Conan and the Grim Grey God

by Sean A. Moore

“Crom!” Conan bellowed hoarsely. Even the battle-cry seemed to tax him. “Crom and steel!” He slapped his steed’s rump with the flat of his blade and charged wearily but defiantly into the jaws of death.

  Sivitri drew in a deep breath, waved her sword up high, and matched her horse’s stride with his.

  The Cimmerian met the foremost Shemite head-on, his sword clashing against that of his foeman in a shower of sparks. His downward stroke beat back the asshuri’s blade and bit through the man’s light jerkin of leather. Skewered, the warrior slid from his saddle. Conan yanked his blade free but could not raise it in time to parry a stroke levelled at his neck. He twisted his head away and took the flat of the blade against the side of his head.

  The impact knocked him off his steed, and his skull rang as if all the devils in Hell were howling into his ears. He blinked and looked up as two asshuri dismounted and rushed toward him. One of them—his gilded helm marking him a captain—slapped the other, who had struck at Conan. The captain shouted and raised his hand, but Conan heard not the words. Images and sounds blurred into a dreamlike mosaic for him, and his sword fell from his hand.

  He rolled onto his side and saw Kylanna—Sivitri... whoever she was—saw her disarmed and dragged from her saddle, kicking and thrashing. Then the captain’s boot smashed into his chin. Conan’s fingers groped feebly for his hilt, but the lids of his eyes became leaden weights. He sank into a black sea of pain and knew no more.

  X

  Secrets in the Sand

  Tevek Thul glided swiftly across the desert dunes of eastern Shem. He left no track and made no sound, for his feet never touched the sand. Had his coal-black cloak not shrouded his hand, a dim green glow would have radiated from Thoth-amon's Black Ring, coiled around his finger. A tithe of its power had sufficed to propel him in this manner since his departure from Stygia.

  By day, he had ensconced himself in his cloak to keep the sun’s bright beams from burning his eyes. By night, he had flown across the trackless wastes that stretched between the River Styx and his destination: the Brass City. Few living things lay along his path, for the air itself sucked life from the ground, leaving naught but thick, almost unbreathable heat.

  Tevek did not regret the absence of life, but rather its consequence: the absence of death. League upon league he had traversed without sensing so much as the shallow grave of a desert wolf. He had even slowed somewhat to extend his spirit-sight deeper, but to no avail. This arid waste unsettled him. He longed for the comforting nearness of even a small tomb.

  Though the Black Ring infused him with sorcerous power, it could not nourish him. Tevek had not fed since crossing the Styx, where he had abandoned his undead retinue and his black carriage. He dared not squander the ring’s power to convey them all through the air.

  He could continue for a time without sustenance, but he knew well the limits of his physical body, and his quest in the Brass City might tax both mind and flesh to those limits.

  The necromancer halted and slowly lowered his feet to the sand. From his robes he extracted a flat pouch—fashioned from the cured flesh of a virgin, like the pouch that held Harrab’s crushed skull— and emptied the last of its contents into his cupped hand. Only a few pinches of the bone-dust lay upon the pale creases of his palm. He dug a talon-like fingernail into the base of his thumb until a drop of blood welled from it. This he mixed with the bone-dust while he intoned sibilant words in a dialect born of aeons-vanished Thuria. ’ “Malcanan-mati, coba, siya-lihat, lahat-mati!”

  The reddish-grey paste pulsed upon his palm, imbued with unnatural life, and shaped itself into a worm-like creature. Tevek lowered it to the sand that it might crawl. The thing etched a faint, finger-length groove into the dune, then stopped and coiled itself into a tight spiral.

  Tevek studied the shallow furrow. By his reckoning, he would reach the' place indicated within two, perhaps three, turns of the glass. But he would stray from the most direct route to the Brass City, and he was loath to tarry. Back at Khajar, in Thoth-amon's den, the thrice-accursed Taper of Death burned lower and lower. Tevek weighed the consequences for a span before deciding to follow the line. He snatched the blood-worm between thumb and forefinger and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly to savour the taste of blood and bone. It whetted his appetite.

  Moments later, his feet left the sand and he sped in the direction of the line. The Black Ring would hold that course without wavering, until he willed it otherwise.

  Tevek neared the settlement at dawn. Traces of a lightly trafficked caravan trail foretold its proximity, and it lay exactly on the line etched by the blood-worm. A useful cantrip that, though he seldom had occasion to evoke it. The library beneath Amentet housed many similar baubles of sorcery.

  He lowered his feet to the path. Here, he would play the role of a road-weary scholar who wished to pass through on his way to Shushan. In several accounts he had read, travellers’ writings described the desert folk of Shem as a fierce and wary lot. As he approached the base of a gradually sloping hill of rock, he saw supporting evidence.

  The path narrowed as it neared the hilltop and led up to a knife-slash of a passage. A natural wall of steep rock encircled the settlement there. Fourteen men paced along the top of this wall, their rust-coloured keffiyehs and robes blending with the dull red rocks. Half of their number held bows in hand as they patrolled above the escarpment.

  Tevek regarded them with disdain. Fools, so confident that their pitiful weapons could protect them. He could have destroyed them with little effort, but he preferred to conserve his energy. Striding calmly toward the cleft in the rocks, he squinted upward into the morning sky. Thin clouds veiled the unwelcome sun, and he was grateful for their presence. A beclouded sky would enable him to continue with a minimum of discomfort, once he fed here.

  His strides carried him up the hill while the archers looked on. A few nocked shafts and held them at the ready. When he drew nearer, they loosened their grip on their bowstrings. After all, here was naught but an old, white-haired wanderer.

  A stout Shemite, beard streaked with grey, stepped from a niche in the rock that had been cleverly hidden from view of the path. His tanned hand rested lightly upon the golden hilt of a curved dagger thrust into his broad belt. “No farther, old man, if you please,” he said in a coarse Shemitish dialect, his tone more stem than courteous.

  “Eh?” Tevek replied in a like tongue, though he was more accustomed to its written form. He could have crushed the Shemite like a desert lizard, but he deemed it better to act his part for the moment. “May I pass through?”

  “Those who have business in Kaetta—or those who have coin to pay for passage—may enter and share our water. Have you either, old one?”

  “Use your elders not so rudely,” scolded Tevek, miffed by the man’s tone. “I have both.”

  “I see. The Lord Ranjau records the names and callings of all who would enter his domain,” the Shemite said. “What are yours?” “Tovokles, Scholar Prime of the Royal Library at Aghrapur,” replied Tevek with a touch of haughtiness. “And King Yezdigerd records the names of those who impede his aides, lest their discourtesy goes unforgotten.”

  The Shemite bit his lip, a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. “My apologies, Master Tovokles. I thought you a Stygian. Lord Ranjau and our people devoutly worship Mitra, and we turn away all followers of the accursed, soul-devouring Stygian serpent. But surely you came not alone, all the way from Aghrapur?”

  Tevek shook his head mournfully. “No, not alone. My retinue lies dead upon the sands leagues past.” He suppressed a smile at this private jest. “Brigands attacked us and left me for dead.”

  “Aye, you look it—meaning no offence, Master Tovokles,” the man hastily corrected himself, his cheeks reddening. “Forget my earlier words. Though Turanian gods are not ours, we turn away no man in need. It is not the way of our people. You are welcome to our water for as long as you wish. I am Uzgaru, Gatewatcher. Follow me, that I may show you a proper welcome.�
� He turned, beckoning Tevek to join him.

  The necromancer’s dry, pale tongue flicked across his chapped, peeling lips. It was not their water that he would drink. Worshippers of Mitra. Quite amusing.

  Uzgaru prattled noisily as they entered the narrow, rock-walled passage that twisted gradually upward. Kaetta sat atop a plateau, affording a panoramic view of the desert for leagues in all directions. “You were fortunate to find us,” the Shemite said. “Kaetta is the only bastion of civilization in this region. The nearest village is some hundred leagues distant. The spring that flows from this rock sup-; ports us in modest comfort, though we lack the means to raise crops; or livestock.”

  Tevek half-listened to Uzgaru as the passageway widened and debouched to a broad circle, like a bowl surrounded on all sides by steep cliffs. Holes in the north face served as lodgings, it seemed. From the centre of the bowl rose a four-walled structure with a flat roof, simple in form and unadorned. This would be the temple to Mitra, whose priesthood disdained the trappings that accompanied many religions. Nothing else had been built in the bowl save a ring of stone blocks that bordered the gently rippling waters of Kaetta’s spring. The village could not have housed more than a thousand folk.

  Of more interest to Tevek was the tingle he felt as Uzgaru led him nearer to the temple. A priest of Set would have been in danger here, for the Serpent Lord and the so-called Lord of Light were the bitterest of enemies. Tevek feared no contact with the priests of Mitra, though like as not, his own presence would discomfit them.

  Mitra’s influence was tangible enough here for Tevek to feel. He sensed something else as well, in the rock beneath the temple. A burial chamber... yes, a sizeable sepulchre. Where there was life, there was death. The subterranean cavity radiated a repugnant warmth—the, aura of consecration. A trifling problem for Tevek, who could defile it readily enough.

  “... service of worship on the morn, and thrice is the water blessed each day. Ah, good. Oradne has risen for the first blessing.” Uzgaru had been discussing the roles of the village’s three priests. One of these, bald and paunchy, emerged from the temple. His plain brown robe, belted at the waist with a horsehair rope, marked his calling. He approached and waved in greeting.

  Fatuous fool, thought Tevek. Yet he would be on his way sooner if this misguided sheep of a priest granted him free access to the temple... and the crypts below. The taint of consecration had not diminished Tevek’s appetite.

  “My good Oradne, greetings,” said Uzgaru. “This is Prime Scholar Tovokles of Aghrapur.”

  “Mitra bless you, Gatewatcher, and our guest. Welcome,” the priest added, facing Tevek with curiosity evident in his face.

  The necromancer wrenched a response from his reluctant throat. “My thanks, Oradne, for your hospitality.” He felt an unexpected itch upon his hand and realized that its source was the Black Ring. What if the priest caught the scent of Set from it? Surely the ring was steeped in that god’s essence. Tevek regarded the priest calmly. After all, it was this dun-robed dullard who stood in the shadow of peril, not Tevek Thul.

  Oradne scratched the back of his neck, then shrugged his shoulders as if to shake off a morning chill. “Meaning no insult, Tovokles, but your face is pale and drawn. One of our women can prepare a repast for you, and draw a jug for a bath.”

  Uzgaru nodded. “Brigands, Oradne. He happened upon the path to us—”

  “Begging your pardon, Gatewatcher, but I doubt not that Mitra’s will guided his feet to us, as the Lord of Light has ever watched over those in need. Well then, Tovokles, I look forward to hearing your tale, but now I must tend to the morning blessing of the water, ere our people rise for the day. There is a spare chamber, modest but comfortable, among the priests’ quarters.”

  “In the temple?” asked Tevek.

  “Unless it offends your beliefs,” the priest said. His smile did not warm his eyes this time, and Tevek took the meaning. A challenge, or a test.

  “Of course not,” the necromancer replied evenly. If the Black Ring revealed itself within the shrine, he would deal with the priests and any others who interfered. Once inside, it would be a simple matter to find the passageway down....

  “I’ll find Beladah,” offered Uzgaru. “She’ll bring food, water, and fresh bedding.”

  “Yes, a day of rest will do you good, friend,” Oradne proclaimed. “Come I’ll show you the way.” He seemed reassured by Tevek’s willingness to enter the temple.

  Tevek nodded in what he hoped would be taken as a gesture of thanks. His throat was unable to form even a lie of gratitude for these fools. The sooner he was away, the better. Not for him these sickening pleasantries, this tolerance of scum whom he should crush insect-like beneath the heel of his sorcery. He was no longer amused by this priest’s pathetic games, and his even more pathetic faith in the protection of his temple.

  Within the stone walls of the temple, the Black Ring seemed to gnaw like a living thing upon Tevek’s finger, though it drew no blood. The necromancer tried vainly to subjugate it by willing it to cease; when it would not obey, he simply ignored it. The sensation would cease soon enough, and he would be on his way. Matters of greater import troubled him than the sorcerous sting of that copper serpent.

  “It was built nine generations hence,” the priest said, gesturing toward the rows of stone pews and the simple altar. “A haven in the desert,” he added proudly.

  “Not many in Shem profess Mitra as their god,” Tevek noted. Since this windbag seemed intent to drone on, he may as well learn something of these sheep.

  “Indeed,” agreed Oradne with a heavy sigh. “We are few, but we spread enlightenment to those who trade with us.”

  “How often do merchants pass this way?”

  “We have but one export here—opals of high quality from our small mining operation. Every fortnight, traders arrive to bid on our wares. They bring provisions that we lack. The quantity of gems is not so great as to tempt the larger bands of desert scavengers to attack us, and Kaetta is difficult to besiege in any event. We trust in Mitra to watch over us, and Uzgaru and his men keep the traders honest. Lord Ranjau is not greedy for wealth; he merely wishes to provide for his own in comfort and safety.”

  “A noble fellow.” Tevek looked down and stifled a yawn. His gaze was at once drawn to the curious arabesques etched into the floor of the shrine. They were worn nearly smooth, but he found them to be strangely out of place in such austere surroundings. He had seen them pictured elsewhere, but their origin escaped him. When Oradne took him through a door at the rear of the shrine, the pattern was more pronounced. Fewer feet had trodden here.

  They passed three doors along a narrow hallway and stopped at a fourth. Farther ahead, Tevek noted, the passageway sloped downward. From it issued the faintest of sepulchral scents, a fragrance so slight that only a necromancer might be aware of it. Tevek had fasted for too long—nigh on a week. Satisfaction lay not far now, and he would bide his time. This Beladah must arrive and depart first, then he would be left alone.

  “Here you may sleep.” Oradne gestured toward a cot fashioned of horsehair rope. “Beladah will bring a blanket.”

  A stone bench squatted beside the cot, and before the bench stood a dry basin ringed with water stains. Two thick candles occupied niches upon the wall above the basin.

  “Oradne,” Tevek began as he dropped heavily onto the bench, “farther down the hallway...”

  “The catacombs? Seldom do we venture there, mayhap a score of occasions each year, when we lay to rest the shells of those whose souls have become one with Mitra. Naught lies in those dark passages but dust and fading memories. We mourn not our dead, for their spirits endure forever in the brilliance of Mitra’s realm.” “Interesting,” Tevek said, repulsed by this facile bit of doctrine. Then a flash of inspiration came to him. “In fact, King Yezdigerd sent me westward to learn of Hyborian traditions concerning the dead. He wishes to gain a better understanding of his neighbours, and he reasons that the customs of burial
may convey insights into cultures. Later, perhaps, when my strength returns, I should like to venture there—-just to observe.”

  Oradne shrugged. “I do not pretend to understand the motives of scholars, friend Tovokles. But you are free to observe what you will. If you wish a guide, one of us can—”

  “As I have need, I shall accept your offer,” Tevek replied, shaking his head in protest.

  “Very well, then. Ah, I hear Beladah. Rest, and perhaps Lord Ranjau may dine with you this eve if you have regained sufficient vigour.”

  Tevek nodded again, weary of so much idle talk. Oradne smiled faintly, scratched his neck, and departed, nodding at a thin, jet-haired girl about to enter the room.

  Beladah was not what the necromancer had expected. Women interested him little, and he had never lain with one—leastwise, not one who lived. The very warmth of their flesh and their breath, the colour in their faces, the shine in their eyes and hair, these stilled any stirrings of lust. But this girl intrigued him, eager though he was to descend into the crypts below.

  Her face and hands were pearly white, like her slender ankles and feet. Her conservative shift of pale green silhouetted her form. A woman, surely, but with the body of a waif, small-breasted and lean muscled. Blue-black hair hung straight along the sides of a face devoid of unappealing colour. Through the pallid flesh of her ankles and hands, he could see the angles and delicate framework of her bones.

  “Master Tovokles?” she said timidly, hesitating in the doorway. In her arms she held a folded horsehair blanket, upon which rested a clay tray bearing food and a jug.

  “Beladah,” he replied, her submissiveness heightening his appreciation. She inspired in him a dark stirring. Perhaps he would act upon it. In the past, under the darkness of tombs, in depths so black that no moonbeam, star, or flicker of lamplight intruded, Tevek had done deeds that were beyond conscionable men.

  The woman took a few tentative steps toward him and set the tray upon the stone bench. She lifted the jug and poured water into the basin. “To bathe, if you wish to,” she explained. “I will return with some water to drink—Oradne must bless it first.” She held out the blanket, waiting for him to take it.