Harry Turtledove - Conan of Venarium

Heating the iron again, he bent the tines on the heel of the anvil until something close to a right angle separated them. That way, he could work on each of them in turn more conveniently. Careful hammerstrokes flattened the tines. Conan heated the metal once more and brought the tines back to their proper position. He set the fork aside and let it cool.

When he could safely handle it without tongs, he used brass rivets to bind a wood handle to the iron shank. He looked the work over to see if Reuda could find any way to fault it. Seeing none, he took the fork to the tanner's wife fully a day earlier than he had promised.

She examined it, too, plainly with the same thing in mind. Seeing nothing about which she could complain, she gave the young smith a grudging nod, saying, "I think it may serve. When your father comes home, we'll settle on a price."

"All right." Conan nodded. Almost all business in Duthil was done that way. The Cimmerians minted no coins; the few that circulated here came up from the south. Barter and haggling took the place of money and set costs.

When Conan left Reuda's kitchen, he saw Glemmis, who had taken word of the Aquilonian invasion from Duthil to the nearby village of Uist and then, no doubt, gone on to fight the men from the south. Glemmis limped up the street toward him; a filthy, blood-soaked rag covered most of a wound on the man's left arm.

Conan's heart leaped into his mouth. "The battle—!" he blurted.

Glemmis spoke a word Conan had never imagined he would hear: "Lost." He went on, "We hit the Aquilonians a hard blow, but they held us, and then —Crom! —their cursed horsemen cut us down like ripe rye at harvest time." He shuddered at the memory.

"What of my father?" asked Conan. "What of the other warriors who left our village?"

"Of Mordec I know naught. He may well be hale," answered Glemmis with a certain rough kindness. "But I can tell you truly that many fell. Eogannan, for instance, I saw go down, a Bossonian's arrow through his throat. We've not known such a black day for many long years."

Had he got away safe by running first and fastest? Even so young, Conan saw the possibility and scorned him for it. But before long other men started coming home to Duthil, many of them wounded, all hollow-eyed and shocked with defeat. Even Balarg the weaver, who prided himself on never seeming at a loss, looked as if he had grappled with demons and come off second best. Women began to wail as some men did not come home again, and as survivors began bringing word of those who never would.

Several returning warriors had seen Conan's father where the fighting was hottest, but none could say whether Mordec lived or had fallen. "I will wait, then, and learn," said Conan, "and if need be avenge myself on the Aquilonians." When he told Verina what he had learned, his mother started keening, as for one dead.

But Mordec did come back to Duthil, limping in with a spearshaft clamped in his left fist to help bear his weight. His right arm briefly slipped around Conan in a rough embrace. "We'll fight them again," said Conan. "We'll fight them again, and we'll beat them."

"Not soon." Mordec wearily shook his head. "Not tomorrow, or next week, or next month. Not next year, all too likely. We lost too much in this round."

"What then?" asked Conan, aghast.

"What then?" echoed his father. "Why, the bitter beer of the beaten, for beaten we are."

Chapter Three

The Temple Out of Time

Conan saw his first Aquilonians a few days after his father came home to Duthil. By then, the villagers had a good idea of who would never come home again. Women's keening went on night and day. New mourning had broken out only the night before, when a Cimmerian died after taking a fever from his wound.

The invaders marched up the same track the village men had used in retreating from the lost battle. The archers advanced with arrows nocked and bows ready to draw. The pikemen with them were broad-shouldered fellows with hair the color of straw. They too were alert against any ambush that might burst upon them from the woods. Not least because they were alert, no ambush came.

All told, pikemen and archers numbered perhaps a hundred: more than three times the number of warriors Duthil had sent into the fight. Eyeing them as they approached, Conan said, "They don't look so tough."

Mordec stood beside him, still leaning on the spearshaft that did duty for a cane. The blacksmith said, "One of us would likely beat one of them, despite the armor they wear. But they do not fight by ones, as we do. The pikemen fight together, in lines that support each other. The archers shoot volleys at an officer's command, aiming where he points. It makes them more dangerous foes than they would be otherwise."

"A coward's way of doing things," sneered Conan.

His father shrugged. "They fought well enough to win a battle. We in Duthil cannot stand against that whole company. We have not the men for it. They would slaughter us." That would have been true before the villagers went off to war. It was doubly true now that so many of them had not returned. Conan bit his lip at the humiliation of submitting to the men from the south, but even he could see Mordec was right: resistance would only lead to massacre.

As the Aquilonians drew ever nearer, more and more villagers came out into the main street—the continuation of the track the invaders used —to eye them. None of the men held a weapon in his hand. None had anything more dangerous than an eating knife on his belt. Could looks have killed, though, their eyes —and especially the eyes of the women who stood shoulder to shoulder with them —would have mown down the archers and pikemen by the score.

At a shouted command, the pikemen shook themselves out into two lines in front of the archers. They made no fuss about the order. They did not argue about it or hash it over, as Cimmerians would have done. They simply obeyed, as if it was something they heard every day—and so it plainly was. "Slaves," muttered Conan, mocking the first military discipline he had ever seen.

The man who had given the command strode out in front of his soldiers. A scarlet crest affixed to the top of his helm singled him out as an officer. Hand on the hilt of his sword — the pommel was wrapped with gold wire, a sure sign of wealth —he strutted into Duthil. He bawled out something in his own language.

"He says his name is Treviranus, and asks if any here can put his words into Cimmerian for him," said Mordec. He took a hitching step forward and spoke in Aquilonian. The officer answered him, then talked at some length. Mordec interrupted him once or twice. "I'm telling him to slow down," he whispered to Conan.

Although Treviranus scowled, he did speak more slowly after that. Despite Mordec's wound, his grim appearance and even grimmer manner would have given any man pause. The blacksmith translated for the folk of Duthil: 'This Aquilonian says we are now the subjects of King Numedides. He says this part of Cimmeria belongs to the Aquilonians by right of conquest."

He was careful not to take credit for Treviranus' words himself, but to attribute them to the officer who uttered them. Conan thought his father wise for that. Anyone who declared Cimmerians subjects and a conquered people proved only that he knew nothing of the freedom-loving folk among whom he moved.

Through Mordec, Treviranus went on, "There will be a garrison in the village or near it, as this officer chooses. We will have to feed the garrison and provide for it. If we ambush any of the soldiers, the Aquilonians will take hostages —ten for one —and kill them." The officer added something else. So did Conan's father: "Kill them slowly."

A low mutter ran through the crowd. In Cimmeria, only the most abandoned, most desperate robbers used such tactics. "Now I speak for myself," said Mordec. "I say we must do as the Aquilonians tell us for now, for they have shown themselves stronger than we are. And I say we must watch what words pass our lips, for they will surely have some man or other among them who understands Cimmerian."