Conan the Outcast Read online

  “No, Zaius, do not apologize.” The queen smiled tolerantly back at him. “I think it is safe to say it would freshen and invigorate our temple dances.” She cast another glance at the Sarkad troupe, who now knelt respectfully along one side of the hall. “And it might tie in splendidly with the festivities that lie ahead regarding the royal succession.” She turned engagingly to Anaximander. “You know, O King, that a wedding already is in our city’s future.”

  “A duel as well,” Semiarchos added, "but that is nothing. Zaius will dispose of his challenger effortlessly. What the queen alludes to,” he explained to his guest, "is the marriage of our daughter Afriandra to this fine young champion. Since Regula and I have only a female heir, we have chosen this as the best means of carrying forward our city’s traditional alliance between palace and temple. But—” the king paused reflectively, stroking the silver curls of his beard "—now, perhaps, their union could symbolize the joining of Saditha and Votantha! That is something to think on—"

  "Afriandra, your daughter?” King Anaximander interrupted him. "To be sure, I have heard much praise of her wit and beauty. Why is she not with us?”

  Queen Regula sighed. "Ah, a young girl’s moods and indispositions! She was unwell at breakfast—but now, I think, she should join us.” Beckoning to a maidservant, she ordered softly, "Aella, go and fetch the princess, if you please!”

  "Aha,” Anaximander crowed, "I can see that you are indulgent rulers! You tolerate your daughter's girlish whims, and even entreat your servants by name! Nay, do not apologize... fine, gentle folk such as yourselves are prized by Votantha! You are just the sort that I and my city seek to... befriend.”

  Semiarchos, seeming a little ruffled, shot back, "And you, Anaximander? Do you keep a queen and heirs in your home palace?” He smiled more tolerantly. "Or are you one of those self-indulgent rulers who favour a harem of fine noblewomen?”

  "Neither,” his guest answered shortly. "To beget offspring so early in my reign might cause... complications later, when the child came of age. In time I will choose a few suitable slave-girls and make provisions for the continuation of my dynasty in the male line, with myself in firm control. Such has been the custom of my fathers these many centuries.”

  “Yes, I see, an understandable concern.” Semiarchos spoke quickly to cover his wife’s disapproving frown. "We shall face the same inevitable difficulties, once young Zaius here becomes nominal king while I am still in my prime.” He thumped his silver-haired chest with the heel of one hand, then leaned forward to clap the stiff, pensive sword master on one shoulder. "But no doubt we can take some years to school the fellow in kingship, and work out a gradual transition of power—”

  "Afriandra, my child!” Queen Regula exclaimed. "Come, you have kept our exalted guest waiting long enough! Meet King Anaximander, my dear. He is about to undertake a glorious alliance with our city and our temple.” As she spoke, the princess glided in from the inner doorway, bowed before the Sarkad king, and bestowed perfunctory kisses on the foreheads of her seated father and mother. The even more measured, deliberate, kiss that she offered the scowling Zaius was returned stiffly and unresponsively.

  "This, dear King," Queen Regula continued, "is our daughter Afriandra, sole heir to the throne and royal line of Qjara.”

  "Welcome, Princess,” Anaximander declared, "I can see that you are as bright and well-favoured as your royal parents. Come sit with us, and enjoy the rare drinks and viands that are set forth for our pleasure. We have Zamboulan date wine, as you can see, the finest Turanian arrak, and a special treat I myself brought in tribute, aromatic narcinthe of Samara. Your parents allow you strong drink, do they not? Come, sit and talk, I want to learn much more about all of you!”

  While the new round of refreshments was poured, the five sat conversing. The princess remained demurely silent, except for monosyllabic answers to King Anaximander’s queries. She did seem to take an active interest in the plan of marrying the two cities’ gods; indeed, she began to inveigh against it, but was quickly silenced by her mother.

  “Now, now, my dear child,” the queen said, “do not trouble yourself! The matter is far from decided, in any event. Here, drink up your good Samaran wine.”

  “Yes, ’tis true,” King Semiarchos chimed in. “After all, our lords Votantha and Saditha themselves must first be consulted to see if they will give their consent to this betrothal.” To Anaximander the king explained, “My wife rose to the rank of high priestess in large part because she has a fine sensitivity to the will of the goddess through her dreams and visions, as well as through the usual bone-casting and en-trail-reading. It is a well-developed faculty of hers, so it should not be long before... Afriandra, my dear, what is the matter?” Semiarchos’s speech was broken off as his daughter sagged from her seat toward the floor, barely caught by the maidservant Aella, who stood nearby. With the queen’s help she was eased back up into the chair, but then lay unconscious. On being brought to awareness by vigorous chafing of her hands and cheeks, she would not open her eyes, but said in subdued tones that she was unwell and wished to return to her room. In moments, barely able to stand with assistance, she was helped out of the gallery by a pair of servants.

  “What do you suppose it was?” King Anaximander asked solicitously. “She kept peering at me across her cup—then her eyes rolled up and she collapsed!”

  “Ah, young girls and their nervous ills!” Queen Regula apologized. "Do not take offence. I remember I was the same at her age! It may have been the strong drink—we never allow it, you know—this was her first. She will be well by evening, I’m sure.”

  “In any case,” Anaximander said, "you are greatly blessed in having such a fine, sensitive daughter. You must love her deeply and look forward to the joys she will bring you in years to come. I shall pray that great Votantha grants you everything you richly deserve!”

  Princess Afriandra, after receiving a healing draught of tonic, lay asleep in her chamber all the afternoon. When finally she stirred and awoke, it was to see a tall figure outlined in the dusk through her balcony window.

  "Conan,” she gasped, raising her head from the sleeping-pad and blinking dazedly at him, "how did you come here?”

  "Ever since the raid, when I learned how easy it is to pass over the city wall, I’ve had trouble keeping myself away.” He hovered in the half-light near the window, ready to make his escape on short notice. "I sensed that all was not well with you... and here I find you asleep before nightfall, most likely drugged. What is it, girl, what is the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing, Conan... only the stress of high birth, and of entertaining foreign kings—” "You've been at the narcinthe again, haven’t you? I can tell by the way your eyes rove and gape.” Moving up behind a bedside chair to shield his modesty, he asked her, "What about that door—does it lock? I ask it only to preserve our safety—”

  “Do not worry, none will enter without knocking. I can keep them out.” Easing back on the rail of her sleeping couch, she beckoned to Conan. "Come and sit nearer, if you are here to comfort me—though it is always strange to be comforted by a hulking warrior clad only in helmet and greaves. What of that golden sword across your middle? Is it real, or only part of my vision?”

  "I would not be so foolish as to creep into a royal palace without my Ilbarsi knife, though it is no polished trinket.” Conan knelt beside the bed, close against it for modesty’s sake. "What then, child, have your visions of the future been troubling you?

  "Oh Conan, it was terrible!” she said, as if with a rush of memory. "I looked at my parents’ foreign guest—Axander or something, he is called. There was a strangeness about his face... and then suddenly it crinkled up into a burned skull with horrid, charred lumps of flesh clinging to it—I fear that something dreadful is in the offing,” she sighed.

  “Well, that’s an easy enough prophecy to explain," Conan reassured her, stroking her hair. "Mayhap his tent will catch fire on his journey home. What of Zaius, I want to know? He
is the one to watch, with our duel impending. Did you get a look at him? And what of your parents...?”

  “Stop it, Conan, please! I could only see the visiting king, everything else was hazy and... and I was afraid to look! I fainted dead away.” Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed softly.

  “There, there, girl.” Awkwardly, Conan edged onto the bed and placed a protective arm around the princess. She snuggled close against him, still weeping, and lay her head on his chest.

  He took pains to comfort her properly; the job turned out to be time-consuming, lasting until late in the evening. Once or twice timid knocks sounded at the door; Afriandra showed remarkable presence of mind, calling out brusque commands that sent the intruders away. She returned then to the breathy business of consolation as if nothing had happened.

  At length she rolled over and struck a light. She touched the tinder to an oil lamp on her bed-table, laving the room in faint, wavering gold. The light made their tousled sleeping-pad an isle in a murky sea, on which the two of them reclined like weary swimmers resting on a sandbar.

  Touching Conan’s sun-bronzed flank, Afriandra announced, “Here is the best proof I have yet had of my gift for prophecy. My visions did not lie.”

  Conan stretched on the firm, cool bed, propping himself on one elbow. "You mean I... look the same?” he prompted.

  "Every scar, every thew, is exactly as foretold.” Assuring him soberly of this, she traced certain conclusive features with her forefinger.

  "Glad I am that you are not seeing me headless, or lacking other vital parts,” Conan said. "That gives me at least an even chance in my forthcoming temple bout.”

  "Conan, I meant to speak to you about that— I would have made another rendezvous with you, if you had not come here.” Her voice, issuing from her nymph-like form, was surprisingly firm and even. "Surely you can imagine that it is not easy for me to have the two men whom I most... revere... ready to slaughter one another mere days hence! And not even in a fight over me, strictly speaking—since I am already promised in marriage and have no intention of undoing the betrothal.”

  Searching his eyes for any sign of hurt, she almost pleaded with him, "Can you not see that you have made things very difficult between Zaius and me?”

  "I?” Conan bridled. "I made no difficulty! I aided you, if you recall, at your earnest plea— then, if I am not mistaken, you used me as a foil to warm up your half-baked temple hero! He, Zaius, is the fly in the ointment! He made the difficulties, not I!”

  "I, used you?” Afriandra marvelled. "I merely asked your advice as a traveller, a man of the world! Granted, I should have known it would end here in my bedchamber—me, the prophetess with the infallible vision.. she shook her head in exasperation.

  “But even so, Conan, that is no reason for you to fight Zaius,” she went on chiding him. “Try to be adult about it! His tongue is as sharp as his sword, I know... but then, must you be so touchy about your barbarian pride? Especially here in Qjara, where we know nothing of your homeland, and whence you plan to be gone in a month's time! Zaius is difficult, to be sure, but can you not see that beneath it all he has feelings like any man—that he can be hurt like you, and has been hurt?”

  “Not as hurt as he will be, by Crom’s cudgel! That slandering hound—”

  “Hush, now,” Afriandra insisted, laying a hand on her lover’s taut shoulder. "Conan, listen, Zaius has heavy burdens to bear! As temple champion he must be unbeatable. He must shrug off dangers that would make other men dissolve in sweat and tears... or at any rate he must seem to. And now my parents have decreed that he will go from commoner to king— being king of Qjara is no lark, Conan, it is a life laden with cares and responsibilities! On top of it all, he must deal with me and my independent ways—”

  "And I can think of none worse for the job than that self-important prig!” Conan spat. "No man is more likely to turn your fairly tolerable city into a soulless prison, another Shemitish horror! I will be doing you and your town a precious favour to lay him out in shanks and cutlets—”

  “Conan, he is noble and sensitive at heart.” The princess was pleading now, almost in tears. "He may be limited, true, but he is what we have to work with! For my sake, and for the sake of my royal line—”

  She was interrupted by a faint knock at the door. "Afriandra—Princess, are you well?” a muffled voice asked.

  "Yes, I am better now.” As before, she spoke up firmly and distinctly. "Go away, I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  "Forgive me, Princess.” The door pushed smoothly open. "I cannot help it, I needed to...” At the sight of the two lying in the lamplight, the face in the dark doorway paled. It was Zaius.

  The lips took time to form words. When they came, they were hard and cold: "Oh, I see.” "Zaius, I...” Afriandra began. But it was too late; the door pulled smoothly shut. In utter silence he was gone.

  "Well, now, the fellow has some good sense after all.” Conan eased his grip on the Ilbarsi knife he clutched below the level of the bed. "Mayhap when you are his queen, he will afford you decent freedom—”

  "No, Conan, this is worse than ever!” Intently she clutched his arm. "Listen to me, you must leave Qjara at once! What does it matter to you, anyway...? I can give you money for provisions! Camp in the hills, or just out of reach of the city, until the first caravans come. You must not face Zaius in this duel—if you were to slay him, it would be the worst thing for our city! And after tonight I could never dissuade him from slaying you—"

  "Impossible,” Conan said, sitting up and drawing on his garments. "I challenged him openly, to remedy his vile insults! Afriandra, by your own temple laws, the challenge is sacred—as it is by my law!” He slid the thick-bladed knife into its belt-loop. "I could never slink away from this fight, though all the princesses in Shem were to beg and bribe me to.” Arising, he turned to stroke her hair a last time.

  "Very well then, if you cannot back down... there is still one thing you can do to show your love for me.” She looked up at him defiantly with tears streaming down her face. “You can let Zaius kill you!”

  IX

  Sea of Sand

  King Anaximander of Sark rode across the desert in stately comfort. Reclining in his sedan chair, he enjoyed the irregular motion of the slave-borne journey. It resembled what had been described to him of travel over the great ocean in a small boat—the gradual crawl up the face of a dune, slowing as the bearers wearied with the steepening slope and the sand sliding away under their feet—then the delicious forward tilt; the swift, giddy descent as the slaves fought to restrain the rush of the litter down the back of the mountain of sand. And finally the slow, weary recovery, as his human steeds panted from their labour and prepared themselves for the next climb.

  In an innocent, childlike way, Anaximander found it delightful. He appreciated the unparalleled softness of the ride, the lazy stirring of the gauze curtains in the breeze created by forward motion and, above all, the view ahead from his shaded seat, of rank upon rank of graceful, undulating dunes. He had been wise, he told himself, in selecting this route for the return trip to Sark, instead of the level, boring expanses of the dead sea bottoms.

  He would have to discipline his bearers for it later, of course—this irregularity of pace constituted poor training and might, along with the preposterous temple dance he had made them perform during the state visit to Qjara, spoil this lot of slaves entirely. But for now the experience was a unique one, and he savoured it.

  If the troop of military guards had any opinion of the route he had chosen, they wisely kept it to themselves. They covered the dunes in a loose formation, spread out on all sides of the royal sedan. But now their commander, a scarred, hound-faced officer in polished bronze, spurred his horse up beside Anaximander's moving throne.

  “Your Supremacy,” he reported with careful tonelessness, “a procession has been sighted afar, skirting the alkali barrens to westward. It is thought to be the priest Khumanos’s party, conducting the holy
idol south toward Qjara.”

  Anaximander considered a moment. "Good, then,” he declared. "It means that he adheres diligently to the schedule I set for him.” After more silent reflection, the king said, "Even so, it has been long since I had knowledge of his progress, and that only by way of couriers. Have him brought here forthwith; a private interview is called for." Thoughtfully he stroked the oiled curls of his beard. "And send along a pair of officers to keep his slaves marching in his absence, so the progress of the idol will not be unduly delayed.”

  "It will be done at once, Your Supremacy.” The commander, lashing his mount smartly away, could soon be heard barking instructions to a subordinate. That officer rode some way further before relaying the order to his troops. Moments later, on seeing the thin dust-plumes raised by galloping steeds, Anaximander was satisfied that a squad of cavalry had been dispatched ahead. Borne forward on his own swaying voyage, he caught occasional sight of the riders as they topped distant dunes, dwindling with each further crest.

  In little more than an hour they returned. This time they approached the royal conveyance from behind; the king only noticed them as they crested the last dune. With a sharp clap of his hands, he signalled his slaves to halt the sedan chair at the bottom of the dune. In the squad’s midst, as he could plainly see, rode Khumanos.

  From the awkward, jolting way the priest clung to the back of the horse, it was evident that the saddle was a new experience for him. He must be suffering some novel and excruciating bruises and chafes, Anaximander judged, not to mention the deep bone and muscle soreness that would come later.

  Even so, when the cavalry detachment reined up alongside, the black-skinned priest let himself down stiffly from his mount and stood there on his own unsteady legs. He did not sag or topple into the sand, as Anaximander half expected. In his gaunt, weathered form there was a firmness and resolution the king had not previously seen.