Conan of the Red Brotherhood

by Leonard Carpenter

  Knulf Shipbreaker, looking stout and prosperous, boarded over the far side of the cog. Strutting across the ship’s waist and waving a salute to his men, he loomed over Conan wrapped in his net. The vanquished captain lay watchful. He was only moderately crippled and bloodied, the net’s thick cordage having protected him from the worst of the clubbing and sword-slashing. He watched as Knulf opened the jewel-cask that was handed him, examined the contents, counted the gems, then closed the cask and held it at his side.

  “So, there he sits: the might Amra, lord of a fleet and master of a multitude, the most infamous pirate on the Hyrkanian Main!” The Vanirman’s noisy eloquence plainly was meant not just for Conan, but for the whole pirate assemblage. “How sad to tell you, O Great One, that your fame has recoiled upon you and that your dashing reign is ended. History has passed you by, O Admiral! Now you will be remembered only as an object lesson.”

  “What traitorous devilment is this?” Conan tried to sit up and was immediately levelled to the deck by the boot of one of the Vanir’s henchmen.

  “Did I not warn you, Cimmerian?” Knulf inquired in a more confidential tone. “About the perils of notoriety, and the risks of too easy success? Remember, too, that I urged you to deal through me in disposing of your Turanian hostages. I offered you a most generous buy-out, as I recall!” Knulf laughed heartily, echoed by some of his cronies who stood nearby. “When faced with your stubbornness, I was forced to seek an independent deal. Most luckily so, as it happened, in view of the magnificent opportunities that have now opened up.”

  “You swine, what have you done with my women?” Conan demanded, dodging a kick. “I mean to say, where are Olivia and the hostage girl? If you have hurt them—” To a chorus of laughs, Knulf replied, “The noblewoman Philiope, you mean? It turned out, as you may know, that she was not quite what she was trumpeted to be. Since I am too honest to try to palm off counterfeit goods, I have invited her to cast in her humble lot with me and be a help-meet to my personal needs. Today she felt indisposed, so I left her in my chambers at the inn. But do not worry, she is well guarded.”

  “Dog, I will whet my steel on your gravelly gizzard! What of Olivia?”

  The Vanir, amid fresh merriment, said, “Forgive me,

  O Amra, if I laugh—but things have gone so well, in spite of the collapse of any ransom payments, that I feel most sanguine about the future. In particular, I have enjoyed my dealings with the Turanian emissary, one Khalid Abdal, whom you may recall from your piratical adventurings.” He winked down at his glowering captive. “It seems that your fair shipmate Olivia found his arguments equally persuasive; she has gone off with him to Aghrapur, freeing herself of any pirate ties and leaving you to face the guilt of your evil career.”

  “Rogue! Liar!” Conan lashed out in vain, struggling against the handful of pirates who held the net tight around him. “When I get free, I’ll carve your slandering tongue out of your throat—”

  “I hardly think so. Instead, you will be called to account for crimes without number. The court at Aghrapur is in a fever, I hear, over your well-advertised doings. Know you, with Amra’s capture, piracy in the Eastern Vilayet has been brought to a virtual halt; so at least the Turanian people will be told. The ledger will now be balanced for the destruction of commerce, the rape of this fine ship Hyacinth, the insolent assault on an Imperial war-squadron—of which I have yet to learn the details—and a score of other scandalous deeds over the past dozen years... all of which, including my own, can be laid conveniently at your feet. Right now my biggest item of potential profit—other than brokering these fine gems, for which I thank you—” he patted the cask under his arm “—is selling your head to Imperial Turan for punishment. Or rather, your whole notorious body.”

  “Do you know, by the way, how they deal with pirates in Aghrapur?” The Vanirman exchanged gloating looks with his fellows. “Our sort have considerable popularity, as you may imagine, in a great seaport town that relishes gruesome accounts of our doings.” He smiled wistfully. “The Admiralty’s usual punishment is a tug-of-war—a festive event for the street mobs, complete with food, drink, and carnival games. Four heavy cables are furnished, one lashed firmly to each limb of the offender. Four teams of able-bodied pullers are recruited, the whistle is blown, and the game commences. Passers-by can join in as the frenzy grows, with extra ropes being spliced on as needed!” He shook his head in vicarious enjoyment of the prospect. “Such a contest can be a great holiday, a joyous procession passing through all the main streets of town... though of course the four-way road junctions are best favoured.” He smiled beatifically. “Urloff Blacktooth lasted a whole afternoon, ’tis said—bellowing all the while, even with a leg and an arm pulled off. The winner, of course, is the team that ends up with the head attached to its portion.” “Dog! Scoundrel!” Conan snarled futilely. “That will be mild compared to what I do to you—”

  “Enough, men,” Knulf said, shaking his head sadly. “I fear my fellow captain lacks imagination. Drag him over to the rail, so we can show his shipmates his sorry plight.” “How is it,” Conan demanded, being kicked and shoved across the deck while still bound in his net, “that one captain of the Brotherhood can turn on another— betray him, rob him, and hold him up for public mockery? Is this a part of our tradition?” Conan guessed full well that it was, but he meant to hold his own against Knulf in oratory, at least.

  “The Brotherhood?” Knulf laughed over the rail, crowing for the benefit of both ships. “With you, the pirate Brotherhood is wiped out... nay, rather say it has left you behind,” he amended himself. “We of the Red Brotherhood are now a power in our own right, rulers of this island domain of Djafur, privateers and partners of the mighty Turanian Empire! See here.” From inside his greasy vest he pulled a rolled parchment adorned with purple ribbon and seal, waving it on high. “This decree, signed by an agent of the emperor himself, names Djafur a free, autonomous allied port—with myself, Knulf of Vanaheim, as high commissioner.”

  At this, a clamour of applause went up, all of it from the deck of the Hyacinth and well-coached, by the look of things. Conan tried to speak, but his wind was cut off by the pressure of a brass boat hook against his throat.

  “In return for our alliance with him in these hostile waters, the Turanian emperor promises us rich subsidies, merchant cargoes of food and tradestuffs that we will not have to raid, but that will be handed over to us!” Again, enforced applause. “Also weapons, ships and stores, as if we were recruits in the Imperial Navy, but without uniforms and the tyranny of naval officers!” This brought wild hoots and cheers that spread even to the decks of the penteconter. “And what must we do for this bounty, I ask you? Why, do what we like best! Raid and pillage and harry commerce; but only Hyrkanian ships and towns, acting as licensees of the all-powerful Turanian realm.” At this, the acclaim was near universal.

  “Additionally, we are to be given other duties... such as the collection of fees and tariffs from independent traders, according to the Turanian Imperial standard, plus a reasonable surcharge—” at this, knowing laughs and elbow-digs “—and the suppression of unlicensed rogue pirates, like the one just captured—” As Knulf pointed down at Conan, there came a furious murmur of denunciation and dispute. “Most welcome, perhaps,” he went on, “to all those offenders who join under me in good faith, this document grants full amnesty for past naval crimes, and exemption from Imperial punishment.”

  At this, there rose from both decks a veritable storm of jubilation and controversy, over which Knulf had to shout to be heard.

  “Therefore I call you to arms,” he proclaimed. “Together we can subdue those of the rebel sea-tribes who have not joined with us in the alliance! We can rule these isles and wipe out any chief or captain who opposes us, or else buy him out with our successes. Onward, lads, for the Red Brotherhood and for empire!”

  Over the frenzy of applause that followed the Vanirman's exhortation, one stubborn voice—the carping, blessed voice of Dicc
olo—rose from the penteconter’s deck. “When has the Brotherhood ever joined hands with fat Emperor Yildiz?” he demanded. “When are these Imperial treasures to come to us? Where are they now? And what will become of us outcasts, the downtrodden of the earth, when Turanian warships have been given the run of these straits? Where will we be, if not chained to an oar in the bottom scuppers?”

  “Aye, ’tis so,” other men of Conan’s crew echoed, with old Yorkin’s garbled accents raised among them “How do we know the emperor will play us fair, aye, or that Knulf will? What is our guarantee?”

  “I guarantee this,” Knulf Shipbreaker declared fiercely, “that any man of you who does not swear fealty to me now will end up in chains, packed off to Turan with your pig-headed captain!”

  His words unleashed a brawl, the one that had simmered through so many speeches. Oars swung and thumped at the sailing-ship’s side, steel hissed from scabbards, and arrows darted home into wood and flesh. Part of Conan’s crew rose up in revolt, hacking at the grapple-chains and at Knulf’s men who leaped down to guard them; a good many others cowered between oar-benches, or turned on their fellows with curses and blows. Conan, bent over the rail with boat-spikes digging into his back, was helpless to join in.

  And in due time, the rebels, forced apart into the bows of the oarship, gave up fighting. Disarmed and clubbed into submission, afraid to dive overside and face the harbour sharks, they were sent up onto the cog one by one to be shut in the hold.

  “’Tis just as well,” Knulf proclaimed from his place amidships. “We need a good lot of prisoners to make a show for our allies... and to make sport for the mobs of Aghrapur! Now, the rest of you, swear allegiance to me.” Reaching to his waist, he drew his cutlass and raised it on high. “Swear by the hilt—to Knulf, the Imperial commissioner, and to Djafur!”

  The oath came gustily, enlivened by fighting spirits. Indeed, the cheering went on for some moments, almost drowning out the hail that a ship was approaching the harbour. At length, everyone’s attention turned to it.

  “It is the Tormentress'.'' one of Knulf’s lieutenant’s reported. “Santhindrissa is back from her treasure cruise.” “Aye, curse our luck,” Knulf said. “Likely she has not heard of the changes here. We must try to lure her alongside, or up to the inn. Ungrapple that oarship and put some men in it, but quietly. We may have a battle on our hands, or a chase.”

  “Help, the prisoner! He is getting loose... ah, aieeel" With the crew’s attention momentarily distracted by the she-pirates’ approach, Conan broke free of his captors. Of the pirates holding the net over him, some few he felled with savage kicks and elbow-thrusts. Others, those who were too stubbornly tenacious or too slow in disentangling themselves, the burly Cimmerian dragged along with him. Struggling at the centre of a knot of men, he lunged for the rail and dove overside.

  In the narrow gap between the drifting ships, four men struck the water in a tangle of netting. One of them fought his way strongly to the surface, sputtering and splashing; but as the brisk harbour-mouth swells brought the wood hulls bumping together, he was caught in between. Stunned to death, his head deformed to a quaint oblong, he slipped motionless into the blue underworld.

  The other three drove in deep on the plunge. One of them, a Khauranian of the western hills, could not swim; he never succeeded in untangling himself from the heavy net. He was borne downward, writhing and thrashing, choking forth precious, fleeting pearls of air in the azure depths.

  The remaining two pirates, both able swimmers, were ready with lungfuls of air. Kicking free of the net, they breasted their way through the glassy blue liquor. One of them, a scar-faced, shaven-headed Ilbarsi, drew a long dagger from his waist and set out in pursuit; the other stroked clear of the ships’ bobbing shadows, his black mane spreading and jerking taut with the thrusts of his corded arms and powerful legs. Then he turned to meet his foe.

  The two came together in an eerie, slow-motion grapple, twisting and tumbling in the weightless depths. Hands clutched at wrists, while shins sparred. One knee drove sharply home, sending a jet of iridescent bubbles racing toward the sea’s glassy roof.

  In the blow’s writhing aftermath, the knife blade turned sharply inward. Driven by powerful, desperate hands, it met skin, opening a gash in its owner’s thigh that trailed dim streamers of blood through the water.

  As his adversary kicked free of the combat, the shaven-headed pirate looked after him, surprised: The cut was slight; he had lost his knife to his foe, but he still had a chest-load of air. Nothing was resolved—what, after all, was one more scar? Was it breath his opponent lacked, or courage?

  Then his eyes roved sideways toward fast-gliding shadows. A tiger-striped shape darted in ghostlike, fastening itself violently and agonizingly to the oozing limb. More shadows converged—circling, then striking with swift, razor-barbed jaws. The pirate convulsed amid writhing, lashing shapes, and spewed out ruby-tinged pearls in a last smothered scream. As ever, sharks lurked near anchored pirate ships, drawn to the scent of blood.

  Conan bobbed to the surface some distance away. Filling his lungs with a mighty gasp, he dove again, heedless of the weapons striking the water around him. The boat that had brought Knulf Shipbreaker from shore was putting out from the cog, doubtless to search for him; he swam deep, heading toward the harbour mouth, where the Tormentress had come into view.

  This breath of air lasted a shorter interval, but Conan judged he was out of spear-cast of the cog. Surfacing and taking time to fill his lungs again, he heard exultant cries behind; the launch was on his track, reaching toward him under sail in a quartering breeze. Santhindrissa’s ship was inside the breakwater, but sheering off cautiously. Conan dove deep, making for the weedy gloom at the harbour’s bottom.

  The dinghy’s crew consisted of three sun-bronzed toughs armed respectively with crossbow, harpoon, and boarding-ax. Without any great pretence of wanting their prey alive, they scanned the water keenly, shading their eyes and peering into the turquoise depths for a trace of the fugitive. Their skipper, too, one of Knulf’s lieutenants, hunted overside from his place at the tiller. Intent as he was, he may not at first have noted the difficulty in steering that caused the craft to bear slightly to leeward. Of a certainty, he noticed it when the tiller, seized by burly arms underwater, wrenched free of his grasp, causing the boat to veer sharply downwind.

  The resulting jibe made sail and boom swing hard across, neatly clearing the dinghy of all four occupants. As the boat meandered off on its new tack, Conan drew himself over the stem and took the helm, leaving Knulf’s men splashing and floundering in his wake.

  The swimmers could not hope to catch him; the penteconter, with its untried crew, was slow in getting under way. The Tormentress, standing well off from the evident turmoil, idled oars in patient curiosity at the approach of the small, harmless boat. In a trice, Conan was under the bireme’s looming stem, hailing the leather-clad captainess and bargaining to come aboard.

  XI

  Machinations

  In the days following the disaster at the Imperial Navy Yards, work resumed more feverishly than before. The competitors for the Naval Prize picked up the frayed, scattered threads of their experiments even as the port officials undertook repair and reconstruction.

  Soon after the tragedy, the black seer Crotalus returned from his expedition to the Eastern Vilayet—empty-handed, it was said, and with only one of the two Imperial warships he had taken. The surviving ship and crew were dispatched immediately on an errand south to Khawarizm, presumably to keep any of the men from telling of their recent voyage. But on a ship in port, however briefly, rumours are harder to quarantine than plague-bearing rats. It was soon whispered that the Zembabwan, through a perverse whim of the gods, had suffered the worst of an encounter with the infamous pirate Amra.

  Crotalus himself was granted an immediate interview with Yezdigerd. The prince, by nature restless and gloomy, had been especially so since the ill-starred naval exhibition. The event was interprete
d in some quarters as a humiliation to him, particularly with reference to his Imperial father. Yildiz made no secret of the fact that the public gathering and the naval contest itself were Yezdigerd's idea, allowed to him as a pet project by an indulgent parent. As a further irritant, rumours abounded that Emperor Yildiz, working through the Admiralty, had set in motion a scheme that would soon end the problem of the Vilayet pirates once and for all—more traditionally, by diplomatic means rather than through the star-gazing and sorcery of the gullible young prince.

  Of these innuendoes and intrigues, Alaph the alchemist could not help but be aware. In spite of his youth and humble background, he heard things; even in spite of his isolation from courtly life, his single-minded absorption in his work, and the pangs of the injuries he had sustained during the naval calamity. As he put in long days at the trireme shed that was his workshop, Alaph the baker-boy— a small, fez-hatted figure, always preoccupied and walking now with a limp—had ample opportunity to reflect on these and other matters.

  The revenge of his unruly water-demons had been fierce indeed. Alaph still smarted from his narrow escape; his loose galabiyah had been shredded and the calves of his legs blistered. Bums and lacerations to the more private parts of his anatomy made it difficult for him to sit, or even to bend over. But even so, he had to remind himself, he was far luckier than those on shore who had been sliced in two by flying remnants of his steam sarcophagus, or scorched and blinded by the intensity of the blast. By rights, if anyone was killed, it should have been he.

  When fished half-conscious from beneath the shattered pier, on seeing the devastation all around him, Alaph had been in a kind of brain-fever. His soul long reverberated from the magnitude of the havoc he had unwittingly wrought. Clearly, these water-djinni, the demons or elementals he toyed with, had many rules and foibles. Clearly, too, not all of them were amenable to mortal logic and justice; he would have to study them carefully for his self-protection. He must never, for instance, use sea-demons in his boiler, for the salty residues they left behind clogged the valves and led to catastrophe and death.