Conan the Great

by Leonard Carpenter

  “Aye, good fighting, King Cimmerian!’ the baron chimed in. “A fine show of horsemanship you gave us, an example to both our armies! But dry work, I’ll wager.” Halk unslung a wineskin from his plump armoured chest, swigged from it, and held it forth to Conan as the king eased into Egilrude’s saddle. “Now this southern fleshpot is ours, and the pickings will be rich! My men and I have waited long for this day.”

  “Restrain your men, Baron, till the central district falls and the outer garrisons are subdued.” Conan did not reach out for the wineskin. “I do not want our troops diverted from the palace fight.”

  “I see no problem in that, Your Majesty,” Egilrude said. “Men of both armies are flocking to the palace-more men than can possibly take part.”

  “Aye, of course,” Baron Halk cried, “for the loot will be richest there! But, O King, do not imagine we can prevent them from despoiling the town. Not my troops, nor yours either. The egg is broken and cannot soon be put back together.”

  “So say you, Baron? And you, Egilrude?” Conan frowned. “Well enough, then, I suppose! I never had any love for Numalia.” The king shrugged and accepted Halk’s wine flask, raising its spout thirstily to his lips. “So long as our victory is complete, let them do what they want!”

  XIII

  Cradle of Empire

  Bright lights and swirling shadows played against the high lancet windows of the royal palace at Tarantia. From its stately archways, dim in summer night, echoes of music and festivity drifted. Courtiers and privileged citizens gathered, as they had done so often in recent months, to celebrate the departure of fresh Aquilonian recruits to the foreign campaigns. On the morrow the young officers would ride off to follow the lure of wealth and glamorous peril abroad; but tonight was set aside for revelry, for lavish food and drink, and for fond goodbyes murmured to sweethearts in the palace gardens.

  On the broad inner veranda at the garden’s edge, Queen Zenobia reclined on a cushioned seat, clad in jewels and a gown of intricate, gathered lace. Beneath the soft-hued glow of paper-covered lanterns she sat, keeping apart from the festive throng. Through crystal-paned doors at the. rear of the terrace could be seen the heads and shoulders of officers and ladies, moving rhythmically to measured phrases of reed, timbrel, and horn. Guarding the doors and the outer comers of the balcony stood mute, helmeted Black Dragon guards; in a chair drawn intimately near sat her current visitor. It was balding, grandfatherly Publius, Chancellor of Aquilonia and the queen’s most senior advisor.

  “The ball proceeds smoothly, Your Majesty,” he assured her with a swift, nodding bow of his head. “The palace staff seems well-used to these affairs, not bored or overburdened.”

  “’Tis well,” the queen said with a wan smile. “It gives us a chance to show and spend some of the wealth my husband sends back from his conquering. I want these young men to have something fine to remember their home by, before they ride off to hardships from which they may never return.” As she spoke, her smile faded, possibly out of concern for her own absent campaigner.

  Publius said in his unctuous manner, “Your gatherings, milady, are certainly more tranquil and civilized than our king would have had them. So far we have had no duels nor mock combats, no bouts of drinking and storytelling, and no troupes of naked foreign dancers.” The chancellor met Zenobia’s raised eyes with a prim, unctuous smirk. “I confess, Your Majesty, these festivities of yours are more in keeping with my own taste.”

  The queen frowned slightly. “Indeed, Publius? I make it my place to promote the gentler arts and traditions of Aquilonia, lest we be proclaimed a savage nation with an uncouth king. But do not dismiss too lightly the virtue of a primitive soul, or the strength of an unbridled spirit. Sometimes a foreign eye can pierce the veils of obsolete assumptions.” She waved a shapely hand in air, as if brushing aside cobwebs, and turned in her seat away from Publius. “Sometimes,” she continued, “a rough-accented voice can make itself heard over self-righteous mumblings of pious dogma. It may even, at times, rally a nation.”

  Falling silent, Queen Zenobia looked out over the garden’s dark expanse, softly lit by constellations of paper lamps dangling from trees. A young uniformed officer and his maiden, half embracing, moved slowly past the splashing fountain toward the invisible paths and arbours of the lower garden. The girl was no aristocrat, but one of the palace servants, draped from neck to knees in a modest gown belted with a silken cord for the occasion. Even so, she clung to the lad’s neck and paused frequently to lavish on him kisses and breathless whispers; she seemed generally eager to aid the war effort by sending him off happy the next morn. As the two disappeared beneath the elms, Zenobia heaved a faint sigh and turned back to Publius.

  “It was Conan’s savagery, not his kingliness, that made me love him the first moment I saw him.”

  The impact of the queen’s earlier reproach to Publius was dissipated by her obvious melancholy, and so he was able to shrug off his discomfiture and offer further flattery. “’Tis an appropriate turn of history, milady: our king’s recent conquest of Nemedia gives Your Majesty sway over Belverus, your native city.”

  “Aye, ’tis an irony indeed—I, who once was a slave girl there! And yet I am queen in fact only, since Conan has given nominal power to the local barons. I wonder, Publius... I wonder if he will someday try to conquer his native land of Cimmeria? I doubt that even he could subdue such a savage, untamed place!” The queen shook her head wistfully. “Publius, do you really think he intends to conquer the entire world?”

  The chancellor shrugged. “Who can say? In my latest dispatches I have cautioned him not to declare such a goal openly, since it would turn every Hyborian sovereign against him. But in light of his recent conquests, some of them are bound to assume so anyway.” Interested, Zenobia leaned a little closer. “Can you not dissuade him?”

  Publius shook his head. “The king is not one to abandon a plan lightly, as you know. I am told the idea bums strongly in his breast. ’Tis hard to see what could turn him from it, short of his own...” Seeing the queen’s anxious look, he subtly altered the word which had formed on his tongue: “... defeat. And yet, if I am told aright,” he elaborated more hopefully, “King Conan’s great desire just now is to destroy the schemer Armiro. If he were to achieve that goal, with a suitable expenditure of blood and Cimmerian sweat, it might sate his lust for conquest. At least temporarily, I should think....” Publius, remembering himself and wondering if he had spoken too freely, let his voice trail off.

  But Zenobia seized immediately on the substance of his words. “Yes, I understand, he might be content with victory over Koth. So far, after all, he has only seized the holdings of the two kings who warred against him. Armiro opposed him in that....”

  “And now, if he snatches territory from his new-made enemy, who can fault him for it?” Publius spoke enthusiastically, feeling suddenly at home in his special fiefdom of diplomacy. “The onslaught of our puppet barons against eastern Nemedia is clearly an internal matter. Aquilonian presence there can be seen as a move to threaten Armiro’s northern flank in Ophir and in Koth.” The stuffy look on the chancellor’s face was the same affectation he would have used on a foreign legate. “Tomorrow, on the king’s order brought by today’s courier, I am to open negotiations with the Corinthian embassy, to allow passage of our army southward through their territory to strike at Koth. Such a compact will be of use to Conan, whether he intends to respect Corinthia’s neutrality or not.”

  “I see.” At the prospect of a broader war, the queen grew sombre again. “I suppose Conan must settle his dispute with Armiro,” she sighed. “It surprises me that the two have remained in a stand-off so long.”

  “Both men are astute commanders,” Publius declared. “In all of Hyborea, the Kothian army is the only one that can stand against Aquilonia’s. Nevertheless, if our two countries should fall to open war and weaken one another, the neighbouring lands would be quick to crowd in and divide up the spoils, as Armiro sought to do in
Ophir. Both your husband and his adversary perceive this only too well. So they bide their time, each awaiting the chance for a deft, decisive stroke that will leave the victor relatively strong.”

  “I see it well,” Zenobia said. “Like angry lions they circle, surrounded by a horde of slavering jackals. A nasty business, war is—a foul one!” She sighed again, glancing this time toward the banquet hall, where the strains of a bright new galliard were just starting up.

  “And yet,” she continued, “to us here in Tarantia, war brings only wealth and gaiety. To our idle young it promises fame, plunder, and military rank. War does not slay our sons, it turns them into immortal heroes. For every few farm lads who fall in battle, one is newly created the thane or earl of an estate in the Tybor Gap, and so their rural families are happy. My husband is called the greatest Aquilonian hero of all time—if only I knew that it would always be so! The cost to our nation has been slight so far. At length I fear that we will pay the butcher’s bill in full, with sore complaint.” “In other lands,” Publius said, “our king is not now seen as hero or liberator. Spies tell me the lords of Brythunia and Corinthia are warning their peoples to fortify against the coming of Conan the Ravager and Conan the Locust. Those nations will not be as divided and ill-prepared as we found the Nemedians. But hold, here comes another mighty chieftain!”

  Publius turned in his seat to welcome young Conn, who had marched onto the terrace. The lad wore a porridge-bowl helmet and waved a wooden sword as he strutted proudly forward, leading an army consisting of one youthful but harried-looking nursemaid.

  “Your Majesty,” the woman said to Zenobia with a deep bow, “I have been trying to conduct Prince Conn to bed, so that he may conquer the world of dream. But first he wants milady’s blessing.”

  “Oh, my sweet darling!” Zenobia reached forth and gathered up the young warrior in lace-covered arms. “You have my blessing, dear one—my boon and my shriving as well! Go forth and conquer great dreams for me!”

  “A stirring send-off, Your Majesty!” A firm, deep voice spoke up as the child was swept out of the queen’s arms and bundled off by his nurse. “I can see why the lad’s father conquers foreign lands so efficiently.” “Why, Trocero!” Publius said in surprise.

  “Ah, Count, good evening!” Zenobia sat upright on her lounge and regarded the caped, breast-plated noble, who bent down to tweak Conn’s ear as the nursemaid hurried him through the doorway. “We did not expect you to arrive so soon! How went your journey? I have been eager to hear first-hand news of affairs in Ophir.” “Conditions there are—stable, Your Majesty.” The count bent to kiss the queen’s extended hand; he exchanged handclasps of greeting with Publius before seating himself on a chair beside the chancellor. “Now that the Red River is guarded by a chain of forts, there is less threat of Kothian attack. With King Conan’s approval, I judged it urgent to return home and see to matters in the south.”

  “The south?” Publius asked in evident puzzlement. “You mean, in southern Aquilonia?”

  “Yes, Chancellor,” Trocero replied, his sun-darkened features almost imperceptibly colouring. “I did not know if informants had brought word to you yet, but apparently not—so I assume Her Majesty, too, has not heard...?” At Zenobia’s impatient head shake, the count proceeded.

  “Prince Armiro has extended the western end of our battle line in Ophir, by striking out into Argos. Five days ago his troops seized the Arond district and passed from there across the border. The Argosseans have not been able to bring their main force to bear as yet, but we can depend on them to send their fleet up the Khorotas River. There would not be much danger to our southern flank—were it not for the rumours that Koth has formed a secret alliance with Zingara. As it stands, I had best alert the southern lords personally, and bid them build their forces to readiness.”

  “A threat to our southern border!” Zenobia shook her head. “Armiro playing the same game with us that we play with him in the north! Truly, events outrun my fears.” She shook her head in wonderment, then looked at Publius. “But Zingara has been Aquilonia’s ally, at least since Conan took the throne! And Argos is a mighty kingdom, a deadly enemy for Koth.”

  “Perhaps, Your Majesty.” Publius nodded uncertainly. “Yet Argos is principally a maritime nation, not nearly so powerful on land. As such, they often find themselves in conflict with Zingara over ports and coastal trade.” The chancellor massaged his high, grey-wisped forehead with his fingertips as he spoke. “The Zingaran court might not find it amiss to enter an alliance against their southern neighbour, even at risk of war with us, their long-time ally.” Visibly swallowing further musings, he regarded his queen. “But rest assured, milady, I will mobilize all my forces on the diplomatic front to avert any such misjudgement.”

  A threatened silence ensued among them, mocked in counterpoint by the gay dance music that lilted from the crowded ballroom; all three were aware, perhaps, that they relaxed in the serene eye of a war storm which boded soon to sweep the whole world.

  It was Zenobia who spoke up at last. “And so, Count Trocero, how fares my husband in his foreign adventurings? I know he has faced risks I scarcely dare to think of—and won vast triumphs, as is his way. He brings glory to us all. But does he miss his home and family, I wonder?”

  Trocero shifted his booted feet on the marble terrace so as to half-bow graciously in his seat. “Your Majesty, I can assure you that King Conan’s every march and conquest, his every step and sword-thrust, are made in devoutest, most loving tribute to yourself and little Conn.”

  “I see.” The queen digested this information a moment, to the drifting strains of music. “And what of his little ragamuffin, the dwarfish Delvyn? Does the jester still accompany him on his travels?”

  “Aye, milady,” Trocero said. “The fool even dons armour and rides into battle. He postures and shakes his puny weapons at the enemy, when the king permits it.” “And he sings and japes during victory feasts, I do not doubt. I have heard tales of wild revels held in conquered foreign cities by our lord and liege—have you not, Count? Though I realize, of course, that your role in the war is largely defensive.”

  “Ah, yes, indeed.” Trocero seemed uneasy at the direction the conversation was taking. He shifted briskly in his seat and muttered something about the stress of battle and the importance of troopers’ morale.

  “And yet he leaves you to your own devices, does he not? I hear tell that he rides away on long quests, such as a visit to his former lover Yasmela in the East.” Seeing the warrior’s voiceless discomfiture at this, Zenobia pressed him mercilessly. “Come, do not deny it! If he goes to visit an old flame or rescue a captive queen, why should I not hear of it? I know of the slut Amlunia, too—I have my spies and astrologers to inform me of these things—”

  “Your Majesty!” interrupted Publius, sounding deeply shocked. “You know that if you require a seer, or need a horoscope cast, I am at Your Highness’s service! It does not do for one so highly placed to heed rumourmongers and charlatans—I have warned milady of the danger, and it is greatest in these troubled times. Pray, do not give ear to invidious gossip—”

  “Quiet, Publius!” Zenobia hissed, sitting bolt upright on her divan. “I already know your game! You fear that if I learn too much, I will turn on Conan and do harm to the empire. But I... I am greater than that! Yes, I know of his lights-o’-love! I would tear their throats out, send assassins to kill them if I could!” Her eyes flashed like steel in the soft light. “But I love Conan and shall remain faithful to him. He is not only my husband... he is my king!”

  “There now, Vateesa, dear! Does that make you feel better? Here, I’ll lower your head for you.”

  Princess-Regent Yasmela, kneeling beside the cot on which her servant lay, set down the goblet of water on the bedside table. Cradling the invalid’s grey head in one gentle hand, she smoothed out the satin pillow beneath it with the other and let her patient lie back undisturbed. She judged from the level of liquid in the cup that Vatee
sa had swallowed a few sips; but the woman made no answer to her questions. Her eyes continued to gaze straight ahead, gleaming dull brown in the candlelight.

  “Are you comfortable, Vateesa? Rest now, you will be up and about soon.”

  Arising from her knees with the aid of the bed frame, Yasmela turned and moved the candle to the far comer of the table. There it glared less brightly into the unblinking eyes, and played less luridly on the disfigured side of the woman’s face. Though her visible wound was healed, Vateesa had lain thus stuporous since leaving the Tarnhold, where she had been struck with a club wielded by one of Armiro’s bodyguards. She was Yasmela's only maidservant; now the roles of servant and lady were reversed. But the noblewoman knew she might care for Vateesa the rest of her days without repaying a tenth part of the woman’s faithful service to her.

  The princess-regent turned restlessly away. She moved to the tall window, lifted aside the curtain, and peered out through one of the lozenge-shaped panes. There was no moon, and therefore no view—only a scattering of stars obscured at the bottom by the outlines of peaks, whose jagged shapes she had not yet learned. No great disappointment, that; even the midday view of bleak, stony mountains and dark forest slopes would have provided little comfort to her. The night draught falling from the windowpanes was chill, so she closed the curtains and turned away again.

  This remote, nameless tower was her punishment, she knew: a further remove from the care and devotion of her son, sparse enough as those formerly had been. Armiro’s attitude toward Vateesa, too, had been frighteningly cold-blooded—discounting her injury as that of a mere maidservant, even though she had been as a second mother to him, helping to raise him from boyhood. At times Yasmela wondered what she herself had wrought on the world, by making her son so precocious, schooling him so well in the ways of power, yet foolishly denying him a legitimate parentage.