Conan the Liberator

by Lyon Sprague de Camp

  Swiftly he bolted the door behind him, drew tattered curtains across the dormer windows, and ht a candle stub from the glowing coals in a small iron brazier. Then he hunched over a rickety table, forming tiny letters with a fine-pointed quill on a slender strip of papyrus.

  His message written, the Zingaran rolled up the bit of flattened reed and cleverly inserted it into a brazen cylinder no larger than a fingernail. Then he scrambled to his feet, thrust open a cage that leaned against the seaward wall, and brought out a fat, sleepy pigeon. To one of its feet he secured the tiny cylinder; and gliding to the window, he drew aside the drape, opened the pane, and tossed the bird out into the night. As it circled the harbor and vanished, Quesado smiled, knowing that his carrier pigeon would find a safe roost and set out on its long journey northward with the coming of the dawn.

  In Tarantia, nine days later, Vibius Latro, chancellor to King Numedides and chief of his intel-

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  ligence service, received the brass tube from the royal pigeon-keeper. He unrolled the fragile papyrus with careful fingers and held it in the narrow band of sunlight that slanted through his oflBce window. He read:

  The Count of Poitain, with a small entourage, has arrived from a distant port on a secret mission. Q,

  There is a destiny that hovers over Idngs, and signs and omens presage the fall of ancient dynasties and the doom of mighty realms. It did not require the sorceries of such as Thulandra Thuu to sense that the house of Numedides stood in grave peril. The signs of its impending fall were everywhere.

  Messages came out of Messantia, traveling northward by dusty roads and by the unseen pathways of the air. To Poitain and the other feudal demesnes along the troubled and strife-torn borders of Aquilonia, these missives found their way; some even penetrated the palisaded camps and fortresses of the loyal Aquilonian army. For stationed there were swordsmen and pikemen, horsemen and archers who had served with Conan when he was an officer of King Numedides —men who had fought at Conan’s side in the great battle of Velitrium, and even before that, at Massacre Meadow, when Conan first broke the hosts of savage Picts—men of his old regiment, the Lions, who well remembered him. And like the beasts whose name they bore, they remained loyal to the leader of the pride. Others who barkened to the call were wearied of service to a royal maniac who shrugged aside the business of his kingdom to indulge his unnatural lusts and to pursue mad dreams of eternal life.

  In the months after Conan’s arrival in Messantia, many Aquilonian veterans of the Pictish wars resigned or deserted from their units and drifted south to Argos. With them down the long and lonesome roads tramped Poitanians and Bossonians, Gundermen from

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  the North, yeomen of the Tauran, petty nobles from Tarantia, impoverished knights from distant provinces, and many a penniless adventurer.

  “Whence come they all?'’ marveled Pubhus as he stood with Conan near the large tent of the commander-in-chief, watching a band of ragtail knights ride into the rebel camp. Their horses were lean, their trappings ragged, their armor rusty, and they were caked with dust and dried mud. Some bore bandaged wounds.

  ‘“Your mad Idng has made many enemies,” grumbled Conan. “I get reports of knights whose lands he has seized, nobles whose wives or daughters he has outraged, sons of merchants whom he has stripped of their pelf—even common workmen and peasants, stout-hearted enough to take up arms against the royal madman. Those knights yonder are oudaws, driven into exile for speaking out against the tyrant."

  ‘Tyranny oft breeds its owna downfall,” said Publius. “How many have we now?”

  “Over ten thousand, by yesterday’s reckoning.”

  Publius whistled. “So many? We had better limit our recruits ere they devour all the coin in our treasury. Vast as is the sum that you obtained for the jewels of Tranicos, ‘twill melt like snow in the springtime if we enlist more men than we can afiFord to pay.”

  Conan clapped the stout civilian on the back. “It’s your task as treasurer, good Publius, to make our purse outlast this feast of vultures. Only today I importuned King Milo for more camp space. Instead, he drenched me with a cataract of complaints. Our men crowd Messantia; they overtax the facilities of the city; they drive up prices; some commit crimes against the citizens. He wants us hence, either to a new camp or on our way to Aquilonia.”

  Publius frowned. “Whilst our troops train, we must remain close to the city and the sea, for access to supplies. Ten thousand men grow exceeding hungry

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  when drilled as you drill them. And ten thousand bellies require much food, or their owners grow surly and desert.”

  Conan shrugged. “No help for it. Trocero and I ride forth on the morrow to scout for a new site. The next full moon should see us on the road to Aquilonia.”

  “Who is that?”’ murmured Publius, indicating a soldier who, released from the morning’s drill, was sauntering by, close to the general’s tent. The man, clad in shabby black, had swilled a tankardful that afternoon; for his lean legs wobbled beneath him, and once he tripped over a stone that lay athwart his path. Sighting Conan and Publius, he swept oflF his battered cap, bowed so low that he quite unbalanced himself, recovered, and proceeded on his way.

  Conan said; “A Zingaran who turned up at the recruiting tent a few days past. He seemed a mousey little fellow—^no warrior—but he has proved a fair swordsman, an excellent horseman, and an artist with a throwing knife; so Prospero signed him on with all the rest. He called himself—I think it was Quesado.”

  “Your reputation, like a lodestone, draws men from near and far,” said Publius.

  “So I had better win this war,'’ rephed Conan. “In the old days, if I lost a battle, I could sHp away to lands that knew me not and start over again with nobody the wiser. That were not so easy now; too many men have heard of me.”

  “‘Tis good news for the rest of us,” grinned Pubhus, “that fame robs leaders of the chance to flee.”

  Conan said nothing. Parading through his memory marched the ardvious years since he had plunged out of the wintry North, a ragged, starveling youth. He had warred and wandered the length and breadth of the Thurian continent. Thief, pirate, bandit, primitive chieftain—all these he had been; and common soldier, too, rising to general and falling again with the ebb of Fortune. From the savage wilderness of Pictland to

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  the steppes of Hyrkania, from the snows of Nordheim to the steariiing jungles of Kush, his name and fame were legend. Hence warriors flocked from distant lands to serve beneath his banner.

  Conan’s banner now proudly rode the breeze atop the central pole of the general’s tent. Its device, a golden hon rampant on a field of sable silk, was Conan s own design. Son of a Cimmerian blacksmith, Conan was not at all of armigerous blood; but he had gained his greatest recognition as commander of the

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  Lion Regiment in the battle at Velitrium. Its ensign he had adopted as his own, knowing that soldiers need a flag to fight for. It was following this victory that King Numedides, holding the Cimmerian’s fame a threat to his own supremacy, had sought to trap and destroy his popular general, in whom he sensed a potential rival. Conan’s growing reputation for invincibility he envied; his magnetic leadership he feared.

  After eluding the snare Numedides had set for him, thus forfeiting his command, the Cimmerian looked back upon his days with the Lions with fond nostalgia. And now the banner under which he had won his mightiest victories flew above his head again, a symbol of his past glories and a rallying point for his cause.’

  He would need even mightier victories in the months ahead, and the golden lion on a field of black was to him an auspicious omen. For Conan was not without his superstitions. Although he had brawled and swaggered over half the earth, exploring distant lands and the exotic lore of foreign peoples, and had gained wisdom in the ways of kings and priests, wizards and warriors, magnates and beggars
, the primitive beliefs of his Cimmerian heritage still smoldered in the depths of his soul.

  Meanwhile, the spy Quesado, having passed beyond the purlieu of the commander’s tent, miraculously regained his full sobriety. No longer staggering, he walked briskly along the rutted road toward the North Gate of Messantia.

  The spy had prudently retained his waterfront room when he took up soldier’s quarters in the tent city outside the walls. And in that room, pushed under the rough-hewn door, he found a letter. It was unsigned, but Quesado knew the hand of Vibius Latro.

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  Having fed his pigeons, Quesado sat down Jto decipher the simple code that masked the meaning of the message. It seemed a jumble of domestic trivia; but, by marking every fourth word, Quesado learned that his master had sent him an accomplice. She was, the letter said, a woman of seductive beauty.

  Quesado allowed himself a thin, discreet smile. Then he penned his usual report on a slender strip of papyrus and sent it winging north to far Tarantia.

  While the army drilled, sweated, and increased in size, Conan bade farewell to the Lady Belesa and her youthful protegee. He saw their carriage go rattiing off along the coastal road to Zingara, with a squad of sturdy guards riding before and behind. Hidden in the baggage, an iron-bound box enclosed suflBcient gold to keep Belesa and Tina in comfort for many years, and Conan hoped that he would see no more of them.

  Although the’burly Cimmerian was sensible of Belesa’s charms, he intended at this point to become entangled with no woman, least of all with a delicate gentlewoman, for whom there was no place in the wardrooms of war. Later, should the rebellion triumph, he might require a royal marriage to seciure his throne. For thrones, however high their cost in common blood, must ofttimes be defended by the mystic power engendered by the blood of kings.

  Still, Conan felt the pangs of lust no less than any active, virile man. Long had he been without a woman, and he showed his deprivation by curt words, sullen moodSj and stormy explosions of temper. At last Prosper©, divining the cause of these black moods, ventm'ed to suggest that Conan might do well to set his eyes upon the tavern trulls of Messantia.

  “With luck and discernment. General,” he said, "you could find a bedmate to your fancy.’'

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  Prospero was unaware that his words buzzed like horseflies in the ears of a lank Zingaran mercenary, who huddled nearby with his back against a tent-stake, head bowed forward on his knees, apparently asleep.

  Conan, equally unmindful, shrugged off his friend’s suggestion. But as the days passed, desire battled with his self-control. And with every passing night, bis need waxed more compelHng.

  Day by day, the army grew. Archers from the Bossonian Marches, pikemen from Gunderland, light horse from Poitain, and men of high and low degree from all of Aquilonia streamed in. The drill field resounded to the shouts of commands, the tramp of infantry, the thunder of cavalry, the snap of bowstrings, and the whistle of arrows. Conan, Prospero, and Trocero labored ceaselessly to forge their raw recruits into a well-trained army. But whether this force, cobbled together from far-flung lands and never battle-tested, could withstand the crack troops of the hard-riding, hard-fighting, and victorious AmuHus Procas, no man knew.

  Meanwhile, Publius organized a rebel spy service. His agents penetrated far into Aquilonia. Some merely sought for news. Some spread reports of the depravity of King Numedides—reports which the rumormongers found needed no exaggeration. Some begged for monetary aid from nobles who, while sympathetic to the rebel cause, had not yet dared declare themselves in favor of rebellion.

  Each day, at noon, Conan reviewed his troops. Then, in rotation, he took his midday meal in the mess tent of each company; for a good leader knows many of his men by name and strengthens their loyalty by personal contact. A few days after Prosperous talk about the public women of Messantia, Conan dined with a company of hght cavalry. He sat among the

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  common soldiers and traded bawdy jests as he shared their meat, bread, and bitter ale.

  At the sound of a sibilant voice, suddenly upraised, Conan turned his head. Nearby, a narrow-faced Zin-garan, whom Conan remembered having seen before, was orating with grandiloquent gestures. Conan left a joke caught in an endless paase and listened closely; for the fellow was talking about women, and Conan felt a stirring in his blood.

  “There’s a certain dancing girl,” cried the Zingaran, "with hair as black as a raven’s wing and eyes of emerald green. And there is a witchery in her soft red lips and in her limber body, and her breasts are like ripe pomegranatesi” Here he cupped the ambient air with mobile hands.

  "Every night she dances for thrown coppers at the Inn of the Nine Swords and bares her swaying body to the eyes of men. But she is a rare one, this Alcina— a haughty, fastidious minx who denies to all men her embrace. She has not met the man who could arouse her passion—or so she claims.

  “Of course,” added Ouesado, winking lewdly, "there are doubtless lusty warriors in this very tent who could woo and v^dn that haughty lass. Why, our gallant general himself— “

  At that instant Quesado caught Conan’s eye upon him. He broke off, bent his head, and said: “A thousand pardons, noble general! Yoiir excellent beer so loosened my poor tongue that I forgot myself. Pray, ignore my indiscretion, I beg you, good my lord—”

  “I’ll forget it,” growled Conan and turned back frowning to his food.

  But that very evening, he asked his servants for the way to an inn called the Nine Swords. As he swimg into the saddle and, wdth a single mounted groom for escort, pounded off toward the^orth Gate, Quesado, skulking in the shadows, smiled a small, complacent smile.

  When dawn came laughing to the azure sky, a silver-throated trumpet heralded the arrival of an envoy from King Milo. Brave in embroidered tabard, the herald trotted into the rebel camp on a bay mare, brandishing aloft a sealed and beribboned scroll. The messenger sniffed disdainfully at the bustling drill ground, where a motley host was lining up for roll call. When he thundered his demand for escort to General Conan’s tent, one of Trocero’s men led the beast toward the center of the camp.

  “This means trouble,” murmured Trocero to the priest Dexitheus as they gazed after the Argossean herald.

  The lean, bald Mitran priest fingered his beads. "We should be used to trouble by now, my lord Count,” he replied. “And much more trouble Hes ahead, as well you know.”

  “You mean Numedides?” asked the count with a wry smile. “My good friend, for that kind of trouble we are ready. I speak of difficulties with the King of Argos. For all that he gave me leave to muster here, I feel that Milo grows uneasy with so many men, pledged to a foreign cause, encamped outside his capital. Meseems His Majesty begins to repent him of his offer of a comfortable venue for our camp.”

  “Aye,” added Publius, as the stout paymaster strolled up to join the other two. “I doubt not that tlie stews and alleys of Messantia already crawl with spies from Tarantia. Numedides will put a subtle pressure on the King of Argos to persuade him to turn against us now."

  “The king were a fool to do so,” mused Trocero, “with our army close by and lusting for a fight/'

  Publius shrugged. ‘The monarch of Messantia has hitherto been our friend,” he said. “But kings are given to perfidy, an^ expediency rules the hearts of even the noblest of them. We must needs wait and see. … I wonder what ill news that haughty herald bore?”

  Publius and Trocero strolled off to attend their duties, leaving Dexitheus absently fingering his prayer beads. When he had spoken of future troubles, he thought not only of the coming clash but also of another portent.

  The night before, his slumbers had been roiled by a disturbing dream. Lord Mitra often granted his loyal suppliants foreknowledge of events through dreams, and Dexitheus wondered if his dream had been a prophecy.

  In this dream. General Conan confronted the enemy on a battlefield, harking on his soldiers wdth brandished
sword; but behind the giant Cimmerian lurked a shadowy form, slender and furtive. Naught could the sleeper discern of this stealthy presence save that in its hood-shadowed visage biuned catlike eyes of emerald green, and that it ever stood at Conan s unprotected back.

  Although the risen sun had warmed the mild spring morning, Dexitheus shivered. He did not like such dreams; they cast pebbles into the deep well of his serenity. Besides, no recruit in the rebel camp had eyes of such a brilliant green, or he would have noticed the oddity.

  Along the dusty road back to Messantia cantered the herald, as messengers went forth to summon the leaders of the rebel host to council.

  In his tent, the giant Cimmerian barely checked his anger as his squires strapped him into his harness for his morning exercise with arms. When Prospero, Trocero, Dexitheus, Publius, and the others were assembled, he spoke sharply, biting oflF his words.

  “Briefly, friends,” he rumbled, “it is His Majesty’s pleasure that we withdraw north to the grassy plains, at least nine leagues from Messantia. King Milo feels our nearness to his capital endangers both his city and our cause. Some of our troops, quoth he, have been enjoying themselves a bit too rowdily of late, shattering the king’s peace and giving trouble to the civic guard."

  '1 feared as much," sighed Dexitheus. "Our warriors are much given to the pleasures of the goblet and the couch. Still and all, it asks too much of human nature to expect soldiers—especially a mixed crowd like ours—to behave with the meekness of hooded monks."

  “True," said Trocero. “And luckily we are not unprepared to go. When shall we move, General?’'

  Conan buckled his sword belt with a savage gesture. His blue eyes glared lionlike beneath his square-cut black mane.

  “He gives us ten days to be gone," he grunted, “but I am fain to move at once. Messantia has too many eyes and ears to please me, and too many of onr soldiery have limber tongues, which a stoup of wine sets wagging. I’ll move, not nine leagues but ninety, from this nest of spies.

  "So let’s be oflF, my lords. Cancel all leaves and drag our men out of the wineshops, by force if need be. This night I shall proceed with a picked troop to study the route and choose a new campsite. Trocero, you shall command until I rejoin the army.”