Chapter Four

An Unbeatable Warrior

Conan, Subotai, and Malak ride their horses hard until the beasts are too exhausted to run anymore and it is too dark to see the road. Fortunately there is a roadside inn along the way where they can put up for the night. It once was a sheep ranch, but the previous owners were killed by bandits and their flock stolen. Someone else took up residence there. Then travelers would stop by, asking for shelter. They would arrive so frequently that the house's new owner started charging them money. Over time he built onto the house, and eventually it became a fairly successful business. He named it The Ram's Horn. It is now a common watering hole and rest stop for mercenaries, adventurers, and wanderers.

Conan and his friends enter the common room and find an empty table. It is a busy night tonight, with a fair number of colourful people of all sorts practically shoulder to shoulder, drinking ale and swapping stories. There is a group of men at one table wagering on a game of Liar's Dice*. At another table a group of men are playing a card game called Siege*. At yet another table, a large, bearded man with an eye patch over his left eye and a scar running down the left side of his face from eyebrow to jaw line is having an arm wrestling contest. A very fit and strong looking younger man is struggling with all his might in order to try and get the bearded man's hand down to the table. The bearded man, however, doesn't seem to be struggling in the slightest. In fact, as his right arm holds its position with his elbow firmly planted on the table, his left arm holds a tankard of ale which he's chugging down while holding his opponent at bay. After he drains the tankard, he slams it down onto the table, looks his opponent right in the eye, belches in the young man's face, and then slams his arm down with as much effort as if he were arm wrestling a child. The one eyed man bursts out laughing as the younger man walks away shaking his head and massaging his arm.

"Take heart lad!" says the man with the eye patch, "Ye did good! Anyone else wanna go?" he asks the room. Nobody answers. "I'll wager double what you put up! Anybody? All right then! I'll put up triple!" Still there are no takers. Judging by the large pile of silver coins on the table next to him, it's a safe bet he has yet to lose this evening. The arm wrestler picks up a huge double bladed great ax from under his table and slams the butt of it against the floor. "More ale!" he shouts.

"What about him?" Subotai asks Conan, "He looks like he can handle himself in a fight."

"We won't beat the Juns by arm wrestling them," says Conan, "I'd rather recruit the man who gave him that scar."

"Unless that big man has already killed the man who gave him that scar," suggests Subotai.

"All right!" shouts the arn wrestler, "I'll put up four times your wager! Who wants to try?"

"I will!" says a booming voice from the bar.

Everyone looks and sees a large, powerfully built warrior with long golden blonde hair striding confidently towards the arm wrestlers table. He is wearing brass shoulder guards, with a brass plated sleeve down his left arm. He also wears brass shin guards, leather boots, and a leather loincloth. There is a heavy, wide broadbelt around his waist, the buckle, also made of brass, is designed to look like the head of a roaring lion. Hanging from that belt, at his left hip, is the sheathed blade of a magnificent longsword. The hilt appears to be forged in gold, and is encrusted with rubies. He also wears a quiver of arrows on his back, and a powerful looking longbow. The ends of the bow are carved to look like the head of a dragon, the curve the dragon's neck. The curve of the bow is so thick one might even doubt the warrior's ability to draw the string back. The blonde warrior sits down at the table across from the one eyed arm wrestler.

"Four to one?" asks the warrior.

"That's what I said," confirms the arm wrestler.

The blonde warrior reaches into his money purse and pulls out a pair of gold coins. The one eyed man looks at the gold coins, and then looks at his own pile of silver. He has enough to cover that bet if he loses. . . . Maybe. He looks this newcomer over. The warrior gives him a look of supreme confidence. The wrestler steadies himself for the contest. He has a feeling that this was a challenge he couldn't face with his usual bluster. He places his elbow on the table in the ready position. The blonde warrior does likewise. The two of them lock hands. The wrestler nods that he's ready, and the warrior nods back. The two of them push against each other, trying to drive the other's arm down. The one eyed champion leans in, his face twisted in the strain of the match. Meanwhile, the blonde warrior seems to be hardly straining at all. He's putting in as little effort in this contest as his opponent had on the last one. When he finally tires of the charade, the blonde warrior slams his opponent's hand down onto the table.

The scarred man roars in outrage. He grabs his ax and stands up. The blonde warrior stands up as well, but doesn't bother drawing his sword. "You cheated!" yells the loser.

"Not at all," says the warrior calmly, "I won. You lost. And now your money is mine. Fair and square."

"I don't honor bets with cheats!" shouts the scarred man, and he raises his ax and attempts to bring it down and cleave the warrior's skull in two. The blonde warrior catches the ax by the handle, and then the two men push and pull, trying to wrest the weapon from the other's grasp. Finally the blonde warrior brings his knee up into the other man's groin. The bearded man lets out a gasp and his one good eye seems to roll up into his head. The blonde warrior then rears his head back and then throws it forward, slamming his forehead into the bridge of the scarred man's nose. As his nose becomes crushed and blood flows freely down his face, the loser falls to the floor, flat on his back. His opponent stands over him, ax in hand. He raises the ax up over his head.

"I. Don't. Cheat!" he cries as he brings the ax down. The one eyed man raises his arms up over his face in a feeble defense and screams in terror as the ax comes down. But rather than spilling his blood, the blade of the ax head buries itself into the floorboards, right between his legs, less than an inch from cleaving his manhood in two. The one eyed man sits up screaming, thoroughly surprised that he is still alive and still whole.

"Leave," says the warrior. "Now."

The one eyed ruffian scrambles away from the victor and runs up the stairs to his room (likely to find a clean pair of pants). The winner sits down at the table and helps himself to some ale. "So," he says, "Anyone here want to try and challenge me to an arm wrestling match? I'm offering a four to one pay out!"

Conan gets up and walks over to the table. "I'll take that bet," he says.

"How much?" asks the warrior.

"Everything in my bag," replies Conan. He holds the bag out so that the blonde warrior can see inside. All he sees are a bunch of copper coins and a few silver pieces. The blonde warrior smiles at him.

"Hey," he says, "It's your money."

The two warriors clasp hands and place their elbows in the ready position. They look each other in the eye. Conan nods his head, indicating that he's ready. His opponent nods back. Then the contest begins. Both men grimace in effort as they strain against one another. With the exception of their hair colour, they appear to be almost mirror images of the other. Their muscles strain. Their veins bulge. Beads of sweat form on their brows. First Conan begins to gain the advantage. Then his opponent does. Back and forth it goes. Conan's opponent finally begins to gain the upper hand. The back of Conan's hand inches closer and closer to the table. Then, just as it appears that all is lost, with a cry of "Crom!" Conan drives his opponent's hand all the way down flat onto the table.

The blonde warrior looks at Conan with an expression of absolute shock. But unlike the previous champion that night, he takes his loss with good humor. "Well done!" he congratulates the Cimmerian. Then he tosses him one of his gold coins. "That ought to cover your winnings," he says.

"I don't think so," says Conan, and he dumps the contents of the purse onto the table. The last thing to fall out, the thing that was buried under all of the copper and silver coins, was the platinum and emerald necklace that belonged to Shad's mother. "We did say four times everything in my bag," says Conan.

Again, the blonde warrior shows remarkable good humor after falling for such a simple trick. "You're welcome to all my money," he says, "But I'm afraid I don't have enough to cover our wager."

"Then I'll take it out in trade."

"What kind of trade?"

"I happen to be recruiting mercenaries to help me defend a small farming village. You just volunteered."

Again, the warrior laughs. "Fair enough!" he says, "Who are you, friend?"

"I am Conan, a Cimmerian."

"Well met, Conan. They call me Deathstalker."

"Come," says Conan as he gathers up the coins and puts them into his purse, "I will introduce you to your fellow mercenaries."

They head over to the table where Subotai and Malak are waiting. "I want you to meet Subotai of Hyrkania. He is an archer and great warrior. And this here is Malak. I know he doesn't look like much, but there are few men who are deadlier with a dagger than he is. Subotai. Malak. This is Deathstalker."

"Deathstalker?" says Subotai as the newcomer sits down, "Your mother must have had great plans for you to give you a name like that."

"I never knew my mother," says Deathstalker, "I was born into slavery. I was taken from my mother and sold to be trained as a gladiator while I was still suckling at her breast. The Vanir raised me to be the mightiest gladiator who ever lived. And they succeeded. To this day I have never lost a battle. I have fought ogres and trolls. I have battled armored men while I was virtually naked and unarmed. I have fought alone against multiple opponents and have never been beaten."

"Then you ought to feel right at home with us," remarks Subotai.

"How so?"

"We have been hired to fight a group of mounted barbarians called The Juns."

"How many of them are there?" asks Deathstalker.

"Approximately two hundred," says Conan, "Maybe three."

"And how many of us are there?"

"Including you? Four."

"Plus maybe three or four dozen farmers with pitchforks," adds Subotai.

Once again Deathstalker bursts out laughing. "My friend," he says, "You needn't have bothered with the deceptions and trickery. I would have joined you had you just asked!"

"Really?" says Subotai, genuinely puzzled, "Why?"

"Because that sounds like it might actually be a challenge!"

Once again Deathstalker bursts out laughing, and this time Conan, Subotai, and Malak join in.

Hundreds of miles away, in the city of Aruk, Shad and Dar are preparing to leave the city and return to Akir. Dar decides to visit his young half brother, the king, in order to borrow a horse. Dar does most of his traveling on foot, as he is never without his animal companions Ruh the tiger, Sharak the eagle, and the ferrets Kodo and Podo. However, even with his ability to telepathically communicate with animals, he cannot convince a horse to travel alongside Ruh for any great length of time. And to be fair, he's not entirely certain that he could convince Ruh not to eat the horse if the cat got hungry enough. He only communicates with the animals, he doesn't control them. But time is of the essence, and a swift mount is vital to getting to Akir on time. On their way to the Royal Palace they hear a commotion coming from off to the side. Despite their need for haste, they decide to investigate. As the two men draw nearer to the commotion, they begin to hear what's being said.

"Five silver on the pup!" says one voice.

"Six on the vet!" says another.

They come upon a group of men and women crowding around the side of a building. Dar and Shad push their way through the crowd to see what it is they're yelling about. The crowd forms a semicircle around two men. Both are wearing the trappings of warriors, although they both clearly are foreign to Aruk. One of the men is wearing chainmail armor and had a curved broadsword sheathed at his hip. By his manner of dress, almond shaped eyes, and olive skin he is clearly a man from Khitai. He unbuckles his sword belt and hands it to a lovely young woman standing behind him, also from Khitai, wearing a red cheongsam dress with dragons embroidered on it in gold thread. The man is fairly young, in his early to mid twenties at best. The man standing across from him could be from virtually any of the western kingdoms. He has long dark hair and pale skin. He wears armor more akin to those of the western kingdoms, made up mostly of chainmail, with brass plates strategically placed as both added protection and decoration. He too unbuckles his sword belt, which holds a fabulous bastard sword, and hands it to his second, a little man roughly half the warrior's size.

"What's going on?" Dar asks one of the spectators, an old man with a long white beard who is smoking a pipe as he watches.

"Two dignitaries from Khitai and Tir Asleen got into an argument over which of them is the greater swordsman," says the old man, "They're going to settle things the old fashioned way."

The young woman hands the man from Khitai a stick, roughly as long as his broadsword and as thick as a quarterstaff. The easterner puts the makeshift weapon through some practice swings with obvious skill. The little fellow acting as the second for the man from Tirasleen which closely matches his bastard sword in both length and weight. He too puts the weapon through some simple practice swings, also showing considerable skill. The two combatants begin walking towards each other.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" asks the man from Tir Asleen.

"Afraid, Round Eye?" asks the man from Khitai in a mocking tone.

"Not at all," comes the reply, "But false pride is no reason to spill a man's blood, or lose any of your own."

"Spoken like a coward," says the man from the east.

"You know," says the other man, "You're making it extremely difficult to remain diplomatic."

The two men assume ready stances with their wooden swords. The man from Khitai goes on the offensive, attacking his opponent with a series of slashing attacks. The man from Tir Asleen backs away, parrying every attack. When he can't back up any farther he ducks under an attack that was aimed at his head and dances past his opponent and back into the center of the semicircle.

"He's out matched," says Shad, pointing at the older veteran from Tir Asleen, "He hasn't even tried to fight back."

"No," says Dar, "He's toying with him. Look," and he points to the man from Khitai, "The man from Khitai is already tiring."

Shad looked closer and it was true, the man from the east was breathing heavily. The delegate from Khitai charges at his opponent again, slashing almost wildly with his wooden sword. His opponent backs away again, parrying each strike with his own wooden sword. Once more he can back up no farther. This time the man from the east tries a thrusting attack. The delegate from Tir Asleen sidesteps the attack, pivots, spins, gives his opponent a humiliating slap on the rump with his sword, and then dances once more into the center of the semicircle. The man from Khitai turns around, his face twisted in fury.

"You have been hanging around with that peck too much!" he says, "You fight like a coward!"

The smile leaves the other man's face. "Don't call him a peck!" he says.

"A peck?" says Shad.

"The little fellow acting as his second," says the old man, "He's of a race called the Nelwyn. A peck is a derogatory racial slur to the Nelwyn. The highest of insults."

The man from Khitai comes at his opponent once more. This time the man from Tir Asleen doesn't retreat. They come at each other full force in a flurry of strikes, parries, and counter strikes. Then the two combatants strike at each other simultaneously, both pulling their attacks just short of the other's throat.

"A draw then," says the man from Khitai as he pants heavily.

"No," says his opponent, "Had this been for real, you would be dead."

"You lie!" screams the man from the east.

"No, you lost."

"Prove it!" shouts the easterner, and he throws away his stick, storms over to his second and draws his broadsword, "This time we do it for real!"

The older man walks over to the Nelwyn, tosses his own stick aside, and then draws his bastard sword. "Don't be a fool," he says, "This is no reason to end your life."

"But it is reason enough to end yours!"

The two men clash once more. Steel rings against steel as their blades clash in a wild flurry. Then the two of them swing at each other simultaneously exactly as they had before. This time the attack by the man from Tir Asleen is just a split second quicker than his opponent's. The blade of his sword slashes the younger man's throat wide open. The shock of the wound throws the easterner's aim off, causing his blade to scrape harmlessly across the armor of his opponent. The younger man grasps his throat in a desperate attempt to stop the flow of his life's blood. He tries to speak, but can only make a strangled gurgling sound. He falls to his knees, and then collapses face first into the dirt. The victor pulls a cloth from his pocket and cleans his blade as he walks solemnly over to the Nelwyn. The girl in the red cheongsam dress runs over to the slain man, crying over the loss. The crowd begins to disburse, all but Dar and Shad who look at the winner thoughtfully. As the man sheathes his sword and buckles his sword belt back around his waste, the Beastmaster and his companion walk over to him.

"You're pretty good with a sword," says Dar.

"He's the greatest swordsman who ever lived," replies the Nelwyn.

"We're hiring mercenaries to. . . . " begins Shad.

"I'm no mercenary," the swordsman interrupts, "Not anymore."

"Who are you?" asks Dar.

"I am Madmartigan, Stewart to the throne of Tir Asleen and guardian of the princess, Elora Dannen. This is my good friend, Willow Ufgood of the Nelwyn, a mighty sorcerer."

"Him?" says Shad, "A mighty sorcerer?"

"One does not need be great in size to wield mighty magic," says Willow, "Observe." The young magician reaches up and lays a hand on Shad's injured arm. "Sana caro os quaeque sarcerent.*" A soft blue glow radiates from Willow's hand and spreads up Shad's injured arm. The glow continues to spread across his shoulders and down his chest. Shad's arm begins to hurt less. It's no longer painful to take a deep breath. By the time the glow fades away, his injuries have all healed. Shad removes his arm from its sling and tests its range of motion. His arm is as good as new.

"How did you do that?" he asks.

"Magic," replies Willow with a shrug, "Just a simple healing spell. Fairly minor incantation really."

"It is a shame you aren't for hire," says Dar, "We could use people with your talents."

"What do you need mercenaries for anyway?" asks Madmartigan.

"To protect my home village of Akir from marauding barbarians known as The Juns," says Shad, "They steal our crops and our livestock, leaving us barely enough to survive. They murder anyone who tries to stand up to them. They even kidnap and rape our women, most recently my own sister."

"Can't King Tal protect you?" asks Madmartigan.

"Our village is too remote," replies Shad, "His Majesty cannot afford to maintain a garrison so far from his city."

"In that case," says Madmartigan, "you will have the aid of my sword."

"And my spells," adds Willow.

"No," says Madmartigan, "Not this time, my friend."

"What?!" exclaims Willow, "What do you mean?"

"You have a wife and children at home," the swordsman calmly explains, "And an entire community that depends on you."

"So do you!" argues the Nelwyn.

"True," agrees Madmartigan, "But Elora Dannen has Finn Razael and Sorsha to look after her. Sorsha is a warrior, she'll understand. And she used to be the Princess of Castle Nockmaar, so she can handle the political stuff on her own. Much better than I ever could anyway. And she also has Rool and Frangene who. . . Who. . . Who have the Dust of Broken Hearts? But where would Kaya and the bobbins be if anything ever happened to you? And where would your village be if Burgelcutt's power goes unchallenged?"

"But. . . ."

"Besides," continues Madmartigan, "I need someone here who can represent the people of Tir Asleen in my absense." He takes off a signant ring and hands it to Willow, "I am giving you the authority to speak to the king on my behalf, and on the behalf of the people of Tir Asleen. Your first instinct is always a selfless one. I know you'll do me proud."

Willow looks as the ring in his hand, then looks up at his friend. He knows he's not going to win this argument. "Don't go getting yourself killed," he says, "I doubt all the magic in the world will save me from Sorsha's wrath if that should happen."

"I don't doubt it," says Madmartigan with a smile.

"Besides," continues Willow, "Branon wants to become a warrior when he grows up. And as skilled as Vohnkar, I'd much rather my son be trained by the great Madmartigan."

"And he will be," says Madmartigan as he kneels in front of Willow and gently places a friendly hand upon his small friend's shoulder, "I give you my word of honor."

"Here," says Willow, and he fishes in his pocket for a moment. The Nelwyn pulls his hand out and places something into Madmartigan's palm. "Take this for luck. But only use it in the most dire of need."

Madmartigan looks at his palm, "An acorn?"

"The same acorn I threatened to throw at you the day we met," says Willow, "It's magic. Anything you throw it at. . . ."

"Turns to stone," says Madmartigan, completing the thought, "I remember. Thank you, my friend."

"Just come back alive," replies the Nelwyn.

"After receiving this gift?" he says, holding up the acorn, "How can I possibly not do so?"

"Just don't miss," says the little sorcerer.

"Hey," says Madmartigan, "I never miss."

The two friends clasp forearms in a warrior's symbol of brotherhood. He then joins Dar and Shad in acquiring a horse from King Tal's royal stables. Within an hour Madmartigan, Dar, and Shad are riding hard towards the town of Haven, with Ruh following close behind and Sharak flying high over head, while poor Willow must negotiate trade agreements not only for the Nelwyn but also for the people of Tir Asleen.

Author's Notes

Liar's Dice is the dice game being played by the pirates aboard The Flying Dutchman in the movie Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest.

Siege is a card game I had invented for use in tales of high fantasy such as this one, as I doubt all possible worlds and realities would have the exact same decks of cards (four suits, thirteen cards per suit, and two jokers) as well as the exact same games to be played using these cards (Gin, Poker, Cribbage, etc). So I made up the game of Siege. There are five suits to a deck, with sixteen cards per suit (six face cards and ten numbered cards). There are also four Siege Engine cards, which are wild. The suits are Infantry, Cavalry, Archers, Battle Clerics, and War Wizards. The face cards are Field Marshal, General, Colonel, Major, Captain, and Lieutenant. The game itself plays pretty much the same as Five Card Draw Poker, with the exceptions of the number of cards per hand (seven instead of five) and the number of possible winning hands (with more suits, more cards per suit, and more cards per hand, there are far more possibilities for winning hands).

The magical incantation spoken by Willow is actually Latin. It translates to "Mend bone, Heal flesh."