"Greeting, trader. We are Odoac's men, and our
king wishes to know if aught of value was washed ashore during the great storm a few days agone."
"Naught but the driftwood and trash of the sea," said Dawaz [smoothly. "Has there been better picking along the coast?"
The man gestured to the bags tied over the back of one of the horses. "Some fine amber and some coral." He pointed at Conan, who gazed at him unflinchingly. "But who is this? He is no man of our nation, by his look."
Before Conan could speak, Dawaz said: "Just an unfortunate seaman, cast ashore by the storm. Of his ship, nothing came ashore but the stump of a mast, too tar-soaked even to make good firewood."
"Did you not hear me ask if aught of value came ashore? If he washed up then he is part of the sea's bounty and belongs to the king. A fine, strapping rogue tike that will fetch a good price from the slave traders."
There had been a time when Conan would have instantly split the man's skull for these words, but age and experience had taught him to be prudent, especially hi a strange land. He said simply: "I have no desire to depute with you here in the home of my friend. But if you really want to sell me to the slavers, let us go over » yonder field, and I'll carve your guts out and strangle your friends with them." Dawaz paled, but the spokes-man smiled.
"You speak loudly for a man outnumbered four to one."
"I'll kill you first," Conan said, "then it will be fate to one. I've often fought three to one, and it has seldom taken me more than three blows to settle mat-lers." He smiled calmly.
"Boasting fool!" blustered the rider. "It is your
good fortune that this trader enjoys the king's protection. Best for you that we never encounter you away from here." Without giving Conan a chance to answer, he wheeled his mount and rode out of the compound, followed by the others.
"That was a close matter," Dawaz said when he could draw breath again. "They might have slain you out of hand for your words."
"What would you have me do? Surrender myself to them as goods for the slavers? Besides, there was never aught to fear. That one with the raven on his helm was nothing but wind, albeit encased in bronze. And a little wind never hurt anybody." He clapped Dawaz on the shoulder, causing the slight man to stagger a few steps. "Come, friend, let's to dinner. In the morning I'll be off to seek my fortune!"
Che Queen of ttte Snows
Conan trudged in a vaguely northerly direction. Just now King Odoac's court did not seem to be the best place to sell his sword, but that did not bother him. He would give King Totila a try. One employer was much Eke another. He was three days' march from Dawaz's trading post, wending his way through the silent forest aid using his spear as a walking stick. Snow had been Calling heavily since the night before, and he was happy at his friend had pressed upon him a good cloak, a long-sleeved undertunic, and a pair of trews. His recent sojourn in the balmy lands to the south had somewhat oftened his innate resistance to cold weather. His Cimmerian kin would have shaken their heads pityingly to see him so overdressed in this mild weather.
The pines grew thick on every hand in these low Mb, and the quiet of the forest was broken only occa-swoally by the eerie howling of wolves. This caused on no anxiety. It was too early in the winter for the orves to be desperately hungry enough to attack a
man; and an armed warrior, unwounded and possessing his full strength, had little to fear from wolves in any case.
Thus Conan proceeded, perfectly contented and even happy. The Northlands were his home, and although the seductive South had its attractions, he found these cold lands very much to his taste. He knew that by spring he would be half-mad with boredom and yearn-ing for the soft, southern lands, but for now he was ready for a winter of fighting among the little northern kings. It took him several minutes to realize that the sounds of battle he had been hearing were not solely in his head but were real.
Conan grinned and ran toward the sounds. The song of clashing weapons was the peculiar music of his life. Even at a distance he could discern the sound of iron sword crunching into bronze armor, the singing screech of iron spear point glancing from helm, the singular clatter of steel weapons against wooden shield. The shouting was loud and continuous. He knew that it was a small group fighting, or else a large group was letting a few fight. If he knew his northerners, though, there would be few laggards.
Conan crested a rise and saw a road winding through the shallow vale below. In the midst of the road, bronze-girt warriors battled savagely. Conan studied them to see whether it would be worth his while to join one side or the other.
As he descended the hillside he began to see details. One group of fighting men were clustered around two figures, one a graybeard, the other a woman. The surrounding warriors were more numerous, but identical in look to the defenders. Here was where a civilized army's use of standards and uniforms and livery would be of use, Conan! thought.
He was about to sit down and enjoy the show when his gaze sharpened upon one of the attackers. He recognized the raven-crested helm of the man who had dared to consider him as slave material. That decided him.
Conan leaped to his feet, screeched a wild Cimmerian battle cry so blood-freezing that the fighting stopped below, and charged. Some of the attackers turned to face him, and one walked toward him with shield high. Without breaking stride Conan cast his spear. The man raised his shield to block it, but the iron point smashed through the wood and pierced him below the chin, dividing his beard and going through to stand out a handsbreadth past the back of his neck.
As the man toppled, raven-crest spotted Conan. "The foreigner!" he shouted. "I warned you not to stray from the merchant's steading, fool! Now come to your death."
"Deliver it yourself, nithingl" shouted Conan, smiling. "I am Conan of Cimmeria, and I will take any or all of you on!"
The man in the raven helm had to meet this challenge or suffer loss of status in the eyes of his peers, so he strode forward, shaking his sword. "I am Agilulf of the Thungians, and I fear to meet no man!"
Attackers and defenders seemed to find this a good occasion to take a rest from the fighting, so they lowered their arms to watch this rare entertainment.
Conan caught the cool, gray eyes of the woman upon him, and made a sketchy salute with his sword. Then he was fully occupied with the man before him. Agilulf advanced in the fashion of a practiced sword-and-shield fighter: legs bent, spine erect, shield held well before
the body, ready to drop to protect the legs or raise to cover the head. His sword arm was raised high and bent so that the blade slanted across his back. With only a slight shifting of that arm, he could strike with full strength at head, at side, or at the leg below his ene-my's shield.
Conan favored his own highly individualistic style. He fairly ran in, crouched low, shield before him and held almost horizontally. His sword was held low and well to the rear. His opponent could see little except the shield and Conan's eyes above its rim.
Agilulf struck first, for Conan's helm, but the Cimmerian raised his shield slightly and at the same time swept his sword at his opponent's leading leg. The raven-crested warrior dipped his shield to catch the blade and both swords clattered against the shields. Agilulf leaned far over and tried to strike past Conan's shield at the briefly exposed shoulder, but Conan sidestepped and threw a powerful, looping blow at his enemy's flank. Agilulf interposed his shield in time and neither blow found its mark. Both men jumped back at the same time and the watching warriors shouted ac-claim for the excellent exchange.
The two circled warily, now having a bit of each other's measure. Sweat dipped from beneath the rim of Agilulfs helmet, but he was as windy as ever. "Not so easy to defeat the champion of the Thungians, eh, Cimmerian?"
Conan's grin was hard between his cheekplates. Then he struck. The watchers saw only a whirlwind of metal as the Cimmerian's first blow sheared through the tough shield as if it were parchment, breaking the arm beneath with a loud snap.
The second b
low divided the raven between the iags, cleaving downward through the helm, .split-obs skull and teeth and finally stopping at the top of the s. Conan needed a powerful wrench to free his from the ghastly wreckage that had been Agilulf, champion of the Thungians.
Conan shook the clotted blood and brains from fees blade and glared at the attackers. "Who else ooJd play at swordstrokes? I stand here, dogs, come tome!"
The Thungians were shaken by the sudden demise of rteir hero, but they were brave. Besides, there were any of them. With a mass howl, they converged on kirn. In their preoccupation with him, as he had anticipated, many made the mistake of turning their backs on act erstwhile victims. The encircled men attacked them ram behind and before the more numerous foe could leorganize, the tide had turned and they were at a cad vantage.
This turnabout did not mean an easy fight, though, especially for Conan. He was quickly surrounded by enemies, and only his armor and his amazing quickness nved him. As each man attacked, Conan ducked and dodged, springing over blows or dipping beneath them, iking return blows when he could. Working in his favor was his enemies' lack of coordination and the determination of each to be the sole killer of this alarm-g foreigner.
Then the attacks on Conan abated as most of his opponents were engaged and slain by the defending farce. At length he found himself opposed by only one am: a yellow-bearded swordsman in an elkhide jerkin. A few blows sufficed to splinter his shield, and Conan
finished him with a quick jab to the throat, the most merciful of battle-deaths.
The clangor around him had ceased, and Conan looked to see many bodies lying about in the grotesquely stiff poses of death. There was more red on the ground than white, and survivors went from fallen man to fallen man, tending to their own wounded with bandages and to enemy wounded with daggers.
Conan stuck his sword into the earth, dropped his shield, and untied the chin strap of his helm. As he pulled the helm off, his thick black hair tumbled almost to his shoulders. From the upturned helmet a mist of steam arose. Fighting in armor was always a warm business.
The woman approached him, with the graybeard in tow. She stopped before him and looked him up and down for a few moments.
"I am Queen Alcuina of the Cambres." Her gray eyes were cool to the point of iciness. "How came you here?"
She was as haughty a woman as Conan had come across in a long time, but he sensed that now was no time to take an arrogant pose.
"I was looking for employment for my sword, lady," he said, bowing slightly. "I heard the sounds of battle, and came to investigate. I met that man Agilulf a few days agone, and he spoke ill to me. I was minded to improve his manners."
"So you did. He is not nearly so talkative now."
"Why did these rogues fall upon you, lady?" Conan pulled his sword from the earth and began to clean it carefully.
"Are you my peer that I must satisfy your curiosity? I will hire your sword, stranger. Your counsel I do not
need. Find a mount and ride with my escort." With that she walked away. The graybeard seemed on the verge of speech, then he thought better of it and followed the woman.
Much nonplussed, Conan finished seeing to his weapons and went to look for an undamaged spear. The men were now in the woods, trying to catch their scattered mounts. Apparently, these people did not have the art of mounted combat, and dismounted to fight. With so many dead, there were plenty of spare horses. Conan dimbed aboard one and joined the escort. Perhaps, he bought, he would go look for King Totila after all.
As they rode through the lengthening shadows of afternoon Conan made the acquaintance of the other members of the little guard. As an experienced soldier, Conan was careful to learn all their names.
Like all the folk he had met hereabout, they spoke a vviant of the tongue common to much of the Northled, not much different from that spoken in Asgard and Vanaheim and by the Gundermen of Aquilonia. . Tkey were fair for the most part, with blue eyes more common than brown, their hair ranging from yellow to vt brown. None had truly black hair like his own. All He men who were old enough had flowing beards, ateough some partially shaved their faces the better to off especially fine scars. They did not seem to paint or tattooing. Scalps hung from the bridles of A yellow-haired man with a boar crest like Oman's op beside him. "That was a fine fight, Cimmerian. I far one am glad to have you among our number. I am r." The man held out a gurgling skin. "Here, : scene ale. It has gone stale, but it will have to do we return to our hall."
Conan took a long pull at the ale. It was flat, but of good quality. He tossed the skin back. "Thanks, friend. Tell me, is your queen always so short with those who would take service with her?"
Siggeir smiled ruefully. "That is just her way. She was the only child of the old king and has always been haughty. She is a good queen, though, and she will not let her people become subject to some inferior king." By inferior Conan knew that the man meant a chieftain of another tribe. "But do not worry. Serve her well and fight as you did today, and she shall treat you well and reward you as you deserve. She is open-handed and generous."
"Well, that's something," Conan grumbled. "Why were you attacked by Odoac's men? If I'm going to Fight them, I might as well know why."
"They wanted to capture Alcuina," said Siggeir. Like most northerners he used titles sparingly. "Odoac wants her to wife. They say he has already murdered his last one to make way for her. Many think this is commendable optimism, but I call it presumption."
"Can a king have only one wife among you?" Conan asked.
"That is the law. Concubines and such, he can have as many as he flatters himself he can tend to. Many kings have come to grief in this fashion."
"What of this King Totila of whom I have heard?" Conan pressed. "Does he not court Alcuina as well?"
"Yes, Totila and his pet wizard would have her, but she rightfully disdains the Torman swine."
Conan did not like the mention of a wizard. He had had little joy of that breed in his life and travels. Still, the man did not speak as if the wizard's wiles bothered him overmuch.
con an the champion
"Who is the graybeard?" Conan asked, jerking his dun toward the old man who rode ahead next to AJcuina.
"That is our wizard, Rerin. He is a wise old man, tod he can protect us from the spells of lilma, who brews spells for Totila."
"And has Odoac no wizard?" Conan asked, fearing Ac worst.
"Not that I ever heard. Wizards are rare, and Totila richer than Odoac."
"Which wizard is the stronger?" Conan knew that it d always wise to know the relative strengths of friends and enemies.
" cannot say," Siggeir said, pondering deeply. "It «ms to me that every time one of them tries a spell, to other uses a counterspell, and thus they cancel each Aer. This suits me well."
"Aye," Conan said with the sincerity of experience.
"When these wizards and necromancers and suchlike cddle in the affairs of honest warriors, there is always cable that cannot be set aright with steel." Conan had ; a great dislike of problems unsettleable by steel.
Sight was falling when they rode into the compound t Akuina's hall. The compound sat atop an oddly Solar mound, which stood higher than the surround-*f fields. A wall of gigantic stones encircled the top of At hill, and upon the stones was set a palisade of wpened logs. The massive gate was raised for them to okt and immediately dropped once all were inside. Within was a wide yard dotted with small buildings: s, stables, sheds of various sorts. There was i livestock in evidence. In the center was the queen's a long, low building with a steep-pitched roof with turf. Goats grazed on the roof, and smoke cona
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champion
drifted from its gable ends. A southern king would have smiled to hear such a structure called a royal palace, but to the northerners it was all a palace should be; it was a place where warriors sat and feasted with their lord. They could have no respect for a king they saw but rarely if at all.
The smell of freshly-cut wood fi
lled the place, and Conan could see that these people had not been living in this place for long. He followed Siggeir to a stable built against the stone wall and there left his borrowed mount for the boys to groom and care for. As they left the stable he examined the wall. Even in the dim light he could see that it was ancient, built of huge stones, and heavily grown with lichens.
"Who built this?" he asked.
Siggeir looked uncomfortable and made a sign with one hand. "Giants' work from ancient times. I like it not. Come, let us go eat and find some decent ale."
As they walked back to the hall Conan saw the bodies being taken from the horses. There was some muffled sobbing, but northern women did not mourn their dead with the extravagant, screeching lamentations favored in the South. It was well, he reflected, that if was still early enough in the winter for gravedigging. Soon the ground would freeze solid, and corpses would have to be kept in a shed until spring.
Inside, the hall was far more ornate than its exterior suggested. New though the hall was, artisans had already carved much of the visible wood with fanciful designs; patterns of interlace, deeds of heroes, strange beasts were everywhere abundant, most of them stained with crude but bright vegetable dyes. Horns of stag and elk and other creatures adorned the beams overhead, and hangings covered the walls, brightening the interior while they kept drafts at bay. The floor was paved with fiat stones and strewn with rushes. In its center massive logs blazed and crackled upon a huge hearth. Near the fanes meats turned on spits.
Conan's mouth watered from the smell of roasting meats as his eyes watered from the smoke. Long benches had been set up, and tables were laid across trestles as he warriors divested themselves of armor and weapons. Siggeir showed Conan where he would sleep on the raw next to the wall. Above his sleeping-place were pegs whereon he could hang helm and swordbelt, shield, ad corselet, always to be kept ready against attack. He ta his spear in a rack near his sleeping-place. With his hdongings settled, Conan took his place at the bench. Ewery" man sat opposite his sleeping-place so there was any arguing over seating. Also, should they be Iced in the midst of their feasting, each man had his weapons close at hand. These people gave much thought a* ±e possibilities of hostile action.
The Conan Compendium Page 463
