Michael Stackpole - Conan the Barbarian

They are honest .

Those who did not lay claim to the veneer of civilization felt no need to justify letting it slip away. Plunder was for the strong, and there was no vice in taking it. Women were for the strong, and taking them ensured pleasure and the future. The strong earned the right to these things through courage and cunning, speed and daring and skill. Barbarians knew this and respected it. While there were still the craven who might scheme, a strong arm and a sharp mind would see through their subterfuge and put an end to their plotting.

But Conan did not look upon the Hornet ’s crew with contempt—instead it was the mild amusement of an adult watching children at play. Though the caravan’s guards had largely run off, heading back toward Zingara, the crew had worked hard and some had died. And the slave women, now freed, celebrated that freedom by sharing that which would have been taken from them. Slavery had reduced them to little more than beasts. Liberation had granted them their humanity again, and the desire to celebrate that resurrection should have surprised no one.

Artus rose from his place at the centermost table, nearly spilling two half-naked women to the floor, and spread his arms wide. “Is there no one who can best me? Are there no more arms to wrestle?”

Across from where he had been seated, a burly pirate sidled away, one shoulder lower than the other. He grabbed a tankard of ale and downed it quickly while a shipmate grabbed his wrist and yanked his shoulder back into the socket. The pirate roared, spewing froth to the rafters, then joined the other in laughing at his predicament.

Artus pointed at Conan. “Come, Cimmerian. Show these others what it is to be a man.”

Conan shook his head. Artus needed no other opponents. He did not need to prove himself to those assembled. The second someone offered him a tankard, or one of the women began to nibble on his ear, he’d pursue other delights. Thus had Artus always been—at least for as long as Conan had known him.

The Zingaran shook his head, his long locks slithering back and forth across his broad shoulders. “Has the time away from ice and snow softened you, northerner?”

The Cimmerian sat forward. He knew what Artus was doing, trying to draw him out. Not in the way of men who have something to prove, but in the way of men seeking to save a friend. Conan had always been content to sit quietly and keep his own counsel, but to Artus’s mind, he had been doing that far too much since his return.

Is he right? Conan could not answer that question. He truly felt no different than he had before. Still, there were times when the quiet did press in on him, when a sense of something missing stole over him. It did not make him feel weak, but unbalanced, as if at any moment he could fall and fall forever. That was not something that he’d known before he’d met Bêlit and before he lost her; and it was nothing upon which he wished to dwell.

So he rose and stretched, massive muscles twisting beneath flesh darkened by the southern sun. Pirates looked up, muzzles dripping sour ale. Most impressed, more fearful, and a few with smiles proud and confident. Women also stared, half-lidded eyes studying him and the fluidity with which he moved. They’d all seen ample evidence of his power and skill in combat, and wondered if he had talents of similar magnitude in other areas of life.

Artus laughed aloud and snagged two ale mugs from a passing wench. “The lion emerges from his den to learn a lesson.”

Conan raised an eyebrow.

The Zingaran bowed as if he were a noble and slid around the table. He offered Conan the seat that would afford the Cimmerian an easy view of the alehouse doors. The Cimmerian sat and rested his right elbow on the ale-soaked table. One of the women, tall and slender, perched herself on his left thigh, her folded hands capping his shoulder.

Artus took up the spot opposite. “Shall we wager, Conan?”

All around them the clink of coins newly won and the whispering of odds being offered and taken encouraged that idea. “I have nothing to wager.”

Artus reached out and caught a giggling girl around the waist. He pulled her into his lap. “Mine against yours, winner take both?”

Conan glanced at the woman on his thigh. He caught the hint of a smile before she cast her eyes downward. “A fair bet.”

The two men joined hands and eyed each other. Artus smiled cautiously. “Are you ready, barbarian?”

Conan grunted.

Muscles bunched as the two men strove against each other. Artus started hard, aiming for the lightning-fast victory he favored, but Conan met him strength for strength. The Cimmerian felt his muscles knot, the burn up and down his arm. He did not grit his teeth as others might do, but he did lock his jaw and his eyes narrowed. His lips pressed into a flat line, he exerted himself.

Bit by bit their quivering hands shifted position. Artus’s initial burst of strength had forced Conan’s hand down slightly. Conan brought them back even, then steadily pressured Artus’s hand toward the tabletop.

Artus’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl. He pushed, winning an inch. Some men cheered; others groaned. The women shifted in anticipation. Gold coins rustled and clinked, but then Artus’s hand began to sink again.

Sink too quickly.

Conan guessed his friend’s intent. Artus had matched his strength against that of many men that evening. He was bound to be fatigued. The smart money was against his winning. If he lost, no one would think it unreasonable. Conan would take the prize and in that night’s enjoyment might be drawn further back from the abyss.

Conan laughed. “You’re done, Zingaran!” He broke eye contact with Artus and took a long lick up the throat of the woman clinging to him. “Better she know me than disappointment.”

As well as Artus knew Conan, Conan knew Artus. The man’s dark eyes flashed dangerously. He bellowed angrily, then heaved mightily. Conan’s hand slammed down hard enough to slosh ale from tankards. Artus roared, victorious, and rising, thrust both fists in the air.

Then he realized, as he caught Conan’s smile, what had happened. His eyes tightened and he pointed a finger at the Cimmerian. “You always were the clever one.”

Conan worked his right arm around and massaged his biceps. “And you the strong one.”

Artus sat back down and invited both women to join him. “When I first met Conan, he was just a scrawny little rat, picking pockets in Zamora. But even so, it was he who stole the Elephant’s Heart and slew the sorcerer, Yara.”

The woman Conan had lost to Artus stared at him with open admiration. “That was you?”

Conan drank, then wiped foam on the back of his hand. “Go, Artus, you’ve won your prize. Enjoy.”

Artus stood. “I won’t forget this, barbarian.”

“Just make sure they won’t, Zingaran.” Conan smiled and looked around. “Who’s next?”

The pirates roared laughter to answer his question, but none came to take him up on his offer. Then a small man in a tattered robe and eye patch ducked through the crowd and sat opposite the Cimmerian, his head bowed. Had it not been for the heavy clink of chains linking the manacles on the man’s wrists, Conan would have shoved him away.

The Cimmerian looked around the room. A half-dozen men entered in leather armor, wearing an ensign that Conan did not recognize. They were not of the Messantian Guard or any Argosian company, yet they carried themselves as if they had that much authority or more. Out of place in the alehouse, they became objects of interest, but Conan’s interest in them faded as their captain entered.

Something struck the Cimmerian as familiar about the incredibly corpulent man. He didn’t immediately recognize the face because of the odd mask that covered the man’s nose—or what should have been his nose. He realized he’d not seen this man per se, but the man he had once been, only slightly less bulky, and still possessed of a nose.