Conan of Venarium

Then something else occurred to Granth. "Maybe the young one Count Stercus keeps coming back for will stick a knife in him one of these days, and maybe we'll all be better off if she does."

"No." Vulth shook his head. "Think of the vengeance we'd have to wreak. Have you got the stomach for massacring a whole village?"

"For Stercus' sake? For him doing what he's got no business doing, with somebody he's got no business doing it with?" Granth did not need to think that over; he knew the answer at once. "Not a bit of it." But then he hesitated. "To save our own necks, though? That's a different story." None of the other Aquilonian soldiers argued with him.

Chapter Ten

For Tarla's Sake

Few would have called Count Stercus a patient man. In the matter of the weaver's daughter in Duthil, though, he had been more patient than most of the debauched rogues who had known him down in Aquilonia would have dreamt possible. For one thing, he reckoned the game with Tarla worth the candle. And, for another, he still painfully remembered the consequences of his impatience in Tarantia. If not for that, he never would have found himself reduced to pursuing a chit of a barbarian girl here at the misty northern edge of the world.

And so, patience—patience to a point, at any rate. But Stercus was no Stygian priest, no mystic from the distant, legendary land of Khitai, to practice patience for its own dusty sake. He was an Aquilonian to the core: a man of action, a man of deeds. He could bide his time —he had bided his time—with some definite end in view, but if the end remained in view, remained close enough to reach out and touch, he would, sooner or later, reach out and touch it.

That time, at last, had come.

He rode forth from Venarium in helm and back-and-breast, more to make a brave show when he came to Duthil than for any other reason. These days, the country north of what had become a booming little town put him more in mind of the Bossonian Marches or Gunderland than of the dark, brooding wilderness Cimmeria had been before the coming of the gold lion on black.

Fair-haired men and women worked in fields and garden plots carved from primeval wilderness. Smoke rose from the chimneys of sturdy cabins. Garrisons overawed surviving Cimmerian villages. Some of those forts might grow into towns, as Venarium had. The barbarians themselves would surely go to the wall, overwhelmed by the strength and majesty of advancing Aquilonian civilization. Contemplating their fate, Stercus allowed himself a certain delicate melancholy. It was a pity, but the count did not see how it could be helped.

Even now, so soon after the initial conquest, most of the traffic on the road was Aquilonian: more settlers' wagons coming into this new land; soldiers who helped keep the settlers safe; merchants and peddlers of all sorts, intent on taking what profit they could from the land in which they found themselves. And, coming the other way, down toward Venarium, farmers who had more closely followed the army were bringing first fruits and vegetables to market. An oxcart full of onions might not seem such a wonderful thing at first glance, but Stercus smiled as he rode past it, for those were Aquilonian onions.

Only a handful of Cimmerians were on the road. Except for the sake of a drunken carouse or luxuries they could not make for themselves, the barbarians seldom went to Venarium. They wanted little to do with the Aquilonian presence swelling in their midst. That they wanted little to do with it was in Stercus' eyes yet another harbinger of their eventual extinction. If they could not see they were in the presence of something greater than themselves, that went a long way toward proving they did not deserve to survive.

Axes rang in the forest. Trees fell. More cabins full of settlers from Gunderland rose every day. Stercus smiled to himself, for it was good.

But, by the time he got most of the way to Duthil, the road had become a track once more, and the woods pressed close on either side. This far north, few settlers had yet come. The land remained in its state of primitive barbarism.

Another horseman on the track, this one riding south, caused Stercus to rein in. The roadway was especially narrow here; they would have to go slowly as they edged past each other. By the crimson crest on his helm, the other man was a captain. "Your Excellency!" he called, recognizing Stercus. "Well met, by Mitra! I was on my way to Venarium to bring word to you."

"Word of what, Treviranus?" asked Stercus, his voice a little chilly; his mind was on other things than duty.

The commander of the garrison by Duthil pointed back over his shoulder to the village and beyond. "The tribes are stirring, your Excellency. Out beyond where our arms have reached, Cimmeria begins to bubble and boil like a pot of stew left too long over too hot a fire."