Conan and the Grim Grey God

by Sean A. Moore

  “Thou hast served me well and faithfully, hast thou not?” Thoth-amon shook his head. “Never shall I rest, my Master, until thy plans to banish accursed Mitra have come about.”

  “For thy deeds have I awarded thee with dark might, and prolonged thy mortal life beyond that of they kind.” The sibilant voice rose in pitch, suddenly angry. “Yet thou wouldst seek more! Thinkest thou, in the blackest depths of thy thoughts, that thou canst hide aught from thy Lord?”

  Thoth-amon shifted uncomfortably upon his throne of stone. The unfamiliar sensation that travelled down his spine was fear... he had displeased Set. “I beg of thee, my Master, tell me: What hath this unworthy one done to wrong thee?”

  “Thy hunger for more power may demise thee, greedy one. Shouldst thou seek, in thy ignorance of its nature, to bend the Grim Grey God to thy purposes, it shall consume thee. Why didst thou not consult first with thy Master before thou undertook an operancy of such portent?”

  “Dread Lord, I but wished to further thy causes, to which my life hath ever been devoted.”

  The slitted orbs of the serpent flashed. “What knowest thou of purpose? Dost thou presume thyself to be a god? I am God and Master to thee, and it is I who shall determine thy purpose! Ever have I designated the sorceries to be executed by thee, and therein thou servest me best. Thy greed hath distracted thee from a more urgent task.”

  Thoth-amon decided that further attempts to explain his actions would only prolong this visitation. And no man, not even the Stygian Prince of Sorcerers, wished to remain long in the presence of one of the Serpent-God’s apparitions. Besides, he could not deny that Tevek’s appearance had disrupted a laborious and time-consuming magical operation that had been under way for some time. Though he had tried to resume it immediately after Tevek’s departure, the ritual in progress had failed outright. Thoth-amon would start it anew, but the necromancer’s interruption had caused a delay of years, for the spell could not be woven again until the stars positioned themselves appropriately.

  “Wasted hath thine efforts been, by all reckoning. The Grim Grey God is naught but a lump of inanimate matter to one ignorant of its true name. And no scroll, tablet, or tome contains the six parts of its true name. For the name of Chaos, by its very nature, defies the ordered methods that mortals hath devised to record such details. Nay, only three of its parts can be uttered, and these are known to none but the high priests of Nithia and one lone-dead warlord of Acheron, who was swallowed in the same storm of sand that buried the Grim Grey God. Even thy Master knows not the other three names.”

  Thoth-amon was taken aback by this admission. His prized Acheronian Arcana, though half-charred, noted three of the god’s names. The work was Xaltotun’s own, stolen from him at Thoth-amon's bidding by the powerful Guild master of Thieves in Messantia. Its writings were unique and potent, if at times indecipherable.

  The other three names of the relic he had hoped to learn from Set himself.

  The serpent stirred again. “Further, the doings wrought by thy pawn in the lifeless land of Nithia hath awakened he who was once my bane—back in the dawn of thy kind, when thy ancestors were but mewling things that wriggled in the primeval mud. I speak not of accursed Mitra, but of one more ancient, more apt to thwart our purpose.”

  “Not Ibis—may thy coils crush him into oblivion,” Thoth-amon muttered.

  “The same,” hissed the Serpent-God. “And thou knowest what thine own errant minion has done to rouse him.”

  As he reviewed Tevek’s actions in the Brass City, Thoth-amon rued his ill decision to equip the necromancer with his ring and send him on a quest. He had considered Ibis to be reclusive—his followers scattered and far less numerous than those of the more popular Mitra. And no record existed of intervention by Ibis. Many thought the god false; scholars speculated that Ibis had fallen in the god-wars of Atlantean times. Since the fall of Nithia centuries ago, the worship of Ibis had waned. Few would bend a knee to a god who allowed his followers to be slaughtered wholesale. Aside from sundry scattered groups, the only worshippers left had hidden themselves in faraway Hanumar.

  This remnant was attended by Caranthes, one of the few priests of Ibis who, over the centuries of rivalry, had escaped assassination by agents of Set. Even Thoth-amon's own plot to murder him had failed. After that attempt, Caranthes had not dared to leave his ivory-inlaid chambers.

  Of course, Thoth-amon had not looked in on Tevek until the necromancer had reached the Brass City. Perhaps he had done something amiss before his arrival there. “Other matters occupied me, Master,” he replied after the long pause. “I heeded not the minion’s deeds until he arrived in ruined Nithia.”

  “Then heed them now,” the voice rasped, like a dagger against a sharpening-stone. The serpent’s mouth yawned open, throat gaping like a corridor to Hell. A sickly mist billowed forth, bile-coloured and as rank as the odour of a charnel-house. It coalesced into a sphere of diameter equal to Thoth-amon's height. The hue faded, and figures became visible within. “Learn the folly of thy pawn, witness the events that awakened the sleeping titan.”

  The Stygian mage watched with interest, noting the shapes that moved within the mist-globe’s confines. The orb was not a scrying sphere, but rather, a mirror into the past. He witnessed the arrival of Tevek at Kaetta, and immediately identified the symbols upon the structure there. “Another temple of Ibis? None were known to exist but Caranthes’ hovel in Hanumar—”

  “Verily, that is the last one—now. Observe what became of the other, a fate brought about by the power of thy Black Ring, and therefore a fate brought about by my power.”

  A silent Thoth-amon looked into the sphere, his eyes flat and expressionless as he gazed upon the carnage in the catacombs, in the corridors of the temple, and in the sanctuary, where Tevek had taken the slain woman upon the very altar of Ibis. “A thorough desecration,” he commented, after the visions became hazy and indistinct. “But ill-timed and utterly lacking in subtlety.”

  The mist dispersed and flowed back into the serpent’s maw. “Therein lies thy problem,” the apparition hissed. “For now hast thy pawn made his presence known to Caranthes. Doubt not that Caranthes has enlisted agents who now compete with your minion for possession of the Grim Grey God.”

  “They could not know its true name either,” mused Thoth-amon. “I have the only copy of the Acheronian Arcana, and it is steeped with curses of death for any who look upon it, if they worship Mitra or Ibis. Shall I destroy my minion, then, and let them seize the god?” “I care not if thy minion lives or dies, but as for the god, it were best kept from the clutches of Caranthes. Should he or his line ever divine the true name, the power of the relic could crush thee into dust. Furthermore, thy foolish greed hath prompted thee to part with thy ring—my gift to thee. If thy minion falls, the ring may be taken.” Idly, Thoth-amon stared at his bare ring-finger. “The Black Ring is steeped in sorceries that would blast the soul of Caranthes and his lackeys. Let him find the god! I shall recover it from the smoking puddle of ooze that was once his flesh and bones.”

  “Dost thou think him fool enough to touch it? He hath the means to circumvent thy wardings. Though Caranthes be a pathetic, misguided sheep, he hath the ear of the god whom thy miscreant hath aroused. His god may grant him the power to destroy thy ring. By so doing, he may damage me, for a fraction of my power is locked within that ring. Do whatever thou must to prevent such an outcome! Retake thy ring and keep the Grim Grey God from Caranthes, or thy Master will be most... displeased.” The forked tongue flicked between curving fangs. “Thou art not above punishment.”

  Thoth-amon's jaw tightened. He clasped his hands, elbows resting on the arms of his throne, forefingers tapping against each other. “Doubt me not, Dread Lord. No harm shall befall the ring.” Slowly, the immense cobra shrank until it returned to its normal form. The hood flattened, and the serpent slithered into the gap from whence it came. Thoth-amon then glanced down at the emperor scorpion. It lay upon its back, its stinger-tipp
ed tail pinned beneath it, its limbs curled inward in death.

  Thou art not above punishment.

  The Stygian mage rose from his throne and kicked aside the scorpion’s body. It was Tevek who would be punished, for the Taper of Death continued to bum down, and Thoth-amon had no intention of stopping that death-spell. If any others dared to interfere, he would scatter them like dust in the wind. As for Caranthes, that meddlesome miscreant would soon babble no more prayers to Ibis. If the pathetic priest dared to venture forth from his sanctuary, Thoth-amon would rip out his soul and feed it to the demonic denizens in Hell’s blackest pits. No more would the old fool trouble him.

  Urgency necessitated a potent sorcery: the rite of translocation. No other method would take him sooner to Nithia. Thoth-amon hastened to the hidden chamber below his great hall, where the rarest of his spellcasting components and magical implements were stored.

  “A tempest of doom comes soon to Nithia,” he muttered, his sibilant tones slithering across the stones. “None shall be spared.”

  XVII

  The Red Asp Strikes

  The sun sagged into the horizon, a dull, orange globe that painted the Nithian desert in twilight hues of copper and gold. It shone on the brass spire that topped a tower of white marble and cast a long, tapering shadow across the broad, broken roof of a stone building.

  “The Brass City,” Conan rasped, his throat dry from hours of hard riding across the arid, dusty desert. He and Sivitri sat atop their weary steeds. They had reined in near the crest of a tall dune, one of several that ringed the sand-covered city. He rubbed at his dry eyes and stared again at the strange scene in the distance.

  Sivitri hunched forward in her saddle. “Bel! There, at the base of that building, where much of the sand has been cleared away.” She squinted into the long shadow cast by the tower, trying to discern the shapes that lay upon the darkened ground. “More of the slain, like those we saw upon the plateau today.”

  Conan swept the dunes nearby with a probing gaze, then studied the prone forms of those lying before the wall. “Perhaps two hundred, maybe more. ’Tis difficult to count from here. But who were they? I see no sign of a camp, and no horses or camels.” He frowned. “That is to say, no sign that we can see from so far away. I would move closer, but this cursed desert denies us concealment. If Thoth-amon is here, he could easily see our approach.”

  “Even now we may be within his sight,” Sivitri cautioned, guiding her horse back behind the tall dune and dismounting.

  “Aye.” Conan inwardly cursed his carelessness and swung himself out of the saddle. He led his mount over to hers, tying their reins together. From there he crawled forward and lay flat, peering over the edge of the dune from his prone position.

  Sivitri sighed and wiped at the sweat that dripped from her brow and shone on her face and neck. “You must have die skin of a Zamorian lizard. I itch all over from the sand and dust. I shall be glad to bear away the god-statue and return to the baths at Saridis for a long soak.”

  Conan made no comment. In past exploits, he had traversed deserts far worse than that of Nithia. These dusty dunes were milder than the hot, stinging sands of the windswept Shan-e-Sorkh in the great Eastern Desert, or the blistering terrain of the Wuhuan Desert in southern Hyrkania, which could turn a man into a dry scrap of leather. Nonetheless, he shared Sivitri’s sentiment. Of late he had become accustomed to the sea’s humid air, which did not parch one’s throat or bum one’s eyes.

  Sivitri crouched beside the Cimmerian. “Do you see that shield?” She pointed. “There, the one that lies far from the bodies, much closer to us. Its rim is fashioned like a serpent that circles the shield.” “Stygian,” Conan nodded. “Its shape likens it to those used by the Stygian army in Luxur, who bear shields of iron and bronze. But these are copper and bronze.”

  “They must be Thoth-amon's men,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Where do you suppose he is?”

  The Cimmerian pondered for a moment before answering. “He may not be here. I have heard tales of his schemes, and it seems he prefers to work his dark sorceries from afar. But we cannot be sure. Perhaps even now he lurks in his oasis, watching us by means of his foul sorceries, though I would doubt it. This site bears signs of a massive excavation—see the ribbon of tracks that leads to those piles of sand and dirt over there? The impressions in the sand are deep, as if those who made them were heavily laden. Nay, I think that Thoth-amon may have been here already. Whoever dug this up wanted something inside that building.” Conan propped himself upon his elbows.

  Sivitri trembled as if chilled to the bone, in spite of the air’s warmth. “Let us hope that he has not found it yet. Surely the god was buried deeply, and Caranthes said that if we reached the Brass City before sunset, we could thwart Thoth-amon's plan. Bel! Look at how much digging has been done. If indeed the god-relic is within that structure, we are also fortunate that those men did the digging! I know not what we would have done, had we arrived here first.” Conan shrugged. “‘The best of treasures are buried deepest,’ as the old Zamboulan looters’ saying goes. I would have tried to enter through that brass-spired tower. If this building had been buried by one of the sandstorms that come upon these places so suddenly, the inside may not be filled. But the roof does seem to have caved in— Crom!” he hissed suddenly, eyes narrowing.

  “What?” Sivitri glanced at the dunes around them. “What do you see?”

  “Surely this was Thoth-amon's work,” he mumbled, jabbing a finger toward the figures that sprawled in the distant tower’s shadow. “Look there, at the one who lies partly outside of the shadows. Of more import is what you will not see—flesh and blood.”

  “Bel’s beard,” she whispered. “Did the serpent-mage summon the dead to perform this labour?”

  Conan felt his scalp prickle at the sight. There it was, the body stretched out on the sand, ivory bones and grinning skull revealed in the sun’s waning light. A large shield lay beside it, heaped high with a conical mound of sand and dirt. Draped across its bony torso was a baldric of bronze links, fastened to a tarnished copper scabbard. The hilt of a sword jutted from it.

  “This place has an ill feel to it,” Sivitri noted, crossing her arms. “Perhaps it is the taint of these dead. The king’s cemetery at Arenjun felt much the same to me, when I once wandered through it. Does not the air itself seem heavy here? It burdens my lungs to breathe it.” Conan rose to a crouch and brushed sand from his hands. ‘Taint or no, we must move on now, before the sun sets, and learn what lies within that building. Thoth-amon may have raised an army of the dead and marched them from Stygia to here... how could warriors of Stygia otherwise have come to this desert? That sorcerous dog must have known that uncovering the statue would be a great labour. Crom, what a sight—an army of the dead, digging at the dunes to uncover the ruins.”

  “Perhaps they marched first to that village on the plateau, to massacre and desecrate as we saw.”

  “It matters not,” said Conan. “They seem to have served their purpose, for there they lie—unless this is a trap,” he added. “We shall be wary of those things as we move inward.”

  “If Thoth-amon is here, how do we defeat him?” Sivitri asked as she slid her slender longsword from its scabbard.

  Conan drew his sword, eyes gleaming with ferocity as he stared at its glittering blade. “Steel,” he said. “With steel and strength shall we pull the fangs from that Stygian serpent. Whatever else he may be, he is flesh and blood. But if we face him, look not into his eyes, lest they blast your soul. I have learned the hard way that much of the wizardly weavings of men such as he is but an illusion—believe their wiles not, turn your face away, and close your ears to their chants.”

  “Steel,” she repeated, as if to convince herself. “Were Toj here, the assassin’s skills would prove quite useful. Oh, I doubt not that you have beaten sorcery with steel and strength, Cimmerian. A pride of angry lions could not match your spirit in battle. But I fear we are outmatched,
unless Caranthes spoke truly, and the gods somehow grant us a boon.”

  “As indeed they have,” came the soft, Turanian-accented voice from behind them.

  Equally startled, Conan and Sivitri jumped upward.

  “Crom’s devils!” the Cimmerian bellowed, whirling, his sword upraised to strike.

  “Toj!” cried Sivitri. She stepped backward and dropped into a fighting stance.

  “Back away, dog,” the Cimmerian rumbled. “You may have saved my skin back in Saridis, but if you raise a hand against us here, I’ll spit your black heart on my blade and—”

  “Save your threats,” Toj said, his voice smooth and oily. He stretched out his hands and opened them to show that they were empty. “We share a common goal—at least for the nonce. After some thought, I deem it wise for us to join forces. Thoth-amon will be no easy mark for you, and even I may find him a challenge.” Conan’s eyes narrowed. It irked him that the assassin had crept up behind them so readily. A woodland-born Pictish scout could not have surprised him so. The man had rubbed his indigo cloak with dust and soil so that it blended well with the desert terrain. The Cimmerian glanced at Toj’s soft, low boots, and noted that the man’s attire had been crafted for stealth. He wore no metal openly, nor anything that would click or rustle—just soft cloth. This Turanian’s armour was his incredible speed and dexterity, which Conan had seen in action. If Toj could not surprise Thoth-amon, then no man could.

  “So silent, Conan? Have you no witty rejoinder for me? And you, Sivitri—’Us strange to find you in the company of a man at all, especially that of this witless, oafish hulk of flesh. What would Jade say, I wonder?”