Conan and the Grim Grey God

by Sean A. Moore

  “Aepe, ton-theon, anlala lai gaia! AEPE!” Tevek’s desperate words rang in the hall as the tip of his shadow was sucked into the maelstrom.

  “No!” Thoth-amon snarled and leapt from his throne, slapping his hands together. The vortex shrank and disappeared with his gesture, but two shadowy shapes issued from it before it vanished. They hovered like nebulous grey clouds, then assumed humanoid shape and flitted toward the Stygian.

  “Too late!” Tevek panted. “The dead serve me, Stygian—be they bone or spirit, corporeal or spectral, I am their master!” The words came with effort. Bones were not difficult to control, but formless shades could slip easily from his grasp. They taxed him to his limits; he could not dominate them for long.

  Shadowy fingers groped the dusky-skinned sorcerer. One wrapped grey hands around his throat while another clawed at his eyes. Thoth-amon gasped and blinked as he twisted away from his ghostly assailants. Cursing, he choked out a few harsh, guttural syllables. A green nimbus flickered around the copper ring. It crept up the Stygian’s arm and eventually encompassed his entire body. Beneath his glowing shield, Thoth-amon's face was a contorted mask; veins pulsed in his neck and at his temples. His muscular body trembled as if from great exertion.

  The emerald aura pushed away the shades, who battered it with fists of fog. It rippled, but did not give way.

  Tevek’s shadowy form became hazy, then visible. Mastery of the wraiths had drained his reserves of necromantic energy and forced him to abandon his spectral citadel. With closed eyes, he focused his mind on the shadowy minions, who continued their assault.

  Thoth-amon's black eyes gleamed fiercely. The pulse at his temple quickened, and he began to expand his shield outward, forcing the wraiths farther and farther away from him. He uttered a strange chant; its words crackled in the air like bolts of lightning. He divided his green aura and propelled each half toward a shade, enveloping both in luminous bubbles. Then he closed his hands into tight fists, wrenching cries of anguish from the wraiths.

  The bubbles shrank into tiny spheres, and the howling within was silenced immediately. Thoth-amon sank back into his throne and rubbed his hands together. He glared down at Tevek Thul.

  The necromancer sank to his knees, exhausted. Beaten, he thought dazedly. He hung his head, too weak to face the blast of fire that would soon issue from the Black Ring. The numbness faded from his shaking limbs, and he steadied himself. Ashen tendrils rose from his still-smoking tunic, though he noticed absently that the green fire had not actually burned the fabric. He retrieved his robes from the floor, seeing that they also were intact.

  “Impressive,” boomed Thoth-amon, whose composure had returned. “It seems that the boy whom I met at Nebthu has acquired some measure of competence.”

  Tevek lifted his head and looked into Thoth-amon's appraising eyes. He coughed and willed himself to stand, awaiting the mage’s next words.

  “At your age,” continued Thoth-amon, “I could manage no more than one wraith at a time—and not even the Seers of Mount Yimsha can drag spirits from the Well of Souls to this earthly plane.” He lapsed into silence and mused for a time. “For what purpose do you covet my Black Ring?”

  Tevek cleared his throat. “To excise the Mitra-worshipping scum from Khyfa and reclaim the city, Dread Lord.”

  “’Twere a worthy purpose, in sooth,” murmured Thoth-amon. “The cult of accursed Mitra must be trampled into slime, that Father Set may assume rightful dominion over all. But on your finger, the ring would lack power to defeat the legions of Khyfa. You know not its workings.” He smiled condescendingly. “Now must I must renew the operation that you disturbed.” His eyes flashed briefly, but clearly he had forgiven—though not forgotten—Tevek’s interruption.

  “Ah, Mighty One, I seek the ring for no purpose so base as mortal combat.”

  The Stygian nodded and favoured Tevek with an approving gaze, “Why, then?”

  “With the ring, I—and I alone, meaning no disrespect, Dread Lord—can exhume that which was long buried in time’s cemetery. You see, I have divined the whereabouts of the Grim Grey God.” Thoth-amon gripped the arms of his throne. “Impossible,” he muttered. “Every mage of the First Circle has scryed the length and breadth of the land for any trace of the Brass City of Nithia. Ibis shields it from us. How did you find it?”

  “I did not, Prince of Magicians,” Tevek replied. He felt his strength return, and with it, his confidence. “A common Zamorian found it. He was a smuggler who traded between Khemi and Anshan, in Iranistan.”

  “I know of Anshan. Continue,” commanded Thoth-amon.

  “On his final trek to Anshan, he encountered the brass spire of Ibis’s temple. A violent desert storm had exposed it. Though he knew nothing of its significance, he drew a map to it, which he sold to the thieves’ guild.”

  Thoth-amon's brow furrowed.

  “On his way back from Anshan to Khemi, to avoid a Stygian border patrol, the smuggler crossed into my domain—through Nebthu. He died within sight of its walls, though not by my hand. A curious affliction had stricken him. It had withered the very flesh from his body... and it had turned much of his innards into sand. This I learned when I disassembled him later.” A-chilling smile touched Tevek’s pale lips.

  Thoth-amon raised an eyebrow. “The curse of Solnarus!” “Indeed. Like you, I have perused the Book of Skelos, so I knew at once that this emaciated husk of a man had ventured into Nithia.” Tevek loosened the strings of a magically warded pouch made from the cured flesh of a young virgin. He dumped its contents—coarse, ashy dust—onto the floor. Though still weakened by his conflict with Thoth-amon, Tevek had sufficient energy to perform the rite. He gestured and focused his mind on the fine granules, which stirred lazily and then formed themselves into the shape of a human skull.

  The dusky-skinned Stygian nodded and drummed his fingers together, as if he knew what wizardry Tevek intended and was impatient to see it done.

  “Tell me your name,” Tevek commanded. His voice seemed amplified, as if it came from a chorus of throats. The questioning of the dead could be a tiresome practice. The departed could not lie outright, at least not to a necromancer of Tevek’s skill, but they would mislead if given the chance. By an exhaustive process, Tevek had forced the smuggler to retrace his steps.

  “Har... rab.” The skull’s response came as a distant echo, like the voice of a man at the bottom of a deep pit.

  “Before you died, did you see a brass spire that rose from the desert?”

  “Yes.”

  Thoth-amon interrupted. “So you divined the location of the city. I must hear the rest myself, for this Harrab may have tried to deceive you.”

  Tevek nodded and cleared his throat, then focused his gaze on the skull. “You drew a map to the brass spire?”

  “Yes.”

  “What became of this map?”

  “Sold.”

  “To whom did you sell it?”

  “Ib... har... am.”

  “Where did you sell it?”

  “An... shan.”

  “The map—it was accurate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ibharam of Anshan—what is his profession?”

  “Guild... mas... ter... thieves.”

  “Rest, Harrab.” Tevek gestured, and the skull fell into dust. He took a piece of folded parchment from the pouch, knelt and carefully swept the dust back in. “The Brass City lies south-east of Shushan, in Shem’s eastern desert. Only with your Black Ring can I safely retrieve the Grim Grey God—and when I command its powers, Khyfa will fall!”

  “You said that you alone could fetch the idol. What is to stop me?”

  “There is danger to you far greater than the curse,” Tevek said softly. “You have sworn fealty to Set. In the ancient scrolls of Siptah’s, I once read a warning that any follower of Set who enters the city will awaken Ibis and risk the destruction of the pearl god. Siptah wrote that the worship of accursed Ibis empowered Nithia with strong wards against those loyal
to Set’s purpose. Dare you to test the wards—can the Black Ring protect you from a god? As for me, my deeds serve Set’s purpose more often than not, but I have sworn no oaths to him. My own gods are many: Ereskigal, Heret-Kau, Nephthys, Serkethetyt, Ta’xet, and Thanatos.”

  A scowl darkened Thoth-amon's features, but the Stygian made no contradictory remarks. His attempts to destroy the priests of Ibis had failed too often for him to doubt that god’s powers.

  “Let me undertake this quest, Dread Lord,” the necromancer continued. “Would it not please Set to see his worship resumed in Khyfa? When I command the Grim Grey God, I swear that ten thousand souls of Khyfa’s Mitra-worshipping sheep shall be sacrificed to Set. Their blood shall desecrate Ibis’s sanctuary there and anoint the stones of a new Temple of Set.”

  Green fire flickered in Thoth-amon's black eyes while he contemplated the necromancer’s words. He nodded solemnly, and his scowl retreated. Leaning forward, he lowered his hand to the floor. Like a living serpent, his copper ring uncoiled itself from his finger and slithered toward Tevek. “The Black Ring is yours for a time, until I recall it to my hand.”

  Tevek’s brow furrowed as he knelt to receive the tiny snake. It wound itself about his finger and clasped its tail in its jaws, then again became an inanimate ring. Immediately he felt its power infuse him; his vision blurred as the Black Ring hurled its dark energy at his body and mind in overpowering waves. It seemed to him that he stood in the centre of an icy inferno whose frozen flames flicked at him like black tongues, stinging him wherever they touched him. The agony was unbearable. Marshalling his willpower, he pushed the agony from his mind and rose to his feet.

  The biting bonfire abated.

  He stood in Thoth-amon's hall.

  “‘The Black Ring will serve those it consumes not,’” Thoth-amon muttered under his breath, perhaps recalling the time when the ring had first become his. “Know this, Tevek Thul,” he admonished, his voice clear and strong. “When you channel the Black Ring’s power, you summon a demon that can serve you—or destroy you. Conjure no demon too great for you to master.”

  Tevek held up his hand and stared in wonderment at the ring. Through his veins surged icy rivers of power, which he could divert at will to serve his purposes. In a flash of insight, he realized that they had always flowed within him; their currents had driven his necromancies. The effort to perform his sorceries had been in the finding of these elusive currents.

  With the ring, he would no longer waste time on such laborious searches. Evocations that heretofore had taken exhaustive preparation would become effortless with the Black Ring. The coppery coils possessed no intrinsic power—only the ability to focus energy that was already there. The cold fire he had felt before had not emanated from the ring... it had been inside him.

  “Do not accustom yourself to it, necromancer,” Thoth-amon cautioned. “Even without my ring, I am more than a match for you.” The Stygian stretched out his arms and spread them apart. In the air between his palms, the ghostly image of a white candle appeared. A thin, black flame sputtered from its wick.

  “The Taper of Death—nay, it cannot be!” shouted Tevek in outrage, recognizing the Stygian’s ploy at once. The insidious death-spell took days of preparation, but Thoth-amon had cast it without apparent effort, and without the aid of the ring. Even the Black Seers of Mount Yimsha, who had formulated the enchantment, could not have cast it so quickly. Tevek had once laboured to interpret their convoluted spell books, but had eventually deemed them unworthy of the effort. Thoth-amon had obviously fared better in his studies.

  “Doubt it not, impudent one,” Thoth-amon replied, a trace of smugness deepening his voice. “Your soul is melting. Only 1 can stop it. Your messenger did arrive, you see. My arts then made me aware of your find. While your skeletal caravan dragged you toward me, I wove this spell. I suffered you to enter my domain to test you, and to learn of your true purpose. Think you that Thoth-amon is naught but a myrmidon of Set? Hah! You have much to learn, presumptuous heathen.” His scornful words trailed off to a hideous chuckle. “Now your lesson begins.”

  Tevek gritted his teeth. Even with his new-found power, the death-spell could not be undone. Thoth-amon had outwitted him.

  “Go to the Brass City, retrieve the Grim Grey God and bring it to me,” Thoth-amon commanded. “For you spoke truly of the danger that lurks there for one steeped in Set’s power. But the idol’s powers will not be used for your selfish, small-minded schemes of vengeance. To subjugate Khyfa, you would presume to use my ring? As well swing a mattock to squash a midge.” Thoth-amon stared thoughtfully at the phantom candle between his hands. “When you return, I shall have my Black Ring and the Grim Grey God. Then the worship of Mitra, Ibis, and every other false deity shall be eradicated forever from the world. Take comfort in the certainty that if you succeed, the Khyfans will suffer—as will all who have opposed Father Set’s purpose. And it is only for the furtherment of His purpose that I suffer you to wear my ring.”

  Tevek considered focusing the ring’s energy to direct a withering blast of force at the smug Stygian. A pointless waste, he decided. The candle—his life-force—would continue to bum slowly down, even if Thoth-amon were destroyed.

  When the wick’s flame died, so would Tevek.

  The necromancer squinted. Had the candle’s height lessened already? How much longer did he have before the spell reached its inevitable conclusion? He was wasting precious time! Without another word, Tevek spun and stormed out of the hall.

  Thoth-amon's sibilant laughter echoed on the stones and followed Tevek up the steps.

  Outside, the necromancer spared no more time studying the oasis. He walked unmolested past the oily black pool and reassembled his skeletal coterie. The Khyfans will suffer, he mused repeatedly as his steeds carried him toward the City of Brass. Khyfa would fall, though Thoth-amon's death-spell would soon claim him. His own life was not too great a price to pay for vengeance upon the Khyfan murderers. And he might yet devise a means to escape from the Set priest’s web of death.

  Though cold night had not yet settled across the desert sands, a bitter chill effused the air about Tevek Thul.

  VII

  Varhia

  Conan had led Kylanna out of Kyros without pause, and their sweat-lathered horses were exhausted. They crossed into Ghaza at midday. Conan finally halted at a small brook to let their steeds lap greedily at the cool water. He dismounted to work some of the stiffness out of his wounded leg, and to refill two waterskins. The Cimmerian splashed his face and let the water run down his chest and back. He felt instantly refreshed.

  Kylanna squirmed in her saddle. She yawned and stretched, shading her face from the bright sun and searching the northern horizon.

  Conan watched with amusement as the girl sought a more comfortable position for her shapely backside, which would no doubt ache on the morn. They had covered considerable ground; the Cimmerian had set a brutal pace and ridden hard across the hilly countryside. After a half-day of bouncing atop a galloping beast, all but the most accomplished of riders would be saddle-sore. Conan felt none of this himself, though his leg still ached from his recent tussle with the asshuri. Kylanna, for her part, had not complained at all. He was grudgingly impressed by her stoicism. In his experience, royalty were generally unused to the hardships of the road, for they often travelled in the plush comforts of carriages or atop cushioned mounts, while servants attended them. Evidently, this princess was different.

  Kylanna’s soft and curvaceous body concealed her toughness. Conan surreptitiously slid his gaze from her calf to her bared thigh, admiring one long, shapely leg. Her damp tunic clung to her full breasts, which swayed gently as she shook her hair to rid it of dust and sweat.

  “I see no mountains yet,” Kylanna stated in a disappointed tone. She smoothed her hair back and let it fall across her bare, deeply tanned shoulders.

  Conan splashed more cold water on his face to cool himself off. By Crom, the sight of her could set a
man’s blood afire. “Aye, not yet.” His throat had become hoarse, either from the ride or from his thoughts of the girl. The noble-born princess had vociferously expressed her opinion of Conan, quashing any thoughts he might have of proposing a different sort of reward for escorting her home. And Conan, though a barbarian, harboured no intention of forcing himself upon her. Though Cimmerians were savages, they took no woman without her freely given consent. Conan reluctantly took his eyes from her alluring body, swallowed a mouthful of water, and swung himself back into his saddle. “We must pass the night near Ghaza and ride north-east tomorrow afore we reach the border of Koth. Then we shall fetch the tiara and get you back to Arenjun.” “Why do we not ride due north? I know something of these lands, from the maps carried by my unfortunate captain. Does not this north-eastern jaunt prolong our ride by a day or more?”

  “We must avoid Duke Balvadek’s lands. That pot-bellied old goat would have me gutted on sight.”

  Kylanna rolled her eyes. “What manner of brigand are you? By Bel, what murder or thievery did you commit to earn his wrath?” “Neither,” Conan answered with a roguish grin. “He has twin daughters, whom I met by chance when escorting one of Duke Reydnu’s diplomats to Balvadek’s castle. Reydnu rules over a nearby city-state, and was seeking an alliance with Balvadek, you see. Anyway, the wenches took a liking to me and told me of a secret way into their quarters, whereupon that night I—”

  “Enough,” Kylanna sighed. “Sicken me not with details of your rutting with these slatterns. So, Balvadek learned of your romp and was rightfully incensed.”