"They'll smash you," said Granth. "You don't know their numbers."
Melcer answered with a shrug. "If they do, then they do. But if they take us down to hell, you had best believe we'll have a fine Cimmerian escort to lead the way."
The two pikemen began arguing. Melcer had no time for them. He ran back toward the farmhouse — and met his wife hurrying his way, with their baby daughter on one hip and Tarnus, their son, hurrying beside her. "The alarm bell!" exclaimed Evlea.
"Sure enough," said Melcer. "The Cimmerians are over the border—over the border in a great horde, all too likely. We can flee or we can fight. I aim to fight."
"What are the odds?" asked Evlea.
He shrugged again. "I know not. All I know is, this is my land. If I must die for it, then die I will, and be buried on it." He quickly kissed her. "Get out while you can, dear."
She shook her head. "If I can find someplace to leave the children, I'll fight beside you. This is not your land alone."
One of the pikemen came over to them. "Vulth thinks he has a better chance in Venarium," said Granth. "Me, I'd sooner make my stand as far north as I can. I'm with you, if you'll have me."
"Gladly," said Melcer. Evlea nodded. The bell tolled out its warning cry. Melcer went on, "We're to make for it when it rings, and do what needs doing once we're gathered there."
Melcer hoped he could find a place to leave his children — and his wife —in safety before they came to the bell. But he discovered none, none he would trust against an assault by more than a handful of barbarians. By all the signs, far more than a handful were loose in the land. The bell rang in front of the house of a farmer named Sciliax. Pointing to the cabin, a bigger, fancier, stronger building than Melcer's, Sciliax said, "Women and children in there. We'll defend it with all we have."
All they had, at the moment, consisted of about thirty farmers armed with the sort of weapons farmers carried, plus perhaps half a dozen real soldiers like Granth. More men were coming their way. Would they be enough? Melcer saw, recognized, and worried about the expression on Granth's face: the pikeman did not like the odds. Slowly, Melcer said, "Maybe we ought to serve out swords and spears and whatever else we've got to the women who will take them."
"Yes, by Mitra!" cried Evlea.
But Sciliax said, "What if they're taken?"
"What if we lose?" returned Melcer. "They'll surely be taken then, and they won't have us at their sides to save them."
Sciliax was older than most of the settlers who had come north out of Gunderland, and plainly set on old ways of doing things. But he glanced toward Granth, as if wondering what a real soldier thought of the question. Granth did not hesitate. "This fellow's right," he said, pointing Melcer's way. "Whatever you do—whatever we do, I should say—our chances are bad. The more fighters we have, the better we're likely to fare. I've seen Cimmerian women fight. Are ours weaker than theirs?"
Before Sciliax could answer, Evlea said, "I'll see to it, then." She rushed into the farmhouse. Women began spilling out of it, women tough enough to make a go of things beyond the frontier of Gunderland. They all clamored for weapons. Some were young, some not so young. Before long, most of them had spears and axes and swords. Some of the men who wore helms gave them to women. With a sort of bow, Granth presented his to Melcer's wife.
"Here they come!" Suddenly, the cry rose from a dozen throats. Melcer's gaze went to the woods north of Sciliax's farm. Black-haired Cimmerians loped out from among the trees. They saw the defenders mustered in front of the farmhouse, saw them and swarmed toward them. The barbarians advanced in no neat formation, but they were ready —more than ready—to fight.
"Form a line!" shouted Granth. "Everyone — help your neighbor. If you save him, he may save you next. No point in running. They'll just slay you from behind." No one had appointed him general of this little force. He simply took the job —and the embattled farmers and their wives obeyed him.
Here came a Cimmerian swinging a scythe. He was lean and dirty and looked weary, as if he had traveled a long way with nothing more in mind than murdering Melcer. He shouted something in his own language. Melcer could not understand it, but doubted it was a compliment. The Cimmerian swung back the scythe —and Melcer speared him in the belly.
The soft, heavy resistance of flesh tugged at the pike. For a moment, the barbarian simply looked very surprised. Then he opened his mouth wide and shrieked. Melcer felt like shrieking, too. He had never killed a man before. He had to kick out with his foot to clear the Cimmerian from his pike.
Another Cimmerian swung a two-handed sword, a stroke that would have taken off Melcer's head had it connected. But the weapon was as cumbersome as it was frightful, and he easily ducked under it. He had gone a lifetime without killing anyone, but claimed his second victim only moments after the first.
He had no time to look around and see how the fight as a whole was going. He could only do his best to stay alive himself and make sure any barbarian who came near him fell. Some of the screams and shouts on the battlefield in front of Sciliax's house came from women's throats. Melcer could not even look to see if Evlea remained hale. "Please, Mitra," he whispered, and fought on.
Cimmerians fell. So did Gundermen. Some lay still, and would never rise again. Others thrashed and wailed and moaned, crying out their torment to the uncaring sky. The wounded on both sides sounded much alike. At first, the sounds of anguish tore at Melcer; as the fight went on, though, he heard them less and less.
After what seemed like forever, the Cimmerians sullenly drew back. Melcer had a chance to lean on his pike and draw a breath and look around. Evlea still stood. The axe in her hands had blood on the head. Granth's helmet sat dented and askew on her head. Granth himself was also on his feet. And so was Sciliax, though a scalp wound left his face bloody.
But the fight, very likely, was not over. As Melcer watched in dismay, more barbarians emerged from the trees to the north. He looked around in growing despair. Where would his own side find reinforcements?
Chapter Twelve
The Fall of Venarium
Panting, Conan glared at the stubborn Gundermen who defended a sturdy farmhouse with a ferocity he had not thought any folk but his own could display. Beside him, flanks also heaving, stood his father. Mordec said, "They'll have their wives and their brats in there. If anything will make them stand fast until we cut them down, that's it."
"I know a couple of them," said Conan. His father looked at him in surprise. He pointed. "That one pikeman is from the garrison by Duthil."
"Oh, him. Aye." Mordec nodded. "He almost did for me a little while ago."
"And that other fellow, the tall farmer near him, worked lands not far from here," continued Conan. "He's not a bad man, or he wouldn't be if only he'd stayed in his own country. That's his woman there, with the axe."
"I mislike killing women, but if they try to kill me — " Mordec broke off and looked over his shoulder. "We have more men coming, I see. But those accursed Aquilonians will still take a deal of killing."
Off to one side, Herth was wrapping a rag around his head. His helm had kept a blow from smashing his skull, but the rim, driven down by the dint, left him with a long cut on his forehead. Wiping blood away from his eyes, the clan chief said, "That's what we've come for—to kill them."
The Cimmerians mustered themselves in a ragged line out of the range of the hunting bows a few of the Gundermen carried. Several of the men who had been in the fight before bore minor wounds. This had been Conan's first real taste of battle. He had dealt hard blows. He burned to deal more.