Conan the Savage

by Leonard Carpenter

  “Your Majesty, please,” a voice interrupted. “Begging • your pardon, and Milord’s...” One of the unarmed attendants, two of whom had been stationed outside the open chamber door, made a sudden entry. He seemed apologetic—unsure, perhaps, of what protocols would be established by the new empress. “I have been instructed to inform Your Majesty of the arrival of a late guest, Prince Clewyn.” The jerkined man glanced uneasily to the door. “He has been brought up, Your Majesty, and awaits your convenience in the antechamber.”

  “I see. That was done on the First Steward’s suggestion,

  I take it?”

  At the servant’s timid half-nod, Tamsin turned to Basifer, who blinked, still unsettled by his recent experience and still absently stroking his wrist. “Yes, my Queen, I took the liberty—”

  “Very well, then, bring him in.” Tamsin ticked an impatient finger aside at the servant and spoke to her doll. “Let us see, Ninga, how winsome we truly find this dashing, courtly young lord.” Her voice, as it penetrated to Basifer’s ear, bore a note of ill temper. “Perhaps he too will taken an interest in our collection of baubles.”

  After a brief stir outside the reliquary chamber, a slim man in a feathered cap and short travel cape was admitted, striding in company with the attendant. The girl-queen did not at first turn to face him. Instead, she maintained a stylized attitude of conversation with silent, distracted Basifer; and when she did look around, her young face had in it an amazing degree of queenly coldness. Then at once it changed. On seeing the visitor, her gaze became inquisitive, following his actions with frank involuntary interest as he took two quick steps forward, bent slowly to one knee, plucked her half-raised hand from her side and kissed it.

  “Your Majesty,” the page announced, “Prince Clewyn; of Brythunia.”

  The prince was thin and fragile-looking, a well-dressed but extremely elderly man. His aristocratic features were seamed and wizened with countless wrinkles, the whole framed by silver-grey hair and a white goatee. He had not evidently lost many teeth, for his face still had a square, noble look. His bow was gallant, his smile winning and confiding.

  “Queen Tamsin,” he said, rising to his feet, “Brythunia has never known a younger and lovelier ruler... not even recalling my own grand-aunt Queen Lyditha, now fifty summers gone!" Again kissing the hand that he retained In his grip, Clewyn declared, “Queen and Priestess, I swear my eternal love and devotion to you.” Scarcely blinking, his sharp old eyes flicked to the doll resting under his empress’s arm. “And High Goddess Ninga—nay, the one god, the only true goddess.” Knuckling his forehead devoutly, with a swift, half-smiling glance to Tamsin, he dropped again to his knee in obeisance to the puppet. "Your Godliness, you are all that I expected and more.” “Prince... Clewyn, is it not?” the young woman inquired curiously and with surprising civility. “Ninga and I heard of you, but we made no serious study of the defunct royal court. I did not expect—”

  “My great age, you mean? And my timidity?” Warmly, Clewyn pressed Tamsin’s young hand between his two thin, wrinkled ones. “My dear Queen, do not think it amiss. My longevity in this empire is primarily a result of being meek and inconspicuous, at times practically invisible, especially during the reign of Your Gracious Majesty’s heavy-handed predecessor, the late Typhas.

  “And yet, now,” Clewyn went on, “in the tenure of a more pious and enlightened ruler, and one better loved by her subjects, I find it in my heart to dream that I might once more hold an esteemed place here at the Sargossan court. Dear Queen, on witnessing your regal splendour— and that of your godly protectress, Ninga—I crave nothing more than to bask in your divine radiance and, of course, to serve your empire with the fruits of my travel and experience. Most of all, I wish to spend the last few years that remain to me here in your shadow, in the beloved capital of my youth.”

  He spoke frankly; with steady gaze, meanwhile lightly stroking the back of the young queen’s hand in his. “I wish this boon, needless to say, only if it affords my adored Queen Tamsin no slightest concern or inconvenience. That is, cherished Empress, I offer and abase myself most humbly and devotedly at your whim...”

  “Hmmm. Yes, of course, brave Clewyn, if you wish it.’ Queen Tamsin’s reaction was prompt and accepting, if lacking the blush and breathlessness such high flattery might have brought to many another queenly countenance. “There are some, I think, who would not wish to linger in our company. They fear the swift, all-knowing scrutiny of our goddess and her keen, terrible judgements... do they not, Ninga?” she coaxed the gourd-doll at her side. “This entreaty of yours, Prince Clewyn, is to your credit... and Basifer, your earlier commendation of the prince reflects well on you.”

  The steward, still subjected to powerful inner tides of feeling, had been reduced to watchful, impassive silence; yet his answer bore in it a surge of conviction. “My sincere thanks, Your Majesty.”

  ‘‘I was just now explaining, my dear Prince, about the unsurpassed value of charms and amulets, at least for those with the spiritual gift to employ them.” Taking Clewyn by the hand, she drew him to Basifer’s side. “I call your attention to this most unusual piece. Perhaps your worldly knowledge can come to our aid.” Reaching out, she tools from the steward’s slack grip the strangely made medallion “It is of unfamiliar workmanship. Have you ever seen it! like?”

  “Why yes, my dear Queen.” Clewyn nodded with an air of uncertainty. “Such work has occasionally been brought here in the past, usually in the stock of traders or as Imperial tribute. But it looks very crude and primitive, held up beside the gems that adorn Your Majesty’s most exquisite person.”

  “Ninga tells me it is very old,” Tamsin said. “I, too, sense an elemental power in it, though the goddess has yet to reveal to me how to draw it out.” She ran the oval medallion almost sensuously between a red-nailed thumb and forefinger. “It was brought here from the eastern marches, I am told—perhaps part of an ancient trove, or else picked up in trade from the local inhabitants.” She draped the ornament over a slender forearm. “It is our intention to scour the land for such rarities, to further enhance the power of our temple.”

  Clewyn nodded. “There are men—or there formerly were, in the late king’s employ—who can mount such an inquiry into any quarter of the empire, however remote.” “That would not surprise me.” Tamsin turned to her other retainer. “And you, First Steward... can you aid me in such undertakings? Zealously, since I wish it, and without being too chary of expense?”

  Basifer sank to one knee, canting his head toward the floor in profound obeisance. “For the sake of Brythunia’s queen and the greater glory of her temple, I pledge Your Majesty—I will do anything!”

  XII

  Savage Destinies

  The elk halted in flight, its flanks heaving with exhaustion, its broad nostrils jetting pale vapour into the morning chill. The great head beneath the rack of massively splayed, moss-draped antlers pivoted regally on its shaggy neck, scanning the glade behind for danger. But the narrow expanse of grass was empty, and the farther border of trees and underbrush contained no hint of motion.

  Abruptly, somewhere beyond the green curtain, came a movement. Through the leafy screen a long wooden shaft hurtled, shearing off leaves with its razory stone point, skimming low to strike the forest loam between the elk’s broad hooves. With a simultaneous spring-taut motion, the animal launched itself into air and vanished, its departure signalled only by the thudding snap of twigs from forest beyond.

  “A poor cast, Conan!” Jad called out as he loped forward through the thicket. “You have not yet gained the knack of using the spear-thrower.”

  “Aye, River-man.” Aklak spread his comments out between short breaths as he ran alongside his now-weaponless hunt-mate. “The trees did not allow you enough loft for such range. If you strain your arm too much in attempting long flat throws, you will regret it.”

  Conan, veering aside through the glade, stooped to grab up his fallen spear. As he pelted along a
fter his four hunt-mates, he couched the weapon ready again the same as the others, its butt resting in the hollow of the crook-ended stick he clutched, with the spear shaft hooked beneath a finger of the same hand that gripped the stick’s haft. On an instant’s notice, he could heave back his arm, release the spear shaft, and propel the weapon forward at the end of the lever-like extension, farther and faster than a hand-driven spear would fly.

  “Here, see, our prey heads northward into the cliff lands,” one of the younger hunters called to the others, discovering the scent in a cleft between rocky hills. “I told you so, Aklak! You should have let us stalk ahead and surround the creature before you started it running!” “Aye, such is the best way,” another young stalker, a woman, agreed. “The smartest hunters always lie in wait and let others drive the game onto their spears.”

  “Aye, yes,” Aklak patiently agreed, “but even if you did head it off, could you stand before it? It takes a strong hunter to face a frightened branch-beast—especially one that has not been wearied by a long chase and drained by wounds.” Aklak’s words came in short, breathy gusts; he could spare the wind to talk only because the band was not running at full speed. They all knew that, while the elk could achieve short bursts of speed, if they kept on its track, they could overtake it. Acting as a team, they further improved their chances.

  “Curse this spiteful elk,” Jad proclaimed to the others while scrambling up a rock-strewn slope. “It tires us twice! Every step we have to follow it, we must also carry its carcass that much farther back to camp!”

  A moment later, Aklak hissed, “Ho, quiet! The prey rests in yonder thicket! It must wait there, else we would have seen it mounting the ridge beyond.”

  To Conan’s silent judgement, Aklak spoke truly. The stony crest along the back of the woody hollow was benched and uneven, but it contained no furrow deep enough to hide the flight of a full-grown branch-beast. Their prey must be sheltering in the copse; it might even decide to turn at bay and fight there.

  “Good then, we should spread out and form a circle.” The agile young huntress, almost without waiting for her hunt-chief’s nod of assent, set out along the edge of the covert. At Aklak’s gesture, Jad and the other youthful, impetuous male followed after. Conan and his in-law meanwhile angled the other way, toward the steeper arm of the ridge.

  “Be wary, Conan. Allow them time to get into place. And do not cast your spear into the first thing that moves, lest it be one of our reckless friends!”

  Advancing in a fluid half-crouch, Aklak led the way silently through the undergrowth. As each new expanse of terrain opened out before him, he would scan it carefully, peering out around a bush or the base of a tree rather than exposing his bushy-haired profile against open sky. Conan stayed some way short of Aklak but used identical skills; he did his best to keep Jad in view so as to complete the circle of hunters. The line straggled out broadly but began to shorten as it converged on a smaller patch of forest.

  The stone ridge loomed high through the trees as Conan, with a low, silent wave, caught Aklak’s attention. He directed his friend’s gaze toward the pair of antlers nodding amid the trees, some fifty paces ahead. The elk was at rest; its red-bearded muzzle browsed quietly on shrubbery, as if the hunt were over.

  Conan adjusted his grip on his lance, flexing his arm and drawing it back. Aklak held up a hand and froze— interminably, it seemed, as he waited for some sense of the others’ whereabouts. At last he nodded and couched his lance the same as Conan; then he straightened smoothly, commencing a graceful, bounding stride. Conan watched his movements and fell in step with them. An instant later, both spear shafts simultaneously lashed free of their wood slings, sailing between the trees on tightly converging trajectories.

  One struck into the grazing animal’s flank and lodged there; the other fell short into the turf. As the elk leaped belatedly clear, a third spear hurled by Jad glanced across its back; before falling free, it did some lucky damage, as a spray of blood drops through the air attested.

  While the young huntsman pranced and hooted in triumph, the two others converged on the short-fallen weapon. Aklak reached it first.

  “My spear,” he announced gravely. “Yours was the truer cast, Conan.”

  “Because of your sound teaching, my brother.” Conan, meanwhile, picked up Jad’s spear and examined its blooded tip; then he slung it sidewise to the young hunter. “I will have to use this,” he said, unslinging his ax from its belt loop and replacing it with the now-useless spear-throwing stick.

  The three of them loped after the vanished elk. From faint noises in the brush some distance to the side, it was clear that their two younger companions had not managed to hedge in the animal. Their prey’s trail was clearer now, from ill-placed hoofmarks and regular dabblings of blood on the leaves and forest litter. At times, too, the animal’s hoof-falls, laboured and uneven, could plainly be heard from the slope ahead. The spearhead, Conan judged, was not lodged deeply in the elk’s side; yet it must be a source of pain and a hindrance. Hefting his ax, he experienced a pang of longing to end the beast’s suffering.

  “Ki-yaa! Ki-yii!” Baying shrill cries to frighten the prey and summon their fellows, the hunters swarmed up the ridge after the beast. Its blood fell on bare granite now, spattering wide because of its great exertions. Conan took the lead; Aklak came close behind, breathing in deep gasps but still calling out instructions: “When the quarry falters or turns, Conan, remember, do not rush into the way and spoil my spear-cast!”

  They came to an open area, a series of rounded granite benches where the elk could clearly be seen. It laboured steadily upward, its hooves sliding and faltering on the worn stone, its bony shanks looking as frail and thin as the spear shaft that still dragged from its side. Even so, and before the bounding, baying hunters could come within

  spear-cast, the trammeled beast hauled itself up over the crest.

  Moments later, the Atupans swarmed over the top, their weapons poised for mayhem. They saw... nothing. Before them, a broad, steep-rimmed natural amphitheatre straddled the ridge, devoid of hiding places and escape paths. At its centre lay a shallow puddle, whose rim of drying, flaking mud was untouched, undisturbed. The wounded elk could not possibly have dragged itself out of sight so quickly. Yet, aside from a splatter of wet blood on the rocks before them, there was no sign of their prey.

  “I have seen the like of this before.” Conan stood over the blood-spoor, intently scanning the hard, stony horizon.

  “The hunt is over, so the omens say.” Resignedly, Aklak grounded the butt of his spear on the rock. “Some kills are never fated to be made.”

  “Well...’’the youngest male hunter forlornly agreed, “if such is the will of the great spirits...”

  “That may be,” Conan said. “But I, for one, intend to get back my spear.” He strode away over the rock toward a single blood-drop that glistened on a stone near the upper rim of the amphitheatre. “You others can stop here if you want.”

  “Not I, river-man!” The young female warrior strode after him, brandishing her spear. “I will help you steal back our elk, be it from the Great Badger himself!”

  “I, too, will come with you,” Jad chimed in. “I have run too far to turn back now. Well, Aklak, what say you? Are you afraid your spear will miss again?”

  Aklak frowned, contemplating. “No, I will come,” he declared with sudden resolution. “Let us put an end to this mystery.”

  Conan, stalking ahead, reached the edge of the amphitheatre before the others. He looked out on a level shelf of stone with few bushes and trees, open to the sky. There his gaze settled on a harrowing sight.

  A gigantic mountain cat—grey-speckled on silver, with hunched, massive shoulders that made it taller and broader than the elk itself—tore hungrily at the prey’s slack body, which it must have caught up in its monstrous jaws and dragged to this spot in a few mighty bounds of its pantherish frame. The bulbous feline head, with its tufted ears, arching eyebrow ridges, gory
whiskers, and red-slavering, under-slung jaw, bristled with devilish menace. Every feature was vastly oversized, and all centred on a pair of fangs as long and evilly curved as the blades of Zamoran tulwars. The great animal used its huge feline teeth methodically, scissoring away slabs of glistening flesh from the elk’s haunches and spilling forth entrails in quivering heaps.

  At Conan’s arrival, the cat scarcely glanced up from its butchery. Only a horripilation of coarse bristles along the hump of its spine and a slight shift in its feral crouch signalled its awareness of being observed. The creature was not likely to take much interest in humans, after all, since they were too small to make a satisfactory meal or to pose a substantial threat.

  Faced with such a vast and godlike... or demon-like... being, Conan was uncertain of how to proceed. His awe and superstitious dread lasted for several moments— until a spear, deftly and forcefully driven, streaked over his

  shoulder toward the beast. It was a perfect cast, aimed level and straight at the heart—if the monster, with devilishly quick reflexes, had not flicked up a huge paw and batted the spear shaft aside before it struck.

  Hefting his ax, Conan glanced over his shoulder at Aklak, who watched expressionless as his spear shattered to splinters against a boulder. There was something fatalistic in his gaze—and the three younger hunters, who had raised their weapons to cheer, now clutched them defensively, two-handed.

  An instant later, the time for reflection was past. The great cat, letting its gory kill fall aside, was among them.

  Conan struck first, darting in from the flank, his ax hurtling down on the huge, hideous head. Because of the cat’s devilish speed, his weapon struck only glancingly; it sheared away a few tough whiskers but failed to crack, or even to stun, the heavy, bone-ridged skull. Conan was bowled over, his wind knocked out of him, and skin was scraped from his chest and back by the animal’s coarse pelt and by rough, bare granite.