The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  Conan busied himself with his meal, not looking up. "And what became of Lady Heldra?"

  "Oh, she died." Ludya's gaze sank to the floor.

  "She did? How?"

  "She was murdered, poisoned by a tainted venison pie. The bane was meant for her husband, 'tis said." Ludya shook her head sadly. "There is so much of that here-murders, revolts and so forth. But Lady Heldra's death was at the start of all the troubles."

  Becoming aware of a sudden absence of eating sounds, Ludya looked over at Conan. He was poking with his wooden spoon through the dainties left on his plate, which included a baked tart of uncertain composition.

  He looked up at her. "Poisoning is the custom here, you said?"

  "Oh, no-Conan, I'm sorry!" She was contrite. "I shouldn't have told you that. I prepared all these things myself. Here, I'll taste everything, as I do when I serve the nobles, to prove that it's safe."

  She leaned down, picked up a piece of cheese and bit off most of it, replacing a small remnant on the salver. Then she broke off a dripping hunk of the pie and scooped it toward her mouth.

  At this Conan's doubtful look turned to one of amusement. Ludya noticed and, swallowing, arched her eyebrows at him. "Mmm. Spicy! Mind if I wash it down?" Leaning on one elbow, she reached close in front of him and bore his wine-flagon to her lips.

  "Here now, that's enough!" Laughing, Conan wrapped a large hand around her wrist, drawing arm and cup away from her face. "You can stop now. I am convinced!"

  Ludya laughed too, looking into Conan's eyes. A drop of wine was rolling from her lower lip and she caught it up with her quick pink tongue. It occurred to the northerner that her whole lush body was spread before him on the trencher-board like a magnificent dessert. For a moment her face lingered before his, edging closer. Then his mouth was tasting hers. His hands clasped her waist and pulled her against him; in a moment the ravaged food platter was shoved aside and they were nuzzling together in a tight embrace.

  Somewhere beyond the kitchen arch a bell clanked flatly, once, then twice. Ludya stirred, but Conan grasped her closer, seeking her mouth hungrily. She whimpered and twisted in his arms. Then suddenly she was struggling violently against him. She gave an inarticulate cry, and shoving her body free of his, cuffed him hard across the mouth.

  Astonished, he let her go.

  "Stupid barbarian!" Her face was flushed with rage. "They rang for me! Do you want to get me flogged?" She rubbed her mouth with the back of one hand, tossed her hair to straighten it and turned away toward the kitchen. She was still patting her clothing straight as she pushed past a scrawny tow-haired boy who stood in the archway; he gave Conan a knowing, impertinent look, then came forward to clear the table.

  An instant later the boy dodged nimbly to one side as the grim-faced northerner strode out of the room, his thoughts in a turmoil. The little vixen, how dare she use him so! And yet, he told himself, perhaps he had been too forward; who could know all the unaccountable local ways? Crom's curse on these Hyborians and the madness they called civilization!

  The day's heat smote him again as he entered the yard. He scuffed across the dirt, a tempest roiling in his breast. Just ahead, in the shade of the smithy porch, waited a hulking man decked in gray-metal greaves, chain kilt, and cuirass, holding a battered helmet under one arm. His face had the fleshy, slack appearance of a strong warrior gone to seed.

  Eubold, the fencing-master, no doubt, Conan thought. He was chatting with a shorter, thick-set man, barely visible in the shadows. As the second man turned and departed hurriedly toward the gate, Conan recognized him as Svoretta.

  Scowling, Eubold watched Conan approach. "Well, barbarian, 'tis about time! You will learn not to keep your superior officers waiting, if only at the cost of some of that thick northern hide." The fencing-master's ill-shaven, leathery face creased further in distaste. "Tell me, have you ever swung a sword before?"

  Conan gazed on the man sullenly. "I carried a broadsword at the sack of Venarium several winters agone."

  "Hm. The northern broadsword-a clumsy affair. All edge since the weapon is far too heavy to bring the point into play. You might as well swing a hatchet!" He started away across the yard. "Frankly, I regret my orders to teach the use of a more advanced weapon to a savage like yourself. But come along, you may learn something-at least some respect."

  The sun was slanting once more into the yard, this time from the west, as Conan struck and hacked at the exercise dummy: a cowhide bag stuffed with hay, hung torso-high from a wooden post. His exertions had fallen into a steady, rhythmic pace, and this, apparently, was the source of much irritation to the fencing-master, who sat yelling orders from a stool propped against the Manse's shaded wall.

  "Faster! Not like that, boy. Put some liveliness into it. That's a saber you're holding, not an oak cudgel!" His voice, Conan thought, had the sour croak likely born when the first infant drill officer, still wet from his mother's womb, commenced his foul ranting. "The secret of a blade like that is in its lightness, its quick recovery. You can lunge with it. Use the point -no need to dawdle about like a lead-footed ox!"

  That Conan's strokes moved regularly through every aspect of a circle, and that the tough, slack rawhide was deeply slashed, its straw entrails strewn over half the yard, were facts the instructor chose to ignore. The youth, his upper body unclothed and his hair pasted to his forehead by sweat, continued striking deliberately. If he made any change in reply to the sergeant's railing, it was to slow his pace.

  "And when you must hack and slash, remember to follow through with all your might. The curvature of that blade will let you take off a limb with one stroke, but only if you draw it through the wound without losing power." Eubold carved air enthusiastically with the side of his hand. "The sawing motion is what does the deep cutting!

  "Of course you can learn little by hacking at a straw dummy. Even strung-up human carcasses won't do-too limp, no resistance. There can be no substitute for a live, moving target." Eubold's voice grew round and expansive, as if he elaborated his argument to a larger, unseen audience. "A man is nothing but a fragile tower of muscle and tendon, boy, a mere balloon of blood! When that frail tent of blood and muscle is upright and stressed, in motion against you, a sword can do miracles to it-shear it right in half if the bladesman is strong and clever!" The fencing-master folded his arms and continued musing aloud, leaning back and scarcely following his student's motions. "With any luck, the baron will order up some live captives for us* to work with later -mutinous serfs, or young malcontents from the Temple School. That would be fine!

  "But what now, barbarian? Are you still plodding along? No, no, that's not good enough. Again, there, and harder! Fah!" The tutor spat in disgust between his spraddled legs. "Curse you, northerner, you have paid no heed to me. This will never do." Abruptly he stood, kicking his stool aside. "We must have at it, then. 'Tis the only way you will ever learn." He strode forward, buckling the chin strap of his helmet and drawing on long leather gauntlets from his belt.

  "A match?" Conan faced him, his blade slanting down loosely at his side. "Well enough! Where is my armor?"

  "Your armor?" Eubold barked out a laugh. "True, you might be in need of some, to keep from sawing off your own foot. Otherwise, fear not. You will be in no danger unless I mean you to be." The fencing-master's sword leaped from its scabbard with a metallic hiss.

  "Now then, this is the Nemedian saber, cavalry issue-a weapon that can stand against any Hyborian blade." He flicked the thin, slightly recurved edge in front of him, forth and back, while Conan raised his own saber on the defensive. "Thus armed, our troops might easily invest your homeland, Cimmerian-had we a sudden craving for frostbite and snow-lemming stew!" His laugh was drolly contemptuous. "Now first, when you slash, do it on the move, like this - hyaaa!"

  With a grating cry the fencing-master launched himself forward, saber whizzing at a flat angle. Conan had to duck and sidestep quickly, his own blade screening his head.

  "Now the backhand, thu
s!" The tutor stopped to pivot from the waist, his sword lashing out, and Conan was forced to retreat another step.

  "'Tis clear that even a stumblekin like yourself can waltz away from my slashes all day. Hence the value of... the point!" An acrobatic lunge sent the fencing-master's blade spearing toward Conan. The only possible response was body right, blade left -and the two swords clashed together where the youth's midsection had been.

  "Ah, there you see where tardiness could easily cost you your life! Now more slashes . . . thus, and thus, and thus!" Eubold seemed to be growing slightly winded from the combined effort of fencing and talking; gradually he fell silent. Yet his saber-strokes continued relentlessly.

  Conan, after a night and day of exertion finding himself half-naked against an armored man, was saved from the kiss of the lashing blade only by his inbred, feral quickness. He leaped and dodged agilely; nevertheless the grating clash of steel rang out almost continuously. He was forced more and more to rely on steel rather than swiftness to ward off Eubold's blade.

  To the farrier and stable-hands who silently gathered to watch, the fight had no seeming of play or practice. The fencing-master might decide to soften any of his lethal strokes by using the flat of his sword, but there was no guarantee of it until the last vital instant. The student had no such option; his only course, if he did not care to stake his life on trust, was to kill his armored adversary.

  The Cimmerian knew it better than the watchers did, and scarcely felt inclined to trust his foe. Well he recalled seeing Eubold chatting with his sworn enemy, Svoretta, before the start of the lesson.

  At length Conan appeared to be weakening; for the first time, his blade lingered too low an instant too long. The panting Eubold saw the opening and struck. All his preaching of elegant swordsmanship forgotten, he dashed his saber down in a vicious, whistling slash straight at his pupil's neck.

  Simultaneously Conan recovered his balance, and with a move that showed either subtle readiness or superhuman quickness, he drove his own steel up against Eubold's in a violent parry. An ear-stabbing clang sounded. Steel flashed brightly as both blades broke off near the hilt and went spinning away through the air.

  After a moment's amazed silence, Eubold's voice bellowed hoarsely once again: "Why, you oaf! Those etched blades were worth ten of you!" The fencing-master let fly his broken hilt, sending it hurtling close past Conan's unprotected ear.

  In a flash the youth was upon him, grasping the brow of his helm with one hand so that the thick, leathery neck was jerked back. With the heavy hilt clenched in his other fist, he belabored his tutor savagely about the chin and face.

  By the time the onlookers dragged Conan off, Eubold was subdued.

  Durwald came to take charge, ordering two men to haul the fencing-master away. In response to the officer's questions, the watchers spoke volubly of the fight. Their accounts to the marshal were confused, but by then their hands rested on Conan's shoulders more in congratulation than in restraint. Durwald gave the Cimmerian a sharp rebuke, with no decree of any real punishment, and dismissed him.

  After a bath from a cold bucket, Conan went back to the bustling servants' quarters. He shared supper with the other household minions, whose names he did not yet know. They were mindful of his newness and his recent fight, and their mealtime banter was strained, with only rare sallies at the outlander's expense. More than once that evening Conan heard whispers exchanged that ceased abruptly at his glance.

  When most of the staff had retired, he arose from the bench and moved toward his own bed, but was stopped by a touch that fell silently on his arm from behind. A slim, feminine hand: Ludya's.

  He turned to gaze on her face, upturned and dim-lit by the guttering candles. She was dressed in a scanty beaded costume, probably donned for her service at the baron's table. Conan started to step back, but her hand detained him. Wordlessly, still gazing into his eyes, she pulled her body up to his and ground her hips against him. He responded, seizing her in a savage embrace. After a few moments she led him to her sleeping-stall, where she received him passionately.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Shrine in the Crypt

  "The basis of the science of noble precedence is the constant awareness of rank." Lothian, the baron's senior counselor and minister of protocol, inclined his gray old head as if afraid to look directly at his student. "Rank must be the first and predominant instinct in every member of the modern state, from the king on down to the lowliest. . . er, retainer." He stroked his carefully curled beard in a preoccupied way.

  "Whether I can explain it adequately to a mere barb ..." his gaze, flicked nervously at last to the watchful steel-blue eyes of the youth who lounged on the broad divan opposite him. "That is, I cannot be sure that a foreigner like yourself, accustomed to the, shall we say, informal and diffuse style of government that prevails in a relatively, uh, primitive land, will be able to grasp this all-important concept...."

  Unsure of how to proceed, the counselor looked to the table at his side and at the red-scriven scroll outspread there. Together, the broad polished plank and the low divan almost filled the narrow room. They were blazoned by a strip of morning sunlight from a vertical arrow-slit in the wall, formerly a generous window but now filled in with masonry on either side to improve its defensive function.

  "We have chiefs in Cimmeria too." Conan shifted, restless in his sprawling posture, feeling half-buried by the deep cushions of the divan. "That is nothing remarkable; as long as they lead us well, they remain chiefs."

  "Ah, there is the difference!" Gaining confidence, Lothian leaned forward on his wooden stool. "In Nemedia, as in all Hyborian kingdoms, the blooded nobleman must lead well. He does so by definition, out of his own innate superiority." The elder spread his thin hands apart, their pale, papery palms upward, to show the simplicity of it all. "He never, obviously, can rule less than well. Therefore he always enhances his power and rank."

  Seeing Conan's brow, furrow at what should have been a self-evident proposition, the counselor shrugged resignedly. "If your homeland lacks such a concept, it is because your social organization has yet to develop sufficiently. Clearly, the upper level of your . . . native society has not risen to such heights of leadership."

  "Nay, nor the lowest sunk to such depths of wretchedness." Conan nodded guilelessly to the counselor. "Having squatted three days in a Nemedian jail, I can affirm that!"

  Lothian frowned. Rolling the two ivory handles on the table before him, he advanced his red-figured scroll with a rustling of parchment. If his inmost thoughts be known, the sage counselor found his appointed task nerve-wracking and distasteful. The role of tutor to a savage was an annoying one, a ludicrous reversal of the established order. Especially tutor to this rough fellow, with his imposing physical aspect and his reputation for brutalizing his teachers. Lothian's eyes flicked uneasily to the door of the chamber-left slightly ajar, thank the gods! He turned back to his pupil and spoke again, taking refuge in pedagogic cant.

  "During the coming days we shall review the various aspects of noble precedence: chains of command, processional order, heraldry and rules of household. Much of this is common knowledge to the average Nemedian, you understand. These studies form the crowning wisdom of our modern science; more to the point, they are indispensable to you for security purposes, in your role as a baronial bodyguard." Lothian glanced up at Conan with curiosity glinting in his gray old eyes. "That is to be your function, is it not?"

  "Aye." The Cimmerian returned the minister of protocol's gaze evenly.

  "I ask only because it is a rather unusual rank. All the levels of nobility have their customary complement of guards and retainers, of course, but this employment puts you somewhat outside the ordinary scheme." Lothian lifted his eyes as if to question the matter further, then dismissed it with a shrug. Instead, he launched once again into the familiar harangue.

  "The functioning of the whole empire centers about the king; it works for his protection and empowerment. Of course th
e monarch is almost never seen in a remote principality such as this. Nevertheless his spies abound, and his power remains absolute even here. We must be ever mindful of him, if only to offset the natural tendency of local authority to trespass on kingly office."

  Oman's wandering gaze settled on his teacher. "You mean, the barons and Laslo don't get along?"

  Lothian cleared his throat. "Well, there is a natural sort of tension, but one that works for the ultimate good of the kingdom. After all, no serf or subject can give his whole heart's devotion to the local ruler-the stern taskmaster who must personally oversee policing, tax collection, military conscription and so forth. There is unavoidable friction and resentment there. 'Tis far easier for the people to love the leader who rules from afar amidst fabled splendor, in glamorous Belverus.

  "Therefore King Laslo is the common people's figurehead and champion. Occasionally he even caters to them by sending down an edict limiting the power of the nobles in some trifling way. Meanwhile, of course, the barons strive to increase their local autonomy. They band together to strengthen their voice at court, instead of warring against one another to enlarge their domains, as they would do in the king's absence." He smiled and inclined his head philosophically. "The system has functioned in recent years to make Nemedia a wealthy, stable empire."

  Conan shifted his body in the yielding sea of cushions, trying through habit, and vainly, to get his feet beneath him. "Until the barons decide to rid themselves of the king. Or vice versa."

  Lothian shook his head impatiently. "That is hardly likely; their shared reverence for noble blood and royal prerogative is too strong a bond." His silver-thatched brow knit slightly. "And yet there is danger from another quarter. By subversion, and by misrepresentation of the king's interest in local affairs-and, yes, with some energy rebounding from the, uh, decidedly firm stance taken by Baron Baldomer on civil discipline-a rebel movement has arisen against the baron's rule. You may have heard of it during your recent. . . detention?" The counselor's glance at Conan had an air of strained casualness.