The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  Govindue set his own face into a mask as hard as polished wood over his grief and gripped the spear. It was custom that if a dead warrior had blood-kin in the band, that kin should draw out the death-weapon and do whatever else might be needful for the dead man. If blood-kin was not present, then the eldest living warrior bound to the dead man by a blood-oath had this duty. Either man still received a spirit-burden that needed lifting after the battle, but a lesser one than would some total stranger.

  The lifting would be far in the future, Govindue realized. He saw trouble from that, not far in the future, when the other warriors also realized it. They too might be uneasy about the fate of the body of Bessu and of any other dead in this distant, cold land of savage men who seemed near-kin to demons.

  "We must also honor Conan," Govindue said. "Without his arm and sword, we would have suffered more. Without his knowledge of this land, we might still be in danger."

  Govindue looked at the black-maned warrior, hoping he had kept the desperation out of his voice and eyes alike. Conan shrugged.

  "I can't do much about the Picts, for I've heard they swarm like wild bees and are about as hard to kill. But yes, this land is more like my homeland than yours. I know something of what a man needs to live and fight here.

  "Also, we're better placed in one way than I expected. This is not some demon's realm from which the only way back is through the demon's gate.

  The gate's sorcerous master may not be our friend, but we may not need his friendship. Somewhere at the end of this wilderness is the sea. On the sea are ships, to be hired or, if needs be, taken. Remember that I have sailed as Belit's right hand, and I know ships."

  Idosso stepped forward. He was shaking his head. Govindue hoped it was because he was still befuddled by Conan's blows, not because he was working himself up to a fighting rage.

  Idosso's first words dashed that last slender hope. "Are you saying that you lead here now, Amradulik?" One did not call a man one wished peace with "Lion Dung," not even as a jest”and it did not seem to Govindue that Idosso was jesting.

  "I am saying that I know the ways of this land and you do not," Conan said. "Does anyone care to dispute that? I can find a path out of the wilderness and a ship to warmer lands more easily for myself and Vuona than for all of us together. If it is your wish that I do that, only say so now and plainly, and there is no quarrel among us."

  The thought of being abandoned to freeze, starve, or die under Pictish onslaughts clearly appealed to no one. Even Idosso looked a trifle daunted.

  He also seemed to find something in certain faces, something Govindue was too young to put a name to, not too young to dislike. "Are we supposed to beat this wilderness for Vuona, until we find her with a Pictish arrow through her___?" the chief challenged.

  The obscenity drew faint laughter. Conan shrugged again. "If you think that is the best way to find her, go and seek her yourself. Only, I doubt that you are the man to find her, unless she is dead or too hurt to move. You coming after her will make her run faster, and one day she will run faster than you."

  "No woman can fear me," Idosso growled. Govindue saw his fingers begin to twist. He also saw Kubwande begin to look openly uneasy.

  Unfortunately, Idosso's back was to the lesser chief. He seemed to read nothing in any of the faces he saw before him that would deter him.

  "Truth," he went on, "is that Vuona should welcome a return to me. In Amra, she has had only the kind of man who makes his bed with such as Govindue."

  A killing light flared in the ice-blue eyes. Conan took a step forward, fists clenched. Idosso stood with legs apart, waiting for him to strike with hand or steel.

  The blow never landed. Conan merely said quietly, "Well, then, if I am supposed to favor Govindue, I will prove it. Lad, you are now second to me. Idosso, you will obey his orders as you would mine."

  Conan turned his back on the big warrior. For a moment, Govindue thought the uneasy peace would hold.

  Then someone laughed. Kubwande glared around the circle, plainly seeking who had been so foolish as to laugh at Idosso when the big man was in such a temper.

  Govindue also sought the laughter. If he was to be leading these men, it would be well to know who was foolish and who wise among them, without learning everything from Conan.

  Neither chief nor youth finished their search before Idosso bellowed like a rutting buffalo and flung himself at the Cimmerian.

  ***

  Idosso's bellow of rage was probably intended to slow the wits and limbs of his opponent. Against many other men, it might have done so.

  Against Conan it merely gave a warning, and cost Idosso the advantage of surprise. Insofar as he needed every advantage he could gain, this was not the act of a wise warrior. But then, Idosso had never been famous for his wisdom.

  Conan knew at once that he faced a formidable opponent. If Idosso managed to get in one shrewd blow with fist or foot, or a firm hold on a limb, let alone on Conan's neck, the fight would bode ill for the Cimmerian. He had seldom faced barehanded an opponent so nearly his equal in size, strength, and speed, with that speed, if anything, increased by the man's rage.

  The Cimmerian kept the distance open for a few moments, long enough for him to get rid of his sword. He hoped Govindue would guard it, but had no time to look where the blade fell. He could not wear it in this chief's bout of honor, and not only because it would go against Bamula custom for this sort of fight.

  If Idosso once had his massive hands on the blade, the temptation of easy victory might outweigh the fear of public dishonor. It would not be an easy victory, of course, and it might be no victory at all. But Conan doubted he would gain much if he defeated Idosso at the price of being too badly hurt to lead the warriors out of this Pict-ridden land!

  These wanderers needed one leader, and he a born northerner who was also fighting-fit.

  The sword clattered to earth somewhere. The onlookers hissed and pounded their fists together, the Bamula form of applause at such bouts. Conan hoped they would not be so enthralled by the fight that they forgot to post sentries. He doubted that all the live Picts were gone even from this patch of forest, and knew they must swarm in the forests beyond it.

  Idosso came on, and Conan let him close. As the Bamula chief neared within striking distance, it was Conan's turn to leap. A fist buffeted the side of Idosso's head. It was a blow that had it struck full and fair would have stunned an ox.

  The Cimmerian's opponent was not without cunning, however, at least in this kind of fight. As the blow was launched, he was moving sideways, swiftly enough that it only bruised his cheek rather than crushing his skull. His reply was a kick that might have shattered Conan's knee, but the Cimmerian also saw the menace and moved so that Idosso's great foot only grazed instead of landing full-on.

  Around and around the two men went, neither able to gain any advantage that the onlookers could see. Nor did Conan himself think he had much of an advantage. A single stumble, not impossible on this rough ground, and he might take a blow that would slow him. The first man to be slowed would be the first to die.

  Few arts of personal combat were strange to Conan, a warrior since his fifteenth year. If he did not stumble, he had little fear of the outcome. What he wanted was a swift victory that would settle all doubts among those he must lead out of this land. If the fight lasted long enough, they might wonder.

  Also, the Cimmerian might take grave hurt in a long battle and be unfit to lead. Nor could the Picts be ignored. The longer the fight drew the attention of the warriors, the more time for the Picts to gather 'round.

  Conan could not abandon the fight and flee to the forest. Neither honor nor good sense allowed that. So a swift victory or death were his choices, and he resolved to gamble his life on the swift victory. Not only his life, but the lives he might save by thus winning.

  It was a matter of waiting until Idosso gave him an opening. The wait only seemed to last until sunset. In truth, it could not have been more than the t
ime needed for a hungry man to gnaw the meat from a chicken leg, before Idosso offered Conan that opening.

  Conan pretended to stumble. Idosso, turned half away from his opponent, whirled. He did not guard himself as the Cimmerian rolled back on his shoulders and kicked out with both legs.

  One leather-soled foot caught Idosso where Conan had aimed it. Against such a kick, a loinguard of zebra-hide was no more protection than a lady's silken shift. The steel plate of an Aquilonian knight's guard might have been enough, but even it would have been dented and the wearer uncomfortable for days.

  Idosso doubled over, but he still had the determination to clutch at Conan's ankles. Conan broke his hold with a swift half-roll and kicked again. This time a Cimmerian foot caught Idosso's knee, and Conan felt bone give.

  He also heard a cry, and not from Idosso.

  "Beware, Conan!"

  Conan recognized the voice as Kubwande's and the note of warning in it.

  He rolled again, and his own sword in Idosso's hand slashed down through the space where he had been. The blade bit deep into the rocky ground, and Conan spared a moments thought for the new nicks it would be taking. Much more of this and he would need either a blacksmith's forge or a good stout club to take the place of a useless blade.

  Conan sprang to his feet, and with one foot, kicked the sword from Idosso's hand. It flew, Conan neither knew nor for the moment cared where. Then he brought both hands clenched together down on the back of Idosso's neck. Skull and spine alike gave under the blow. Idosso fell facedown, rolled onto one side, then over onto his back as the light went out of his eyes.

  The noise of another fight, or at least of a scuffle, now reached the Cimmerian's battle-sharpened ears. He moved until he had no one at his back and a clear view of Govindue and a village warrior rolling over and over together. Conan bent to pick up his sword, and Kubwande raised a warning hand.

  "Ha, Conan! Hold your sword. This is a chief's bout like yours. Iron has no place in it."

  Conan considered placing iron, or even steel, in Kubwande's skull or belly, but held his hand. It was not impossible that Kubwande might have the wits to follow the victorious Amra, at least until Amra had led the way out of the Pictish Wilderness. Honor was probably not in the man, but any treachery he contrived back in his homeland, Conan could meet with either sword or a swift pair of heels, as he saw fit.

  Meanwhile, Kubwande was a warrior of some prowess, and there were not so many like him in this band that one could be spared merely because of what he might do. That was one of the rules of wise leadership that held true for all men, white, black, yellow, brown, or green with purple stripes if there were any such!

  Conan could not put a name to Govindue's opponent, but he determined to ask the man a few sharp questions if he won. If he slew the lad, Conan resolved to make those questions still sharper, with the aid of his sword. It would give any blacksmith an apoplexy to measure the damage to the blade, but it would serve well enough, even for one so thick-skulled as to further divide these lost warriors by a chief's bout.

  Strength was equally matched in the contest, but the opponent clearly had more experience. Govindue, however, had youthful swiftness and suppleness. He also seemed more in earnest. He could not have been fighting harder if his victory would have brought his father back to life.

  The thought made Conan look toward Bessu, whose body still lay where it had fallen. There had to be other bodies as well. Now that Idosso was no longer among them, it was time to find all the corpses and hold proper rites, lest the Picts carry them off for rites of quite other kinds.

  Conan knew little about Pictish ways with their foes' dead, but he doubted they practiced anything he had not already met among his foes.

  Any man who had come upon a patrol staked out, gelded, and even more indescribably mutilated in other ways by the fierce warriors of the Afghuli, did not expect to be surprised by anything the Picts did.

  Conan was also certain that nothing but proper rites for their dead would ease the minds and hearts of the Bamulas. They were a long way from home, so far distant that even spirits might have a daunting journey to the Black Forest. Anything that eased their minds would ease Conan's task.

  As if Conan's thoughts had summoned up new strength in the youth, Govindue wriggled like an eel, breaking his opponents grip. Sweat streamed from him as he leapt up and kicked at the other's throat. The kick landed, not hard enough to crush the windpipe, but hard enough to make the man clutch at his neck with both hands.

  Govindue jerked one hand away from the bruised throat and twisted it.

  "Give over, Bowenu," he snarled. For a moment, his voice sounded like that of a man ten years older and chief for all of them.

  "It is not my place to decide for you, Bowenu," Kubwande said, "but if it was

  Bowenu's reply was neither coherent nor polite. Govindue drew the man's other hand away from his throat and pinned him to the ground.

  "Now do you give over and swear to follow me as chief over our village?"

  "Ah¦ eh¦ over those of the village¦ here, led by Amra. Is¦ enough?"

  Conan hoped Kubwande would have the sense to be silent and Govindue to accept. The boy certainly was of an age to succeed his father, and his work on this day would give him a claim going far beyond blood. Asking for everything in one bowl, however, might not be wise.

  "Then you accept that Conan leads here?" Govindue demanded.

  "I will¦ swear blood-oath¦ offer anything I do not need in this land of monsters!"

  "Good sense, Bowenu," Conan said, laughing. "We will all need everything we have with us or can steal from the Picts, to live until we find a way home. Govindue, what say you?"

  The boy”no, Conan would not call him that again, the young chief” rose to his feet and looked down at his former opponent. "I accept, Bowenu.

  Although I hope you at least do not challenge me again, even when we reach home. I would not gladly fight such a brave warrior and thus weaken our village."

  "I will bring birds' eggs for broth for your first-born son," Bowenu said, speaking clearly for the first time in a while.

  Conan looked on the young chief with approval. He was showing a brew of skill, mercy, and resolution that should serve him well. The Cimmerian hoped for but few troubles from the six or seven warriors of Dead Elephant Village among the band.

  As to the rest¦

  "Iqako Kubwande. I ask no oath. I only say that I have no quarrel with you, and I trust you have none with me. Idosso was your friend, but not mine."

  "He was friend to none of us for challenging you as he did," Kubwande said. "I will not unsay praise I have given him, before both men and gods. I will say that he lived with more honor than he died. May the spirits reward him for his life and forgive him the way of his death."

  That seemed to satisfy the Greater Bamulas. It did not wholly satisfy Conan, but he knew when he would gain nothing more from the man. He resolved to keep a discreet guard against Kubwande and not allow the man any closer to his back than necessary.

  "We know who leads," Conan said. "You know the kind of man I am. And I know that our first work is to gather our dead, tend our wounded, and find a safe place for the night."

  "Is there one?" someone asked.

  "There may be, or there may not," Conan replied. He raised a fist. "But there will be no place safe from me for any man who disobeys."

  Kubwande raised his fist, and Govindue did likewise. The ritual gesture served its purpose. No one spoke, but instead, all scattered to relieve the sentries, seek moss and leaves for the wounded, and find any dead not lying in plain sight.

  ***

  Scyra now needed no common language with Vuona to understand what was in the woman's mind. Vuona had only one thought there: to rejoin her people, or such of them as were abroad in the Pictish Wilderness.

  It seemed to Scyra that this urge was stronger than it had been, before the two tallest warriors fought and the northerner conquered. Had the black champio
n been an enemy to Vuona? It did not seem impossible; Scyra could not read thoughts precisely, but she had some art of recognizing evil by what it did to a man's face. The big black warrior had been, if not evil, at least in too much of a rage to either lead or follow.

  If this had been as it seemed, a fight over the leaders place, the Bamulas had chosen the better man. The big northerner had a kingly air to him even in his garb as a Bamula warrior, with nothing of it lost to the blood, dirt, and bruises. He would have looked equally well as a greenclad Bossonian archer or an armored Aquilonian knight. Not in any sorcerer's garb, however, for he looked a creature of the open land, or even of the wilderness itself. He also had about him a forthright quality that Scyra once thought only her father possessed among sorcerers, and now knew that even he lacked.

  Scyra was so intent upon the tall northerner that she had less attention to spare for Vuona. Vuona, no fool, soon recognized this. The first warning Scyra had was Vuona's leaping up and running toward the Bamulas.

  The men were just lifting their dead and wounded on improvised litters of poles and branches when one of them saw Vuona. He shouted and waved.

  Vuona let out a shriek of happiness, which turned to a shriek of fear as an arrow struck a tree a hand'sbreadth from her ear.

  The tall northerner shouted a single command, and his warriors spread out with the speed and sureness of seasoned fighters. They could not see the Pictish archer, however. He was behind rocks, so close to Scyra that she could have touched him with a long stick.

  Instead, she touched him with her knife. She was not a skilled knife-fighter, but she had surprise, fury, and enough strength for the purpose all working for her. The Pict died, and she made sure that he died in silence by clamping a hand over his mouth until his last breath had passed.

  Scyra lay motionless beside the Pict until she was certain her kill had drawn no Bamula's attention. She searched the body until she discovered the tattoos of the Red Adder Clan of the Snakes. She was hardly surprised to see her previous suspicions justified. The Snakes had never been entirely happy with her fathers peace with their Owl rivals.