Conan the Savage

by Leonard Carpenter

  Most typically along the way, the two would be lodged in a rural coach-house. Regnard would be led to a sleeping-stall or a bench near the fire in the Common Room, while Conan, in keeping with his brutish dress and aspect, would be lodged on a hayloft or in a comer of the cattle shed. Food and drink were furnished, in keeping with the traveller's respective stations in the world, at the guest table or outside by the kitchen stoop. Additionally, there might be livelier entertainments, drinking-fests or night-long revels with customers and wenches of the inn. These were solely Regnard’s province, since Conan retained his sullen, solitary demeanour along the route.

  Luckily, the savage hunter was strong and uncomplaining, inured enough to hard labour to carry the main share of their supplies and belongings—or the whole lot, on days when the Gunderman was too ill or overhung to manage. Indeed, there were times when Conan almost carried Regnard himself, and defended him as well, from irate inn lords and angry gambling partners. The savage’s fighting prowess was amply tested on those occasions when bandits ‘ tried to waylay the pair by night or in forest depths. Such brigands departed none the richer—rather the poorer, after accounting for hacked limbs and the spent lives of those of their number they left behind.

  On the whole, though, the journey was congenial. Because of the mild, prosperous season and the widespread goodwill arising from the success of the popular rebellion, Regnard—and, to a lesser extent, his savage minion—were I cordially received across the breadth of Brythunia. The Gunderman was quick to take advantage of this trust and acceptance, ingratiating himself into the hearts and pockets of the common folk. Conan, however, remained sullen and grim-faced, retreating at every opportunity into broodings and sorrows only he could know.

  XIV

  The Small Usurper

  Prince Clewyn, bound for his morning visit to Queen Tamsin, wended his laborious way through the palace antechambers. His progress was slowed, not so much by age or infirmity as by the need to stop and exchange gossip and pleasantries with a great many court functionaries as he went. He had come to regard such casual contacts as vital to survival, even when they delayed his engagement at the seat of Imperial authority. He viewed such civility as the grease that made the complex cogs of the palace grind in harmony.

  His own uncertain status at court—as a disinherited Imperial relic and sometime-exiled pretender—did not raise him above contact with the lower ranks. On the contrary, his status as the queen’s current favourite made it compulsory for almost everyone to seek him out and placate him. Hence, running the gauntlet between his bedchamber and Queen Tamsia’s, he chatted with a wide variety of persons: councillors, eunuchs, courtesans, military officers, priests, attaches, emissaries, even high-ranking attendants and slaves. All such meetings ended cordially, he made sure, for the sake of clinging to power in an ill-defined political turmoil where a single misplaced word could mean banishment or death.

  Not that he disliked such undercurrents; he was used to them, navigating them as expertly as a frog in a millrace. Now, once again, he swam near the heart of the maelstrom; after so many years of diplomacy, it was his element. He felt keenly alive here in his birth city, Sargossa, seeking some voice in the destiny of this vast empire.

  When finally he found his way to the royal antechamber, he was conducted to a chair by a tribune and told to wait. The uniformed servant, disappearing through the gilded door into the queen’s sanctum, returned several moments later and signalled him to rise. The attendant’s expression was strange; it hinted at alarm held fearfully in check.

  Tamsin’s bedchamber was furnished in dark hangings and a high, lace-canopied bedstead of heavy southern wood. Bright daylight poured in through the terrace window, whose satin curtains had been thrown wide. Outside, through open glazed doors and an ornately sculptured balcony rail, spread a view of city roofs and avenues beyond the palace wall.

  In the window’s glare, some few visitors already waited in respectful attendance. Besides the queen’s eunuch guards, several courtiers stood against the walls, including First Steward Basifer. Queen Tamsin lounged abed, her red tresses spread back across the pillows, her pale body half-clad in a scant, filmy nightdress. In fact, from her languid posture, with her head propped back on the silken bolsters, eyes closed, and mouth poised half-open, the young queen appeared to be sleeping. But that did not explain the voice that issued from the bed.

  On nearer inspection, blinking at the reclining figure framed by drawn, draped bed-canopies, Clewyn gained the distinct impression that it was not the queen who spoke. Rather, it was the doll, still clutched in her mistress’s slack arm but positioned upright, its poised, painted head waggling in an eerily convincing parody of speech.

  “Greetings, Prince Clewyn, and welcome,” the shrill, singsong voice rang out. “You are a most fit addition to this party of the faithful—the first group of humans to witness my condescension to your mortal plane of affairs, and to hear in my own accents the decrees and utterances I have customarily passed through the mouth of my High Priestess, here.”

  “A thousand thanks, Divine Mistress!” Clewyn bowed lavishly, making the obeisance especially slow and deep to conceal his inner dismay. He had encouraged young Tam-sin in her conceit of talking to the doll, for the sake of gaining her favour.; he credited himself with shrewdness in guessing the way to win the toleration of a powerful sorceress. Yet if the queen was now to lie in a trance, prating her commandments in the voice of her mystical toy, how could there henceforth be any play of reason, or any sane, moderating influence? For once, after a long course of public life, the prince found himself sorely taxed to find words. “I thank you, most sincerely.”

  “You, Prince,” the queen’s doll continued, “are, in your new-found authority, the prime implementer of my commands within the palace here at Sargossa. Just as the First Steward, there,” Ninga added with an amazingly deft nod of her gourd-head toward Basifer, “is the main prosecutor of my policies beyond, amid the lands and peoples of the broader realm.”

  In response, the eunuch bowed even more deeply than had the courtly prince. “Thank you, Mistress.” Basifer had grown zealously faithful and unquestioning toward his queen and her puppet-goddess. Evidently his subservience was the result of some private arrangement between them, one that defied Clewyn’s understanding. Certainly it was not a romantic or carnal attraction, in view of the man’s handicap—which, in truth, made his own advanced years seem like no impediment at all. Obviously the young queen felt more comfortable with men who posed no sexual threat; Basifer had even been granted some high appointment in the church, a dual office. Now, in the First Steward’s face, the prince read no hint of shock or scepticism., only earnest attentiveness.

  “It is indeed a pleasure to make Your Divinity’s acquaintance, and to hear your godly voice,” the courtly prince ventured at last. “Yet I hope we shall not be deprived of Queen Tamsin’s company as well. In recent days, I have grown accustomed to her charming presence.”

  “No, no, Prince. My oracle and servant will awaken presently, doubtless. She is easily wearied by concerns of state, and by the awkward eminence to which I have raised her at such a tender age.” The tiny puppet-voice spoke with an absurd tone of patronage. “That is why I find it needful to inject my own voice into your governmental affairs.”

  “I understand, Divinity.” The prince spoke graciously, trying to gain control of the discussion. “The day-to-day demands of running an empire—”

  “Not quite, Sir Prince,” the puppet-deity overrode him sharply. “What I have in mind is something more than daily routine. Rather, a revolutionary transformation of the land and faith.”

  The pronouncement echoed shrill in the silence that followed. “I, ah, would wonder.. Clewyn tried to recover. “In truth, Divinity, in the wake of the recent turmoil—”

  . “Turmoil is a healthy thing,” the small goddess declared. “Even chaos, administered wisely, can be a curative measure. But it is important to keep things astir and not le
t them fall back to their former diseased state. Conditions in Sargossa are grown as slack and corrupt as they were before my arrival.”

  “Your Divinity,” Clewyn temporized, “great Goddess Ninga... the Brythunian Empire as a whole has weathered your overthrow of Amalias and Typhas strongly. The health of the state has been maintained—”

  “Nay, Clewyn,” the puppet corrected him. “After a brief purgation of revolt, the sickness has been restored. The pervasive, creeping rot that bears the false aspect of healthiness continues.” The high-pitched voice rang out with surprising vigour. “To look at Brythunia, one would think there had been no revolution at all—that the old, moribund god still rules, that the king still connives here in his privy chambers. What of our sacred mission? What of this glorious union of church and state we have achieved?” The godly puppet, without any apparent aid from the sleeping queen, dashed its misshapen head emphatically toward the open terrace window.

  “Look you there, and see! The merchants still shave their coin, the priests nod and prate—though the shapes their lips form are a mite different; and the commoners still grovel and toil, albeit under the gaze of newer idols. Their lives are not transformed, their aims reach no higher, their sense of the sublime and terrible are yet stupidly a-slumber. Can you tell me, Prince, why they have troubled to change masters at all?”

  “Divine Ninga, you must know that your subjects are far more content under your benign protection—”

  “Precisely, Clewyn, content!” the goddess-head piped, resuming her tirade. “Complacent, dumb, stuporous. Where, I ask you, is the ecstasy, the devotion, the high holy terror? We gods face a sore challenge indeed to mould anything exquisite out of this coarse mortal clay! Yet even so, the labour shall continue forthwith! Through you, my governors, and alike through my priests and armoured officers, a new order is decreed. Our followers shall be taken to task for any turpitude or laxness, any fault of thought or deed, the pang being death! And new, harsher demands shall be levelled on them.”

  Prince Clewyn waited, his furrowed old brow a-tickle with perspiration. “What demands, O Divinity?”

  “Why... human sacrifice, I think! That is a measure which has enlivened my followers’ holy zeal in the past. Each month, every five-hundredth subject in Sargossa and the district capitals shall be honoured by slaughter... chosen at random from the name rolls. A sacred pyramid of skulls can be established in each main city’s temple square and catacombs must be hollowed beneath the temples, to hold the bodies of those sacrificed, their heads to be replaced with painted gourds in my image! How does that sound?”

  As before, a taut, pervasive silence followed the goddess’s words. “It sounds most... stringent, Your Divinity,” Clewyn managed to choke out.

  “Thank you,” the goddess said.

  “Your will, Immortal Ninga, is our commandment.” Basifer’s assent followed close on Clewyn’s, uttered without hesitation in a voice that resounded firm and manly.

  “Aye... yes... a most sacred duty,” came the thin, murmured acknowledgements from the other courtiers in the room. Their faces looked pale in the level daylight.

  “Mmm... ahhmm.” As the frightened subjects stood watching, the young queen stirred in her place. Goddess Ninga had fallen silent; now, with Tamsin’s movement, the fetish tipped backward like an ordinary doll.

  The girl-queen, meanwhile, opened her eyes. “Oh, my friends are here already!” Unselfconsciously drawing her frail form up against her pillows, she stretched both arms over her head and yawned. “Uumm. I suppose Ninga has been entertaining you all, while I slept. She is such a dear!” She hugged the now-limp doll to her side, kissing its glossy brow, then primped and straightened its garments. Just as casually, she rearranged her own lacy nightdress to cover her bosom.

  “The divine Ninga,” Prince Clewyn essayed from his place at the foot of the bed, “was speaking to us of certain, ah, modifications regarding the practice of worship in the city temples—”

  “Good,” Tamsin foreclosed his words. “Excellent! I know she can trust you to carry out all her wishes, whatever they might be.” She turned to Basifer, who knelt by her bedside. “Most particularly you, First Steward, in your new office as Priest-Delegate.”

  “Yes, most surely, Your Highness.” The eunuch bent forward and kissed the hem of her bed cover. “I depart this very moment to convey the High Goddess’s commandments to her minions—and yours, Gracious Queen—at the temple. All will be carried forward with dispatch.” “Excellent,” she said turning from the eunuch-prelate as he bowed his way toward the door. “But you, my dear Prince, you will keep me company while I sup and dress, will you not?” She extended her slender hand to receive Clewyn’s dry-lipped kiss. “And you others, morning greetings to you all!”

  Servants stood ready with trays of delicate pastry and cosied teapots, which they now brought forward. But the flighty young Tamsin barely sipped and nibbled; in moments, she had slid from her bed, her doll clutched tightly at her side, and summoned dexterous maidservants to clothe and groom both of them before the eyes of her guests. All the while, Clewyn chatted lightly, easefully, with her. Then she led him to a table whereupon were arrayed favourite gems and trinkets from her collection. She showed him each in turn, holding them up to sparkle in the morning light that streamed through the terrace window.

  XV

  Savage Vengeance

  It came to pass that one clear morning, with the bite of frost in the air, Conan and Regnard roused themselves from a shabby suburban hostel and approached the walls of fabled Sargossa. The Gunderman had been up late, dicing and drinking with peddlers and smugglers before the kitchen fire, yet this morning he felt brisk and alert, ready to make the most of the good fortune that he was certain lay ahead.

  “Here, you, take this,” he said, bundling his loose rucksack together with the bulkier one that his savage friend usually slung over his shoulder. “It will look more seemly to the inspectors as we enter town. Remember, we stand on the threshold of a great citadel, where life is richer and grander than anything you have seen. Do not be mazed or frightened at what we encounter. Trust me, stay nearby, and be assured that all will be clear to you in the end.”

  As they trudged up the road, whose hard-rutted dust soon gave way to cobblestone, it was easy to be impressed by the high city wall. Its broad towers stood out at stately intervals, their battlements gilded bright with dawning eastern sun. The gate to which the High Road led them was splendid, unmarred by the recent war, its pillars inlaid with coloured mosaics patterned in ritual symbols—and above the arch, in blazing tile relief, stood forth the rampant gryphon of high Brythunian heraldry.

  The great gate was already open and in use, its early traffic watched over by Imperial guardsmen posted both within and without the huge metal door-valves and many-toothed portcullis. Rather than joining the continuous stream of diversely costumed travellers, livestock, and wagons entering the city shadows, Regnard led Conan aside and addressed him.

  “You know, the guards would hardly permit you, an unruly-looking savage, to wander the streets of Sargossa on your own. They regard the likes of you as a danger to civil order, unless they are satisfied that someone is taking full responsibility for you. Therefore, we shall resort to a stratagem—a temporary disguise, if you will.”

  Reaching into his clanking purse, the Gunderman extracted an object other than money: a short, sturdy length of bronze chain with a broad, open clasp at either end.

  “If you will wear this, only for the time being, it will appear to the guards that you are a barbarian slave and I your master. That is all the credential you will need to pass through the gate and see the wonders of mighty Sargossa.” Silent and uncomplaining, Conan permitted Regnard to lead him over to the side of the road. There a farrier plied his trade, shoeing country horses With steel for the hard-paved streets of town. Waiting his turn after a sorrel mare and a bay gelding, the Cimmerian stooped obediently and let the craftsman wield hammer and tongs to pound the man
acles tight around his wrists.

  “Nay, nay—behind the back, my friend!” Regnard insisted, hauling his primitive charge around before the anvil. “That is the way it is done here. But do not worry, Conan. You will still be able to bear your burdens by doubling them over your shoulder, thus. And I can carry these weapons for you.”

  So it was that the two wayfarers entered Sargossa, with Regnard making a brave show of slave-mastery, shoving Conan along by the shoulder and pummelling him to go faster. Once inside, in narrow, filthy lanes between the tall, leaning tenements, the Gunderman assured Conan they would be better off to continue the charade.

  “Here, now, is it not a splendid sight?” he demanded. “Look at the height of those buildings, and see the crowds of people swarming through these streets! All of them plump and richly dressed, too—except for the beggars, whose sores and amputations are truly amazing, a scientific wonder!” He tugged Conan by one manacled arm. “Come here, down this alleyway. As I recall, it will lead us toward the merchants’ quarter and the gem market.”

  Through a maze of twisting streets, rubbing shoulders along the way with peddlers, mendicants, painted trollops, hairless eunuchs, shaven priests, ruffians, uniformed officers, and the thousand other specialized minions of the great city warren, they came at last to a broad bazaar, an open courtyard a half-score paces wide and more than twice as long. The space was, if anything, more crowded than the surrounding streets, jammed with merchants and buyers in all manner of robes and headgear. From its centre could be heard an auctioneer’s spirited cries, and the chanting out of prices.