Horror filled her; a sob of loathing shook her rounded body. Her full young breasts, proud globes of pale tan under the lacy veils, rose and fell. She threw herself prone before the little altar, her black hair sliding in gleaming coils over the tiles. She prayed: 'Lord Mitra, defender of the House of Ramiro, champion of mercy and justice, chastiser of depravity and cruelty, help me, I beg thee, in my hour of need!
Tell me what to do, I beseech thee, mighty Lord of Light!'
Rising, she opened the golden box beside the canister on the prie-dieu and drew forth a dozen slim rods of carven sandalwood. Some of these divining straws were short, some long; some were branched or crooked, others straight and plain.
She threw them down at random on the floor before the altar. The clatter of the slender sticks was loud in the silence.
She peered down at the jumble of fallen rods, the black bell of her hair framing her young face. Her eyes rounded with awe.
The sticks spelled T-O-V-A-R-R-O.
The girl repeated the name. 'Tovarro,' she said slowly. 'Go to Tovarro…'
Determination flashed in her dark eyes. 'I will!' she vowed. Tonight! Ill rout out Captain Kapellez…'
As she moved about the chamber, flashes of lightning from the storm outside intermittently lighted the scene. She snatched garments from a chest. She gathered up a baldric with a scabbarded rapier and collected a warm cloak. She glided about the boudoir with a swift economy of motion.
From the prie-dieu, Mitra watched with glassy eyes. Was there a faint glitter of ghostly intelligence in the painted gaze? And a slight expression of stern pity on those sculptured lips? Was the rumble of distant thunder his voice? None could say.
Within the hour, however, Ferdnigo's daughter was gone from the palace. Thus was set in motion a sequence of fantastic events, which would bring a mighty warrior, a dreaded sorcerer, a proud princess, and ancient gods into a weird confrontation on the edge of the known world.
I
An Old Zingaran Custom
The wind had been rising, whipping gusts of rain before it. Now, after midnight, the damp sea wind howled through the cobbled alleys that led away from the harbour. It swung the painted wooden signs above the doors of inns and taverns.
Starved mongrels cowered, shivering, in doorways against the wind and rain.
At this late hour, the revelers were done. Few lights burned in the houses of Kordava, capital of Zingara on the Western Ocean. Heavy clouds obscured the moon, and tattered rags of vapor scudded across the gloomy sky like ghosts. It was a dark, secretive hour ―the time of night when hard-eyed men whisper of treason and robbery; when masked assassins slink through nighted chambers, envenomed daggers bright in their black-gloved hands. A night for conspiracy; a night for murder.
A tramp of feet and the occasional clink of a sword in its scabbard made itself heard above the sounds of wind and rain. A detachment of the night watch ―six men, booted and cloaked, with hat brims pulled low against the weather and with pikes and halberds on shoulder―strode through the nighted streets. They made little noise, save an occasional low-voiced remark in the liquid Zingaran tongue. They glanced right and left sharply for signs r,x doors or windows feloniously forced; they listened for sounds of disturbance; they tramped on, thinking of the flagons of wine they would down, once their dank patrol was over.
After the watch had passed an abandoned stable with its roof half fallen in, two shadowy figures, who had been standing motionless inside, came to life. From beneath his cloak, one produced a small dark lantern and uncovered its bull's eye. The beam of the candle inside the lantern picked out a spot on the stable floor.
Stooping, the man with the lantern brushed dirt away and uncovered a stone trap door, to which was stapled a short length of chain ending in a bronze ring. Both men seized the ring and heaved. The trapdoor rose with a squeak of unoiled hinges. The two dark figures disappeared into the aperture, and the trap door returned with a thump to its former position.
A narrow stone stair spiraled down into darkness, feebly broken by the wavering beam of the dark lantern. Old and worn were the stones of this stair; mould and fungus beslimed the rounded steps. The must of centuries of decay wafted up the shaft.
The two black-cloaked men descended the stair with cautious, silent steps.
Silken masks concealed their features. Like shadowy specters, they felt their way downward, while a wet sea breeze from the passageways below―secret tunnels connected with the open sea―stirred their cloaks and raised them like the wings of giant bats.
High above the sleeping town, the towers of the castle of Villagro, duke of Kordava, soared against the somber sky. Few lights burned in the tall, slitted windows, for few of the dwellers were awake.
Far beneath this pile of ancient masonry, however, a man sat studying parchments by the light of a tall golden candelabrum, whose branches bore the likeness of intertwined serpents.
No cost had been spared to render the stony vault a seat of luxury. Walls of damp, rough stone were hung with richly embroidered tapestries. The cold stone flags of the floor were hidden by a thick, soft carpet of many colours―scarlet, gold, emerald, azure, and violet―in the complex, florid designs of distant Vendhya.
A taboret of gilded wood, decorated with subtly sensuous groupings of meticulously detailed nude figures in carved relief, bore a silver tray laden with refreshments: wine of Kyros in a crystal decanter, fruit and pastries in silver bowls.
The desk, whereat the man sat reading, was huge and ornately carved after the style of imperial Aquilonia to the northeast. An inkwell of gold and crystal held a peacock plume for a quill. A slender sword lay across the desk like a paperweight.
The man himself was of middle years, perhaps fifty, but lean and elegant. His slender legs were clad in black silken hose and graceful shoes of the beautifully tooled leather of Kordava, with gemmed buckles, which flashed as he impatiently tapped his toe. His wiry torso was clad in a doublet of turquoise velvet, the sleeves of which were puffed and slashed to display an inner lining of peach-coloured satin. Snowy lace foamed at his lean wrists. A huge jewel gleamed on each finger of his carefully-groomed hands.
The man's age was revealed by the sagging flesh of his jowls and the dark, baggy circles beneath his cold, quick, dark eyes. He had obviously tried to hide his years, for the hair that was smoothly combed to his shoulders was dyed, and a veneer of powder softened the lines in his aristocratic features. But the cosmetics failed to conceal the roughened flesh, the discolor-ations beneath the hard, weary eyes, and the wattled neck.
With one bejewelled hand, he played with the parchments―official documents with gilt and crimson seals and fluttering ribbons, inscribed with ornate cursive penmanship. The man's tapping toe and the frequent glances at the handsome water clock on the sideboard betrayed his impatience. He also sent his dark glance toward a heavy arras in the corner.
Behind the man at the desk, a silent Kushite slave stood with heavily muscled arms folded upon his naked chest. Golden hoops flashed in his elongated earlobes; the candlelight shone on the musculature of his splendid torso. A naked scimitar was thrust through a crimson sash.
With a clashing of tiny gears, the water clock chimed. It was two hours past midnight.
With a muffled curse, the man at the desk threw down the crackling parchment he had been studying. At that instant, the arras was drawn aside, disclosing the mouth of a secret passage. Two men, cloaked and masked in black, stood in the mouth of the passage. One bore a small lantern; the light of the candelabrum sparkled on the intruders' wet cloaks.
The seated man had set one hand on the hilt of the rapier that lay across the desk, while the Kushite seized the scimitar at his waist. As the two men entered the chamber and doffed their masks, however, the older man relaxed.
'It's all right, Gomani,' he said to the black, who again folded his arms on his chest and resumed his indifferent stare.
The two newcomers dropped their cloaks to form shapeless black heaps on the floor and
bowed to him at the desk. The first man, tossing back the cowl of his robe to disclose a bald or shaven skull, hawk-nosed features, aloof black eyes, and a thin mouth, clasped his hands before his breast and bowed over them.
The other man set down his lantern and made a leg with courtly grace, doffing his plumed hat in a low bow and murmuring 'My lord Duke!' When he rose again to stand nonchalantly with one hand on the jewelled hilt of a long sword, it could be seen that he was a tall, slender, black-haired man with sallow skin and a sharp-featured, predatory face. His thin black mustachios were so precise that they might have been added to his face by an artist. He had a flavour of spurious gentility: a touch of theatrical flamboyance and more than a touch of the piratical.
Villagro, duke of Kordava, fixed the gaunt Zingaran with an icy glance. 'Master Zarono, I am not accustomed to being kept waiting,' he observed.
Again that courtly bow. 'A thousand pardons, Your Grace! Not for the blessings of all uie gods would I have displeased you.'
'Then why are you half an hour late, sirrah?'
A graceful gesture. 'A mere nothing―a wisp of foolery―'
The man with the priestly shaven skull put in: 'A tavern brawl, lord Duke.'
'A brawl in a common wineshop?' demanded the duke. 'Have you lost your wits, you scoundrel? How did this happen?'
His sallow cheeks flushing, Zarono cast a glare of menace at the priest, who returned his look impassively. 'Twas naught, Your Grace! Nothing that need detain you―'
'I will judge that, Zarono,' said the duke. 'It is not impossible that our plan has been betrayed. Are you certain that this―ah―interruption was not a provocation?' The duke's hands closed on a folded letter and tightened until their knuckles whitened.
Zarono gave a smooth little laugh. 'Nothing at all like that, my lord. Perhaps you have heard of an oafish barbarian called Conan, who has risen to command of a Zingaran privateer, notwithstanding that he is but the whelp of some Cimmerian slut in the frozen North?'
'I know nothing of the rogue. Continue.'
'As I say, 'twas naught. But, entering the Inn of the Nine Drawn Swords for my rendezvous with the holy Menkara here, I espied a roast sizzling on the spit and, as I had not replenished nature since dawn, I resolved to slay two pigeons with a single bolt. Since a man of my quality cannot be expected to waste his time in waiting, I hailed Sabral the tavemer and commanded him to set the haunch before me. Then this Cimmerian lout, claiming it was his dinner, dared oppose me. A gentleman can scarce be expected to brook that upstart outlanders be given preference―'
'What happened? Come to the point,' said the duke.
'There was some arguement, and from words we passed to buffets.' Zarono chuckled as he touched a dark swelling beneath one eye. 'The fellow is strong as a bull, although I flatter myself that I also marked his ugly visage. Before I could show the peasant the temper of my steel, the taverner and some of his customers seized us and forced us apart―not without effort, as it took four or five of them to hold either of us. In the meantime, the holy father Menkara here had arrived, and he devoted himself to assuaging our angry passions. What with one thing and another…'
'I see; it was in all probability a mere accident But you should know better than to provoke such broils. I will not have it! And now to business. This, I presume, is… ?'
The Zingaran twirled his mustachios. 'Pardon my ill manners, Your Grace; I present the holy Menkara, a priest of Set, whom I have persuaded to join our high emprise and who now labours diligently in the cause.'
The shaven-headed one again clasped hands and bowed. Villagro nodded curtly.
'Why did you insist on a personal interview, holy Father?' he snapped. 'I prefer to work through agents like Zarono. Is aught amiss? Is the compensation offered you enoughr
The glazed eyes of the bald Stygian bore a deceptive look of dull indifference.
'Gold is but dross; yet, for all that, the fleshly envelope must be sustained on this lowly plane of being. Our cultus knows that the world is but an illusion―a mask over the naked face of chaos… But pardon this lowly one, lord Duke.
Theological discourse is a custom of my land, but my presence here is due to the custom of your country, eh?' The Stygian gave a bleak little smile, indicating that he had made a joke.
Duke Villagro raised an inquiring eyebrow. Menkara continued: 'I refer to Your Grace's plan to compel the amiable but senile King Ferdrugo to bestow the hand of Princess Chabela upon you, before the well-timed end of his existence on this planet. I alluded to the well-known apothegm: 'Conspiracy and treason are venerable customs in Zingara.''
Villagro's grimace showed that he did not deem the joke very humourous. 'Yes, yes, priest, all this we know. What is your news? How goeth the struggle to capture our subjects' minds?'
The Stygian shrugged. 'All goeth poorly, my lord. The mind of Ferdrugo is easily dominated, for he is old and sickly. I have, however, encountered a problem.'
'Well?'
'When I have the king under the valence of my will, I can command him perfectly.
I can force him to give you the princess's hand; but the princess― not unreasonably, given the difference in your ages ―balks.'
'Then place her mind under your control as well, you bald-pated fool!' snarled Villagro, irked by the allusion to his age.
Cold fires flared in the Stygian's dull eyes but were swiftly banked. 'This very night have I striven to that end,' he purred. 'My spirit came upon the princess slumbering in her suite and intruded into her dreams. She is young, strong, and vital. With the greatest difficulty, I achieved control of her brain―but even as my shadow whispered to her sleeping soul, I felt my control over the old king's mind loosen and slip away. I swiftly released the girl to reassume my mastery of her father. She awoke in terror and, although she remembers naught of my whispered suggestions, I have doubtless alarmed her.
'Here is the problem. I cannot at the same time control both king and princess―'
He broke off, for fire blazed up in the duke's eyes. 'So it was you, you bungling dogl' roared Villagro.
Surprise and alarm flickered in the Stygian's dull gaze. 'What means my lord?'
he murmured. Zarono added his query to that of the priest.
The duke voiced a strangled oath. 'Is it possible that my cunning spy and my canny sorcerer are oblivious to what has half the city in a buzz?' he shouted.
'Can it be that neither of you idiots knows that the princess has disappeared from the city? And that all our plans are set at naught?'
Duke Villagro had laid his plans with care. King Ferdrugo was decrepit and ailing. To insure a peaceful succession, the royal princess, Chabela, must soon wed. Who could better sue for her hand and follow her to the throne than Villagro, a widower of many years and, after the king, the richest and most powerful peer of the realm?
In the crypt beneath his ancient castle, Villagro had advanced his scheme. The privateer Zarono, of noble lineage but tarnished past, he enlisted in his cause.
To Zarono he gave the task of enlisting a sorcerer of flexible scruples, who could influence the mind and will of the ageing monarch. For this mission, the wily Zarono had selected Menkara, wizard-priest of the outlawed Stygian cult of Set. Chabela's flight, however, threw all Villagro's plans awry. What booted it to control the mind of the king if the princess were no longer present to be wedded?
With stony self-possession, Menkara gradually calmed the agitated Villagro. He said: 'May it please Your Grace, but such modest mastery of the occult sciences as I possess should soon reveal the lady's present location.'
'Do it, then,' said Villagro gloomily.
At the priest's direction, Gomani the Kushite fetched a bronze tripod and charcoal from the adjacent torture cell. The carpet was rolled back, revealing the stony pave. From beneath his robe, the Stygian produced a large wallet with many interior compartments. From this he took a piece of luminous green chalk, with which he traced on the floor a circular design like a serpent holding its
tail in its jaws.
Meanwhile, the Kushite kindled a small fire on the tripod. Blowing and fanning soon raised the charcoal to red heat.
On the glowing coals, the priest poured a fragrant green fluid from a crystal phial. With a serpentine hiss, a sharp aromatic odor filled the still air of the chamber. Pale-green spirals of smoke coiled and writhed in the drowsy air.
The priest seated himself tailor-fashion in the circle of green chalk. The candelabrum was extinguished, plunging the chamber into an eery gloom. Three sources of light remained: the red glow of the coals in the brazier, the green-glowing serpentiform circle of chalk, and the yellow eyes of the sorcerer, which blazed like the orbs of some nocturnal beast.
The voice of the Stygian rose, chanting: 'Iao, Set-esh… Setesh, Iao! Abrathax kuraim mizraeth, Seteshr The harsh, sibilant words died to a droning whisper, then faded away. The only sound was that of the slow rhythm of the Stygian's breathing. As he sank into a trance, his yellow orbs were veiled by his eyelids.
'Mitra!' gasped Zarono, but the viselike grip of the duke on his arm enjoined him to silence.
The coils of smoke writhed and diffused into a luminous, jade-green cloud.
Patches of light and dark appeared in the vapor. Then the watchers gazed upon a life-like scene within the cloud. This scene snowed a small ship, caravel-rigged, racing across a nighted sea. On the foredeck stood a young girl, her rounded form apparent through the heavy cloak, which the wind whipped tightly against her vigorous young body…
'Chabela!' breathed Villagro.
As if his murmur broke the spell, the glowing cloud eddied and fragmented. The coals went out with a hiss. The priest fell forward, his bald brow thudding against the floor.
'Whither is she bound?' Villagro asked Menkara when a swallow of wine had revived the sorcerer.
The Stygian pondered. 'I read the name of Asgalun in her mind. Know you of any reason why she should seek Asgalun, Your Grace?'
'That is where the king's brother, Tovarro, has his present seat,' mused the duke. 'As ambassador, he roves from one Shemite city to another, but that is where he now is. I see it! She will flee to Tovarro and beseech him to return to Kordava. With that meddlesome fellow here, the gods only know what would befall our plans. Well, then, what's to do, since your powers cannot dominate both king and princess simultaneously?'
The Conan Chronology Page 482
