Conan and the Grim Grey God

by Sean A. Moore

  “So, Captain,” Rulvio rumbled, “say ye that we’ve enough loot for a fortnight of wenching in Messantia?”

  “Aye,” Conan affirmed. “The Hawk needs an overhaul anyway, and this lot of drunkards—” he nodded toward his sodden crewmen “—is ill-suited for any task save sailing or looting. And after tonight’s windfall, the lads earned a good debauch.”

  “I’ve a mind to float in a sea of ale myself,” chuckled Rulvio. “Let’s first discuss an urgent matter—privately,” added Conan. He nodded toward the smoky shadows of the opposite end of the Stowaway.

  Many of the Hawk’s crew had begun their debauch in earnest. One band diced, a few others had wenches in their laps, while many drifted to join other patrons, hear news, and swap lies about their adventures. Conan and Rulvio looked on, amused, and wandered to one of many dimly lit nooks in the Stowaway’s squalid interior.

  “‘Bel favours the thief what squanders his booty,’ eh?” quoth Rulvio. His broad grin revealed teeth as crooked as his nose, which had been broken more times than he could remember.

  Conan raised a bushy eyebrow. “Were it so, Bel would hold no sea-dog in higher esteem than you, Rulvio.” The Cimmerian’s blue eyes burned sharply, as if his wits had not yet been clouded by the Argossean ale. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to the golden hoop that dangled from Rulvio’s sunburned ear. “We have been through some scrapes together, my friend. You shoved me to the deck and took an arrow in the leg for me, years ago when that Zingaran galley nearly ran us down. For that, I am in your debt.”

  Rulvio shrugged. “Had ye not slain a score of those Zingaran swine when they boarded us, our whole blasted crew would be rotting in Dagon’s belly. Hah! There be no debt between us, Conan. I served under Borus before ye, and Gonzago before him, and neither could match ye as captain.”

  Conan accepted the compliment in silence. He demanded much from his men, but he rewarded them with fair shares of every haul. Still, a blood debt could not be settled so readily. And for what he had in mind, he would need the help of a stout fighter like Rulvio.

  The Argossean’s brow furrowed. “This ale has addled my wits, Conan, else I’d have seen it sooner. Why put ashore here, in a city with laws, and not in the Barachan Isles, where they welcome dogs like us?”

  “Swear by Bel that you will not repeat what I am about to tell you.”

  Rulvio did so, his bloodshot eyes meeting Conan’s sombre gaze. The Cimmerian withdrew a folded piece of parchment from his vest of supple, finely tooled leather. He laid it upon the table, thumping it with his scarred fist. “I found this in a cloak, aboard that little Zingaran ship we overtook today.”

  “Well, at least ye found something that the lads won’t squander tonight,” Rulvio said heavily. “Bel knows we’ll guzzle the profit from that excursion before the sun rises. I’ll not grumble about the cargo, but I would that we had caught the swine who made off in the skiff with the strongbox.”

  Conan waved aside the first mate’s complaints. “We could not give chase—the cursed wind deserted us, and that fool Voralo gave chase in our boat and got himself and three lads killed in the process!” The memory stoked a fire of anger in Conan’s eyes; the Hawk had eventually caught up with Voralo’s drifting boat and its dead occupants, but their slayer had escaped, presumably to the haven afforded by nearby Messantia. Each man’s throat had been slit deeply, vertically, their wounds unlike any that even Conan had seen. He chewed his lip for a span, then stared across the table at Rulvio. “But we may yet gain from that raid. Have you heard legends of a City of Brass?”

  Rulvio snorted. “Aye. Though I be not fool enough to believe them. There’s a knave in every blasted town from here to Turan who hawks maps to the Brass City. I doubt not that ye found such a piece of fakery—they be as common as lice in a beggar’s beard!”

  “So they are,” Conan agreed, scowling. As a naive youth, he had wasted many a coin on false treasure maps. “But this one is different; never have I seen its like. In my wanderings, I have learned a smattering of ancient rune-lore. The map bears inscriptions. He paused as Rubinia arrived, a huge clay pitcher nestled in the crook of her elbow.

  Rulvio’s eyes had shifted away from Conan’s. They lingered on Rubinia’s full bosom, which strained at the thin fabric of her low-cut tunic as she bent over their table to refill their ale-jacks. When she finished, the Argossean’s gaze followed her. “Forget this mad quest for the blasted Brass City, Captain. Why not spend the evenings carousing with us and pass the nights abed with that doxy until the Hawk is ready to sail again? We be wolves of the sea, and on the sea we hunt—not in the dusty bowels of some landlocked ruin.”

  “You speak wisely, as ever, Rulvio. Assuredly the wench will take my mind off this map for a time. But I deem it worthwhile to spend a week or two on a foray into the desert of Shem, where these writings place the city. Accompany me if you wish. I shall go at it alone if you prefer to stay here—perhaps it were better if you did, or the lads may get into too much trouble.”

  “Our lads?” Rulvio winked. “Why, such refined fellows as they will of course obey every local law and observe every blasted custom.” He pointed toward a group of a half-score of loud, inebriated knaves who had stopped throwing dice and started throwing punches. “Fenzini, you slack-wit!” Rulvio cursed. “Use the weighted dice in games with honest folk—not with your blasted mates!” He turned to Conan, grunting disapprovingly. “I must needs break this up before someone dents a skull.” He cracked his knuckles as he rose from the wooden crate that served as his seat and staggered into the brawl.

  Conan shook his head, though he was not too surprised by Rulvio’s lack of enthusiasm for a venture into Shem. Still, the Cimmerian was determined to see if the map might open a vault of treasure that for centuries had eluded fortune-hunters. Many times he had single-handedly seized hoards of wealth, the very existence of which had been scoffed at by others. And he knew well that a few nights of revelry would end in restlessness. After months at sea, he welcomed a journey that would take him through Shem’s lush wine country. If he struck it rich there, he could turn the Hawk over to Rulvio and live like a king, forgoing the freebooter’s life-style of feasting one week and fasting for the next three or four.

  He tucked the parchment into his vest and upended his ale-jack, gulping until he emptied it. Grinning, he rose and sauntered over to the mass of punching, kicking pirates that had begun to encompass the entire tavern. He ducked a flying clay pitcher, dodged a poorly thrown punch, and began to pull his besotted" men one by one from the tangle of flailing limbs.

  II

  Knives in the Dark

  Through a thin veil of clouds, moonlight shimmered on rippling waters that lapped gently at the docks of Messantia. The Argossean capital, acknowledged as the queen of Hyboria’s seaports by all but rival Zingarans, slept quietly under the blanket of night. In the darkness between moon-set and sunrise, even the hardiest carousers snored in their bunks, or sprawled upon the paving-stones of alleys. More than a few lay facedown on the filthy floors of inns or taverns.

  In spite of its shabby buildings, Messantia enjoyed the reputation of being among the safest of cities. At regular intervals, dutiful sentries patrolled even the darkest of streets. A lone woman could tread the streets of Messantia with aplomb, even at night. Of course, such safety came with a price, for King Milo’s laws exacted severe penalties from those who violated the city’s curfew. Messantia’s complex justice system favoured no one who walked the streets past curfew, save those in possession of the right documents.

  Undoubtedly, some enterprising sentries accepted coinage in lieu of documents. Koralo, whose watch had just begun, was such a man.

  His finely woven silver-and-blue tabard marked him as commander of the city’s south-eastern quarter. In fourteen years of loyal service, he had collected more wealth than many a Messantian merchant earned in a lifetime. He had also acquired a taste for the expensive wines of Kyros, a hefty gambling debt, and an appetite fo
r certain exotic pleasures of the flesh that cost far more than the rarest wine. No matter how much gold he gathered, it slipped swiftly between his fat fingers.

  Koralo’s head and belly still ached from last night’s excesses. His mood was as foul as the taste in his mouth as he led his three men in a routine patrol of the area known as Smuggler’s Wharf. It was the most southern and eastern of the city’s ports, the district farthest from the centre of Messantia. Ships, bearing diverse and often illegally obtained goods, docked at the south-eastern port, where they hoped to escape the attentions of Milo’s industrious tax collectors. On a typical day, the pier was a hotbed of activity.

  But at this time of day, as Koralo knew, even the smugglers slept. So he stared in fascination as a small boat approached, its sole occupant rowing rapidly but stealthily toward the end of the dark pier. The commander waited in the shadows at the far end of the pier, wondering why this man would so blatantly violate Messantia’s laws. No vessels were permitted to put ashore at night, save in the presence of a Messantian cargo inspector.

  Then Koralo saw the iron-bound trunk.

  Koralo forgot his aches as he watched the boat approach. Pirate captains were wont to boldly smuggle their most precious booty into Messantia in just this manner, or so it was said. This might be the opportunity that Koralo had waited for—a chance to pay off his gambling debts and retire in luxury. His men, whom he had chosen carefully for a combination of brute strength and abysmal stupidity, would never realize that the “confiscated” trunk would be diverted from King Milo’s storehouse.

  Visions of flowing wine and submissive, nubile beauties filled Koralo’s thoughts as the boat’s bow gently bumped into the aged wooden pier. The stranger disembarked after an arduous struggle with the trunk. He was tall, clad in a loose-fitting mantle of dull indigo that blended into the shadowy night. A cowl concealed his face, and his footsteps were but whispers. He had tied a cloth pouch to the simple rope belt knotted about his waist, but no other gear— notably weapons—was in evidence. Koralo smiled. This would be easy. Like his sentries, the commander wore a bronze-studded leather jerkin and cap, more than adequate to turn the point of a knife or the edge of a sword.

  The stranger carefully surveyed the length of the pier, then opened the trunk with a key that hung from a cord about his neck. He peered inside and froze, as if surprised by its contents. Cursing softly, he locked the trunk, shoved it into the water, and headed toward the cobblestone street. The stranger’s swift strides carried him straight toward the shadowy alley where the sentries waited.

  Koralo’s eyes narrowed to predatory slits. He slid his sabre from its well-oiled scabbard and whispered to his men. Two sentries cocked their crossbows, the moonlight affording them a measure of visibility. One man drew his broadsword and followed the commander into the street.

  “Halt!” Koralo barked, raising his blade. “By order of King Milo—Set!” he cursed, dropping his sabre. A thin, six-pointed piece of metal had sprouted from the wrist of his sword-arm. Had the strange missile veered slightly to either side, it would have struck him below his chin.

  The stranger flicked his hand again. Blood erupted from the throat of the sentry beside Koralo; the man sank to his knees and died with a hideous gurgle.

  The two remaining sentries rushed from the alley and trained their crossbows on the stranger. One arbalester died before he could trigger his weapon; a razor-sharp piece of steel pierced his eye and burrowed deeply into his brain. The other fired his bolt and cursed in amazement as the stranger’s hand lashed out with inhuman speed and deflected the missile, which skittered across the stones. A moment later, that sentry was dead as well. Koralo retreated into the alley.

  The indigo-robed man dashed forward and seized a dropped crossbow. In one smooth motion, he loaded the weapon and fired it at the fleeing Koralo, who staggered and fell without a single cry. The bolt had pierced his skull and killed him instantly. Its barbed, bloody tip protruded between Koralo’s glazed eyes.

  Methodically, the stranger went from man to man and checked each for a pulse. He fired a bolt into one sentry’s heart at point-blank range. Without a moment’s pause, he loosed another into Koralo’s eye.

  During the executions, the face beneath the dark cowl had registered neither pleasure nor distaste. The lips did not draw back in a grimace as the stranger extracted his small but deadly weapons from the bodies of the slain. He did not so much as flinch when he split the skull of one crossbowman with a sabre and tore loose the steel star lodged within. The flesh of the bodies was still warm to the touch when the stranger dumped the corpses into the harbour. He worked with impressive speed and efficiency, wasting no time or effort to pause and wipe his brow or to catch his breath.

  Indeed, Toj Akkhari had not risen to his exalted station of Master of Assassins in Zamboula by wasting time and effort. If dead men could speak, some two thousand would have attested to Toj’s speed and ruthlessness. And tonight he moved with even more speed than usual. He was late for Jade’s conclave. Toj’s temper was typically as placid as a becalmed sea, but at present he was almost annoyed. King Milo’s lackeys had cost him precious time, and Jade was waiting. Had Toj not been so impatient to meet Jade, he would have heard the approach of the inept watchdogs soon enough to have avoided them altogether. Toj preferred to shun the distractions of such routine killing, but one live sentry could have fetched a hundred more, causing Toj further delays. And not even Zamboula’s Master of Assassins dared to keep Jade waiting for too long.

  The meeting had been arranged by courier, when Toj had acquired something for which Jade would pay handsomely. That payment would be in the form of the Red Asp, a weapon Toj had sought for years. The dagger was said to have been fashioned from the horn of a serpent-demon and magicked with death-spells by the Seers of Mount Yimsha, those sorcerous masters of the dreaded Black Circle. The dagger’s powers would render Toj the deadliest assassin that history would ever know.

  Toj stalked through a labyrinth of dark alleys and dilapidated buildings. When he approached the centre of Messantia’s storehouse district, his well-honed senses warned him that hidden eyes observed his approach. He had expected this. He turned at an intersection, then followed a narrow lane of dirt flanked by walls of crumbling stone. The unmarked door of a small, grubby building opened as he approached it. Beyond the threshold, wooden steps led down into the dark bowels of the building. He swallowed the dry lump that had risen in his throat, took a deep breath, and began his descent.

  The faint moonlight did not reach to the bottom of the steps. Toj was not surprised. Thieves and assassins of any status knew that Jade held meetings only in the cover of darkness. No one alive had seen Jade’s face, or so men said. Jade was cautious in the extreme— a characteristic understandable for one possessed of more wealth than many a Hyborian king, one who held sway over a strange empire that spanned a dozen kingdoms, from Aquilonia to Zingara.

  Toj heard a tell-tale click from beneath his boot. The steps collapsed, turning the stairway into a steep ramp. Such was the assassin’s agility that he kept his footing, but his soles slid along the oiled wood and he fought to keep his balance. Moments later, he reached the end of the ramp and tumbled onto the floor. Rolling instinctively to lessen the impact, he came nimbly to his feet. The flat hilt of a shaken throwing knife slid from his wrist-sheath into his left palm. It was one of five such knives concealed on his body. His right hand held several six-pointed shaken, still stained with the sentries’ blood.

  “Ashhadu salib muhadana." The voice sounded quiet and somehow distorted, though its tone was stem and authoritative.

  “Jade?” Toj stammered, then quickly regained his composure. “Ashhadu an la muhadan ilaha salib.” He switched to the cant that was known only among thieves and assassins of select guilds. Typically, he would have used fewer words and substituted furtive gestures of his head, eyes, fingers and hands. In the dark, however, Toj had to limit himself to the cant’s verbal form.

  “You�
�ll not need your weapons here, Toj.” Jade’s voice bore a hint of amusement. An awkward silence followed this admonishment before more words were spoken ... this time without humour. “You were to be here at nightfall!'

  Toj stiffened at the insult. “Trouble on the voyage, Jade. A Barachan pirate ship—-the Hawk—overtook my vessel and sank her a few leagues from Khorotas Harbour. I escaped in the tether-boat, but had to row into Smuggler’s Wharf. The Hawk did not pursue me, fortunately, but four of Milo’s fool sentries further delayed my arrival.” He shifted his grip on the shaken-knife’s hilt. In spite of Jade’s assurance, the weapon had never left his hand.

  “Word already reached me of your encounter with Koralo, whose coins will be missed at my tables of gaming and houses of pleasure. No matter. Have you brought it?”

  “Yes,” Toj lied. He noted with irritation that his palms had begun to sweat. “I shall tell you where it is hidden—after you give the Red Asp to me.”

  “I see,” Jade said slowly. “Your lack of trust disheartens me, Toj. But there is no honour among thieves, or assassins... is there?”

  Toj held his tongue. Did she know that he had lost the map? No, not even her spies could have divined this. Still, he cursed his foolishness. He had decided to pay a Zingaran merchant for sea-passage to Messantia, deeming it safer and swifter than a trip through bandit-ridden Shem. The trunk had been a decoy; he had hidden the map to the City of Brass in the lining of a dirty cloak that had lain beneath his bunk for the duration of the voyage. But in the darkness, surprised by the Hawk’s sudden onset, he had stuffed the wrong cloak into his watertight trunk and abandoned ship after dispatching the few crewmen who had gotten in his way.

  Jade, however, could not possibly have discovered his error. If Toj had been watched since his arrival at the pier, Jade’s spies might have seen him shove the trunk into the water. For that matter, they might have dived for it and found it empty, but Toj would have to take that chance.