≡ Chapter 5
The first amber tinted glows of dawn were just beginning to lighten the morning sky when Conn, son of Conan the Great and King of Aquilonia, set out alone on the road to Zingara.
He was dressed as a common traveler, light brown britches and leather boots, a green woolen shirt and a broad brimmed leather hat. His saddle was well made but not ornate, and he had chosen a horse from among the cavalry stable rather than taking his own beloved Shazarian steed, Ballista. Anyone who knew him would recognize that horse and not recognizing who rode him would invite instant challenge.
He had also left behind his usual weapon of choice, his huge double bitted axe. He had originally chosen the axe to honor his ancestors because he believed, as did many, that he was descended from the long lost Atlanteans, rulers of the world before the Cataclysm. King Kull carried an axe as a symbol of his power and authority when he ruled Valusia hundreds of years earlier, battling the dark wizard Thulsa Doom and Conn, who was so much like his father, valued family and ancestry above most things.
He carried instead a broadsword made of good Tarkanian steel, three and half feet long and virtually unbreakable, and a poignard. He also carried a short hunting bow with a quiver of bolts for small game and a quiver of arrows for deer and elk. Conn had been schooled in the use of weaponry before he was in his teens and was deadly at age twenty. Following in his mighty sire’s footsteps, he was every bit the fighter and hunter Conan had been at his age, even though his life was far more settled and structured than ever his father’s had been.
And so, disguised and alone, Conn started out in the early morning fog towards Zingara. He had been on the road scarcely an hour when he heard a noise behind him, that unique creaking of leather that only a rider on horseback could make. The path was too narrow to avoid the rider, whoever it might be, and Conn had no desire for confrontation this early in his journey. He spurred ahead a dozen yards then left the path in a small clearing and hid himself amongst the trees, his intention being to let whoever it was pass him by then keep his distance behind, avoiding contact. He waited for ten minutes, and then from the edge of the little clearing emerged a man on horseback. He was dressed in the garb of a mercenary, but Conn could not tell in the fog whether he was with Titus’ army or merely a free traveler; his father had traversed the entire known world dressed in just such a way.
The stranger wore a burnished hauberk over a thin shirt of chain mail, much like the one Conn wore under his tunic. Underneath all he wore a wine red shirt, the sleeves of which disappeared in the ends of his leather gloves. On his head was an iron helmet with a blue crest and his boots were sturdy and plated.
As he entered the clearing, the rider halted, his sorrel stamping at the ground nervously and turning its head side to side. He seemed to be surveying the ground in front of him, as though even in the thin light and through thick mist he was tracking Conn through the forest trail.
Never one for hiding, Conn stepped out into the clearing.
“Why do you follow me?” he growled at the newcomer.
“I don’t even know if it is you I follow,” sneered the stranger, keeping his distance at the mouth of the clearing. “You could be someone else entirely. I saw tracks and I followed them.” Conn frowned; through the mist he could not make out the man’s features, but there something familiar about him all the same.
“What are doing out here? Don’t you know there’s a war on?”
“Of course I know. I was fighting in it just yesterday.”
Conn spat derisively. “A deserter, eh? You know what happens to deserters from the king’s army.”
“I don’t see why that should interest you,” the stranger snapped. “And I’d be careful about who you call a deserter.”
“Deserter, coward, one’s the same.”
“Coward, is it? You’ll bleed for that!”
The rider leaped down from his horse and yanked his sword from his scabbard and attacked. Screaming with rage he charged across the clearing and swung a terrific blow at Conn’s head which barely missed decapitating the young king right there. Conn leaped backwards and drew his own sword, then was hard pressed to defend himself against the superb swordsmanship of the enraged traveler, needing all of his skill to avoid being beaten down.
He grabbed the wrist of the stranger as the other was bringing down yet another death blow and stopped the man’s arm short. Now, for the first time since the fight, he could get a clear look at whom he fought and he knew him instantly.
“Gonzalvio!” he cried, “Gonzalvio stop! It is me…its Conn!”
Suddenly the other man gasped loudly and stood back from the king, recognition dawning in his eyes.
“Conn! Is it really you?”
Gonzalvio was the son of Trocero, the Count of Poitain, King Conan the Firsts most trusted advisor. Trocero had died in court right under the king’s nose when he was taken by the Red Shadows to Mitra knows where five years earlier. It was this event and a visit from the shade of the prophet Epimetreus in a dream that had driven Conan to abdicate his throne to Conn and leave Aquilonia on his last great quest, never to return.
Now, Gonzalvio was the Count of Poitain and had been for all of his life Conn’s best friend and closest ally. He stood before his king now, sword in hand and bewilderment on his face.
“I knew they lied!” he said grinning. “They told me you were injured and close to death, but I knew they lied!”
“Quiet!” Conn entreated, “you’ll have every sentry in a mile on top of us. What are you doing here, Gonzalvio? Why aren’t you with your army?”
“Because you aren’t!” answered Gonzalvio. “As I said, I knew that wasn’t you who was waylaid in that skirmish. No one man could bring you down that easily. So when your brother refused to let me see you, I knew that something was amiss. So, I waited until there was no one in the tent attending your ‘body’, and then I went in and had a look for myself.”
Conn knitted his brows and scowled at his friend. “So you decided to leave the battle and come looking for me? You really are a deserter!”
“No more than you! I went to Taurus and demanded he tell me where you were. He told me some bull about your injuries being too great to leave you near a battlefield and that they had you moved. I told him I didn’t believe him and he threatened to throw me in the stockade if I didn’t leave him alone. So I made up my mind to come looking for you.”
Conn turned his back on Gonzalvio and fetched his horse. “Well, now you’ve found me. Get back to your men, Gonzalvio. They need you more than I do.”
“Why, Conn? What is it that is so important that you have to go through this elaborate ruse and leave your brother as de-facto regent? Why must you leave your army in the midst of battle believing you slain, for Mitra’s sake?”
Mounting his horse, Conn looked down at Gonzalvio. “I cannot tell you now.”
“Well, I’m not leaving you until you do.”
Conn’s anger spilled over. “Yes you will! I am your king and I command it!”
“Taurus is king! You are a man alone refusing the help of a friend!”
Conn jumped down from his horse. He pointed his finger at Gonzalvio. “Curse you Gonzalvio for a meddling fool!”
“Curse me then, for I will not let you walk into danger with no one to watch your back!”
Conn, through his anger, knew that Gonzalvio was not going to leave him now no matter what he tried to say. He could tie him and leave him, take him back forcefully to camp or tell him everything and have an able fighter and a trusted friend at his side. Taurus would never let him hear the end of it.
“Radegund has been captured.”
A look of horror registered on Gonzalvio’s handsome face. “Radegund! When? By whom?”
“Yesterday by the Pictish shaman. He threatens to feed her to some devil-tree if we do not surrender. That is why we created my death, to give me time to find her and rescue her before…” Conn could not finish the sentence.
“I understand,” said Gonzalvio. “You need say no more.” He put both hands on Conn’s shoulders and looked him square in the eyes. “What’s our first move?”
“I travel to Zingara, there to seek counsel with Hadrathus, the Asuran priest.”
“Ah, my father used to speak of him. He helped your father win the crown.”
“And keep it.”
“What do you seek from Hadrathus?”
“Only wisdom. I wish to know what this Wailing Tree is and where I can find it. Then I – we – will go there and hang this shaman from it until his black face turns blue.”
“And what of Taurus and the army?”
“Taurus has his instructions and he will follow them, though it pains him to do so. Only he, Amalric and now you know of our plan. And now,” he said grinning, “I guess I must take you with me so that you don’t ruin the whole thing.”
Gonzalvio grinned back at his king. “I suppose you are right. Now, which way to Zingara?”
