Conan the Barbarian (13 page)

Valeria smiled at the intensity of the barbarian’s desire, for it was every bit as ardent as her own. For a long moment, she fondled the roseate gem in a sensual way, then slipped it into her bosom and followed Conan from the inn.

A crippled hag led Conan and Valeria into the candlelit interior of a hut, leering at them with a toothless grin. Conan flicked her a small coin, and, bowing, she scurried from the room. The barbarian doffed his tunic as the she-thief unbuckled her belt and body armour.

Kneeling, Valeria ran her hungry hands over Conan’s naked body. “Tell me,” she breathed, “one thing—only one. When first I saw you, in the shadows, you moved so beautifully—where did you learn to move that way?”

Conan touched her breasts and ran a hand across her tight stomach and mobile hips.

Valeria gasped in ecstasy, holding herself taut as his seeking hands slid over her quivering body. “Where did you learn to move like that?”

For a moment, Conan studied the eager girl, his face impassive; then, putting his hands to his scarred neck, revealed the marks of the cruel collar he had worn. Valeria kissed the scars with frenzied kisses and threw herself upon him in a convulsion of sexual pleasure. Then undulating in his embrace, she tossed back her long hair and showed him identical scars. She, too, had endured long nights as a Pit fighter. Then the candle flickered out, and the darkness echoed with small sounds of happiness.

Dawn found the lovers in the low-ceilinged common room of the poor tavern, eating hungrily. Conan carved a steaming slab of meat from the spit and proffered it to Valeria on the point of his dirk. The girl gnawed the fragment with enthusiasm, as grease trickled down her chin; while Conan carved off a larger piece of meat to sate his rapacious appetite.

Conan never forgot this tender encounter. Many years later, he told his scribe: “If the gods do practice love, can it be greater? No woman before her or since could be her equal—but of this I had no knowledge at the time.”

They washed the meat down with wine, cooled in snow carried from the mountaintop—a beverage for lordlings. Drunk with loving as much as with strong drink, Valeria leaned against the rough settle, and watched Conan as he ate, admiring the coiled springs of his muscles as they moved beneath his skin like the musculature of a splendid animal.

He, for his part, admired the woman’s sensuous beauty, as she sat in repose before the embers of the fire, her garments, disarrayed, revealing her fair neck and shoulders. Conan had discovered a small hole drilled in the upper end of the great jewel, the Serpent’s Eye, and through it he had threaded a narrow thong so that, wearing it, she would minimize the chance of losing it. Now its unearthly fires sparkled against the rondure of her breasts, doubling their beauty.

As the morning waned, Subotai, who had been carried back to the inn by Madame Ilga’s grinning slaves, recovered from his debauch, amid groans and protestations of repentance. Before the sun had set, the three thieves once more embarked on a fresh round of pleasure and diversion. Their shabby garments had been replaced by leather jerkins and fine furs; their crude ornaments of iron had been exchanged for rings and armlets of polished bronze and gleaming silver, wrought by skilled craftsmen; good boots of fine leather had taken the place of their outworn buskins; and, with the aid of the Hyrkanian, Conan had selected knives and swords from the booth of a master smith.

This finery, together with the hearty meals and evenings’ entertainments, were bought with monies from the jewels Valeria had purloined from the battlements of the tower. The circumspect conspirators did not, as yet, attempt to sell the snake stone, for they knew that spies and informers of the snake cult would be aprowl through the bazaars of Shadizar, eager to claim their holy talisman. In Turan, perhaps, or down in Vendhya, they hoped to find a merchant with sufficient means to buy the jewel and sufficient caution to say nothing of his purchase.

Despite their unaccustomed wealth, the three companions soon tired of their life of leisure. Wrestlers, dancing girls, and feasts—all became stale and vitiated pleasures to survivors of a life wherein danger honed an edge of zest to every moment snatched for comfort or amusement. All too soon came their deliverance from boredom; and it caught them unprepared.

One evening, as the three lolled, half-drunk and half-asleep, over their cups in the darkened tavern to which they had repaired once they found they could afford better accommodations, Valeria was roused from her stupor by the glint of a spear blade reflected in the firelight. Her half-uttered cry galvanized the others into action. They saw their table rimmed about by grim-faced soldiers arrayed in breastplates of gilt and bronze, and heavy, polished helmets set low on their brows.

Conan, instantly awake, half-rose from his chair.

Thinking these intruders guardsmen from the serpent-temple who had tracked their thievery down, he sought a means of escape. But no, the soldiers bore on helm-crest and cuirass the royal sigil of Zamora; these were legionnaires of the King.

“What do you want with us?” Conan grunted, eyeing the men with dour suspicion. “We have been carousing, true, but surely that is not against the Royal Law....”

“Up and come with us, the three of you!” snapped an officer. “All questions will be answered by those who have dispatched us to seek you out. Let’s have no trouble now!”

Subotai, still plunged in drunken stupor, looked at the levelled spear blades. Twisting his features into an obsequious smile, he muttered, “Aye, no trouble... no trouble at all...” Clinging to the table for support, he reeled to unsteady feet.

Perforce they accompanied the armed men; to draw a sword would have been suicide, despite their fighting skills. Alone, Conan might have chanced the odds of one man against twelve; but his burgeoning love for Valeria disarmed him. He would not risk her harm, though freedom itself hung in the balance.

Under a moonless sky, they trudged through silent streets, deserted at this hour even by footpads and other creatures of the night. At last they came to a wide avenue, at the end of which the spired bulk of the royal palace rose black against the brilliance of the stars. At the officer’s command, a gate in the peripheral wall swung open. The squad of soldiery marched the three adventurers beneath pillared arcades and along gravelled walks set amid smooth velvet lawns and marble fountains, whose opulence of water filled the night with music.

As the group reached the main portal of the palace, Subotai—a travelled man—eyed the architecture with appreciation. The abode of the Zamoran king was reputed to be one of the most exotic edifices east of Aquilonia, built as it was on the profits of trade with the Far East. But, as they passed the guards, standing stiffly before the doorway, his sharp eyes spotted vestiges of decay—cracks in the masonry and marks of dampness. He shrewdly guessed that all the vast wealth of this monarchy could not combat some crawling inner rot, some cancer gnawing at the guts of the state, even as the insidious tendrils of the serpent cult sapped the courage and resolve of the citizenry.

Conan, less given to philosophy, shot keen glances to the left and right as they were led along a maze of halls and curving marble stairs. Seeking to orient himself in case they might need to battle their way to freedom, he little heeded the carven balustrades of ivory and alabaster, the rich wall hangings, the silk-upholstered benches and curiously-wrought torcheres, which spelled a luxury of living beyond his wildest imaginings. And yet at length it was borne in upon him, even in the subdued light of the lamps and candles, that these fine furnishings were not in pristine condition. There were tears in the tapestries, stains on the carpets, and gilding peeling from the ornate furniture, as though from long neglect.

The grand hall of the palace, for all its sculptured surfaces, echoed as emptily as a burial vault. Footsteps reverberated through the gloom; dust lay heavy on the floor tiles. As the adventurers and their escort approached the throne of Zamora, they perceived a figure shadowed by the canopy, brooding hand on chin, whose eyes bespoke a warrior long lost to wine and decadence and sloth. Beside the lone figure stood a single servant, who conversed in whispers with his superior.

Conan saw that King Osric, for such the manner and address of the captain of the guard proved him to be, was a man sapped of vigour and devoid of hope. His age rested heavily on his sagging shoulders. His lined face testified to a life of care and disappointment.

A soldier laid the weapons of the captured adventurers below the king’s feet as the captain, dropping to one knee, said, “The thieves whom you requested, Sire.”

Subotai and Valeria, knowledgeable in the ways of royalty, bowed low; Conan faced the king impassively.

A guardsman, poking the barbarian in the ribs, hissed, “Bow, oaf!” Conan shot the man a slit-eyed scowl, but he managed a jerky nod.

The monarch looked at the prisoners with an absent eye, his mind elsewhere. At last he roused himself, and with a flip of a finger, indicated that his officer should rise.

To clothe the stark silence, the man endeavoured to jog the royal memory. “These are the thieves who robbed the Tower of the Serpent.”

Then, in a hoarse voice, quivering with emotion, the monarch spoke: “Know you what you have done, thieves? You have caused him to come before me, before my very throne—Yaro, the black priest—to intimidate me, nay, to threaten Osric, High King of all Zamora! What insolence! What arrogance! These priests of the Black Serpent who set themselves above the monarchs of the world! And it is you, three thieves, gutter scum, who have brought this to pass!” Conan shot a sidewise glance at his companions. Valeria wet her lips in nervous apprehension. Subotai’s keen eyes darted like those of a cornered rat, seeking for an exit. The barbarian tensed, gathering his strength for an explosion of violence. Unarmed, he harboured no illusions about the outcome; but better to sell his life dearly than to present a willing neck to axe or knotted rope. He might take a guard or two with him into the black beyond.

The King continued staring at the thieves; but now a smile tugged at the comers of his bearded lips. Brushing aside his velvet robe, he rose to his feet, crying: “Thieves, I salute you! It was a noble deed you did!” The king barked a short laugh. “You should have seen the black priest’s face! So furious was he that foam dribbled from his lips! I have not more enjoyed a sight since the night when I was wed!” Then, turning to his bodyguards, he added: “Fetch stools for my larcenous friends, Captain Kobades. You shall remain, but as for you others, back to your duties! And bring some wine—wine of the best vintage.”

A page brought silver goblets and a beaker of fine red wine; and there, standing before the throne of Zamora, they drank to the King’s health, and he raised his cup to theirs. Subotai, bewildered at this sudden turn of fate, greedily imbibed his potion; Valeria and Conan, more accustomed to adulation after Pit-fighting successes, responded with better grace.

“You may be seated,” said the King at last. He stared into his wine cup, brooding. When he spoke, his words were disjointed, his voice querulous.

“This man Thulsa Doom—long have I chafed at the presence of this demigod in my poor kingdom. Snakes in my beautiful capital! To the west, to the south, in Brythunia, Corinthia, everywhere snakes! Everywhere these black towers with their black-hearted priests! They steal away our children and turn them into monsters—into reptiles like the snakes they worship. Our corrupted young raise their envenomed fangs against their very parents....”

Trembling, Osric buried his face in his hands. The three companions looked at one another, then turned to stare at Captain Kobades. The king perceived their glances.

“My own guards dare not stand against them. My bravest warriors, my fiercest fighting men shrink from their duty, fail in their sworn allegiance. You alone, you gutter-sweepings, have dared to beard Yaro in his citadel!

“All who stand against the serpent priests are set upon and slain. Death in the night... have you seen aught of this?”

At a signal, the monarch’s servant handed him a thin bronze-handled dagger with a blade that undulated like the body of a serpent. Holding it in his outstretched palm, the king continued:

“Here is the serpent’s fang, thrust into my father’s heart by his younger son, my brother, who has been ensorcelled by their witchcraft. And my own daughter, the jewel of my kingdom, the joy of my old age, has likewise fallen under the spell of Thulsa Doom. She has turned against me and the elder gods. Does she bear a dagger such as this, pointed at my heart? Is this the fate awaiting me?” Conan scowled, remembering the exquisite beauty of the young woman in the veiled palanquin. Subotai had told him she was the daughter of the king, but the barbarian found it difficult to believe that a girl so lovely might someday murder her own sire, although he knew that she was a priestess of the serpent god.

With a sudden explosion of anger, King Osric hurled the serpentine dagger to the marble floor, where it lay, a thing of evil exposed for all to see. “Each generation is weaker than the one before. Today’s young wallow in this snake cult—this false religion. They yearn to be slaves and beggars, drugged dreamers. When I was young, boys strove to be heroes, not parasites and destroyers.”

The King looked down, a weak old man beset by problems that he could not solve. Tremulously, he said: “Now I must call on thieves to save my kingdom!”

Valeria, with unaccustomed pity in her voice, directed a question at the rambling monarch. “What is it that you want of us, Sire?”

“My daughter, my little Yasimina—she follows him wherever he goes... Yaro, I mean, Yaro the black priest. She says she seeks the truth in the depths of her soul.... These addle-pated fools forget the old strengths, the old virtues. They wallow in depravity, as hogs wallow in mud, and call it a religion!

“And at this very moment, my daughter travels eastward to meet the man called Doom in the mighty stronghold of his cult, the centre of his web of intrigue. Go you to the Mountain of Power and steal her back for me!”