Conan the Savage

by Leonard Carpenter

  Yet by now, pain was a devalued coin in Conan’s inn economy. Instead of grunting or gasping from the smart of his riven tongue, he roared in wrath and, tasting coppery blood, picked his opponent up bodily. Clutching the Atupan by neck and thigh, he hove him, not into the fire but over it, to crash into a mess of pole racks set out for smoke curing meat and hides on the far side. As he did so, amid the hubbub of the excited onlookers, some few of who were scattered by the toss, Conan heard behind him one exuberant cry—a breathy, involuntary cheer that rang forth in the unmistakable voice of Songa.

  Aklak, cursing in phrases Conan had never yet heard, rummaged through the mess of poles, meats, hides, and crockery he was flung into. From it he produced something noteworthy: a long, thick-hafted, stone-headed ax suitable for felling and butchering a boar or an ox. This tool he brandished high with an exultant howl of his own. Whirling it dexterously overhead, he advanced around the fire toward

  Conan.

  The Cimmerian, in the fire-lit dusk, found nothing within reach to defend himself with except firewood chunks burned half through, as useless as twigs against Aklak’s heavy implement. None of the tribesmen around him came to his defence, but he was certainly not minded to turn and run. So he stood empty-handed, waiting for Aklak, knowing he must rely on quickness alone to counter the massive weapon. He started forward, but was restrained by a tight female grip on his shoulder. Songa’s? Had she decided to aid her brother after all, and treacherously?

  Meanwhile, the Atupan, stalking to within several paces of Conan, altered the flashing arc of his tomahawk and hurled it—straight aside, into the largest chunk of wood laid in the fireplace. It struck with a red flare, lodging fast and sending a shower of sparks heavenward. A sudden cheer rose as Aklak, his snarl converted to a broad, fixed grin, led others of his tribe forward to hug and pummel Conan in a display that, in spite of its ferocity, the Cimmerian had to assume was congratulatory and friendly.

  “Aklak has burned the ax!” he heard voices crying out. “The river-man is forgiven! Now he can go free!”

  The villagers were enthusiastic in their rejoicing. Indeed, the occasion seemed to satisfy some pent-up need for revelry. In mere moments, all manner of foodstuffs were produced, a pot of aromatic bark tea was set to brewing, and straw mats were dragged out of the huts to form a convivial space before the fire. While women did most of the work, men and children cavorted around the combatants, retelling various parts of the fight and pantomiming it, to widespread laughter.

  Conan stood amid the jubilant strangers, concealing the pain and weakness his struggle had brought back to him. In time, even these faded—so welcome was the exhilaration of the crowd—with the growing assurance that he had not been fattened so long for a cook pot, or for sacrifice to some tribal god.

  Songa, now modest and bashful-looking, was brought before Conan. Aklak and a wizened woman accompanied her like proud parents. When Songa looked closely at the sticky blood seeping from Conan’s reopened wounds, she shot him a reproachful look, then turned to Aklak. She angrily denounced her brother, striking at him with a hard fist where he had kicked and battered her patient. Catching her wrist to restrain her, Aklak turned and addressed Conan directly for the first time.

  “Songa is a rough, proud woman,” he observed gravely. “She lacks proper respect for a huntsman. She has provoked you and used you badly.” He frowned in pious disapproval. “You should strike her and teach her her place.” At his words, the tribe around them drew breath and fell silent. Songa looked up at him with bright, watchful eyes, Conan paused, aware that his response would have weight, yet unsure what was expected of him. At last he spoke.

  “Songa has done nothing for days but nurse me and tutor me,” he announced. “If she were less proud and strong-willed, I would not be here. I cannot rebuke her.”

  “Nonsense,” Aklak insisted. “She is a tree-cat! Shed spumed you with her foot the day she found you, before she summoned the men of the tribe to have you dragged here! She told everyone that.”

  Sullenly, Conan shook his black mane over his massive shoulders. “Even so, I would not strike her. I owe her my life.”

  Aklak sneered. “River-men, I suppose, live in fear of their women.” He looked around to the watchers, who began to snicker.

  “Oh, yes,” Songa joined in suddenly with a spiteful look. “Targoka’s brothers let women abuse them! Men of his tribe never speak their will. See here, I’ll show you!” Pulling free of Aklak’s grip, she turned on Conan, smiting him on the breast with doubled fists. “See, he fears me!” Reaching up, she clawed his cheek with a sharp-nailed hand.

  Lightning-quick, Conan cuffed her on the side of the head. Though slight, the blow stopped her; she clutched at him for balance, then lay her face submissively against his

  chest.

  Word spread swiftly through the crowd. “He struck her, now they are wedded,” the men affirmed.

  “He loves her,” the women cried more emotionally. “Before all the spirits, ’tis proven!”

  Aklak, now beaming, embraced both Conan and the woman who clung unashamedly to him. “Welcome, brother!” he exclaimed.

  The tribe began celebrating in earnest. Dancers fanned out before the fire, stamping and prancing with arms linked, or alternating front-to-back. Hot meats and viands were passed around in gourds and basket-dishes, with Conan and Songa being made to scorch their fingertips on the first handfuls of each. Later came the singing of legends that Conan could only dimly understand, telling of how animal spirits had fashioned the heavens and the earth. This was not entirely strange to him, though in Cimmeria the worship of dour Crom had relegated these older legends to the rank of children’s tales.

  The food and universal goodwill lulled him, as did the warm tea, though it did not confound him as fermented spirits would. Through it all, Songa clung meekly to his side with no further outburst of vixenish temper.

  Yet later in the evening, when the fire burned low and the couples dragged their mats back into their huts, she proved as worthy an adversary as her brother—every bit as strong and demanding, nearly as careless of his wounds, and with an even greater determination to carry the contest through to its finish.

  IX

  Mountains of Fire, Torrents of Blood

  Like a flood-maddened river, the crowd poured into the streets of the capital. No mere deluge of water, this—rather, a seething torrent of molten stone, like the river of holy tire that had at the goddess Ninga’s command cleansed and consumed the erring southern city of Phalander. This flood, like that other cataclysm, left devastation in its wake: ravening flame and ruin and the seared, writhing bodies of the unrepentant. It coursed through the city’s dark-roofed labyrinth under grey, overcast skies, its way marked by pillars of smoke and yellow flames surging heavenward. The seething human cataract poured over heaps of rubble and broken bodies, leaving behind quiet eddies that puddled red with blood.

  Swifter than fire, the holy torrent of rebellion had spread from Urbander to Tamsin’s home valley and a hundred other disaffected rural districts and small cities. Inevitably the fires converged on Sargossa—the vast metropolis of Brythunia, home to the gilt-trimmed Temple of Amalias and the lofty Imperial Palace. Fanned by winds of unrest and heresy against the old gods, the greedy blaze now threatened to scorch the fabled Gryphon Throne itself and unseat its royal denizen, King Typhas the Sly.

  Fiercely now, the mob surged through plaza and boulevard, carrying destruction to every shrine of Amalias and every doubter of the bloody new faith. With fierce abandon, Ninga’s adherents pillaged and rampaged, repaying the wrongs of half a lifetime’s tyranny. Yet such was their discipline and devotion, in the midst of chaos, that a slender young woman and her pampered doll, riding in a chariot at the middle of the press, could go unmolested— screened, to be sure, by a double row of drilled pikemen, and flanked by mounted guards from the revolutionary high command.

  The moving perimeter was carefully maintained amid the throng, not only by h
orse and foot guards, but by the zealous horde itself. For this was none other than Tamsin, High Priestess and Oracle, clad in a loose green, flower-embroidered robe that set off her piercing eyes... and riding with her, nestled under her solicitous arm, the new goddess Ninga herself. Love and devotion made everyone respect the divine presence, as did the deepest, devoutest fear rising from the mystic powers of these two. For was it not whispered that far to the north, in the now-holy city of Urbander—deep in the crypt of Ninga’s bright, new-built temple—there abode a living witness to the goddess’s power? No talkative witness this, but an eloquent one nonetheless: a severed, breathless, bloodless head that mouthed and gaped in endless agony, giving silent testimony to the casual, terrible power of the High Goddess and her High Priestess... and never, ever dying.

  So it was that the human flood, with the chariot borne in its midst like a royal barge, entered Sargossa’s main temple square. Here the lavender marble columns of the Temple of Amalias reared tall under the great dome, the last and mightiest bastion of the Imperial church. And here the High Priest Epiminophas, newly raised to leadership, had vowed to turn back the rising tide of heresy... if necessary, by a new confrontation with the witch-priestess herself.

  Here, too, King Typhas, with deft economy, had positioned his elite troops for the defence of the capital. “If the mob would run riot, why, let them do so,” he remarked to his generals on the eve of Tamsin’s arrival. “In their own neighbourhood, that is! Let them level their wretched tenements, battle and bum and rape one another, and be scattered and diminished in drunkenness and pillage! With Imperial regiments cordoning the borders of the respectable districts, I can easily contain them. And by sweeping the central square, where all streets conjoin, we shall crush them.”

  Yet the king’s forces did not immediately march forth to battle out of the palace gardens, the noble tomb-yards, and the low-walled estates where they waited with grounded halberds. King Typhas stood in command from the loftiest tower of his palace, accompanied by a pair of signal officers with semaphore fans, which remained motionless. In his frugal way, Typhas hesitated to commit an army where a single man might do the job.

  Instead, striding out onto one of the gilt-carpeted marble promontories that flanked the massive temple steps came white-bearded Epiminophas to confront the rioters. The High Priest had changed greatly in the few years since he first saw Tamsin; his square-trimmed beard had grown out hoar-white, his figure had slimmed, and his face was less sleek and pudgy, chiselled instead with priestly dignity. His bearing was altered from a complacent waddle to the light, direct step of purposefulness. In place of the rich, fur-trimmed gown of his former district priesthood, he now wore plain grey robes lacking ornament.

  Epiminophas did not surrender himself to the mob but kept to the terrace above it, with a row of sword-belted acolytes taking its place behind. This, it seemed likely, would be adequate to protect his retreat if the mob should begin to swarm up the temple steps—which, to signify the greatness of Amalias and to humble the pilgrims, were hewn each half as tall as a man, and so had to be clambered up using arms and legs together. Epiminophas’s gold-fringed perch loomed as high as ten of these steps, standing forth sheerly above the broad plaza. Thus it was that the priest could survey the crowd, safe at least momentarily from its smouldering discontent.

  To any who could gaze out over that square, the sight was an intimidating one: a bobbing sea of heads, a forest of waving fists with makeshift weapons and standards raised aloft at crazy angles. Moving toward the front of the mob were several long, painted banners, each one affixed to a series of poles held vertical by a score or more individuals. As these billowed and snaked nearer through the crowd, the temple’s defenders could see all too clearly what they portrayed. The long, colourful paintings depicted the destruction of Phalander-town by fire-belching volcanoes, famous massacres by Ninga’s holy zealots of priests faithful to Amalias, and other grim triumphs of the rebellion. Yet the paintings, though lurid, did not seem exotic against the backdrop of pillaged streets and flaming buildings that ringed the square under dark-clouded skies.

  Far back in the crowd trundled the humble chariot carrying Tamsin and her god-puppet. Without waiting for the conveyance to halt or even to draw near the priest’s bastion, Epiminophas commenced.

  “Children of Amalias.” His voice tolled forth over the angry roar of the crowd, echoing from the façades of distant buildings. “Errant sons and daughters, I welcome you to the home of your father and his servants.”

  The crowd, surprised by the priest’s welcoming tone, diminished its chantings and mutterings to hear him; except for horse laughs and sceptical cries, and the scuff of still-moving feet, quiet reigned. Thus Epiminophas achieved his greatest victory, that of merely being heard.

  “I know that some of you refute your Great Father’s holy power, as the child will mock and defy the parent. Some of you would even level this holy house of his to shards and dust if you could. Many more have allowed doubt and heresy into their hearts, in place of righteousness and pious teachings.” He paused with one arm extended and swept the crowd with a stately gesture, signifying that he addressed everyone. Ignoring the hoots and hisses, he continued, “That is why it is well that you come here.” “Ninga is the One God!” a zealot near the front screamed.

  By not contesting the assertion, Epiminophas was able to defuse the crowd’s anger, and he went on, “I say your presence here is good, because Great Father Amalias means to heal all doubters and embrace all heretics. For troubled souls like yours, his temple is a haven of peace and healing. None knows that better than I... because, until recently, I was one of you! My sin, too, was heresy; my guilt was doubt.”

  At this, even the hecklers and japers were silenced—for who in the hostile crowd would disagree with self-denunciation by the High Priest? He availed himself well of the silence.

  “Know, fellow Brythunians, that far, far greater is my sin and guilt than yours—because even as I inwardly repudiated our Father Amalias, I stooped at his holy altars and donned the sacred robes as his servant. All the while,

  I lacked faith—yet I made no open, honest show of my disbelief, but concealed it under priestly vestments and pious manners. In my hypocrisy, I mocked the High God’s commands and made my false obedience a reason for 1 amassing wealth, comforts, and tyrannous power.” “Scoundrel!” an onlooker exclaimed. “You still do it. Why bother to pretend otherwise?”

  “The state priests all steal from the people,” another voice chimed in. “Every one of them shall be burned!” “My teachings were hollow,” Epiminophas cried. “My 1 aims were corrupt, I admit it!” His frenzy again headed off the mob’s turmoil. “My dishonesty may have helped to plant the seeds of heresy in all your breasts. For that, I am truly sorry!”

  “Ninga is God,” a group of fanatics had begun chanting. Epiminophas was forced to resume his speech above their clamour.

  “How have I changed? Hear me, please. On seeing the strength and belief of the Lord Amalias’s enemies, I had to question my own lack of faith, and to doubt the power of doubt itself! I asked myself then, Brythunians, and I ask you now: is this great temple, the grandest in any of the Hyborian kingdoms, built on hollow untruth?” His arm, in a theatric gesture, indicated the massy pile above him. “Have all the vast multitudes of our Great Lord’s faithful, who were, and are, and shall be yet again—have they all been deluded by guile and greed?”

  Over cries of “Yes, yes!” he insisted: “No! And I shall furnish you proof! But first I ask you, are all the elaborations of our Amalian teachings—the Laws, the Prophecies, the Divine Revelations of our great race’s origin, and the names and histories of the lesser gods—are those things all foolish lies? Those great truths we teach our children from earliest speech?” Too wise to pause for an answer, the priest pressed on, “No, it cannot be! If there is any such thing as divinity in this world, why, it has not spumed and made a mock of our great empire! Nay, if gods exist at all, then Lord
Amalias exists, and is the greatest of them!” Waving both arms, by sheer force of emphasis, he held the watchers’ attention.

  “Brythunians, I have ventured down into the forbidden catacombs! I have read the ancient petroglyphs and pored through parchments so old they crumbled with the weight of my gaze! I have delved at the very roots of our ancient faith, and I am here to tell you, and to show you, that Amalias lives!”

  “All lies, all nonsense!” the zealots jeered. “Enough of this priestly prattle!”

  “It was our Ninga who restored your faith, Epiminophas,” another accused, “not your old dead god!”

  “In truth,” Epiminophas said, answering his tormentors directly for the first time, “I owe a debt to the witch Tamsin and her sorcerous doll, who have reaffirmed to me the power of magic. We all owe them thanks for awakening us—” “Mark him well, O faithful!” a listener cried. “This is the priest who first gave Ninga her name in the sacred scrolls at the Abbas Dolmium. Mark him for a coward!” Above a scattering of laughter, Epiminophas continued, “Aye, mark me! For I now understand that all this strife, all this turmoil—” he gestured out over the crowd “—that all this is part of our Great Lord’s plan to renew and purify our devotion to him, once he demonstrates his true, awesome power. Then Ninga, then all other gods, will shrink and quail before his strength. Know you, citizens, that you are not meant to abandon Lord Amalias and follow this new pretender—” his finger pointed at Tamsin’s chariot, which was finally drawing up opposite his perch “—for I ask you, is a great god but a dust-broom, to be used only so long, then cast into the fire and replaced with a new one? Nay, Brythunians, give sombre thought to what glory.. you would be losing, and to what foul burden you might be taking on, by toiling under this grubby, gourd-headed witch-doll that has sprung up from the most backward and ignorant comer of our empire, like some vile, spotted toadstool from a rural dung heap!”