"Now, lass, what's eating you?" spoke the Cimmerian roughly, bending forward. "Is your lover cross with you, or what?"
The girl rose with a lithe motion. "Two drunken soldiers tried to molest me. I came to buy wine for my father. They took my money, too!'"
Conan's eyes flashed as he jumped to the ground. His barbaric code of chivalry made him hate a man's inflicting wanton brutality on a woman.
"Steady, lass. We'll pull their beards yet. Just open the door. Are they the only guests?"
Nodding in terrified confirmation, she led him to the tavern. After a moment's hesitation she opened the door. In two long strides Conan was inside. The door clicked shut behind him.
But no such scene as he had expected confronted him. Here were no drunken soldiers to be quieted by a couple of buffets. Seven alert armed men ranged the walls, swords and daggers gleaming in their hands. The determination to kill was in their eyes as they instantly rushed upon Conan.
A civilized man would have been stunned by surprise one second and cut down in the next, but not the giant Cimmerian. His keen primitive instincts gave him a flash of warning as he crossed the threshold, and his lightning reflexes went instantly into action. No time now to draw the great sword, before he had it out, they would be upon him like a pack of wolves. His only chance lay in instant attack, surprising his attackers by its very boldness before they could ring him and close with him.
A mighty kick sent a bench whirling against the legs of three of his adversaries as they rushed forward. They fell in a clattering, cursing tangle. Conan ducked a whistling sword stroke of one of the other four and smashed his right fist into the man's face before the latter could recover his balance. Conan felt the man's bones crack under the blow, which cast him back against his advancing comrades.
Taking advantage of the confusion, the Cimmerian burst clean through the ring of foes, wheeled with the speed of a panther, grabbed a heavy oaken table and, with a muscle-wrenching heave, hurled it into the faces of his enemies. Weapons clattered to the floor, and oaths and cries of pain rent the air. The lull in the fight gave Conan time to rip the great sword from its sheath and snatch out his dagger with his left hand.
He did not wait for a renewed attack. His barbarian blood was roused by this treacherous ambush. Rushing in to attack, single-handed against the six who were still in action, Conan with a furious kick caved in the ribs of one rascal still on hands and knees.
As he parried a thrust with his dagger, a savage swipe of his heavy sword sheared off the sword arm of another. Arm and sword fell to the floor, and the man crumpled up, glassy-eyed and screaming, with blood spurting.
That left four, advancing warily in a half-circle. The tall, wolfish leader feinted at Conan's legs but almost lost his head to the Cimmerian's whistling countercut. He escaped by throwing himself to the floor. Just before he did so, Conan recognized the man as Baraccus, an Aquilonian noble he had exiled for plotting with the Ophireans.
At that instant, the other three rushed in. One desperate sword-stroke caught Conan on the helmet, denting it and dizzying him. Stars swam before his eyes, but he ripped viciously upward and was rewarded by a hoarse, gurgling scream. A dagger point broke on the stout links of mail covering his right side, but a sword gashed his left arm.
When he hastily wiped the blood from his face he saw that he faced but one enemy, as the Stygian, his dagger broken, had stepped back to pick up a weapon from the floor. The tall leader was rising from his fall.
Conan stepped forward to close with his foe, but his foot slipped in a pool of blood. He fell heavily.
The assassin confronting him shrieked in triumph and rushed forward, lifting his sword. Conan's foot lashed out and knocked the man's leg from under him, so that his blow went awry and he fell on top of the Cimmerian, impaling himself on the dagger that Conan thrust up to meet his falling form.
Conan flung the body aside and, with catlike speed, sprang again to his feet to meet the attack of the rearmed Stygian. The dusky giant rushed towards Conan, eyes blazing with dark fires and lips foaming with impassioned hatred. Ducking the swipe of the Cimmerian's sword, he whipped his white cloak around the blade, imprisoning it in the heavy folds. The knife that the Stygian had picked up was driven against Conan's side with such force that mail links snapped and the point pierced the Cimmerian's body. But Conan ripped into the brown torso with swift and murderous thrusts of his own dirk. The Stygian's mouth flew open in awful pain, his dagger clattered to the floor, and he doubled up and followed it.
Conan tore his sword free from the folds of the Stygian's dress and advanced upon the unwounded leader. "You've forgotten your knightly oaths since I kicked you off your estate, eh, Baraccus?" he snarled. "I should have had your head when I found out your treason, but this time will do as well as any!"
Conan presented a terrible aspect. From beneath his dented helmet, blood flowed down the side of his sweaty face. His right side was red with gore, and a bloody rent showed in his mailshirt. Baraccus, remembering the horrific legends of the Cimmerian's former deeds, lost his nerve and whirled to flee. With a grating laugh, Conan tossed up his sword, caught the hilt reversed, and hurled the weapon like a javelin. The point smashed through the backplate of Baraccus' corselet. Baraccus pitched forward at full length, the sword standing upright in his back and a stream of blood running from his mouth.
Conan relaxed a little, surrounded by enemies dead or unconscious. Then a voice behind him aroused his barbarian senses. He wheeled in a flash.
A fat man stood in the back door, wringing his pudgy hands. "Oh, mercy, what has happened to my fine house?" he wailed, his face creased by worry. "Blood all over! Furniture ruined!"
Two strides brought Conan to the taverner, under whose chin he poised the point of his dagger. "You had a hand in this, you yapping dog!" he roared. "They could not have set this ambush without your help."
"Mercy, lord! They threatened to cut my throat otherwise! That would have been almost better than this! They said it would be swift and silent ..."
Conan slapped the man's face with such force that the taverner was thrown against the door jamb. He reeled, and blood ran down his chin from a cut lip.
"Silence!" rumbled Conan, his anger appeased a little. "Be glad I don't flay you an inch at a time!"
"Yes-yes, lord!" The man wept, in abject terror.
"Now fetch a jack of wine, before I split your head! And of the best! Also some clean cloths to bind up these scratches."
As the terrified taverner hurried off, Conan kicked a corpse out of the way and sank down wearily upon a bench. A thought struck him. Where was the handsome wench who had started all this?
The host returned on trembling legs, holding a flask and a pewter goblet. With an impatient curse, Conan tore the bottle from him and upended it over his parched gullet. When the whole of the contents had poured down without interruption, Conan set down the empty container with a crash, wiped his mouth on his bloody sleeve, and turned his blue eyes upon the man.
"Killing dries a man's throat," he said. "Now tell me: Where is the girl who was here with these men before I entered?"
The fat taverner, green with fear, shook his head. "Noble lord, I never saw her until she came here yesterday, dressed in outlandish garments. She changed her garb in her room on the upper floor. I know not her name or aught else about her."