striking them.” He added one more word, too low for the Cimmerian-speaking enemy soldier to catch: “Yet.” That Conan understood. Now his head did move up and down.
Another stream of words meaningless to Conan came from the Aquilonian officer. “He says their commander is called Count Stercus,” said Mordec, pitching his words to carry not just to his son but to all the folk of Duthil. “He says this Stercus is a hard man and a harsh man, and warns us against angering him.” Treviranus hesitated, then said something else. Mordec frowned and translated that last sentence, too: “He says we would do better not to let Stercus’ gaze fall on any of our women, especially the younger ones.”
That made the Cimmerians standing in the street mutter more among themselves. Several men put protective arms around the shoulders of wives or daughters. Their sense of chivalry was rude, as befit their material setting, but no less real for that.
Conan’s eyes went to Tarla, the daughter of Balarg the weaver. She was still a girl, no more a woman than Conan was a man, but it was on her, after his mother, that his protective instinct centered. Just for a moment, his gaze and hers met. Then she looked modestly down to the ground.
The Aquilonian officer spoke once more. “He says his people have come here to stay, and we had better get used to it,” said Mordec.
Liar! Conan did not shout the word, but he wanted to. Looking at the faces of his fellow villagers, he knew he was not the only one in whose heart rebellion flamed. Oh, no— far from it.
Granth and Vulth and a pair of Bossonian archers stood sentry outside the encampment the new garrison had made by the Cimmerian village. It was a little past noon, but Captain Treviranus had ordered sentries on alert at all hours of the day and night. Granth wasn’t the least bit sorry Treviranus had given that order, either.
One of the Bossonians, a tall, rangy bowman named Benno, peered into the shadowed woods. “The captain said panthers lurk among those trees,” He said. “By Mitra, I should like to make a cape from the skin of a panther of my own killing.”
Vulth pointed toward the village just above a bowshot away. “You want panthers, Benno, look that way first. Every house there holds ‘em.”
“That’s the truth!” exclaimed Granth. “Did you fellows spy that one brat, the son of the wounded fellow who was doing the translating for Treviranus? By the look in his eye, he wanted to murder the lot of us.”
“Oh, that one,” said Benno. “Aye, I noted him —a face like a clenched fist. He’ll make a bigger man than his father, and his father’s far from small. Did you see his hands and feet? Too big for the rest of him, like a wolfhound pup’s before it gets its full growth.”
“I saw the lad, too, and I tell you he is no wolfhound.” Vulth spoke with great conviction. “He is a wolf.”
“All these Cimmerians are wild wolves, and they bite hard.” Granth thought back to the fight by Fort Venarium. Those roaring, bellowing barbarians who kept coming, kept killing, despite wounds that would have slain a civilized man on the instant were enough to chill the blood. And, absent the Aquilonian cavalry, they might have — probably would have —won.
And then, as if speaking of the boy were enough to conjure him up, he emerged from the woods only fifty yards or so from the sentries. A quiver of arrows was slung on his back. He had a bow in his right hand. In his left, he carried three long-beaked woodcocks by the feet. After a wary glance to make sure the Aquilonians were holding their place and not pursuing him, the young Cimmerian went on toward his village.
Benno stared after him, jaw dropping in astonishment. “Did you see his bag?” whispered the Bossonian. “Did you see it?”
“Woodcock make mighty fine eating,” said Granth. “Fry the breast in butter, do the legs the same way. If you feel like it, you can cook up the guts, too —fry
Another stream of words meaningless to Conan came from the Aquilonian officer. “He says their commander is called Count Stercus,” said Mordec, pitching his words to carry not just to his son but to all the folk of Duthil. “He says this Stercus is a hard man and a harsh man, and warns us against angering him.” Treviranus hesitated, then said something else. Mordec frowned and translated that last sentence, too: “He says we would do better not to let Stercus’ gaze fall on any of our women, especially the younger ones.”
That made the Cimmerians standing in the street mutter more among themselves. Several men put protective arms around the shoulders of wives or daughters. Their sense of chivalry was rude, as befit their material setting, but no less real for that.
Conan’s eyes went to Tarla, the daughter of Balarg the weaver. She was still a girl, no more a woman than Conan was a man, but it was on her, after his mother, that his protective instinct centered. Just for a moment, his gaze and hers met. Then she looked modestly down to the ground.
The Aquilonian officer spoke once more. “He says his people have come here to stay, and we had better get used to it,” said Mordec.
Liar! Conan did not shout the word, but he wanted to. Looking at the faces of his fellow villagers, he knew he was not the only one in whose heart rebellion flamed. Oh, no— far from it.
Granth and Vulth and a pair of Bossonian archers stood sentry outside the encampment the new garrison had made by the Cimmerian village. It was a little past noon, but Captain Treviranus had ordered sentries on alert at all hours of the day and night. Granth wasn’t the least bit sorry Treviranus had given that order, either.
One of the Bossonians, a tall, rangy bowman named Benno, peered into the shadowed woods. “The captain said panthers lurk among those trees,” He said. “By Mitra, I should like to make a cape from the skin of a panther of my own killing.”
Vulth pointed toward the village just above a bowshot away. “You want panthers, Benno, look that way first. Every house there holds ‘em.”
“That’s the truth!” exclaimed Granth. “Did you fellows spy that one brat, the son of the wounded fellow who was doing the translating for Treviranus? By the look in his eye, he wanted to murder the lot of us.”
“Oh, that one,” said Benno. “Aye, I noted him —a face like a clenched fist. He’ll make a bigger man than his father, and his father’s far from small. Did you see his hands and feet? Too big for the rest of him, like a wolfhound pup’s before it gets its full growth.”
“I saw the lad, too, and I tell you he is no wolfhound.” Vulth spoke with great conviction. “He is a wolf.”
“All these Cimmerians are wild wolves, and they bite hard.” Granth thought back to the fight by Fort Venarium. Those roaring, bellowing barbarians who kept coming, kept killing, despite wounds that would have slain a civilized man on the instant were enough to chill the blood. And, absent the Aquilonian cavalry, they might have — probably would have —won.
And then, as if speaking of the boy were enough to conjure him up, he emerged from the woods only fifty yards or so from the sentries. A quiver of arrows was slung on his back. He had a bow in his right hand. In his left, he carried three long-beaked woodcocks by the feet. After a wary glance to make sure the Aquilonians were holding their place and not pursuing him, the young Cimmerian went on toward his village.
Benno stared after him, jaw dropping in astonishment. “Did you see his bag?” whispered the Bossonian. “Did you see it?”
“Woodcock make mighty fine eating,” said Granth. “Fry the breast in butter, do the legs the same way. If you feel like it, you can cook up the guts, too —fry
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