The Return of Conan
Bjorn Nyberg and L. Sprague de Camp
For two months after the battle of Tanasul, which destroyed the Nemedian conquerors of Aquilonia and their sorcerous ally Xaltotun, Conan is kept furiously busy by the tasks of reorganizing his kingdom, repairing the damage done by the invaders, and collecting the promised indemnity from Nemedia.
Then Conan prepares to visit Nemedia, to return the captured King Tarascus to his homeland and to fetch back to Aquilonia the girl Zenobia, who saved his life when he was imprisoned in the dungeons of the palace at the Nemedian capital of Belverus. Before his departure, he tactfully dismisses his harem of shapely concubines. With his usual chivalry towards women, he makes a point of finding them husbands or at least other protectors before bidding them farewell.
The journey to and from Belverus is a triumphal procession without untoward incident. Back in Tarantia, Conan celebrates his wedding to Zenobia with all the pomp of which a rich and ancient kingdom is capable. Between the pressure of state business and his absorption in Zenobia, the next few months puss swiftly for Conan. Those who know him best are a little surprised to see the king, in middle age, turn monogamous and even uxorious; but the moody, mettlesome Cimmerian has always been unpredictable. Then, however…
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 Amulric, and the destruction of the wizard Xaltotun, Conan’s lately-wedded queen Zenobia was snatched from the palace by a winged shape out of nightmare and borne off eastward. Thinking it better to travel swiftly, namelessly, and alone than to take an army with him, Conan set out in search of his stolen mate.
THE NEMEDIAN CHRONICLES.
Prologue
The chamber was murky. Long, flaming tapers, set in iron brackets in the walls of stone, dispelled the gloom but little. It was difficult to discern the robed and hooded figure at the unadorned table in the middle of the floor. It was even harder to see the outlines of another form, huddled in the darkness, seemingly engaged in muted speech with the first one.
There was a gust of wind through the room, like the sweep of giant wings. The tapers flickered madly, and the figure at the table was suddenly alone.
CHAPTER 1: Wings of Darkness
The forbidding walls of the royal palace at Tarantia rose in jagged silhouette against the darkening sky.
Watchmen strode along the battlements, halberd on shoulder and sword on hip, but their vigilance was relaxed.
Their eyes strayed often toward the entrance of the palace. Over the lowered drawbridge and under the raised portcullis, gay-clad knights and nobles entered with their ladies.
The sharp eye could discern Prospero, the king’s general and right-hand man, arrayed in crimson velvet with golden Poitainian leopards worked upon his jubon. His long legs measured his strides in high boots of the finest Kordavan leather. There went Pallantides, commander of the Black Dragons, in light armor later to be doffed; Trocero, hereditary count of Poitain, his slim waist and erect carriage belying the silver in his hair; the counts of Manara and Couthen, the barons of Lor and Imirus and many more. All went in with fair ladies in rich silks and satins, while their retainers removed the litters and gilded chariots in which their masters had been conveyed.
Peace reigned in Aquilonia. It had prevailed for more than a year since the last attempt of the king of Nemedia, aided by the revived Acheronian wizard Xaltotun, to wrest the kingdom from Conan. Years before, in his turn, Conan had torn the crown from the bloody head of the tyrant Numedides, whom he slew on the very throne.
But the Nemedian scheme had failed. Heavy damages were exacted, and the withered mummy of the dead Xaltotun was borne away on his mysterious chariot to haunts dark and unknown. King Conan’s power waxed stronger and stronger, the more his people became aware of the wisdom and justice of his rule. The only disorders were the intermittent raids of the savage Picts on the western border. These, however, were held in check by seasoned troops on the Thunder River.
This was a night of feasting. Torches flared in rows about the gate; colorful carpets from Turan covered the coarse flagstones. Gaily-clad servants flitted about, guided and spurred by shouts from the majordomos. This was the night when King Conan gave a royal ball in honor of his queen, Zenobia, one-time slave girl in the Nemedian king’s seraglio. She had aided Conan to escape when he lay a prisoner in the dungeons of Belverus and had been rewarded by the highest honor that could be conferred on a woman of the western lands. She became queen of Aquilonia, the mightiest kingdom west of Turan.
Well could the glittering throng of guests observe the ardent love that bound the royal sovereigns to each other.
It was apparent in gestures, mannerisms, and speech, though Conan’s barbarian blood probably urged him to do away with civilized dissimulation and crush his lovely queen in his strong arms. Instead, he stood at arm’s length from her, answering bows and curtseys with an ease which seemed natural but was really newly acquired.
Ever and anon, though, the king’s eyes strayed toward the far wall, where hung an array of splendid weapons, swords, spears, axes, maces, and javelins. Much as the king loved to see his people at peace, no less could he curb the urge of his barbarian heritage to see red blood flow and to feel the crunch of an enemy’s armor and bones beneath the edge of his heavy broadsword. But now it was time for peaceful pursuits. Conan let his eyes wander back to linger briefly on the fair countess curtseying before him.
Fair were the ladies, and a judge would be sorely put to decide a contest for beauty at least, if he were choosing among the guests. For, in truth, the queen was more beautiful than anyone. The perfection of her form was outlined by the clinging, low-necked gown she wore, with only a silver circlet to confine the foamy mass of her wavy black hair.
Moreover, her perfectly-molded face radiated such innate nobility and kindliness as were seldom seen in those times.
However, if the king was counted fortunate by his fellow men, no less was Queen Zenobia envied by the ladies.
Conan cut an imposing figure in his simple black tunic, with legs clothed in black hose and feet booted in soft, black leather. The golden lion of Aquilonia blazed upon his breast. Otherwise his sole ornament was the slender golden circle on his square-cut black mane. Looking at the great spread of his massive shoulders, his lean waist and hips, and his legs muscled with a tiger’s deadly power, one could see that this was no man born to civilization.
But Conan’s most arresting features were the smoldering blue eyes in the dark, scarred face, inscrutable, with depths no one could plumb.
Those same eyes had seen things undreamed of by this gay throng, had looked on battlefields strewn with mangled corpses, decks running red with blood, barbarous executions, and secret rites at the altars of monstrous deities. His powerful hands had swung the western broadsword, the Zuagir tulwar, the Zhaibar knife, the Turanian yataghan, and the forester’s ax with the same devastating skill and power against men of all races and against inhuman beings from dark and nameless realms. The veneer of civilization lay thin over his barbaric soul.