could handle, and the woman was berating him for his sodden condition. In the midst of her scolding, he made a rude noise, laid his head on his forearms and went to sleep.
The woman pushed back her stool and, glancing boldly around the room, strolled over to Conan’s table, saying: “May I join you, Master Nial?”
“Certes,” said Conan. “What’s your trouble, lass?”
“You can see for yourself.” She jerked a thumb toward the somnolent Catigern. “He promised me a glorious evening, and what does he do but drink himself into a brutish stupor! I am sure that you, at least, would not fall asleep when came the time to pleasure your woman.” She smiled provocatively and settled the bodice of her dress until her bulging breasts almost burst from their scanty covering.
Conan raised his heavy eyebrows. “Oho!” he murmured in a voice thickening with desire. “If that be the pleasure you require, I’m your man! Just name the time and place.”
“Shortly, in my chambers upstairs. But let us drink a little first; and then you must pay my father’s tariff for my affections.” With a nod of her head she indicated the counter, behind which Bartakes stood.
Conan’s eyes grew wary. “How much does he demand?”
“Ten coppers. By the bye, you returned not to the inn after your first night here; did you then gain employment with the priests of Yezud?”
“Aye; I’m now the temple’s blacksmith,” answered Conan, digging into his purse and counting out coins. “As peaceful trades go, it is not bad—”
Conan left his sentence hanging. Captain Catigern had awakened, lurched to his feet, and now towered above the table at which Conan and Mandana sat. He roared:
“What are you doing with my girl, you oaf?”
Conan studied the speaker with narrowed eyes, gauging the degree of the captain’s insobriety. “You can go to hell, Captain,” he said evenly. “The wench sought me out of her own free will, whilst you lay snoring in a stupor.” He picked up his mug and took a lingering sip.
“Insolent puppy!” shouted Catigern, aiming a backhanded blow at Conan’s face. The knuckles of the Brythunian’s open hand struck Conan’s upraised forearm, splashing his wine. With deliberation, Conan set down the mug, rose as lithely as a jungle cat, and shot his left fist into Catigern’s face. The captain’s head snapped back; he staggered and fell heavily. The blow would have deprived an ordinary man of consciousness, if it did not do him more substantial damage; but Catigern was an unusually large and powerful man. Hence he was up again in an instant, lugging out his sword.
“I’ll carve out your liver and feed it to my dogs!” he snarled, rushing at Conan.
Ignoring a shouted plea from the taverner, Conan met Catigern halfway with his drawn Turanian scimitar, and their clanging blades flashed in the yellow lamplight. Several patrons ducked beneath their tables as the two large men circled, slashing and parrying. The ring of steel upon steel, mingled with the shouts of excited spectators, echoed like a demoniac uproar upon the evening air.
After the first whirlwind exchange of cuts and parries, when Captain Catigern had begun to pant for breath, he changed his tactics. His sword, like most of those used in the West, was straight, whereas Conan’s scimitar, heavier than most Turanian blades, was curved like a crescent moon, and therefore useless for thrusting. Now the Brythunian, instead of trading cuts, began to aim swift, deadly thrusts between his hasty parries.
While Conan had ofttimes handled Western swords before coming to Turan, for the past two years all his training and practice had been with the curving saber. Thrice, only his pantherlike agility, combined with desperate parries, saved him from being spitted on Catigern’s fine-honed blade. One thrust, like the strike of a serpent, ripped Conan’s tunic and scored a bloody scratch across his shoulder.
The Brythunian, he realized, was an
The woman pushed back her stool and, glancing boldly around the room, strolled over to Conan’s table, saying: “May I join you, Master Nial?”
“Certes,” said Conan. “What’s your trouble, lass?”
“You can see for yourself.” She jerked a thumb toward the somnolent Catigern. “He promised me a glorious evening, and what does he do but drink himself into a brutish stupor! I am sure that you, at least, would not fall asleep when came the time to pleasure your woman.” She smiled provocatively and settled the bodice of her dress until her bulging breasts almost burst from their scanty covering.
Conan raised his heavy eyebrows. “Oho!” he murmured in a voice thickening with desire. “If that be the pleasure you require, I’m your man! Just name the time and place.”
“Shortly, in my chambers upstairs. But let us drink a little first; and then you must pay my father’s tariff for my affections.” With a nod of her head she indicated the counter, behind which Bartakes stood.
Conan’s eyes grew wary. “How much does he demand?”
“Ten coppers. By the bye, you returned not to the inn after your first night here; did you then gain employment with the priests of Yezud?”
“Aye; I’m now the temple’s blacksmith,” answered Conan, digging into his purse and counting out coins. “As peaceful trades go, it is not bad—”
Conan left his sentence hanging. Captain Catigern had awakened, lurched to his feet, and now towered above the table at which Conan and Mandana sat. He roared:
“What are you doing with my girl, you oaf?”
Conan studied the speaker with narrowed eyes, gauging the degree of the captain’s insobriety. “You can go to hell, Captain,” he said evenly. “The wench sought me out of her own free will, whilst you lay snoring in a stupor.” He picked up his mug and took a lingering sip.
“Insolent puppy!” shouted Catigern, aiming a backhanded blow at Conan’s face. The knuckles of the Brythunian’s open hand struck Conan’s upraised forearm, splashing his wine. With deliberation, Conan set down the mug, rose as lithely as a jungle cat, and shot his left fist into Catigern’s face. The captain’s head snapped back; he staggered and fell heavily. The blow would have deprived an ordinary man of consciousness, if it did not do him more substantial damage; but Catigern was an unusually large and powerful man. Hence he was up again in an instant, lugging out his sword.
“I’ll carve out your liver and feed it to my dogs!” he snarled, rushing at Conan.
Ignoring a shouted plea from the taverner, Conan met Catigern halfway with his drawn Turanian scimitar, and their clanging blades flashed in the yellow lamplight. Several patrons ducked beneath their tables as the two large men circled, slashing and parrying. The ring of steel upon steel, mingled with the shouts of excited spectators, echoed like a demoniac uproar upon the evening air.
After the first whirlwind exchange of cuts and parries, when Captain Catigern had begun to pant for breath, he changed his tactics. His sword, like most of those used in the West, was straight, whereas Conan’s scimitar, heavier than most Turanian blades, was curved like a crescent moon, and therefore useless for thrusting. Now the Brythunian, instead of trading cuts, began to aim swift, deadly thrusts between his hasty parries.
While Conan had ofttimes handled Western swords before coming to Turan, for the past two years all his training and practice had been with the curving saber. Thrice, only his pantherlike agility, combined with desperate parries, saved him from being spitted on Catigern’s fine-honed blade. One thrust, like the strike of a serpent, ripped Conan’s tunic and scored a bloody scratch across his shoulder.
The Brythunian, he realized, was an
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