Conan the Savage (12 page)

A few backward steps gained Conan nothing; the bear only lumbered forward and reared up taller, as high as the rock ceiling permitted. The monster was frenzied, outraged at finding an intruder so near its lair. Doubtless, as the sustained, echoing pandemonium of snarls and squeals in the cavern now told, it was protecting a sow and new cubs in the cavern behind it.

The place was a trap for fools, Conan saw. Clearly, everything that had drawn him here, the bear also found attractive. He should have foreseen this. In his readiness to foil predators, he had walked straight into the fangs of one of the largest and most fearsome ones he had yet seen.

He must not give ground too easily; to do so only allowed the beast freer movement. Conan dismissed the notion of turning and fleeing across the steep, precarious granite. Over open ground, no earthly creature could outrun one of these agile, muscle-slabbed behemoths; but here in the uneven cleft, Conan’s smaller size was a temporary advantage. Darting forward with spear raised, he stabbed the creature in the back of one forepaw.

The bear’s wrath at this was terrible to see. The outpouring of noise and foul carrion-breath smote Conan in the face, and a swipe of the beast’s sickle-shaped claws pelted and stung the warrior with broken bits of a woody shrub that grew in close on one hand. The snarling face surged forward—but then, darting angrily after a wave of Conan’s spear point, the snout swung aside and scuffed up hard against a ridge of unyielding granite. As if stunned, the beast planted its feet and shook its head—just once— before lumbering forward in renewed attack.

Conan jabbed with his spear, once narrowly missing the creature’s face, once striking its shoulder, to little effect.

He avoided the batting paws, which would splinter his crude weapon to matchwood... and the jaws, that could easily bite through wood and stone alike. The shaft’s fighting-reach was scarcely longer than the bear’s massive arm, so he had to leap in and dodge back to protect his own skin. Seeing an opening at last, he lunged at the monster’s hairy flank... and felt his sharp stone point jab into heavy hide. The raging beast boiled after him like a hairy avalanche, forcing him to scurry backward for life.

Though pricked, the animal was anything but cowed by Conan’s resistance. It reared taller now and swept its paws in broader swaths, pressing forward in an ambling gait that might at any moment become an unopposable charge. Conan feinted at the monster’s belly and snout, trying to teach it to fear his darting point.

Instead, the bear lost patience and lashed out to take off his head. Ducking under its extended forepaw, whose coarse bristles scoured the skin of his naked back, he drove his spear into the animal’s flank. Once embedded, the blade caught in the leathery hide and broke free of the shaft. An instant later, on the back-swing, the flailing paw splintered the pole in two. Conan barely rolled free, dragging his ax from his belt and raising it to defend himself.

Yet the bear, vexed by pain, no longer recognized any obstacle. It swarmed straight at Conan, driving him out onto the down-curving granite slope. A deft stroke to his adversary’s hairy brain pan did not even slow the beast; it only loosened the head of the stone ax in its crude binding.

Meanwhile, writhing to escape the monster’s killing hug, Conan was struck a light, glancing blow by its forepaw. Chisel-claws shredded flesh from his thigh, ripped the flimsy fur clout from his groin, and battered into the frail cage of his ribs, sending him sprawling across the granite like a broken stick-doll.

Rolling and scrabbling to escape, unsure whether the brute was charging or merely tumbling forward onto him, Conan felt himself pressed flat. He took the bear’s whole tremendous weight on his back, its thrashing bulk, its pelt like an armour of steel bristles; its musty, choking stench crushed him down against hard granite. As it rolled over him, the burden abated, but a pitchfork claw raked him up off the rock, and he felt himself clutched in a murderous embrace.

The pressure then grew even greater, stifling his breath, purpling his vision, cracking his bones aloud in their sockets. Desperately Conan lashed out, smiting, writhing to break free.

Then came a series of heavy blows, a loosening, a rushing blast of air. Conan’s vision flickered on madly alternating earth and sky, and he understood why the beast could not hold him—it was rolling down the cliff side. He, too, was falling, hurtling off the stone overhang past any hope of escape. Below was the river, a blue-black pond lathering and swirling amid fanged rocks. Kicking free of the snorting, flailing bear, Conan gathered himself for the impact.

Numb and chilled, he crouched by the waterside, probing his bruised, tom flesh and testing his aching bones. He must have blacked out. Again, as before, he could have been swept any distance downstream. This part of the river was unfamiliar; his island was nowhere in sight. As to the bear’s fate, he could make no guess.

It mattered nothing. Here he was again, devoid of food and belongings, and lacking the strength to try to regain them. What he needed now was a warm, sheltered nook in which to sleep off these wounds and the fever that would likely follow. He could worry about food, clothing, and weapons later.

The trees here rose tall enough to shade both banks of the river, making its waters pool and swirl sedately down a broad channel. Where Conan stood, a tributary stream joined the main flow, cutting through the steep, root-knit bank. Thankful for the pathway, he followed the stream’s course, trudging along its shallow margin where it flowed down from the forest. Though sore and murky-brained, he was aware that by following this course, he left no track. He also knew that wherever he chose to hole up and recuperate, he must stay within easy reach of water.

The tree trunks on either hand stood as broad and stately as the columns of some great palace or temple. Even in his depleted state, and perhaps more so because of it, Conan sensed the awe and mystery of the age-old forest. Down through its canopy pierced occasional sunbeams, slanting a-sparkle with insects and dust motes, softened and scattered in their fall to earth by lattices of foliage overhead. Along the stream, lily and fern sprouted, though not thickly enough to bar Conan’s way. And just ahead, through looming curtains of greenery, he could hear the rush of water as from a small cataract. It was a welcome noise, since he wanted to climb some way above the river before sinking down to rest.

Pushing stiffly through the screen of shrubs and vines, he looked out on a shallow, partly shaded pond. At its further end, where sprays of water pattered down from overhanging rocks, his eyes encountered a searing, paralysing vision. There beneath the waterfall—with back turned to him, and with shapely arms and petal-like hands raised briefly overhead to catch the gushing torrent—was a woman.

As innocent of garments as she was of his presence, she stood bathing in the ankle-deep pool. The sight, in the echoing gallery of rocks and greenery, was one of unutterable beauty. Her delicate contours and full, lush curvatures shimmered palely radiant in sunlight reflected up from the water’s dappled surface. As Conan looked on, she lowered her arms and, cupping her hands full of water against her throat, laved herself generously with the foamy torrent. She spread it across her shoulders, breasts, and thighs, and wrung it down through the dark rope of hair that lashed and clung as far as the delicate hollow of her back. Bending forward, she bathed supple legs and tapering feet, lifting and bracing them in turn against a stone outcrop to do so. Without warning, she turned and stepped out of the flow. Her gaze, sweeping the far side of the pond, settled at once on Conan.

The outlander did and said nothing. So thunderstruck was he by the discovery and the splendid female charms revealed to him that no other thought came into his mind. He forgot his perilous situation, his wounds, and the fact that he stood as naked as the woman; instead, he remained frozen in the timeless instant.

The woman, for her part, reacted similarly. She did not cry out, nor did her hands dart in false civilized modesty to cover particular parts of her body. In attitude she somewhat resembled a fawn surprised while feeding—glancing up, alert and expressionless, to determine whether the noise that had roused her represented any threat. Her dark eyes took in everything, clearly: Conan’s impressive physique and his unfamiliar, probably foreign-looking face. Then her gaze dropped to his midsection, unable to ignore the ragged, four-clawed wound furrowed from ribs to upper thigh. The look on her face remained one of cool appraisal, without fear or plea.

What broke their silence, it was hard to say. It might have been the sound of a branch cracking in the forest, which could signal the presence of other humans, or it may have been the unfolding of inevitable thoughts and doubts between the two. For whatever reason, Conan stepped forward out of the hanging poolside foliage, resettling his weight on the slimy pebbles of the stream bed. The woman moved similarly, stepping clear of the random spray from the cataract. Then abruptly she was running across the pond, her legs raising lacy cascades as they bore her off with deer-like swiftness.

Conan’s pursuit, as he lunged across the pool to intercept the woman, was instinctive. This rare prize—this creature of soul-wrenching beauty, a longed-for and long-dreaded link with others of his kind—could not be let go. He bounded after her—staggered into a deep channel, floundered, then waded clear—in pursuit of the strong, lithe flanks and delicate heels flying before him in the forest shade. His pain and fatigue were forgotten, so rich and heady were the blood-humours that coursed through his veins. He felt an exuberant, reckless energy, greater than hunt or battle could bring. She fled swiftly, on feet well-toughened to the barbs and chafes of the forest floor, yet such was Conan’s impulsive, feverish strength that he knew he would overtake her.

It was later—as the woman’s flashing soles grew dirt-stained, leading him up a loamy forest embankment—that reasons and justifications crept into his awareness, reasons vague and unformed, but imperative even so. The woman must have kin, after all, or a tribe or a nation; he must learn of them before they came seeking him... to slay, torment, or possibly devour him, as was the way of Picts and other wild folk he had known. He must catch and restrain her, somehow dissuade her from giving alarm to her kinsfolk. The fact that she ran in silence now was favourable, if it meant no others were in earshot.

How he might prevent her—what, precisely, he would do once his grasping fingertips closed on the lush flanks and velvet skin that raced and rebounded before him... once he dragged her to earth—those thoughts never took definite shape, but swirled and receded into a red, dim haze that began to drift before his eyes.

He was drawing close now. Once, where her foot slipped in the crook of a root just before him as she scaled a stony embankment, he reached out and touched the deft, firm curve of her ankle, which barely slid free of his fingers. At the top, as he laboured up after her with earth sliding loose under his bare soles, she turned and cast a wide-eyed look back at him. She was winded, gasping heavily with soft, reedy overtones to each breath, her full breasts heaving and undulating, her flesh dirt-streaked and sweat-sheened. Her face he found appealing; it was large-featured, a blend of northerly shape and dusky southern colouring. Amazingly, he saw in it no trace of fear.

Finding footholds, he swarmed up the embankment with an agility that must have surprised her. As she turned away, weaving through the low-hanging branches of a stand of oak, he followed close behind. At last he caught her scent; its musky fragrance wafted to him on the forest breeze, maddening him. With a raw surge of vitality, he bolted forward, lunging straight after her—and suddenly found himself staggering, his vision swimming, stunned as he was by a collision with the oaken elbow of a massive, leaf-screened tree limb.

The blow to his head smarted sharply, intensely, sending a trickle of blood to mingle with the tears blurring his eyes. Worse, the shock drained away his strength. Staggering forward half-blind, he stumbled on a knotted root and fell to his knees.

Before him, the woman—a pale, shapely blur in the forest dimness—stood gazing down where he knelt. She stepped nearer, raising one graceful foot from the carpet of dead leaves. Her kick swept high, smiting him on the jaw, and he passed from consciousness.

VII

The Healer

The gateway to the baronial keep of Urbander arched tall and jagged against mottled grey skies. Its dark-weathered heights were in the process of being topped with new, loftier bastions of lighter-hued stone. In spite of winter’s chill and the hard crust of snow that lay in the roof gutters and cobbled angles of the outer bailey, work was yet under way. From the battlements could be heard the shouts of foremen, the creak of frozen tackle, and the patient tap of chisels as stones were dressed and fitted into place.

Young witch Tamsin had never before been summoned to a provincial capital. Urbander, one of the northernmost cities of the Brythunian Empire, was strongly fortified against attack by the unruly warlords of the Border Kingdoms; it also flourished with trade and raiding spoils from those same exotic lands. Command of such a remote and vital outpost required a firm hand indeed. Along with it, as all Brythunians knew, came considerable autonomy and freedom from the supreme ruler, King Typhas in Sargossa.

“The baron will receive us at once, I do not doubt,” the armoured officer said as he alighted from the mud-spattered travel wain. Running to the door of the low-slung coach, he offered his hand to help the young woman down. “’Tis close upon noon. His Lordliness will likely have arisen from slumber following his nightly, ah, revel. This is the hour of day when he is usually most desirous of a healer’s care.”

“Yes, Sir Isembard.” Ignoring the grey-moustached officer’s hand, Tamsin alighted from the chariot in a single, girlish hop. As ever, she carried her conjuring-doll cradled in one arm. It rattled, and its many bright ornaments flashed and jingled with her swift movements. “Ninga will be most pleased to meet Baron Einholtz, as I shall be.” “He is in grave need of your ministrations,” Isembard assured her with an earnest nod. “His Lordliness has been... unfit for some time.” The lieutenant turned briskly to his duty. “Sergeant, assemble the baronial staff, and assign a few guards to keep this rabble clear of the doors.” His curt wave took in a crowd of peasants and city idlers who pressed in at the gate with considerable interest. They had gathered on the track of the mud-encrusted chariot that was rumoured to have carried the famed enchantress so many leagues across the broad empire.