'There is no doubt,' said Ethram-Fal dully, 'this is the room.' He turned, and in doing so set his sandal upon something that gave a muffled crack. Stepping to one side, he looked down and went rigid.
'Ath, lower the torch.' The soldier dutifully lowered the torch to illuminate the floor while Ethram-Fal knelt again. He had tread upon what appeared to be a human rib and had snapped it in two. A fine black powder seeped out of the broken bone. Ethram-Fal gave a choked cry of triumph.
'Of course! It's gone dormant. It must have absorbed all nourishment down to the marrow and then spored. Set grant that there is still life!' He gestured with a grey-clad arm. 'Ath, bring my apprentice.'
The soldier left the room, the light of his torch receding down the empty corridor, leaving Ethram-Fal in darkness. But it was not darkness to Ethram-Fal, who saw his future looming bright and glorious before him. His breathing quickened, the only sound in the stony silence.
In a few moments Ath returned, his hawklike Stygian features stern and impassive. Behind him trailed a slender adolescent boy clad in yellow robes. Though taller than Ethram-Fal, the top of the boy's tousled head came to well below Ath's chin. The boy looked about the room with obvious impatience.
'I was helping the men set up camp in the large chamber,' he said petulantly. 'Have you finally found something useful for me to do?'
Ethram-Fal did not reply, but fixed his gaze upon the bones at his feet.
'Ath,' he said, 'kill him.'
With a single fluid motion the soldier drew his broadsword, buried it in the youth's belly, twisted it, and withdrew. The apprentice uttered a high-pitched wail, clutched himself, and dropped to lie writhing weakly in the dust. When the boy stopped breathing, Ath wiped his blade upon the body and sheathed it. He looked at Ethram-Fal expectantly. The hand gripping the torch had not faltered.
The sorcerer produced a thick reddish leaf from a leather pouch on his belt. He handed it to Ath, who immediately put it into his mouth. The soldier's eyes closed and his cheeks drew hollow as he sucked upon the leaf.
Ethram-Fal paid this no heed. Bending at the waist, he gingerly picked up the broken rib between thumb and forefinger. Tilting the bone with exaggerated care, he spilled a thin stream of black powder over the sprawled body of his apprentice. He emptied the macabre vessel, concentrating its contents on the dark stain spreading upon the corpse's midriff. When the dust ceased to fall, he tossed the rib aside and stood staring at the body in silence.
An hour passed, during which Ath chewed and swallowed his leaf and Ethram-Fal moved not at all. Toward the close of the second hour, Ethram-Fal cocked his head, as though he sought to hear a soft sound from a great distance. The body on the floor shuddered and the sorcerer clasped his hands together in an ecstasy of anticipation.
A moist crackling filled the still air. The corpse jerked and trembled as though endowed with tormented life. Ethram-Fal caught his breath as fist-sized swellings erupted all but instantaneously from the dead flesh of his apprentice. The body was grotesquely distorted in a score of places, with such swift violence that the limbs convulsed and the yellow robes ripped open.
Green blossoms the size of a man's open hand burst from the corpse, leaping forth in such profusion that the body was almost hidden from view. Iridescent and six-petaled, the blooms pushed free of enclosing flesh, bobbing and shaking as if in a strong wind. In a moment they were still, and a sharp, musky odor, redolent of both nectar and corruption, rose slowly to fill the chamber.
The peals of Ethram-Fal's laughter reverberated from the stone walls like the tolling of a great bell.
I
The night air was warm and close, but it was of polar freshness compared to the dense atmosphere within the tavern. A stout, sturdily built man in the mail of a mercenary of Akkharia shoved open the door and surveyed the scene within. The main room was spacious, but crowded with a motley variety of locals, mercenaries, and travelers. The visitor ran a callused hand through his graying hair and scanned the gathering for the man he'd come to see. In the closest corner a number of men were throwing dice, alternately crowing in triumph and cursing in defeat. The centre of the sawdust-strewn floor was dominated by a huge table bearing the nearly denuded carcass of an entire roasted pig.
Men clustered about it, drinking and stuffing themselves.
'Ho, Shamtare!' a voice thundered over the tavern's clamor. There, in the farthest corner, was the man he sought. Shamtare made his way across the floor, dodging gesticulating drunks and busy serving wenches with practiced ease.
The one who had called his name lounged against the tavern's rear wall with his long muscular legs propped up on a table. He was a hulking, powerful-looking man whose skin had been burnt to a dark bronze by ceaseless exposure to the elements. He was clad in a chain-mail shirt and faded breeches of black cotton. At his waist hung a massive broadsword in a worn leather scabbard. A white smile split a face that seemed better suited to scowl, and piercing blue eyes flashed as he hoisted his wine jug in a rakish salute, gesturing for Shamtare to join him. The scarred tabletop held a loaf of bread and a joint of beef, as well as heaping platters of fruits, cheese, and nuts. From the crusts and rinds scattered about, it would seem that a celebration of sorts had been going on for some time.
'Conan,' said Shamtare, 'I thought you said your money was running low.'
'So it is,' answered the other with a barbarous accent. 'What of it?
Tomorrow I shall surely be working for one of this cursed city's mercenary troops, and tonight I find that I have missed civilisation more than I had realised.' The barbarian washed the words down with a great swallow of wine.
Shamtare sat and helped himself to a handful of ripe fruit. 'travelled far, have you?' he asked, popping pomegranate seeds into his mouth.
'Aye, from the heart of Kush across the Stygian deserts. It seems that I'm no longer welcome in the southern kingdoms.'
Shamtare raised his thick eyebrows in puzzlement 'But surely you are a Northman¦'
'A Cimmerian,' said Conan. 'But I have done much travelling.'
'Indeed,' murmured Shamtare, to whom Cimmeria was a chill and distant place of myth. 'But about your choice of mercenary employment¦'
Conan took a bite out of the beef joint and chewed enthusiastically.
'Still trying to get me to join your troop?'
Shamtare lifted his hands. 'You can't blame me for that. When I saw your performance on the practice field, I knew that you'd be an asset to any troop that signed you on. And you know I'm paid a bounty for each new recruit. I admit that when I asked where you'd be dining tonight, I had more in mind than tipping a jug with you. I say again that Mamluke's Legion could well use a man like yourself.'
Conan shrugged, shaking his square-cut black mane. 'I've been to see all four troops in this pestilent city, and they all offer the same wages. The king must keep close watch on his mercenary commanders that none of them can outbid the other for an experienced soldier. What in Ymir's name does King Sumuabi need with four troops of sellswords anyway?'
'The king watches over his mercenaries because he has plans for them.'
Shamtare's voice dropped to hushed, conspiratorial tones. 'rumour has it that Sumuabi may need all four armies very soon.'
'Crom, it seems that all you Shemites do is hole up in your little city-states and venture out once a year to try to conquer your neighbour. It is but a larger version of the clan feuds of my homeland.
You fight a few battles and then slink back home with nothing gained.
And this with Koth hungering at your border.'
'True,' said Shamtare tolerantly. 'But this time it is whispered that we may go to aid a revolt in Anakia. Sumuabi may soon king it over two cities. If this comes to pass, then the plunder should be rich for even the lowliest foot soldier.'
Conan thought on this while Shamtare borrowed the wine jug. 'That is good news, yet it still matters little which troop I join.'
'Come now, Conan.' Shamtare set the empty jug d
own with a hollow thump.
'What do you want of me? I tell you, I'm great friends with the troop's armorer, and I promise you a shirt of the best Akbitanan mail if you sign up with us. The shirt you're wearing looks as though it's been through hell.'
Conan snorted with laughter, looking down at his tarnished mail. Long vertical tears in the mesh had been crudely repaired with inferior links that were beginning to show traces of rust.
'Perhaps not hell itself, but a pig-faced demon from thereabouts. You have a deal, Shamtare.'
The Shemite grinned in his beard, opened his mouth to ask a question, and then shut it again. The tavern's door had swung wide, and now two figures entered the room. The foremost was almost as tall as Conan and clearly a warrior. He wore a black-lacquered breastplate over brightly polished steel mail. A black crested helmet was held under one thick arm. Blue-black hair fell in a thick mass over his square shoulders. A wide white scar parted his carefully trimmed beard just to the right of his stern mouth. He looked around the room with an almost-tangible aura of scorn. The crowd in the tavern quieted somewhat at the two men's arrival, but those who stopped to gaze at the newcomers did not study the warrior but his companion.
The man who stood in the dark doorway was also tall, but he was somewhat stooped as though ill or injured. From head to foot he was wrapped in a cowl of lush green velvet. His hands, where they emerged from their sleeves, wore green-velvet gloves. His face was hidden in the shadow beneath his hood.
The strange pair hesitated a moment, then walked quickly through the tavern's crowd, which parted easily before them. They passed through a door into a back room and were lost from view.
'Who the hell was that?' asked Conan, reaching for the jug-
'Someone best left unknown,' said Shamtare softly.
'No matter. What's this? No wine? Ho, wench!' Conan brandished the empty jug above his head. 'More wine! I'm parched!' Spurred by the barbarian's bellow, a serving girl leapt into action. Hefting a full jug onto one shoulder, she made her way toward Conan's table. Her thin cotton shift, damp with sweat and spilt wine, clung to her shapely torso as she moved. The barbarian grinned broadly, watching her approach with frank admiration. Blushing, she thumped the heavy jug down on the table, her eyes seeking the floorboards.
'Five coppers, milord,' she murmured.
'A silver piece,' said Conan. He tossed her the coin, which she snatched from the air with the effortless speed born of long practice.
'Keep the change,' he added needlessly, for she had already turned away. He caught up the fresh jug as a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. Conan looked up into the craggy face of the black-armoured warrior who had entered With the man clad in emerald velvet.
'My master would speak with you,' rasped the warrior. Conan shrugged off his hand and turned to face Shamtare.. But the chair across the table was empty. Conan noticed that the tavern door was just swinging shut.
'Mitra preserve me from civilised comrades,' muttered the barbarian.
'You would be wise to do exactly as my master requests.' The warrior towered over the seated Cimmerian, the scar in his beard broadening as his lips tightened in a disapproving grimace. Reflected firelight gleamed upon his lacquered breastplate. Conan took several slow, noisy swallows of wine, pointedly ignoring his unwanted companion, then carefully set the jug down on the table.
'Am I a dog that I come when a stranger calls?'
The warrior started slightly, then drew a deep, audible breath in an obvious effort to control himself. His dark eyes glared into Conan's, blazing with pent fury, then flicked away.
'There is,' he bit out through clenched teeth, '¦ there is gold in it for you. Much gold.'
Conan belched, then stood up casually, still grasping the neck of his wine jug. 'You should have said so in the first place. Lead on to your master.
The warrior stood still, his expression betraying an indignant rage held in place by will alone; then he turned stiffly and walked toward the door at the tavern's rear. He looked back over one armoured shoulder.
'You won't be needing that,' he said, pointing to the jug Conan carried.
The Cimmerian took another drink, walking past the warrior. 'I just bought it.' He put a hand on the heavy door and pushed through.
II
The room beyond the door was long and narrow, dominated by a lengthy rectangular table set with three brass candelabra. All four walls were hung with dark curtains thickly woven with brocade to deaden sound. At the table's far end the man in the green-velvet cowl sat motionless in a high-backed chair. The candle flames danced briefly in the draft from the opened door. Conan strode into the room, stopped at the base of the table, and looked down its length at the man who had summoned him.
'You are Conan of Cimmeria.' The voice was strong and masculine, yet possessed a peculiar underlying tremor, as if it took an effort to speak.
'I am,' rumbled the barbarian. 'And who are you?'
The dark-armoured warrior pushed the door closed behind him and stepped up beside the Cimmerian.
'Dog,' gritted the bearded warrior, 'you are here to answer questions, not to ask them.'
'Gulbanda!' The cowled man raised a green-gloved hand and Conan saw that it trembled. 'Come stand beside me. I'll make a few indulgences for a simple barbarian.' The warrior stalked to his master's side and stood there sullenly, mailed arms crossed over his deep chest.
'Who I am is of little importance to you. It is important only that you know that if you perform a service for me, I shall make you a rich man,' said the man in green.
'Why me?'
Hoarse, wheezing laughter came from within the velvet hood. The green man gestured to Gulbanda beside him.
'My bodyguard spotted you coming into Akkharia and recognised you. I have since done some investigating of my own and found that you may well live up to your distinctive reputation.'
'recognised me?' Conan's blue eyes shifted hotly from one man to the other.
'Some years ago I saw you taken by the City Guard of Shadizar. Men knew you as a great thief.' Gulbanda spoke with reluctance, apparently finding even secondhand praise of the Cimmerian distasteful. The man in velvet leaned forward intently, placing both hands flat upon the table.
'It is said that you stole the Eye of Erlik and the Hesharkna Tiara. An old Zamoran thief even told me that you had taken the Heart of the Elephant from Yara's tower in Arenjun.'
'That's a lie,' said Conan flatly.
'No matter,' purred the man in green. 'No matter. Let us simply agree that you are a thief among thieves and that I need such a man. I will pay you a hundredfold more for one night's work than you would receive for a full month of selling your sword as a lowly mercenary for King Sumuabi.'
Conan dragged a chair away from the table and sat down heavily. He drank from his wine jug and leaned back in the chair.
'What is it that you would have me do?'
The green man produced a rolled scroll of parchment from a sleeve and slid it down the length of the table to Conan, who caught and unrolled it.
'That is a precise map of the mansion of Lady Zelandra. Do you know of her?'
'She is a sorceress seeking position in King Sumuabi's court, is she not?' Conan's tone was sceptical.
'That is true. Since the death of King Sumuabi's court wizard, several pretenders to his position have come forward. Lady Zelandra is among them. Be assured that her skills are greatly overrated.'
The barbarian frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Talk of magic set him ill at ease.
'Cimmerian,' continued the man in green, 'tonight you shall break into the house of the Lady Zelandra. There you will slay her and steal for me a silver box. The box is the twin of this one.'
A delicately chased silver casket, the size of a man's fists held together, was placed upon the table. It gleamed in the yellow candlelight.
'I am told by a most reliable source that Zelandra's box is like my own in every detail. It is vital that you secure this sma
ll casket and bring it directly to me. You may take anything else in the mansion that catches your eye. Anything else is yours. The casket will be kept in her inner chambers, probably beside her bed. I must have it.'
As he spoke, the man in green's voice grew louder, and his words tumbled urgently over one another. When he stopped, 'his breathing was raggedly distinct in the soundproofed room. His gloved, hands twitched where he held them on the table.
Conan drew himself up straight in his chair. A corded forearm slid slowly along its armrest until the Cimmerian's right hand hung idly over the worn hilt of his broadsword.
'For all your studies you seem to know me not at all,' Conan said tersely. 'I am not an assassin, nor do I make war upon women. Seek another for this task.' The green-cowled man flinched as if slapped.
Beside him, Gulbanda's features hardened into a mask of rage.
'I will pay,' croaked the green man in a strangled voice, 'a roomful of gold. You'll never need to work again. You could be a rich man, with the leisure to wench and carouse the rest of your life.'
Gulbanda's arms dropped to his sides and Conan's hand fell upon his hilt. A deadly tension coiled in the closed room, poisonous as an adder.
'Seek another for this task,' repeated the barbarian.
'You would deny me?' The cowled man's tone fell to a caustic hiss. 'So be it. Think you that my investigations halted with your career as a thief? I know well your whereabouts these past few years, Amra! There is no city in Shem that would not gleefully hang the bloodiest pirate of the Western Ocean from a gibbet! You will do as I say or I'll see that you spend your last days in the hands of King Sumuabi's Sabatean torturers!'
Conan's response was an explosive burst of action that sent his chair hurtling back against the door as he sprang forward, toward the two men, his blade whistling from its scabbard. The man in green cried out in wordless shock, falling sideways from his chair even as Gulbanda stepped in to shield him from the infuriated barbarian. The bodyguard's blade came out just as Conan's came down. Steel rang on steel as Gulbanda blocked the heavy broadsword's stroke, staggering under the terrific impact. The warrior had barely time to be astonished at his adversary's strength before he found himself frenziedly fending off a flurry of savage blows. Wielding his massive blade as lightly as if it were a slender rapier, the Cimmerian put the bodyguard on a desperate defensive, driving him back against the curtained wall and holding him there. Gulbanda, trapped in a relentless storm of steel, saw Conan's face go grim with intent and felt a chill lance his bowels. The bodyguard blocked each sledgehammer blow by inches, hoping that the barbarian's strength would falter or that the raging attack would flag, if only for a moment.
The Conan Chronology Page 278