Conan and the Grim Grey God

by Sean A. Moore

  The awkward silence passed; Jade continued. “You and your assassins have tainted our profession, Toj. You are little better than common sell-swords who would slay even their kin for coin.”

  “You and your thieves steal gold or jewels, mere baubles. My assassins and I steal life... and for any man, is not life the most precious treasure he possesses?”

  Jade laughed, a harsh and unnerving sound. “You are vile, Toj— but I need you. I know of none who possesses your skill at murder and lacks any shred of conscience. That is why I am giving you a chance to live.”

  As she spoke, Toj felt a sharp sting, like that of a wasp, in his thigh. He whirled with knife ready, but the darkness—so often his best ally—beset him for the nonce. “What is this outrage, Jade? You dare to—”

  “Toj. Bold you are, to come here without map in hand and demand the ensorceled dagger that I stole from the vaults below the Temple of Set in Luxur. Yes, I have the Red Asp. Now I must know... did you study the guild master’s map?”

  “‘Examine it not,’ you bade me,” the assassin said, his calm voice belying his rising anxiety. Jade had hired him to murder the holder of the map: the Iranistani Guild master of Thieves in Anshan. The fool had stubbornly refused to relinquish the map to Jade.

  Of course, when Toj had withdrawn the map from the slain guild master’s robes and escaped from Anshan, he had glanced at the chart drawn crudely on the parchment. However, Toj dealt in death, not in the translation of foreign scrawlings. “The map—”

  “—is in the hands of Conan,” Jade interrupted curtly, “the Cimmerian who now captains the Barachan Hawk. In fact, he plans to follow the map to the City of Brass on the morrow. Perhaps you were not so fortunate to escape his pirates and their cutlasses.”

  Toj sweated freely, his composure dissolving. “How so, Jade?” Metal clattered on the stone floor near to Toj’s feet. ‘Take the Red Asp, Toj. It is yours.”

  “But—” Toj stammered, then summoned a measure of composure. “Ah! I am to slay this Conan and retrieve the map. Of course. I swear it shall be done... ere the sun rises!”

  “So soon, Toj? I think not. You see, I know something of Conan’s incredible exploits, though never have our paths crossed. Only one possessed of that Cimmerian devil’s unmatched strength and legendary luck could actually reach the City of Brass and retrieve what has lain hidden there for so many centuries. Lest you think to venture there yourself, know this: It is written that a dire curse haunts that city. Any who enter will fall victim to a slow, withering disease for which no cure exists. So you must wait outside the city for Conan. Then—if he bears the prize, dispose of him and bring it to me.”

  “An ingenious plan, Jade. I shall follow him, then, to the City of Brass. Just tell me where he lodges this night and I shall—”

  “In the eastern district. The Stowaway, where rogues of his ilk are wont to squander their plunder. And do not think that you can cheat me, Toj. If Conan fails, I lose nothing. You, on the other hand, may lose everything. For if you leave here and do not return with the statue of pearl that lies buried in the City of Brass, you will die.”

  A cold draft of fear coursed through Toj’s veins. With effort, he steadied his voice, so that his tongue would not betray the feelings in his gut. “What mean you by this, Jade? Poison?”

  Laughter rang out again, harsh and cruel. “Me, a mere thief, poison the Master of Assassins? A rich jest, were it so. But also a futile one. Your Golden Lotus nectar would defeat any poison that even I could find. Nay, the sting you felt came from the tiny jaws of the kalb queen-beetle.

  “She is one of your kind, an assassin of sorts, though not as swift as the notorious Toj. And she is tiny, no bigger than the tip of a seamstress’s needle. Already she is burrowing through your flesh and crawling along your bones, seeking your heart. The food inside your body will fatten her as she wriggles through your innards. You see, the kalb Queen builds her nest in the heart of her host. Therein she will lay many eggs, and dozens of her young will hatch. These offspring will be tiny at first. But they will emerge... hungry. When you bring the statue to me, I shall tell you how to stop the kalb queen from building her nest. Only I have the knowledge that can spare you from this slow, agonizing doom.”

  Toj’s composure fled, leaving raw panic in its place. “How do I know that you will keep your word, Jade? Why should I fetch the statue—I am a dead man no matter what I do!”

  “Ah, Toj, you misunderstand. I have not given you my word, for as we both know, the promise of a thief has less substance than smoke in the wind. Think you that my offer is no better than certain death? By the next full moon, the kalb queen will taste the meat of your beating heart. You will endure suffering that lingers for weeks before the eggs hatch. When the kalb beetles... grow, you will writhe from torments so dire that you will beg for death. Only I can spare you this fate. No, Toj, I know you too well. You will do as I say—not for me, but for yourself.”

  Toj sputtered, his face reddening.

  “It will be difficult,” Jade continued. “Others may try to stop Conan... others with powers that may render even your arts useless if they reach the pearl statue first. We are not the only ones who know that the City of Brass has been found. My spies have brought news that troubles me. If these others should threaten Conan, eliminate them! And make certain that the Cimmerian succeeds, lest those others finish what the kalb beetle has begun.”

  Toj’s voice was feverish. “What others, Jade? I must know everything. And tell me the secret of the kalb beetle now! I swear that I shall never again try to deceive you! What is it? Tell me now, or I shall refuse to go!”

  The only answer to Toj’s plea was silence.

  Moments later, the first ray of dawn crept down the stairs and illuminated a small, circular chamber. Toj’s voice echoed from windowless walls of grey brick. The room was empty but for the assassin and the exotic dagger that lay at his feet.

  The stairway’s collapsed steps had risen back into place. Toj’s hand shook as he picked up the scarlet-bladed dagger. He held it gingerly, almost with reverence, and wrapped it in a makeshift sheath of cloth. For now, he would stow it beside the bladder of Golden Lotus nectar that he kept under his robes, beneath a leather strap that crossed his chest.

  Toj composed himself. With a frown, he fingered the small, tingling wound in his leg. Swallowing the taste of bile that had risen unbidden into his throat, he ran up the stairs to seek out Conan the Cimmerian... the man he would mark for death.

  III

  “Take Him Alive!”

  Sweat streamed down Conan’s neck as he hunched forward on the madly galloping horse. His long black hair swept out behind him like a pennant in a gale, and the wind was an invisible flail that whipped at his face. The Cimmerian wiped at his streaming eyes and glanced back over his shoulder, swearing sulphurously at what he saw.

  He had thought that his steed would outpace his pursuers, but the brigands were steadily gaining. Conan could coax no more speed from his mare; he had taxed the poor beast to its limits. The chase had started at midday, the day after he left Messantia. He had ridden east and south, toward the meadowlands of north-western Shem, avoiding the busy trade routes.

  His course had taken him along the outskirts of Shem’s populous city-states, following an abandoned, weed-choked trail. In many regions hereabouts, there was a price on his head. Were he caught, his past indiscretions and complete indifference to Shemitish laws might land him in a dungeon—or lead him to a more dire fate on an headsman’s block.

  But he had instantly regretted his decision to travel off-road when a disconcertingly large band of riders had descended swiftly from a tree-covered hillock, chasing him with the persistence of Picts on a blood trail. Why were they after a lone man?

  Had there been a mere half-dozen or so ruffians pursuing him, he would have charged into their midst like a juggernaut. However, a coterie of this size would doubtless feather him with arrows before his sword would taste any blood. Shemite
s were accounted to be fine archers. Conan knew that Shemite raiders favoured the short bow for its speed and ease of use, though it lacked the range and power of a crossbow or a fine Hyrkanian bow. But a man with an arrow in his gizzard cares not which weapon loosed it.

  Conan cursed his decision to travel unencumbered by cap or mail. His simple garb consisted of a leather vest—somewhat soiled and bloodied from the recent brawl at the Stowaway—and loose-fitting breeks of silk that tapered near the tops of his sandals. His sword hung from his broad belt, bouncing with the horse’s loping strides, and the hilt of his poniard dug through the thin vest and rubbed at his side.

  The Cimmerian scrutinized the rolling meadows ahead, desperate for any terrain that might provide cover. When he reached the crest of a grassy hillock, he saw the pair of riders. They raced forward at the farthest reach of Conan’s keen eyes. Hah! So these worthies behind him hunted prey other than himself, perhaps. Scanning the sward, he saw deep, widely spaced hoof prints that marked the trail of the pair who galloped yonder. Had he not been so distracted by the pursuit, he would have read these signs sooner. Mayhap his life at sea had dulled his sharp tracking skills.

  If these brigands were after the duo up ahead, he could easily avoid them. Conan veered from the eastward road and charged due south. Before midday, by his reckoning, he should reach the great River Asgalun, which wound eastward through Kyros and Ghaza, two city-states famous for their wine. He grinned. A few goblets of Ghazan wine would slake his thirst better than the Stowaway’s swill that now sloshed in his wineskin.

  Conan’s horse brayed and reared, and the smile fled from his lips as he pitched from the saddle and landed head-first in a patch of thorny weeds. Through the tall grass, the immense snake that had startled his mount began to slither toward him. Its deep-crimson scales and black banding marked it as a deadly Shemitish blood-viper.

  “Crom and Badb!” the Cimmerian bellowed and rolled aside as his panicked steed nearly trampled him. A handspan from Conan’s face, the serpent’s mouth opened wide, its forked tongue flickering between its scimitar-like fangs.

  Conan rammed his poniard through the viper’s triangular skull, pinning it to the ground in mid-strike. The serpent thrashed violently as the barbarian whipped his sword from his belt and lopped off the scarlet head. He yanked his blade from the skewered skull and crawled through the tall grass, lying low in the hopes that his pursuers would _simply ignore him and press on. The pounding of hooves had drawn nearer. Perhaps they had not seen his horse throw him and would chase after the fleeing beast.

  “There he is!” shouted a rider. “Bani, Vulso, Shua—split off and take him alive! The rest of you dogs follow me and tarry not, lest the princess elude us!”

  Conan rose to a low crouch and peered through the weeds. His eyes narrowed to fierce slits as he watched the brigands separate. These Shemitish swine would learn the folly of trying to capture a Cimmerian. As they closed within a stone’s throw, he leapt to his feet with a guttural snarl, sword in one hand and poniard in the other. Then he grunted in surprise, for he could now see that his foes were not mere bandits.

  He faced a trio of asshuri, fighters who had earned their reputation as Shem’s most dangerous mercenaries. Even the knights of Aquilonia grudgingly respected them.

  They swept toward him at full trot, splitting to surround him in a triangle. The sun glinted on rivets of copper that studded their heavy jerkins of banded leather. The foremost warrior reined in and dismounted. He stared at the armed Cimmerian, who calmly stood his ground. The hook-nosed asshuri’s gaze shifted continually from his quarry’s fiery blue eyes to his thickly muscled shoulders to his gleaming blades. Then the Shemite warrior dropped a hand from his bushy, blue-black beard and slid his broadsword from its scabbard. Conan noted with a grimace that its pommel was shaped like the head of a hawk, forged of gold. For an asshuri, an iron hawk marked the slaying of ten men in battle. Bronze represented twenty, silver fifty, and a gold hawk... a hundred or more slain.

  The other two asshuri stayed in the saddle and kept their distance.

  Afoot, their armour would weight them down should their prey decide to bolt.

  The foremost asshuri stepped closer.

  Brave fool, thought Conan. He waits for me to throw my poniard at him, counting on my poor aim or his armour to save him—whereupon the others will disarm and seize me. The Cimmerian grudgingly admired this foe, who had not even tried the coward’s ploy of demanding that Conan surrender himself. Nay, this was a warrior emboldened by many triumphs in battle.

  A tense silence thickened the air as the asshuri took another step.

  Conan burst into action, twisting sideways and hurling his poniard end-over-end—but not at the man on foot. Its blade bit through the jerkin of one of the mounted warriors and sank to the hilt in the man’s belly. He howled in pain and toppled from his horse, writhing on the grass as blood gushed from his wound.

  Conan spun to face the unmounted asshuri. This warrior had already sprung into action, not slowed in the least by his bulky jerkin. His heavy blade clanged against Conan’s scimitar as he parried the Cimmerian’s murderous stroke. Wasting no breath on battle-cry or insult, he launched a vicious counter-attack.

  Conan gritted his teeth. The Shemite was every measure a gold-hawk swordsman. He had a maddening knack for countering every brutal blow that Conan struck. The asshuri’s precise cuts and thrusts showed mastery of a fighting style that prolonged combat and fatigued one’s foeman; the attacks concentrated on Conan’s scimitar, not on-Conan himself. The Cimmerian could have fought in this manner until sunset without growing weary. Of course, Conan had more immediate concerns, namely the other mounted warrior, who was closing in. The beleaguered barbarian changed his tactics and began to back toward the supine Shemite, who lay unmoving.

  The asshuri swordsman neither slowed nor pressed his attack. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he kept up his dizzying bladework. The longer he fought, the more complex his style became, until even Conan could not follow the endless series of remises, redoublements, and ripostes. Conan’s scimitar flashed in response, a blur of flickering steel. The Cimmerian’s movements were purely instinctive; only his unwavering speed and agility made him a match for the masterly asshuri.

  “I have him, Vulso!” the mounted warrior shouted as he bore down on Conan.

  “No, Bani—we take him alive!” the hook-nosed Shemite shouted.

  Conan flexed his knees and bounded backward. He shifted his scimitar to his left hand and ripped his blood-smeared poniard from the fallen asshuri's midriff. The man jerked and moaned weakly.

  Bani’s steed plunged headlong toward the Cimmerian. The asshuri rider leaned from his saddle and raised his sword-arm high for a vicious stroke.

  Conan was forced to throw his poniard against his own backward momentum. Veins in his arm stood out like ropes beneath his skin as the hilt flew from his hand. With a moist smack, the slender blade plunged into Bani’s eye. So powerful was Conan’s arm that the tip of the poniard punched through brain and skull to jut out a handspan from the back of Bani’s head. The warrior toppled from his saddle, dead before he landed on the sward.

  Conan tossed his scimitar from left hand to right and moved warily toward his remaining foe.

  “Nithing!” Vulso hissed. “We would have taken you alive.” His eyes burned with fury.

  “So says the dog to the lion,” Conan growled. “You’ll bum in Hell ere you take a Cimmerian—”

  Vulso went from standstill to lunge, his extended blade hurtling toward Conan like a crossbow bolt.

  Conan had anticipated this tactic. He paused for a heartbeat to time a sweep that would halve the asshuri. In that instant, pain seared his leg. The dying Shemite behind him had managed to thrust his sword through the Cimmerian’s calf. Conan stumbled and parried wildly, his blade meeting naught but air. Only a spine-wrenching sideways twist saved him from impalement. His balance deserted him and he fell heavily to the ground at Vulso’s feet.
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  Lashing out with his boot, Vulso caught Conan on the chin with a forceful kick that snapped the barbarian’s head backward. The asshuri’s sword descended toward the stricken Cimmerian’s neck.

  It met steel with a clang as Conan managed to bring up his blade. He rolled and sprang to his feet with a fierce cry, ignoring the sword that was still lodged in his besmeared leg. Enraged, he set upon Vulso with the fury of wounded tiger. A mighty swing beat Vulso’s sword from his grasp, and another bit into the jerkin, drawing blood from his side.

  The asshuri dove to the ground and tore the blade from Conan’s leg in a fresh spray of blood, throwing his shoulder against the Cimmerian’s knee and knocking him down.

  The two men struggled and rolled. They dropped their swords, useless in hand-to-hand combat. They seemed oblivious to the blood that gushed from their wounds as they pummelled each other, driven to frenzied rage. But Vulso’s jerkin and cap protected his vitals from Conan’s hammer-like blows, whereas the Cimmerian felt the full impact from the asshuri’s copper-studded gloves.

  Conan seized Vulso’s throat with one hand. The Shemite loomed above him, but the Cimmerian bent his good leg and brought it up, shoving the warrior aside. The agile Shemite kicked Conan’s wounded calf and pounced on him again, driving a knee into his gut. Then it was Vulso’s turn to clench the gasping Cimmerian’s throat in a deadly grip.

  Weakened from loss of blood, his lungs emptied of air, Conan felt his strength abandon him. He could not dislodge the asshuri’s hands. His arms dropped to the grass... and his fingers encountered the scaly severed head of the blood-viper. Fortunate that his hand was unscathed! A gurgle issued from his throat as he spent the last of his might smashing the serpent’s skull into the wound that gaped in Vulso’s side. The viper’s poison-sac burst, spraying the asshuri’s insides with lethal venom.