Michael Stackpole - Conan the Barbarian

Conan nodded, leaning heavily on the sword that had drunk deeply of Aquilonian blood. He loved his nation. He loved his people. But his destiny lay far from the snowcapped Cimmerian mountains, and once he left his homeland, his return would be a long time coming.

CHAPTER 12

THE CARAVAN WENDEDits way along the Zingaran coast, moving slowly in the bright sunshine. Bound for Messantia, it traveled overland because pirate predation had made shipping far too risky. Though Bêlit, the Queen of the Black Coast, had vanished, her second in command, Conan, had joined with Artus and his band of cutthroats, terrorizing any ships that dared slip down the coastline.

Navarus, the caravan master, once again looked toward the sea. The road hugged the coastal hills. The receding tide had created a flat, sandy expanse between the breakers and the slope leading up to the road. The Argosian merchant had no doubt that the beach was truly quicksand, and as good as a wall to protect them from marauding pirates, but even an absence of raiders and the lack of a single sail between him and the horizon did not make him comfortable.

The caravan would take a week to travel the distance a ship could make in two days. While this did give him a greater opportunity to sample the delights of the female slaves in their cages, it forced him to load wagons and pack animals with food and water for his human merchandise. For the men it hardly mattered. They would pull the wagons into Messantia then get sold in lots to Lucius to work his mines. They were not expected to live long, so fattening them up on the road would be pointless.

The women, on the other hand, had to be handled more delicately. He shaded their cages so the sun’s angry kiss would not blister their soft flesh. He brought casks of fragrant unguents so they could oil their skin. Fruits and watered wine would keep them healthy, and the hateful crone who served as his camp cook would boil up a broth that made them pliant and radiant at the same time. The best of the women he grouped with a tutor, teaching them to recite Argosian and Shemite verse so they might entertain powerful men, thus fetching a higher price.

One of the mercenaries he’d hired to guard the caravan came running forward. “The coast is clear, Master Navarus.”

“Very good, Captain.” Navarus wrinkled his nose at the stench rising from the man’s armor. “How long until we reach the camping place?”

“We’re making good time. Two hours, leaving us two hours shy of dusk. We could push further, but there’s fresh water there . . .”

“Yes, yes.” The Argosian flicked at a fly with a horsehair stick. “In early, up before dawn.”

“And away before the pirates notice. Yes, Master.”

HIDDEN IN SHADOWSof the inland hills, Conan and Artus crouched to study the approaching caravan. “By Bel, you’re right, Cimmerian. Naravus thought to steal from us by traveling overland.”

Conan, a dozen years removed from his homeland, allowed himself a wolfish grin. He need say nothing, for Artus knew him as well as any man alive. The massive Zingaran—born of Kushite slave parents on a Thunder River vineyard—had crossed the Cimmerian’s path a number of times down through the years. Never enemies, but not always friends, mutual respect and intrigue bound them. When Conan returned from the Black Coast, he found Artus’s company less irritating than solitude, and a solid friendship blossomed between them. It rendered Artus, whose dark hair had been gathered in long braided rows, immune to Conan’s sullen bouts of temper.

Conan’s blue eyes narrowed. Lying languorously upon a daybed, Navarus rode in an open cart at the head of the caravan, a parasol of the same green silk as his robe shading him. The little man had positioned himself to study the sea, which Conan regretted, for he wished to see the man’s face when the pirates attacked.

Artus nudged Conan with an elbow. “Do we let him live this time, or put an end to it?”

“Let the gods decide.” Conan didn’t care if Navarus lived or died, but as long as he lived and Conan was able, he would bedevil the man. One of Navarus’s agents had once drugged wine and fed it to the Cimmerian, thinking to take Conan and sell him into a noble’s stable of pit fighters. Fortunately the Cimmerian’s constitution and the trick about shackles he had learned from Connacht had thwarted that plan. Conan had killed his abductor, but had never really brought himself to care enough about Navarus to wring his scrawny neck.

“We’d best get to our horses.”

Conan nodded and slipped back through the shadows with the lithe grace of a great cat. Taller and stronger than he had been at Venarium, with more scars to mar his flesh and mark his adventures, the barbarian warrior had met no equal among men in combat. Wearing a surcoat of mail with the ease of a virgin wrapping herself in silk, he mounted his horse and drew his sword. He raised it aloft, and from their places on the hillside, the Zingaran pirate crew acknowledged the signal.

The sword fell.

The pirates, who had spent the night digging and levering great boulders into place, knocked away pins, hauled cables, and pushed. The stones rumbled down the hillside, picking up speed. Some bounced. An oblong one began wobbling, its ends pounding the ground, first one then the other. The rocks bounded into the caravan, smashing through wagons laden with fruits and trinkets. Crates of oranges exploded into the air. Burst pomegranates spewed glistening seeds. Shattered urns gushed olive oil, and stale bread loaves tumbled through the dust.

Even before the stones had hit the caravan, the Cimmerian had spurred his horse down the hill. Behind him rode Artus, whose lusty war cry bellowed loudly. Conan kicked out, shattering the first mercenary’s jaw, then whipped his sword around to spin another man to the earth, bleeding. Artus cut past, his sword striking sparks from another. With a quick twist of his wrist he sent his foe’s blade flying, then stabbed the man in the throat.

Chaos reigned over the caravan. The stones had passed through and, in a couple of cases, had crushed warriors who had been guarding the oceanside. The survivors of that contingent faced an uphill assault against screaming pirates and angry slaves. No matter what Navarus was paying them, it was not enough for them to rush to certain death. They retreated toward the ocean and the northwest, banding together to discourage pursuit.

Artus stood in his stirrups, waving his sword high. “Come back and fight, you pink-bellied, stub-cocked goat lovers!”

Conan reined up beside him, laughing. “You insult them.”

The Zingaran raised an eyebrow. “Slavers?”

“Goat lovers.”

Artus roared with laugher, but another roar, utterly mirthless, mingled with panicked screams from slaves. One of the mercenaries raised a bloody spear on high. At the hooves of his horse lay a half-dozen slaves and two of the pirates. The mercenary, his brows beetling, muscles bulging beneath hirsute flesh, grinned crookedly. From his expression there could be no mistaking the fact that he counted himself as dead. His only purpose was to take as many people with him as possible.

Conan looked at Artus. “Your joke angered him.”

“But he’s looking at you.”

“He’s yours by right, Artus.”

“I cede him to you, Conan.”

“Are you sure?”

The Zingaran smiled. “I insist.”

Conan dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. The beast leaped forward into the fray, hooves thundering on the roadway. The mercenary’s mount sidestepped free of the corpses, almost daintily, then its nostrils flared and it plunged forward. The mercenary made to couch his spear as if it were a lance, but his grip shifted as he closed with his opponent. His eyes tightened, and as their horses closed, he thrust at Conan’s face.