John Maddox Roberts - Conan and the Amazon

400 Pages·2016·0.88 MB·English

by  Roberts John Maddox

Conan and the Amazon by John Maddox
Roberts
One
The town was called Leng. It lay in the hill country of eastern Brythunia, not
far from the borders of
Corinthia and Nemedia, at the convergence of two passes that allowed access
through the mountains to
the plains that lay to the east, west, and south. Once, much traffic had traversed
the mountains by way of
these passes and Leng had prospered. But trade routes had shifted, and for many
years the greater part
of the town had lain derelict: a place for the occasional caravan to camp within
waits to break the wind
that blew without cease among the hills. Herdsmen grazed their cattle and sheep
on pastures that had
once been the sumptuous gardens of the wealthy merchants of Leng.
But now the town was beginning to fill up once more. Along the passes, in
ones, twos, small bands
and occasionally larger groups, people converged upon the town from four
directions. Many were
mounted, some on horseback and others on camels. But some were on foot, and
among these, some
were chained neck-to-neck in slave coffles. Most of the new arrivals were men,
but there were women
among them as well.
It was late afternoon when a lone figure strode over the crest of a final hill and
looked down the
winding, dusty road into the town below. The red sun cast long shadows and
stained the western side of
the taller buildings a lurid crimson. The walls of Leng were low, constructed of
rough-hewn stone. Many
of the rugged blocks had toppled from the ramparts, leaving sizable gaps. The
massive gates had rotted
away and left the town wide open to any who wished to enter.
Most of the buildings that yet stood were close to the ground, but here and
there rose towers four
or five stories high, once the stronghouses of wealthy families. From several
spots, plumes of smoke
drifted into the clear sky. A few late travelers entered the walls even as the
watcher studied the city.
The man who stood atop the last slope was huge, with hard limbs and a
scarred torso bared to the
cutting breeze. He wore high, fur-topped boots and a breechclout of wolfhide.
Over his massive
shoulders was draped his only concession to the weather a short mantle of
shaggy goatskin. His wrists
and forearms were wrapped in bands of heavy, bronze-studded leather, and he
wore a matching belt
from which were suspended a long sword and a straight, broad-bladed dirk.
The wind whipped the traveler’s straight, black hair around his face, which
was angular, as scarred
as his body, and as deeply tanned. Only his burning, blue eyes moved as he
as his body, and as deeply tanned. Only his burning, blue eyes moved as he
looked over the town.
Nothing else about him shifted. Abruptly and decisively, he began to stride
toward Leng.
A hundred paces from the town, me black-haired man, who had come from
the north, fell in with a
small band of men approaching from the east They were well-armed and had a
predatory look, but they
offered him no challenge.
“Greeting, stranger,” said their leader, a man dressed in tunic and trousers of
padded silk. Both
garments and wearer had seen better days, but he carried himself with a
confident swagger. “I see that
yet another hard-pressed adventurer seeks the convivial delights of Leng!” The
speaker wore a drooping
mustache and his features were slightly eastern in cast, but his hair was brown
and his eyes were pale
green.
“I heard that a man without tribe or nation might sleep here of a night without
facing a dungeon or a
hanging in the morning,” the black-haired man said. “Other than that, the place
has little else to
recommend it that I can see.” He fell in to walk beside the other. “Is it in the east
as it has become in the
north?”
“So it would seem. I am Kye-Dee, of the Northeast Hyrkanians. Turtle Clan.
The new Kagan has
decreed an end to banditry and suppressed my clan, which has never sullied
decreed an end to banditry and suppressed my clan, which has never sullied
itself with degrading labor.
We heard of this place across the mountains where a man can be at ease,
whatever his past. I do not
care for towns, but winter comes on apace, and even a bandit must have shelter.”

“I am Conan of Cimmeria,” said the black-haired man. “I am a mercenary,
lately in the employ of a
Brythunian border lord. He raised a rebellion against his liege and he lost.” He
put out a hand and took
that of the Hyrkanian.
“Ah! That sort of thing can make a man unwelcome.” Kye-Dee shifted his
shoulder, readjusting the
hang of a cased bow and quiver. The sword at his belt was short and curved.
“So it did,” the Cimmerian affirmed. “Such of my comrades as survived were
hunted through the hills
like so many stags. It was in a hill village that I heard of this place. As you say,
winter draws nigh and
these mountains are not a good place to be when the north wind blows, unless
you have walls and a roof
and a fire nearby.”
Near the walls of the city they encountered animal pens roughly constructed
of sticks and brush
enclosing flocks of sheep, tittle herds of goats, cattle and pigs. Elsewhere,
peasants in tunics of hairy hide
guarded wicker cages overcrowded with chickens, ducks and geese.
“The local folk are taking advantage of the new population,” Conan said.
“Men who never saw
more than a few copper coins in their lives will be demanding silver and gold for
those animals.”
“Peasants always flock to the smell of profit,” said Kye-Dee. He spat
copiously upon the ground.
“You should see them come out of their hiding places after a battle, to strip and
rob the dead.”
“I’ve seen it many times,” Conan said grimly, “Only, they do not always wait
patiently for men to die.
They slaughter the wounded. If a man has no strength left to resist, they may not
bother to kill him, but
will cut off his fingers to get the rings, or his hand to take a bracelet, while he yet
lives.”
“They are two-legged swine!” said one of the other Hyrkanians.
Conan shrugged. “Well, they’ve little reason to love soldiers any more than
we love them.” He eyed
his new companions, many of whom limped as if their feet were sore. “I have
seldom seen men of your
nation afoot.” The Hyrkanians were a nomadic race of horsemen who were
horrified at the thought of
walking.
Kye-Dee smiled sheepishly. “We were set upon by the Kagan’s men a few
days ago as we slept
They got all our horses, but those of us you see escaped into the darkness. They
did not bother to hunt
us, since they assumed that we would die soon without our mounts.”
us, since they assumed that we would die soon without our mounts.”
“I, too, was riding until a few days ago,” Conan admitted. “A robber tried to
slay me from a
distance. He was a wretched archer and he missed me, but his arrow killed my
horse. I killed him, then I
cached my saddle, but I doubt I’ll ever return to get it”
They passed beneath the gateless lintel and entered the town of Leng. The
low, mud-colored walls
of the houses were of a dreary sameness, but the people in the streets were a
raffish lot seemingly drawn
from half the nations and races of the world. There were men in long, striped
desert robes, flowing
Nemedian silks, and even a few in the tight, elaborate clothing of Aquilonian
dandies. Conan saw
hard-looking traveling merchants and men who were obvious deserters from the
armies of surrounding
lands. There were women in the dress of Zamoran harlots, and other, less
fortunate woman destined for
the same trade, wearing the chains of slaves.
“A strange place,” Conan mused. “It is a ghost town sprung to life.”
“My friend!” Kye-Dee said, addressing a well-armed merchant who stood
guard over a stall
offering unguents, medicinal salves and remedies for man and horse. “Where
may weary travelers find
refreshment and a roof, and all of it somewhere out of this accursed wind?”
“I think men such as you will be served best at the Red Eagle,” said the man,
pointing toward one of
the towerlike bouses. One side of the structure had been painted with the huge,
crude image of a
splay-winged bird, its beak cruelly hooked.
“Why men such as we?” Conan asked.
The merchant grinned crookedly. “Because it is the favored hangout for
rogues and bandits. True,
there are few men of any other sort in this town, but the hardest cases go to the
Red Eagle. Achilea
herself holds forth there of a night.”
“Achilea!” Conan said, astonished. “Surely she is a thing of travelers’ tales,
not a real woman!”

“Oh, she is real,” Kye-Dee affirmed. “I saw her myself once, from a distance.
Men say she is very
beautiful, and very cruel.”
“This I must see for myself,” Conan said. “Let us go to the Red Eagle.”
As they walked, the Cimmerian called to mind the scattered words he had
heard concerning the
near-legendary Achilea. It was said that far in the northeast steppe country, there
dwelt a tribe of savage
women, every one of them a warrior, who would tolerate no men or male
children among them.
Infrequently, they would take male captives with whom they coupled for the
space of a month, then slew
in a horrific ceremony. Any male children born of these unions were given to
passing caravans or, some
said, were slain. Girls were brought up as warriors.
Once, it was said, the queen of these fearsome women was a woman named
Achilea. She had been
the terror of all the lands around, but her people had turned against her and she
was overthrown by a
rival. Why this had happened was a mystery, but she had ridden off with a few
followers and had
become an outlaw, raiding caravans, villages and even towns, all over the
steppes and well into the
settled lands. For years, Conan had assumed that she was one of those legends
one encountered
everywhere: always some bizarre, fearsome character whom no one had actually
seen, though everyone
had known somebody who had seen him. Or, in this case, her.
As they drew nearer to the tall building, the gathering darkness revealed lights
glowing in many of its
small windows. There was sufficient twilight left to see that it had been covered
with an improvised roof
of thatch. A well and several water-troughs stood before the building, and a
number of bones, mules,
asses and camels drank there or stood chewing their cud or nudging one another
in lethargic boredom.
Conan and his new companions ducked beneath the low lintel of the door and
entered. They
descended four steps and stood in the main room of the inn. Its heavy timbers
were low enough to brush
the crown of the tall Cimmerian’s black mane, and candles, small torches and
the crown of the tall Cimmerian’s black mane, and candles, small torches and
lanterns provided adequate
illumination. The furnishings were of the most varied son. There were some long
tables with benches,
smaller road or square tables surrounded by chairs, and low, drum-like tables for
those who preferred to
sit upon the straw-covered floor.
At one end of the room was a bar made of a heavy stone slab laid atop
massive blocks. Behind it
stood a man a little less massive, with tree-trunk arms and legs and a belly that
strained the limits of his
leather apron. His shaven pate was tattooed with brightly colored flowers, and an
upswept mustache
framed a broken nose gleaming with jeweled studs. Behind him, kegs, wineskins
and clay pots were
arranged on shelves amid flagons, clay cups and leather jacks.
The place was crowded, with men seated around every table. Dice raided in
cups, and the counters
of a half-score games of chance changed hands along with the wagers. To one
side, men cast daggers at
a crude wooden target. The drinkers seated just beneath the target ignored the
weapons whizzing over
their heads.
Most of the men paused in their activities to study the newcomers and then,
satisfied, returned to
their pursuits. At least one, though, seemed to be offended by Conan’s garb,
which was uncouth and
primitive even by the undiscriminating standards of the Red Eagle. As they
primitive even by the undiscriminating standards of the Red Eagle. As they
passed a long table, the man
leaned out and made an insulting show of studying the Cimmerian’s scanty hide
garments.
“Here’s a savage right out of the trees!” the fellow said loudly, “What will
you be allowing in here
next, barkeep? The goats and the asses?” He sneered, making his ugly face even
uglier. His scrubby
beard failed to hide the mark of the thief branded upon one cheek by a Zamoran
executioner.
“So he have money to pay, he can walk in here naked for all I care,” said the
man in the leather
apron.
Conan paused and turned to face the branded man. “If you do not like my
look,” he said, his voice
low and deadly, “then you may try to change it.” He leaned close, until his face
was within an inch of the
other man’s. That is the brand of a thief I see on your face. When the
Zamorans had you, they did not
bother to treat you as a manslayer.” The blue eyes burned like sulphur flames.
The man paled. Before, he had seen only the barbarous clothing. Now he saw
the sort of man who

wore it. “I … I’ll not sully my blade with the blood of a savage,” he blustered.
“You can use mine,” Kye-Dee said helpfully. He started to unhook his sheath
from his belt.