Conan the Guardian

by Roland Green

  By the time Helgios was finished, Conan had done with Trattis’s body, and a half-score of the Cimmerian’s men had joined him. He did not curse this time, but he had as much reason to as before. The pearls had vanished as utterly as the Ophirean jewels, no doubt down the river or at best into the maw of the dead beast.

  Conan imagined what Helgios would say if asked to dredge up the monster from the bottom of the Khorotas, then let Conan rummage about in its guts. But there was something else that he could ask of Helgios, that the man might grant. At worst, it could do no harm.

  “Captain Helgios,” Conan said. “Have you the money for our bond?”

  “You are short—oh, at least two drachmas for each man,” Helgios said.

  “Just the amount that would stick to your fingers,” Conan did not say. Instead he shrugged. “As you wish. But I would remind you of this. The beast I slew—” “That you say—”

  “That I slew,” Conan repeated. His tone said all that was needed about Helgios’s fate if he again named the Cimmerian a liar to his face.

  “The beast I slew,” Conan went on, “seems to have left its mark on your river folk here. They won’t forget, or be ungrateful. Also, I shed a bit of my own blood, and one of my men lost his—”

  “One of your men was a common thief, with a price on his head even before he joined Karela!” Helgios growled.

  “I know nothing of any of that,” Conan said blandly. Helgios seemed ignorant of the Cimmerian’s own association with Karela the Red Hawk, and it seemed best to leave him that way.

  “But I do know that the man was oath-bound to me. I’m owed a trifle for him. What do you say that slaying the beast counts as the rest of the bond, for me and all my company?”

  “I say you insult the laws of Argos,” Helgios snapped. “They are strict and plain.”

  “So are the villagers’ notions of justice,” Conan said. “They’ll hear about us being turned away like beggars, after ridding them of that monster. They won’t like it, and what they don’t like they’ll talk about, to any man with ears.

  “So any man with ears in Argos will hear about Captain Helgios and the Great Bridge Guardians. Do you think you’ll like what they hear, Captain? Do you think your House will like hearing it?”

  Greed and common sense fought a desperate battle, back and forth across Captain Helgios’s broad face. Finally he slapped the pommel of his saddle. He looked as if he would have spat at Conan’s feet, if he’d dared.

  “Very well,” he said finally. “You need offer no further bond now. But I warn you. You may well be judged as owing that bond within one year of your entering Argos. You may also be banned from certain kinds of work.”

  “As you wish,” Conan said. “But if so, then I’ll ask something more. Any of my men who wish to stay here in the village can do it.” He’d noted the looks some of the men were giving the younger village women, and knew some of them would be asking to stay. He also knew that if they did, they would be well placed to hear any news from Ophir, and pass it on up the Great Road to Argos.

  Helgios shook his head, half angry, half amused. “Captain Conan. I thought Cimmerians had all their wits in their swords. Never did I think to see one bargaining like a merchant in a bazaar of Shem!”

  “You doubted Cimmerians washed, either!” Conan replied. “Shall I stay and teach you even more about my folk?”

  Helgios at least had it in him to laugh at himself. “Captain Conan, I doubt my dignity could stand any more such lessons. Gather your men, those who are bound for Argos, and make them ready while my clerk draws up the bond testament.”

  Conan made the open-palmed Iranistani gesture of respect. “I hear and obey, Captain Helgios.”

  II

  Lady Livia, head and heiress of the House of Damaos, awoke to the knowledge that something was amiss.

  She did not know what it was, and the grey light filling her bedchamber showed her nothing. She burrowed under the light quilt until only her eyes showed above it, then again cast her gaze about the chamber.

  This was no small task. The master bedchamber of the Damaos palace would have made a great hall for lesser dwellings. Its ceiling with the frescoes of clouds and eagles rose as high as the mast of a fishing boat. The windows giving on the garden had screens of Vendhyan teak inlaid with ivory, not only from the Black Coast but the rarer ivory of Vanaheim. Where Iranistani carpets did not hide the floor, it was intricate mosaic work, flowers that no garden ever grew and beasts unknown to nature, in a hundred hues that caught and held the eye.

  Livia would have preferred the homey comforts of the room in the children’s wing of the palace where she’d spent her girlhood. Instead of making her feel like the true head of House Damaos, moving into this echoing tomb of a bedchamber had only reminded her that she was barely more than a child.

  “I must forget that, to do my duty as head of our House,” she had urged Reza, the chief steward. “Would it not be wise to let me stay where I feel comfortable, so that I may keep my wits about me?”

  “Tongues would wag that your wits were straying,” Reza had assured her, with the familiarity of an old servant. “That would be a black mark against you, along with your youth.”

  “I am a full nineteen years, of age to be head of this house,” Livia had snapped.

  Reza had not quite smiled. “But you just said, my lady, that you were barely more than a child?”

  “Oh, you—!” she had burst out, trying to find a name that would shock Reza. After a moment, she knew this to be futile. Iranistani by birth and once a sergeant of Turanian irregular cavalry, Reza could not be shocked by anything a well-born lady of Argos could call him.

  In the end she had done as Reza thought the dignity of House Damaos required, and remained in the great chamber. She even slept in the bed that had been her father’s, although it was chill sleeping, one young woman in a bed with room for six.

  From beneath the quilt, Livia completed her study of as much of the room as the hangings of the bed allowed her to see. She had just concluded that her suspicions were unfounded when the squeal of metal on tile made her stiffen.

  Now the dawn let her see through the hangings. At the foot of the bed stood a great mirror, silver in a frame of gilded bronze. Now the mirror was moving, wobbling and squealing, but advancing steadily around toward the right side of the bed.

  Livia’s wits sought to deny the message of her eyes. They did not slow her hands, which darted in under the silk pillows. They emerged with a night shift of the palest yellow linen and a stout-bladed dagger, a Turanian blade fitted in an Aquilonian hilt made to the measure of her hand.

  Only her two chief maids knew that Livia slept naked with a dagger under her pillow. What Reza did not know he could not question.

  Livia sat up, her long fair hair flowing over her bare shoulders, dagger held low in the right hand and shift wrapped lightly around the left. Thus had one of her father’s old caravan guards taught her to bear steel.

  The mirror continued its steady progress. Livia felt her hands growing slick and licked sweat from her full upper lip. Now she knew more than that something was amiss. Magic was at work.

  The mirror squealed and grated to a stop. Livia could have sworn that it made a little bow to her. Then its silvered face began to swirl with shadows, crimson, cobalt, and gold. The shadows had no form, but seemed to tug insistently at Livia’s mind, inviting her to see in them what in her innermost heart she wished.

  Without taking form, the shadows reached out from the mirror, like wisps of fog. The bed hangings lifted from their path, rising as if in a strong breeze. Livia felt more cold sweat prickling her skin, but not a breath of air moved.

  Magic, beyond any doubt. And not wrought by any friend of hers or her house. She could not have said how she knew this, but it was certain knowledge.

  How to fight it? She remembered her stepmother one night, babbling in her cups after her miscarrying.

  “So much magic works on the imagination.
If you imagine there is no magic about, chances are there will not be. Or at least you may weaken it a fair bit.”

  Her stepmother had done little to make either her life or her father’s happier, but the woman’s kin were from far back in the mountains, hard upon the Aquilonian border. There the folk of the villages kept customs that were their own, far older than any of the realms that claimed to rule them. They recked little for kings or archons, and much for the ancient knowledge of their wisewomen.

  Livia would see if for once the babblings of her stepmother held wisdom.

  She closed her eyes and told herself that she was lying in bed, between sleeping and waking, and that nothing whatever had happened in her chamber. It was not happening. It would not happen.

  It had not happened. It was not happening. It would not happen....

  A force that seemed neither within her nor outside, but some of both, drew her eyes steadily open. The many-hued shadows danced before her, closer and faster than before. Now they seemed to paint images within her mind, instead of before her eyes. Images of her own face, eyes glazed and mouth slack with weariness.

  Mortal sickness, even death? No. She felt a tingling in her breasts and a warmth in her belly. Although maiden still, she knew what that meant.

  The shadow-images were herself, sated with passion like any animal. Passion that the sorcerer now sought to make her feel. Passion that he hoped would disorder her wits, leave her weakened for his next attack—

  Livia could no longer close her eyes, but she fought against the image in her mind. Against the desire, she conjured up pictures of the bedchamber empty save for swirling dust, ablaze from floor to ceiling, even flooded with filthy water from the Khorotas—although it would take a flood like the one that brought Atlantis low to flood the Damaos palace on its hill.

  The desire neither left her nor swallowed her. She had to fight, but she could. Now able to command her limbs, she climbed out of the bed and took two swift steps onto a rich Vendhyan carpet. The deep wool wrapped her toes in soothing warmth.

  How long the battle continued, Livia could never be sure. She only knew that grey dawn had turned to rosy sunrise when the shadows suddenly left her. They vanished like the smoke they so much resembled. She staggered and would have fallen to the rug if she had not gripped the bedpost with her free hand.

  Then she reeled again, as a nightmarish din of screams and cries erupted from deep inside the house. Livia pushed herself away from the bedpost. She had taken three shaky steps toward the door when it flew open. Her two maids plunged through it, sprawling on the floor with their skirts lifted to their knees.

  After them rolled the cart on which they had been bringing her breakfast. No human hand touched it as it rolled up to the maids, then over them. It lurched as it passed over their writhing forms, and hot herb water spilled from the tray. One of the maids screamed.

  The same caravan guard who taught Livia the use of a knife also taught her some wisdom about fighting. “When somebody or something unknown is moving, the first thing you do is stop it. Then maybe you can guess what it is.”

  Livia lunged at the cart, throwing all of her weight and strength against it. She was not a small woman, and from much riding and swimming not a weak one either.

  The cart shivered and seemed to fight her. She pushed harder. The cart shivered more violently. Then at the same moment it fell apart and fell over. Livia’s breakfast deluged her maids, who screamed again and leaped up, beating at scalds and spots on their gowns.

  Livia gripped the nearer maid by the hand. “What ails you hen-wits?” she shouted.

  The maid stared, mute. Livia drew back her hand for a slap. The other maid jumped forward.

  “My lady. You are unclothed!”

  “Oh, trolls fly away with clothing!” Livia shouted. “Has the magic struck everyone in this house mute and witless?”

  The maid swallowed. “Then you know

  “I have been fighting magic in this chamber since before dawn. I could not cry out until moments before you entered. What has happened?”

  The watch aboard ships out to sea could have heard the question. Livia glared at the maids, who gaped back at her like dead fish, and then she turned toward the door.

  A long broad shadow fell across the carpets, and Reza entered. Not so much as the twitch of a muscle betrayed awareness of his mistress’s nudity. He drew himself up, then put his hands together.

  “Lady Livia. Spells are being cast upon this house and objects within it. Some have been changed in shape, others in substance as well, to be able to do injury to the unwary.”

  “How many are hurt?”

  “Few, and none of them likely to need a doctor. There is great fear and the house is quite unfit to receive guests, but little worse than that.”

  Livia’s strength left her in a long sigh of relief. She reeled to the bed and sat down with her head in her hands.

  After what seemed a century, she became aware that Reza was standing over her. She was also aware that she was still naked, and that the night shift was nowhere in sight.

  She snapped her fingers at the maids. “A night shift and chamber robe, at once!” They seemed able to obey. As they fumbled in her wardrobe chests, she turned back to listen to Reza.

  “I have given instructions that the injured are to be put to bed over the old stables. The grounds appear uninjured, so I have ordered the gardener’s apprentices to help clear away damaged goods. The kitchen is in some disorder, but none of the food seems lost or spoiled. If the cooks can be set to work again, we shall be in a fit state to entertain Lady Doris of Lokhri and her son.”

  “Gods be merciful!” Livia exclaimed. “I had completely forgotten about Lady Doris and Lord Harphos.”

  Reza’s face was eloquent of what he would never put into words: that he wished they could all forget about Lady Doris and her callow son. House Damaos was not so fortunate. As the wealthiest unmarried woman in Argos, Livia was also the finest marriage prize. Since coming of age the year before, the fingers of two hands could hardly number her suitors or would-be suitors.

  Gangling, pimply Harphos was only the latest of them. Unlike some of the others, however, he came with a formidable ally—his mother, Lady Doris. Harphos might say nothing if Livia put him off today. His mother was another matter.

  She would not only speak, she would ask questions. If she found no answers by fair means, she would not be above using foul ones. Livia had no doubt that Doris could find the price of a good many of her servants, perhaps any except Reza.

  So the choices were simple. Receive Lady Doris and her son as if all was well. Put them off, and tell them the truth. Or put them off, and tell them a lie that would surely be found out within a month.

  The last did not bear thinking about. If she put them off, never would Lady Doris believe that the magical attack was a small matter.

  There was nothing to do, but let the meeting go forward as agreed. If the visitors were curious, Livia would do her best to satisfy them.

  Perhaps Lady Doris might even have some advice and counsel. No one in Argos ever called her foolish, although many said she had not bred her wits into her only son.

  She would give no advice without asking a price for it. Perhaps even a betrothal agreement that could not be broken without much gold and a greater scandal than the magic.

  Livia felt a sudden chill, remembering that a betrothal would also give Harphos bed-rights. The chill passed, as she remembered the desire the sorcerer had cast into her. Could she bed a man—still more, a husband—who could not awaken that desire, then satisfy it?

  And could she be ready for Lady Doris and Harphos, if she spent more time fretting herself over what could not be helped? Livia looked at the shadows on the rugs and shook her head wearily.

  “Reza, is my bath chamber fit for use?”

  “If you will garb yourself, my lady, I will summon a messenger to learn.”

  “Very well.” Livia clapped her hands, then pulled on th
e shift the maids handed her and held out her arms for the chamber robe.

  Lady Doris and her son were expected about the fifth hour. With everyone in the house working like galley slaves, the Damaos palace was in fair order by then. Any witling could tell that something was amiss, but it no longer looked as if a troop of Kozaki bandits had camped in it overnight.

  As she stood in the shade of the portico, Livia knew that she owed her household much. Forgetting their fear, they had stood to their posts like soldiers. Even her maids had worked so hard putting her chambers in order that she had to remind them to change their soiled gowns. And Reza—well, she had neither words nor rewards great enough for him.

  Livia put up a hand to pat a fugitive curl into place. Her hair, unbound at dawn, now rose two hands’ breadth above her head, brushed to a high sheen and held up by her mother’s great pearl and gold combs. Her gown was of the finest blue Khitan silk, in a shade matching her eyes, and at her throat she wore the great ruby necklace of the House of Damaos, with the Secret Star, large as an infant’s fist, hanging in the middle.

  It would do no harm to remind Lady Doris that the House of Damaos needed no alliance with her house, nor with any other. If she refused even a betrothal to all her suitors alike, nothing would come of it save the need to live a chaste life. That would not be the best way to live, as she remembered desire shaking her, but better than being at the whim of a man like Harphos.

  A trumpet sounded at the foot of the hill, then a second. The horn of her gatekeeper answered it. After a weary interval, the trumpet sounded again. It seemed no closer. Livia cocked her head, and thought she could hear shouts, perhaps curses, and certainly the braying of asses and the lowing of cattle.

  She uttered a brief unseemly prayer that Lady Doris would be trapped among the farmers bound for market until nightfall, then rang for Reza.

  “Is all in readiness?”

  “All that gods or men could ask has been done, my lady.”

  “Ah, but will that be enough for Lady Doris? She is no man, and I sometimes wonder what respect she gives the gods.”