The Conan Chronicles: Volume 1: The People of the Black Circle

by Robert E. Howard

  ‘Their plight is most wretched. Taramis, apparently possessed of a demon, stops at nothing. She has abolished the worship of Ishtar, and turned the temple into a shrine of idolatry. She has destroyed the ivory image of the goddess which these eastern Hyborians worship (and which, inferior as it is to the true religion of Mitra which we Western nations recognize, is still superior to the devil-worship of the Shemites) and filled the temple of Ishtar with obscene images of every imaginable sort -- gods and goddesses of the night, portrayed in all the salacious and perverse poses and with all the revolting characteristics that a degenerate brain could conceive. Many of these images are to be identified as foul deities of the Shemites, the Turanians, the Vendhyans, and the Khitans, but others are reminiscent of a hideous and half-remembered antiquity, vile shapes forgotten except in the most obscure legends. Where the queen gained the knowledge of them I dare not even hazard a guess.

  ‘She has instituted human sacrifice, and since her mating with Constantius, no less then five hundred men, women and children have been immolated. Some of these have died on the altar she has set up in the temple, herself wielding the sacrificial dagger, but most have met a more horrible doom.

  ‘Taramis has placed some sort of monster in a crypt in the temple. What it is, and whence it came, none knows. But shortly after she had crushed the desperate revolt of her soldiers against Constantius, she spent a night alone in the desecrated temple, alone except for a dozen bound captives, and the shuddering people saw thick, foul-smelling smoke curling up from the dome, heard all night the frenetic chanting of the queen, and the agonized cries of her tortured captives; and toward dawn another voice mingled with these sounds - a strident, inhuman croaking that froze the blood of all who heard.

  ‘In the full dawn Taramis reeled drunkenly from the temple,

  r eyes blazing with demoniac triumph. The captives were seen again, nor the croaking voice heard. But there is a in the temple into which none ever goes but the queen, driving a human sacrifice before her. And this victim is never s^en again. All know that in that grim chamber lurks some ^onster from the black night of ages, which devours the shrieki^g humans Taramis delivers up to it.

  ‘I can no longer think of her as a mortal woman, but as a rbid she-fiend, crouching in her blood-fouled lair amongst the bones and fragments of her victims, with taloned, crimsoned ^tigers. That the gods allow her to pursue her awful course unchecked almost shakes my faith in divine justice.

  ‘When I compare her present conduct with her deportment Mien first I came to Khauran, seven months ago, I am confused Mth bewilderment, and almost inclined to the belief held by **lany of the people - that a demon has possessed the body of T^aramis. A young soldier, Valerius, had another belief. He believed that a witch had assumed a form identical with that of Ithauran’s adored ruler. He believed that Taramis had been spirited away in the night, and confined in some dungeon, and that this being ruling in her place was but a female sorcerer. He sVore that he would find the real queen, if she still lived, but I greatly fear that he himself has fallen victim to the cruelty of Qionstantius. He was implicated in the revolt of the palace guards, escaped and remained in hiding for some time, stub-t^ornly refusing to seek safety abroad, and it was during this time tliat I encountered him and he told me his beliefs.

  ‘But he has disappeared, as so many have, whose fate one
  ‘But I must conclude this letter and slip it out of the city by >*ieans of a swift carrier-pigeon, which will carry it to the post Whence I purchased it, on the borders of Koth. By rider and darnel-train it will eventually come to you. I must haste, before ^lawn. It is late, and the stars gleam whitely on the gardened of Khauran. A shuddering silence envelops the city, in which I hear the throb of a sullen drum from the distant temple. I doubt not that Taramis is there, concocting more devilry.’

  But the savant was incorrect in his conjecture concerning the whereabouts of the woman he called Taramis. The girl whom the world knew as queen of Khauran stood in a dungeon, lighted only by a flickering torch which played on her features, etching the diabolical cruelty of her beautiful countenance.

  On the bare stone floor before her crouched a figure whose nakedness was scarcely covered with tattered rags.

  This figure Salome touched contemptuously with the upturned toe of her gilded sandal, and smiled vindictively as her victim shrank away.

  ‘You do not love my caresses, sweet sister?’

  Taramis was still beautiful, in spite of her rags and the imprisonment and abuse of seven weary months. She did not reply to her sister’s taunts, but bent her head as one grown accustomed to mockery.

  This resignation did not please Salome. She bit her red lip, and stood tapping the toe of her shoe against the floor as she frowned down at the passive figure. Salome was clad in the barbaric splendor of a woman of Shushan. Jewels glittered in the torchlight on her gilded sandals, on her gold breastplates and the slender chains that held them in place. Gold anklets clashed as she moved, jeweled bracelets weighted her bare arms. Her tall coiffure was that of a Shemitish woman, and jade pendants hung from gold hoops in her ears, flashing and sparkling with each impatient movement of her haughty head. A gem-crusted girdle supported a silk shirt so transparent that it was in the nature of a cynical mockery of convention.

  Suspended from her shoulders and trailing down her back hung a darkly scarlet cloak, and this was thrown carelessly over the crook of one arm and the bundle that arm supported.

  Salome stooped suddenly and with her free hand grasped her sister’s dishevelled hair and forced back the girl’s head to stare into her eyes. Taramis met that tigerish glare without flinching.

  ‘You are not so ready with your tears as formerly, sweet sister,’ muttered the witch-girl.

  ‘You shall wring no more tears from me,’ answered Taramis. ‘Too often you have reveled in the spectacle of the queen of Khauran sobbing for mercy on her knees. I know that you have spared me only to torment me; that is why you have limited your tortures to such torments as neither slay nor permanently disfigure. But I fear you no longer; you have strained out the last vestige of hope, fright and shame from me. Slay me and be done with it, for I have shed my last tear for your enjoyment, you she-devil from hell!’

  ‘You flatter yourself, my dear sister,’ purred Salome. ‘So far it is only your handsome body that I have caused to suffer, only your pride and self-esteem that I have crushed. You forget that, unlike myself, you are capable of mental torment. I have observed this when I have regaled you with narratives concerning the comedies I have enacted with some of your stupid subjects. But this time I have brought more vivid proof of these farces. Did you know that Krallides, your faithful councillor, had come skulking back from Turan and been captured?’

  Taramis turned pale.

  ‘What - what have you done to him?’

  For answer Salome drew the mysterious bundle-from under her cloak. She shook off the silken swathings and held it up -the head of a young man, the features frozen in a convulsion as if death had come in the midst of inhuman agony.

  Taramis cried out as if a blade had pierced her heart.

  ‘Oh, Ishtar! Krallides!’

  ‘Aye! He was seeking to stir up the people against me, poor fool, telling them that Conan spoke the truth when he said I was not Taramis. How would the people rise against the Falcon’s Shemites? With sticks and pebbles? Bah! Dogs are eating his headless body in the market-place, and this foul carrion shall be cast into the sewer to rot.

  ‘How, sister!’ She paused, smiling down at her victim. ‘Have you discovered that you still have unshed tears? Good! I reserved the mental torment for the last. Hereafter I shall show you many such sights as - this!’

  Standing there in the torchlight with the severed head in her hand she did not look like anything ever borne by a human woman, in spite of her awful beauty. Taramis did not look up. She lay face down on the slimy floor, h
er slim body shaken in sobs of agony, beating her clenched hands against the stones. Salome sauntered toward the door, her anklets clashing at each step, her ear pendants winking in the torch-glare.

  A few moments later she emerged from a door under a sullen arch that led into a court which in turn opened upon a winding alley. A man standing there turned toward her - a giant Shemite, with sombre eyes and shoulders like a bull, his great black beard falling over his mighty, silver-mailed breast.

  ‘She wept?’ His rumble was like that of a bull, deep, low-pitched and stormy. He was the general of the mercenaries, one of the few even of Constantius’s associates who knew the secret of the queens of Khauran.

  ‘Aye, Khumbanigash. There are whole sections of her sensibilities that I have not touched. When one sense is dulled by continual laceration, I will discover a newer, more poignant pang. Here, dog!’ A trembling, shambling figure in rags, filth and matted hair approached, one of the beggars that slept in the alleys and open courts. Salome tossed the head to him. ‘Here, deaf one; cast that in the nearest sewer. Make the sign with your hands, Khumbanigash. He can not hear.’

  The general complied, and the tousled head bobbed, as the man turned painfully away.

  ‘Why do you keep up this farce?’ rumbled Khumbanigash. ‘You are so firmly established on the throne that nothing can unseat you. What if Khaurani fools learn the truth? They can do nothing. Proclaim yourself in your true identity! Show them their beloved ex-queen - and cut off her head in the public square!’

  ‘Not yet, good Khumbanigash--’

  The arched door slammed on the hard accents of Salome, the stormy reverberations of Khumbanigash. The mute beggar crouched in the courtyard, and there was none to see that the hands which held the severed head were quivering strongly -brown, sinewy hands, strangely incongruous with the bent body and filthy tatters.

  ‘I knew it!’ It was a fierce, vibrant whisper, scarcely audible. ‘She lives! Oh, Krallides, your martyrdom was not in vain! They have her locked in that dungeon! Oh, Ishtar, if you love true men, aid me now!’

  4 WOLVES OF THE DESERT

  Olgerd Vladislav filled his jeweled goblet with crimson wine from a golden jug and thrust the vessel across the ebony table to Conan the Cimmerian. Olgerd’s apparel would have satisfied the vanity of any Zaporoskan hetman.

  His khalat was of white silk, with pearls sewn on the bosom. Girdled at the waist with a Bakhauriot belt, its skirts were drawn back to reveal his wide silken breeches, tucked into short boots of soft green leather, adorned with gold thread. On his head was a green silk turban, wound about a spired helmet chased with gold. His only weapon was a broad curved Cherkees knife in an ivory sheath girdled high on his left hip, kozak fashion. Throwing himself back in his gilded chair with its carven eagles, Olgerd spread his booted legs before him, and gulped down the sparkling wine noisily.

  To his splendor the huge Cimmerian opposite him offered a strong contrast, with his square-cut black mane, brown scarred countenance and burning blue eyes. He was clad in black mesh-mail, and the only glitter about him was the broad gold buckle of the belt which supported his sword in its worn leather scabbard.

  They were alone in the silk-walled tent, which was hung with gilt-worked tapestries and littered with rich carpets and velvet cushions, the loot of the caravans. From outside came a low, incessant murmur, the sound that always accompanies a great throng of men, in camp or otherwise. An occasional gust of desert wind rattled the palm-leaves.

  ‘Today in the shadow, tomorrow in the sun,’ quoth Olgerd, loosening his crimson girdle a trifle and reaching again for the wine-jug. ‘That’s the way of life. Once I was a hetman on the Zaporoska; now I’m a desert chief. Seven months ago you were hanging on a cross outside Khauran. Now you’re lieutenant to the most powerful raider between Turan and the western meadows. You should be thankful to me!’

  ‘For recognizing my usefulness?’ Conan laughed and lifted the jug. ‘When you allow the elevation of a man, one can be sure that you’ll profit by his advancement. I’ve earned everything I’ve won, with my blood and sweat.’ He glanced at the scars on the insides of his palms. There were scars, too, on his body, scars that had not been there seven months ago.

  ‘You fight like a regiment of devils,’ conceded Olgerd. ‘But don’t get to thinking that you’ve had anything to do with the recruits who’ve swarmed in to join us. It was our success at raiding, guided by my wit, that brought them in. These nomads are always looking for a successful leader to follow, and they have more faith in a foreigner than in one of their own race.

  ‘There’s no limit to what we may accomplish! We have eleven thousand men now. In another year we may have three times that number. We’ve contented ourselves, so far, with raids on the Turanian outposts and the city-states to the west. With thirty or forty thousand men we’ll raid no longer. We’ll invade and conquer and establish ourselves as rulers. I’ll be emperor of all Shem yet, and you’ll be my vizier, so long as you carry out my orders unquestioningly. In the meantime, I think we’ll ride eastward and storm that Turanian outpost at Vezek, where the caravans pay toll.’

  Conan shook his head. ‘I think not.’

  Olgerd glared, his quick temper irritated.

  ‘What do you mean, you think not? I do the thinking for this army!’

  ‘There are enough men in this band now for my purpose,’ answered the Cimmerian. ‘I’m sick of waiting. I have a score to ettle.’

  ‘Oh!’ Olgerd scowled, and gulped wine, then grinned. ‘Still thinking of that cross, eh? Well, I like a good hater. But that can wait.’

  ‘You told me once you’d aid me in taking Khauran,’ said Conan.

  ‘Yes, but that was before I began to see the full possibilities of our power,’ answered Olgerd. ‘I was only thinking of the loot in the city. I don’t want to waste our strength unprofitably. Khauran is too strong a nut for us to crack now. Maybe in a year--’

  ‘Within the week,’ answered Conan, and the kozak stared at the certainty in his voice.

  ‘Listen,’ said Olgerd, ‘even if I were willing to throw away men on such a hare-brained attempt - what could you expect? Do you think these wolves could besiege and take a city like Khauran?’

  ‘There’ll be no siege,’ answered the Cimmerian. ‘I know how to draw Constantius out into the plain.’

  ‘And what then?’ cried Olgerd with an oath. ‘In the arrow-play our horsemen would have the worst of it, for the armor of the asshuri is the better, and when it came to sword-strokes their close-marshaled ranks of trained swordsmen would cleave through our loose lines and scatter our men like chaff before the wind.’

  ‘Not if there were three thousand desperate Hyboriaa horsemen fighting in a solid wedge such as I could teach them,’ answered Conan.

  ‘And where would you secure three thousand Hyborians?’ asked Olgerd with vast sarcasm. ‘Will you conjure them out of the air?’

  ‘I have them,’ answered the Cimmerian imperturbably. ‘Three thousand men of Khauran camp at the oasis of Akrel awaiting my orders.’

  ‘What?’ Olgerd glared like a startled wolf.

  ‘Aye. Men who had fled from the tyranny of Constantius. Most of them have been living the lives of outlaws in the deserts east of Khauran, and are gaunt and hard and desperate as man-eating tigers. One of them will be a match for any three squat mercenaries. It takes oppression and hardship to stiffen men’s guts and put the fire of hell into their thews. They were broken up into small bands; all they needed was a leader. They believed the word I sent them by my riders, and assembled at the oasis and put themselves at my disposal.’

  ‘All this without my knowledge?’ A feral light began to gleam in Olgerd’s eye. He hitched at his weapon-girdle.

  ‘It was they wished to follow, not you.’p>

  ‘And what did you tell these outcasts to gain their allegiance?’ There was a dangerous ring in Olgerd’s voice.

  ‘I told them that I’d use this horde of desert wolves to help them destro
y Constantius and give Khauran back into the hands of its citizens.’

  ‘You fool!’ whispered Olgerd. ‘Do you deem yourself chief already?’

  The men were on their feet, facing each other across the ebony board, devil-lights dancing in Olgerd’s cold gray eyes, a grim smile on the Cimmerian’s hard lips.

  ‘I’ll have you torn between four palm-trees,’ said the kozak calmly.

  ‘Call the men and bid them do it!’ challenged Conan. ‘See if they obey you!’

  Baring his teeth in a snarl, Olgerd lifted his hand - then paused. There was something about the confidence in the Cimmerian’s dark face that shook him. His eyes began to burn like those of a wolf.

  ‘You scum of the western hills,’ he muttered, ‘have you dared seek to undermine my power?’

  ‘I didn’t have to,’ answered Conan. ‘You lied when you said I had nothing to do with bringing in the new recruits. I had everything to do with it. They took your orders, but they fought for me. There is not room for two chiefs of the Zuagirs. They know I am the stronger man. I understand them better than you, and they, me; because I am a barbarian too.’

  ‘And what will they say when you ask them to fight for Khauran?’ asked Olgerd sardonically.

  ‘They’ll follow me. I’ll promise them a camel-train of gold from the palace. Khauran will be willing to pay that as a guerdon for getting rid of Constantius. After that, I’ll lead them against the Turanians as you have planned. They want loot, and they’d as soon fight Constantius for it as anybody.’