The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  Calissa's gesture indicated Conan, who stood tensed on the balls of his feet, eyeing the two guards positioned between himself and the rest of the company. From their ready postures and sweat-filmed faces, the Iron Guardsmen looked none too confident of their superiority.

  "Oh please, Father, if this is just one of my brother's boyish indiscretions"-Calissa placed a hand on Favian's shoulder, which he shrugged off impatiently -"then there is no reason for any more suffering." She stepped forward and knelt beside the trembling figure on the floor, laying a protective arm over her. "Ludya . . . where is your home?"

  The girl's voice was broken and barely audible. "Varakiel. The marsh country to the northeast."

  "Do you have people there? Do you want to go back?"

  Ludya seized Calissa's hand and bathed it in tears. "Oh please, Milady, please!"

  The older girl helped her rise from the floor. "Come, let me tend your hurts. We will send you home soon, child." She led her charge toward the curtained doorway.

  Conan called from his place at the other end of the room. "Ludya-"

  Svoretta's harsh voice overrode him. "Milord, what of this incorrigible oaf? I warned your lordship of the trouble he would bring."

  The baron turned a cold gaze on Conan. "Learn your limits, barbarian-before I limit you to a steel cage in the torture-rooms." He glanced after the departing women. "And forget the girl; you'll not be seeing her again."

  CHAPTER 6

  Nectar and Poison

  Yet Conan did see Ludya once more before she was spirited off to her remote home district. For it was Arga, the farrier, who oversaw the hitching of the donkey cart in the gray-lit stableyard at dawn. And he, while instructing an elderly hand to accompany her, stoically pretended not to notice the hulking young ruffian who crept to her side where she lay bundled in the straw-bedded wagon.

  "Ludya, girl, will you be all right? Are your homefolk kind? Only say the word and I'll trounce these noble guards and minions, and carry you away myself!"

  Long Conan waited for her reply, and in vain. He watched her wan, expressionless face in the pale light whilst awakening birds chorused faintly in the trees beyond the wall.

  "Ludya, do not despair!" As she lay there unresponding, Conan searched for words by which to soothe her inner hurt. "Your dream of advancement here was in vain. These courtly fools were never worthy of you. You'll be better off far away from this wretched Manse, girl; you'll be happier, much happier than-"

  "Cease!" Her red-rimmed eyes flared suddenly at him, her bloodless lips forming an angry rapier-curve. "You are right, I have no further need of lords and noble lackeys." Her contempt was obviously meant to include him. "But I am not finished here, not by a long chance! There are other ways for one to rise in Nemedia."

  This wrath in her, utterly strange to Conan, might have been hysteria, or worse. Yet there was a coldness to it and a fixity in her gaze as she spoke. "This unhappy land seethes with rebellion. I go forth now, but when I return, it will be with fire and sword" -her pale hand stirred weakly, folding an edge of her shawl across the lower part of her face-"to cleanse away the foulness festering here!"

  Conan stared down at his recent lover, holding his dismay within himself. "Rest with your family awhile . . . " Across the yard, Arga finally turned away from the stable-hand, shouting an order for the guards to throw open the gates.

  Numbly Conan reached down to brush the maid's slim fingers in farewell; then he faded back into the shadows of the smithy porch. But as the driver took his seat and the wain jolted forward, Conan called softly after her, "Crom heal you, my poor, mad Ludya!"

  Conan did not allow his dolorous parting from Ludya to shadow his thoughts for long; he let himself be swept up with the other occupants of the Manse in readying a gala entertainment. The preparations were all the more feverish because the celebration was a farewell feast, to be given the day before the baron's departure on his tour of the provincial holdings of Dinander.

  And so Conan spent many hours in the hauling of stools and trestles up and down stairs, unfurling and beating the dust out of tapestries heavy with gold threads, and performing other tasks less fitted to his size and dignity, such as the polishing of chamber pots and the husking of vegetables. By noontide of the great day, the kitchen cookfires were hot enough to make the Manse's basement swelter like an inferno, its great copper vats frothing and bubbling all at once. By mid-afternoon of the next day, the giddy aromas of spiced fruits and broiling game were enough to madden a creature more tame and civilized than the Cimmerian.

  As he was filching sweetmeats from kitchen trays, at risk of raps on wrist or skull from Velda's long brass ladle, Counselor Svoretta sought him out. Curtly the spymaster told him to don his newly tailored suit of mail and stand ready for orders; until told otherwise, he was to stay out of sight during the festivities.

  Much later, the day flown and the sun vanished in the west, Conan crept upstairs via one of the Manse's corner towers. He could not bear to wait any longer in his cramped, sweltering sleeping-cabinet; there he had nothing to occupy his thoughts but memories of Ludya and his restless doubts over whether he had already lingered fatally long in this domain of madmen. He must escape the prison of his gloom.

  The Manse's festive atmosphere was evident in its ravaged kitchen, its bustling corridors, its stairways smelling of spilt wine and echoing with boisterous talk. He avoided the larger rooms, making his way to a remote corner of the mezzanine where he might overlook the party and remain inconspicuous. He felt sure he could pass for a guard in his polished black-and-gold helm and newly tailored cuirass, imposing but still too tight in the shoulders.

  Brushing past murmuring lovers in the narrow, dark side-chamber, he slipped out onto the inner balcony. As he had hoped, this part of the gallery was not thickly populated. Moving to the rail, he encountered a wave of heat and a smother of smoky fumes, for the chamber below was alight with a lavish array of candles and oil pots. The entry hall was thronged with guests seated at red-draped tables, promenading through the main doors and loitering on the broad stairway.

  Most of these appeared to be merchants, farm-squires, and their highest-ranking retainers. Appearing excited and a little astonished at this rare glimpse of baronial splendor, they loitered, gabbled noisily and overindulged in wine. More eminent guests, the minor nobles and guard officers, seemed to gravitate toward the entry to the inner Hall of State. Thence the tinny chirping of military trumpets issued, and there, presumably, the baron and his counselors held court.

  Widely in evidence among both groups of revelers were uniformed men of the Iron Guard. Standing stiffly at intervals along the walls and up the stairs, and spaced more sparsely around the mezzanine, they seemed almost equal in numbers to the guests. Serving on highest alert, they went fully armored, with halberds grounded between their toes and rapiers sheathed at their belts. Conan realized uncomfortably that while his own steel carapace ornately enfolded his vital parts, he possessed no offensive weapon, not even an eating-knife.

  Meanwhile, his armor was growing hot in this high, stuffy part of the room. The visor of his helm, though broadly pierced,, obstructed both vision and breathing. He raised it impatiently, then instantly regretted his action as a youthful voice called out to him from close at hand.

  "Ho there, Lord Favian! So you choose to loiter out here with us rough-and-ready types!"

  It was the inevitable confusion of identity. Pretending not to hear the hail, Conan turned away, reaching up to shut his visor. But a hand grasped his arm to arrest his flight; a rawboned, ill-tended paw, dark with sun and farm grime.

  "Favian, Milord," the husky adolescent voice croaked, "'tis lucky to find you here." At Conan's murderous glance the hand was quickly withdrawn, but the speaker continued to peer ingratiatingly into his face. "I... I am Ralfic, remember, Sire? We had a jolly time at my father's manor. South of town, last season . . . don't you recall, your Lordship?"

  Conan regarded the gangling youngster furiously; th
e lad was nearly his equal in years, though surely not in travels and combats. His face was pitted by some past siege of pox, his clothing foppish, his hair obviously cut with the aid of a porridge bowl. The Cimmerian counterfeit finally, grudgingly, conceded to his fate. He answered the younger man with a nod and a grunt, trying to bark it up from his belly like a true Nemedian noble.

  "Yes, Milord . . ." the boy gazed at him uncertainly. "Well, our little carouse was great fun, was it not?" He grinned suddenly, exposing snaggled eyeteeth. "I cannot blame you, Milord, if your recollection was dimmed by all the ale we guzzled. Those peasant weddings are a rout, 'tis ever true"-he rolled his eyes ceilingward-"especially when the brides are young and innocent, and greatly in awe of their noble masters. Eh, Sire?"

  Conan deepened his scowl and grunted again noncommittally while darting a distracted glance around the balcony. The youth's braying was attracting interested stares from other idlers, some of whom were now drifting toward him, sipping cups of mead. These they had obtained from a kilted, brown-vested servant who bore them on a tray balanced high over his shoulder.

  Ralfic, although cowed by Conan's stare, clearly sensed that something was out of joint. The cornered Cimmerian searched for a quick means of escape, knowing that, were he trapped into speaking a single word of Nemedian, his inept masquerade would collapse all the faster.

  "Remember that young lieutenant we thrashed, sire . . . what was his name? Arnulf? The one we diced with all night, who would not pay his bet?"

  Desperate now, Conan was clenching a hamlike fist with which to brain Ralfic when the serving-man interrupted them. "Milord Favian! Your pardon, sire." He handed the startled Cimmerian a cup of yellow mead, then spun and departed, his tray empty under his arm.

  "Aha, a wise lackey, to give his last cup to the noblest lord in attendance!" Ralfic crowed loudly enough at his own jest to draw nods and laughter from those nearby.

  Thirsty as he was, Conan saw a better use for the drink. "Mmm. Uh." Raising a hand to his face, he grimaced, clumsily feigned illness. Then he thrust the sloshing cup into Ralfic's hand and quickly turned away.

  "Why, thank you, sire," Conan heard the yokel saying as he fled. "A toast to you, Lord Favian. Purge your stomach in good health, sir!"

  Conan was at the door of the blessedly dark, silent side-chamber when a hoarse scream rasped out from behind him. Tempted for just an instant to ignore it and make good his escape, he nevertheless turned back toward the mezzanine. This time, as he shoved his way back among the gawkers he remembered to flick down his visor.

  There lay Ralfic against the wooden rail, clutching his belly. His mead-cup was shattered beside him, and bloody froth drooled from his gaping mouth. Where the dregs of his drink had fallen, they smoked and seethed on the polished wood floor.

  Other guests bent over the dying farm-squire, and guards were shoving past frightened revelers toward the spot. Without waiting for them to arrive, Conan charged in the direction the poisoner had taken. He followed jabbing fingers and excited cries toward a passage near the head of the main stair, certain that he glimpsed the treacherous servant's brown vest disappearing into it. By the time he had pelted down the corridor, striding heavily in his armor, other guards could be heard clattering some distance behind him.

  He knew the Manse well enough by now to guess in which direction the assassin had fled. Veering through an archway near the end of the passage, he dashed down a straight flight of steps, taking four at a time. Somewhere in the silent halls ahead of him there sounded footfalls, hushed voices and a low moan.

  When Conan rounded a corner into the main corridor, he found the end of his chase. The poisoner lay dead, a dagger standing out sharply from his brown vest. Over him bulked Svoretta, wiping blood from his plump hand with a kerchief.

  The chief of espionage stared keenly at Conan for a moment, as if trying to pierce the faceless steel helm with his gaze. "Well, Lord Favian-we know your true provenance better, of course, but I shall call you by that name for security's sake." The plump retainer glanced quickly up and down the corridor. "What you are doing here I know not, in view of your orders. But stand ready; your work may well begin tonight!"

  Two guards came lumbering into the passage, and Svoretta at once demanded a report from them. When they told him of the poisoning and of Ralfic's death, he nodded knowingly with a sidelong glance at Conan.

  A moment later there sounded new, hasty footsteps, and other men appeared: Baron Baldomer himself, looking wildly exultant, and a pair of guards behind him.

  Svoretta reported the events to his master. "A known rebel, Milord," he said, nudging the body with his toe. "I happened on him in the corridor, recognized him and slew him. Then I learned that he had already done his evil work in trying to give poison to your son. Luckily, he failed."

  "Aye, luckily indeed!" Baldomer gazed on Conan, his healthy eye for once almost as bright as his wounded one. "Come aside with me, boy."

  Motioning Conan apart from the Iron Guardsmen, Baldomer addressed him briskly as Svoretta stood by. "You see now how wise I was to hire you, lad! Already you are serving your purpose, flushing our enemies forth. Now go to my son's room and bide there till morning. We shall lodge Favian elsewhere tonight for his safety. But be wary; this night's danger is not ended!"

  Nodding curtly to signify his obedience, Conan turned. As he made his way upstairs, he was able to shoulder brusquely past guards and anxious partygoers alike, pretending muteness and deafness to their nods and salutations by virtue of his helmet's lowered visor. All the while, his mind was equally opaque with thought, pondering the assassin's sudden appearance and his equally sudden death.

  There was no guard posted near Favian's door to witness Conan's approach, and no one lurked inside the room when he entered. Drink there was, set out in a crystal flask on the ornate table, but after his recent encounter he feared to taste it. And in spite of the lateness of the hour, he did not rest himself on the lordling's broad, soft bed. Instead, he removed his helm and armor, laid them on the cushion to resemble a supine body, and draped them with a satin quilt.

  After possessing himself of one of the less decayed pieces of weaponry from Favian's wall, he snuffed out the candles. Unencumbered now by armor and able to move silently across the darkened room, he chose a padded chair on the interior side of the chamber, opposite the window. There he settled down to wait.

  Two phantoms hunted through the dark palace halls. Savagely they sprang out of shadows, striking cruelly at one another with blades and flails. In transports of wrath they grappled and rolled across a dim-lit floor, tangled together in lashing dark cloaks. On falling into a stray beam of moonlight, they glared upward suddenly to reveal. . . not human faces, but the drooling , ravening jaws and bloodstruck eyes of wolves.

  A dream. Nothing more than a sodden, fevered dream, Conan slowly came to understand. His reaction to it as he dozed had not reflected the intense, terror-stricken feelings it had inspired, he realized. For his chin still lay heavily on his chest, scarcely supported by his slack neck muscles. His nether limbs were still piled against the hard angles of the chair, cramped and chilled in the posture of unintended sleep. He pried open his reluctant eyelids to discover where he was.

  Suddenly then he came alive, his heart lurching, wakefulness jolting through every limb, although he still did not move. For there, outlined against the paleness of the window, was a sinister shape which mirrored the skulking figures of his dream: hooded and silent, gliding slowly through the nighted room, an undeniably real menace, creeping slowly nearer. He watched it loom over the vacant sleeping-couch, saw a sharp motion, heard a muffled cry.

  He was up then, moving lightly and swiftly on the balls of his feet. His weapon abandoned, he flung himself on the nameless creeper, bare hands poised to crush and rend. His victim sagged with a gasp before his onslaught, arms flailing, offering little resistance. Conan saw no sign of a blade, yet could not be sure because of the thick garment muffling the intruder.

&
nbsp; Forcing the other's body down beneath his overmastering weight, he made a swift, groping inventory through the folds of the cloak. The only weapons he found were the age-old ones of womankind: soft breasts, silky tresses of hair, smoothly curving belly and thighs. Cursing under his breath, he dragged his writhing bundle toward the window and turned the pale face up to a beam of moonlight. It was Calissa, the baron's supple daughter, clad in her dark robe, the cowl raised.

  He shifted her leaning weight as if to set her upright, then thought better of it. Clamping a hand to her chin, he whispered into a delicate ear, "In case there is any doubt, Milady ... I am not your brother." He waited for her reaction, but as there came only a passive flexing of her limbs, he spoke on. "If you set up a howl, I shall have to muzzle you. I mean you no harm, but I would rather not be denounced as a ravisher of noblewomen." Experimentally he loosened his hand, letting her head turn slowly to face him. Her motions had a strange, deliberate calm. He asked, "Can you hold your peace and listen to reason a moment, before rousing the whole Manse?"

  She gazed up at him unanswering, but with seeming composure in her symmetrical features. Firmly he brought her to her feet, loosening his grip on her lithe limbs.

  Her response startled him. Instead of drawing away, she eased up against him, her face softly brushing the side of his neck.

  "Whoa, girl, what do you mean by this?" Nervously he brushed her creeping hands once again, checking for weapons. Satisfied that her probing fingers were innocent of any but amorous intent, he let his own touch roam across her softly flexing shoulders and lissome back. In a moment his mouth turned to greet hers.

  Her embrace grew warmer, her lips more questing; they opened to his, promising him everything without uttering a word. Yet a comer of his mind still nagged uncertainly at him, and at length he broke off the kiss. "You are . . . companionable tonight," he muttered, slightly breathless. "Who were you expecting to find in that bed, anyway?"