Conan entered the market at midmorning, having just come from the clothiers' quarter. He was now dressed in a decent tunic and trousers, with leather boots. None of his garments was of excellent quality except the boots, for he knew he would be trading the clothes for cold-weather gear as he traveled northward. He strode across the market, drawing admiring looks from the women who stood by the fountain. His mind was not on women, but on weapons. Khorshemish was not noted for its metal work, but many caravan routes met here and consequently there were weapons of many nations to be found among the wares of its merchants.
Conan examined the goods displayed before the shop of an arms merchant. He picked up each sword and hefted it, running a critical eye
over each piece while the merchant supplied a continual commentary in praise of his stock.
"A Turanian sword, master? Curved like the crescent moon, its hilt rich with pearls and gold. The weapon of a prince, my lord."
"You don't kill with the hilt," Conan said. "You do it with the blade."
"Exactly, master," the merchant agreed. "Do but examine this pilouar of Vendhya. The blade is inlaid with potent spells in gold and silver."
"I don't believe in spells," Conan said. "I believe in a good sword arm.
Have you any western or northern blades? I prefer a straight, broad blade to these curved slicers."
"Then this is exactly the sword my lord wishes," purred the merchant, pulling a cloth cover from a splendid straight sword with a short guard and heavy pommel of carved steel. "From Vanaheim, master."
Conan's eyes blazed with pleasure. The Vanir made fine swords, at least. He picked it up and tried its balance. The high polish flashed in the morning sun. That was wrong. The Vanir preferred the pearly gray luster of steel in the first polish, which displayed the fine grain and pattern of their intricately welded blades. They never polished a sword to mirror brightness. Suspiciously, he ran a thumbnail along one edge from hilt to point, then turned the blade over and tried the other edge. Halfway up he felt a slight unevenness in the, steel. He held the blade close to his eye, out of the direct sunlight, where the polish could not hide a flaw. There was a hairline crack running from the edge almost to the central fuller. He tossed the sword to the table in disgust. "Worthless," he said. "Haven't you anything better?"
Fuming at the barbarian's obstinacy, the shopkeeper waved him toward the shop behind him. "There are some old blades in there, if you want to look at them."
Inside the shop Conan waited for a few minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, then examined a pile of swords, and daggers on a table. He found a plain, heavy dirk, single-edged and broad-spined, and stuck it in his sash. None of the swords was to his liking. He was about to pay for the dirk and leave, when he saw a big pottery jar standing in a corner with a cluster of swords protruding from it. He pulled out several, but most of
them were ancient, notched, and rusty, their grips broken or rotted away.
On the point of leaving to seek out another shop, he drew forth a sword that felt different from the others. In the dimness he could tell little except that the blade was broad and straight, and the grip had long since deteriorated, leaving only a stretch of thin tang between hilt and pommel.
He took it outside for a better look. In the sunlight he saw that the blade had turned purple-black with age, but bore no trace of rust. The curiously wrought hilt and pommel were of bronze long since turned green.
To get a feel of its balance, Conan borrowed a strip of leather from a nearby stall, wrapped the tang, and swung the brand a few times. Even with the inadequate grip he knew that this sword had a balance as fine as any he had ever felt. He returned the leather strip to its owner and asked the merchant what he wanted for sword and dirk.
"A very rare old sword, sir," the merchant said, "no doubt possessing many hidden virtues."
"Well-hidden at that," the Cimmerian said. "You bought it from some tomb-robber for a trifle."
Conan's time in the eastern lands had taught him the art and entertainment of haggling. The argument continued occasionally threatening to escalate into open violence, and idlers passing by paused to contribute views and opinions. Eventually, Conan walked away with the sword wrapped in a length of cloth and the dirk tucked into his sash, certain that he had paid a pittance for so fine a blade. The merchant was equally sure that he had unloaded a worthless item on an ignorant outlander for an outrageous price.
In the jewelers' quarter Conan found a sword dresser sitting before his workshop, surrounded by polishing stones of varying grit, bowls of sand and other powders, and sheets of rough sharkskin. Conan handed the man his new purchase.
"Can you clean this up and sharpen it? It needs a grip as well. Plain wood will do, or staghorn or bone."
The sword dresser examined the weapon minutely, and the way he handled it told Conan he had come to the right man. This one knew weapons, if not with the arm of a warrior, at least with the eye of a
craftsman.
"A fine weapon," the artisan pronounced at last. "Most unusual, but I think I can do something with it. It will look much handsomer than you'd think when it is cleaned, and it deserves an exceptional grip. I have something you will like.
"Nothing fancy," Conan said, "I prefer plain wood or bone." But the craftsman had already disappeared into his shop.
Conan fretted, suspecting mat the man would try to sell him a handle of solid jade or crystal or other splendid, useless material.
When the man returned, though, he was holding a thin box of fragrant sandalwood. "I had this from a Hyrkanian trader two years ago," he explained. "I've been waiting to find a wormy sword." He opened the box, revealing a sheet of thin, parchmentlike material. It was as white as new ivory, and covered with tiny irregular bumps. Intrigued, Conan ran his fingertips over the knobbly surface. His experienced hand told him that this exotic stuff, beautiful as it was, would afford a fine grip.
"What is it?" Conan asked, mystified. "Some kind of shagreen?"
"It is the backskin of the giant ray fish, from the isles east of Khitai. It is said to make the finest swordgrips in the world. I will fashion you a handle of plain hardwood, then glue this rayskin over it. It's a long hilt, big enough even for both your hands, with a little crowding, but I think there will be enough left over to make a matching grip for your dirk."
"Then I'll have this stuff," Conan said, not even asking the price, which he knew would be steep. He was willing to pay well for fine weaponry, or take exceptional risks to steal the best. "Can you make sheaths as well?"
"My apprentices will see to that. What kind do you wish?"
"Plain leather for the dirk. For the sword, thin wood, the strongest you have, with oil-treated leather glued over it. Bronze chape and throat. I want the wood lined inside with close-sheared lamb fleece, and the bronze throat cut away lest the edge touch metal in drawing or sheathing."
The craftsman nodded. "You are a man who understands weapons, sir.
It is always a pleasure to deal with such. Return in two days and all will be
ready."
Conan continued on his way, this time to look at horses and saddles.
Knowing that he faced a long journey, he ignored the splendid chargers and coursers the horse-traders tried to sell him, though at another time he might have spent days testing them all. He settled on a strong bay gelding, sound of wind and limb. Since he wanted to travel light, and make the last part of his journey on foot, he did not bother with a pack animal.
His last purchase was a voluminous cloak that would serve as garment and blanket, and in which he could keep his few belongings rolled up and tied across his saddle during the journey. He decided against purchasing armor and helm, both because he must travel light and because his fellow Cimmerian countrymen considered armor to be effeminate.
That evening he sat in the same tavern, this time in a far better mood.
He had made his decisions, and he was not one to brood over mistakes or lost opportunities
. Already he was looking forward to the northlands again. It had been too long since he had seen his kinsmen and breathed the free air of the mountains. Perhaps he would pay a visit to his old friends the Aesir, and go a-raiding with them for a while.
"Amulets, master?" Conan looked up to see the ancient Khitan holding forth a mass of indescribable pendants dangling from leather thongs.
"Protect you from, harm, from Evil Eye, from drowning, from snakebite."
The old man grinned encouragingly.
"More gloomy predictions for me, old crow?" Conan said with a grudging smile. He would not let the elderly doom-monger shake his mood of elation. "Here." He flipped the shaman a heavy silver coin from Koth.
The old one caught the coin in his free hand and bit it. Cackling, he secreted the coin in his rags and held out a thong from which dangled an oddly carved bit of green stone.
"Take this," the old one urged. "Good protection."
"Against what?" Conan said dubiously. "Drowning, snakebite? I believe in my own strength."
"Sometime strength no good. Then need first-rate amulet and charm.
This one save life when strength all gone."
Reluctantly, Conan took the thing and hung it from his neck, more to silence the old man than for any other reason. It would make a gift for some pretty girl along the way, at any rate.
The old man kept grinning and cackling. "Keep inside of shirt. Magic no good if too many people see." He started to walk away, then turned back and waggled an admonitory finger. "Remember, only playing pieces on board of gods."
"If we're moved about by other powers," Conan demanded, "what use are amulets?"
The old man cackled gleefully. "Sometimes even gods have need of amulets!"
Two days later Conan stood before the sword dresser's shop. In his hands he held the splendid sword. Its blade now shone bright, an odd pale blue color such as he had never seen in sword steel. The bronze guard and pommel had been polished to a warm luster, and were perfectly set off by the pearly-white ray skin grip. Best of all, though, was the marvelous balance and design which seemed to make the sword swing itself with little effort from the wielder.
In his enthusiasm Conan set the blade flashing through the air in a series of intricate maneuvers he had learned from a Turanian swordmaster. His impromptu display drew frightened squawks and curses from passersby who wandered too near. At last, satisfied, he sheathed the brand in its new scabbard. Balancing the sword on the other side of the belt was the refurbished dirk with its now-matching hilt.
"I needed twice the usual time to put an edge on it," the craftsman said, "so hard is the steel. But you can shave with either edge now. And the blue color―that I have seen only in a few very ancient blades. It is a style of steel making long lost. Look closely and you will see a slightly paler color along the edges. They were made of a different quality of steel welded in with the softer metal, and tempered separately." The man sighed. "Such secrets the ancients knew. The finest Turanian blades are trash compared to this. I hope it serves you well, my friend."
Conan paid the high price gladly; he would have paid more. Gold was nothing, and it always seemed to trickle through his fingers like water.
Steel a man could trust. With the reassuring weight at his waist, making
him feel lighter instead of heavier, he strode to the inn where Hathor-Ka stayed.
This time the keeper of the inn was obsequious. Conan was not splendid in his plain clothing and boots, but he was every inch a warrior, and such men always command respect.
He climbed the stairs and rapped on the door. It was opened by Moulay, who ushered him inside. Conan saw Hathor-Ka seated at her table with a large chart spread out before her.
"I leave at dawn tomorrow," Conan announced without preamble. "Give me the flask and I'll be on my way."
"You are too hasty," Hathor-Ka chided him.
"Would you prefer a slow messenger?" Conan asked.
"Come here," she ordered. "Show me the route you plan to use."
Conan walked around the table to study the chart. He had seen maps before, but at the best of times he had difficulty relating these drawings on parchment to real land. "I can't read these scratchings," he said.
Hathor-Ka named the principal nations for him, and the most prominent rivers. Thus oriented, the map began to make sense. He could see that the central, civilized nations were clearly delineated, with many cities marked, while the barbaric nations of north and south were vaguely and sketchily indicated. With a blunt finger Conan traced the route he planned to take.
"I'll go straight north through Ophir, then up through Nemedia. I may stop in Belverus if nobody's besieging the place, then up to the Border Kingdom. They'll hang me there if they catch me; but it's only a narrow bit of land I have to cross. Then I'll be in Cimmeria."
"Why not go up through Aquilonia?" Hathor-Ka asked. "There are far more cities and settlements. You could travel north to Gunderland and the Bossonian Marches, and it would be civilized country most of the way."
Conan shook his head. "The eastern route is open plain most of the way.
It's fairly well-watered, but with no big rivers to cross. It's the best way to
travel by horse. In Aquilonia the land's all cut up by rivers, and they all flow south, so boat travel would be slower than riding. All those settlements mean traveling by road, and the traffic and towns slow you down. Also, it would mean entering Cimmeria in Murrogh territory, and the Murrogh clan have been waging a blood feud with my own for five generations, ever since one of my ancestors stole all their horses."
"Excellent," Hathor-Ka said. "I have no interest in your route, but I wished to be sure that you are a man who knows how to think ahead and plan." She turned to Moulay and nodded.
Once again he opened the chest and drew forth the flask. Hathor-Ka held it for a moment, then handed it to the Cimmerian.
"Upon your oath," the woman said, "let nothing happen to this vessel or its contents before the last step of your mission is carried out."
"You don't have to remind me," Conan grumbled. "I will get it done."
Without further pleasantries the Cimmerian left.
Moulay watched Conan leave. "My lady, I have no wish to see the cold north, but I think the two of us should have undertaken this task."
She crossed to the narrow window and looked down into the street. The Cimmerian was walking away with his lengthy hillman's stride. "No, Moulay, you are wrong. Even if the two of us could endure the journey, we would never arrive by the autumnal equinox. I would have to employ my mightiest sorceries to speed our way, and would arrive too exhausted to face the struggle that might ensue. This man is perfect. He is strong and simple, and he will honor his word."
Moulay snorted through his beaked nose. "What does a savage know of honor?"
"More than you would think. Honor is a barbaric virtue, of which civilization retains only the empty forms. Besides, the greatest advantage of using this man is that he is a Cimmerian, and he will be in his own country." She turned for a last glimpse of Conan's broad back disappearing around a corner. "No, I could not have chosen better."
The next morning Conan rode out through the North Gate of Khorshemish. The rising sun was just staining the east wall of the city red,
and here on the north side all was still in shadow, retaining the faint chill of night. Conan's horse was through the opening valves as soon as they were wide enough to pass its sturdy barrel. The guards atop the wall were yawning, yearning for their relief to arrive so they could collapse into their empty bunks at the barracks.
Early as the hour was, however, they were not alone atop the wall over the North Gate. Beside the green-flecked bronze poles which supported the gate's drum stood a skinny, ragged figure rattling his strings of bone and shell. As Conan rode away from the city of the plain, the ancient Khitan mountebank waved to his unseeing back.
Three
Five Riders
Conan had been on his journey for seve
n days. For six of those days he had known that he was being followed. It was very difficult to trail a man unseen on open plain, and even more difficult when the man in question was experienced, suspicious, and Cimmerian. From long habit, every few hours Conan would ride to the nearest rise of ground and scan all around, paying special attention to his back trail.
On his second day he had descried the five riders wfio followed. They were well behind, and could not close the gap quickly. At the same time, he knew that he would eventually have to turn and give battle. There was no way that a lone man could keep ahead of five indefinitely except on the most favorable ground. Clever pursuers would divide the chase, with some riding fast to make the quarry stay ahead, others catching up at a more leisurely pace, then taking the fast chase in their turn, gradually wearing out the mount of the pursued while keeping their own horses relatively fresh.
On the other hand, Conan knew that his horse was a good one. He also was not lacking in personal confidence, and had no doubt that his own stamina was greater than that of his pursuers. The fighting ground would be his choice. High ground was always best, but there was precious little of that hereabout.
On the eve of the seventh day he found a mound several paces high and settled on that as a good place to conquer or die. He picketed his horse by
a small stream a quarter mile away from the mound, where the grass was good. First he watered the beast, then curried its glossy hide. He made sure that the picket cords were such that the horse would take no more than a few hours to gnaw them through. Should he and all his enemies be slain today, he did not wish the beast to be left to a lingering death on the empty plain.
When all was ready he ate a handful of dried fruit and jerked meat, and walked to the mound. From its crest he could see that the five horsemen were still an hour away. He sat down to await them.
He did not want to signal his presence from afar, lest they pause and approach him slowly, catching their breath and regaining their full strength. At five-to-one odds even Conan knew that he needed every advantage he could wrest from the situation. As the men neared, he drew his sword and admired its beauty. Since the fight could not be avoided, it cheered him to have a chance to try out his new blade, and such a fight as was coming would surely test it to the full.
The Conan Compendium Page 314