The Complete Chronicles of Conan

by Robert E. Howard

  To Conan the serpent was the least horror of them; he almost felt a kinship with it when he remembered the weeping, tittering obscenity, and the dripping, mouthing thing that came out of the well. At least it was of earthly matter; it was a crawling death, but it threatened only physical extinction, whereas these other horrors menaced mind and soul as well.

  After it had passed on down the corridor, he followed, at what he hoped was a safe distance, blowing his torch into flame again. He had not gone far when he heard a low moan that seemed to emanate from the black entrance of a tunnel near by. Caution warned him off, but curiosity drove him to the tunnel, holding high the torch that was now little more than a stump. He was braced for the sight of anything, yet what he saw was what he had least expected. He was looking into a broad cell, and a space of this was caged off with closely set bars extending from floor to ceiling, set firmly in the stone. Within these bars lay a figure, which, as he approached, he saw was either a man, or the exact likeness of a man, twined and bound about with the tendrils of a thick vine which seemed to grow through the solid stone of the floor. It was covered with strangely pointed leaves and crimson blossoms – not the satiny red of natural petals, but a livid, unnatural crimson, like a perversity of flower-life. Its clinging, pliant branches wound about the man’s naked body and limbs, seeming to caress his shrinking flesh with lustful avid kisses. One great blossom hovered exactly over his mouth. A low bestial moaning drooled from the loose lips; the head rolled as if in unbearable agony, and the eyes looked full at Conan. But there was no light of intelligence in them; they were blank, glassy, the eyes of an idiot.

  Now the great crimson blossom dipped and pressed its petals over the writhing lips. The limbs of the wretch twisted in anguish; the tendrils of the plant quivered as if in ecstasy, vibrating their full snaky lengths. Waves of changing hues surged over them; their color grew deeper, more venomous.

  Conan did not understand what he saw, but he knew that he looked on Horror of some kind. Man or demon, the suffering of the captive touched Conan’s wayward and impulsive heart. He sought for entrance and found a grille-like door in the bars, fastened with a heavy lock, for which he found a key among the keys he carried, and entered. Instantly the petals of the livid blossoms spread like the hood of a cobra, the tendrils reared menacingly and the whole plant shook and swayed toward him. Here was no blind growth of natural vegetation. Conan sensed a strange, malignant intelligence; the plant could see him, and he felt its hate emanate from it in almost tangible waves. Stepping warily nearer, he marked the root-stem, a repulsively supple stalk thicker than his thigh, and even as the long tendrils arched toward him with a rattle of leaves and hiss, he swung his sword and cut through the stem with a single stroke.

  Instantly the wretch in its clutches was thrown violently aside as the great vine lashed and knotted like a beheaded serpent, rolling into a huge irregular ball. The tendrils thrashed and writhed, the leaves shook and rattled like castanets, and petals opened and closed convulsively; then the whole length straightened out limply, the vivid colors paled and dimmed, a reeking white liquid oozed from the severed stump.

  Conan stared, spellbound; then a sound brought him round, sword lifted. The freed man was on his feet, surveying him. Conan gaped in wonder. No longer were the eyes in the worn face expressionless. Dark and meditative, they were alive with intelligence, and the expression of imbecility had dropped from the face like a mask. The head was narrow and well-formed, with a high splendid forehead. The whole build of the man was aristocratic, evident no less in his tall slender frame than in his small trim feet and hands. His first words were strange and startling.

  ‘What year is this?’ he asked, speaking in Kothian.

  ‘Today is the tenth of the month Yuluk, of the year of the Gazelle,’ answered Conan.

  ‘Yagkoolan Ishtar!’ murmured the stranger. ‘Ten years!’ he drew a hand across his brow, shaking his head as if to clear his brain from cobwebs. ‘All is dim yet. After a ten-year emptiness, the mind can not be expected to begin functioning clearly at once. Who are you?’

  ‘Conan, once of Cimmeria. Now king of Aquilonia.’

  The other’s eyes showed surprise.

  ‘Indeed? And Namedides?’

  ‘I strangled him on his throne the night I took the royal city,’ answered Conan.

  A certain naïveté in the king’s reply twitched the stranger’s lips.

  ‘Pardon, your majesty. I should have thanked you for the service you have done me. I am like a man woken suddenly from sleep deeper than death and shot with nightmares of agony more fierce than hell, but I understand that you delivered me. Tell me – why did you cut the stem of the plant Yothga instead of tearing it up by the roots?’

  ‘Because I learned long ago to avoid touching with my flesh that which I do not understand,’ answered the Cimmerian.

  ‘Well for you,’ said the stranger. ‘Had you been able to tear it up, you might have found things clinging to the roots against which not even your sword would prevail. Yothga’s roots are set in hell.’

  ‘But who are you?’ demanded Conan.

  ‘Men call me Pelias.’

  ‘What!’ cried the king. ‘Pelias the sorcerer, Tsotha-lanti’s rival, who vanished from the earth ten years ago?’

  ‘Not entirely from the earth,’ answered Pelias with a wry smile. ‘Tsotha preferred to keep me alive, in shackles more grim than rusted iron. He pent me in here with this devil flower whose seeds drifted down through the black cosmos from Yag the Accursed, and found fertile field only in the maggot-writhing corruption that seethes on the floors of hell.

  ‘I could not remember my sorcery and the words and symbols of my power, with that cursed thing gripping me and drinking my soul with its loathsome caresses. It sucked the contents of my mind day and night, leaving my brain as empty as a broken wine-jug. Ten years! Ishtar preserve us!’

  Conan found no reply, but stood holding the stump of the torch, and trailing his great sword. Surely the man was mad – yet there was no madness in the strange dark eyes that rested so calmly on him.

  ‘Tell me, is the black wizard in Khorshemish? But no – you need not reply. My powers begin to wake, and I sense in your mind a great battle and a king trapped by treachery. And I see Tsotha-lanti riding hard for the Tybor with Strabonus and the king of Ophir. So much the better. My art is too frail from the long slumber to face Tsotha yet. I need time to recruit my strength, to assemble my powers. Let us go forth from these pits.’

  Conan jangled his keys discouragedly.

  ‘The grille to the outer door is made fast by a bolt which can only be worked from outside. Is there no other exit from these tunnels?’

  ‘Only one which neither of us would care to use, seeing that it goes down and not up,’ laughed Pelias. ‘But no matter. Let us see to the grille.’

  He moved toward the corridor with uncertain steps, as of long-unused limbs, which gradually became more sure. As he followed, Conan said uneasily, ‘There is a cursed big snake creeping about this tunnel. Let us be wary lest we step into his mouth.’

  ‘I remember him of old,’ answered Pelias grimly, ‘the more as I was forced to watch while ten of my acolytes were fed to him. He is Satha, the Old One, chiefest of Tsotha’s pets.’

  ‘Did Tsotha dig these pits for no other reason than to house his cursed monstrosities?’ asked Conan.

  ‘He did not dig them. When the city was founded three thousand years ago there were ruins of an earlier city on and about this hill. King Khossus V, the founder, built his palace on the hill, and digging cellars beneath it, came upon a walled-up doorway, which he broke into and discovered the pits, which were about as we see them now. But his grand vizier came to such a grisly end in them that Khossus in a fright walled up the entrance again. He said the vizier fell into a well – but he had the cellars filled in, and later abandoned the palace itself, and built himself another in the suburbs, from which he fled in panic on discovering some black mold scattered on the mar
ble floor of his chamber one morning.

  ‘He then departed with his whole court to the eastern corner of the kingdom and built a new city. The palace on the hill was not used and fell into ruins. When Akkutho I revived the lost glories of Khorshemish, he built a fortress there. It remained for Tsotha-lanti to rear the scarlet citadel and open the way to the pits again. Whatever fate overtook the grand vizier of Khossus, Tsotha avoided it. He fell into no well, though he did descend into a well he found, and came out with a strange expression which has not since left his eyes.

  ‘I have seen that well, but I do not care to seek in it for wisdom. I am a sorcerer, and older than men reckon, but I am human. As for Tsotha – men say that a dancing-girl of Shadizar slept too near the pre-human ruins on Dagoth Hill and woke in the grip of a black demon; from that unholy ruin was spawned an accursed hybrid men call Tsotha-lanti—’

  Conan cried out sharply and recoiled, thrusting his companion back. Before them rose the great shimmering white form of Satha, an ageless hate in its eyes. Conan tensed himself for one mad berserker onslaught – to thrust the glowing fagot into that fiendish countenance and throw his life into the ripping sword-stroke. But the snake was not looking at him. It was glaring over his shoulder at the man called Pelias, who stood with his arms folded, smiling. And in the great cold yellow eyes slowly the hate died out in a glitter of pure fear – the only time Conan ever saw such an expression in a reptile’s eyes. With a swirling rush like the sweep of a strong wind, the great snake was gone.

  ‘What did he see to frighten him?’ asked Conan, eyeing his companion uneasily.

  ‘The scaled people see what escapes the mortal eye,’ answered Pelias cryptically. ‘You see my fleshly guise; he saw my naked soul.’

  An icy trickle disturbed Conan’s spine, and he wondered if, after all, Pelias were a man, or merely another demon of the pits in the mask of humanity. He contemplated the advisability of driving his sword through his companion’s back without further hesitation. But while he pondered, they came to the steel grille, etched blackly in the torches beyond, and the body of Shukeli, still slumped against the bars in a curdled welter of crimson.

  Pelias laughed, and his laugh was not pleasant to hear.

  ‘By the ivory hips of Ishtar, who is our doorman? Lo, it is no less than the noble Shukeli himself, who hanged my young men by their feet and skinned them with squeals of laughter! Do you sleep, Shukeli? Why do you lie so stiffly, with your fat belly sunk in like a dressed pig’s?’

  ‘He is dead,’ muttered Conan, ill at ease to hear these wild words.

  ‘Dead or alive,’ laughed Pelias, ‘he shall open the door for us.’

  He clapped his hands sharply and cried, ‘Rise, Shukeli! Rise from hell and rise from the bloody floor and open the door for your masters! Rise, I say!’

  An awful groan reverberated through the vaults. Conan’s hair stood on end and he felt clammy sweat bead his hide. For the body of Shukeli stirred and moved, with infantile gropings of the fat hands. The laughter of Pelias was merciless as a flint hatchet, as the form of the eunuch reeled upright, clutching at the bars of the grille. Conan, glaring at him, felt his blood turn to ice, and the marrow of his bones to water; for Shukeli’s wide-open eyes were glassy and empty, and from the great gash in his belly his entrails hung limply to the floor. The eunuch’s feet stumbled among his entrails as he worked the bolt, moving like a brainless automaton. When he had first stirred, Conan had thought that by some incredible chance the eunuch was alive; but the man was dead – had been dead for hours.

  Pelias sauntered through the opened grille, and Conan crowded through behind him, sweat pouring from his body, shrinking away from the awful shape that slumped on sagging legs against the grate it held open. Pelias passed on without a backward glance, and Conan followed him, in the grip of nightmare and nausea. He had not taken half a dozen strides when a sodden thud brought him round. Shukeli’s corpse lay limply at the foot of the grille.

  ‘His task is done, and hell gapes for him again,’ remarked Pelias pleasantly, politely affecting not to notice the strong shudder which shook Conan’s mighty frame.

  He led the way up the long stairs, and through the brass skull-crowned door at the top. Conan gripped his sword, expecting a rush of slaves, but silence gripped the citadel. They passed through the black corridor and came into that in which the censers swung, billowing forth their everlasting incense. Still they saw no one.

  ‘The slaves and soldiers are quartered in another part of the citadel,’ remarked Pelias. ‘Tonight, their master being away, they doubtless lie drunk on wine or lotus-juice.’

  Conan glanced through an arched, golden-silled window that let out upon a broad balcony, and swore in surprise to see the dark-blue star-flecked sky. It had been shortly after sunrise when he was thrown into the pits. Now it was past midnight. He could scarcely realize he had been so long underground. He was suddenly aware of thirst and a ravenous appetite. Pelias led the way into a golden-domed chamber, floored with silver, its lapis-lazuli walls pierced by the fretted arches of many doors.

  With a sigh Pelias sank onto a silken divan.

  ‘Silks and gold again,’ he sighed. ‘Tsotha affects to be above the pleasures of the flesh, but he is half devil. I am human, despite my black arts. I love ease and good cheer – that’s how Tsotha trapped me. He caught me helpless with drink. Wine is a curse – by the ivory bosom of Ishtar, even as I speak of it, the traitor is here! Friend, please pour me a goblet – hold! I forgot you are a king. I will pour.’

  ‘The devil with that,’ growled Conan, filling a crystal goblet and proffering it to Pelias. Then, lifting the jug, he drank deeply from the mouth, echoing Pelias’ sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘The dog knows good wine,’ said Conan, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘But by Crom, Pelias, are we to sit here until his soldiers awake and cut our throats?’

  ‘No fear,’ answered Pelias. ‘Would you like to see how fortune holds with Strabonus?’

  Blue fire burned in Conan’s eyes and he gripped his sword until his knuckles showed blue. ‘Oh, to be at sword-points with him!’ he rumbled.

  Pelias lifted a great shimmering globe from an ebony table.

  ‘Tsotha’s crystal. A childish toy, but useful when there is lack of time for higher science. Look in, your majesty.’

  He laid it on the table before Conan’s eyes. The king looked into cloudy depths which deepened and expanded. Slowly images crystalized out of mist and shadows. He was looking on a familiar landscape. Broad plains ran to a wide winding river, beyond which the level lands ran up quickly into a maze of low hills. On the northern bank of the river stood a walled town, guarded by a moat connected at each end with the river.

  ‘By Crom!’ ejaculated Conan. ‘It’s Shamar! The dogs besiege it!’

  The invaders had crossed the river; their pavilions stood in the narrow plain between the city and the hills. Their warriors swarmed about the walls, their mail gleaming palely under the moon. Arrows and stones rained on them from the towers and they staggered back, but came on again.

  Even as Conan cursed, the scene changed. Tall spires and gleaming domes stood up in the mist, and he looked on his own capital of Tamar, where all was confusion. He saw the steel-clad knights of Poitain, his staunchest supporters, whom he had left in charge of the city, riding out of the gate, hooted and hissed by the multitude which swarmed the streets. He saw looting and rioting, and men-at-arms whose shields bore the insignia of Pellia, manning the towers and swaggering through the markets. Over all, like a fantasmal picture, he saw the dark, triumphant face of Prince Arpello of Pellia. The images faded.

  ‘So!’ cursed Conan, ‘My people turn on me the moment my back is turned—’

  ‘Not entirely,’ broke in Pelias. ‘They have heard that you are dead. There is no one to protect them from outer enemies and civil war, they think. Naturally, they turn to the strongest noble, to avoid the horrors of anarchy. They do not trust the Poitanians, rememberin
g former wars. But Arpello is on hand, and the strongest prince of the central realm.’

  ‘When I come to Aquilonia again he will be but a headless corpse rotting on Traitor’s Common,’ Conan ground his teeth.

  ‘Yet before you can reach your capital,’ reminded Pelias, ‘Strabonus may be before you. At least his riders will be ravaging your kingdom.’

  ‘True!’ Conan paced the chamber like a caged lion. ‘With the fastest horse I could not reach Shamar before midday. Even there I could do no good except to die with the people, when the town falls – as fall it will in a few days at most. From Shamar to Tamar is five days’ ride, even if you kill your horses on the road. Before I could reach my capital and raise an army, Strabonus would be hammering at the gates; because raising an army is going to be hell – all my damnable nobles will have scattered to their own cursed fiefs at the word of my death. And since the people have driven out Trocero of Poitain, there’s none to keep Arpello’s greedy hands off the crown – and the crown-treasure. He’ll hand the country over to Strabonus, in return for a mock-throne – and as soon as Strabonus’ back is turned, he’ll stir up revolt. But the nobles won’t support him, and it will only give Strabonus excuse for annexing the kingdom openly. Oh Crom, Ymir, and Set! If I had but wings to fly like lightning to Tamar!’

  Pelias, who sat tapping the jade table-top with his finger-nails, halted suddenly, and rose as with a definite purpose, beckoning Conan to follow. The king complied, sunk in moody thoughts, and Pelias led the way out of the chamber and up a flight of marble, gold-worked stairs that let out on the pinnacle of the citadel, the roof of the tallest tower. It was night, and a strong wind was blowing through the star-filled skies, stirring Conan’s black mane. Far below them twinkled the lights of Khorshemish, seemingly farther away than the stars above them. Pelias seemed withdrawn and aloof here, one in cold unhuman greatness with the company of the stars.