The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  "How well do you trust Vegentius?" Conan blurted finally.

  "Well enough to retain him as Commander of the Royal Bodyguard," Garian replied. "Why ask such a question?"

  Conan took a deep breath and began the tale he had planned on his way to this room. "Since coming here I have thought that I had seen Vegentius before. Today I remembered. I saw him in a tavern in the city in close converse with a man called Taras, one who has been known to say that some other would be better on the throne than you."

  "A serious charge," Garian said slowly. "Vegentius has served me well, and my father before me for many years. I cannot think he means me harm."

  "You are the king, yet one lesson of kingship I know. A man who wears a crown must be ever wary of others' ambitions."

  Garian threw back his head and laughed. "A good swordsman you may be, Conan, but you must leave being king to me. I have somewhat more experience with wearing a crown than you. Now go. I would have that message to Lord Albanus quickly."

  Inclining his head, Conan left. He hoped that he had planted some seed of suspicion, yet this fighting with words pleased him not at all. To face an enemy with steel was his way, and he hoped that it came soon.

  Chapter XVI

  When Conan reached the Palace gate, he found Hordo waiting with his horse. And twenty men, among them Machaon and Narus. The Cimmerian looked at Hordo questioningly, and the one-eyed man shrugged.

  "I heard you were to carry a message to some lord," he told Conan. "Mitra! For all you know he could be the other man at that meeting with Taras. Or the one who wants you dead. Or both."

  "You grow as suspicious as an old woman, Hordo," Conan said as he swung into the saddle.

  Vegentius, battered but in full armor and red-crested helmet, appeared suddenly in the gate with half-a-score Golden Leopards at his heels. When his eyes fell on Conan's mounted men, he stopped, glaring. Abruptly he spun and, angrily pushing through the soldiers, stormed back into the Palace.

  "Mayhap I am suspicious," Hordo said quietly, "but at least I've sense enough to remember that some of your enemies have faces we know. Besides, you'll find the city changed in the last few days."

  As Conan led his twenty into the empty streets, the changes were evident. Here and there a dog with ribs protruding sniffed warily around a corner. Occasionally a man could be seen hurrying down a side street, as if pursued, though no one else was about. Windows were shuttered and doors were barred; no shop was open nor hawker's cry heard. A deathly silence hung palpable in the air.

  "Soon after we rode to the Palace it began," Hordo muttered. He looked around and hunched his shoulders uneasily, as if riding among tombs. "First people abandoned the streets to the toughs, the beggars and the trulls. The last two went quickly enough, with none to give or buy, and the bravos had the city to themselves, terrorizing any who dared set foot out of doors. Yesterday, they disappeared too."

  He looked at Conan significantly. "All in the space of a glass."

  "As if they had orders?"

  The one-eyed man nodded. "Maybe Taras hired armed men after all. Of a sort."

  "But not for the purpose Ariane believed." The big Cimmerian was silent for a time, staring at the seemingly deserted buildings. "What is the news of her?" he asked finally.

  Hordo had no need to ask who he meant. "She's well. Twice I've been to the Thestis; the others look at me as they'd look at a leper come to their dinner. Kerin has taken up with Graecus."

  Conan nodded without speaking, and they rode in silence to the gates of Albanus' palace. There Conan dismounted, pounding on the barred gate with his fist.

  A flap no bigger than a man's hand opened in it, and a suspicious eye surveyed them. "What do you seek here? Who are you?"

  "My name is Conan. Open the gate, man. I bear a message to your master from King Garian himself."

  There was a moment's whispered conversation on the other side of the gate. Then came the rattle of a bar being drawn, and the gate opened enough for one man to pass.

  "You can enter," the voice from inside called, "but not the others."

  "Conan," Hordo began.

  The Cimmerian quieted him with a gesture. "Rest easy, Hordo. I could not be safer in a woman's arms."

  He slipped through the opening.

  As the gate closed behind him with a solid thud, Conan faced four men with drawn swords; another snugged the point of his blade under the Cimmerian's ribs from the side.

  "Now, who are you?" rasped the swordsman who pricked Conan's tunic.

  Wishing he had had sense enough to don his hauberk before leaving the Royal Palace, Conan turned his head enough to make out a narrow free with wide-set eyes and a nose with the tip gone. "I told you." He reached beneath his tunic, and froze as the sword point dug deeper. "I want only to show you the message. What trouble can I mean with a sword in my ribs?"

  To himself, he thought that clip-nose stood too close. The man should never have touched blade to tunic unless he meant to thrust. One quick sweep of the arm would knock that sword aside, then clip-nose could be hurled at his fellow, and .... The big Cimmerian smiled, and the others shifted uneasily, wondering what he found to smile about.

  "Let me see this message," clip-nose demanded.

  From beneath his tunic Conan produced the folded parchment. Clip-nose reached, but he moved it beyond the man's grasp. "You can see the seal from there," he said. "It's meant for Lord Albanus, not you."

  "'Tis the Dragon Seal, in truth," clip-nose muttered. His sword left Conan's ribs with obvious reluctance.

  "Follow me, then, and do not stray."

  Conan shook his head as they started up the stone walk toward the palace proper, a massive structure of fluted columns, with a great gilded dome that hurled back the sun. Suspicion on the guards' part had been warranted, given the state of the city, but the surliness should have faded when they learned he was a Royal Messenger. That it had not spoke ill for Garian's plans. Often men absorbed the attitudes of their master without either man or master realizing.

  In the many-columned entry hall, clip-nose conferred, well out of Conan's hearing, with a gray-bearded man whose tunic was emblazoned with Lord Albanus' house-mark backed by a great key. Clip-nose left, returning to his post at the gate, and the gray-bearded man approached Conan.

  "I am Lord Albanus' chamberlain," he said, giving neither name nor courtesy. "Give me the message."

  "I will place it in Lord Albanus' hands," Conan replied flatly.

  He had no real reason not to give it to the chamberlain, for such a one was his master's agent in all things, yet he was irked. A messenger from the King should have been given chilled wine and damp towels to take the dust of the street from him.

  The chamberlain's face tightened, and for a moment Conan thought the man would argue. Instead he said curdy, "Follow me," and led the Cimmerian up marble stairs to a small room. "Wait here," he commanded Conan, and left after casting an eye about as if cataloguing the room's contents against a light-fingered visitor.

  It was no mean room for all its smallness. Tapestry-hung and marble-floored, its furnishings were inlaid with mother-of-pearl and lapis lazuli. An arch led onto a balcony overlooking a garden fountain. But still there were neither towels nor wine. It boded ill indeed for Garian, such insult to his messenger.

  Muttering to himself, Conan walked to the balcony and looked down, Almost he cried out in surprise, slights forgotten for the moment. Stephano staggered drunkenly through the garden, half supported by two girls it skimpy silks.

  The sculptor bent to dabble his fingers in the fountain and near fell in "No water," he laughed at the girls, as they drew him back. "Want more wine, not water." Giggling together, they wound a shaky way from the fountain and into the exotic shrubs.

  Someone cleared his throat behind Conan, and the Cimmerian spun.

  A plump man of middling height stood there, one hand clutching his ill-fitting velvet tunic at the neck.

  "You have a message for me?" he said. />
  "Lord Albanus?" Conan said.

  The plump man nodded shortly and thrust out his hand. Slowly Conan gave him the sealed parchment.

  The plump man's hand closed on it like a trap. "Now go," he said. "I have the message. Go!"

  Conan went.

  The gray-bearded chamberlain was waiting immediately outside to conduct him to the door, and there clip-nose waited with another man to escort him to the gate.

  As he emerged, Hordo brought his horse forward, a relieved grin wreathing his scarred face. "Almost was I ready to come over that wall after you."

  "I had no trouble," Conan said as he mounted. "I carried the King's message, remember. When next you see Ariane, tell her that Stephano is not dead, as she feared. He dwells within, sporting himself with serving girls."

  "I mean to see her this day," Hordo replied. He stared at the gate thoughtfully. "'Tis odd he sent no message to his friends that he is well."

  "Not so odd as a lord with broken nails and work-calloused hands," the Cimmerian said.

  "A swordsman-"

  "No, Hordo. I know work-wrought calluses when I see them. Still, 'tis none of our concern. Vegentius is, and this very night I mean to have private conversation with the good Commander." Grimly he rode from the gate, the others galloping in two columns behind.

  Albanus thrust the plump man, now dressed in nought but a filthy breeehclout, to his knees, face to the marble floor.

  "Well, Varius?" Albanus demanded of his chamberlain, his cruel face dark with impatience. He snatched the parchment, crumpled it in his fist. "Did he seem suspicious? Did he accept this dog as me?" He prodded the kneeling man with his foot. "Did he think you a lord, dog? What did he say?"

  "He did, master." The plump man's voice was fearful, and he did not lift his face from the floor. "He asked only if I was Lord Albanus, then gave me the parchment and left."

  Albanus growled. The gods toyed with him, to send this man whose death he sought beneath his very roof, where he could not touch the barbarian, lest suspicion be drawn straight to him, and where he must hide to escape recognition. Beneath his own roof! And on this, the first day of his triumph. His eye fell on the kneeling man, who trembled.

  "Could you not have found someone more presentable to represent me, Varius? That even a barbarian should take this slug for me offends me."

  "Forgive me, my lord," the chamberlain said, bowing even more deeply in apology. "There was little time, and a need to find one who would fit the tunic.

  Albanus' mouth curled. "Burn that tunic. I'll not wear it again. And send this thing back to the kitchens.

  The sight of it disgusts me."

  Varius made a slight gesture; the kneeling man scurried from the room, hardly rising higher than a crouch.

  "Will that be all, my lord?"

  "No. Find that drunken idiot Stephano, and hasten him to the workroom. But sober him first."

  Albanus waved Varius from the room, and turned to the message from Garian. Curious as to what it could be, he split the seal.

  Our Dear Lord Cantaro Albanus,

  All honor to you. We summon you before the Dragon Throne that you may advise Us on matters near Our heart. As one who loves Us, and Nemedia, well, We know you will make haste.

  GARIAN NEMEDIA PRIMUS

  A feral gleam lit Albanus' black eyes as he wadded the parchment in clawed hands. "I will come to you soon enough," he whispered. "My love will show with chains and hot irons till on your knees you will acknowledge me King. Albanus, First in Nemedia. You will beg for death at my hand."

  Tossing the crumpled sheet aside, he strode to the workroom. The four guards before the door stiffened respectfully, but he swept past them without notice.

  On the stone circle in the center of the room stood the clay figure of Garian, complete at last. Or almost, he thought, smiling. Perfect in every detail, just slightly larger than the living man-Stephano had made some quibble about that, saying it should be either exactly life size or of heroic proportions-it seemed to be striding forward, mouth open to utter some pronouncement. And it contained more of Garian than simply his looks. Arduously worked into that clay with complicated thaumaturgical rituals were Garian's hair and parings from his fingernails, his sweat, his blood, and his seed. All had been obtained by Sularia at the dark lord's command.

  A huge kiln stood a short distance behind the stone platform, and a complicated series of wooden slides and levers designed to move the figure linked platform and kiln. Neither kiln nor slides were ever to be used, however. Albanus had allowed Stephano to construct them in order to allay the sculptor's suspicions before they arose.

  Climbing onto the platform, Albanus began pushing the wooden apparatus off onto the floor.

  Unaccustomed as he was to even the smallest labor, yet he must needs do this. Stephano would have had to be chivied to it, his questions turned aside with carefully constructed lies, and Albanus had long since tired of allowing the sculptor to believe that his questions were worth answering, his vanities worth dignifying. Better to do the work himself.

  Tossing the last lever from the platform, Albanus jumped to the door, one hand out to steady himself against the kiln. With an oath he jerked it back from the kiln's rough surface. It was hot.

  The door opened, and Stephano tottered in, green of face but much less under the sway of drink than he had been. "I want them all flogged," he muttered, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. "Do you know what your slaves did to me, with Varius giving the orders? They-"

  "Fool!" Albanus thundered. "You fired the kiln! Have I not commanded you to do nothing here without my leave?"

  "The figure is ready," Stephano protested. "It must be put in the kiln today, or it will crack rather than harden. Last night I-"

  "Did you not hear my command that you were never to handle fire within this room? Think you I light these lamps with my own hands for the joy of doing a slave's work?"

  "If the oils in that clay are so flammable," the sculptor muttered sullenly, "how can it stand being placed-"

  "Be silent." The words were a soft hiss. Albanus' obsidian gaze clove Stephano's tongue to the roof of his mouth and rooted him to the spot its if it were a spike driven through him.

  Disdainfully Albanus turned his back. Deftly he set out three small vials, a strip of parchment and a quill pen. Opening the first vial-it held a small quantity of Garian's blood, with the admixture of tinctures to keep it liquid-he dipped the pen and neatly wrote the King's name across the parchment. A sprinkling of powder from the second vial, and instantly the blood blackened and dried. The last container held Albanus' own blood, drawn only that morning. With that he wrote his own name in larger script, overlaying that of Garian. Again the powder dried the blood.

  Next, murmuring incantations, Albanus folded the parchment strip in a precise pattern. Then he returned to the platform and placed the parchment into the open mouth of the clay figure.

  Stephano, leaning now against the wall, giggled inanely. "I wondered why you wanted the mouth like that." At a look from Albanus he swallowed heavily and bit his tongue.

  Producing chalks smuggled from Stygia, land of sorcerers far to the south, Albanus scribed an incomplete pentagram around the feet of the figure, star within pentagon within circle. Foul black candles went on the points where each broken shape touched the other two. Then, quickly, each candle was lit, the pentagram completed. He stepped back, arms spread wide, uttering the words of conjuring.

  "Elonai me'rotb sancti, Urd'vass teoheem.... "

  The words of power rolled from his tongue, and the air seemed to thicken in silver shimmers. The flames of the unholy candles flared, sparking a seed of fear in the dark lord's mind. The flames. It could not happen again as last time. It could not. He banished the fear by main force. There could be no fear now, only power.

  "... arallain Sa'm'di com'iel mort'rass.... "

  The flames grew, but as they grew the room dimmed, as if they took light rather than gave it. Higher they flared, driven
by the force of the dark lord's chant, overtowering the clay figure. Slowly, as though bent by some impossible and unfelt wind, the silent flames bent inward until the points of fire met above. From that meeting a bolt, as of lightning, struck down to the head of the statue, bathing it in glow unending, surrounding it in a haloed fire of the purest white that sucked all heat from the air.

  Frost misting his breath, Albanus forced his voice to a roar. "By the Unholy Powers of Three, l conjure thee! By blood and sweat and seed vilified and attainted, I conjure thee! Arise, walk and obey, for I, Albanus, conjure thee!"

  As the last syllable left his mouth the flames were gone, leaving no trace of the candles behind. The figure stood, but now it was dried and cracked.

  Albanus rubbed his hands together, and put them beneath his arms for warmth. If only it had all gone correctly this time. He glanced at Stephano, shivering against a wall that glinted from the myriad ice droplets that had coalesced from the air. Terror made the sculptor's eyes bulge. There was no point in delaying further. The hawk-faced man drew a deep breath.

  "I command you, Garian, awake!" A piece of clay dropped from one arm to shatter on the stone.

  Albanus frowned. "Garian, I command you awake!"

  The entire figure trembled; then crumbling, powdering clay was spilling to the platform. And what the figure had moulded, stood there, breathing and alive. A perfect duplicate of Garian, without blemish or fault. The simulacrum brushed dust from its shoulder, then stopped, eyeing Albanus quizzically.

  "Who are you?" it said.

  "I am Albanus," the dark lord replied. "Know you who you are?"

  "Of course. I am Garian, King of Nemedia."

  Albanus' smile was purest evil. "To your knees, Garian," he said softly. Unperturbed, the replica sank to its knees. Despite himself Albanus laughed, and the commands poured out for the sheer joy of seeing the image of the King obey. "Face to the floor! Grovel! Now up! Run in place! Faster! Faster!" The duplicate King ran. And ran.