'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 Ophirian 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 southwest.
'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 splendid 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 campgrounds 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 Asgulun, 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 and 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 axe 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 axe 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 spearman. Conan whirled right, leaned aside as the spear lanced toward him and grasped the spearman'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.
'That's enough!' shouted someone outside the circle of fire-
light. 'Back, and away from here!' A sound of trampling feet announced the precipitate retreat of the bandits. Conan's trained ears told him that there were no more than four of them left.
In the sudden quiet there was no sound save the crackling of the fires. Then the sobbing of women, the groaning of wounded men, and the crying of children rose into the night sky. Reshta came near and surveyed the Cimmerian with something akin to awe.
'By all the Baalim!' exclaimed the Shemite. 'You spoke no falsehood when you proclaimed yourself to be a fighting man!'
'How many are dead?' Conan asked, bending to tear a strip of cloth from a slain bandit's tunic. 'Not counting these vermin, I mean.' With the cloth, he cleaned his blade while the merchant went to take a tally.
'Five of us were killed,' Reshta reported when he returned.
'Where were those two louts in rusty iron?' Conan asked.
'As you predicted, they never woke from their drunken stupor. Both had their throats cut. The other three dead tried to fight in the dark.'
'That is always a bad idea,' Conan said. 'Fighting in the dark leaves too much to chance. Many a fine warrior has died at the hand of a lesser man he could not even see.'
'Doubtless these unfortunate men lacked your experience,' said Reshta. After a moment of pondering, he spoke again. 'I think that like everyone else here except for you, I was confused in the early moments of the attack. Still, it seemed to me that these villains came in search of you.'
'I do not see how that could be,' said the Cimmerian. 'No man knows me in these parts. I have no wealth and no enemies. Doubtless they saw that I was the best fighting man here and that they would have to slay me first if they hoped to accomplish their aim.'
'Aye,' said Reshta, sounding doubtful. 'Perhaps that is how it was.' He walked away to oversee the disposal of the dead. Despite his own words, Conan remembered the voice from the outer dark. It had called: 'There he is!'
The next morning he parted company with the travelling band. He had no intention of reining his fine horse to the plodding pace of these merchants and mountebanks. Before he rode away, the Shemitish spice merchant came to him.
'Farewell, Cimmerian, and thanks for your aid. Even if those rogues were looking for you, I feel sure they would have descended upon us last night whether you were with us or not. They were in the district and we made a tempting target. I feel that when you reach Sicas, that town will grow very lively.'
He rode alone, and he knew that the bandits might be in wait for him somewhere ahead. But he was mounted and fully armed and armoured, and in such a state, Conan feared no four or five bandits in the world, in broad daylight. The sun had not yet reached zenith when he learned that he had no worries at all from that quarter.
No more than a mile from the border, he came upon a gr
im, ghastly, but not at all unusual sight. A small detail of Nemedian troops sat beneath a large tree, sipping at steaming cups of an herbal infusion. Above their heads dangled four bodies, each hanging by the neck from the same limb. Conan reined his horse toward the little group. A man whose helm bore the green plumes of a sergeant stood and approached him.
'A fine sight, eh, outlander?' said the sergeant.
'Are these the bandits who have made a nuisance of themselves here lately?' Conan inquired.
'Aye.' White teeth flashed in the dark face. 'We ran into these four this morning, captured them and hung them all in the same hour. You see that villain in the velvet coat?' He pointed to the corpse of a middle-aged man with a grey-specked beard. 'That is Fabirio, who was once a good soldier of the king. He was my captain when I was a recruit; that is how I knew him for certain.' The sergeant spat upon the ground. 'He turned bad after he killed a comrade over a gambling debt. These last eight years he has plagued both sides of the border with his band. No longer, though.'
'Good work,' Conan commended. 'I was with a group of travellers last night when these rogues attacked. We slew five and the rest fled. The other travellers will be along later today and will confirm this.' Conan knew better than to boast of his own feats when he had no evidence for proof.
'Excellent!' exclaimed the sergeant. 'Perhaps that was the lot. Their numbers have been dwindling of late.'
'Did you have a chance to question them?' Conan asked. 'Did they say anything?'
'We did not bother,' said the sergeant. 'What could these scum say that might interest us? We ran them down, disarmed them and strung them up. Why do you ask?' A suspicious light came to the man's eye, a light with which Conan was all too familiar.
'No reason,' he said. 'Were there rewards on their heads?'
'Oh, assuredly,' said the sergeant. 'If you do not mind tarrying about here in Nemedia for months while all the office vermin go through their paces and if you can assemble enough witnesses and so forth. However, you have the look of a man with an itch to visit far lands, so I would not encourage you to cultivate any vain hopes in that direction.'
The Conan Chronology Page 542