Conan The Hero Read Online Free PDF

cleared away trees and vines to build an encircling palisade, the bare earth was ridged into furrows and stump-holes, baked rock-hard by sun… at least until afternoon, when rain squalls off the Gulf of Tarqheba would surely melt them back to slimy mud.
    As noon approached, even the sunrays reflecting off the yellow earth were scorchingly hot; Conan shifted back underneath the frayed awning of the mess tent to avoid them. Jostling inward among huddled, muttering soldiers and sloe-eyed Venji camp girls, he nevertheless lingered near enough to the entry to have an unobstructed view of the staff officers’ compound across the yard. Leaning against a tentpost, he endured the flat taste of his beaker of kvass and the smelly companionship of the field canteen.
    Juma edged close up beside him, grumbling as was the universal custom. “Small thanks Captain Murad gave us for raiding the demon temple! Conan, you were too honest, telling them the old wizard escaped!” The black trooper smiled, his teeth and eyes glinting yellowish in the shadows. “We should have taken off the head of his ugliest warrior and kicked it a few leagues through the jungle. Then we could have passed it off as Mojurna’s, and they would have granted us a week’s leave in the capital!”
    Conan shook his head, laying a good-natured hand on Juma’s shoulder. “Nay, fellow, that old lizard-splitter is too dangerous a foe to trifle with. If our commanders thought him dead, ‘twould make them all the more lax and reckless. And who bears the brunt of their half-hatched schemes?” He drained his cup of sour beer, grimacing. “By all the gods of the snowy mountains, Venjipur is a vile place! I joined this war because southern duty sounded easy; now I count myself lucky to survive another day!”
    “Aye, Conan, too true. Remember when the Venji campaign seemed a good chance to make rank?” Juma’s grin flashed again, wistfully. “But here all the commissioned officers are eagle-beaked aristocrats born to command.” He scowled morosely. “If they never expose themselves to danger, how will vacancies occur? Aii it is too dismal to think about!” The Kushite gazed moodily around at the troopers loitering near them. Settling on the largest one, who overtopped even himself and Conan, he confronted him and asked, “What of you, Orvad? How did you find your way here to Fort Sikander?”
    The trooper he addressed was truly a massive man, so tall that his straggling hair brushed the grubby canvas overhead. The lank black strands hung unnaturally close to his skull on one side, denoting the loss of an ear—probably on some northern battlefield or civic maimer’s block; none had ever dared ask him where. His remaining facial features, though overlarge and hideously battered, identified him as a native of Turan or Hyrkania. He was slow to speech, knitting his scar-seamed forehead and peering at Juma a long time before answering.
    “I killed a tavern-keeper in Sultanapur,” he rumbled finally. “The fellow tried to drug my wine and steal my pay. Then I killed some of the taverner’s kin, and a few city guards.” Orvad frowned thoughtfully. “When I went back to the garrison, the commandant called me before him. He said if I enjoyed killing so much, Venjipur was the place for me. So I came here.” The giant lowered his eyes, shaking his head in childish disappointment. “But the commandant didn’t tell me I’d only be killing Hwong, these little jungle monkeys! That’s not the same as killing men!”
    His observation was greeted by guffaws from the others in the tent. The gruff male outburst was soon joined by shriller female tones, as troopers translated the joke for the camp slatterns. Orvad looked around at them all, his brow knitting in suspicion at their levity, his big fists slowly knotting—until Juma ventured near enough to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, Orvad, you are certainly right! Everyone here feels the same! Luckily the Hwong are