The Return of Conan

CHAPTER 6: Treason in the East

“And how fares Her Royal Highness, the Devi?” Conan asked the fat taverner as he sat guzzling a goblet of the scented Shirakman wine of Vendhya. Trusting to the disguise of his Kshatriyan garb, he had ventured within its doors to slake his thirst not only for drink but also for knowledge of this alluring woman, whose empire he had saved.

Old memories rushed into his mind. There was a faraway look in his icy blue eyes as he listened.

Although the tavern was almost empty, the rasping voice of its owner took on a cautious note as he bent forward to whisper into the Cimmerian’s ear.

“Ah, the Devi rules with a wise and firm hand, though she has no consort to stand by her side and uphold her.

But the nobility say the throne needs a warlike spirit. It is even whispered that her cousin Chengir Khan has an eye for the supreme power and also for herself. Hitherto she has repulsed his wooing, but public sentiment will soon force her to decide. The dynasty must be carried on, and Yasmina must do her duty to the realm.”

The stout Vendhyan cast a swift glance through the, open door. Heavy steps and the clank of weapons were heard as a troop swung by, bucklers on their arms and spears on their mailed shoulders. With professional discipline; the soldiers halted at their officer’s command. Their scarred old ghebra stepped into the tavern. His swift glance took in everybody, halting for an instant on Conan, then completing its circle back to the host.

Stepping up to the counter, the officer spoke in a whisper with the taverner. A couple of dusty bottles passed over the worn boards into the silken sack in his hand. His business concluded, he stepped out with long strides and barked a command. His detachment took up their measured step again.

Conan cast an indifferent glance after the troop as their steps receded. His head was full of Yasmina, alone in her palace, ruling the realm without the support of a consort. He shrugged. The internal affairs of Vendhya were not his present business.

He had, rather, better look to his own problems. Tomorrow he would be on his way east, toward the farther reaches of the Himelians, and for that long trek he should be well rested. His colossal frame could endure hardships unimaginable to a civilized man, but on dangerous missions his instincts prompted him to rest when he could, like a carnivore on a long hunt.

“Taverner!” rumbled Conan. “Have you a room for the night? I am near done with fatigue. These desert trips take the sap out of a man.”

The Eastern night lay like a hot, caressing, silken blanket over the city of Ayodhya. Stars glittered in diamond splendor against the black sky, and the sickle of the waning moon rode in the west. Torches and candles flared.

From bright-lit palaces sounded laughter and music and the patter of dancing girls’ feet, while out of dimly illuminated temples rang the austere tones of golden cymbals and the soft massed voices of worshipers’ choirs.

Conan awoke suddenly, with muscles poised like springs for instant action. He had heard a fumbling at the door of his room. He had lain stretched full-length upon the bed, naked but for his silken breeks, spurning bedclothes in the sultry night. Now he rose noiselessly, sword in hand, alert as a wolf.

The latch was slowly and cautiously depressed. As the door began to open, Conan hid himself behind it. A veiled and robed figure of small stature, dim in the starlight, furtively entered. It halted uncertainly as if astonished to find the room empty.

Conan listened with sensitive ears. He could hear no sound outside.

Clearly, the mysterious visitor had come alone. His purpose was unknown to Conan. Any Vendhyan recognizing Conan would have brought the whole municipal guard with him. Many Kshatriyas had not forgotten the marauding hill chief of Ghor, though it had been year? since he had led his hairy hordes down from the hills to pillage. Conan did not intend this situation to remain enigmatic any longer than necessary. Swinging the door silently to with a push of his big hand, he took a stealthy step forward. Like a flash, his hand was over the mouth of the intruder, who was borne down upon the bed like a child despite desperate resistance. Two frightened eyes looked up into Conan’s as he hissed:

“Why are you here in my room? Talk, you! But hush your voice!”

He removed his hand from the mouth of the captive and tore away the veil over the face. To his glance was revealed the full lips and straight, narrow nose of a Vendhyan woman. In a voice like the silver chimes of a temple gong, she spoke: “I came to fetch you to my mistress. She has learned of your coming and is anxious to see you. Don your clothes and we will be on our way. Make haste!”

Conan’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why this cursed haste, girl! Can’t your lady let a man sleep in peace?

Why not meet me tomorrow?”

“In the day, many people at my mistress’ palace would know Conan of Ghor. She does not wish you torn in twain between wild elephants.”

Conan was instantly on guard. “Conan of Ghor, eh? Who knows me here? Who is she? What does she want.”

“I cannot tell you. But this she said ere I left the palace: ‘If he hesitates, tell him the Galzai girl of Mount Yimsha would repay him for the clothes he once gave her.’ ”

Yimsha! Conan’s thoughts wandered back thirteen years, to the momentous days when he had assaulted the evil wizards of the Black Circle, and how he had once provided a girl with clothes bought (at sword’s point, true, but still with coin) from a Galzai girl on her way to the well.

The girl he had outfitted was Yasmina herself!

“So your mistress is the Devi?” he growled. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“Aye, the Devi bids you come. Now hurry!”

With practiced speed, Conan dressed and armed himself. The girl silently opened the door and peered out. Then, with a gesture, she motioned to Conan. The twain slipped noiselessly down the stairs and out into the hot night.

Their route was devious and twisting. Evidently there was truth in the rumors of intrigue that Conan had heard in the tavern, for his guide often cast quick glances over her shoulder. Many times she turned into narrow, cobbled lanes, darker than night itself, as if to shake off pursuers.

Once, in such a lane, a huge dog with glowing eyes and slavering jaws sprang upon them from a doorway. The ripping thrust of the Cimmerian’s dagger stretched him lifeless in the gutter. Another time, a knot of ragged men appeared at the end of the street, barring their exit.

Conan’s white-toothed smile and slap at the hilt of his sword sent them scurrying. No other disturbance barred their way.

Soon their journey ended. They stood before the high, crenelated wall around the royal palace. Its lofty towers reared narrow pinnacles against the sky; the smell of exotic flowers and fruit from the gardens within reached their nostrils. The girl scanned the surface of the wall. At last she pressed two places on it at the same time.

Without a sound, a section swung inward, revealing a dimly-lit corridor.

Enjoining Conan to silence with a finger upon her lips, she led the way. The secret door swung noiselessly to behind him, and he followed her swift step along the corridor, hand on hilt. He was sure that Yasmina meant him no harm, or she would not have chosen this mode of fetching him, but his barbarian instincts kept him on guard.

They went up a stone staircase, then along more dim corridors, until at last the girl stopped before a door and peered through a small hole set at eye’s height. She pulled a lever, and the door opened. They entered.

“Wait here, my lord,” she said, “and I will tell my mistress that you are here.”

She hurried from the room, wispy garments fluttering. Conan shrugged and let his eyes wander round the chamber.

Replete with the riches of an Eastern ruler it was, with silken hangings, golden cups and ornaments, and rich embroidery strewn with precious stones, yet its luxury was tempered by the quality of exquisite taste. That it was a woman’s boudoir was evident from the vanity table with its costly Turanian mirror. It was strewn with jars of Jade, gold, and silver, holding ointments and salves prepared by the most skilled cosmeticians of the East.

Femininity also showed itself in the splendor of the great bed, with its opaque silken hangings and canopy of goldworked Shemirish cloth.

Conan nodded in curt appreciation. Though he was a hardened warrior, yet his days as a king had taught him to find pleasure in beautiful surroundings. His thoughts were interrupted by a sound at his back.

Wheeling, he half drew his sword; then he checked himself.

It was Yasmina. When he had first met her, she had been in the first flower of womanhood…hardly twenty as he remembered. Now, thirteen years later, she was a mature woman. The sharp wit that had enabled her to hold the throne still shone from her eyes, but her clinging silken garments revealed that her girlish figure had bloomed into a woman’s desirable body. And that body was of such beauty that poets grew famous by describing it; it would have fetched over a thousand talars on the auction block at Sultanapur. Yasmina’s beautiful face was suffused with happiness as she stopped three steps from him, arms half opened, murmuring: “My hill chieftain! You have come back!”

Conan’s blood pounded in his temples as he covered the distance between them in one mighty stride and took her in his arms. As her supple body pressed warmly against his, she whispered: “We shall be undisturbed, my chieftain. I have sent away the guards for the night. The entrance to this room is locked. Love me, my chieftain! For thirteen years I have longed for the feel of your arms around me. I have not been happy since we parted after the battle in Femesh Valley. Hold me in your arms, and let this be a night that neither of us shall ever forget!”

In another part of the palace, five men sat in a richly furnished room.

Ever and anon they sipped from golden goblets as they listened to the tall, swarthy man.

“Now is the time!” he said. “Tonight! I have just learned that Yasmina has sent away the score of soldiers who usually guard her chambers. A woman’s whim, no doubt, but it will serve us well!”

“My lord Chengir,” one of the others interrupted, “is it really necessary to slay the Devi? I have fought Turanian squadrons on the border and hewed my way out of hillmen’s ambushes, but I like not the thought of striking down a woman in cold blood.”

The tall man smiled. “Neither do I, Ghemur, but it is necessary for the kingdom of Vendhya. The blood of the realm needs renewal. There must be new conquests to augment our power. The Devi has weakened the fiber of the country by her peaceful rule. We, a race of conquering warriors, now waste our time building dams and roads for the filthy lower castes! Nay, she must die. Then I, as successor to the throne, will lead the Kshatriyas to new conquests. We will carve out a new empire in blood in Khitai, in Uttara Kuru, in Turan. We’ll sweep the hillmen from the Himelias in a red flood. The East shall shake and totter to our thunder! Day and night, camel trains laden with spoil shall pour into Ayodhya. Are you with me?”

Four curved swords slid halfway out of their goldworked sheaths, and the clamor of the generals’ assent was a loud murmur.

The prince waved them to silence. “Not so loud, sirs. Remember that nearly all are loyal to Yasmina. Few have our foresight. Should we attempt an open revolt, the troops and the people would tear us to pieces. But should she die by secret assassination …Of course I, as her cousin and heir, would diligently search for the malefactors.

Perhaps we could execute a couple of scapegoats…after cutting out their tongues. After a suitable time of mourning, I shall gather my army and strike to the north and to the east. My name will be lauded in history with our great conquerors of old!”

His voice rang high with excitement and his eyes shone. With an imperious gesture, he rose. “Arm yourselves, gentlemen. Don your masks. We go to Yasmina’s chambers by a secret passage. Our duty to the kingdom will be performed within the hour!”

Five black-masked nobles filed out of the room on their way to cut the throat of a defenseless woman.

The faint light of the stars sifted into the queen’s bedchamber, as Conan awoke for the second time that night.

His sharp ears caught a soft, almost inaudible sound. Any ordinary man would have muttered sleepily, attributed the disturbance to rats or bad dreams, turned over, and gone back to sleep.

Not so Conan! Instantly wide awake, he investigated. His animal instincts were on edge. As his right hand sought the hilt of his sword and drew it noiselessly from its shagreen scabbard, his left parted the hangings to get a view of the room. Yasmina lay sleeping, a faint smile on her beautiful lips.

It needed not the glint of steel in the hands of five dark figures, faintly outlined in the starlight, to tell Conan that here was deadly danger. Masked men did not nightly invade their queen’s chamber with kindly intentions.

Catlike, he crouched on the balls of his feet, sword in hand, rage in his heart.

The assassins stole closer, readying their daggers for the strokes that would seat a new ruler on the throne of Vendhya. One was already plucking at the hangings of the royal bed.

Conan went into action with blurring speed. Like a maddened tiger he sprang. The nearest man was down, disemboweled, before the others recovered from their shock. His sword flashed quick as a striking cobra. With a crash, the helmet and head of another were cloven to the chin. Conan kicked the corpse against the others, breaking their charge, while parrying a cut against his legs by one who had dodged the human missile. With a terrific backhanded swipe, he smote the sword arm from the man’s body. The limb fell jerking to the floor, while the assassin sank down in a heap.

Conan stormed against the remaining two. With flashing sabers, they fought for their lives under the maddened onslaught of the naked Cimmerian. Red fury blazed in Conan’s eyes as he rained mighty strokes upon their frantic parries, circling them to keep them from getting on opposite sides of him.

“Murder a woman sleeping in her bed, will you?” he snarled. “Cowards! Jackals! Any treacherous Stygian is a fair fighter compared to you! But no blood shall be spilt tonight but yours, curs!”

Conan’s blade flickered like a shaft of deadly light. A terrific slash shore off the head of one of his masked adversaries, with the ferocity of the Cimmerian’s attack backed the single one remaining against the wall. Their swift blows and parries shaped a glittering, ever-changing pattern of steel in the starlight.

Yasmina, now fully awake, stood beside her bed, watching with bated breath. Suddenly she cried out in terror, as Conan slipped in the blood on the floor and fell across one of the corpses.

The Vendhyan assailant sprang forward, unholy glee in his black eyes.

He raised his sword. Conan struggled to rise. Suddenly, the mouth of his foe flew open. He teetered, dropping his sword, and fell with a choking gurgle. Behind was revealed the naked, supple form of Yasmina.

Between the shoulders of the dead Kshatriya protruded the hilt of the dagger she had driven home in the nick of time to save her lover.

Conan slashed himself free from the entangling folds of a mantle and rose. From head to foot he was covered with blood, but his blue eyes blazed with their old unquenchable fire.

“Lucky for me you were quick with your sticker, girl! But for you, I should have kept these gentlemen company in Hell by now. Crom, but it was a good fight!”

Her first reply was one of feminine anxiety. “You bleed, my chieftain! Come with me to the bathroom, and we will dress your wounds.”

“It’s theirs, all but a couple of scratches,” grunted Conan, wiping the blood off with the turban cloth of one of the dead assassins. “Small price to pay to thwart these scoundrels.”

“I praise the gods you were with me, or they would have succeeded.” The Devi’s voice was vibrant with emotion. “Never have I dreamed that assassination threatened me! The people deem my rule just, and I have the backing of the army and most of the nobility. Maybe Yezdigerd of Turan has sent emissaries as masked murderers to my chambers.”

“Yezdigerd won’t bother you again,” muttered the Cimmerian. “He’s dead. I slew him on his own ship. Unmask them!”

The Devi tore the mask from the face of the man she had knifed, then recoiled in amazement and horror.

“Chengir! My own cousin! Oh, treachery, black treachery and power madness! Heads shall roll for this tomorrow!”

She shook her raven tresses and turned her dark, liquid eyes on the inscrutable face of the Cimmerian. “I know now that I need a consort. Rule Vendhya with me, Conan! Tomorrow we’ll announce our betrothal; within a month there will be nuptial feasts and ceremonies such as have not taken place in Vendhya for a hundred years! I love you, my chieftain!”

She embraced him hotly, straining with her vigorous, slim young body against his, covering his lips with kisses, until his senses swam. But he shook his head and thrust her gently from him. He held her at arm’s length.

“Crom knows, lass, that you make a tempting offer,” he rumbled. “Few women have I seen so beautiful as you, nor so wise. Any man blessed with your hand in marriage would count himself the favorite of a hundred gods. Ten years ago, when I was a wandering soldier of fortune, I would perhaps have accepted. Now I cannot. I have my own kingdom now, Aquilonia in the West, the mightiest realm in the world. But my queen has been stolen from me by an evil magician in Khitai, and I have sworn an oath to get her back. I should not be a man if I did not keep my vow. Marry one of your own people. They would rather be ruled by a king of their own blood. Tomorrow I ride for the Himelians.”

There was misty tenderness and vast love in the deep, brimming eyes of Yasmina as she regarded him. “The gods give happiness only to snatch it away. Mayhap that is as well, or life would be nothing but happiness, and we should lack the contrasts to know what real happiness means.”

Her eyes cleared, and a queer, half-whimsical smile played upon her lips. “You will go tomorrow. But there are several hours left until dawn. Let us spend them in a more profitable way than talking!”

They locked again in a fierce embrace, while the stars shone coldly upon the dead, glassy-eyed faces of the foiled assassins.