The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  We heard of this place across the mountains where a man can be at ease, whatever his past. I do not care for towns, but winter comes on apace, and even a bandit must have shelter.”

  “I am Conan of Cimmeria,” said the black-haired man. “I am a mercenary, lately in the employ of a Brythunian border lord. He raised a rebellion against his liege and he lost.” He put out a hand and took that of the Hyrkanian.

  “Ah! That sort of thing can make a man unwelcome.” Kye-Dee shifted his shoulder, readjusting the hang of a cased bow and quiver. The sword at his belt was short and curved.

  “So it did,” the Cimmerian affirmed. “Such of my comrades as survived were hunted through the hills like so many stags. It was in a hill village that I heard of this place. As you say, winter draws nigh and these mountains are not a good place to be when the north wind blows, unless you have walls and a roof and a fire nearby.”

  Near the walls of the city they encountered animal pens roughly constructed of sticks and brush enclosing flocks of sheep, tittle herds of goats, cattle and pigs. Elsewhere, peasants in tunics of hairy hide guarded wicker cages overcrowded with chickens, ducks and geese.

  “The local folk are taking advantage of the new population,” Conan said. “Men who never saw more than a few copper coins in their lives will be demanding silver and gold for those animals.”

  “Peasants always flock to the smell of profit,” said Kye-Dee. He spat copiously upon the ground.

  “You should see them come out of their hiding places after a battle, to strip and rob the dead.”

  “I’ve seen it many times,” Conan said grimly, “Only, they do not always wait patiently for men to die.

  They slaughter the wounded. If a man has no strength left to resist, they may not bother to kill him, but will cut off his fingers to get the rings, or his hand to take a bracelet, while he yet lives.”

  “They are two-legged swine!” said one of the other Hyrkanians.

  Conan shrugged. “Well, they’ve little reason to love soldiers any more than we love them.” He eyed his new companions, many of whom limped as if their feet were sore. “I have seldom seen men of your nation afoot.” The Hyrkanians were a nomadic race of horsemen who were horrified at the thought of walking.

  Kye-Dee smiled sheepishly. “We were set upon by the Kagan’s men a few days ago as we slept They got all our horses, but those of us you see escaped into the darkness. They did not bother to hunt us, since they assumed that we would die soon without our mounts.”

  “I, too, was riding until a few days ago,” Conan admitted. “A robber tried to slay me from a distance. He was a wretched archer and he missed me, but his arrow killed my horse. I killed him, then I cached my saddle, but I doubt I’ll ever return to get it”

  They passed beneath the gateless lintel and entered the town of Leng. The low, mud-colored walls of the houses were of a dreary sameness, but the people in the streets were a raffish lot seemingly drawn from half the nations and races of the world. There were men in long, striped desert robes, flowing Nemedian silks, and even a few in the tight, elaborate clothing of Aquilonian dandies. Conan saw hard-looking traveling merchants and men who were obvious deserters from the armies of surrounding lands. There were women in the dress of Zamoran harlots, and other, less fortunate woman destined for the same trade, wearing the chains of slaves.

  “A strange place,” Conan mused. “It is a ghost town sprung to life.”

  “My friend!” Kye-Dee said, addressing a well-armed merchant who stood guard over a stall offering unguents, medicinal salves and remedies for man and horse. “Where may weary travelers find refreshment and a roof, and all of it somewhere out of this accursed wind?”

  “I think men such as you will be served best at the Red Eagle,” said the man, pointing toward one of the towerlike bouses. One side of the structure had been painted with the huge, crude image of a splay-winged bird, its beak cruelly hooked.

  “Why men such as we?” Conan asked.

  The merchant grinned crookedly. “Because it is the favored hangout for rogues and bandits. True, there are few men of any other sort in this town, but the hardest cases go to the Red Eagle. Achilea herself holds forth there of a night.”

  “Achilea!” Conan said, astonished. “Surely she is a thing of travelers’ tales, not a real woman!”

  “Oh, she is real,” Kye-Dee affirmed. “I saw her myself once, from a distance. Men say she is very beautiful, and very cruel.”

  “This I must see for myself,” Conan said. “Let us go to the Red Eagle.”

  As they walked, the Cimmerian called to mind the scattered words he had heard concerning the near-legendary Achilea. It was said that far in the northeast steppe country, there dwelt a tribe of savage women, every one of them a warrior, who would tolerate no men or male children among them.

  Infrequently, they would take male captives with whom they coupled for the space of a month, then slew in a horrific ceremony. Any male children born of these unions were given to passing caravans or, some said, were slain. Girls were brought up as warriors.

  Once, it was said, the queen of these fearsome women was a woman named Achilea. She had been the terror of all the lands around, but her people had turned against her and she was overthrown by a rival. Why this had happened was a mystery, but she had ridden off with a few followers and had become an outlaw, raiding caravans, villages and even towns, all over the steppes and well into the settled lands. For years, Conan had assumed that she was one of those legends one encountered everywhere: always some bizarre, fearsome character whom no one had actually seen, though everyone had known somebody who had seen him. Or, in this case, her.

  As they drew nearer to the tall building, the gathering darkness revealed lights glowing in many of its small windows. There was sufficient twilight left to see that it had been covered with an improvised roof of thatch. A well and several water-troughs stood before the building, and a number of bones, mules, asses and camels drank there or stood chewing their cud or nudging one another in lethargic boredom.

  Conan and his new companions ducked beneath the low lintel of the door and entered. They descended four steps and stood in the main room of the inn. Its heavy timbers were low enough to brush the crown of the tall Cimmerian’s black mane, and candles, small torches and lanterns provided adequate illumination. The furnishings were of the most varied son. There were some long tables with benches, smaller road or square tables surrounded by chairs, and low, drum-like tables for those who preferred to sit upon the straw-covered floor.

  At one end of the room was a bar made of a heavy stone slab laid atop massive blocks. Behind it stood a man a little less massive, with tree-trunk arms and legs and a belly that strained the limits of his leather apron. His shaven pate was tattooed with brightly colored flowers, and an upswept mustache framed a broken nose gleaming with jeweled studs. Behind him, kegs, wineskins and clay pots were arranged on shelves amid flagons, clay cups and leather jacks.

  The place was crowded, with men seated around every table. Dice raided in cups, and the counters of a half-score games of chance changed hands along with the wagers. To one side, men cast daggers at a crude wooden target. The drinkers seated just beneath the target ignored the weapons whizzing over their heads.

  Most of the men paused in their activities to study the newcomers and then, satisfied, returned to their pursuits. At least one, though, seemed to be offended by Conan’s garb, which was uncouth and primitive even by the undiscriminating standards of the Red Eagle. As they passed a long table, the man leaned out and made an insulting show of studying the Cimmerian’s scanty hide garments.

  “Here’s a savage right out of the trees!” the fellow said loudly, “What will you be allowing in here next, barkeep? The goats and the asses?” He sneered, making his ugly face even uglier. His scrubby beard failed to hide the mark of the thief branded upon one cheek by a Zamoran executioner.

  “So he have money to pay, he can walk in here naked for all I care,”
said the man in the leather apron.

  Conan paused and turned to face the branded man. “If you do not like my look,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “then you may try to change it.” He leaned close, until his face was within an inch of the other man’s. “That is the brand of a thief I see on your face. When the Zamorans had you, they did not bother to treat you as a manslayer.” The blue eyes burned like sulphur flames.

  The man paled. Before, he had seen only the barbarous clothing. Now he saw the sort of man who

  wore it. “I … I’ll not sully my blade with the blood of a savage,” he blustered.

  “You can use mine,” Kye-Dee said helpfully. He started to unhook his sheath from his belt.

  “Enough, Arpad!” barked the barkeep. “You should know better than to prod a fighting man like this one. Put your nose back into your tankard where it belongs and stop bothering my customers.” The gigantic man picked up a massive cudgel and rapped its iron-banded business end upon the bar for emphasis.

  With a weak show of bravado, the man sneered again. “This beast-man is nothing to me, Indulio. I’ll not bother to shed his blood if it would offend you.” He returned his attention to his ale, but his face was flushed with shame. The Cimmerian stood beside him for a moment, smiling, then continued on his way to the bar.

  “We are hungry, thirsty and weary,” said the Hyrkanian. “I can see that you have drink. Have you food and lodging as well?”

  “That depends,” said the barkeep. “Have you money?”

  The Cimmerian and his new companions rummaged through their purses and soon a small pile of copper and silver lay upon the bar. The man named Indulio beamed.

  “For this, you may eat, drink and sleep here for three days and nights.” With one broad paw, he swept the coins off the bar and caught them with the other. He dropped the handful of metal through a slot in an iron-bound chest that lay by his feet “After that, you must come up with more.”

  “Where do we sleep?” Conan asked.

  The man’s thick finger stabbed straight overhead. “There is as yet no one using the fifth floor. Mind you be careful with your candles and lamps. There is nothing but thatch above that The food is preparing now and will be ready soon. What will you drink?”

  “Ale,” Conan said. The Hyrkanians, learning that there was no fermented mare’s milk available, settled for ale as well.

  Indulio set the foaming mugs before them. “I’ve told you to be careful of your fires. There is to be no fighting inside my tavern, and you are to keep your hands off my serving wenches. Otherwise, do as you like.”

  “I’ll abide by the rules of the house,” Conan averred. “But that man back there tried me sorely.

  When I was younger, I would have split his skull before the third word left his mouth. But I am a man of patience and discretion now.”

  “I’ve no objection to men killing one another,” said the barkeep. “But they must do it outside.”

  Conan, Kye-Dee and the others found a relatively un-crowded comer and sat upon the straw, tankards in hand. A slave brought one of the low tables from a back room and set it in their midst. Soon a woman whose neck was encircled by an iron ring set a platter of smoking beef ribs upon the table.

  Another brought cheese, fruit and a stack of flat, tough loaves. All over the common room, hungry men interrupted their games and their boasting to feed.

  As he ate, Conan was aware that the man called Arpad was casting dark looks his way. It was obvious that his companions, men as villainous-looking as Arpad himself, were chafing him for his unmanly avoidance of a fight he had picked. The Cimmerian did not lower his eyes. He decided that he would have to kill the man before the night was over. Sooner or later, Arpad would drink enough to reissue his challenge. The prospect did not disturb Conan.

  As the tankards were refilled, Indulio left the bar in the keeping of one of the serving women and joined his newest guests at their table.

  “You seem to have come far, my friends,” he said, settling his great bulk onto the straw.

  “Aye, that we have,” said Conan. He and his companions related their brief, unfortunate stories.

  “How comes this town to be so popular of a sudden?” the Cimmerian asked when they were done.

  The innkeeper stroked his mustache with satisfaction. “You are not the only ones to fall upon hard times. For me first time in perhaps fifty years, Nemedia, Ophir, Koth, Corinthia and Zamora are all at peace. The kings are taking advantage of the fact by scouring their countries for bandits. What is more,

  they are all cooperating in this, so that outlaws cannot merely cross a border to be safe. A half-year ago, I saw the possibilities thus engendered and I remembered this town, which I had seen years ago when I was on the run from Zamora to Brythunia. Even the king of Brythunia cares nothing for these border hills, so I passed the word that there was a safe hideout: a town fully built but almost uninhabited, where men can wait until things return to normal. Then I loaded up a wagon train with goods and came here to claim the best building in the town for my inn.

  “After that, it was merely a matter of putting a roof on this place and waiting. Within a few days, twoscore men arrived, hi a month, a hundred more came. Now the town is almost fully populated.” He beamed with satisfaction.

  “What do men do when they can no longer pay for lodging?” Conan asked.

  They move into the many vacant houses, most of which just need a roof. The peasants will fetch you roofing materials for a trifle. The peasants, by the way, arc to be left strictly alone. Steal so much as one of their goats and they will run off with their livestock and we shall all starve.”

  “A good rule,” Conan said. “I, for one, never―” He broke off as the door opened and a bizarre group entered the tavern.

  First to come in was a squat dwarf who bore a fresh-killed antelope over his shoulders. His short arms and legs were thick with muscle, his torso as massive as a beer keg. His head was larger than an ordinary man’s, his features regular and handsome, but marred by a ring through his nose. Behind him came three armed women who carried bows. Hares and pheasants dangled from their belts. Each wore a stripe of black paint across her eyes like a mask. They wore short, sleeveless tunics and deerskin leggings and many small amulets. Their hair was shaggy and untrimmed. They looked more like hunting animals than ordinary women. But the last figure through the door made Conan forget them and all else in the room.

  She wore a lavish cloak trimmed with fur and collared with bright plumes. A great yellow mane framed a handsome face of hard planes softened by a pair of enormous, pale gray eyes and startlingly full lips stained brilliant red. Wind and sun had darkened her face except for some old, white scars. One scar slanted from the side of her nose across a broad, high cheekbone to the jaw. A smaller, vertical scar lay to one side of her chin.

  When she stood beneath one of the beams, Conan understood how tall she was. He looked down to see if she were wearing thick-soled boots and noted to his amazement that beneath leggings of gray fur that wrapped her lower legs from knee to ankle, her feet were bare. She stood only an inch or two shorter than himself. As she strode across the room, he was struck with admiration. He had seen crowned queens who carried themselves less regally.

  “Indulio!” the woman called as the dwarf heaved the antelope onto the bar. “Prepare these for us.”

  The women dropped the smaller game onto the bar and wandered off toward the high-blazing fireplace.

  “At once, Achilea,” the owner said, springing lightly to his feet for all his great bulk. “They hum their own food,” he explained to Conan, “and my servants prepare it for them. In return, I keep the hides and plumes,” Shouting orders to his workers, he left the table, Achilea pulled off a pair of brightly embroidered gloves, revealing broad hands with heavy knuckles.

  Conan knew that hard sword-training from earliest youth produced such hands. From a shelf behind the bar, Indulio took a silver-mounted ox horn and filled it with ale. This he ha
nded ceremoniously to Achilea. She took it and half-drained it, then went to the fire to join her companions. The men seated there hastily vacated their bench to make room for her and her entourage. From the bench, she surveyed the room for the first time. Her eyes lingered upon Conan for a moment, then swept on. He felt a rush of blood from his heart to his extremities, and he hungered for the woman as he had hungered for few things in all his years,

  “What kind of men are you?” shouted an unsteady voice. Conan knew that Arpad was feeling brave again. The man stood and jeered at the woman and her followers. “What sort of men make way for a shameless wench, eh? You think this hussy is the warrior queen she claims to be?” He vented forth a

  shrill, neighing laugh. “This is just some northern strumpet pretending to be a bandit who never existed.”

  Conan could sec that Arpad had finally drunk enough to be dangerous He watched the woman’s reaction with interest. The dwarf and the other women reached for their weapons, but Achilea stilled them with a gesture. She drained her drinking horn and tossed it to the dwarf, who caught it dexterously.

  Then she stood to her full, intimidating height,

  “What do you want with me. fellow?” she asked. Her voice was a low, vibrant contralto. Conan found even this exciting.

  “Want?” Again Arpad laughed. “Why, I want what every man here wants, wench! To make free with that oversized body of yours! What is your price?” He fumbled within his purse and came up with three coppers. These he tossed at her feet. “Surely you cannot charge more than that!”

  For a moment, she looked down at the coins. Then she looked at Arpad. “Our host does not like bloodshed in his tavern.” She rapped her knuckles against a beam just above her tousled locks. “The ceiling here is too low for good swordplay anyway. Come outside to die.” With that, she walked toward the door and her friends followed close behind.

  Immediately the room began to empty as the patrons, eager to view this rare sport, poured out.