Conan the Hunter Part 1

CONAN THE HUNTER.

Sean A. Moore.

Prologue.

An eerie silence shrouded the dim chamber, like thick fog on a dark, moonless night. Flickering candles illuminated a large ebon altar, which dominated the room. On the floor before the altar, a woman knelt.

Her pale, alabaster skin contrasted sharply with her coal-black hair and deep crimson robes. Her eyes glowed red like hot embers in a brazier, but the pupils were as black and s.h.i.+ny as a serpent's. She cast back her hood with thin, black-nailed fingers, revealing a visage that was compelling, yet evil beyond comprehension. It was the face of a woman with exotic beauty, immense power, and cold-blooded resolve.

The sinister altar was covered with unspeakable stains, thickest at the flat, circular top and thinner near the base. One stain glistened wetly in the dim light; from it, thin rivulets had run down the sides of the altar to form fresh pools on the floor. The chamber reeked of death.

A large bronze door rasped open into the room. Beyond the door was a dark hallway fitted with deep, plush carpet. The candlelight revealed a tall, thin man standing in the doorway. He was hairless but for a wispy, almost imperceptible white beard. Wrinkles crisscrossed his pale skin. In his left hand was a ring of keys; his right hand still grasped the intricately carved wooden door handle. He let go of the handle, knelt in the doorway, and lowered his head.

He spoke in a high-pitched, lilting voice that was silkier than his flowing, pale blue robes.

"Azora, most Revered Priestess, I have come in answer to your summons."

She rose slowly from the floor and turned toward the doorway. Her eyes flickered with ill-concealed contempt as they took him in.

"Ah, Lamici. It will not be long before the final rites are complete.

You will be well rewarded, eunuch."

The last was emphasized, as if to remind him of his station. Azora's voice was rich and deep. It filled the room and echoed faintly. She gestured toward the top of the altar by tilting her head.

"You may dispose of this carrion."

"At once, Priestess."

He retreated briefly into the hallway and emerged bearing a large leather sack. Hesitating, he viewed the scene at the altar with an expression of evident distaste. Azora watched him with amus.e.m.e.nt. Weak, cowardly fool, she thought. As if he could sense this, he moved purposefully to the altar and reached up.

Hanging from the ceiling was the naked body of a once-beautiful young woman. Rusted iron manacles were clamped cruelly around both her ankles and suspended from heavy chains attached to huge metal rings set in the ceiling. Her long, golden-blonde hair hung down, almost touching the top of the blood-smeared altar. Jeweled silver bracelets gleamed on each of her slender wrists, and a bright silver chain hung from her neck. The body was unmarked, in spite of the wet puddles on the chamber floor. Her skin was a ghastly, bloodless white, and her eyes and mouth gaped unnaturally wide in an expression of extreme terror.

Lamici slid his sack around the lifeless form, carefully avoiding contact with any of the red blotches. He pulled the drawstrings tight just below the slender ankles. Gripping one ankle firmly and using his key, he unlocked the manacles. With a surprising show of strength, he slung the sack over his shoulder and lugged it out into the hallway. He paused briefly, carefully shutting the stout bronze door behind him.

Azora turned back to the altar and closed her eyes. With hands extended toward the altar, she began a slow, rhythmic chant. As her lips formed sounds and words in a language that had been old when Atlantis sank, the candles in the room flared up with scarlet fire. The blood streamed toward her in ribbons, and her outstretched hands absorbed the crimson flow. The chant ended abruptly when there was no more blood; the candles subsided to their normal flickering yellow glow.

Opening her eyes, she stepped back from the altar. She could feel the energy coursing through her whole body; no human could match her accelerated thoughts and reflexes. Soon she would have enough energy to invoke the ancient spells. With the waxing of the next moon, she would complete the final ritual to that end. Since her adolescence, she had studied primeval tomes written by high priests of the Thurian serpent-people. These grimoires, long believed lost or destroyed, told of potent sorcery that would prolong life and give complete dominion over mortal men and women.

Azora hungered for power-for enough power to control even the most exalted of the world's kings. Before long, all the mighty would cower at her feet like whipped dogs. It was her destiny to be as the great Thurian priestesses of old. For she was Mutare: more than human. She smiled wickedly, revealing horrific rows of twisted, razor-sharp black teeth.

One.

The Pommel ----------.

The walled city of Pirogia teemed with the usual sights and sounds of local Brythunian nightlife. Fair-skinned, blond-haired Brythunians, at work and play, jammed the streets and plazas. Scattered groups of laughing Kezankian hillmen staggered in and out of the many taverns along the winding ways. The stern-faced city guards regarded these drunkards as a nuisance but gave them a wide berth. Their king, Eldran, was descended of Kezankian stock and would not take kindly to reports of city guards roughing up his countrymen.

Beyond the maze of cobblestone streets were poorly lit, stinking alleys, strewn with refuse. Beggars and drunks shuffled along these dark, noisome, rat-infested avenues, mumbling to themselves in hoa.r.s.e voices. Later, the cheap sour wine they swilled would take its toll, and they would pa.s.s out in the same alleys for the night. Some would never awaken, but to give the city guard its due, even the sleazy alleys of Pirogia were safer than the best in many large cities. A prudent man, however, would keep one hand on his sword-hilt and the other on his purse before venturing into one alone.

Into one such alley, at the end of a curiously deserted street, strolled a short, dark-skinned man. His shoulder-length hair was jet black, and his eyes were even blacker. His cruel, narrow face was sporting a smile. He moved with catlike agility through the alley, blending in with the darkness. Stepping nimbly over the p.r.o.ne form of a snoring beggar, he stopped at a heavy oak door in the wall of a tall brick building. A huge, two-handed iron sword had been driven between the bricks directly above the door, so that only the hilt protruded.

Smoothly drawing out his dagger, he rapped sharply on the door. A m.u.f.fled voice issued from within, cursing in broken Brythunian. "Filthy beggar! Get your reeking, maggot-covered hands off my door. You'll have no wine from me until you show me the color of your coin!"

Answering with a deep, amused voice, the dark-eyed stranger spoke in clear Zamoran. "Imma.n.u.s, you old dog! 'Tis me, Ha.s.sem. Get your bulk over to this door and open it at once!"

The heavy bolt clanked as Imma.n.u.s drew back the portal, swinging it inward. Ha.s.sem peered within while sheathing his dagger. He made this motion easily, without looking down. He had obviously made it countless times before.

The tavern, known as the Pommel, was scarcely better lit than the alley. Dense, oily smoke rose from a few spa.r.s.e lamps set in the corners of the room, cloaking the inn's already-dim environs. Heavily stained wooden tables and benches were scattered throughout. At the far end of the chamber was the bar, flanked by an old brick staircase leading upward.

Seated at the tables was a rogues' gallery of clientele. In one corner sat a well-known Nemedian slavetrader, toasting noisily to his henchmen with a huge earthen tankard. Thick brown ale spilled down the front of his already-stained tunic. He ignored it, roaring loudly to the barkeep for more.

Next to him sat two s.h.i.+fty-eyed Kothians, speaking of plots and schemes in whispers while sipping quietly from their goblets of wine. In the center of the room, a band of Kezankian outlaws groped their harlots and sang a bawdy song. A few tables away sat a scantily clad, sultry Brythunian wench. She giggled at something her young, blond-haired companion whispered to her. He was well dressed, perhaps the son of some n.o.ble, slumming for the night with his willing courtesan. He ran his hand along her bare hip and bent to whisper again into her ear.

Next to the door towered the deeply tanned giant, Imma.n.u.s. He was clad in a brown leather vest and pantaloons. A huge gold hoop dangled from one ear, and the dim light reflected off his s.h.i.+ny bald head. His barrel chest was a ma.s.s of old scars. A three-foot-long scimitar hung from his thick, black leather belt. He beckoned Ha.s.sem to come inside, then effortlessly closed the heavy door with one huge hand. He was a mountain of muscle; his only visible soft spot was his large, round belly. Imma.n.u.s turned to face Ha.s.sem, bending down and speaking quietly into the Zamoran's ear.

"Were you followed, Ha.s.sem?"

"If I had been, my dagger would now require cleaning," he responded in a slightly injured tone. Imma.n.u.s ignored this and thumped his thick-skinned bald pate with a meaty index finger.

"This is my old friend, Ha.s.sem. As long as I pay heed to him, he will stay with me. If I ignore him..." Imma.n.u.s made a cutting gesture across his throat and chuckled at his dark jest.

The scowling Ha.s.sem saw little humor in it. He began fingering a small, securely wrapped bundle tucked into his belt. "Is the barbarian here? I arranged the meeting last night, but the weak-minded savage's wits were so addled with wine, I doubted he would recall our rendezvous."

"Be not so quick to judge him. Barbarian he may be, but I have seen Cimmerians before. They are a hardy and cunning folk, with strange ways, not to be trifled with. Many fools have met death after challenging me, but I would not be so certain of the outcome if I were pitted against a Cimmerian."

Imma.n.u.s stared intently at Ha.s.sem, as if waiting to be rebuked. After a moment, he laughed and slapped the Zamoran on the back with a force that would have knocked a lesser man to his knees. Ha.s.sem slipped him a small pouch that clinked faintly as the enormous Imma.n.u.s stuffed it into his vest.

"You'll find him upstairs. He has just finished his first flagon of wine and is doing well at dice tonight, although I feel his luck is about to change."

Ha.s.sem dodged his way through the revelers, pausing at the bar to procure a goblet of cheap wine. He wet his lips with a pungent swig, swilled it around in his mouth, and spat it out on the stone floor.

Filthy stuff, he thought. These goat-herding Brythunians could learn a lesson or two about wine-making. At least he would be leaving this pigsty of a city tonight, to return to Zamora. The last of his goods would be sold to the barbarian. He was in such a hurry to divest himself of this particular item that he had haggled over the price only for the pretense.

Setting the goblet down, he reached into his belt and felt of the smooth metal of the jeweled silver bracelet that rested there. The reward for leading the city guard to its whereabouts would be a hundredfold greater than the price he had settled on with the slack-witted barbarian. However cunning the Cimmerian was, he could surely not avoid the sweep of the headsman's ax. Ha.s.sem lifted his goblet again and smiled at the thought. He stood up and began ascending the stairs.

The Pommel's upper floor was somewhat better lit than its lower floor, albeit smaller. Furnished only with a few rough-hewn wooden tables and benches, most of the floor was taken up by a large dicing table.

Gamblers crowded elbow to elbow. Loud yelling punctuated every roll of the dice, followed by the groans of losers or the shouts of winners.

The babble of conversation and swearing, in a variety of languages, gave the room a unique feeling, one more like a bazaar than a tavern.

As Ha.s.sem reached the top of the stairs, a particularly tall and muscular gambler moved away from the dice table, a jumble of coins clutched in one huge fist. He strode over to a nearby table and jammed the coins into a pouch at his belt. His square-cut black mane framed a bronzed face that was at once youthful and experienced. Even in the low lighting, his bright eyes were clearly visible, as if they burned with blue fire. Brawny arms, thick with corded muscle, were covered with dozens of long, thin scars. A black leather vest did little to hide the swell of his powerful chest. He wore a broad belt and dark blue breeches, and travel-worn but st.u.r.dy sandals. Hanging from the belt was a ma.s.sive broadsword, its sharp, silvery-blue blade bared and gleaming in the lamplight. His bearing was that of a warrior, seemingly out of place among the wastrels in the tavern, like a wolf among rats.

And indeed, Conan of Cimmeria was out of place. Born on a battlefield and raised in the frozen wastes of harsh, northern Cimmeria, he had little experience with the ways of so-called civilized men in their walled cities of wood and stone. His first contact with them had landed him in chains, a slave captured by Hyperboreans. Memory of that captivity, and his escape from it less than a decade ago, still filled him with rage.

The Cimmerian had few qualms about relieving this sort of men of their ill-gotten wealth. He knew from experience that the pickings were ripe in Zamora, and he had decided to return there, crossing through Brythunia. In the Zamoran city of Shadizar, he would obtain the wealth he needed to surround himself with beautiful women and exotic wines.

His needs were simple, he reasoned. He had all the resources he needed to succeed; from his father, a blacksmith, he had inherited an iron-hard, powerful physique. His mind was quick and sharp, his steel broadsword even sharper. With these tools and his knowledge of thieving, he was sure to fatten his purse.

A flagon was set before him by a serving wench. He lifted it, poured wine into his goblet and drank deeply, tossing a silver coin onto the table. He took note of Ha.s.sem entering the room and watched as the Zamoran approached. He had already learned much from this weasel, he mused. He realized that Ha.s.sem was not to be trusted, but he realized, too, that he himself had gotten the better of a bargain that the two had struck. He would have paid thrice the asking price.

When Ha.s.sem had first shown him the jeweled bracelet, Conan had been fairly sure that it was stolen. He cared little about whom it had been stolen from. It would make the perfect parting gift for Yvanna, the Brytlumian wench he had been staying with during his sojourn in Pirogia. The dice had been good to him tonight, and he could pay for the bauble without emptying his purse. She was a l.u.s.ty wench, and the thought of her lush, curvaceous body and fresh-scented blonde hair, combined with the wine he had drunk, had aroused his amorous appet.i.tes.

Tomorrow, after one more night of pleasuring, he would give her the bracelet and move on to Shadizar.