Conan of Venarium

Granth son of Biemur looked out toward the woods beyond Fort Venarium. A dirt track led farther north, but the Aquilonian army had not taken it. Instead, Count Stercus seemed content to linger here and let the Cimmerians hurl themselves against his men if they would.

Whatever Granth hoped to see escaped his eyes. One tall, dark-needled tree merged with another until he wished for color, wished for motion, wished for anything but the endless forest stretching out and out to infinity.

Vulth looked out toward the woods, too. Granth's cousin realized that what he was not seeing might be there nonetheless. He said, "Mitra smite 'em, the Cimmerians could be hiding an army amongst those trees, and we'd never be the wiser till they rushed out howling like maniacs."

That made Granth cast another worried glance in the direction of the forest. After a moment, he realized he was foolish to peer ever to the north. Although that was the direction in which the Aquilonians had been going, the barbarians who dwelt in gloomy Cimmeria might as readily come at them from east or west or south.

A harsh chattering came from the woods. Granth's hand leaped to the hilt of the shortsword on his belt. "What was that?" he said.

"A bird," said Vulth.

"What kind of bird?" asked Granth. "I've never heard a bird that sounded like that before."

"Who knows?" said his cousin. "They have funny birds here, birds that won't live where it's warmer and sunnier. One of those."

"They have other things, too," said Granth. Vulth waved impatiently, as if to say he could not bother to worry about the Cimmerians. That angered Granth, who snapped, "If this was going to be an easy conquest, Count Stercus wouldn't have needed to bring an army into the north. He could have come by himself, and the barbarians would have run away before him."

Vulth looked back toward the camp. Stercus' silk pavilion towered over the other officers' shelters, which in turn dwarfed the canvas tents in which ordinary soldiers slept. "Count Stercus thinks he could have driven the barbarians away all by himself," said Vulth.

Before answering, Granth looked around for Nopel. Not seeing the sergeant, he said, "We all think a lot of things that aren't so. Half the time, for instance, I think you make sense." Vulth stuck his tongue out at him. Before either of them could say anything more, that chattering bird call again resounded from the woods. Granth peered in the direction from which the sound had come. Though he saw nothing untoward, he frowned. "And I don't think that's any natural bird."

"Where are the Cimmerians, then?" asked Vulth.

Granth shrugged. "I don't know, but we're liable to find out before very long."

Mordec slid forward through the forest with the speed and silence that marked the true barbarian. Not a single twig crackled under the soles of his boots; not a single branch swayed to mark his passage. He might have been a ghost in Crom's grim underworld for all he impinged on the world of the living. Nor was he the only Cimmerian gliding toward the invaders' encampment; far from it. The Aquilonians seemed unaware the woods around them swarmed with warriors.

From in back of the trunk of a fat spruce, Mordec loosed a bird call to let his fellow know where he was. Another Cimmerian answered him a moment later. He looked out from behind the trunk. Most of the soldiers who fought under the gold lion on black went about their business, oblivious to the calls. A handful of the enemy—mostly yellow-headed Gundermen who had some small store of woodscraft—looked up at the sounds, but even they seemed more curious than truly alarmed.

A soundless laugh passed Mordec's lips. Soon now, very soon, the Aquilonians would find reason to be alarmed. They had come into Cimmeria before, never yet learning the lesson of how unwelcome they were here. The blacksmith tightened his grip on the axe handle. They would have to find out once more, then.

More bird calls resounded, all around the encampment. Some of them said the Cimmerians were in position, others that the Aquilonian scouts and sentries were silenced. Mordec smiled grimly. The men in the clearing would get no warning before the attack.

Not far from Mordec, a clan chief raised a trumpet to his lips. The discordant blast he blew would have made any arrogant Aquilonian bugler double up with laughter. But the signal did not need to be beautiful. It only needed to be heard from one side of the clearing to the other, and heard it was.

Yelling like demons, the Cimmerians burst from concealment and thundered toward the enemy. Mordec swung up the axe. For most men, it would have been a two-handed weapon. The great-thewed blacksmithswung it effortlessly in one. That let him carry the shield as well.