Conan Chronicles 2

by Robert Jordan

  Again an owl cried, and Conan’s mind went to Narus’ words. Perhaps the cry did mean death, his or someone else’s. Crom, the fierce god of the harsh and icy land where he was born, gave a man life and will, but the grim Lord of the Mound never promised that life would be long, nor that will would always prevail. A man could but fight and keep fighting so long as breath or life remained.

  The Cimmerian did not slow until the massive walls of the royal palace loomed before him, crenelations and towertops only shadows against the ebon sky. The thick, iron-sheathed gates were closed and barred, the portcullis down, but he spared not a glance in that direction. Such was not his means of entry this night.

  His fingers felt across the surface of the wall, featureless in the blackness. Long centuries past had the great wall been built, of stones each weighing more than twenty times as much as a big man. Only the largest trebuchet could hurl boulders weighty enough to trouble its solidity, but Conan did not mean to batter a way through. Those years had leeched at the mortar between the great stones, leaving gaps that made an easy path for one mountain-born.

  With agile sureness Conan climbed, fingers and toes searching out the grooves where wind and rain and time had worn away the mortar, mighty muscles straining to pull him up where there was but room for fingernails to grip. Below was only the long, bone-shattering drop to pavement now swathed in the night, yet he did not slow in his swift ascent of that sheer wall. Time pressed on him too greatly to allow room for caution.

  At the top of the wall he paused between two tall merlons topped with stone leopards, ears straining for the scuff of boots on the rampart, the creak of leather and armor. A combat there with guards would surely doom his quest before it had truly begun. There was no sound. Conan drew himself through the crennel. No guards were atop the wall. The palace was silent as a tomb. It seemed Iskandrian had left only men for the gates; the White Eagle would strike hard, as was his wont.

  From the rampart a curving ramp led down toward the outer bailey. There, however, he would surely be seen, no matter how few guards had been left behind or how many servants hid in fear that too-ardent service to him who now wore the crown might be punished if he lost it. Rooftops must be his path. The nearest, a wing of the palace, lay but an easy jump from the ramp for a vigorous man. Easy if the approaching run could be made on level ground rather than down a steep ramp, and if a three-story drop to the granite paving of the bailey were ignored.

  Conan measured distances and angles, then took a deep breath and sprinted down the ramp. At the sixth great stride he flung himself across the chasm. Fingertips caught at the edge of the roof. One tile broke free, spiraling into the dark to shatter on the stones below; for an instant the Cimmerian hung by one hand. Slowly he hauled himself up, swung to hook a leg over the edge. The tile he held to shifted under his hand. Then he was flat on the roof, carefully setting aside the loose tile and quieting his breath as he waited to see if the noise of the first tile’s fall drew attention. Still nothing stirred.

  Like a jungle beast Conan was up and running, feet sure on the slanting tiles, climbing granite gargoyles to a higher level, leaping from a balcony tiled in black and white marble to clutch at a high peaked gable, edging with chest pressed flat against smooth granite along a ledge wide enough only for the balls of his feet, then climbing again, past mullioned windows and trefoils, until at last he scrambled through a narrow ventilation arch and looked down from great height on the vast throne room of the royal palace.

  Great golden lamps hung on thick chains of the same metal from the vaulted ceiling, their bright flames lighting well the floor far below, a floor mosaicked in huge representations of the leopards and eagles that were the royal symbols of Ophir. In the middle of that floor was a black-shrouded bier on which Valdric’s body lay in state, clothed in ornate robes of gold embroidered purple set with pearls. No living man was there to keep vigil over the dead King.

  Conan’s eyes sought the throne. Like unto the great chair in which Antimides had sat it was, covered in leopards and eagles, but larger still and of solid gold. The beasts’ eyes were rubies, and claws and talons clutched emeralds as large as the joint of a man’s thumb. Of the crown there was no sign. Ancient law or no, the Cimmerian though; Valentius had not found it in himself to part with the royal diadem for even nine days once he had gained it. Yet what he sought was there. Across the arms of the throne lay the scepter of Ophir, its golden length glittering with an encrustation of all manner of gems.

  Carefully Conan let himself down inside the throne room, using the scrolls and arabesques carved in the marble walls to climb down until he reached their end, some twenty feet above the floor. Here great tapestries hung. He ripped loose a corner of one—a scene of a crowned King hunting deer from horseback—and let himself drop, swinging on it as at the end of a rope. His feet brushed the floor, and he released the tapestry to run to the throne.

  Almost hesitantly he hefted the long scepter. So much had he risked on the word of a drunk, and so much depended on it. Hastily he produced his dagger and began prying away soft gold and sparkling jewels, letting them fall to the purple velvet cushion of the throne. At the sight of wood beneath he grunted in satisfaction, but continued until he had stripped away all the outer sheath. He was left with a plain wooden staff as long as his outstretched arms and as thick as his two thumbs together.

  Yet could it be in truth the Staff of Avanrakash, he wondered. He felt no magical qualities in it, and it showed no signs of its supposed great age. In fact, had it been a walking staff he would have thought it cut no more than a few days previous.

  “But it was within the scepter,” he breathed, “and it is all I have.” For luck he scooped a handful of gems from the cushion, not bothering to see what they were, and stuffed them into his pouch.

  “A common thief,” Taramenon said from the door to the throne room. “Will not Synelle be surprised when she returns to find your head on a spike atop the River Gate?”

  Conan reached over his shoulder; his sword slid easily into his grasp. The staff clutched in his left hand, he strode toward the tall noble. He had no words to say, no time for words. Even so in a corner of his mind lust flared at the mention of the woman’s name. Synelle. How could he have gone so long without thinking of her? How could he have gone so long without touching her? The frozen rage of battles forced the thoughts down, smothered them.

  Taramenon threw aside his fur-trimmed scarlet cape and drew his own blade. “I but stepped in here a moment to spit in Valdric’s face. To offer obeisance to a corpse that was half-rotted before even it died turned my stomach. Finding you is a pleasant surprise I did not expect.” Abruptly rage contorted his face into an ugly mask. “I will tell her of your death when I see her this night. Your filthy hands will never touch her again, you barbarian swine!” Snarling he rushed forward, swinging his blade in a mighty chop at Conan’s head.

  The Cimmerian’s broadsword met Taramenon’s with a tremendous clash. The Ophirean’s eyes widened at the force of the blow, but on the instant he struck again. Again Conan’s blade met his in a shower of sparks. Taramenon fought with all the deadly finesse of one who was the finest swordsman in Ophir, his longsword as agile and swift and deadly as a Kothian viper; Conan fought with the cold ferocity of a northland beserker, his steel the lightning of the Cimmerian crags. Conan had no time to waste in defense—he must conquer, and quickly, or the noise of the fight would draw others, and he might well be overwhelmed by sheer numbers—but his constant attack left no room to Taramenon for aught but defense.

  Sweat rolled down the face of the finest blade in Ophir as he found himself forced back, ever back, by an implacable demon with a face of stone and icy blue eyes, eyes in which depths he could read his own death. Panic clouded Taramenon’s face, and for the first time in his life he knew fear. “Guards!” he screamed. “A thief! Guards!”

  In that brief instant of divided attention Conan’s blade engaged that of the tall Ophirean, brought it down, a
round, thrust under it. Chain-mail links snapped, razor steel sliced through muscle and bone, and the Cimmerian’s sword hilt slammed against Taramenon’s chest.

  Conan stared into dark incredulous eyes. “Synelle is mine,” he grated. “Mine!”

  Blood bubbled from Taramenon’s mouth, and he fell. Conan stared at the body in wonder before remembering to pull his sword free. Why had he said such a thing? Synelle was of no import in this. Karela was important, Al’Kiir and the staff and getting to the crossroads quickly. Yet images suppressed by events rose unbidden, sleek thighs and satin skin and swelling breasts and … Shaking his head woozily he half-staggered to Taramenon’s discarded cape to clean his bloody blade and cut strips to bind the staff across his back. Was he going mad, he wondered. Visions of Synelle kept crowding his brain, as if time spent not thinking of her had to be made up. Desperately he forced them back. The crossroads, he thought. The crossroads, and no time.

  Running to the half-torn-down tapestry, he began to climb. Synelle. The crossroads, and no time.

  XX

  Karela grunted as the sack in which she was carried was upended, dumping her still bound and naked, onto cold stone. After the darkness light blinded her, filling her eyes with tears. The tears infuriated her, she would not have those who had taken her prisoner think they had reduced her to crying. Blinking, she was at last able to make out the roughly cut stone walls of what seemed to be a small cave, lit by rush torches in black iron sconces.

  She was not alone, she realized. Synelle was there, and four other women, alabastrine-skinned blondes who seemed to wear variations of one face. The noblewoman was not dressed as when last Karela had seen her. Now she wore bracelets of black iron chain on each wrist, and two narrow strips of ebon silk, before and behind, leaving the outer curves of hips and breasts bare, were all her garb save for a belt of golden links. Karela stared when she saw the buckle. It was the head of the malevolent bronze she had sold—tried to sell, she thought ruefully—but rendered in gold. A chaplet of gold chain encircled Synelle’s silvery tresses, severely braided into a coronet, and on that golden band, too, were the four horns of that demonic figure.

  The other women were dressed as was Synelle, but the narrow belts cinching their waists were of black iron, and dark metal enclosed their ankles and necks as well. Their hair, neatly coiled about their heads, bore no headdress. With bowed heads their humbly alert eyes watched the exotically beautiful noblewoman.

  Karela swallowed hard, and was reminded again how dry was her throat. Had she the use of her mouth she would tell this Synelle she could have Conan. It would be a lie—she would not be driven from her business with the Cimmerian by this pale-haired trull who called herself a lady—but lying seemed much the better part of valor at the moment.

  Synelle nodded, and the four women in iron belts produced leather straps. Karela jerked futilely at her bonds despite herself. If only she had a dagger, or but a single hand free, or even her tongue to shout her defiance at them.

  “Listen to me, wench,” Synelle said. “These women will prepare you. If you fight, they will beat you, but in any event they will carry out my orders. I would have you as little marked as possible, so if you will submit, nod your head.”

  Karela tried to shout through her gag. Submit! Did this fool woman think she was some milksop maiden to be frightened by threats? Her green eyes hurled all her silent fury at Synelle.

  Abruptly Synelle moved, placing a foot on Karela’s knees, bound beneath her chin, to roll her onto her back and hold her there. “A taste, then. Cut well in.”

  The other women darted forward, their leather straps slicing beneath Karela’s corded heels, raining blows on her helpless buttocks, drawn taut by her tying.

  Her green eyes bulged in her head, and she had an instant to be grateful for the gag that held back her cries, then her head was nodding frantically. Derketo! There was no use in being beaten while lying missed like a pig for market.

  Synelle motioned the women back. “I was sure you would be reasonable.”

  Karela tried to meet the dark eyes staring down at her, then closed her own in humiliation. It was clear from the look on Synelle’s face that she had never doubted that the red-haired woman could be brought to heel. Let them free her, Karela prayed, and she would show them the worth of pledge wrung from whips. She would …

  Suddenly the cords binding her were severed. Karela caught a flash of a dagger. She moved to grab it … and sprawled in boneless agony on the stone floor, muscles stiff from long confinement barely able to do more than twitch. Slowly, painfully, she brought a hand up to drag the gag from her mouth. She wanted to weep. The dagger was gone from sight, and she had neither seen who had held it nor where it was hidden.

  Even as she dropped the wadded cloth two of the women pulled her to her feet. She gasped with the pain; had they not supported her she could not have stood. One of the others began drawing an ivory comb through her tangled locks, while the last wiped her sweat away with soft, damp clothes.

  Karela worked her mouth for the moisture to speak. “I’ll not sell you to a tavern,” she managed. “I’ll tear your heart out with my bare hands.”

  “Good,” Synelle said. “I feared your spirit might have been broken. Often the journey here, bound, is enough for that. It is well that it was not in your case.”

  Karela sneered. “You want the pleasure of breaking me yourself, then? You will not have it, because you cannot do it. And if you want Conan back—”

  “Conan!” the noblewoman cut her off, dark eyes widening in surprise. “How do you come to know of the barbarian?”

  “We were once,” Karela began, then spluttered to a halt. She was tired, and spoke of things of which she had no wish to speak. “No matter how I know of him. If you want him, you’ll cease your threats and bargain.”

  Synelle trilled with laughter. “So you think I merely attempt to dispose of a rival. I should be furious that such as you could think of yourself as my rival, but I find it merely amusing. I expect he is a man who has known many women in his time, and if you are one of that number I see he has little discrimination in his choosing. That is at an end, now.” She held out a slender palm. “I hold the barbarian there, wench. He will crawl to me on his belly when I call him, dance like a bear for a tin whistle at my command. And you think to be my rival?” She threw back her head and laughed even harder.

  “No woman could treat Conan so,” Karela snapped. “I know, for I have tried, and by Derketo, I am ten times the woman you are.”

  “You are suitable for the rites,” the silver-haired woman said coolly, “but I am High Priestess of Al’Kiir. Yet were I not, you would still not be woman enough to serve as my bowermaid. My tirewomen were nobly born in Corinthia, and she who draws my bath and rubs me with oils was a princess in far Vendhya, yet to obey my slightest wish is now the whole of their lives. What can a jade of a bandit be beside such as they, who are but my slaves?”

  Karela opened her mouth for another retort, and gasped when a black-armored man in a horned helmet appeared in the entrance to the cavern. For an instant she had thought it was the creature the bronze represented. Foolishness, she berated herself. Such a creature could not exist.

  “Has Taramenon come yet?” Synelle demanded of the man.

  “No, my lady. Nor any message of him.”

  “He will suffer for this,” Synelle said heatedly. “He defies me, and I will see him suffer for it!” Drawing a deep breath, she smoothed the already taut black silk over her rounded breasts. “We will proceed without him. When he comes, he is to be seized and bound. There are rites other than the gift of women.”

  “Taramenon, my lady?” the man said in shocked tones.

  “You heard my command!” Synelle made a brusque gesture, and the armored figure bowed himself from her presence.

  Karela had been listening intently, hoping for some fragment of information that might help her escape, but now she became aware of how the four women were dressing her, t
he tiny white tarla blossoms woven into her hair, the diaphanous layers of blue silk meant to be removed one by one for the titillation of a groom.

  “What travesty is there?” she growled. “You do think me a rival, but if you mean to rid yourself of me in this way, you are mad! I’ll marry no man! Do you hear me, you pasty-faced trull?”

  A cruel smile curled Synelle’s lips, and the look on her face sent a chill through Karela’s blood. “You will marry no man,” the haughty noblewoman said softly. “Tonight you will wed a god, and I will become ruler of Ophir.”

  The tall white marker at the crossroads, a square marble pillar inscribed with the distances to the borders of Nemedia and Aquilonia, loomed out of the night ahead of Conan. No sound broke the silence save his labored breath and the steady slap of his running feet on the paving stones. Beyond the marker reared the dark mass of Tor Al’Kiir, a huge granite outcropping dominating the flat country about it.

  The big Cimmerian crouched beside the marble plinth, eyes straining at the blackness. There was so sign of his men. Softly he imitated the cry of a Nemedian nighthawk.

  The muted jingle of tight-strapped harness announced the sudden appearance of Machaon and the rest, leading their horses. Memtes, bringing up the rear, gripped the reins of Conan’s big Aquilonian black as well as those of his own mount. Bows and quivers were slung on their backs.