Conan the Barbarian (29 page)

The room had been transformed by the addition of statuary and other artifacts of times best forgotten. Elder gods crouched on thrones, their webbed feet crushing beneath them the skulls of screaming children. Mosaics had been pieced together on the walls, depicting ancient rituals that involved more bloodletting than religious devotion—though a devotion to bloodletting was not hidden. Here and there, the Mask of Acheron appeared, sometimes worn, always venerated, and clearly feared.

Tamara thanked the gods that she could not see more. She stumbled into the chamber and collapsed at Marique’s feet.

“Behold, Father, I have returned with the girl.”

Khalar Zym slowly roused himself from a daybed. He had been staring intently at the mask. He moved easily enough, but was clearly reluctant to tear his eyes from that most valuable relic of Acheron. Wearing a dark robe, he strode across the floor, his hooded eyes clearing gradually. He smiled, but it was the same smile with which he’d stared at the mask, not a pleasurable response to the arrival of his daughter.

He dropped to a knee and took Tamara’s jaw in his hand. He turned her face left and then right. “So, elusive one, you have joined us finally.”

Tamara tried to shake her head, but she lacked the strength, and even the attempt made the world spin. “You are mistaken. I am no one. I am not the one you seek.”

Khalar Zym glanced up. “Does she tell the truth, Marique?”

Marique stroked a Stygian talon against Tamara’s neck, eliciting a sharp cry. She withdrew it, a drop of blood hanging there. “Would you care to taste, Father?”

He shook his head.

Marique greedily sucked the blood off the talon, then licked the droplet that had risen on Tamara’s neck. “Hot and sweet, Father; the fullness of Acheron’s Royal House pulses through her.”

“Excellent.” Khalar Zym stood. “Preparations are almost complete, and shall be by the eve of the Dead Moon.”

His daughter hissed in Tamara’s ear. “Yes, when the tide has ebbed, and the ruins are dry, when the moon is eager to rise from the grave, then shall Acheron be brought forth again.”

Khalar Zym reached down and stroked his daughter’s cheek. “You have made me proud, so very proud, Marique.”

The sorceress purred.

Tamara, despair welling up inside her, bowed her head and sobbed.

 

 

CONAN MOVED THROUGH
the fetid alleys of Asgalun, choosing his path by diverting ever deeper into shadow. He could feel the eyes upon him, measuring him. From him thieves could not hear the ripe peal of gold coins in a pouch, just the purposeful jingle of a swordman’s livery and the soft rustle of mail. Most of the watchers dismissed him because of his size alone. Others for the quick certainty of his step. Though he did not belong in the thieves’ quarter of the city, he was not drunk, not a foppish noble seeking adventure and stumbling about without purpose. Those who studied him knew that, at best, attacking him would be a lethal exercise that promised little return for their efforts.

The Cimmerian moved into a tiny courtyard and drove straight at the door beneath the sign of the seven daggers. He pushed the dark, oaken door open and ducked his head to enter. The Den of Blades spread out and down before him; lit poorly, a labyrinth of tables, benches at various levels, and shadows. Hard men and harder women filled it, but none favored him with a glance. To do that would betray concern, and no one here had any concerns in the world.

At least, none that could not be dealt with through a knife in the back, or some tincture of black lotus in a goblet of spiced wine.

Conan read the room as a wolf would read a flock of sheep. He didn’t see Ela Shan, but that did not bother him. Thieves seldom kept schedules and he didn’t know if the small man had even made it back to Asgalun. But someone in the room would know, and that someone appeared to be a fat Argosian perched back in the corner halfway between the bar and the hearth.

He made for the fat man directly, well aware that he was violating customs and protocols. As a young thief in the Maul, he had learned them and understood them, then dismissed them as silly laws imposed by the lawless on other outlaws, a mere parody of the rules of the civilizations upon which they preyed. Had they imposed them to mock those who despised them, Conan would have understood and abided by such laws. But their intent came from pride and pretense, and for that Conan had no use.

He towered over the fat man. “I am looking for a thief.”

“Looking for a thief, are you?” The fat man spread his arms wide, contempt twisting his features. “You accuse us, here, of being thieves, then?”

The Cimmerian’s expression sharpened. “I seek Ela Shan.”

The fat man’s jowls quivered with laughter. “And who do you think you are, barbarian?”

Conan caught the man by the throat and lifted him from his chair. He raised his voice. “I seek Ela Shan.”

The fat man’s face became purple. His nostrils flared. All around Conan, knives slid from sheaths. Table legs scraped and benches squeaked as they were pulled away. Steel sprouted in shadows and silence, save for the pop of the fire and the fat man’s wheezing.

“Stand away, you fools.” Ela Shan appeared from a darkened doorway off to Conan’s left. Dressed in black velvet finery chased with silver threads, and looking as if he had bathed within the day, Ela Shan presented an image that Conan almost failed to recognize. The furtive glances, the haunted eye; they had vanished, and he’d even gained a few pounds—not counting the weight of the half-dozen knives he had secreted over his person.

Ela Shan pushed aside bared blades and moved to the heart of what would have been the killing ground. “This is Conan. This is the one of whom I have told you. I owe this man my life, and now all of you owe me yours. Before Bovus”—he nodded toward the fat man—“could have dropped back into his chair, the Cimmerian’s blade would have appeared and have rent most of you in twain. And before Bovus’s chair collapsed beneath his girth and he hit the floor, the rest of you would have been down and staring at him with dying eyes.”

He turned around and smiled at Conan. “You can let Bovus go now. He’s arrogant and ignorant, but that’s hardly cause for you to strangle him.”

Conan released the man, and true to the prediction, his chair crumbled and spilled him to the floor. Laughter erupted and drawn steel retreated. Ela Shan waved Conan forward along a newly cleared path, to the bar and a waiting flagon of foaming ale.

The thief smiled. “I’m glad you’ve found me. There has arisen a job for which a man of your talents would be—”

Conan shook his head. “You said you owe me your life. I am here to collect.”

Ela Shan raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Khor Kalba. I need to get in.”

“Don’t even think it.” Ela accepted a cup of dark wine from the innkeeper. “There, I’ve saved your life. We’re even.”

“You said there was no lock you could not break.”

“There isn’t.”

“Then you
can
get in.”

“I could, Conan, but you do not seem to grasp what I am telling you.” The thief scrubbed a hand over his face. “Khor Kalba is a fell place, my friend. It was built to be an impregnable fortress, and no one has ever taken it. But it has fallen many times, riven from within, the factions killing each other. And each new owner rebuilds, adding more locks, more traps, more passages and devices which he hopes will keep him safe. They never do, but they remain to destroy any thief who is foolish enough to enter. And no thief would enter, since there is nothing there worth plundering.”

“There is now.” Conan nodded grimly. “A friend. A woman.”

“A lover?”

“Someone who saved my life. I pledged to keep her safe, and Khalar Zym now has her. He will kill her.”

Ela Shan exhaled slowly. “Were it for all the gold in the world, I would not join you, Cimmerian; but my debt to you means I am indebted to her as well. Come, my friend. We will dare that which daunts all other thieves. Two nights hence, we will penetrate Khor Kalba, and carry away that which its master values most.”

 

 

MARIQUE WATCHED FROM
the shadows as the slaves guided Tamara into the marble basin filled with steaming water. Lilac blossoms floated in it. Marique allowed her gaze to linger on the monk’s naked body, searching her pale flesh for any bruise or blemish. No imperfection marred the woman’s beauty as she sank into the water and the slaves began to wash her.

Marique had clipped a lock of the woman’s hair and sniffed it. Sweat and grime, yes, and even the foul lather of the beasts they’d used to transport her clung to it. But beneath that was something more earthy, musky, and strong. The scent of the barbarian. Marique recognized it from when she had tasted him so long ago.

As Tamara was bathed, other slaves brought platters of fruit and viands, delicacies from throughout the world. Tamara, sedated, ate mechanically, as she was bidden, and sloppily drank wine. The bathers washed spills from her, then took her from the bath and dried her with scarlet towels. They led her to a padded bench and seated her in the center. Two slaves brushed out her hair while another half dozen attended to her nails. All the while the woman faced forward, staring distantly at an empty wall.

Marique came around and plucked a blueberry from one of the platters. She sniffed at it, then made to fling it away. But she stopped and instead approached Tamara. She pressed the berry to the woman’s red lips. Tamara accepted the berry and chewed until it had been reduced to something that barely required swallowing.

The slaves withdrew as robed acolytes entered the chamber. They stood Tamara up and stripped her of the towels. They then bid the woman step into a scarlet gown, which she did. They bound her into it, then let her sit again.

Marique waited until they had departed before she slid onto the bench. “My mother wore that gown on her wedding day. It flatters you.”

Tamara’s jaw trembled, then her lips parted. “I am not your mother.”

“But you will be.” Marique laughed. “Do you know why they bathe you in lilac water? It was my mother’s favorite. Do you still taste blueberry on your tongue? Another of her favorites. They will serenade you with the music that she loved. They will tell you tales to which she thrilled. And do you know why?”

Tamara said nothing, but a tear glistened in her right eye.

“My mother will take you—not as your barbarian did, but even more completely. You are a vessel, Tamara. Now they fill you with things my mother will remember. Things that remind her of the joys of being alive. When my father summons her from beyond the grave, your soul, your essence, will drain out and she will flood into you. Up through your toes and your legs, up through your loins and belly and breasts. She will course up your neck, filling you . . . filling you until she turns your pretty blue eyes pitch-black.”

The monk shook. “I would rather die.”

“You will, Tamara, you will . . .”

The chamber door opened and Khalar Zym entered. A smile grew on his face and it took a moment for Marique to realize that, yet again, it was not for her.

He stopped and held out a hand. Tamara resisted, but her hand rose to his, then she stood. He walked around her, admiring her. When he came around again, when Marique could again see his face, his smile had broadened and filled with love.

“So perfect you are, Maliva, my love.”

Marique turned from him and fingered a lock of hair. “She is not my mother.”

“But she shall be, Marique. Her death will herald your mother’s return . . . and the return of Acheron’s glory. Maliva’s sorceries will melt flesh from the bones of kings. Together we, my beloved and I, shall cast
all rivals
into an ocean of blood.”

“And what of
me
, Father?” Marique rose, turning slowly, a cold edge seeping into her voice. “Am I to be cast aside? Will you find me weak? Will you find me flawed? Will you forget all I have done in your name?”

Khalar Zym raised his chin, regarding his daughter through slitted eyes. “Do you think I could forget the one who brought me this vessel? Do you think I have forgotten how you found the last shard of the mask? Just because I love your mother so much, it does not mean I love you any the less, Marique.”

He reached out for her with an open hand. “Our enemies will drown, my daughter, in a boiling crimson sea. But you, Marique, the product of our union, you will be raised up. You will reign as our princess.”

Marique took his hand and allowed him to guide her to Tamara’s side. They flanked the monk and stared at their reflections in an obsidian mirror. “Smile, my cruel angel. Soon we will be a family again.”

Marique nodded slowly, seeking shadows in the reflection, listening for treacherous whispers; but she found neither. She smiled and, for a heartbeat, felt almost embarrassed, as a child might. “Yes, my dear father, yes. A family once again.”

KHOR KALBA ROSE
from the coastal plains defiantly, its bold black lines mocking the ocean’s ability to dissolve even the strongest stone. At the low-tide mark, barnacles and other signs of sea life made themselves visible, but only the most hearty. As Ela Shan and Conan picked their way over algae-slicked stones, pale crabs scuttled away. The two men headed for a large outflow pipe that stank of things noxious, of the creatures that throve in such filth.

Beyond the castle walls, a half mile farther along the coast, lay a stone formation looking very much like the skull of a giant clawing himself free of the earth. It appeared as if the moon’s dark disk was rising from within it. A bright fiery stream of magma flowed over the giant’s tongue and spilled far below to sizzle and hiss in the ocean. It seem to Conan as if the giant could not digest that which lurked in its belly and was vomiting that evil upon the earth.

Ela Shan crouched in the shadows beside the outflow. “The iron grate is new—at least, newer than Khor Kalba. Your Khalar Zym is not completely stupid.”