The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  " 'I know not, sir,' I says, not seeing that it would do any good to enrage the man. 'He is friends with some gang of black warriors that live hereabouts, and he has gone off to visit them.'

  "'And where's that Zingaran lass he had with him?' says Zarono.

  " 'Gone with him, as far as I know/1 says.

  " 'But which way, man? Which way, and how far?* says Zarono.

  "I pretended a great ignorance of King Juma's whereabouts, even when they tickled my right arm with hot coals. I will show you the blisters, my Captain, when they heal up a little more. Then Zarono and the Stygian priest went aside and consulted in low tones. The priest set up his magical apparatus on the quarterdeck, and mumbled and grumbled for a long time, while strange lights flickered about him. At last he says to Zarono: 'I see her being borne in a litter along a jungle trail in the midst of a powerful host of black warriors.

  More I cannot tell you.'

  "That made Zarono fair furious, I can tell you. He hit me in the face a few times, just to take out his anger. 'How in the names of all the gods,' says he, 'am I supposed to comb all the vast jungles of Kush to find the wench, and then snatch her out from an army of hundreds of fierce barbarians? As well ask me to jump over the moon!'

  "After more palaver, Zarono and Menkara decided to destroy the Wastrel and depart at once for Kordava. They planned to go by way of Stygia to gather up their confederate, who if I heard aright is called Thoth-Amon."

  "Thoth-Amon?" said Conan. I've crossed his trail before. A bad enemy to have, from all I hear. But go on. Those two dogs seem to have been pretty free with their talk in front of you."

  "Ah, but my Captain, they did not expect me to live to tell tales! Zarono gave his orders. One crew went alongside in their longboat and chopped a hole in the hull at the waterline. Another party piled fuel around the masts and set it alight."

  "And you were tied to one of these masts?"

  "Exactly, sir. The mainmast, in fact. Naturally, I did not take kindly to the idea of being burnt alive; so, while Zarono's people scrambled back aboard the Petrel and shoved off―not wishing to burn their own ship as well―I prayed to Mitra and Ishtar and Asura and every other god I ever heard of to get me out of this fix. And whether or not my prayers were heard, no sooner had the Petrel vanished in the fog than it began to rain.

  "Meanwhile, the Wastrel settled from the hole in her bottom until she rested on the ground as you see her now. And I wriggled and struggled and finally got my arms out of the ropes, for the Petrels had not done a very seamanlike job of tying me up. And when I was free, I kicked most of the combustibles overboard, and the rain put out the rest of the fire―although not before the masts and rigging had been consumed. And here we are."

  Conan grunted. "He'd have been cleverer not to have tried both to sink and to burn the ship. One or the other, but both at once cancel each other out." He clapped Zeltran on the shoulder, bringing a yelp of pain from the mate as his sore arm was jostled. "I believe you and the boys did all you could. But now we must plan our next step, which is to make the Wastrel seaworthy again as quickly as may be."

  Zeltran pulled a doleful face. "Alas, my Captain, I see not how to do that in less than several months' time. We have no shipyard, nor can we whistle up a swarm of skilled shipwrights out of this jungle."

  Juma had stalked silently forward. "My men will aid you in repairing your ship,"

  he said. "Many strong hands make a task easy."

  "Perhaps, and I thank you," said Conan thoughtfully. "But what do your warriors know of repairing ships?"

  Naught; we are no seagoing folk. But we are many and strong, and we have among us good craftsmen in wood. If your men will lead them and show them what is to be done, they will work like giants until the task be finished."

  "Good!" said Conan. He raised his voice to his dispirited crew. "Shipmates, we have lost a battle, but we have not yet lost the war! Black Zarono, who overcame you by treacherous sorcery, now sails the sea bound for Zingara, where he hopes to topple our friend and patron, old King Ferdrugo. King Juma's people will help us to put our ship to rights. Then ho for the main, to get revenge upon the scoundrel and save our king from his plots! What say you?"

  "We lost a lot of good men," said the boatswain, nodding toward the row of graves.

  "Aye, but we have Sigurd's Argosseans! If yell all pull together as one crew, with no more folly of Barachan against buccaneer, we can do it. So what sayye?

  Let me hear you, loud and clear!"

  The sailors roared their approval, and their cutlasses flashed in the moonlight.

  Never had Conan seen men work so hard. They belayed cables to the stumps of the burnt masts and dragged the ship upright. They dove into the water-filled hold to fetch out tools. They felled trees, cut them into boards, and patched the hole in the Was-treTs side. They pumped out the water until the ship once again floated free on her anchor cables.

  They felled more trees and shaved them down to size to take the place of the burnt masts and spars. While the women of Juma's capital stitched new canvas, the men gathered resinous firewood, piled it in ricks, lighted it, and collected the tar that ran out from under the piles. The work went on day and night, while boys from Juma's people held torches aloft for illumination.

  Then came the day of departure. The buccaneers were reeling with fatigue or drunk on banana wine or both; but the Wastrel would be ready to catch the dawn breeze.

  Throughout the black night, Juma's people filed in a long line through the Kushite jungle to the shore, bearing provisions: casks of water, kegs of tough millet cakes, bales of fresh fruit, sides of smoked pork, barrels of yams and other vegetables; provisions enough to feed the buccaneers on a journey to the other side of the world.

  As dawn paled the skies to the east, Conan bade farewell to Juma. Once they had fought side by side in the legions of King Yildiz of Turan; again, they had dared the snows of the trackless Talakmas, the yelling horde of slant-eyed little warriors in fantastic armor of lacquered leather, and the walking stone idol in the unknown valley of Meru. Now, for the last time, they had fought side by side in the sweltering Kushite jungles.

  Silently, grinning but blinking back tears, they clenched each other's hands in a fierce grip. They said nothing, for both somehow guessed that they would not meet again in this incarnation.

  The Wastrel hoisted sail. Canvas boomed as it filled and tautened in the offshore breeze. Black warriors with their women and naked children lined the shore to wave farewell. And the Wastrel rode out into deep water and set course for Zingara.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A KINGDOM IN THE BALANCE

  At sundown, Conan brought the Wastrel into the harbor of Kordava. A heavy overcast blotted out the stars as the day died.

  Few eyes noted the lean carack as she glided silently into the great curve of the harbor and nosed gently into a little-used moorage at the far end of the quays. Conan thought it wise to enter the city as unobtrusively as possible, since he did not know whether Duke Villagro had already seized the reins of power, nor how long Zarono and TTioth-Amon had been in the city. That they had preceded him, he was certain when Zeltran touched his arm and pointed: "Zarono's Petrell" hissed the mate. "My Captain, it strikes me that, since nobody seems to be about, we could rush it and burn it―"

  Conan grinned in the gloom. "Control youself, my little fighting cock," he growled. "Who's being rash now? We play for bigger stakes. Our friends are probably not there, but up in Ferdrugo's castle, spinning their webs to entrap the old fellow."

  The princess tugged at Conan's arm impatiently. "Let us hasten to the palace, Captain Conan! Your men can follow later. We must warn my father at once of the schemes against him, ere those traitors, Villagro and Zarono, can―"

  "Easy all," said Conan with a grin. "A bit less hasty, girl! I've learned long since noMo walk into a trap if I can avoid it. The rebel duke and this sorcerer Thoth-Amon may have already seized power, and to go straight to the palace were to play f
ly to their spider. Nay, I have another goal in mind―"

  "What goal?" the girl demanded.

  He smiled grimly. "First we shall visit the one place in Kordava where I shall be safe; the Nine Drawn Swords."

  "The Nine Drawn Swords?" she repeated.

  "Not the sort of place that ladies of your quality would patronize, but 'twill do for our purposes. Trust me, lass! Zeltran, I will take ten men. Fetch boat cloaks and lanterns, and see that all are well armed beneath their cloaks."

  The streets were as silent as those of a necropolis. Sigurd, superstitious like all seamen, shivered as he stamped through puddles by Conan's side, while his hand fondled the hilt of his cutlass under his black cloak.

  "Surely they are all dead or under a curse," he grumbled, peering about with wary eyes. Conan bade him hold his tongue for fear of arousing the watch.

  Thus, none save the cats of Kordava saw the party of seamen that, muffled in black boat cloaks with their faces hidden, slunk silently through the alleys to the door of the Nine Drawn Swords. As they filed in, old Sabral came puffing up to the door, wiping his hands on his apron.

  ' Tis sorry I am, but we are closed for the night," he said. "The government has told all taverns to shut up shop at sundown this night. So 111 have to ask you to―oh!"

  Conan had doffed his hat, thrown back his cloak, and thrust the grim bronze mask of his face close to that of the taverner. "What's that, my friend?" he murmured.

  "Ah, had I but known you at first… But of course the Nine Drawn Swords be always open to Captain Conan, laws or no laws. Come in, lads, come in. Twill take a bit of time to light the fires and break out the drinkables, but what ye want ye shall have."

  "Why should the government ask you to close early tonight?" asked Conan, settling himself at ease where he could watch the door.

  The fat innkeeper shrugged. "Mitra only knows, Captain! A royal decree from the palace, came out yestereve… These be strange times, strange times indeed. First Captain Zarono comes ashore, the gods know whence, with a squad of dusky Stygians amongst his crew, and walks right into King Ferdrugo's palace as if he owned the place. Not a word said to him, as if he'd laid the king's people under a spell. And then all these new decrees: the city gates shut at sundown, and so forth. Duke Villagro made provost marshal, and the city placed under martial law. Passing strange, captain; passing strange it be. And no good will come of it, you mark my words I"

  "That's curious," said Sigurd.

  "What's curious?" asked Conan.

  "Well, Dagda's eye and Orvandel's toe! Your friend Sabral says the city's locked up as tight as a drum, but we sailed into the harbor without a hail. Wouldn't you think Villagro would have set his cutthroats to guard the harbor?"

  "They think the Wastrels still lying on her side at the mouth of the Zikamba,"

  said Conan.

  "Ah, yes!" rejoined Sigurd. "I was forgetting. Zarono would never guess that, with the help of Juma's folk, we should get the ship repaired so swiftly."

  Conan nodded. "Aye, redbeard. If all goes well now, King Ferdrugo may owe his throne to a black warrior he never heard or and will never seel"

  "I've never thought much of the blacks before," said Sigurd. "They always seemed to me a pack of superstitious, childish savages. But your friend Juma opened my eyes. He's a real leader, even as you yourself are. Aye, there's heroes and .there's scuts in every folk and nation."

  But there was little time for idle talk. Conan queried Sabral, who volubly explained many things that the buccaneer guessed or feared might be taking place. Villagro had not yet seized the throne, but the event might be only hours away. Loyal garrisons had been sent to the borders on various pretexts. Officers noted for loyalty to the dynasty had been sent abroad, or dismissed, or arrested and jailed on trumped-up charges. Since sundown of this day, the palace had been sealed off from the rest of the city. Key guard posts were held by Villagro's adherents. A ceremony of some kind was to take place in the palace; but just what, Sabral could not even guess.

  "Abdication, is my guess," rumbled Conan, pacing the floor of the inn like a caged lion. "We must get into the palace. But how? Villagro and Zarono have it sealed up. This Thoth-Amon must have Ferdrugo firmly under his thumb. But if we can confront the king with his daughter, the shock might break the spell… Then we can have at the traitors. Where's that cursed Ninus? He should have been here half an hour gone…"

  Sigurd wrinkled his brow. Conan had asked Sa-bral about the health of his little priestly friend. The Zingaran innkeeper had replied that the ex-tiatef YxaA recovered and returned to the sanctuary of his temple. Thereupon, Conan had dispatched a sailor to fetch the man to the Nine Drawn Swords.

  "Who is this Ninus?" queried Sigurd.

  Conan shrugged impatiently. "I knew him years ago when he and I were thieves in Zamora. He returned to his native Zingara when even the scarlet city of Zamora became too hot for him. Here he fell in with a silver-tongued missionary of the Mitraist cult, who persuaded him that priests live on the fat of the land by playing on the fears and superstitions of honest burghers and bored housewives.

  Being one who always knew on which side his bread was buttered, he promptly got religion and became a priest of Mitra. But if there be anyone in Kordava who will know a secret entrance to Ferdrugo's palace, it will be he! He was the smartest thief I ever knew―even more so than Taurus of Nemedia, whom men called the prince of thieves. He could find doors no one else―"

  A solemn gong note struck Conan's alert ears. Chabela stiffened and sank her nails into the flesh of Conan's arm.

  "The bells in the tower of all the gods!" she gasped. "Oh, Conan, we are too late!"

  He bent a sharp gaze on her pale face. "What mean you, girl? Quickly, now!"

  "The bells―they announce that the king holds audience! We are too late―it has already begun…"

  Conan and Sigurd exchanged a quick look and thrust open a window to look up at the palace on the hill.

  Lights flickered and moved to and fro. Chabela had spoken truly; the ceremony had begun.

  Chapter Nineteen

  KING THOTH-AMON

  The scene in the throne room of King Ferdrugo was one of tense drama. Fitful lightning flared in stormy skies without, and intermittent flashes of blue-tinged gray light flickered in the tall, pointed windows of diamond-paned glass.

  The hall was huge and lofty. Circular walls and a ring of mighty columns of ponderous granite, faced with curved slabs of smooth marble, supported the enormous dome far above. This dome was the greatest architectural wonder of Ferdrugo's kingdom.

  Huge candles, as thick as a warrior's biceps, shed a rich, wavering glow from mighty sconces of wrought gold. Torchlight and lamplight and lightning flashes were reflected from the mirroruke polish of the shields and plume-crested helms of the guards stationed about the circumference of the hall.

  There were many more guards present than was usual on such occasions. This in itself was a cause for uncertainty and suspicion on the part of the score of nobles and officials whom the king's heralds had summoned. The command had gone out in haste and in secret to be present during the reading of a proclamation from the throne.

  The other cause for concern was the livery of these guards. While some wore the uniforms of the Throne Legion―the king's private bodyguard―far more displayed the colors of Villagro, duke of Kordava.

  In the center of the hall, on a raised dais of glistening, green, black-veined malachite, rested the ancient rose-marble throne of the Ramiran Dynasty. Therein was seated Ferdrugo III.

  The assembled dignitaries had seen but little of their monarch in recent months.

  They watched the old man speculatively, for he had aged greatly during this time. His flesh seemed withered; his limbs, shrunken. His cheeks had fallen in, so that his cheekbones stood out in bold relief. Candlelight, falling from the sconces above, cast deep wells of black shadow beneath the prominent cheekbones, while the old man's eyes were lost in the dark shadows beneath his pr
ominent eyebrow ridges and bushy white eyebrows. The lighting, together with his gaunt, frail aspect, lent the old monarch a ghastly semblance of a skeleton.

  On his head, seeming too heavy for his thin, wattled neck to support, rested the ancient crown of the hero-king Ramiro, the founder of the dynasty. It was a plain ellipse of gold, with a castellated upper rim formed by simple, square projections, like the merlons and embrasures of the tower of a castle.

  With waxen, transparent hands, the king clasped a large sheet of parchment, to which were affixed a . number of seals. In a weak, uncertain voice, King Ferdrugo read from this sheet. The long formal preamble, the endless list of titles, the legalistic jargon all combined to feed the nervous speculation in the minds of the audience. None but felt the stirring of a premonition of dire events.

  On the floor before the dais, directly in front of the throne, stood two men.

  One was the duke of Kordava. In the absence of Prince Tovarro, the king's younger brother, Villagro was, after the king himself, the ranking peer of the realm. The expression on his lean, hungry features might have been described as complacent expectancy combined with nervous apprehension.

  Beside Villagro stood another figure, a stranger to the rest of those present. A Stygian he seemed, from his shaven head, hawklike features, dusky skin, and tall, broad-shouldered build. He was, however, heavily robed, so that nothing of him but his head could be seen.

  On his shaven skull rested a curious headpiece: a crown made in the likeness of a golden serpent, coiled round the wearer's head and crusted with thousands of glittering white gems. Some of the notables had nudged each other and murmured at the sight, when the stranger had thrown back the hood of his robe, revealing this extraordinary headgear. If, they whispered, the gems were in truth cut diamonds―the making of which was virtually unknown in the Hyborian Age―the value of the crown must be beyond calculation. Whenever the stranger moved slightly, the gems sent out a thousand rays of all the colors of the rainbow, reflected from the light sources overhead and around the circuit of the hall.