Conan was more accustomed to the quarters frequented by adventurers like himself, and he felt a certain interest in the place. He saw a shop selling the paraphernalia of the wizard's trade and stopped to gaze in its front window. What appeared to be a tiny demon capered among the wands, rune-engraved swords, celestially spangled robes, and crystal spheres. The creature had a body shaped like an egg set atop spindly bird's legs. The larger end of the egg had a fanged mouth above which were three red eyes on short stems. Its nether end was armed with a long barb. Conan noticed that as the thing jumped about, from time to time it would wink out of existence; at other times it became transparent. It was just a clever illusion.
By asking at various shops, he was directed to a small cul-de-sac at the end of which, wedged between an ink-maker's shop and a parchment seller's, he found the mapmaker he needed. The establishment's only sign was a pair of gilded dividers fastened to the wall above the low door. Ducking his head to clear the lintel, Conan went inside.
The interior was not as dim as he had anticipated. Light came in through a front window, and a good deal more was admitted by a skylight overhead. The place was scrupulously clean and it was full of maps, but there was no sense of clutter. The maps and charts were rolled neatly in leather tubes, all of them carefully racked, the racks bearing labels. At the rear of the shop was a low dais at which an elderly man sat, working meticulously at a tilted drawing table. He looked up as the Cimmerian entered.
'How may I serve you, sir?'
Conan walked back to the dais, glancing at the large display maps decorating the walls. 'I need to find a certain place, a city named Sicas, in Aquilonia. I must fare thither and I wish to set out as soon as possible.'
'Sicas,' said the old man. 'Let me see. I know the name, although it is scarcely a legendary metropolis.' He rose from his chair and crossed to a rack from whence he selected a map tube. He extracted the rolled parchment and carried it to a flat table, where he spread it out and weighted its corners. While he did this, Conan examined some of the maps on the walls. These were of great antiquity, depicting nations that no longer existed. The mapmaker noticed him studying a particularly age-darkened specimen. The lettering was none Conan knew, and the outlines of the coasts were equally mysterious.
'Is this some land across the western sea?' he asked.
'No, but it might as well be, for its remoteness,' the old man said. 'In truth, the continent you see depicted there is the same as that upon which you now stand, but so long ago that the very oceans have changed their shape in the time since. I believe that to be one of the oldest maps in existence, and it is itself a copy of a far, far more ancient map. The written language is one no longer spoken, but I believe this to be a depiction of the western world as it was when the nations of Valusia and Commoria were supreme and the lands of the Picts were a string of islands in the western sea.'
'Valusia and Commoria,' Conan mused. 'These are names from legend. The Picts I know, though. I learned to fight them from my earliest youth. Even the Vanir did not plague us as did the Picts.''
'You are a man of Cimmeria, then?' queried the mapmaker. 'I thought so, from your aspect. I have seen fewer than a half-score of your countrymen in my life.'
'My countrymen like to stay close to home,' Conan said, 'but I was ever a wanderer.'
'Come see this.' Conan joined the shopkeeper at the table. With a spidery hand, the old man indicated the map before him. 'This is a map of south-eastern Aquilonia. Can you read the Ne-median letters?'
Conan nodded. 'Fairly well, although the skill is new to me. These names are simple enough to make out.' He pointed to a serpentine blue line at a spot where a tiny, stylized fort was drawn. 'This is the Tybor River, and this is the crossing at Shamar.'
'Exactly. And there,' the mapmaker pointed to a tiny dot midway between Tarantia and Shamar, 'is Sicas. From here, there are two easy routes to Sicas. The southern road will take you into north-western Ophir; then it swings north and crosses the Tybor at Shamar. From there, you could take the royal high road toward Tarantia. About halfway to Tarantia, a road branches southwest-ward, and Sicas lies only a few miles beyond. However, there is civil war in Ophir just now and the border crossings are heavily guarded.' His neatly manicured forefinger traced another route.
'You would be best advised to take the northerly route. The high road between Belverus and Tarantia is a good one, with many towns, villages, and wayside inns along the way. It intersects the Aquilonian high road just south of Tarantia, and from there you may proceed southward to Sicas.'
'That is how I will go, then,' Conan announced.
'Shall I make you a sketch-map? It will require only a few minutes. I will list the principal towns along the route, and the distances between them.'
'Do so,' Conan said. The old man opened a drawer and took from it a thin sheet. This was not the fine parchment he used for the detailed maps, parchment that, well cared for, could last for centuries. Rather, it was common paper, and upon it he began to sketch lines and letters with great skill, dipping his quill in ink made from lampblack.
'Know you aught of this place, Sicas?' Conan inquired.
'It is obscure, so there cannot be much to know,' said the mapmaker, 'but I will see what I can find.' He rinsed his quill in a beaker of water and placed it in a rack, then took up a canister made of horn and silver from which he shook a fine powder over the new sketch-map to aid in drying the ink.
'Now, let us see what is to be found.' He went to a tall case full of books and scrolls, some of them looking as ancient as the maps upon the walls. He selected a heavy tome and took it down. This book had a binding of brightly dyed Ophirean leather and appeared to be relatively new. The old man put it on the table and began to leaf through it.
'This is the most recent Annal of the Kingdom of Aquilonia,' he announced. 'Each king of that nation has one annal compiled in the early years of his reign. If he enjoys a long reign, he may have subsequent editions compiled. Although they are primarily used for purposes of taxation, they are invaluable to the cartographer as well. This one is but ten years old.'
Conan was intrigued. 'So this is how a king keeps track of who owes him what, eh?'
'That is the annal's purpose. It also records population, local
products, and livestock and, especially, which feudal lord has the right to what piece of land. This is always a subject of bickering and dispute.'
'That I know full well.' Conan had been involved in a great many such disputes.
'Here we are: Sicas. First its location is described. It lies at the confluence of two rivers, the Fury and the Ossar. From there the Ossar flows on to join the Khoratas a hundred leagues to the south-west.
'Sicas's population is about ten thousand. In the nearby countryside, the usual domestic livestock are raised: cattle, sheep, swine, and so on. Most of the land is cultivated, and there is river fishing. The major source of wealth, however, is from a great silver mine that lies near the city, just across the Ossar. When discovered three centuries ago, these silver deposits were vast, and for a while, Sicas was widely famed as the City of Silver. After a few decades, these early deposits played out, and ever since then, the ore has yielded a more modest but still quite respectable poundage of silver annually.
'This may be of some interest: As a source of precious metal, Sicas does not fall within any feudal fief, but rather is direct property of the Crown. As such, the local authority is a King's Reeve, who administers justice and is commander of the royal garrison. As commander, he is authorized to have one hundred men under his command.'
'No local lord, then?' Conan asked.
'So it would seem. There is little more: Sicas has a small local production of woven and dyed wool. All the usual crafts are practised. There are no ancient or famous public structures, although a few rather fine buildings were erected during the years of great prosperity when the silver was plentiful and fortunes were made. There are temples for the state cults, including a rather splend
id Temple of Mitra.'
'It sounds a dull place,' Conan said.
'Did you expect otherwise?' the mapmaker asked.
Conan thanked the old man and paid him for the sketch-map.
Outside the shop, he unhitched his horse from a small statue and checked the angle of the sun. It was barely past noon. The day was young, and Conan decided that there was nothing to detain him longer in Belverus. He rode through the thronged streets to the west gate, an elaborate structure faced with purple marble, forty feet high and topped, like all the city gates, with a great, brazen alarm gong that gleamed like a second sun.
He rode out onto the high road, past the pens and camp grounds where late-arriving caravans spent the night when they found the gates barred. As the gleaming towers of Belverus disappeared behind him, the Cimmerian hoped that the bad luck that had plagued him there would likewise disappear.
II
A Lady in Distress
It felt good to be riding again on an open road with a good horse and a full purse, Conan thought. Then he corrected himself. His purse was no longer as heavy as when first he had filled it with the two hundred dishas he had extracted from Piris. Outfitting himself had taken nearly half the amount, and he had spent his nights on the road at decent inns. The map showed that towns and villages were many along this road, so there was no need to lay in a store of travel fare, nor to spend the nights beneath the sky. Conan had no taste for hoarding his money, so he spent freely as he went along. He was cautious enough to avoid the many games of chance that came his way at every halt. He had been given the gold on account against the completion of his task, after all. When he earned the other eight hundred dishas, he would be free to squander his money as he liked.
As he rode, women along the way cast many inviting smiles toward the big handsome Cimmerian. Nemedia was a land renowned for the beauty of its women. Conan smiled back, but rode on. The husbands of those women were equally renowned for the touchiness of their honour and their jealousy, and their readiness to fight anyone who should fall afoul of these qualities. It was not that Conan feared any Nemedian. It was just that he would never get to Sicas if he had to fight every one of them he met while journeying.
From time to time he passed patrols of Nemedian soldiers, and they eyed him suspiciously, this scarred barbarian with his black hair and blue eyes, in his gold-studded black brigantine and his steel cap. But they rode on and left him unmolested. His look and his well-used weapons were forbidding, and he was engaged in no outlawed activity.
Before he reached the Aquilonian border, a cold wind came whistling through the mountain passes to the north, and the sky grew leaden. In the borderland, the towns were father apart, and travellers tended to fare in groups for mutual protection. In this, as in every land, the farther one went from the centres of royal authority, the greater the abundance of outlaws.
Nemedia was noted for the strictness, even the cruelty, of its punishments, and in many areas the local lords grievously oppressed the peasantry. In result, many ruined men took to the hills and turned outlaw. Sometimes they formed powerful bands and descended on caravans or groups of travellers, leaving nothing behind save broken, mutilated bodies, stripped of valuables and even of bloodied clothes. A little questioning in the villages informed Conan that it had been many years since royal forces last swept these lands to clear out the bandits. He kept his attention on his surroundings and made sure that his sword was loose in its sheath.
One evening, still a half-day's journey from the border, darkness overtook the Cimmerian before he could reach the next village. He had resigned himself to a restless, wakeful night beneath the stars when he saw, not far away, the gleam of several camp fires. He approached them cautiously, ready to turn his horse and run at an instant's notice. More than once had he approached such friendly-seeming fires, only to find a trap set by outlaws to lure unwary travellers.
'......
As he neared a fire, a man approached him, bearing a spear obliquely before him in both hands. 'Who be you?' the man challenged.
'If I were any but a friend, you'd be nursing a split skull,' Conan answered. 'When you challenge a man, present your point to him, don't stand at high port like a recruit on inspection.' He saw that the fellow was nervous, and probably with good reason. 'I'm a soldier,' Conan announced, 'and it looks as if you could use one this night.'
Another, older man came forward. 'That is so. Come in, soldier, and share our fire.'
Conan rode into the clearing, where a few small tents had been erected near the fires. A miscellaneous group of travellers sat on logs or cushions, huddled near the flames for warmth. Most of them had the look of petty merchants, but there were a few entertainers and some families with children, and here and there the sort of ragged pilgrims who were always travelling from one temple or sacred site to another, seeking enlightenment but more often finding a grave along the way.
Conan found a spot where the grass was deep and drove a picket pin into the ground. After tethering his horse, he unsaddled and curried it, then left it to graze. He carried his saddle and bags to the fire where sat the man who had invited him. The man passed him a broad leaf bearing a half-loaf of bread and some sausage.
'This is a nervous-looking lot,' Conan said around a mouthful of food.
'Word is all over this area of a band of robbers just come across the border from Aquilonia. They were here last year, then went looking for richer pickings to the west, but they were pushed back into Nemedia a short while ago and now harry the district.'
Conan took a skin of wine offered by a woman and drank, then passed it on to the older man. 'How strong a band?' he asked.
'Reports vary from a mere five or six to two score. It may be a number of small bands who sometimes combine for larger raids.
Such men always infest borders, fleeing to the neighbouring country when the king's men finally make it too hot for them.'
' 'This has an ill sound,' Conan said. 'Am I the only fighting man here?'
The man nodded to a small fire where two men in rusty mail vests, belted with short swords, sat passing a wineskin back and forth between them. 'There are those two. They claim to be soldiers.'
Conan snorted. 'Those are such as hire out to watch over warehouses at night. Should bandits strike, they can be counted on to take to their heels, if they are not snoring drunkenly.'
'Well, you have the look of a real fighter, anyway,' the man said. 'I am Reshta of Asgalun, a dealer in spices.' He offered a hand and Conan took it.
'Conan of Cimmeria. My trade you already know. I journey to a place called Sicas, in Aquilonia. Have you ever heard of it?'
'I know only that it has gained an evil reputation these last few years. I have passed the road to that town many times but never was tempted to see the place. And you fare thither? I had not heard that there was war in Sicas.'
'There may be before long,' Conan said bemusedly.
Soon all save those appointed as sentries sought their beds as the night grew colder. Conan went a little way from the fire and unbuckled his brigantine It would take a greater threat than a few bandits to make him sleep in his armour. He lay down with his cloak wrapped about him and rested his head upon his saddle. Last of all, he slid his sheathed sword beneath the cloak. With his right hand resting on its bone grip, he slept.
'Bandits!'
The cry woke Conan instantly from a sound sleep. Without conscious thought, he was on his feet, the sword gleaming bare in his hand. There was no time to don his cuirass, but he snatched up his steel helmet and clapped it upon his tousled head. He saw figures struggling in the dimness, and someone had dumped dry brush on the fires so that, abruptly, they flared up, exposing both raiders and victims. He had an impression of eyes widened in
terror and of teeth flashing whitely as his ears were assaulted by the sounds of weapons thudding against bodies and the screams of women.
He thrust these things from his mind to concentrate on the attackers. A man saw Conan a
nd charged him, yelling. With both hands gripping a spear, the bandit ran in, trying to impale the Cimmerian with the full weight of his body behind the weapon. Almost idly, Conan gripped the spear just beneath the head and jerked it sideways. Then, with a flicking slash of his sword, he severed both of the man's hands at the wrist. The outlaw ran screaming into the outer darkness.
The Cimmerian ran toward one of the fires. He passed another outlaw about to ax a man lying on the ground, and he skewered the attacker through the kidneys in passing. At the high-flaring fire, he turned so that the flames were at his back. This way, his enemies would have to come toward him well illumined, unless one was hardy enough to attack him through the flames.
'There he is!' shouted someone, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole band of rogues were bearing down upon him. He dodged a descending ax and halved the axeman's head. Before the man had a chance to fall, Conan snatched a handful of his coat and swung the corpse across his body like a ghastly shield, using it to catch the slash of a two-handed sword. The long, heavy blade bit sickeningly into the dead spine and Conan dropped the corpse. As it dragged the blade down, the sword-wielder tried vainly to free his weapon. Conan's blade split his shoulder, carving downward through lung and heart.
Now a pair of men bore down upon the Cimmerian from either side. From the left, a man darted in swinging a sword. From the right came a spear man. Conan whirled right, leaned aside as the spear lanced toward him and grasped the spear man’s arm. Hauling him across his front, Conan sent him colliding into the swordsman. As they smashed together, Conan gripped his hilt in both hands and slashed both men across the waist with a single mighty blow.
Conan the Rogue Page 2