Conan and the Death Lord of Thanza Page 3

  “The captain lies dead with an arrow in his throat. I am Levites of Messantia, owner of the Sirdis. I can reward you as I please.”

  “I’ll not refuse a free passage to Shamar,” Conan said. “As for anything more—scum like those pirates, I fight as the spirit takes me. Judge my worth for yourself, and I’ll accept the judgement of an honest man.” The owner’s eyes studied Conan. The Cimmerian suspected that the merchant was one who knew how to squeeze any coin until it shrieked and would take him at his word.

  A smile twisted his lips as he thought of how the merchant would reply to learning that his saviour had begun his life in the Hyborian lands as a thief in Zamora. Not the most successful of thieves, but nonetheless one with more in common with the pirates than it would be prudent to admit here.

  “The passage is yours, upon my word, and in the best cabin we have free. Also something for your purse, so it need not be slack-bellied when we reach Shamar.”

  “I could ask no more.”

  That was hardly the truth, but Levites also seemed a man with whom there could easily be such a thing as too much honesty.

  II

  Conan slept little and lightly during the two days it took Sirdis to finish her upriver passage to Shamar. Nor did he take off as much as his boots, let alone his weapons.

  It was not Levites’s niggardliness that made the Cimmerian wary. It was his being a Messantian, and therefore a subject of the king of Argos. Ophir was not the only land where the Cimmerian had a price on his head.

  It was a tedious tale for the most part, his sojourn in Argos, and those parts that were not tedious might injure the reputation of ladies, which was against the Cimmerian’s notions of honour. But it had begun with his becoming one of the Guardians, the protectors of the city before it gained itself a king, and had ended with his dashing down the quays and leaping aboard the first outbound ship.

  Conan sometimes thought he might have risen high in the service of the new Argossean monarchy, had he been one to keep his mouth shut in the face of injustice to old comrades. But if that was a gift, it was not one the gods had given him. He had spoken, the king’s judges had replied, and Conan ended at sea, on his way to his meeting with Bêlit.

  Wherefore he did not much regret his departure from Argos. He knew this of kings, that they more often than not preferred lapdogs to warriors, and no man in his right senses could call himself ill-fated who had held Bêlit in his arms.

  But aboard an Argossean ship, none of this might matter. If Levites had risen through royal favour, he might be eager to bring the Cimmerian to “justice” out of loyalty to his liege. Were he his own man, he still might think of one reward from Ophir and another from his king, for the head of the same man.

  Still, Levites showed no signs of suspicion on the voyage, nor was Conan molested, either waking or sleeping. Perhaps it was the sight of the Cimmerian squatting on deck, cleaning rust and Tybor slime from his sword, that kept the peace. Sitting, he rose shoulder-high to some of the crew, and his scars and scowl were enough to make any man cautious about approaching him.

  On the third morning, Sirdis warped into the docks of Shamar. Conan stood in the pay line with the crew for his reward, where he received much hearty gratitude and invitations to parties at Shamar’s taverns. He refused none of them, although he had no intention of being found anywhere near those taverns. But if Levites or anyone in his pay was looking for him where he would not be, that was more time for his trail to grow cold....

  * * *

  A village stood on the site of Shamar in the distant days before Atlantis sank and the dark shadow of Acheron’s evil magic stretched across the land. Water flowed from abundant springs, fish abounded, and steep-sided hills made for easy defence.

  When a city called Shamar came to be in a land not yet called Aquilonia, it needed all the defences nature and men could contrive. Thrice it was besieged from Ophir, twice from Nemedia, and once by the royal host of Aquilonia when the city rose in rebellion. Half a score of times river pirates snatched ships and men from its very wharves.

  Yet the city survived, prospered, and grew, repairing the breaches in its old walls, stretching out new quarters across the hills until they in turn needed walls, and in time becoming one of Aquilonia’s great cities. Its governor was always a duke, its garrison numbered in the thousands, with horse, foot, and siege engines ready to hand, and its merchants were among the shrewdest and richest in a realm not lacking such men.

  How many people it held, Conan doubted that anyone knew. He knew only that it held enough to make it easy for a man to lose himself among them.

  It also held its share of pleasure quarters and thieves’ alleys, where few honest men ventured at all. It would take more than a thousand crowns to tempt them there in search of one who would assuredly fight like a lion if they were so unfortunate as to overtake him.

  Levites had not been so close-fisted as Conan had expected. With his own purse and his reward from the merchant, Conan was well-fitted to hide longer than his enemies could seek.

  He might even find a frolicsome wench for a night or two.

  * * *

  Conan was not the easiest of men to forget, but in the quarters where he found refuge, a man was seldom asked his business and a man like Conan was asked hardly at all. He had a brisk set-to with one panderer and his hired bravos when they thought Conan should pay before the woman came with him, and in the end none of the woman’s protectors were in any fit state to receive payment.

  With the woman, however, Conan was more than generous. For her own safety, he advised her to leave Shamar. It was to put her aboard a ship downriver that he left the pleasure quarters for the first time, on the morning of his seventh day in Shamar.

  On the quay, they embraced—almost chastely, to the casual eye.

  “Farewell, Brollya,” Conan said.

  “The gods be with you, Sellus—if that is your name.”

  Conan’s face might have been a stone mask. The wench had her wits about her—but then, he preferred such women.

  “I’m no priest to say where the gods are. But I suppose they can’t be too far from me, or I’d been long dead.”

  “Sad for me, had it been so. I knew that Mikros was growing old and foul-tempered, but not bloodthirsty. I am well out of his reach, and you should think on travelling too. Mikros has friends.”

  “They’ve poor taste, if they call that heap of ox turds a friend. A good few men have tried to put their daggers in my back and ended with my dagger in their gizzards. I’ll lose no sleep over Mikros’s bullies.”

  “Be ye coming or be ye jabbering till sunset?” a harsh voice inquired from the deck above.

  “Farewell, then,” Brollya said, and stood on tiptoe to kiss the Cimmerian. He put his arms around her waist and lifted her, while she gripped his shoulders. Then he set her gently back on the quay and urged the porter with her baggage on to the gangplank.

  The haze burned off the river as the ship headed downstream. Soon all that Conan could see of Brollya was her red hair, glinting as she stood at the railing amidships. He paid off the porter, generously enough to make the man bow extravagantly, then went in search of something to break his fast.

  Since Conan reached Shamar, spring had given way to summer. It was already hot, and the water the apprentices splashed about to clean their masters’ doorsteps dried almost before they could wield their brooms. Markets, stalls, shops, and street vendors were all in full cry, and down one street Conan even saw a band of jugglers and pipers beginning their act.

  He bought sausages and watered wine from one of the stalls and continued on up Tanners’ Hill. From the summit of that hill one could see the whole of Shamar, and Conan never spent much time in a new city without doing his best to know his way around it. A few well-greased palms had bought him much useful knowledge; his own eyes would bring him more.

  Halfway up the hill, he came to a large wooden board, fresh-planed pine with the ink of its notice barely dry. It hu
ng on the front wall of an inn called the Golden Lion, whose carved sign told Conan that the woodcarver had never seen either a lion or gold in his life.

  The Cimmerian stood and read:

  COME, YOUNG HEROES!

  ALL WHO WISH TO SERVE THEIR REALM AND RULER ARE CALLED TO ENLIST IN THE THANZA RANGERS.

  THIS NEW LEVY SEEKS A THOUSAND STOUT HEARTS AND ARMS, TO MARCH INTO THE STRONGHOLDS OF THE BANDITS OF THE THANZA HILLS. FREE THE LAND OF THEIR SCOURGE AND DIVIDE THEIR ILL-GOTTEN GAINS AMONG YOU!

  WHILE YOU SERVE, YOU SHALL LEARN THE CRAFT OF ARMS FROM SEASONED VETERANS OF THE HOSTS OF AQUILONIA. YOU SHALL BE CLOTHED, FED, AND ARMED AT THE EXPENSE OF COUNT RALTHON, CHARGED BY HIS MAJESTY KING NUMEDIDES WITH THE RAISING OF THE THANZA RANGERS.

  ALL OFFENSES SHALL BE PARDONED FOR THOSE WHO ENLIST FOR A FULL YEAR, AND LIKEWISE ALL DEBTS FORGIVEN.

  WHERESOEVER YOU READ THIS SIGN, THERE SITS A MAN READY TO ENLIST BRAVE SPIRITS FOR THE THANZA RANGERS.

  COME FORTH, AND BE NAMED AMONG THOSE WHO DESERVE WELL OF YOUR HOMELAND!

  KLARNIDES

  CAPTAIN OF FOOT IN THE HOST OF AQUILONIA

  Conan read the sign with a bemused look on his face, and not because he found the reading difficult. No man to sit down with a scroll unless he needed the knowledge it held, the Cimmerian could still make himself understood in half a dozen tongues and understand as many more. Aquilonian he had learned early, as the realm’s might made its tongue a language a traveller might encounter on any road from Vendhya to Vanaheim.

  Bemusement gave way to a broad grin, then to laughter. Conan had seen such appeals in other lands, and even responded to some. He knew perfectly well what this sign most likely meant.

  Some local noble was paying overdue taxes or perhaps a bribe to the court, by raising the so-called Thanza Rangers. The men would be the scourings and sweepings of Shamar and the country about it, debtors, fugitives, and every other sort of man who likely deserved naught but a swift knock on the head

  The food and wine would be of the poorest, the clothing rags, the weapons cast-offs that no smith would own to having made. The men would have no pay, and nothing to show for their work (if they did any) unless they not only reached the hills but defeated the bandits, reached their strongholds, and received a decent share of loot that was most commonly stolen by their captains.

  Conan wondered who Klarnides, Captain of Foot, might be. If he was some relative of the count lending himself to this bad jest for gain, Conan would not even waste time spitting on the man if their paths crossed.

  If Klarnides was in truth a captain in the formidable host of Aquilonia, he had Conan’s sympathy. That and no more, for the Cimmerian did not intend to be found within a league of the Thanza Rangers if he could avoid it. But certainly no less sympathy, as any man deserved, if he was marching to his death or disgrace in the name of duty.

  Briefly, Conan wondered why Klarnides was not, marching out with his own company. Was King Numedides’s host short-handed of late? There had been rumours that the king’s weakening hand had begun to affect his host. Old veterans were said to be retiring in disgust and new recruits buying themselves free, even if this left them in thrall to the moneylenders.

  Not his affair, Conan decided. He would be long gone from Aquilonia before it made any difference to him whether the whole host of the realm dropped dead in the streets. Indeed, such chaos as that would unleash might profit a man with a quick eye and a sure hand—

  Conan’s instincts hinted of the gathering at the end of the street before his eyes assured him of its certainty. He shifted his gaze, and recognized two of the men in the gathering.

  One was Mikros the Shamaran panderer. A second was Levites the Argossean merchant. Conan could not put names to the others, but he knew their look. They were the hardest sort of professional thief-takers, probably former soldiers turned bravo—and he had little doubt as to what thief they had been ordered to take.

  Conan had learned more than a few of the hunter’s tricks well before he left Cimmeria. One of the foremost among these was never to show you knew that your prey or your enemy had sighted you. So the gaze of the ice-blue eyes passed lightly and swiftly over Levites, Mikros, and their men, as if they were merely a dead dog or a pile of offal lying in the street.

  The simplest solution would be to march into the Golden Lion and enlist, shielding himself behind the promised pardon. The most wretched, starveling levies still offered a seasoned warrior more opportunities than any prison cell!

  What stood between Conan and that solution was something even simpler: the Golden Lion’s doors were all locked, its windows shuttered. If he broke in, he might still find no one there to enlist him in the Thanza Rangers, and he would have committed a crime for which a man might be hanged, in broad daylight before more witnesses than he could count on his two hands.

  It would therefore be well to find some other way of staying ahead of the thief-takers.

  Behind the men was the cross street that Conan had used to reach the Golden Lion. It ran uphill and down, and would let the Cimmerian vanish into any of a half-dozen quarters of the city where thief-takers went at their peril.

  If he could pass that way safely. The thief-takers might have only a description of him, and Mikros had been drunk the night of their quarrel. But Levites knew Conan’s countenance far too well for the wanderer’s comfort.

  It was a pity that Levites was not the sort of merchant to count his money in safety while others dirtied their hands in his service.

  Going the other way, the street branched swiftly into a maze of alleys. Conan knew little of what lay within that maze, but wagered that the thief-takers knew hardly more.

  Conan turned, with ease and grace, as if turning his back on a dozen armed enemies was no more serious than sending back a jug of poor wine. Only a keen-eyed observer could have known from the set of the Cimmerian’s broad shoulders and the hands only a finger’s length from the hilts of sword and dagger that he was as ready to fight as a hungry panther to leap upon prey.

  It took more than usual self-command for Conan not to look back. But he had seen no bows among the thief-takers, the street was growing too crowded for archery regardless, and as long as those behind could see only his hair and back—

  “Stop him!”

  Even now, Conan did not break into a run. His hearing was not as keen in a noisy city street as it was in a forest or mountain fastness. It would still give warning of an enemy before the man could reach striking distance.

  So Conan continued to walk with the careless air of a country lad in the great city for the first time, bemused by its sights, until he heard booted feet running behind him, drawing closer. Only then did he whirl, his sword out, striking with the flat of the blade at the nearest thief-taker.

  The man had a shield on his back and a short sword in his belt. They might have been grave goods in a Stygian tomb for all the use he had from them. The flat of Conan’s blade took the man across the throat, flinging him backward into the path of the bravo closest behind him. The two men tangled, toppled, and crashed on to the cobblestones. The first writhed, trying to claw breath into his throat, while the second lay stunned by the fall.

  Others came on, but now Conan was running, beginning with a good lead as well. His long legs increased the lead, until he reached a vendor with a small green-wheeled cart of honey-glazed winter apples.

  Conan snatched the cart out of the vendor’s hands and pushed fiercely. The cart rattled over the cobblestones and overturned squarely in the path of the remaining thief-takers. One vaulted it at the run but came down on a fallen apple, so that his feet flew out from under him. Others piled up behind the cart or slowed to go around it.

  That gave the Cimmerian the time he needed, to vanish into the alleys. Once well-hidden in the shadows of the alleys, Conan faced another choice. Go on, out of Shamar and perhaps on out of Aquilonia? Or double back and leave Shamaran one of the Thanza Rangers?

  He had to admit that the notice had
piqued his curiosity. He had never explored the Border Range between Aquilonia and Nemedia and seldom turned down an opportunity to see a new land. Also, travelling in company he had a better chance to pocket bandit loot if there was any or slip unpursued out of Aquilonia if there was none.

  Conan found a momentarily deserted stretch of alley and began climbing the nearest wall. It had even more handholds than the timbers of Sirdis’s hull, but was in considerably worse repair. Bricks and tiles lay scattered in the muck of the unpaved alley before Conan pulled himself on to the roof.

  All that remained was to cross a few rooftops to throw off the last hardy pursuers. Then he would find himself a secure refuge until the Golden Lion opened.

  Conan looked up at the sun. For all that he and Brollya had been awake before dawn (having, in truth, slept little during the night), it was well into the morning. Unless the Golden Lion’s customers were all late sleepers, the inn should be open long before Mikros’s thief-takers thought of taking to the rooftops in search of their prey.

  The day grew hot, then scorching, until most men would have been driven to shelter. But most men were not the Cimmerian, whose mighty frame had endured the damp heat of Vendhya and the Black Coast, the blazing heat of a dozen deserts, and the cold of Hyperborean lands and seas. Conan sat with his back braced against one chimney and his feet against another, listening to the din of Shamar going about its daily business.

  At last he heard the sound that he had been awaiting.

  “Come one, come all, good folk. The Golden Lion awaits your thirst with fine wine, your hunger with hot pasties, your weariness with the softest beds in Shamar.”

  This went on for some while, as Conan scrambled from rooftop to rooftop, leaping across the narrow alleys with a cat’s agility. He would wager everything in his purse that the crier’s patter bore small resemblance to the truth, but he did not care. His business with the Golden Lion had little to do with the quality of its hospitality.