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

III

On the wide marble steps of the Temple of Mitra, a startled man dropped a cage of doves as the Free-Company made its way down the narrow, winding street. So surprised was he to see mounted and armed men in the Temple District that he watched them open-mouthed, not even noticing that his cage had broken and his intended sacrifices were beating aloft on white wings.

Hordo’s saddle creaked as he leaned forward and whispered fiercely to Conan. “This is madness! ’Twill be luck if we are not met atop the hill by the whole of the Golden Leopards!”

Conan shook his head without answering. He knew full well that approaching the Royal Palace unannounced with two score armed men was far from the proper way to appeal for entry into the King’s service. He knew, too, that there was no time for more usual methods, such as bribery, and that left only enlistment in the Nemedian army. Or this.

In truth, it was not the Golden Leopards who troubled him so much as the young rebels. Desperate, believing he had betrayed them or was on the way to do so, they might try almost anything. And these winding streets that climbed the hill to the Royal Palace were a prime place for ambush.

Those streets were a remnant of ancient times, for once in the dim past what would become the Royal Palace had been a hilltop fortress, about which a village had risen, a village which over the centuries had grown into Belverus. But long after the hilltop fortress had become the Royal Palace of Nemedia, long after the rude village huts had been replaced by columned temples of alabaster and marble and polished granite, the serpentine streets remained.

The Palace itself retained much of the fortress about it, although its battlements were now of lustrous white marble, and towers of porphyry and greenstone rose within. The portcullises were of iron beneath their gilt, and drawbridges spanned a drymoat bottomed with spikes. Round about it all a sward of grass, close cropped as if in a landscaped garden, yet holding not the smallest growth that might shelter a stealthy approach, separated the Palace from the Temple District that encircled the hill below.

At the edge of the greensward Conan halted the company. “Wait here,” he commanded.

“Gladly,” Hordo muttered.

Alone, Conan rode forward, his big black stallion prancing slightly. Two pikemen in golden cloaks guarded the drawbridge, and a man in the crested helmet of an officer stepped out from the barbican as the big Cimmerian drew rein.

“What seek you here?” the officer demanded. He eyed the rest of the Free-Company thoughtfully, but they were distant and few in number.

“I wish to enter my company in the service of King Garian,” Conan replied. “I have trained them in a method of fighting new to Nemedia, and to the western world.”

The officer smiled in mockery. “Never yet have I heard of a Free-Company without some supposedly secret art of war. What is yours?”

“I will demonstrate,” Conan said. “It is better in the showing.” Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief. His one real fear beyond reaching the Palace had been that they would not so much as listen.

“Very well,” the officer said slowly, eyeing the rest of the company once more. “You alone may enter and demonstrate. But be you warned, an this secret is something every recruit in the Nemedian army is taught, as are most Free-Company tricks, you will be stripped and flogged from the gates to the foot of the hill for the edification of your company.”

Conan touched boots to the big stallion’s flanks. The horse pranced forward a step; the pikemen leveled their weapons, and the officer looked wary. The Cimmerian allowed a cold smile to touch his mouth, but not his eyes. “’Tis nothing known to any Nemedian, though it may be taught to recruits.”

The officer’s mouth tightened at his tone. “I think others might like to see this, barbar.” He stuck his head back into the gatehouse and muttered an order.

A golden-cloaked soldie

r emerged, gave Conan an appraising glance, and sped into the Palace. As Conan rode through the gate following the officer, other soldiers appeared from the barbican, some following behind. The Cimmerian wondered if they came to watch, or to guard that he did not take the Palace single-handed.

The Outer Court was paved in flagstone, four hundred paces in each direction, and surrounded by arcaded walks to the height of four stories. Beyond those walks directly opposite the gate could be seen the towers that rose in the gardens of the Inner Court, and the Palace proper, wherein King Garian and his court lived.

The soldiers who had followed dropped back deferentially as a score of officers, led by one as large as Conan himself, appeared. The officer who had brought Conan in bowed as this big man came near.

“All honor to you, Commander Vegentius,” he said. “I hoped this barbar might provide some entertainment.”

“Yes, Tegha,” Vegentius said absently, his eye on Conan. And a strangely wary eye, the Cimmerian thought. Abruptly the big officer said, “You, barbar. Know I you, or you me?” His hand tightened on his sword as he spoke.

Conan shook his head. “I know you not, Commander.” Though, as he thought on it, this Vegentius did look familiar, but vaguely, as one seen but briefly. No matter, he thought. The memory would come, an it were important.

Vegentius seemed to relax as the Cimmerian spoke. Smiling vigorously, he said, “Let us have this demonstration. Tegha, get the barbar what he needs for it.”

“I need a straw butt,” Conan told the officer, “or some other mark.”

Laughter rose among the officers as Tegha chose out two soldiers to fetch a butt.

“Archery,” one of them laughed loudly. “I saw that bow at his saddle, but thought it for a child.”

“Mayhap he shoots it with one hand,” another replied.

Conan kept his silence as the comments grew more ribald, though his jaw tightened. Removing the short weapon from its lacquered saddle-case, he carefully checked the tension of the string.