Conan the Invincible

by Robert Jordan

  “I am called Amanar.” His voice rang loudly against the precipitous slopes. “I welcome you, wayfarers.”

  Conan found he had his broadsword in hand, and noted from the corner of his eye that Karela and Hordo had their blades out as well. Amanar wore a smile, though it did not reach his strange, red-flecked black eyes, but the Cimmerian sensed evil there, evil beyond the scaled creatures that served him. There was nothing rational in his perception. It was a primitive intuition that came from bone and blood, and he trusted it all the more for that.

  “Be not affrighted,” Amanar intoned.

  The sounds of sliding rock and gravel jerked Conan’s gaze away from the man on the bier — he was shocked to realize the other had held his eyes thus—to find the abrupt rises to either side of the trail swarming with hundreds of the snake-men, many with javelins or crossbows. There were shouts from the bandits behind as they realized they were as good as surrounded.

  “Rats in a barrel,” Hordo growled. “Take a pull on the hellhorn for me, Conan, if you get to Gehanna first.”

  “What mean you by this?” Karela demanded loudly. “If you think to buy our lives cheaply —”

  “You do not understand,” the man on the bier interrupted smoothly. Conan thought he detected amusement. “The S’tarra are my servants. I greet what few strangers pass this way as I greet you, but betimes strangers are unscrupulous folk who think to use violence against me for all my friendliness. I find it best to remove all temptation by having my retainers near in sufficient numbers. Not that I suspect you, of course.”

  Conan was certain of the sarcasm in that last. “What kind of man is served by minions such as these scaled ones?” He suspected the answer, whether he got it or not, was that he had encountered another magician.

  Instead of a reply from Amanar, Karela snapped, “You forget who commands here, Cimmerian!” Her green-eyed glare transferred to the man in the scarlet robes, lessening not a whit in intensity. “Still, Amanar, it is not a question out of place. Be you a sorcerer to be served by these monsters?”

  Gasps rose from the bandits, and their mutterings increased. Conan winced, for he knew how dangerous it was to confront a mage too openly. But Amanar smiled as he might at rambunctious children.

  “The S’tarra are not monsters,” Amanar said. “They are the last remnants of a race that lived before man, and gentle of nature despite their outward appearances. Before I came the hillmen hunted them like animals, slaughtered them. No, you have naught to fear from them, nor from me, though some bands which do not serve me sometimes fail to distinguish between the hillmen who hate them and others of humankind.”

  “We met such a band,” Karela said.

  Conan looked at the red-haired bandit sharply, but he could not tell whether she believed the man, or whether she attempted some deeper game.

  “Praise be to all the gods that you survived,” Amanar said piously. “Let me offer you the shelter of my keep. Your retainers may camp outside the walls and feel safe. Pray say you will be my guests. I have few visitors, and there is something I would speak to you of, which I think you will find to your advantage.”

  Conan looked at the S’tarra arrayed on the slopes above and wondered wryly how many refused Amanar’s invitations.

  Karela did not hesitate. “I accept gratefully,” she said.

  Amanar smiled—once more it did not touch his eyes—bowed slightly to her, and clapped his hands. The eight S‘tarra bearing his ivory throne turned carefully and started up the trail. Karela rode after him, and Conan and Hordo quickly followed her. On the slopes of the narrow valley the S’tarra kept alongside the bandits, moving over the slanted ground with lizardlike agility. Honor guard, Conan wondered, or simply guard?

  “How much of what he says do you believe?” Hordo said softly.

  Conan glanced at the throned man leading them—he had experience of the acuity of wizards’ hearing. Amanar seemed to be ignoring them. “Not a word,” he replied. “That—S’tarra, did he call it?—was headed here.”

  The one-eyed man frowned. “If we turn suddenly, we could be free of his minions before they had ought but a crossbow shot or two at us.”

  “Why?” Conan laughed softly. “We came for the pendants, and what else we might find. He takes us into his very keep, right to them.”

  “I never thought of that,” Hordo said, joining Conan’s quiet laughter.

  Karela looked over her shoulder, her tilted green eyes unreadable. “Leave the thinking to me, old one,” she said flatly. “That beard leeches your brain.” An uncomfortable silence fell over them.

  XIX

  As the narrow, twisting gorge they had followed so long debouched into a broader valley, they saw the Keep of Amanar. Ebon towers reared into the sky, their rounded sides seeming to absorb the afternoon sun. Black ramparts, crenellated and sprouting bartizans, grew from the stone of the mountain. A ramp led to the barbican, topped by troughs for pouring boiling oil on those who approached unwarily. Not even a thornbush grew in the stony soil surrounding it all.

  Amanar gestured to the wide expanse of the valley below the fortress. “Camp your men where you will. Then come you inside, and I will speak with you.” His bier was carried swiftly up the ramp, leaving the bandits milling at its foot.

  “Find a spot for my hounds, Hordo,” Karela said, dismounting and handing him her reins. Conan climbed down as well. Her green eyes sparkled dangerously. “What do you think you’re doing, Cimmerian?”

  “I’m not one of your hounds,” he replied levelly. He started up the ramp, noting the guard positions on the walls. It would not be an easy place for a thief to enter.

  The Cimmerian tensed as running boots pounded up behind him. Karela eased her pace to a walk beside him, her heavy breathing coming more from anger, he suspected, than exertion. “Conan, you don’t know what you’re doing here. You’re out of your depth.”

  “I need to see what’s inside, Karela. These walls could hold off an army. I may yet have to scale them in the night if we’re to gain the pendants. Unless Amanar and his scaly henchmen have frightened you out of it.”

  “I haven’t said that, have I? And I won’t have you accusing me of cowardice!”

  They stopped before the lowered portcullis. From behind the heavy iron bars, a S’tarra peered at them with red eyes that seemed to glow slightly in the shadows of the gateway. Two more stepped from the arched doorway of the barbican, pikes in hand.

  “We are expected by Amanar,” Conan said.

  “I am expected,” Karela said.

  The S’tarra made a lifting gesture, and with a clanking of chain the grating began to rise. “Yes,” it hissed. “The master said the two of you would come. Follow me.” Turning on its heel, it trotted into the dark recesses of the fortress.

  “How did he know we’d both come?” Karela said as they followed.

  “I’m not the one out of my depth,” Conan replied. Behind them the portcullis creaked shut. The muscular Cimmerian found himself hoping it would be as easy to get out as it had been to get in.

  The granite-paved baileys of the fortress, the sable stone barracks and casemates, were as bleak as the exterior, but then the S’tarra led them through great iron-bound doors into the donjon, a massive obsidian cube topped by the tallest tower of the keep.

  Conan found himself in a marble-walled hall with a floor mosaicked in rainbow arabesques. Silver sconces held golden dragon lamps, filling even the vaulted ceiling, carved with hippogriffs and unicorns, with lambent radiance. He nodded to himself with satisfaction. If Amanar lit his entry hall with such, he had wealth enough and more for Conan’s needs. There was still the matter of Velita, though, and his oath to free her.

  The S’tarra halted before tall doors of burnished brass, and knocked. The creature bent as if to listen, then, though Conan heard nothing, swung one weighty door open. The music of flutes and harps drifted out as the creature bowed, making a gesture for them to enter.

  Conan strode in, Ka
rela rushing so as not to seem to be following. He smiled at her, and she bared her teeth in return.

  “Welcome,” Amanar said. “Sit, please.” He sat in an ornately carved chair beside a low ebony table, fondling his golden staff. Two similar chairs were arranged on the other side of the table.

  The music came from four human musicians sitting cross-legged on cushions against the wall. They played softly, without looking at one another or raising their eyes from the floor. A woman appeared from behind a curtain with a silver tray holding wine. Her gaze, too, never left the costly carpets that covered the floor as she set the tray on the table, bowed to Amanar, and scurried silently from the room. Amanar seemed not to notice her. His red-flecked eyes were on Karela.

  “I didn’t know you had any human servants,” Conan said. He sat on the edge of his chair, careful to leave his sword free.

  Amanar swung his gaze to the Cimmerian, and Conan found himself hard-pressed not to look away. The scarlet flecks in the man’s eyes tried to pull him into their inky depths. Conan gritted his teeth and stared back.

  “Yes,” Amanar said, “I have a few. Worthless things, totally useless unless they’re under my eye. At times I have thought I might be better off if I simply gave them all to the hillmen.” He spoke loudly, not seeming to care whether the musicians heard, but they played on without missing a beat.

  “Why don’t you use S’tarra servants, then?” Conan asked.

  “They have limits. Yes, definite limits.” The man with the odd white streak through his hair suddenly rubbed his hands together. “But come. Let us drink.” No one moved to take one of the crystal goblets. “Do you yet distrust me?” There was a touch of mocking in his voice. “Then choose you any cup, and I will drink from it.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Karela suddenly burst out, reaching for the wine.

  Conan seized her wrist in an iron grip. “A sip from all three in turn,” he said quietly. Amanar shrugged.

  “Release me,” Karela said quietly, but her words quivered with suppressed rage. Conan loosed his hold. For a moment she rubbed her wrist. “You’ve formed a bad habit of manhandling me,” she said, and reached again for a goblet.

  Amanar forestalled her by snatching the crystal cup from under her very fingers. “As your friend still mistrusts … .” Swiftly he sipped from each of the three goblets. “You see,” he said as he set the last one back on the silver tray, “I do not die. Why should I bring you here to kill you, when I could have had the S’tarra bury you beneath boulders in the valley where we met?”

  With an angry glare at Conan, Karela grabbed a goblet and drank, throwing her head back. Conan picked up another slowly, as Amanar took his. The fruity taste was a surprise. It was one of the heady wines of Aquilonia, costly so far from that western land.

  “Besides,” Amanar said quietly, “why should I wish harm to Conan, the thief of Cimmeria, and Karela, the Red Hawk?”

  A scream burst from Karela. Conan bounded to his feet with a roar, crystal cup falling to the carpet as he drew his broadsword. Amanar made no move except to sway toward Karela, standing with her jeweled tulwar in hand, her head turning wildly as if seeking attackers. The dark man’s heavy-lidded eyes half closed, and he inhaled deeply as if breathing in her perfume. The musicians played on unconcerned, eyes never lifting.

  “Yes,” Amanar murmured, leaning back in his chair. He appeared surprised to see Conan’s sword. “Do you need that? There is only me, and I can hardly fight you with my staff.” He extended the staff to tap Conan’s blade. “Put it away and sit. You are in no danger.”

  “I’ll stand,” Conan said grimly, “until a few questions are answered.”

  “Conan was right,” Karela whispered. “You’re a sorcerer.”

  Amanar spread his hands. “I am what some men call a sorcerer, yes. I prefer to think of myself as a seeker of wisdom, wanting to bring the world a better way.” He seemed pleased with that. “Yes. A better way.”

  “What do you want with us?” she said, taking a firmer grip on her curved sword. “Why did you bring us here?”

  “I have a proposal to make to you. Both of you.” The mage fingered his golden staff and smiled. Karela hesitated, then abruptly sheathed her blade and sat down.

  “Before I put my sword up,” Conan said, “tell me this. You know our names. What else do you know?”

  Amanar seemed to consider before answering. “Quite incidentally to discovering your names, I discovered that you seek five dancing girls and five pendants. Searching further told me these were stolen from the palace of King Tiridates of Zamora. Why you seek them, most particularly why you seek them in the Kezankian Mountains, I do not know, however.” His smile was bland, and Conan could see doubt spreading on Karela’s face.

  So much had already been revealed that the Cimmerian decided it could do little further harm to reveal a trifle more. “We came because the women and the gems were taken by S’tarra.” He bridled at Amanar’s answering laugh.

  “Forgive me, Conan of Cimmeria, but the mere thought that S‘tarra could enter Shadizar is ludicrous. The City Guard would kill them at sight, before they as much as reached the gates. Besides, my muscular friend, the S’tarra never leave the mountains. Never.”

  Conan answered in a flat voice. “Those who entered Tiridates’ palace wore the boots the S’tarra wear, the boots worked with a serpent.”

  Amanar’s laughter cut off abruptly, and his eyes lidded. Conan had the sudden impression of being regarded by a viper. “The boots,” the sorcerer said at last, “are often taken by hillmen when they strip the S’tarra they have killed. I should imagine a caravan guard who killed a hillman during an attack and found a good pair of boots on him might take them. Who can say how far a pair of those boots might travel, or how many might be worn outside the mountains?” His voice was reasonable in the extreme, if devoid of color, but his black eyes challenged Conan to reject the explanation if he dared. The only sound in the room came from the musicians.

  Karela abruptly broke the impasse. “Hannuman’s stones, Conan. Would he have mentioned the gems in the first place if he had them?”

  The young Cimmerian was suddenly aware of how foolish he must look. The musicians played their flutes and harps. Karela had retrieved her goblet from the carpet and poured more wine. Amanar sat with the long fingers of one hand casually caressing his golden staff. In the midst of this peaceful scene Conan stood sword in hand, balanced to fight on the instant.

  “Crom!” he muttered, and slammed his blade into its sheath. He resumed his chair, ostentatiously sprawling back. “You spoke of a proposal, Amanar,” he said sharply.

  The mage nodded. “I offer you both … haven. When the City Watch searches too diligently for Conan the thief, when the Army of Zamora presses too hard against the Red Hawk, let them come here, where the hillmen keep the army away, and my fortress grants safety from the hillmen.”

  “From the kindness of your heart,” Conan grunted.

  Karela gave him a pointed look. “What would you require in return, Amanar? We have neither knowledge nor skills to be of use to a sorcerer.”

  “On the contrary,” the mage replied. “The Red Hawk’s fame is known from the Vilayet Sea to the Karpashian Mountains, and beyond. It is said that she would march her band into Gehanna, if she gave her word to do so, and that her rogues would follow. Conan is a thief of great skill, I am sure. From time to time I would ask you to perform certain … commissions for me.” He smiled expansively. “There would, of course, be payment in gold, and I would in no way interfere with your, ah, professions.”

  Karela grinned wolfishly. “The caravan route to Sultanapur lies less than half a day to the south, does it not?”

  “It does,” Amanar laughed quietly. “And I’ll not object if you should do business there. I may even have some for you myself. But make not your decision now. Rest, eat and drink. Tomorrow will be time enough, or the next day.” He got to his feet, gesturing like a gracious host. “Come. Let me s
how you my keep.”

  Karela rose with alacrity. “Yes. I’d like very much to see it.” Conan remained where he was.

  “You may keep your sword,” the mage said derisively, “if you yet feel the need of protection.”

  Conan sprang angrily to his feet. “Lead on, sorcerer.”

  Amanar looked at him searchingly, and the Cimmerian suddenly thought that he and Karela had been placed on the two ends of a merchant’s balance scale. Finally the necromancer nodded and, using his golden rod as a walking staff, led them from the room. The musicians played on.

  First the red-robed mage took them to the heights of the outer curtain wall, its sheer scarp dropping fifty feet to the mountain slope. Pikebearing S‘tarra sentries in chain-mail hauberks fell to their knees at Amanar’s approach, but he did not deign to acknowledge the obeisance. From thence they went to the ebon parapet of the inner rampart, where S’tarra crossbowmen in bartizans could cut down any who managed to gain the outer wall. From the banquette catapults could hurl great stones. Atop the towers of the inner wall were ballistae, the arrows of which, as long as a man, could pierce through horse and rider together on the valley floor. Massive blocks of pitch-black stone had been piled to build barracks where dwelt S’tarra in their hundreds. The scaled ones knelt for the mage, and followed Conan and Karela with hungering rubiate eyes.

  In the donjon itself, Amanar led them through floor after floor of many-columned rooms hung with cloth-of-gold and costly tapestries. Rare carpets covered mosaicked floors, and bore furnishings inlaid with nacreous mother-of-pearl and deep blue lapis-lazuli. Carven bowls of jasper and amber from far Khitai, great golden vases from Vendhya, set with glittering rubies and sapphires, silver ornaments adorned with golden chrysoberyl and crimson carnelian, all were scattered in profusion as if they were the merest of trinkets.