Conan the Great

by Leonard Carpenter

  And yet, Armiro was her only son! She could do nothing but love him and protect him, after all, since some secrets were too dangerous to tell....

  His antipathy to any lover of hers was understandable, given his early and ill-starred relations with the shallow, scheming men of the Khorajan court. And Conan, upon learning of her tie to Armiro, likely thought it fitting to abandon her to a sorrow that was, quite literally, of her own making. Now the two were implacable enemies, and would remain so until one of them finally slew or imprisoned the other... these, the last two males she cared about in all the world!

  Her barren eyes had no tears left to shed over it all.

  Here, penned up in this remote part of Khoraja, guarded by surly, unfeeling troopers loyal only to Armiro, she was helpless to save king or prince, nation or world. Life had brought all her grand, courtly schemes to a standstill. There was nothing left but to try and comfort a poor injured serving-maid, and in so doing possibly save her own soul.

  Her brooding thoughts had carried her to her bed cabinet; there she stood wondering whether to shut herself away and pursue sleep in the musky dark, or whether to continue her wraith-like wakeful state, sporting queenly finery for Vateesa’s sightless eyes in the grey candlelight. Her attention was caught by a sound outside her chamber door, on the stair that spiralled up from the common hall and the guardrooms below.

  A night sentry, perhaps, going up to stand his vigil on the tower’s topmost bastion. Or so she thought—until she heard a fumbling at the oaken door. It was locked, she knew, with a swivel catch that kept the outside latch from being depressed. Nevertheless, with a feeling of unreality that changed swiftly to alarm, she saw the hinged bar lift slowly in its brackets. She saw it disengage, and saw the door swing inward with a deep, muted creak of iron hinges.

  The figure that stood outside on the narrow landing was dark and inscrutable—a tall, lean form in a hooded grey cloak, whose hem brushed the ground and whose voluminous sleeves depended from the ends of unseen arms. Only the garment was visible—she might have thought it empty, suspended there in the hall, had it not glided toward her across the threshold with a measured, deliberate step.

  “Who is it?” She addressed herself to the obscurity shaded deep within the hanging folds of the intruder’s cowl. “Begone. I have retired for the night, and desire no visitors.” Suddenly, the thought occurred to her that it might be Conan. The eager, rising light of her glance then belied her previous statement.

  No, she saw, it could not be he, for the figure was willow-thin. Nor was it Armiro, her cherished son, who would have been little taller than herself. This visitor was much taller, his cowl having brushed the lintel as he glided in. But another thought occurred to her.

  “Are you a messenger sent by Armiro?” she asked. “Or by some other, perhaps, to tell me of his injury or— death?” Her voice quickened with anxiety before stumbling over the dreaded word. “Come, speak you and allay my fears, before I summon the guard! If this is a prank of the garrison, you will face harsh punishment!” “No... not death.” The voice of the stranger as he loomed in the doorway was full and timbrous, as deep almost as the creaking of the hinges had been, but with a certain supple fluidity the rusting metal lacked. “I bring you tidings not of death, but of a joyous birth.” “What do you mean?” At the eerie sound of the intruder’s voice, Yasmela edged toward her dressing table beyond the window, for it included amidst its freight of combs, mirrors, and cosmetic ointments, a long, straight dagger. “You are not of the garrison,” she challenged the stranger, “and you are no courier! If you do not leave at once—I warn you, I will scream!”

  “So, scream away,” the liquescent voice gloated. “What more fitting sound than a woman’s screams to accompany a grand and glorious birth?” Having found his eerie voice at last, the cloaked stranger now waxed eloquent. “I speak of your own birth, Noble Lady, into the favour and protection of an all-knowing god who has decided to resume his seat of power here on earth....”

  The breath for a full-bodied shriek gathered in Yasmela’s lungs—and caught there, prisoned in by the fear-taut cords of her throat, as she watched what now unfolded in the doorway. Quite literally, unfolded— for, instead of striding forward, the weird visitor reached effortlessly across the room toward her. There was a shapeless stirring within the long, loose sleeves of the hooded robe, and from it protruded black-glistening, bony talons of impossible grasp and rapidly growing length.

  It was not human, she knew, nor anything earthly; more than the threat of the skeletal touch, she sensed a dark, chilling peril to her mortal soul. By an instantaneous motion she avoided the death clutch; she lunged backward, feeling the window curtain and leaded glass give way behind her—first jagged resistance, then only rushing wind. The dark menace passed over her, the talons clutching empty night. Her scream came at last, and she felt her soul soaring joyously free. Her body, meanwhile, plunged to the hard stones of the mountainside to lie broken and still.

  XIV

  Hail the Mighty!

  Delvyn, strike up a song!” King Conan roared from his stolen throne. “Night draws nigh and our guest is travel-weary. We must get our roistering done early this day!”

  The chair he sprawled on was not a true throne, but it was tall and stately nevertheless, the official seat of the recently departed First Magister of Numalia. Conan, leaning awry in it, with a booted leg cocked over its gold-leafed arm and a twelve-pointed crown resting askew on his brow, looked every bit the brawling barbarian conqueror.

  The council hall before him lay in disarray, with long tables disordered and benches overturned. The ashes of a bonfire marred the centre of the bright mosaic floor. Scattered all around were crusts, bones, wine jar fragments, and other debris of two nights’ pillage and feasting. Most noticeable of all was the Magistry Chamber’s once mighty bronze door, battered free of its mountings and lying flat across the floor. Much of the high stone archway had tumbled inward with it and now lay strewn nearby, but the ceiling above had held. A broad, jagged opening looked out over the courtyard and the broken crest of the breached curtain wall.

  Beyond, sunset reddened the western sky. Against its deepening glory, smoke plumes from fires in the town could still be seen, as well as wheeling specks that were black carrion birds.

  The dwarf Delvyn sat cross-legged on the broad mantle of the cavernous, unlit fireplace. Now he commenced strumming and plucking, as ordered by the king. The score or so of Aquilonian and Nemedian officers who lounged about the room showed scant enthusiasm for his chords. And the visitor Conan had referred to, after casting his gaze disapprovingly about the ravaged palace, stepped forward and raised a protest. It was Publius, the grey-haired Chancellor of Aquilonia, newly arrived from Tarantia.

  “My liege,” the brittle elder voice objected, “it would seem to me the time is riper for discussing matters of state than for revel and orgy—”

  “Publius, Publius,” Conan interrupted him, waving a flagon imperiously overhead, “’twould seem to me but this: that I must conquer the world faster if I am to outrun your helpful advice!” Over the laughter which followed his quip, the king added, “But what I crave now is a song. Jester!”

  Delvyn’s strumming, which had receded during the exchange, swelled again to the fore and was joined by the minstrel’s high, firm voice. The stately tune was evidently unfamiliar to the company, who fell silent and listened attentively.

  Bold hero’s blood and fertile northern soil,

  The red and black of Aquilonia's crest;

  From these two shall be born in battle toil,

  A boundless land with mystic vision blessed.

  The first verse led to an instrumental interlude paced by Delvyn’s skilled fingers. During its elaborate twinings and chimings, the warrior Amlunia seemed suddenly inspired: lithely, from her footstool before Conan’s throne, she sprang up in a spontaneous dance for the company.

  Drawing both sword and dagger, she discarded her weapon-belt; then she pli
ed the tapering steel blades in an agile, graceful parody of combat. Before long she cast aside her fur-trimmed cloak, letting her scanty vest, breeks, and boots of black leather show off her creamy pale skin to striking advantage. The watching officers were awed to silence as she stalked and thrust to the soul-felt music, and Delvyn’s next stanzas were heard as clearly as the first.

  Barbaric souls and hotly tempered steel,

  Strike forth and toll the glory of our days!

  Grind foe men’s flags beneath the chariot wheel

  And scourge away the sin of foreign ways.

  Hyborea! Thy will proclaims the right!

  With iron rigour reigns your godlike king.

  Hyborea, thy god grant us the might!

  For thee we conquer, and to thee we sing.

  Delvyn’s lyric rang to a halt, to be saluted with lusty cheers and raised tankards from the company. The king himself sloshed his drink overhead and called out, “Well sung, little bard! And well danced, sword girl!” But meanwhile the tempo of the jester’s strumming continued, and gradually quickened. The attention of all remained focused on Amlunia, who still strode and turned in the centre of the hall.

  Darting and gliding, she alternated swift, leaping motions with slow, intent ones. She scuffed through the bonfire’s cold ashes to dance in front of Publius, who sat primly at the end of a long bench. His unwillingness to react, and the leman’s teasing efforts to make him flinch with near passes of her weapons, raised hoots and guffaws from the watchers.

  Of a sudden, a burly Nemedian knight arose from Baron Halk’s side at one of the long tables and came from behind it. Drawing a short thrusting-sword and propping it obscenely between his legs, he pranced toward Amlunia with a loutish, suggestive gait. Laughter dinned on him from all sides, drowning out the music-all the more so as the girl dancer spun and rushed at him. Her weapons flashed in a graceful, darting pass; her motion bowled him over and made him yelp with pain. As she whirled triumphantly away, the knight scuttled back behind the table, cursing and clutching a blood-streaming arm. The cheers of the watchers shook the chamber, threatening to make more of the broken archway collapse.

  Conan, whose laughter was most uproarious of all, bellowed at last over the din, “Enough music! Enough dancing, while I still have officers left! Amlunia, you little trollop, come up here and share my throne! Ho, servants, fetch our dinner, and light more torches against the evening’s dark! Be not stingy, the spoils of a city are ours to bum!”

  While the conquered servants scurried to obey, Publius came forward and stubbornly begged to speak with his king.. before Your Majesty sinks any deeper into his cups,” as the chancellor put it.

  “There are matters which press most urgently for milord’s attention,” Publius began. “To wit: the devastation of newly conquered areas, and their imminent fate.” The chancellor ruffled his fur shoulder-cape expressively. “Upon arriving here I was appalled, Sire, to see troops running riot in town—drinking, procuring women, and stripping the place of its wealth. Wanton destruction, too, with fire and steel—if this is by Your Majesty’s leave, I would point out that it is milord’s own newly won property and subjects that are being plundered and abused.”

  “By the horns of Erlik!” Conan exclaimed. “What, Publius, would you expect to see in a conquered city? You will find no strings of enchained slaves plodding the streets, and no piles of lopped heads in the marketplace! Who can accuse me of misrule? Would you, Amlunia?” He turned up the shapely chin of the girl, whose limber weight rested against him. “Likely so, wench, since you are more bloodthirsty and hard-handed than I! You need not answer. But say, Delvyn, what think you of these charges?”

  From his seat on the mantelpiece, the dwarf spoke up readily. “As courtly wag, King Nose-cruncher, I like misrule! It provides meat for my jests.” He followed the sally with a strum on his mandolin.

  “Fit words for an accomplished fool!” Publius retorted, ignoring the scatter of laughter. “But I, as the king’s loyal counsellor, must speak in earnest.” His glance swept aside to include Delvyn and Amlunia.

  “Milord, methinks the chaos in the city but mirrors the disorder of your own kingly, ah, affairs. At the very least, Your Majesty should give thought to appearances. Count Prospero is establishing good order in Belverus, and your court in Tarantia may yet weather the strain. But here in Numalia—”

  “Enough!” Conan growled. “In some matters, Publius, I will not accept your counsel. I am no grey-bearded sage, to mince every step with caution—and I am no miser, to deny the rewards of conquest to my troops. I have told my men to treat the vanquished folk of Numalia fairly, as I myself would.” He paused to sip from a flagon thrust up to his lips by Amlunia, who reclined easily across his knees. “If there is cruelty, blame it on Baron Halk’s troops and their freight of ancient grudges.”

  His remark was made without a glance for his ally, and may have gone unnoticed by Halk. The baron was drinking and jesting just then at the expense of his wounded knight, whose arm was being poulticed by a serving-maid.

  “Aye, milord, perhaps,” Publius answered the king patiently. “And yet it remains for us to curb them, if we do not want the whole city laid waste. I fear that our conquests bring us into partnership with ruthless, self-interested sorts, while our true allies only learn to mistrust us.”

  “Allies?” Conan demanded, his brow knitting imperiously. “What allies have we, except puppets like Halk and Lionnard?” His tone was unrestrained and once again careless of who might overhear. “Has any Hyborian king offered to aid me against the threat of Armiro the Koth? Argos would not, until the varlet attacked them! And now Zingara makes ready to turn colours. Corinthia’s high-born nobles will not join me against the villain, nor even grant my army safe passage across their territory to get at him! They threaten to league against me with their neighbours. if I try!” Impatiently the king pushed Amlunia’s proffered cup aside from his lips. In so doing, he splashed part of its foam down her feather bodice, which caused him to be distracted a moment with her squeals and squirms. “The lords of Hyborea,” he finished at length, “are rogues and traitors all, and will one day kneel to me!” “Doubtless so, if you wish it, Your Majesty.” Publius shifted his feet doggedly before the throne. “And yet, Sire, until it comes to pass, may we not keep them as friends? Forgive me, Sire, but when milord bluffs and postures so, and lets his minstrels sing anthems of world conquest,” he added with a glance to the watching Delvyn, “it gains Aquilonia no friends.”

  “Nonsense!” the king said. “I am no mealy-mouthed diplomat, to hide my true intentions!” Obdurate against his advisor’s questioning, he drew Amlunia further on his lap, where she lounged like a Stygian cat. “Know you, Publius, once I strike out for my goal, no man or nation will stand against me.”

  “You would undertake, then, to attack your neighbours. openly and at once, without first dividing them amongst themselves?” So offended was Publius by this idea that he omitted any respectful form of address; yet the monarch did not seem to notice.

  “When I am ready to reap foreign kingdoms, they will fall to my sword like ripe grain!” From the ire that flashed hot in Conan’s eyes as he glanced around the hall, he lapsed into sombre speculation. “Think on it, Publius—it has been in my head much of late. How can I have survived thus far, braved so many perils and endured so many hardships, if I am not marked by the gods for some special purpose? I offer myself to enemies in combat, scorn their blades, dance on their battlements, and receive for it but a scratch and a thump! Know you, Crom and Mitra have favoured me in the past—surely they are the source of all this bounty and luck!” He thumbed his chin slowly, meditatively. “Or mayhap, as Delvyn has it, there is godly stuffing in my own self. Be-like I have slain enough godlets and demi-gorgons in my time to soak up a touch of divinity.” He paused again, his pensiveness deepening into a frown, before resuming. “Since none can gainsay me this great power—and with it the fame and repute of a god—’twould be foolish not to
use it and make myself truly and eternally great. After all, why should a man have to die to achieve godhood?”

  “Remember, Old Gray-grizzle,” Delvyn chimed in suddenly from his chimney piece, “you deal here with a great king! When did the advice of a tame old mouse ever bind a lion? Men like Conan the Neck-twister are not shackled by the laws of common men! Great men do great crimes! They are honoured for breaking and remaking mortal laws!”

  The jester spoke with an uncharacteristic vehemence and lack of ribaldry. But his tirade held the ears of all those present as he went on:

  “A king's one duty is the exercise of power—for if powers are not used and extended, they fade to dust and withered parchment! A king’s true task is to invent new powers, and test them to their limits—especially those powers that command the lives and deaths of his subjects. In fact, I would say, the use of power is a goal in itself, the one true aim of existence. If the power seized is grand enough, its wielder becomes a god!” “Hear, hear!” Conan thundered at the conclusion of the speech. “Publius, list ye well, for yon fool speaks with the voice of true wisdom.”

  To all this, Publius for once seemed at a loss to reply. Whether he stood silenced by the merits of the argument, or by despair of his king’s sobriety, his wizened countenance was too subtle to reveal.

  In any event, the feast had been readied, and so the attention of all was diverted. A high table was placed near the throne, with specially tasted meat and drink for Conan and his consort, arid a special high stool for Delvyn. Meanwhile, the comeliest and most pliant Numalian castle maidens dispensed viands. Publius retreated to the tables and took a seat on Baron Halk’s right hand, where he set about smoothing any rumpled seams of diplomacy. The meal wore on with obligatory toast and tune, sport and sally, many of them at the chancellor’s expense, as the sky grew dark outside and the twinkling stars peered in.