As Dake emerged from the conveyance, Kreg hurried to pull forth the thick plank that normally rode under the vehicle's belly. He unfolded a set of legs attached to the plank and latched them, so that a narrow platform was created against the backdrop of the wagon's starboard side.
The freakmaster mounted the platform and turned to face the curious. He began his spiel.
"Friends, the Master of Oddities has arrived, bringing for your entertainment all manner of wonders!" Dake waved his arms, flinging them wide, then drawing his hands back in slowly, practiced grand gestures to match his booming voice.
"For a few coppers on this very evening, you can gaze upon sights never seen before by normal men! You can behold with your own eyes the green, human-flesh-eating dwarf from the jungles of far Zembabwi! Or feast your gaze upon Tro, the catwoman! Or Penz, the man whose mother was a she-wolf-and whose father a rogue! Too, you can see Sab, the man with four arms! And from the edge of the world, past distant Khitai, I have brought you giants!"
Dake glanced at the crowd, which increased in size even as he smiled down upon them. "Friends, one of my giants is a woman of great beauty and such proportions as to make a blind man stare." He winked at the audience and was rewarded by the laughter of several men, who understood that there would be one show for all to see-and another for men willing to pay extra.
"And aside from all these wonders, unmatched in the civilized world, I bring also Conan the Cimmerian, a barbarian fighter from the frozen north, undefeated as a wrestler or boxer in over a hundred battles! Conan invites all comers, and if there is one among you who would test his mettle, he offers two gold solons to any who can best him!"
That woke them even more, Dake saw. Most men had seen naked women, and even the occasional freak of nature, but the call of a wager wafted over the crowd like the scent of a well-prepared meal. There was always some fool long on might and short of wit who would fight anybody-or anything-for money. Dake had seen men step into a roped-off ring to challenge muzzled and declawed bears or great apes, for no reason other than the thrill of battle. The local champion would certainly be produced for the call of gold.
As more and more of the villagers turned out to hear Dake, he warmed further to his task, already thinking of the night's show. A ring of torches in the darkness would give enough illumination so that the freaks could be viewed, and it would be Kreg's job to see that everyone around the arena had paid before Dake would allow the show to be gin. He would do a few illusions, perhaps summoning the demon, or the fire-that-did-not-burn, maybe even the rain of toads. Then the livestock would be brought out, one at a time, and Dake would spin a fantasy about each of them. Catwomen or wolfmen were amazing by themselves of course, but by the time Dake finished creating a past for them out of whole cloth, they would be more so.
Once the general audience had had its fill, the village women would be sent away for the viewing of Tro and Teyle, should Dake decide to show them without clothing. The wagon would serve for any willing to pay the steep price asked to lie with either the catwoman or the giantess. Probably none here could afford them, but one never could be certain unless one asked. There would be many in Shadizar who would have the means.
The same enclosed ring could be used to stage the fighting match between Conan and the local challenger. That would be last, of course, because a good fight was hard to top. Then in the morning, perhaps some rope work by Penz, or maybe a target contest with Vilken. The little ogre contended that he was expert with his weapon; 'twas best to find out if it were true before reaching larger audiences.
Yes, this would be a profitable stop, if Dake were any judge of such things, and certainly he was.
"Miracles, friends! Things beyond your imagination! Tonight and tonight only! All will want to see, for to miss it will be the regret of a lifetime!"
Within the wagon, Conan listened to Dake's deep voice.
"He speaks lies," the Cimmerian said.
"Of course he does."
Conan looked at Penz and heard the scorn in the wolfman's voice.
"My mother was no more wolf than his. She was the daughter of a nobleman in Argos. She was ravished by her own brother, thus making my father also my uncle. He was a rogue, true enough, but my condition has aught to do with true wolves."
Tro spoke, something she had seldom done in Conan's presence. "Aye, we are all of us freaks, but nothing unnatural. We are nature's errors, sports."
Teyle said, "Nay, my ancestors were magically created. But 'twas so long ago that none of us living has had any experience of it."
Sab said, "Mayhaps, but I have seen those of your size born of women smaller than I and fathered by normalsized men. While all life might be said to be magic, you cannot fly as a bird or swim under the sea or descend into the pits of Gehenna as would a demon."
Teyle nodded in agreement.
Vilken laughed. "No, but could my people catch her, she could descend into the great cooking pit and become what the gods intended-food for the Vargs!"
At that, Oren reached over and clouted Vilken. The boy's hand was open and the blow only connected with the Varg's shoulder, but it was enough to tumble the green dwarf from the bolted-to-the floor stool upon which he sat and send him sprawling. Instantly Vilken sprang to his feet and lunged for his spear.
Conan was faster, and he snatched the weapon away. "Hold!" he said.
"I will kill this meat animal!"
"You will sit down or regret that you did not."
Conan could see the rage boiling in the little man, and a quick glance at the giant boy showed that his fists were clenched and that his rage was a match for Vilken's.
"Let the little tree frog try it!" Oren said. "I will make him eat that sharp stick he carries!"
"You will also sit," Conan said. His voice was low, but stern. "Or I will spank you like you deserve."
"I am as large as you!"
"And your size means nothing. Sit."
The boy's anger bubbled, and Conan saw that he was gathering to spring, either at Vilken or at Conan himself. The Cimmerian shifted his weight slightly and prepared to stop Oren's rush-
"Do as Conan says," Teyle said.
"But-but sister, you heard this green animal insult us!"
"Another time and place, Vilken would be a threat. Here and now, it is Dake who is the enemy of all of us. Would you spend your life in this wagon? Forced to lie with your sisters to beget twisted children who will also be raised as slaves?"
Oren's anger left him as air leaves a dying man, and he sat back upon the edge of the bed once again.
Teyle looked at Vilken. "And you, Varg? Do you plan to end your days capering for the small men at the orders of one such as Dake?"
Vilken also deflated somewhat. He shook his head. "My father will come."
"Perhaps. In the meantime, who are your allies?"
Vilken sighed. After what seemed a long moment, he returned to his seat.
Conan was impressed by Teyle's speech. That he could have defeated the giant boy and Varg, alone or together, he doubted not, but the giant woman had calmed them without lifting any more than her voice. The power of words had called forth their doubts and stolen their rage. He saw her look at him, and he nodded once, a short motion, to acknowledge her action. Conan was always willing to give another credit where it was due, especially when the deed was done in a manner in which he himself would not have behaved.
Teyle smiled at him, a thin smile but there, and returned his nod.
Well. The immediate problem was over, but what would the remainder of the day bring?
Conan found out the answer to his question as the hours wore down. Dake put the troop to work, clearing a large circle of dirt a few minutes' walk from the center of the village, surrounding it with tall torches staked into the ground. Kreg kept the curious locals away.
As the shadows of night began to paint the land, the arena was finished and the enthralled group was ordered to the river to bathe. Dake's offhand command to
strip did not bother Conan, but he could see that Tro and Teyle were embarrassed by their nudity. Neither had reason to be, for while Tro was covered by a fine layer of furlike hair and Teyle was of huge stature, both were built as attractively as any woman Conan had ever known, firm of hip and thigh, and nary a wrinkle or sag anywhere. He was a young man, and of course he looked at the women. It was fortunate that the water was so cold, for it kept his attraction and interest from becoming apparent.
Clean and somewhat refreshed, the group dressed and returned to the wagon. They dined on cold meat and fruit-some kind of apple, Conan reckoned-and drank a mild, pale wine that Kreg had procured from the villagers.
Conan refrained from filling his belly, eating only small amounts and sipping lightly at the wine. A full belly detracted from a man's fighting prowess, he had learned, and too much wine sometimes produced a reckless bravery but never added more skill.
From without the wagon the murmur of the gathering villagers reached them. Quite a large crowd, Conan judged from the sounds.
After a time Dake began to expound from his platform. He spoke of far places, incredible tribes, and man and animal perversions. His voice rose and fell, now booming, now hushed, and the crowd was mostly silent, laughing at the occasional jest.
"-and from the heavens, behold!"
The villagers yelled and laughed and made a great commotion.
Small objects plopped against the canvas roof, causing the material to sag and sounding like clumps of mud when they struck.
"I thought this was an illusion," Conan said.
"An illusion with some substance," Penz said. "They look and feel real but do not last for more than a few moments before disappearing."
Dake's voice boomed again. "Like toads not? Observe! As I make them come, I send them away!"
More startled chatter from the crowd.
Kreg stuck his head into the wagon. "You are first tonight, Tro. Then Penz, Sab, Conan, Vilken, and the giants. Do not be tardy!"
As Conan was paying attention to Kreg, he did not hear some of what Dake said, but the ending was: "-and now, friends, I give you the beautiful and incredible Tro, the woman who is also a cat!"
Tro moved through the curtained doorway, and there were yet more gasps and exclamations from the audience.
Each went in their turn-Penz, Sab, and then Conan. Were he not being held in magical thrall, Conan would have laughed at the lies pouring forth from the mage's mouth. How he, Conan, had been undefeated in a hundred fights against men, beasts, and even demons. True, the Cimmerian had encountered all of those at one time or another. Some he had fought with sword, some with his bare hands, and he had won more than his share of such encounters, but Dake's stories were beyond the accomplishments of any but a god. The man made it sound as if Conan could defeat an army with the one hand while drinking a tankard of ale with the other, never raising a hair or a bead of sweat.
Vilken was produced with a similar story, and he flashed his pointed teeth as if it were all true and he was enjoying the retelling of it immensely.
Finally the three giants were brought forth, and they apparently impressed the crowd most of all, especially Teyle. Conan saw a number of men looking wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the giant woman, and he did not have to be particularly adept to understand their thoughts.
In due course the women of the village drifted away, along with a number of the men, some of whom did not seem overly willing to leave but whose wives, with tugs or shoves, prodded them to do so. When the crowd had thinned to an audience of men only and Kreg had collected more coins from each, Dake ordered Tro and then Teyle to remove their clothing and parade around naked in front of the leering assemblage.
Conan was offended greatly by this. Seeing the two uncovered while bathing was one thing; after all, all of them were slaves and he also had been forced to strip. Pandering to the lusts of these idiot villagers in such a manner, for money, angered the Cimmerian. It was not as if the catwoman and the giantess were trulls who did it willingly. They were unable to resist, and it was Dake whose purse was fattened.
After hearing the ribald comments for what he apparently deemed long enough, Dake had the women dress and stand aside.
"Now, we have amused ourselves. Is there no man among you who will dare to face the unbeaten barbarian?" He gestured at Conan, whose glower was not faked in the least.
The men laughed and mumbled, and a name reached Conan's ears: Deri.
The crowd parted, and a man lumbered into view.
Big he was, larger even than Conan, and shaggy looking. His nose had been broken at least once and skewed to one side, and there were scars crisscrossing his chin and one cheek. Part of an earlobe was missing. He wore a leather vest, with no sleeves or shirt under it, and thick hair sprouted all over the visible parts of him. His beard and hair, both long, were a greasy brown, and the hair on his chest was nearly as dense as Penz's. Beneath a large belly was a pair of ragged wool pants tied with a cloth sash. Deri's feet were bare and nearly black with dirt, and sprouted more hair so that they looked almost like fuzzy boots, save where they were relieved by the tips of his bare toes. The toenails were long and ragged and clogged with dirt.
From the mass of his shoulders and arms, Conan guessed that Deri had done more than a bit of heavy lifting. There was a layer of fat over them, but plenty of muscle under that.
When he smiled, Deri revealed a gap where his two upper front teeth should have been.
"Aye, I dare your champion. 'E looks too pretty to be a fighter! 'E looks more like a woman!"
The villagers erupted into laughter at this lame joke.
"Are you a wrestler or a boxer, friend Deri?" Dake asked.
"Catch as catch can," Deri said. "No holds barred."
"Done!" Dake said. "Two gold solons to the winner." The freakmaster produced two coins from his belt and held them up between his thumb and forefinger. The torchlight glittered on the gold.
"Might as well give 'em to me now, I says." Deri turned and grinned at his companions. One slapped him on the back and others voiced agreement.
"We shall see," Dake said. "Perhaps some of you other worthy men would be willing to wager on the contest? So confident am I of my man that I am willing to offer, oh, say, two coins to one?"
That brought a surge of men toward Dake, waving all manner of coinage. Conan saw much copper, less silver, but even a few small bits of gold flashing in the firelight.
"Easy, friends, easy. My man Kreg shall accept your wagers. Select one from among you to hold all monies."
The serious business of betting continued for some time. During this period Dake pulled Conan aside. As the Cimmerian stripped to his loin cover, Dake said, "Do not defeat him too quickly. Allow him to throw you a time or two and we shall offer three-to-one odds and collect the remainder of their money."
Conan studied Deri as the challenger shucked his clothing. "He is not an inconsiderable opponent," the Cimmerian offered dryly.
"No matter."
"It is not you who are facing him."
"I have every confidence in you, Conan." Dake slapped one of Conan's solid and hard shoulders. "You see, Deri is fighting for money. If he loses, he shall be but as poor as he was before. But if you lose, I shall force you to stand still while I allow Kreg to use you for sword practice."
FIFTEEN
Balor was a man not at all averse to being a walking example of some of the more extreme effects of his product. At the moment the fat man lay semiconscious in the rear of the wagon, draped in what would seem a most uncomfortable manner amid the wine casks. He showed no apparent unease, however, and the only sign that he was awake took place whenever the wagon would hit a particularly deep rut or bump, jolting it. At such occurrences, Balor would usually yell, in a voice that should certainly scare small children and dogs, "Curse all the daughters of Ophir, and all of their mothers too!"
Fosull, feeling no pain or any sensations whatsoever save a warm muzziness, grinned from within the c
over of his hood and shook his head when Balor once again uttered his favorite imprecation. The winejack must have had some unpleasant experiences with the women of Ophir, wherever that was.
The Varg was content to drive the wagon. They had passed an inn some hours back, but slowed only a little. A stream that looped close to the road had provided the oxen with water to slake their thirst and a bit of fresh mud to cover the patches of green that had begun to peek from under the dried dirt on Fosull's hands and face. Balor, drunk as a fly in a sun-rotted mango, had never noticed the stop.
Fosull had no idea how far ahead the village of Elika might be. He had managed to ascertain that this was a small settlement a short trek from the main road before Balor had surrendered to the gods of wine.
It did not really matter. The wagon tracks continued onward and Fosull would follow them until he caught the son-stealers. If they missed the turn to Elika, too bad. If Balor sobered in time, he could point the way; otherwise, the leader of the Vargs intended to keep to his goal.
As evening covered her face with shades of night, a damp wind began to blow, and in the breeze Fosull caught the scent of approaching rain.
Even as he sniffed the air, a faint flash of white lit the night behind them. Moments later a low grumble rolled over the moving wagon. Lightning and its slower brother thunder, Fosull knew. The storm followed them, and doubtless it would prove faster than the plodding oxen.
This was bad news. The oxen might be unhappy about the storm; Fosull was no herdsman to know about beasts of burden. Better they should be secured somewhere before the full brunt of the rain arrived. And while Vargs were hardly ants to be washed away by the odd storm, the mud with which he had only just daubed himself would certainly do so. He and the drunk Balor could always shelter under the wagon once the animals were tethered, but a cave or house, or even a thick growth of trees or bushes, would be welcome.
There was a method to gauge the distance of a storm, taught to Fosull by his grandfather. It involved counting, a skill at which no Varg was particularly adept, but Fosull could reach the number of fingers and toes that he had. When a bolt of lightning was seen, one started to count. Could one get all the way to the last toe, going slowly, the storm was at least ten minutes from arriving. Fosull had no idea of why this was true, but it worked more often than not. The reach to fewer toes or fingers meant that the rain would be closer. He would continue to look for shelter until he judged the storm to be ten minutes behind them, at which time he would secure the oxen and awaken Balor so that they might move under the wagon. Assuming he did not find better protection from the storm, of course.
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