conan abode, sitting and sprawling and restlessly pacing by turns. He gave much thought to the day's occurrences and to what he had learned -and regained-and to what he had seemed to see at the instant of his soul's adjoining his body. These reflections troubled his mind. He was doubly troubled: he was intensely aware of what Shubal was doing, this night, with Sfalana of the melons.

  He was vehemently aware of Khashtris's presence in this large night-bound house. Her house. The house of Noble Khashtris, in which she was employer and cousin to the queen, not a frightened and grateful girl-woman under a collapsed tent.

  Eventually his mind and body were so troubled and restless that he had to escape the room. It seemed to have shrunk and at the same time become too large for one person alone. Its four walls leered at him.

  He left it. The house was dark and silent. Silent as a panther the Cimmerian paced along rug-strewn halls of coloured stone floored with marble. He let himself out by the rear door. Trees rustled and the grass and shrubbery filled his nostrils with a fragrance that was green and fresh and cool. Soon, pacing in shadow-haunted moonlight, he had memorised the shrubbery, trees and garden-plot. He'd have been delighted if an assassin or two had come slipping over one of the walls. None came. The branches of the trees seemed to whisper of love.

  After circuiting the house, Conan ascended to the porch and sat for a time amid square-based columns painted the blue of the sky and decorated with plumbed strutting birds in green and yellow and blues.

  That, too, paled. He rose. His attempt to enter was blocked by a locked door. Good, he thought, for he was employed as bodyguard to a noble who trusted him, and he went around back.

  That door, too, had been barred from within. Good... but...

  Well, Conan mused, no one knows I came outside, and the moon is high. The night ages. A very efficient steward, that damned Spartus!

  Conan spent the night in the garden. Just after- dawn he was on the porch, his stomach rumbling while he awaited the awakening of the household of noble Khashtris. Eventually the door was opened to the day. Conan explained, and Evriga laughed at him as he entered. That was enough; while he breakfasted, alone, he was advised by cook that his tunic stank. That was more than enough.

  'So,' the seated Conan said quietly without looking up from his wooden bowl, 'does your breath. Now hush and give me more of that only fair gruel else I consider telling our employer how you imbibe wine intended for cooking, even of a morning.'

  He received another – bowl, in silence, and was left in peace.

  Shubal entered the little room as Conan was finishing. They exchanged smiles, and the Shemite winked, but neither man said anything. had rather, be in someone's army than have this job, Conan mused as he left the other man to his morning gruel.

  Conan had nothing to do that morning, and did not enjoy not doing it. Just after noon-at last-he and Shubal unnecessarily escorted their employer to the meeting house of the Advisory Council. It was there, while Khashtris was within, that Arkhaurus came walking out among the lofty columns covered with swirling multicolour patterns. He approached the Cimmerian.

  'You stared hard at my lord Sergianus on yesterday, Conan,' the Adviser to the Throne said. 'All the while that our lady queen was performing the act to rescue you from black sorcery. Why stared you so? '

  'I-might I answer question with question, Arkhaurus? How came that noble lord here?'

  'Ah-you think you knew him afore, then?' Arkhaurus's eyes were so dark as to be night black, and they seemed to pierce like sharpened bits of onyx. Today he wore a longish white tunic over dun-hued leggings, and the silver chain supporting the carnelian seal on his chest. When Conan said nothing, the rangy man spoke on.

  'As you are bodyguard to the queen's cousin and something of a hero for having brought her safely home from that wicked Shadizar, I will tell you. The men at the western gate saw him first. They beheld a frightsome apparition: a man in fine clothing that was torn and stained, and him all bloodied and afoot. He identified himself. He was believed because of his manner and the medallion he wore. It is obviously no trifle, or new either. The sentries brought him to Acrallidus whilst we two were conferring. We soon saw to his bathing, and provided him with a robe. Over wine, he advised that he had been assaulted by robbers who had slain his two retainers and fled when they heard a dog barking. Thinking others were coming, the bandits fled with the mounts of the duke's son, Sergianus amid his retainers, and his sumpter animals as well.'

  'He was injured?'

  Arkhaurus shook his head. 'He bore
no wounds aside from a smallish cut on his sword-hand.'

  'He fought, then. The blood on him came from his own sword, which must have wounded one of his attackers.'

  'I see that you do know combat, and do think as well. Good for you, my boy. Begging his indulgence and patience, we sent men to look. He was lordly austere about our wish to corroborate his story, but nice enough. He is in truth a pleasant fellow. Our men returned to report that they had found the corpses, and blood, and the marks of many stamping hooves. Tracks led west, to Koth.'

  'To Koth.'

  'Aye. The fleeing bandits.'

  Fleeing horses, anyhow, Conan mused, and nodded in silent invitation for the man of five-and-forty or so to continue.

  'One sword, bloodied, lay at the scene; otherwise the bandits had taken weapons and horses.'

  'Without killing Sergianus.'

  Arkhaurus pursed his lips, giving Conan an admonitory

  look. 'The lord Sergianus,' he said, with a bit of stress on the title, 'said that once his men were downed and he unhorsed, he lay as if dead. For surely one man afoot cannot fight three. They were coming towards him to be certain of his death when they heard the dog. One opined aloud that such a sound doubtless meant people, and they hadn't after all come bent on murder, but on booty. The three galloped off. '

  'Did the lord Sergianus say that one was wounded?'

  'Two, indeed, he said bore wounds. Once they had gone, the duke's son arose and made his way here, afoot. We accompanied him then to the queen. He told her his story in our presence; all was the same. Our good Queen lalamis kindly offered him clothing and lodgings as the son of a foreign noble, far from home and so foully robbed in our land. That was just under two months ago; he has remained.'

  'Paying court to Queen lalamis.'

  'He is very good for her; everyone sees that. Our queen has long been a most lonely and unhappy woman, Conan. At her next birthday she will be one-and-twenty. Yet she has endured the burden of the crown and her misfortunes these seven years, and borne but once, though they were twins-you know of this?'

  'Aye.'

  'And of the curse on the royal House of Arcturus?'

  'Aye.'

  'And that it was our poor lalamis who bore the witch in this century, and made the bravely logical, and yet terrible and soul-tearing decision – all alone – concerning that doom-bearing child of her own womb.'

  'I know it, aye. And that she was widowed within a couple of years.'

  'Aye. Well then, you can perceive that it is no happy queen I have advised since then – and, indeed, been as father to. She looks older than her years, Conan, and looked older still, before the arrival of the Nemedian lord. She had much trouble sleeping, and suffered horribly from nightmares in which she heard her dead babe crying out to her from the desert. The child was Salome, a witch, and she represented

  horror and evil. Nevertheless, my lady Queen had carried the babe within her, and it was her own child she ordered slain.'

  Conan nodded. Once he fathered a child, he could not imagine himself slaying it, no matter the reason or logic; not in infancy, at any rate.

  'Yes,' he said. 'I understand, and thank Arkhaurus the Royal Adviser for taking so much of his time to tell me of Khauran. And then the son of the Nemedian duke came.' Except that there is no duke over Tor in Nemedia.

  'The young Duke of Tor, aye. I have seen years fall from our queen as dead leaves from a strong tree, leaving it to bloom and thrive anew in spring. I have seen life return to her haunted eyes, Conan, and now she is cheerful, at times almost girlish again. My lord Sergianus, Conan, is the best thing to happen to Queen lalamis – and thus to Khauran – in many years. As you are, to her noble cousin, for you saved her life. My queen and Duke's son Sergianus are smitten each with the other, methinks, though they are not lovers.'

  'Not yet, anyhow.'

  That came from Shubal, who had joined them without Arkhaurus's noticing. Conan had noted the Shemite's approach, but had seen no reason to interrupt the queen's adviser. Now Arkhaurus turned those awl-sharp eyes on Shubal.

  'The prospect of a landless Nemedian, then,' Conan hastily said, 'as Khauran's lord does not disturb you.' He did not quite make it a question.

  'No,' Arkhaurus said.

  Shubal said, 'Better, for the matter of that, a landless adventurer than one who may be kin of the king of a country that has so long eyed this little nation.'

  'Shubal,' Arkhaurus said, 'refers of course to Koth. Surely we cannot call Dukeson Sergianus an "adventurer", though.'

  'Oh no, no,' Shubal said, 'I meant that even if he were, that would be preferable to a Kothian. Koth would gladly trade off her western provinces for dominion over these rich farmlands of Khauran '

  'mmm,' Arkhaurus said non-committally. 'But Conan... you have not answered my original question: why stared

  you so at my lord Sergianus? Have you seen him afore-now?'

  'No, I – what I saw was...' And an idea was in Conan's head like a new flashing gem, or as if the plan had been writ on an arrow shot into his head. 'Arkhaurus... do you read Turanian?'

  The statesman looked puzzled, but nodded. 'Aye,' he said, and went on in the Turanian tongue, 'Aye, I speak it, read it, and can write it, Conan. Why?'

  'Because,' Conan said, 'it is the only language I write-and that not excellently. Shubal... you have letters?'

  Shubal did not look his most comfortable. 'I am, uh, fair in Shemite -'

  Which I cannot read,' Arkhaurus said.

  'Nor I,' Conan said.

  Well, actually,' Shubal went on, 'I write pretty well in Shemite, but only fair in Kothic.'

  Conan knew that Kothic was the tongue of Khauran, with a few modifications; the written language remained even closer to the original.

  'Then I want to conduct an experiment. Shubal... without saying his name, will you write a description of that man we spoke of yesterday, who had the medallion?'

  'Sergianus?'

  "No, the other-and without his name, Shubal.'

  'Oh. He's probably dead by now, Conan. It's been over four years. Nearly five.'

  'Indulge me.'

  Shubal would; they went into the whitewashed building. The aged scribe just beyond the portico was none too happy to turn two strips of freshly scraped vellum over to a pair of ruffian mercenaries. As they were Noble Khashtris's men and the request came from the Adviser to the Throne, he could hardly refuse. Soon Conan and Shubal, each with his back to the other, were painstakingly writing out descriptions. A mystified Arkhaurus waited with his patience on a short rein. His appearance was that of one just short of anger.

  Pausing now and then to scan their memories for details or perhaps words, Shemite and Cimmerian dipped their quills frequently and scratched away. Each cursed more than once in a language different from that in which he wrote.

  Conan finished first, and Shubal but moments after. Arkhaurus looked his enquiry at the Cimmerian, who bade Shubal read what he had written.

  'Better I than Arkhaurus, with my spelling! "He is very old,"' Shubal read, haltingly as a boy even over his own just-inscribed words. ' "Most of his head is bald. His hair is white unto yellow and hangs down lank like a fringe. His skull has spots on it, sort of orangey-tan. So do his hands and he squints and I think he does not see well. His left eye droops. So does his mouth and it has deep lines around it. Teeth are yellowed and two are missing on the right.'

  'Above or below?' Conan interrupted.

  'Below. "His moustache is white, and fuller on the left" — no, it's the right - "than on the left. He is terribly thin. His hair is yellowish with age and there is none on his hands at all and the veins are very large on the backs of them. They quiver." '

  The Shemite looked up. He shrugged, finished.

  Conan seemed to have paled. 'And that describes...'

  'Sabaninus, lord Baron of Korveka, in Koth.'

  'Look here, Conan, what is the purpose of this... boy's exercise?'

  'Arkhaurus, there is sorcery h
ere. A man said on yesterday that Tor is a barony in Nemedia, not a duchy. Does Sergianus elevate his rank, or does he not know? And Shubal recognises his medallion -my lord Sergianus's; he saw it or its twin five years agone on the baron of Kothic Korveka.'

  Arkhaurus heaved a sigh and gestured with both hands, palms up. 'What matter these niggling points?'

  'This,' Conan said. 'Sergianus spoke just as the queen started to break the mirror of sorcery for me. At the instant my soul returned, I was looking at him. And... he changed. I saw another man there where he stood, in the same clothes and medallion. I have never been so far south-west even as Khauran City afore, and never seen Korveka's lord. But here is what I saw standing beside your queen on yesterday, Queen's Adviser.'

  And Conan read aloud from his own vellum:

  '"A tall, lean, very old man with a bald crown dotted with age-spots and yellowish-white hair hanging down like a curtain all around his head. His moustache, also aged white and now yellowing, has a gap on the right side; and his left eye, his moustache and his mouth all droop. Lines mark his face like gulleys, especially around the mouth, which is missing two lower teeth on the right. His hands quiver and great standing veins on their backs look like worms under the skin, which is hairless and shining. They are also marked with the same brownish-orange spots that dot his skull above the hairline. Finally, he has a small brown wart in the fold of his cheek beside his left nostril." '

  'So has Baron Sabaninus ' Shubal practically shouted. 'That... what you wrote sounds just like him!' He scratched his chest. 'But how-'

  'Sorcery,' Conan said.

  'Impossible,' the Queen's Adviser said. 'Coincidence. That might describe many men of great age. What could the meaning be of such a situation? What can it matter?'

  'It could matter to Khauran! Suppose that it means just this,' Conan said: 'that somehow a Kothic noble has been given the appearance of youth, and sent here-most likely by the king you say covets Khauran-to charm and wed your lonely queen.'

  'To deliver Khauran to Koth!' Shubal burst out.

  'Sorcery,' Conan said. 'And I, a victim of sorcery until yesterday, was enabled to see through this spell at the instant of my deliverance from my own.'