Conan and the Grim Grey God

by Sean A. Moore

  “You’ll drink your fill soon enough,” chuckled the asshuri who was perched on the saddle in front of the woman. “Afore the duke quenches his thirst for you. Be-like he’ll send you for a dunk in the baths first—the duke beds no wench who smells more like horse than woman.”

  “Swine! Offal! You dare to treat me like some common trull—” “Nay, wench, no common trull could slay two of us ere we took you. A rare trull, the sort sought by the duke.”

  Several asshuri laughed again at the man’s gibes.

  “The fiends take your flea-bitten dog of a duke and gnaw his shrivelled privates in Hell!”

  Conan grinned. Sivitri’s voice, cracked as it was, had not lost its sting.

  “By Erlik,” the rider on Conan’s mount chortled, “this filly needs breaking in before the duke takes her. Mayhap we should perform this service for old Balvadek, as we are sworn to secure his personal safety. What say you, Deverro?”

  “You went first last time, Uthan, after our little raid in Kyros. Remember the Brythunian doxy?”

  “By Erlik’s backside, Deverro, I’ll not forget that blonde! ’Tis meet, then. You first, when we stop tonight in Saridis.”

  Deverro began to describe what he would do, in words as lewd as they were loud. Several asshuri offered their suggestions, some of which would have brought a blush to the face of a harlot in Shadizar's most iniquitous den. Raucous laughter arose, loud enough to drown out the steady pounding of hooves.

  Conan scowled but held his tongue, for he knew better than to waste his breath on idle threats. He owed Sivitri nothing after her treachery, but he would as soon not see her used so brutally by these Shemitish bastards.

  At least the ruffians had revealed their destination. He had passed through Saridis but once, before the mishap that had so angered Balvadek. The town served wayfarers, merchants, and asshuri of all callings, for it sat upon the crossing of diverse roads, where the borders of four city-states met. Ghaza, Kyros, Anakia, and Akkharia had each laid claim to the town at one time or another, but never had Saridis’s folk acknowledged fealty to any dukedom.

  By Conan’s reckoning, the town lay a half-day’s ride from Varhia, and a further half-day from Balvadek’s citadel. The asshuri’s conquest must have tired them, for they had struck late in the night. The Cimmerian looked forward to being taken down from the back of this damnable beast, else the constant pounding of its hooves would batter his bones to jelly.

  The tabarded captain fell back, until he rode between Uthan and Deverro. “Lieutenant Uthan.” The man spoke Shemite with a barbarous accent—no son of Shem, he.

  Conan could see only the captain’s back, and he did not wish to raise his head and crane his neck again. He deemed it prudent to let them think him fallen unconscious again, that they might reveal more of their plans.

  “Sir?” Uthan’s tone was at once respectful, a startling change from his former attitude.

  “Take a half-score of your best dog-brothers and scout ahead, but use not the road. Have the men ride in pairs, but no brothers or friends together. Yesterday we lost Mahkoro and Baasha—our best scouts—ere we reached Varhia. Two companies of our dogs we left as garrison there, and this weary, wounded two-score that follow us home are ill-suited for an encounter with any remnants of Reydnu’s army.” The captain twisted in his saddle to survey the region behind him. “Ride swiftly, and meet us at the outskirts of Saridis. Spies and skirmishers may be afoot. Keep an eye on your back and a hand on your hilt,” he admonished in the customary asshuri manner.

  Conan, through slitted eyes, had glimpsed the captain’s face as he turned around. The narrow, hook-like nose, crooked lips, and close-set eyes were those of Druvarik, youngest of Balvadek’s brothers. The Cimmerian gloomily pondered the means by which the duke would avenge himself. The crow’s cage, the lash... the rack?

  Nay, the asshuri, as Conan recalled, preferred to rope a man by wrists and ankles to four strong horses and spur the beasts as one to a gallop, popping the captives bones from their sockets before ripping away the limbs. The victim might howl for a span of time as he bled to death, and that span must seem an eternity to one tom asunder so violently.

  These Shemites made this savage drawing-and-quartering into a public affair. Women and children attended, that all might see how enemies of the state fared. Conan had once seen men wager on which arm or leg would first be tom off. And men of this region thought Cimmerians barbaric! Conan’s people were indeed savages, but they dispatched enemies with sinew and steel, not with decadent tortures that slowly sucked the life from their foes.

  The sun dipped slowly toward the horizon as Conan endured the remainder of the jolting ride to Saridis. Sivitri had succumbed to heat and exhaustion, for he noticed that she hung limply from the back of her horse. For his part, he seemed unable to turn his mind to aught but brooding over all manners of dismal deaths that might await him within Balvadek’s citadel. The asshuri offered him nary a morsel, not even a sip from a waterskin, and the continual jouncing made sleep impossible. They intended to keep him too weak and weary to attempt escape, he realized. But if these dogs became careless and afforded him a chance, he would seize it, feeble or no. Conan’s injuries and fatigue had not rendered him incapable of resistance—not yet. He longed for a chance to show these asshuri scum that a half-dead Cimmerian outmatched any among their ranks.

  Soon the road widened, its surface becoming more even. They passed a few caravans of wagons, loaded with oaken barrels and guarded by bravos wearing irregular armour and weapons— mercenaries in the employ of wine merchants. These caravans gave the asshuri a wide berth, exchanging no words. Captain Druvarik merely nodded to them and moved on. Here, on either side of the road, were dense orchards of tall apple trees, grown for the making of specialized wines—Saridis’s chief industry.

  The sweltering day gave way to humid, murky dusk as Druvarik’s company neared a heavy wooden gate set into a wall that seemed to be of recent construction. Conan recalled no such fortifications at Saridis. This barrier’s height might have matched that of a tall man. With a start, Conan noted that Balvadek’s emblem, an upthrust sword en-wreathed in vines, had been etched across the full breadth and height of the gate.

  Conan could see that Saridis no longer claimed independence. Balvadek had been busy these past few years.

  Uthan alone awaited their coming. He sat astride his mount, his face ashen and his arm bound in a sling.

  Druvarik trotted forward to meet him. “What news, Uthan? Where are the dog-brothers who accompanied you?” His voice, though faint, reached Conan’s ears.

  “In Hell, sir.” Uthan’s querulous reply spoke volumes. “And Reydnu has raised demons against us,” he added.

  “Demons? That old dotard could not raise his manhood in a harlot’s bed, to say nothing of demons. Be-like it was a spy that caught you unawares, Uthan. I should flay the flesh from your bones for such an excuse—”

  “Sir, my tale would change not after threescore lashes! We made haste as you commanded, though we found no signs of retaliation from Reydnu. Then, near a copse not three leagues distant from here, the rearmost of us—Akkesh—fell from his saddle. We halted at once, but Shimri and Abishai collapsed. Their throats spouted blood, and as they died, Pulha screamed to me that Akkesh’s flesh was ice-cold, frozen like a Hyperborean pond in midwinter. The words had scarcely left his lips when he screamed and pitched onto Akkesh’s body. I spurred my mount away—to alert you and the men, sir. The demon fleshed my arm with its strange claw as I escaped. ’Tis a miracle that its poison froze me not.”

  A sarcastic murmur or two rose from the others, but Druvarik merely sat in silence, as if pondering Uthan’s account. “In battle, you are no craven,” he muttered. “Yet show you their bodies to me, that I may judge what became of them. The duke must know the truth—as must I.”

  “Rather would I ride alone against every knight in Aquilonia than return to that copse,” Uthan said, shuddering. “Erlik may not suffer me to survive
if I do. Command me not to this doom.”

  “Your words do not befit a lieutenant, Uthan. Lead me to the slain, else I strip you of your rank here and now!”

  Uthan shook his head.

  Druvarik, in a motion as swift as it was deft, slid his slender-bladed sword from its scabbard and ran it through Uthan’s heart. “Your fear dooms you, fool! To disobey my command is to die,” he said, letting Uthan’s body topple from the saddle. He withdrew his weapon as the asshuri thumped to the dirt, gasping.

  “May the demon... freeze your bones... and drag you... to Hell... he croaked, spitting blood. “Sir.” Then Uthan spoke no more.

  “So fares the fool,” muttered Druvarik, shaking blood from his blade. He straightened in his saddle and turned his mount so that he faced his men. “The dead will wait. Tomorrow, in daylight, I shall lead you in search for our dog-brothers. Tonight we sup in my father’s hall and drink the wine of victory over Reydnu!” He thrust his bloody sword point skyward as he spoke.-

  “Victory!” Deverro raised his blade and cheered, apparently none too upset by his fellow lieutenant’s demise.

  “Victory, victory!” the others cried, mimicking Druvarik’s gesture.

  The gates swung outward while they cheered. Through them came a tall man who sat atop a huge black stallion. Dust and mud besmeared his ivory-hued cape and the rest of his finery. The gold rivets in his jerkin and high boots of lacquered black leather gleamed in the waning sunlight, and the hilt of a massive hand-and-a-half sword bristled with glittering gems. Thick black hair, streaked throughout with grey, streamed from a gilded, gem-studded cap that was more crown than helm. The man held his reins in one gold-riveted glove and stroked his full grey beard with the other.

  “Duke Balvadek!” Druvarik gawked a moment before recovering his composure.

  “Welcome home, my young brother,” the duke said, riding forward. The sweat and dirt on the flanks of his magnificent horse did not diminish the beast’s impressive appearance. “Yes, I rode to my border to meet you and celebrate the first of many victories to come in our campaign against Ghaza. And tomorrow,” he said, steering his horse slowly toward Conan, “tomorrow we shall enjoy a little sport with this barbar. For too long has the foul murderer of my daughters’ husbands gone unpunished.” He stopped in front of the Cimmerian, swiftly took his heavy boot from its stirrup, and aimed a brutal kick at Conan’s jaw.

  Conan twisted, catching the blow on his cheekbone. He struggled against the bonds that held him, but their clever knots merely tightened further, and the thick cord bit into his wrists until blood trickled from them. Crimson ran from the furrow in his cheek, but he heeded none of his wounds. His gaze burned, a bonfire of blue fury. “Craven dotard,” he rasped. “Loosen these ropes and face me in combat.”

  Balvadek’s blade slid with a metallic ring from its golden scabbard. Age had not weakened him, for he wielded the immense weapon with but one hand. He held the point at Conan’s throat. “’Twere not meet for me, who shall one day be crowned king of all Shem, to soil a noble blade with the base blood of swine.” He sheathed the sword with a flourish.

  Conan, parched as he was, gathered his last measure of saliva and turned his head. He spat in Balvadek’s face.

  “Whelp!” roared the duke. He wiped the spittle from his beard and swept the sword out, swinging it in a downward arc toward Conan’s neck.

  The blade spun away before its edge met flesh. -

  Balvadek dropped the reins and clawed at his neck. The death-rattle wheezed from his throat as he slumped forward, his arm brushing against Conan’s face before he slid from the saddle to lie motionless.

  Hairs bristled on the back of Conan’s neck. The duke’s skin had been as cold and dry as the snows of Cimmeria. Uthan’s demon had come! He writhed against his bonds while shouts of alarm rose from the asshuri.

  Druvarik dismounted and hastened toward his fallen brother. The ivory cape covered Balvadek like a shroud.

  Deverro shifted uneasily in his saddle. “How now, Captain? Is the duke slain?”

  Druvarik knelt beside the body. Before he could lift the cape, he cried out in pain and surprise. Blood jetted from under his chin, staining his brother’s cape. Wordlessly, the captain dropped onto Balvadek, his fingers clutching at the cape for a span, until the scarlet spurting from his throat stopped, and he moved no more.

  Conan glanced downward at Balvadek’s crumpled corpse. Druvarik had pulled aside the cape to reveal a metal object protruding from the neck. Would a demon have need of such? Conan felt the chill of superstitious dread fade at this revelation. He would say that a man had slain the duke—an archer in the apple trees, or a knife-thrower whose arm possessed incredible measures of strength and accuracy. Had that same slayer done away with Druvarik? Nay, ’twas a strange death, bearing a sorcerous taint that set Conan’s teeth on edge. He cursed his helplessness. Tied to this steed, he could do naught.

  “Aiee!” screamed Deverro. “Now the captain perishes. ’Tis Uthan’s demon, come for us all! Flee—ride for your life!”

  Shouts of panic rippled among the Shemites. Some rode into the village after Deverro, while others galloped back up the road the way they had just travelled.

  “I’ll not be slowed by your weight,” snarled the Shemite upon the saddle before Conan. “Better to leave your carcass here for the vultures.”

  The Cimmerian twisted desperately as the asshuri’s dagger slashed toward his unprotected throat. The ropes lacked enough slack for him to avoid the blade’s sweep.

  Again, his would-be slayer’s stroke never landed.

  The dagger flew from the asshuri’s fingers, its hilt thumping harmlessly against Conan’s shoulder before falling to the ground. A flicker of motion, barely perceptible, flashed in the corner of Conan’s field of vision. The dagger-wielding asshuri cried out in surprise at the blood that streamed from his hand. A thin metal disc had sliced the flesh between his thumb and forefinger and lodged into the bone. Another sank below his jaw and slashed his throat. Glazed eyes stared upward for a span before the Shemite flopped toward Conan, his face landing squarely between the Cimmerian’s shoulder blades.

  Conan grunted as blood soaked through his tattered leather vest and trickled hotly down his back. That disc’s edge had been sharp enough to cut bone....

  He moved his wrists blindly, seeking the dead man’s hand. A razor-like edge bit into his thumb, and he worked his bound wrists into position. Though his forearms and hands bled from dozens of stinging cuts when he finished, he managed to cut through the cord that bound his wrists. Pulling himself free of the loops of rope, he heaved the asshuri from his back.

  The well-disciplined horse had pranced nervously but held its position. Conan reached his bloodied fingers toward the buckles of the harness. Moments later, his legs were free, and he pulled his stiff limbs into the saddle and sat upright. He perused the trees, where he had seen the movement earlier. Why had this assailant saved him? Conan did not think it the work of Reydnu. No Shemite was so subtle.

  The only asshuri who remained were those who lay lifeless in the road. The gates of Saridis had closed with a boom while he was wrestling with the ropes. Of Sivitri, he saw no sign. “Show yourself, by Crom!” he bellowed at the trees. In the twilight, all his probing gaze could discern were the waving leaves and shadowy branches.

  Muttering a litany of curses that involved gods of diverse lands, Conan dismounted and limped over to Balvadek’s body. He wanted a close look at what manner of thing protruded from the man’s neck, for the uncanny circumstances of that slaying still troubled him. Furthermore, he deemed that the duke no longer had need of his massive, jewel-encrusted sword. The Cimmerian hunched over the body and grasped the hilt with bloodied fingers, taking a measure of the weapon’s balance.

  All the while, Conan surreptitiously scanned the trees. He was more certain than before that whoever—or whatever—had dispatched those asshuri meant him no harm. But this unseen benefactor’s motives were as muddy as a Khi
tan bog. What vexed him most was that he felt not even a presence in those trees. His honed senses would have warned him of the most silent of stalking panthers that lurked therein, but not so much as a warning tickle troubled him.

  Conan hooked his foot under the duke, rolled him onto his back, and examined his neck. A hilt jutted there, elaborately worked in some refuscent metal. Fascinated, he crouched to pull the knife free. An unnatural chill still clung to the stiff corpse.

  “Nay—touch it not!” came the warning shout, in the tongue of Argos. A man clad in robes of deep indigo leapt from behind a broad trunk and raced toward the kneeling Cimmerian.

  Crom! Conan was taken aback by this stranger’s stealth and speed, which would have shamed a Meruvian mountain lion. An almost tangible reek of danger troubled Conan’s nostrils, and he instantly assumed a wide-legged stance, sword brandished. He did not back away from the duke’s corpse. Afore this stranger plucked his dagger from Balvadek’s neck, he would face Conan and answer a few questions.

  “Raise your sword if you must,” the man said, the sound of his voice like the rustling of dry leaves. He stopped a few paces from Conan, not short of breath in spite of his impressive sprint from the trees. “Raise it then, against he who saved you from these swine. Barbarian you are, if you would repay me in such base coin.”

  “Were your motive to save me, I would owe you a blood-debt,” Conan answered, his gaze never leaving the stranger’s hood-shadowed face. “I’ll ask your name and your tale, stranger. You have my oath, sworn by Crom, Lord of the Mound, that I’ll strike you only in self-defence.”

  “Crom? You’re a Cimmerian, then. ’Tis said that only folk of those frozen hills worship Crom. I could see that you were no son of Shem—nor of Argos, though you wear Argossean garb. Know you that my name is Toj, and the story of my coming here would take longer than I have to tell it, and longer than you have to hear it. These asshuri think me a vengeful demon, and we should away before they have time to reconsider. In truth, my task was one of vengeance, the slaying of that—” he spat upon Balvadek’s corpse “—vile heap of worm-ridden offal.” He spat again, then muttered what Conan recognized as the most offensive of Argossean curses. Even the coarsest lads among the crew of his Hawk, loose as they were with obscenities, saved that particular epithet for special occasions.