The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

‘I’ve been hurt worse, and I’d not trade it for the mark I put on him. Come, let’s hunt”

  On the plains, they would have hunted on horseback, but the rugged terrain of the hill country made this impractical. To the Cimmerian, traversing the steep, stony land was easy, for he had spent his youth in the similar hills of his homeland. He was surprised to see that Achilea and her women were nearly as comfortable with the ground as he. Payna, Lombi and Ekun loped across the tilted fields, leaping from one sharp crag to another as nimbly and as silently as deer, crouched for speed and furtiveness, beads up, eyes and ears and noses alert for the least sign of prey or enemies.

  Their queen was as swift and tireless, relishing the role of beast of prey. She never winced as she crossed the stoniest ground on bare feet. Jeyba the dwarf had to toil, his short limbs pumping, to keep up with his long-legged companions, but the little man seemed to be made of iron and he neither fell back nor complained.

  All morning they hunted and they saw abundant sign, but the game was wary. About noon they stopped to rest by an icy stream. The three women and the dwarf crouched on all fours and lapped up water like animals, while Achilea drank more sedately from a silver cup. Conan seated himself across from her and watched her with frank admiration.

  “You surprise me,” he admitted. “I had always heard that your people were a horseback folk, like the Hyrkanians, whose only home is the saddle. Every such nomad I have known ere now regards foot travel with horror. Yet you and your women move about here as if you had the cloven hooves of mountain goats. How can this be?”

  “Hyrkanians!” Achilea snorted through her high-bridged nose. “They are a soft-living people, crippled without their horses.”

  Conan had heard the Hyrkanians called many things, but never soft.

  “My people are not like the Hyrkanians,” she went on.

  “We do not keep herds of sheep and cattle to feed us with their meat and milk. We hunt for our food, and there are many beasts in our land that cannot be hunted from horseback. We love our horses, but horses die and we would not be helpless when we must go afoot.” Her eyes were fixed on the horizon to the northeast, as if she were looking over a great span of distance and years.

  “Each year, all the girls who have reached their fifteenth year are taken to a place in the northern hills. It is a great, uninhabited expanse of wild heath, rocky outcrops and dense brush. There is abundant game, but there are also a great many predators. In this land, the girls are left. Each has a sling and a knife. The next year, the survivors are gathered up and a new batch of girls is left there. No, we do not need horses that we may live.”

  “How many survive?” he asked,

  “Usually about half. Sometimes not that many.” From her tone, she might as well have been speaking of the weather.

  “You are a hard people,” he observed.

  “All others are natural prey,” she said.

  The Cimmerian had not thought that there existed in all the world a people as fierce and hardy as his own, but this nation of women had to be very close.

  “And what of you?” he asked Jeyba, who now squatted by the stream, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. The dwarf grinned.

  “I come from the Border Kingdoms,” the little man explained. “As a child, I was made a slave of the Hyperboreans and set to work in the stone quarries with a pick and sledgehammer. It was not pleasant work, but it made me strong.” He clenched a knotted fist and the muscles leapt to prominence on his stubby arm. “One day I smashed the pit-master’s head in with a sledge and a hundred of us escaped. We lived as bandits for three years, with fewer of us each year, raiding the country manors of the Hyperborean lords.”

  He sighed, smiling at the memory. “It was a good life, but it ended as it had to. I was captured with my remaining friends and taken to the nearest town for execution. We were led to the town square amid the jeering throng. One by one, my friends were taken out to the middle of the square and bound by their wrists and ankles to four oxen. The beasts were then whipped to the four points of the compass and the men ripped asunder. The crowd cheered mightily at so fine a show.

  “Then my own turn came. They stretched me on my back amid the gore of my companions and tied an ox to each wrist and one to each ankle. But no matter how hard they whipped the beasts, I refused to come apart, I did not even grow any taller. So they hitched two oxen to each limb and prepared to have another try. It was at that time that my queen and her followers struck the town. The townsmen fled in panic and I was left with my eight oxen and the sundered remnants of my friends.”

  “We slaughtered the oxen for food,” Achilea explained. She smiled and ran her fingers affectionately through the dwarf’s bushy hair. “My women were about to do the same to him, but I stayed them. I thought that one strong enough to resist the pull of four oxen might be an amusing companion.”

  “Mercy was ever your failing, my queen,” said Payna. It was the first time Conan had heard one of the women utter a sentence.

  “That is enough!” Achilea snapped.

  “Forgive me, my queen!” The woman cast herself to her knees and pressed her face against

  Achilea’s bare foot.

  “Oh, get up,” Achilea said, stroking a palm over the woman’s head and back as if she were a pet cat. “You are right to chide me once in a while, but I have spared a male life only twice. You need not rebuke me for going soft on that account.”

  “Do your folk really slay all the men who come among you?” Conan asked.

  “Yes, we do,” she answered matter-of-factly. “And speaking of kilting males,” she pointed across the stream and up the far slope, toward a clump of brush, “I think I see the antler-tips of a fine young stag just beyond those bushes. Let us go and get him.”

  All afternoon they stalked the stag, who was wary and kept well ahead. As the son lowered in the west, the beast stood upon a ridge a good two hundred paces away, in clear view, as if mocking them.

  “It is too far,” Achilea said, “and soon it will be dark. We may as well go back to Leng. We’ll sleep with empty bellies tonight and come out here early tomorrow. He won’t stray far from this spot overnight”

  “You give up too easily,” Conan said, fitting arrow to string.

  “No one ever accused me of that before,” she said, amused, “Let us see what you can do.”

  The Cimmerian raised his left hand, elevating the bow until the barbed point of his arrow was directed halfway between the horizon and the sky straight overhead. He drew until his right thumb touched his ear and the scarlet feathers of the slender shaft lay against the comer of his mouth. Then he loosed. The snap of the string was followed by the diminish-big whisper of the arrow. For a hundred paces, it ascended, growing tiny with distance, turning at the top of its arc and descending, disappearing from view. Seconds later, the stag sprang high, bounded three times, then collapsed.

  “You did not lie,” Achilea said. “You do know how to shoot”

  With swift efficiency, Achilea’s minions bled, gutted and cleaned the carcass. The three women and the dwarf ate its liver raw, helped down with draughts of the stag’s blood. Even dressed out, the stag was a heavy load, and Conan and the dwarf took turns bearing it across their shoulders all the way back to Leng.

  The dwarf carried the stag into the Red Eagle while Achilea and tier women went to the stables behind the inn to tend to their horses. Conan went with them. He was hungry and thirsty, but he did not want to let Achilea out of his sight.

  “New arrivals,” she said, noting some strange animals hi the pen. “Who came in on mounts like these, I wonder.”

  The creatures she referred to were a pair of extraordinarily tall camels, of a pale cream color. They were of the shaggy, two-humped breed, unlike the short-haired, single-humped camels of the southern lands.

  “They are splendid beasts,” Conan said as he washed the stag’s blood from his shoulders at a trough. “If you like camels.”

  “I don’t,” she r
eplied. “But I admit that they are useful. And they are not bad to eat, either.”

  Inside the tavern, they went to the bar to collect their ale. Indulio complimented them upon the splendid stag they had delivered, then filled Achilea’s silver-mounted horn and Conan’s tankard. The Cimmerian blew off the foam and took a drink.

  “Who rode in on the white camels?” he asked, setting the vessel on the bar.

  “Those two,” Indulio said, nodding toward the fire, where two robed figures sat warming themselves, their features concealed by raised cowls. The dwarf stood before them, waving his arms and expostulating.

  “Jeyba is angry at them for usurping my place,” Achilea said. She walked over to the hearth with Conan close behind. “Peace, Jeyba, I’d not deny weary travelers a place by the fire on so cold a night Peace to you, travelers. Whence came you?” It amused Conan to see Achilea acting the gracious lady instead of the raffish bandit-queen. He decided it was because the clothes of these two were as fine as their camels. He recognized the wool of their long robes as a sort woven from the hair of the same breed

  of camels as those outside. It was matchlessly warm, as light as fog and exceedingly expensive. Their hands went up to push back their cowls.

  “We thank you, my lady,” said the one with the beard. “Your jester was furious with us, but we thought he exaggerated your quality and rank. Now we see that he spoke only the truth. Please forgive us for taking your place.” The two made to rise but Achilea gestured with her hands for them to remain where they were.

  “Stay and warm yourselves.” She crossed her feet at the ankles and sank down to sit upon the hearth, making even this act seem regal. ““Bui Jeyba is no jester. That club he car-Conan studied the newcomers with considerable wonder. They were so alike―sleek, dark hair, fine features, pale skin, black eyes―thai they had to be siblings, most probably twins. But one was a man, the other a woman. What he could see of the rest of their clothing looked to be as fine as their outer robes, and the rings, bracelets and necklets they wore were costly. He wondered how they had managed to remain so clean while traveling through these rough hills. Perhaps they had arrived early in the day, found a bath somewhere and changed clothes.

  “How did you two end up in Leng?” Conan asked the aristocratic pair. “All the most vicious rogues come here. I’d have thought you would seek out more genteel lodgings, not that there is a wide choice of accommodations in this place.”

  “Pardon Conan’s insolent tongue,” Achilea said. “His people, the Cimmerians, are a blunt folk.”

  Conan was nettled at her easy assumption of authority, but he decided to let it pass.

  “Cimmerian!” said the woman. Her voice was liquid and beguiling. “First an outcast Amazon queen, now a Cimmerian warrior. It seems that this crossroads caravanserai is a gathering place for legendary peoples.”

  Achilea looked puzzled. “What was that word you used? ‘Amazon’?”

  “It is our people’s word for your nation,” said the bearded man. “Although until now. I thought the Amazons to be a myth.”

  “As to why we are here,” the woman said, “when we came to Leng, we asked where the hardest men were to be found. We did not expect to find that a woman was the hardest of the lot.”

  “If you were looking for a nest of thieves, you’ve found it,” Conan said. “I can only marvel that you are still alive and have your belongings. Our host keeps the peace indoors, but you two are fair game when you walk out of here.”

  “We are not entirely helpless, I assure you,” the man said. Conan could see no weapons about them save a pair of identical daggers, their jewel-encrusted hilts tucked into the sash of each, “Why are you in search of hard men?” Achilea asked The woman named Lombi began to massage the warrior-queen’s shoulders while glaring with open suspicion at the newcomers. Achilea rolled her

  head slowly in sensuous enjoyment “Let us introduce ourselves,” the woman said. “We are Monandas and Yolanthe,” she gestured to indicate that me man was the former, she the latter, “of Icaria, in the Rabirian Mountains of Zingara.”

  “You’ve strayed a long way from home,” Conan observed. The two had neither the look nor the dress of Zingarans, but dial meant little. Many isolated communities were home to people who differed in appearance from neighbors just a few miles away, and travelers tended to dress in whatever clothes were available wherever they were.

  “It is a long way from Zingara, if that is what you mean,” Monandas said. “But that is no more than a fraction of the distance we have traveled.”

  “Those camels of yours,” said the Cimmerian, “are no local breed. From their look, they’re from far to the east of here.”

  “They are,” said Yolanthe. “We abode for some time in Samara, in Turan. Before that, we spent some time in Vendhya.”

  “You have traveled far for two so young,” Achilea observed. The two appeared to be no more than twenty years old.

  “We are restless,” said Monandas. “Always, we want to see new things, new peoples, new places.

  We never abide in any one place for long.”

  “For pleasure?” Achilea asked “Or do you seek something?”

  They smiled identically. “Both,” said Yolanthe.

  “And now,” Monandas said, “we must retire and rest.” They stood and bowed “It has been an honor to make your acquaintance, my lady.” They pivoted slightly and bowed toward Conan, not quite as deeply. “Warrior, good evening. Perhaps tomorrow we shall speak further, if it be your pleasure.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” Conan told them.

  The two turned and walked out. As they passed, the men at the tables grew quiet and kept their eyes on their ale mugs or their dice. Now Conan saw how these two had gone unmolested. Something about them made even these men uneasy. Rich as were their trappings, none was so hardy as to assault them. This was passing strange, for they did not appear in the last threatening. But Conan knew well that there was more than one sort of danger, and Monandas had clearly Dot lied when he had said that they were not entirely helpless.

  “What do you make of those two?” Conan asked when they were gone and the noise in the tavern resumed its accustomed level.

  “They are truly odd,” Achilea said. “So alike they must be twins. And the way they speak―first one and then the other, as if you were holding converse with a single person with two voices.”

  “I like them not,” Conan said. “There is something about them that is not right.”

  “How so?” she asked. “I feel it as well, but I want to know if you saw the same things I did.”

  “They have come a great distance through wilderness, yet they look as clean and as fresh as if they had never left home. Travel as great as they claim should have left marks even upon two so young, yet they do not show the effects of heat and wind, of toil and privation. They look like the children of a nobleman or a wealthy burgher, who have never known hardship in their lives and have always had servants to attend to them.”

  Achilea nodded. ‘It seemed thus to me. And there is another thing: Their faces are youthful, their hands unlined and unwrinkled. Yet their eyes are those of great age and experience. I do not know how to describe it, for their eyes are as clear as those of the young and are not set amid a nest of wrinkles, yet they look old.”

  Conan nodded. “Aye, I understand what you mean. And they still have not said why they are looking for hard men.”

  “I have a feeling,” she said, “that we shall know that very soon. I’ll make you a wager that they will make us a proposition in no great time.”

  “I’ll not take such a fool’s bet,” Conan said. “Anyone can see that they are interested in us. They spoke to no others, unless it was before we returned.” He waved to Indulio and the innkeeper joined them. “Those two odd travelers―did they speak with any before we came back in?”

  Indulio shook his head. “Nay. They arrived perhaps an hour before your return. They arranged for care for their b
easts, then went to sit by the fire, and the men already there made way for them without argument, too. A soft-spoken and well-bred couple, not what I would expect to see in my tavern, but there is that about them that causes men to give them way.”

  “Did they say they were looking for anyone?” Achilea asked.

  “No specific person,” Indulio told them. “One of them, I am not sure which, asked: ‘Is this where Che hardiest men are to be found?* I told them that my patrons are as rough a lot as they’ll encounter in any five adjoining nations. They seemed satisfied with that. Then they took cups of wine and went to sit by the fire. What did they speak of with you?” His eyes glittered with curiosity.

  “They spoke of travel, for the most part,” Conan said. “That they had recently been in Turan and before that, in Vendhya, but we found it hard to believe that two so young had traveled so widely.”

  “I do not think they lied,” Indulio said. He reached into his puree and came out with a small, square coin of gold, beautifully stamped with the image of an elephant. “This is how (hey paid for their food and

  lodging and care for their camels. This is a coin of Vendhya. We do not see many such in these parts and so I did not put it in my strongbox with the rest.”

  “They are an odd pair,” Conan said. “They make me uneasy.”

  “Their money is good,” said Indulio. “That is all I care about”

  Three

  The next day, they did not hunt. The stag provided plenty of meat, even with a share going to the Hyrkanians, and its splendid hide and antlers bought them an extra ration of Indulio’s ale. Achilea and her followers exercised their horses while Conan sat in the stableyard going over his gear. The encircling walls of the inn protected them from the cutting wind, and the sun was warm upon them.

  First, the Cimmerian went over his sword. Its sheath was of dim wood, lined with close-sheared lambskin and covered with oiled leather. The blade was straight and double-edged, with a deep blood channel down the length of both sides. Its short crossguard and heavy, triangular pommel were of plain bronze, free of any ornament. Its grip was of wood wrapped with bronze wire. It was a fighting man’s weapon, made for hard use and nothing else. He went over every inch of it, testing its edges for razor-keenness, letting the sunlight strike it from every angle to detect any trace of rust, twisting the guard and the pommel in his powerful hands to determine whether the mountings were working loose.