Conan: City of the Dead E-Book

John C. Hocking

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Two epics in one hardcover as Conan the mercenary faces hideously transformed wizards and undead creatures in action-packed fantasy combining Robert E. Howard's trademark sword and sorcery with concepts straight out of Lovecraftian horror. Combines the classic Conan and the Emerald Lotus with the all-new, original Conan and the Living Plague. The long-awaited follow-up to Conan and the Emerald Lotus brings John C. Hocking back to the sagas of the Cimmerian. In Conan and the Emerald Lotus, the seeds of a deadly, addictive plant grant sorcerers immense power, but turn its users into inhuman killers. In the exclusive, long-awaited sequel Conan and the Living Plague, a Shemite wizard seeks to create a serum to use as a lethal weapon. Instead he unleashes a hideous monster on the city of Dulcine. Hired to loot the city of its treasures, Conan and his fellows in the mercenary troop find themselves trapped in the depths of the city's keep. To escape, they must defeat the creature, its plague-wracked undead followers, then face Lovecraftian horrors beyond mortal comprehension.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Map

CONAN AND THE EMERALD LOTUS

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

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36

Exeunt

CONAN AND THE LIVING PLAGUE

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

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30

Acknowledgments

About the Author

LEAVE US A REVIEW

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CONAN: CITY OF THE DEAD

Print edition ISBN: 9781803366562

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803366326

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: June 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2024 Conan Properties International (“CPI”). CONAN, CONAN THE BARBARIAN, CONAN THE CIMMERIAN, HYBORIA, THE SAVAGE SWORD OF CONAN and related logos, names and character likenesses thereof are trademarks or registered trademarks of CPI. ROBERT E. HOWARD is a trademark or registered trademark of Robert E. Howard Properties LLC. Heroic Signatures is a trademark of Cabinet Licensing LLC.

Interior illustrations by Richard Pace.

John C. Hocking asserts the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

This omnibus is dedicated to all who loveSword & Sorcery and especially to those who haveanticipated the second novel for so long.

CONAN

AND THE

EMERALDLOTUS

PROLOGUE

Ethram-Fal stood in the ancient chamber and looked upon bones. Dark and pitted, they lay strewn in the thick dust of the stone floor. Ruddy torchlight flared, filling the circular room with leaping shadows. A tall soldier in full armor stood motionless beside the single doorway, torch held high in one steady hand.

Ethram-Fal knelt, his gray robes rustling, and pulled an ornate dagger of irregular shape from a concealed sheath. Though he was a young man, the sorcerer’s hunched and shrunken form gave the impression of great age. Thin hair of mouse-brown was beginning to grow from a scalp recently shaved clean. He frowned in contemplation, furrowing his bulbous and malformed brow. He probed among the bones and dust with the dagger’s tip and felt the slow welling of despair.

It’s dead now, he thought. Of course it’s dead now, but I had hoped that there would be something remaining, if only husks. The dagger tip disturbed the dust of centuries, revealing nothing. Ethram-Fal stood suddenly, and the soldier with the torch flinched.

“Fangs of Set,” he cursed. “Have I come so far for nothing?” His voice was a hollow echo. The sorcerer looked up. The ceiling of the circular room was so high that it was lost in the flickering darkness beyond the torchlight’s reach. An even band of engraved hieroglyphics ran around the walls at twice the height of a man. The markings seemed to writhe tortuously in the dim light.

“There is no doubt,” said Ethram-Fal dully, “this is the room.” He turned, and in doing so set his sandal upon something that gave a muffled crack. Stepping to one side, he looked down and went rigid.

“Ath, lower the torch.” The soldier dutifully lowered the torch to illuminate the floor while Ethram-Fal knelt again. He had tread upon what appeared to be a human rib and had snapped it in two. A fine black powder seeped out of the broken bone. Ethram-Fal gave a choked cry of triumph.

“Of course! It’s gone dormant. It must have absorbed all nourishment down to the marrow and then spored. Set grant that there is still life!” He gestured with a gray-clad arm. “Ath, bring my apprentice.”

The soldier left the room, the light of his torch receding down the empty corridor, leaving Ethram-Fal in darkness. But it was not darkness to Ethram-Fal, who saw his future looming bright and glorious before him. His breathing quickened, the only sound in the stony silence.

In a few moments Ath returned, his hawklike Stygian features stern and impassive. Behind him trailed a slender adolescent boy clad in yellow robes. Though taller than Ethram-Fal, the top of the boy’s tousled head came to well below Ath’s chin. The boy looked about the room with obvious impatience.

“I was helping the men set up camp in the large chamber,” he said petulantly. “Have you finally found something useful for me to do?”

Ethram-Fal did not reply, but fixed his gaze upon the bones at his feet.

“Ath,” he said, “kill him.”

With a single fluid motion the soldier drew his broadsword, buried it in the youth’s belly, twisted it, and withdrew. The apprentice uttered a high-pitched wail, clutched himself, and dropped to lie writhing weakly in the dust. When the boy stopped breathing, Ath wiped his blade upon the body and sheathed it. He looked at Ethram-Fal expectantly. The hand gripping the torch had not faltered.

The sorcerer produced a thick reddish leaf from a leather pouch on his belt. He handed it to Ath, who immediately put it into his mouth. The soldier’s eyes closed and his cheeks drew hollow as he sucked upon the leaf.

Ethram-Fal paid this no heed. Bending at the waist, he gingerly picked up the broken rib between thumb and forefinger. Tilting the bone with exaggerated care, he spilled a thin stream of black powder over the sprawled body of his apprentice. He emptied the macabre vessel, concentrating its contents on the dark stain spreading upon the corpse’s midriff. When the dust ceased to fall, he tossed the rib aside and stood staring at the body in silence.

An hour passed, during which Ath chewed and swallowed his leaf and Ethram-Fal moved not at all. Toward the close of the second hour, Ethram-Fal cocked his head, as though he sought to hear a soft sound from a great distance. The body on the floor shuddered and the sorcerer clasped his hands together in an ecstasy of anticipation.

A moist crackling filled the still air. The corpse jerked and trembled as though endowed with tormented life. Ethram-Fal caught his breath as fist-sized swellings erupted all but instantaneously from the dead flesh of his apprentice. The body was grotesquely distorted in a score of places, with such swift violence that the limbs convulsed and the yellow robes ripped open.

Green blossoms the size of a man’s open hand burst from the corpse, leaping forth in such profusion that the body was almost hidden from view. Iridescent and six-petaled, the blooms pushed free of enclosing flesh, bobbing and shaking as if in a strong wind. In a moment they were still, and a sharp, musky odor, redolent of both nectar and corruption, rose slowly to fill the chamber.

The peals of Ethram-Fal’s laughter reverberated from the stone walls like the tolling of a great bell.

The night air was warm and close, but it was of polar freshness compared to the dense atmosphere within the tavern. A stout, sturdily built man in the mail of a mercenary of Akkharia shoved open the door and surveyed the scene within. The main room was spacious, but crowded with a motley variety of locals, mercenaries, and travelers. The visitor ran a callused hand through his graying hair and scanned the gathering for the man he’d come to see. In the closest corner a number of men were throwing dice, alternately crowing in triumph and cursing in defeat. The center of the sawdust-strewn floor was dominated by a huge table bearing the nearly denuded carcass of an entire roasted pig.

Men clustered about it, drinking and stuffing themselves.

“Ho, Shamtare!” a voice thundered over the tavern’s clamor. There, in the farthest corner, was the man he sought. Shamtare made his way across the floor, dodging gesticulating drunks and busy serving wenches with practiced ease.

The one who had called his name lounged against the tavern’s rear wall with his long muscular legs propped up on a table. He was a hulking, powerful-looking man whose skin had been burnt to a dark bronze by ceaseless exposure to the elements. He was clad in a chain-mail shirt and faded breeches of black cotton. At his waist hung a massive broadsword in a worn leather scabbard. A white smile split a face that seemed better suited to scowl, and piercing blue eyes flashed as he hoisted his wine jug in a rakish salute, gesturing for Shamtare to join him. The scarred tabletop held a loaf of bread and a joint of beef, as well as heaping platters of fruits, cheese, and nuts. From the crusts and rinds scattered about, it would seem that a celebration of sorts had been going on for some time.

“Conan,” said Shamtare, “I thought you said your money was running low.”

“So it is,” answered the other with a barbarous accent. “What of it? Tomorrow I shall surely be working for one of this cursed city’s mercenary troops, and tonight I find that I have missed civilization more than I had realized.” The barbarian washed the words down with a great swallow of wine.

Shamtare sat and helped himself to a handful of ripe fruit. “Traveled far, have you?” he asked, popping pomegranate seeds into his mouth.

“Aye, from the heart of Kush across the Stygian deserts. It seems that I’m no longer welcome in the southern kingdoms.”

Shamtare raised his thick eyebrows in puzzlement. “But surely you are a Northman…”

“A Cimmerian,” said Conan. “But I have done much traveling.”

“Indeed,” murmured Shamtare, to whom Cimmeria was a chill and distant place of myth. “But about your choice of mercenary employment…”

Conan took a bite out of the beef joint and chewed enthusiastically.

“Still trying to get me to join your troop?”

Shamtare lifted his hands. “You can’t blame me for that. When I saw your performance on the practice field, I knew that you’d be an asset to any troop that signed you on. And you know I’m paid a bounty for each new recruit. I admit that when I asked where you’d be dining tonight, I had more in mind than tipping a jug with you. I say again that Mamluke’s Legion could well use a man like yourself.”

Conan shrugged, shaking his square-cut black mane. “I’ve been to see all four troops in this pestilent city, and they all offer the same wages. The king must keep close watch on his mercenary commanders that none of them can outbid the other for an experienced soldier. What in Ymir’s name does King Sumuabi need with four troops of sellswords anyway?”

“The king watches over his mercenaries because he has plans for them.”

Shamtare’s voice dropped to hushed, conspiratorial tones. “Rumor has it that Sumuabi may need all four armies very soon.”

“Crom, it seems that all you Shemites do is hole up in your little city-states and venture out once a year to try to conquer your neighbor. It is but a larger version of the clan feuds of my homeland. You fight a few battles and then slink back home with nothing gained. And this with Koth hungering at your border.”

“True,” said Shamtare tolerantly. “But this time it is whispered that we may go to aid a revolt in Anakia. Sumuabi may soon king it over two cities. If this comes to pass, then the plunder should be rich for even the lowliest foot soldier.”

Conan thought on this while Shamtare borrowed the wine jug. “That is good news, yet it still matters little which troop I join.”

“Come now, Conan.” Shamtare set the empty jug down with a hollow thump. “What do you want of me? I tell you, I’m great friends with the troop’s armorer, and I promise you a shirt of the best Akbitanan mail if you sign up with us. The shirt you’re wearing looks as though it’s been through hell.”

Conan snorted with laughter, looking down at his tarnished mail. Long vertical tears in the mesh had been crudely repaired with inferior links that were beginning to show traces of rust.

“Perhaps not hell itself, but a pig-faced demon from thereabouts. You have a deal, Shamtare.”

The Shemite grinned in his beard, opened his mouth to ask a question, and then shut it again. The tavern’s door had swung wide, and now two figures entered the room. The foremost was almost as tall as Conan and clearly a warrior. He wore a black-lacquered breastplate over brightly polished steel mail. A black-crested helmet was held under one thick arm. Blue-black hair fell in a thick mass over his square shoulders. A wide white scar parted his carefully trimmed beard just to the right of his stern mouth. He looked around the room with an almost-tangible aura of scorn. The crowd in the tavern quieted somewhat at the two men’s arrival, but those who stopped to gaze at the newcomers did not study the warrior but his companion.

The man who stood in the dark doorway was also tall, but he was somewhat stooped as though ill or injured. From head to foot he was wrapped in a cowl of lush green velvet. His hands, where they emerged from their sleeves, wore green velvet gloves. His face was hidden in the shadow beneath his hood.

The strange pair hesitated a moment, then walked quickly through the tavern’s crowd, which parted easily before them. They passed through a door into a back room and were lost from view.

“Who the hell was that?” asked Conan, reaching for the jug.

“Someone best left unknown,” said Shamtare softly.

“No matter. What’s this? No wine? Ho, wench!” Conan brandished the empty jug above his head. “More wine! I’m parched!” Spurred by the barbarian’s bellow, a serving girl leapt into action. Hefting a full jug onto one shoulder, she made her way toward Conan’s table. Her thin cotton shift, damp with sweat and spilt wine, clung to her shapely torso as she moved. The barbarian grinned broadly, watching her approach with frank admiration. Blushing, she thumped the heavy jug down on the table, her eyes seeking the floorboards.

“Five coppers, milord,” she murmured.

“A silver piece,” said Conan. He tossed her the coin, which she snatched from the air with the effortless speed born of long practice.

“Keep the change,” he added needlessly, for she had already turned away. He caught up the fresh jug as a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. Conan looked up into the craggy face of the black-armored warrior who had entered with the man clad in emerald velvet.

“My master would speak with you,” rasped the warrior. Conan shrugged off his hand and turned to face Shamtare. But the chair across the table was empty. Conan noticed that the tavern door was just swinging shut.

“Mitra preserve me from civilized comrades,” muttered the barbarian.

“You would be wise to do exactly as my master requests.” The warrior towered over the seated Cimmerian, the scar in his beard broadening as his lips tightened in a disapproving grimace. Reflected firelight gleamed upon his lacquered breastplate. Conan took several slow, noisy swallows of wine, pointedly ignoring his unwanted companion, then carefully set the jug down on the table.

“Am I a dog that I come when a stranger calls?”

The warrior started slightly, then drew a deep, audible breath in an obvious effort to control himself. His dark eyes glared into Conan’s, blazing with pent fury, then flicked away.

“There is,” he bit out through clenched teeth, “gold in it for you. Much gold.”

Conan belched, then stood up casually, still grasping the neck of his wine jug. “You should have said so in the first place. Lead on to your master.”

The warrior stood still, his expression betraying an indignant rage held in place by will alone; then he turned stiffly and walked toward the door at the tavern’s rear. He looked back over one armored shoulder.

“You won’t be needing that,” he said, pointing to the jug Conan carried.

The Cimmerian took another drink, walking past the warrior. “I just bought it.” He put a hand on the heavy door and pushed through.

The room beyond the door was long and narrow, dominated by a lengthy rectangular table set with three brass candelabra. All four walls were hung with dark curtains thickly woven with brocade to deaden sound. At the table’s far end the man in the green velvet cowl sat motionless in a high-backed chair. The candle flames danced briefly in the draft from the opened door. Conan strode into the room, stopped at the base of the table, and looked down its length at the man who had summoned him.

“You are Conan of Cimmeria.” The voice was strong and masculine, yet possessed a peculiar underlying tremor, as if it took an effort to speak.

“I am,” rumbled the barbarian. “And who are you?”

The dark-armored warrior pushed the door closed behind him and stepped up beside the Cimmerian.

“Dog,” gritted the bearded warrior, “you are here to answer questions, not to ask them.”

“Gulbanda!” The cowled man raised a green-gloved hand and Conan saw that it trembled. “Come stand beside me. I’ll make a few indulgences for a simple barbarian.” The warrior stalked to his master’s side and stood there sullenly, mailed arms crossed over his deep chest.

“Who I am is of little importance to you. It is important only that you know that if you perform a service for me, I shall make you a rich man,” said the man in green.

“Why me?”

Hoarse, wheezing laughter came from within the velvet hood. The green man gestured to Gulbanda beside him.

“My bodyguard spotted you coming into Akkharia and recognized you. I have since done some investigating of my own and found that you may well live up to your distinctive reputation.”

“Recognized me?” Conan’s blue eyes shifted hotly from one man to the other.

“Some years ago, I saw you taken by the City Guard of Shadizar. Men knew you as a great thief.” Gulbanda spoke with reluctance, apparently finding even secondhand praise of the Cimmerian distasteful. The man in velvet leaned forward intently, placing both hands flat upon the table.

“It is said that you stole the Eye of Erlik and the Hesharkna Tiara. An old Zamoran thief even told me that you had taken the Heart of the Elephant from Yara’s tower in Arenjun.”

“That’s a lie,” said Conan flatly.

“No matter,” purred the man in green. “No matter. Let us simply agree that you are a thief among thieves and that I need such a man. I will pay you a hundredfold more for one night’s work than you would receive for a full month of selling your sword as a lowly mercenary for King Sumuabi.”

Conan dragged a chair away from the table and sat down heavily. He drank from his wine jug and leaned back in the chair.

“What is it that you would have me do?”

The green man produced a rolled scroll of parchment from a sleeve and slid it down the length of the table to Conan, who caught and unrolled it.

“That is a precise map of the mansion of Lady Zelandra. Do you know of her?”

“She is a sorceress seeking position in King Sumuabi’s court, is she not?” Conan’s tone was skeptical.

“That is true. Since the death of King Sumuabi’s court wizard, several pretenders to his position have come forward. Lady Zelandra is among them. Be assured that her skills are greatly overrated.”

The barbarian frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Talk of magic set him ill at ease.

“Cimmerian,” continued the man in green, “tonight you shall break into the house of the Lady Zelandra. There you will slay her and steal for me a silver box. The box is the twin of this one.”

A delicately chased silver casket, the size of a man’s fists held together, was placed upon the table. It gleamed in the yellow candlelight.

“I am told by a most reliable source that Zelandra’s box is like my own in every detail. It is vital that you secure this small casket and bring it directly to me. You may take anything else in the mansion that catches your eye. The casket will be kept in her inner chambers, probably beside her bed. I must have it.”

As he spoke, the man in green’s voice grew louder, and his words tumbled urgently over one another. When he stopped, his breathing was raggedly distinct in the soundproofed room. His gloved hands twitched where he held them on the table.

Conan drew himself up straight in his chair. A corded forearm slid slowly along its armrest until the Cimmerian’s right hand hung idly over the worn hilt of his broadsword.

“For all your studies, you seem to know me not at all,” Conan said tersely. “I am not an assassin, nor do I make war upon women. Seek another for this task.”

The green-cowled man flinched as if slapped.

Beside him, Gulbanda’s features hardened into a mask of rage.

“I will pay,” croaked the green man in a strangled voice, “a roomful of gold. You’ll never need to work again. You could be a rich man, with the leisure to wench and carouse the rest of your life.”

Gulbanda’s arms dropped to his sides and Conan’s hand fell upon his hilt. A deadly tension coiled in the closed room, poisonous as an adder.

“Seek another for this task,” repeated the barbarian.

“You would deny me?” The cowled man’s tone fell to a caustic hiss. “So be it. Think you that my investigations halted with your career as a thief? I know well your whereabouts these past few years, Amra! There is no city in Shem that would not gleefully hang the bloodiest pirate of the Western Ocean from a gibbet! You will do as I say, or I’ll see that you spend your last days in the hands of King Sumuabi’s Sabatean torturers!”

Conan’s response was an explosive burst of action that sent his chair hurtling back against the door as he sprang forward, toward the two men, his blade whistling from its scabbard. The man in green cried out in wordless shock, falling sideways from his chair even as Gulbanda stepped in to shield him from the infuriated barbarian. The bodyguard’s blade came out just as Conan’s came down. Steel rang on steel as Gulbanda blocked the heavy broadsword’s stroke, staggering under the terrific impact. The warrior had barely time to be astonished at his adversary’s strength before he found himself frenziedly fending off a flurry of savage blows. Wielding his massive blade as lightly as if it were a slender rapier, the Cimmerian put the bodyguard on a desperate defensive, driving him back against the curtained wall and holding him there. Gulbanda, trapped in a relentless storm of steel, saw Conan’s face go grim with intent and felt a chill lance his bowels. The bodyguard blocked each sledgehammer blow by inches, hoping that the barbarian’s strength would falter or that the raging attack would flag, if only for a moment.

Abruptly, his wishes were granted as Conan seemed to overextend himself. A hard horizontal slash glanced from Gulbanda’s guard and swung wide, leaving the barbarian’s torso open to a thrust. As the bodyguard lunged forward to transfix the Cimmerian on his point, Conan’s sword reversed itself with impossible speed. The barbarian’s blade struck the hilt and the fist that gripped it, tearing the sword and two fingers from Gulbanda’s hand on a flying ribbon of blood. The warrior fell back against the wall with a howl of animal agony, clutching his mangled hand and tangling himself in the drapery. With feline suppleness, Conan spun about to face his second foe.

The man in the green cowl stood weaponless beside his chair. His right hand made a sudden throwing motion and something tinkled against the mail over Conan’s chest. The barbarian recoiled.

He looked down and saw that there was moisture shining on his breast and broken slivers of glass glittering upon the floor. A wave of dizziness swept through his frame and a sharp, sweet odor filled his nostrils. Conan took a staggering step forward, raising a sword grown almost too heavy to hold. His foe had become an emerald blur.

“Damn you,” he whispered through lips gone numb. The earth tilted violently beneath his feet, and he never felt himself hit the floor.

Shamtare sat in the corner of a bar he didn’t know and drank wine without tasting it. He stared into his chipped ceramic mug, taking no notice of those around him. The mercenary had walked into the first tavern he had found, sat down, and commenced drinking in earnest. Since then his fear had faded, replaced by a searing shame.

Shamtare the Shemite had been a mercenary for almost twenty-five years and feared no combatant who would confront him with muscle and steel. He had seen violence aplenty in more battles than he could remember. But ever since he had watched half his troop swallowed screaming by a black cloud conjured up by a Zuagir shaman, Shamtare had no love of sorcery. It was unnatural, unmanly, and it turned his bones to water.

The mercenary took another deep pull at his wine, feeling a little less than manly himself.

“Ho, white brother.” A dark figure sat at his table, pulling up a chair and leaning forward confidentially. Shamtare blinked, setting his cup down. The newcomer was a slim Kushite in the brightly decorated armor of the mercenary company of Atlach the Mace. A thick cluster of fat braids was bound behind his head. Crimson-dyed ostrich feathers were woven into the shoulders of his white cloak.

“Have you looked about yourself, friend?” The black’s voice was deep and vaguely amused. “This tavern is frequented by those riding for Atlach the Mace. Do you see anyone from Mamluke’s outfit except yourself?”

Shamtare took in his surroundings for the first time. His stomach clenched.

“Indeed,” continued his new companion, “do you see anyone of your color at all?” He waited for the Shemite to shake his head in response. “Now, all’s the same to me. We fight for the same king, and against the same enemies, yet there are those who see all freelance troops as rivals. In fact, some of the men here are of such a mind. Thus far only your graying hair has kept you from being accosted by these characters. Be wise, white brother, and take your thirst elsewhere.”

Shamtare stood, touched his brow in a salute, and headed for the door.

The night breeze was cool along the dim street. He walked to the corner and found himself looking for a tall barbarian among the passersby. He could stand no more. Setting his teeth, Shamtare walked back to the tavern in which he had met Conan the Cimmerian. He thrust thoughts of the green-clad man from his mind as he strode in the door.

The tavern was quieter now, as the dinner hour was past and the greater revels of the evening were yet to commence. The roast pig was gone from its table, and many of the torches had been allowed to burn low. The gamblers in the corner were still busy, but now they wagered in softer, more earnest tones. Shamtare saw no sign of the barbarian. He hailed the barkeep.

“Good evening. Might I have a word with you?”

“If you don’t dally about it. I’ve a tavern to run.” The barkeep mopped at his balding pate with a greasy rag. A tattered yellow beard could not obscure his sagging jowls and sour expression.

“There was a tall, black-haired barbarian in here earlier. Did you see him leave?”

“I saw no barbarian. It’s bad business to carry tales about customers.”

The barkeep turned as if to walk away from Shamtare, but the mercenary’s hand fell upon his shoulder and arrested his progress.

“A moment more,” said Shamtare quietly. “What is that room in the back for?”

“Private parties for paying customers. Take your hand off me.”

“Who paid for its use tonight?”

“Take your hand off me, mercenary, or I’ll tell my sons to call the city guard.” Shamtare’s hand dropped away from the barkeep’s shoulder and fell upon the hilt of his sword.

“I don’t know the man’s name,” continued the barkeep hastily. “I just know that he has had his way in this part of the city for almost three moons. He is said to be a wizard, and his gold is good. These are reasons enough for me to rent him the room and leave him in peace.”

Shamtare turned from the barkeep and made his way to the rear of the tavern. His sword whispered from its sheath as he hit the door to the back room. He almost tripped over a fallen chair that lay just within.

Three brightly lit candelabra were set upon the room’s central table. Their warm glow revealed an empty chamber. Dark blood shone wetly on the carpet, and more spattered the woven curtains. The point of Shamtare’s sword lowered to the floor.

He made his way quickly across the room, to where the drapes hung awry behind the high-backed chair. A door was concealed there, obscured by the curtains. It swung open at his touch, revealing a black alley, choked with stinking refuse. Shamtare thrust his head into the dark passage, looked about, and swore foully.

“Lose your barbarian friend?” The barkeep had followed him into the chamber. His voice was not unsympathetic. “It wouldn’t be the first time that someone had an audience with the Green Man and wasn’t seen again. I won’t even let the serving girls come back here anymore. It is said that the Green Man wishes to become King Sumuabi’s new mage and will let nothing stand between himself and his goal. I’m sorry about your friend. A wise man doesn’t trifle with sorcery.”

“I know that,” said Shamtare.

“Come, there is nothing to be done now. Perhaps the Green Man hasn’t slain him. I’ll buy you a mug of wine.”

“Damn.” Shamtare sheathed his sword.

“That’s better,” said the barkeep. “Was the barbarian an old friend of yours?”

“No, a new friend who’ll never get to be an old one.”

“Forget him, then. His turn today, our turn tomorrow. Come on.”

The stout mercenary followed the barkeep from the back room to the bar.

He took a seat and accepted the man’s offer of a mug of wine. Shamtare recognized the vintage as one of the best out of Ghaza, yet it seemed, at that moment, strangely bitter.

The first thing that Conan became aware of was a sultry breeze smelling of moist earth. He blinked and a vortex of nausea roiled in his guts.

He was seated in a heavily built steel chair. Metal bands held his ankles, calves, wrists, and belly tightly in place. Slouched forward, his head hanging, Conan focused his bleary eyes and saw that the chair was bolted to the chamber’s glossy marble floor. He had vague memories, little more than disjointed impressions, of being dragged along a noisome alleyway before being tossed bodily into a wagon full of damp straw.

A gust of warm air stirred his hair, and he raised his head with ponderous effort in order to look about. Before him, bronze-bound double doors of glass opened out into the night, revealing a shadowed garden that sloped down and away. Beyond, through a screen of trees, the lights of Akkharia lay spread out like spilled gems on an ebony table. There was no moon, but the stars told him that it was almost midnight.

“Awake, dog?” There were footfalls behind him. It was Gulbanda, his right hand bound in a white bandage. He walked a leisurely circle around the helpless Cimmerian, who silently set all of his strength to testing his bonds. The bodyguard saw the powerful muscles of Conan’s arms and legs leap out into ridged relief and laughed humorlessly. His dark eyes flashed in the dim room.

“You cannot break free. Your efforts would be better spent begging me to make your death swift and easy.” Gulbanda drew to a halt in front of the barbarian and pulled a dagger from its sheath with great deliberation.

Conan relaxed, staring straight ahead in stoic silence. The bared blade made a silvery flourish before the Cimmerian’s expressionless face.

“Speak.” The dagger came forward until its point indented the skin beneath Conan’s right eye. “You have nothing to say?”

Gulbanda moved the blade to the barbarian’s forearm and lay the cold steel on bronzed skin. “Why don’t you beg your heathen gods for rescue? They might answer if you cried out to them loudly enough.”

The razor-sharp edge drew slowly across flesh and a thin scarlet stream broke free in its wake. Conan bared his teeth in a feral snarl, fixing his eyes upon Gulbanda with such elemental hatred that his tormentor withdrew the knife and took an involuntary step backward.

“Gulbanda, you are mistreating our guest.”

The dagger made a hasty return to its sheath as the warrior retreated to a dark corner of the room.

“I did him no harm,” he said in a voice thick with frustration.

“I should hope not,” said the man in the green cowl. “He has important work to do tonight.” The robed man stood over Conan, inspecting the shallow but painful gash inflicted by his servant. The hood lay in heavy folds about his shoulders, baring his head. He was a black man with sharp, aristocratic features. A high-domed forehead and a strong jaw might have made him handsome, but there was a weathered, weary aspect to his face that belied his obvious youth. The eyes were as rheumy and reddened as those of an old man. The skin of his face appeared to hang on his skull, slack and dull as a mask. Conan noticed a greenish smear beneath his captor’s lower lip. Under the barbarian’s gaze, he turned away as if ashamed, wiping his mouth on a velvet sleeve.

“You must learn to show restraint, Gulbanda. This man is a valuable tool. If you treat your tools well, they will serve you well.” The black man turned back to Conan, pulled a lace handkerchief from his robe, and daubed it gently in the blood on the Cimmerian’s forearm.

Folding the cloth with care, he replaced it in his pocket. He gazed down at Conan, his eyes dark wells of fathomless emotion.

“I am Shakar the Keshanian. Do you know me?”

“No, but you must be another who seeks to become King Sumuabi’s toy mage. What did you do to me?”

“You have some wit for a barbarian. I broke a glass ball upon your breast. The ball was filled with a weak distillate of the Black Lotus. The fumes produce unconsciousness but do no lasting harm. You will feel dizzy and ill for a time, though. I hope that this will not inconvenience you on your mission tonight.”

Conan spat at Shakar’s feet. “Get your lapdog to run your errands.” He jerked his head toward Gulbanda. “I’ll not serve you.”

Shakar nodded absently, pressing gloved hands together and turning away from his prisoner. He strode to a low chest of drawers set against one of the marble walls.

“The priests of Keshia had little liking for me,” he said thoughtfully. “They made my life difficult. So, before I left that city, I stole much knowledge from them. Much knowledge and several precious items to make my life outside Keshan easier. The glass balls are one thing I acquired. These are another.” Shakar arose from the chest and held his hands out to Conan.

Suspended from each fist was an amulet the size and shape of a hen’s egg. They were the color of tarnished brass and inscribed in black with a single serpentine rune. Instead of a chain, each amulet dangled from a flexible loop of thin golden wire. With a quick motion, Shakar flipped one wire noose over the top of Conan’s head and released it.

The strange pendant fell heavily upon the Cimmerian’s breast. The black warlock leaned forward, pulling the barbarian’s long hair out from beneath the encircling wire until the metal rested against his flesh.

“There,” he murmured. “There.” He stroked the amulet lovingly. Then his eyes narrowed, his lips tightened against his teeth, and he bent over to stare Conan full in the face.

“Hie Vakallar-Ftagn,” he whispered in a voice like the stirring of dead leaves. Conan went rigid. The wire necklace contracted around his neck until the cold weight of the amulet nestled unpleasantly into the hollow of his throat. A thrill of horror coursed along the barbarian’s spine. Shakar stood up straight and grinned in satisfaction. He held the other amulet away from his velvet-clad body.

“Now you shall do as I require, barbarian. You must do it because your life will be forfeit if you do not. This night you will go to the estate of Lady Zelandra, slay her, and steal for me her silver casket. And you shall have it back here by sunrise, thief, or I will speak to your amulet thus.”

Held at arm’s length, Shakar’s remaining pendant swung slowly on its necklace of wire. The man in green stared at it and spoke.

“Hie Vakallar-Nectos.” His voice died and there was an expectant silence. Then the dangling amulet flared with white incandescence and a sharp sizzling sound filled the room. A wave of heat hit Conan’s face like the rush of air from an opened forge. The blaze of light stabbed fiercely at his eyes. For a moment the amulet hung from its wire as a fusing gobbet of nigh-intolerable brilliance; then it fell in a molten stream to spatter brightly on the polished floor. Acrid smoke arose in whorls as the liquid metal gnawed into the marble. It burned out after a long moment, leaving the floor deeply pitted and scarred. A shrill laugh broke from Shakar’s lips.

“O Damballah! An ugly way to die, is it not? If you are not back by sunrise, I speak the words. If you attempt to remove the amulet, it will blaze up of its own accord. If you displease me in any way, I shall speak the words. Do you understand?” Mad triumph trembled in the warlock’s voice. In the corner, Gulbanda moved uneasily. “Let him loose,” Shakar ordered.

“Master?” Gulbanda hesitated and Shakar spun on him in sudden fury, cloak swirling.

“Now, fool!” The warrior hastened to Conan’s side and bent to his task.

In a moment the barbarian was free of the steel chair, if not of all bonds. He stretched hugely, bending to chafe his legs where the metal cuffs had cut into his flesh.

“Do you know the Street of the Seven Roses?” asked the black sorcerer.

Conan nodded curtly. “It is where they store the shipments of wine in from Kyros.”

“That is the warehouse district. Zelandra’s mansion is in the residential district at the opposite end of the street. Across the city from the warehouses. It is a respectable area and often patrolled by the city guard.”

“It has a very high wall,” said Gulbanda coldly. “A smooth one.” Conan met the bodyguard’s eyes with a gaze as bleak and stark as the blade of a stiletto.

“I want my sword,” he said.

Shakar nodded. “Of course. Fetch it, Gulbanda.” For a moment the warrior seemed to pause, then he strode quickly from the room. The black mage looked upon Conan and lifted his gloved hands imploringly.

“Do you need to see the map again?”

“No. Do you give me your word that if I bring you the casket, you will remove this thing?” The barbarian touched the amulet about his neck as though it were a sleeping serpent coiled there.

“I swear it. And if it happens that you do not slay the woman, I shall still free you if you bring me the silver box. I must have it. Do you understand?”

The Cimmerian showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. “I understand that well enough.”

“Another thing, barbarian, do you know of a Shemite named Eldred the Trader?” Shakar watched Conan intently for a reaction and was visibly disappointed by his reply.

“No. The name means nothing. Another of your rivals seeking position as the king’s court wizard?”

“No. It need not concern you.” At that moment Gulbanda returned, bearing Conan’s sword and scabbard.

He tossed them roughly to the Cimmerian, who snatched them from the air and affixed them to his belt while moving toward the garden window.

“Remember the amulet. Do not fail me,” called Shakar, but Conan had already stepped into the night and disappeared.

The great wagon lumbered along the Street of the Seven Roses beneath the overarching darkness of a moonless night. Massively spoked wheels ground on the cobblestones as the driver reined his team around a bend.

Two huge wooden casks sat ponderously in the wagon’s bed, their weight causing the axles to sag alarmingly. The driver called encouragement to his straining horses and, thus distracted, did not notice the shadow that detached itself from the murk of an alley to furtively sprint across the cobbles and leap up onto the back of the rearmost cask, clinging to it like a cat. The man held himself to the curved surface of the massive barrel with powerful arms as the wagon continued its laborious progress. In the next block a high wall arose on the left side of the street.

Seeing it, the man drew himself lithely atop the cask and crouched with his legs drawn up tightly beneath him. He swiftly removed a light leather helmet tucked into his belt at the small of his back and clapped it onto his head.

The wagon swayed, drawing closer to the wall. Its wheels scraped the stone curb and the man jumped, hurling himself into the air with all the strength of his mighty frame. Like a quarrel from a crossbow, the man shot up and against the wall. His body met it with bruising impact, hands clapping against the cold stone with the fingertips alone finding purchase and digging in atop the wall. He dangled, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Then he chinned himself, threw over a muscular leg, and pulled himself up so that he was lying along the top of the wall. He lay motionless for a moment, waiting for the surging vertigo to pass. It seemed that Shakar’s Keshanian drug had not entirely left him. He shook his head like a troubled lion, trying to rid himself of the persistent dizziness and see into the darkness below.

An elaborate garden lay spread out in the shadows beneath him. Dim, tangled outlines of trees and undergrowth led up a gentle, landscaped slope to an expansive villa that loomed as an unlit and angular silhouette against the stars. The perfume of night-blooming flowers floated on the slow breeze.

Conan stood on the narrow top of the wall. Heedless of the height, he ran swiftly along it to where a tall tree thrust leafy branches toward the wall. He squatted, peering intently into the tree, then leapt abruptly from his perch, dropping down and forward to capture a sturdy limb in iron fingers. Leaves shook and rustled as the branch bent and then rebounded, holding his weight. The Cimmerian glanced down, then released the limb. He dropped, hit the ground, and rolled in the dewy grass. Conan came to his feet in a fighting crouch, hand on hilt and eyes raking the darkness for sign of a foe.

He was alone on a well-trimmed greensward. In front of him two dense clumps of shrubbery framed a white gravel path that shone dully in the starlight. The path wound up the hill toward the dark mass of Lady Zelandra’s mansion. The barbarian moved parallel with the trail, skulking in the shadows as silently as a prowling wolf. Skirting a tiled courtyard adjacent to the manse, Conan approached a darkened window and froze in midstride.

Footfalls rattled gravel along the path. Conan ducked into the shadow of a manicured hedge, hand once again gripping his hilt. Two uniformed men walked into view along the trail. They conversed softly, voices carrying on the night air. The Cimmerian crouched motionless as the pair came to a halt not ten paces away. The men wore light armor with shortswords belted at the waist, and the larger of the two bore a long, barbed pike on one shoulder. Conan’s body tensed, preparing for instant violence. The pike bearer produced a wineskin from beneath his cloak, drank deeply, and passed it to his companion. The other took a swallow and returned the skin, clapping his comrade on the back with crude good humor. The pair continued down the path, blithely unaware of how close they had stood to death.

Conan relaxed, once again feeling a slight stirring of vertigo. He cursed vehemently under his breath until it passed, calling down a plague upon all dabblers in the dark arts. Then he stole silently across the grass to the waiting window. The stout shutters were thrown wide to allow the cool air of evening to ease the day’s accumulated heat.

There were bars, but they were slender. Inevitably there was some noise, but Conan worked slowly and with great deliberation, bending the bars rather than tearing them from their settings. Soon he had a space wide enough to squeeze through. With a last look behind, he pulled himself through the window and into the mansion of Lady Zelandra.

He dropped into a long hall lit by a single taper. The floor was thickly carpeted, and rich Vendhyan tapestries graced the walls. The faint odor of sandalwood hung on the still air. Silence lay over the house in a heavy shroud.

Recalling the map that Shakar had shown him, Conan took his bearings and then paced soundlessly down the dim hall. He drew his sword, and the taper’s soft light glimmered liquidly along its burnished length.

Ahead, the corridor turned right. At the corner a short pedestal held an elegantly fluted vase of Khitan porcelain. Conan rounded the corner and stared down a wood-paneled hall that stretched into the heart of the manse. Another lonely taper lit the corridor with a diffuse amber glow.

A woman stood stiffly in the hallway, looking at him.

“Hush!” Conan lowered his sword and lifted a finger to his lips. “I mean you no—”

The woman quickly reached a hand behind her dark nimbus of hair, then whipped the hand forward with all the strength of her arm and shoulders. A dagger shot toward Conan as swiftly and directly as a hurled dart.

“Crom!” The barbarian twisted his upper body so that the blade nicked his flapping sleeve in passing rather than burying itself between his ribs. The dagger sank almost half its length into the wooden wall five paces behind him.

Conan lunged forward, covering the distance between himself and the woman in two great bounds. An outstretched forearm struck her across the collarbone, knocking her from her feet and sending her sprawling gracelessly on her back. The Cimmerian’s sword made a short, blurred arc that stopped a hairsbreadth from her exposed neck. Cold, sharpened steel lay upon her pulsing throat.

“Hush,” said Conan grimly.

“Miserable thief!” hissed the woman. “Damned assassin! Kill me and be done with it!”

The barbarian raised his brows. Here was a beautiful woman. And unafraid. Her thick hair spilled upon the carpet, an ebony cloud surrounding a fine-boned face now sneering in defiance. Her pale eyes shone in the gloom like polished opals.

“I have no wish to harm you or anyone else in this house.” Conan stepped back, keeping his sword leveled at the prone woman, but removing it from her throat. She sat up, twisting her full lips with disdain.

“You’re mad, then.”

“No. I am not here of my own choosing. My life is in the balance. If you will aid me, I will be swiftly gone.” Conan’s hand went to the eldritch amulet wired at his throat. The dark-haired woman drew long legs up beneath her and regarded him steadily.

“I should scream. I am not afraid to die.”

“Then why are you whispering?”

She was silent a moment.

“What is it that you seek?” she asked suddenly, her voice slightly louder and more animated than before. “Are you alone? How can I help you?” Her gaze flickered from Conan’s face to a point somewhere over his right shoulder. From behind him came the almost inaudible creaking of a floorboard.

Conan spun about and received a blow to the head so savage that it tore off his helmet and sent him reeling blindly across the hall. His shoulder hit the wall with a crash that seemed to shake the building.

Stinging blood sluiced hotly into his left eye. Snarling, the barbarian lashed his sword to the left and right, but the blade met no resistance. He blinked, shaking the blood from his face.

Across the hall stood a giant of a man, naked to the waist. The taper’s light gleamed upon his skin, casting yellow highlights over heavy arms and a wide, hairless chest that descended into a broad, firm paunch.

The man’s head was shaved and his features were those of a pure-blooded Khitan. In his hands was a short wooden club, its head adorned with iron studs. The man was silent, but he brandished the club with casual purpose, slanted eyes glittering coldly.

Conan struck with furious speed, taking the offensive with such suddenness that the giant Khitan was nearly impaled upon his sword.

With an agile twist of his brawny body, the Khitan battered the barbarian’s blade aside so that it scraped its length along the wooden bludgeon, throwing splinters. Unable to halt his headlong thrust, Conan’s body slammed into that of his foe. They grappled, and the Khitan sought to seize his sword arm. With an explosive grunt, Conan tore free of the powerful grip and drove his mallet-like left fist home against the side of his enemy’s face. Despite the unexpectedness of the move, the Khitan managed to react, attempting to roll with the blow. If he had not, it might well have broken his neck. Even the reduced impact drove him to one knee and started blood streaming from his lips.

As the Cimmerian’s sword shot up for the death stroke, a tremendous blow struck the back of his skull. Vision ablaze with flying yellow sparks, Conan went down, his blade thumping on the carpet. In an exhibition of almost superhuman vitality, the barbarian writhed painfully onto his back. Through a thickening haze he saw the dark-haired woman, gaping at him, clutching a sturdy chair. Two of its legs were splintered stumps. The stinging sweet taste of Shakar’s potion crept into the back of his throat like bile. Conan tried to rise and felt a sick vertigo, a drugged dizziness that rose from within to smother him in cloying darkness. He reached for his sword, put his hand on the hilt, and passed out.

There was stale straw in his mouth. The floor where he lay was strewn with the mildewed stuff. With effort, Conan spat, pushed himself into a sitting position, spat again, and leaned back against a dank stone wall. Though his head throbbed like a blacksmith’s anvil, he put his hands first to his throat.

Shakar’s lethal amulet was still in place, still promising searing, lingering death. Conan probed his battered skull with tentative fingers. Drying blood matted his hair over two conspicuously swollen lumps. He pressed his fingertips around them and winced, but found no evidence of serious damage. Satisfied, he cast his eyes about his prison.

It was a narrow, windowless slot of a cell, a little longer than the prone body of a tall man and barely wide enough for two men to stand abreast. The door was a heavily barred iron grate, scaled with flakes of red rust.

Conan wondered how long he had until morning. A hollowness opened deep in his belly. To be incinerated by magic while locked in a cage like a helpless animal was no way for a warrior to die.

He saw that the iron bars of the grate were far too thick for bending and that the hinges were set too deeply in stone to be wrenched free.

The barbarian rose slowly to his feet, staring at the bars and clenching his fists until the tendons stood out across the backs of his hands. Conan’s will for freedom was as elemental as that of a penned wolf. No matter if it would avail him nothing, he would tear at the bars of his prison until the amulet burnt through his throat.

The Cimmerian’s nostrils flared as he stepped to the door of his prison, peering through the holes in the encrusted grate into the dimness beyond.

“Who’s there?” he growled.

Scarcely visible in the darkened corridor outside his cell was the lissome figure of the woman he had encountered in the halls of the mansion above. She shrank away from the grate, one pale hand at her throat.

“How did you know I was here?” she stammered.

“You wear a scent in your hair. It is out of place in this pit.”

The woman fumbled awkwardly at her belt for a moment, then there was a bright spark of flint on steel. A small, golden flame began guttering from an oil lamp that she thrust forward with one hand.

“What is your name?” she asked in a stronger voice.

“Conan,” he replied.

The mellow light revealed the woman in full, her skin gleaming dusky ivory. Dark leggings clung to shapely legs.

A simple brown tunic was belted tightly around her trim waist and fell open at her throat.

“Let me out,” rumbled the Cimmerian. In spite of the situation, his eyes were drawn to her beauty, captured by the loose fall of her lush black hair and the elegant oval of her face.

“A curious name.” Her gaze seemed to pierce the cell’s iron door, moving over the Cimmerian with a restless curiosity.

“If you do not set me free before dawn, it will be the name of a dead man,” Conan said.

“Then you have a few hours of life remaining. Who are you, thief?”

The barbarian heaved an exasperated sigh and gripped the bars of his prison with both hands.

“I am Conan, a Cimmerian.”

“What kind of a thief breaks into the home of an accomplished sorceress and yet scruples to kill one who discovers him therein?” The tiny flame of the oil lamp was mirrored in her eyes.

“Listen to me, woman. This amulet around my neck was placed there by Shakar the Keshanian. He charged me with breaking into this house and stealing a small silver chest. If I do not return with the chest by sunrise, his amulet will slay me with hellfire. Set me free and I swear by Crom to do nothing to harm anyone in this house. I will return to Shakar without your silver box and seek to persuade him to remove the amulet at sword’s point.”

The woman’s brow furrowed with interest and skepticism. She held the oil lamp aloft to better study Shakar’s amulet, while Conan, dappled by the grate’s shadow, stared back intently and awaited a response.

“Silver box,” she murmured. “And what does Shakar the Keshanian want with milady’s silver box?”

“Hanuman devour all silver boxes!” exploded the Cimmerian. “I neither know nor care what mad designs the Keshanian has upon Zelandra’s belongings. I only know that the bastard’s sorcerous toy will spell my death unless I can make him take it off. Set me free! Did I not spare you when you lay at my feet with a blade at your throat?”

The woman was silent, staring at him expressionlessly through the iron door. Conan wondered how long she had been standing outside his cell before he noticed her.

The woman reached a hand behind her head and pulled a throwing dagger from its sheath at her nape. She hefted it, flipping the knife in a glittering pinwheel and catching it again by the hilt.

“I am Neesa, scribe and bodyguard to Lady Zelandra. I can throw this dagger with some skill.”

“I am well aware of that,” growled Conan, feeling the faint stirring of hope.

“Heng Shih wanted to keep you shut up until the morning so as not to disturb milady. But I am of a mind to take you to Lady Zelandra and have you tell her your story. Do you swear by your gods that you will neither attempt to harm me nor escape if I free you from the cell?”

“You have the word of a Cimmerian.”

Replacing the throwing dagger in its sheath, Neesa turned and pulled a stout set of manacles from a peg on the wall behind her. She pushed them through a hole in the grate, and Conan received them without comment. The manacles were of oiled steel and separated by a mere three links of heavy chain. The Cimmerian closed the manacles about his thick wrists one at a time. Each fastened with a metallic snap that rang disproportionately loud in the narrow stone cell. When he looked up, his gaze locked with the woman’s for a long moment.

What Neesa saw in the barbarian’s eyes she could not name, but she produced a jingling ring of keys from another wall peg. The key turned in the lock with a rust-choked rasp and the door swung wide, keening in protest. The hulking Cimmerian paused briefly in the open stone portal, then stepped free into the corridor. Neesa felt a surge of fear that dissipated when she saw Conan’s face. He was grinning broadly.

“Lead on,” he said. “By Crom, it’s good to see I still have some luck left this ill-favored night.”

S