'If that is how I am to die, then so be it,' Conan said. 'I'll not see this woman further shamed with none to defend her.'
The chief saluted him and returned to his seat. Conan stood balanced on the balls of his feet for a moment, then he sprang lightly into the arena.
He took the shock of landing on slightly bent knees and showed no more effort in taking the ten-foot drop than a man stepping off a low stair.
There were cheers as he strode to the centre of the arena.
Gently, he untied the gag which confined Aelfrith's mouth painfully. In spite of her great pain, she smiled warmly at him. 'I thought it would be impossible for me to feel more gratitude toward you than when I learned that you had saved my daughter. Now I feel it even more keenly. No woman ever had a more splendid champion. But, I regret that you have done this thing. The bull shall kill us both.'
'Do not borrow trouble, Aelfrith,' Conan said. 'I have fought many a battle with man and beast, and I live yet. And I feel certain that I have a destiny to fulfil. I will meet your beast and we shall test which of us is stronger.''
'Then kiss me, Conan, and I will give to you what little strength I have left.'
Conan took her face between his palms and kissed her fiercely, and it seemed to him that an even greater strength flowed through his limbs than before. Then he turned away from her and faced the gate, folding his mighty arms across his chest. He was ready for a fight, be the enemy man, demon, god, or wild beast. Then the terrific bellow sounded once more, and an immense black shadow filled the gateway.
Conan blinked, trying to see into the darkness of the passageway.
Surely, no natural bull could be so huge! Then the animal trotted into the full sunlight, and Conan's heart sank somewhat at the task he had undertaken. This was no domestic beast. It was not even one of the fierce fighting-bulls such as were raised for the bullrings of Zingara. This was one of the rare wild bulls of the northern forests, the ancient ancestor of common cattle. Conan had once killed a Cimmerian wild bull barehanded.
That bull had been a relative of this one, but where the Cimmerian bull had stood perhaps five feet at the shoulder, this one stood at least seven.
It stood for a moment, blinking its reddened eyes in the sudden sunlight, surveying its surroundings. Its head was low-slung, and the back of its neck was a towering hump of muscle that looked iron-hard. The great muscles stood out in sleek lumps over every part of its body, and its astounding virility was apparent even at a considerable distance. Most terrifying of all was its head. There was a space as wide as a tall man's forearm between its eyes, and a great, shaggy beard depended from its chin, and over all stretched the tremendous horns. Gleaming like ivory, they spread in a complex, symmetrical curve like that of a Nemedian bow.
Fully five feet separated the needle tips.
Even in this extremity, Conan, characteristically, was filled with admiration for so magnificent a creature. Its glossy black hide was scarred all over from a thousand battles fought in defence of its pastures, of its harem, of its godhood. Truly, Conan thought, if cattle had a god, this must be it.
The bull caught sight of Conan and Aelfrith and its nostrils flared. It began to snort thunderously, and it lowered its head as it began to paw the ground with a forehoof. Great clods of earth with grass and roots attached tore from the ground and showered the beast's back.
Abruptly, the great head raised. It began to walk, going in an arc perhaps fifty feet from the two humans, staring at them with one reddened eye. Then it turned and circled the other way, this time studying
them with the other eye. Conan realised that with such wide-spaced eyes the creature had to use one at a time to get a good idea of what these two-legged things were. As it circled, Conan unfolded his arms and sidestepped steadily, always keeping his body between Aelfrith and the bull.
A deathly silence had descended upon the amphitheatre. This was the stuff of legends: a battle between god and hero, with the life of a beautiful and brave queen at stake. The bards in the audience were already composing their verses. Only one among them was frantic: Atzel chewed at his moustache in frustration. He longed to see Aelfrith's body rent to bloody fragments by the terrible horns, and this Cimmerian bravo was delaying his pleasure.
Now the bull stopped its circling and turned to face them again. It lowered its head and pawed the earth, this time more fiercely. The clods flew many yards behind the bull. It tensed and prepared to charge. Then it was hurtling like a black stone from a catapult.
Every instinct told Conan to sidestep, but that would leave Aelfrith's body unprotected against the horns. The bulk grew with unbelievable speed, and he knew that this was the moment of his greatest danger. He had spent his youth herding cattle in Cimmeria, and he knew the ways of bulls. A bull will favour one horn over the other, and always seek to gore with that horn first. Would this one hook right or left? If he dodged the wrong way at the last possible second, he would end his life impaled upon that horn.
Then he felt the bull's hot breath, and the right horn was lancing at his left side swifter than an arrow. Conan pivoted on the ball of his left foot and stepped forward into the gap between the horns. The wide brow slammed into his hard belly with a force that seemed impossible, but he managed to lean far forward and wrap his long arms around the neck at its narrowest point, just behind the head. He squeezed with all his might, seeking to cut off the beast's wind. It roared and shook its head from side to side, trying to dislodge the maddening creature that blinded and choked it.
The bull dug in its forelegs and tried to press the man against the ground, but the points of its horns created enough space to prevent Conan from being crushed between brow and earth. Then, with a mighty flex of its immense neck muscle, the bull flung its head back. Conan's grip broke
and he flew through the air, turning end-for-end twice before slamming down hard on his back upon the solid earth. He was breathless and half-stunned, but he dared not let that keep him down for a moment. He arched his back, kicked out, and was on his feet in an instant. A mighty cheer greeted this seeming return from death, and he was relieved to see the bull turning this way and that in search of him. At least he had accomplished his primary goal: He had distracted the bull's attention from Aelfrith.
The bull saw Conan and spun to face him. Down went the head, leveling the fearsome horns. To the great amazement of all who watched, Conan did not prepare to dodge. Instead, he took a wide stance, with his left foot toward the beast, his right well to the rear. His left arm was stretched out full-length, fingers extended toward a point between the bull's eyes. The right hand was clenched into a great knotty fist, cocked beside his ear. He stood unmoving as a statue, awaiting the charge.
Again, the bull flexed back slightly, dug in its hooves, and shot forward with a speed that seemed unbelievable in so large an animal. Before the horn could begin its deadly hook, Conan's fist shot forward, too swift to see. In the seats the men heard a sound like an axe sinking into a hard tree.
The bull's charge halted and it stood, trembling slightly. Then Conan's fist came up again and descended like a hammer, smashing into the bull's neck just behind the skull. The animal's knees buckled and it went down.
In the past Conan had won many tankards of ale from army companions with those two blows. When bullocks were brought in for slaughter, he had bet that using only his fist he could smash the beast's skull and break its neck before it fell. An ordinary bull would have keeled over dead. The King Bull lurched back to its feet and swept its head sideways. Conan was just swift enough to keep from getting the point in his side, but the horn hit him like a mace swung two-handed by a powerful man. He staggered back twenty paces, managing to keep his feet beneath him, knowing that above all he must not fall.
The bull continued to shake its head from side to side, no doubt trying to clear its vision after the two incredible blows. It gave Conan time to catch his breath and plan his next move. The cheering was frantic now.
Aelfrith
watched him raptly, filled with fear for him but equally full of pride. Conan, her champion, a mere human, had survived two deadly encounters with the King Bull. Each time he had received blows that would have killed most men, yet he was on his feet and ready to renew the
fray.
In the stands Atzel was beginning to experience doubt along with his frustration. Why was the man still alive? Had he truly hurt the bull with those blows? No man could be that strong! Then he sat back. Surely, the next encounter must see the Cimmerian slain, and then the death of Aelfrith.
Now Conan was eyeing the beast warily, and it was regarding him with equal caution. After the usual pawing it drew itself up and charged toward Conan once more.
And Conan turned and ran.
A loud groan went up from the spectators. The Cimmerian's great courage had cracked. He was just a mortal man after all. He ran until he was stopped by the wall, and there he whirled and spread his arms, pressing backward as if trying to burrow into the solid stone, eyes wide and staring, the picture of terror.
Atzel barked out a raucous laugh. 'Ha! See the coward run like a whipped dog! It shall not be long now.'
The silver-helmed chief turned and stared down his nose at Atzel. When he spoke there was limitless contempt in his voice. 'Show me the man who has tried the King Bull even once, much less twice. My own courage would have snapped at the first charge. So what if this man's nerve has fled at the third pass? Speak not to me of courage and cowardice you foul nithing! Atzel chewed his gall and kept his silence at receiving the greatest spoken insult in the northlands. One vengeance at a time. First he would see Aelfrith dead, then there would be time to settle accounts with his rivals.
Aelfrith was in despair when she saw Conan run, and as the horns neared him she shut her eyes tightly.
The bull was almost upon the Cimmerian. At the last possible instant, when the horns were almost upon him, he moved. He did not dodge, but instead rose onto his toes and spun just as the right horn was lancing for his belly. Instead of taking him squarely, the tip whistled past his narrow profile, missing his abdomen by less than an inch. The horn struck the stone wall and there was a crack like that made by a bow snapping from
being overdrawn. When the bull staggered back from the wall, a full three inches of the horn was broken clean away.
Conan backed slowly toward the centre of the arena, always facing the animal. The cheering was truly thunderous as the watchers understood his sham and the incredible calculated gamble he had taken. Aelfrith opened her eyes at the cheer, and great was her joy when she saw Conan alive and seemingly in control of the situation. She would have collapsed with relief if she could have moved at all.
The bull began to trot toward Conan, its legs a little shaky now, its movements no longer so swift and sure. In all its life it had never known defeat, nor even been resisted for very long. Its dim, savage brain could not comprehend how this little creature could cause it so much pain and difficulty.
This time Conan did not wait for a charge. With a light, springy step he trotted toward the animal. There was a gasp of anticipation from the watchers. They were past all amazement. The bull, startled, just stood still as Conan reached out and grasped the horns. He placed a foot on the bull's forehead and leaped as the creature instinctively tossed its head. Conan curled himself into a tumbler's ball and did a triple somersault, landing on his feet and trotting toward Aelfrith.
'I still live,' he said when he reached her.
'As do I,' she said warmly. 'Perhaps we shall both see sunset this day.'
'Perhaps,' he said. 'But make no bets.' Now he turned and strode toward the bull. It was time to try conclusions. The bull was weakening, but so was he. The next encounter would be the last. Then he stood and awaited the bull.
The beast seemed to understand as well. It stood breathing heavily, its sides heaving, trying to store up its remaining strength for one final effort.
It snorted and pawed, then it charged. Down upon the tiny, seemingly frail man-figure it bore. Then they were together in the final embrace of death from which only one would escape alive.
As the right horn hooked in, Conan sidestepped again, but this time he did not lean away as far. A bull cannot see the tips of its horns. It only knows where they are by constantly gouging the ground, the trees, or other
objects. As the King Bull hooked its right horn toward Conan, it automatically timed the move from the habit of years. But, three inches had been broken from the horn tip, and the hook that should have gutted Conan missed his belly by a hair. Swiftly, it hooked back with the left, but the tiny advantage which had allowed the Cimmerian to work closer to the horns had been the chance he needed. Seizing a horn in each hand, Conan took an iron grip and dug in with his feet.
There were moments of quiet over the amphitheatre as the spectators realised that the incredible struggle was entering its final phase. The bull dug in its hooves and began to push, forcing Conan back toward the wall, heading for a spot just below where most of the chiefs sat. Conan's feet gouged a twin path in the turf as he resisted every inch of the animal's progress. The bull's breathing became laboured and his tongue lolled from his mouth as he strove to drive the man against the wall and crush him like a fly. Two paces short of the wall, Conan stopped the bull.
They stood like a bronzen statue for long moments, Conan's arms spread wide toward the ends of the horns for leverage, muscles chiseled into rigid prominence, face empurpled with effort, sinews creaking audibly with the titanic strain. Sweat poured from him in pails as he put forth more strength than any mortal man could be expected to. Slowly, remorselessly, the bull's head began to turn. Conan's left arm raised one horn as the right forced the other down. Moving barely perceptible inches at a time, the great head came around as the neck twisted.
The wide horns were almost vertical now, and it seemed impossible that man or beast could stand an ounce more strain. The limit had been reached, and something had to give way. There was a faint crackling sound, and Conan released the horns, stepping back as the great beast collapsed, its neck broken. One great eye rolled in its socket for a moment, then it was darkened by death. The animal's last breath went from it in a long sigh, then it was inert upon the ground.
Conan stood trembling with exhaustion, not hearing the frantic cheers, his eyes upon the great bull he had slain. Then he looked up at the sound of an inarticulate scream. It was Atzel, pointing down at him and yammering curses so garbled that none could understand him.
Rage spread its red mantle across Conan's face. From some deep reservoir within him he found a last store of strength. With a tigerish leap he scrambled up the arena wall and onto the sloping turf of the spectator's
area. His great hand shot out and grasped Atzel by the throat. The crazed old chiefs eyes bulged with terror as he saw the death he had brought upon himself.
'Damn you to Hell for a torturer of women and children!' Conan bellowed. 'Crom curse you for a nithing!' He grasped Atzel's belt and hoisted the big man, kicking and squalling, over his head. None sought to hinder him as he strode to the edge of the arena. 'And demons gnaw your guts forever for making me kill this noble beast!' He accompanied the final malediction with a mighty heave, and Atzel sailed screaming through the air to land on the upthrust horn of the King Bull. With a sickening crunch the horn pierced his back and burst out through his breastbone.
Atzel saw the foot of bloody horn that stood out from his chest and opened his mouth to scream, but produced only a great fountain of blood that soon stopped pulsing from his mouth.
Conan leaped back down into the arena, but this time his knees buckled and he fell heavily to the ground, his great strength drained at last.
Shouting and cheering, others followed. They made a litter of shields and spears and rolled Conan onto it, then raised the litter to their shoulders.
Aelfrith's men cut her bonds and lowered her gently to another litter while a chief wrapped her in a magnificent cloak.
'Bring t
hem hither!' shouted the chief Conan had spoken to on the road. The two were brought to the edge of the arena wall and the chief looked down upon them in deep perplexity. 'A thing has happened here today, and for the life of me I cannot decide whether it was a heroic feat out of the old legends or a terrible sacrilege. The King Bull is dead. A chief is dead. Blood has been shed in the sacred precincts. How shall we resolve this matter, my fellow chieftains?'
'What has Utric the Lawspeaker to say?' said the silver-helmed chief.
A grey-bearded elder rose and walked to the edge of the wall, where he looked down at the man and woman, the corpse of Atzel. the carcass of the great bull. He closed his eyes and stood in deep thought for several minutes while the assemblage maintained a respectful silence. At last his eyes opened.
'This is my judgement: Atzel was the evil behind these happenings. In his madness for vengeance he accused the innocent Aelfrith and went so far as to seize her person for purposes of revenge. To save himself from
suspicion, he committed the hideous sacrilege of suborning the King Bull himself for his purposes. The gods have been angered at this, and decreed that because this King Bull was defiled he must die before his time. To that end they sent this mighty champion to slay him in the only lawful way: with his own strength, using no weapon. In this way he was the triple instrument of justice: He slew the defiled King Bull, he saved the unjustly persecuted Aelfrith, and he executed the vile Atzel. In recompense for his sacrilegious treatment and untimely death, the gods allowed the King Bull's own horn to be the ultimate instrument of Atzel's death.
'Let no man interfere with or offer violence to these just people. I have spoken.'
Laughing and cheering wildly, Aelfrith's men bore their chieftainess and her champion out of the arena and back toward Cragsfell. Conan was only half-conscious, and those bearing his litter heard him mutter some words none of them could understand. He was speaking his native Cimmerian, and he was saying: 'Damn you, Khitan, and your game-playing gods.'
The Conan Chronology Page 180