Conan The Victorious
L. Sprague de Camp & Bjorn Nyberg
Fantastic Universe – September 1957
-
This was the first time he had met this man whom he'd fought as war-chief of the Zuagirs and pirate admiral.
-
—"Know furthermore, O Prince, that Conan the barbarian thus won at last to great fame and high estate as king of Aquilonia, the starry gem of the green West with its gallant nobles, sturdy warriors, intrepid frontiersmen, and beauteous damsels. But dark and terrible forces were at work to rock his throne and wreck his fortune. For, on the night of the feast at Tarantia to celebrate the year of peace that followed the overthrow of the conspiracy of Valerius, Tarascus, and Amalric, and the destruction of the wizard Xaltotun, Conan's lately-wedded queen Z e n o b i a was snatched from the balcony of the palace by a winged shape out of nightmare and borne off eastward. Thinking it better to travel swiftly, anonymously, and alone than to take an army with him, Conan set out in search of his stolen mate. .."
The Nemedian Chronicles.
1. The Ring of Rakhamon
THE SCORCHING afternoon sun cast searing rays across the desert like whiplashes of white fire. Distant groves of palm trees shimmered; flocks of vultures hung like clumps of ripe, black grapes in the foliage.
A solitary rider halted his horse in the shade of the palm fronds that fringed an oasis. Though he wore the snowy khalat of the desert-dwellers, his features belied any thought of Eastern origin. The hand that shaded his questing eyes was broad and powerful and ridged with scars. His skin was browned, not with the native duskiness of the Zuagir, but with the ruddy bronze of the sunbaked Westerner. The eyes were a volcanic blue, like twin pools of unplumbable depth. A glint at his sleeve betrayed the fact that the traveler wore a coat of mail under his flowing dress. At his side hung a long, straight sword in a plain leather scabbard.
Conan had ridden far and fast. Plunging across country with reckless speed, he had broken four horses on his way to Koth. Having reached the expanses of desert that formed the eastern end of the Kothian kingdom, he had paused to buy a khalat and some bread and meat at a dingy, dirty-white border village. Nobody had barred his way, though many an unkempt head was thrust through a door in wonder at the speed of this lonely rider.
Conan's sharp eyes swept the horizon. In the shimmering distance he detected the faint outlines of domed buildings and towering walls.
This, then, would be the town of Khanyria in the kingdom of Khoraja.
Here he would seek the help of Pelias the sorcerer in recovering his stolen queen. Five years before, he had met and befriended Pelias when the Kothian wizard lay imprisoned in the vaults of the scarlet citadel of his foe Tsotha-lanti.
Conan spurred the black stallion towards the distant towers. "Crom!" he muttered. "I hope Pelias is in his full senses. Like as not he's lying drunk on his golden divan, dead to the world. But, by Badb, I'll wake him!"
In the narrow streets and cobbled market-place of Khanyria, a motley throng swirled and eddied. Zuagirs from the desert villages to the northeast, swaggering mercenaries with roving eyes and hands on hilts, hawkers crying their wares, harlots in red kirtles and painted faces milled together in a flamboyant tableau. Now and then the crowd was riven by the armored retainers of a wealthy noble, his perfumed sedan chair bobbing on the shoulders of ebon-skinned, ox-muscled Kushite slaves.
Crassides, the burly captain of the guard at the Western Gate, stroked his graying beard and muttered. Strangers often passed into the city, but seldom such curious strangers as today's arrivals. Early this afternoon, in a cloud of dust stirred up from the desert sands, had come a troop of seven. The rider in the lead was a lean fellow of vulture look, his narrow mustache framing a thin line of mouth. He was armed like a Western knight, though his cuirass and helm were plain, without any device. By his side rode a huge Stygian on a black horse. A khalat enshrouded the Stygian's form, and his only visible weapon was a massive war bow.
The other five were all well armored, wearing serviceable swords and daggers at their sides and holding lances in their hands.
It was not the custom of the Khanyrian city guard to stop strangers without good reason, for here East and West met to mingle, haggle, and trade tall tales. Nevertheless, Crassides cast a searching glance at the seven as they jingled away towards the northern quarter. They disappeared into the profusion of smoky taverns with mongrels yapping about their horses' hooves.
The rest of the day passed quietly, but now it seemed that the trickle of odd strangers must go on. As the sun flung its last rays across the darkening heavens, a tall, burnoosed foreigner reined in before the closed gate and demanded entrance loudly.
Crassides, called to the gate by one of the guards on duty, arrived just as the remaining guard shouted down: "What seek you here, rogue? We let no outlanders in at night to cut our throats and debauch our women! State your name and errand before I clap you in irons!"
The stranger's glowing eyes, half hidden beneath his kaffia, regarded the trooper icily. "My friend," said the stranger in a barbarous accent, "for words less than those I have slit a hundred gullets. Let me in or, by Crom, I'll raise a horde to sack this bunch of hovels!"
"Not so fast!" said Crassides, thrusting the guard aside. "Get down, you young fool, and I'll teach you how to speak to strangers later. Now, you, sir!" He spoke to the horseman. "We want no quarrels in Khanyria, and as you see the gate is closed for the night. Ere we open it, you must account for yourself."
"Call me Arus," growled the stranger. "I seek Pelias the sorcerer."
"Let him in," said Crassides. The heavy bolts were drawn. Two watchmen strained at the bronze handles, and one of the door valves swung slowly open. The stranger cantered through, not even glancing at those around the gate. He headed for the northern district, and the click of his horse's hooves dwindled in the distance.
The discomfited young guard spoke to his captain with restrained heat: "Why do we let this insolent lout ride in as if he were lord of the city? Why not put a shaft through his ribs?"
Crassides smiled through his beard. "Years may teach you wisdom, though I doubt it. Have you never heard how, years ago, a northern barbarian like this one was captured by the warlord of one of the little city-states of Shem to the south? And how he escaped, rounded up a band of outlaw Zuagirs, and came back for vengeance? And how the savage horde stormed the city, putting the people to the sword, flaying captives in the public square, and burning everything except the pole on which the warlord's head was stuck? This fellow might be one of that sort.
"But alone, he can do us little harm. And if he means us ill, Pelias will know it by his arcane arts and take measures. Now do you begin to see?"
Conan knew that Pelias lurked in a tower of yellow stone at the northern end of the city. He planned to visit the wizard first and later to seek board and lodging. Anything would do. His body and tastes had not been softened by his years of civilized life. A loaf of bread, a hunk of meat, and a jack of foaming ale were all he wanted. For sleep, why, he could use the floor of a tavern if all else failed.
There came a muffled oath and a cry of fear. A door to the right flew open, and a young girl flung herself into the street.
Conan reined in. The girl was shaped like one of the mekhrani that people the pleasure houses in the paradise of Erlik's true believers. This Conan could readily see, for her simple dress was torn to tatters, leaving her white rounded thighs but scantily covered. Brushing back the jet-black tangle of hair from her face, she cast a terrified glance towards the door, which had closed behind her. Then her large eyes turned to Conan, sitting his horse like a statue. Her hand flew to her mouth in terror.