she said, pointing to a distant notch in the nearest range of mountains.
'That is Ymir's Pass, and through it you must go if you would see your homeland before midwinter. Once you leave my land, you leave my protection.'
'I have protected myself for many years now, lady,' Conan said.
'You may well have need of your skill. Ymir's Pass lies in Atzel's land.
He has built a fortress directly across it, from cliff to cliff.'
'I was born to the mountains,' Conan maintained. 'I'll have no trouble avoiding him.'
'Afoot, perhaps,' she said, 'but it may not be so easy mounted. Take care.'
'I shall. Good day, lady, and I thank you for your hospitality. I shall not forget it.'
All day he rode through the little mountain vales. He saw no people and very few animals. It appeared that Atzel had been busy in this area, for he passed several burned-down villages and many overgrown fields and unpruned orchards. This had once been a prosperous, productive land, and it was being turned into a wilderness.
Well, it was not his problem. At least, so he kept trying to tell himself.
He rode befogged in sour thoughts, but he did not let his vigilance relax.
Once, a small troop of horsemen appeared on the road, far ahead of him.
Conan pulled off the road and led his horse well into the woods, where its sounds could not betray him. Cautiously, he made his way back to the road to observe the riders. He wanted to know whom he shared the road with, and he was mystified that they had not noticed him as soon as he had spotted them.
He found a substantial tree overlooking the road and climbed it. He lay along a great branch that would shield his form from observation and he waited. One passing below would have to look directly upward and be searching for watchers in order to notice him. Conan lay perfectly still, barely breathing. An ordinary man could not have held this pose more than a few minutes. Conan could maintain it for hours.
He heard the faint jingle of harness and clopping of hooves, and soon the first rider was passing beneath him. His eyes widened in wonderment, but he made no other motion. These were not local people, but Zamorans.
He recognised them by their dress and by their horse-trappings. They were small, furtive men with dark faces and beards. What were a party of Zamorans doing here? There were five of them, and they were headed in the direction from which he had come, toward Aelfrith's land. He did not like that, but there was little he could do about it. At least, now he knew why they had not seen him. Men bred to the plains and the bare rocky hills of Zamora, they were alien to the wood-clothed foothills of the Border Kingdom. When they were gone, Conan climbed carefully down and went to fetch his horse. He did not like the look of the Zamorans. They had the aspect of thieves. Almost, he turned to follow them. Then, remembering his oath and his mission, he turned back toward Ymir's Pass.
The sun of late afternoon-found Conan within a short distance of Atzel's fortress. The crude stone pile stretched across the valley as Aelfrith had described, and he was faced with the problem of finding a way around it. On foot he could have scaled the cliffs easily, but he could not be sure of finding a good horse on the other side. If he was to keep to his timetable, he would have to stay with the beast as long as possible. Darkness was coming on apace and he would have to stop and camp soon. He decided to find a good place to hide his mount and go on a reconnaissance of the fortress. He knew that it is never amiss for a man in danger to learn as much as possible about the nature and circumstances of his enemy.
With his horse picketed inside the forest, well away from any villages, Conan set out for the fortress. He stayed off the road but paralleled it within the cover of the second-growth brush flanking it. He found the ashes of an old campfire and rubbed soot in patches and streaks over his face and body, breaking up its outline and dulling the bronzen sheen of his flesh, the better to avoid detection. As for sound, he made none at all.
Dressed only in loincloth and weapon belt, he glided through the woods as silently as a ghost.
It was fully dark when he reached the fortress. His eyes had adjusted to the dimming of the light, and the half-moon overhead cast plentiful light for a man with Conan's sharp senses. Most men would have floundered about near-blind in the forest obscurity, but Conan was as wood wise as a Pict, a people among whom he had lived, despite his nation's historic antipathy to that race.
Like Aelfrith's fort, this one was crudely constructed of roughly hewn stones, piled without benefit of mortar. The wall provided adequate finger and toe purchase for Conan, who had climbed walls that would have been rejected as too smooth by a Zamoran housebreaker. A childhood spent among rugged cliffs came in handy to a man like Conan, whose life had been devoted largely to breaking into or escaping from places specifically designed to discourage such activities.
Inside the fort, Atzel sat with his cronies, drinking ale by the light of a small fire built upon a stone hearth in the centre of the arms room. The light glinted on the heads of spears ranked about the walls, each spear alternating with a short wooden bow and its attendant quiver of arrows.
Higher on the walls were hung axes and cheap swords, of the type bought by small rulers by the hundreds to arm their common soldiery. Such blades, sold in bundles by the merchants of Nemedia and Turan, though plain of design and ornament, would kill a man quite as sufficiently dead as the finest champion's sword made by a master smith.
Atzel was a huge man wrapped in a bearskin robe despite the warmth of the evening. His once-golden beard was shot with grey, and his face was deeply lined. Features formerly handsome were marred with purple blotches, and dark bags hung beneath his pale-blue eyes, their whites turned red and yellow. He was the ruined hulk of what had been a stalwart warrior, broken down by age and excesses of every kind. As his body had been destroyed by immoderation, his mind was bent by greed, hatred, and
lust for self-aggrandizement and vengeance.
Just now he was in a jubilant mood, swigging his ale with a gusto he had not felt in many years and laughing with his comrades. 'We'll have that haughty bitch now!' the self-styled king proclaimed. 'My bought Zamoran kidnappers will see to it. She'll pay for the murder of my Rorik at last! I'll have her stripped of every stitch and sacrificed to the King Bull for all to see. Then who will deny that Atzel is the greatest ruler of the North?'
'None, lord,' said a follower with sycophantic zeal. The man grinned lasciviously at the mental picture of the chieftainess of Cragsfell stripped and bound for sacrifice.
'A masterstroke, my king,' said another. 'If we merely defeated her in warfare and slew her, as is our right in just vengeance for our beloved prince, still many would take up arms against us. But when the King Bull accepts her as a proper sacrifice, who can dispute with his divine will?'
'Who, indeed,' Atzel chuckled. He turned to a cadaverous man who wore no weapons, his cattle master. 'Are you sure that your Bossonians truly have the King Bull penned in that little valley?'
'It is he, lord,' the man answered. 'All has been done according to your wishes. The Bossonians are all master cattlemen, and to them he is merely another bull. None of them speaks our tongue, so no word will leak out that you now control the divine beast.' Atzel was uncommonly astute in hiring foreigners to perform tasks his countrymen would have balked at.
'But will he attack?' Atzel urged. 'He will attack another bull, as any bull will. He will attack a man trespassing into his herd. But it is important that the beast will gore and trample a tethered woman in front of the assembled people.'
'All has been taken care of,' the man assured him. 'Each day a captive woman has been stripped and tied to a stake, and the bull has been tormented by men standing behind her. He has learned to attack them.
Now he will attack such a woman on sight.'
'My lord,' said a grizzled warrior uncomfortably, 'is this right? Your demand for vengeance is just, but I mislike this handling of the sacred beast. All the folk hold him to be a god upon eart
h, and the embodiment of our luck, and the fertility of our flocks and herds.'
Atzel snorted past his moustache. 'He is just a bull like any other. In time, the King Bull is always killed by a younger bull, or by the worshippers at the Festival when his virility flags. Then there is a new King Bull. Is this any different? So what if I decide to use the King Bull for my own purposes? Am I not a king, and may I not do as I wish? Besides, it may take a divine beast to kill this witch.' His eyes grew wild and his voice strident as spittle flecked his lips. 'For that is what she is, mark me. She cast her spell upon my Rorik and caused him to conceive an unnatural lust for her. She bewitched the council of chiefs to find against Rorik after his murder! Surely the gods themselves must crave vengeance against the sorceress! It is only justice that the King Bull should execute her, since she defiled his Festival with her plot to destroy my son!' His voice had risen to a shriek.
'As you say, lord,' said the grizzled warrior, who now regretted having brought up the subject.
'That will all be set aright soon, master,' soothed a courtier. 'The witch will die with the great bull's horn buried in her belly, and his hoofs trampling upon her face. The Zamoran woman-stealers will bring her to you. Soon your son's spirit will be at rest, lord.'
'I trust so,' said Atzel, his good humour restored somewhat. He sat back in his chair and drank from a beaker of southern wine. 'Sometimes, his spirit appears to me, in dreams. He is all covered with blood, as he was when the witch murdered him. Sometimes, he carries his head beneath his arm. He demands vengeance, and by Ymir, he shall have it! He was my only legitimate son.' His followers affected not to notice the great tears that rolled down the drink-blotched cheeks. In a life of utmost depravity, Atzel had experienced only one of the redeeming virtues common to most men: the great love which he had borne for his unworthy son. They all considered it to be his only weakness.
'I shall have her!' he went on triumphantly, the tears still streaking his cheeks. 'As this first moon of autumn moves into its waxing phase, it is proper for any chief to call for a sacrifice to the King Bull. Already, my messengers have summoned my fellow chiefs from all over the west of the Border Kingdom. All of them shall witness the humiliation and death of Aelfrith, and who among them shall protest?'
'Her men might pursue,' said a senior warrior. 'There might be a rescue attempt.'
Atzel snorted laughter through his nose. 'Ancient custom forbids that any man shall raise weapon against the King Bull. After proper tedious ceremony, an old King Bull may have his throat cut with the old flint knife, but what man will face the current King Bull with no weapon? He is in his prime, and fierce beyond all measure. If a few of Aelfrith's men decide to try the task out of misguided loyalty, what of it? He will make short work of them and whet all our appetites for the main event, which shall be the death of Aelfrith!' He laughed uproariously at the prospect, and his men joined him in chorus.
High above them all, Conan perched motionlessly in the rafters. He had heard enough. Carefully, he began to make his way out of the fortress. His thoughts were in turmoil as he exited the stone pile. He had been tempted to simply cast his dirk into the heart of Atzel and end matters right there.
However, the angle and distance would have made such a cast difficult. In any case, by now Conan was wise enough in the ways of men to realise that wars and other great matters were seldom averted by the mere killing of a single man. Atzel was surrounded by men whose importance was linked to his, and who would undoubtedly carry out his plans in order to legitimize their own succession to his power.
In addition to all this, he wanted to get to Cimmeria as soon as possible. His honour was at stake. He trekked through the woods in silence, watching for enemies, making no sound but carrying on a furious, internal arguement.
He found his horse placidly munching grass where he had left it. As he reached for the picket rope, a voice spoke behind him: 'What kind of painted savage has blundered into our trap, Ulf?'
Conan whirled to see two armoured men advancing upon him.
'When a thrall told us that he had found an unattended horse,' said the one called Ulf, 'we had hoped to catch a sneak-thief. I think that we have found one of Aelfrith's spies instead.'
'Tell us who sent you, fellow,' said the first. He held his sword extended, its point leveled at Conan's belly. 'If you spill all you know, we may be merciful and kill you swiftly.'
'Aye,' said Ulf, 'you would not like to be turned over to our master. He has never questioned a prisoner who did not talk in time, be he never so
hardy.'
Conan grinned with genuine delight. His internal debate had been a torment. This was something he could handle. 'You are Atzel's men, are you not?' he said.
'That is King Atzel to you, oaf,' said Ulf. He looked at Conan in puzzlement. 'What kind of outlander are you? You're too big for a Pict, for all your paint and strange manner of speech.''
'This is a Cimmerian,' growled the other. 'I have seen his like before, in many a cattle-raid. Be careful, they are dangerous, and do not be deceived just because he can speak almost like a man. Cimmerians are half-demon and half-wolf.' The man held his sword well extended, as if to keep the maximum of space between himself and Conan.
'I am happy to hear that my people have not lost their good reputation,' Conan said. 'Am I to understand that you two intend to hinder me on my way?'
'We intend to take you to our liege,' said U!f.
'Then,' Conan said, drawing his sword, 'let us see who shall walk from this place, and who shall feed the crows. Come, dogs, taste Cimmerian steel!'
With a howl the two slashed at Conan simultaneously. One swung high from the left, the other low from the right. Most men would have been stymied by the well-timed double attack. Conan ignored both blades and simply waded in. His sword flashed up and then down in a huge half-circle. It took Ulf beside the throat, shearing through collarbone, ribs, and beastbone, ripping from his flank and catching the other man across the waist, gutting him in its course past his hipbone, tearing free of his body to scratch the earth with its point. The men made strangling noises as they fell, their weapons flying across the little glade. They lay drumming their heels upon the sward for a few moments, then they stiffened in death.
Conan grunted a satisfied chuckle as he cleaned and then sheathed his sword. It was not the first time he had slain two men with a single blow, but there was always a certain contentment in carrying out a dangerous move well planned and perfectly executed.
He was satisfied in more ways than one. At some point during the brief, brutal fight, his internal arguement had been settled. He untied his horse and mounted. Before he rode from the glade, he addressed the corpses: 'You were no match for the great Gunderman I fought and slew a few weeks agone, but you helped me with a decision. For that, I thank you, and I will pray that the devils of Hell torment you a little more gently for that assistance.'
He wheeled his horse and trotted through the moonlight to the road.
When he reached the road he turned south, away from Cimmeria and toward the land of Aelfrith.
'A horseman coming from the north!' shouted the lookout who stood in the tower that stood on the north wall of Cragsfell.
Aelfrith came out of the long house, wrapping her robe around her against the chill of early morning. Her face was grim. 'Is it some parlayer from Atzel?' she demanded.
'No, lady,' said the watchman. 'I think it is the foreigner come back.'
In spite of her circumstances, Aelfrith almost smiled. 'Open the gate, then.'
Conan rode through the gate and great was his relief when he saw Aelfrith still safe and unharmed. 'I rejoice to see you, Aelfrith,' Conan said. 'I had not expected to. It seems that I have arrived in time. You must take care. I spied upon Atzel last night. He has brought up a pack of Zamoran woman-stealers to bring you to him. The old degenerate is not brave enough to try you in battle, but must hire these slavers to deliver you. I passed them on the road and they look competent.' He dis
mounted and handed his reins to a boy. 'Double your guards. I have reconsidered. I am still bound by my oath, but I cannot let this befall one who has behaved so fairly toward me. I have a few days to devote to other matters before I must be on my way. Perhaps we may settle things here in that time.' He was alarmed by the paleness and haggardness of her appearance. Something had put years upon her face.
'I am pleased that you have reconsidered, Conan,' said Aelfrith. 'But you are already too late. The Zamorans have already struck. It was not me
that Atzel sent them after. It was my daughter. They have taken my little Aelfgifa!'
V
The King Bull
Conan sat in Aelfrith's hall, absently stroking the edge of his blade with a barber's fine whetstone. It was already keen, but he wanted it sharper.
Around him sat Aelfrith's senior warriors, and they waited in respectful silence for their instructions. Aelfrith had told them to follow the Cimmerian's lead, and they were ready to obey their chieftainess. Men of the north did not follow blindly, but these could see that the Cimmerian was no common warrior.
For the moment Conan was preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Primarily, he cursed himself for not following his first instinct and taking up Aelfrith's cause as soon as it was offered. He might have blamed Hathor-Ka's baleful sorcery, or the Khitan's game-playing gods, but Conan was not accustomed to blaming others for his actions. He held himself responsible. Had he followed the dictates of his heart, there would be five Zamorans lying dead in the courtyard now instead of a terrified child out there somewhere.
As he brooded, his rage grew. The Cimmerian's code of ethics was rough by civilised standards, but it was uncompromising and it was fair, by his lights. A man who faced his enemies in fair fight, be he never so evil, deserved to be slain in fair fight. One who brutalized or exploited women, or the old or the weak, was contemptible. For those who made war upon children was reserved Conan's deadliest hate. His Cimmerian kin fought their enemies with incredible ferocity, but never would they slay children, or women or those too old to raise a weapon in defence. They took no slaves and held effeminate a man who would order others to do work too dirty for his own hands. Conan would kill Atzel, and save Aelfgifa if the child still lived. If this stole too much of his time, and brought down upon him the vengeance of Crom, then so be it.
The Conan Chronology Page 177
