The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  Conan hoped their armor was unfamiliar enough to Nemedia to give them a foreign flavor. Men usually believed that foreigners knew strange tricks of fighting. With the horse bows, they might believe correctly.

  As he and Hordo had chosen only men already possessing a horse-they had gold enough only for signing bonuses, not for buying horses-so had they chosen men who knew something of archery. But none knew mounted archery. That was why Conan had brought them to this clearing outside of Belverus.

  "You're all accustomed to using a bow-ring on your thumb," he went on, "but when you fight mounted, you must be able to shift from bow to sword to lance and back, quickly. A bow-ring encumbers the grip."

  "How do you draw the thing at all?" asked a grizzled man with a livid scar across his broad nose. He held the short bow out at arm's length and attempted to draw it. The cord moved no more than a handspan, producing laughter from some of the others.

  The grizzled man's name was Machaon. Though he did not recognize Conan, the Cimmerian knew him for the sergeant who had commanded the City Guards in killing Lord Melius.

  "Use a three-fingered grip on the cord," Conan said once the laughter had died, "and draw thusly."

  The muscular Cimmerian notched an arrow and, placing the bowstring to his cheek, pushed the short, powerful bow out to draw it. As he did so, he pressed with his knees, bringing the war-trained black around. The straw butts seemed to swing before his eyes; he loosed. With a solid thud the shaft struck square in the center of the middle butt. A surprised murmur went up from the men.

  "Thus is it done," Conan said.

  "'Tis more than passing strange," a tall, hollow-cheeked man muttered, "this archery from horseback." His black eyes were sunken, and he looked as though he had been ravaged by disease, though those among the company who knew him said he had no sickness but a doleful spirit. "If it is a thing of use, why do we not see it among the armies of Nemedia or Aquilonia or any other civilized land?"

  Conan was saved answering by Machaon.

  "Open your mind, Narus," the grizzled man said, "and for once let not your mournful mood color what you see. Think you. We can appear, strike and be gone while foot-archers rush to plant their sharpened stakes against the charge they expect, while pikemen and ordinary infantry yet prepare to close ranks against the mounted attacks they know. Enemy cavalry will be but lowering their lances to countercharge when our arrows strike to their hearts. Put off your dolorous countenance, Narus, and smile at the surprise we will give our enemies."

  Narus deliberately showed his teeth in a grin that made him look more the plague victim than ever. A ripple of laughter and obscene comment greeted his attempt.

  "Machaon has seen the right of it," Conan announced. "I name him now as sergeant of this Free-Company"

  A surprised and thoughtful look appeared on Machaon's scar-nosed face, and a murmur of approval rose from the rest. Even Narus seemed to think it a good choice, in his mournful way.

  "Now," Conan continued, "let each man take a turn at the butts. First with the horse unmoving."

  For three full turns of the glass the Cimmerian kept them at it, progressing to shooting with their mounts at a walk, thence to firing at the gallop. Every man knew horsemanship and the bow, if not together, and they made good advance. By that time's end, they did not use their horse bows so well as Turanian light cavalry, yet was their skill enough to surprise and shock any of these western lands. Machaon, to no one's surprise, and Narus, to everyone's, were the best after Conan.

  After that time the Cimmerian led them back into Belverus, to one of the stables that lined the city's wall, where he had arranged for their horses to be tended. After each man had given his mount into the care of a stable slave he left to go his own way until the morrow, when Conan had commanded them to meet again at the stable, for such was the custom of Free-Companies when not in service. It was about that last that Machaon spoke as Conan was leaving.

  "A moment, captain," the grizzled man said, catching Conan at the heavy wooden doors of the stable.

  Machaon had been handsome as a youth, but aside from the scar that cut across his broad nose his face was a map of his campaigns. On his left cheek was a small tattoo of a six-pointed star from Koth; three thin gold rings from Argos dangled from the lobe of his right ear, and his hair was cut short in front and long in back after the style of the Ophirian border.

  "It would be well, captain, if you were to put the company into service soon. Though it's been but a few days since we swore the bond-oath yet have I heard some complain openly that we earn no gold, and speak of the ease of taking a second bond-oath using another name before another Magistrate."

  "Let them know that we'll take service soon," Conan replied, though he wondered himself why he had approached none of the merchants who might wish to hire a Free-Company. "I see that I made a good choice for sergeant."

  Machaon hesitated, then asked quietly, "Know you who I am?"

  "I know who you are, but I care not who you were." Conan met the man's dark-eyed gaze until Machaon finally nodded.

  "I'll see to the men, captain."

  From the stable Conan made his way to the Sign of Thestis through streets that seemed to have twice as many beggars and three times as many toughs as a tenday past. No plump merchant or stern-faced noble now made his way in even the High Streets without a hard-eyed escort, and no slave-borne curtained litter, whether it contained a noble's sleek daughter or the hot-eyed courtesan who served him, traveled shorn of its bevy of armed and armored guardians. The City Guard were nowhere to be seen.

  The Thestis when Conan entered was filling, as it always did of a midday, with youthful artists in search of a free meal from the inn's stewpot. Their arguments and musical instruments blended into a cacophony that the Cimmerian had learned to ignore.

  He grabbed Kerin's arm as she rushed past, a clay wine-jug in each hand. "Has Hordo returned?" he asked.

  She set one of the jugs down hard enough to crack it, ignoring the wine spreading across the table top and the yelps of those seated there. "He sent a message by a boy," she said coldly. "You are to meet him at the Sign of the Full Moon, on the Street of Regrets, a glass past the sun's zenith."

  "Why there? Did he say why he does not come here?"

  Kerin's eyes narrowed to slits, and she spoke through clenched teeth. "There was some mention of a dancer, with breasts .... Enough! If you would learn more, learn it from that miserable one-eyed goat!"

  The Cimmerian suppressed a smile until she had flounced away. He hoped this dancer was all that Hordo thought, for the one-eyed man was surely going to pay for his pleasures when he again came in reach of Kerin.

  He was trying to decide if he had time for a bowl of stew-it was assuredly better than that served on the Street of Regrets-before leaving to meet Hordo, when Ariane approached and put a small hand on his arm. He smiled, suddenly thinking of a better use for his time than a bowl of stew.

  "Come up to my room," he said, slipping an arm around her. He pulled her close and tried out his best leer. "We could discuss poetry."

  She tried to suppress a giggle, and almost succeeded. "If by poetry you mean what I think you mean, you want to do more than talk about it." Her smile faded, and her eyes searched his face. "There's something more important to speak of now, but I must have your oath never to repeat a word of what is said to you. You must swear."

  "I do swear," he said slowly.

  Abruptly he knew why he had not hired his Free-Company out. Without a doubt, a company in service to merchant or noble would be expected to support the throne in a rebellion. But he wanted no part of crushing Ariane and her friends. Most especially not Ariane.

  "I've wondered," he went on, "when you would speak to me of this revolt of yours."

  Ariane gasped. "You know," she whispered. Quickly she put her fingers on his lips to prevent him speaking. "Come with me."

  He followed her through the tables into the back of the inn. There, in a small room, Stephano slo
uched scowling against the flaking wall, and Graecus, the stocky sculptor, straddled a bench, grinning. Leucas, a thin man with a big nose who called himself a philosopher, sat cross-legged on the floor chewing his lower lip.

  "He knows," Ariane said as she closed the door, and they all jumped.

  Conan casually put his hand to his sword hilt.

  "He knows!" Stephano yelped. "I told you he was dangerous. I told you we should have nothing to do with him. This is not our part of it."

  "Keep your voice down," Ariane said firmly. "Do you want to tell everyone in the inn?" He subsided sulkily, and she went on, addressing the others too. "It's true that recruiting men like Conan was not part of what we were supposed to do, but I've heard each one of you complain that you wanted to take a more direct part."

  "At least you can write poetry taunting Garian," Graecus muttered. "All I can do is copy what you write and scatter it in the streets. I can't do a sculpture to rouse the people."

  "King Garian sits on the Dragon Throne," Conan said suddenly. They all stared at him. "King Garian sits to his feast alone. I saw that one. Did you write it, Ariane?"

  "Gallia's work," she said drily. "I write much better than that."

  "This is all beside the point," Stephano shrilled. "We all know why you trust him, Ariane." He met Conan's icy blue stare and swallowed hard. "I think what we do is dangerous. We should leave hiring this sort of... this sort of man to Taras. He knows them. We don't."

  "We know Conan," Ariane persisted. "And we all agreed-yes, you too, Stephano-that we should take a part in finding fighting men, whatever Taras says. With Conan we get not one, but forty."

  "If they'll follow him," Graecus said.

  "They will follow me wherever there is gold," Conan replied.

  Graecus looked a little unsettled at that, and Stephano laughed mockingly, "Gold!"

  "Fools!" Ariane taunted. "How many times have we talked of those who claimed that revolution should be kept pure, that only those who fought for the right reasons should be allowed to take part? How many of them went to the impaling stake for their purity?"

  "Our cause is just," Stephano grated. "We taint it with gold."

  Ariane shook her head wearily. "Time and again we have argued this. The time for such argument is long past, Stephano. How think you Taras gathers fighting men? With gold, Stephano. Gold!"

  "And from the start did I oppose it," the lanky sculptor replied. "The people-"

  "Would follow us and rise," she cut him off. "They would follow us and, none of us knowing aught of weapons or war, would be cut down."

  "Our ideals," he muttered.

  "Are not enough." She glared at each of her fellow conspirators in turn, and they shifted uneasily beneath her gaze. Of them all, Conan realized, the strongest will was housed within her sweet curves.

  "What I want," Graecus announced, "is a chance to hold a sword in my hand. Conan, can I ride with you on the day?"

  "I have not said I would join you," Conan replied slowly.

  Ariane gasped, clutching her hands beneath her rounded breasts, her face a picture of dismay. Graecus sat open-mouthed.

  "I told you he was not to be trusted," Stephano muttered.

  "My men will follow me," the Cimmerian went on, "but not if I lead them only to the headsman's block or the impaling stake. I cannot join you without some idea of your chances of success, and to know that I must know your plans."

  "He could betray us," Stephano said quickly.

  "Be quiet, Stephano," Ariane said, but she studied the Cimmerian's face without speaking further.

  "I am not civilized enough," Conan told her softly, "to betray my friends."

  She nodded shakily. Stephano tried to cut her off, but she ignored him. "Taras hires warriors. He says that we need at least a thousand, but he will soon have that many. Our strength, though, is the people.

  Their anger is so great now, and their hunger, that they would pull Garian down with their bare hands, could they. Some know they will receive weapons. Others will follow. We have weapons for ten thousand, weapons smuggled across the border. Some no doubt by your friend, Hordo."

  "Ten thousand?" Conan said, remembering Hordo's estimate of five.

  "Ten," Graecus said. "I've seen them. Taras showed me a storehouse full."

  And let him count them, too, Conan thought drily. "It takes a great deal of gold to arm ten thousand, even poorly. And more to hire a thousand already armed. You provided this gold?"

  "Some part of it, yes," Ariane said defensively. "But, as you know, we earn no great amounts, and most of what we have from our... our other sources goes to this inn."

  "There are some," Stephano said loftily, "who despite their wealth believe that we are right and Garian will destroy Nemedia. They furnish Taras with what is needed to acquire arms and men."

  "Who are they?" Conan asked. "Will they support you openly, put their names behind you once you take to the streets?"

  "Of course," Stephano said, but almost immediately his loftiness fell into uncertainty. "That is, I suppose they will. You see, they prefer to remain anonymous." He laughed shakily. "Why, not even any of us here has ever seen them. Their money goes directly to Taras."

  "What Stephano means," Ariane said as the sculptor sank into silence, "is that they're affrighted we will fail, and fear to find themselves upon the headsman's block. 'Tis likely they think to manipulate us, and the revolution, to increase their own wealth and position. But if they do, they forget that we command the people. And a thousand armed men."

  A thousand armed men who had taken gold from these mysterious benefactors, Conan thought wearily.

  "But what is your plan? Not just to rush into the streets handing swords out to the people?"

  Graecus smiled broadly. "We are not such fools as you might think us, Conan. Those of us who distribute the bread in Hellgate have found men who can be trusted, marked out those who will follow when the word is given. These will receive the weapons. We will lead them to surround the Royal Palace, while Taras takes the thousand to seize the city gates and lay siege to the City Guard in their barracks."

  "What of the Free-Companies, and the bodyguards?" Conan asked. "There must be three thousand such in the city, and those who have paid them will most certainly support the king."

  "Yes," Ariane said, "but each will also keep his bodyguard close about him till he sees what happens. We can ignore them. If necessary, they can be rooted out later, one by one. A Free-Company of a hundred may be overrun by a thousand from the gutter to whom death is no more than an escape from hunger."

  She looked ready to lead such an assault herself, small head erect, shoulders back outthrusting her breasts to strain the fabric of her shift, eyes alight with hazel fire. Conan knew her words were true. Men who welcomed death were fearsome opponents in the assault, though more easily dealt with in the long campaign. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, he must keep his company ready to move at all times with no more than an instant's warning.

  What he said, though, was, "What of the army?"

  It was Graecus again who answered. "The closest troops are a thousand at Heranium and two at Jeraculum. They would take five days to reach Belverus, once they have been commanded to march, but will be too few to do anything to effect while we hold the city gates. As to the forces on the Aquilonian border, they will still have to decide to abandon the border, worrying all the while of what Aquilonia will do."

  "Ten days' march from the border for a sizeable force," Conan said thoughtfully. "Two days hard riding for a message to get there. So you can count on twelve days before you must face siege machinery and soldiers in numbers to assault the city walls. Perhaps it will be longer, but 'tis best to count on no more."

  "You have an eye for such things," Graecus said approvingly. "We plan based on twelve days."

  "And will have no need for them," Stephano pronounced with a dismissing wave of his hand. "Long before then, the downtrodden of the city will have risen to join us. A hundr
ed thousand men will line the walls of the city, shoulder to shoulder. We will have called on Garian to abdicate-"

  "Abdicate!" Conan shouted. The others started, staring at the walls as if they could see them listening. He went on in a lower tone. "You raise a rebellion, then call on Garian to abdicate? 'Tis madness. The Golden Leopards could hold the Royal Palace for half a year of siege, perhaps more. You have twelve days."

  "'Tis none of my idea," Ariane said disgustedly. "From the first have I said we must sweep over the Palace in the first hour."

  "And slaughter everyone there!" Stephano said. "Then we are no better than Garian, our beliefs and ideals so much rhetoric."

  "I do not remember," Graceus said slowly, "who it was first suggested we demand that Garian abdicate.

  On first thought, perhaps it seems best to do as Ariane wishes, attack the Palace while the Golden Leopards yet believe it is no more than another disturbance in the streets. But we cannot totally abandon the very ideals for which we fight. Besides," he finished with a smile, as if he had found the solution, "it is well known that the hill on which the Royal Palace sits is riddled with a hundred passages, any one of which will take us inside its defenses."

  "Everyone may know of these passages," Ariane said, her voice dripping acid, "but do you know where to find one of them? Just one?"

  "We could dig," the stocky man suggested weakly. Ariane snorted, and he subsided.

  Conan shook his head. "Garian will not abdicate. No king would. You will but waste time you do not have to waste."

  "If he will not abdicate," Stephano said, "then the people will storm the Royal Palace and tear him to pieces with their bare hands for his crimes against them."

  "The people," Conan said, staring at the dark-browed man as if he had never seen his like before. "You talk of preventing a slaughter that will tarnish your ideals. What of the thousands who will die taking the Palace? If they can?"

  "We compromised our ideals by hiring swordsmen for gold," Stephano maintained stubbornly. "We cannot compromise them further. All who die will be martyrs to a just and glorious cause."