Conan of Venarium

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."

Conan had not thought of that. He watched the soldiers. Sure enough, one of the pikemen walked up to Treviranus and casually spoke to him in their language. The officer glanced at Mordec through narrowed eyes. He raised his hand as if about to give some order. Conan tensed, ready to hurl himself against the invaders. But, whatever Treviranus had been about to do, he seemed to think better of it. He spoke a single sentence, aimed at Mordec like an archer's arrow.

"He asks, do we understand?" said the blacksmith in Cimmerian.