The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  “Mayhap you shouldn’t have angered her, Cimmerian,” the shavenheaded hunter panted. “Mayhap you could apologize.” The man at the other end of the chest nodded weary agreement.

  “Crom!” Conan growled. “Is everyone in the camp worrying about whether I …” His words trailed off as one of the sentries galloped his horse up the hill. Unknowingly, easing his broadsword in its scabbard, he strode to where the man was dismounting before Jondra. The hunters left off their tasks to gather around.

  “Soldiers, my lady,” the sentry said, breathing heavily. “Cavalry. Two, perhaps three hundred of them, coming hard.”

  Jondra pounded a fist on a rounded thigh. Her salmon silk tunic and riding breeches were dusty and sweat-stained from her day’s labors.

  “Erlik take all soldiers,” she said tightly, then took a deep breath that made her heavy breasts stir beneath the taut silk of her tunic.

  “Very well. If they come, I’ll receive their commander. Arvaneus! See that any man who’s bandaged is out of sight. If the soldiers arrive before I return, be courteous, but tell them nothing. Nothing, understand me! Lyana! Attend me, girl!” Before she finished speaking she was pushing through the assembled hunters, not waiting for them to move from her path.

  The hawkfaced huntsman began shouting commands, and hunters and carters scattered in all directions, hastening to prepare the camp for visitors. Moving the wounded inside tents was the least of it, for most of them could walk without assistance, but Jondra’s industriousness had left bales and bundles, piles of cooking gear and stacks of spears scattered among the remaining tents till the camp seemed struck by a whirlwind.

  Ignoring the bustle behind him, Conan settled into a flat-footed crouch at the edge of the camp, his eyes intent on the direction from which the sentry had come. More than once his hand strayed unconsciously to the worn hilt of his ancient broadsword. He did not doubt that the sentry had seen Zamoran soldiers and not hillmen, but he had as little regard for one as for the other. Relations between the army and a thief were seldom easy.

  A ringing clatter of shod hooves on loose stone heralded the soldiers’

  approach well before the mounted column came into sight. In ranks of four, with well-aligned lance-points glittering in the afternoon sun, they wended their way along the small valleys between the hills. A banner led them, such as Zamoran generals were wont to have, of green silk fringed with gold, its surface embroidered in ornate gold script recounting victories. Conan snorted contemptuously at the sight of the honor standard. At that distance he could not read the script, but he could count the number of battles listed. Considering the number of true battles fought by Zamoran arms in the twenty years past, that banner gave honor to many a border skirmish and brawl with brigands.

  At the foot of the hill the column drew up, two files wheeling to face the camp, the other two turning their mounts the other way. The standard bearer and the general, mocked by the plume of scarlet horsehair on his golden helmet and the gilding of his mail, picked their way up the hill through the few stunted trees and scattered clumps of waisthigh scrub.

  At Arvaneus’ impatient signal two of the hunters ran forward, one to hold the general’s bridle, the other his stirrup, as he dismounted. He was a tall man of darkly handsome face, his upper lip adorned by thin mustaches. His arrogant eye ran over the camp, pausing at Conan for a raised brow of surprise and a sniff of dismissal before going on. The Cimmerian wondered idly if the man had ever actually had to use the jewel-hilted sword at his side.

  “Well,” the general said suddenly, “where is your mistress?”

  Arvaneus darted forward, his face set for effusive apologies, but Jondra’s voice brought him to a skidding halt. “Here I am, Zathanides.

  And what does Zamora’s most illustrious general do so far from the palaces of Shadizar?”

  She came before the general with a feline stride, and her garb brought gasps even from her hunters. Shimmering scarlet silk, belted with thickly woven gold and pearls, moulded every curve of breasts and belly and thighs, rounded and firm enough to make a eunuch’s mouth water.

  It was not the raiment that drew Conan’s attention, however. On her head rested a diadem of sapphires and black opals, with one great ruby larger than the last joint of a big man’s thumb lying above her brows.

  Between her generous breasts nestled that ruby’s twin, depending from a necklace likewise encrusted with brilliant azure sapphires and opals of deepest ebon. The Cimmerian’s gaze sought out Tamira. The young woman thief was demurely presenting to Zathanides a tray bearing a golden goblet and a crystal flagon of wine, with damp, folded cloths beside.

  She seemed unaware of the gems she had meant to steal.

  “You are as lovely as ever, Jondra,” the general said as he wiped his hands and tossed the cloths back onto the tray. “But that loveliness might have ended gracing some hillman’s but if I hadn’t found this fellow Eldran.”

  Jondra stiffened visibly. “Eldran?”

  “Yes. A Brythunian. Hunter, he said.” He took the goblet Tamira filled for him, gracing her with a momentary smile that touched only his lips.

  “I wouldn’t have believed his tale of a Zamoran noblewoman in this Mitra-forsaken place if it had not been for his description. A woman as tall as most men, ravingly beautiful of face and figure, a fair shot with a bow. And your gray eyes, of course. I knew then it could be none but you.” He tilted back his head to drink.

  “He dared describe me so? A fair shot?” She hissed the words, but it had been “ravingly beautiful” that made her face color, and the mention of her eyes that had clenched her fists. “I hope you have this Eldran well chained. And his followers. I … I have reason to believe they are brigands.”

  Conan grinned openly. She was not a woman to take kindly to being bested.

  “I fear not,” Zathanides said, tossing the empty goblet back to Tamira.

  “He seemed what he called himself, and he was alone, so I sent him on his way. In any case, you should be thankful to him for saving your life, Jondra. The hillmen are giving trouble, and this is no place for one of your little jaunts. I’ll send a few men with you to see that you get back to Shadizar safely.”

  “I am no child to be commanded,” Jondra said hotly.

  The general’s heavy-lidded eyes caressed her form, and his reply cams slowly. “You are certainly no child, Jondra. No, indeed. But go you must.”

  Jondra’s eyes flickered to Conan. Abruptly her posture softened, and her voice became languorous. “No, I am not a child, Zathanides. Perhaps we can discuss my future plans. In the privacy of my tent?”

  Startlement passed over Zathanides’ face to be replaced by pleasure.

  “Certainly,” he said with an unctuous smile. “Let us … discuss your future.”

  Arvaneus’ swarthy face was a blend of despair and rage as he watched the pair disappear into the scarlet tent. Conan merely scooped up a handful of rocks and began tossing them down the hill one by one.

  Telades squatted next to him.

  “More trouble, Cimmerian,” the shavenheaded man said, “and I begin to wonder if you are worth it.”

  “What have I to do with anything?” Conan asked coldly.

  “She does this because of you, you fool northlander.”

  “She makes her choice.” He would not admit even to himself that this flirting with Zathanides sat ill with him. “She’s not the first woman to choose a man for wealth and titles.”

  “But she is no ordinary woman. I have served her since she was a child, and I tell you that you were the first man to come to her bed.”

  “I know,” Conan said through gritted teeth. He was unused to women casting him aside; he liked neither the fact of it nor the discussing of it.

  A woman’s scream came from the tent, and the Cimmerian threw another stone. The tightness of his jaw eased, and a slight smile touched his lips. Arvaneus took a single step toward the scarlet pavilion, then froze in indecision. From where she knelt b
y the tent flap, Tamira cast an agonized glance at Conan. All the rest of the camp seemed stunned to immobility. Another shriek rent the air.

  Telades leaped to his feet, but Conan caught the hunter’s arm. “I will see if she requires aid,” he said calmly, tossing aside his handful of stones. Despite his tone the Cimmerian’s first steps were quick, and by the time he reached the tent he was running.

  As he ducked through the tent-flap, the story was plain. Jondra struggled among the cushions, her scarlet robe rucked up above her rounded hips, long legs kicking in the air, while Zathanides lay half atop her fumbling with his breeches and raining kisses on her face. Her small fists pounded futilely at his back and sides.

  With a snarl Conan grasped the man by the neck of his gilded mail shirt and the seat of his breeches, lifting him straight into the air.

  Zathanides gave a shout, then began cursing and struggling, clawing at his sword, but the huge Cimmerian easily carried him to the entrance and threw him from the tent to land like a sack.

  Conan took a bare instant to assure himself that Jondra was unharmed.

  Her jewelry was discarded on the cushions, and her robe was torn to expose one smooth shoulder, but she seemed more angry than hurt as she scrambled to her feet, pushing her silk down over her sleek nudity.

  Then he followed Zathanides outside. The general had risen to one knee, his mouth twisted with rage, and his sword came out as Conan appeared.

  The Cimmerian’s foot lashed out. The jeweled sword went flying; Zathanides yelped and clutched his wrist. The shout of outraged pain faded as Conan’s blade point touched the general’s throat.

  “Stop!” Jondra cried. “Conan, put up your sword!”

  Conan lowered his steel slowly, though he did not sheath it. It had been she who was assaulted, and by his thinking Zathanides’ life was hers to dispose of as she saw fit, or even to spare. But he would not disarm himself until the man was dead or gone.

  “I’ll have your head, barbarian,” Zathanides snarled as he got painfully to his feet. “You’ll discover the penalty for attacking a Lord of Zamora.”

  “Then you will discover the penalty for … for manhandling a Lady of Zamora,” Jondra said coldly. “Tread warily, Zathanides, for your head and Conan’s will share the same fate, and the choice is yours.”

  Zathanides’ dark eyes bulged, and spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth. “Make what charges you will, you halfbreed Brythunian trull.

  Do you think there is anyone in Zamora who has not heard the stories of you? That you bed a man before you take him in service as a hunter? Who will believe that one such as I would touch such a slut, such a piece of-“

  He cut off and took a step back as Conan’s sword lifted again, but Jondra grabbed the Cimmerian’s massive arm, though both her hands could not come near encircling it. “Hold, Conan,” she said unsteadily. “Make your choice, Zathanides.”

  The dark-faced general scrubbed at the spittle on his chin with the back of his hand, then nodded jerkily. “‘Tis you who has made a choice, Jondra. Keep your savage lover. Enter the mountains if you will, and find a hillman.” Stamping to where his jewel-hilted blade lay, he snatched it from the ground and slammed it home in the sheath at his side. “For all I care, you can go straight to Zandru’s Ninth Hell!”

  Satisfaction glimmered beneath Conan’s anger as he watched the general’s stiff-backed march to his horse. Zathanides might wish to abandon Jondra to her fate, but too many of his own soldiers knew that he had found her. The attempted rape might well be covered up-especially if other nobles felt about Jondra as the general did-but failing in his attempt to turn a woman back from the mountains would place his manhood in an unfavorable light indeed. At least, that was the way the Cimmerian believed a man of Zathanides’ ilk would look at the matter. Conan felt he could safely wager that the next day would see the appearance of a force under orders to escort the hunting party to Shadizar, without regard for what Jondra had to say.

  As Zathanides and his standard bearer galloped down the hill, Arvaneus approached the crimson-walled tent, his manner at once arrogant and hesitant. “My lady,” he said hoarsely, “if you command it, I will take men and see that Lord Zathanides does not survive the night.”

  “If I command it,” Jondra replied in an icy tone, “you will sneak in the night and murder Zathanides. Conan did not await my command. He faced Zathanides openly, without fear of consequences.”

  “My lady, I … I would die for you. I live only for you.”

  Jondra turned her back on the impassioned huntsman. Her eyes fastened on Conan’s broad chest as if afraid to meet his gaze. “You begin to make a habit of saving me,” she said softly. “I see no reason for us to continue to sleep apart.” Arvaneus’s teeth ground audibly.

  Conan said nothing. If his thoughts concerning Zathanides were correct, then he should be gone from the camp before the night ended, for the general’s instructions would certainly include the death of one large northlander. Too, there was his plan of departing with Tamira. Leaving from Jondra’s bed would necessitate explanations he did not want to make.

  The tall noblewoman drew a shuddering breath. “I am no tavern wench to be toyed with. I will have an answer now.”

  “I did not leave your bed for wanting to,” he said carefully, and cursed his lack of diplomatic skill when her chin went up and her eyes flared. “Let us not argue,” he added quickly. “It will be days before the wounded have their strength back. They should be days of rest and enjoyment.” Days spent in her return to Shadizar, he thought, but his satisfaction vanished at her scornful laugh.

  “Can you be so foolish? Zathanides will brood on his manhood and the pride he lost here, then convince himself that he can escape any charges I might bring. Tomorrow will see more soldiers, Conan, no doubt with orders to take me back in chains if I’ll go no other way. But they will need to seek me in the mountains.” Abruptly her face stilled, and her voice hardened. “You are not so foolish as that. You know as well as I the soldiers will return. You would have waited and seen me carried back to Shadizar like a bundle. Well, go, if you fear the mountains. Go! I care not!” As abruptly as she had turned her back on Arvaneus, she turned to face the huntsman again. “I intend to press on at first light,” she told the hawkfaced man, “and to move quickly. All baggage must be discarded except what can be carried on pack animals.

  The wounded and all men who cannot be mounted will turn back with the ox-carts. Perhaps their trail will confuse Zathanides for a time …

  .”

  As her list of instructions went on, Arvaneus shot a look over her shoulder at Conan, smug satisfaction mingled with a promise of violence. There would be more trouble from that quarter. Or rather, the Cimmerian reminded himself, there would be if he continued with the hunters, which he had no intention of doing. And since such was his plan, it was time for him to be making preparations for his leavetaking.

  Slowly Conan moved away from the noblewoman’s flow of commands. With studied casualness he drifted beyond the cookfires. The fat cook, frowning over a delicate dish for Jondra’s table, never looked up as the Cimmerian rooted among the supplies. When Conan walked on, he carried two fat leather pouches of dried meat in the crook of his arm.

  Taking one quick look to make certain he was unobserved, he cached the meat beneath a thornbush on the edge of the encampment. Soon he had added four waterbags, and blankets of blue-striped wool. He was inured to sleeping with naught but his cloak for protection from the cold, or even without it, but he could not think a city woman like Tamira was so hardy.

  The horses had to wait until the point of leaving-they certainly could not be saddled now without drawing unwanted attention-but he walked to the picket line anyway. It was easier to choose out a good mount when there was light to see. The big black he had been riding would do for him; Tamira needed a horse with good endurance as well, though. He had intended to move down the line of animals without stopping, so as to give no hint of his interest
, but as he came to a longlegged bay mare-just the sort he would choose for Tamira-his feet halted of their own accord. On the ground at the mare’s head rested a high-pommeled saddle, a bulging waterbag, and a tightly tied leather sack.

  “In the night, Tamira?” he said softly. “Or while I sit waiting for darkness to come?” The picture of the rubies lying on the cushions of Jondra’s tent was suddenly bright in his mind.

  With a calm he did not feel, Conan strode through the camp, his eyes seeking Tamira. Once more the encampment was an anthill, hunters scurrying at Jondra’s commands. For an instant the noblewoman paused, gazing at Conan as if she wished to speak, but when he did not slow she turned angrily back to supervising the preparations for the next morning. Nowhere did Conan see Tamira. But that, he thought grimly, might mean he was not too late.

  Conan knew how he would have entered the scarlet tent, had he chosen to steal the rubies with the camp aroused. A glance told him no one was watching, and he quickly slipped behind Jondra’s pavilion Down the back of the tent a long slit had been made. Parting it a fingerwidth, he peered in. Tamira knelt within, rooting among the cushions. With a muffled laugh she drew out the sparkling length of the necklace. The tiara was gripped in her other hand.

  Soundlessly Conan slipped through the slit. The first announcement of his presence Tamira received was his hand closing over her mouth. His free arm encircled her, pinning her arms and lifting her before she had time to do more than gasp into his palm. She had dropped the gems, he saw; but that was the end of his moment of peace. Tamira exploded into a wriggling, kicking, biting bundle. And footsteps were approaching the front of the tent.

  With a muttered oath the Cimmerian ducked back through the slit with his struggling burden. Behind the tent was no place to stop, however, not if someone was going to enter the tent, not with Tamira as likely as not to scream that he had been thieving. Cursing under his breath, he scrambled down the stony slope until he found a clump of scrub brush that hid them from the camp. There he tried to set her down, but she kicked him fiercely on the ankle, rocks slid beneath his foot, and he found himself on the ground with Tamira beneath him, her eyes starting from her head from the force of the fall.