Conan the Swordsman

by L. Sprague De Camp

  "Flavius, take this dog's knife away and bind his hands behind his back. His belt will serve. Now you take charge of him."

  Releasing his grip on the traitorous scout, Conan straightened his great back and heaved on the chest "Glyco and Laodamas, hoist this thing up so I can get my shoulder under it"

  The two officers put their shoulders under the ends of the pole and, grunting, straightened up. Conan crouched, set his shoulder beneath the chest and, with taut muscles cracking, rose.

  "By the gods!" said Laodamas, "I never thought mortal man could bear such weight."

  "Help Flavius bring the prisoner to the barracks. I cannot hold this thing till the sun comes up."

  In the pallid light, they set out along the muddy streets. First came the scout, with Glyco and Laodamas on either side while Flavius walked behind, sword point goading the man's unwilling steps. Conan followed, weaving and staggering, but holding the chest fast upon his shoulder with arms like knotted ropes.

  They reached the barracks as the first bird songs greeted the dawn. The sentry stared but, recognizing officers, saluted without comment.

  -

  5 • The General Is Shaved

  Minutes later, the five men sat in Glyco's quarters. The chest, lid raised to show its glittering contents, stood in the center of the small room. Edric sat on the rough boards with his wrists and ankles lashed together.

  "There's your evidence," said Conan, still breathing deeply. He turned to Edric. "Now, fellow, will you talk, or must I try some Pictish persuasion?"

  The sullen prisoner remained silent.

  "Very well," said Conan. "Flavius, give me yon fellow's knife."

  Flavius drew the scout's knife from his boot top and handed it to the Cimmerian, who thumbed it purposefully.

  "I mislike to use my own blade," he mused, "because heating it to red takes the temper out of steel. Now, set the brazier here."

  "I'll talk," whined the prisoner. "A devil like you could wring a confession from a dead man." Edric drew a deep breath. "We of Oriskonie," he said, "live far from the rest of the Westermarck and care little about the other provinces. Besides, the general promised to make us rich after we had delivered Schohira to the Picts. What have we had from our baron, or from the rest of you lordlings for that matter, but robbery and abuse?"

  "It is your place to obey your natural lords ..." began Laodamas, but Conan cut him off with a sharp gesture.

  "Go on, Edric," said Conan. "Never mind the rights and wrongs of it"

  Edric explained how General Lucian had put him and other scouts to work guiding the Aquilonians at Velitrium into Pictish traps.

  "We set the trap at South Creek so that the general could show good faith to his Pictish allies and get the pay chest from them."

  "How can a man like you betray your own countrymen for gold?" demanded Laodamas hotly.

  Conan, brows knit, turned to the officer. "Quiet, Laodamas, Edric, what was this trap the general set?"

  "The wizard, Sagayetha, can master serpents from afar. His people say he puts his soul into the body of a serpent, but I ... I do not understand such matters of vile witchery."

  "Nor I, nor any man," said Conan. 'Think you Lucian would in truth deliver Schohira to the Picts?"

  Edric shrugged. "I know not. I had not thought so far ahead."

  "Is it not likely that he would have betrayed you, too? Have you and your comrades slain, lest any bear tales of his treachery to the throne of Aquilonia?"

  "Mitra! I never thought of that!" gasped Edric, turning his head to hide his frightened eyes.

  "Perhaps this wretch lies, and Lucian is a loyal Aquilonian after all," said Laodamas. "Then we need not..."

  "Fool!" exploded Conan. "A loyal Aquilonian, to sacrifice a company of good men merely to bait a trap? Glyco, how many survived the rout?"

  'Two score straggled back ere nightfall," said Glyco. "We hope a few more may ..."

  "But—" began Laodamas.

  Conan smote his palm with a clenched fist.

  They were my men!" he snarled. "I had trained them, and I knew each one. Arno was a good man and my friend Heads will pay for this treachery, whatever scheme the general may have had in mind. Glyco and Laodamas, go to your companies and choose a dozen men you can trust. Tell them it's a perilous action against treachery in high places, and if they want revenge for South Creek, they must follow orders. Meet me on the drill ground in half an hour. Flavius, take our prisoner to the lockup and then join me."

  "Conan," said Laodamas, "whilst I concede your plan is sound, it is I should command the venture. I am of noble blood and stand above you on the promotion list. This is irregular ..."

  "And I stand above you, young man," snapped Glyco. "If you make an issue of rank, I'll take command. Lead on, Conan; you seem to know what you're about."

  "If he does not," said Laodamas, sulkily, "we shall all hang for mutiny. Suppose the general cries to the men: 'Seize me those traitors!' Whom will they obey?"

  "That," said Conan, "is a question time will answer. Come!"

  -

  On the drill ground, the three officers and their lieutenants lined up their two-score soldiers. Briefly,-? Conan explained the Pictish trap and who had planned the massacre. He told four men to carry the chest and said:

  "Follow me."

  The sun had mounted the tops of the rolling Bossonian hills when Conan's group arrived at the generous dwelling wherein lived the commander of the Frontier Guard of Conajohara. Built on a slope, the house fronted on a high terrace, reached by a dozen steps from street level. At the officers' approach, two sentries on the terrace snapped to attention.

  Conan stamped up the steps. "Fetch the general!" he barked.

  "But, sir, the general has not yet arisen," said a sentry.

  "Fetch him anyway. This matter brooks no delay."

  After a searching look at the grim faces of the officers, the sentry turned and entered the house. A groom appeared in the muddy street, leading one of the general's chargers.

  "Why the beast?" asked Conan of the remaining sentry.

  "His Lordship oft goes cantering before his morning meal," replied the sentry.

  "A magnificent animal," said Conan.

  The first sentry reappeared and said, "The general is being shaved, sir. He begs you wait ..."

  "To hell with him! If he comes not forth to treat with us, then we shall go to him. Go, tell his Lordship that!"

  With a small sigh, the sentry reentered the house. Presently, General Viscount Lucian appeared with a towel around his neck. Although he wore breeches and boots, his upper torso was bare. He was a short, stocky man of middle age, whose well-developed muscles were growing flabby; and his black mustache, usually a pair of waxed points, looked—without the morning's pomade—frayed and drooping.

  "Well, gentlemen," said Lucian haughtily, "to what emergency do I owe this untimely visit?" To a sentry he said, "Fetch a stool. Hermius can finish my shave whilst I listen to my early visitors. Captain Conan, if I remember aright. You seem the leader here. What is it you would say to me?"

  "Few words, indeed, my lord Viscount," growled Conan. "But we have something to show you."

  He gestured savagely, and the soldiers waiting in the street below moved briskly up the steps and deposited the chest on the mosaic floor of the terrace. Then they stepped back.

  Glyco and Laodamas studied the general's face like scribes deciphering an ancient parchment. At the first glimpse of the chest, Lucian started, his face went pale, and he bit his underlip. But he stared at the bulky object, saying naught. There was no doubt in the hearts of those who watched him that the general recognized the chest, for the wine-red leather whereof it was fashioned and the gilt-tipped design of dragons incised upon it were unmistakable.

  Then Conan lashed out with his booted foot, kicking the lid back upon its creaking hinges. The sentries blinked and Lucian flinched as the golden coins glittered in the sunlight.

  "The time for lies is past, Visco
unt," said Conan grimly, his steel-blue eyes boring into those of his superior. "The evidence of your crime is here before you. I doubt me not that King Numedides will call it treason; I have other word for it: foul treachery. Foulest treachery to betray into a death trap your own soldiers who fought for you valiantly and blindly, trusting in you!"

  Lucian made no move, save that he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, as delicately as a cat. His eyes were bright and unwinking.

  Conan's eyes narrowed to slits through which burned naked hate.

  "We saw the Picts give yonder pay chest to your man Edric, and we have a full confession from him.' You are under arrest ..."

  Holding the bowl of scalding water under the general's chin, the barber lifted his razor to make a stroke. Like a striking serpent, Lucian moved. He snatched the bowl from the astonished barber and hurled it into Conan's face.

  With amazing speed, Lucian rose and, placing both hands upon the chest, gave it a mighty shove. It toppled off the terrace, lid flapping; and turning over in it descent, it spewed forth a golden shower of coins, a veritable rain of flashing precious disks.

  A collective gasp of sheer delight came from the soldiers who had followed Conan and his fellow mutineers. As the chest crashed to earth, sending more coins bouncing and rolling along the street, the soldiers broke ranks to scramble for the money.

  Lucian brushed past Conan, who stood half blinded by the scalding, soapy water, took the steps two at a time, rushed through the scattered soldiers, and flung himself into the saddle of his stallion. By the time that Conan could see again, the horse was disappearing down the street at a mad gallop, clods of mud flying from its hooves.

  Laodamas shouted to his dismounted cavalrymen to run to the barracks, mount, and pursue the fugitive.

  "You'll never catch him," said Conan. "That's the best horse in all the Westermarck. Not that it matters greatly; when our sworn statements reach Tarantia, we shall at least be free of Lucian here. Whether the king chops off his head or inflicts him on some other province—that is his affair.

  "Right now we have to stop the Picts from ravishing all of Schohira and drenching it in blood." To the waiting men below the terrace, he said:

  "Gather up this money as best you may, ere it is lost in the mire. Then back to barracks to await my orders. Who comes with me to save the land for Mitra and Numedides?"

  -

  6 • Massacre Meadow

  "Snakes do not terrify me, but I'll not vouch for my pikemen if those vile things begin to fall on them. All the troops now know about this Pictish magic from yesterday's survivors," said Glyco.

  .Laodamas shuddered. "In battle I am no worse a coward than most, but serpents ... 'Tis no knightly way of war. Let's lure the Picts into open land where there are no trees for serpents to fall from and where my horsemen could cut the savages to bits."

  "I see not how," grunted Conan. "Their next thrust is like to be across South Creek into Schohira, since that's the province Lucian sold to them; and for many leagues southwest that land is naught but forests. The Aquilonians have yet to clear and settle it."

  "Then," persisted Laodamas, "why not muster our forces at Schondara, where the open land invites the use of cavalry?"

  "We cannot force the Picts to seek us out on ground of our own choosing," said Conan. "The settlements of Schohira are scattered, and the Picts could swallow up the rest of the province while we sat like statues awaiting their attack. They flow through woods as water flows through gravel, while our men must be mustered and marched in battle array."

  "What is your plan, then?" asked Glyco.

  "I have picked from my archers scouts with forest experience. When they report back, I'll seek the place where the enemy plans to cross the creek and strike them there."

  "But the serpents ..." began Laodamas.

  "Devils swallow the serpents I Whoever told you that soldiering was a safe trade? The snakes will cease to plague us when Sagayetha is dead. If I can slay him, that I will do. Meanwhile, we must do what we can with what we have. Crom and Mitra grant that we have enough."

  -

  Along the trail above the Council Rocks, South Creek ran through a patch of level ground, swampy on both sides of its serpentine bed. Since the creek was broad and shallow and easy to cross at this point, several trails converged there. The boggy flatland supported grasses and brush, but trees were rare. Still, Massacre Meadow, as it was known, was more open than most of the great Pictish wilderness.

  Back from the open space, where dense forest began, Conan posted his army. Pikemen and archers were arrayed in a crescent beneath the trees, while Laodamas' horse were positioned on Conan's right flank. The riders sat on the ground, throwing dice, and the tethered animals stamped and switched their tails to discourage the tormenting flies.

  Conan walked up and down his line, inspecting equipment, encouraging the fearful with rude jokes, and issuing orders.

  "Glyco," he called. "Have you told off the men who are to make torches of their pikes?"

  "They are preparing them now," said Glyco, pointing toward the dozen Aquilonians who were binding brushwood to the heads of their spears.

  "Good. Light not the fire until the Picts are in sight, least we reveal ourselves without need."

  Conan strolled on. "Laodamas! If I'm not here to give the command, order your charge when the Picts are halfway across the creek."

  "That would be taking unfair advantage," said Laodamas. " 'Twere not chivalrous."

  "Crom and Mitra, man, this is no tournament! You have your orders."

  Back among the infantry, he sighted Flavius and said: "Captain Flavius, are your men ready?"

  Flavius beamed at hearing the title of his temporary rank. "Aye, sir; the extra quivers are laid out."

  "Good. Whether an army is in more peril from having in command an honest idiot like Laodamas or a clever jackal like Lucian, I know not. You I can count upon." Flavius smiled broadly.

  The afternoon wore on amid buzzing flies and grumbling men. Water jugs passed from hand to hand. Conan, sitting on a fallen log, made marks upon a sheet of bark as scouts came to him, reporting the position of the Pictish force. At length he had a rude sketch map from which to plan the coming fray.

  As the sun was setting, the first Picts appeared across Massacre Meadow, yelling defiance and brandishing their weapons. More and more poured out of the forest until the low ground beyond South Creek was thronged with naked, painted men.

  Flavius murmured to Conan: "We are outnumbered here as much as at the battle of the serpents."

  Conan shrugged and rose. Commands rang up and down the Aquilonian line. The pikemen designated as snake destroyers kindled a fire from which to light their improvised torches, while archers drew arrows from their quivers and thrust them into the ground before them.

  A drum began to beat like a throbbing heart. Yelping war cries, the Picts splashed across the creek, trotted across the boggy land on the southwest side of the meadow, and closed with the Aquilonians. Amid the savage whoops and the shouts of command, arrows whistled across the meadow, like specters .of the damned.

  Knots of painted Picts dashed themselves against the lines of pikemen. When one savage was transfixed by a pike and his weight dragged the weapon down, others pushed in through the gap thus created, thrusting with spears and slashing with hatchets. Pikemen of the second line, sweating and cursing, thrust them back. About the meadow, the wounded crawled, twitched, shrieked, or lay still.

  Conan himself held the center of the line, towering like a giant above the stockier Gundermen and Aquilonians. Armed with a steel-shafted axe, he reaped a gory harvest of the foe. They came at him like yelping hounds seeking to drag down a boar. But the dreadful axe which he wielded as tirelessly as if it were a willow wand, split skulls, crushed ribs, and lopped off heads and arms with merciless precision. Roaring a tuneless-song, he fought, and the mounds of dead grew around him like grain after the scything.

  Before long the Picts began to avo
id the center where he stood unconquerable above the heaped corpses. Ferocious, blood-mad fighters though they were, it seeped into their wild consciousness that the giant figure sheathed in iron and splattered from head to foot with gore was not to be overcome by such as they.

  The fighting ebbed for a moment, in one of those lulls that sometimes come in the midst of battle. As Conan leaned upon his ax to catch his breath, his new-made captain hurried over to him.

  "Conan," called Flavius, "we are sore beset! When will the horse charge?"