Conan the Barbarian

by L. Sprague De Camp

  Suddenly the princess realized that the axe was aimed, not at her ropes, but at her slender neck. Instinctively, she fell to her knees, and the axe struck sparks as it cut a gash in the ancient gravestone. The grim rider withdrew with a curse, as Subotai’s arrow clanged with harmless resonance against his helm.

  For a brief moment, the embattled three enjoyed a respite. Subotai approached Conan with an ancient sword in his hand and said, “I’ve used my last arrow.”

  The wizard clambered up the slope, clutching the spear that had struck its target and returned to the hand whence it was thrown.

  “Said I not that I still had a trick or two?” he cackled.

  “Get ready!” cried Subotai suddenly. “Here they come again!” The remaining guards had dismounted and now trotted toward the trio in a solid phalanx. Up the slope they came, prepared to search out the small band of defenders should they take refuge once more behind the stones that marked the graves of kings. Then, halfway up the hill, they hesitated.

  “Attack!” cried Subotai as, spear in hand, he prepared to leap forward to face the inhuman creatures who approached them.

  But Conan restrained his ardour. “Their confusion is more feigned than real. I fear a trap,” he muttered. “Keep to the higher ground. We have the advantage of position—

  A moment later, swords clashed in wild confusion. Conan cut one brute down and felt the sting of a wound on his left arm. Subotai speared another beast-man in the throat; but even as he fell, one of his fellows grasped the shaft, wrenched it from the Hyrkanian’s hand, and pointed the blood-stained tip at him. The small man leaped back, stumbled over a broken slab, and lost his balance. Before he could rise, the guard thrust at him with his own spear. The weapon pierced the Hyrkanian’s calf and went on into the earth. As the guard brought up his heavy sword to deal a final blow, the shaman’s javelin sped through the gloom and took the beast-man in the heart.

  As before, the point was rocked by invisible forces until, loosened, it flew back to its wielder. On the magic weapon came again, to strike down another brutish guard. A third turned, slack-jawed, and ran toward the level ground; but the false ground gave way beneath him, and he fell screaming into the stake-filled pit.

  Afire with battle madness, Conan rushed from the shelter of the gravestones, hoping to surprise the lone rider who now galloped up the mound. The Cimmerian’s spear rang on armour that gleamed in the moonlight; but the spear shaft shattered against his foe’s fine steel, and the warrior rode him down. Steel-shod hooves battered the fallen Cimmerian; a deft sword stroke sent his father’s sword

  clattering against a monument. Another blow tore off Conan’s helmet.

  Bleeding profusely, Conan struggled to his knees, too weak to stagger to his feet. The horseman wheeled his charger, rode away for a few paces, then wheeled again to make a final charge against his broken adversary. He pushed back the visor of his helmet to reveal the dark and grinning face of Rexor, his cruel eyes sparkling in anticipation of the mortal blow to come.

  The Cimmerian reached for his fallen sword and rose. His eyes were slits of blue bale fire as he raised the blade in the Pit-fighter’s salute and prepared to sell his life as dearly as he might. Laughing at the injured youth’s temerity, the giant lieutenant spurred his animal and charged, his sword arm rising for the killing blow.

  In that instant a radiant Valeria, arrayed in shimmering armour, with lustrous blonde hair floating beneath a winged helmet of unearthly metal, appeared beside her helpless lover. Her well-muscled limbs were shining in the moonlight; the tulwar she uplifted flashed with blue lightning. As Rexor raised his weapon to smash it down on the barbarian’s head, his arm was stayed by her fiery sword. Rexor recoiled before the shining figure who, with a deft cross stroke, whipped her blinding blade across his unguarded eyes. He clapped one gauntleted hand to his face to shield his eyes from the intolerable light, and sat his steed as one transfixed.

  Conan gaped at the shining figure, his nape-hairs bristling with superstitious awe. The bright girl turned a laughing face to him, and in his mind he heard her say, Cimmerian, do you want to live forever?

  As Conan straightened with renewed determination, it was as if the glittering figure in unearthly metal had never been, save that a fading ghostlike glory glimmered against the sky. And Conan remembered the words uttered by Valeria after the wizard, by his magic, had driven off the clutching hands of death and all his minions. She had whispered: My love is stronger than death.... Were I dead and you in peril, I would return from Hell itself to fight beside you.

  The memory of such love gave a generous measure of pride to the wounded barbarian. Painfully, he made his way to the dark horse on which the lieutenant of Doom sat, nursing his dazzled eyes. He slipped the giant’s foot from the nearest stirrup and forced the huge man from his saddle. As Rexor landed, catlike, on his feet, the Cimmerian slapped the horse’s rump, and the frightened animal careened away into the darkness.

  Conan rushed on Rexor, striking mercilessly at his armoured form. Rexor, his eyes recovered from the brilliance, slashed at his younger enemy. Conan, deflecting the blow, ducked and rejoined the fray, driving the big man back with massive, wheeling strokes. Then, with a single overhand blow of the two-handed sword, the Cimmerian drove his steel into the cultist’s neck. Rexor remained upright, a tower of muscle rooted to the ground. Then, suddenly, he toppled forward, his armour clanking, and lay still.

  Conan took a deep breath and looked around. Subotai, with his leg bandaged and the wizard beside him, stood on the edge of the mound watching a knot of retreating guards gallop toward the Mountain of Power. Soon the maw of night swallowed them.

  The silence that had fallen on the deserted battlefield was broken by the girlish voice of Yasimina. The three looked up to find the lean, esthetic figure of Thulsa Doom outlined against the star-decked sky. Elegant in his reptilian armour, he sat his horse proudly and faced the bedraggled girl who was the princess of Zamora, priestess of Set, and his intended bride.

  “Master! I told them you would come for me,” she trilled. “Unbind me now that I may come to you.”

  “That cannot be,” was the cult leader’s stony reply. “They have defiled you, as they defiled my temple precincts.”

  “Nay, Lord Doom, not so. I have been faithful to you, my lord, my father. Desert me not!”

  “You are no longer fit to be my bride.”

  “Then, Master, I will be your slave, and gladly. Do not leave me here among the enemies of Set!”

  “Fear not, my child.” Doom’s silk-smooth voice was comforting.

  Thulsa Doom spoke no further word, but unwound a writhing viper from his neck and, as before, transformed it into a deadly arrow. Yasimina watched without comprehension, but Subotai saw the snake king’s movement and guessed what he was going to do. As Doom nocked the magic arrow, the Hyrkanian limped forward, careless of his wound. Just as the missile came hissing through the air, Subotai interposed his shield between the viper-arrow and its intended victim. The arrow thumped into the wood, turned back into a snake, and fell writhing to the ground. The small thief drew his sword and hacked it into pieces.

  Yasimina laid her head on her bound wrists and wept hysterically. Conan stalked slowly toward the cult leader, staring at him through slit eyes, and placed himself between the princess and her tormentor. Doom glanced at the sword clutched in the Cimmerian’s brown fist—the blade of fine Atlantean steel forged by a village smith so many years ago. And as he looked into the determined face of the barbarian, the cold hand of fear lay on the heart of Thulsa Doom. Shuddering, he spurred his black steed and, wheeling, rode off after the vanquished remnant of his guard.

  “Powerful spirits abide hereabouts,” said the ancient wizard, adding, “and today they fought for you.”

  “I know, old man, I know,” mumbled Conan, thinking of the shining figure of Valeria. “And you and Subotai did much to win the day.”

  Then the young giant turned and cupped the princess’s
face gently in his large hands. “He would have killed you; you know that. First he sent his servant; then he came himself to do it.”

  The girl nodded dumbly.

  Conan continued: “Now I must kill him; for he is evil. And you must take me to him. Are you willing?”

  Again the princess nodded, and the sad smile of a lost child flitted across her tear-stained face as he hacked her bonds apart.

  “You will understand... someday... when you are a queen,” he said.

  Through the remainder of the night, Conan and the shaman, in turn, kept watch over the princess and the wounded man. At dawn, Conan awoke and, looking up, saw the wizard standing beside him. The old man murmured: “Let me see the talisman you took from the slain warrior woman. I would study it in yonder light.” Pointing to a narrow shaft of sunlight that had found its way into the hut, he added, “My knowledge may prove useful to you.” Conan removed the gem from his neck and handed it to the old man. The wizard carried the jewel to the window and watched its radiance suffuse his simple abode. At last he spoke: “This is the Eye of Set, is it not? Know you aught of its magical properties?”

  “No,” said Conan. “To me it is but a bauble to be sold.”

  “Amongst us wizards, it has much repute. Whence came you on it?”

  “We stole it from the Serpent’s Tower in Shadizar,” confessed the Cimmerian. “We risked our lives to get it.” “No wonder that the faithful guarded it so well, or that they would destroy you to regain it!” exclaimed the wizard. “One of its many powers, they say, is to command the beast-men whom Doom keeps to do his bidding. Raise it before one and command him, and he cannot but obey.” Conan stared in amazement. “Crom, Why did you not tell me this before? It would have saved some desperate hand-play yesterday.”

  The shaman spread his hands. “I tried to question you about the jewel before; but you refused to speak of it and hid it in your bosom.”

  Conan bit his lip. “I own you have the right of it, old man. It must have been a trick of that malicious fate, of whom I’ve heard the learned speak. Well, I yet have work to do; and it may still prove useful to me.” So saying, he slipped the cord over his head and once more buried the jewel beneath his garment.

  XVII

  The Avenging

  In the great temple, the Faithful of Set were gathered to hear the exhortation of their master. Hundreds of candles, nursed by loving hands, threw a dim radiance over the chamber, and reflected the eager faces of the congregation. The commingling of young voices, flutes, and brasses made solemn music that reverberated through the cavernous hall and lent an air of sanctity, vastly pleasing to the worshippers of Set.

  All became silent, as Thulsa Doom, resplendent in his reptilian armour, mounted the dais and faced his followers. His eyes were dark and filled with sorcery, but there was no humanity in them. He fixed his gaze beyond the uplifted faces massed before him, as if he saw some vision of the future that he alone could see, and intoned: “The day of doom is here. The purging is at last at hand. All who stand against us in high places, all who have lied to you and tried to turn you from me—parents, teachers, judges—all shall depart in a night of blood and fire. Then shall the earth be cleansed and ready to receive the god we worship.”

  “Set!” moaned the listeners in ecstasy.

  The soft, smooth voice of Doom continued. “You, my children, are the pure water that will cleanse the world. You shall destroy all who stand against us. In your hands you hold the eternal light that bums in the eyes of Set!”

  “Set!” chorused the audience as one.

  Doom lit a candle held by a kneeling priest. “This flame,” he said, “shall bum away the darkness and light your way to paradise, if you but act when I do call on you.”

  Not many miles from the citadel of Thulsa Doom, two horses trotted side by side. One bore the slight form of Princess Yasimina, clad in a silken robe from the saddle bags of Valeria. The other, a larger beast, carried a man dressed in the leathern armour and face-encasing helmet of a guard of Thulsa Doom. Above the pounding hoof beats, had any been there to listen, the following words drifted, like floating petals on a springtime breeze:

  “I loved him, and he tried to kill me! Why did he that?” Conan—for it was he shrugged. “I do not know. But so long as he lives, you are in danger—and my prayers for vengeance go unanswered. Doom must die.”

  “I would that Subotai were here to aid you.”

  “But he lies wounded in the shaman’s care,” said Conan.

  “What help can I be on a mission such as this?” Yasimina’s voice held a trace of her former petulance.

  “You must lead me to the Master, as you call him. None knows the ways of the hollow mountain so well as one who has lived there.”

  The girl stared at the mountain that had been her home. Then she shivered.

  “I still worship him. How can I help with his destruction?”

  “You must do it. For yourself and for Zamora.”

  “For my country? How so?”

  Gently Conan answered her: “You have seen the sun rise. It drives away the terrors of the dark, and from its light foul things that love the darkness cower and hide. You must be the sunrise of Zamora.”

  Yasimina nodded; but tears were in her eyes.

  Boldly, Yasimina rode to the gates of the mountain citadel; boldly, Conan, in the guise of a guardsman, followed her. The sentries, subhuman beings as they were, knew nothing of the girl’s abduction or their master’s disavowal of her. The gates swung wide; their mounts were stabled.

  Head held high, as befitted a priestess of Set, the princess walked up the broad avenue that led to the snake god’s temple. She paused to dabble her fingers in the fragrant pool of the fountain at the foot of the wide stairs, and glanced briefly at the armed man who followed her. Then, with a composure that her beating heart belied, she and her attendant entered the sanctuary.

  In the dark recesses of the assembly room, their unnoticed figures moved on silent feet. A fugitive gleam of candlelight failed to betray the features of the princess, impassive and thoughtful. Behind the throng of worshippers, a score of brutish guards stood armed; but they did not mark the passage of the newcomers. Their attention was riveted on the cult leader, who, raising his arms, continued his exhortation:

  “Know that, on the hard roads you now go forth to follow, weariness and heartache may be your lot. Hunger and loneliness may walk beside you, and loved ones become your enemies. Yet ever Set will walk before, and all who dare to stand against him shall you kill, until the whole wide world is his.”

  Conan peered at Yasimina. Strange emotions— sorrow, love, and hate—chased one another across the face of the princess as she looked upon the man who, she thought, had loved her, but who would have spilled her life as casually as one throws away the dregs of a wine cup.

  Behind his helmet, Conan’s eyes were agleam with calm ferocity. His was no longer a mission of revenge; to rid the earth of evil such as this—this was his destiny. All the days of his life, he thought—all the years of toil and suffering on the Wheel of Pain, all the months of training in the skills and wiles of a Pit fighter, all the weary hours of wandering, homeless, across the uncaring land—were but preparation for this moment.

  On the dais, Doom stood tall and silent, holding aloft a lighted candle. His face was upturned as if to drink in the radiance of the flame. At his feet, one of the lesser priests resumed the ritual. To his hypnotic chant, the bodies of the worshippers swayed in rhythm, like half-coiled serpents weaving before a snake charmer.

  “Blind your eyes, mystic serpent,” intoned the priest. “Kabil sabul; Kabil Kabil; Kabil hakim! Lift blind eyes to the moon. Whom call ye forth from the gulfs of night? What shadow falleth between the light and thee? Look into the eyes of such a one, O Father Set. Look and blast his soul to shrivelled dust! Kill him, kill him, kill him! And all who love him, kill!”

  The rapt throng echoed: “Kill!”

  With stately tread the chanting prie
st moved forward, bearing his lighted taper upraised above his head. Thulsa Doom, stranger from the East, sorcerer, high priest of Set, magnificent in his snakelike plates of polished mail, walked like a conqueror behind his acolyte. The faithful, row by row, fell in behind him, each intent on keeping his candle flame from flickering out. At the great portal Doom paused and turned to bestow a final blessing on the cohorts he was about to fling into the world to do his evil bidding.

  As he raised a hand in benediction, a wave of consternation broke over the assemblage, as ripples from a falling pebble disturb the surface of a pool. The spell of the devotions broke and faltered into silence. A hundred pairs of eyes sought to pierce the shadows beside the open doors.

  As Doom looked around to see the cause of this disturbance, his brutish guards sprang into position between their master and his followers. Linking arms, they formed a living chain through which none could break, should any seek to do so, and awaited further orders.

  Conan strode forth into the candlelight with the slow-paced steps of a stalking panther, his father’s sword in his right fist. He moved with a strange inevitability, like a tide sweeping in across the sand. The lead priest shrank away, unnerved by the Cimmerian’s calm certitude that Fate was guiding him; but Doom faced the barbarian squarely, with neither fear nor wonder in his cold, reptilian eyes.