Conan of Venarium

Melcer did not raise his axe in any threatening way, but he did not take his hands off it, either. The young Cimmerian had an arrow nocked, but it pointed at the ground, not at Melcer. Three plump grouse hung by their feet from the barbarian's belt: he was out hunting game, not hunting men. With luck, this would not have to end in blood.

Taking his right hand from the handle of the axe, Melcer held it up, palm out, in a sign. "Do you speak my language?" he asked.

Somewhat to his surprise, the youngster nodded. "Little bit," he said, his accent foul but comprehensible. He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "Conan."

"I am Melcer," said the farmer. Now he held out his right hand. The Cimmerian hesitated, then strode forward and took it. When he did, Melcer got another surprise, for, though Conan was unquestionably a boy, his grip had a man's strength. When Melcer told him, "I have no quarrel with you," he sounded more sincere than he might have expected.

Conan said something in Cimmerian, then stopped and kicked at the dirt, realizing Melcer could not follow him. He dropped back into his fragmentary Aquilonian: "Why you here? What you do?"

"I have come here to make a farm and to raise my family," answered Melcer.

Another spate of Cimmerian. Again, Conan checked himself. Again, he spoke in what bits of Melcer's language he had: "Not your land. You go home."

"No." The Gunderman shook his head. "I will stay here. We have won this land with the sword. We will keep it."

He did not know how much the barbarian boy understood of that, though his shaken head left little room for doubt. Scowling, Conan repeated, "Not your land."

"I say it is." Melcer remembered that when he had said he had no quarrel with Conan, the Cimmerian had not told him anything of the sort. Yet Conan had taken his hand, and showed no sign of going to war on the instant. Melcer pointed straight at him. "Peace between us?"

Now Conan did not hesitate. "No," he said at once. "No peace. You go, then peace."

Melcer might have lacked money and high birth, but he did not lack for pride. "I will not go," he said. "I have come here to make my home. That is what I aim to do."

"You pay." The barbarian nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes. You pay."

"Anyone who tries to drive me off this land will pay," said Melcer.

He had to say it again before the barbarian followed. When Conan finally did, he studied Melcer, showing surprise of his own. Maybe he had not realized the Aquilonians had pride of their own. He undid the rawhide thong that held one of the grouse on his belt, then tossed the bird at Melcer's feet. He pointed first to himself, then to the Gunderman. "Enemies," he said, and loped off into the woods.

Slowly, Melcer stooped to pick up the grouse. He wondered whether the barbarian had meant to say he wanted them to be friends but had been undone by his imperfect knowledge of Aquilonian. A moment later, an arrow hissed through the air and buried itself in the soil less than a yard from Melcer's boot. He hopped back in alarm. If Conan wanted to kill him from ambush, he probably could.

But no more arrows flew from the forest. "Enemies," the Cimmerian called once more, and then everything was still.

After a couple of minutes of wary, watchful waiting, Melcer decided Conan had gone away. The Gunderman thoughtfully hefted the grouse. He would not have given an enemy a gift. Did Conan reckon it an insult, or was it a token of respect? Melcer shrugged. However the Cimmerian had meant it, it would make a tasty supper.

Up went the axe. Melcer brought it down with all his strength. Regardless of whether the Cimmerian fancied the notion, he had a cabin to build, a farm to make, and he aimed to do just that.

Loarn was a wandering peddler and tinker who came to Duthil every year or two. When he did, he guested with Mordec. The blacksmith did tinker's work now and again, soldering patches onto saucepans and the like, but Loarn was a master at it. He also repaired broken or cracked crockery, which Mordec did not attempt. Loarn had a tiny drill and a set of lead rivets so fine, they were almost sutures. By the time he was done fixing a pot and had daubed his repairs with pitch, it would hold water or ale as well as it ever had. He also paid his way with gossip and news and songs and jokes.

Some of the news of southern Cimmeria had not reached him until just before he came into Duthil. When he led his donkey up the lane toward Mordec's smithy, he was fuming. "Aquilonian soldiers, by Crom!" he cried as he came in. "Aquilonian soldiers! What are they doing here? Why didn't you cast them out?" He sounded as if he blamed the blacksmith personally.

Mordec looked up from the nail —almost a spike—whose point he was sharpening. "What are they doing here?" he echoed, his voice half an octave deeper than Loam's. "Whatever they please, worse luck. Why didn't we cast them forth? We tried. They beat us, which is why they can do as they please for now."