Conan the Barbarian

  The instant she sought to contrast them, she immediately saw that which they shared. Master Fassir, too, had his passions. He loved the people of the monastery. In taking her in, he had proved his love for the people of the world. Master Fassir had dedicated his life to thwarting Khalar Zym in one way, and so Conan, in another, was devoting himself to the same task.

  Tamara reached out and caught Artus’s forearm. “You are his friend, Artus. Tell me, his life, is it one that makes him happy?”

  The Zingaran scratched at his chin. “He is one who may not have been born to ever be happy. Where others first taste mother’s milk, he had her blood. Born on a battlefield was he, and never quite so happy is he except when fighting.”

  “Never?”

  Artus sighed. “Conan and I are not joined at the hip, little one. There are times he is away. When he returns, perhaps he is less melancholy. It is not the way of men to ask after these things.”

  “That is foolish.” She turned toward the stairs, but Artus caught a handful of silks and restrained her. “Let me go.”

  “No, Tamara. You seek to mend that which cannot be mended. Not now.” The corsair laughed easily. “Get yourself below. Get yourself into proper dress, battle dress. If that won’t bring a smile to his face, I sincerely doubt there is anything else that will.”

  IN THE DEEPEST depths of Khor Kalba, restless waves splashed up through a massive iron grate filling a cylindrical cavern’s floor. Shadows obscured the upper reaches. Chains attached to cages filled with skeletons or skeletally slender prisoners hung down from the darkness. The other ends attached to massive cleats, allowing attendants to raise and lower cages as required.

  The iron had been worked in a pattern that recalled the arms of a squid. Marique had liked it from the first because of its tantalizing symmetry. Her father had seen it as an omen confirming the rightness of his choice of Khor Kalba. He seemed to have forgotten that it was Marique who had discovered that the current construction had been built over Acheronian ruins. And, indeed, nearby excavations had unearthed much which increased her knowledge of necromantic lore.

  Marique picked her way along a haphazard path like a child wandering through a garden. She chose carefully the runes upon which she stepped, and how hard she stepped on them. The sounds her boots made, the cadence of her steps, and the very notes produced by each individual rune wove a powerful magick.

  Finally she reached the center point. From the small sack on her belt she withdrew the limp body of a cat—one of many feral creatures infesting Khor Kalba. She’d lured it with cheese, then snapped its neck. She disemboweled it, read the liver, then packed it up with a small bit of the cloth bearing the monk’s blood and another missive that Marique had written herself. She looked down through the hole centermost in the grate, then dropped the cat and watched as it disappeared into the depths.

  A minute, perhaps two, passed, then the water became greatly agitated. It splashed up through the grate, though it never touched Marique. Then it settled, several feet lower than it had been, and she walked from the center uncaring what tune her steps played.

  Her father awaited her at the edge. “Well?”

  “It is done. Your troops shall reach their ship unseen, and the girl will soon be yours.”

  CONAN STOOD AT the aft rail, staring at the sea. He felt the breeze and heard the gulls. The tang, their cries, took him back to the Tigress and the time he had spent with Bêlit. He had tried very hard to avoid those memories, but he could not. Though Tamara and Bêlit could not have been more different, when he had wakened from his fever to discover Tamara tending him, he had at first thought she was Bêlit.

  I wanted her to have been Bêlit.

  He shook his head, but his father’s words came to him. “When you find that one woman, Conan, the one who fires your heart, who makes you feel alive and makes you want to be a better man than you are, never let her go.” But he had. He’d lost her to an ancient evil, and though he knew himself to have been lucky to have survived at all, guilt restrained him like an anchor chain.

  Artus appeared on his left at the rail. “She means well, Conan.”

  The Cimmerian growled.

  “Let me rephrase: she means you no harm.” The corsair faced him, leaning on the rail. “I actually think she wishes you well.”

  Conan nodded. “I was sharp with her.”

  “Were words a sword, there would have been no healing that wound. It is not my place to ask . . .”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “So I shall just tell, then. You forget, Cimmerian, I knew you when you were a sneak thief, and not a very good one. You made up in audacity what you lacked in skill, and the only reason fences did not turn you over to the city guard is that you’d take a tenth of what you could have gotten for the wares you sold them.”

  “If this is meant to cheer me, you are failing, brother.”

  “It is meant to remind you, brother, that I have seen the youth you were, and the man you have become. No, don’t give me that look. I don’t presume to know what goes on in that thick skull of yours, and I don’t pretend to know what adventures you’ve had outside my company.” Artus spat into the sea. “I do wish I knew of your previous life as a corsair, for it was there you changed. Not unexpected, the loss of carefree youth . . . but something replaced it.”

  The Cimmerian stared at the distant horizon. “I was born to battle. Courage and cunning are what Crom gives us, and I have made the most of them. Of comrades and companions I have had legions. Most have died. Many I have mourned. A few, however . . .” One . . .

  Artus remained silent, letting the distant crash of surf on shore devour Conan’s words. In that one act the Zingaran revealed that he was a true friend, and likely knew the Cimmerian better than anyone else alive.

  Conan looked sidelong at him, then finally turned to face him. “I have no fear of death, Artus. I cannot think of a time when my death concerned me. But I wonder, sometimes, if Death uses me as bait, much as I used the girl. Does Death allow me to survive so that others will follow me into his realm? My friends do not live long. Survive another year and you will have known me longer than did my father. And my mother, well . . .”

  Artus rested scarred hands on Conan’s shoulders. “I am your brother, Conan. I’ll see you into a grave or the other way around. It does not matter. If I follow you, it is not because I believe you will make me immune to Death’s touch, but because you open the way to adventure. Already, Conan, men sing of you, and of those who you have known.”

  Conan nodded. The Song of Bêlit had become popular in Shem and he’d even heard it sung once in Messantia. “There are more pleasant ways to become immortal.”

  “Are there?” Artus laughed and pointed off toward Khor Kalba to the north. “Immortality is what Khalar Zym desires, and his way is none too pleasant. His way is decidedly unpleasant for those who stand between him and his goal. Most men would never dare oppose him because they fear for their lives. But if they do not oppose him, they do not have a life.”

  “So you have told me.”

  “So, perhaps now you will listen.”

  Conan nodded. “I will.”

  “Good.” Artus ran a hand over his jaw. “One thing about those we leave behind, Conan. We never know what they would want, but we can be sure what they would hate.”

  “Yes?”

  “For their death to become our death. They live in our memories.” Artus smiled. “Our lives make them more vital. Your glory is their glory, your victory is their victory. Live as they would have lived, live as they would have desired you to live, and you will be worthy of their lives forever.”

  The Cimmerian nodded. “Over the years, Artus, you have become much wiser.”

  “No, Conan, I’ve always been this wise.” The Zingaran’s laughter rose to the stars. “It’s just taken you this long to realize it.”

  CHAPTER 26

  TAMARA HAD NO difficulty finding Conan belowdecks. She followed the ringing rasp of
whetstone on steel. As expected, the Cimmerian sat in his cabin, working an edge onto his new sword. He did not look up as she approached, but she knew he was aware of her. Even when she paused in the hatchway before his cabin, he did not acknowledge her.

  She rapped lightly on the wooden bulkhead. “Is my attire suitable?”

  He looked up, the light in his blue eyes visible despite the cabin’s dim interior. His gaze raked her up and down. From the ship’s stores she’d chosen tall boots of brown, which matched a sleeveless leather bodice. Beneath that, she wore a pale green man’s shirt—the bodice covered three stab wounds that she intended to stitch up later. Its tails covered her to midthigh. Leather skirting hung from a wide belt, affording her some protection without the sacrifice of mobility.

  The Cimmerian grunted. “Good.”

  Tamara waited for more, but he’d returned his attention to the sword. She swallowed hard, then looked at him. “Conan, we need to talk.”

  The barbarian glanced back up, pain washing over his face. He’d clearly rather be testing the edge on his sword—and from the looks of it, either on her or his own throat—than chatting with her. He drew in a deep breath, then nodded. “Talk.”

  “What I had on before, the silks, I did not choose them because I wished to dress as a harlot.” She chewed her lower lip for a moment. “In the monastery, we led a very disciplined life. Everything was prescribed and done in accordance with strict rules. Twice a year we would have festivals in which we would celebrate the lives of those who had passed. We would dress gaily and remember them at their best. When I sought other clothes, it was the first time I’d had a chance to truly realize how much I had lost. I did not think what you and others might think of me. I was thinking of them, the people I lost.”

  Conan grunted.

  “And I am sorry, Conan, for the remark I made.” Tamara frowned. “Your comment stung me and I struck back. It was not worthy of the person I was raised to be. I beg your forgiveness.”

  The Cimmerian set the whetstone aside, but left his sword resting across his thighs. “It did not sit well to see you dressed as a slut. I have seen you fight. I have seen your dedication—insistent dedication—to the wishes of your master. You dishonored yourself and your master when you dressed in silks.”

  “I understand.”

  “And I could have phrased things better.”

  Tamara leaned against the bulkhead. “I did not truly mean you did not know any women other than harlots.”

  Conan smiled. “Yes, you did. You are perhaps not too far wrong.”

  “But there is your mother . . .” Tamara looked up toward the main deck. “Artus told me, not much . . .”

  The Cimmerian shrugged. “He told you what I know, which is not much. She bore me on a battlefield. She named me. I do not remember her.”

  Tamara hugged her arms around her belly. “I do not know my mother either. Or my father. I was rescued while an infant by Master Fassir. The only life I have ever known has been destroyed. I’m not even sure why, save for the insane dreams of a madman.”

  “Khalar Zym destroyed a village.” Conan held up a thumb. “All for a shard of bone no bigger than this. He killed everyone—or thought he did. I’d all but forgotten him until I ran across Lucius and, from him, found Remo chasing you. He has this Mask of Acheron and some warped dream of using it to conquer the world. It was my father’s duty to protect that shard. It is mine to get it back, or pursue a more direct solution to the problem.”

  She shivered. “The Mask of Acheron . . . now things begin to make some sense.”

  The Cimmerian’s eyes sharpened. “What do you know of it?”

  “Only what I have been taught, Conan. Evil roots itself in the world in dreams and devices. The Mask of Acheron was a dream that became a device, and then returned to being a dream. The priest-kings of Acheron created it, fed it the blood of their daughters, and reaped great power through it. They built their empire upon the agony of millions. They celebrated, their joy made greater by the lamentations of those they oppressed.”

  “So I have heard in legends.”

  She smiled. “Master Fassir taught that evil is a fickle mistress. Those she raises high, she raises high only to dash them more magnificently on the rocks of despair and failure. Evil concentrates power, but it also concentrates the core essence of those who wield it. The invincible warrior needs a magick sword because, deep in his heart, he fears being defeated. That fear becomes his weakness, his downfall. So the Mask of Acheron will expose Khalar Zym’s weakness.”

  The barbarian nodded, a low growl rumbling from his throat. In the half-light Conan became something more than she had seen before. Though he was still physically magnificent, with muscles etched in shadow and burnished with golden lamplight, it was the play of emotions over his brooding features that revealed his depth to her. He had actually listened to what she had said, and was considering it. Behind those cerulean eyes, he reevaluated all he knew of Khalar Zym.

  Conan smiled, and she took heart from the sight. “A man who would be king has no need to surround himself with minions. Khalar Zym relies upon them and his witch of a daughter. Yes, he believes he needs her magick, the magick of Acheron, to accomplish his ends.”

  The monk nodded. “There, you have it. He’s never had magick, never controlled it, and believes it is his only path to power. Just as he thinks himself a lesser man without it, so he must judge all men without it to be inferior as well. Gaining the mask will raise him to the pinnacle of power, and yet will blind him to the abilities of mere mortal men.”

  “You may need to change again, Tamara of the four names.”

  “Yes, Cimmerian?”

  “The robes of a philosopher would suit you.”

  She laughed. “You were thinking the same thing.”

  “Hardly.” He raised the sword and studied the edges. “I was thinking that in all my travels, I have never met anything of sorcery born which could touch me, that I could not touch with steel and come away the better for it. If Khalar Zym’s empire will be built on a foundation of sorcery, then cold steel will shatter it.”

  He nodded at her, then picked up the whetstone. He whisked it along the blade twice, then looked up again. “Something else . . . ?”

  “When you lay there, and I was tending your wounds. When you were fevered . . .”

  His expression froze. “Did I speak?”

  “Some, yes, but in a hill dialect I have no way of understanding.” She gave him a smile she hoped would be reassuring. “When the fever broke, and you came awake, and I was there at your bunk. . . I was not the one you expected to see.”

  “No.” He glanced down, hesitating. “You are not my grandfather.”

  “Conan, you don’t need to lie to me.”

  The Cimmerian looked up, regarding her coldly. “If I do not need to lie, then why would I?”

  The vehemence of his words, and the way he deliberately thickened his Cimmerian accent, shocked her. Tamara took a half step back, raising her hands, using the heartbeat this afforded her to recover herself. “I need to explain.”

  “You need to go.”

  “Conan, you need to understand.”

  He looked up but said nothing.

  “My past has been wiped away. At the moment I met you, all I knew was that everyone I had known was being slaughtered, and I was being sent away. I was not allowed to defend my home against invaders, and everyone there was dying to protect me . . . even though none of them beyond Master Fassir knew why. Had you not come upon the scene, they would have taken me. Even now I would be hanging by the ankles from chains in Khor Kalba, my blood draining into that mask.

  “And then, from Remo, I learned that I am the last daughter of the Acheron Royal House. It meant that whoever I thought I was, was an illusion. Khalar Zym wanted me for my blood. You wanted me as bait. And though you were willing to treat me as an equal at the Shaipur outpost, and even though you confided in me your plan, I did not feel I served you well.” br />
  The barbarian grunted. “I had seen you fight. You are an ally. We are here, so your effort was what we needed.”

  “You may think so, Conan.” Tamara’s eyes sparkled for a second. “You are a terrible weight to drag through the water, but that is all I felt I had done. So when you were ill and I had a chance to ply what I had learned in the monastery of the healing arts, I was determined that you would not die. I owed you that much and . . .”

  Conan nodded. “. . . and I was your only link to your past.”

  “Yes. And by caring for you, I proved that who I had been was not an illusion. I was Tamara of more names than a barbarian needs, not some vessel bearing the tainted blood of an infamous lineage. Unless I kept you alive by my skills, I was nothing, just a very frightened woman all alone.”

  The Cimmerian stood, setting his sword and whetstone aside. Tamara imagined, for a moment, that he would come and take her into his arms. She wanted that, desired it, hungered for his warmth and strength. And for just another moment, it appeared as if he might do exactly that.

  But then he half turned from her and studied the shadows in the corner of his cabin. “I have been alone for much of my life, Tamara Amaliat Jorvi Karushan. There are times when that makes life simpler. Others create obligations and demands. Others fail. Avoiding all that creates a life of freedom.

  “But it does not always make life easier. Artus is a loyal friend, who watches after me even when I do not watch after myself. I have known few such people down through the years.” The Cimmerian’s head came up. “And perhaps I have been such a friend to too few people. I was born to war, Tamara, and for one with my destiny, to travel alone is better than traveling with ghosts.”

  A chill ran down Tamara’s spine. She had always been alone, but she had never felt alone. The other monks and Master Fassir had become her family. Conan’s family had been peeled away, person by person. A lesser man would have let those losses cripple him. Conan merely shouldered them and carried on.