Conan the Guardian

by Roland Green

  “Come along.”

  The thick canopy of pine branches hid most of the sky, shutting the ground around the man-thick trunks away from the sun. The sparse undergrowth and the downhill slope made easy going for the Cimmerian. He had to hold back at times, to let Vandar keep up with him.

  They came out of the trees on the banks of a mountain stream. On the far side of the stream a sullen cliff of grey rock rose halfway to the sky. On the edge of that cliff stood a woman, head thrown back, arms raised, and screaming.

  As Conan studied the cliff for ways up, a second woman appeared at the top. She seemed to be gesturing to the first woman. But each time the newcomer came within twenty paces, the first woman took a step backward.

  “Ten more steps and she’ll be over the edge,” Conan growled.

  “Perhaps that’s what she wants,” Vandar said. “Is saving the village witling our work for today?” Then he flinched at the look in the Cimmerian’s eyes.

  “Yes,” Conan said. He drew sword and dagger to hold them clear of the water, then stepped into the stream. In three paces the water was up to his chest. Vandar took a deep breath and followed, flinching at the cold.

  Vandar was as blue as Conan’s eyes when they finally climbed out of the water. Conan had cast along the face of the cliff, looking for a way up, and finally found one.

  Indeed, it looked as if someone had once carved a flight of steps in the face of the cliff.

  Conan scrambled on to the bottommost of the crumbling steps and shook himself like a dog. Vandar followed, with a dubious look at the way up.

  “That looks more fit for goats than men, Captain. Where are your beard and horns?”

  Conan tapped the man’s bare chin. “For that matter, where’s yours? Grow one, then argue with your captain. Follow me.” He began climbing, using arms for balance as well as for gripping vines and gnarled saplings that had somehow found niches in the rock.

  By the time they were halfway up the cliff, the first woman had stopped screaming. The second was now speaking, in a low, urgent voice. Conan could not make out her words, but neither could he mistake the note of pleading in her voice.

  Vandar climbed up beside the Cimmerian and took a deep breath. “Captain, what are we doing up here?” “A madwoman wandering in this sort of country, far from her village—to me that smells of sorcery.

  “Not all madness comes from sorcery, Captain.” “Enough does. Even if this doesn’t, we may save her. If we do, her village and kin will thank us. They may have seen something that will help us, if they talk of it freely.”

  “Forgive me, Captain. I should have thought of that myself. ’ ’

  “When you’ve been living by your wits and your sword as long as I have, you will. Or you won’t have lived that long!”

  They went on climbing. At the next halt for breath, Conan set his back to the rock and looked out across the river. They were now above the level of the tree tops, and he had a clear view across the mountain valley to the slopes beyond. They were not far enough north for the peaks to wear snow caps at this time of year, but they lacked nothing else to make them formidable.

  An army could hide in this country, and seeking one merchant prince and his tame sorcerer would be a fool’s game without what they had learned at Akimos’s house. It could still turn back into such a game, if Akimos got wind of their coming. If the folk of the woman’s village could do nothing else, Conan would ask them to keep their mouths shut about his band’s presence in the mountains.

  Conan and Vandar covered the last few score paces of the climb trying to be as silent as mice when the cat prowls. Whether ensorceled or mad, the woman could too easily fly into a panic. Then the rescuers would bring about the leap they sought to prevent.

  The two men stopped just below the edge of the cliff. Conan saw the madwoman, standing with her arms crossed on her breast, less than five paces from the edge. Worse still, she was no more than two paces from a ravine leading to the edge of the cliff. If she leaped or fell into that, she would slide like mash in a pig trough, down and out into empty air.

  Conan drew Vandar close and whispered. “We’ll take the last steps at a rush. You run between her and the edge. I’ll guard the ravine. Whatever you do, bare hands only. ’ ’

  “Very well. If she claws out an eye, Akimos’s sorcerer can ransom himself by putting it back.”

  The Cimmerian took a deep breath, tapped his companion on the shoulder, then all but flew up the last few steps. Vandar was only a pace behind him, but one foot struck a loose stone that the Cimmerian had missed. It turned under Vandar and sent him sprawling, by the gods’ favour. on the level ground.

  Even flat on his stomach, he still blocked the woman’s path to the edge. She howled like a wolf and leaped for the ravine. Looking back to see that Vandar had not fallen, Conan was a heartbeat too late to catch her.

  He was not too late to follow her into the ravine, clutching her ankles in an iron grip. He spread his legs, trying to jam his feet into the sides of the ravine and hold both of them. But the ravine was too steep, and although he used elbows and knees as well as feet he felt himself sliding. Another ten paces and there would be nothing left for either of them but the long fall to death in the river, and perhaps saving the woman had been a fool’s errand after all—

  Something soft fell on his ankle. Then sinewy fingers were tightening it around the ankle. He heard Vandar’s voice behind and above him, shouting, “Hurry, you witless bitch!” Then another piece of cloth was looping around his other ankle.

  He felt the knots tighten. At first they did no more than stop his slide toward death. Then he could let go of one of the woman’s ankles and use his free hand to push them both backward. Finally he could use feet and knees and elbows all at once, creeping up on to level ground like a drunken caterpillar but safe.

  Conan took a deep breath and stood up. The woman had fainted, and from the looks of her that was just as well. Conan saw fresh bruises, cuts, what looked like whip marks, and even burns.

  “Captain, are you safe?”

  Vandar and the second woman were standing side by side. Both were bare to the waist, and the woman looked rather the better for being so unclad.

  “You’ve learned to think faster than I’d expected,” Conan said. “If you’d gone down into the ravine yourself, it might have just been three bodies in the river.” “I had trouble talking Shilka here into using her tunic, but when it was her sister—”

  “Her sister?” Conan began. Then Vandar raised a hand and pointed. Behind boulders, Conan also made out movement.

  The two men were flat on the ground in a moment. Shilka stood, then cupped her hands and shouted.

  “Ho! If you are of Stag’s Leap village, these men are friends. They saved Komara.”

  “So you say,” came a rough voice. “But when magic walks the hills as it has these past four nights—” “Magic?” Vandar exclaimed, and Conan cupped his own hands.

  “What kind of magic?”

  “You should know, you—” someone else began. “Wait,” the first voice commanded. “Who are you?”

  “Captain Conan, serving the Guardians.”

  “I’ve never seen you at the valley fort.”

  “I’ve never been there. I’m straight out from Messantia, maybe on the trail of the magic you fear. Tell me about it.”

  “Yes, tell him,” Shilka shouted. “And while you’re telling him, Oris, the rest of you see to my sister. We didn’t snatch her back from death to let her bleed on the rocks.”

  Shame or hope or both together brought the four villagers out from behind the boulders. Conan noted that all four had crossbows and either spears or shortswords. He walked to the edge of the cliff, ready to signal to Reza to send up more men. He trusted the villagers somewhat; he would trust them more when they knew they were outnumbered.

  As Conan reached the edge of the cliff, a familiar head of fair hair thrust itself into view. Conan took a step backward and mentioned several gods
not commonly invoked among polite Argosseans.

  Livia’s laugh was like the river rippling over rocks. “Forgive me for surprising you, Captain. But I thought I might be needed, to persuade the hill folk that we are friends. Hill folk can sometimes be as stubborn as the rock of their own hills, as I’m sure you know.”

  Before Conan could think of a reply to that, she turned to the villagers. “Has this poor woman kin?” “She has a husband,” the one called Oris said. “But if he’ll have her back after this—”

  “After she suffered from foul magic, he’ll call her unchaste?” Livia snapped. Conan heard the ice crackle in her voice. So did the villagers. They took a step backward.

  “Well,” Oris said, “I’ll not wager one way or the other. She’ll have my voice, for sure, and—”

  “Very well. Do your best. If that is not good enough, the woman will have a place in my house for as long as she needs one.”

  “And just who are you, Messantian trull?” the man who’d spoken second growled.

  Conan took three quick steps and lifted the man by his belt and the collar of his tunic. “She is—one who can make good that promise. And I can make good a promise to break you in pieces if your tongue wags like that again.”

  “I am the Lady Livia of House Damaos,” Livia said. For the first time, she appeared to realize that her riding clothes were soaked and clinging. The mannish appearance she’d worn on the trail was now altogether gone.

  “She is that, and more,” Conan said. He set the villager on his feet and carefully wiped his hands on his breeches. “But if word of it reaches our common enemies—”

  “I will see to that,” Oris said. “Now, my lady, Captain Conan, are you alone?”

  Conan signalled Livia to let him speak. Somewhat to his surprise, she nodded.

  “What of it?”

  “If you are here in strength, I beg you to come to Stag’s Leap and guard us from the women-stealers. If you are not in strength, please go away. You will only draw the women-stealers’ wrath without being able to meet it.”

  It was plain that the man was not as sure of Conan’s virtue as he pretended. Conan decided that picking up villagers like unruly children and waving them about like battle flags would not work a second time.

  “How many villages have suffered?”

  “Four. A different one each night.”

  “Then why not guide us to a place where we can reach all four villages swiftly? If the women-stealers come again, we’ll catch them on the way home. If they attack us, they’ll get bloody noses and the villagers can sleep in peace.”

  “That is wisdom, Captain.”

  “Trolls take the wisdom! Is there such a place?” He decided to gamble. “We’ve heard of a place called the Caves of Zimgas, in these—”

  Oris had turned pale and looked ready to fall on his knees, in fear or supplication. “What’s wrong with the Caves?”

  “They—Captain, you do not know what you ask.” “Then tell me! Or does everyone in these hills speak in riddles?”

  “The... the Watchers dwell in the Caves of Zimgas, Captain.”

  “Watchers? Well, speak, man!”

  Oris swallowed. “The Watchers were creatures of magic, created centuries ago to guard the borders of Argos. When magic fled the land, they slept, but it is said that they did not die. If they live, the magic at work may wake them.”

  “All the worse for the sorcerer, then,” Conan said. “Waking other people’s pets has killed more sorcerers than anything else except good steel.”

  Oris shuddered. “If you really wish to guard against the Watchers, there is Castle Tebroth. It is not far from any of the villages. Only—you must know—”

  “Yes, I must know, or you must go back to your village and seek leech-craft to restore your wits,” Conan growled.

  “It is said that the castle rose in a single night, its stones lifted into place by the Watchers themselves.” Conan did not shudder, but his old hatred of sorcery made him pause for a moment. Then he nodded.

  “Oris. A bargain. We have—a good company—below, and food, wine, and leech-craft for your men and Komara. Guide us to Castle Tebroth and take your share. Then take Komara home, and warn the chief men of each village of our presence. Then they can use torches or messengers if the women-stealers come again.”

  “I must come too,” Shilka said. She had not pulled on her tunic, and the look she gave Conan was hard to mistake. “My sister will need a woman’s care.”

  Livia’s reply to that died silently at Conan’s look. But her face was just as eloquent as the village girl’s. After a moment, the girl put her tunic back on.

  Conan wished all women some place a long way from him until this matter of Akimos and the women-stealers was done. Then he looked at Oris.

  “Well?”

  “As you wish, Captain.”

  “Good.” Conan turned his back on the others, walked to the edge of the cliff, and this time finished signalling to Reza’s sentry watching below.

  Conan was well prepared to believe that Castle Tebroth was built as a fortress. It perched high on a crag overlooking a narrow valley. The only way up to it was a twisting path that half a dozen archers could have held against an army.

  Oris spun tales of the castle and how the Watchers had dragged the stones up the crag all the way up the path. As they drew closer, Conan began to wonder if there might be truth in the tales. Certainly many of the stones were the size of small houses. He could imagine no human power able to pull them up the slope. For the sake of the courage of his men, though, he spoke otherwise.

  “I’ll believe in Watchers when I find one watching me,” he told Talouf. “Those stones are big, I give you that. But with enough slaves, you can move anything anywhere.”

  “Were you ever a slave overseer, Conan?” Livia asked. She was walking almost close enough to press her thigh against his—only because the path was so narrow, she told him.

  “No,” Conan said shortly. “I was a slave.”

  That silenced the lady until they reached the castle gate. The iron parts were long gone, but Conan saw enough loose stones lying about for an ample barricade. Once inside, they would be guarded well enough from any human attack. As for other kinds—Conan proposed to find the sorcerer before he found them, and then show any Watchers a clean pair of heels.

  The castle had a courtyard, not much larger than a kitchen garden. They assembled there, listening to the wind pipe eerily about the sun-bleached and weather-scored towers.

  “You know your way about this pile of mason’s mistakes?” Conan asked Oris.

  “As few men do,” the man replied. He lowered his voice. “If I were you—”

  “You are not. Go on. I need advice, not Argossean manners.”

  “I would advise posting sentries at the cellar entrance, as well as on the walls.” Oris now spoke in a whisper, almost lost in the wind.

  “The tales run that there are tunnels running right down through the mountains to the Caves of Zimgas. The Watchers were sent down those tunnels to sleep when their work was done.”

  “So if they’re awake, they might come back up to call on us?”

  Oris shrugged. “I would not jest about the Watchers, if I were—pardon. But I also remember that the Watchers were monstrous. A tunnel big enough for one would take a cart and horse. It could also take a good company of men.”

  “I follow you. I’ll have sentries and a pile of stones before the cellar door.”

  The posting of sentries and piling of stones outlasted daylight. By the time the work was done to Conan’s and Reza’s satisfaction, only a faint ruddiness in the west remained of the day. The wind had died to a faint whisper, which Conan realized was just as well. Had it been moaning as weirdly as when they arrived, he would have been walking with one hand on his sword, looking behind him with every other breath.

  Oris’s tales of the Watchers had made them seem a trifle too real. And there were the women-stealers roaming among the villa
ges like mad wolves, and they and their magic were altogether real. What was abroad in these hills was more than the simple schemes of a merchant prince.

  The thought of the women-stealers reminded Conan of Komara, lying on her pallet in the closest thing to a warm room the ancient castle could muster. He descended the winding stairs from the tower roof and rapped on the side of the doorway with the hilt of his dagger.

  “Who is it?” It was Livia’s voice.

  “Captain Conan.”

  Conan entered, to see Livia kneeling beside the pallet, sponging the woman’s cuts with vinegar and water from a pot heated over the cook fire. Reza sat in the window seat, looking tired and sullen.

  “Where’s Shilka?”

  “I sent her off to get some sleep. She was chasing her sister up hill and down dale for two days with little rest and less food.”

  “How does Komara?”

  “I think the spell is wearing off. She cries out, but from pain or as in nightmares. She seems to know she is among friends.”

  “She’s also in an empty castle that may be facing the gods know what attacks within days,” Reza said. “I’ve urged my lady to send the woman back down with the other villagers at dawn.”

  “Well, Reza, if she won’t listen to you I’ll not waste breath I may need for fighting,” Conan said. “Best you remember what Shilka said, too. Komara might not be among friends in the village.”

  “Indeed, Conan, she might not,” Livia added. “Also, Harphos left me with some of his herbs and simples. The village would have nothing like them, and some have already done her good.”

  “Where is Harphos, by the way?”

  “He also has gone to find a pallet,” Livia said, but was Conan only imagining a catch in her voice and a faint flush on her face? “He said he wanted to take the watch from midnight to dawn, so he should sleep now.” “I had not heard Harphos was a soldier,” Conan said, carefully polite.

  “He said that this is the only chance he will have to learn those skills,” Reza put in. “He wishes to go with us to the Caves, when the time comes to rescue his mother.”