Harry Turtledove - Conan of Venarium

Melcer stopped at a shop that sold what it called notions: little things of the sort a farmer was ill-equipped to make for himself. Melcer bought some fine iron needles for Evlea; she was down to the last one fetched from Gunderland, and had talked about making more from bone. He also bought her a sachet of dried rose petals. Drying flowers in the cool damp of Cimmeria was a losing proposition. And, to give their food a little extra savor, he bought some spices that had made the long journey from Iranistan to Aquilonia and then to the frontier.

How much the spices cost jolted him. The man who ran the shop only shrugged his shoulders. "What I have to sell is what bandits did not steal and what kings did not confiscate." he said. "You pay for all the hardships and robberies on the road."

"What did you pay for your goods?" asked Melcer.

"Less than I'm charging you," answered the merchant. "If you think I will tell you otherwise, you are wrong. I have not seen it written anywhere in the stars that I am not allowed to make a living."

He sent Melcer a challenging stare. Since he was so frank about what he was doing, Melcer saw no real way to quarrel with him. The farmer did ask, "How much would I have to give for pepper and cinnamon in some other shop here?"

"Go ahead and try, friend, and good luck to you," said the other man. "Good luck finding them at all, first. And if you find them for less, bring back what you bought from me and I will give back your money."

That convinced Melcer not to waste his time trying. He led the ox down the street to a tavern that had no drunks from any nation lying sozzled outside it. He tied the beast to a pillar supporting the entrance, then strode inside and ordered a mug of ale. He sat down where he could keep an eye on the ox. It had only the flour on its back; the smaller things he had bought he kept with him. But even an ox with nothing on its back might tempt a thief.

When the Gunderman finished that first mug of ale, he bought himself a second. When he finished the second, the pretty barmaid who had brought it came back with a broad, inviting, expectant smile. Instead of ordering a third, he got up and walked out of the tavern. The smiling barmaid cursed him behind his back. Pretending not to hear, Melcer kept walking. He untied the ox and started back to his farm.

He was inside the forest again and within a mile of his own land when an arrow hissed past his face and thudded into the bole of a fir to his right. He clutched his pike and stared in the direction from which the shaft had come. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. A ghost might have drawn the bow. He pounded that way anyhow. If a brigand wanted him, he would go down fighting.

After a few strides through ever thicker snow, he did hear something: laughter. Snowshoes on his feet, Conan emerged from behind a pine. "You jump!" he shouted in his bad Aquilonian. "You jump high!" He imitated Melcer's reaction, then laughed harder than ever.

"Of course I jumped, you cursed son of a dog!" shouted Melcer. "You could have killed me!"

Conan only nodded at that. "Could have killed, yes. Did not kill. Too easy. No-" He said something in his own language, then frowned, looking for a way to put it into Melcer's. When he brightened, the farmer knew he had found it. "No sport. Is a word, sport?"

"Yes, sport's a word," growled Melcer. "Come down here and I'll warm your behind for you, you damned murderous savage. I'll teach you words, by Mitra!"

Only after he had spoken did he wonder how wise he was to revile a fiery young barbarian with a bow in his hands, especially when the boy had already shown a regrettable talent for archery. Conan studied him watchfully. "You not afraid?" he asked at last.

"Afraid? Hell, no!" said Melcer. "What I am is furious. You come down here and I will wallop you. You deserve it, too."

To his surprise, Conan nodded to him, a nod that was almost a bow. "You brave man," said the Cimmerian. "I not play games with you no more." His voice remained a boy's treble, but it held a man's conviction. Melcer believed him without reservation. Then the barbarian added. "Not shoot at you till war time."

Before Melcer could find an answer to that, Conan ducked behind the pine once more. He did not come out. He said nothing further. The farmer did not see him move deeper into the woods, but at last decided that was what he must have done. Melcer wished he could match the boy in woodcraft.

Shaking his head, the Gunderman went back to the placidly waiting ox. He broke off the arrow's shaft close to the tree trunk. Then he had another thought, and used his knife to dig out the iron arrowhead. How far it had penetrated surprised him anew; Conan might be a beardless boy, but he boasted a man's strength. Melcer put the arrowhead in his belt pouch. It was one, at least, that Conan would not shoot at him in war.

Melcer picked up the lead rope he had dropped. "Come on!" he told the ox. They walked on toward his farm.

Duthil had never boasted a tavern. No one could make a living selling ale there, not when so many families did their own brewing. When the villagers wanted to hash out the way things wagged in the world over a few mugs of amber ale, they gathered at the home of one man or another.

Mordec put down his hammer after finishing work on a stout iron hinge. He left the shop at the front of his own house, slogged through the snow between the door and the street, and walked along until he came to Balarg's home. No Aquilonian soldiers were anywhere in the village. Since the blizzards started rolling in every week or so, the men from the south had been content, even eager, to stay in their own encampment. To them, this was dreadful weather. Mordec chuckled grimly. To him, it was only another winter, worse than some but milder than a good many others.

He knocked at Balarg's door. The weaver opened it. "Come in, come in," he said. "Don't let the heat from the hearth leak out."

"I thank you," answered Mordec. Balarg made haste to shut the door behind him. The two men were careful around each other. Mordec, the stronger of the two, was clever enough to realize Balarg was more clever. And Balarg, for his part, was clever enough to understand not everything in Duthil yielded to cleverness; sometimes — often — straightforward smashing best solved a problem.

"Ale?" asked the weaver.

"Don't mind if I do," said Mordec. Balarg waved to the pitcher and mugs set up on a table by his loom. Mordec filled a mug, took a strip of smoked meat from a tray by the pitcher, and perched on a stool not far from the fireplace. Along with Balarg, four other men sat in the chamber: three villagers and a stranger, a rugged man whose checked breeks were woven in a pattern worn by a northern clan. After a sip from the mug, the blacksmith asked. "Anyone else coming?"

"I invited Nectan," answered Balarg. "Whether he'll come — He shrugged. So did Mordec. Nectan was a shepherd, and stayed out with his sheep in all weather unless he could find someone to watch them while he left the flock.

Mordec's gaze slipped to the man who did not come from the village. "And our friend is—?"

Before Balarg could answer, the stranger spoke for himself: "My name is Herth." His voice was almost as deep as Mordec's. "I come from Garvard, up near the border with the AEsir."

Slowly, deliberately, Mordec took his measure. "You are a chieftain there, or I miss my guess," he said, and Herth did not deny it. After another pull at his ale, Mordec said, "It's a long way from Garvard to Duthil. What are you doing here?"

"Now, Mordec," said Balarg.

"It's all right," said Herth, but, before he could say anything more, another knock resounded.

Balarg opened the door. "Nectan!" he exclaimed. "I thought we'd have to do without you. Who's minding the flock?"