Free Conan The Hero by Leonard Carpenter

make these northerners eat swamp-rice, the local mainstay—‘tis a hopeless task. Some spew it up or sicken on it; all revile it. I have no objection to it myself.” He scraped up mashed yellow root-pulp from his wrinkled plate and sucked it from his bamboo spoon. “The main trouble is, these desert folk do not belong here in Venjipur. Their horses grow sluggish and sickly in the heat, their steel blades rot with rust, and they themselves fall and rave every summer with the quaking chills.”
    “Aye. And not only the weapons rust.” Conan sweetened his tea with wine before sipping more of it. “Men’s toes drop off from wet-rot and leprosy, even without a festering wound to poison them. An arrow-nick alone is enough to do for a man in this clime. Lucky am I that this scratch of mine heals so well.” He waved his poulticed hand before his companions. “This devil-blighted heat, rain, and mud sap a man’s strength as surely as the sucking flies do! By the time he has been here two seasons, a civilized northerner is dull and slow-witted, unable to feel a thumb-sized yellow ant gnawing his neck.”
    “And what of you, Conan?” Juma asked him. “Will you still be hard and keen after two years of Venjipur?” The Kushite eyed him bemusedly. “What is your plan to preserve yourself from these dangers? A fast camel west to Iranistan?”
    Conan laughed. “Nay, Juma, you and I will flourish here. Do you not see, the ills we have spoken of, each and every one, are equally our chances for betterment! The more amiss with this campaign, the more opportunity to advance oneself by setting it right.” He crumpled his near-empty leaf plate and tucked it into one of the scraped, gaping pots. “What is needed here are bold, clear-sighted officers not too bound up in Turanian imperial claptrap—men like ourselves to take hold of things, thrash out victories, and gain rank and fame by them. That is what a war like this is all about, is it not?”
    “So… suppose it is?” Juma belched amply and stroked his full belly, all the while eyeing his host with the cool skepticism of a career officer. “What would you do to improve the running of the war?”
    “What would I do? Why, many things!” Warming to his subject, Conan waved his cup airily beside his head, spattering tiny drops on his guest. “As we were just now saying, I would use local foods in the army mess to make our force self-sufficient. Get the best native cooks, like Sariya here—and local healers, to find out how the Hwongs avoid the ills that beset our troops. Change the uniforms, first of all, and the drill! What place do cavalry tactics have in swamp and jungle, I ask you?” The Cimmerian knit his broad brow in a nearly comic attitude of concentration. “We could create a force that would not only win the war, but stay on afterward to enforce the peace, and even enjoy doing it! But those changes would only be a small part—”
    It was Juma’s turn to laugh, and he did so heartily. “Stop, Conan. Can you hear what you are saying? How would you work these wonders, with every trooper and officer fighting you with all the ferocity they spare the Hwong? Not a one of them but has interests and prejudices running the other way! The food, for instance—what Turanian would touch the meal we have eaten tonight? They would call it unclean and spit on it—no offense to you, Sariya, but it is so.” He flashed an apologetic look at his hostess, who sat at ease beside them, watching and listening with an attitude of interest.
    “Nay, Conan,” Juma continued, “there are some bad things in this world that can only make themselves worse. I fear this campaign is one of them. Instead of seeking fame, I caution you to be as small and invisible as you can while in Venjipur. Obey the rules and, less zealously, your orders. Never take chances, never volunteer.” The Kushite faced his host earnestly. “This is the sum of my experience here; now you have seen some of the