The Other Tales of Conan

by Howard, R. E.

  Tuthmes smiled a cool, impassive smile that was not pleasant to see. He murmured: “You know Tananda’s mad rages. Having thrown Amboola and her cousin Aahmes into prison, she might well have had Amboola slain and the corpse maltreated to look like the work of the monster that has long haunted the land. Might she not, now?”

  Comprehension dawned in the eyes of the minister. Tuthmes, taking Afari’s arm, continued: “Go, now, and strike before the queen can learn of it. First, take a detachment of black spearmen to the Red Tower and slay the guards for sleeping at their duty. Be sure you let it be known that you do it by my orders. That will show the blacks that I have avenged their commander and remove a weapon from Tananda’s hand. Kill them before she can have it done.

  “Then spread word to the other chief nobles. If this be Tananda’s way of dealing with the powerful ones of her realm, we had all best be on the alert.

  “Then go into the Outer City and find old Ageera, the witch-smeller. Do not tell him flatly that Tananda caused this deed to be done, but hint at it.” Afari shuddered. “How can a common man lie to that devil? His eyes are like coals of fire; they seem to look into depths unnamable. I have seen him make corpses rise and walk, and skulls champ and grind their fleshless jaws.”

  “Don’t lie,” answered Tuthmes. “Simply hint to him of your own suspicions. After all, even if a demon did slay Amboola, some human being summoned it out of the night. Perhaps Tananda is behind this, after all. So go quickly!”

  When Afari, mulling, intensely over his patron’s commands, had departed, Tuthmes stood for a moment in the midst of his chamber, which was hung with tapestries of barbaric magnificence. Blue smoke seeped through a domed censer of pierced brass in one corner. Tuthmes called:

  “Muru!”

  Bare feet scuffed the floor. An arras of dull crimson cloth, hung athwart one wall, was thrust back, and an immensely tall, thin man ducked his head under the lintel of the hidden door and entered the room. “I am here, master,” he said.

  The man, who towered over even the tall Tuthmes, wore a large piece of scarlet cloth, hung like a toga from one shoulder. Although his skin was as black as jet, his features were narrow and aquiline, like those of the ruling caste of Meroe. The woolly hair of his head was trimmed into a fantastic, crested shape. “Is it back in its cell?” inquired Tuthmes.

  “It is.”

  “Is all secure?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Tuthmes frowned. “How can you be sure that it will always obey your commands and then return to you? How know you that some day, when you release it, it will not slay you and flee back to whatever unholy dimension it calls home?” Muru spread his hands. “The spells I learned from my master, the exiled Stygian wizard, to control the demon, have never failed.”

  Tuthmes gave the sorcerer a piercing look. “Meseems you wizards spend most of your lives in exile. How do I know that some enemy will not bribe you to turn the monster loose on me some day?”

  “Oh, master, think not such thoughts! Without your protection, whither should I go? The Kushites despise me, for I am not of their race; and for reasons you know, I cannot return to Kordafa.”

  “Hm. Well, take good care of your demon, for we may have more use for it soon. That loose-tongued fool, Afari, loves nothing more than to appear wise in the opinions of others. He will spread the tale of Amboola’s murder, embellished with my hints of the queen’s role, to a hundred waiting ears. The breach between Tananda and her lords will widen, and I shall reap the benefit.” Chuckling with rare good humor, Tuthmes splashed wine into two silver cups and handed one to the gaunt sorcerer, who accepted it with a silent bow. Tuthmes continued: “Of course, he will not mention that he began the whole charade with his false accusations against Amboola and Aahmes without orders from me, too. He knows not that thanks to your necromantic skill, friend Muru I know all about this. He pretends to be devoted to my cause and faction but would sell us out in an instant if he thought he could gain thereby. His ultimate ambition is to wed Tananda and rule Kush as royal consort. When I am king, I shall need a more trustworthy tool than Afari.” Sipping the wine, Tuthmes mused: “Ever since the late king, her brother, perished in battle with the Stygians, Tananda has clung insecurely to the ivory throne, playing one faction off against another. But she lacks the character to hold power in a land whose tradition does not accept the rule of a woman. She is a rash, impulsive wanton, whose only method of securing power is to slay whatever noble she most fears at the moment, thus alerting and antagonizing the rest.

  “Be sure to keep a close watch on Afari, O Muru. And keep your demon on a tight rein. We shall need the creature again.” When the Kordafan had left, ducking his head once more to get through the doorway, Tuthmes mounted a staircase of polished mahogany. He came out upon the flat, moonlit roof of his palace.

  Looking over the parapet; he saw below him the silent streets of the Inner City of Meroe. He saw the palaces, the gardens, and the great inner square into which, at an instant’s notice, a thousand black horsemen could ride from the courts of the adjoining barracks.

  Looking farther, he saw the great bronze gates of the Inner City and, beyond them, the Outer City. Meroe stood in the midst of a great plain of rolling grasslands, which stretched broken only by occasional low hills to the horizon. A narrow river, meandering across the grasslands, touched the straggling edges of the Outer City.

  A lofty, massive wall, which enclosed the palaces of the ruling caste, separated the Inner and Outer Cities. The rulers were descendants of Stygians who, centuries ago, had come southward to hack out an empire and mix their proud blood with that of their black subjects. The Inner City was well laid out, with regular streets and squares, buildings of stone, and gardens.

  The Outer City, on the other hand, was a sprawling wilderness of mud huts. Its streets straggled into irregular open spaces. The black people of Kush, the aboriginal inhabitants of the country, dwelt in the Outer City. None but the ruling caste lived in the Inner City, except for their servants and the black horsemen who served as their guardsmen.

  Tuthmes glanced out over that vast expanse of huts. Fires glowed in the ragged squares; torches swayed to and fro in the wandering streets. From time to time he caught a snatch of song, a barbaric chant that thrummed with an undertone of wrath or blood lust. Tuthmes drew his cloak more closely about him and shivered.

  Advancing across the roof, he halted at the sight of a figure sleeping under a palm in the artificial garden. When stirred by Tuthmes’ toe, this man awoke and sprang up.

  “There is no need for speech,” cautioned Tuthmes. “The deed is done. Amboola is dead; and, before dawn, all Meroe will know he was murdered by Tananda.”

  “And the the devil?” whispered the man, shivering.

  “Safely back in its cell. Harken, Shubba; it is time you were gone. Search among the Shemites until you find a suitable woman a white woman. Bring her speedily here. If you return within the moon, I will give you her weight in silver. If you fail, I will hang your head from that palm tree.”

  Shubba prostrated himself and touched his forehead to the dust. Then, rising, he hurried from the roof. Tuthmes glanced again toward the Outer City. The fires seemed somehow to glow more fiercely, and a drum had begun to emit an ominous monotone. A sudden clamor of furious yells welled up to the stars.

  “They have heard that Amboola is dead,” muttered Tuthmes, and again a strong shudder shook his frame.

  III. Tananda Rides

  Dawn lit the skies above Meroe with crimson flame. Shafts of rich, ruddy light struck through the misty air and glanced from the copper-sheathed domes and spires of the stone-walled Inner City. Soon the people of Meroe were astir. In the Outer City, statuesque black women walked to the market square with gourds and baskets on their heads, while young girls chattered and laughed on their way to the wells. Naked children fought and played in the dust or chased each other through the narrow streets. Giant black men squatted in the doorways of their thatched huts,
working at their trades, or lolled on the ground in the shade.

  In the market square, merchants squatted under striped awnings, displaying pots and other manufactures, and vegetables and other produce, on the littered pavement. Black folks chaffered and bargained with endless talk over plaintains, banana beer, and hammered brass ornaments. Smiths crouched over little charcoal fires, laboriously beating out iron hoes, knives, and spearheads. The hot sun blazed down on all the sweat, mirth, anger, nakedness, strength, squalor, and vigor of the black people of Kush.

  Suddenly there came a change in the pattern, a new note in the timbre. With a clatter of hoofs, a group of horsemen rode by in the direction of the great gate of the Inner City. There were half a dozen men and a woman, who dominated the group.

  Her skin was a dusky brown; her hair, a thick, black mass, caught back and confined by a golden fillet Besides the sandals on her feet and the jewel-crusted golden plates that partly covered her full breasts, her only garment was a short silken skirt girdled at the waist. Her features were straight; her bold, scintillant eyes, full of challenge and sureness. She handled the slim Kushite horse with ease and certitude by means of a jeweled bridle and palm-wide, gilt-worked reins of scarlet leather. Her sandaled feet stood in wide silver stirrups, and a gazelle lay across her saddle bow. A pair of slender coursing hounds trotted close behind her horse.

  As the woman rode by, work and chatter ceased. The black faces grew sullen; the murky eyes burned redly. The blacks turned their heads to whisper in one another’s ears, and the whispers grew to an audible, sinister murmur.

  The youth who rode at the woman’s stirrup became nervous. He glanced ahead, along the winding street. Estimating the distance to the bronze gates, not yet in view between the huts, he whispered, “The people grow ugly, Highness. It was folly to ride through the Outer City today.”

  “All the black dogs in Kush shall not keep me from my hunting!” replied the woman. “If any threaten, ride them down.”

  “Easier said than done,” muttered the youth, scanning the silent throng. “They are coming from their houses and massing thick along the street look there!”

  They entered a wide, ragged square, where the black folk swarmed. On one side of this square stood a house of dried mud and palm trunks, larger than its neighbors, with a cluster of skulls above the doorway. This was the temple of Jullah, which the ruling caste contemptuously called the devil house. The black folk worshiped Jullah in opposition to Set, the serpent-god of their rulers and of their Stygian ancestors.

  The black folk thronged in this square, sullenly staring at the horsemen. There was an air of menace in their attitude. Tananda, for the first time feeling a slight nervousness, failed to notice another rider, approaching the square along another street. This rider would ordinarily have attracted attention, for he was neither brown nor black. He was a white man, a powerful figure in chain mail and helmet.

  “These dogs mean mischief,” muttered the youth at Tananda’s side, half drawing his curved sword. The other guardsmen black men like the folk around them drew closer about her but did not draw their blades. The low, sullen muttering grew louder, although no movement was made.

  “Push through them,” ordered Tananda, spurring her horse. The blacks gave back sullenly before her advance.

  Then, suddenly, from the devil house came a lean, black figure. It was old Ageera, the witch-smeller, clad only in a loincloth. Pointing at Tananda, he yelled: “There she rides, she whose hands are dipped in blood! She who murdered Amboola!”

  His shout was the spark that set off the explosion. A vast roar arose from the mob. They surged forward, screaming, “Death to Tananda!”

  In an instant, a hundred black hands were clawing at the legs of the riders. The youth reined between Tananda and the mob, but a flying stone shattered his skull. The guardsmen, thrusting and hacking, were torn from their steeds and beaten, stamped, and stabbed to death. Tananda, beset at last by terror, screamed as her horse reared. A score of wild black figures, men and women, clawed at her.

  A giant grasped her thigh and plucked her from the saddle, full into the furious hands that eagerly awaited her. Her skirt was ripped from her body and waved in the air above her, while a bellow of primitive laughter went up from the surging mob. A woman spat in her face and tore off her breastplates, scratching her breasts with blackened fingernails. A hurtling stone grazed her head.

  Tananda saw a stone clutched in a hand, whose owner sought to reach her in the press to brain her. Daggers glinted. Only the hindering numbers of the jammed mass kept them from instantly doing her to death. A roar went up: “To the temple of Jullah!”

  An instant clamor responded. Tananda felt herself half carried, half dragged along by the surging mob. Black hands gripped her hair, arms, and legs. Blows aimed at her in the crush were blocked or diverted by the mass.

  Then came a shock, under which the whole throng staggered, as a horseman on a powerful steed crashed full into the press. Men, screaming, went down to be crushed under the flailing hoofs. Tananda caught a glimpse of a figure towering above the throng, of a dark, scarred face under a steel helmet, and a great sword lashing up and down, spattering crimson splashes. But, from somewhere in the crowd, a spear licked upward, disemboweling the steed. It screamed, plunged, and went down.

  The rider, however, landed on his feet, smiting right and left. Wildly driven spears glanced from his helmet or from the shield on his left arm, while his broadsword cleft flesh and bone, split skulls, and spilled entrails into the bloody dust.

  Flesh and blood could not stand it. Clearing a space, the stranger stooped and caught up the terrified girl. Covering her with his shield, he fell back, cutting a ruthless path until he had backed into the angle of a wall. Pushing her behind him, he stood before her, beating back the frothing, screaming onslaught.

  Then there was a clatter of hoofs. A company of guardsmen swept into the square, driving the rioters before them. The Kushites, screaming in sudden panic, fled into the side streets, leaving a score of bodies littering the square. The captain of the guard a giant Negro, resplendent in crimson silk and gold-worked harness approached and dismounted.

  “You were long in coming,” said Tananda, who had risen and regained her poise.

  The captain turned ashy. Before he could move, Tananda had made a sign to the men behind him. Using both hands, one of them drove his spear between his captain’s shoulders with such force that the point started out from his breast. The officer sank to his knees, and thrusts from a half-dozen more spears finished the task.

  Tananda shook her long, black, disheveled hair and faced her rescuer. She was bleeding from a score of scratches and as naked as a newborn babe, but she stared at the man without perturbation or uncertainty. He gave back her stare, his expression betraying a frank admiration for her cool bearing and the ripeness of her brown limbs and voluptuously molded torso.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I am Conan, a Cimmerian,” he grunted.

  “Cimmerian?” She had never heard of his far country, which lay hundreds of leagues to the north. She frowned. “You wear Stygian mail and helm. Are you a Stygian of some sort?”

  He shook his head, baring white teeth in a grin. “I got the armor from a Stygian, but I had to kill the fool first.”

  “What do you, then, in Meroe?”

  “I am a wanderer,” he said simply, “with a sword for hire. I came here to seek my fortune.” He did not think it wise to tell her of his previous career as a corsair on the Black Coast, or of his chieftainship of one of the jungle tribes to the south.

  The queen’s eyes ran appraisingly over Conan’s giant form, measuring the breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his chest. “I will hire your sword,” she said at last. “What is your price?”

  “What price do you offer?” he countered, with a rueful glance at the carcass of his horse. “I am a penniless wanderer and now, alas, afoot.”

  She shook her head. “No, by Set! Yo
u are penniless no longer, but captain of the royal guard. Will a hundred pieces of gold a month buy your loyalty?”

  He glanced casually at the sprawling figure of the former captain, who lay in silk, steel, and blood. The sight did not dim the zest of his sudden grin.

  “I think so,” said Conan.

  IV. The Golden Slave

  The days passed, and the moon waned and waxed. A brief, disorganized rising by the lower castes was put down by Conan with an iron hand. Shubba, Tuthmes’ servant, returned to Meroe. Coming to Tuthmes in his chamber, where lion skins carpeted the marble floor, he said, “I have found the woman you desired, master a Nemedian girl, captured from a trading vessel of Argos. I paid the Shemite slave trader many broad pieces of gold for her.”

  “Let me see her,” commanded Tuthmes.

  Shubba left the room and returned a moment later, leading a girl by the wrist. She was supple, and her white body formed a dazzling contrast to the brown and black bodies to which Tuthmes was accustomed. Her hair fell in a curly, rippling, golden stream over her white shoulders. She was clad only in a tattered shift. This Shubba removed, leaving her shrinking in complete nudity.

  Impersonally, Tuthmes nodded. “She is a fine bit of merchandise. If I were not gambling for a throne, I might be tempted to keep her for myself. Have you taught her Kushite, as I commanded?”

  “Aye; in the city of the Stygians and later, daily, on the caravan trail, I taught her. After the Shemite fashion, I impressed upon her the need of learning with a slipper. Her name is Diana.”

  Tuthmes seated himself on a couch and indicated that the girl should sit cross-legged on the floor at his feet. This she did.

  “I am going to give you to the queen of Kush as a present,” he said. “Nominally you will be her slave, but actually you will still belong to me. You will receive your orders regularly, and you shall not fail to carry them out. The queen is cruel and hasty, so beware of roiling her. You shall say nothing, even if tortured, of your continuing connection with me. Lest, when you fancy yourself out of my reach in the royal palace, you be tempted to disobey, I shall demonstrate my power to you.”