Conan of Venarium

Only after he had spoken did he wonder how wise he was to revile a fiery young barbarian with a bow in his hands, especially when the boy had already shown a regrettable talent for archery. Conan studied him watchfully. "You not afraid?" he asked at last.

"Afraid? Hell, no!" said Melcer. "What I am is furious. You come down here and I will wallop you. You deserve it, too."

To his surprise, Conan nodded to him, a nod that was almost a bow. "You brave man," said the Cimmerian. "I not play games with you no more." His voice remained a boy's treble, but it held a man's conviction. Melcer believed him without reservation. Then the barbarian added. "Not shoot at you till war time."

Before Melcer could find an answer to that, Conan ducked behind the pine once more. He did not come out. He said nothing further. The farmer did not see him move deeper into the woods, but at last decided that was what he must have done. Melcer wished he could match the boy in woodcraft.

Shaking his head, the Gunderman went back to the placidly waiting ox. He broke off the arrow's shaft close to the tree trunk. Then he had another thought, and used his knife to dig out the iron arrowhead. How far it had penetrated surprised him anew; Conan might be a beardless boy, but he boasted a man's strength. Melcer put the arrowhead in his belt pouch. It was one, at least, that Conan would not shoot at him in war.

Melcer picked up the lead rope he had dropped. "Come on!" he told the ox. They walked on toward his farm.

Duthil had never boasted a tavern. No one could make a living selling ale there, not when so many families did their own brewing. When the villagers wanted to hash out the way things wagged in the world over a few mugs of amber ale, they gathered at the home of one man or another.

Mordec put down his hammer after finishing work on a stout iron hinge. He left the shop at the front of his own house, slogged through the snow between the door and the street, and walked along until he came to Balarg's home. No Aquilonian soldiers were anywhere in the village. Since the blizzards started rolling in every week or so, the men from the south had been content, even eager, to stay in their own encampment. To them, this was dreadful weather. Mordec chuckled grimly. To him, it was only another winter, worse than some but milder than a good many others.

He knocked at Balarg's door. The weaver opened it. "Come in, come in," he said. "Don't let the heat from the hearth leak out."

"I thank you," answered Mordec. Balarg made haste to shut the door behind him. The two men were careful around each other. Mordec, the stronger of the two, was clever enough to realize Balarg was more clever. And Balarg, for his part, was clever enough to understand not everything in Duthil yielded to cleverness; sometimes — often — straightforward smashing best solved a problem.

"Ale?" asked the weaver.

"Don't mind if I do," said Mordec. Balarg waved to the pitcher and mugs set up on a table by his loom. Mordec filled a mug, took a strip of smoked meat from a tray by the pitcher, and perched on a stool not far from the fireplace. Along with Balarg, four other men sat in the chamber: three villagers and a stranger, a rugged man whose checked breeks were woven in a pattern worn by a northern clan. After a sip from the mug, the blacksmith asked. "Anyone else coming?"

"I invited Nectan," answered Balarg. "Whether he'll come — He shrugged. So did Mordec. Nectan was a shepherd, and stayed out with his sheep in all weather unless he could find someone to watch them while he left the flock.

Mordec's gaze slipped to the man who did not come from the village. "And our friend is—?"

Before Balarg could answer, the stranger spoke for himself: "My name is Herth." His voice was almost as deep as Mordec's. "I come from Garvard, up near the border with the AEsir."

Slowly, deliberately, Mordec took his measure. "You are a chieftain there, or I miss my guess," he said, and Herth did not deny it. After another pull at his ale, Mordec said, "It's a long way from Garvard to Duthil. What are you doing here?"

"Now, Mordec," said Balarg.

"It's all right," said Herth, but, before he could say anything more, another knock resounded.

Balarg opened the door. "Nectan!" he exclaimed. "I thought we'd have to do without you. Who's minding the flock?"

"Why, the blacksmith's son." Nectan pointed toward Mordec.

"Is he?" said Mordec. "Just as well, by Crom. Otherwise, Conan would insist on being here."

"Yes, so he would." Balarg's voice had an edge to it, though one so slight that Mordec thought he was the only man in the room who caught it. The weaver must have noticed the way Conan looked at his daughter. One of these days, he and Mordec would have to sit down and decide what would spring from that—if Conan didn't take matters into his own hands by running off with the girl.