The grizzled man’s name was Machaon. Though he did not recognize Conan, the Cimmerian knew him for the sergeant who had commanded the City Guards in killing Lord Melius.
“Use a three-fingered grip on the cord,” Conan said once the laughter had died, “and draw thusly.”
The muscular Cimmerian notched an arrow and, placing the bowstring to his cheek, pushed the short, powerful bow out to draw it. As he did so, he pressed with his knees, bringing the war-trained black around. The straw butts seemed to swing before his eyes; he loosed. With a solid thud the shaft struck square in the center of the middle butt. A surprised murmur went up from the men.
“Thus is it done,” Conan said.
“’Tis more than passing strange,” a tall, hollow-cheeked man muttered, “this archery from horseback.” His black eyes were sunken, and he looked as though he had been ravaged by disease, though those among the company who knew him said he had no sickness but a doleful spirit. “If it is a thing of use, why do we not see it among the armies of Nemedia or Aquilonia or any other civilized land?”
Conan was saved answering by Machaon.
“Open your mind, Narus,” the grizzled man said, “and for once let not your mournful mood color what you see. Think you. We can appear, strike and be gone while foot-archers rush to plant their sharpened stakes against the charge they expect, while pikemen and ordinary infantry yet prepare to close ranks against the mounted attacks they know. Enemy cavalry will be but lowering their lances to countercharge when our arrows strike to their hearts. Put off your dolorous countenance, Narus, and smile at the surprise we will give our enemies.”
Narus deliberately showed his teeth in a grin that made him look more the plague victim than ever. A ripple of laughter and obscene comment greeted his attempt.
“Machaon has seen the right of it,” Conan announced. “I name him now as sergeant of this Free-Company.”
A surprised and thoughtful look appeared on Machaon’s scar-nosed face, and a murmur of approval rose from the rest. Even Narus seemed to think it a good choice, in his mournful way.
“Now,” Conan continued, “let each man take a turn at the butts. First with the horse unmoving.”
For three full turns of the glass the Cimmerian kept them at it, progressing to shooting with their mounts at a walk, thence to firing at the gallop. Every man knew horsemanship and the bow, if not together, and they made good advance. By that time’s end, did they not use their horse bows so well as Turanian light cavalry, yet was their skill enough to surprise and shock any of these western lands. Machaon, to no one’s surprise, and Narus, to everyone’s, were the best after Conan.
After that time the Cimmerian led them back into Belverus, to one of the stables that lined the city’s wall, where he had arranged for their horses to be tended. After each man had given his mount into the care of a stable slave he left to go his own way until the morrow, when Conan had commanded them to meet again at the stable, for such was the custom of Free-Companies when not in service. It was about that last that Machaon spoke as Conan was leaving.
“A moment, captain,” the grizzled man said, catching Conan at the heavy wooden doors of the stable. Machaon had been handsome as a youth, but aside from the scar that cut across his broad nose his face was a map of his campaigns. On his left cheek was a small tattoo of a six-pointed star from Koth; three thin gold rings from Argos dangled from the lobe of his right ear, and his hair was cut short in front and long in back after the style of the Ophirian border.
“It would be well, captain, if you were to put the company into service soon. Though it’s been but a few days since we swore the bond-oath yet have I heard some complain openly that we earn no gold, and speak of the ease of taking a second bond-oath using another name before another Magistrate.”
“Let them know that we’ll take service soon,” Conan replied, though he wondered himself why he had approached none of the merchants who might wish to hire a Free-Company. “I see that I made a good choice for sergeant.”
Machaon hesitated, then asked quietly, “Know you who I am?”
“I know who you are, but I care not who you were.” Conan met the man’s dark-eyed gaze until Machaon finally nodded.
“I’ll see to the men, captain.”
From the stable Conan made his way to the Sign of Thestis through streets that seemed to have twice as many beggars and three times as many toughs as a tenday past. No plump merchant or stern-faced noble now made his way in even the High Streets without a hard-eyed escort, and no slave-borne curtained litter, whether it contained a noble’s sleek daughter or the hot-eyed courtesan who served him, traveled shorn of its bevy of armed and armored guardians. The City Guard were nowhere to be seen.
The Thestis when Conan entered was filling, as it always did of a midday, with youthful artists in search of a free meal from the inn’s stewpot. Their arguments and musical instruments blended into a cacophony that the Cimmerian had learned to ignore.
He grabbed Kerin’s arm as she rushed past, a clay wine-jug in each hand. “Has Hordo returned?” he asked.
She set one of the jugs down hard enough to crack it, ignoring the wine spreading across the table top and the yelps of those seated there. “He sent a message by a boy,” she said coldly. “You are to meet him at the Sign of the Full Moon, on the Street of Regrets, a glass past the sun’s zenith.”
“Why there? Did he say why he does not come here?”
Kerin’s eyes narrowed to slits, and s
he spoke through clenched teeth. “There was some mention of a dancer, with breasts … . Enough! If you would learn more, learn it from that miserable one-eyed goat!”
The Cimmerian suppressed a smile until she had flounced away. He hoped this dancer was all that Hordo thought, for the one-eyed man was surely going to pay for his pleasures when he again came in reach of Kerin.
He was trying to decide if he had time for a bowl of stew—it was assuredly better than that served on the Street of Regrets—before leaving to meet Hordon, when Ariane approached and put a small hand on his arm. He smiled, suddenly thinking of a better use for his time than a bowl of stew.
“Come up to my room,” he said, slipping an arm around her. He pulled her close and tried out his best leer. “We could discuss poetry.”
She tried to suppress a giggle, and almost succeeded. “If by poetry you mean what I think you mean, you want to do more than talk about it.” Her smile faded, and her eyes searched his face. “There’s something more important to speak of now, but I must have your oath never to repeat a word of what is said to you. You must swear.”