Conan and the Grim Grey God

by Sean A. Moore

  Conan marvelled. at the craftsmanship. He had seen his share of secret doors over the years, but this was surely the work of a master builder. In a recessed area of the floor, he saw the exposed mechanism that worked the door: rods of oiled iron and cunningly fashioned wheels of metal.

  Retrieving her candle from the floor, Sivitri lit a lantern that hung on a wall-hook at the base of the stair.

  Intrigued but wary of treachery, Conan followed her into the gap and up the slender steps. The pungent smell of oil, which besmeared the inner edges of the false wall, washed across his nostrils. From the stale scent of the air in the niche beyond the wall, Conan surmised that this passageway had not been used for some time.

  “Balvadek knew not of this ‘addition’ to his citadel,” Sivitri commented. “Or so Narsur said when he told me of it.” She paused before the seventh and final step. “Tread only upon the leftmost edge of this stone,” she cautioned, pointing upward.

  Conan peered at the ceiling, his brow wrinkling. Several dozen holes, each the diameter of a man’s thumb, pocked the stonework there. Be-like the top step triggered an arrow or spike-trap to skewer a would-be intruder.

  Sivitri slid along the left wall and reached the top of the steps, with Conan close behind. The stepped passageway opened to a stone floor within a circular chamber whose shape was identical to that of a cistern, built to hold water from rainfall for use by the inhabitants within. This enclosure, however, had been roofed in to store resources of much higher value.

  “The spoils of smuggling,” Sivitri said dryly, gesturing toward the tall stacks of barrels with a sweep of her hand.

  They lay on their sides, small oaken casks stamped with the markings and brands of the most precious vintages of Kyros and Ghaza. Eleven of them formed the bottom row, with ten above, then nine, and so on, seven rows high. Conan counted nearly sixty barrels in all. No tavern would ever see these, for their contents were the sort reserved for kings. The Cimmerian reckoned that the least precious of the barrels would fetch a hundred pieces of gold.

  One cask sat on its end, in front of the stack, its lid askew. Sivitri lifted the wooden cover and plunged her hand inside. Instead of a slosh of liquid, the clink of metal sounded within. She casually took her hand out and let the coins fall from her open palm, back into the barrel.

  “Bel’s beard!” Conan’s heart leapt into his throat when the cascading gold gleamed in the lamplight. He sauntered toward Sivitri and stared into the cask, which was two-thirds full of golden discs. Here was more wealth than many men saw in their lifetimes, a hoard of diverse sizes, shapes, and stamps from the treasuries of a score of lands. Altogether it bespoke an enterprise that spanned the western seaboard of Zingara to the distant cities beyond eastern Vendhya’s steamy jungles.

  “All that you and your horse can bear shall I give you, Cimmerian, if you undertake this trek to the Brass City with me and help me retrieve the Grim Grey God.”

  Conan growled and paused for a moment before accepting the offer. By Erlik, he had accepted greater risks for poorer reward than this! But even the richest loot was of cursed little use in Hell. He gave the matter another moment of thought. “To the Brass City, then,” said Conan. “For gold and the god!” Assassins, power-mad guild masters, and superstitions be damned, he thought. The Cimmerian would have hacked his way through every war-clan in Pict-land for the rich booty here. Had he known that wine-smuggling was so lucrative a practice, he might have taken it up long ago.

  Sivitri smiled thinly. “We may have little time before collectors come to take these to my mistress. Narsur told me that they arrive at irregular intervals. One of the collectors is a seer with the gift of truth-seeing—none of the operatives can steal from the hoard without her knowledge. Narsur will report to the collectors my taking of some gold, but I care not. My own life would I give to save my sister from the fate forewarned in those tablets.”

  “With such wealth to spare, why did she not simply hire me to fetch the god?” Conan looked away from the cask’s contents to study Sivitri’s thoughtful expression.

  “You are a man, Cimmerian, and as I mentioned, men are but tools for her. She takes great pleasure in the using of men, when the circumstances are right. Why haggle with you, when she knows you plan to seek the god? When she learned that you intended to follow your map to the Brass City—”

  “But only you and Rulvio knew this,” Conan protested. “Why would you tell Jade, if you sought to keep the relic from falling into her hands?”

  Sivitri shook her head. “I am sorry to say that there are those among your crew—no, not your first mate—who also knew. My mistress has a spy aboard nearly every pirate vessel afloat, be it Argossean, Barachan, or Zingaran. I was present when the spy from your Hawk gave his account, though at the time, she spoke not of her plan to let you find the god and have Toj slay you for it. I supposed that she would steal the map back from you. Not until later, when she made no attempt to wrest the parchment from you, did I begin to suspect her scheme. And Toj’s presence here confirms it.”

  Although Conan saw no avoidance in Sivitri’s face, he misdoubted her true motives. Even so, he was determined to journey to the Brass City, retrieve the pearl statue, and see if Sivitri might then hatch a plot against him. He believed himself safe for the nonce. The Cimmerian felt as if he stood in the becalmed centre of a great hurricane, one that would bear down on him from all directions if he seized the god. Well, he would be ready for that moment, and face it with open eyes and naked steel.

  “Let us retire, then,” Sivitri said wearily. “It were better if we departed as daylight breaks.”

  They descended the steps—carefully avoiding the topmost—and re-entered the Amethyst Room. Sivitri worked the secret door, a process that required her to pull on the portal and slide the floor-stone into place. After several attempts, it closed with a thump.

  “The bed chambers lie at the end of the hall,” said Sivitri as she and Conan left the room.

  “Aye, Crom knows we can use a few winks of sleep.” The Cimmerian yawned and stretched, welcoming the chance to rest both his mind and body. He paused in the hallway to admire the gem set into the ornate door there. Impulsively, he decided to put the woman to a small test. “Afore we retire, I would ask but one token of your faith—that amethyst. ’Tis a token I shall keep only until I safely bear my gold through the gates of Saridis.”

  “Take it if you wish,” she nodded, without so much as blinking. “Keep it safe, though, or another will have to be fashioned to work the door. And gently prize it loose from the metal fitting behind, so that we may replace it later without delay.” She handed her stiletto to the Cimmerian.

  Conan loosened the gem from its cleverly moulded setting and popped it free. He glanced at it before tucking it into his vest, marvelling that such a handsomely polished stone would serve as a mere opening device.

  As if speculating on his very thoughts, Sivitri smiled. “Balvadek spared no expense. Wait until you see the Sapphire Room.”

  They walked along the thick rubiate carpet, moving away from the steps that led to the great hall beneath them. The muted echoes of singing faded when they reached the end of the corridor. There, another gem-garnished portal stood before them. Flanked by sconces that held flickering torches, this door bore a carving of the duke’s crest, set with a half-score of winking jewels as blue as the Western Ocean on a summer’s noon.

  Sivitri seemed to pay these no mind, as if she were accustomed to richly bedecked surroundings. Her mannerisms, in fact, did seem to fit those of one who had grown up in a palace. For his part, Conan felt more at ease in the wilds or upon the waters. He had won or seized fortunes in his years of adventuring, but they seemed to slip away before he ever thought of settling down and building a base of his own. The Cimmerian believed that one day he might set himself up in such luxury, after amassing more wealth than he could simply wench away or lose at dice. Yet he doubted that his vanity was equal to Balvadek’s, who adorned his very door
s with riches enough to feed a dozen families for as many years.

  “By Bel, never has a hot bath appealed to me as it does now,” Sivitri said in a low voice as she opened the door and stepped into the high-ceilinged chamber beyond. A plushly furnished antechamber offered seven exits. Sivitri took the rightmost of these, an arched corridor that wound slightly upward. Gilded cressets along its walls held lamps of scented oil, and plush Vendhyan carpets lay atop the smooth stone of its floor. “The servants were told to draw hot water—enough for two, in the event that bathing is a custom observed by men of Cimmeria.”

  Admiring her shapely figure for what had to be the twentieth time that day, Conan grinned. He was not so fatigued or preoccupied to miss how the striped velvet clung to her curves, or how her hips swayed in her close-fitting leather breeks. And he knew enough of women to wonder if she might have more in mind than mere bathing... although if her words veiled such an offer, he would be surprised. Sivitri seemed to treat him with inordinate disdain, and her professed affections for Jade had caused him to wonder if she might prefer the company of women to that of men.

  “Many Cimmerians bathe seldom, it is true,” Conan agreed. “But I have nothing against a good, long soak. In fact, in my travels to diverse lands, I’ve learned many different customs of... bathing.” “No doubt you are full of surprises, barbar.”

  They rounded the bend in the corridor, which ended in a simple curtained doorway. Conan followed her to the heavy drape, which she drew aside and stepped down into the chamber within. The humid air soaked into Conan’s pores, and the muted scent of oil seemed to clear his mind. The bath was a large, recessed oval. Narsur’s servants had evidently boiled the water before filling the basin, for the smooth surface of it still steamed faintly. Towels were piled nearby, upon the stone tiles.

  Sivitri inhaled deeply and sighed, closing the curtain behind them. With little modesty, she turned her back to Conan, casually unbuttoned her tunic, and shrugged it off. She looked over her shoulder as she unlaced her breeks, smiling as if at some secret jest. “For too long I have gone without a proper bath myself,” she said, stepping out of her low boots, sliding the leather leggings down her shapely legs and kneeling to set them aside. She slid languorously into the water until her full breasts were barely submerged.

  Conan quickly kicked away his sandals and doffed his dusty rags. Laughing loudly and lustily, he jumped into the basin with a splash before Sivitri willingly came into his arms.

  XIII

  Deathspeak

  Tevek Thul departed from Kaetta when nightfall spread its black stain across the azure sky. He had withdrawn his dark energies from the cadaverous legions in the catacombs, and silence now ensconced the village. A breeze stirred Tevek’s dark robes and wafted the ripe sweetness of death into the necromancer’s nostrils. The thrill of the doom he had wrought here still lingered within him, like a serpent slithering slowly among his vitals.

  Kaetta’s population lay hither and thither, heaped mostly near the temple’s entrance and piled high at the narrow crevice that was the village’s sole exit. Not a single heart still beat within the breast of any inhabitant—indeed, many lacked hearts. Some of Tevek’s macabre warriors had unwholesome appetites, and they had fallen upon the slain in a frenzy of gruesome feeding. Ibis’s defiled temple had become a blood-splashed charnel house.

  The maidservant, whose name he could no longer recall, lay upon the desecrated altar where he had left her. She was as lifeless and unmoving as the rest of her kin, though Tevek had fleetingly considered keeping her as a concubine. But she was unfit for one of Tevek’s station, and when he needed more cold flesh to satisfy his appetites, he would find it elsewhere. No, these foolish sheep were fit for naught but sustaining the vultures and worms that would feast here soon enough.

  Tevek paid the slain no mind as he hastened away from the temple. He rubbed his dry lips together and paused before the jumble of corpses that clogged the crevice. Panicked villagers had jammed the narrow passageway, crowding and crushing each other in their haste to flee from Tevek’s shuffling, shambling horde. Expending a small measure of necromantic essence, he animated the intact bodies and commanded them to clear the path.

  While his silent minions finished untying the knot of dead flesh that blocked his way, Tevek turned for a last look at the devastation his necromancy had wrought. The Black Ring’s power fascinated him, and he longed to evoke it again. But he realized that its dark whispering had enticed him. to drink too deeply from its well of power. Like a mercenary squandering his pay in one colossal debauch, Tevek had channelled too much of his energy into the ring. The bronze tablet had not warned him that the ring hungered to perpetrate evil. It would renew itself in time, but now it seemed sluggish, like a glutted serpent digesting a meal of excessive proportions.

  No matter. Tevek would not reach the Brass City until nightfall tomorrow, and he would not have need of the ring until then. A sliver of annoyance lingered in his thoughts when he considered that his deeds here had distracted him from his main purpose. He would be more cautious when he used the ring again—he would bend it to do his bidding, and heed none of its cajolery.

  Letting the bodies of his crew thump to the ground, Tevek strode through the besmeared stone passageway and descended the slope that circled the dead village. Hovering across the sand would take too much sorcerous energy, so he resorted to walking. He relaxed his mind and lapsed into a meandering stream of thought: what awaited him in the City of Brass, what fate Thoth-amon planned for him, and how to more swiftly accomplish his lifetime longing for vengeance.

  So it was that he scarcely noticed the passing of time until a dim wrinkle of dawn appeared on the sky’s dark face.

  Blinking at this unwelcome intrusion of light, Tevek stopped to survey his surroundings. He stood upon the crest of a tall dune that debouched into a vast hollow, as if a god had scooped an immense handful of sand from the desert. He squinted into this windswept bowl and squeezed shut his eyes when a reflection struck them... that searing first ray of sun had found something other than sand.

  Somehow his mind had guided his feet, for not too distant was the landmark he sought. Its brass dome glittered in the encroaching sunlight, and though its brightness pained him, Tevek let his gaze linger for another moment. Here was the Nithian desert then, hiding the Brass City for aeons beneath shifting veils of sand. He sensed a strange taint in the air here, a pestilence that seemed to hover invisibly above the sand. The withering disease, spoken of in the rumours of Nithia, was real. Tevek did not concern himself with it, for his powers protected him from even the worst of plagues.

  Travelling beneath the sun’s burning glare was unthinkable, but Tevek could not bear to await the coming of night. He tore a dark strip from his robe’s dusty hem and knotted it over his eyes, leaving but a parchment-thin slit for visibility. Then he drew his hood tightly about his face and cast his necromantic sight as deeply as he could into the sand ahead.

  Later, when the hateful sun burned high above him, Tevek’s subterranean search encountered the first of the Brass City’s long-dead inhabitants. Emanations from the remains told him that the Nithians had died violently and suddenly. Even so, the bones were nearly devoid of the spiritual echo that lingers long after a soul is wrenched, screaming, from its body. With intense concentration, he listened to that echo. All he could hear was a terrified whisper that sounded like “Jackal.”

  As he stepped closer to the ancient brass spire, he divined the depth of the sand at which the bones lay. And he heard thousands of ghostly echoes from within that depth.

  They had all been slain. Like their ancient ancestors from Atlantis, these people had drowned—but in a sea of blood, not of water. Someone had butchered them like cattle. How interesting.

  Tevek grew weary of their incessant, albeit muted, mourning and shut his mind to it. He was troubled by the realization that in all the murmurs he heard, the sole emotion expressed was that of sorrow. At the moment of death, no trace
of fear, hatred, or vengeance had entered the thoughts of the slain—not even among the very young in their midst. Never had the necromancer visited an ossuary or sepulchre. where such feelings did not fester within the bones interred therein. These had been true believers of Ibis, secure even in death, taking comfort in the knowledge that no Hell awaited them. Their god would care for them in the hereafter.

  Fools. Ibis had let them die. But the powerful convictions of these fools set them apart from the sheep in Kaetta, who had merely professed to worship Ibis. They had mouthed prayers, sung hymns, and paid obeisance—all superficial, and no amount of gilding could ever turn lead into gold. They had died in fear, some in rage, others with revenge their foremost desire. None with sorrow—not even the priests of Kaetta. But these Nithians had been faithful.

  Tevek paid no more mind to the decayed residents of Nithia and instead turned his thoughts to the next task at hand. Only the spire rose above the sand. What he sought lay buried deeply. He had not realized that only little of the city had been exposed. Here was so daunting a labour that a hundred men might spend a day just clearing the sand from the tower beneath the brass spire. Tevek, however, would simply tap into the unusual resources at his command. What a hundred men could do in a day, a thousand might accomplish in a single turn of the glass. And thousands of skeletal labourers awaited Tevek’s orders. That they lay far below the surface mattered little to the necromancer—his irresistible summons would awaken the dead in droves and force them to claw their way out of their graves. This time, however, he would avoid the Thanatosian necromancy that he had used in Kaetta. A less taxing spell would do to summon the dead for a simple but time-consuming task.