Conan the Great

by Leonard Carpenter

  But now, it was evident, the dwarf had been overtaken by a bizarre sort of change. He lay on the ground, struggling in some strange way, and the stout-hearted guardsmen held back from him as if hesitant to approach or seize him. Indeed, Conan saw as he ran up, it would have been difficult for him to mount his small horse any longer—or even a full-sized one, because the dwarf was growing so rapidly in size.

  His current difficulty was due to the increasing tightness of his custom-made armour—but that was only temporary, as leather stays snapped and metal plates buckled before the inexorable force of his growth. Having thrown off his helmet and kicked aside his boots, he let the rest of his armour and clothing split and slough away, except for a stretched, sundered kirtle that bound his waist and preserved his modesty. Thus was revealed a form far stouter and stronger than his former one, if no less ungainly or blocky-shaped. When he climbed ponderously to his feet, Conan saw that he was a giant, half again as tall as the king himself, with a huge, leering face, and hands thick enough to crush the life out of two men at once.

  “What devil’s trick is this?” Conan demanded of him. “How comes it I have befriended a shape-changer—and one who leagued with a swamp devil to steal my soul? Is that friendship?”

  “Who ever spoke of friendship, King Knuckle-rapper?” Delvyn challenged him back in a thunderous voice. “You looted me from old King Balt in battle, remember? You were the master, I the knave! That may yet change.”

  “A knave you ever were,” Conan shot back, “and shall remain, methinks! But how comes this unseemly growth?”

  “No great mystery in it,” Delvyn said in his new-found stentorian voice. “A giant I was, strong as ten ordinary men and feared and hated by them in consequence. I faced a life of solitary toil and despair—for, whenever I sought the company of mortals, they called me monster, and banded together to slay me.” Looming half-naked among the soldiers like one of Kthantos’ granite monuments, he told his story unashamedly.

  “So I broke open a temple library and throttled the holy hermits who tended it. I spent years teaching myself the ancient scripts and poring through forbidden scrolls. I sought a spell to reduce my accursed size. In time I conjured forth a demon, Kthantos, who swore to grant me that.

  “I was clever, you see!” Delvyn grinned down at his listeners, though his expression showed little regard for what they truly thought. “Knowing that my former great size had been a curse,” he explained, “I bade Kthantos spell me even smaller than a puny mortal. That way, ’twas easy to confront foolish men and work my way into their confidence—for just as every human hates anyone larger than himself, he loves having someone smaller to set off his own greatness—someone he can bully, ridicule, and outshine! With the knowledge I had gained, and with the help of Kthantos, I soon became a friend and advisor to great kings, steering them to my own secret purposes.” Delvyn shook his head and laughed a mighty, roaring laugh. “In time I myself would have been king—King of the World, Delvyn the Great!”

  “Wretch! Scoundrel!” Conan reproached him, shaking his sword, “I never scorned you, never dishonoured you! Why choose me as the butt of your evil plan?” The giant laughed ponderously again, staring around him to intimidate the soldiers as they tried to contain him in a circle of raised pikes. “I battened onto you because you were rich, well-beloved... and foolish! Imagine a king who loves himself so little that he thinks all others must hate him—who, great as he is, wants to believe himself ten times greater—and who does not know happiness when he holds it in his hand!” Delvyn shook his head with giant, leering contempt. “Of all the kings of Hyborea, none would have been easier to hoodwink than you! Your brat here, Armiro—I might have had to work at ensnaring him. But you, you would have given me the world on a platter! —except, alas, that your friends were too loyal in spite of all your bluffing and strutting!”

  Conan glowered grimly up at him. “And so you had your demon kill Queen Yasmela! You baited me with Amlunia, and set me against Armiro!”

  “Aye, indeed,” Delvyn gloated, “because I knew that when the time came—when I had badgered you to mastery of the world—one final thing would destroy you totally and without question: the knowledge that you had killed your own son!”

  “Devil! Schemer!” Conan raged. “Know you, I have slain greater monsters before! I have no fear of facing you alone!”

  “Good, then,” Delvyn sneered back. “Come at me, little man! I will tear you open and sup up your liver for lunch!” He made a lumbering step forward; it was menacing enough to make the two spearmen standing in front of him fall back, while others closed in from behind. “Then I’ll take your buxom queen for my lap-doll and send your puny army scampering off through the hills, King Bunion-thumper!”

  Livid with fury, Conan hefted his sword. Then he looked around the circle of watchers—Zenobia, Count Prospero, the aged Publius, Armiro standing ready, with steel once again drawn—and he lowered his own weapon. “Traitor or no,” he called up to Delvyn, “you once were my friend. I would not slay you! And yet, Mitra knows, you cannot be allowed to live.”

  Delvyn snarled back, a noise of rage and anguish. “Mitra knows I would not want to!”

  Conan nodded, turning away. “Guards!” he commanded harshly.

  A rushing stamp of feet sounded, mingled with shouts and muffled curses.

  In moments it was over. Delvyn lay dead on the ground, and none of Conan’s guardsmen had taken a hurt more serious than a broken limb.

  XX

  Impasse

  After most of the contention and revelation was past, King Conan set his men to build a cairn over Delvyn’s giant remains. He and Armiro meanwhile saw fit to remain on the neutral ground of the once sacred courtyard. Word was sent back to their two armies, still poised for strife, that a parley of great moment was under way. A group of officers and guards finally came forward from the Kothian side to guarantee Armiro’s well-being. At Zenobia’s urging, young Prince Conn was brought from the Aquilonian camp, where he had been left by her for his safety.

  Since their high-spirited defeat of Kthantos, feelings between Conan and Armiro had been left unexamined. So various were the possible outcomes between them, and so vital the national interests at stake, that their next exchange boded to be world-shaping. Therefore both rulers were coached intently by their advisors, and meanwhile forced to stand a great distance apart, eyeing one another uncertainly.

  Publius, for one, had a proposal which he saw as a rare diplomatic coup for his kingdom. “Your Majesty, you can now establish a dynasty—nay, you already have done so! By publicly acknowledging your paternity of Armiro, you can claim a degree of kingly authority over Aquilonia and Koth together! And later,” he added with a glance to Zenobia, “you can influence the division of that vast realm between Armiro and your other offspring by exercise of your royal will.” The chancellor beamed at the elegant simplicity of it. “’Twould be primarily a matter of form, of course,' since Armiro would hold tenaciously to what power he already has. But it would serve your goal of uniting the world in a bloodless way—without war, without the power of our two great empires tragically cancelling one another out.”

  Conan shook his head, his eyes busy watching the Kothian prince converse amid the huddle of his officers. “Nay, Publius, I would not risk putting young Conn in a position of certain rivalry with his half brother; especially given Armiro’s advantage in years and in... courtly guile.” Looking to Zenobia and noting her nod of relief, the king spoke on. “Besides, can you imagine that young firebrand ceding parental authority to me?” He laughed, the toss of his head revealing more admiration than annoyance. “No, Chancellor, in such a prickly, uneasy alliance as that would be, I fear the real power would fall to you and your diplomatic ilk. You go-betweens would keep us always teetering on the brink of civil war.”

  “What then, Sire, is your plan, if I may ask?” Whether Publius was annoyed or merely crestfallen was a question his tact concealed any answer to. “An abandonment of
the war? Recognition of the current borders?”

  “An alliance, grounded on mutual respect,” Conan said with certainty. “His for me, and mine for him.” He nodded to Zenobia. “And a strong defence, of course. Good fences make good neighbours.” He bent closer to Publius and spoke in a lower voice. “Most likely, old friend, our borders will have to return to the former ones. Nemedia and Ophir can be set up as buffer kingdoms under Halk and Lionnard, for the sake of keeping the young hothead at a safe distance.” He frowned thoughtfully. “’Tis a sore price to pay. But my son is a sharp dealer, and we will have to sacrifice dearly if we expect him to do the same.”

  Prospero, waiting close by, entered the conversation with an amazed smile. “Does this mean, milord, that you have abandoned your hopes for world conquest?” Conan laughed sharply and a little ruefully. “I can think of only one thing that could have kept me from it—and Crom has seen fit to place that thing in my path. An obstacle I would not wish to destroy.”

  Publius shook his head with cautious doubt. “Milord, is such an acceptance of, ah, limited triumphs, consistent with the greatness of one who aspires to be a god?”

  “A god?” Conan guffawed sharply. “I am no god! Believe me, I have seen enough puny would-be gods to last me for Kthantos’ long lifetime!” He blinked as if remembering something in the dim past. “I have seen a real god, too—but I have far to go before I can match him.” He made a casual gesture toward Armiro, who stood gazing back from among his officers. “Besides, if I am a god, then yon prince is at least half a one... and he is no godling!”

  Turning from Publius and Prospero, Conan went to Zenobia’s side and kissed her. From her arms he took his young son Conn and held him up before hid face. “I tried to win the world for you,” he told the boy, “but now you will have to take as much of it as you need.”

  Handing the lad back to his mother, he turned and strode out into the courtyard to meet Armiro. As he went, his troopers sent a cheer ringing skyward.

  “Hail, Conan the Great!”

  Table of Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX