CONAN THE CHAMPION.

By John Maddox Roberts.

One.

The Sea of Storms.

For two days and three nights the terrible storm had carved the sea into a clas.h.i.+ng army of s.h.i.+fting moun-tains, battling one another like the giants and the G.o.ds in the days when the world was young. Not for nothing was the Vilayet named the Sea of Storms, the Mother of the Tempest, and other t.i.tles that expressed the awe of men at the way the usually-placid inland sea could turn without notice into a savage, primeval chaos, the Grave of Sailors.

The man who tossed helplessly upon the waves, lashed to the stump of a mast and a bit of decking, thought none of these things. Since the midst of the second day of the storm, when his s.h.i.+p had broken up under the relentless pounding of the sea, he had been afloat. By now he was nearly senseless from the tossing of the waves and the numbing cold of the water. He was able to keep only a single thought in his mind: The storm was taking him north, and the Vilayet narrowed to the north. Soon he must be tossed ash.o.r.e, and that was his only chance for life. When he neared the land, he must cut himself free of the mast or risk being crushed as the heavy timber was dashed against beach or rock. Still in his belt was his long, curved Kothian dagger in its hide sheath. Frequently the man flexed his fingers so that he would be able to grasp its hilt when the time came. This and nothing more occupied his thoughts as the wind howled like demons in agony and the sea writhed beneath the flogging of the wind.

Dawaz rose early on the morning after the storm to find what the sea had left. Many interesting things were yielded by the sea on such occasions, and sometimes they were things that could be turned to profit. Profit was never to be taken lightly. Thus, he wrapped him-self warmly in woolen cloaks of local weaving and left his little trading post, the northernmost of many main-tained by Kyros Brothers of Aghrapur.

The post was situated in a tiny cove on the western sh.o.r.e of the Vilayet, where the sea was no more than a league in breadth. The water was calm this morning. The Vilayet was a shallow sea, thus a wind that would cause no more than a heavy swell on the Western Ocean could stir t.i.tanic waves on the surface of the Vilayet. For the same reason, the cessation of the winds left the tideless sea calm within hours.

Dawaz found a great deal of storm-wrack in the form of tree trunks, seaweed, and shredded vegetation, much of this blown up from the south. There were dead fish and an occasional marine mammal, but he saw no amber, which was among the sea's finest gifts. Finest of all would be a complete s.h.i.+pwreck, with a salvage-able cargo. Dawaz determined to send his servants north and south along the coast to search for such. It must be conan the champion3 done discreetly, of course, for the kings thereabout claimed all such sea bounty as their personal property. He was about to go back to the post for his breakfast when he saw the corpse.

Corpses were among the more common of the sea's yieldings, and had no value whatever. Sailors rarely had more jewelry than an earring, and this loinclothed figure plainly had not been a wealthy pa.s.senger. It had been a big man, and Dawaz would need his servants' aid to push the body back into the sea. He did not want this fellow's spirit haunting his post. The ghosts of drowned seamen properly belonged at sea, which was their element.

He was about to turn his steps to the post when the corpse moved and groaned. Dawaz stared, fascinated. This human hulk was battered, savaged by the ele-ments, and blue with cold, yet it lived. The man on the beach began to vomit copious amounts of seawater, and Dawaz went to fetch his servants.

Conan awoke in the dim interior of a low, boothlike building, its walls constructed of flat stones piled with-out mortar and c.h.i.n.ked with moss. The upper half of one long wall was a swinging, top-hinged shutter, de-signed to be propped outward in better weather so that the whole building might be used as a shop of sorts. Just now the shutter was tied down and draped with rough cloth against drafts. Bales and bundles filled most of the building, kegs and stacks of goods, some of them with Turanian writing upon them. A driftwood fee burned on a low hearth, the salt in the wood making crackling, multicolored sparks.

He lay on a pallet of skins, and over him were rough woolen blankets. The room was heaving as if in a slow earthquake, but Conan knew that this was caused by his long sojourn among the tossing waves. It seemed that he had survived. He did not find that as surprising as many might have. He had survived more mortal threats than he could readily remember.

There were at least two other men in the room. They could not be too unfriendly, since they had not cut his throat when they had the chance. As the lettering he could see was Turanian, he decided to try that tongue first.

"What is this place?" His voice sounded more like the croak of a crow than the speech of a man, but it brought a heavily-bundled man to his side. The man's features were Turanian, as was his speech.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, friend. I am happy to tell you that it is a dry land, albeit cold."

"Any solid ground is better than the Vilayet in a storm," said Conan. "You are a coastal trader?"

"For Kyros Brothers." The trader placed his finger-tips against his breast and bowed very slightly. "I am Dawaz."

"I am Conan of--" He was about to say "of the Red Brotherhood," but thought better of it. "--of Cimmeria. 1 was serving on a s.h.i.+p somewhere to the south of here when we were caught by the storm." His stomach grumbled loudly, and his host signaled a servant. The servant, a Turanian of low caste, brought a carved wooden cup of steaming spiced wine.

"This should settle your stomach a bit," said Dawaz. "Then we may try some solid food. Doubtless you've not eaten in days, and your belly was quite full of salt water, which I witnessed myself."

"The only thing that's ever kept me from eating," Conan said with a little more life, "is already having a conan the champion5 belly full of food." He took a long drink of the spiced wine, which was wonderfully bracing to a half-drowned man. "What land is this? Our s.h.i.+p had just paid a visit to a settlement near the northern border of Turan when we were struck by the storm." He thought it best not to mention that they had just finished looting the settlement.

"You are far north of there," Dawaz told him.! "We are no more than fifty leagues from the northern'tip of the Vilayet, and beyond that is the land of snow-giants and dragons. Here there are no true kingdoms, just the petty domains of the local kinglets. Each of them claims wide lands, but none truly rules beyond the reach of his sword."

Conan nodded. This was true of most of the North, which was still primitive and tribal in nature.

The servant brought a bowl of thick, fragrant stew aid a stack of flat loaves, tough and leathery.

"You are here late in the year," Conan observed as be ate. "Do you plan to winter here?"

"We may have to," Dawaz admitted. He filled a cup for himself and poured more wine into Conan's. "The last s.h.i.+p of the season was supposed to come for us many days ago, to take us and the year's trade goods back to Agnrapur. Something must have befallen it. Perhaps the storm."

Conan wondered whether that s.h.i.+p might have been ooe that he and the Brethren had looted. "Much can happen to a s.h.i.+p on the Vilayet. Will one of the local bogs protect you through the winter?"

*'Perhaps," Dawaz said moodily. "After all, they depend upon the southern trade for many goods they produce. However, they are also greedy, and are many bands of outlaws as well. It shall be a 6hard winter, and we shall be fortunate to get through it with our lives and goods intact." "Who rules here?" Conan asked. "The king who claims this stretch of coast is called Odoac. His nation, or more properly his tribe, are the Thungians. They are a crude people, who l.u.s.t after gold and the silks and other luxuries of the South. For these they trade the furs they trap and the slaves they capture from other peoples."

"Do you trade slaves?" Conan asked suspiciously. It was always possible that the merchant had saved him for other than generous reasons.

"No. We have an agreement with the House of Yafdal that we trade only for nonliving goods and they have the slave trade. You really must have special s.h.i.+ps to transport slaves, so it is not practical to deal in both. The slave compound is now empty, as the factor for Yafdal left a moon ago."

Conan was relieved. There were many other ques-tions he wanted to ask, but sleep overcame him before he could finish one of them.

For the next two days the Cimmerian recovered from his ordeal. By the third day he was as strong as ever and fretting to be away. Dawaz wondered at the man's swift recovery. He had thought that Conan would have to be nursed along for at least a month, but except for a little shakiness in the first two days Conan had showed little effect from his experiences. Dawaz studied the strange barbarian. The man prowled catlike about the compound, eyeing the surrounding, tree-clad hills. Had Dawaz been a slaver, he might have entered Conan on his ledger as: "male, age about thirty, very powerful, black hair, blue eyes, skin fair but darkened by sun and 7 weather, tall and st.u.r.dy, all teeth present and sound, northern in origin, prime stock."

In the rare sunlight of early winter, Dawaz sat bun-died in his woolens, writing with a brush upon a scroll set on a low table before him. Conan strode up to him in the midst of his writing. The Cimmerian wore a wolfskin tunic, which Dawaz had given him, and leg-gings of wolfskin above his heavy sandals. This left his arms and thighs bare, and that seemed to suit his north-on blood. "What do you write?" he asked.

"I flatter myself that I am a bit of a scholar. Since I seem to be stuck here for a while, I am adding to my writings about my travels, although Mitra knows there is little to write about these northern lands."

"Are there any wars going on?" Conan asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I must have something to do. There shall be no s.h.i.+ps this way until spring. When I am not on the sea, I serve as a soldier. As long as there is a war brewing, I can earn my bread."

"Stay here with me," Dawaz said. "I enjoy your company. You have traveled far, and I should like to hear more of the places you have visited. We have plenty of provisions for the winter, and the local fisher-Ben and hunters come often to barter their catch. We'll not go hungry."

"It is good of you to ask," Conan said, "and I thank you. But it is not my way to while (Jie months away in *fleness. If you can lend me arms, I can pay you for *em from my earnings."

"Very well," sighed Dawaz. On the table before him be began to draw a crude map. "Here we are north of the steppe. The land is hilly and covered with dense forest, most of it pine. There are no great rivers, but are many streams, most of them soon to freeze.

each man in his own place, the lines neatly arranged and the cavalry riding by in rows as if all were on but a single horse. The people here get together on a field and swing their weapons until only the men of one side are left on their feet. I understand that it is not rare for n.o.body at all to be standing after one of these battles."

"Then they fight like all the other northern people of my acquaintance," Conan said with satisfaction. "That is well, since 1 am a northerner and I like to fight that way too."

One of Dawaz's servants called to him. "Master! Men come riding!" Dawaz looked inland, toward the tree line. A little knot of mounted men were barely visible, black against the dark trees.

"Four men on horseback," reported Conan, his keen eyes glittering. "All armed. Do you think they mean mischief?"

"We shall know when they get here," said Dawaz uneasily. "If they are Odoac's men they will probably not rob me. They could be bandits, though."

"Bandits or king's men," Conan said, "you may rest easy. There are only four."

Dawaz stared at him. "You are nothing if not confi-dent." Conan just smiled.

The bronze-girt warriors rode stocky ponies with uncut manes and tails. The riders were similarly s.h.a.ggy, with brown or yellowish hair and beards spilling from their helmets over their shoulders and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. All wore ar-mor similar to that which Conan now wore. They rode into the little compound, and one with a stylized raven cresting his helmet rode a little forward. He addressed Dawaz, but his eyes were on Conan.

"Greeting, trader. We are Odoac's men, and our king wishes to know if aught of value was washed ash.o.r.e during the great storm a few days agone."

"Naught but the driftwood and trash of the sea," said Dawaz [smoothly. "Has there been better picking along the coast?"

The man gestured to the bags tied over the back of one of the horses. "Some fine amber and some coral." He pointed at Conan, who gazed at him unflinchingly. "But who is this? He is no man of our nation, by his look."

Before Conan could speak, Dawaz said: "Just an unfortunate seaman, cast ash.o.r.e by the storm. Of his s.h.i.+p, nothing came ash.o.r.e but the stump of a mast, too tar-soaked even to make good firewood."

"Did you not hear me ask if aught of value came ash.o.r.e? If he washed up then he is part of the sea's bounty and belongs to the king. A fine, strapping rogue tike that will fetch a good price from the slave traders."

There had been a time when Conan would have instantly split the man's skull for these words, but age and experience had taught him to be prudent, especially hi a strange land. He said simply: "I have no desire to depute with you here in the home of my friend. But if you really want to sell me to the slavers, let us go over yonder field, and I'll carve your guts out and strangle your friends with them." Dawaz paled, but the spokes-man smiled.

"You speak loudly for a man outnumbered four to one."

"I'll kill you first," Conan said, "then it will be fate to one. I've often fought three to one, and it has seldom taken me more than three blows to settle mat-lers." He smiled calmly.

"Boasting fool!" bl.u.s.tered the rider. "It is your good fortune that this trader enjoys the king's protec-tion. Best for you that we never encounter you away from here." Without giving Conan a chance to answer, he wheeled his mount and rode out of the compound, followed by the others.

"That was a close matter," Dawaz said when he could draw breath again. "They might have slain you out of hand for your words."

"What would you have me do? Surrender myself to them as goods for the slavers? Besides, there was never aught to fear. That one with the raven on his helm was nothing but wind, albeit encased in bronze. And a little wind never hurt anybody." He clapped Dawaz on the shoulder, causing the slight man to stagger a few steps. "Come, friend, let's to dinner. In the morning I'll be off to seek my fortune!"

Two

The Queen of the Snows

Conan trudged in a vaguely northerly direction. Just now King Odoac's court did not seem to be the best place to sell his sword, but that did not bother him. He would give King Totila a try. One employer was much Eke another. He was three days' march from Dawaz's trading post, wending his way through the silent forest aid using his spear as a walking stick. Snow had been Calling heavily since the night before, and he was happy *at his friend had pressed upon him a good cloak, a long-sleeved undertunic, and a pair of trews. His recent sojourn in the balmy lands to the south had somewhat *oftened his innate resistance to cold weather. His Cimmerian kin would have shaken their heads pityingly to see him so overdressed in this mild weather.

The pines grew thick on every hand in these low Mb, and the quiet of the forest was broken only occa-swoally by the eerie howling of wolves. This caused *on no anxiety. It was too early in the winter for the *orves to be desperately hungry enough to attack a man; and an armed warrior, unwounded and possessing his full strength, had little to fear from wolves in any case.

Thus Conan proceeded, perfectly contented and even happy. The Northlands were his home, and although the seductive South had its attractions, he found these cold lands very much to his taste. He knew that by spring he would be half-mad with boredom and yearn-ing for the soft, southern lands, but for now he was ready for a winter of fighting among the little northern kings. It took him several minutes to realize that the sounds of battle he had been hearing were not solely in his head but were real.

Conan grinned and ran toward the sounds. The song of clas.h.i.+ng weapons was the peculiar music of his life. Even at a distance he could discern the sound of iron sword crunching into bronze armor, the singing screech of iron spear point glancing from helm, the singular clatter of steel weapons against wooden s.h.i.+eld. The shouting was loud and continuous. He knew that it was a small group fighting, or else a large group was letting a few fight. If he knew his northerners, though, there would be few laggards.

Conan crested a rise and saw a road winding through the shallow vale below. In the midst of the road, bronze-girt warriors battled savagely. Conan studied them to see whether it would be worth his while to join one side or the other.

As he descended the hillside he began to see details. One group of fighting men were cl.u.s.tered around two figures, one a graybeard, the other a woman. The sur-rounding warriors were more numerous, but identical in look to the defenders. Here was where a civilized army's use of standards and uniforms and livery would be of use, Conan! thought.

He was about to sit down and enjoy the show when his gaze sharpened upon one of the attackers. He recog-nized the raven-crested helm of the man who had dared to consider him as slave material. That decided him.

Conan leaped to his feet, screeched a wild Cimmerian battle cry so blood-freezing that the fighting stopped below, and charged. Some of the attackers turned to face him, and one walked toward him with s.h.i.+eld high. Without breaking stride Conan cast his spear. The man raised his s.h.i.+eld to block it, but the iron point smashed through the wood and pierced him below the chin, dividing his beard and going through to stand out a handsbreadth past the back of his neck.

As the man toppled, raven-crest spotted Conan. "The foreigner!" he shouted. "I warned you not to stray from the merchant's steading, fool! Now come to your death."

"Deliver it yourself, nithingl" shouted Conan, smil-ing. "I am Conan of Cimmeria, and I will take any or all of you on!"

The man in the raven helm had to meet this challenge or suffer loss of status in the eyes of his peers, so he strode forward, shaking his sword. "I am Agilulf of the Thungians, and I fear to meet no man!"

Attackers and defenders seemed to find this a good occasion to take a rest from the fighting, so they low-ered their arms to watch this rare entertainment.

Conan caught the cool, gray eyes of the woman upon him, and made a sketchy salute with his sword. Then he was fully occupied with the man before him. Agilulf advanced in the fas.h.i.+on of a practiced sword-and-s.h.i.+eld fighter: legs bent, spine erect, s.h.i.+eld held well before the body, ready to drop to protect the legs or raise to cover the head. His sword arm was raised high and bent so that the blade slanted across his back. With only a slight s.h.i.+fting of that arm, he could strike with full strength at head, at side, or at the leg below his ene-my's s.h.i.+eld.

Conan favored his own highly individualistic style. He fairly ran in, crouched low, s.h.i.+eld before him and held almost horizontally. His sword was held low and well to the rear. His opponent could see little except the s.h.i.+eld and Conan's eyes above its rim.

Agilulf struck first, for Conan's helm, but the Cimmerian raised his s.h.i.+eld slightly and at the same time swept his sword at his opponent's leading leg. The raven-crested warrior dipped his s.h.i.+eld to catch the blade and both swords clattered against the s.h.i.+elds. Agilulf leaned far over and tried to strike past Conan's s.h.i.+eld at the briefly exposed shoulder, but Conan side-stepped and threw a powerful, looping blow at his enemy's flank. Agilulf interposed his s.h.i.+eld in time and neither blow found its mark. Both men jumped back at the same time and the watching warriors shouted ac-claim for the excellent exchange.

The two circled warily, now having a bit of each other's measure. Sweat dipped from beneath the rim of Agilulfs helmet, but he was as windy as ever. "Not so easy to defeat the champion of the Thungians, eh, Cimmerian?"

Conan's grin was hard between his cheekplates. Then he struck. The watchers saw only a whirlwind of metal as the Cimmerian's first blow sheared through the tough s.h.i.+eld as if it were parchment, breaking the arm beneath with a loud snap.

The second blow divided the raven between the *iags, cleaving downward through the helm, .split-obs skull and teeth and finally stopping at the top of the s. Conan needed a powerful wrench to free his from the ghastly wreckage that had been Agilulf, champion of the Thungians.

Conan shook the clotted blood and brains from fees blade and glared at the attackers. "Who else *ooJd play at swordstrokes? I stand here, dogs, come tome!"

The Thungians were shaken by the sudden demise of rteir hero, but they were brave. Besides, there were *any of them. With a ma.s.s howl, they converged on kirn. In their preoccupation with him, as he had antici-pated, many made the mistake of turning their backs on act erstwhile victims. The encircled men attacked them *ram behind and before the more numerous foe could leorganize, the tide had turned and they were at a *cad vantage.

This turnabout did not mean an easy fight, though, especially for Conan. He was quickly surrounded by enemies, and only his armor and his amazing quickness nved him. As each man attacked, Conan ducked and dodged, springing over blows or dipping beneath them, *iking return blows when he could. Working in his favor was his enemies' lack of coordination and the determination of each to be the sole killer of this alarm-*g foreigner.

Then the attacks on Conan abated as most of his opponents were engaged and slain by the defending farce. At length he found himself opposed by only one am: a yellow-bearded swordsman in an elkhide jerkin. A few blows sufficed to splinter his s.h.i.+eld, and Conan 18finished him with a quick jab to the throat, the most merciful of battle-deaths.

The clangor around him had ceased, and Conan looked to see many bodies lying about in the grotesquely stiff poses of death. There was more red on the ground than white, and survivors went from fallen man to fallen man, tending to their own wounded with bandages and to enemy wounded with daggers.

Conan stuck his sword into the earth, dropped his s.h.i.+eld, and untied the chin strap of his helm. As he pulled the helm off, his thick black hair tumbled almost to his shoulders. From the upturned helmet a mist of steam arose. Fighting in armor was always a warm business.

The woman approached him, with the graybeard in tow. She stopped before him and looked him up and down for a few moments.

"I am Queen Alcuina of the Cambres." Her gray eyes were cool to the point of iciness. "How came you here?"

She was as haughty a woman as Conan had come across in a long time, but he sensed that now was no time to take an arrogant pose.

"I was looking for employment for my sword, lady," he said, bowing slightly. "I heard the sounds of battle, and 1 came to investigate. I met that man Agilulf a few days agone, and he spoke ill to me. I was minded to improve his manners."

"So you did. He is not nearly so talkative now."

"Why did these rogues fall upon you, lady?" Conan pulled his sword from the earth and began to clean it carefully.

"Are you my peer that I must satisfy your curiosity? I will hire your sword, stranger. Your counsel I do not need. Find a mount and ride with my escort." With that she walked away. The graybeard seemed on the verge of speech, then he thought better of it and followed the woman.

Much nonplussed, Conan finished seeing to his weap-ons and went to look for an undamaged spear. The men were now in the woods, trying to catch their scattered mounts. Apparently, these people did not have the art of mounted combat, and dismounted to fight. With so many dead, there were plenty of spare horses. Conan dimbed aboard one and joined the escort. Perhaps, he *bought, he would go look for King Totila after all.

As they rode through the lengthening shadows of afternoon Conan made the acquaintance of the other members of the little guard. As an experienced soldier, Conan was careful to learn all their names.