The Return of Conan

CHAPTER 1: Wings of Darkness

The forbidding walls of the royal palace at Tarantia rose in jagged silhouette against the darkening sky.

Watchmen strode along the battlements, halberd on shoulder and sword on hip, but their vigilance was relaxed.

Their eyes strayed often toward the entrance of the palace. Over the lowered drawbridge and under the raised portcullis, gay-clad knights and nobles entered with their ladies.

The sharp eye could discern Prospero, the king’s general and right-hand man, arrayed in crimson velvet with golden Poitainian leopards worked upon his jubon. His long legs measured his strides in high boots of the finest Kordavan leather. There went Pallantides, commander of the Black Dragons, in light armor later to be doffed; Trocero, hereditary count of Poitain, his slim waist and erect carriage belying the silver in his hair; the counts of Manara and Couthen, the barons of Lor and Imirus and many more. All went in with fair ladies in rich silks and satins, while their retainers removed the litters and gilded chariots in which their masters had been conveyed.

Peace reigned in Aquilonia. It had prevailed for more than a year since the last attempt of the king of Nemedia, aided by the revived Acheronian wizard Xaltotun, to wrest the kingdom from Conan. Years before, in his turn, Conan had torn the crown from the bloody head of the tyrant Numedides, whom he slew on the very throne.

But the Nemedian scheme had failed. Heavy damages were exacted, and the withered mummy of the dead Xaltotun was borne away on his mysterious chariot to haunts dark and unknown. King Conan’s power waxed stronger and stronger, the more his people became aware of the wisdom and justice of his rule. The only disorders were the intermittent raids of the savage Picts on the western border. These, however, were held in check by seasoned troops on the Thunder River.

This was a night of feasting. Torches flared in rows about the gate; colorful carpets from Turan covered the coarse flagstones. Gaily-clad servants flitted about, guided and spurred by shouts from the majordomos. This was the night when King Conan gave a royal ball in honor of his queen, Zenobia, one-time slave girl in the Nemedian king’s seraglio. She had aided Conan to escape when he lay a prisoner in the dungeons of Belverus and had been rewarded by the highest honor that could be conferred on a woman of the western lands. She became queen of Aquilonia, the mightiest kingdom west of Turan.

Well could the glittering throng of guests observe the ardent love that bound the royal sovereigns to each other.

It was apparent in gestures, mannerisms, and speech, though Conan’s barbarian blood probably urged him to do away with civilized dissimulation and crush his lovely queen in his strong arms. Instead, he stood at arm’s length from her, answering bows and curtseys with an ease which seemed natural but was really newly acquired.

Ever and anon, though, the king’s eyes strayed toward the far wall, where hung an array of splendid weapons, swords, spears, axes, maces, and javelins. Much as the king loved to see his people at peace, no less could he curb the urge of his barbarian heritage to see red blood flow and to feel the crunch of an enemy’s armor and bones beneath the edge of his heavy broadsword. But now it was time for peaceful pursuits. Conan let his eyes wander back to linger briefly on the fair countess curtseying before him.

Fair were the ladies, and a judge would be sorely put to decide a contest for beauty at least, if he were choosing among the guests. For, in truth, the queen was more beautiful than anyone. The perfection of her form was outlined by the clinging, low-necked gown she wore, with only a silver circlet to confine the foamy mass of her wavy black hair.

Moreover, her perfectly-molded face radiated such innate nobility and kindliness as were seldom seen in those times.

However, if the king was counted fortunate by his fellow men, no less was Queen Zenobia envied by the ladies.

Conan cut an imposing figure in his simple black tunic, with legs clothed in black hose and feet booted in soft, black leather. The golden lion of Aquilonia blazed upon his breast. Otherwise his sole ornament was the slender golden circle on his square-cut black mane. Looking at the great spread of his massive shoulders, his lean waist and hips, and his legs muscled with a tiger’s deadly power, one could see that this was no man born to civilization.

But Conan’s most arresting features were the smoldering blue eyes in the dark, scarred face, inscrutable, with depths no one could plumb.

Those same eyes had seen things undreamed of by this gay throng, had looked on battlefields strewn with mangled corpses, decks running red with blood, barbarous executions, and secret rites at the altars of monstrous deities. His powerful hands had swung the western broadsword, the Zuagir tulwar, the Zhaibar knife, the Turanian yataghan, and the forester’s ax with the same devastating skill and power against men of all races and against inhuman beings from dark and nameless realms. The veneer of civilization lay thin over his barbaric soul.

The ball began. King Conan opened it with his queen in the first complicated steps of the Aquilonian minuet.

Though he was no expert at the more intricate figures of the dance, the primordial instincts of the barbarian took to the rhythm of the melody with an ease and smoothness that enhanced the results of hurried lessons given during the past week by the court’s sweating master of ceremonies. Everyone in the glittering throng followed suit. Soon couples milled colorfully on the mosaic floor.

Thick candles cast a warm, soft light over the hall. Nobody noticed the silent draft that began to waft through the air, causing the flames of one chandelier to tremble and flicker. Nobody noticed, either, the burning eyes that peered from a window niche, sweeping an avid glance over the crowd. Their glare fastened upon the slim, silver-sheathed figure in the king’s arms. Only the burning eyes were to be seen, but a soft, gloating chuckle whispered through the darkness. Then the eyes disappeared and the casement closed.

The great bronze gong at the end of the hall boomed, announcing a pause. The guests, hot from dancing, sat down to refresh themselves with iced wine and Turanian sherbet.

“Conan! I want a nip of fresh air; all this dancing has made me hot. ”

The queen flung the words over her shoulder as she made her way toward the now open doors to the broad balcony.

The king started to follow but was detained by a score of ladies begging him to tell them of his early life. Was it true that he had been a chieftain of wild hordes in half-fabulous Ghulistan in the Himelian Mountains? Was it he who by a daring stroke had saved the kingdom of Khauran from the Shemite plunderers of the mercenary captain Constantius? Had he once been a pirate?

Questions like these flew like hailstones. Conan answered them curtly or evasively. His barbarian instincts made him restive. They had prompted him to accompany Zenobia out upon the balcony to guard her, even though no danger could threaten his beloved spouse here, in his capital, in his own castle, surrounded by friends and loyal soldiers.

Still he felt uneasy. There was a feeling in his blood of impending danger and doom. Trusting his animal instincts, he began to make his way toward the doors of the balcony despite the beseeching wails of his lovely audience.

Elbowing his way forward a bit more brusquely than became a king, Conan caught sight of the silver figure of Zenobia. Her back was toward him, her hair moving in the soft, cool breeze. He grunted with relief. For once, it seemed, his senses had deluded him. Nonetheless he continued forward.

Suddenly, the slim form of the queen was shrouded in night. A black pall fell over the company. Secret words were mumbled into handkerchiefs by painted lips and bearded mouths. An icy breath of doom swept through the hall. The ground trembled with thunder. The queen screamed.

When the darkness fell, Conan sprang like a panther for the balcony doors, upsetting noble guests and wine-laden tables. Another cry was heard. The sound dwindled, as if Zenobia were being carried away. The king reached the balcony to find it empty. Conan’s glance sought the unscalable sides of the palace and saw nothing.

Then he lifted his gaze. There, limned against the moonlit sky, he saw a fantastic shape, a horrible anthropomorphic nightmare, clasping the silvery glint that was his beloved wife. Carried along by powerful beats of its batlike wings, the monster shrank to a dot on the eastern horizon. Conan stood for a moment, a statue of black steel. Only his eyes seemed alive with icy rage and terrible despair. When he turned his gaze to the audience, they shrank back as if he had become the very monster that had carried off his queen. Without a word, he went out of the hall, scattering people, tables, and chairs heedlessly before him. At the exit he paused before the weapon-laden wall and tore down a plain but heavy broadsword, which had served him well in many campaigns. As he lifted the blade, he spoke words thick with emotion:

“From this hour, I am no longer your king until I have returned with my stolen queen. If I cannot defend my own mate, I am not fit to rule. But, by Crom, I will seek out this robber and wreak vengeance upon him, be he protected by all the armed hosts in the world! ”

Then the king opened his mouth to voice a weird and terrible call that echoed shudderingly through the hall. It rang like the cry of doomed souls. The eerie horror of its tones made many a face turn ashen.

The king was gone.

Prospero hurried after Conan. Trocero paused, surveying all, before he, too, followed.

A trembling Poitainian countess voiced the question that pressed the minds of many guests. “What was that terrible shout? It froze the blood in my veins. I felt as if a frightful doom were upon me. The avenging souls of the Dark Lands must scream like that when they roam the barren wastes for their prey. ”

The gray-haired count of Raman, veteran of border wars, answered: “Your guess is close enough, milady. It is the battle cry of the Cimmerian tribes. It is voiced only when they are about to fling themselves into battle with utter abandon and no concern other than to kill.” He paused. “I have heard it once before at the bloody sack of Venarium, when the black-haired barbarians swarmed over the walls despite our arrow storm and put everybody to the sword. ”

Silence fell over the throng.

“No, Prospero, no! ” Conan’s heavy fist thundered down upon the table.

“I will travel alone. To draw armored legions from the realm might tempt attack by some scheming foe.

Tarascus has not forgotten the beating we gave him, and Koth and Ophir are untrustworthy as always. I shall ride, not as King Conan of Aquilonia, with a shining retinue of lords and lancers, but as Conan of Cimmeria, the common adventurer. ”

“But Conan, ” said Prospero with the easy familiarity that obtained between him and the king, “we cannot let you risk your life on such an uncertain quest. In this manner you may never attain your goal, whereas with the lances of Poitainian knights at your back you can brave any foe. Let us ride with you! ”

Conan’s blue eyes glowed with fierce appreciation, but he shook his black-maned head. “No, my friend. I feel I am destined to free my queen alone. Even the help of my trusty knights will not assure success. You shall command the army in my absence, and Trocero shall rule the kingdom. If I am not back in two years …choose a new king! ”

Conan lifted the slender golden circlet from his black hair and put it on the oaken table. He stood for a moment, brooding.

Trocero and Prospero made no attempt to break the silence. They had long ago learned that Conan’s ways were sometimes queer and unfathomable to civilized men. With his barbarian mind unsullied by civilized life, he was apt to let his thoughts run along paths other than the common ones. Here stood not only a king whose queen had been abducted. Here stood the primordial man, whose mate had been torn from him by forces dark and unknown, and who, without show or bluster, was silently storing terrible vengeance in his heart.

With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Conan broke the silence. “A horse, Prospero, and the harness of a common mercenary! I ride at once. ”

“Whither? ” asked the general.

“To the sorcerer Pelias of Koth, who dwells in Khanyria, in Khoraja. I smell black sorcery in tonight’s happenings. That flying creature was no earthly bird. I care not for wizards and would rather manage without their help, but now I need Pelias’ advice.”

Outside the heavy oaken door, a man stood with his ear pressed to the panel. At these words, a smile spread over his features. With a furtive glance, he melted into one of the niches, overhung with heavy draperies, that lined the corridor. He heard the door open. Conan and his friends passed, their footfalls dwindling down the staircase.

The spy waited till the sounds had died. Then, looking right and left, he slunk out of hiding. Garbed in the dress of a retainer of the court, he crossed the courtyard without being challenged. He disappeared into the servants’

quarters and soon emerged, donning a heavy woolen cloak against the chill of night. He gave the password to the guard and was let out. He set out for the western part of the city.

Nobody followed him. The smaller streets and lanes were black as the inside of a chimney. Few rays of the clouded moon pierced their murk.

Watchmen, bill on shoulder and peaked helmet on head, paced the streets in pairs, talking in low voices. Harlots leaned out of their windows and called to the wanderer. Some were beautiful, showing off the splendor of their white necks by low-cut gowns or sheer silken wraps.

Others had haggard and sleazy faces coated with powder and Hyrkanian rouge. But the man hurried on without swerving from his path.

At last he came to a large house in a parklike garden. A high wall surrounded it on all sides, but into a niche was recessed a small door.

He knocked four times. The door was opened by a giant, dusky Stygian clad in white. The two men whispered a few words. Then the palace servant hastened, toward the house, where all windows were dark but one.

Evidently this was not the house of a native Aquilonian. Heavy tapestries and rich paintings, adorned the walls, but the motifs depicted were not western. Domed marble temples, white zigurats, and people with turbaned heads and flowing robes dominated the rich pageantry of gold and silver thread, of silk and satin and curved swords.

Arabesqued oval tables, divans with spreads of red and green silks, golden vases with exotic flowers combined to lend an air of the opulent and exotic East.

Resting on a divan, a big, florid man sipped wine from a jeweled goblet. He returned the salaam of the palace servant with a careless nod.

“What brings you, Marinus? ” There was asperity in the languid voice.

“Have you not enough work to do for me at the king’s ball? It does not end until early morning, unless Conan has called it off in one of his barbaric moods. What has happened? ” Taking another sip, he regarded Marinus with a piercing stare.

“Ghandar Chen, my lord, the queen of Aquilonia has been abducted by an unearthly monster, which flew away with her into the sky! The king rides alone tonight to search for her. First, however, to get some clue to the whereabouts of the reaver, he will visit the Kothian sorcerer Pelias in Khanyria.”

“By Erlik, this is news indeed! ” Ghandar Chen sprang up, eyes blazing.

“Five of my poisoners hang on the hill of execution, so much kite’s meat. Those damned martinets of the Black Dragons are incorruptible. But now Conan will be alone, in foreign lands!”

He clapped his hands. The Stygian entered silently and stood at attention, his dark visage somber and inscrutable. Ghandar Chen spoke:

“Conan of Aquilonia embarks tonight on a long journey. He rides alone, as a common mercenary. His first goal will be the city of Khanyria in Khoraja, where he will seek the assistance of the sorcerer Pelias. Ride swiftly to Baraccus, who camps on the Yivga River. Order him to take as many trustworthy men as he needs and slay Conan in Khanyria. The Cimmerian must not reach Pelias. If that cursed necromancer chooses to help him, he might blast all our men from the earth with a wave of his hand! ”

The Stygian’s somber eyes flashed, and his usually immobile features were split by a dreadful smile.

“Will do. I know Conan, ” he rumbled, “since he crushed the host of Prince Kutamun outside Khoraja. I was one of the few survivors, later to be captured by Kothic slavers and sold! I, born a noble and bred to war and the hunt!

Long have I waited for my revenge! If the gods permit, I will slay the Cimmerian myself.” His hand sought the hilt of his long dagger. “I go at once, master.” He salaamed deeply and left.

Ghandar Chen seated himself at a richly-inlaid rosewood table. From the drawer he took a golden pen and parchment. He wrote:

To King Yezdigerd, lord of Turan and the Eastern Empire. From your faithful servant Ghandar Chen, greetings.

Conan the Cimmerian, the kozak and pirate, rides alone for Khanyria. I have sent word to slay him there. When it is done, I will send you his head. Should he by some magical feat escape, his road will probably run through Turanian territory. Written in the Year of the Horse, on the third day of the Golden Month.

He signed and sanded it. The Turanian then rose and gave the parchment to Marinus, who had been lolling in the background. He snapped:

“Ride swiftly eastward. Start at once. My servants will furnish you with arms and a horse. You shall take this to King Yezdigerd himself in Aghrapur. He will reward us both handsomely.”

A satisfied smile was upon Ghandar Chen’s face as he sank back upon the divan, his hand reaching for the goblet again.