Conan of Venarium

Yet the Aquilonian nobleman's words were mild enough: "Be so good as to let your commander know I am riding into that village. I aim to know in full the lands we have taken for King Numedides, and everyone in them." The way he said "everyone" made Granth want to hide. Stercus continued, "If by some mischance I do not ride out of Duthil, avenge me in full upon the barbarians." He urged his horse forward. Saddle trappings clinking and clattering, it trotted on toward the Cimmerian village.

"Mitra!" exploded Vulth once Stercus had ridden out of earshot. "He chills the marrow in your bones."

"As long as he chills the Cimmerians worse," said Granth.

"Ah, no." Daverio slyly shook his head. "He wants to warm the Cimmerians up. Or do you forget the native wench he had for himself down at Fort Venarium?"

"I remember her," said Granth. "She was no wench, only a chit of a girl. And he did not let her wear enough in the way of clothes to stay warm."

The Bossonian shook his head again and laughed. "Are you really so young and innocent? There is warm, and then there is warm." He stuck his elbow in Granth's ribs and leered. "You know what I mean, eh?"

"I know what you mean," growled Granth. "And I know if you poke me again, I'll wrap your damned bowstring around your neck."

"I'm not afraid," said Daverio, bristling.

"Enough, both of you," said Vulth. "You don't want to quarrel while Stercus is around. If he catches you at it, he'll string you up by the thumbs and roast you over a slow fire — and that's if he doesn't decide to do something really juicy instead."

Granth watched the Aquilonian commander ride into Duthil. He breathed a sigh of relief when the first Cimmerian huts hid Count Stercus from view. If he could not see Stercus, Stercus could not see him, either. He wished the commander were back in Fort Venarium, but simply having him out of sight would do for now.

Conan ran like the wind after the ball, his mane of coal-black hair streaming out behind him. The ball was stuffed with rags and covered with scraps of old leather begged or stolen from here and there and then erratically stitched together by the boys of Duthil. If they wanted to play games, they had to make their own arrangements. They had to —and they did.

Another lad kicked the ball up the street just before Conan got to it. Conan lowered his shoulder and knocked the other boy sprawling in the mud. The boy was on his feet and running again a heartbeat later. If he could pay Conan back, he would. Conan's clothes were already muddy, but not so muddy as those of the other boys in the game. With his size and strength and speed, it usually took at least two of them to knock him down.

He effortlessly outsped the boy he had flattened. Girls and women and a few men stood in doorways, watching the sport. Sometimes the men would rush into the game, too. Then it would get very rough. Conan waved to Tarla as he sprinted past Balarg's house. He thought she waved back—oh, how he hoped she waved back—but she blurred past before he could be sure.

Two boys between him and the ball. Instead of going after it himself, the closer boy tried to block Conan. Conan might have feinted one way and dodged the other. He might simply have slipped past. Instead, without breaking stride, he smashed into the other boy chest to chest. With a startled yelp of dismay, his foe went flying. Conan ran on.

"Oh, nicely done!" called someone from behind him. Was that Tarla's voice? He thought so. He hoped so. But he did not look back. Instead, he ran harder than ever.

He bore down on the ball with such ferocity that the last boy who was nearer to it dove out of the way to keep from being trampled. Conan guided the ball forward with the side of his foot. One more boy stood between him and the goal, which was no more than the space between two rocks plopped down in the mud of the street. The boy set himself, but his face said he had no hope of stopping the hurtling missile that would momentarily fly his way.

And yet the goal was never scored. In the same instant as Conan drew back his foot for the last kick, a rider on horseback trotted into Duthil: a rider on a horse so astonishing, the blacksmith's son skidded to a stop and simply stared, all but unable to believe his eyes.

Horses in Cimmeria were few and far between. This great snorting monster was almost man-high at the shoulder, which put its rider high as a god above the ground. That rider stared down at Conan from an elevation even his tall father had been unable to match since the boy was much younger.

The Aquilonian horseman had a long, pale, big-nosed face with a receding chin partly concealed by a thin fringe of beard and with eyes set too close together. When he spoke, he startled Conan by using Cimmerian: "Get out of my way, boy."