Then a further thought struck him: Baldomer's candles were burning low. The baron must soon finish his observance, and when he did, he must needs make his way back via this same corridor. Even if Conan managed to hide behind a coffin and then follow the noble out, he would reach the catacomb's entrance to find the grating closed and the heavy dross of the storeroom shoved once again in front of it.
The thought of being entombed with the dead of the ages in this magick-ridden crypt made the Cimmerian shudder. Keeping his eye on the kneeling, intoning noble, he crept back along the passage. Once he put a safe distance between himself and the light, he paused to watch the baron halt his utterances and, a moment later, arise and reach between the dwindling candles for his ancestor's sword. Satisfied that the strange religious observance was ending, Conan groped the rest of the way along the passage and at length back through the darkened storerooms to his bed.
But one thing of value he took with him from the crypt: a fragment of knowledge. For as he had lurked in an alcove near the end of that ancient corridor, he found that it contained, in addition to a coffin, a concealed door. Cleverly shaped of stone, the portal filled and sealed the niche almost completely, but not quite; for through the crack beneath it blew a draft, a warmer current invading the dank, noisome air of the tomb.- Putting his face near the floor to sniff it, the northerner had smelled the jasmine-scented breath of summer night.
INTERLUDE
The Plain of Smokes
From the Varakiel a forest of smoke-pillars rose skyward. Through sultry, yellowed daylight a motley army moved, stretching in a ragged line across field and copse, scrambling over hedges and splashing through shallow canals.
Peasants they were, sturdy men and apple-cheeked women in the rude garb of their daily toil. Yet they marched as an army, swinging their threshing flails and hayforks like swords, their faces wearing a hardened warrior's lack of expression. Their home fields and crofts were left far behind, else they danced up in flames with the others gouting fire on either hand.
In places along their line where a cottage or a hayrick was set newly alight, groups of marchers lingered nearby; weapons laid aside, they crouched in waiting circles. As rats, cats and sundry vermin were driven out of hiding by the scorching heat, the waiting ones seized them up and devoured them. In these attacks the pillagers threw off any sign of their humanity; oft-times two or three of them clutched together at the same struggling carcass, rending it alive with eager teeth.
When human refugees were caught, similar struggles ensued, but the feasting was of a different nature. As many as half a dozen of the marchers would fall greedily upon the victim and drag his or her wrists and ankles to their gaping mouths. But instead of tearing and devouring their prey, each captor would bite down once, hard. The victims, after their initial shrieks of agony and fear, would lie stricken on the ground. In time then they would arise, weak and faltering, to shuffle after their attackers. Finally each would take up a weapon, to become a part of the ever-advancing line.
So the campaign proceeded from swamp to plain, from onion field to ox pasture. Through it all, there sounded no drums or trumpets and there galloped no dispatch-riders. Seemingly the conquerors went on of their own accord, with no sign of leadership but one: down a rough dirt path that ran diagonally across the line of mounting smokes, a chariot rumbled.
It was a rude vehicle cut down from an ox-wain, decked with bright metal fittings, gaudy draperies and other petty spoils of the rural campaign. To its heavy poles had been yoked three sturdy farm horses, a brisk and healthy team, though not well matched in size or color.
Inside the rumbling conveyance rode three figures. The driver, a brawny man, wore the leather apron of a smith, with smudges of soot still shining on his thick arms and unshaven jaw; the fellow beside him was blackly bearded and also burly, a swamp-dwelling trapper judging by the rich and somewhat unripe appearance of the animal furs in which he was decked from neck to toe. These two stood in the front of the chariot, wordless and expressionless, stiffly balancing the weight of their bodies above the jolting axle.
The third passenger lay at leisure on a bed of cushions behind them, his weight so slight as to be ignored by the laboring team. For he was a mere boy, though he reclined in a plundered shawl of gold-embroidered purple, and wore on his brow a gold chaplet arrogating to royal rank. It was none other than the swamp-child, Lar, arisen from his sickbed and clearly exalted to some strange rulership. Of all those who stalked the plain under his command that day, his was the only face that wore what could be recognized as a distinctly human emotion, and that an incongruous one: he gazed over the whole scene with a look of imperious boredom.
As the charioteers rolled past peasant troopers who strode the fields, there was no exchange of signs or hails, nor even a glance of shared recognition. Both went their own way in cold, mindless efficiency. The chariot splashed across a shallow stream and followed the dwindling track into a brushy copse of elms and laurels. As the woods crowded closer and darker, the path grew fainter. The team finally scuffed to a halt before a hut of moss-green stone.
Marchers had already found and entered the place, as evidenced by its broken door and by the flames that gnawed tentatively at one corner of its mossy thatch. The burly guards stepped out over the sides of the chariot, and the young princeling stretched and sat up in his bed. Even as he stood erect, two armed peasants emerged from the hut dragging a third person; a scrawny, elderly man with a wild look in his eyes and a wilder disarray to his gray, bushy hair.
"Nay, infect him not!" Lor's voice piped abruptly, for already the captors were raising the old man's wrists toward their gaping mouths. "First I would put him to the question." Casually he hopped down from the chariot and ambled over; his two helpers went to crowd up close behind the captive.
"Well, old witch-man, your petty sway in this district is ended! An elder and greater magick comes to lay claim to you and yours." The boyish reediness of the lad's voice gave the portentous words a quality incongruous with the scene. He flicked a beckoning finger impatiently, and his henchmen forced the old one down on one knee, so that his face was on a level with the boy's.
"Tell me, old man, did you have time to send word to your far-flung brethren?" He glanced to the empty straw-filled cages at one side of the cottage. "I see that your pigeons have flown .. . bearing news of me, no doubt. What did you tell the others about this new faith which sweeps the plain?" He strutted and preened before his captive, like a child playing at men's conquests. "Will your warlocks guild be foolish enough to oppose me?"
The old one, grimacing in dismay, kept his yellowed, decayed teeth clamped shut behind his white-puckered lips. The bone-and-tooth beads around his neck and the grimy medicine-bag suspended thereon showed him to be a rural wizard, as did the herbs and fetishes hung from the eaves of his smoldering roof. He showed no sign of any vast or preternatural power as his watery eyes flashed doubtfully at his inquisitor. Still, he made no answer.
"Enough! He will not speak." Lar glanced up at his escort, one hand slipping casually inside his gaudy robe. "Cut him!"
Obediently and expressionlessly, the burly trapper produced a short, gleaming blade from his furs and jabbed it into the old warlock's side. Issuing a sharp yelp of pain and surprise, the captive writhed between the men who pinioned his shoulders.
At the instant the old man's mouth opened for the cry, Lar's hand leaped from the folds of his garment to the captive's face. So swift was the motion that it was hard to see, but it appeared that the youth tossed something into the withered old mouth-something small and blackly gleaming that seemed to wriggle like a thin, sinuous tadpole as it passed the ramshackle gate of the wizard's rotted teeth.
The old one clamped his jaws shut, his pain quickly forgotten, eyes wide in astonishment. Lar's hand fell back slowly to his side as the blacksmith's thick, sooty paw was insinuated under the old man's chin to keep his mouth closed.
The princeling stared closely at the wizard's fac
e, now mutely eloquent. In the course of a moment it passed from surprise to alarm, through choking panic, to agony. Then the pale eyes bled tears, and rolling skyward in torment at whatever unseen predations and violations were taking place inside the gray old skull.
The witch struggled between his captors, his legs kicking violently enough to tear the moss of the cottage yard. With his mouth clamped shut within the blacksmith's sooty, viselike grasp, he could only emit stifled nasal grunts of pain, these gradually diminishing in intensity. And even after the warlock's struggles subsided, his head still nodded in exhaustion, his labored breaths sighing through his nose.
In a moment Lar waved an impatient hand and the smith's grip was withdrawn. The princeling leaned closer, putting his ear to the old man's mouth, which now lolled slightly open. He waited in a pose of alert listening, though all that could have been heard by the others was an exceedingly faint and scarcely articulated hissing, seemingly nothing more than the victim's feeble, glottal gasps. But the youth lingered patiently, nodding as if at some sage piece of advice imparted by a kindly gray-haired grandfather.
Finally, straightening up with a satisfied look, he reached a hand to the oldster's mouth and removed something from it, which he once again secreted in the breast of his mantle. Carelessly he turned and strode back to the chariot, tossing his minions one further command as they threw down the dying witch-man and hastened to follow.
"Watch the roads."
CHAPTER 5
Sword and Lash
"By Mitra's holy beard, lad wherever did you get this torso?" Dru, the armorer, lifted his largest black-armor breastplate away from Conan's naked chest. He replaced it on one of the heavy dowels set inside an oaken armoire. "Nothing here is going to fit him!"
He turned to Baron Baldomer, who stood at one side in black-and-gold casual equipage, his arms folded on his chest and a slight smile softening the wildness of his face. Dru said, "Milord ... I cannot alter anything we have on hand. I must turn a new piece of plate."
"They grow them big in Cimmeria." Baldomer reached forth a hand and squeezed the muscles of Conan's shoulder. The youth bore the touch for a moment, then twisted away uncomfortably. His massive chest was smooth-skinned and almost hairless, although marked by newly healed welts and some shackle scars at the neck. The baron eyed him appraisingly. "The feral northern vitality ... it shows in my son, too, but not so much as in this boy."
"We could as well let the youth hammer out his own steel plate," said Arga, the farrier, matter-of-factly. "Conan tells me his father was a smith. His folk use small forges, but they make good-sized, hotly tempered blades." The farrier kept his eyes downcast, sheepish about showing off his knowledge before the baron. "It must require a strong, untiring pair of arms at the bellows."
"Thus accounting for this boy's massive physique." Baldomer glanced amusedly at Conan, who said nothing. "Well, I have more urgent need of him than smithy toil." He addressed the armorer. "How long did you say a new plate would take?"
"A week, Milord, at least."
"Hm." The baron's brow furrowed. "Perhaps you could work from one of Favian's old outfits."
Dru nodded. "Perhaps, Milord. Though much of the young lord's weight is distributed . . . lower down."
"Come." Baldomer turned and strode out the double doors of the armory. The other three followed, last of all Conan, still shrugging his jerkin over his head.
Their lord led them briskly through the main entry hall and up the central steps. For the first time, Conan found himself on the broad expanse of marble stairway, and he took the opportunity to gawk; the room's stately alabaster pillars loomed tall from this angle, and the gold-and-scarlet tapestries blazed in sunlight from the windows set high above the Manse's front portal. It was afternoon, and the hall was empty except for Iron Guardsmen, who flanked its doorways, their eyes riveted straight ahead.
Moving swiftly, Baldomer crossed the mezzanine and entered a corridor that Conan recognized from his former explorations. Wheeling to a halt before a black-polished door, the baron gave two hard raps. Without waiting for a reply he struck the latch with the heel of his hand, pressed the door open and entered. The others followed him at a respectful distance.
The chamber, low-ceilinged and spacious, had no other occupants-only carven furniture, a great bed whose blankets were wildly disarrayed, and walls adorned with cavalry gear and bright tapestries. At a nod from the baron, Arga went to the window and dragged apart the thick curtains, letting in beams of dusty daylight.
Baldomer strode to a black-lacquered wardrobe opposite the bed and threw open its doors. Multicolored folds of clothing inside emitted musty scents of sweat and talcum. "Hmm. I know there are several suits of mail in here. One of them should be usable." He began sorting through the close-packed sleeves; after a moment's hesitation, Dru started working from the other end.
Shortly the armorer reached both arms into the cabinet and produced a cuirass; it was fashioned of brass, unadorned, and showing many scrapes and shallow dents. Its leather fastenings were sweat-stained and frayed, and the brass-ribbed leather battle-skirt hanging underneath it was in no better shape.
"Lord Favian's old training gear . . . not really enough to work with, I fear, Milord."
"No. It won't do." Baldomer was fingering a flimsy sleeve of scarlet fabric thoughtfully: a woman's diaphanous gown. He pulled it free of the other clothing, crumpled it in his fist and tossed it to the floor. "Keep on looking."
After a smart but undersized mailcoat had been rejected, the baron produced an impressive-looking armor suit from the back wall of the cabinet. It was a steel breastplate trimmed with black leather after the fashion of the Iron Guard, but more carefully crafted, and inlaid with silver. The matching silver-spiked helmet hung on a peg above it. "Here now, what about this?" He held the plate up against Conan's chest.
"A fair fit, Milord, with some alterations. But that is Lord Favian's new formal suit of mail, turned by me last fall at Milord's command for the Baronial Conclave." Dru's gaze at Baldomer showed some concern. "I doubt that your son has anything else so splendid to wear."
"Our need is more immediate." Baldomer did not spare him a glance. "I authorize you to fix up something for Favian from the standard guard uniform. And see that it's padded at the shoulders to make his figure better match this lad's. Here, boy, try this on."
As Conan began donning the heavy breastplate over his jerkin, Dru continued to protest. "But, Milord . . . is it really necessary to outfit a bodyguard so resplendently, with the provincial tour slated for so soon?"
"Better not to ask, armorer." The baron silenced him with a steely look. "And I bid you make no mention of it. To anyone . . . understood?"
"Yes, Milord." Dru stepped back, looking cowed.
"Now then. Raise your arms, boy. Yes, the straps will need lengthening, but it should do nicely. What's that?"
The baron turned as the chamber door banged open behind him. Arga and Dru stepped forward to their baron's defense, but when they saw that the intruder was only young Favian, they stood at ease, looking slightly abashed.
Favian was booted and leather-clad, fresh from the saddle. His lip was newly shaved by his father's decree, making his resemblance to Conan more noticeable. He stared at the party in surprise for a moment; then his eyes narrowed, and his broad, handsome countenance darkened. "So, Father, a new enormity! Stealing my face and my name is not enough for you. You find it necessary to ransack my closet, too! Truly, how can you explain this?" He flashed the baron a defiant look as he slammed his unstrung hunting-bow onto a rack by the door.
After a slight initial coloring, Baldomer's features composed themselves to as much icy regularity as his scarified face allowed. "A mere security matter, Favian, that is all. Besides which," he continued more vehemently, "my place is not to explain my actions to you. Remember, every decision I make is for your own good and that of the baron."
Favian stepped forward into the center of the room. "Yet you violate my pri
vacy. You have given my best armor to this barbar-boy; next you'll probably have me clapping on his filthy dog-skins. Well, I won't have it!" He moved toward the wardrobe, reaching out to close one of its doors.
The baron stood fast, blocking his way. "What you will have or will not have is no prerogative of yours, Favian. Remember, you have nothing in this world but what I have given you-and nothing I cannot take back, should you prove undeserving!"
"Father, this is too much!" Favian turned from the unmoving baron and approached Conan. "You, there -get that armor off your stinking carcass at once!" While Conan glanced to the baron for assent, Favian shoved belligerently at the northerner's chest, scarcely budging him. He did so again, harder, as a measured provocation.
Then, suddenly, the lordling produced a riding crop from his sword-belted waist and lashed at Conan's unprotected head and shoulders. The Cimmerian raised an arm in defense and with a lightning-quick grab, seized the lashing tail of the quirt. He yanked it out of the young noble's grasp and tossed it into a corner of the room.
"Oh you will, will you? Miserable serf! Well, mark me, I am not drunk this time . . . and not unarmed, either!"
The room's confines rang with the sound of Favian's rapier clearing its scabbard. With hardly a pause in its streaking motion, the blade lashed out low at Conan's unshielded legs, but the northerner was already dancing back. He skipped clear of two more wild slashes, then vaulted over the bed to keep from being cornered.
"No, hold!" Baldomer's low command was addressed not to the fighters, but to his two retainers, Arga and Dru, who stood by indecisively, their hands on their dagger-hilts. An instant later the baron unhooked a scabbarded straightsword from the wall and tossed it to Conan. "Here, bodyguard, defend yourself!" The Cimmerian caught the piece smoothly, raising it before him just in time to meet Favian's blade as the young nobleman came vaulting over the bed.
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