Conan the Swordsman

by L. Sprague De Camp

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  1 • The Owl that Cried by Day

  The forest was strangely silent. Wind whispered through the jade-green leaves of spring, but no sound came from the beasts and birds who dwelt within these verdant solitudes. It was as if the forest, with its thousand eyes and ears, sensed the presence of an intruder.

  Then through the aisles of giant oaks came the rustling of armed men on the move—the tramp of feet, the muted jingle of metal armament, the murmur of voices.

  Suddenly the leaves parted and a burnished giant of a man entered a clearing. He was armed as if for war; a plain steel helm covered his mane of coarse black hair; and his deep chest and knotted arms were protected by a hauberk of chain mail. The dented helm framed a dark, scarred face bronzed by strange suns, wherein blazed eyes of smouldering volcanic blue.

  He did not tramp along, but glided from bush to bush, now and again stopping to peer, to listen, and to sniff the air. He had about him the tense and wary look of one who expects an ambush. Soon a second man appeared behind the first—a well-built, blond young man of medium height, wearing the war harness of a lieutenant in the Golden Lions, a regiment in the Frontier Guard of Numedides, King of Aquilonia.

  The difference between the two was striking. The black-maned giant, obviously a Cimmerian from the savage wildernesses to the north, was vigilant but at ease; the younger officer, starting at every sound and swatting the myriad flies, appeared clumsy and nervous. He addressed the older man with deference:

  "Captain Conan, Captain Arno asks if all is well forward of our position. He waits your signal to advance the troops."

  Conan grunted, saying nothing. The lieutenant glanced uneasily about the glade. "It seems quiet enough to me," he added.

  Conan shrugged. "Too quiet for my taste. These woods at midday should be alive with birdsong and the chattering of squirrels. But it's as silent hereabouts as any graveyard."

  "Mayhap the presence of our troops has affrighted the forest creatures," suggested the Aquilonian.

  "Or," said Conan, "mayhap the presence of a Pictish force, though as yet I have seen no certain sign. They may be here, or they may not. Tell me, Flavius, have any of our scouts returned?"

  "Not yet, sir," said the young lieutenant. "But the scouts sent out by General Lucian report no Picts are in the forest."

  Conan bared his fangs in a mirthless wolfs grin. "Aye, the General's scouts swear there's not a living Pict in all of Conajohara, that I know. They conclude the painted devils anticipate our strike in force and have withdrawn. But ..."

  "You distrust the scouts, Captain?"

  Conan glanced briefly at the lieutenant. "I know them not Nor whence Lucian brought them, nor how trustworthy their opinions may be. I'd trust the word of my own scouts—the men I had before Fort Tuscelan fell."

  Flavius blinked, incredulous. "Do you suspect Viscount Lucian of wishing us ill?"

  Conan's face became a mask as, slit-eyed, he studied his companion. "I've said naught to that effect. But I've seen enough of this world to trust few men. Go, tell Captain Arno.... Wait, here comes one of Lucian's vagabonds."

  A lean man, with a brown skin seamed by a hundred small wrinkles, stepped from behind the trunk of a huge oak—an oak that was already old when the Picts ruled all the Westermarck. The man was clad in buckskin and bore a bow and hunting falchion.

  "Well?" said Conan in lieu of other greeting.

  "Not a sign of a Pict the whole length of South Creek," said the scout.

  "Who is on our flanks?"

  The scout repeated several names. "No Picts anywhere. There's the creek ahead of you," he said, pointing.

  "That I know," said Conan, dryly.

  As Flavius, peering through the massive tree trunks, discovered a glimmer of silver in the middle distance, the scout faded back into the forest.

  The sounds of moving men grew louder as the head of the column appeared on the trail behind them. Of the hundred-odd Aquilonian soldiers, who traveled in ones and twos along the narrow trail, half were pike-men and half archers. The pikemen, mostly stocky, tawny-haired Gundermen, wore helmets and mail shirts. The archers, mainly Bossonians, walked un-armored save for hauberks of leather studded with bronzen rings or buttons, and here and there, a light steel cap. Arno, it seemed, had wearied of waiting.

  A stocky, brown-haired officer hurried up to Conan, sweat running down his round, red face. The new arrival pushed back his helmet and said:

  "Captain Conan, my pig-stickers begin to tire. They need a short rest"

  "They find this a hard march? Ha! They need hardening, Arno, the way I've been hardening my archers. Let them rest for a moment. And go stop their loose tongues. If there's a Pict within a league, he'd know where and how many we are."

  Captain Arno slapped at a fly on his neck. "Few men have legs as long as yours, Conan, or tongues as short." He returned to his soldiers, shaking his head.

  " 'Reconnaisance in force,' forsooth!" growled Conan to Flavius. "Under these conditions, it invites disaster."

  'The general's orders were positive," said Flavius.

  "Aye, but that makes them no less foolish. To war with Picts, you need news before the fight and numbers during it. So you scatter your scouts to seek the size and position of the foe, then concentrate your troops to hit them hard."

  'That, sir, takes careful timing, does it not?"

  "Aye, that it does. If you miscalculate, you're dead. Timing, lad, is half the art of war—what Numedides' gilded generals call strategy. But sending two half-companies thus along the creek, with no force to back us up in case of trouble, when the Picts can bring together thousands. ;...."

  Conan's deepset blue eyes pierced the long aisles between the ancient trees, as if by staring hard he could penetrate the massive boles and see into the shadowy, hidden distances. He liked nothing about this expedition, which seemed to him foolhardy to the point of insanity. Soldiers long in the service of King Numedides never questioned their orders or the wisdom of their superiors. But Conan the Cimmerian was no common Aquilonian soldier, although for more than a year he had served as a mercenary here, fighting the country's wars for hire. He was beginning to regret his acceptance of a command in the Frontier Guard, although at the time it had seemed the wisest course. The sharing of command with Captain Arno partly accounted for his change of heart; but this blind expedition into an unknown and hostile wilderness irked him more. Every savage instinct in his primitive soul cried out in warning against so foolish a plan.

  "Well, time to move on," he growled. "Flavius, return to Arno and have him get his pikemen on their feet."

  Through the long morning, the troops with muted tread made their way over rocks and roots of trees along the trail to South Creek, the boundary of water that divided the province of Schohira from the lost Conajohara, now overrun by painted Picts.

  Returning up the line of marching men, Flavius rejoined Conan at the front and delivered his message: "Captain Arno will hold the pace you set until you signal otherwise."

  Conan nodded curtly, lips parted in a sour smile. "Praise be to Crom," he said.

  "For what?" asked Flavius.

  "For Arno's good sense to know that he knows not the frontier. So he takes my advice. In other circumstance, two commanders of one force would be an invitation to the gods of disaster."

  "General Lucian insisted there be two of you."

  "Still I like it not. Something stinks about this whole foray."

  As the trail approached the creek, Conan turned to the soldiers in the van. "Fill your water jugs and skins, all of you. Pass the word along, but whisper it."

  When the sun looked down from the center of the sky, the troop had covered another league along South Creek as it tumbled over its rocky bed in its haste to reach its junction with the Black River. Aside from the rippling of the water, the forest was as silent as a tomb.

  Suddenly a sound broke the quiet. It was the hoot of an owl. Conan whirled and dashed back toward the disorderly column of
marching men.

  "Form square for attack!" he roared. "Archers, hold your shots till you see your targets plain."

  Running after him, Flavius panted: "It was but an owl, Captain. There is no ..."

  "Whoever heard an owl at midday?" snarled Conan, as a chorus of yells from trees ahead half drowned his words.

  -

  2 • Death from the Trees

  Arno, too, shouted orders, and the snakelike column dissolved into a shapeless mass of men. Then in accordance with the maneuvers that Conan had drilled into them, the mass shook itself out into a hollow square. The perimeter bristled with the low-held points of fifty-odd pikemen, and behind each stood an archer, bow in hand and arrow nocked. The pikemen knelt on the soft, leaf-covered forest floor, their pikes butt to the ground, shafts slanting forward, points waist high.

  The wall of men had scarce been formed when a horde of painted savages erupted from the woods. Naked but for breech clouts and moccasins, and feathers in their tangled manes of knotted hair, the Picts charged the Aquilonians, shooting arrows as they came. Formidable they were, these swarthy, muscular men armed with copper-bladed hatchets and copper-headed spears. Some bore weapons of fine Aquilonian steel, stolen from the dead after the fall of Fort Tuscelan.

  "Mitral There must be thousands of them," breathed Flavius.

  "Go to yonder corner of the square," said Conan as he positioned himself at the corner to the right. Arno and Arno's lieutenant occupied the remaining corners, facing outward toward the fast-surrounding hordes.

  Several Picts fell before the withering rain of Bossonian arrows. Then the Picts were upon them. Some,. in their warlike fury, impaled themselves on the points of the pikes. Others danced beyond the spears, yelling war cries and brandishing weapons. A few dropped to the ground and tried to roll beneath the jagged line of spears; but these were soon dispatched.

  Defending his corner of the square, Conan whirled his heavy broadsword, lopping off a head here, an arm there. The archers, with the relentless rhythm of automatons, nocked arrows and loosed them into the surging mass. Pict after Pict fell screaming, trying to draw a shaft from his chest or writhing in his death throes. Blood flowed unchecked across last winter's leaves and soaked into the thick humus of the forest floor. The motionless air drank in the stench of blood and sweat and fear.

  The screech of a bone whistle cut through the roar of battle. Pictish chiefs ran among the battle-crazed savages, pulling them back and shouting unintelligible commands. The frenzied tribesmen were not readily commanded; but at last they turned their backs on the foe. Trotting down the forest aisle, limping or hobbling away, or staggering beneath the weight of wounded comrades, they faded into the budding branches and were gone.

  Around the armored square lay more than two-score dead and wounded Picts, some moaning, others feebly trying to crawl to safety. Conan wiped the blood and sweat from his face and turned to confront his soldiers, who stood expectantly beside the fallen members of the company.

  "You! And you!" barked Conan, indicating two of the pikemen. "Fall out and dispatch me those dogs who still move. If it's a Pict, spear it; they are good at shamming dead. The rest of you, keep your places. Throw our dead out of the square. Tend our wounded."

  Conan designated three archers to leave the square to gather up the spent arrows lying on the ground or sunk in Pictish flesh. Arno asked:

  "Why have the savages quit when they outnumbered us ten to one?"

  "Crom only knows. They've probably withdrawn to plan some other devilment. Don't break formation yet."

  A gentle breeze carried the sound of a drum and a rattle shaken by a swarthy hand. The Aquilonians sighed in relief, wiped sweat from their faces, and drank deeply from their water jugs and skins. When some doffed helmets and mailshirts, Conan roared:

  "Put back your harness, dolts! How think you we slew so many more than we, ourselves, have lost?"

  In the airless afternoon, flies swarmed around the bodies of the fallen, forming black clusters on the bloody wounds; and the drumming and raiding of the savages droned on. The four officers gathered apart from the square of restless, weary men to confer in lowered voices. Conan said:

  "I heard they have a new wizard, Sagayetha, nephew of old Zogar Zag. Methinks that racket means he's there among them directing the next attack."

  "Beware, Conan!" hissed Arno. "If the men suspect there's sorcery afoot ..."

  "Anyone who wars with Picts fights sorcery," said Conan. " 'Tis the natural condition of the frontier. They cannot stand against good Aquilonian steel, the steel that plucked the Westermarck out of Pictish hands. So they turn to their black devil-magic to even up the odds."

  "What mean you, plucked'?" said Arno with indignation. "The land was bought from them, piece by piece, by legal treaties bearing royal seals."

  Conan snorted: "I know those treaties, signed by some Pictish drunken ne'er-do-well who knew not what he placed his mark upon. I love not Picts, but I can understand the fury that drives them now. We'd best march back in column of fours, pikes without and archers within. Should they again attack, we can reform our hedgehog."

  The officers returned to their posts, but before the column had proceeded a hundred paces, the rattling and drumming ceased abruptly. The marchers paused, disquieted by the sudden silence.

  A piercing scream ripped through the garment of uncanny silence. A man staggered out of ranks and fell writhing among the twisted roots. Another likewise fell; and suddenly the line vibrated with fearful cries of horror.

  Snakes—Pictish vipers, some as long as a man, with wedge-shaped heads and diamond patterns down their thick, scaly bodies—dropped from the trees among the Aquilonians. On the forest floor they coiled, heads swaying, and lunged at the nearest soldier. Then slithering to their next victim, they coiled and struck again.

  "Swords!" shouted Conan. "Kill them! Keep your ranks, but loll them!"

  Conan's blade divided a six-foot serpent into writhing halves; but there seemed no end to the rain of snakes. An archer, shrieking in mindless terror, dropped his bow and broke into a run.

  "Back in the ranks, you!" roared Conan.

  The flat of his sword felled the fleeing Aquilonian. But it was too late; panic had taken hold. Arno, snake-bitten, lay writhing on the ground.

  The Frontier Guards dissolved into a stream of fugitives, casting aside armor and weapons in their headlong flight. The Picts swarmed out of the forest cover and rushed after them, hacking, stabbing, and cudgeling those they overtook.

  Conan's whirling broadsword struck down two Picts. "Flavius!" he cried. "This way!"

  The young lieutenant fought through the press to join Conan, as the Cimmerian strode away from the fleeing Aquilonians.

  "Are you mad?" panted Flavius, catching a Pictish hatchet blow on his buckler and missing a swipe at the wielder.

  "See for yourself," growled Conan, running another Pict through the body. "If you'd leave this place alive, follow me."

  The two hastened northwestward. Suddenly, there were no more Picts ahead, the nearest having given a wide berth to the two mailed warriors with bloody blades. Conan and Flavius ran down the trail and were soon out of sight of the battlefield.

  The savages sprinted after the bulk of the Aquilonians, fleeing back toward Velitrium. But the Picts avoided the area where the Aquilonians had formed their square, for there lay bodies heaped and serpents still slithered and coiled and struck.

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  3 • Blood Money

  In time the creek spread itself voluptuously beneath the blue sky, which it caught in reflected splendor. As Conan and Flavius pushed through the lush greenery cradling its shores, a sharp clap shattered the stillness. A splash roiled the placid surface of the pond, and drops of water leaped up the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, glittering like topaz.

  "Fish?" whispered Flavius.

  "Beaver. They splash with tails like broadswords to warn the others when danger approaches. See you their dam downstream of the pond? That
's their abode."

  "Mean you they live beneath the water?"

  "Nay, in dry nests of twigs above the surface within the confines of the dam. Can you see that opening beyond the dam?"

  On the right bank of South Creek, below the beaver dam, Flavius saw a clearing. Once neglected and overgrown, it had been lately cleared again. Through the trees that crowned this promontory, Flavius glimpsed the steel-blue water of the Black River.

  In the midst of the clearing rose a granite statue twice the height of a man. Little more than a large upright boulder, it was roughly trimmed to suggest a human shape. In front of this rude eidolon, a smaller flat-topped boulder appeared above the long grass.