The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Not that he imagined he could run the city any better, things seemed well under control for the nonce. After that first charnel night, the insurrection had taken hold almost bloodlessly by virtue of Baldomer's death and the uneasy accommodation between rebels and nobles. A few lesser officers and functionaries, such as Fletta, the interrogator and executioner, had been dragged before civil tribunals, condemned, and broken on the wheel to appease the vengeful townsfolk; and a few unpopular nobles quit their homes and vanished, either sent into hiding by their fellows at court, or murdered by them. The noble party allowed none of its number to be tried, fearing that the public execution of aristocrats might set a bad precedent.

  The nearest thing to a falling-out between the two factions had involved the proposed abolition of the Iron Guard; Conan had dozed through a long meeting where debate on the subject raged hotly between Durwald and Evadne. The proposal had finally been agreed to, but with little impact, since the change of the elite guard's designation to the "Red Dragons" was a token display, after all. It meant the promotion of a few officers, and much labor for Dru, the armorer, who in the coming months would have to change the outfit's armor trappings to the new motif. The troops would still click their heels as smartly, Conan guessed, and obey orders as unquestioningly.

  He saw little place for his own efforts in the new Dinander, except to wine, dine and wench like a baron, and fill a suit of armor handsomely, be it of red or black hue. His success in finding a few of his old cronies, those who stood with him during the rebel purge of the prisons, was gratifying; yet his message summoning the serving-maid, Ludya, back to the capital had never been answered. Conan suspected that his employers, none too eager that he find a mate and sire a counterfeit noble line, might have intercepted his courier. He was of half a mind to ride in search of the girl himself.

  His musings were interrupted by another opening of the chamber door. He looked up to see a figure more comely than that of the crook-nosed Rudo: the stately Evadne on her daily visit, clad in sandals and a plain, belted tunic. His sudden upward glance sent reverberations throbbing through his still-tender skull, so he only grunted irritably as she entered.

  "Good morning, Your Lordship." She scarcely blinked at his state of undress, but her shapely nose wrinkled at the scent of wine-dipped bedclothes. "Recovering from another nightlong debauch, I see. Will you never tire of... the prerogatives of rank?" She settled herself on a lacquered stool a decorous distance away.

  "In truth," he grumbled, "I am already weary of these pointless pursuits-as I long ago grew bored with the aged, motherly trollops you send me from the local ale houses. I crave more of life than this musty apartment can provide."

  Evadne covered any embarrassment with a shrug of unconcern. "If you are restless, ride to the hunt again. You can decree it for tomorrow, if you like."

  "What, and have the gamekeepers loose more tame deer from their cages for me to slaughter, in the company of a dozen sour-faced men-at-arms? Nay, Evadne." Conan gently cradled his forehead on an outspread hand. "In my youth in Cimmeria, hunting had a purpose, a meaning. Here, like everything else, it is hollow."

  "Then call for fencing practice in the private courtyard. Fight three or four guardsmen at once, if you must place your life at risk in order to enjoy it." She waved a hand in exasperation, preparing to arise. "There is plenty to do here. Any ordinary citizen would give his nose and ears to be in your place. I must confess, I find it a trial to keep your savage soul entertained!"

  "Then why trouble yourself, Evadne?" Conan propped his chin on one hand as he regarded her. "Why do you even bother? Is it true that you have been assigned as my nursemaid, to make sure I keep up lordly appearances?"

  "No need for worry on that account; you play the degenerate aristocrat most convincingly." The rebel shook her blond locks reprovingly, sitting poised on the edge of her stool. "But remember, ours is a young, untested provincial government with many ... ill-assorted elements. Our two shakiest props are you and the poor, mad Lady Calissa. It is necessary that someone take the responsibility for your welfare."

  "And how fares Calissa?" Conan let his gaze fall away from Evadne with a surge of melancholy. "Does she still rail and struggle at her restraints?"

  "Nay, her chafes are healing, and she no longer tugs and worries at the charm fastened around her neck. She is unbound, allowed to rove free in her room, as long as someone stays to see that she does not hang herself by the chain. She no longer raves"-Evadne smiled wanly-"or even speaks. To anyone."

  "Hmm. A convenient circumstance for you and me, but an ill one for Calissa." He shook his head miserably. "And yet I wonder, am I less a prisoner than she is?"

  "Nonsense." Evadne visibly ruffled, watched Conan warily. "If you decided to leave Dinander to its fate, and to forfeit the golden drams that are daily added to your account, we would have a hard time stopping you."

  "But you would try, would you not?" Conan smiled grimly, trading gaze for gaze. "Is that why you venture so boldly into my room? And is that, perchance, what the dagger concealed at your thigh is for?" He let his feet slip to the floor, moving to arise. "Is it the same weapon, I wonder, that you carried for Favian?"

  "Stop! I would never wish such a thing!" She stood bolt upright, her proud face pale. "But be warned, if it were for the sake of our province, I would do whatever was necessary. Your fair dealing thus far has earned you a certain indulgence. But a limited one."

  "I thought so." He rose smoothly to his feet, no longer showing signs of malaise, and moved toward her. "I understand you, then; we are slayers of a kind! So our time here need not be so glum and joyless after all. Come, Evadne, I am told your recent wedding was a sham." He moved toward her, extending an arm.

  "No!" She moved back a step from him, toward the door. "I am no tavern trull to lighten your leisure! Nor am I the next in your chain of conquests at the Manse. I have dealings here that are more important than that." She glared at him. "As for my wedding, it may have been only a formality. I will never know, since my husband was the first one killed by Baldomer's guards in our rising." She strode to the door, bowing curtly before she opened it, and passed through. "Good day to you, Milord Baron!"

  Wordlessly, listless once again, Conan shuffled back to the mattress and sat down heavily. His hand roved indecisively for a moment over the array of food and spirit decanters at the bedside; then, with an idle gesture, he tipped the ivory table onto the floor. Amidst the crashing, he sank down onto the blankets and closed his eyes.

  It may have been moments or hours later that the chamber door scraped open again. Less bleary this time, Conan rolled onto one elbow. His hand clutched his swordhilt beneath the coverlet as he watched Durwald enter, flanked by Evadne.

  "Well, Lord Favian-as you must persevere in being! I am glad to see you living the part so well. Your hair grows a bit shaggy . . . but then, what does it matter, since there is no longer a living counterpart to compare you with?" The leather-kilted noble spoke with brusque humor, pausing a few steps short of the litter surrounding the bed. "But I hope you have fully recovered from your night's merriment. A challenge awaits us that will require our best wit and readiness."

  "A fresh basin is being drawn," Evadne added. "We expect you to be washed and dressed soon."

  "And what is the occasion?" Conan ran a hand across his forehead, sweeping his black mane out of his eyes. "Is some young bride taking her vows and awaiting a tryst with the lord of the Manse?"

  Evadne stiffened at this remark, but Durwald only smiled. "Advance couriers have just arrived, from an armed force of our neighboring barons. The lords are sending a punitive expedition westward against the snake-cultists, and they expect us to join them."

  "Against the cultists, you say? A ruse!" Conan bolted up from the bed, dragging his longsword out from beneath the linen. "More likely the warlords are marching against us in our time of weakness, as you foresaw. Will we ready the town for a siege, or meet them on the plain?"

  "Nay, fellow
, be not so eager to enter the fray!" Durwald shook his head patiently. "To be sure, the barons have heard of our recent change of rulership; doubtless they wish to test our strengths and spy out whether Dinander can still hold her territories. But I would wager that their purported mission is genuine."

  The marshal seated himself on the edge of the broad writing table, folding his arms on his chest as he expounded. "The western cults are an intolerable nuisance to them; they raided southward into Baron Ottislav's domain, and he went first to his friend, Sigmarck, for aid. Now the two come here. This is our chance to show them, first, that we have no ties with the snakecult and, second, that we have a firm grip on our province and a good resolve to defend it."

  A washbasin and fresh linen had been set out by Rudo as Durwald spoke. Conan submerged his face in it for a long moment, then shook his dripping head like a terrier, spattering water on his unprotected guests. "Mayhap we should join forces with these cultists instead, if the barons are as greedy as you say."

  "Take sides with Set-worshipers? Co... Lord Favian, that would scarcely be politic." Evadne glared at him with distaste.

  "And how like a rebel you are! Once in power, you take up arms against all your fellow rebels and crush them." Conan splashed water vigorously onto his chest and mopped it with a towel. "If these neighbor barons can set you against your own populace, the scoundrels have won half their fight."

  "No, truly, Lord Baron, these cultists are less than savory." Durwald exaggerated Conan's false title archly. "Hardly human, if you ask me. You saw the specimen we interrogated at Squire Ulf's keep."

  "That is so, believe me," Evadne seconded. "When we rode east to ambush Baldomer's train, we passed through a valley denuded by their sweep. There have been outbreaks before in these regions. It is not really a faith-more a plague that spreads and spreads, unless it is finally stopped by force of arms." Evadne averted her eyes, either out of emotion or because Conan had set to scrubbing his nether parts.

  "Well, if the two of you finally agree on something, it must be true." Conan began toweling himself furiously. "So what must I do to appease these barons? Will they know me by sight?"

  Durwald shook his head. "Diplomatic relations have been cool; I would guess that none in their party will have seen Favian in the past dozen years. You can doff your helmet in their presence." The marshal sat easy, exuding confidence for Conan's benefit. "They will surely have heard conflicting rumors. If you keep your peace and appear determined, we should be able to pass you off without question."

  "Use the salutes and protocols you have been shown," Evadne added. "You will be well-protected by guards."

  "Yes. We, as your counselors, will do the talking," Durwald emphasized. "They will expect no great statesmanship from such a youthful heir."

  "The inner hall is being readied," Evadne finished. "The troops will camp downriver, and their officers are expected here by nightfall. We must go and assemble the counselors, for there is much to be discussed."

  Lamps flared yellow in the Manse's Hall of State as lords and warriors took their places at tables spread with loaves, salt meats and ale puncheons. Here was not the gala extravagance of one of Baldomer's gatherings; the feast was Spartan by comparison, with shadows brooding in the sparsely lit upper vaultings of the gallery. The intended effect was one of strength and resolve; to this end the crowd of townsfolk filling the courtyard saluted the guests with lusty shouts; the counselors, even old Lothian, wore military costume, and the Manse's guards deployed along the walls of the chamber with extra quickness and precision.

  The visiting lords gave no hint of being impressed by the display. Baron Sigmarck, a short, slender man with cruelly handsome features, arched his aquiline nose over his food in distaste and spent the rest of the night regarding the company around him with cynical, dark eyes. Ottislav, a bald, mustached warlord decked in gold chains and bristling with furs, served himself profusely and impartially from all the nearby plates and beakers; but it seemed to his hosts that whenever they sought to address him on any subject, his sole, invariable reply was the word "Haw!" -spoken sharply, with a twitch of his greasy whiskers and an unpleasant leer.

  Noting the behavior of these two, Conan took comfort that none would expect him to be very mannerly or forthcoming. Flanked at the table by Durwald and Evadne, with the other counselors seated between him and the noble visitors, he was well-nigh immune to questions. He feigned great interest in his food and drink, then sat taciturn through the interminable program of Nemedian peasant dances that the rebel leaders had furnished as entertainment.

  When the milling peasants were finally cleared from the room, discussion of the eastern campaign commenced. In terse, barking statements, the barons' tight-faced, armored marshals decreed their objectives, amounting to nothing less than total extermination of the eastern insurgents, and withdrawal westward before the first fall sleets turned the roads to mud.

  Curtly then, the visiting officers answered questions put to them by Dinander's counselors. At first these delegates' remarks were full of gruff hints and insinuations that the snakecult raiders were supported by the new rulers of Dinander. When their hosts protested otherwise, the visitors deftly changed their tune, demanding military support for their own venture.

  During the negotiation, Durwald, Evadne and Lothian feigned earnest consultations with their baron. These were actually heated exchanges between the three of them, which Conan could barely follow, though he remembered to mumble and nod occasionally to keep up appearances.

  The diplomacy grew tense, with both counselors hurrying down the length of the table to address the foreign barons themselves. At one point there came a bellow that caused the Cimmerian to raise wary eyes to the end of the board: Evadne clutched Ottislav's thumb, bending it back ruthlessly as she detached his hand from her midsection, where it had groped too freely. The bald noble, once she had released him, flared and blustered at her, and his aides gathered close about him. But his display of temper was cut short by a wicked laugh from across the table, where Lord Sigmarck sat stroking his sharp chin.

  The diminutive baron was obviously scornful of conducting business through so many intermediaries, with no single one of them clearly in charge; now he leaned across the table toward Conan. "I say, Favian! Enough of this nattering. You provide ten companies -no more, no less. After all, this rebel nuisance arises from your own unruly hinterlands. Ten full companies"-he glanced contemptuously to the aides who crowded anxiously nearby-"that is, if your privy counselors will permit it!"

  Before the others could speak, Conan found himself nodding decisively. "Done!" He raised his ale-jack in salute, ignoring the nervous whispers behind him.

  "Good, then!" Sigmarck likewise sloshed his cup high and drank on the bargain. "That will enable us to sweep this pestilence all the way to the edge of the Varakiel. Twill be a jolly hunt!" He set down his flagon, smiling slyly across at Conan. "Tell me, Baron, will you be accompanying us?"

  This time Evadne was quickest to reply. "Nay, Baron Sigmarck, our liege regrets that he must remain in Dinander at this critical time. Marshal Durwald will command the force on his behalf."

  But Conan had heard Sigmarck utter an eerily familiar word: Varakiel, the name of Ludya's home district. "Indeed I'll come!" he thundered over Evadne's equivocations. Banging down his ale-cup, he turned to his startled guard officers. "Pass the word all down the ranks. We ride on the morrow!"

  CHAPTER 13

  The March into Hell

  Like rotting fangs, stark in burning daylight, rose the soot-blackened walls and ruined towers of Edram Castle. The collapsed interior of the keep was a pit of jumbled darkness, gaping all the blacker because it lay open to brilliant blue sky. The devastation was days old, and no smoke or flame lingered, but the musty stench of damp charcoal filled the outlander's nostrils as he turned from the broken archway.

  "So they burned Squire Ulf's castle, as he burned the wretched town upriver," he muttered to Evadne. "I cannot blame them; I l
onged to do it myself. . . and yet, 'tis strange. I would expect any band of rebels to seize this place and use it to gain control of the valley." Pausing on the stone entry ramp, he gazed along the breached wall, half-tumbled now into reedy swamp. "They could have held off a force like ours for days."

  Evadne continued down the walk, answering him over her chain-mailed shoulder: "As I told you, we face not a rebellion here, but a plague! The snakeworshipers spread havoc wherever they go. 'Tis lucky for us that they destroyed only one span of the river bridge."

  Conan turned his gaze up the road to where the last of their party was crossing the broken causeway, via an unsteady ropeway floored with charred planking salvaged from the castle. While the rest of the column stood waiting in road order, a few men at a time walked horses and carts across the ragged gap in the bridge, moving slowly and cautiously above the swirling river.

  At the road junction just outside the castle's tumbled gate, the diminutive Baron Sigmarck stood with a drawing board at the road's junction, sketching a map; his fellow noble, Ottislav, hulked over a nervous-looking cavalry officer at the base of a nearby wall, cursing lengthily and obscenely over a cast of knucklebones. As Conan walked past the barons, the shorter one looked up to him with a bleak smile. "I think we can move forward safely now, noble Favian. I suggest that we retain our former marching order."