Conan of Venarium

Before long, the only Aquilonians left in Duthil lay dead in the street. Few of the invaders had tried to surrender; none had succeeded. Cimmerians plundered the corpses, taking for their own weapons and armor finer than what they had brought south with them.

Herth strode along the street. The clan chief bled from a cut on his forehead and another on his leg. He said, "They are men after all. When I saw they'd put a village to the sword, I took them for cowards and murderers and nothing more. But they are warriors as well, and they did not flee."

"They are brave enough," said Mordec. "They beat us in battle once. And belike the village was roused against them after Stercus stole Balarg's daughter."

"He paid with his life, as he deserved to," said Conan.

Balarg nodded. "He did indeed. And yet I would have let him live, if only that would bring back Tarla with him."

"And I." Conan nodded, too.

"That cannot be now," said Herth. "Now there is vengeance, a great glut of vengeance, to take."

Mordec went into the smithy. When he came out, grief etched his harsh-featured face. His great shoulders slumped. As he strode toward Conan, fear suddenly filled the youth's heart—fear not of danger, nor of foes, but of the news he was about to hear. That fear must have shown on his face, for Mordec nodded heavily. "She's dead, boy. Your mother's dead," he said hoarsely. But a somber admiration also filled his voice: "She took up a sword and made them earn what they took. And there's blood on the blade, so they paid a price for it."

Herth set a hand on the blacksmith's shoulder. "Any warrior can take pride in such a wife."

"I do," said Mordec. He turned to Conan. "And so should you."

"Pride?" Conan shook his head. "After today, what care I for pride? After today, with my mother dead" —he did not misspeak of Tarla, who was Balarg's to mourn, and whose place in his affections was more recent—"what care I if I live or die?"

"I will tell you, if you truly need telling," answered his father. "Herth had the right of it: to be sure she did not die for nothing, and to be sure the accursed Aquilonians will pay dearly for robbing us of what they had no right to touch. Do you suppose Crom would care to hear you snivel? You know better, and so do I. We still have a job of work to do before we can die content."

Conan considered. He looked down at the gold-chased, gold-hiked blade he held in his hand. Slowly, he nodded. Stercus' sword had not yet slaked its full thirst for Aquilonian blood. "Let it be as you say, Father. For vengeance's sake, I will live. I will live, and the invaders shall die."

"Why else do you think I still walk and breathe?" returned Mordec.

"Come, then." Herth pointed ahead. The gate to the palisaded Aquilonian encampment had come open. Cimmerians poured in, although the mere fact that those gates had opened argued that there was no need for more fighting men within the palisade. The clan chief saw as much, saying, "Let us go south. And wherever we meet them, death to the Aquilonians."

There was a war cry Conan would eagerly shout. He went into the smithy. Mordec took a step toward him and reached out as if to halt his progress, but Conan twisted past. The blacksmith started to go after him, then checked himself. To Herth, he said, "Best he should see, I suppose."

"Belike," said the clan chief. "If he needs one more reason to fight, what better?" After a moment, as if reminding himself, Herth added, "I'm sorry, Mordec."

"So am I," answered Conan's father. "She did not fear death, not when she'd been battling it for years. This might have been quicker and cleaner than she would have got in the natural course of things. Still, though, the invaders will pay for robbing her of the time she would have had left."

When Conan came out into the street once more, his face was as set and grim as Mordec's. His eyes burned with a dry, terrible fire. "Death to the Aquilonians," he said. In his mouth, it was not a war cry after all. It was simply a promise.

Two men burst out of the woods at the edge of Melcer's field of barley. The farmer threw down his hoe and snatched up his pike. The men were so ragged and haggard and dim', he thought they had to be Cimmerians. But the hair peeping out from under their helmets was as blond as his own, which meant they were Gundermen like himself. He did not set down the pike even so. Gundermen too could be robbers and brigands.

"Who are you?" he asked sharply. "What are you doing on my land? Answer me right this minute, or by Mitra I'll run you off it."

They could not answer him immediately. They both stood there panting, as if they had run a long, long way. At last, the younger one, a fellow with formidably wide shoulders and a face friendly despite its weariness, managed to gasp out, "The Cimmerians are over the border."

To Melcer, that was the worst news in the world. "Are you sure?" he said. "How many of them?"