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

Albanus thrust the man aside and strode down the hall. He had every detail planned. Had the soldier contrived to foul some part of the scheme, he would geld him with his own hand.

Vegentius was in the columned entry hall, pacing, his face beaded with sweat. He began to speak as soon as Albanus appeared.

“Conan. The barbar who fought Melius and took his sword after. He whom Leucas named part of Sephana’s plot. Now one of that name has caught Garian’s eye, and taken service with him. And I recognize him; it is he who broke into our meeting with Taras. Four times has he tangled himself in our planning, Albanus, and I like it not. I like it not. ’Tis an ill omen.”

“Do the gods join in my affairs?” Albanus whispered, not realizing that he spoke. “Do they think to contend with me?” Louder, he said, “Speak not of ill omens. This very morning a soothsayer told me that I would wear the Dragon Crown at my death. I had him slain, of course, to still his tongue. With such a prophecy of success, what omen can one barbarian be?”

The square-faced soldier bared a handspan of his blade. “Easily could I slay him. He is alone in the Palace, with none to guard his back.”

“Fool!” Albanus grated. “A murder within the Palace, and Garian will think strongly to his safety. We do not need him on his guard.”

Vegentius sneered. “His safety lies in my hand. One in three of the Golden Leopards answers to me, not to the Dragon Throne.”

“And two in three do not. Nor does any part of my plan call for blades to be drawn within the walls of the Palace. I must be seen to save Nemedia from armed rabble rising in the streets.”

“Then he is to live?” Vegentius blurted incredulously.

“Nay, he dies.” Could this Conan be some weapon of the gods, lifted against him? No. He was destined to wear the Dragon Crown. He was born to be a king, and, with the power of the blue sphere, a living god. “Taras has been so commanded,” he continued. “But make it known to him that the man must die well away from the Palace, in some place where his death may be placed to a drunken brawl.”

“Taras seems to have vanished, Albanus.”

“Then find him!” the cruel-eyed lord snapped irritably. “And remember, within the Palace walls let this barbarian be watched but inviolate. When he ventures out, slay him!”

IV

Steel rang in the small courtyard as Conan blocked the descending blade and smoothly moved back to a guard position. Sweat oiled his massive chest, but his breathing was controlled, his eye firm, his blade steady.

Garian circled to his left about the big Cimmerian. He also was stripped to the waist, and but slightly smaller, though his muscles were covered by the fat of recent inactivity. Sweat rolled down his sloping shoulders, and his blade wavered, if but a hair’s breadth.

“You are good, barbar,” the king panted.

Conan said nothing, moving only enough to keep his face to the other man. Fighting, even in practice, was not the time to talk.

“But you say little,” the king continued, and as he spoke his sword darted for the Cimmerian’s middle.

Conan barely moved. His mighty wrists pivoted, his blade arced down to clash against the king’s, carrying it safely to one side. Instead of forcing taking the other’s blade further out of line, as was the favored tactic, Conan dropped suddenly, squatting on his right leg with his left extended to the side. His steel slid off the other blade, swung forward and stopped as it touched Garian’s stomach. Before the startled king could react, Conan flowed back to his feet and to guard.

A disgusted expression on his face, Garian stepped back. “’Tis enough for today,” he said grimly, and strode away.

Conan picked up his tunic and began to wipe the sweat from his chest.

When Garian had disappeared through the arched courtyard gate, Hord

o stepped out from the shadows beneath a balcony, shaking his shaggy head. “Tis well he knew not that I was here, Cimmerian, else we both might find ourselves in the dungeons beneath these stones. But then, kings dislike being bested, even when there are no others to see.”

“Did I accept defeat in practice, then soon defeat would find me when it was not practice.”

“But still, man, could you not hold back a little? He is a king, after all. No need for us to be dismissed before we get as much of his gold as we can.”

“I know no other way to fight, Hordo, save to win. How fare the men?”

“Well,” Hordo replied, seating himself on a coping stone. “’Tis an easy life, drinking and wenching away their gold.”

Conan pulled his tunic over his head and scabbarded his sword. “Have you seen any sign that Ariane and the others are ready to call their people into the streets?”

“Not a whisper,” the one-eyed man sighed. “Conan, I do not say betray them—Kerin’s shade would haunt me, an I did—but could we not at least say to Garian that we have heard talk of uprising? He’d give us much gold for such a warning, and there’d be no rising were he on his guard. I like not to think of Kerin and Ariane dying in the gutters, but so they will an they rise. I … I could not ride against them, Cimmerian.”

“Nor I, Hordo. But rise they will, if Garian is on his guard or no, or I misread the fire in Ariane. To stop them we must find who uses them. That man who met with Taras could tell me much.”