Conan of Venarium

They walked on for a while, their footfalls almost silent on the pine needles carpeting the forest floor. A red fox ran across the game trail they were using. The fox stared in astonishment; the breeze blew from it toward them, so it had not taken their scent, and not even its keen ears let it know they were near. With a flirt of its brush, it vanished behind a fir. Conan had started to nock an arrow. Without a target, he slid the shaft back into its quiver.

High overhead, a hawk screeched shrilly. Again, Conan reached for an arrow. Again, he left the motion incomplete. Nodding, Mordec said, "If it's after a lamb, it's Nectan's worry now."

"Soon the lambs will be too big for any bird to carry off," said Conan. "But the wolves are a different story. They will steal from the flock at any season of the year." He carried on his back the roughly tanned hide of the wolf he had killed. "Miserable, thieving creatures."

"They might as well be men," remarked his father. After another minute or so, Mordec asked, "You liked it there, then?"

"I did, Father," said Conan, with an enthusiastic nod of his own. "Things are—simpler than they are in Duthil."

"No doubt." Mordec walked on once more before continuing. "Things in the village are less simple than when you left, too."

"Oh?" Conan did not care for the way his father said that. "What's gone on? And how is Mother?"

"Your mother is about the same as she always is," answered Mordec. "She is not well —I do not think she will ever be well —but she is no worse, or not much worse, than she was when you saw her last."

"All right," said Conan. His mother had been sickly for as long as he could remember. He always hoped she would get well, but he would have been amazed —so amazed, he might not have known what to do —if she actually had. He asked, "What about the village, then?"

"Ah. The village." Mordec did not seem eager to talk about it. At last, unwillingly, he said, "Well, Count Stercus has come back again."

"He has?" cried Conan. He grabbed for an arrow once more, though the gesture was even more useless than it had been with the fox or the hawk. "What is he doing there? Why won't he leave us alone?"

"Well, he said he came because of the Aquilonian soldier who disappeared near Duthil," answered Mordec. "The first time he said that, I feared he was going to punish us even if his men never found the fellow's body. But I think that just gave him the excuse he needed to come back anyhow."

"The excuse?" echoed Conan, his voice rising in puzzlement. But then a sudden, horrid certainty blazed in him, fueling fun' fierce as his father's forge. "Tarla!" he burst out.

"It seems so, yes," said Mordec unhappily. "He sniffs around her, sniffs around Balarg's house like a hungry hound after meat."

"I'll kill him!" raged Conan. "I'll cut his heart out and feed it to swine. I'll drape his guts over the roofpole. I'll —

His father shook him, hard. Conan's teeth clicked together on his tongue. Pain lanced through him. He tasted blood in his mouth. When he spat, he spat red. He said no more. Seeing that he was going to say no more, Mordec nodded in somber approval. "Good," said the blacksmith. "Maybe I've shaken some sense into you. Can you imagine what would happen to Duthil if you were mad enough to murder the Aquilonian commander? Can you?"

"He deserves death," said Conan sullenly.

"Yes, no doubt," said Mordec. "I told you once you might kill him if he aims to debauch Balarg's daughter the way he did that other Cimmerian girl. But think on it. Wouldn't you say it's truly Balarg's first duty to defend her honor?'"

"I— " Conan broke off in confusion.

Laughing, Mordec finished for him: "You like the shape of Tarla's nose and her pretty little ankles, and so you think you can do what her father really should."

Conan walked on for a long time without saying another word. His cheeks and ears felt as if they were on fire. Like most boys first setting eyes on a girl they fancied, he had been too shy, too much afraid of making a fool of himself, to say much to the one who was the object of his affection. Like most boys, also, he had fondly believed his grand passion went unobserved by those around him. Finding himself so badly mistaken could be nothing less than mortifying.

"Don't fret, lad," said Mordec, not unkindly. "Maybe there will be a match between the two of you, and maybe there won't. It could happen. Seeing where Balarg and I stand in the village, joining our two houses might prove wise. We've even spoken of it, once or twice. But I will tell you this: whether the match comes or not, the world will go on. Do you understand me?" Still not trusting himself to speak, Conan grudged a nod. His father went on, "And I will tell you one thing more, no matter how little you care to hear it — no one dies of a broken heart, even if people often wish they could. Do you understand that?"