They were big men, and their hair and beards ranged in colour from bright orange to reddish-brown, but always the red tint proclaimed their Vanir ancestry, just as gold hair identified their kinsmen and deadly foes, the Æsir. Behind each man's place on the bench hung his round shield, his horned helm and shirt of scales or mail, and his sword, spear, and bow.
At the head of the long trestle table, elevated on a dais, sat Starkad and his guests. The Van was studying the two arrivals who had come off the ship that had put into the fiord of Starkadsgarth this very morning. They were as odd a pair as he had laid eyes on in many a year. Dark they were,
and beardless. One was large and fat, the other small and delicate. They were from some far eastern land he had never heard of, and there was something strange about the fat one that proclaimed him a wizard. More to the point, the man was rich and seemed to desire some service of the Van.
'That is a most interesting cup you drink from, King Starkad,' said Jaganath.
'I'm not a king,' Starkad grumbled. 'I'm a chief. If my men hear you name me a king, they will wax angry and kill you.' He raised his cup and looked at it. It was a human skull, the top of which had been removed and the braincase lined with gold. The eye sockets had likewise been filled with gleaming gold, and it had a stem and base of the same precious metal.
'Yes, it is fine, is it not? This was Hagmund of the Æsir, and he slew my father, wherefore I was obliged to put him to death in a leisurely fashion.
Whenever I drink from it, my father's spirit is comforted. Somehow, wine is always sweeter when drunk from the skull of an enemy.'
'So I presume,' Jaganath said.
Starkad was a little disappointed that the Vendhyan was not more impressed or intimidated. The reason, though, was simple: Jaganath's sorcerous studies had led him into practices compared to which the simple brutalities of the Vanir were the merest child's play. Although Starkad knew naught of this, the easterners made the chieftain uncomfortable in some obscure fashion. He thought of simply killing them and taking their gold, but he wanted no curse laid on him and his house.
The Vendhyans sat picking daintily at their food, now and then tugging loose a small morsel of bread or piece of fruit while ignoring the steaming slabs of meat laid before them on trenchers of flat, twice-baked bread.
Their eyes were reddened from the abundant smoke of the fire that burned in a long trench down the centre of the hall. Chimneys were unknown in Nordheim, and the smoke was left to find its own way out through the holes left in the gables at either end of the longhouse. Despite the presence of the fire, both men were bundled in heavy woolens and furs, being unaccustomed to the biting weather of the northern autumn.
At the far end of the hall two Vanir were having some sport, tugging at a wet sheepskin stretched over the fire pit at a spot where the flames had burned down to glowing coals. With a shout of dismay the slightly drunker
loser was tugged into the pit. The victor, in traditional fashion, then threw the sheepskin over the loser and jumped up and down on the unfortunate man before allowing him to scramble out, scorched and singed. All around the board the men roared with laughter at this sport.
'I'll wager you have no such amusements down in the soft lands of the South,' Starkad said when his laughter had subsided.
'I fear not,' said Jaganath. The stench of singed hair and burning fleece was overpowering. 'But then, you have probably never seen a losing army of some ten thousand staked out and stamped to death by elephants.'
'Hmm,' Starkad said, 'I've never even seen an elephant, for that matter.' He thought of sending south for an elephant so he could have his enemy prisoners trampled.
'You have spoken of your Æsir enemies,' Jaganath said, 'but do you not also raid among the Cimmerians?'
'Yes, by Ymir, we do! It's a trading of hard swordstrokes with them too.'
'Do you raid them to take wealth?' Jaganath queried further.
'Wealth, no. The Cimmerians are a poor folk, with little silver or gold.
The poorest As or Van is a chieftain compared to the richest Cimmerian.'
'Then what is the advantage of warring with such redoubtable foes when they have nothing worth taking?'
'Did I say they had nothing? We raid their villages to take their children! A grown Cimmerian is useless as a slave. Men and women, they fight to the death or kill themselves rather than be enslaved. But Cimmerian children bring a high price in the South. Properly brought up, they make the best of slaves. Work them as hard as you like, on short rations, and beat them to your heart's content. Nothing seems to kill them. Why, I've seen a Cimmerian householder, with his hut surrounded, slay his wife and children before running out to meet us with his bloody sword. Yes, they're a hard people.' He sat back in his great chair and took a long drink from his skull goblet. 'But we Vanir are harder.'
'Then,' Jaganath said, 'you will not fear to make a little expedition into Cimmeria?'
'Fear?' roared Starkad, outraged. 'We Vanir fear nothing!' Then, more quietly: 'However, we venture nowhere if there's no profit to be had, especially this late in the year. This is the feasting time, when we hold revel in our halls. Soon, I will take the hospitality of my fellow chieftains, and they mine, until the great feast of midwinter. We shall need strong persuasion to leave the warmth and the hall joys and go death harvesting among the Cimmerians.'
At this unsubtle cajolery Jaganath opened the bag at his side and let Starkad see the massive golden coins therein. Idly, Jaganath's fingers wandered among the shining, clinking pieces. 'Is this not a splendid bag?'
he said.
Starkad's mouth went dry, and his palms began to itch. He was already rich in gold, but greed was as much a part of him as blood lust, and as the glittering metal he could never have enough of. 'What is the nature of this journey which you wish to undertake?'
'A mere trek to a certain mountain. It need not involve the shedding of Vanir blood. We must have an escort, and we must be upon this mountain by the coming equinox.'
Starkad chuckled mirthlessly. 'We'll not walk on Cimmerian soil without a fight. What mountain is it you wish to find?'
'In the Cimmerian tongue, it is called Ben Morgh.'
Starkad went pale beneath his windburn. 'Ben Morgh,' he half-whispered. 'Why in the name of Ymir do you want to go there?'
'My business there is my own concern. Is it so fearsome a place?'
'It is the Cimmerian's sacred mount, where dwells Crom, their god. I care nothing for Crom; Ymir is my god. But to get to the foot of Ben Morgh we must go up Conall's Valley and cross the Field of the Dead. All the great war-chiefs of Cimmeria are buried in the Field of the Dead. If they know that we are coming, there could be a gathering of the clans. To protect the bones of their ancestors they will put aside the feuds of generations, as they did when they put Venarium to the sack.'
'But,' Jaganath protested, 'we will do their graves no injury. We will just pass between them.'
'The ground itself is sacred to them,' Starkad told him. 'Besides, once we were there I could never prevent my men from toppling the cairns of the Cimmerians any more than the Cimmerians will spare our sacred groves when they invade our land. The hatred is bred too deep.'
'Well,' Jaganath said, closing his bag, 'if you cannot do this thing, I will not impose further on your generous hospitality. I have heard of a chieftain, farther up the coast, named Wulfstan. Perhaps he will have more stomach for a little adventuring among the mountains.'
'Be not so hasty,' Starkad said as he saw the bright glimmer of gold disappear. 'Perhaps a few of my bolder lads would not mind a bit of brisk work among the blackhairs.' He looked down at the paunch that was beginning to bulge over his broad belt. Slapping the hill of flesh, he said, 'I myself could use a little exercise. I have not plied my axe this year. Let us see.'
Starkad roared for silence, and gradually the noise in the hall abated.
'Our honored guests,' he bawled, 'have come from afar. They have heard that we Vanir are the m
ightiest and bravest people in all the world!' His statement was greeted with a roar of approval and agreement. 'They have a journey to make, and for an escort of fearless Vanir, they are willing to pay rich golden treasure!' This time the roar was even louder. 'Who is with me for a little tramp inland and perhaps a bit of axe play?' There was much cheering and many volunteers, but then a broad-bearded warrior stood and addressed the chief.
'Where do these outlanders want to go?'
'To Cimmeria,' answered Starkad. The cheering abated somewhat.
'Who would go into those misty hills this time of year?' demanded the standing warrior. 'The snows will be coming soon, the blackhairs will be down out of their mountain pastures and all together in their villages.
Nothing there but hard fighting and no captives.' Others nodded and muttered that these were true words.
Starkad leaned forward. 'Gurth,' he said, his voice dangerously quiet and low-pitched, 'this is an escort I propose, not a raid. Every man here is
free to have his say, but if you would rather be sitting in this chair, my axe is here.' He gestured toward a magnificent silver-inlaid weapon propped against his seat. 'And there is yours.' He pointed to a similar weapon hanging from a peg behind Gurth. 'This chair is always open to a man bold enough to take it.''
Among the fierce Vanir, a chieftain held his position so long as he could defend it with the strength of his arm. Abashed, the man named Gurth resumed his seat on the bench. Starkad smiled with amusement but no humour.
By ones and twos and in small groups men came forward to volunteer for the undertaking. Mostly, they were younger men, eager to seek adventure and prove their courage. The chief praised them and promised them gold and gifts. When all had finished giving their oath of service, he said to Jaganath, 'Tomorrow I will send to the outlying holdings, and we'll get more men. I wouldn't set foot in Cimmeria without at least a hundred.'
'Very well,' Jaganath said, 'but we have little time if we are to be there by the equinox.' Then, after a little thought: 'I will pay you well, but you will pay your own men. Even this much gold will not go far when spread among a hundred men.'
Starkad slapped his knee and roared with renewed mirth. 'Fear not, stranger. There will not be a hundred when we return!'
IV
In the Border Kingdom
Belverus lay far behind Conan. He was fully recovered from his injury and rode effortlessly through the last hot days of early autumn. His bronzed skin shone glossily in the full sunlight, for he rode clad only in boots, loincloth, and swordbelt. A headband of scarlet leather kept his unshorn mane out of his eyes as he scanned the horizon restlessly. At any moment the nearby ridges could be aswarm with strangers of unclear intent.
Ten days' riding had taken him from the plain surrounding Belverus into the hilly land that would eventually rise into the great mountain
ranges of the northern lands. The grasslands of the south lay behind him, and the hills all about him were clad in a verdure of open forest, most of it hardwood, that would give way to pine as he journeyed northward.
Already, leaves were changing colour and beginning to fall, presaging an early winter.
This was the Border Kingdom, an area bordered by Nemedia, Brythunia, Hyperborea and Cimmeria, with a finger of land thrust into Gunderland and the Bossonian Marches. It was a land too diffuse and primitive for the strong kingship of the south, and although it was termed a kingdom, it could seldom be determined just who was king of the place.
Frequently, there were several claimants to the title, leading to inevitable warfare. The eastern sector through which he now rode was the domain of petty chieftains and he hoped to avoid their squabbles if he could.
The sun of noon looked down upon him as he came to the ruins of a village. Its wooden stockade was little but a circle of charred stumps, and all the huts within had been burned to the ground. There was no smoke, but Conan's nose informed him that the burning had taken place no more than two days past. His mount shied at the smell of blood-soaked ground.
A litter of broken arrows and several sword-hacked shields told him that this place had put up a fight. He cursed silently. This was just the kind of thing he had hoped to avoid. His comfortable lead on the solstice was already narrowing, and he wanted no more delays.
Whoever the people of this place had been, they were now dead, scattered, or led away into captivity. And what of the attackers? He made a circuit of the ruined stockade, but could make nothing of a hash of old tracks further obscured by a recent rain. A trail of droppings told him that the village's livestock had been led away to the northeast, but the savagery of the destruction showed that this had been no mere cattle-raid. This was the work of warring clans or a foreign invader. He determined to proceed with utmost caution.
Unfortunately, it is not easy for a man on horseback to avoid detection when riding through strange hills, especially when those he seeks to avoid are keen-eyed men who know the land intimately. A few miles from the village he heard the blast of a horn. Immediately, he saw the mounted picket who was stationed on a nearby hillcrest, keeping watch on the small valley through which Conan was riding. Within minutes the horn blast was followed by the drumming of horsemen.
Conan leaned upon his pommel and waited patiently. He could flee, but that would mean selecting another route and losing far too much time.
Best to allow the riders to examine him and to state his business honestly.
If the worst happened, he would cut a way through them and bolt for Cimmeria. If he had to flee, best to flee in the direction of his mission.
The file of horsemen heaved over a ridge and poured into the little valley. There were a score of them, hard-faced men in helms and short cuirasses of mail or scale. By the look of them he judged them to be cousins of the Gundermen to the west. The majority were fair-haired and blue-eyed. He noted one peculiarity about them: Each wore the horns of a bull upon his helm. There was no individual variation in the ornamentation of their headgear. Their shields likewise were decorated with the heads of bulls, and one rider bore a tall standard upon which were the skull and several tails of the same beast.
He kept his hands well away from his weapons as the riders circled him. Their manner was wary but not overtly hostile. His eyes widened as one of the riders rode toward him. This was not a man, but a woman dressed for war. He studied her with open admiration, for she was well worth looking at.
Her face was obscured by a horned helmet which left only a Y-shaped slot for vision and breath, but her body was as splendid as that of a warrior-goddess of Vendhya. Her full breasts were protected by cups of polished bronze, and her wide, powerful shoulders tapered to a small waist cinched by a broad belt covered with silvered scale. Bronze greaves covered her shins and knees, leaving her thighs bare except for a dagger strapped to the right. Except for her armour and the straps that held it in place, she wore nothing except for a narrow loincloth of black silk, not even sandals.
The woman loosened her chin strap and lifted the heavy helm from her head. A mane of tan hair spilled from the helm and hung as low as the woman's elbows, and Conan was pleased to see that her face was as beautiful as her form. It was a strong face, with a brow that was low and wide, and cheekbones that were wider still. Her jaw was square and firm, her nose straight. Many would have considered her features too strong and heavy for true beauty, but the hard planes and angles of the face were softened by a wide mouth with full, sensual lips. In any case, Conan thought the face perfect for her woman-warrior's body. The exceptional
development of her neck and shoulders proved that this was no king's daughter dressed up as a soldier for play, but a woman who was accustomed to wearing armour, probably from childhood. He judged her age at somewhere in the mid-twenties.
Meanwhile, the woman was studying him as frankly. Her cool blue eyes registered approval as they took in Conan's powerful, heavily muscled frame, his big, scarred hands with their calluses from his years of weapon work.
'I
am Aelfrith, chieftainess of Cragsfell,' the woman said. Her voice was low, almost husky. 'You are a Cimmerian, by your look. What is your business in my land?' As Conan had expected, she spoke a dialect of the Gunder tongue, which he understood.
'My name is Conan. I go to my home in Cimmeria, which I have not visited in many years. I travel alone and 1 mean no harm to you or your people. May I pass through your land unhindered?'
'That may not be easy to grant. I would not interfere with your homefaring, but there is war here.'
'So I have noticed,' Conan said. 'Earlier I passed through a village, or rather a place where a village had been. There was not enough left of it for the crows to fight over.'
'That was Atzel's work,' the woman said, her face paling with rage.
'Many of the folk escaped to my fortress at Cragsfell. We reached the place yesterday, in time to carry off the dead for burial, though there was naught else we could do. Atzel's men left nothing but the bodies of the dead.
He slew all the men he could catch, and carried off the women and children to sell to Nemedian traders.'
'Who is this Atzel?' Conan asked. 'Is he a bandit or an enemy chief?'
Aelfrith spat upon the ground with a short curse Conan had never heard before. 'There are no good words for what he is.' She gazed for a moment at the sword at Conan's waist, with its long white handle. 'Since you are a stranger here, and mean no harm, I offer my hospitality. We ride for Cragsfell now, so ride with us. You must pass it on your way, so you
may as well get a night's lodging and a good dinner before moving on. You can hear all about Atzel and my woes over a pot of ale.'
Conan would have been content to sleep beneath the stars again, but it was a deadly insult to refuse hospitality that had been offered. Besides, this regal warrior-woman intrigued him. 'I accept, and gladly.'
The Conan Chronology Page 175