Conan and the Grim Grey God

by Sean A. Moore

  “Nay, their husbands arrived the following morning, returning early from a campaign, and awakened the three of us. Those two armoured fools, led into folly by their rage, rushed at me with drawn swords. They left me no choice but to hew down both of them in self-defence.”

  “Husbands—hmph! Even in Arenjun’s Maul there are few cretins as scurrilous as- you, to bed with wives and murder their men on the morn.”

  “They mentioned no husbands to me. Those two short-bearded, fumbling fools were doubtless as forgettable in bed as they were in battle. Anyway, Balvadek has since longed to see me swing from a gibbet outside his front gate. So today we ride north-east. You see, never has Reydnu cooperated in any way with Balvadek, before or after that ill-fated diplomatic fiasco. Their fathers feuded, and their fathers’ fathers. Nay, there can be no peace between Balvadek and Reydnu.”

  Kylanna shook her head in disgust. “So Ghaza is safe? You are not wanted for crimes there, as you are in Kyros and every other city-state in this backward land?”

  “No,” Conan replied cheerfully. “That is, Ghaza is not safe for us. Few places in Shem would offer us haven. But Duke Reydnu has no cause to stick my head on a pike, and I know a border village with a small inn where we can obtain a room—”

  “I shall not pass the night with you, barbarian,” Kylanna laughed. “Nor shall I share my bed with the legions of crawling vermin that infest border-village inns. You shall find for me a suitable lodging with clean linens, a bathhouse, and proper food. Oh, and a seamstress as well, to fashion new garments for me. You may stay in the stable with the other beasts and lie abed with the hogs and rodents, with whom you share kinship. The worth of my tiara will more than compensate you for such trifling expenses as we incur.” She reached for a full waterskin and took a long drink.

  Conan stared at her incredulously. “Badb and Lir, wench! Were my purse heavy enough to afford such rooms, I would not lighten it thusly. We must avoid Shem’s cities, and we can afford no dalliance. Clean linens—new garments—fah! Such a foppish place would be watched carefully by the rumourmongers in Ghaza, and everyone from beggar to noble would hear of your arrival. Nay, we shall stay in the village of Varhia at the Sooty Boar, where the beds cost less than the ale and the proprietor asks no questions.”

  Kylanna wrinkled her nose in distaste. “The Sooty Boar? By comparison, an asshuri prison is doubtless a palace. Yet I suppose that some hardships must be endured on the long road home.” She sighed heavily. “Very well, barbarian. Onward, to this offal pile of which you speak.”

  With effort, Conan smoothed the frayed edges of his temper and slapped the rump of his horse. He sullenly led Kylanna north-eastward at a steady canter. The wench seemed to forget already that danger still dogged their path. The Cimmerian would see her safely home, as he had sworn to do. But he was a warrior, not a lackey, and her haughty tone set his teeth on edge.

  Conan was beginning to regret this whole venture. His Hawk and Rulvio would wait, but Conan still needed time to follow his map before he returned to Messantia. If he could secure both the tiara and the treasure of the Brass City, he could hand over his ship to her first mate and crew. His new-found wealth would amount to more than ten years of piracy would yield. He would live in places of his own choosing, drinking and wenching at will, fighting whatever battles he wished for either profit or pleasure. Ensconced in these happy thoughts, Conan plodded onward, sparing the occasional backward glance to see that Kylanna stayed close and that no others followed.

  Across meandering brooks and verdant landscape they proceeded, until the hills to the west hid the edge of the sun. Conan felt a strange mixture of relief and boredom. The asshuri’s failure to pursue them had made the day uneventful, and Kylanna had apparently deemed his unworthy of conversation. He judged that they would reach Varhia before nightfall. Conan was far from weary, but their steeds needed rest and Kylanna had begun to slump in her saddle.

  The prospect of a seared joint of mutton and a frothy jack of ale bolstered him. As he recalled, the Sooty Boar’s fare was rough, but hearty. The inn’s patrons were primarily tradesmen or their men-at-arms, passing the night on the long road to or from Ghaza’s capital city. Conan stretched and briefly looked over his shoulder.

  Breath hissed between his teeth.

  Had he seen a rider on a horse, far to the south, at the farthest reach of his gaze? Conan could swear that from the comer of one eye he had glimpsed furtive movement. He studied the landscape, but now saw only the lazily flowing brooks and sprawling fields of waist-high greenery. The terrain afforded no features that would conceal a man on horseback, so Conan reluctantly concluded that sun-lengthened shadows had deceived him. If someone were following them, the Cimmerian would surely have felt the presence of eyes on his back, like a clammy trickle of invisible sweat; that faint but unsettling sensation had saved him more than once.

  Kylanna’s gaze shifted to meet his. Her expression was one of mild curiosity, though she queried him not.

  Conan simply turned around and led his horse onward, as if nothing unseemly perturbed him. If they were being followed, it was not by the asshuri. Those Shemites fought superbly, but lacked stealth. Only the crafty Picts, woodland warriors of a land far to the north and the west, had ever been able to deceive Conan’s keen senses. Pictish scouts could creep unseen behind a stalking panther.

  “How distant is this dung heap. of a village?” Kylanna griped as she spurred her horse forward. “I have grown fatigued from this day’s ride and am so famished that even the repulsive fare of your wretched inn may seem palatable.”

  “Not far.” Conan ignored her haughty tone, preoccupied by the notion that someone followed them. He pointed to a patch of trees atop a distant ridge. “Past yon hilltop lies the trade route. We shall reach Varhia afore the sun sets.” A mischievous gleam lit his eyes. “Doubtless your horse is as weary also, having borne the burden of your royal backside all day long.” He turned away to hide his grin.

  Kylanna stiffened and threw back her shoulders. “Oaf! Buffoon! You dare to jest thusly, after I have rewarded you so generously? Son of a goat!” She hurled other colourful phrases at Conan—many of them quite unladylike—before her temper cooled.

  Conan, whose hide had thickened after years of sharp words from women of many lands, let her continue until she had exhausted her repertoire. His mind slipped back to thoughts of the unseen pursuer, but he dared not look behind again. It were better not to arouse suspicion. When they arrived in Varhia, he would know soon enough if someone trailed them.

  As they came to the grove and crested the low ridge, the setting sun transformed the clouds into wisps of orange and violet. At the bottom of the ridge, a meandering valley nestled in the looming shadows of dusk. The trade route that wound through it was actually the bed of a river, long ago dried out. They followed it north until they sky darkened from azure to indigo.

  “Varhia,” Conan announced, nodding toward the sprawl of structures that lay ahead. He had travelled through here some years ago, and by appearances, the place had changed little. It was large for a village; some might have called it a small town. But Conan knew from experience that no constables or soldiers from Ghaza dwelt within its limits. As in many remote settlements, brawn or steel were its only laws. The Cimmerian found this arrangement agreeable, but deemed a few words of caution appropriate.

  “Save your queenly words here,” he advised in as neutral a tone as he could manage, “lest you attract too much attention. And let me haggle for our room and board.” He glanced at her attire and rubbed his chin. “In that shift, you look too comely to pass unnoticed at the Sooty Boar. It were better for you to pose as a swordswoman than a harlot.”

  “A harlot! No wealth in the world would suffice for me to—” “Know you aught of sword or dagger?” Conan interrupted. Kylanna glared at him, but nodded. “My sisters and I were taught the rudiments, to defend our honour from ruffians of your ilk.”

  “Good.” Conan took an asshuri short s
word that had been strapped to the horse he had stolen from the encampment. He cut down his belt to fit Kylanna’s slender waist. “Strap this on—and openly wear a dagger in your own gear. Then smear more dirt on your limbs.” Conan dug the point of his sword across a scab on his leg until a thin trickle of blood welled up. “Smear some of this on your shift and on your blades.”

  The Zamorian eyed him doubtfully, but did as he suggested. When she leaned out of her saddle, she deftly spun her dagger and opened Conan’s wound wider, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she daubed some blood onto her hands. “For appearances,” she said with a straight face as Conan’s jaw tightened.

  “Do not use your real name here,” Conan said. “In Varhia, you are...”

  “Lyssa.”

  Conan shrugged. “As you like. Better to say that you are Zamorian, in any case, as befits your accent.”

  “Why not Lyssa of Ophir?” she asked in perfect Ophirean. “Or Lyssa of Nemedia?” Kylanna added, this time in Nemedian so flawless that her dialect—that of the capital city of Belverus—would have fooled a native.

  Impressed, Conan folded his arms across his chest and smiled in wonderment. “It seems that some of King Tiridates’ gold has flowed into the purses of fine tutors,” he rumbled. “Why not Lyssa of Ophir, then? Better if we speak to no one at all, but if we must, methinks we shall escape notice. Let us hope that the innkeeper at the Sooty Boar has forgotten me. What a debauch I had there, by Crom! Conan of Cimmeria shall I remain.”

  Their horses clopped along the stones of the old riverbed and bore them to the outskirts of Varhia. Cool, gentle wind caressed them as they traversed the lush valley, and the songs of myriad birds lent a cheerful aspect to the sunset. Yet neither breeze nor birdsong could assuage Conan’s lingering concern about their unseen follower.

  As they approached the outskirts of Varhia, three swarthy men rose from a rough-hewn wooden bench. Two leaned upon tall, double-bladed axes and regarded Conan and Kylanna with undisguised suspicion. The third, who stood head and shoulders above the others, slid his broadsword from its worn scabbard. He stepped into the wide strip of dirt, his sword low but held in readiness. A ray of waning sunlight lent a malicious gleam to his dark eyes.

  “Ignore them,” Conan whispered to Kylanna, who now rode beside him. The Cimmerian’s fingers closed around the hilt of his asshuri sword, and his fierce blue eyes met those of the tall Shemite. He did not slow his horse.

  “Drawn rein, strangers,” the Shemite said, his tone firm but polite. “It were better that you turn back and come not to Varhia.”

  “Since when?” Conan demanded. His hand never left his hilt, nor did his eyes leave those of the man in the road.

  The Shemite’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Have you not heard the news? Duke Reydnu is at war with Balvadek.” He spat as he uttered the latter name. “Two companies of Reydnu’s troops now occupy the village. Many local folk have abandoned Varhia. The border is closed to strangers—especially to those who come from the south, from where Balvadek’s army may soon approach. Reydnu may deem that you are spies and hang you.”

  “Balvadek—of Kyros? We have not seen so much as one asshuri of Kyros this day... of course, we came not from the right direction,” Conan added hastily. “But if Reydnu would turn away honest travellers from his lands, times are indeed hard for him. We seek only to stay a night here and depart at sunrise. Now turn aside, that Conan of Cimmeria and Lyssa of Ophir may pass.” Boldly, he swept his sword from its scabbard.

  The Shemite stepped backward, rubbed his bushy beard and studied the two strangers. His hands trembled, and his two comrades fidgeted and avoided Conan’s baleful eyes. A tense silence lasted for several moments until the Shemite spoke. “You have the look of a hardened mercenary,” he muttered. “Reydnu may traffic with your sort, as times are desperate. If your purpose here is to sell your sword, I can let you through.” He lowered his voice. “The war goes poorly, and you are as unlikely a spy as I could imagine. Proceed, then.”

  “Aye,” Conan agreed. He had no intention of embroiling himself in one of the bloody feuds that constantly erupted among Shem’s city-states. He turned to Kylanna, thankful that she had restrained herself from speaking.

  She stared at the ground as if she were lost in thought. Only when Conan cleared his throat did she look up and bestir her horse to follow him. She rode at his side. They passed the three bothersome sentries. The Shemites ogled Kylanna openly until a ferocious glare from Conan turned their gaze away.

  “The Boar lies not far from here,” Conan said as they passed by a smattering of farmhouses. He noted that these seemed bereft of beast or man. An encampment occupied one field. Tents clustered around the stone ring of a well, and several ash-filled fire pits had been dug nearby. Curiously, no soldiers or horses were in evidence.

  Varhia sprawled across the valley in the manner typical for villages of Shem’s wine country. The well-tended fields and rough-stone or wood houses soon gave way to the larger structures of the village proper. What village folk they saw went about their errands and seemed indifferent to the newly arrived pair of strangers. Two men, stripped to the waist and drenched in sweat, chopped trees into cord. Groups of peasant women gathered berries and vegetables from the fields, while others filled large earthen jars with water. Young boys raced to and fro on the paths and the road, carrying food, clay jugs, and various other bundles.

  “There.” Conan pointed toward a ramshackle jumble of wooden walls that rose higher than any of the houses. It leaned to one side, its grimy exterior featuring but a few crooked windows. The door—a huge square of wood that looked more like a gate—stood open. Men lounged against it and spilled from the interior, drinking, eating, laughing, or simply resting. “Ishtar curse these Shemites,” Conan mumbled. “Methinks that half of Reydnu’s retinue have taken up residence in the Boar.”

  “A pity,” Kylanna said. “I had so looked forward to partaking of its hospitality.”

  Her sarcasm was lost on Conan, who clicked his teeth together in annoyance. “There is but one other public house—the Grape and Thistle, which doubtless suits your refined tastes better. Yet I doubt not that the officers have commandeered it.” He scratched his square jaw and looked over his shoulder. “Some of those farmhouses back there may have been abandoned.”

  “Do you jest?” Kylanna shook her head. “Seek one if you wish, or a sheep’s pen—nay, a sty might suit your tastes. As for me, I shall try the Grape and Thistle. Even if no rooms are vacant, some officers are gentlemen, and one may give up his quarters for a single night to convenience me. Such a place sounds safer, anyway. If the proprietor favours us, perhaps he can find a pile of straw for you in his stable. Where is this inn?”

  Conan shrugged. “It matters not. We hold the wrong colour of coin to procure rooms there. Nay, let us seek a villager and pay him for room and board.”

  “Has the Grape and Thistle a common room where entertainers perform?”

  “Aye, I reckon so—jugglers and bards and the like.”

  “What coin do you carry?”

  • “Why?” Conan asked suspiciously.

  “You are strong, are you not? While barbarians have few qualities of use, brute strength is chief among them. Well, there is a game of strength that was popular among officers of my father’s royal guard. From what I have seen, you could not lose this game.”

  Conan had an idea of what she might be about to suggest. He picked through his woefully light pouch. “Twelve coppers, some few bronze bits, and one silver noble.” His brow creased as he pulled the pouch’s string’s taut.

  The pouch had been tucked into a vest pocket, where the asshuri could easily have found it. Never had Conan been imprisoned without his captors relieving him of wealth, however meagre it might have been. Strange indeed that the Shemites had missed his map and his coinage.

  “An adequate stake,” Kylanna said confidently. “In the game, you and your challenger sit facing with elbows on the table, hands claspe
d, wrists locked. We wager three coppers to one that you can force the back of your challenger’s hand to the table’s top. You will then lose thrice and win but once.”

  Conan raised an eyebrow in protest.

  “Then we wager three nobles to one—you must win then, of course, and then we raise the stakes. Three gold crowns to one.”

  The Cimmerian laughed. “Well do I know this game. Most officers are cowards at heart—weaklings who hide in armour behind the ranks of their men. They will be loath to pit their flabby arms against the battle-hardened thews of a barbarian.”

  “Leave that to me, if the odds do not attract challengers,” said Kylanna. “By Bel, is it not enough that I must depend on a vagabond to take me home—must I also tend to such mundane matters as fare and lodging?”

  “Betimes we shall see if your plan works,” Conan rumbled. “If it fails, we must sleep upon the open ground and doubtless be soaked by the rain that pours nightly upon this region of Shem. That prospect troubles me not—by Crom, I have endured far worse—but you need rest for the journey tomorrow. And it would be unwise to beg these folk for quarters too long after sunset, especially in a time of war.”

  “Betimes we shall see,” Kylanna said.

  Conan guided them into the village proper, where a haphazard cluster of dwellings and establishments surrounded a small stone keep. The riverbed road led directly toward the modest but stout-looking castle, which squatted upon a low hill. Rough stones paved the dirt to form a wide, well-kept street.

  Many buildings in this village centre formed part of the original settlement, and though they were older, their walls were cleaner, their windows unmarred, and their roofs neatly shingled. Here trod the merchants and the stewards of Varhia. Some frowned in disapproval at the sight of these two horsed warriors who had intruded so boldly into their domain. Conan’s fierce countenance deterred many a stare, however, and they reached the Grape and Thistle without incident.

  The inn’s sign hung from chains on a pole thrust into the stonework above the door. It swayed and creaked in the wind, a lonely sound that contrasted strangely with the echoes of merry music from within. Smoke issued from a vent atop the sloping roof, wafting the delicious aroma of roasted game into Conan’s nostrils.