Conan the Defender (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 2)

“You, barbar. Will you try a fall, or has that northern cold frozen all the guts out of you?”

Conan’s face tightened. He became aware of Sularia’s gaze on him. The arrogance of a prideful man under the eyes of a beautiful woman spurred him. Unfastening his swordbelt, he handed it to Hordo. A murmur rose among the nobles; wagers began to be made.

“You’ve more courage than sense,” the one-eyed man grumbled. “What gain you, an you defeat him, except a powerful enemy?”

“He is my enemy already,” Conan replied, and added with a laugh, “One of them, at least.”

The Cimmerian pulled his tunic over his head and, dropping it to the ground, approached the circle of men. The nobles measured the breadth of his shoulders, and the odds changed. Vegentius, sure that the barbarian’s laughter had held some slur against him, waited with a snarl on his face. The soldiers moved back, widening the circle as Conan entered.

Abruptly Vegentius charged, arms outstretched to crush and destroy. Conan’s massive fist slammed into the side of his head, jarring him to a halt. Crouching slightly, the Cimmerian dug his other fist under the big soldier’s ribs, driving breath from him. Before Vegentius could recover Conan seized him by throat and belt, heaving him into the air, swinging the bulk of the man over his head to send him crashing to his back.

Awe grew in the eyes of the watching soldiers. Never had they seen Vegentius taken from his feet before. Among the nobles the odds changed again.

Conan waited, breathing easily, well balanced on his feet, while Vegentius staggered up, shock writ clear on his face. Then rage washed shock away.

“Barbar bastard!” the big soldier howled. “I spit on your mother’s unmarked grave!” And he swung a blow that would have felled any normal man.

But Conan’s face was painted now with rage, too. Eyes like icy, windswept death, too full of fury to allow thought of defense, he took the blow, and it rocked him to his heels. Yet in that same instant his fist splintered teeth in Vegentius’ mouth. For long moments the two huge men stood toe to toe, giving and absorbing blows which would have been enough to destroy an ordinary man.

Then Conan took a step forward. And Vegentius took a step back. Desperation came on the soldier’s face; on Conan’s eyes was the cold glint of destruction. Back the Cimmerian forced the other. Back, fists pounding relentlessly, toward the arcade where an ever-growing crowd of nobles watched, dignity forgotten as they yelled excitedly. Then, with a mighty blow, he sent the brawny man staggering.

Struggling to remain on his feet, Vegentius stumbled back, nobles parting before him until he stopped at last against the wall in the shadows of the arcade. Straining, he pushed himself erect, tottered forward and fell at the edge of the arcade. One leg moved as if some part of his brain still fought to rise, and then he was still.

Cheering soldiers surrounded Conan, unheeding of their fallen Commander. Smiling nobles, men and women alike, rushed forward, trying to touch him diffidently, as they might reach to stroke a tiger.

Conan heard none of their praise. In that brief instant when Vegentius had stood within the shadows of the arcade, he had remembered where he had seen the man before. He pushed free of the adulation and acclaim, gathering his tunic and returning to Hordo.

“Do you remember,” he asked the one-eyed man quietly, “what I told you of first seeing Taras, when I fell through the roof into his secret meeting, and the big man who stood in the shadows?”

Hordo’s eye darted to Vegentius, now being lifted by his soldiers. The nobles were drifting away. “Him?” he said incredulously.

Conan nodded, and the bearded man whistled sourly.

“Cimmerian, I say again that we should ride for Ophir, just as soon as we can assemble the company.”

“No, Hordo.” Conan’s eyes still held the icy grimness of the fight, and his face wore the look of a wolf on the hunt. “We have the enemy’s trail, now. It’s time to attack, not run.”

“Mitra!” Hordo breathed. “An you get me killed with this foolishness, I’ll haunt you. Attack?”

Before Conan could reply, a slave girl appeared, bending knee to the Cimmerian. “I am to bid you to King Garian with all haste.”

The one-eyed man stiffened.

“Be at ease,” Conan told him. “Was it my head the King sought, he’d not send a pretty set of ankles to fetch me.” The slave girl suddenly eyed him with interest.

“I trust no

one,” Hordo grumbled, “until we find out who wants you dead. Or until we leave Nemedia far behind.”

“I’ll tell you when it is time to ride for the border,” Conan laughed. “Lead on, girl.” She darted away, and the Cimmerian followed.

King Garian waited in a room hung with weapons and trophies of the chase, but his mind was not on the hunt. Scrolls and sheets of parchment littered the many tables that dotted the room, and even the floor. As Conan entered, Garian hurled a scroll across the room with a sound of disgust. The bruise on his cheek stood out against the angry flush of his countenance.

“Never ask to be a king, Conan,” were his first words.

Taken aback, Conan could only say, “And why not?”

Garian’s bluff face was a picture of loathing as he swept his arms about to indicate all of the scrolls and parchments. “Think you these are the plans for some grand campaign? Some magnificent ceremony to honor my father’s name and memory? Think you so?”