The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  "Set it there," Conan commanded, pointing to a spot some fifty paces away. The soldiers ran to comply, as eager as their superiors to see the barbarian's discomfiture.

  "Not a great distance, barbar."

  "But it's a child's bow."

  Breathing deeply to calm himself, Conan rode away from the bunched officers, stopping when he was a full two hundred paces from the butt. Nocking a shaft, he paused. This demonstration must proceed perfectly, and for that his concentration must be on the target, not clouded by anger at the chattering baboons who called themselves officers.

  "Why wait you, barbar?" Vegentius shouted. "Dismount and-"

  With a wild cry Conan swung the bow up and fired. Even as the shaft thudded home in the butt he was putting boot to the stallion's flanks, galloping forward at full speed, sparks striking from the flagstones beneath the big black's drumming hooves, firing as quickly as he could nock arrow to bowstring, shouting the ululating warcry that oft had wrung fear from the warriors of Gunderland and Hyperborea and the Bossonian Marches.

  Arrow after arrow sped straight to the butt. At a hundred paces distant he pressed with his knee, and the massive stallion broke faultlessly to the right. Conan fired again and again, mind and eye one with bow, with shaft, with target. Again his knees pressed, and the war-trained stallion pivoted, rearing and reversing his direction within his own length. Still Conan fired, thundering back the way he had come.

  When at last he put hand to rein there were four arrows left in the quiver behind his saddle, and he knew, did anyone count the feathered shafts that peppered the butt, they would number thirty and six.

  He cantered back to the now silent officers.

  "What sorcery is this?" Vegentius demanded. "Have your arrows been magicked, that they strike home while you careen like a madman?"

  "No sorcery," Conan replied, laughing. For it was, indeed, his turn to laugh at the stunned expressions worn by the officers. "'Tis accounted a skill, though not a vast one, if a man can hit a running deer with a bow. This is but a step beyond. I myself had no knowledge at all of the bow when I was taught."

  "Taught!" Tegha exclaimed, not noticing the glare Vegentius gave him. "Who? Where?"

  "Far to the east," Conan said. "There the bow is the principal weapon of light cavalry. In Turan-"

  "Whatever they do in these strange lands," Vegentius broke in harshly, "'tis of no matter here. We have no need of outlandish ways. A phalanx of good Nemedian infantry will clear any field, without this frippery of bowmen on horses."

  Conan considered telling him what a few thousand mounted Turanian archers would do to that phalanx, but before he could speak another group approached, and the officers were all bowing low.

  Leading this procession was a tall, square-faced man, the crown on his head, a golden dragon with ruby eyes and a great pearl clutched in its paws proclaiming him to be king Garian. Yet Conan had no eyes for the king, nor the counselors who surrounded him, nor the courtiers who trailed him, for there was among them a woman to seize the eye. A long-legged, fullbreasted blonde, she was no gently born lady, not wearing transparent red silk held by pearl clasps at her shoulders and snugged about her slender waist by entwined ropes of pearls set in gold. But an she were someone's leman, he paid her not the attention he ought. For she returned Conan's stare, if not so openly as he, yet with a smoky heat that quickened his blood.

  Conan saw that Garian was approaching him, and doffed his helm hoping the King had not seen the direction of his gaze.

  "I saw your exhibition from the gallery" Garian said warmly, "and I have never seen the like." His brown eyes were friendly-which meant he had not noticed Conan's gaze-though not so open as the eyes of one who did not sit on a throne. "How are you called?"

  "I am Conan," the Cimmerian replied. "Conan of Cimmeria." He did not see the blood drain from Vegentius' face.

  "Do you come merely to entertain, Conan?"

  "I come to enter your service," Conan said, "with my lieutenant and two score men trained to use the bow as I do."

  "Most excellent," Garian said, clapping a hand against the stallion's shoulder. "Always have I had an interest in innovations of warfare. Why, from my childhood I as much as lived in the army camps. Now,"

  a trace of bitterness crept into his voice, "I have not even time to practice with my sword."

  "My King," Vegentius said deferentially, "this thing is no better than trickery, an entertainment, but of no use in war." As he spoke his eyes drifted to Conan. The Cimmerian thought, but could not believe, it was a look of hatred and fear.

  "No, good Vegentius," Garian said, shaking his head. "Your advice is often sound on matters military, but this time you are wrong." Vegentius opened his mouth; Garian ignored him. "Hear me now, Conan of Cimmeria. An you enter my service, I will give each man of yours three gold marks, and three more each tenday. To yourself, ten gold marks, and another each day you serve me."

  "It is meet," Conan said levelly. No merchant would have paid more than half so well.

  Garian nodded. "It is done, then. But you must practice the sword with me for a full glass each day, for I see by the wear of your hilt that you have some knowledge of that weapon as well. Vegentius, see that Conan has quarters within the Palace, and let them be spacious."

  In the way of kings, having issued his commands Garian strode away without further words, soldiers bowing as he left, courtiers and counselors trailing in his wake. The blonde went, too, but as she went her eyes played on Conan's face with furnace heat.

  From the corner of his eye Conan saw Vegentius moving away. "Commander Vegentius," he called, "did not the King say my company was to be quartered?"

  Vegentius almost snarled his reply. "The King said you were to receive quarters, barbar. He said naught of that ragtag you call a company. Let them quarter in the gutter." And he, too, stalked away.

  Some of Conan's euphoria left him. He could not run whining to Garian, asking that Vegentius be made to quarter his men. There were inns aplenty at the foot of the hill, but in even the cheapest of them, he would have to supplement the men's pay from his own purse. That would strain even his newfound resources. Yet it was not the worst of his worries. Why did Vegentius hate him? He must discover the answer before he was forced to kill the man. And he would have to keep the blonde from getting him beheaded. While enjoying her favors, if possible. But then, when had one born on a battlefield sought a life free of troubles?

  Laughing, he rode to the gate to tell the others of their fortune.

  Chapter XIII

  The high domed ceiling of plain gray stone was well lit by cressets brass-hung about the bare walls, in which there was no window and but a single door, and that well guarded on the outside. Albanus would allow no slightest risk to that which the room housed. Even but gazing on it, he felt the power that would come to him from it. Centered in the room was a circular stone platform, no higher than a step from the floor, and on it sat a large rectangular block of peculiarly beige day. It was that clay that would give Albanus the Dragon Throne.

  "Lord Albanus, I demand again to know why I am brought here and imprisoned."

  Albanus schooled his face to a smile before turning to the scowling, bushy, browed man who confronted him with fists clenched. "A misapprehension on the part of my guards, good Stephano. I but told them to fetch to me the great sculptor Stephano, and they overstepped themselves. I will have them flogged, I assure you."

  Stephano waved that last away as unimportant, though Albanus noted he did not ask for the guards to be spared their promised flogging.

  "You have heard of me?" the sculptor asked instead, his chest puffing.

  "Of course," Albanus replied, hard put not to laugh. This man was read as easily as a page of large script.

  "'Tis why I want you to sculpt this statue for me. As you can see, your implements are all provided." He gestured a low table that held every sort of sculptor's tool.

  "'Tis all wrong," Stephano said, with overbearing condesc
ension. "Clay is used for small figures. Statues are of stone or bronze."

  Albanus' lips retained their smile, but his eyes were frozen coals. "The clay is brought all the way from Khitai." He could think of no more distant land to serve as a source. "When fired, it has the hardness of bronze, yet is lighter than the damp clay. On the table are sketches of he whom the statue is to portray.

  Examine them."

  Looking doubtfully at the block of clay, Stephano took up the parchments, unrolled them, and gasped,

  "Why, this is Garian!"

  "Our gracious king," Albanus agreed unctuously, though he near choked on the words. "'Tis to be a present for him. A surprise."

  "But how is the work to be clothed?" the sculptor asked, ruffling through the drawings. "In all of these is he naked."

  "And so is the sculpture to be." Albanus forestalled the surprise on Stephano's face by adding, "Such is the custom of Khitai with statues of this clay. They are clothed in actual garments, this raiment being changed from time to time so that the figure is clothed always in the latest fashion." He was pleased with himself for that invention. He wondered if it might not be amusing to have a statue done so of himself once he ascended the throne.

  Stephano laughed suddenly, a harsh sound like the scraping of slates. "And what would be done with a naked statue of Garian, were Garian no longer on the throne?"

  "An unlikely event," Albanus said blandly.

  Stephano looked startled, as if not realizing he had spoken aloud. "Of course. Of course." His face hardened, thick brows drawing down. "Yet why should I accept the offer of this commission, following as it does a night spent locked in your cellars?"

  "A grievous error for which I have apologized. Shall we say a thousand gold marks?"

  "I have no interest in gold," the sculptor sneered.

  "To be distributed to the poor," Albanus continued smoothly. "I have heard much of the good charities you do in Hellgate." Stephano's face did not soften, but the hawk-faced lord saw the way. His voice became a mesmeric whisper. "Think of all the good that you could do with a thousand pieces of gold.

  Think of your fellows following you as you distribute it. I would wager none of them has ever had the hundredth part so much to give." Stephano nodded slowly, staring at the wall as if he saw a scene there.

  "How they would laud you, following in your steps with their praises. How great you would be in their eyes." Albanus fell silent, waiting.

  Stephano seemed to stand straighter. Abruptly he shook himself and gave an embarrassed laugh. "Of a certainty, great good could come from so much gold. I was lost in thought of those I could help."

  "Of course." The cruel-faced lord smiled, then his voice became brisker. "This must be a surprise to Garian. To that end, none may know that you are here. Food and drink will be brought to you. And women, should you desire. Daily will you have leave of the gardens, an you remember your caution.

  Now get you to your labor, for time presses."

  When Albanus left that room, he stood, trembling, between the guards who stood with bared swords to either side of the door. His stomach roiled with nausea. That he should have to treat one such as Stephano as near an equal! It was ill to be borne. Yet such could not be driven to their work by threat or even torture, as he had discovered to his regret, for the works they then produced were fatally flawed.

  A deferential touch on the sleeve of his tunic brought him erect, teeth bared in a snarl.

  The slave who had touched him cowered back, his head bent low. "Forgive me, master, but Commander Vegentius awaits, much exercised, and bids me beg your presence."

  Albanus thrust the man aside and strode down the hall. He had every detail planned. Had the soldier contrived to foul some part of the scheme, he would geld him with his own hand.

  Vegentius was in the columned entry hall, pacing, his face beaded with sweat. He began to speak as soon as Albanus appeared.

  "Conan. The barbar who fought Melius and took his sword after. He whom Leucas named part of Sephana's plot. Now one of that name has caught Garian's eye, and taken service with him. And I recognize him; it is he who broke into our meeting with Taras. Four times has he tangled himself in our planning, Albanus, and I like it not. I like it not. 'Tis an ill omen."

  "Do the gods join in my affairs?" Albanus whispered, not realizing that he spoke. "Do they think to contend with me?" Louder, he said, "Speak not of ill omens. This very morning a soothsayer told me that I would wear the Dragon Crown at my death. I had him slain, of course, to still his tongue. With such a prophecy of success, what omen can one barbarian be?"

  The square-faced soldier bared a handspan of his blade. "Easily could I dry him. He is alone in the Palace, with none to guard his back."

  "Fool!" Albanus grated. "A murder within the Palace, and Garian will think strongly to his safety. We do not need him on his guard."

  Vegentius sneered. "His safety lies in my hand. One in three of the Golden Leopards answers to me, not to the Dragon Throne."

  "And two in three do not. Nor does any part of my plan call for blades to be drawn within the walls of the Palace. I must be seen to save Nemedia from armed rabble rising in the streets."

  "Then he is to live?" Vegentius blurted incredulously.

  "Nay, he dies." Could this Conan be some weapon of the gods, lifted against him? No. He was destined to wear the Dragon Crown. He was born to be a king, and, with the power of the blue sphere, a living god. "Taras has been so commanded," he continued. "But make it known to him that the man must die well away from the Palace, in some place where his death may be placed to a drunken brawl."

  "Taras seems to have vanished, Albanus."

  "Then find him!" the cruel-eyed lord snapped irritably. "And remember, within the Palace walls let this barbarian be watched but inviolate. When he ventures out, slay him!"

  Chapter XIV

  Steel rang in the small courtyard as Conan blocked the descending blade and smoothly moved back to a guard position. Sweat oiled his massive chest, but his breathing was controlled, his eye firm, his blade steady.

  Garian circled to his left about the big Cimmerian. He also was stripped to the waist, and but slightly smaller, though his muscles were covered by the fat of recent inactivity. Sweat rolled down his sloping shoulders, and his blade wavered, if but a hair's breadth.

  "You are good, barbar," the king panted.

  Conan said nothing, moving only enough to keep his face to the other man. Fighting, even in practice, was not the time to talk.

  "But you say little," the king continued, and as he spoke his sword darted for the Cimmerian's middle.

  Conan barely moved. His mighty wrists pivoted, his blade arced down to clash against the king's, carrying it safely to one side. Instead of forcing taking the other's blade further out of line, as was the favored tactic, Conan dropped suddenly, squatting on his right leg with his left extended to the side. His steel slid off the other blade, swung forward and stopped as it touched Garian's stomach. Before the startled king could react, Conan flowed back to his feet and to guard.

  A disgusted expression on his face, Garian stepped back. "Tis enough for today," he said grimly, and strode away.

  Conan picked up his tunic and began to wipe the sweat from his chest.

  When Garian had disappeared through the arched courtyard gate, Hordo stepped out from the shadows beneath a balcony, shaking his shaggy head. "Tis well he knew not that I was here, Cimmerian, else we both might find ourselves in the dungeons beneath these stones. But then, kings dislike being bested, even when there are no others to see."

  "Did I accept defeat in practice, then soon defeat would find me when it was not practice."

  "But still, man, could you not hold back a little? He is a king, after all. No need for us to be dismissed before we get as much of his gold as we can."

  "I know no other way to fight, Hordo, save to win. How fare the men?"

  "Well," Hordo replied, seating himself on a coping stone. "'Tis an easy
life, drinking and wenching away their gold."

  Conan pulled his tunic over his head and scabbarded his sword. "Have you seen any sign that Ariane and the others are ready to call their people into the streets?"

  "Not a whisper," the one-eyed man sighed. "Conan, I do not say betray them-Kerin's shade would haunt me, an I did-but could we not at least say to Garian that we have heard talk of uprising? He'd give us much gold for such a warning, and there'd be no rising were he on his guard. I like not to think of Kerin and Ariane dying in the gutters, but so they will an they rise. I... I could not ride against them, Cimmerian."

  "Nor I, Hordo. But rise they will, if Garian is on his guard or no, or I misread the fire in Ariane. To stop them we must find who uses them. That man who met with Taras could tell me much."

  "I've given orders, as you said, to watch for a hawk-face man with white at his temples, but 'twill be a gift of the gods an we find him so."

  Conan shook his head disgustedly. "I know. But we can do only what we can. Come. Let us to my chamber. I've good wine there."

  Palaces far more opulent stood in Turan and Vendhya, but this one was no mean place. Many were the courtyards and gardens, some small, holding perhaps a marble fountain in the form of some fanciful beast, others large, in which rose alabaster towers with gilded corbeled arches and golden cupolas. Great obelisks rose to the sky, their sides covered with hieroglyphs and telling the legends of Nemedian kings for a thousand years and more.

  While walking down a cool arcade beside a garden where peacocks cried and golden-feathered pheasants strutted, Conan suddenly stopped. Ahead, a woman swathed in gray veils had come out of a door and, seemingly not noticing them, was walking the other way. The Cimmerian was certain it was the woman he had twice seen in her litter. Now, he decided, was a good time to discover why she had looked at him with such hatred. But as he started forward, Hordo grabbed his arm, pulling him aside behind a column.

  "I want to speak to that woman," Conan said. He spoke softly, for voices carried in those arcades. "She does not like me, of that I'm sure. And I have seen her before, without those veils. But where?"