Harry Turtledove - Conan of Venarium

Had anyone spoken so to Conan, the blacksmith's son would have done his best to murder the offender. No Cimmerian would stand for the notion that his word was not as good as any other man's. Clan chiefs won their places not thanks to their fancy bloodlines but by virtue of the strength and wisdom they displayed. Anyone might challenge them, and men frequently did. If being frozen in place from fear of a wicked nobleman's status was what went into civilization, then Conan wanted no part of it, vastly preferring the barbarism in which he had been raised. His father had seen that benefits also accrued from a social system more highly structured than Cimmeria's, but he was blind to those.

The Gunderman, instead of taking the archer's words as a deadly insult, only laughed. "And you've got dung on your tongue, Benno," he said. "That's why everybody loves you so much."

Benno's reply taught Conan several new Aquilonian curses. He was not completely sure what all of them meant, but they sounded splendid, rolling off the Bossonian's tongue with a fine, sonorous obscenity. The Gunderman at whom they were aimed laughed some more. That Conan did understand. Friends could take such liberties.

For a little while, he forgot about murdering all the invaders. Following them, spying on them, made sport enough.

Granth hated the Cimmerian forest. Even with comrades along, he always felt like a flea making its way through the matted fur of the biggest, shaggiest dog in the world. He did not offer up that conceit to Vulth and Benno. He knew too well that his cousin and the Bossonian would make the most of it.

When he stopped for a moment, the other two soldiers also halted. "What is it?" asked Vulth. "Did you see something? Did you hear something?" He sounded edgier than usual himself; perhaps the damp, silent immensity of the woods had begun to get under his skin, too.

However reluctantly, Granth shook his head. "No," he admitted. "But half the Cimmerians in the world could be within fifty feet of us, and we'd never notice, not in woods like these."

"By Mitra, we would!" Benno laughed and mimed taking an arrow in the chest. "We'd notice pretty damned quick, too."

That had a horrid feeling of probability to Granth. It also made him stop, look, and listen again. But he saw nothing, heard nothing, sensed nothing — except the hair-prickling feeling at the nape of his neck that not all was as it should be. He muttered to himself.

"Still jumpy?" said Vulth.

"Not—jumpy." Granth tried to put the feeling into words: "More as though a goose just walked over my grave."

"You're a goose —a silly one," said his cousin. Granth scowled; he might have known Vulth would make him pay for careless words like those.

"And if anything walks over your grave in this country, it's likelier to be a panther or a dragon —something with long, sharp claws, anyway — than a goose," added Benno. "Geese are the least of what we've got to worry about here."

That only served to reinforce Granth's feeling on unease. Try as he would, he could find no rational reason for it. Telling himself as much, though, did not make it go away. He leaned against the rough bark of a fir that might have sprouted before the kingdom of Aquilonia coalesced out of the wandering Hyborian tribes that had shattered the ancient, sorcery-steeped land of Acheron. Even then, this forest had belonged to Cimmeria.

Thinking of the land naturally made him think also of the dour folk who dwelt upon it. But thinking of the Cimmerians only added to his unease. Again, he groped for words: "They aren't acting so —so beaten as they did just after we came up here."

Neither Vulth nor Benno had to ask who they were. Frowning, Vulth said, "They've had a couple of years to lick their wounds and to take our measure. What's the old saw? Familiarity breeds contempt, that's it. They've seen us drinking ale and standing around scratching ourselves. They haven't seen us fight for a while."

"We should have gone on," said Benno. "We should have bitten off a bigger chunk of this cursed country than we did."

"If you ask me, we're lucky we bit off any—if you want to call it luck," said Granth. "They could have beaten us there by Fort Venarium. Hell, they almost did."

"And they know it, too," agreed Vulth. "You can see it in their faces when you go into Duthil. Like I said, they've licked their wounds. They're pretty much healed. Now they're getting to want another crack at us."

This time, Benno did pull an arrow from his quiver and set it to his bowstring. "If they want one, I'll give it to them."

"More of us now than there were when the army first came up into Cimmeria," observed Granth. "Every settler who's started a farm can wield a spear or a sword or a bow or an axe at a pinch."

"I still wish we'd conquered more of Cimmeria," said Benno stubbornly.

To Granth's annoyance, Vulth nodded. What was he doing, backing a Bossonian against his own cousin? But then he looked to the north and said, "So do I. How many Cimmerians are there that we didn't beat? How many of them can fight at a pinch? And how many of them are feeling the pinch now?

Yes, Granth had always hated the Cimmerian forests. They stretched across the landscape like a great mantling cloak. And just how many savage barbarians sheltered beneath that cloak? He did not know. He hoped he —and all the Aquilonians in these parts —would not have to find out.

A fireplace poker was one of the simplest bits of smithery Mordec did: a long iron bar with one end twisted back on itself to make a handle. It had neither edge nor temper, and needed neither. Taking the hot metal off the anvil with his tongs, the blacksmith simply set it aside to let it cool.

He set down the tongs, too, then walked back into his bedchamber to see how his wife fared. Verina had fallen into a fitful sleep. Her face was thinner and paler than it had been even when the Aquilonians invaded Cimmeria; the bluish cast to her lips was more pronounced. Mordec's great shoulders heaved in a hopeless sigh. How long could she go on? How could he go on —and, especially, how could Conan go on — when she lost her protracted struggle with mortality?

He sighed again, then straightened. For the time being, she did not need him. With Conan out hunting, he had wanted to be sure of that before stepping away from the smithy for a little while. Nodding to himself, he turned and walked out into Duthil's narrow, muddy main street.

Boys yelled and ran, kicking at their leather ball. Chickens clucked indignantly. They flapped their all but useless wings to help them scurry out of the way of the boys. Dogs, by contrast, ran joyously with the children. They might not know what the sport was, but they were ready to play. A brindled cat yawned from a doorway, every line of its sleek body declaring that it had better things to do with its energy than waste it so prodigally.

Mordec strode through the noisy chaos as if it did not exist. Boys and dogs and even chickens made way for him. The cat, unimpressed, yawned again, flipped the tip of its fluffy tail up over its eyes to keep out the sun, and fell asleep. Mordec had not far to go. He ducked his way into the house of Balarg the weaver.

Balarg was busy at the loom. He worked on for a few moments, then nodded to the blacksmith. "Good day," he said, civilly enough. "You look to have somewhat on your mind."

"I do. I do indeed." Mordec had little lightness in him at any time. His nod now was as somber and jerky as if he were made of the iron he worked.

"Say your say, then," Balarg told him. The weaver gestured toward another stool. "And sit, if you care to."

"I'd sooner stand," said Mordec. Shrugging, Balarg got to his feet, too. He was not so thick through the shoulders and chest as the blacksmith, but came closer than any other man in Duthil to matching him in height. By rising, he might as well have warned Mordec he would not suffer himself to be loomed over. Ignoring such subtleties, Mordec bulled ahead: "This has to do with your daughter."