Conan the Swordsman

by L. Sprague De Camp

  Conan put his arms around her to comfort her. And in the early morning light that stole through the opening of the dome, she saw the blood oozing from the razor cuts across his chest.

  "My beloved, you are hurt and I knew it not! I must wash and bind your wounds."

  "Just a few scratches," grumbled Conan. But he allowed her to lead him to the well in the little cloistered courtyard behind the skull-faced temple. There she washed the dried blood from his limbs and bandaged the beast's bites with strips of silk torn from her skirt. A half hour later, Conan and Muriela returned to the rotunda and rested behind a pillar out of sight of the ivory goddess. Keeping alternate watch, they slept all that day and the following night.

  -

  When Conan awoke, the golden rays of the rising sun were gilding the clouds of morning, and the East was ablaze with ruddy vapors. Muriela sat with her back to a pillar, cradling Conan's head in her arms.

  He stretched. "I must go and get us some food," he said. "Here, take this dagger in case the old priestess returns."

  Climbing the ladder to the small storeroom through whose window they had entered, he hooked the grapnell into the sill and prepared to descend the rope. Then he paused to peer westward, for he caught—or thought he caught—a glimpse of distant movement.

  Beyond the hills that surrounded the temple-shrine lay a wide savanna, and at the far end of that grassy plain stood the city of Kassali, roof ornaments on temple and palace twinkling in the slanting sunlight. All seemed peaceful, the city asleep. Then Conan's keen eyes discerned a row of black dots moving across the plain. A faint plume of dust arose behind them.

  "Our visitors are coming sooner than I thought," he growled. "I cannot leave the nags tethered here. The delegation would know at once that strangers occupied their temple."

  He swung over the sill and let himself down swiftly. In a moment he had unhitched the horses. Tightening the girth on one, he vaulted into the saddle and departed at a gallop, leading the other two. A quarter hour later he returned, breathing hard from running up the long slope of the hill. He climbed the rope and drew it in, then made his way to the head of the ladder.

  "Horsemen coming!" he gasped. "Tied the nags—in the woods—at the foot of the hill! Put on your goddess garb, and quickly." He tossed Muriela a bundle of female garments.

  Returning to the window, he found that the line of dots had grown into a cavalcade, cantering toward the foot of the temple knoll. He raced to the ladder, clambered down, and said:

  "Come; we have scarce time to hide ourselves in the oracle chamber. You remember your speech?"

  "Y-yes; but I fear. It did not work when we tried it at Alkmeenon."

  "There was a rascal then, and Bit-Yakin's accursed servants. This priestess lacks her monster, and I've seen no other temple denizens. This time, I'll stay beside you. Come!"

  He took her hand and almost dragged her across the room. By the time the cavalcade reached the temple, Conan and Muriela were crowded into the small chamber behind the ivory goddess.

  They heard the clop of hooves, the jingle of harness, and the mumble of distant voices as men dismounted. Presently Conan caught a slow mechanical rumble.

  "That must be the portcullis," he whispered. "The priests must have some sort of key."

  The voices grew louder, mingled with the tramp of many feet. Through the band of fretwork that ran across the door, Conan saw a procession file into the rotunda. First came a group of blacks in barbaric finery. In their midst paced a large, stout man with graying, wooly hair, on which rode an elaborate crown, made of sheets of gold hammered into the form of a hawk with outspread wings. This, Conan surmised must be King Lalibeha. A very tall, lean man in a purple robe he took to be Zaramba, the high priest.

  They were followed by a squad of Puntian spearmen with headdresses of ostrich plumes and rhinoceros-hide shields. Behind them strode Thutmekri the Stygian and a score of his personal retainers, among them Kushite spearmen and Shemitish archers armed with heavy double-curved bows.

  Conan's neck hairs stiffened as he sighted his enemy.

  -

  Thutmekri the Stygian felt the morning breeze at his back. That same chill, or an echo of it, closed about his heart. Rogue and adventurer though he was, the tall Stygian cared little for this unexpected visit to the shrine of the ivory goddess. He remembered all too well the disaster that had befallen his partner in the temple of the goddess Yelaya at Alkmeenon.

  Although Thutmekri had spoken plausibly about the possibility of war against Punt, King Lalibeha had remained doubtful and suspicious. Among the rulers of the northern tier of black countries, the old king was known as canny and cautious. To cap the king's doubts, his high priest Zaramba had received a drum message from his sacerdotal colleagues to westward, warning against certain pale-skinned troublemakers who were fleeing toward Punt. When the smooth-talking Stygian persisted, Zaramba proposed a visit to the oracular shrine of Nebethet, to seek the advice of the goddess.

  Thus king and high priest with their attendants had set out at dawn and traveled into the sunrise. It behooved Thutmekri to go with them, much as he disliked the notion. The Stygian thought little of these southern gods, but he feared their fanatical priests, who might turn upon him, denouncing him as a foreign interloper. His debacle in Keshan had honed a fine edge on his fears. And as they rode toward the skull-shaped temple on that distant hill, he wondered whether the whole expedition was a pretext by Lalibeha and his high priest to trap and destroy him.

  -

  So they had come to the shrine of the goddess Nebethet. Zaramba released the hidden catch that enabled his servants to raise the portcullis, and in they went. The king placed Thutmekri and his men in the center of the solemn procession, in order, the Stygian suspected, to give the royal escort the advantage should a fracas begin.

  Eyes gleamed with holy awe; the priest and the courtiers knelt and bowed low to the ground. On the dais before the ivory, skull-faced goddess, the king placed a small, lacquered casket; and as he opened it, jeweled fire spilled out into the pale morning light of the secluded place.

  Long black arms rose in homage to the ivory woman. Zaramba intoned an invocation, while youthful acolytes with shaven heads swung golden censers, spreading clouds of fragrant smoke.

  Thutmekri's nerves were on edge. He fancied that he felt the pressure of unseen eyes. As the priest spoke in an archaic dialect of Puntic, which he could not understand, his restlessness grew. His Stygian ancestry whispered that something was about to happen.

  In a bell-like voice, the skull-faced woman spoke: "Beware, O King, of the wiles of Stygia! Beware, O Lalibeha, of the plots of blasphemers from distant, sinister lands! The man before you is no friend but a smooth-tongued traitor, come slinking out of Keshan to pave the road to your doom!"

  Growling and lifting their feather-tufted spears, the Puntian warriors glared suspiciously at Thutmekri and his escort. The Stygian's men clustered together, the spearmen forming a circle of shields. Behind them, the Shemites reached back over their shoulders, ready to whip arrows from their quivers. In an instant, the hall might explode into a scene of scarlet carnage.

  Thutmekri remained frozen. There was something familiar about that voice. He could have sworn that it was the voice of a much younger woman disguised to sound mature—a young woman whose voice, he was sure, he had heard before.

  "Wait, O King!" he cried. "You are being cozened...."

  But the voice from the statue, continuing without pause, commanded the attention of all. "Choose, instead, as your general Conan the Cimmerian. He has fought from the snows of Vanaheim to the jungles of Kush; from the steppes of Hyrkania to the pirate isles of the Western Ocean. He is beloved of the gods, who have carried him victorious through all his battles. He alone can lead your legions to victory!"

  As the voice ceased, Conan stepped out of the small chamber that opened on the rotunda. With a keen sense of the dramatic, he strode majestically forward, bowing formally to King Lalibeha and again
to the high priest.

  "The devil!" snarled Thutmekri. His face convulsed with rage, he told his archers: "Feather me yonder clown!"

  As half a dozen Shemites pulled arrows from their quivers and nocked them, Conan's eye caught their action. He gathered his legs beneath him to spring behind the nearest pillar; for at that range, he would be an inevitable target for a volley of arrows. The king opened his mouth to shout a command.

  At that moment the ivory statue of Nebethet creaked, groaned, and toppled forward, to crash down the steps of the dais. Where the statue had been now stood a woman on whom all eyes were fixed.

  Staring with the rest, Conan saw that it was Muriela —yet it was not she. Nor was it merely the shimmering ankle-length gown or the few dabs of cosmetics. This woman seemed Muriela transfigured, taller, more majestic, even more beautiful. The air about her seemed to glow with a weird violet light, and the atmosphere of the rotunda was suddenly vibrant with life. The woman's voice was neither Muriela's light soprano nor her imitation of the ringing tones of the goddess she feigned to be. It was a deeper, more resonant voice—a voice which seemed to make the very floor vibrate like the plucked string of a lute.

  "O King! Know that I am the true goddess Nebethet, albeit in the body of a mortal woman. Does any mortal contest this?"

  Thutmekri, insensate with rage and frustration, growled to one of his Shemites, "Shoot her!"

  As the man bent his bow, aiming over the head of the kneeling spearmen before him, the woman smiled slightly and pointed a finger. There was a flash and a sharp crack, and the Shemite fell dead among his comrades.

  "Now do you believe?" she asked.

  There was no reply. Every man in the chamber— long, priest, warriors, and the adventurers Conan and Thutmekri—sank to his knees and bowed his head. The goddess continued:

  "Know, O King, that these two great rogues, Thutmekri and Conan, desire to gain whatever they can at your expense, as they sought and failed to cozen the priests in Keshan. The Stygian merits naught less than to be thrown to the crocodiles. The Cimmerian deserves no less a fate, but I would that he be leniently dealt with because he was kind to the woman whose body is my garment. Give him two days to leave the kingdom or become the reptiles' prey.

  "I lay upon you one more command. My eidolon, cracked in its fall, was at best an ugly image. Set your artisans, O King, to carving me a new statue in the likeness of this woman whose form I now inhabit. I shall, in the interval, make my abode in her body. See that it be furnished with the best of food and drink. Forget not my commands. I grant you now permission to withdraw."

  The purple light faded; the goddess stood motionless upon the dais. The men, bemused, rose silently to their feet and stood as men transfixed. Stealthily the Stygian and his retinue moved toward the open portal.

  The king's command shattered the silence. 'Take them!" he roared. A long-bladed javelin soared from the hand of a king's man, to bury itself in the black breast of one of Thutmekri's Kushites. The victim screamed, lurched drunkenly, and sank sprawling on the marble floor, blood gushing from mouth and nose.

  The next instant, the hall was alive with yelling, struggling men. Javelins arcked, bowstrings twanged, spears jabbed. Jagged-bladed throwing knives whirled through the air, and hardwood clubs thudded on rhinoceros-hide shields and woolly-pated heads. Again and again the men of Punt hurled themselves upon the compact knot of Thutmekri's men. As each wave receded, wounded or dying men clutched at spurting arteries or writhed in their own spilled viscera.

  Thutmekri whipped out his glittering scimitar. Thundering oaths and calling on Set and Yig and all the other devil-gods of the Stygian pantheon, he hewed like a madman among his attackers. Shortly, he cleared a space before and around him, the nearest Puntians giving back before his deadly strokes. Through the thinning press, Thutmekri sighted Conan, standing with sword in hand beside the dais.

  Eyes glaring, mouth twisted with hate, Thutmekri broke out of the crowd and rushed upon the man he blamed for the collapse of all his schemes.

  'This for you, Cimmerian lout!" he screamed, aiming a decapitating slash at Conan's neck.

  Conan parried, and the swords met with the clang of a bell. The blades sprang apart, circled, clashed, and ground. Sparks flew from the steel. Breathing heavily, the antagonists circled, thrusting and slashing in a frenzy of action.

  After a quick feint, Conan struck home against Thutmekri's flank. With a groan, the Stygian doubled over, dropping his sword and clutching at his cloven side. Blood gushed across his fingers. A second blow sent his head leaping from his shoulders and rolling along the floor, while his body slumped into a swiftly widening pool of its own blood.

  When their leader fell, Thutmekri's men—such as were still standing—broke for the exit. In a mass, they crowded through the encircling Puntians, pushing some aside and trampling others. In a trice they were through the portal.

  "After them!" shouted King Lalibeha. "Slay all!"

  King, priests, and warriors streamed out after the fugitives. When Conan reached the portcullis, the grassy slope and the plain beyond were alive with men, some galloping on horseback and some running afoot like madmen. Some of the fugitives vanished into the forest that lapped the hill to southward.

  -

  Back in the shrine, Conan stepped over the silent dead and the groaning wounded to approach the dais. Muriela still stood motionless where once had stood the ivory statue. Conan said:

  "Come, Muriela, we must be gone. How did you manage that purple glow?"

  "Muriela?" said the woman, looking full upon his face. The violet radiance returned as she spoke. There was about her a chill remoteness of tone and manner far beyond the capacity of Muriela's not unskillful acting. "Do not presume, mortal, unless you wish the fate accorded that unfortunate Shemite."

  Conan's skin crawled. Awe shone in the blue eyes he turned upon the goddess.

  "You are truly Nebethet?"

  "Aye, so some men call me."

  "But—but what is to become of Muriela? I cannot just abandon her."

  "Your concern does credit to you, Conan. But fear not for her. She shall be my garment as long as I wish. When I wish otherwise, I will see that she is well provided far. Now you had best be on your way, unless you prefer to end up in the bellies of Lalibeha's crocodiles."

  Seldom in his turbulent life had Conan deferred to any human being, no matter how exalted. Now, for once, he became respectful, almost humble.

  "On my way whither?" he said. 'Tour Divinity knows that I am out of money. I cannot return to Kassali to take up Nahor's offer, for my welcome either in Punt or in Keshan would be something less than hearty."

  "Then bend your steps toward Zembabwei. Nahor of Asgalun has a nephew in the city of New Zembabwei, who may have a post for you as caravan guard. Now go, ere I bethink me of the blasphemies you plotted in my name!"

  Conan bowed, backed away from the dais, turned, and strode out As he walked beneath the raised portcullis, a shuffling sound behind made him whirl, hand on hilt.

  From the darkness within, a withered, bent, and shrunken figure tottered into the light. It had once been a woman.

  The aged priestess of the temple of Nebethet shook a bony fist at Conan. From her toothless jaws came a harsh, grating speech:

  "My son! Ye have slain my son! The curse of the goddess upon thee! The curse of the child's father, the demon Jamankh, upon thee! I call upon Jamankh, the hyena-demon, to blast and rend this murderer, this blasphemer! May your eyeballs rot in your head! May your bowels be drawn from your belly, inch by inch! May ye be staked out over an anthill! Come, Jamankh! Avenge—"

  A fit of coughing racked the aged frame. The crone pressed both bony hands to her chest, and her faded eyes widened in their cavernous sockets. Then she fell headlong upon the marble.

  Conan stepped forward and touched the ancient body. Dead, he mused; she was so old that any shock would slay her. Perchance her demon lover, who begat the monstrosity on her, will come after me and
perchance not. In any case, I must be on my way.

  He closed the staring eyes of the corpse, strode out of the temple, and swung down the grassy slope to the place in the forest where he had left the horses.

  -

  MOON OF BLOOD

  Failing to obtain his long-sought fortune in Punt, Conan travels north to Aquilonia and takes service as a scout on the western frontier, on the edge of the Pictish Wilderness. After the events of "Beyond the Black River," he rises rapidly in the Aquilonian service. As captain of regular troops, he is in the thick of the fighting that rages all over the province of Conajohara, from Velitrium to the Black River. These fights are skirmishes between the retreating Aquilonians and the oncoming Picts, reoccupying the territory they had enjoyed before the Aquilonians drove them out of it. Rumor says that the feuding Pictish clans have united and plan to attack Velitrium itself. So Conan and another captain are sent out with detachments to probe deep into the lost province and to find out what the Picts are up to.