Azora hungered for powerhfor enough power to control even the most exalted of the world's kings. Before long, all the mighty would cower at her feet like whipped dogs. It was her destiny to be as the great Thurian priestesses of old. For she was Mutare: more than human. She smiled wickedly, revealing horrific rows of twisted, razor-sharp black teeth.
One
The Pommel
The walled city of Pirogia teemed with the usual sights and sounds of local Brythunian nightlife. Fair-skinned, blond-haired Brythunians, at work and play, jammed the streets and plazas. Scattered groups of laughing Kezankian hillmen staggered in and out of the many taverns along the winding ways. The stern-faced city guards regarded these drunkards as a nuisance but gave them a wide berth. Their king, Eldran, was descended of Kezankian stock and would not take kindly to reports of city guards roughing up his countrymen.
Beyond the maze of cobblestone streets were poorly lit, stinking alleys, strewn with refuse. Beggars and drunks shuffled along these dark, noisome, rat-infested avenues, mumbling to themselves in hoarse voices. Later, the cheap sour wine they swilled would take its toll, and they would pass out in the same alleys for the night. Some would never awaken, but to give the city guard its due, even the sleazy alleys of Pirogia were safer than the best in many large cities. A prudent man, however, would keep one hand on his sword-hilt and the other on his purse before venturing into one alone.
Into one such alley, at the end of a curiously deserted street, strolled a short, dark-skinned man. His shoulder-length hair was jet black, and his eyes were even blacker. His cruel, narrow face was sporting a smile. He moved with catlike agility through the alley, blending in with the darkness. Stepping nimbly over the prone form of a snoring beggar, he stopped at a heavy oak door in the wall of a tall brick building. A huge, two-handed iron sword had been driven between the bricks directly above the door, so that only the hilt protruded.
Smoothly drawing out his dagger, he rapped sharply on the door. A muffled voice issued from within, cursing in broken Brythunian. "Filthy beggar! Get your reeking, maggot-covered hands off my door. You'll have no wine from me until you show me the color of your coin!"
Answering with a deep, amused voice, the dark-eyed stranger spoke in clear Zamoran. "Immanus, you old dog! 'Tis me, Hassem. Get your bulk over to this door and open it at once!"
The heavy bolt clanked as Immanus drew back the portal, swinging it inward. Hassem peered within while sheathing his dagger. He made this motion easily, without looking down. He had obviously made it countless times before.
The tavern, known as the Pommel, was scarcely better lit than the alley. Dense, oily smoke rose from a few sparse lamps set in the corners of the room, cloaking the inn's already-dim environs. Heavily stained wooden tables and benches were scattered throughout. At the far end of the chamber was the bar, flanked by an old brick staircase leading upward.
Seated at the tables was a rogues' gallery of clientele. In one corner sat a well-known Nemedian slavetrader, toasting noisily to his henchmen with a huge earthen tankard. Thick brown ale spilled down the front of his already-stained tunic. He ignored it, roaring loudly to the barkeep for more.
Next to him sat two shifty-eyed Kothians, speaking of plots and schemes in whispers while sipping quietly from their goblets of wine. In the center of the room, a band of Kezankian outlaws groped their harlots and sang a bawdy song. A few tables away sat a scantily clad, sultry Brythunian wench. She giggled at something her young, blond-haired companion whispered to her. He was well dressed, perhaps the son of some noble, slumming for the night with his willing courtesan. He ran his hand along her bare hip and bent to whisper again into her ear.
Next to the door towered the deeply tanned giant, Immanus. He was clad in a brown leather vest and pantaloons. A huge gold hoop dangled from one ear, and the dim light reflected off his shiny bald head. His barrel chest was a mass of old scars. A three-foot-long scimitar hung from his thick, black leather belt. He beckoned Hassem to come inside, then effortlessly closed the heavy door with one huge hand. He was a mountain of muscle; his only visible soft spot was his large, round belly. Immanus turned to face Hassem, bending down and speaking quietly into the Zamoran's ear.
"Were you followed, Hassem?"
"If I had been, my dagger would now require cleaning," he responded in a slightly injured tone. Immanus ignored this and thumped his thick-skinned bald pate with a meaty index finger.
"This is my old friend, Hassem. As long as I pay heed to him, he will stay with me. If I ignore him" Immanus made a cutting gesture across his throat and chuckled at his dark jest.
The scowling Hassem saw little humor in it. He began fingering a small, securely wrapped bundle tucked into his belt. "Is the barbarian here? I arranged the meeting last night, but the weak-minded savage's wits were so addled with wine, I doubted he would recall our rendezvous."
"Be not so quick to judge him. Barbarian he may be, but I have seen Cimmerians before. They are a hardy and cunning folk, with strange ways, not to be trifled with. Many fools have met death after challenging me, but I would not be so certain of the outcome if I were pitted against a Cimmerian."
Immanus stared intently at Hassem, as if waiting to be rebuked. After a moment, he laughed and slapped the Zamoran on the back with a force that would have knocked a lesser man to his knees. Hassem slipped him a small pouch that clinked faintly as the enormous Immanus stuffed it into his vest.
"You'll find him upstairs. He has just finished his first flagon of wine and is doing well at dice tonight, although I feel his luck is about to change."
Hassem dodged his way through the revelers, pausing at the bar to procure a goblet of cheap wine. He wet his lips with a pungent swig, swilled it around in his mouth, and spat it out on the stone floor.
Filthy stuff, he thought. These goatherding Brythunians could learn a lesson or two about wine-making. At least he would be leaving this pigsty of a city tonight, to return to Zamora. The last of his goods would be sold to the barbarian. He was in such a hurry to divest himself of this particular item that he had haggled over the price only for the pretense.
Setting the goblet down, he reached into his belt and felt of the smooth metal of the jeweled silver bracelet that rested there. The reward for leading the city guard to its whereabouts would be a hundredfold greater than the price he had settled on with the slack-witted barbarian. However cunning the Cimmerian was, he could surely not avoid the sweep of the headsman's ax. Hassem lifted his goblet again and smiled at the thought. He stood up and began ascending the stairs.
The Pommel's upper floor was somewhat better lit than its lower floor, albeit smaller. Furnished only with a few rough-hewn wooden tables and benches, most of the floor was taken up by a large dicing table.
Gamblers crowded elbow to elbow. Loud yelling punctuated every roll of the dice, followed by the groans of losers or the shouts of winners.
The babble of conversation and swearing, in a variety of languages, gave the room a unique feeling, one more like a bazaar than a tavern.
As Hassem reached the top of the stairs, a particularly tall and muscular gambler moved away from the dice table, a jumble of coins clutched in one huge fist. He strode over to a nearby table and jammed the coins into a pouch at his belt. His square-cut black mane framed a bronzed face that was at once youthful and experienced. Even in the low lighting, his bright eyes were clearly visible, as if they burned with blue fire. Brawny arms, thick with corded muscle, were covered with dozens of long, thin scars. A black leather vest did little to hide the swell of his powerful chest. He wore a broad belt and dark blue breeches, and travel-worn but sturdy sandals. Hanging from the belt was a massive broadsword, its sharp, silvery-blue blade bared and gleaming in the lamplight. His bearing was that of a warrior, seemingly out of place among the wastrels in the tavern, like a wolf among rats.
And indeed, Conan of Cimmeria was out of place. Born on a battlefield and raised in the frozen wastes of harsh, northern Cimmeria, h
e had little experience with the ways of so-called civilized men in their walled cities of wood and stone. His first contact with them had landed him in chains, a slave captured by Hyperboreans. Memory of that captivity, and his escape from it less than a decade ago, still filled him with rage.
The Cimmerian had few qualms about relieving this sort of men of their ill-gotten wealth. He knew from experience that the pickings were ripe in Zamora, and he had decided to return there, crossing through Brythunia. In the Zamoran city of Shadizar, he would obtain the wealth he needed to surround himself with beautiful women and exotic wines.
His needs were simple, he reasoned. He had all the resources he needed to succeed; from his father, a blacksmith, he had inherited an iron-hard, powerful physique. His mind was quick and sharp, his steel broadsword even sharper. With these tools and his knowledge of thieving, he was sure to fatten his purse.
A flagon was set before him by a serving wench. He lifted it, poured wine into his goblet and drank deeply, tossing a silver coin onto the table. He took note of Hassem entering the room and watched as the Zamoran approached. He had already learned much from this weasel, he mused. He realized that Hassem was not to be trusted, but he realized, too, that he himself had gotten the better of a bargain that the two had struck. He would have paid thrice the asking price.
When Hassem had first shown him the jeweled bracelet, Conan had been fairly sure that it was stolen. He cared little about whom it had been stolen from. It would make the perfect parting gift for Yvanna, the Brytlumian wench he had been staying with during his sojourn in Pirogia. The dice had been good to him tonight, and he could pay for the bauble without emptying his purse. She was a lusty wench, and the thought of her lush, curvaceous body and fresh-scented blonde hair, combined with the wine he had drunk, had aroused his amorous appetites.
Tomorrow, after one more night of pleasuring, he would give her the bracelet and move on to Shadizar.
Hassem sat down across the table from Conan and pulled the carefully wrapped bundle from his belt. Stroking his wispy moustache nervously, he eyed the bronze-skinned giant.
"Well met, Conan. How is your luck at gaming tonight?"
"Fair, Hassem." Conan gestured toward the crowded dicing table. "Better than many of these others." He spoke Zamoran with a rough accent. He had learned the language just recently, but was nonetheless fluent in it.
"Then payment will not present a problem. Forty silver nobles, or two gold crowns, as agreed."
"Agreed, Hassem. But first I will see the goods again."
Shielding the view of the bundle with his hand, Conan partially withdrew the wrapping and examined the bracelet carefully to make sure the thieving Zamoran had not substituted a worthless fake. He scratched at a few of the small jewels with his thumbnail to make certain they were not paste.
Hassem was a little indignant at Conan's inspection. "It is genuine, I assure you. My reputation would suffer if I made a practice of swindling. Besides, a warrior of your stature would no doubt make short work of me. Hassem has no wish to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life."
"You would sell your mother to Nemedian slavers if the price was right.
I know of the ways of Zamoran thieves. Here is your payment."
Hassem was angry at the barbarian's rebuke. To be spoken to in such a manner by a savage! You will have your payment tonight, too, northern dog, he thought. He reached out and took the gold coins offered him.
Bowing mockingly, he stood up and crossed over to the dicing table, leaving Conan to finish his flagon of wine.
Smiling at the thought of Yvanna, Conan stuffed the bundle into the inner pocket of his leather vest. Where in Crom's name was the girl?
She was supposed to meet him here a few hours after sunset, when she finished her last dance at the Inn of the Golden Lion. He emptied his goblet quickly and poured himself another. He was too preoccupied to notice that Hassem had already left the room.
Nearly half an hour later, he emptied the last of the flagon into his goblet. He was not drunk, but the wine was definitely having an effect on him. Yvanna had not shown up, and his patience was wearing thin.
Perhaps he would dice some more before giving up on the wench. As he mulled this thought over, he heard a loud commotion from the lower floor. There was an earsplitting crash, followed by a familiar ringing sound that could only be the drawing of swords. His head cleared somewhat as his keen instincts immediately alerted him to possible danger. He dropped one hand to the hilt of his sword. The other patrons, who were much more inebriated than he, ignored the disturbance. Apparently, brawls and outbreaks of fighting were commonplace in the Pommel as the night wore on. Conan relaxed a little but remained wary.
Moments later, he heard the unmistakable sound of booted feet pounding up the stairs. He recognized a patrol of the city guard, led by an officer of some sort. The man was different from many of the soft, city-bred weaklings that Conan had seen in most positions of authority or rank. His chiseled face was accentuated by pitch-black, short-cropped hair and a neatly groomed beard and moustache. Obviously not a Brythunian, he was nearly as tall as Conan himself, with even broader shoulders and a thick, solid-looking torso. He wore a chain mail shirt and gripped a curved sword in his right hand. His dark brown eyes scanned the premises, evidently looking for someone who was wanted very badly by the guard.
The room was immediately pitched into chaos, as more than half of the patrons doubtlessly believed they were about to be arrested. Some made feeble attempts to hide their features; others nervously eyed the large, dirt-encrusted window on the wall facing the alley. A few crouched under a table in one corner, desperate to escape from the sight of this black-bearded giant.
A loud bellow of annoyance was heard from below. The bald-headed Immanus came charging up the stairs, shoving aside three of the guards like straws in the wind. He stood nose to nose with the mailed officer, one hand on the hilt of his scimitar, the other balled tightly into a mallet-like fist. His swarthy face was red, either from the exertion of running up the stairs or from anger at the guards' sudden intrusion.
"What is the meaning of this, Salvorus? We have paid our dues to avoid trouble with the guard. You, a captain, should know better than to risk the anger of your superior."
"If you have bribed the general, then I am sure he would not have told me, Immanus. In any case, I owe you no favors. I have no interest in this open sewer you mistakenly call a tavern, or in any of the offal floating in it. Least of all, in you. I am here on the king's business, looking for only one man. Stand aside, unless you are fool enough to take on me and my patrol. What say you?"
Snarling, Immanus unclenched his fist and jabbed a beefy finger into Salvorus's mailed chest. "You dare to insult me? The Pommel is a long way from the king's palace, and accidents are common in these back alleys. Leave at once, or by Ishtar, the only service you'll be doing for your king is to fatten his alley rats with your rotting corpse!"
Salvorus's expression turned hard. Cautiously but forcefully, he lunged with speed amazing for one so large. His burly left arm shot out and he wrapped his hand around Immanus's throat, shoving him against the wall.
Choking under the pressure, Immanus shoved Salvorus back with both hands, then quickly drew his scimitar. Its curved blade gleamed wickedly in the light cast by the dimly burning lamps. The room fell silent. All eyes and ears attended the two men poised on the verge of what was, to the observers, an uncertain battle. Patrons at the dicing table made a few quiet bets on the outcome.
Moving back a little, Salvorus raised his blade and beat the scimitar with a ringing crash, striking blue sparks. Immanus parried and thrust, but his heavy blade slid off his opponent's chain mail. Before Immanus could recover, Salvorus darted forward, slashing downward. The scimitar clattered to the floor next to several of Immanus's severed fingers.
Salvorus turned and lashed out with his left fist, striking Immanus square in the jaw. The sickening crunch of his jawbone shattering
almost drowned out his cry of pain. Immanus slumped to the floor, clutching his bloody finger stumps. At the dicing table, coins changed hands while the gamblers stared speechless, in awe of the damage Salvorus had wrought.
Conan's eyes narrowed as he watched the battle. His first impressions were right; this captain was no fop with a title, but an expert fighter. Still, Conan had done nothing wrong, so the captain could not be after him. Perhaps that weasel of a Zamoran, Hassem, had done something to irk the king. Conan looked over to the dicing table, then noticed that he was missing. No doubt the gutless thief had slunk out during the commotion.
Wiping his blade on his fallen opponent's pantaloons, Salvorus strode purposefully over to where the Cimmerian sat. Conan's left arm rested on the table; his right arm hovered over his hilt. Still breathing fast from his pitched battle with Immanus, the captain spoke directly to the barbarian.
"You are Conan of Cimmeria?" he asked, as if already certain of the answer.
"I have done nothing. What do you want of me?"
"You will come with me to the palace, where you are wanted for questioning. If you have done nothing, as you say, you will be released."
"Why am I wanted? I have been in Pirogia for less than a week. I tell you, I am just a traveler, passing through your city. Let me be."
"My patience is nearly exhausted, Cimmerian. If you will not come quietly, I will take you by force. You saw how Immanus fared. I do not wish to hurt you, only to question you."
Conan's temper was beginning to flare. In his homeland, he would have killed this stranger for accusing him thusly without reason. However, he had learned that civilized men were strange in their ways, so he would not attack this man unless further provoked. He had no desire to rot for months, or maybe for years, in some reeking Brythunian dungeon.
The Conan Compendium Page 47