Back blurb: Conan of Cimmeria was king of Aquilonia for many decades. After the death of his queen the crown grows heavy and the barbarian passes it to his son, Conan II, called Conn. Free on the road for the first time in years, Conan adventures on the great Western Ocean, once again a wanderer in search of fortune. But the world grows dark during the Cimmerian's travels, and he finds himself drawn ever westward, closer to the setting sun than any man has been. Something drives him, something warning him there is an evil arisen that means to end all the known world. Shocking reunions and tragic heartbreak await Conan as the last sands of his hourglass fall.
CONAN: LAST SANDS OF THE DRAGON
"KNOW, oh prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars—Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandalled feet."-The Nemedian Chronicles
By J Morad
Chapter 1 Dreams Birth Swords
Botali Kadiro shivered in the crisp air of the crow’s nest and watched the world rock back and forth. Endless waves of foam hypnotized him as they rolled to the horizon and disappeared in the sinking light. The lines of his face burned with stinging drops of salt. Yet, Botali dared not close his eyes. The captain stalked the decks below.
The last bits of daylight fell away and Botali studied the swirling dark clouds that had followed his vessel for more moons than he could count. The young sailor sighed, wiping big round drops of water from his cheeks and curled hair. He dropped through the platform of the nest to begin the long descent down the main-mast. Hand over hand on the rough ratlines of the shrouds, he passed sagging sails in desperate want of wind. But the lateens hadn’t blown in weeks, so the battered galley from Messantia lowered oars every morning and rowed through the day, gaining its sole momentum from the backs of grumbling men. From dawn to dusk on a pace few had seen, the crew of the Sea Siren rowed its strength into the unknown west. Many suns had risen only to fall with no end of toil in sight.
Botali landed on the ship’s waist amid the rasp and clack of oars. He adjusted the wrinkles of his soiled pants and tunic while staring through an open hatch at the brawny back of a Barachan rower. Two churns of the banks later, eyes having shifted to their habitual fix on the water, he sensed more than saw the brooding presence approach on quiet footsteps.
The sailor turned in the massive shadow of his captain, who stopped to inspect a loose knot in the rigging with a look of disgust. Shaking his square-cut black mane, now shot through with generous streaks of grey, the huge man tensed the muscles of his bare shoulders and flexed his fingers, cracking the knuckles of his fists. He spun on the grime of the deck, quick feet belying his size, and in the waning yellow light Botali clearly made out a tangled maze of furrowed scars that mapped the bulges of the captain’s back and arms. His skin was tan and weathered, with wear of a well-fought life, but no spare flesh hung on his form.
The captain stopped at a hatch and with a deep, booming voice said, “Rataan. On deck, dog. Tell me why my mainsheet will fly loose at the first call of wind?”
Botali shrunk near some loose canvas to watch the scene unfold. The captain paced to the rail, ice blue eyes blazing with a cold fury. Whatever trappings civilization had laid upon him, the captain, a barbarian, a Cimmerian named Conan, leaned on the rail with the look of a rabid winter wolf. Some nights, deep in his cups, he told his crew tales of the grim northern lands of his birth. Lands of battle and blood and hardship. Botali Kadiro had never seen fabled Cimmeria, but those stories gave him little desire to change that. He would not visit a country menacing enough to produce this terrifying man.
Minutes crawled by, fanning Conan’s ire, until a short, hook-nosed Barachan wandered up through the hatch as the oars of the galley rose and ceased their beating upon the waves. The little pirate sailor shuffled along at a relaxed pace in flowing breeches, smacking thin lips around a mouthful of Argossean wine. He smirked, heedless of his captain’s mood.
“You called, Captain?”
The Cimmerian’s eyes narrowed.
“Drink when there’s no work to be done, damn you to Set’s Hell,” Conan said. “My mistake is clear to me, Rataan, in giving you the first mate to try and soothe this ragged crew. I’ll remedy that now by you swabbing these decks and setting these yards ‘til I decide it’s been done right.”
The Barachan’s deep-socketed brown eyes blinked at the northerner. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I am not the ill aboard this ship, Conan. The men whisper at night. Breaking our backs on your fool’s quest was not what we sailed for. We’ve been at sea for months now, and yet you limp to our doom with no wind or counsel from us. We’re down to tack and will be dying for seawater soon. No hint of land. Not even a gull, man. We came west for gold, Cimmerian, not on some death-quest of yours. We’re done.”
Conan arched his thick brows. “Done? Counsel? You would have me take counsel from a pirate who only walks without a noose tight to his throat because I slew his captor? Counsel is my own, Rataan, and it is enough that I say we sail with purpose. Now. Do you grab rags, or do I feed you to whatever swims beneath our keel?”
Botali admired the bravery of the Barachan in this stand-off, if not the wisdom given his opponent. Rataan took the measure of the barbarian. “You’re no better than us. You wound in that mess ‘cause you scuttled your last ship and killed her crew. Now you lead us to the ends of the world. Perhaps those grey locks show more of your age than you lead on, Cimmerian. Perhaps the many winters have chilled your luck.” Rataan spread his arms, smiling. “A ship cannot sail without luck, Conan. Let us come about to plunder the Zingarans again. Or let me pilot her. Agreed?”
Privately, with much wine, Conan would admit to remembering fifty or sixty snows, yet he never believed the passing years had dulled his keen senses. The only effect time had wrought was to give him ever greater wonder at the endless repetition of man’s greed and treachery. He set aside these musings and grabbed Rataan’s greasy black hair, jerking his head back to expose the soft flesh of his throat. Another hand moved faster than the Barachan could follow and brought a wickedly curved knife from a belted scabbard to the neck of the screaming pirate. Perhaps, Conan thought between movements, he could not match the speed of his youth, but his actions spoke of skill harnessed only through time.
“No,” Rataan said, the pace of his breath accelerating. “No trial to judge me? It’s our law. I have broached no mutiny, only offered aid. The crew follows me, will you kill their leader?”
The Cimmerian leaned close enough so the Barachan would feel his breath. “I’m sure they are wise to follow you, Rataan, since it is you that led them to the edge of the gallows. I have little need for a trial on my ship. I’ll toss your head to the sea right now.” The sharp blade pressed harder against the pirate’s throat.
The Barachan’s eyes rolled back, color draining from his swarthy face. “By Ishtar, mercy. I’ll swab. I’ll swab.”
“And you’ll make sure your men fall in line, of course,” Conan said.
“Aye, of course,” Rataan said. “We’ll follow you to the ends of the western seas. And beyond. I swear it.”
“Good.” Conan released the Barachan’s hair, ignoring his fall to the deck. “Botali Kadiro. Come out from the shadows.”
Botali could feel the sweat freeze on his back at the sound of his name. The young sailor swallowed and ran a nervous hand though his hair. He stepped forward into a beam of silver moonlight.
“Fall to, sailor,” Conan said.
Botali presented himself with as much discipline as he could muster to the side of the prone Barachan. “Aye Captain, sir.”
“No sirs on my ship, Kadiro.” Conan appraised the shaking youth and grunted with approval at the gleam in his eye of what would pass for intelligence in this crew. “You’ll be the mate,” Conan said. “Before first light I want every sheet inspected and all knots retied, bow to stern. All canvas checked for quality. Every spar and bit of rigging examined. Swab the filth from these decks. And give this eunuch,” he thrust his lantern jaw at Rataan, “the bilges.”
“What?” The Barachan scrambled to his knees and stumbled as far away as possible from the Cimmerian’s grasp. “You expect my men to follow this Kordavan whore-son?” Rataan said while warily eying the steel of Conan’s dagger. “We would have thrown him to the sea moons ago if not for your mothering. He’s a pig. His people shame the Arcan straits.”
Conan took one step forward. “They’ll follow him or die,” he said. “Start your work, Rataan, the crew will join you. And change your breeches. They’ve been soiled.”
The Barachan muttered an oath and disappeared below decks, leaving the Cimmerian alone with his new first mate. Conan loosed his own curse and sheathed his knife. He ignored the confused looks of the young sailor and climbed the ladder to the upper deck. Botali Kadiro followed, trailing a few careful paces behind as the captain rebuked himself in a harsh, guttural language the Kordavan guessed to be Cimmerian. The northerner stopped at the carved circle of the helm and gripped its handles.
Botali rocked on the balls of his bare feet, hoping to be shouted away so he could gather his wits and calm his nerves. Minutes passed in the uncomfortably still air with no sign of acknowledgement. He mutely watched as the barbarian tore open a tube of maps and cursed the topmost. The stinging salt of the crow’s nest seemed very far away and a very pleasant way to spend an evening.
Botali engaged in a lengthy internal debate. Few born into the recent age had not heard of this Cimmerian. He had been chieftain and thief, warrior and king, and the Kordavan could well recall his grandsire’s outlandish tales of this man’s duels with wizards. And demons. And gods. The first mate had no way of knowing what in those stories lay true or was the product of much retelling and embellishment. But some flame must have sparked them. He had served on the Siren for months and never been alone this close to his captain. How did one address a walking and obviously disturbed legend? Resolved to try, he thrice bid farewell to his long-unseen mother and offered short prayers to Mitra, Ishtar and a few of the Nameless Old Ones, whose exaltations he should not have known. Botali sucked in his breath through clenched and teeth and said, “Sir?”
The captain’s eyes did not stray from his map. “You have a tongue? That is good. I feared to have appointed a mute after a coward. Did I not give you enough tasks already? And what did I say about sir?”
Kadiro breathed in, attempting to bring force to his next words. “May I ask a question, Captain?”
Conan broke from the map and looked down on the slight Kordavan. Even with the years between them the northerner’s muscular thickness was twice again that of the young mate. “I do not desire slaves and blind children on my vessel, Kadiro. Every man should think and ask questions of worth. If I have given you command aboard us, then I must think your mind has some merit.” He looked back to the map. “I only anger when men speak of treachery.”
Botali paused to consider the inherent fairness of the statement. He tried to speak in the most even tone he could muster. “I am not agreeing with the Barachan, Captain. But he is right about one thing. The crew will not follow me. Why give me the mate?”
“A good question, but one I thought you would have explained for yourself.” Conan sighed. “You’re honest, as pirates and natural thieving bastards go, and you have keen sight, up top and on deck. Never forget that for it will serve you well. That sight is keen enough to know they’ll kill you when they come for me, doubly now so as you’re the first mate. It might be deemed underhanded but at least I’ve bound your loyalty to me. You’ll fight hard and lead well to make sure I stay alive.”
Botali exhaled.
“I’ve served on troubled ships,” Conan said. “As both captain and mutineer, come to think of it. As we speak, unless men have changed over the years, Rataan is below decks organizing the ones fancying themselves bravest. He’ll lead them here, or to my cabin, sometime soon I imagine, with the full intention of my death. Of course, if I were him, and if I was I’d throw myself off the topmast now, I would wait until the depths of first watch, but the little bastard isn’t that patient. Tonight, I would have gladly gutted him, but his actions will ferret out the most treacherous of the dogs with little effort on our part. When they come we’ll kill them and the rest will act like curs and shout their renewed allegiance to me and mine.” The barbarian looked out over the ocean. “I can’t blame any of them, truly. I’ve done a miserable job. I’ve pushed us past what any normal crew should take. We’ll have to cull the worst of the lot.”
Conan turned and held Botali’s frightened eyes. “We have little time. Go to my cabin and fetch the sword from under the bunk. In a chest you’ll find a cuirass and mail shirt, take whichever fits best. Then go to the racks and arm yourself with something you can manage in tight quarters. We’ll have a surprise for them. Go.”
Too dumbstruck for further questions, the first mate’s legs carried him to obey the Cimmerian’s orders. He dragged the sheathed broadsword from under the captain’s rumpled bed, judging its weight unwieldy for a normal hand. The dull steel cuirass was hopelessly oversized for his narrow torso so he donned the mail shirt and found even that trailed to his knees. Botali hurried on what he prayed were silent feet to the closest weapon’s locker, recognizing the curiosity of passing no crew in the ship’s bowels. While selecting a recently whetted scimitar he noted newly empty slots in the rack lacking rinds of salt. He feared the mutiny to have already begun with his captain armed with nothing but a knife.
Botali reappeared on the quarterdeck greeted by nothing more than the constant lapping of waves against the hull. He searched the shadows but found no trace of his hulking captain. Wandering to the port rail below the quiet sails he shifted the burden of the Cimmerian’s harness from one shoulder to another. The Kordavan flicked his scimitar in a few practice passes, adjusting to its weight and feel.
“Captain?”
Rataan stepped out from behind a spar. “That bitch has fled, Kordavan,” he said. “But he left his pup behind.”
Botali retreated as Rataan was joined in the moonlight by several of his fellow Barachans. Angok, Sorth, Nedenal and Brantis fell in behind their former first mate, brandishing long swords and wicked, curved blades. Past them, Botali could see the tense faces of the remaining crew awaiting the outcome.
“Where is Captain Conan?” Botali said, feigning defiance as best he could.
“It matters little, first mate,” Rataan said, covering the title with bile. “Tonight you’ll die, and meet so many of the Kordavans I’ve sent to the bottom.” His comrades joined Rataan’s laughter. “Then,” he said, “when your precious Captain Conan comes out of-”
No one saw the massive figure drop from the sagging furls of the mainsail until he was among them, flashing like lightning in the night sky. The initial blow came from a curved dagger. The point found its mark in the center of Rataan’s skull, ending his speech. The blade drove home until its guard met bone, slicing through the brain of the mutiny’s architect.
Conan landed on his feet, knees buckling slightly from the great height of the drop. He tried in vain to pull his knife free from the skull, but Rataan’s head proved too thick to release it. Bringing a fist to the groin of Sorth and doubling him over, he kicked a heel into the chest of Angok that sent the man flying into his fellows. Heart pounding more than his time storming the Vanir outposts as a youth, Conan jumped and grabbed a stray line. It came loose and swung the barbarian atop the rail near the speechless Botali Kadiro.
“Sword,” the Cimmerian said between labored breaths.
The first mate shook from his daze and lobbed the sword to Conan. The captain ripped the blade from its scabbard and steadied his uncanny balance on the beam’s narrow width.
“Your cuirass.” Kadiro flung the breastplate.
Conan caught the armor’s edge and saw the other two mutineers had recovered from their initial surprise and ran to the attack. Uttering a wailing cry of death that chilled all, the Cimmerian leapt from the rail onto the coming pair. He used the cuirass as a battering shield and rammed it into the face of Nedenal, crunching the soft bones of that man’s nose, jaw and cheeks under the stiff metal. The heavy broadsword lashed out, moved deftly by a powerful arm as if it weighed no more than a reed, and swept under the futile parry Brantis offered. The edge of the blade caught the Barachan’s neck, sending his head in an arcing flight ending in an ocean plunge.
Botali ran forward and engaged the reeling Nedenal, who struggled to counter the Kordavan’s unpracticed scimitar swipes while holding together the fragmented structure of his face. Conan whirled to meet Angok, blade ringing against steel aimed squarely for his breast. The Barachan sailor fought with the fervor of desperation, as he realized the full measure of the opponent he had chosen. Thrusting and ducking, Angok screamed for the Cimmerian’s blood and gathered himself for a killing stroke, throwing his weight behind a lunge when he sensed the barbarian had momentarily lost his balance. Conan recovered to reveal the feint and stepped aside as the Barachan passed him. The broadsword whistled into the pirate’s back and his body flopped lifelessly to the deck.
Conan turned in time to see his first mate’s scimitar slice Nedenal’s stomach open, spilling entrails to wood already slick with blood. The last sound on the ship was the coughing rasp of Sorth, who still rolled along the planks, cupping his loins and moaning.
“Mercy,” the Barachan said, after the Cimmerian raised him up by the back of his tunic.
The gathered crew awaited the final result of the battle and exchanged nervous glances. Conan’s gaze swept their faces as each man’s chin lowered in shame.
“I saved your lives that night, in that hell hole you were sentenced to die as a pirate rabble.” Conan’s booming voice drowned out the lapping waves. He raised his broadsword overhead. “So as the owner of those lives they are mine to take and I am fair with my judgments. Let no man question me again and this goes no further.”
Several exhalations came over the heaving of Sorth’s breath. Slowly, the crew raised their heads to meet their captain’s stare and silently nodded in thanks for the reprieve.
“Mercy?” Sorth’s plea trailed off in fleeting hope.
“None for you,” the barbarian said, and plunged the point of his sword through the Barachan mutineer’s heart.
First mate Botali Kadiro repeated few orders after Sorth’s body had stopped twitching. Within the hour, swabbing mops had attacked the filth and muck of the deck and the Barachan corpses had been given an unceremonious heave over the rails. By moonlight, the crew watched curiously as the widening trail of crimson brought no fins. The men told themselves the dim light did not allow them to see watery predators. Secretly, hands by their sides, their fingers twisted in penitent signs of Mitra. They feared to be in a place even the sharks dared not visit.
Behind the helm, the captain renewed cursing over his maps, scratching his head in confusion and disgust. An hour passed and Botali came along after inspecting the re-rigging of the mizzen. He saw the barbarian had covered his torso in a tan woolen jerkin. The Kordavan sailor remarked as much.
“Aye,” said Conan. “Sweating in the night air does cool me now and then.”
“Captain,” Botali said and hesitated, but a glance from Conan made him continue. “Captain, if I may. When I was a boy my grandsire would speak of you, of Conan, King of Aquilonia. I would sit and listen to him and wonder what you were really like because it all seemed so fantastic. I thought he was an old man telling tales to pass the time. But after seeing with my own eyes what I have tonight, I know my grandsire spoke only truth. You are…” Botali’s thoughts swirled as he marveled at the gigantic man, a legend breathing before him.
“Only a man, by Crom,” Conan said. “An old Cimmerian and nothing more. Many things are said of me but I cannot tell you their truth, for I do not listen. Let the old wives and grandsires spin tales to pass the time. My world is still for taking, not listening.”
Botali shook his head in agreement, waking from his youthful memories. “Aye.”
Silence passed between the two men. Sailors scurried around them, lugging buckets of grease over the links of the tiller chain and hammering at wooden belaying pins to secure the running rigging. Torches mounted about the deck released a dense black smoke that hung in the air. Botali sniffed the fumes and tried to rekindle the conversation.
“Ah, here is your knife,” he said. “It’s clean, but it took a while to retrieve it from Rataan.”
The Cimmerian grunted and returned the blade to its sheath. ‘First time I ever put anything through that thick skull of his.”
The Kordavan grinned. “Are you well?”
“Why would you ask?” Conan realized the effect his loud, short retort had on the ashen features of his first mate. He breathed in to reclaim his calm. “I’m well,” Conan said. The Cimmerian bit his upper lip and stared out into the night, speaking with uncharacteristic depth. “I may have been faster once, I reason. My own grandsire used to point to the frozen soil and say, ‘all ground cracks.’ He lived for sixty-three snows and died before my tenth with an Aesir heart wrapped around his axe. In the council fires before Venarium they told tales of the past, of great warriors, including my grandsire. They spoke of his deeds of youth, of his strength and speed. They said even though age had caught him his skill always went unmatched. I never thought…” Conan seemed to wake from his own dream. “Bah, now you have me squawking like an old woman. We must find our damned course and be about our business.”
Botali shuffled his feet in new leather boots, freshly liberated from the cold dead feet of a Barachan. “I only ask this question out of care for the ship, Captain, and not as a challenge. Why do we continue to sail west?”
Conan waited for the men around them to leave. He set aside his maps to scan the immediate rigging and peer over the taffrail for stragglers. When satisfied they were alone he stepped to the first mate and spoke in hushed tones.
“Dreams,” Conan said.
“Dreams?” Botali said.
Conan nodded. “I have seen many things that allow me to believe in the strange, no matter how I may loathe them. Once before, many years past, I felt a dream of such power. It spoke then and saved me. Now I am plagued by the same dream, like that old one, every cursed night. I find I can do little but heed again, Crom take me.”
“What is the dream?” Botali said.
“It’s foolish but I cannot truly say,” Conan said. “It’s a feeling. A sense. I know nothing of what it seeks but it sends me to the west, to beyond the edges of these maps. I can only hope to see what it wants when I get there.” The Cimmerian shook his head. “Speak no more of this.”
During the remaining hours of night the crew of the Sea Siren completed all tasks to the first mate’s satisfaction. Conan and Botali exchanged only necessary words in that span. Both men kept their own counsel, casting wary eyes over rail and bowsprit, searching for whatever destiny would meet them. Eventually, a burst of radiant orange caught the stern of the ship and brought with it the welcome blow of a steady wind at the moment the galley’s oars touched water. A cheer resounded from the waist as the lateens expanded and shoved the prow of the ship through the sea. Conan signaled his first mate to give the order for oars-up.
Datak, a young Barachan Botali reasonably liked, began screaming from his new post in the crow’s nest. “Land. Land. Look to the starboard bow.”
Sailors swarmed the rails, pointing at the distant blot of black marring the horizon. They shouted and hooted, giving loud thanks to whatever gods they held dear.
Conan noticed his hull listing slightly with the weight of the crew to starboard. “Back to your posts, dogs,” he said. “You’ve seen land before and you’ll see it again.”
Men left the rails smiling, faces full of renewed hope. Botali Kadiro and the Cimmerian remained focused on the sighting. The Kordavan turned and caught his captain’s eye.
“Dreams,” the Cimmerian said.
Chapter 2 Storm Front
On a wooden bench in the private royal chambers of the palace of Tarantia, a massive young man in simple commoner’s garb sat brooding over a table of maps. He studied the features and contours of his kingdom and points beyond. His eyes, though blue, were not his father’s icy clarity, as his mother’s Nemedian blood also ran through his veins. Her fine, straight nose and high cheekbones had been a gift to his fair face, and the ends of his black, square-cut mane curled gently to match the texture of her soft hair. Yet, his father’s seed could never be hidden in him. Hulking shoulders and rippling iron muscles framed a body measuring well over six feet, creating the image of a man more mature than this youth, a man who had not yet seen his twenty-first snow.
The young man reached beneath the table and absently scratched the grey fur of a giant Aesir wolf-hound lying beside his foot. King Conan II, called Conn, of Aquilonia cursed to himself and drank deeply from an iron tankard of Bossonian ale. His thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the songs of battle and bravery sung by the minstrels in his court. In his mind’s eye he could see the tales of epic adventure centered round the myriad deeds of his father. More than once he had mulled the idea of banning those songs. They served as little more than painful reminders of the vast differences to his life and reign. Raised in a palace with little time for travelling the world, Conn studied tax assessments where his father had poured over war plans. Though not a stranger to battle, and certainly not unskilled in its art, Conn had wielded a quill more than a sword. The son had never been allowed the opportunity to seek his own immortality. These thoughts consumed Conn, until a flicker of movement and a deep growl from under the table reconnected him to the world.
“Be calm, Lola.” Conn tugged at the alert wolf’s ear. “Good girl, it’s only Arron.”
“Yes, Lola, be calm,” said the portly man stepping into the candle light. “You can always eat me later.”
The wolf-hound crept from under the table to sniff the leg of the man now seated opposite his king. Lord Arron fidgeted with his robe to smooth it and brushed the probing black nose away. “You’d think she’d greet me with more than a growl at some point.”
“She doesn’t kill you,” Conn said. “That’s high praise.” He looked up from the maps to meet the gaze of his chief advisor. “Nothing yet? Not one returned?”
“None,” Arron replied. “Twenty messengers out and not one back. We haven’t heard word from any of our ambassadors or court spies since the last note from Khauran. It would appear the world east of Corinthia has gone dark to us, my king.”
“This makes no sense.” Conn shook his head and slapped the table. “The merchant masters beat upon the palace door every morning thirsting for goods. Taramis sent word weeks ago with fears her court has been infiltrated and rumors of people missing in her kingdom. We send riders and they disappear. We send more riders to find those riders and they disappear. Zamora, Turan, Hyrkania. Same. No man I send is heard from again. I mean, you expect the bastards in Khitai and Vendhya to say nothing, but you don’t expect them to kill your emissaries for no reason.”
Arron folded his arms. “I don’t believe our men have been killed, my king, at least not by the courts we have sent them to. There would have been threats, ransoms, back channel proffers on trades for the captured. No, this to me is a third force intruding our world. Something new has entered the map and is looking to disrupt our communications and our trade.”
Conn nodded. “Count Tristan would have us do nothing further.
“Count Algourn Tristan always wishes nothing to be done,” Arron said. “Unless that thing further lines his coffers.”
Conn grunted. “You have little trust in our count.”
“I have complete trust in his self-interest, my king. But even that has limitations,” Arron said.
“Perhaps. I guess he has fallen far from the tree, old friend,” Conn said. “Mitra knows I understand what it’s like to be a shadow of your sire. The aggravation of it all. I think of his father, Trocero, and all the wise counsel and loyalty he gave my own. Trocero, Prospero, Pallantides, Publius…all the good men my father had at his side, and besides you I don’t think I have one I truly value.”
Arron nodded. “Thank you, sire, and I am forever indebted to you and your family for my station in this world, but there are good men in this kingdom. They are perhaps dulled by the many years of peace and prosperity won by your father and continued by you. But I believe in our nobles and our people. When the time has come they will do what is necessary. Even Tristan, one can hope, will find loyalty is to his profit.”
Conn looked up into the vaulted recesses of the ceiling. “I hope you’re right, Arron. Tristan leads the Poitain knights and if his course differs from mine we’ll have lost a significant strength that will be difficult to regain. I wish I knew what the man really thought. We grew up together in these very halls and I swear to know less of his mind now than when we were children.”
“As you know, my king,” Arron parted his spotted hands and clasped them, “I have men throughout this and many kingdoms that feed me information, with this circumstance excepted. Count Tristan has always been a private man, with little of note escaping his court. His use of slaves in the Poitain economy is his most notable feature, I should think. A thing we have spoken about often, for your father would never have allowed it.”
Conn said, “And I’m not happy with it either, man. I’ve spoken to him privately many a time but he’s dead set on his ways. I’ve half a mind to ready an invasion in my own country, but Set be damned we need him at the moment until we find out what’s going on.” Conn paused. “But maybe we’ll learn more of the man’s mind this night, I expect him ere long.”
Arron’s head tilted. “You have requested the count this evening?”
“I have,” Conn said. “I may not know the minds of the eastern realms but I’ll be damned to not know the minds of my own nobles.”
“Let us hope,” Arron said.
Conn sighed. “Tell me, Arron, speak truth to me, for you know how difficult this is for me to ask,” Conn said. “What would my father do?”
Arron closed his eyes for a span of moments. “I was a young man when King Conan freed Aquilonia’s slaves. What he saw in me as a teacher I cannot pretend to know, much like I can never claim to understand the mind of a man so volatile and foreign from anything I could ever know. His mirth, his anger, his passion, his violence, everything about him met such extremes that I hesitate to say any prediction of his behavior is possible. But I do know your father had an internal sense of right and justice that was nearly unerring. And I never saw fear affect his calculus. I think he would look out into the world of darkness we now find ourselves and stride forward with sword and torch until he could find an enemy to slay.”
Conn nodded and looked down at the table of maps.
Scant moments later the knocks of a mailed fist boomed on the thick oaken door of the chamber. A large man in dark plate armor entered and said, “Count Tristan of Poitain on His Majesty’s request.”
Conn waved. “Thank you, Erik.” An aside to Arron, “I hate it when he says majesty.”
“The perils of power, Your Majesty,” said Arron.
Count Algourn Tristan swept into the room in ceremonial light mail and rapier, a change Conn noted from his normal courtier finery. Tristan walked hurriedly to his king only to halt in a respectful bow and then continue on to clasp forearms.
“My king, it’s been far too long,” Tristan said.
“Yes, Algourn, it has,” Conn replied. “And I appreciate the respect but we are in private chambers, call me Conn as you once did. That is why I asked you here tonight, to skip the politics of court so that we may speak as men and old friends. Now. Tell me what you know.”
“So we shall dispense with pleasantries.” Count Tristan turned to look around the chamber. “What I know, Conn? Certainly no more than our Lord Arron. I know you send riders to the east and they do not return. I know the caravans from Shadizar have stopped and the few merchants that come to our kingdom speak of odd changes in the eastern courts and clandestine crossings at the border. I know word from Hyrkania and points beyond ceased months ago without warning nor threat. I know, like you, that something has clearly changed in the world.”
“But,” Conn said, “for months this has built and you have counseled we take no action beyond going begging for information. Now you tell me the world has clearly changed.”
Count Tristan shrugged. “The world has changed, but how can we take action without knowing what action to take, Conn? You are the ruler of the greatest kingdom in the west. Would you raise the Aquilonian army and march blind to the east? On a whim?”
The King of Aquilonia punched the air with his fist. “A whim, Algourn? A whim? You yourself just said trade has stopped. The knowledge of our world shrinking. Would you have us isolated in the dark, awaiting some doom rolling towards us? Yes, I should raise the Aquilonian army and march east. My father would have already had us at the Vilayet Sea.”
Count Tristan pointed to the robed figure on the bench. “What say you, Lord Arron?”
“I say I’ve always admired your self-sufficiency, Count Tristan,” Arron said. “But Poitain’s fate is not separate from the world at large. Something wicked clearly approaches us. It would be best to be as prepared as possible. If you know anything of what is transpiring to the east, now would be the time to inform your king.”
Count Tristan smirked at the implication. “You think I know whatever ills befall this world and keep secrets from my king? My oldest friend? Is that what you think, Arron?”
“I think, Count Tristan,” Arron said, “that you have ever kept your own counsel, something to be respected in a man. But again, now would be the time to share.”
Count Tristan began pacing along the near wall, hands clasped behind his back. “Share? You wish me to share, Lord Arron, with you? With a creature but a chain removed from slavery?”
“Algourn,” Conn said. “Careful.”
“No, my king, please let him finish,” Arron said.
“I’ll finish,” Count Tristan said. The jaw and muscles of his face relaxed and then shifted, as if dropping one mask and affixing another. “Look at your dark, bestial skin. In Poitain, I would have you attending my fields, but here in the capital look at you. Risen beyond your station to subvert my king and oldest friend. He has listened to your lies and idiocy and your counsel has led this kingdom to ruin. You have spoken against me, in these chambers. This I know. Against how we in Poitain have changed our culture and returned it to the natural order of things. You poison my king’s ear against using the beasts of this world so that we may thrive and ensure the primacy of Aquilonia for a thousand years. You should not be here in the king’s chamber in your sage robes, Lord Arron, you should be lashed on my estate, carrying my water.”
“I always suspected the depth of your hatred,” Arron said. “I admit to never thinking you’d have the courage to reveal it so nakedly.”
Conn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Count Tristan, the only reason your head still rests on your shoulders is our history and the great respect our fathers held for each other. Seek forgiveness for your words this moment from Lord Arron and you may yet escape the dungeons of Tarantia this eve.”
“I will do no such thing, King Conn,” Count Tristan said.
“How sad your mother and father would be for the hatred of a man for his skin,” Conn said.
“My mother and father?” Count Tristan stopped pacing and faced his king, proud and erect, near a tapestry of lions in the royal chamber. “You dare speak of parents to me, King Conan the Second? King? What a jest. Your mother was a Nemedian whore and your father a ragged barbarian. My mother’s lineage stretches back to time’s dawn. My father, Count Trocero of Poitain, should have been rightful king when Numedides met his end. I should be king now, the legitimate ruler of Aquilonia, not the mongrel half-breed before me.”
As the tone in the room grew increasingly loud and bitter, Lola the wolf-hound raised up and, growling with bared teeth, padded to her master’s side. Conn reached down and signaled her to stay.
“I will share,” Count Tristan said, “as Lord Arron advised. My king. I will share with you how little you understand your world and how your time has passed without you even knowing. My king. You see, the storm front has finally arrived, King Conn. The prophecy’s time is at hand. You and your father have allowed this great kingdom, this great kingdom of mine, to fail. Your constant and treasonous coddling of the impure species such as that,” he said, pointing again at the still seated and seemingly calm Lord Arron, “have diluted our Aquilonian blood. And I will stand it no longer. You let us breed with them, you allow them freedom, and you give them power. You let them think they are the equal to the Aquilonian man, the true man. I do admit to fault in this state. We the Aquilonian royalty have allowed lesser breeds to rule this country for far too long. I have allowed a lesser breed to rule this country for far too long. My king.”
“And what will you do, Count Tristan?” Conn said. He remained calm and composed.
“What will I do?” Tristan laughed. “What won’t I do, Conn? I will hold you accountable for your sins. I will take this throne and restore Aquilonia to the greatness that is its birthright. I will take this throne and restore the greatness that is my birthright. I do all this at the dawn of a new age. I do all this in service to a new world. The god-king has arrived and he has called all his true children to arms.”
Conn held Count Tristan’s glare. “Count Tristan,” Conn said. “I could summon my Black Dragons with a word and have you judged and sentenced to death by the hour. But I will not do so. What I will do is kill you myself. Now, in this chamber.”
“Will you, Conn?”
“Yes.”
“One thing before you hand out your justice, my former king,” Count Tristan said. “Do you remember when we were but boys in this room, playing games to hide in the shadows and tapestries? A game to learn the mysteries of the adults?”
Conn’s eyes narrowed. “Choose your final words carefully, boy.”
“Do you remember that one night?” Count Tristan said. “We didn’t even have hair on our chests. We were there, in that far corner, behind the dragon scales. Your father left these chambers through this wall, here, behind me. Do you remember that? And we were so delighted we’d found a secret passage like the palaces always have in the bard’s tales? When we were sure all was quiet we crept out into this room and found the secret catch behind the lion tapestry. Do you remember that?”
Conn took a step back, mentally cataloguing the weapons around the room.
“Over the years,” Tristan said, “I traced where the tunnels of this palace end. I know the ways out, and I know the ways in. I know how to get into this chamber, and most chambers, actually. I know how to get into the hallway beyond that door where your Black Dragon guards stand, for instance. I could place men in the shadows in that hall two paces from your guards and they would never know it until the fateful blow fell. I could stand near this tapestry, like your father did so long ago, and release the hidden catch to this wall and open this room to whatever men I might need to claim what is mine. Do you want to play that game again, Conn, to learn the mysteries of adults?”
“Guards, to me,” Conn said. “Lola, defend Arron.” He ran back to the bench and the broadsword lashed beneath its seat. From beyond the door Conn could hear screams and the clash of metal. From behind Count Tristan emerged a line of figures from the newly dark archway in the wall. Clad in blackened leather armor with red trim, the strange men entering the chamber had pale faces of casual disdain.
“Stand down. Now, Tristan,” Conn said, as he turned to face the widening arc of men. His grip tightened on the hilt in his massive fist.
Count Tristan shook his head and smiled at the dozen men forming a noose around the king. “I’ll grant this to you, and your father, as I feel generous. You both possess the courage of lions. If you were not beholden to the blood of dogs yours might truly have been a legendary dynasty.”
Conn bellowed and rushed the nearest assailant, bringing his sword crashing down in a wide arc. The blow snapped through a steel blade raised in perfect defensive position and found a home buried half a foot inside the man’s skull. Behind Conn, Lola the wolf-hound howled and leapt at another of the intruders. His sword could not match the animal’s fierce speed and his death throes gurgled and mixed with the sound of her teeth rending his throat. Lord Arron produced a dagger from beneath his robes and engaged another attacker, parrying two blows but struggling in combat.
Conn wrenched his sword from the collapsing man’s head in an arcing spray of blood and turned to meet the thrusts of two more blades.
“You think me soft because I was raised in a palace, Tristan,” Conn said between parries. “You think you can bring these men into my home, into my chambers, and take my kingdom.” With a feint the powerful young monarch slipped beneath the over-extended reach of one man and disemboweled him with a horizontal slice.
“You think my throne yours,” Conn said. Six of the assailants converged on Conn, with a pair thrusting and defending against the wolf-hound and the remaining attacker beginning to overwhelm Lord Arron, clearly tiring in his heavy robes. The handles moved on the chamber door. The odds of the fight would soon worsen.
Count Tristan stood, rapier drawn, and watched the scene unfold. Conn might not have been his father’s equal in battle - who in all honesty could claim to be? - but the king’s city-bred upbringing belied the innate speed and strength on display. Conn’s first night may been swaddled in silken finery, but this night was a monument to lethal blood lust. Count Tristan wondered with a nervous chuckle if he should have brought more men.
The king spun and dipped through the circle of swords slowly overwhelming him. The floor grew slick with blood and viscera as Conn’s blade exacted pieces of flesh from his attackers. Innumerable open wounds on his arms and thighs bled down to mix with the toll taken from his enemies. Lola began to stagger between snaps of her jaw, her chest pierced repeatedly. The door to the chamber flew open and more of the pale, dark figures ran into the chaotic melee, their weapons freshly coated with the blood of royal Black Dragon guards.
Lord Arron found himself surrounded and said, “My king,” before a thicket of sharpened points pierced his torso and throat. His body twitched, remaining upright for long shuddering seconds and then collapsed to the stone floor. More blades found the back of the Aesir wolf-hound and she yelped with a last look at her beloved master and then staggered and fell near the body of Arron.
The two deaths brought a moment of stillness to the battle around Conn. The king looked at his fallen friends and found great sadness and rage surging through him. He gazed across the room and locked eyes with Count Algourn Tristan of Poitain, once his friend and companion through so many childhood adventures.
“I will watch you die,” Conn said. “We’ll see Crom together.”
“No, Conn,” Count Tristan said, “I’ll watch you die. But not tonight. You must serve other needs. It is amazing though, you do always make things more difficult than I imagine.”
Conn grinned like a wolf and gathered himself to leap over the tightening circle of assassins and onto Tristan for one last, glorious act. But the men were well trained and the moment of inactivity had given them time to gather their wits and react. A pair dove at Conn’s legs while others leapt to his side and bound the king’s arms. Still more began raining blows with their pommels on his unprotected skull.
Borne to the floor under the weight of so many men and rapidly losing consciousness, Conn grunted and blinked through the pain to see Count Tristan looming above him with a satisfied smirk.
“Conn,” Tristan said, “know that tonight marks the turning point for Aquilonia. I have listened to He Who Has Arisen and been shown our path to immortality.”
King Conn blinked through the stream of blood running over his eyes.
“We will never again allow the filth of this world to drag us down, Conn,” Count Tristan said. “We are the masters of this world and shall always be, for the god-king, Aryas, has risen.” Count Algourn Tristan of Poitain raised his arms and exulted. “And we are his Sons.”
Conn’s vision faded to black.
Chapter 3 New World
“They don’t even know who we are.” Botali Kadiro’s voice was shrill.
“I don’t think they care,” Conan said, watching the flaming ballista bolt overshoot the bow of his ship.
“Hard-a-lee,” Conan said to the helmsman. “Make fast to that damned boat or we’re all dead, man.”
A black sail galley had come around the horn of the just discovered island and immediately loosed waves of fiery arrows and heavier artillery. Watching the arc of deadly points approach, Conan buckled his armor and urged the crew on.
“Row, dogs. Full sails,” he said. “Grab any weapon you can lay hands on. We fight for our lives.” Below decks the coxswain’s drum beat faster.
Coming head-on to the ship flying no colors, Conan could feel the deep thunks and vibrations of the large spear-like bolts bury themselves in his hull. Flames began to leap up around the fo’c’sle despite the rush of broaching waves, the red fire curling up and around the bow with unnatural ferocity. Most of the crew had established cover with shields and odd bits of the ship lying about the deck, but he watched the slow and the unlucky fall to black shafts from the sky and burn in place. The little fires began to spread on deck. Conan grunted and measured the distance to the enemy. Too much ocean, no time for fine maneuvers to put the Siren in position for a boarding, and they didn’t have the artillery aboard to worry any opposition. Suddenly, a large ball of flame rose from the deck of the enemy and fell just short of the Siren’s port rail. It hit the ocean and a terrific boom and hiss of steam rocketed up along the ship’s flank and flung the less anchored of the crew to starboard.
Conan turned to the helmsman, ice-blue eyes boring into the man. “Ram it,” he said.
The helmsman’s mouth gaped and began to stutter but the captain cut him off.
“You heard me.”
Conan yelled to every tar within ear shot. “Hold fast, men. We’re ramming her and then the blood comes.”
As the ships approached each other the enemy captain must have sensed Conan’s intent and ordered his helmsman to veer as the prow jumped suddenly off course. But speed and distance doomed the maneuver and the Siren’s bow crashed into the port side of the dark hull with an explosive boom. Only Conan’s strength anchored him to the nearby rail as sailors launched through the air and spilled onto the deck or into the ocean beyond. With no proper ram mounted, Conan knew the front of his ship was a wreck of timber and oakum with only a few moments before the gushing water would take her to the bottom. Beyond the fallen sails and ruin of the decks, he could see the enemy was similarly wounded. The barbarian staggered to his feet.
“Fight for your lives,” he said. “For your lives.”
Conan leaped and hit the listing main deck running, jumping over fallen lines and debris with ease despite his bulk and age. Broadsword drawn, he cut though sheets tangled around nearby sailors ensnared in the crash and ordered them to fight. Every able man would be crucial in the death struggle to come as he could hear the bellows and shouts from the enemy side in similar exhortations.
“Kadiro,” he turned and found his first mate in the maelstrom. “Rally your men and follow me.”
With a panther-like bound and a chilling war cry the captain launched himself through the flaming wreckage of the Siren’s bow and disappeared over the splinters of the enemy rail.
Botali’s head was ringing as the captain met his still-disoriented gaze and bellowed orders. The first mate watched the mammoth man scream to the heavens and bang his blade against his shield and then throw himself through the air and out of Botali’s sight into the enemy’s midst. Rising on shaking legs, the Kordavan sailor waved at the men near him.
“Follow me,” he said and pointed his sword. “Follow him.”
Bloody sailors picked themselves from the debris and searched for weapons and shields, pins or barrel covers, anything to use in the coming assault. After a few interminable moments a growing group had gathered behind Botali as he began to thread his way past shards and licks of flame to the bow. Perched on the narrow wooden span of a snapped beam bucking violently yards above the ocean, his wide eyes measured the gap to the pierced enemy hull. He gulped and listened to the wild shouts and cries beyond. A great clash of metal echoed through the smoky air and an arc of blood spun up from beyond the far rail and splattered across his face, breaking his daze.
“With me,” Botali said. Gathering himself, he sprung through two pillars of rising flames and caught himself with an outstretched hand on the broken planking across the gap. A glance beneath him to the jagged burning wreckage provided all the momentum required to carry him up over the rail and into the melee beyond.
Now planted firmly on the enemy deck Botali thought he had come upon all his visions of Set’s Hell. Through air saturated by smoke and flame and ash, with burning bits of sail and line falling from the sky in ragged flutters, he could see Conan the Barbarian, Conan the Cimmerian standing before him, drenched in blood. Surrounded by a flailing group of overwhelmed, pale-skinned men, Conan drew great gulping breaths as his blade whirred around the circle. He wove a path of devastation. Two hands still clenching weapons flew away from their former limbs and dropped to the floor. Enemies cried in terror a