Yet the Sarkad and Shartoumi pilgrims in their white shawls seemed able to bear the heat with supernatural vigour. Hurled down, they scrambled up from the pavement and back to their toil like parched, animated skeletons—and the ordinary humans opposing them found it hard to dart in near enough to snatch one from his labour without being blinded by heat, or suffering lurid, painful bums.
But the fight was irrelevant; Conan felt sure that, even without a single mortal hand to move them, and without chariot wheels beneath, the sections of the idol would still grind together across the Agora, drawn inexorably by the power of Votantha’s coming. His own task of pruning the Tree of Mouths seemed equally hopeless, as its massive trunk continued to thicken, and new heads blossomed from its top faster than he could hew them off with his sword.
He felt himself growing weak, finding it harder to look into the blaze and breathe the hot, acrid air. The tree’s mounting din tormented his ears, and its devilish heat gnawed at him— issuing mainly from the rounded bole at its base, which had become little more than a dome of living fire. Here, he sensed, the seed of Qjara’s destruction was being incubated; from it would issue the true, living god to bestride the earth, once the three pillars of the idol clashed firmly together. Yet he could not reach the fiery hemisphere with his sword, any more than he could touch the flaming ball of the sun with outstretched fingers. The heat was too intense; he could not even throw his weapon, since he needed it to beat aside the bolts and gusts of fire that surged each moment at his unarmored vitals. In spite of his warlike fury he was now being forced back from the ravening tree, step by grudging step.
Then danger engulfed him. A host of the snarling heads, whose stalks seemed each moment to grow longer and more fiendishly agile, swooped down about him with nimble enough reach to surround him. Their howls dinned in his ears and their fiery breath beat at him mercilessly, threatening to sweep him off his feet and scorch him to a cinder.
Desperately he swung his sword, trying to hack or beat the hideous visages away; frantically he darted, like a spider trying to escape a flaming hearth. The monsters’ fiery tongues licked the sweat from his skin and curled past the edges of his armour.; the thongs and baser metal bindings of his mail burned away, letting vital parts of it clatter to the pavement. Flames engulfed him and lapped scorchingly at his limbs, his throat, his unprotected loins—
A blare of sound erupted around him. The heads drew upward in a blast of flame and a chaos of grating, bellowing cries. The attack by the Tree of Mouths broke off; as Conan edged away, he saw why.
From the base of the monstrous tree, transfixing its gravid ball of swirling fire, there now projected a long metal shaft—a thick, sagging spear-haft. Around it the mystic fire seemed to dim and fade, as if being eaten away. A ragged hole yawned in the luminous body of the spectral plant, a void which seemed to suck in more and more of the collapsing image as Conan watched.
Overhead, the noxious trumpetings already sounded more mournful than fierce, seeming to diminish in volume. Before him the ghost-image sagged, as if drained of the glowing energy that was its lifeblood. Fading, dying...
Conan wondered at the origin of the great spear, which seemed to have caused it all; though miraculously unmelted in the heat, it was of some soft, pliant metal... lead, most likely. A stray suspicion made him glance up over his shoulder at the bronze idol of Saditha; with a shiver, he confirmed that she now stood unarmed, her spear hand raised empty as if in salute.
It was nearly over. The spectre of the god had slumped and diminished to a mere shrub-sized desert mirage wavering in and out of existence. Around it on three sides, the chariots bearing the god's metal monuments suddenly burst into flame, ending their forward motion. As fire consumed the wooden axles, one of the great statues fell sideways to the ground, smashing the paving stones beneath it; the bases of the other two merely thudded to earth amid scatters of flaming ash. Behind them, their teams of faithful bearers knelt down aflame, their worn-out bodies having been reduced to mere papery husks of skin and sinew. Soon nothing remained of the pilgrims but feathery ash and charred bone. By then their howling god had vanished.
Conan, meanwhile, snaked out of his armour. to get the last bits of smouldering under shirt away from his skin. Afriandra brought a many-coloured robe from the royal pavilion to cover his nakedness. "Your vision came true,” he ruefully told her. "Luckily, the gold armour. protected me... and the sorcerous flames must have lost their power with the god’s death. My bums are all but vanished...”
Abruptly they turned their attention to Khumanos, who had come creeping from the margin of the crowd. The priest no longer wore his hard, aloof bearing; now he knelt over the gleaming blade Conan had used to attack the Tree of Mouths.
"The Sword of Onothimantos,” he said in wonder, his fingers plucking at the empty thong around his neck. "It is whole again—and I—” As he looked up from Conan to the princess, tears suddenly sprang into his eyes. Then, with an air of stricken humility, he turned toward the idol of Saditha. A moan issued from his parched throat, and he pressed his face into his hands, sobbing.
“Other spells have lost their power this day,” Conan observed. Afriandra made no answer; instead she knelt beside the despairing priest to comfort him.
"A day of miracles!” a female voice declared close behind him. "A glorious, unforgettable day—on which our Goddess manifested her divine physical presence...” It was Queen Regula, speaking for the ears of the crowd "... and rescued her city from an insidious menace.”
"By slaying her would-be husband at the altar?” Conan wrapped himself more securely in his regal cloak as he turned to ask the question.
“Indeed, yes,” the arch-priestess rallied. “She exercised that sacred choice which belongs to every woman. In doing so, she spared her followers the harsh rule of an insensitive patriarch.”
“They would have found Votantha’s rule harsh indeed—” Conan grimly affirmed, “—though brief.” He gazed up at the Goddess. “It was Saditha’s idol, then, who cast the spear?”
"Oh, without a doubt,” the queen assured him. "I myself was not blessed with the sight— I had stepped back under the royal pavilion, so my view was obstructed. But there are many in the crowd who will attest to it, I am sure— dozens, hundreds!”
“Then it must be so.” Conan nodded in frank acceptance. “Anyway, other things hint at a godly hand... for instance, this blade I plied against Votantha.” He picked up the weapon Khumanos had called the Sword of Onothimantos.
“And the provision of yourself to wield it,” a hearty male voice added. It was Semiarchos, striding up to join his queen. “Once an outcast, now a dauntless hero in golden armour.—did you find that suit poking about in the desert, by any chance?”
"Aye, O King. It is the last of the treasure from the Stone Ship. I found the remains of your uncle’s expedition too—but not the wealth it carried.” Conan gestured down at the armour. plates lying on the paves. "I had the clasps and buckles mended by an armourer, to bring it to you as proof of my discovery. But it has suffered from the fight—”
“No matter! It is a rare find, and you are doubly deserving of it—but if you sell it to me, I will pay you handsomely—”
“Methinks its finding was more the work of our Goddess than of any mortal hand,” Queen Regula interrupted, "since it served our side so well in this day’s battle. To think of this sword and armour., brought together from such eldritch and unlikely origins, to be used in our defence. by one who was reviled and shunned, branded a heretic and then exiled from Qjara—”
"I was never one to harbour a grudge,” Conan announced. "I am ready, if you will, to accept your apology for my former shabby treatment at your city's hands-”
"No apology is called for,” the queen promptly assured him. “Clearly, all that came to pass was a part of the unfolding of the One True Goddess's great scheme, in which we mortals are but helpless pawns.” She adjusted her capacious royal robes about her statuesque body. “My rem
arks were merely intended to show how far-reaching are the Goddess’s powers—and how mysterious, or even astounding, their results can sometimes be.”
“Oh, but Regula, my love,” Semiarchos protested, “you must give the northerner some credit." He showed kingly tact in aiding Conan, who was scowling at the queen’s dictum. "If the poor fellow is but an unwitting tool of Saditha, he proved at least to be a keen and ready tool— a noble implement of firm, strong mettle! Surely the Goddess would want us to reward him and acknowledge his efforts.”
"Oh, indeed,” the high priestess concurred, studying Conan thoughtfully. "His lesson of selflessness and endurance could be most valuable to our followers. In point of fact—assuming, of course, that he is willing to serve the temple and learn the rudiments of priestly devotion— he could someday be elevated to quite a high place in Qjara, even comparable to that of our late hero, Zaius.” Her gaze flickered furtively from Conan to the princess. "In truth, it might be possible to raise him very high indeed—” "Many thanks to you both,” Conan said hastily, “but my plan is still to leave Qjara.” He gazed down at Afriandra where she knelt beside the priest Khumanos. Careless of her surroundings, she cradled an arm around his quaking shoulders, hearing his confessions and sharing his tears.
Then Conan resumed speaking, glancing around the half-circle of citizens who, attentive to the dealings of their rulers, had drawn near. “I can tarry here awhile to help you clear away these evil fetishes—which I, after all, had a hand in assembling." He gestured to the segments of the idol, which still glowed and smouldered an algal green. “Such abominations should be carted off into the desert, I would say, and buried—far apart, and positioned so that your city is no longer at the centre of their dire influence.” He acknowledged the king's nod, which brought with it a scattered cheer from the onlookers.
“In any event,” Conan resumed, “I can remain at your service until the arrival of a caravan northward. Then, after we have agreed on a price for yon armour.—the mystic sword, too, would make a fine new weapon for your goddess, though it is a bit ill-weighted to my hand—why, then I can outfit myself and ride to Shadizar in style!”
Epilogue
Eventful days had overtaken the city of Sark. First came the announcement of the holy mission to Qjara; amid the drought and its related hardships, this was treated as a serious attempt to regain the favour of the great god Votantha. It entailed levies of labourers and troops for the pilgrimage, as well as the demands of King Anaximander’s diplomatic visit to the north.
Then came news of volcanic eruptions in the mountains beyond the Shartoumi sea—and presently, vast plumes of smoke and ash could be seen, darkening the southern sky for weeks on end. The volcanoes were followed by a period of earthquakes in the same district—they must have been severe, since their shocks were felt even in the squares and palaces of Sark itself.
Then, finally, there was the rain. It came without warning, pattering down from heaven on a grey, featureless morn, and continuing uninterrupted day after day in a light, steady drizzle that promised to fill the rivers and cisterns without excessive danger of flash floods or landslides. It was a divine blessing, a benison of godly kindness that reaffirmed the people’s faith in life itself. Where before they had crept and staggered through the streets, now they danced. Euphoria visited the town; although food reserves remained slim, the people celebrated and made plans for larger plantings and harvests in the coming season.
King Anaximander let them enjoy their leisure for the time, at least. While this rain curtailed their labours, there was no need to apprise his subjects of the heavier demands and duties he would be placing on them, of their roles in the improved order and military expansion he envisioned for this new age of prosperity. There would be time enough to scourge them into line.
The king himself was feeling almost amiable these days—although he had received no direct word from Qjara. That was a concern; the pair of acolytes he had designated to watch over the city had not yet reported back. Possibly they had perished or been struck mad or blind at their god’s apparition. To be sure, if the delay was due to mere error or tardiness, the personnel involved would live to regret their malfeasance.
As far as any direct evidence of the god’s visit was concerned—with all the quaking and smoke-belching that had been going on of late, it was difficult to tell. Some of the temblors and heat lightnings in past days could easily have been echoes of Votantha’s titan footsteps and fiery bolts. Anaximander liked to think so.
The king wondered, too, about the volcanoes' effect on his ancestral mines and the volcanic forges in the southern district—though with any luck, that was a problem his descendants would not have to worry about for the next thousand years.
So, in spite of these minor concerns, Anaximander felt certain the mission had gone as planned. The rain was a sure sign—a sprinkling of Votantha's beneficence, as soft and warm as the blood of kings and paupers. A sated god, he reasoned, was a generous god; it made him feel sanguine about his city’s future.
Then, as if to assure him further, the token of tribute arrived from Qjara. It came on a six-wheeled mule wagon, brought by carters and footmen who cringed and abased themselves suitably before taking leave. The lackeys would have a surprise on returning home—the gift had obviously been dispatched from the city just before the time of Votantha’s coming. The scroll accompanying it, traced in Khumanos’s neat hand, was sealed with the royal sigils of that buffoon Semiarchos and his arrogant taskmistress, Regula.
It was a bed—a frame of heavy bronze, the metal skilfully turned and leafed with gold. A fine down mattress was sent along to cover its central webbing of knotted hide stays. A suitable gift to homage a king, indeed. Softer than Anaximander’s customary sleeping pad, it smacked of self-indulgence. But then, this ceaseless rain had put a damp chill in the air, and there seemed no reason not to enjoy a bit of luxury, for the time at least. The king ordered the bed assembled in his sleeping chamber.
The most splendid thing about it, perhaps, was its unique embellishment. On all four bedposts, strange fist-sized gems were mounted— translucent stones that glowed in the room’s dimness with a deep green luminosity all their own. Anaximander found it fascinating the way reflections criss-crossed between them—holding his hand close, he could almost feel the steady, penetrating warmth of their inner energy.
The new Exalted Priest, who came to bless the gift, half-heartedly professed to share the king’s enthusiasm. This was another fresh young acolyte—the most spineless, sentimental one yet. He was soon dismissed when the king announced his intention of retiring early.
Anaximander let his female body servants undress him; but when one of them perched shyly on the new bed, he cuffed her aside. He sent them all away, even the buxom pair who customarily waved chilly palm fans over him; then he stretched himself luxuriantly on the soft, silk-covered bolster. This night he meant to sleep deeply and warmly indeed.
Table of Contents
Prologue
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
Epilogue
Conan the Outcast Page 20
