Conan and the Grim Grey God

by Sean A. Moore

  Seemingly from nowhere, a tall, well-groomed boy stepped up to Conan and Kylanna. Blond hair spilled out from beneath a hat of green cloth. A tabard of matching hue, woven with the inn’s design—a thistle-covered vine bedecked with grapes—was belted at his waist, above leather breeks. “Hired swords of the duke’s army, is it?” Excitement lit his eyes.

  “Aye,” Conan nodded. “You might say so.”

  “We had heard that reinforcements were coming. Welcome to the Grape and Thistle, the finest inn in all of Ghaza.” The lanky lad swept his hat from his head and bowed low. “Aren at your service. Allow me to see to these fine steeds if you wish to seek rest or repast within our walls.”

  “Very well,” Kylanna replied, in a tone more regal than any warrior could have managed.

  Conan winced. “We depart at sunrise,” he said. “How near is your stabler’

  “Why, not far at all,” Aren said amiably. He pointed out a building at the end of a narrow walkway. “And worry not, warriors. Your mounts will await you at the first ray of morn, rested and well-fed.” He stepped closer and reached for the reins. “What news of the war?” the youth asked quietly, his eyes bright with curiosity.

  “We bear none,” Conan replied gruffly. “We came from the west and saw no men-at-arms.”

  Aren’s shoulders drooped, and the gleam in his eyes receded. “But surely you have seen action this day, from the state of your gear and the lather of your mounts. By Erlik—” he winced and looked up at Kylanna “—begging your pardon, lady, but you’ve the look of battle about you!”

  “That we have,” Kylanna agreed. “A skirmish with bandits,” she said dismissively. “We shall be grateful if you can procure a few items for us, ere we consult with the duke’s officers. For my companion, a proper shirt—he prefers white, with long, loose-fitting sleeves. For me, a light tunic of green. Lead us to the stables, that we may inspect them whilst you fetch these garments.”

  Conan glowered in silent protest, but he went along with Kylanna as Aren walked swiftly to the austere building at the end of the alley. They halted before a closed gate, built of sturdy timber, wide enough for three horses to pass through together. Aren withdrew a key that hung from a cord about his neck, unlocked the stable's small side door, and stepped inside. Conan and Kylanna heard him work the crossbar that secured the gate, which swung open moments later.

  These precautions did not surprise Conan. Horses were particularly valuable in these parts—especially those fine breeds that would likely belong to the Grape and Thistle’s patrons—and thieves often targeted stables. The Cimmerian led his mount into the enclosure, which he surveyed with interest. From its floor of hard-packed dirt to its ceiling of sturdy beams, the expansive stable was as clean as any he had encountered. Conan had parted with good bronze to spend the night in quarters far worse than these. No scum or bugs floated in the water troughs, and no rat-spoor littered the shallow bins of feed. All but one of some twenty-odd stalls housed an occupant; some held two, though these were ponies or smaller breeds.

  “We have only one pen left,” Aren said apologetically. “A bit cramped for two, but for one night only, it should do. Well, please satisfy yourselves as to the suitability, lady and sir, as I tend to your request. The clothier’s is scarcely a stone’s throw from here, and they have exactly what you like. If you wish to unpack your gear yourselves, I can return afore you finish. Now there is the matter of payment for—”

  Kylanna lifted a pouch from her saddlebag, which bulged with asshuri provisions: dried nuts and fruit, and pieces of flat bread that were hard enough to crack a tooth. She hefted the pouch. “Just speak to the innkeeper, Master Aren, and we shall see that your exceptional service is rewarded. Doubtless fresh garments, a hot meal, and a goblet of wine cannot help but increase our generosity.”

  Aren’s polite smile disappeared for a moment as he shifted from one foot to the other and opened his mouth as if to speak. Then, smile renewed, he nodded and tipped his hat. He turned and dashed off on his errand.

  Conan waited until the youth was well beyond earshot before glaring at Kylanna. “The innkeeper will not be so gullible,” he grumbled. “And I am no fop, to prance about in nobleman’s frippery!”

  “It will mask your thews,” said Kylanna.

  “And deplete my coinage,” Conan retorted.

  “We must be presentable. There is more to this game than brute strength.”

  “Whether I am bedecked in silk or in mail, the locals are likely to recognize Conan of Cimmeria.”

  “Are they?” Kylanna scoffed, hands on her hips. “Verily, you must be a deity of sorts to the unwashed canaille of this village, but does your renown extend to these respectable quarters as well? I think not.”

  Conan’s indignant and uncouth response was interrupted by the arrival of two shirtless youths in baggy breeches and sandals, who wheeled in a cart heaped with fresh hay. They glanced at the Cimmerian and the Zamorian with only casual interest. Wordlessly, they took up pitchforks and bent their backs to spread fresh straw upon the stable floor. Their long, damp hair bespoke a full day of labour, plastered as it was to their sun-darkened backs.

  “You see?” Kylanna smiled. “There are those among even your caste to whom your legendary face is unfamiliar.”

  Conan shook his head and dismounted. He led his horse to the empty stall, which was farthest from the stable’s gate. Riding tackle and harness lay stacked upon the shelves of the back wall, next to a long bench replete with the tools and supplies of a farrier. Conan saw some familiar implements among them—the smith’s hammer and tongs, the anvil, and the iron bars and nails used in the making of horseshoes.

  He shuddered to think what the innkeeper would charge them for just the stable. At the same time, he had long been away from the luxuries of civilization, and he admitted to himself that a haunch of roasted venison or rack of game fowl would satisfy his hunger better than a leg of charred, greasy mutton. For that matter, a bottle of Ghazan wine quenched thirst in a way that the Sooty Boar’s bitter ale could not. And a damp night’s sleep upon a pile of straw, though adequate for him, lacked the appeal of a dry bed. For all his objections, Conan realized that he had given in to Kylanna’s absurd proposal as much for the rare experience that it represented as for the chance to liven up a dull evening.

  Aren returned promptly, bearing their garments and some few extras—for Conan, a broad, blue sash, and for Kylanna, silken riding breeks that matched her new tunic. Kylanna expressed her approval, while Conan regarded his sash warily, as if it were a blue serpent and not just a strip of fabric.

  “I shall advise Yarl, the innkeeper, of your arrival,” Aren said.

  “Duke Reydnu has set aside quarters for those who command his reinforcements.” He bowed, hat in hand, and bustled out.

  Conan held up the shirt and grimaced at the ruffles sewn to each cuff. While the thing, along with its bright sash, took after a fashion popular among Barachan pirates, it had an effeminate aspect that repelled him. The cuffs would hinder swordplay, and the sleeves would twist and tangle hopelessly in any close-in fighting. It was clearly a carpet-knight’s garment. Reluctantly, he pulled it on over his vest, though his torso was too broad to permit him to lace up the front above his chest.

  Kylanna changed swiftly in the stall, out of the stable boys’ and Conan’s sight. She came out and stared at Conan, a wide smile lifting the comers of her wine-red lips. “An ill fit for one of your ignoble descent,” she teased quietly. “Truly, it suits you not.”

  “Speak no more of it unless you prefer a roof of rain clouds to that of this inn,” Conan muttered. “By Crom, I would as soon face an army of asshuri than endure the barbs of your sharp tongue. Test my temper no further, girl! Let us get on with the game. More likely are we to end up fleeing town on horseback—or afoot, worse yet—with half of Reydnu’s men in hot pursuit.”

  Conan fashioned his belt into a baldric and shoved a dagger into his boot. Kylanna’s sword hung at her hip, its po
int extending down past mid-calf. She thrust her dagger into the other side of her belt and walked somewhat awkwardly. It was Conan’s turn to grin. “An ill fit for a palace-softened princess,” he commented, echoing her earlier remark. “The role of courtesan would befit you better.” He gazed unabashedly at the generous cleavage revealed by the tunic’s scooped neckline.

  “No courtesan would condescend to accompany a brute like you.” “And yet a princess does so willingly.”

  With a huff, she stormed out. As she marched past the cart of hay, the two labourers stole sidelong looks at her and envious glances at Conan, who followed Kylanna around the Comer to the Grape and Thistle’s entrance.

  The sun had slipped completely behind the ridge; the dark mask of dusk now hid Varhia. Above the inn’s stout-looking door, a lone lantern cast a pale glow onto the silent, shadowy street. Conan and Kylanna walked across the cobblestones and up the steps to the inn’s entrance. The bronze handles did not give in the slightest.

  “Bolted,” suggested Conan. “Odd, for a public house.”

  “’Tis not so strange a practice. Many Zamorian villagers shut their doors to keep out the lower castes,” Kylanna said.

  “Aye, but thieves infest Zamora like fleas on a mangy cur’s hide,” Conan argued. “This is Varhia, where few doors are shut to anyone. Perhaps the officers have demanded privacy—”

  The creak of hinges interrupted him, and the massive portal swung inward. A gaunt man with a narrow, jutting nose and a loose-fitting tunic of grey wool stood there, one hand on the door and the other on the hilt of a broadsword that hung from his belt. “You are the mercenary—” he paused, his brow furrowing “—the captains?”

  They nodded.

  “A messenger of the duke advised us to expect you. I am Yarl, innkeeper of the Grape and Thistle. Welcome.” He bowed, beckoning them into the small, narrow antechamber.

  He shut the noisy door behind them. Beyond the cramped, shadowy entryway, they could see the square, spacious common room. Four beams rose from the varnished hardwood floor to a latticework of ceiling beams. The place lacked windows, but a vent placed near the ceiling on each wall served to keep the air fresh. The entrance was in the south-west comer, where a corridor along the west wall ended at a stout-looking door that apparently led to the inn’s rooms. A long counter ran the length of the east wall, and twelve tables of equal size filled most of the floor space. The north-east and south-east comers offered somewhat more luxurious seating accommodations in the form of cushioned divans. Subdued lighting came solely from a series of lamps on the wall behind the counter and from candles atop the tables.

  The furnishings were clean and of a quality superior to those in most inns frequented by Conan. Some tables and benches looked new, as if they had never been thrown or broken. Apparently the patrons did not engage in brawls of the sort that the Cimmerian so routinely encountered in his travels. The place even lacked the smells of stale sweat, spilt ale, and old soot. Conan disliked the Grape and Thistle at once. In his absurd shirt and these prim surroundings, he felt awkward and out of sorts. Here was a house that catered to foppish nobles and snobbish officers. He was of a mind to rush out and return to the Sooty Boar, but he noticed Kylanna’s clear expression of relief and heard her sigh of satisfaction.

  “Quite satisfactory, Master Yarl,” she said, nodding to the innkeeper and pressing several bronze coins into his palm. “For your stable boy, Aren, who treated us most kindly,” she added. “Of course, we shall be much more generous to you. Master Yarl, for your personal attention and the hospitality that your fine inn affords to guests of the duke.”

  He bowed—not quite quickly enough to hide his avaricious expression—and tucked the coin into his belt-pouch. Then he led them into the common room, reciting an apparently well-used speech that extolled the supposedly unequalled virtues of his establishment. Conan doubted that such claims as he made could be true of the royal palace in Aquilonia, but he followed Kylanna’s lead, nodding and pretending to be impressed by all the frippery shown to them. He stifled a yawn and watched Kylanna insinuate herself with the innkeeper. Soon he saw that she indeed had Zamorian blood, which flowed in the veins of the world’s best thieves. For in short order, she had robbed Yarl of his wits and convinced him to let them play their wagering game in his common room.

  VIII

  The Watcher in the Woods

  Toj squinted, shading his eyes with his palm. Still no sign of Conan and the woman. He coaxed more speed from his horse as he guided it across the ridge-top, through the trees and tall weeds that grew in abundance there. The Cimmerian had set an aggressive pace, taking advantage of the natural road formed by the dry riverbed in the valley. Toj had chosen the ridge-top for its superior vantage point and its cover of foliage, though the latter had proven to be a hindrance. Unable to match the full trot of his quarry, he had watched them outpace him and eventually move out of his sight.

  That had compelled him to drive his horse to a gallop and risk exposure, in the likely event that Conan watched for pursuers. For some time, Toj had played at this game of hide-and-seek, until he became more certain of the pair’s destination.

  Toj possessed a fair knowledge of Shem’s cities, for their squabbling dukes often availed themselves of assassins’ services. It had been a year or two since he had personally done away with a target in Shem, but the lay of the land was known to him. This riverbed road wound its way from Kyros to Ghaza. Traders and travellers made frequent use of it, from Khorshemish in Koth across the Asgalun in Shem, or farther south to the forbidding seaport of serpent-ridden Khemi in Stygia.

  Toj wondered at the lack of traffic through the valley. He believed that a village of no mean size lay ahead: Varhia, one of the larger settlements in this province. The Cimmerian and the woman would probably not travel at night, and they must rest their horses soon. Varhia was almost certainly Conan’s destination. Strange that in spite of the village’s proximity, Toj had seen no merchants or other folk. Either the assassin disremembered the maps of this region, or something unusual was afoot.

  As the sun hovered just above the horizon, Toj passed through a particularly tall thicket. When he emerged, he looked down at the sweeping view of the sloping hillside to the east. His eyes narrowed as he saw movement far to the east. Instinctively, he took cover in the nearest copse and watched the huge host that approached from the south-east. The entire contingent was mounted, at least those that he could see. Their manner and garb bespoke their affiliation: asshuri.

  He waited for a span and studied them from the shadows of the trees. These Shemite warriors were not of Kyros; Toj did not recognize their colours and devices. But he could easily see that they sped to a battle. Only in the rear of the host were any supplies in evidence, consisting of some few dozen mounts laden with bulky sacks, barrels, and spare battle gear. No tents or tools were apparent, indicating that this was not to be a drawn-out conflict. They rode to strike and swiftly crush their enemy, whomever that might be.

  He looked upon the flank of the host, some ten—nay, fifteen— rows, thirty asshuri to each. At the forefront sat a tall man in a gilded saddle, his ivory-hued cape sweeping behind him in the breeze, his steed clad in fine barding. Surely, thought Toj, these warriors came from a nearby province, in light of their minimal provisions.

  Shemitish nobles of these wine-producing regions were forever at odds with each other, and minor skirmishes were a routine matter. But this contingent represented more than a raiding party. Unless Toj misjudged their purpose and their direction of travel, their most likely objective was the taking of Varhia. Even if this was not their purpose, Toj could not risk disinvolvement.

  What if Conan and the woman were in the village when the asshuri struck? At best, this new development would hinder the Cimmerian’s progress; at worst, if Conan were captured or slain, Toj would never secure the price that Jade had set on his life. He must away to Varhia and see to it that the barbarian tarried not in the village.

 
The assassin eased his horse from the thicket and prepared to ride down into the valley, where he intended to follow the riverbed road at full gallop and reach Varhia in time to intervene. Just how he would evacuate Conan was unclear at the moment, but he would solve that dilemma on the way to Varhia. Toj’s talent for creative scheming had formed the rungs of the ladder he had climbed to claim the title of guild master.

  So preoccupied was Toj that he almost overlooked an asshuri who stood in the tall grass not ten paces away. Toj halted immediately, chiding himself for his carelessness. Fortunately, the asshuri had not seen him. He was humming tunelessly and relieving himself beside a short tree. The man’s lack of armour marked him as a scout. Toj saw no horse, but assumed that the scout had tethered it nearby.

  Three shaken were in his hand a moment later, in case the Shemite turned. Toj dared not move; a snort from his horse or the snap of a twig might betray him. He would have thrown his shaken if the distance had not rendered the killing uncertain. To hurl the blades properly, Toj needed to be on his feet, moving toward the target. While on horseback, he might only wound the scout, who could then alert the whole host to Toj’s presence. Patiently, he stood his ground. If the asshuri turned, Toj would throw himself from the horse and go for the kill.

  A moment later, the scout sighed and straightened. He fumbled with his breeches as he swung around. He raised his head and paled visibly, staring aghast at Toj as if he looked upon a demon.

  The assassin leapt from his saddle, sped forward, and loosed his shaken before the asshuri recovered his wits. Two flying blades slashed the scout’s throat. A third shattered the teeth, plunged into the roof of the open mouth, and buried itself in the dying man’s brain. Blood fountained from the gashed throat, but the asshuri was dead before his body flopped to the ground.