The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  "Tell me what I am accused of and I will decide whether or not to go with you."

  "I tire of this game, dog! In your belt, wrapped in cloth, is a bracelet you have stolen. The jeweled bracelet of the king's daughter, whom you foully murdered last night. What manner of devil are you, barbarian dog, to hew her body so cruelly? Were I allowed, I would see justice meted out on your body now!"

  Conan was shocked. He should have known that Hassem's price was too low. The worthless Zamoran slime had turned him in to the guard, perhaps out of malice, or perhaps to claim a reward. It mattered little now what the reason was. The word of a traveling Cimmerian would not be believed. He had no choice but to disable the captain and flee the city.

  Taking advantage of the Cimmerian's momentary surprise, Salvorus grabbed Conan's thickly muscled right wrist in a grip like a vise.

  Conan grunted and tried to shake him off, but such was Salvorus's strength that the bone could not withstand the strain and snapped with an ugly popping sound.

  Now enraged, Conan lifted his empty wine flagon with his left hand and bludgeoned Salvorus with it. The heavy bottle struck the officer square on the face, breaking his nose. Blood sprayed like a geyser from both of his nostrils, and he let go of his grip on the Cimmerian's wrist.

  Swinging the bottle like a club, Conan struck the officer again on the side of the head. The glass shattered, showering the floor with shards.

  Blood poured down the side of Sarvorus's head from an ugly gash.

  Salvorus's face was a mask of blood and fury. Roaring and cursing, he shook his head to clear it and swung his deadly sword at Conan's neck.

  Ducking the sweep, the Cimmerian rolled off the bench, cutting himself on the broken glass, and drew his broadsword with his good arm. He parried Salvorus's next cut, leaped to his feet, and hacked brutally at the wounded man's exposed head. Salvorus's parry was late, slowed a little by the blows he had received. The flat of Conan's blade struck him again, full on the head, and he fell to the floor with a heavy thud, senseless.

  Conan hurdled over the body and rushed for the stairs. The guards, panicked by the sight of the onrushing juggernaut, practically fell over themselves to clear a path. Conan kicked them out of the way as he bounded down the stairs. The tavern door had been knocked off its hinges, no doubt by Salvorus and his patrol. Dashing past the startled revelers, the Cimmerian burst out into the alley, running almost headlong into Yvanna. Even in his astonishment at meeting her, Conan could not help but run his eyes up and down her voluptuous dancer's body.

  The moonlight of the alley silhouetted Yvanna's slender waist and full-breasted figure. Lips like red wine were parted in surprise, and hair the color of sunlit gold cascaded over her slender shoulders. She wore a revealing silken shift that left little to the imagination. At her waist, a sheathed stiletto hung from her thin belt. Another was visible, tucked into one of her high boots.

  "Crom! Where have you been, girl? I have waited for hours!"

  Yvanna's eyes went wide as she took in Conan's disheveled appearance.

  He was spattered with blood from Salvorus's wounds, and slivers of glass protruded from still-oozing wounds in his arms and face. His sword was stained red; he held it tightly in his left hand. His broken right wrist had begun to swell. An ugly purple bruise was forming, and the hand protruded at a unnatural angle. Where a lesser man would have fallen prone in agony, Conan ignored these injuries.

  "Conan your wrist! What happened to it? Who were you fighting with?"

  "I broke it in a scuffle with some fool of a captain who accused me of a foul deed I had nothing to do with. I tried to tell him that it must have been Hassem who slew the king's daughter and looted her corpse.

  But the captain, Salvorus, would not listen to me and tried to take me by force. I must leave this alley at once, before his lackeys summon help. If I read the signs right, the whole city guard will soon be tracking me down like dogs on a hunt!"

  "But your wrist! How will you manage to escape? Let me hide you until it heals. I know of a place that the guards will never search. I will bring a healer to tend to the break. By then, they will not be looking so hard for you, and you can slip out unnoticed."

  He shook his head. "No, my features mark me. Cimmerians are a rare sight in this city, and I would be seen right away. No disguise could change my height and build. I must find that snake, Hassem, beat the truth out of his worthless skin, and bring him to the guard myself.

  Otherwise, I will have no peace. Besides, men of my race do not hide from trouble. And I would repay Hassem for this!"

  He lifted his injured wrist, his eyes smoldering with fury. After looking up and down the alley, he reached down and yanked the filthy cloak off a beggar who lay slumbering facedown a few feet away from the wide-open tavern doorway. He wrapped the garment around his shoulders, ignoring the stale odor of vomit rising from it.

  "This will do for now. We will leave the alley together, like wine-addled lovers on our way to a tryst."

  She sniffed the ragged cloak doubtfully and wrinkled her nose. "At least no one will want to get close to you."

  He put his left arm around her, and the two went down the alley at a rapid pace. They moved carefully through the labyrinth of side streets, winding their way' toward Pirogia's west wall, were Yvanna lived. As they walked, Conan reflected on his predicament. He should have suspected that his luck at the dicing table would turn sour. However, he was not one to wallow in self-pity. He simply adapted to the situation, his energy dedicated to working out a solution to the problems that faced him. Apparently his good fortune had not entirely deserted him; no guards accosted them and they returned safely to her lodging.

  Yvanna lived in a large, mud-brick building that had a crude but sturdy roof of pitch-smeared wood. The structure had been divided into several sections, which housed other tenants. She made sure that the doorway was clear, then signaled to Conan. They slipped inside unnoticed.

  Yvanna's lodging consisted of two small rooms, with only a few simple wooden furnishings. The place was neatly kept and in good repair.

  Yvanna managed to make a good living, dancing at the Inn of the Golden Lion. She enjoyed her work, and was gratified that her patrons always enjoyed it, too. When Conan had shown up several days ago, his gaze had drawn her. He was unlike most of the men she danced for; younger, but so serious, and so naive in some ways. As she had finished her dance, she could tell that her lithe body and suggestive motions had fired his passions. He had watched her quietly and intently, not jeering and laughing like so many of the others did.

  Later, she met with him in the common room of the Golden Lion, wanting to know more about this quiet giant. After their first bottle of wine, they decided to spend an evening enjoying the city's nightlife together. As the night wore on, they ended up at Yvanna's. She marveled at his animal vitality and passion. No man had ever attracted or satisfied her as much as this strange Cimmerian did.

  Now she picked the shards out of his skin while he related the evening's events to her. Cleaning the blood from his wounds, she frowned at the nasty lump of swollen, bruised flesh that marked his broken wrist. Unless she brought a healer, he might never regain use of his hand. Again, she was impressed by his stoic attitude toward what must be excruciating pain. Not once had he even winced. Eventually he finished his recounting of the tale and fell silent, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  When she was done, he reached for his sword and lay down on the pile of deep furs that served as her bed. He fell into a light doze, with his left hand still resting on his sword's worn hilt. She was aware of how shallow his sleep was. Moving with a dancer's quiet grace to avoid awakening him, Yvanna slipped out to find the healer.

  Two

  Brythunian Blood

  "Idiot!"

  At the palace, in a gaudy and ornate antechamber, a red-faced General Valtresca stood before a downcast Captain Salvorus. The general of the Brythunian army was only a little shorter than Salvorus, but much smaller of buil
d. His beard, moustache, and thinning blond hair were shot through with streaks of gray and white. Although his hair gave him the look of a man in his fifties, his handsome face showed few signs of age.

  The general wore a perfectly fitted steel breastplate, embossed with elaborate designs. Covering his upper arms were gussets of steel rings, attached to the breastplate. Fastened to these was a calf-length cape of deep red wool. Expertly crafted mail gauntlets with embossed steel plating fit snugly over his hands and lower arms. Iron-studded boots of thick leather covered his feet and rose to just beneath his knees.

  Close-fitting breeches of thick but supple reddish-black leather encased his sinewy legs. Hanging from his hip was a long, thin sword with an elaborately engraved hilt. The scabbard was cunningly inlaid with gold and silver leaf. The general cut an impressive and authoritative figure, and he was all too aware of it. His bearing and manner were at once brusque, condescending, and pompous.

  At present, Salvorus did not look nearly as impressive as the general.

  His battered face was a mass of bruises and contusions. A gash below his temple, not yet dressed, still gleamed wetly with blood, which matted his black hair. He stood rigidly upright, taking the abuse from the general quietly. However, a sweat-drenched brow belied his cool posture; he was clearly nervous.

  Valtresca continued his tirade, so upset that veins stood out on his temples. "Your clumsiness has made the guard a laughingstock in this city! You had the savage in your grip, and you carelessly let him slip through. If you had used your head instead of your sword-arm, the defiler of Eldran's beloved daughter would now be shackled in the dungeons, listening to the sounds of the headsman's grinding-wheel as he sharpened his ax. Instead, you return empty-handed, with a pitiful excuse. You had six men with you. Surely no one man could have overpowered all of you. Especially if your claim of breaking his wrist is true. This is too rich! A one-armed barbarian escapes from a half-dozen trained guardsmen led by Salvorus, hero of the border wars!"

  Salvorus had been listening to the general's rebuke for over a quarter of an hour, and his patience was beginning to wear thin. "General, meaning no disrespect, they were hardly trained guardsmen. According to witnesses, the yellow-bellied scum were trampling one another to clear a path for the escaping Cimmerian. I have seen alley rats with more guts than these city guards. They are competent enough to break up a street brawl, and to crack the heads of disorderly drunkards, but they have not the courage or the skill to face a foe such as this Cimmerian.

  If I had brought some of my lads, seasoned in battle at the Nemedian border, I assure you that your dungeons would have a new occupant tonight. By Mitra, I have never seen his equal in strength and speed!

  According to the serving wench, he had even consumed two flagons of wine. As you have told me, General, a successful commander must never underestimate his foe."

  "A pity you did not consider this before you approached him," said Valtresca, interrupting. "I trust you will not repeat this mistake.

  Salvorus, I was a good friend of your father's, Mitra protect his soul.

  When I heard of your deeds in the border wars, I had you promoted to a position of no little importance, and moved to this city. Now, in your first month at your new post, you already disappoint me. Out of respect for your father, I give you a second chance. Find the barbarian. We can be certain of his guilt; his reaction to your accusations leaves no doubt of it. Go and bring him back, alive or dead. The king will take some consolation that the heathen responsible for this monstrous deed has been brought to justice. Send for your bordermen, if it will help.

  Use whatever means you must to see that he does not escape unpunished."

  "At once, General!" Salvorus saluted, whirled about, and left quickly.

  He was relieved to be out of the chamber, out of the reach of Valtresca's stinging invective. There was truth to the saying that the general's tongue could wound a man more deeply than his sword.

  As the captain made his way through the stone hallways of the palace, he considered this latest turn of events. Just over a month ago, he had successfully crushed an attempted invasion by a Nemedian baron who had wished to lay claim to a large parcel of Brythunian land, flanked by the great fork in the Yellow River. At the time, Salvorus had been only a lieutenant. His captain was killed in the first attack by the Nemedians, leaving him in charge of the border guard of five hundred men. Although outnumbered three to one, Salvorus had held the banks of the river for over a week, until reinforcements had finally arrived. He had slain more than two score Nemedians with his own sword, while taking few wounds himself.

  The bordermen had rallied around him, drawing courage from his deeds.

  During the battle, he had been too preoccupied with issues of survival and tactics to consider what would happen to him afterward. Later, when the monarch of Nemedia had made the unlikely claim that he had had nothing to do with the raid, and had sent a caravan laden with gifts of appeasement, Salvorus had become something of a hero. The king had thanked him personally and given a banquet in his honor.

  When Valtresca had offered him the coveted position as captain of the city guard, he had readily accepted. Now he was beginning to regret that hasty decision. His strongest abilities, he believed, were in battle, and he had thrived on the dangers and challenges that the border warfare had provided every day. Here in the city, the dangers were of a different sort, the "battles" requiring tactics different from those he was accustomed to. True, the rewards were greater and the risk somewhat lessened, but he was not yet certain that the post suited him. A man with more skill at politics and less at swordplay would probably do better.

  However, Salvorus was not ready to give up. Valtresca had gotten his own start in the same border garrison as he, and surely had faced the same difficulties. Salvorus would prove that he was capable. He believed that someday he would replace Valtresca as general of the Brythunian army. To be sure, it was a small army in comparison with those of great kingdoms such as Aquilonia, Ophir, or Shem. However, the title of Brythunian General carried with it a meaning of honor and tradition dating back for centuries.

  Salvorus's wounds could be tended to later. He had already sent as many patrols as could be summoned to monitor all exits from the city. His lieutenants would presently be assembling in the guardhouse. He had formed a plan to snare the Cimmerian, and he would not rest until it was put into action. Due to his natural fighting ability, strength, and immense size, Salvorus had never before been beaten in hand-to-hand combat. Rubbing gently at the bridge of his blood-encrusted broken nose, he realized that this Conan might prove to be his most challenging conquest.

  In the chamber Salvorus had just come from, Valtresca paced, head bent slightly as if he were deep in thought. He rubbed occasionally at his beard. After a while, he stopped pacing and straightened up, then moved to a polished oak table that sat in one corner of the room. Atop the table was a small gong. He picked up a mallet that lay alongside it and struck the gong forcefully.

  Minutes later there was a gentle, insistent knock at the door. "'Tis not locked. Enter!" Valtresca said impatiently.

  The door opened quietly, and a fair-skinned, thin-boned old man in blue silk robes stepped in. He bowed slightly, then pulled the door shut behind him. Valtresca spoke to him in a hushed voice. "We may have a problem, Lamici. I gave you strict instructions about disposing of the body. How did the princess's trinket wind up in the hands of this westerner?"

  "I handled the matter with utmost secrecy and caution, I assure you,"

  the chief eunuch replied in his soft, singsong voice. "Surely you do not suspect me of despoiling the body."

  "No, but someone did. The necklace and bracelets were given to the princess when she was young, and as she grew, they were too small to be taken off. Such is the custom with women of Brythunian nobility. To remove them, the thief would have had to hack off the hands and the head. No wonder the body was found in such a state! If only I had been in the city yesterday
, in time to quiet this matter before the whole guard had been alerted. After the king was told, a reward was even offered for finding or capturing the culprit."

  "I sent word to you immediately when I heard that the body had been discovered by the guard. Surprising that the message reached you so quickly."

  Valtresca cursed. "Not quickly enough. Fortunately, the gullible Salvorus believes the barbarian is responsible. There is only one person who could know otherwise. According to Salvorus, a Zamoran named Hassem told him who had the bracelet, and where it could be found. Like a dog eager to please its master, our loyal captain went to fetch it.

  If only he had slain the Cimmerian!"

  "Ah, General. I have heard of Hassem. He is a Zamoran fence, a sewer rat, with no scruples. While such men are useful, they cannot be trusted. Has he collected his reward yet for leading the guard to the criminal? As I recall, the price for revealing the rogue's whereabouts was set at two hundred gold crowns. Surely Hassem will want the gold.

  Perhaps you should advise Salvorus to send for him, so that we may pay him"

  "Of course! Leave the matter to me, eunuch. A fence, eh? Hassem will get much more of a reward than he counted on. I would know what evidence he has of this Cimmerian's guilt."

  "Hmmm I am willing to wager he knows much more than he told the captain. Perhaps with the proper inducements, he can be made to tell you."

  Valtresca's face hardened. His eyes shone like cold and soulless sapphires. He smiled cruelly and suggestively flexed his mailed glove.

  "If he knows anything, he will tell me. Leave me now. Keep your eyes and ears open for any further news. I must know all that is said to the king." His voice lowered until it was almost a whisper. "Does Azora know of this?"

  The old eunuch's gaze turned down to the floor. "I have not informed her personally, nor have I spoken to her since after the ritual two nights ago. As you are aware, she has an uncanny ability to know much that is not said. If it concerned her, she would no doubt have summoned me."