With a deep chuckle, Conan shook his black-maned head. “It is true I am my own man, but I am as good a hunter as you, Zamoran. And as for the spear, will you match me at it? For coin?” He knew he must best the man at something, or else contend with him as long as he remained with the hunters. And he carefully had not mentioned the bow, of which he knew little beyond the holding of it.
“Done!” the huntsman cried. “Done! Bring the butts! Quickly! I will show this barbarian oaf the way of the spear!”
Jondra opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again as the camp erupted in a bustle of men, some scurrying to clear a space for the throwing, others rushing to the carts to wrestle with a heavy practice butt. The thick bundle woven of straw was a weighty burden to carry on a hunting expedition, but it did not break arrows or spear points, as did casting and shooting at trees or at targets on a hillside.
A shaven-headed man with a long nose leaped on an upturned keg. “I’ll cover all wagers! I give one to twenty on Arvaneus, twenty to one on the barbarian. Don’t crowd.” A few men wandered over to him, but most seemed to take the outcome as foregone.
Conan noticed Tamira among those about the keg. When she left she strolled by him. “Throw your best,” she said, “and I’ll win a silver piece … .” She waited until his chest began to expand with pride, then finished with a laugh, ‘‘ … Since I wagered on the other.”
“It will be a pleasure to help you lose your coppers,” he told her dryly.
“Stop flirting, Lyana,” Jondra called sharply. “There’s work for you to be doing.”
Tamira made a face the tall woman could not see, bringing a smile to Conan’s face despite himself, then scurried away.
“Will you throw, barbar?” Arvaneus asked tauntingly. The tall huntsman held a spear in his hand and was stripped to the waist, revealing hard ropes of muscle. “Or would you rather stay with the serving girl?”
“The girl is certainly more pleasing to look on than your face,” Conan replied.
Arvaneus’ face darkened at the ripple of laughter that greeted the Cimmerian’s words. With the blade of his spear the Zamoran scratched a line on the ground. “No part of your foot may pass this line, or you lose no matter how well you throw. Though I doubt I must worry about that.”
Doffing his tunic, Conan took a spear handed to him by another of the hunters and moved to the line. He eyed the butt, thirty paces away. “It does not look a great distance.”
“But see the target, barbar.” The swarthy huntsman smiled, pointing. A lanky spearman was just finishing attaching a circle of black cloth, no bigger than a man’s palm, to the straw.
Conan made his eyes go wide. “Aaah,” he breathed, and the hawk-faced man’s smile deepened.
‘‘To be fair,” Arvaneus announced loudly,”I will give you odds. One hundred to one.” A murmur rose among the watchers, and all in the camp were there.”You did mention coin, barbar. Unless you wish to acknowledge me the better man now.”
“They seem fair odds,” Conan said, “considering the reputation you have with yourself.” The murmur of astonishment at the odds offered became a roar of laughter. He considered the weight of his purse. “I have five silver pieces at those odds.” The laughter cut off in stunned silence. Few there thought the hawk-faced man might lose, but the sheer magnitude of his unlikely loss astounded them.
Arvaneus seemed unmoved. “Done,” was all he said. He moved back from the line, took two quick steps forward, and hurled. His spear streaked to the center of the black cloth, pinning it more firmly to the butt. Half a score of the hunters raised a cheer, and some began trying to collect their bets now. “Done,” he said again, and laughed mockingly.
Conan hefted his spear as he stood at the line. The haft was as thick as his two thumbs, tipped with an iron blade as long as his forearm. Suddenly he leaned back, then whipped forward, arm and body moving as one. With a thud that shoved the butt back his spear buried its head not a finger’s width from the other already there. ‘‘Mayhap if it were further back,” he mused. Arvaneus ground his teeth.
There was silence in the camp till the man on the keg broke it. “Even odds! I’ll give even odds on Arvaneus or—what’s his name? Conan?—or on Conan! Even odds!”
“Shut your teeth, Telades!” Arvaneus shouted, but men crowded around the shaven-headed man. Angrily the huntsman gestured toward the butt. “Back! Move it back!” Two men rushed out to drag it a further ten paces, then returned quickly with the spears.
Glaring at Conan, Arvaneus took his place back from the line again, ran forward and threw. Again his spear struck through the cloth. Conan stepped back a single pace, and again his throw was one single continuous motion. His spear brushed against Arvaneus’s, striking through the black cloth even more closely than the first time. Scattered shouts of delighted surprise rose among the hunters. The Cimmerian was surprised to see a smile on Jondra’s face, and even more surprised to see another on Tamira’s.
Arvaneus’s face writhed with fury. “Further!” he shouted when the spears were returned once more. “Further! Still further!”
An expectant hush settled as the butt was pulled to sixty paces distant. It was a fair throw for the mark, Conan conceded to himself. Perhaps more than a fair throw.
Muttering under his breath, the huntsman set himself, then launched his spear with a grunt. It smacked home solidly in the butt.
‘‘A miss!” Telades called.”It touched the cloth, but a miss! One to five on Conan!”
Arm cocked, Conan hurtled toward the line. For the third time his shaft streaked a dark line to the cloth. A tumultuous cry went up, and men pounded their spears on the ground in approbation.
Telades leaped from his keg and capered laughing through the crowd to clasp Conan’s hand. “You’ve cost me coin this day, northerner, but ’twas worth every copper to see it done.”
Eyes bulging in his head, Arvaneus gave a strangled cry. “No!” Suddenly he was running toward the butt, pushing men from his path. He began wrestling the heavy mass of straw further away. “Hit this, barbar dog!” he shouted, fighting his weighty burden still. ‘‘Erlik take you and your accursed cheating tricks! Hit this!”
“Why, ’tis a hundred paces,” Telades exclaimed, shaking his head. “No man could—” He cut off with a gasp as Conan took a spear from the hand of a nearby hunter. Like antelope scattering before a lion, men ran to get from between the Cimmerian and the distant target.
Arvaneus’ voice drifted back to them, filled with hysterical laughter. “Hit this, barbar! Try!”