The sword-bearing priest shook his gray-sprinkled head in regret. "A shame that Lady Calissa is a woman . . . and mad, to boot. She was once a voice of moderation in the court. But then, none could expect her to countenance the murder of her kin. Now, methinks, she cannot even safely be put to death." He looked around at the others, who showed melancholy interest. "She will have to be kept under close guard all her days, or at least until our holy exorcists can deal with the Einharson curse."

In the somber silence that followed, the black-bearded rebel spoke up. "If we mean to create a baron, 'twould be best to use some youthful heir, who could easily be controlled. Or else one so old and feeble that he has no ambition left."

"But don't you see, there is no need to look so far!" Lothian rose from his chair impatiently. "We have here the perfect heir. We have Lord Favian himself!"

"Favian is dead, Counselor," black-beard said, "in case your eyesight has failed you. He lies glued to the floor of his chamber in his own clotting blood. As for this look-alike you have rigged out. . . well, he has shown himself a right-hearted sort by killing Baldomer and throwing in with us. But we of the Reform Council saw through your ruse long ago."

"Aye, to your credit." Lothian stroked his gray beard, his eyes twinkling. "And yet Conan is perfect for our shared purpose. Those who know of his imposture could, perhaps, be sworn to silence. It can be held forth that the bodyguard died instead of the n.o.ble. The outlander would then command the loyalty of the majority of subjects, those who blindly follow their traditional leader. He is a good lad at heart, and has had the benefit of my tutorship."

"But would the people of Dinander kneel to Favian as a patricide?" The rebel priest's brows were knit in earnest moral concern. "One of our goals in seizing power was to put behind us the b.l.o.o.d.y irregularities of the Einharson lineage."

"So you see, it is little more than traditional," Durwald a.s.sured him with a courtly flourish of his gauntleted hand. "Likely this slaying is the one break with the past that will allow the people to tolerate another Einharson warlord."

"Yes, truly, it might not be hard to pa.s.s him off as baron!" The yellow-haired youth stepped forward, rattling his sheathed sword in enthusiasm. "There would be no danger of the barbarian gaining real power. Just parade him now and again before the mob and keep him from blurting out anything in his pebble-mouthed northern accent. He will be baron to them, lackey to us!"

"Watch your jabbering mouth, dog!" Conan squared off on the rebel, who grew abruptly pale and still. "I am no one's lackey, and I like not the notion of playing puppet to such as you." He glared around the company. "If I continue this mummery, it will be on my own terms!"

"Of course, Conan, of course." Durwald laid a hand on the northerner's shoulder, smiling to counter his ill-humored gaze. "We shall see to it that you are paid handsomely and furnished with a comfortable style of living. There may even be a few petty military functions you can direct, to keep up a believable front You need not worry about matters of state; we court counselors will bear the full burden of those."

"Under the direction of the Reform Council, you mean," the black-bearded rebel said warningly, echoed by murmurs from his fellows.

"Yes, yes, we can work all that out." Durwald breezily waved him to silence. "Believe me, we of the court are as glad to be free of Baldomer and his vile monkey, Svoretta, as you are. His unmanageable offspring, too! As long as the legitimate interests of the n.o.ble houses are recognized, lords and commoners can flourish together from this moment, and Dinander can look to a happy future."

CHAPTER 12.

Milord Barbarian

A lance of sunlight fell through a gap in the curtains, causing stray dust motes to sparkle in the gloom of the chamber. Blazoning the great bed's rumpled satin covers, the narrow ray angled across Conan's face like a saber-slash, its brightness smiting his groggy brain with all the pain of a sword-stroke.

The sleeper, muttering faintly, stirred and tried to turn aside out of the light. When he rolled the wrong way, his legs slipped down the side of the spongy mattress, entangling with his bedclothes and the sheathed sword, which lay beside him as intimately as a wife. Groping blindly for balance, he flung out a heavy arm and toppled a low bedside table, sending its' array of half-drained cups and flasks clattering to the floor.

Moaning in fresh discomfort at the piercing sounds, Conan hauled himself upright on the edge of the bed. He blinked into the sunshot dimness around him, slowly coming to recognize his surroundings.

The room was the bedchamber of the late Baron Baldomer. High and broad, it was well-befitting to lordly dignity, although Conan foresaw that it would prove drafty and chill in winter. Having turned and beaten the great mattress himself, he had ordered the bed's heavy canopies hauled out and burned in hopes of ridding the place of any lingering sour humors. Even so, in spite of all his efforts, the lavish apartment exerted a baleful influence on Conan's nature.

Suddenly there came a brisk rapping at the door. Staggering to his feet, naked but for his cotton underkilt, Conan hastened across the stained parquetry to undo the bolt. When the portal swung wide, a harsh but good-natured bellow greeted him.

"Well, young baron, how goes it?" A burly, broken-nosed man strode into the room carrying a tray of fruit and bread under one arm. "I could tell by the clamor that you were awake-and about time, too, with the sun sc.r.a.ping the roof peaks! How are you feeling this morning?"

"Speak softer, Rudo; I am unwell. I think I have been poisoned." Conan shuffled back to sit on his bed. "That wine last night. ..."

"The wine, yes." Rudo bent over the reeking pool outspread amid the tumbled flasks. "Poisoned, indeed! And by the same decoctions that send half the folk of this city staggering to bed on a feast night!" He righted the table so as to set his burden on it. Then he knelt, seizing a discarded shirt with which to mop up the mess. "Any one of these liquors would lay a healthy man low, but to mingle them in one night's carouse! You tempt the fates rashly, Conan-I mean, Milord Baron."

As Rudo swabbed the floor, he raised a crystal decanter to his lips and swigged deeply from it. "Ah yes, truly," he said in a confidential voice, "when we gnawed bread crusts together in the town dungeon, who would have thought that we would ever again be sipping such nectar as this? I credit your success in worldly affairs, Lord Baron, as well as your faithfulness in remembering old friends!"

Sitting on the bed ma.s.saging his aching temples, Conan merely growled in answer. He pretended not to notice as his attendant crushed a goblet of soft gold against the floor with the pressure of one thick hand, to slip it discreetly into the sash of his silken pantaloons.

In a while Rudo had gone, and returned, and gone again, and Conan sat cross-legged on the bed, gingerly chewing his breakfast and drinking from the pitcher of fresh warm milk his valet had brought. The simple fare satisfied him, as had the selfsame food when he was a kitchen drudge; in spite of his earlier complaints, he still trusted his recent a.s.sociates downstairs not to poison him. But now the day stretched ahead, vacant and uninviting. His duties as mock baron were laughably slight and few, consisting mainly of parading the battlements at sunset in full armor and holding brief "audiences" with the handful of courtiers and rebel officers who really ruled Dinander these days.

Not that he imagined he could run the city any better, things seemed well under control for the nonce. After that first charnel night, the insurrection had taken hold almost bloodlessly by virtue of Baldomer's death and the uneasy accommodation between rebels and n.o.bles. A few lesser officers and functionaries, such as Fletta, the interrogator and executioner, had been dragged before civil tribunals, condemned, and broken on the wheel to appease the vengeful townsfolk; and a few unpopular n.o.bles quit their homes and vanished, either sent into hiding by their fellows at court, or murdered by them. The n.o.ble party allowed none of its number to be tried, fearing that the public execution of aristocrats might set a bad precedent.

The nearest thing to a falling-out between the two factions had involved the proposed abolition of the Iron Guard; Conan had dozed through a long meeting where debate on the subject raged hotly between Durwald and Evadne. The proposal had finally been agreed to, but with little impact, since the change of the elite guard's designation to the "Red Dragons" was a token display, after all. It meant the promotion of a few officers, and much labor for Dru, the armorer, who in the coming months would have to change the outfit's armor trappings to the new motif. The troops would still click their heels as smartly, Conan guessed, and obey orders as unquestioningly.

He saw little place for his own efforts in the new Dinander, except to wine, dine and wench like a baron, and fill a suit of armor handsomely, be it of red or black hue. His success in finding a few of his old cronies, those who stood with him during the rebel purge of the prisons, was gratifying; yet his message summoning the serving-maid, Ludya, back to the capital had never been answered. Conan suspected that his employers, none too eager that he find a mate and sire a counterfeit n.o.ble line, might have intercepted his courier. He was of half a mind to ride in search of the girl himself.

His musings were interrupted by another opening of the chamber door. He looked up to see a figure more comely than that of the crook-nosed Rudo: the stately Evadne on her daily visit, clad in sandals and a plain, belted tunic. His sudden upward glance sent reverberations throbbing through his still-tender skull, so he only grunted irritably as she entered.

"Good morning, Your Lordship." She scarcely blinked at his state of undress, but her shapely nose wrinkled at the scent of wine-dipped bedclothes. "Recovering from another nightlong debauch, I see. Will you never tire of... the prerogatives of rank?" She settled herself on a lacquered stool a decorous distance away.

"In truth," he grumbled, "I am already weary of these pointless pursuits-as I long ago grew bored with the aged, motherly trollops you send me from the local ale houses. I crave more of life than this musty apartment can provide."

Evadne covered any embarra.s.sment with a shrug of unconcern. "If you are restless, ride to the hunt again. You can decree it for tomorrow, if you like."

"What, and have the gamekeepers loose more tame deer from their cages for me to slaughter, in the company of a dozen sour-faced men-at-arms? Nay, Evadne." Conan gently cradled his forehead on an outspread hand. "In my youth in Cimmeria, hunting had a purpose, a meaning. Here, like everything else, it is hollow."

"Then call for fencing practice in the private courtyard. Fight three or four guardsmen at once, if you must place your life at risk in order to enjoy it." She waved a hand in exasperation, preparing to arise. "There is plenty to do here. Any ordinary citizen would give his nose and ears to be in your place. I must confess, I find it a trial to keep your savage soul entertained!"

"Then why trouble yourself, Evadne?" Conan propped his chin on one hand as he regarded her. "Why do you even bother? Is it true that you have been a.s.signed as my nursemaid, to make sure I keep up lordly appearances?"

"No need for worry on that account; you play the degenerate aristocrat most convincingly." The rebel shook her blond locks reprovingly, sitting poised on the edge of her stool. "But remember, ours is a young, untested provincial government with many ... ill-a.s.sorted elements. Our two shakiest props are you and the poor, mad Lady Calissa. It is necessary that someone take the responsibility for your welfare."

"And how fares Calissa?" Conan let his gaze fall away from Evadne with a surge of melancholy. "Does she still rail and struggle at her restraints?"

"Nay, her chafes are healing, and she no longer tugs and worries at the charm fastened around her neck. She is unbound, allowed to rove free in her room, as long as someone stays to see that she does not hang herself by the chain. She no longer raves"-Evadne smiled wanly-"or even speaks. To anyone."

"Hmm. A convenient circ.u.mstance for you and me, but an ill one for Calissa." He shook his head miserably. "And yet I wonder, am I less a prisoner than she is?"

"Nonsense." Evadne visibly ruffled, watched Conan warily. "If you decided to leave Dinander to its fate, and to forfeit the golden drams that are daily added to your account, we would have a hard time stopping you."

"But you would try, would you not?" Conan smiled grimly, trading gaze for gaze. "Is that why you venture so boldly into my room? And is that, perchance, what the dagger concealed at your thigh is for?" He let his feet slip to the floor, moving to arise. "Is it the same weapon, I wonder, that you carried for Favian?"

"Stop! I would never wish such a thing!" She stood bolt upright, her proud face pale. "But be warned, if it were for the sake of our province, I would do whatever was necessary. Your fair dealing thus far has earned you a certain indulgence. But a limited one."

"I thought so." He rose smoothly to his feet, no longer showing signs of malaise, and moved toward her. "I understand you, then; we are slayers of a kind! So our time here need not be so glum and joyless after all. Come, Evadne, I am told your recent wedding was a sham." He moved toward her, extending an arm.

"No!" She moved back a step from him, toward the door. "I am no tavern trull to lighten your leisure! Nor am I the next in your chain of conquests at the Manse. I have dealings here that are more important than that." She glared at him. "As for my wedding, it may have been only a formality. I will never know, since my husband was the first one killed by Baldomer's guards in our rising." She strode to the door, bowing curtly before she opened it, and pa.s.sed through. "Good day to you, Milord Baron!"

Wordlessly, listless once again, Conan shuffled back to the mattress and sat down heavily. His hand roved indecisively for a moment over the array of food and spirit decanters at the bedside; then, with an idle gesture, he tipped the ivory table onto the floor. Amidst the crashing, he sank down onto the blankets and closed his eyes.

It may have been moments or hours later that the chamber door sc.r.a.ped open again. Less bleary this time, Conan rolled onto one elbow. His hand clutched his sword-hilt beneath the coverlet as he watched Durwald enter, flanked by Evadne.

"Well, Lord Favian-as you must persevere in being! I am glad to see you living the part so well. Your hair grows a bit s.h.a.ggy . . . but then, what does it matter, since there is no longer a living counterpart to compare you with?" The leather-kilted n.o.ble spoke with brusque humor, pausing a few steps short of the litter surrounding the bed. "But I hope you have fully recovered from your night's merriment. A challenge awaits us that will require our best wit and readiness."

"A fresh basin is being drawn," Evadne added. "We expect you to be washed and dressed soon."

"And what is the occasion?" Conan ran a hand across his forehead, sweeping his black mane out of his eyes. "Is some young bride taking her vows and awaiting a tryst with the lord of the Manse?"

Evadne stiffened at this remark, but Durwald only smiled. "Advance couriers have just arrived, from an armed force of our neighboring barons. The lords are sending a punitive expedition westward against the snake-cultists, and they expect us to join them."

"Against the cultists, you say? A ruse!" Conan bolted up from the bed, dragging his longsword out from beneath the linen. "More likely the warlords are marching against us in our time of weakness, as you foresaw. Will we ready the town for a siege, or meet them on the plain?"

"Nay, fellow, be not so eager to enter the fray!" Durwald shook his head patiently. "To be sure, the barons have heard of our recent change of rulership; doubtless they wish to test our strengths and spy out whether Dinander can still hold her territories. But I would wager that their purported mission is genuine."

The marshal seated himself on the edge of the broad writing table, folding his arms on his chest as he expounded. "The western cults are an intolerable nuisance to them; they raided southward into Baron Ottislav's domain, and he went first to his friend, Sigmarck, for aid. Now the two come here. This is our chance to show them, first, that we have no ties with the snake-cult and, second, that we have a firm grip on our province and a good resolve to defend it."

A washbasin and fresh linen had been set out by Rudo as Durwald spoke. Conan submerged his face in it for a long moment, then shook his dripping head like a terrier, spattering water on his unprotected guests. "Mayhap we should join forces with these cultists instead, if the barons are as greedy as you say."

"Take sides with Set-worshipers? Co... Lord Favian, that would scarcely be politic." Evadne glared at him with distaste.

"And how like a rebel you are! Once in power, you take up arms against all your fellow rebels and crush them." Conan splashed water vigorously onto his chest and mopped it with a towel. "If these neighbor barons can set you against your own populace, the scoundrels have won half their fight."

"No, truly, Lord Baron, these cultists are less than savory." Durwald exaggerated Conan's false t.i.tle archly. "Hardly human, if you ask me. You saw the specimen we interrogated at Squire Ulf's keep."

"That is so, believe me," Evadne seconded. "When we rode east to ambush Baldomer's train, we pa.s.sed through a valley denuded by their sweep. There have been outbreaks before in these regions. It is not really a faith-more a plague that spreads and spreads, unless it is finally stopped by force of arms." Evadne averted her eyes, either out of emotion or because Conan had set to scrubbing his nether parts.

"Well, if the two of you finally agree on something, it must be true." Conan began toweling himself furiously. "So what must I do to appease these barons? Will they know me by sight?"

Durwald shook his head. "Diplomatic relations have been cool; I would guess that none in their party will have seen Favian in the past dozen years. You can doff your helmet in their presence." The marshal sat easy, exuding confidence for Conan's benefit. "They will surely have heard conflicting rumors. If you keep your peace and appear determined, we should be able to pa.s.s you off without question."

"Use the salutes and protocols you have been shown," Evadne added. "You will be well-protected by guards."

"Yes. We, as your counselors, will do the talking," Durwald emphasized. "They will expect no great statesmanship from such a youthful heir."

"The inner hall is being readied," Evadne finished. "The troops will camp downriver, and their officers are expected here by nightfall. We must go and a.s.semble the counselors, for there is much to be discussed."

Lamps flared yellow in the Manse's Hall of State as lords and warriors took their places at tables spread with loaves, salt meats and ale puncheons. Here was not the gala extravagance of one of Baldomer's gatherings; the feast was Spartan by comparison, with shadows brooding in the spa.r.s.ely lit upper vaultings of the gallery. The intended effect was one of strength and resolve; to this end the crowd of townsfolk filling the courtyard saluted the guests with l.u.s.ty shouts; the counselors, even old Lothian, wore military costume, and the Manse's guards deployed along the walls of the chamber with extra quickness and precision.

The visiting lords gave no hint of being impressed by the display. Baron Sigmarck, a short, slender man with cruelly handsome features, arched his aquiline nose over his food in distaste and spent the rest of the night regarding the company around him with cynical, dark eyes. Ottislav, a bald, mustached warlord decked in gold chains and bristling with furs, served himself profusely and impartially from all the nearby plates and beakers; but it seemed to his hosts that whenever they sought to address him on any subject, his sole, invariable reply was the word "Haw!" -spoken sharply, with a twitch of his greasy whiskers and an unpleasant leer.

Noting the behavior of these two, Conan took comfort that none would expect him to be very mannerly or forthcoming. Flanked at the table by Durwald and Evadne, with the other counselors seated between him and the n.o.ble visitors, he was well-nigh immune to questions. He feigned great interest in his food and drink, then sat taciturn through the interminable program of Nemedian peasant dances that the rebel leaders had furnished as entertainment.

When the milling peasants were finally cleared from the room, discussion of the eastern campaign commenced. In terse, barking statements, the barons' tight-faced, armored marshals decreed their objectives, amounting to nothing less than total extermination of the eastern insurgents, and withdrawal westward before the first fall sleets turned the roads to mud.

Curtly then, the visiting officers answered questions put to them by Dinander's counselors. At first these delegates' remarks were full of gruff hints and insinuations that the snake-cult raiders were supported by the new rulers of Dinander. When their hosts protested otherwise, the visitors deftly changed their tune, demanding military support for their own venture.

During the negotiation, Durwald, Evadne and Lothian feigned earnest consultations with their baron. These were actually heated exchanges between the three of them, which Conan could barely follow, though he remembered to mumble and nod occasionally to keep up appearances.

The diplomacy grew tense, with both counselors hurrying down the length of the table to address the foreign barons themselves. At one point there came a bellow that caused the Cimmerian to raise wary eyes to the end of the board: Evadne clutched Ottislav's thumb, bending it back ruthlessly as she detached his hand from her midsection, where it had groped too freely. The bald n.o.ble, once she had released him, flared and bl.u.s.tered at her, and his aides gathered close about him. But his display of temper was cut short by a wicked laugh from across the table, where Lord Sigmarck sat stroking his sharp chin.

The diminutive baron was obviously scornful of conducting business through so many intermediaries, with no single one of them clearly in charge; now he leaned across the table toward Conan. "I say, Favian! Enough of this nattering. You provide ten companies -no more, no less. After all, this rebel nuisance arises from your own unruly hinterlands. Ten full companies"-he glanced contemptuously to the aides who crowded anxiously nearby-"that is, if your privy counselors will permit it!"

Before the others could speak, Conan found himself nodding decisively. "Done!" He raised his ale-jack in salute, ignoring the nervous whispers behind him.

"Good, then!" Sigmarck likewise sloshed his cup high and drank on the bargain. "That will enable us to sweep this pestilence all the way to the edge of the Varakiel. Twill be a jolly hunt!" He set down his flagon, smiling slyly across at Conan. "Tell me, Baron, will you be accompanying us?"

This time Evadne was quickest to reply. "Nay, Baron Sigmarck, our liege regrets that he must remain in Dinander at this critical time. Marshal Durwald will command the force on his behalf."

But Conan had heard Sigmarck utter an eerily familiar word: Varakiel, the name of Ludya's home district. "Indeed I'll come!" he thundered over Evadne's equivocations. Banging down his ale-cup, he turned to his startled guard officers. "Pa.s.s the word all down the ranks. We ride on the morrow!"

CHAPTER 13.

The March into h.e.l.l

Like rotting fangs, stark in burning daylight, rose the soot-blackened walls and ruined towers of Edram Castle. The collapsed interior of the keep was a pit of jumbled darkness, gaping all the blacker because it lay open to brilliant blue sky. The devastation was days old, and no smoke or flame lingered, but the musty stench of damp charcoal filled the outlander's nostrils as he turned from the broken archway.

"So they burned Squire Ulf's castle, as he burned the wretched town upriver," he muttered to Evadne. "I cannot blame them; I longed to do it myself. . . and yet, 'tis strange. I would expect any band of rebels to seize this place and use it to gain control of the valley." Pausing on the stone entry ramp, he gazed along the breached wall, half-tumbled now into reedy swamp. "They could have held off a force like ours for days."

Evadne continued down the walk, answering him over her chain-mailed shoulder: "As I told you, we face not a rebellion here, but a plague! The snakeworshipers spread havoc wherever they go. 'Tis lucky for us that they destroyed only one span of the river bridge."

Conan turned his gaze up the road to where the last of their party was crossing the broken causeway, via an unsteady ropeway floored with charred planking salvaged from the castle. While the rest of the column stood waiting in road order, a few men at a time walked horses and carts across the ragged gap in the bridge, moving slowly and cautiously above the swirling river.

At the road junction just outside the castle's tumbled gate, the diminutive Baron Sigmarck stood with a drawing board at the road's junction, sketching a map; his fellow n.o.ble, Ottislav, hulked over a nervous-looking cavalry officer at the base of a nearby wall, cursing lengthily and obscenely over a cast of knucklebones. As Conan walked past the barons, the shorter one looked up to him with a bleak smile. "I think we can move forward safely now, n.o.ble Favian. I suggest that we retain our former marching order."

Grunting his a.s.sent, Conan sprang onto his chariot, feeling Evadne's vigorous step on the platform beside him. As he took up the reins and made the sweeping arm-signal to advance, she tossed her hair impatiently over her shoulder and spoke guardedly. "As usual, your fellow barons are none too eager to ride in the fore."

"Aye." He waited for the dozen cavalry of the vanguard to get under way. "'Tis a relief not to have to keep company with them, and play an impossible charade. But an honor, no doubt, to lead the column." Working the reins smartly, he wheeled the chariot onto the road in front of the loitering body of Dinander infantry; led by Rudo and others of his cronies, they hailed him in Favian's name with a scattered cheer.

"An honor indeed!" Evadne laughed cynically. "The question is, can we trust the scoundrels at our backs? When the forequarter of our column meets the enemy, how prompt will its hindquarter be in joining the fight? And whom will their swords and barbs strike down, our common foe or ourselves?" She shook her head bitterly. "This military junket is a fine pretext for the barons to cripple Dinander's strength!"

"As I said before," Conan growled, adjusting the hilt at his waist. "But fear not; should the knaves try any treachery with me, I'll skewer them both with a single sword-thrust!"

Ignoring his boast, Evadne spoke on. "More vexing to me are our affairs at home. I worry for our party's shaky alliance with the n.o.bles." She adjusted her grip on the rail as the chariot gained speed. "Durwald controls enough of his former Iron Guard to seize the Manse and declare himself baron, should he take the notion. I only pray that my comrades are strong enough to curb his ambition, and keep him from undoing all our reforms."

"Then I ask you this, Evadne: why did you choose to leave Dinander and ride with me?" Conan glanced aside from the road to look at her, watching as the longest strands of her blond hair stirred with the wind of the chariot's rumbling motion. "The marshal was eager enough to come and oversee my command, until you warned him off."

The mailed woman turned her unflinching blue eyes on Conan. "Do you really think that I would let the two of you consort alone with these sneaking barons? That would be putting too much at risk: our city's security, our troops and our counterfeit heir, all at once!" She set her chin firmly. "If the G.o.ds allow it, I must see that you and these troopers return safe to Dinander." She swung her gaze back along the roadway. "You in particular, for the sake of the realm.

"Besides, Conan, one might as well ask what made you insist on coming." It was her turn to watch him from the corner of her eye. "Oh, I know that Cimmerians love a battle better than a currant cake . . . but I sense in you some other, hidden purpose. Ambition of your own, perhaps?"