Conan the Hunter Part 21

"Where in Zandru's Nine h.e.l.ls did me serving wenches go? I turn me back for a span or two and they go, without so much as a 'by your leave'!"

Cursing, he haphazardly dipped tankards into ale barrels at a frenzied pace, setting them on the long, narrow table.

Patrons s.n.a.t.c.hed up the tankards just as quickly as he put them down, leaving coins on the table. Without bothering to count these or to make change, the gruff Turanian barkeep scooped up the bits of copper and silver, dropping them deftly into his capacious belt purse. A continuous stream of oaths poured forth from him as he moved up and down the length of the table. When he finally caught up with the demand, he mopped his sweat-soaked face with his ap.r.o.n and sauntered back over to Kailash.

The hillman took a deep pull from his tankard. "Busy night," he noted, then wiped foam from his moustache.

"Aye. Too busy. I've a mind to close early. Many years have pa.s.sed since we last shared a barrel of ale. What say that you-both of you-join me?"

"Not tonight, my friend. The years have taught me that there are better places to pa.s.s the night than the floor of a tavern. Soon my companions and I must find rooms to retire to."

"Companions?" Malgoresh's eyes settled on Madesus. The priest's cloak covered his religious garb, but the Turanian's shrewd gaze took in a few conspicuous details: no weapons-not even a dagger-and simple, travel-worn garments. Yet the, man had not the look of a merchant or a n.o.ble. The Turanian's instincts told him that this was some sort of sorcerer, or maybe a priest. Shaking his head, Malgoresh gave Kailash a dubious look. The Kezankian hefted his tankard and took another pull from it.

"This is Madesus, a-" the hillman paused, catching himself "-er, a friend from Corinthia," he added lamely.

Madesus extended his hand to the barkeep, who took it and shook it vigorously. Madesus felt the bones in his hand grate together under the power of the Turanian's grip. He fought the urge to wring his numbed fingers when the barkeep let go. "Well met, Malgoresh," he managed. "We are grateful for your hospitality."

"Think nothing of it." The bald barkeep shrugged and turned to fill another tankard with ale. He set this down in front of the priest, who eyed it as if it were a fanged serpent, Malgoresh pretended not to notice this, but he was now convinced that Madesus was not just an ordinary traveler. "Kailash and I fought side by side in more than one border campaign. Why, our last campaign together seems like only days ago. There were but twenty of us, traveling along the southern banks of the Yellow River, when we were ambushed by that slave-raiding Nemedian b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Nekator. His numbers were thrice our own, and half our lads were cut down before we knew what had befallen us. That was a battle, by Hanuman's woolly member! The water turned red and-"

Malgoresh's tale was rudely interrupted by the arrival of a dirt-smeared lout, whose breath stank like a slaughterhouse on a hot summer day. He swayed unsteadily against the table, shoving in between Madesus and Conan. Snuffling noisily, he broke wind loudly enough for the sound to carry over Malgoresh's voice. "Ale! Blast you, ale!" The boisterous lout slammed his empty tankard down forcefully, planting it squarely on the fingers of Conan's left hand.

Conan pulled his hand back and growled in annoyance, elbowing the besotted patron in the gut. Madesus noted with despair that it was the same buffoon who had accosted him earlier.

"Ooomph!" the sodden cretin gasped as Conan's elbow drove into his side. He staggered backward, nearly falling, but recovered his shaky balance with a superhuman effort. Snarling in drunken rage, he aimed a blow at Conan's head with his tankard. The Cimmerian easily blocked the attack with one arm, and rammed an iron-hard fist into the man's pockmarked face. Howling through his shattered jawbone, the drunkard was propelled backward from the force of the blow. Before he sank to the floor, the troublemaker pitched his tankard in Conan's direction.

Through a cruel twist of fate, the haphazardly thrown missile sailed straight toward the barbarian's face. Conan ducked to one side, putting a hand up to bat the tankard to the floor. The heavy iron vessel flew past his outstretched hand and crashed solidly into Kailash's forehead.

The hillman remained conscious long enough to wish he had left his helmet on. Dazed by the bone-crus.h.i.+ng impact, he lurched against the table, then dropped to the floor like a felled ox.

Angered that his friend had been struck, but wary that a brawl was brewing, Malgoresh yelled desperately at the two men. "Stop! Stop, I say! If fight ye must, then fight outside!"

Unfortunately, the Turanian's words fell on deaf and drunk ears. Conan balled his hands into tight fists and drove them into his stunned opponent's ribs. The unmistakable sound of breaking bones was followed by earsplitting curses. Spitting out a few fragments of b.l.o.o.d.y teeth, the man yelled for help through his broken jaw. "Kulg! Wenak!" he wailed, sinking to the floor and retching noisily, his hands drawn up over his smashed rib cage.

At a table nearby, two heads turned. As the commotion spread through the crowd, conversations died down and a strange quiet settled in.

Kulg, a hulking brute of a man, looked up from his ale cup. He bore a strong resemblance to the injured Vansa, writhing on the floor before Conan, but was much larger and uglier than his brother. He was so hairy that many jests were made-behind his back, of course-about his probable ancestry. His s.h.a.ggy black beard crept up his face and nearly covered his cheeks. Bushy eyebrows stuck out from below the thick ridges of his sloping forehead, and coa.r.s.e hair sprouted from the neck of his ragged, ill-fitting tunic. Even compared to his brother, Kulg was not very bright. He was, however, quickly enraged by the sight of his kin on the floor, spewing blood and twitching in agony.

Beside him, Wenak slid a small, well-honed knife out of its sheath and palmed it. Wenak was nothing like his older brothers; he was small, mean, and cowardly. Keeping his eyes on Conan, he readied his throwing knife and waited for the Cimmerian to turn his back.

Kulg's tactics were much more direct. Growling in b.e.s.t.i.a.l fury, he raised his immense bulk from the groaning bench that had borne his weight. Holding his hairy, long-nailed fingers out, he rushed straight at Conan.

As a veteran of many tavern fights, the barbarian reacted instinctively, sidestepping the s.h.a.ggy giant and tripping him as he lumbered past. Kulg collided with the high table and proved to be more than a match for the heavy wood. The table flipped over, toppling Malgoresh and sending ale and tankards flying. The flailing Turanian groaned in dismay as he landed on the floor, pinned beneath the table.

Madesus, upset by the turn of events but powerless to stop them, moved around to examine the dent in Kailash's head.

Turning, Conan grabbed one of Kulg's treelike arms and twisted it behind the big man's back, in the same motion, he kicked the back of Kulg's knee and drove him to the taproom floor. Both men landed on the table, bringing another groan from Malgoresh, who bore the brunt of the impact. Wenak, seeing a chance to bury his s.h.i.+v in Conan's unprotected back, drew his hand back in a smooth, well-practiced motion.

Madesus caught the glint of steel as Wenak made ready to throw the knife. "Conan! Behind you!" he gasped, jumping toward Wenak desperately, hoping to spoil his aim.

Wenak hesitated for a moment, nearly deciding to cast his knife at this onrus.h.i.+ng green-cloaked stranger. Instead, he hastily threw it at Conan, then turned nimbly to make an escape.

The Cimmerian heard Madesus's warning cry, but had no way to roll out of the knife's path. Wenak's throw was high; the weapon sailed through the air several feet above Conan and sank into one of Malgoresh's empty ale barrels. With renewed fury, Conan grabbed the back of Kulg's head and pounded the man's hairy face repeatedly into the bottom of the wooden table.

A helpful patron stuck his foot out as the fleeing Wenak ran by, sending him flying into a table. Wenak rolled off and crawled underneath. The table's annoyed occupants chose to blame the loss of their ale on the patrons of a nearby table. Within moments, the fighting spread through the taproom like a brushfire through a dry prairie.

Sixteen.

Departure ---------.

Lamici reached Innasfaln about an hour after Conan, Madesus, and Kailash had arrived. The eunuch cautiously approached the village, leading his horse to the tavern at the center. Many years had pa.s.sed since he had traveled this far from the city, and never had he traveled so far alone. His bones ached and he was miserably cold, but not once did his determination wane. Now more than ever, he was bent to the singular purpose of vengeance.

The eunuch's cadaverous appearance would have shocked those at the palace who knew him. His gaunt, haggard face had the look of a man twenty years older. His eyes, normally cool and placid, were fervent and bloodshot. The skin beneath them was dark and sagging, as if Lamici had not slept for several days. Nevertheless, the same obsession that had driven him to this state gave him the energy to go on. He had ceased to think of his own future, or of any future beyond the death of those who had shattered his lifelong dreams.

They were here. He could see their horses tied to a rail out side the tavern. A terrific racket issued from the building's crude doorway.

Alarmed, Lamici circled to the back of the structure, las.h.i.+ng his horse to a nearby tree. He listened carefully, trying to pick out the voices of his quarry. All he could hear were the mixed sounds of wood breaking and men shouting. He pulled his hood down over his face as far as it would go, warily approaching the tavern's doorway.

Lamici entered, and his fears of being noticed proved unfounded. The taproom was a frenzied melee of punching, kicking, and shouting bodies.

He veered around a pair of drunken clods who were cheerfully pulping each other, and stopped in a less chaotic corner. From this vantage point, he scanned the large room, hoping for a glimpse of his prey.

At the opposite side of the room, less than thirty feet away, he saw Conan. The barbarian was struggling with some hairy, ape-like brute who was even taller than the Cimmerian. He could not see Madesus or Kailash. Trusting to his disguise, he inched along the wall, closer to the barbarian. A flying iron goblet clanged off the wall before him, and he was forced to step over a few bodies that had been rendered senseless during the brawling. He guessed that there were over two-score combatants slugging it out in the small taproom. The ruckus afforded him perfect cover. No one noticed him as he moved closer and closer to the back of the room, where Conan and Kulg still struggled.

The Cimmerian was amazed that Kulg was conscious. He had beaten the man's head into the bench, slammed him into the stone wall, and had probably broken one of the hairy giant's arms. In spite of this abuse, the tenacious Kulg kept getting up and charging the barbarian head-on.

As Kulg rushed at him again, Conan braced himself for the bone-jarring impact. If the stubborn ape would not lie down after this exchange, Conan would have to draw his sword and take sterner measures.

As Kulg reached out for him, Conan twisted aside and prepared to send his a.s.sailant flying. At that instant, he felt a tug at his ankle, and his balance was spoiled. Vansa had managed to stop retching and clutching his broken ribs long enough to grab hold of Conan's leg. The Cimmerian kicked at the interfering hand, dislodging it as Kulg plowed into him. Grunting, Conan toppled over and soaked up Kulg's crus.h.i.+ng weight. Enraged, the Cimmerian groped futilely for his sword.

Only a few paces away, Madesus was trying unsuccessfully to revive Kailash. The iron tankard had dug an ugly groove in the hillman's tough skull, and blood still oozed from a flap of skin that had been torn from Kailash's forehead. The priest was cursing himself for not having tried harder to keep his two companions out of this place. He had been against the dalliance from the start.

With a sigh, Madesus fished around in his s.p.a.cious leather pouch and extracted a small clay jar of ointment. He daubed the balm generously on the ugly gash to stop the bleeding. Probing the wound gently, his skilled fingers found a crescent-shaped break in the hillman's skull.

This wound would be much more difficult to tend; to save Kailash, he would have to use the amulet. "Malgores.h.!.+" he shouted to the Turanian, who was still freeing himself from the wreckage of a table.

"How bad is he?" the panting barkeep asked as he crawled over the table to the priest.

"He lives, but we must carefully move him to a safer place, where I can mend his cracked skull."

Together, they slowly pulled the hillman to the back corner of the taproom. Madesus drew forth his amulet, s.h.i.+elding it from all in the room but Malgoresh. The Turanian's eyes widened.

"Tell no one what you have seen," the priest cautioned.

Malgoresh licked his lips and got to his feet. "Nary a word, I swear by the hair on Hanuman's-"

"Watch me no more! Try to stop the fighting, while your tavern still stands." Madesus turned away and laid one palm on the Kezankian's gore-smeared brow. In his other hand, he held the amulet. Closing his eyes, he began the chant of healing.

Malgoresh limped over to Conan and Kulg. His legs throbbed painfully where the table had struck them. He saw that Kulg had trapped the Cimmerian with his vast bulk and was smothering the breath out of him.

Malgoresh selected a heavy plank from a ruined table, which he used to bludgeon the back of Kulg's hirsute head.

His swing whacked solidly against the base of Kulg's granite-hard skull. The dense oak board made a booming thud as it struck, but Kulg did not even flinch. Eyes agog in disbelief, Malgoresh swung the thick plank again, bearing down with all his strength. This time Kulg let out a deep growl and stopped throttling Conan long enough to rub the back of his bruised head.

Gasping for breath, the Cimmerian wasted no time in squirming out from under the giant's deadly clutches. He kneed the stubborn Kulg in the forehead, while Malgoresh brought his wooden maul down hard on the man's spine. Kulg, reeling from the abuse, got slowly to his knees, trying to focus his badly blurred vision. Malgoresh aimed another blow at him, but the wounded giant somehow managed to put his good arm out and catch the end of the plank in his hand. He yanked on it, trying to wrest it from Malgoresh's grasp. The Turanian hung on tightly, but got only a handful of splinters for his trouble.