Conan the Great

by Leonard Carpenter

  “Armiro!” The king’s sword leaped into his hand as he spoke. “Bring on your ambush, Princeling! I am ready!” His eyes scoured the courtyard for signs of a trap. “Is dream-conjurement such as this now a part of your trickery?”

  The low stone curbs and retaining walls before him, if not illusory, could hardly have concealed men, much less another horse. The silence that answered the king’s echoing challenge might have made him seem foolish if the stench of the supernatural had not hung so heavily about the place.

  Armiro, having looped the reins of his steed over a metal fixture in the stonework, took his time turning to face his rival. When he did so, he loosened his own sword in its sheath but did not draw it.

  “Why, ’tis Conan, my impetuous foe!” The prince strode a few paces forward and halted near the centre of the court. “If, as your leather harlot claims, you do not know why you are here—well then, you have even more rashness and obtuseness than I credited you with!” “What is it I should know, stripling? Why am I here?” Conan strode forward, his blade raised in lethal readiness. Delvyn hurried after him, tugging at the king’s empty scabbard and whispering restraining phrases; simultaneously, as if in answer to the king’s question, a deeper roiling and rippling commenced in the murky pond. Bubbles began to froth at its surface; of a sudden the gurglings formed a cracked, rudimentary voice. This unwholesome phenomenon made the Aquilonian pause in his tracks.

  “Hail, Mortal Kings! I extend a godly welcome to the two foremost champions of the human breed!” As the liquescent voice spoke, fires sprang alight in brackets and basins set around the courtyard. Lit by no visible hand, the greasy yellow flames had the odd effect of darkening the daylight; Conan fancied that the colour of the sky overhead changed from dawn-pale to a deeper, more cosmic blue. “By my divine power,” the voice proclaimed, “I, Kthantos, have guided you both here, that I may choose one of you to rule as sole lord of my earthly domain.”

  “What devilment is this?” Conan cried, glancing back at his friends to see if they had heard the same as he. “Armiro, I knew you for a foul, murdering scamp! But now I find you a skulking sorcerer as well, requiring the help of a gargling night-demon to frighten your enemies!” He stalked farther forward, ignoring the bubbling pool. “’Tis unmanly, just as I would have expected of you....”

  “Enough jabbering, barbarian!” Armiro lashed back. “I have a low opinion of imps and sorcerers myself, but here is no measly demon! Kthantos is a full-fledged god....”

  “Precisely. A god!”

  The turbulence in the pool had grown frenzied as Conan spoke; the dark fluid now swirled in a near maelstrom, from which Kthantos’ broken voice blasted forth powerfully. Near the edge of the pond, a black skeletal hand broke the surface, clutching a bent javelin. It drew back and hurled the weapon outward and upward.

  In mid-flight, the javelin turned to a jagged lightning bolt. With a mighty crash the bolt struck the nearest, stoutest pillar, which stood on shoulder-high curbing just above the pond. The stone cracked audibly, and for a moment small lightnings shrouded the monolith like briary, luminous vines. When the glare subsided, the column stood split askew; blackened shards rattled down, and the smell of scorched granite filled the air.

  “A small demonstration of my strength, which grows and multiplies by the hour.” Kthantos’ voice had fallen to a croaking calm even as the upheaval of the pond subsided to a steady lapping. “I will leave the pillar standing as a reminder to you. Both kingly champions are spiritual enough in nature, I should think, to see the virtue of faith in me, and the penalty for lack of it.”

  Conan, frozen in his tracks by the awesome display, nevertheless shook off his supernatural dread and brandished his sword again, this time at the lapping pond. “I have slain gods before,” he challenged. “Why should I league with one whom a rogue like Armiro claims as an ally?”

  “Not as ally, but as supreme arbiter,” Kthantos’ voice spouted up from the centre of the pond. “Only one of you will leave this place—that one the more worthy of the two, and he privileged to restore my worship by mortal men as sole god on earth.”

  “One of us chosen—by single combat, you mean.” Conan nodded with frank anticipation. “Good then, I welcome my enemy with ready arms!” Reaching to his belt, he drew forth his dagger to brandish alongside his sword. “And yet,” he continued with a note of doubt, “the whelp and I have met before at sword point. I bested him man to man and he answered me with betrayal. I am the better warrior”—Conan frowned with growing suspicion—“so why should he face me boldly, unless he has some unfair advantage hidden away—such as a private understanding with you, the appointed judge? He plainly knows more of this nefarious business than I do.” Conan shook his dark mane stubbornly, the locks lashing free beneath the slim gold circlet of his crown. “Besides, even if by some trick he manages to slay me, my Aquilonian legions are more than a match for his!”

  “Conan, King Jaw-cruncher”—Delvyn’s voice piped up unexpectedly from beside him—“divine Kthantos has struck no bargains. He seeks only the best ruler to inaugurate his worship.” Delvyn edged around the king’s side to gaze solemnly up at him. “But I will second you in any test of arms or armies, O King! You are the finest warrior and the greatest monarch, as all men know.”

  “So, Delvyn, you too are a part of all this!” Conan eyed the jester with new understanding. “Likely Amlunia, as well—with her role in luring me here.” He glanced over his shoulder at the leman, who looked back at him with an enigmatic smile. “I should have known that my ambitions would prove but a rattling cart to your brace of oxen.”

  “Nay, Sire, I am only a buffoon—” The dwarf blinked up at Conan with persuasive modesty. “—A mere foil to your greatness, which is all! But you know, King Ravager, ’twould be a great waste for you to slay Armiro the Koth, and for your legions then to spend their strength in wiping out his.” He gestured with zeal to Armiro, who stood watching patiently. “Here at this ancient shrine are met, not just two mighty kings, but two vast armies whose power, combined, is capable of achieving either commander’s wildest dreams of conquest.” The jester’s words obviously were meant for Armiro, too, although his every syllable was directed carefully at his liege lord.

  “What is needed, as I see it,” the dwarf continued, “is a compact between you two monarchs: an agreement that, whoever wins this duel—and it will be you, Conan, none could doubt that,” he added in a low voice, “—whoever wins, both armies will join together under the command of the victor.” The little man finally shot a frank glance across to Armiro, as if tossing out a challenge. “Furthermore, both empires, Kothian and Aquilonian alike, must bow to the winner’s rule.” Delvyn looked gravely from one king to the other.“It is in the power of both monarchs to decree this and be obeyed. Remember, ’twould enable the surviving one to unify all men, and therewith end their petty warring and spite. The aim of every great conqueror—to bring peace to the world—lies in the grasp of one here today! But to do it, you must risk all.”

  “Risk, aye,” Conan answered, reflecting. “A wager of sorts. But to guarantee it, ranking second officers from both sides would have to be brought forward to hear the terms and witness the fight. Whether they would then abide by the result”—he shook his head uncertainly—“well, with a display of this godling’s power, they might.” Letting the point of his sword fall to rest on the gleaming pavement, he looked across at Armiro. “Even so, I cannot say I care for the stakes. This duel would either leave the world in the charge of a callow princeling, or leave me subject to the whims of a bubbling, puddle-dwelling hobble-de-god! If you ask me, there is little to choose between a matricide and the demon he worships.”

  “Matricide!” At this word Armiro suddenly flared. “A fine calumny to come from you, slayer of my mother! Take back the lie....” For the first time, the prince’s sword hissed out of its jewel-encrusted sheath. “... Or I will carve a niche in your black heart to shrine it forever, armies or none, empires be c
ursed!”

  “Why would I lie to the son of lies?” Conan snarled back at him. “Pose as you may, rankle as you might, all men know it was you that had fair Yasmela cast down from her prison tower!” Raising his sword, he took a menacing step toward his foeman. “Her love for you was great, but even her loving memory will not keep me from dealing you the fate due an unnatural son!”

  “Liar! Rogue!” Armiro started forward too, then halted abruptly and edged back to his place. “But stay, barbar-king, you cannot provoke me until all the stakes are on the table! I will have your tough, hairy hide and your ill-gotten holdings with it! What say you to your dwarf’s proposal?”

  “True enough, ’tis true,” Conan muttered back. “I shall not fight until the fate of my empire is too well assured to be stolen away by treachery!” He lowered his sword again and looked from Delvyn to the lapping, inscrutable pond. “As of now, I like not the terms of the contest, nor the temper of our self-proclaimed referee.”

  As he spoke, letting his former rage ebb back to surliness, his gaze was drawn up toward the sky. Rather than dawning to full, bright day, the heavens seemed to have grown all the dimmer since their arrival. Behind the mists beyond the pillars, a sphere now hovered that looked too pallid to be the sun. Above and beside it a second, even paler orb glinted in the half light—too shrunken to be the moon, and hanging impossibly where no moon should hang. He glanced down to find neither orb reflected in the surface of the black pond. With a shiver, Conan again addressed the dark water.

  “I know not what place this is, Kthantos—though it strikes me as being nearer hell than heaven. And I know nothing of you and your creed. Having seen your force of destruction—part of it, anyway—and your talent for lure and menace, I ask you, what is your power for good?” He glanced suspiciously to the other humans. “And what, pray tell, is your true aspect? What form do you take when you rear up out of that black mire to impress your worshippers?”

  “Down the course of history,” Kthantos burbled back, “true gods, unlike paltry demons, grow ever more reluctant to show themselves to mortals. You, O King, a worshipper of coy northern deities, should know this. The adherence of one’s followers should be at best a matter of perfect faith.” The spouting bubbles had grown calm and even. “Therefore, it pleases me to remain in my pond; I but seldom leave it. Yet my powers, you will find, are near limitless—for good or evil either one, if you cling to the notion that the doings of a god may be measured by such quaint, outmoded concepts.” The pond gouted and burbled in what may have been scorn.

  “I can sway mortals through dream, as you have seen; my power over men’s minds shall be, in time, quite complete. Already, by subtle means, I can change the course of human history—as evidenced by the epochal battle I have convened here, in this improbable place.” The bubbling simmered complacently a moment, then resumed speech. “The energy and ability of my disciples, I should add, are boundless... however stunted their mortal frames.” Here the jester Delvyn stood carefully still, rendering no word or look, although the woman Amlunia was heard to laugh sharply. “And further I have my messengers, extensions of my own hand, whom I can send across earth to perform any errand. So you see, mortal, a god is not a sprite or hobgoblin with one tawdry trick. A god is unopposable.”

  “What mighty Kthantos says is true”—Amlunia’s voice rang out abruptly from the edge of the courtyard—“especially of the willingness of his disciples.” As she spoke, the leman strode boldly forward past Delvyn, into open space between Conan and Armiro. “Long I sat here this morn, communing with the god’s essence. Then, when I heard the holy one speak, his words struck to the deepest core of my being. I have seen the truth and so I proclaim myself Kthantos’ disciple! Faithfully. Eternally.” Her words echoed forth with seeming conviction.

  “In furtherance of his ends,” Amlunia continued, drawing a new and deeper breath, “I mean to offer myself as a prize to the victor of this contest. Know you, Prince Armiro—” She turned toward the Khorajan, meanwhile loosening the already slack laces of her leather suit to show off her womanly charms more favourably. “—Know, O Tyrant, my talents are many. I am a savage fighter, a skilled courtesan, and a most eager concubine. Should you triumph, I promise you, my abilities would not be wasted... in whatever way you choose!”

  Armiro barked out an astonished laugh. “And what of your devotion to dour Conan, there? Will your faithfulness to Kthantos and me be no greater than to him?” Amlunia sighed, settling her supple weight on one hip and resting her hand on her jutting sword-hilt. “To tell the truth, I grow weary of Conan. I am tired of his scars and his battle stories. In you, O Prince, I see a more cunning fighter, and a better champion for Lord Kthantos.” She sighed again, shifting her weight to her other hip. “It matters not—I know Conan, and I can take what he deals out. But he is so slavish to tradition, I do not think he will ever make me his queen—at least not while prudish Zenobia lives!” She shook her head in distaste. “Nay, the world needs a free-spirited ruler. In this duel, Prince Armiro, my hopes rest on you.” Armiro laughed heartily again. “Boldly spoken, wench! I never formed the taste for such as you—but perhaps I am not too old to learn! Rest assured, if you are my prize, you will be used well and... completely.”

  “A most sordid desertion, Amlunia!” Delvyn declared from her side. As he did so he made a swift, wary glance at Conan’s face, which had remained impassive. “This is a slight for which my own champion will savour his revenge later, once he is victorious! But for now, it may be convenient.” The dwarf’s voice levelled in amazingly swift resignation. “Now you can ride to Prince Armiro’s camp and summon his lieutenants to witness our bargain—while I, with His Majesty’s permission, go to fetch King Conan’s. I suggest, Amlunia, that you take the prince’s horse. Straddling such a fine beast, a comely wench like you will never be pricked with arrows by his sentries!” The dwarf gave the leman a pat on the rump, then turned and strode toward his own idle pony. “Now at last, the full power of conquerors is poised,” he declared over his shoulder. “However it may fall out, the world is doomed.”

  “Hold, manikin, I still do not think—”

  Conan’s protest was cut short by the stamp of hooves and the creak of travel-worn wheels. The mortals present all turned to see a splintered, mud-spattered chariot, a light trap with but two horses left in its team, rumbling toward them. Its course through the meadow was flanked by fully armoured riders from the Aquilonian camp: Prospero, in his sable-blue livery, was among them, as were other high officers and, to Conan’s surprise, Chancellor Publius, his white beard powdered grey with trail dust.

  The chariot rattled up onto the pavement and wheeled to a halt. Conan saw its occupants then, and his jaw fell. Behind the haggard, half-dead charioteer knelt Zenobia, Queen of Aquilonia, bending over a prone figure wrapped in a filthy black travel-cloak.

  A half-dozen elite guards, their uniforms soiled and rent by long, harsh travel, reined up around the chariot.

  Dismounting, each fell to one knee in salute to the king. As Zenobia looked longingly at him, Prospero sprang down from the saddle and cried, “Sire, your royal wife brings you urgent news!” He glanced at the scene around them with an uneasy air. “I know not what dark spell hangs over this place, nor why morning itself seems blighted here, but thank Mitra we have found you!”

  “Aye, milord,” Publius panted from his saddle, “it is a matter of the utmost importance.”

  Conan went to join them, turning his back on Armiro, the mystic pool, and its invisible denizen. Striding up to the chariot, he seized Zenobia in a fierce embrace. She gave a faint cry, and her joyous tears plastered travel dust to his face and hair. But at once, she fought free of his arms and gasped up to him, “Conan, my husband, we have galloped all the way from Tarantia—we have run a dozen horses to death, my love, so that you may hear the truth!” Her eyes, red-rimmed with anguish, searched his deeply. “Hear it not from my lips,” she said at last, “but from hers!” Looking down, he saw that
her slim, dust-grimed hand pointed at the cloaked passenger lying in the bottom of the chariot.

  It was an old woman, Conan saw as he knelt with his queen—vaguely familiar to him, though the side of her head was sore disfigured by a scar. She lay weak and ill from the journey, yet her rheumy eyes were open and her hand rose up from the copious sleeve of her black robe to beckon him. The hand was not withered and palsied, he noted. So perhaps she was not as old as she seemed.

  Her voice issued from her dusty lips in forceful but irregular accents: “The truth is for Armiro, too.”

  Puzzled, Conan looked up at Zenobia, who gazed back into his eyes and nodded. He shrugged and looked around the court for the Khorajan. The prince stood watching the proceedings at a distance, waiting near Delvyn and Amlunia, who likewise seemed to watch with uncertainty.

  “Princeling,” the king called out, “come hither! This news is for both of us, so they tell me.”

  Armiro hooked a hand on the hilt of his sword and regarded the gathering of Aquilonians suspiciously. Scowling, he declared, “I do not fall so easily into a trap!”

  Conan shook his head with an impatient jerk.“My word is worth its measure—unlike yours, villain!” Arising, he faced his officers and guards. “Listen all! I hereby command you to allow Prince Armiro safe conduct among us.” He turned back to the Khorajan. “Now do you believe me?”

  In answer, after further hesitation and fierce looks at his foemen, Armiro walked forward. As he drew near enough to see the face of the reclining woman, his step quickened. “Vateesa,” he exclaimed, “my mother’s body servant! An unintended victim of my fight against Aquilonian treachery.” With more suspicious glances at the stricken maid’s companions, he knelt at her side.