The man who tossed helplessly upon the waves, lashed to the stump of a mast and a bit of decking, thought none of these things. Since the midst of the second day of the storm, when his ship had broken up under the relentless pounding of the sea, he had been afloat. By now he was nearly senseless from the tossing of the waves and the numbing cold of the water. He was able to keep only a single thought in his mind: The storm was taking him north, and the Vilayet narrowed to the north. Soon he must be tossed ashore, and that was his only chance for life. When he neared the land, he must cut himself free of the mast or risk being crushed as the heavy timber was dashed against beach or rock. Still in his belt was his long, curved Kothian dagger in its hide sheath. Frequently the man flexed his fingers so that he would be able to grasp its hilt when the time came. This and nothing more occupied his thoughts as the wind howled like demons in agony and the sea writhed beneath the flogging of the wind.
Dawaz rose early on the morning after the storm to find what the sea had left. Many interesting things were yielded by the sea on such occasions, and sometimes they were things that could be turned to profit. Profit was never to be taken lightly. Thus, he wrapped himself warmly in woollen cloaks of local weaving and left his little trading post, the northernmost of many maintained by Kyros Brothers of Aghrapur.
The post was situated in a tiny cove on the western shore of the Vilayet, where the sea was no more than a league in breadth. The water was calm this morning. The Vilayet was a shallow sea, thus a wind that would cause no more than a heavy swell on the Western Ocean could stir titanic waves on the surface of the Vilayet. For the same reason, the cessation of the winds left the tideless sea calm within hours.
Dawaz found a great deal of storm-wrack in the form of tree trunks, seaweed, and shredded vegetation, much of this blown up from the south. There were dead fish and an occasional marine mammal, but he saw no amber, which was among the sea's finest gifts. Finest of all would be a complete shipwreck, with a salvageable cargo. Dawaz determined to send his servants north and south along the coast to search for such. It must be done discreetly, of course, for the kings thereabout claimed all such sea bounty as their personal property. He was about to go back to the post for his breakfast when he saw the corpse.
Corpses were among the more common of the sea's yieldings, and had no value whatever. Sailors rarely had more jewellery than an earring, and this loinclothed figure plainly had not been a wealthy passenger. It had been a big man, and Dawaz would need his servants' aid to push the body back into the sea. He did not want this fellow's spirit haunting his post. The ghosts of drowned seamen properly belonged at sea, which was their element.
He was about to turn his steps to the post when the corpse moved and groaned. Dawaz stared, fascinated. This human hulk was battered, savaged by the elements, and blue with cold, yet it lived. The man on the beach began to vomit copious amounts of seawater, and Dawaz went to fetch his servants.
Conan awoke in the dim interior of a low, booth-like building, its walls constructed of flat stones piled without mortar and chinked with moss. The upper half of one long wall was a swinging, top-hinged shutter, designed to be propped outward in better weather so that the whole building might be used as a shop of sorts. Just now the shutter was tied down and draped with rough cloth against drafts. Bales and bundles filled most of the building, kegs and stacks of goods, some of them with Turanian writing upon them. A driftwood fee burned on a low hearth, the salt in the wood making crackling, multicoloured sparks.
He lay on a pallet of skins, and over him were rough woollen blankets. The room was heaving as if in a slow earthquake, but Conan knew that this was caused by his long sojourn among the tossing waves. It seemed that he had survived. He did not find that as surprising as many might have. He had survived more mortal threats than he could readily remember.
There were at least two other men in the room. They could not be too unfriendly, since they had not cut his throat when they had the chance. As the lettering he could see was Turanian, he decided to try that tongue
first.
'What is this place?' His voice sounded more like the croak of a crow than the speech of a man, but it brought a heavily-bundled man to his side. The man's features were Turanian, as was his speech.
'Welcome back to the land of the living, friend. I am happy to tell you that it is a dry land, albeit cold.'
'Any solid ground is better than the Vilayet in a storm,' said Conan. 'You are a coastal trader?'
'For Kyros Brothers.' The trader placed his fingertips against his breast and bowed very slightly. 'I am
Dawaz.'
'I am Conan of—' He was about to say 'of the Red Brotherhood,' but thought better of it. '—of Cimmeria. was serving on a ship somewhere to the south of here when we were caught by the storm.' His stomach grumbled loudly, and his host signalled a servant. The servant, a Turanian of low caste, brought a carved wooden cup of steaming spiced wine.
'This should settle your stomach a bit,' said Dawaz. 'Then we may try some solid food. Doubtless you've not eaten in days, and your belly was quite full of salt water, which I witnessed myself.'
'The only thing that's ever kept me from eating,' Conan said with a little more life, 'is already having a belly full of food.' He took a long drink of the spiced wine, which was wonderfully bracing to a half-drowned man. 'What land is this? Our ship had just paid a visit to a settlement near the northern border of Turan when we were struck by the storm.' He thought it best not to mention that they had just finished looting the settlement.
'You are far north of there,' Dawaz told him.! 'We are no more than fifty leagues from the northern tip of the Vilayet, and beyond that is the land of snow-giants and dragons. Here there are no true kingdoms, just the petty domains of the local kinglets. Each of them claims wide lands, but none truly rules beyond the reach of his sword.'
Conan nodded. This was true of most of the North, which was still primitive and tribal in nature.
The servant brought a bowl of thick, fragrant stew aid a stack of flat loaves, tough and leathery.
'You are here late in the year,' Conan observed as be ate. 'Do you plan to winter here?'
'We may have to,' Dawaz admitted. He filled a cup for himself and poured more wine into Conan's. 'The last ship of the season was supposed to come for us many days ago, to take us and the year's trade goods back to Agnrapur. Something must have befallen it. Perhaps the storm.'
Conan wondered whether that ship might have been that he and the Brethren had looted. 'Much can happen to a ship on the Vilayet. Will one of the local bogs protect you through the winter?'
'Perhaps,' Dawaz said moodily. 'After all, they depend upon the southern trade for many goods they produce. However, they are also greedy, and are many bands of outlaws as well. It shall be a hard winter, and we shall be fortunate to get through it with our lives and goods intact.' 'Who rules here?' Conan asked. 'The king who claims this stretch of coast is called Odoac. His nation, or more properly his tribe, are the Thungians. They are a crude people, who lust after gold and the silks and other luxuries of the South. For these
they trade the furs they trap and the slaves they capture from other peoples.'
'Do you trade slaves?' Conan asked suspiciously. It was always possible that the merchant had saved him for other than generous reasons.
'No. We have an agreement with the House of Yafdal that we trade only for non-living goods and they have the slave trade. You really must have special ships to transport slaves, so it is not practical to deal in both. The slave compound is now empty, as the factor for Yafdal left a moon ago.'
Conan was relieved. There were many other questions he wanted to ask, but sleep overcame him before he could finish one of them.
For the next two days the Cimmerian recovered from his ordeal. By the third day he was as strong as ever and fretting to be away. Dawaz wondered at the man's swift recovery. He had thought that Conan would have to be nursed along for at least a month, but except for a
little shakiness in the first two days Conan had showed little effect from his experiences. Dawaz studied the strange barbarian. The man prowled catlike about the compound, eyeing the surrounding, tree-clad hills. Had Dawaz been a slaver, he might have entered Conan on his ledger as: 'male, age about thirty, very powerful, black hair, blue eyes, skin fair but darkened by sun and weather, tall and sturdy, all teeth present and sound, northern in origin, prime stock.'
In the rare sunlight of early winter, Dawaz sat bun-died in his woollens, writing with a brush upon a scroll set on a low table before him. Conan strode up to him in the midst of his writing. The Cimmerian wore a wolfskin tunic, which Dawaz had given him, and leggings of wolfskin above his heavy sandals. This left his arms and thighs bare, and that seemed to suit his north-on blood. 'What do you write?' he asked.
'I flatter myself that I am a bit of a scholar. Since I seem to be stuck here for a while, I am adding to my writings about my travels, although Mitra knows there is little to write about these northern lands.'
'Are there any wars going on?' Conan asked.
'Why do you ask?'
'Because I must have something to do. There shall be no ships this way until spring. When I am not on the sea, I serve as a soldier. As long as there is a war brewing, I can earn my bread.'
'Stay here with me,' Dawaz said. 'I enjoy your company. You have travelled far, and I should like to hear more of the places you have visited. We have plenty of provisions for the winter, and the local fisher-Ben and hunters come often to barter their catch. We'll not go hungry.'
'It is good of you to ask,' Conan said, 'and I thank you. But it is not my way to while the months away in idleness. If you can lend me arms, I can pay you for em from my earnings.'
'Very well,' sighed Dawaz. On the table before him be began to draw a crude map. 'Here we are north of the steppe. The land is hilly and covered with dense forest, most of it pine. There are no great rivers, but are many streams, most of them soon to freeze.
Each man was in his own place, the lines neatly arranged and the cavalry riding by in rows as if all were on but a single horse. The people here get together on a field and swing their weapons until only the men of one side are left on their feet. I understand that it is not rare for nobody at all to be standing after one of these battles.'
'Then they fight like all the other northern people of my acquaintance,' Conan said with satisfaction. 'That is well, since am a northerner and I like to fight that way too.'
One of Dawaz's servants called to him. 'Master! Men come riding!' Dawaz looked inland, toward the tree line. A little knot of mounted men were barely visible, black against the dark trees.
'Four men on horseback,' reported Conan, his keen eyes glittering. 'All armed. Do you think they mean mischief?'
'We shall know when they get here,' said Dawaz uneasily. 'If they are Odoac's men they will probably not rob me. They could be bandits, though.'
'Bandits or king's men,' Conan said, 'you may rest easy. There are only four.'
Dawaz stared at him. 'You are nothing if not confident.' Conan just smiled.
The bronze-girt warriors rode stocky ponies with uncut manes and tails. The riders were similarly shaggy, with brown or yellowish hair and beards spilling from their helmets over their shoulders and breasts. All wore armour similar to that which Conan now wore. They rode into the little compound, and one with a stylized raven cresting his helmet rode a little forward. He addressed Dawaz, but his eyes were on Conan.
'Greeting, trader. We are Odoac's men, and our
king wishes to know if aught of value was washed ashore during the great storm a few days agone.'
'Naught but the driftwood and trash of the sea,' said Dawaz smoothly. 'Has there been better picking along the coast?'
The man gestured to the bags tied over the back of one of the horses. 'Some fine amber and some coral.' He pointed at Conan, who gazed at him unflinchingly. 'But who is this? He is no man of our nation, by his look.'
Before Conan could speak, Dawaz said: 'Just an unfortunate seaman, cast ashore by the storm. Of his ship, nothing came ashore but the stump of a mast, too tar-soaked even to make good firewood.'
'Did you not hear me ask if aught of value came ashore? If he washed up then he is part of the sea's bounty and belongs to the king. A fine, strapping rogue like that will fetch a good price from the slave traders.'
There had been a time when Conan would have instantly split the man's skull for these words, but age and experience had taught him to be prudent, especially hi a strange land. He said simply: 'I have no desire to depute with you here in the home of my friend. But if you really want to sell me to the slavers, let us go over » yonder field, and I'll carve your guts out and strangle your friends with them.' Dawaz paled, but the spokesman smiled.
'You speak loudly for a man outnumbered four to one.'
'I'll kill you first,' Conan said, 'then it will be fate to one. I've often fought three to one, and it has seldom taken me more than three blows to settle matters.' He smiled calmly.
'Boasting fool!' blustered the rider. 'It is your good fortune that this trader enjoys the king's protection. Best for you that we never encounter you away from here.' Without giving Conan a chance to answer, he wheeled his mount and rode out of the compound, followed by the others.
'That was a close matter,' Dawaz said when he could draw breath again. 'They might have slain you out of hand for your words.'
'What would you have me do? Surrender myself to them as goods for the slavers? Besides, there was never aught to fear. That one with the raven on his helm was nothing but wind, albeit encased in bronze. And a little wind never hurt anybody.' He clapped Dawaz on the shoulder, causing the slight man to stagger a few steps. 'Come, friend, let's to dinner. In the morning I'll be off to seek my fortune!'
II
The Queen of the Snows
Conan trudged in a vaguely northerly direction. Just now King Odoac's court did not seem to be the best place to sell his sword, but that did not bother him. He would give King Totila a try. One employer was much Eke another. He was three days' march from Dawaz's trading post, wending his way through the silent forest aid using his spear as a walking stick. Snow had been Calling heavily since the night before, and he was happy at his friend had pressed upon him a good cloak, a long-sleeved undertunic, and a pair of trews. His recent sojourn in the balmy lands to the south had somewhat oftened his innate resistance to cold weather. His Cimmerian kin would have shaken their heads pityingly to see him so overdressed in this mild weather.
The pines grew thick on every hand in these low plains, and the quiet of the forest was broken only occasionally by the eerie howling of wolves. This caused on no anxiety. It was too early in the winter for the wolves to be desperately hungry enough to attack a man; and an armed warrior, unwounded and possessing his full strength, had little to fear from wolves in any case.
Thus Conan proceeded, perfectly contented and even happy. The Northlands were his home, and although the seductive South had its attractions, he found these cold lands very much to his taste. He knew that by spring he would be half-mad with boredom and yearning for the soft, southern lands, but for now he was ready for a winter of fighting among the little northern kings. It took him several minutes to realise that the sounds of battle he had been hearing were not solely in his head but were real.
Conan grinned and ran toward the sounds. The song of clashing weapons was the peculiar music of his life. Even at a distance he could discern the sound of iron sword crunching into bronze armour, the singing screech of iron spear point glancing from helm, the singular clatter of steel weapons against wooden shield. The shouting was loud and continuous. He knew that it was a small group fighting, or else a large group was letting a few fight. If he knew his northerners, though, there would be few laggards.
Conan crested a rise and saw a road winding through the shallow vale below. In the midst of the road, bronze-girt warriors battled savagely. Conan studied them to see w
hether it would be worth his while to join one side or the other.
As he descended the hillside he began to see details. One group of fighting men were clustered around two figures, one a greybeard, the other a woman. The surrounding warriors were more numerous, but identical in look to the defenders. Here was where a civilised army's
use of standards and uniforms and livery would be of use, Conan thought.
He was about to sit down and enjoy the show when his gaze sharpened upon one of the attackers. He recognised the raven-crested helm of the man who had dared to consider him as slave material. That decided him.
Conan leaped to his feet, screeched a wild Cimmerian battle cry so blood-freezing that the fighting stopped below, and charged. Some of the attackers turned to face him, and one walked toward him with shield high. Without breaking stride Conan cast his spear. The man raised his shield to block it, but the iron point smashed through the wood and pierced him below the chin, dividing his beard and going through to stand out a handsbreadth past the back of his neck.
As the man toppled, raven-crest spotted Conan. 'The foreigner!' he shouted. 'I warned you not to stray from the merchant's steading, fool! Now come to your death.'
'Deliver it yourself, then!' shouted Conan, smiling. 'I am Conan of Cimmeria, and I will take any or all of you on!'
The man in the raven helm had to meet this challenge or suffer loss of status in the eyes of his peers, so he strode forward, shaking his sword. 'I am Agilulf of the Thungians, and I fear to meet no man!'
Attackers and defenders seemed to find this a good occasion to take a rest from the fighting, so they lowered their arms to watch this rare entertainment.
Conan caught the cool, grey eyes of the woman upon him, and made a sketchy salute with his sword. Then he was fully occupied with the man before him. Agilulf advanced in the fashion of a practised sword-and-shield fighter: legs bent, spine erect, shield held well before the body, ready to drop to protect the legs or raise to cover the head. His sword arm was raised high and bent so that the blade slanted across his back. With only a slight shifting of that arm, he could strike with full strength at head, at side, or at the leg below his enemy's shield.
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