The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Abruptly she dropped to the stone floor and backed away, biting her full lower lip. There was sudden uncertainty in her green eyes. "Now I will be the only woman in your mind for the rest of your life," she said. "The only woman for the rest of your life." And, snatching her robes from the floor, she ran into the darkness. After a time he heard the door squeak open and clash shut.

  She had not changed, he thought. She was still the Red Hawk, fierce and hot-blooded as any bird of prey. But if she thought he would go meekly to the mines, or whatever the ancient penalty Garian had spoken of, then she was also as wrong-headed as she had ever been.

  Conan eyed his chains, but did not again attempt to break them. Among the lessons taught by the treacherous snowcovered crags of the Cimmerian mountains was this: when action was not possible, struggle only brought death sooner; waiting, conserving strength, brought the chance of survival. The Cimmerian hung in his chains with the patience of a hunting beast waiting for its prey to come closer.

  Chapter XXI

  Creaking, the chains that held Conan's arms began to rattle down, lowering him to the stone floor. He could not suppress a groan as his position shifted; he had no idea how many hours he had hung there.

  The pool of light and the dark beyond were unchanging, giving no sign of time's passage.

  His feet touched the floor, and knees long strained gave way. The full length of his massive body collapsed on the stone. Straining, he tried to get his arms under him, but the blood had long since drained from them. They could only twitch numbly.

  The two men who had wielded the whips hurried into the light and began removing the chains. His weakened struggles were useless as they manacled his hands behind him and linked his ankles with heavy iron chains. The man with the burn scar was as silent and expressionless as before, but hairy-chest, he with the oddly pleasant face, talked almost jovially.

  "Almost did I think we'd let you hang another day, what with all the excitement of this one. Fasten that tighter," he added to the other. "He's dangerous, this one." The second man grunted and went on as he was, hammering a rivet into the iron band on Conan's left wrist.

  "My men," the Cimmerian croaked. His throat felt dry as broken pottery shards.

  "Oh, they were part of it," the round-faced man laughed deprecatingly. "Fought off the Golden Leopards sent to arrest them, they did, and disappeared. Might have been made much of, another time, but more has happened since dawn this day than since Garian took the throne. First the King banished all of his old councilors from the city on pain of death. Then he created the title High Councilor of Nemedia, with near the power of the King himself attached, and gave it to Lord Albanus, an evil-eyed man if ever I saw.

  And to top that, he named his leman a lady. Can you imagine that blonde doxy a lady? But all those fine nobles walk wide of her, for they say she may be Queen, next. Then there were the riots. Get the rest of it, Struto."

  The silent man grunted again and lumbered away.

  Conan worked his mouth for moisture. "Riots?" he managed.

  The round-faced man nodded. "All over the city." Looking about as if to see if anyone might overhear, he added in a whisper. "Shouting for Garian to abdicate, they were. Maybe that's why Garian got rid of the old councilors, hoping any change would satisfy them. Leastways, he didn't send the Golden Leopards out after them."

  Ariane's people had finally moved, Conan thought. Perhaps they might even bring changes-indeed, it seemed as if they already had-but for better or for worse? He forced a question out, word by word.

  "Had-they-armed-men-with-them?"

  "Thinking of your company again, eh? No, it's been naught but people of the streets, though a surprising number have swords and such, or so I hear. Struto! Move yourself!"

  He with the burn scar returned, carrying a long pole that the two of them forced between Conan's arms and his back. Broad straps fastened about his thick upper arms held it in place. From a pouch at his belt, the roundfaced one took a leather gag and shoved it between the Cimmerian's teeth, securing it behind his head.

  "Time to take you before the King," he told Conan. "What they're going to do to you, likely you'd rather be in Lady Tiana's gentle care. Eh, Struto?" He shook with laughter; Struto stared impassively. "Well, barbarian, you have some small time to make peace with your gods. Let's go, Struto."

  Grasping the ends of the pole, the two forced Conan to his feet. Half carrying, half pushing, they took him from the dungeon, up stairs of rough stone to the marble floors of the Palace. By the time they reached those ornate halls the Cimmerian had regained full use of his legs. Pridefully he shook off the support of the two, taking what short steps the chains at his ankles allowed.

  Round-face looked at him and laughed. "Anxious to get it over with, eh?"

  They let him shuffle as best he could, but retained their grip on the pole. A grim smile touched his lips.

  Did he wish to, he could sweep both men off their feet using the very pole with which they thought to control him. But he would still be chained and in the heart of the Palace. Patience. He concentrated on flexing his arms in their bonds to get full feeling back.

  The corridors through which they passed seemed empty. The slaves were there, as always, scurrying close to the walls. But the nobles, sleek and elegant in silks and velvets, were missing. The three men made their way alone down the center of the passages.

  As they turned into a broad hall, its high arched ceiling supported by pilasters, another procession approached them from ahead. Graecus, Gallia and three others from the Thestis stumbled along under the eyes of two guards. All five were gagged and had their hands roped behind them. At the sight of Conan, Graecus' eyes widened, and Gallia tried to shy away from the big Cimmerian.

  One of their guards called out to the two with Conan, "This lot for the mines."

  "Better than what this one gets," the round-faced man laughed.

  Joining in his mirth, the guards prodded their charges on. The bedraggled young rebels hurried past, seeming as fearful of Conan as of their captors.

  The Cimmerian ignored them. He did not hold them to account for the lies they had told against him. Few men and fewer women could hold out under the attentions of an expert torturer, and Vegentius would have found another way to imprison him, if not through them.

  Before them at the end of the hall, great carven doors opened, swung wide by six golden-cloaked soldiers, and Conan passed into the throne room of Nemedia.

  Double rows of slender fluted columns held a domed roof of alabaster aloft. Light from golden lamps dangling from the ceiling on silver chains glittered on polished marble walls. The floor was a vast mosaic depicting the entire history of Nemedia. Here was the explanation for the empty halls, for here the nobles had gathered in all their panoply, darkeyed lords in robes of velvet with golden chains about their necks, sleek ladies coruscating with the gems that covered their silk-draped bodies. Through the center of them ran a broad path from the tall doors to the Dragon Throne. Its golden-horned head reared above the man seated there, and jeweled wings curved down to support his shoulders. On his head was the Dragon Crown.

  Conan set his own pace down that path, though the two jailors tried to hurry him. He would not stumble in his chains for the amusement of this court. Before the throne he stood defiantly and stared into Garian's face. The men holding the pole tried to force him to his knees, but he remained erect. A murmur rose among the nobles. Rushing forward, guards beat at his back and legs with their spear butts until, despite all he could do, he was shoved to his knees.

  Through it all, Garian's face had not changed expression. Now the man on the throne rose, pulling his robe of cloth-of-gold about him.

  "This barbarian," he announced loudly, "we did take into our Palace honoring him with our attention. But we found that we nursed treachery at our bosom. Most foully our trust was betrayed, and...."

  He droned on, but Conan's attention was caught by the man standing slightly behind the Dragon Throne, one
hand resting on it possessively while he nodded at the King's words like a teacher approving a pupil.

  The Seal of Nemedia hung on a golden chain about his neck, which marked him as the High Councilor of Nemedia, Lord Albanus. But Conan knew that cruel face, seen in the dark meeting with Taras and Vegentius. Did madness reign in Nemedia, the Cimmerian wondered.

  " . . So we pronounce the ancient penalty for his crime," the King intoned funereally.

  That brought Conan's mind quickly back. There was on Garian's face none of the sadness he had shown when Conan was taken, only flat calm.

  "When next the sun has dawned and risen to its zenith, let this would-be regicide be hurled to the wolves.

  Let the beast be torn by beasts."

  As soon as the last word was spoken, Conan was pulled to his feet and hurried from the throne room.

  Not even the round-faced jailor spoke as the Cimmerian was returned to the dungeons, this time to a small cell, its stone floor strewn with filthy straw. The pole and the gag were removed, but not his chains.

  Another was added, linking that between his ankles to a ring set in the wall.

  As soon as the two jailors were gone Conan began to explore his new prison. Lying full length on his belly, he could have reached the heavy wooden door were his hands not linked behind him, but there was nothing on which to get a grip even if his hands had been free. Nor did he truly believe he could break the stout iron hinges. The walls were rough stone, close set but with aged mortar crumbling. A man with tools might remove enough of them to escape. In a year or two. The rotting straw held nothing but a half-gnawed rat carcass. The Cimmerian could not help wondering whether the gnawing had been done by its fellows or by the last prisoner. Kicking it into a far corner, he hoped he would not long have to endure the smell.

  No sooner had Conan settled himself with his back against the wall than a key rattled in the large iron lock, and the cell door creaked open. To his surprise Albanus entered, holding his black velvet robes carefully clear of the foul straw. Behind him the cloth-of-gold-clad form of the King stopped in the doorway. Garian's face turned this way and that, eyes curiously taking in the straw and the stone walls.

  He looked at Conan once, as if the big Cimmerian were just another fixture of the cell.

  It was Albanus who spoke. "You know me, don't you?"

  "You are Lord Albanus," Conan replied warily.

  "You know me," the hawk-faced man said, as if confirming a suspicion. "I feared as much. 'Tis well I acted when I did."

  Conan tensed. "You?" His eyes went to Garian's face. Why would this man make such an admission before the King?

  "Expect no help from him," Albanus laughed. "For a time, barbar, you were a worry to me, but it seems in the end you are no weapon of the gods after all. The wolves will put an end to you, and the only real damage you have done me is being repaired by the girl you sent seeking the sculptor. No, in the sum of it, you are naught but a minor nuisance."

  "Ariane," Conan said sharply. "What have you done with her?"

  The obsidian-eyed lord laughed cruelly. "Come, King Garian. Let us leave this place."

  "What have you done to Ariane?" Conan shouted as Albanus left. The King paused to look at him; he stared into Garian's face with as close to pleading as he could come. "Tell me what he has done...."

  The words died on his lips even as the other turned to go. The door creaked shut. Stunned, Conan leaned back against the stone wall.

  Since that first entrance into the throne-room, he had felt some oddity in Garian but put it down to himself. No man sees things aright while hearing his own death sentence. But now he had noticed a small thing. There was no bruise on Garian's cheek. Garian was no man to cover such things with powder like a woman, and he had no court sorcerer to take away such blemishes with a quick spell and a burning candle. Nor had it had time to fade naturally. A small thing, yet it meant that he who had sat on the Dragon Throne and passed sentence on Conan was not Garian.

  Mind whirling, the Cimmerian tried to make some sense of it. Albanus plotted rebellion, yet now was councilor to a King who was not Garian. But it had been Garian in Vegentius' apartments only the night before. Of that Conan was certain. He smelled the stench of sorcery as clearly as he did the rotting straw on which he sat.

  Patience, he reminded himself. He could do nothing chained in a cell. Much would depend on whether he was freed of those bonds before he was thrown to the wolves. Even among wolves a great deal could be done by a man with hands free and will unfettered. This, Conan resolved, Albanus would learn to his regret.

  Sularia lay face down on a toweled bench while the skilled hands of a slave woman worked fragrant oils into her back. Lady Sularia, she thought, stretching luxuriantly. So wonderful it had been standing among the lords and ladies in the throne room, rather than being crowded with the other lemans along the back wall. If her acceptance had been from fear, the smiles and greetings given her sickly and shamefaced, it only added to the pleasure, for those who spoke respectfully now had oft spoken as if she were a slave.

  And this did not have to be the end. If she could move from the mistresses' wall to stand with the nobles, why not from there to stand beside Albanus? Queen Sularia.

  Smiling at the thought she turned her head on her folded arms and regarded her maid, a plump gray-haired woman who was the only one in the Palace Sularia trusted. Or rather, the one she distrusted least.

  "Does she still wait, Latona?" Sularia asked.

  The gray-haired maid nodded briskly. "For two turns of the glass now, mistress. No one would dare disobey your summons."

  The blonde nodded self-satisfied agreement without lifting her head. "Bring her in, Latona. Then busy yourself with my hair."

  "Yes, mistress," Latona cackled, and hurried out. When she returned she escorted the Lady Jelanna.

  The willowy noblewoman looked askance at Latona as the serving woman began to labor over her mistress' hair, while Sularia smiled like a cat at a dish of cream. Only when receiving an inferior would servants be retained so. Some of the arrogance had gone from Jelanna with her wait.

  Enough remained, however, for her to demand at last, "Why have you summoned me here, Sularia?"

  Sularia raised a questioning eyebrow. After a moment Jelanna amended, "Lady Sularia." Her mouth was twisted as if at a foul taste.

  "You grew from a child in this Palace, did you not?" the blonde began in a pleasant tone.

  Jelanna's reply was curt. "I did."

  "Playing hide and seek through the corridors. Gamboling in the courtyards, splashing in the fountains.

  Your every wish met as soon as it was made."

  "Did you ask me here to speak of childhood?" Jelanna asked.

  "I did not," Sularia said sharply. "I summoned. Know you Enaro Ostorian?"

  If the imperiously beautiful woman was surprised by the question, she did not show it. "That repulsive little toad?" she sniffed. "I know of merchants, but I do not know them."

  Sularia's feline smile returned. "He seeks a wife."

  "Does he?"

  "A young wife, of the nobility." Sularia saw the dart go home, and pressed to drive it deeper. "He thinks to marry the title he has not been able to buy. And of course he wants sons. Many sons. Garian," she added to the lie, "has asked me to suggest a suitable bride."

  Jelanna licked her full lips uncertainly. "I wish, Lady Sularia," she said, a tremor in her voice, "to apologize if I have in any way offended you."

  "Do you know the man Dario?" Sularia demanded. "The keeper of Garian's kennels?"

  "No, my lady," Jelanna faltered.

  "A foul man, I'm told, both in stenches and habits. The slave girls of the Palace hide from him, for his way with a woman is rough to the point of pain." Sularia paused, watching the horror grow on the imperious woman's face. "Think you, Jelanna, that one night with Dario is preferable to a lifetime with Ostorian?"

  "You are mad," the slender woman managed. "I'll listen to no more. I go to my estate
s in the country, and if you were queen you could still choose which of Zandru's-"

  "Four soldiers await without for you," Sularia said, riding over the other woman's words. "They will escort you to Dario, or to your wedding bed, and no place else."

  The last shreds of haughtiness were washed from Jelanna's face by despair. "Please," she whispered. "I will grovel, an you wish it. Before the entire court on my knees will I beg your forgive-"

  "Make your choice," Sularia purred, "else I will make it for you. Those soldiers can deliver you to Ostorian this day. With a note to let him know you think him a repulsive toad." Her voice and face hardened. "Choose!"

  Jelanna swayed as if she would fall. "I... I will go to Dario," she wept.

  For a moment Sularia savored the words she had waited for, counting hours. Then she spoke them. "Go, bitch, to your kennel!" As Jelanna ran from the room, peals of Sularia's laughter rang against the walls.

  How wonderful was power.

  Chapter XXII

  When next the door of his cell opened, Conan at first thought that Albanus had decided to have him slain where he lay chained. Two men with drawn crossbows slipped through the open door and took positions covering him, one to either side of the cell.

  As the Cimmerian gathered himself to make what fight of it he could, the round-faced jailor appeared in the door and spoke.

  "The sun stands high, barbarian. 'Tis time to take you to the wolf pit. An you try to fight when Struto and I remove your chains, these two will put quarrels in your legs, and you'll be dragged to the pit. Well?"

  Conan made an effort to appear sullen and reluctant. "Take the chains," he growled, glowering at the crossbowmen.

  In spite of his words the two jailors kept clear of the crossbowmen's line of fire as they broke open his manacles with repeated blows of hammer on chisel. Did they think him a fool, he wondered. He might well be able to take both jailors and bowmen despite the way they were placed, yet he could hear measured steps approaching the cell, the sound of a middling body of men, Dying was not hard, but only a fool chose to die for naught.