Conan and the Death Lord of Thanza (12 page)

The two men listened to Lysinka’s explanation of how the Rangers had fought two bands, hers and a self-named lord of Thanza’s. Grolin’s men had done most of the attacking, although hers had provided most of the archery.

“That swine”—she pointed at Conan’s dead assailant—“was one of Grolin’s men.”

“Did you tell him of the truce?” Conan asked.

“My most trusted man went to him. Grolin knows that Fergis speaks with my voice.”

Grolin seemed like a man not apt to listen to any voice save his own ambition, but Conan held his peace. Before either he or Klarnides could find words for a reply, another shout came from the hilltop.

“Lysinka! Grolin’s men have cut and ran! Come back to us now!”

Lysinka cupped her hands. “Fergis, don’t be a fool! I’m safe enough—”

“If you’re safe, I’m a Stygian! If you won’t come up, then we’ll come down and fight—”

“No, curse you!” Lysinka screamed. “If anyone steps one pace this way, he’ll be foresworn and I’ll have his blood!”

“And I’ll help you,” Conan added, so quietly that only Lysinka could hear. “Friend-—if I can call you that—you’ve been betrayed. You and yours can die with honour—or live with it.”

“How mean you?”

“You owe Grolin nothing. Help us bring him to earth, and you can have either a pardon or a free path back to the forest, my life on it.”

One pair of ice-blue eyes sought the truth in another and found it. Lysinka rested a hand on Conan’s shoulder, and he realized that she did not have to reach up very far to do this. Nor would he have to bend very far to find her lips.

“I will surrender to the Thanza Rangers, not to the crown of Aquilonia,” Lysinka said. “I cannot promise more from my people.”

“We need not ask more,” Conan said, “Need we, Captain Klarnides?” As the command had not yet actually passed to the Cimmerian, they had to play out the comedy.

Klarnides nodded so vigorously that Conan was reminded of a puppet on strings, and half-expected the captain’s head to fall off. That would be a pity, now that the man had proved his head was of some use.

“By the authority of my warrant as captain over the Thanza Rangers,” Klarnides said, “I accept the surrender of the band of Lysinka of Mertyos. This on condition that they prove their lawful intent by aiding in the pursuit and arrest of one Grolin, self-named lord of Thanza.”

Then Klarnides blew out all his remaining breath in a long sigh, and both Conan and Lysinka laughed.

VII

Lord Grolin had ordered his men to charge in a disciplined manner, not like a pack of howling savages. He had, after all, been trained in civilized warfare. It had been his intention that his men hold Conan’s advance so that the Rangers could become the target for Lysinka’s archers.

Instead, his men charged madly, and died under Conan’s blade or from the steel* of men they might otherwise have bested. In less time than it took to eat a venison pasty, Grolin had lost half his fighting strength.

Lysinka was in better case, but instead of continuing the fight, what had she done? Made a truce for both of them without asking his consent!

Hope rose afresh in Grolin’s agile mind when Dimaskor made his desperate attempt on the big northerner’s life. But his plan died again with Dimaskor. Grolin then looked down on the battlefield and knew there was only one thing to be done. Flee, and do so before Lysinka and her new friends made common cause against him.

With his dozen men remaining, Grolin set a good pace. By noon they outdistanced even the possibility of pursuit. They had taken a route away from the baron’s citadel, knowing that their enemies were already across the path toward it. If they avoided the trails where their enemies could lay an ambush, they might find a safe way home.

Only—what would Grolin’s band do when they reached home? They had too few men to hold their position against assault or if the enemy discovered the hidden way to the citadel. They certainly lacked the strength to break a siege, and their friends from Nemedia might not care to challenge besiegers who were under Aquilonian command.

For the moment there was peace between the two realms, and many on both sides wished this happy condition to continue. They would not find in Grolin sufficient cause for changing their minds.

The baron considered all these aspects of his problem, then walked off into the forest. He was not sure why, where he was going to stop, or whether he would stop at all before nightfall or exhaustion brought him to a halt.

Perhaps his surviving men could make their peace with Lysinka and the Aquilonians, if he were dead; and they could blame the truce-breaking on him.

“Cease thinking of leaving your men, Grolin. Those with you are the best you had, certain to endure with you, and sufficient for the task.”

The face seemed perched amidst a large clump of ferns. The ferns lent a distinctly greenish hue to its complexion at first. Even when its colours took on their final form, Grolin noticed a fern leaf seemingly protruding from the face’s left nostril.

He did not dare to laugh at this, but it somewhat eased his mind. It was impossible to be terrified of a sorcerer who sprouted fern leaves.

“Do you wish me to prove how terrible I can be?” the face’s voice boomed in Grolin’s mind. For a moment his skull felt like a vast cave in which someone had just struck hammer to anvil.

When his ears and brain had stopped ringing, Grolin frowned. “If you prove it by frightening either me or my men witless, you will have none of the human help you say you need.”

“I have already proved it. I entered the minds of your weaker men, driving them into that mad charge. Then I thrust myself into Dimaskor’s already failing wits, and turned him into a berserker truce-breaker.

“You know that Dimaskor would have been a leader rallying others against you, had your band remained strong enough to survive. He was not one to deal with potent magic but rather to grovel to old wives’ tales and priests’ teachings.”

The words chilled Grolin, as if he had tumbled into an icy mountain stream. It was an uncannily accurate description of Dimaskor. Was the rest perhaps also the truth?

Had the sorcerer proved his power as friend or foe, so that Grolin had two choices—become the sorcerer’s human ally or to die—and his men with him?

Experience told Grolin to wait. The tone of the face’s voice told him that waiting would be fatal.

And if the sorcerer truly needed a human ally for the Soul of Thanza, he might do more for Grolin than Lysinka ever could have done, even if she had remained faithful.

“I am at your service,” Grolin said. “But if you slay any more of my men on a whim, I will free them from all duty to me. They may depart, whether I allow it or

not.”

The face laughed aloud. “Let them try to flee, and watch how far they travel,” it said. Grolin could not mistake notes of both mockery and menace in the words.

“If there is no Soul, they will be better off dying as free men rather than living as your slaves.”

“Oh, but there is a Soul of Thanza. Soon you will know the truth. Then you will regret ever having doubted.”

The face vanished before Grolin could begin to think of a reply to that threat. He backed away from the ferns, so intent on keeping them under his eye that he backed into one of his men.

“Lord, who was that you spoke to?” the man asked. Grolin noted that the man was sweating in spite of the cool air of the forest, and pale in spite of his weathered skin and rough beard.

“Myself,” Grolin said. “We must see to finding new strength, to take vengeance on that treacherous bitch. I was practising what I might say to our friends in Nemedia.”

“Aye, that would be well,” the man said. He sounded polite and respectful rather than convinced. “Where do we go from here, being as how we’ve shaken off pursuit?”

“We go around Kringus Hill and from there along Bluesand Creek back to the citadel. We do not wish to leave anyone or anything there as easy prey for Lysinka.”

How Grolin’s men, those with him and those at the citadel, were going to evacuate their quarters in time was a question that the baron could not answer.

He could, however, hope that the sorcerer—whose name he ought to ask, even if he received no reply— would have something useful to say about the matter.

Grolin’s men fled from a pursuit that in fact the Thanza Rangers and their new allies were not even attempting.

The united bands had a number of tasks to accomplish before any of them took a single step off the battlefield. They had wounded to succour and dead to bury. They had to formally invest Conan with the command of the Thanza Rangers—or as formally as one could expect from an oath-taking witnessed by a handful of young captains and otherwise only by the gods.

Then all the men and women of the two newly joined bands had to swear peace while on the quest for Grolin and the Soul of Thanza. The Rangers had to swear to abide by Lysinka’s laws for the women, and Lysinka’s folk swore to obey Conan, Klarnides, and Tharmis Rog as they would obey Lysinka herself.

A few of the Rangers looked at the women in a way Conan did not much care for, and Lysinka even less. The Cimmerian met with Klarnides and Tharmis Rog once the oath-taking was done to settle that little matter.

“One man’s hand in the wrong place on a woman and we’d be at blood-feud while facing sorcery, perhaps, or at least some desperate men,” Conan said. “I took command to lead the Rangers to victory, not have them killed off faster!”

Klarnides flushed. “What about dividing the Rangers and Lysinka’s band? We both of us have wounded unfit to travel and needing rest and care. So why not leave some of both bands at the nearest good campsite with water, wood, and game? We can be sure that any bad apples stay in this barrel, instead of rotting on the trail.”

Conan nodded. “Yes, but that means we must leave behind a captain all will obey.” He looked at Tharmis Rog. “What about you, my friend?”

The master-at-arms swore so eloquently that he gained the attention of most of both bands. Had they not also been under close scrutiny, Conan and Klarnides would have collapsed laughing.

Finally Tharmis Rog ran out of breath, shrugged, winced, and raised his good hand in a placating gesture. “Can you both swear that you did not plan this to keep me out of the fight?”

“No,” Conan replied. “But can you swear that your arm will let you fight, or your leg let you walk, let alone march?”

“No,” Rog said in turn, sounding rather like a small boy who has to confess to a roaring stomach ache after eating too many honey cakes. “But I heal quickly, and I don’t see your hide entirely whole either. That gash in your side—”

“I can walk,” Conan interjected. “I can wield a sword. I can—”

“—be a northerner, more stubborn than any Aquilonian ever whelped,” Klarnides said with a sigh. “Give over, Tharmis Rog. You’ve had your share of fighting, and you’ll have your share of anything we bring home from this quest.

“If we bring ourselves home, that is,” the captain added, in a lowered voice.

Three of Lysinka’s wounded who remained behind were women. However, the least hurt among them was also something of a wise-woman, who knew a good many poultices and febrifuges that could be made from common plants. Some of her knowledge she had passed on to trusted comrades, including Lysinka and Fergis, so neither band would lack for healing.

“And besides, the Rangers have several among them who can at least bind wounds and set broken bones,” Lysinka added, in facing down the woman’s protests. “Against what men can do, we shall fare well enough.”

That was the truth, as far as it went. She doubted that Grolin had more than twenty-five fighting men left to face the sixty she and the Aquilonians were planning to take against him. She also doubted that his strength was any longer entirely in human form.

“The Soul?” Conan asked when she broached this matter to him.

“I think not. But those men of his who charged—I do not believe they were in control of their senses. Something had maddened them.’v

“I’ve marched within reach of more than a few sorcerers,” the Cimmerian said. “I’ve marched out again too, which is more than can be said of them.

“If the Soul is only magic then let’s see that Grolin doesn’t command it. If it’s more—well, I’ll believe that when I see it.”

This was as far as she could make Conan declare himself. Under his iron exterior, she thought she detected the same distrust of sorcery that she herself felt.

Did this make him a better man to march with, seeking the Soul of Thanza? It might. Although Conan could be destroyed by magic; he was not one to be tempted to possess it for his own.

In Grolin, that temptation had seemingly turned into lust, and might yet turn into madness even without the help of whatever spells the Soul held. Life and death— and the big Cimmerian with the eyes so akin to her own would be upholding life. If the gods existed, Lysinka decided, they had a taste for grim jests.

She laid a hand on Conan’s arm. He almost jerked it away.

“Your wound?” she asked.

“It’s more than a fly bite, I’ll admit that much.”

“It looks clean enough for the march. It’s only one day’s good travelling to the citadel, and I’ve seen axe-root for the poultices growing at the foot of the cliffs.” Conan raised a hand. “You missed your calling, Lysinka. You should have been a healer or even a priestess.”

He did not quite touch her, but that huge, scarred hand was only a hair’s breadth from her skin. She vividly imagined his touch, half-hoping that wishing would bring the hand across the last bit of distance.

Then she shook her head. “I wasn’t one to remain a maiden. I once thought that would give me an easy life, but I soon learned otherwise. This life’s not easy, but I’m at no one’s bidding either.”

She stood without moving away. It was the Cimmerian who rose and stepped back.

“Best we be at our work,” he said. “Or the stay-behinds will snatch up the choicest rations and gear and squall like catamounts when we take them back!”

VIII

To Lord Grolin, the dark forest seemed to be holding its breath. He wished his men would do likewise. In this silent darkness, even a cough seemed ready to float through the trees and warn their enemies.