Conan of Venarium Page 10

  Bat? Demon? Conan could not have said, nor did he much care. All he knew was that the thing was harming one of Nectan’s sheep. Stringing his bow was the matter of a moment. Letting fly took even less time. His arrow flew straight and true, and sank to the fletching in the flying thing’s flank.

  It sank to the netching—but the creature, apparently unharmed, kept right on flapping, trying to take off with the ewe it had chosen. Conan shot again. The second shaft struck within a palm’s breadth of the first, but had no more effect. No normal living thing could have withstood such wounds without woe.

  “Demon! Filthy, cursed demon from the darkest pits of hell!” cried Conan. He threw down his bow, snatched up a blazing brand from the fire, and ran not away from the thing but towards it, shouting his defiance of anything from this plane or any other that tried to steal what he had vowed to protect. It screamed, let go of the ewe, and flapped toward him.

  The foul stench of it almost knocked him off his feet. Reeling, he lashed out with Nectan’s staff. The silver at the base of that length of wood thudded against the creature’s ribs. Iron-tipped arrows had done Conan no good, but the demon shrieked in anguish at the touch of silver.

  “Ha!” cried Conan. He swung again, and again struck home. Suddenly, the demon wanted no more of this man-thing who dealt it such cruel blows. However hungry it might have been, no meal was worth the torment it took from silver. Screaming now in fright, it turned to flee.

  But Conan struck again, this time with the burning branch he bore in his left hand. He let out a great bull roar of triumph, for the demon caught fire and burned like a torch. It flew off, still screaming and still burning. Somewhere up above the woods, it could fly no more, and plunged to earth. Conan thought he heard a hiss arise when it slammed into the snow, a hiss like that when his father plunged hot iron into a tempering bath. He might have been wrong, but he believed as much until the end of his days.

  Having driven off the demon, he hurried to the sheep it had tried to steal. He tended the cuts and bites as best he could, pouring ale from his drinking flask over them to try to keep the wounds from going bad. The ewe repaid his kindness by kicking him just below the knee. The sheep’s thick coat of winter wool had likely gone a long way toward saving its life by shielding it from some of the damage the flying demon’s teeth and talons might otherwise have worked.

  When Nectan returned not long before sunset, he saw at once the blood on the ewe’s flanks. “By Crom, Conan, did you fall asleep here?” he demanded angrily. “I’ll thump you with my staff if you did.”

  “By Babd, Morrigan, Macha, and Nemain, I did not!” exclaimed Conan, and told the tale of the fight with the demon.

  Nectan listened without a word. Then he went to the ewe and stooped to examine its injuries. When he straightened, his face was troubled. “Those are not the marks of wolf or panther, nor yet of any eagle,” he said slowly. “Perhaps you speak truth, where I thought you lied.”

  “I do,” said Conan. “It most misliked the silver at the end of your staff.”

  “Silver and fire are sovereign against demons, or so I’ve heard.” Nectan shook his head in wonder. “I own I never thought to put it to the test.”

  chapter vi

  THE HUNTERS

  Spring came late to Cimmeria, especially to one used to the warmer clime of Aquilonia. Indeed, to Count Stercus what the calendar called spring hardly seemed worthy of the name. True, the sky was gray longer than it was black, where the opposite had held true through the seemingly unending winter. True also, the snow at last stopped falling and then, with even more reluctance, began to melt.

  But there was no great burgeoning of life, as there would have been farther south. The trees did not burst into bright green leaf. They were evergreens, and had kept such gloomy color as they originally owned all through the winter, though snow had hidden much of it. Little by little, fresh grass did begin to poke up through the dead and yellow growth of the previous year, but the process was so gradual that days went by without much perceptible change. And birdsongs other than owls’ hoots, hunting hawks’ harsh cries, and the croaking and chirring calls of grouse and ptarmigan started to sweeten the air.

  Birdsongs, however, left Stercus cold. Almost everything that had to do with Cimmeria left Stercus cold. He had written at least a score of letters to King Numedides and to everyone else in Tarantia who might have had influence with the King of Aquilonia, all of them requesting, pleading—begging—that he be recalled to a civilized country once more.

  Every one of those letters had fallen on deaf ears. Oh, through one of his secretaries Numedides had replied, but only to say that, as Stercus had done such a fine job in the north up to this time, who better to continue to oversee the growth of the Aquilonian settlements there? Count Stercus would not soon see civilization again.

  For a little while longer, his sport with Ugaine sufficed to amuse him, to distract him. But the Cimmerian girl was not exactly what he wanted, and for Stercus anything that was not exactly what he wanted soon became something he wanted not at all. When he tired of Ugaine, he sent her back to her home village, though she protested he did her no favors by returning her.

  In that, she was mistaken. Fortunately for her, she did not know and never learned how mistaken she was. There were reasons, good reasons, why Stercus had been sent beyond the Aquilonian frontier, why he was unlikely ever to be welcome in Tarantia or even some provincial town of Aquilonia ever again. It was not least because he still so vividly recalled the reasons for his exile that the nobleman had sent Ugaine to Rosinish instead of adding further to his remarkable reputation. Then, too, the girl was already too old to be altogether satisfying or satisfactory.

  After he banished her from Venarium, he spent some little while brooding: even if she was not exactly what he had had in mind, had she not come close enough? By the time he began to wonder, it was too late for such worries anyhow, since he had already sent her away. And, in any case, he decided he had been right all along. He wanted what he wanted, no less. Some imperfect substitute simply was not good enough.

  Having sent Ugaine back to barbarism, Stercus tried throwing himself into the administration of the lands his soldiers had seized from the Cimmerians. For a few weeks, a stream of directives flew from his pen to the garrison commanders in the conquered territory and to the leaders of the colonists. Then that burst of activity also slackened. The colonists were busy turning their new farms and settlements into going concerns. The officers knew enough to keep their men alert and well fed and healthy without Stercus’ telling them to do so. Some of them sent back letters saying as much in very blunt terms.

  Count Stercus was no trained, professional soldier, though like any Aquilonian noble he was expected to know enough of the military art to help defend the kingdom in case of invasion. Trained or not, however, he was King Numedides’ chosen commander in this gods-forsaken part of the world, however little that delighted him. If he chose to ride forth on an inspection tour to investigate whether the garrison commanders were doing all they said they were to keep the countryside safe, who could gainsay him? No one.

  And if, on that tour, he chose to inspect and investigate certain other matters, certain more personal matters—again, who could gainsay him? Again, no one. No one at all.

  Granth son of Biemur was taking his turn at sentry-go at the Aquilonian encampment outside of Duthil. Everything there was quiet, which suited him down to the ground. If the barbarians got used to the idea that they had been beaten, they were less likely to shoot a man from ambush or sneak up behind him and slit his throat.

  Also, the weather was such that Granth found standing sentry no hardship, as he had during the long, hard winter. The sunshine that poured down on him was watery, but it was sunshine nonetheless: here in Cimmeria, something to be cherished. He tilted his helm back on his head to bask in it as best he could.

  “You think you’ll be handsome when you’re tan?” said Vulth. “I’m here to tell you, fo
rget about that. You’ll just be ugly and tan.”

  Granth glowered at his cousin. “You mean, like you?”

  After that, it was Vulth’s turn to scowl. The two Bossonian bowmen with whom they shared the watch snickered. Benno said, “We haven’t fought the Cimmerians for a while, so you two want to have a go at each other.”

  Before Granth could come up with something suitably crushing—with luck, something that insulted both Benno and Vulth, and maybe Daverio as well—the sound of hoofbeats distracted him. A horseman emerged from the woods to the south and trotted toward the encampment. The horse was a big Aquilonian destrier, not one of the shaggy local ponies that often seemed too small for their big-boned Cimmerian riders.

  Eyeing the charger made him slow to give heed to the man aboard it. When he did, he frantically stiffened to attention. “Heads up, you dogs!” he hissed to his cousin and the Bossonians. “That’s Count Stercus, or I’m a black Kushite!”

  Vulth and the bowmen almost did themselves an injury by straightening up while at the same time pretending they had never slouched. Count Stercus’ pale, nearly handsome face was unreadable as he reined in. But he did not call the pikemen and archers to account. Instead, pointing toward the Cimmerian village ahead, he asked, “That is the place called Duthil, is it not so?”

  Vulth was the senior sentry. “Yes, your Grace, it is,” he replied, looking as if he wished someone else could speak for him.

  That Stercus’ eyes were set too close together only made his stare the more piercing. Granth felt glad all the way down to his boots that that stare was not aimed at him. Vulth had done nothing wrong, and had spoken with all respect due Stercus’ rank. Even so, Stercus seemed to be sharpening knives for Granth’s cousin in his mind.

  Yet the Aquilonian nobleman’s words were mild enough: “Be so good as to let your commander know I am riding into that village. I aim to know in full the lands we have taken for King Numedides, and everyone in them.” The way he said “everyone” made Granth want to hide. Stercus continued, “If by some mischance I do not ride out of Duthil, avenge me in full upon the barbarians.” He urged his horse forward. Saddle trappings clinking and clattering, it trotted on toward the Cimmerian village.

  “Mitra!” exploded Vulth once Stercus had ridden out of earshot. “He chills the marrow in your bones.”

  “As long as he chills the Cimmerians worse,” said Granth.

  “Ah, no.” Daverio slyly shook his head. “He wants to warm the Cimmerians up. Or do you forget the native wench he had for himself down at Fort Venarium?”

  “I remember her,” said Granth. “She was no wench, only a chit of a girl. And he did not let her wear enough in the way of clothes to stay warm.”

  The Bossonian shook his head again and laughed. “Are you really so young and innocent? There is warm, and then there is warm.” He stuck his elbow in Granth’s ribs and leered. “You know what I mean, eh?”

  “I know what you mean,” growled Granth. “And I know if you poke me again, I’ll wrap your damned bowstring around your neck.”

  “I’m not afraid,” said Daverio, bristling.

  “Enough, both of you,” said Vulth. “You don’t want to quarrel while Stercus is around. If he catches you at it, he’ll string you up by the thumbs and roast you over a slow fire—and that’s if he doesn’t decide to do something really juicy instead.”

  Granth watched the Aquilonian commander ride into Duthil. He breathed a sigh of relief when the first Cimmerian huts hid Count Stercus from view. If he could not see Stercus, Stercus could not see him, either. He wished the commander were back in Fort Venarium, but simply having him out of sight would do for now.

  Conan ran like the wind after the ball, his mane of coal-black hair streaming out behind him. The ball was stuffed with rags and covered with scraps of old leather begged or stolen from here and there and then erratically stitched together by the boys of Duthil. If they wanted to play games, they had to make their own arrangements. They had to—and they did.

  Another lad kicked the ball up the street just before Conan got to it. Conan lowered his shoulder and knocked the other boy sprawling in the mud. The boy was on his feet and running again a heartbeat later. If he could pay Conan back, he would. Conan’s clothes were already muddy, but not so muddy as those of the other boys in the game. With his size and strength and speed, it usually took at least two of them to knock him down.

  He effortlessly outsped the boy he had flattened. Girls and women and a few men stood in doorways, watching the sport. Sometimes the men would rush into the game, too. Then it would get very rough. Conan waved to Tarla as he sprinted past Balarg’s house. He thought she waved back—oh, how he hoped she waved back—but she blurred past before he could be sure.

  Two boys between him and the ball. Instead of going after it himself, the closer boy tried to block Conan. Conan might have feinted one way and dodged the other. He might simply have slipped past. Instead, without breaking stride, he smashed into the other boy chest to chest. With a startled yelp of dismay, his foe went flying. Conan ran on.

  “Oh, nicely done!” called someone from behind him. Was that Tarla’s voice? He thought so. He hoped so. But he did not look back. Instead, he ran harder than ever.

  He bore down on the ball with such ferocity that the last boy who was nearer to it dove out of the way to keep from being trampled. Conan guided the ball forward with the side of his foot. One more boy stood between him and the goal, which was no more than the space between two rocks plopped down in the mud of the street. The boy set himself, but his face said he had no hope of stopping the hurtling missile that would momentarily fly his way.

  And yet the goal was never scored. In the same instant as Conan drew back his foot for the last kick, a rider on horseback trotted into Duthil: a rider on a horse so astonishing, the blacksmith’s son skidded to a stop and simply stared, all but unable to believe his eyes.

  Horses in Cimmeria were few and far between. This great snorting monster was almost man-high at the shoulder, which put its rider high as a god above the ground. That rider stared down at Conan from an elevation even his tall father had been unable to match since the boy was much younger.

  The Aquilonian horseman had a long, pale, big-nosed face with a receding chin partly concealed by a thin fringe of beard and with eyes set too close together. When he spoke, he startled Conan by using Cimmerian: “Get out of my way, boy.”

  He urged the horse forward. Conan’s surprise and that huge beast bearing down on him made him jump aside. Had he not, the Aquilonian would have ridden him down. He was as sure of that as of his own name. Even so, shame at giving way brought fire to his cheeks. He hurried after the rider—the knight, Aquilonians called such armored horsemen—and spoke in the invaders’ language: “Who are you? What you do here?”

  Hearing Aquilonian made the man on horseback rein in. He gave Conan a second glance—gave him, in fact, what was almost a first glance, for he had paid him little heed up until then. “I am Count Stercus, commander of all the Aquilonians in Cimmeria, and I have come to see how the village of Duthil prospers under the rule of the great and good King Numedides,” he answered, and paused to find out whether Conan understood. Conan did—well enough, anyhow. Seeing as much, Stercus asked, “And who are you, and how did you learn this speech?”

  “Conan, son of Mordec the blacksmith.” To Conan, his father’s trade was at least as important as Stercus’ noble blood. With a shrug, he went on, “How I learn? I hear, I listen, I talk. How you learn Cimmerian?”

  A civilized man, even a civilized boy, would have known better than to challenge thus the leader of the host that had subjected his folk, but Conan was familiar with only the rude frankness of the barbarian. And his candor seemed to amuse Count Stercus, whose smile illuminated every part of his face but those dark, fathomless eyes. “How do I learn?” he echoed in Cimmerian considerably more fluent than Conan’s all but grammarless Aquilonian. “I also hear and listen and speak. And I hav
e had most excellent, most lovely, most charming teachers. You may be sure of that.”

  Although Conan was anything but sure of precisely what Stercus meant, he did get the feeling hidden meanings lurked in the Aquilonian’s words. That in itself was plenty to rouse his easily kindled temper: why could the man not come straight out and say whatever was in his mind? Roughly, Conan asked, “When are you people going to leave Cimmeria? This not your country.”

  Again, that was forthrightness no civilized man would have shown. Again, it but amused Stercus, who threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Leave, boy? We shall never leave. I told you, this is King Numedides’ land now.”

  He rode down the street; his horse’s hooves, almost as big as dinner plates, clopped and squelched through the mud. Conan spied a fist-sized stone near a house. He could take it and hurl it and perhaps lay even an armored man low with it—but what if he did? The soldiers in the encampment outside of Duthil would wreak a fearful vengeance, and his own people lacked the warriors to hope to withstand them. Hate smoldering in his heart, Conan followed Stercus.

  The Aquilonian continued along the street at a slow walk, an expression of disdain on his face. None of the other boys who had been kicking the ball dared impede him, even for a moment. Conan stayed close to Stercus until the knight reined in once more, in front of the home of Balarg the weaver.

  He bowed in the saddle there, something Conan had not only never seen but never imagined. “Hello, my pretty,” he murmured in Cimmerian suddenly sweet as honey. “What is your name?”

  “Tarla,” answered the girl still standing in the doorway. She stared at the horse, too, and stared even more at the man atop it.

  “Tarla,” repeated Count Stercus. In his mouth, it might have been a caress. “What a lovely name.”