The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  The youth met the second of them at the top of the steps, his club already slashing in air. The stroke was partly wasted on the edge of the warder's helm; nevertheless, it sent the man tumbling back down to the torchlit doorway at the stairwell's bottom.

  In an instant the first guard turned back to avenge his companion; the youth twisted aside, and the cudgel-blow struck him smartingly across the shoulders. The two fenced, oak clacking against oak, until the northerner landed a rap across the other's knuckles. As the guard's baton slipped from agonized fingers, a cracking blow across the eyes laid him flat. A straggly haired inmate swiftly fell upon him to appropriate his weapon.

  Meanwhile, the barbarian drove toward the ascending stair, where more guards clustered. There crook-nosed Rudo flailed at them with the stock of the chief warder's discharged crossbow, while other prisoners sought to grapple close and get inside the swing of the defenders' cudgels. Falmar strove fiercely against a burly guard, strangling him with his own stick; the scrawny Stolpa lay sprawled on the floor against the base of the stairs. This time his portrayal of a dead man looked even more authentic than before.

  The young barbarian threw himself into the skirmish line, and struck viciously at the warders, who were already hard-pressed. Since metal hats covered their heads, he aimed slanting blows at their necks. He was quickly rewarded with a snap and a scream as a collarbone gave way.

  A fierce battle-rhythm possessed the youth. His movements among guards and prisoners became a violent, intricate dance. When an enemy's cudgel nicked an arm or raked across his ribs, the flare of pain only quickened the tempo. Dodge aside, drive forward, parry, strike! Primitive blood chanted a savage war song in his ears.

  The turmoil that raged around him seemed to slow and become trivial and remote. He felt all-powerful, invulnerable, his foes falling left and right before him like scythed stalks toppling in a grainfield.

  Then the northerner was brought back to immediacy by urgent cries from behind. Dazedly, shaking off his battle-trance, he glanced around to see that more guards had come from the lower dungeon and sealed off the cell's exit. Some of the prisoners had either been driven back into the stinking hole or had never left it, due to cowardice or physical inability; now the mutineers' force was divided. Fletta, the tall, moonfaced interrogator, stood at the cell door, backed by two guards and plying a copper mallet against the skulls of those who tried to exit the cell or clear its entryway.

  A misfortune, clearly, and a dangerous one to turn back and try to correct now. Still, there was good hope for most of the prisoners to escape up the dungeon stair. Only two guards defended it, and they were retreating up the steps before the flailing clubs of Rudo and Falmar, who led the attack.

  Then suddenly a new commotion sounded above. Fresh defenders came streaming through the archway, hurrying down the railless, curving stair. These were Iron Guardsmen of the province's elite army, clad in black-metal caps and cuirasses; as they approached the fray, they drew long, curved sabers.

  Their commander strode through the arch at the top and watched them descend; he was a lean, distinguished-looking man with trim black mustachios. He placed his hand upon the hilt under his cloak, yet remained on the edge of the landing to survey the scene, turning aside only to whisper a word to a lesser officer who started down the stair. Then, calm and taciturn, he gazed downdirectly it seemed, at the young northerner.

  Thereafter the fight was short and brutal, the luckier prisoners falling before the warders' vengeful cudgels, the less fortunate methodically hacked or skewered by the Iron Guard. The northerner was hemmed in by guardsmen and disarmed by one who forced his thick, leather-vested body between the youth and his straining club. When he continued to struggle, a stinking shirt was clapped over his face from behind and he was dragged to his knees.

  Yet he fought on against the cruel fists striking him from unseen directions. At any moment he expected to feel the chill of cold steel raping his guts, but for some reason his captors only pummeled and restrained him. His arms were bent behind his back, and there tied deftly and tightly. His thrashing neck was girdled by a large, sweaty bicep.

  Around him he heard the last random thuds, moans and pleadings for mercy as the brawl ended. He was to be spared, it seemed; and so he strove all the harder, conjuring behind his sightless eyes vivid pictures of the tortures and indignities that might await him, if he lived so long.

  Finally he could tell that the surviving prisoners were being herded back into the cell amid shouted orders and curses-yet he was kept kneeling on the floor in silence.

  A level, businesslike voice spoke from somewhere near him. "This is the one called Conan?"

  "Aye, sir, a Cimmerian. A dangerous fighter, and probably one of the ringleaders." The guard's voice quivered with anger and contempt. "With your indulgence, Marshal Durwald, he should be hamstrung, sir. Or killed straightaway!"

  "Uncover his face."

  The shirt was wrenched off, revealing to Conan the body-littered wardroom, the expressionless face of the black-cloaked military officer and the bloody-nosed visage of the municipal guardsman beside him.

  The officer stared at him coldly for a moment. Then he spoke tonelessly: "Put him in a solitary cell, to be transported later." Marshal Durwald swiveled on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him. Over his shoulder he added, while stalking away, "He is remanded to baronial authority."

  CHAPTER 2

  The Manse

  As the chariot rumbled down the back streets of Dinander, furtive eyes followed it from the darkened windows and doorways of the town. Even at night, and even among offal-strewn alleys, its passing was carefully noted, as were all such comings and goings in this dull, provincial capital, whether for the sake of gossip, or political intrigue, or out of simple fear.

  The war-chariot gave its occupants a violent ride across road paves purposely made rough for the traction of horses' hooves. Its iron-shod wheels jolted sharply over the cobbles in the clopping wake of the three matched roan stallions. At each of the shallow, open sewers that cut across the pavement, ,the vehicle dropped giddily, then banged high into the air.

  It was a difficult ride for both driver and passenger perched side by side on the padded plank set athwart the fighting-platform. It was harder still on the one who lay prone on the chariot's timber deck, his hands bound behind him.

  "Keep down, you stinking barbarian, or I'll club you down!" The driver's muttered threat was emphasized by a fist wrapped around a heavy knife-hilt, with which he smote the prisoner's writhing back.

  "Crom! You're killing me!" The stirrings and complaints from the floor were muffled by a horse blanket that had been thrown partly over the chariot's human cargo. "I can hardly breathe!"

  "Quiet, Cimmerian." The voice of the passenger, black-cloaked Marshal Durwald, was level and matter-of-fact. "This journey is by the baron's order. If you are seen, your usefulness to him will be ended; then you will find a fate that befits your station in the world and your recent crimes. Stay quiet, and you may fare better." He glanced down contemptuously. "Don't bother working at your bonds. We are almost to the Manse."

  The driver whistled, jogging the reins to speed his coursers. After what seemed to Conan an endless time, he felt the chariot roll across a rough plank bridge, as smooth as satin by contrast with the pavement of the street. He heard a hail from above and the sound of a heavy gate swinging to. Then the lurching motion stopped.

  The blanket was yanked away. With barely time to get his cramped legs under him, Conan was hauled out of the chariot and onto hard dirt. He fell to one knee, caught his balance, then stood straight.

  The marshal motioned toward a postern door in a great building that loomed nearby; the charioteer prodded him in the same direction. Conan turned on him with a dark look, and the driver backed off a little, momentarily forgetting his captive's bound wrists. The northerner glanced around, stretched his sore limbs as best he could, then sullenly went along between his captors.

  The ed
ifice around them was more fort than mansion. Its curtain wall reared as high as the height of three men combined, and its gatehouse was crowned by an overhanging parapet. For further security, round defensive towers formed the corners of the square main building. The principal structures were of fitted stone, but against the inside of the outer walls huddled stables and other outbuildings of wood. The tall Manse commanded all; a little distance away one of its great double doors stood open, spilling a pool of yellow light across the broad stone porch.

  But tonight Durwald, the marshal, stayed far from the welcoming light; he plied a key in the lock of an iron-bound door in a well-protected recess of the Manse's front wall. The door whispered inward and the three passed through into a large, lamplit closet.

  Rows of boots and cloaks hung along one wall, a battered bench ran the length of the other. Through a doorway at the end of the room, Conan glimpsed an ornate entry hall with brightly colored tapestries and an imposing central stair.

  "Close that," the marshal ordered. After bolting the postern behind them, the charioteer hastened to shut the door to the main hall as well.

  Durwald gestured for Conan to seat himself on the bench. The youth hesitated for a moment, then complied, moving as smoothly as he could to hide the lameness of his back and limbs. The charioteer stood to one side, and the marshal, too, remained standing.

  "A Cimmerian, eh?" Durwald parted his cloak back from his steel-cuirassed chest and regarded his captive narrowly. "Yet when taken into custody, you had coinage of Zamora in your possession, and gold drams from our capital of Belverus. You have traveled in the south, then?"

  The youth gave a noncommittal nod. He knew there were bloody crimes in the Nemedian capital that might be laid on his neck, whether truly or not.

  "Answer when spoken to! How long have you been in Dinander?"

  "A dozen days." Conan lowered his eyes to the floor, where their gaze was less likely to betray him.

  The marshal fingered his mustache thoughtfully. "Do you have any relatives or other ties in Nemedia?"

  "No." Conan wondered briefly at this turn in the questioning.

  "Are you sure? No female kin traded southward as brides?" Durwald inclined his head, closely watching the captive, whose face showed only surly resentment at the notion.

  When no further reply was forthcoming, the marshal resumed: "Well, then, lad! Coming from the northern wastes, what think you of the wonders of our civilization?" He smiled under his mustache with a new, false air of heartiness. "Do you like the Hyborian lands?"

  The youth considered for a moment, then turned his face up to Durwald's. "'Tis strange . . . never have I seen such wealth as in these southern cities, nor such filth and misery." He shook his head wonderingly. "In Cimmeria a whole tribe may hunger, but if they thrive, they thrive together. Here honest folk starve amidst wealth, and a greedy few fatten themselves at the expense of many."

  Durwald's eyes narrowed in distaste. "Best to leave such notions in the northern snow-mires, lad. Sensible or not, they will only get your tongue torn out in Dinander." He squinted at Conan appraisingly. "But you have more than a passing acquaintance with the Nemedian language. How did you gain it?"

  Conan spoke carelessly. "Nemedian squatters were among the border kingdoms' rabble who tried to steal Cimmerian lands. In my youth we took a band of them hostage." He flexed his shoulders, apparently confident that his youth lay sometime in the remote past. "Later I was among the war-party that marched them to Fort Ulau and bore back the ransom."

  "Eastern Nemedians, those?"

  "Vastian farmers."

  "Hmm. Yes." The marshal nodded thoughtfully. "Have you, then, any objection to entering the service of the baron of Dinander?"

  "Why not?" Conan looked up, his face growing blank and wary. "As long as I am not expected to slay my kinsmen or spy against them."

  Durwald's face shaped a true smile for the first time. "Well then!" He turned to the charioteer. "He will need better clothes in which to be seen by His Lordship"-the marshal wrinkled his nose- "but the bath will have to wait until later, I fear. Swinn, find him something to put on."

  The charioteer turned to the garments on the wall hooks, searched among them and selected a green jerkin and tan trousers. He held them up wordlessly before Durwald, who nodded. "Now cut his bonds."

  Swinn gazed doubtfully at the marshal, but only for a moment. Then he carefully laid the garments on the bench, drew his knife and advanced toward Conan. The youth arose and turned half away from him to place his bound wrists within reach.

  The charioteer stood hesitating again.

  "Do not fear," Durwald urged him. "If the northerner has any sense, he has guessed that whatever we intend to offer him is better than the dungeon and a lifetime in the copper mines. Go ahead and cut him loose."

  Swinn did so, slicing the cords with a downward jerk of the blade. Conan brought his arms out in front of him, flexed them slowly while brushing away the cut ends of cord, and began massaging his red-wealed wrists. Meanwhile, Swinn cautiously moved up beside the youth to help him remove his clothing.

  Conan's forearm darted out and struck him in the chest with an audible impact. "Back!" The charioteer reeled along the bench, steadying himself against the wall. Cursing, he shifted his hold on the knife to stabbing grip.

  Durwald spoke up impatiently. "Swinn, leave him alone. You can put that turnip-slicer away now." He nodded to Conan. "Go ahead, boy. Remove those stolen rags yourself, if you insist."

  The youth eyed the two others, relaxing his fighting-crouch and reaching to his shirt ties. "They are my own. Had I stolen, I would have stolen better than these!"

  He stripped off the shirt, which was split halfway down the back from the day's cudgel battle. Then he lowered his tight, frayed trousers and kicked them to the floor. He showed no concern for his nakedness, but unavoidably he had a measure of pained regard for the bruises and welts that marked his body. His form was otherwise tan with sun and prison dirt, and splendidly tapered from the shoulders down, a remarkable physique for one indisputably so young. In spite of his injuries, he moved with the power and suppleness of a tawny leopard.

  Conan donned the thicker and better-fitting garments, knotting the drawstring of the trousers and fastening the jerkin. Then he tied new brown-leather slippers on his feet in place of his soiled, travel-worn sandals.

  "That is adequate. Come along." Durwald turned.

  With Swinn close on his heels, Conan followed the marshal to the back of the cloakroom. There the officer pushed open a wooden door that revealed a spiral stairway in one of the Manse's corner towers. Conan had to duck as they ascended the narrow, worn stairs; from their upper course, a draped archway opened to a vacant sleeping-room whose plugged window-embrasures faced the Manse's front wall.

  Durwald led the way through the room's far door and onto a mezzanine. This interior porch circled and commanded the ornate main portals and lofty entry hall, the upper vaultings of which were thick with shadow, Conan saw. The balcony's stout wooden railing, cut with deceptively ornamental cross-shaped loopholes, would provide a murderous bastion for archers called upon to cover the entrance and main stair. The three men walked a short way along the overhang, then turned through a taller door and into a large, ornately furnished chamber.

  Just arising from high-backed chairs at a hexagonal writing table were two figures: a tall, elderly man with an iron-gray mustache, and a plump, round-faced retainer who moved silently beside him.

  "Ah, Durwald. So this is the boy!"

  The elder man half-turned to the door as he spoke. He was every cubit an aristocrat, clad in a fine leather kilt and a shirt of pleated silk, and armed with a silver-handled dirk, silver-scabbarded on a silver chain dangling from his hip. His face seemed the very sculpture of serene leadership, his gray mustache and side-whiskers softening the severity of his strong-arched nose and firm chin.

  But as his head finished turning to fix both eyes on the new arrivals, Conan saw with unease th
at its noble symmetry was hideously broken. A livid, crookedly healed scar ran from one eye down to the corner of the man's mouth; in consequence his lip seemed to be raised perpetually at one side in an imperious smirk. The eye above it looked to be functional, if somewhat watery compared to its twin; now both eyes regarded Conan keenly with frequent, birdlike blinks.

  The second man, by contrast, had an air of intense ordinariness. He wore his humble wool jerkin belted so tightly that bulges of soft fat projected above and below his waist. Close-shaven and spottily complected, he carried himself with something of a strut.

  Durwald inclined his head in the aristocrat's direction, then stood pikestaff-straight. "Yes, Milord Baron! This is Conan, the lad of whom I told you. A savage Cimmerian, yet capable of understanding orders, it would seem. Conan, you may kneel before Baron Baldomer Einharson."

  Conan gave a scant nod to the baron and remained standing, impassive.

  Durwald's back stiffened with consternation as he swung to face Conan. "Cimmerian, you are required to kneel to your betters!"

  The youth glanced around the circle of staring men. "Mayhap I will, when I meet one."

  Durwald's hand found the hilt at his waist. "On your life, barbarian!"

  "Marshal!" Baldomer raised an arm and spoke in a voice that, though hard-edged to command, was softened slightly by amusement. "Leave off; there is no need."

  By the time the baron dropped his hand, a respectful silence was well settled in the room. "In any case, 'tis better that the boy lacks the habit of obeisance. That would interfere with his intended role."

  The marshal looked from the sullen captive to the baron, then nodded. "Of course, Milord. Forgive me." He waited for a moment, composing his discomfiture, then asked, "You find his resemblance . . . adequate?"

  Baldomer smiled. "Yes. He has the square-faced look that gives Cimmerian men such an air of ferocity . . . and their women such beauty." His brow wrinkled almost imperceptibly, as from a fleeting memory; then he smoothed his ravaged features as much as possible and continued his inspection. "With his hair trimmed to a decent length, and with the same pathetic attempt at a mustache as my son's, his likeness will be passable."