The Other Tales of Conan

by Howard, R. E.

  “Wind” roared Conan. “Bring flasks! Here!” He seized a leather flask from those thrust out at him and placed it in Amalric’s hand. “Give the girl a swig and drink some yourself,” he advised. “Then we’ll put you on horses and take you to the camp. You need food, rest, and sleep. I can see that.”

  A richly caparisoned horse was brought, rearing and prancing, and willing hands helped Amalric into the saddle. The girl was handed up to him, and they moved off southward, surrounded by the wiry brown riders in their picturesque tatters. Many wore face cloths, which concealed their faces below the eyes.

  “Who is he?” whispered Lissa, her arms about her lover’s neck. He was holding her on the saddle in front of him.

  “Conan the Cimmerian!” muttered Amalric. The man I wandered with in the desert after the defeat of the mercenaries. These are the men who struck him down. I left him lying under their spears, apparently dead. Now we meet him, obviously in command of them and respected by them.”

  “He is a terrible man,” she whispered.

  He smiled. “You have never seen a white-skinned barbarian before. He is a wanderer, a plunderer, and a slayer; but he has his own code of morals. I don’t think we have anything to fear from him.”

  In his heart, Amalric was not so sure. In a way, it might be said that he had forfeited Conan’s comradeship when he had ridden away into the desert, leaving the Cimmerian senseless on the ground. But he had not known that Conan was alive. Doubt haunted Amalric. Savagely loyal to his companions, the Cimmerian’s wild nature saw no reason why the rest of the world should not be plundered. He lived by the sword. And Amalric suppressed a shudder as he thought of what might chance, did Conan desire Lissa.

  Later on, having eaten and drunk in the camp of the riders, Amalric sat by a small fire in front of Conan’s tent; Lissa, covered with a silken cloak, slumbered with her curly head on his knees. And across from him the firelight played on Conan’s face, interchanging lights and shadows.

  “Who are these men?” asked the young Aquilonian.

  “The riders of Tombalku,” answered the Cimmerian.

  “Tombalku!” exclaimed Amalric. ‘Then it is no myth!”

  “Far from it!” agreed Conan. “When my accursed steed fell with me, I was knocked senseless; and, when I recovered consciousness, the devils had me bound hand and foot This angered me, so I snapped several of the cords they had tied me with; but they rebound them as fast as I could break them—never did I get a hand entirely free. Still, to them my strength seemed remarkable…”

  Amalric gazed at Conan unspeakingly. The man was as tall and broad as Tilutan had been, without the black man’s surplus flesh. He could have broken the Ghanata’s neck with his naked hands.

  “They decided to carry me to their city instead of killing me out of hand,” Conan went on. “They thought a man like me should be a long time in dying by torture and so give them sport Well, they bound me on a horse without a saddle, and we went to Tombalku.

  “There are two kings of Tombalku. They took me before them—a lean, brown-skinned devil named Zehbeh, and a big fat Negro, who dozed on his ivory-rusk throne. Zehbeh asked a brown priest, Daura, what should be done with me, and Daura cast dice made of sheep bone and said I should be flayed alive before the altar of Jhil. Everyone cheered, and that woke the Negro king.

  “I spat on Daura and cursed him roundly, and the kings as well. I told them that, if I was to be skinned, by Crom, I demanded a good bellyful of wine before they began, and I damned them for thieves and cowards and sons of harlots.

  “At this, the black king roused and sat up and stared at me. Then he rose and shouted: ‘Amra!’ and I knew him—Sakumbe, a Suba from the Black Coast, a fat adventurer I had known well in the days when I was a corsair along that coast. He trafficked in ivory, gold dust, and slaves and would cheat the devil out of his eye teeth. Well, when he knew me the smelly old devil descended from his throne and embraced me for joy and took my cords off me with his own hands. Then he announced that I was Amra, the Lion, and his friend, and no harm should come to me.

  “Then followed much discussion, because Zehbeh and Daura wanted my hide. But Sakumbe yelled for his witch finder, Askia, and he came—all feathers and bells and snake skins—a wizard of the Black Coast and a son of the Devil if ever there was one. Askia pranced and made incantations and announced that Sakumbe was the chosen of Ajujo, the Dark One, and what he said, went. All the black people of Tombalku shouted, and Zehbeh backed down. For the blacks in Tombalku are the real power. Several centuries ago, the Aphaki, a Shemitish race, pushed into the southern desert and established the kingdom of Tombalku. They mixed with the desert blacks, and the result was a brown, straight-haired race, which is still more white than black. They are the dominant caste in Tombalku. But they are in the minority, and a pure black long always sits on the throne beside the Aphaki ruler.

  The Aphaki conquered the nomads of the southwestern desert and the Negro tribes of the steppes that lie to the south of them. Most of these riders, for instance, are Tibu, of mixed Stygian and Negro blood. Others are the Bighamra, the Mindanga, and the Borni.

  Well, Sakumbe, through Askia, is the real ruler of Tombalku. The Aphaki worship Jhil, but the blacks worship Ajujo the Dark One and his kin. Askia came to Tombalku with Sakumbe and revived the worship of Ajujo, which was crumbling because of the Aphaki priests. He also has a private cult of his own, worshiping the gods know what sort of abominations. Askia made black magic, which defeated the wizardry of the Aphaki, and the blacks hailed him as a prophet sent by the dark gods. Sakumbe and Askia wax as Zehbeh and Daura wane.

  Since I am Sakumbe’s friend, and Askia spoke for me, the blacks received me with great applause. Sakumbe had Kordofo, the general of the horsemen, poisoned and gave me his place, which delighted the blacks and exasperated the Aphaki.

  You will like Tombalku! It was made for men like us to loot! There are half a dozen powerful factions plotting and intriguing against one another. There are continual brawls in the taverns and streets, secret murders, mutilations, and executions. And there are women, gold, wine–all that a mercenary wants! And I am high in favor and power! By Crom, Amalric, you could not come at a better time! Why, what’s the matter? You do not seem so enthusiastic as I remember your once having been in such matters.”

  “I crave your pardon, Conan,” said Amalric. “I do not lack interest, but weariness and want of sleep overcome me.”

  However, it was not of gold, women, and intrigue that the Aquilonian was thinking, but of the girl who slumbered in his lap. There was no joy in the thought of taking her into such a welter of intrigue and blood as Conan had described. A subtle change had come over Amalric, almost without his knowledge. Carefully, he said:

  “You saved our lives just now, for which I shall always be grateful. But I have no real claim on your generosity, since I rode off and left you lying for the Aphaki to capture. True, I thought you surely dead, but…”

  Conan threw back his head and laughed a deep, rumbling laugh. Then he slapped the younger man on the back with a force that almost knocked him sprawling. “Forget it! I ought to have been dead, by all reasonable chances; and they’ve had speared you like a frog if you’d tried to rescue me. Come on to Tombalku with us and make yourself useful! You commanded a troop of horse for Zapayo, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, that I did.”

  “Well, I need an adjutant to help drill my lads. They fight like fiends but without order, each man for himself. Between us, we can make real soldiers of them. More wine!” he roared.

  III.

  It was the third day after Amalric’s meeting with Conan that the riders of Tombalku neared the capital. Amalric rode at the head of the column beside Conan, and Lissa followed closely behind Amalric on a mare. Behind them trotted the company, strung out in a double line. Loose white garments fluttered in the breeze; bridles jingled; saddle leather creaked; the setting sun shone redly on the points of lances. Most of the riders were Tibu, but there w
ere also contingents from the lesser desert tribes.

  All, besides their local languages, spoke the simplified dialect of Shemitish that served as a common tongue for the dark-skinned folk from Kush to Zembabwei and from Stygia to the half-mythical black kingdom of the Atlaians, far to south. Many centuries before, Shemitish traders had stitched this vast area with their bade routes and had brought to it their language along with their trade goods. And Amalric knew enough Shemitish to communicate with these fierce warriors of the arid lands.

  As the sun, like a vast drop of blood, sank toward the horizon, points of light appeared ahead. The ground fell away in a gentle slope before the riders, then leveled out again. On this level sprawled a large city of low dwellings. All these houses were made of dun-colored mud brick, so that Amalric’s first impression was of a natural formation of earth and rock—a tumbled mass of bluffs, ravines, and boulders—rather than a city.

  At the foot of the slope rose a stout brick wall, over which appeared the upper parts of the houses lights glowed from an open space at the center of the city, whence came a roaring sound, faint with distance.

  “Tombalku,” said Conan briefly, then cocked his head to listen. “Crom! Something’s up. We’d better hurry.”

  He touched spurs to his horse. The column cantered down the slope, jingling, behind him.

  Tombalku stood on a low, wedge-shaped escarpment amid widespread groves of palms and spiny mimosas. The escarpment overlooked a bend in a sluggish river, which reflected the deepening blue of the evening sky. Beyond the river, the land rolled away in grassy savannas.

  “What river is that?” asked Amalric.

  “The Jeluba,” replied Conan. “It flows east from here. Some say it flows on across Darfar and Keshan to join the Styx; some, that it swings south to pour into the Zarkheba. Perhaps some day I’ll follow it down to see.”

  The massive wooden gates stood open as the column cantered through. Inside the gate, white-clad forms moved through the narrow, crooked streets. Behind the white men, the riders shouted hails to acquaintances and boasts of their prowess.

  Turning in his saddle, Conan snapped out an order to a brown-skinned warrior, who led the column off toward the barracks. The Cimmerian, followed by Amalric and Lissa, trotted purposefully toward the central square.

  Tombalku was awakening from its afternoon doze. Everywhere white-clad, dark-skinned figures trudged through the soft sand of the streets. Amalric was struck by the unexpected size of this desert metropolis and by the incongruous mixtures of barbarism and civilization to be seen on every hand. In spacious temple courtyards, within a few yards of each other, painted and feathered witch-doctors pranced and shook their sacred bones, dusky priests intoned the myths of their race, and dusky philosophers argued the nature of man and the gods.

  As the three riders neared the central square, they fell in with more of the people of the city, all hurrying in the same direction. When the street became crowded, Conan’s bellowing voice cleared a path for the horses.

  They dismounted on the edge of the square, and Conan tossed the bridles of the horses to a man he picked out of the crowd. Then the Cimmerian shouldered his way toward the thrones on the far side of the square. Lissa clung to Amalric’s arm as he pushed through the crowd in Conan’s wake.

  Around the plaza, regiments of black spearmen were drawn up to form a vast hollow square. The light of fires, blazing at the corners of the square, lit up the warriors’ great oval shields of elephant hide, the long blades of their spearheads, the ostrich plumes and lions’ manes of their headdresses, and white eyeballs and teeth against shiny black skins.

  In the center of the hollow square, a man was tied to a post. This man, stripped to a loin cloth, was stocky, muscular, and brown-skinned, with heavy features. He strained at his bonds, while in front of him pranced a lean, fantastic figure. This man was black, but most of his skin was covered with painted designs. His shaven head was painted to resemble a skull. His regalia of plumes and monkey fur whipped this way and that as he danced in front of a small tripod, under which a fire smoldered and from which a thin spire of colored smoke ascended.

  Beyond the stake, at one side of the hollow square, rose two thrones of stuccoed and painted brick, ornamented with bits of colored glass, with arms made from whole elephants’ tusks. These thrones stood on a single dais, to which several steps led up. On the throne to Amalric’s right, a huge, fat, black figure lounged. This man wore a long white gown and, on his head, an elaborate headdress, which included the skull of a lion and several ostrich plumes.

  The other throne was empty, but the man who would have occupied it stood beside the other throne. This was a thin, hawk-faced, brown man, who wore a white robe like the other but, on his head, a jeweled turban instead of the first man’s headgear of bones and feathers. Hie lean man was shaking a fist at the fat one and shouting, while a group of throne guards uneasily watched their kings quarrel. As Amalric, following Conan, came closer, he made out the lean one’s words:

  “You lie! Askia himself sent this sending of serpents, as you call it, to give him an excuse to murder Daura! If you do not stop this ‘buffoonery, there will be war! We shall slay you, you black savage, little by little!” The thin man’s voice rose to a scream. “Do as I say! Stop Askia, or else, by Jhil the Merciless…”

  He reached for his scimitar, the guards about the throne shifted their spears. The fat black merely laughed up at the furious face above him.

  Conan, having pushed through the lines of spearmen, bounded up the brick steps of the dais and thrust himself between the two monarchs.

  “Better take your hand off that sword, Zehbeh,” he growled, and turned to the other. “What’s going on, Sakumbe?”

  The black king chuckled. “Daura thought to get rid of me by a sending of serpents. Ugh! Vipers in my bedding, asps among my robes, mambas dripping from the roof beams. Three of my women have died of their bites, besides several slaves and attendants. Askia learned by divination that Daura was the culprit, and my men surprised him with the evidence in the midst of his incantations. Look yonder, general Conan: Askia has just slain the goat. His demons will arrive any time, now.”

  Following Conan’s gaze, Amalric looked down into the hollow square towards the stake with its bound victim, in front of which the goat was expiring. Askia was nearing the climax of his incantation. His voice rose to a shriek as he leaped and capered and rattled his bones. The smoke from the tripod thickened, writhed, and glowed with a ghastly radiance of its own.

  Overhead, night had fallen. The stars, which had began to shine out brightly in the clear desert air, turned dim and red; a crimson veil seemed to be drawn across the face of the rising moon. The fires sank and smoldered redly. A crackle of speech, in no human tongue, wafted down from the upper air. There was a sound like the beating of leathery wings.

  Askia stood straight and still, with arms outstretched, plumed head thrown back, mouthing a long incantation of strange names. Amalric’s hair rose; for, among the rush of meaningless syllables, he caught the name “Ollam-Onga,” repeated thrice.

  Then Daura shrieked so loudly as to drown out Askia’s incantation. In the flickering firelight, with the weird glow from the tripod blurring Ac sight, Amalric could not be quite sure of what he saw. Something seemed to be happening to Daura, who struggled and screamed.

  Around the base of the stake to which the wizard was tied, a pool of blood grew and widened. Ghastly wounds appeared all over the man, although nothing could be seen to deal such injuries. His screams sank to a faint sob and ceased, although his body continued to move in its bindings, as if some invisible presence were tugging at it A faint gleam of white, appeared amidst the dark mass that had been Daura; then another and another. Amalric realized with a start of horror that these white things were bones…

  The moon returned to its normal silvery radiance; the stars shone out again like jewels; the fires in the hollow square blazed up. The waxing light showed a skeleton, still bound to
the stake and slumped in a pool of blood. King Sakumbe spoke in his high, musical voice:

  “So much for that scoundrel Daura. Now, as for Zeh-beh—By Ajujo’s nose, where is the villain?”

  Zehbeh had disappeared while all other eyes had been focused on the drama at the stake.

  “Conan,” said Sakumbe, “you had better call up the regiments; for I do not think my brother king will let this night’s work pass without taking a hand in it.”

  Conan dragged Amalric forward. “King Sakumbe, this is Amalric the Aquilonian, a sometime comrade in arms of mine. I need him for an adjutant. Amalric, you and your girl had better stay with the king, since you don’t knew your way around the city and would only get yourselves killed if you tried to mix in the fight that’s coming.”

  “I am pleased to meet a friend of the mighty Amra,” said Sakumbe. “Put him on the payroll, Conan, and muster the warriors—Derketo, the rascal has not lost any time! Look yonder!”

  An uproar arose at the far side of the plaza. Conan sprang from the dais in a flying leap and began shouting orders to the commanders of the black regiments. Messengers dashed off. Somewhere, deep-voiced drums, beaten with the light-brown palms of black hands, began to mutter and mumble.

  At the far side of the plaza, a troop of white-clad horsemen burst into view, thrusting with lances and smiting with scimitars at the black masses in front of them. Before their onslaught, the lines of black spearmen crumbled into shapeless masses. Man after man went down before their flashing steel. King Sakumbe’s bodyguard closed up around the dais with the two thrones, one empty and the other occupied by the ponderous bulk of Sakumbe.

  Lissa, trembling, clung to Amalric’s arm. “Who fights whom?” she whispered.

  “That would be Zehbeh’s Aphaki,” replied Amalric, “trying to slay the black king, here, to make Zehbeh sole ruler.”

  “Will they break through to the throne?” she said, pointing to the struggling mass of dark figures across the plaza.