Conan the Barbarian
Page 25
Conan and Tamara appeared above her, having descended to that level. They wore pitiless expressions. Marique would have smiled at that if she could. Then they vanished.
Then her father came into view, blood smeared on the side of his face, his sword in hand. The mask displayed shock when he saw her. He jogged over and sank to a knee. “Oh, Marique.”
She tried to smile. You can resurrect me. You can make me whole. Please, Father.
Khalar Zym looked down. “I have loved you always, daughter mine. I would have loved you forever, but this proves that things were as I feared. Unlike your mother, you are simply too weak and, therefore, must be surrendered to Death’s embrace.”
CONAN FOLLOWED TAMARA through the labyrinthine Acheronian ruins. They descended another level to get past a point of collapse, then worked their way up two more as the crevasse turned inland. And there, on the other side, he caught sight of what he took to be a sliver of night sky.
“We have to get across.”
Tamara pointed to a bridge. “There.”
Hope speeding them, they raced to the wooden bridge. It consisted of three spans, the middle resting on two columns that the river had not yet eroded. They darted across the first span, which, while a bit rickety, held them above the molten rock. Heat rose from it, but the wood had not charred. Odd sigils had been worked into the wood, and Conan wondered if it had been sorcery which had preserved it.
They had gingerly made their way over the second span when Khalar Zym appeared at the far end. Conan turned to Tamara. “Go. Get free. I’ll stop him.”
“No, Conan, come.” She grabbed his hand. “We can get away.” She pulled and her hand slipped from his as she stepped on the third span.
A board cracked and she fell.
Conan lunged and caught the chain as it unspooled from her forearm. The chain jerked tight, grinding his shoulder socket. He felt her strike the stone column twice. He pulled back and looped a length of chain around his wrist, but the slat he was using for leverage began to splinter.
“Tamara.”
“I’m here, Conan. My shoulder. I can’t pull myself up.”
“I have you.”
“But for how long, Cimmerian?” Khalar Zym sheathed his swords and approached with arms wide. “Beside me, none are equal. Beneath me, all must submit. Before me, all are sacrifices to my glory!” He closed his eyes, basking in the sound of his own voice as it echoed through the ruins. “Maliva, I summon you here!”
Tamara jerked at the end of the chain. An ill wind rose off the lava, lifting clouds of bright embers to swirl like stars through the air. They fell on Conan’s hands and face, singed his hair, and sizzled against his flesh. “Tamara?”
“He’s summoned her, Conan. I can feel her entering me.”
Khalar Zym chuckled and the mask glowed a malevolent green. “Once again, a Cimmerian boy is caught holding a chain.”
“Let me go, Conan. Drop me. I cannot fight her.”
“No!” Conan, on one knee, stabbed the great sword into the railing at the base of the second span. It sank through the wood, splitting a sigil, and struck stone, anchoring him. Muscles bunched and quivered. Pain shot through his shoulders. “His evil kills no more.”
“You’re on one knee already, Cimmerian.” The man-god pressed his hands together. “I offer you what I offered your father. Kneel before me and you shall live.”
“Conan, I can feel her. She’s mad. Worse than the daughter. Drop me!”
“What will it be, Cimmerian?”
Conan, chest heaving, looked at Khalar Zym through sweaty locks of black hair. “Do you want to know why I could beat you when you wielded my father’s sword?”
Khalar Zym’s eyes tightened. “Tell me.”
“He did not make this sword for a boy . . . or a god. He made it for a man.” Conan tightened his hand on the hilt. “A Cimmerian, born to war, who would someday slay a god!”
Conan jammed the blade toward the far side of the bridge. As his father had done when levering ice to cool off a hotheaded son, so Conan levered an aged span of bridge off a tall pillar, and spilled a god toward a hell from which he would never escape. Yet even before Khalar Zym could fall, the realization of doom trapped in his horror-filled eyes, that same blade came up and around in a silver blur. It caught Khalar Zym one last time over the right ear and passed fully through his skull. It shattered the Mask of Acheron as it went, consigning master and device to the molten stone below.
The sword stroke released more magickal energy, which shook the ruins to their heart. Lava splashed below, overrunning what had been the river’s banks. Stones fell. Terraces collapsed. A huge boulder tumbled down and smashed the bridge’s first span to flinders.
Conan stood and hauled Tamara up from the hole. He held tightly for a moment, then retrieved his father’s sword. Together, they tested the planking on the remaining span, but soon gave this up as pointless since falling rocks posed more of a threat to the bridge than breaking boards did to them. At the far side they had to cut back toward the platform as collapsing terraces cut them off from the opening they’d seen.
They burst from the cavern mouth and Conan immediately moved Tamara behind him for cover. While most of Khalar Zym’s troops were fleeing back toward Khor Kalba, two companies had remained. The man-god’s elite guard stood poised with swords drawn to oppose Conan, while fresh recruits huddled in their shadows much as Tamara sheltered in Conan’s.
Conan shook his head. “Your master is dead. His dreams are lost. How many of you wish to die for promises that will never be kept?”
The elite guards’ captain took a step forward. “Some of us fight for duty and honor, not plunder or power.”
A soldier who had lurked behind him stepped halfway around, then pressed a dagger to the throat of Khalar Zym’s man. “And some of us, Captain, fight for our friends.” Behind him, the other recruits similarly threatened Khalar Zym’s last company.
Conan roared with laughter. “Artus! What are you doing here? You were supposed to be warning the world about Khalar Zym.”
“I whispered in the ear of one Shemite merchant, so the rumor is halfway round the world by now.” The Zingaran shrugged. “We actually hadn’t intended on fighting, you see . . . We just wanted to let you know we sail for Hyrkania with the tide, and didn’t want you to be late.”
EPILOGUE
CONAN STOOD ON a hill overlooking a desolate Hyrkanian plain. Tamara stood beside him and Artus waited at the base with the horses. The sun beat down mercilessly, and heat made the land shimmer—though the Cimmerian was certain that the shimmer was not from heat alone.
Tamara smiled. “Yes, Conan, the monastery is out there. I can feel it. I can find my way through the wards.”
“So you will go.”
She reached up and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I have considered what you suggested, but I feel I must.”
He nodded. “You are very loyal to your master.”
“It’s not just him.” Tamara took his hands in hers and turned them over, exposing the chain scars. “Master Fassir told me about Khalar Zym in a roundabout way. He said that there were madmen in the world who saw patterns as portents in almost anything. Those sorts of men were the kind who kidnap children and make other children orphans. He left the monastery to save me from the consequences of such a madman. His burden passed to you. And now I must accept it from you. Somewhere, out there, will be a child who is sought as I was sought. As Master Fassir saved me, so I shall be able to save that child.”
“That child will be very lucky.” Conan smiled. “And the world as well, for your effort.”
Tamara squeezed his hands and looked up into his eyes. “You could come with me.”
“I do not need saving, Tamara Amaliat Jorvi Karushan.”
“The monastery is a place where you can find peace, Conan.”
The Cimmerian pulled her into his arms and gave her a kiss, then released her and took a step back. “I was not born for peace,
Tamara. I am a Cimmerian. I have a sword at my side, a horse to carry me to conquest, and enemies who need to be slain. It is my life, my friend, and I could never know any greater joy.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHAEL A. STACKPOLE is an award-winning novelist, screenwriter, podcaster, game designer, computer game designer, editor, and graphic novelist who is best known for his New York Times bestselling novels I, Jedi and Rogue Squadron. This novel is his forty-fourth to be published. He is currently finishing work on Of Limited Loyalty, the second in the Crown Colonies series. You can learn more about him and his work at his website: www.stormwolf.com.
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Corin (Conan’s father) teaching Young Conan about steel.
Young Conan in the woods, encountering Khalar’s army as they storm toward the village.
Hyrkanian archers from Khalar Zym’s army attacking Conan’s village.
Khalar’s henchmen Remo and Akhoun in Corin’s forge.
Ela Shan and Conan captured.
Fassir telling his vision of a warrior crossing paths with Tamara.
Khalar using his master sword skills during attack on monastery.
Marique tasting the monks’ blood, in search for the Acheronian bloodline.
Conan, now a young man, in pursuit of Remo.
Khalar and the Mask of Acheron.
Tamara attacked by a Sand Warrior at the Shaipur Outpost.
Ukafa and Conan in a wild fight.
Artus and Tamara on the Hornet.
Tamara’s blood reviving the Mask of Acheron.
Marique in her ceremonial garb, searching for Tamara among the Acheronian ruins.
Khalar Zym and Conan facing off in the final battle.