Conan the Great

by Leonard Carpenter

  “Yes, yes,” the visitor agreed. “But only through my efforts, remember. For now, instead of reminiscing, try to bring your full, senile strength to bear on my behalf. Let there be no more talk of divine punishments. If I fail or die, remember, so will you.” “Speak not of failure, ’tis heresy!” Kthantos proclaimed from his bubbling pit. Beyond the pond, above jagged stumps of pillars, a new disc was rising into the sky. A second moon—or could it be a sun? ’Twas hard to think it one, it seemed so wan and blighted, its glow barely paling the clear, starless dome of sky. Meanwhile, the submerged voice continued its gurgling.

  “Have faith in me, mortal! Serve me as my loyal minion, and divine justice will ultimately triumph. Fret yourself not about this puny king; if he fails, he will but lead us to a stronger one!”

  “This border war appears to have been one of the lesser threats our dynasty has faced, O King.”

  Queen Zenobia sat at ease on the alabaster garden bench, the late afternoon sun picking out the bluish lustre in her long black hair. The white stone of the bench and the frothy, flowing whiteness of her gown contrasted sharply with her raven tresses, making her fair limbs look dusky tan.

  “Though you were gone less than a fortnight, Conan, we missed you sorely.”

  “You could have ridden along with me, Zenobia, if you so wished.” Conan sat poised on an alabaster seat opposite his wife. In contrast to her languor, his posture seemed alert and vigilant, his sandalled feet braced firmly underneath his backless bench. A jewelled dagger-belt, donned as ornament for his meeting with his counsellors, bound a shirt and kilt of kingly purple about his torso, and a gleaming gold circlet crowned his black-maned head. “Conn might have come along with me, in any case. He is getting to be of an age....”

  “Milord, I hardly think so. He is but an infant!” Zenobia’s tone was gently disbelieving.

  “Well, mayhap not.” He watched their son playing idly by the splashing, lotus-carved fountain that served the sunny south-west wing of the palace. “And yet, by his growth,” Conan said, “if memory plays me true, I was hunting and fishing alone in mountain glades.” The king shook his crowned head. “Needless to say, I knew little of scribery, counting, and the other civilized arts he is learning—except to count the number of man-tracks left by a Vanir raiding party, and to notch my spear haft once for each rabbit I killed.”

  Young Conn’s interest in the water was, quite evidently, only secondary; he seemed more fascinated by the hunched figure of the dwarf Delvyn, who sat brooding at the far side of the fountain, staring into its crystalline depths. At length, craftily, the boy launched an emerald-bright oak leaf into the rippling pool. Prodding and blowing it slowly and tentatively toward the object of his interest, he edged after it along the circular marble curb.

  “A spirited life, it was! I know, Zenobia,” Conan resumed, “that your best strength lies in running the palace and certain domestic affairs of the kingdom. It takes up much of your time—but ’tis a good thing, perhaps, since I have so little patience with those matters.” He laughed and shifted restlessly on his stone seat. “At times, there almost seems no use for me here. Petty daily concerns weigh me down worse than any crisis, and too much lazing about the court only makes me feel the ache of my past wounds.”

  “Conan,” the queen replied softly, “I am aware that you pine for battle. Sometimes I think you love adventuring better than you love me. Even a great hunt or a fighting tourney seems only to whet your cravings.” Conan nodded. “In some ways, Zenobia, this attack from the east has been a boon to us. It proved the value of my recent shake-up of the army, and that I still command the respect to lead it.”

  “Two things I never doubted,” the queen said. “Nor anyone else in the kingdom but yourself, I would guess.” She heaved a small sigh and smiled tenderly, leaning closer to her husband. “Conan, you need not fear ruling a land at peace, or dealing with the courtiers, or just... growing old here. Your judgement is as sound as theirs or mine, Mitra knows. Your friends and subjects do not love you only for your wealth and power, darling, or out of fear of your fighting prowess! They revere you as a good king, a man of mirth and charity, with so many joys and accomplishments ahead of you— But oh, my poor child, what is the matter?”

  Her attention was distracted; for young Conn, having finally ventured near the brooding Delvyn, had not stayed in his vicinity long. Now he came scuffing up to his mother, teary-eyed and pouting. Plumping down on the bench beside the queen, he buried his head in the soft fabric of her billowing gown. She enfolded him in her arms and pressed his face to her bosom.

  “Always crying—perhaps he is a babe yet, after all,” Conan said resignedly. “Old enough to cast a spear, and still he wants to cuddle his mama! Such conduct would have been thought unseemly in my home clan.” The king shook his head. “But then, who can say what is right in a civilized land?”

  “Milord, he is only a child!” The queen spoke with quiet, offended dignity. “You too have sought refuge in these arms at times, sir, against this same breast. It ill befits a grown man, king or not, to be jealous of a boy!”

  “Aye, perhaps ’tis so.” Conan nodded again, looking up to meet her sternly protective gaze. “Zenobia, I must tell you, this war with Ophir and Nemedia... it is not over yet.” He shook his head decisively. “The doings to eastward are too turbulent, and far too perilous, for Aquilonia not to take a hand. So at least my agents tell me. I may be gone longer this time—and it must be soon. We shall move swiftly.”

  “Aye, milord, I feared as much.” The queen shook her head and hugged Conn, who looked large-eyed from her to his father. “By your agents, Conan, do you mean the turncoat Delvyn?” Her gaze shot to where the dwarf’s limber form squatted, having moved into the shade of one of the orchard trees.

  “Yes, among others. Publius and the rest are in agreement. The jester’s information has been most useful to us.” Conan digested her remark soberly. “But Zenobia, Delvyn has been nothing but a pawn or slave until now, with little choice of masters. I think he is ready to be of greater service to me.”

  “Perhaps.” The queen nodded, fondling Conn’s hair, which was as black as that of either of his parents. “But please, Conan, when you go adventuring, take your dwarf with you. I do not trust him here with us.”

  V

  The Feast of Steel

  The next morning the king departed Tarantia. Resplendent in a new set of black and gold armour, he spurred his new black charger Shalmanezer at the head of a sizeable body of troops—an escort fully as large, in fact, as the force which had marched from the capital to secure the border a fortnight before. Most of the survivors of that army had remained in the south-east, but here the royal legion was joined by masses of Gunder and Bossonian footsoldiers slow in arriving from the northern and western borders. Additionally came new levies on horse and foot alike, out of the farms and forests of central Aquilonia, to be commanded by sleek knights freshly outfitted from among the city nobles and rural squires.

  The people of Tarantia, though uncertain as to the threat this new legion was to counter, made a brave showing at their departure. They furnished flower-petals to rain down from the rooftops, and copious tears to stain the breasts and gauntlets of departing lovers. There rang forth cheers, too, and laughter, especially at the sight of the dwarfish armoured man astride a shaggy-maned, undersized swamp pony. He struggled to stay in the saddle beside the heroic figure of the mounted King Conan.

  High above the melee presided Queen Zenobia, standing on a flower-decked parapet of the palace with young Prince Conn at her side. Gravely she watched Conan canter down the Road of Kings, as she had first watched him so long ago, years before her queen-ship.

  The march south-eastward was swift, favoured by fine spring weather. Local landholders, though surprised at the size of the force, provisioned it liberally out of respect for the king. All along the way the army waxed stronger with new companies of horsemen and battalions of foot-bourne volunteers from the rich southern
provinces.

  By the night of their arrival at the Tybor camp, the legions guarding the border had already launched new attacks against Ophir. On orders sent ahead by courier, Aquilonian detachments had driven deep into ill-defended territory. The news gleaned from scouts and prisoners was sobering.

  “King Balt rests for now with Malvin at Ianthe, but his departure northward seems imminent.” So spake the field courier Egilrude, newly returned from the front. “Both the Ophirean and Nemedian troops are demoralized and falling back toward the capital. Our prisoners tell us the city is in more imminent danger from the east, where the Kothian Prince Armiro is advancing swiftly and wreaking great carnage. The prisoners seem eager to cooperate, being more afraid of Armiro than of Aquilonians. Our scouts estimate that it will take the Kothian force two or three days to reach the city gate.”

  “So,” Conan declared to his assembled counsellors, “it appears that we are now in a race for Ianthe, with time yapping at our heels. I was a great fool not to follow up at once on our initial victory.”

  “You would take the capital, then, Your Majesty?” General Ottobrand asked. “And likely, most of Ophir to boot? That would be splendid, Sire! But I must tell you, we can scarce move an army to Ianthe in less than seven days, even with only scattered enemy resistance.” The general, a grey-maned Gunderman in steel armour and a cloak of stitched furs, leaned forward over a folding table and poked a scarred forefinger at a map of Ophir. “The Kothians, our scouts tell us, enjoy a broad front. They may hurl their cavalry through gaps and weak areas and outpace the enemy. But we are forced to send everything we have straight up the Road of Kings, where it can be stalled by even half-spirited defence at the castles and bridges, or by a spoiling cavalry assault or two. Why, the mere logistics of moving our entire force—”

  “And that is not the worst of it, Conan,” Prospero added from close beside the king. “Once there, we shall certainly face a siege. City walls, unlike troops, are not routed and do not suffer from flagging spirits. Quite likely, too, we will meet the Kothians outside Ianthe. Lord Malvin may be in a position to watch from the battlement as his enemies cut each other to pieces.” “We could send forth envoys to treat with Armiro, Sire,” Ottobrand suggested. “With any luck they could slip through enemy lines to the Kothian front and get the prince to agree to a fair partition of Ophir.” He drew his forefinger knife-like across the parchment map, dividing Ophir on a rough northeast-southwest axis.

  “Nay,” Conan growled, “for it would still boil down to one thing: who controls Ianthe. I would rather take the city first, then deal with Armiro.” He looked around the officers assembled in the lamp-lit tent. “You, young Egilrude—can you get me four seasoned riders? Men who will keep their nerve and obey me unquestioningly?”

  “Certainly, my king!” The officer, a blond-haired, broad-faced Bossonian, touched the visor of his red-plumed helmet in readiness.

  “Good. Get them nondescript clothing, strong mounts, and several days’ rations. Equip yourself similarly and meet here by first dawn.” He turned from Egilrude to the others as the Bossonian disappeared out the tent flap. “Sometimes a handful of men can accomplish what an army cannot.”

  “What is your plan, O King?” Count Trocero asked. “I stand ready to ride at your bidding.”

  “Nay, Trocero, what I have in mind would not be... the highest use of your skills. I need you and the rest of my officers to muster your troops and drive them along the road to Ianthe at all possible speed. Do not burden yourself with prisoners, and bypass the best-defended strongholds if you must. If I get my way, the city will be awaiting your relief.” He turned to a dwarfish, brass-bound figure sitting stiffly on a camp stool in a comer of the tent. “Delvyn, do you still vouch for your friends within the walls?”

  “In sooth, O King.” The dwarf, clad in his new armour suit, nodded cockily with a rasping of bronze. “If you present yourself to Duke Lionnard at his estate in the town, he will gain you entry to the citadel. He is the first and bitterest of Malvin’s foes. Our hardest task, my king, will be entering the city.”

  “It should be no great matter in this season of panic and hasty troop deployments. Here, Prospero, help me with these buckles.” Conan began sloughing off his polished black and gold plate. “I will need foreign armour,” he told General Ottobrand, “mayhap from one of your larger prisoners.”

  “What, Sire?” Trocero demanded. “Are you planning to ride to the city yourself? And on the word of this... this mountebank of your enemy Balt?” Pointing a gauntleted finger at Delvyn, the count obviously found it difficult to restrain his anger. “How can you trust him, Your Majesty? How do you know he is not going to lead you into the hands of his former master?”

  Shrugging free of his cuirass, Conan hung it from a peg on the tent post. “I trust Delvyn because he will remain behind with you, my loyal officers. If I fail or die, his life is forfeit.”

  The ride to Ianthe required two full days and the more arduous part of a night. In late afternoon of the first day, from Aquilonian cavalry lodged in a captured village, Egilrude obtained fresh mounts in trade for their lathered, half-dead ones, using the anonymous authority of the king’s signet ring. There too the six riders, Conan hulking among them, lay themselves down briefly and slept, awaiting nightfall to slip past enemy sentries in the forested lands beyond.

  The next dawn found them deep within Ophir, cantering past refugees on the broad highway and swinging wide through the trees to avoid formations of fast-marching troops. That evening, at long last, the lights of Ianthe spread out before them. Torches flared atop the city walls, and lanterns of moored vessels drifted restlessly on the Red River, doubled by their own wavering reflections. By luck, the riders reached the West Gate before curfew. Under the guise of Nemedian irregular troops seeking to rejoin their cavalry unit, they were passed directly through.

  The atmosphere of the doomed city was oddly feverish, almost festive. The streets thronged with idle soldiers, and with citizens trying to sell their property for cash they might hoard or carry off to the countryside. Sharp-eyed speculators and thieves stood ready, alert for quick profits, while civil guards and military units trooped past, too preoccupied to enforce the peace. As a result, there was lively uncertainty whether the city would be sacked first by the enemy or by its own rowdies.

  A pub-crawling roisterer was located, and his aid purchased with a jug of ale and few prods from a knife point. He led the six invaders to Duke Lionnard’s estate, a high-walled palazzo near the river. The eye at the peep-hole in the gate narrowed suspiciously, at first. But after lengthy debate and the payment of a substantial bribe, the grizzled, hooded King Conan was admitted for a private audience with the duke.

  “This way, quietly!” The nighted avenues through which Duke Lionnard and his man guided the Aquilonians were all but unguarded. Those few sentries whom the duke’s squint-eyed servant encountered, he approached confidently. Invariably his low mutter, punctuated by the clink of coin, caused them to ground their pikes and turn discreetly away, letting the motley band file past.

  Exactly where the disreputable series of littered alleyways, rusted gates, and foul-smelling tunnels merged into the citadel of Ianthe, Conan could not say. But he was confident he had reached their destination when a carved wooden door admitted them into a broad, shadowy corridor lined with murky tapestries and pallid marble statues of long-dead nobles. This, recognizably, was the interior of a royal palace.

  “You swear to me, then,” Lionnard asked for the seventh time, “that you will make no treaty with Malvin himself?” He walked with Conan near the head of the party, following the candle-bearing servant. Close behind them trod Egilrude and his quiet, competent troop of four, hands propped on their sword-hilts. Their looks were discreetly watchful and their motions all but silent, fitted as they were with scant enough armour to avoid clanking as they walked.

  “I would not object, mind you,” the duke continued, “if you dealt with King Balt against Malvin.
I have little influence with the Nemedian myself, since I have been excluded from the high councils. But I can sway the other lords.” He brooded a moment, then declared, “I give you notice, my country will bear no more of the lordly upstart’s rash deeds and pusillanimous judgements.”

  Lionnard was a small, spidery man a good deal older than his lordly nemesis was reputed to be. Clad in a doublet thrown hastily over the loose silks he wore lounging at home, the duke scarcely made an aristocratic figure, even with his nobly waxed moustaches and goatee, and the finely turned rapier slung from his gemmed belt. Yet he pursued his vendetta with the spite of an unmistakable aristocrat.

  “Truly, O King—if indeed you are King Conan of Aquilonia—I urge you to do your neighbouring country a favour, and write Lord Malvin out of any bargains you may strike tonight.”

  “Aye, Duke,” Conan affirmed in a low voice as he strode down the hallway. “No deals with Malvin. Fear not, the rapscallion is no friend of mine.”

  “As you suggested,” Lionnard said, “I have already summoned my bodyguard. A half-score men is all the ruling cadre have left me, but I bade my lieutenant march them here before the main entry.”

  “Good,” Conan grunted. “They may be of help to us when the time comes. Which way here?” he added curtly, halting at a T juncture.

  “To the right,” Lionnard said. “This corridor leads to the vestibule of the grand hall, where Malvin and his sycophants assemble each night. There will be guards outside, household troops whom I cannot buy or cozen. Most likely they’ll be facing the other way, toward the front entrance.”

  “Good, then,” Conan said, “time for the play of steel!” The hiss of his sword drawn out of its scabbard was echoed by similar sounds from his retainers, so that for an instant the corridor sibilated like a viper’s den.

  “Nay, Duke!” Conan whispered then, restraining Lionnard’s hand on his elegant hilt. “You would do better to play the part of rescuer than rebel.” The king withdrew his weaponless hand from Lionnard’s and used it to unlimber a double-headed ax from his belt and heft it. “Remain here now with your serving-man, and go join your troops when you can.”