Conan the Outcast Read online

  “As you can see, this hill was once a burial place for dragons—unless these monsters were laid to rest here by some vast avalanche or flood.” Proudly he indicated a bony assemblage exposed across the roof of the gallery. It arched up from fin-like phalanges, along curving ribs and barbed spine, down a neck which sinuously doubled back along the cave's far wall, to the monstrous, spike-toothed head. One knife-like fang jutted up murderously from the floor of the cave amid a nest of smaller but no less sharp teeth. It was the skeleton of a great long-necked, long-snouted fish, with a stomach cavity so large it almost encompassed them now where they stood. "Such are the monsters that roved these deserts aforetimes,” the sage said. "And who knows, they might someday be called back to life by the gods.

  "Using these tools, in my spare hours,” Solon continued, gesturing to an array of worn, shovel-edged and awl-pointed pieces of bone standing against the wall, "I have enlarged the cave and laid bare the handiwork of the gods. And here, at the very back of my abode, is the source of my strength and the reward of my labour.”

  Beckoning Khumanos to a covered alcove in the narrowing space, Solon pushed aside a soiled rag of curtain to reveal a natural seep of water. From a glistening white bone that depended fang-like from the ceiling, beads of water plopped slowly into a bowl formed from the lopsided, inverted skull of one of the cave-wall creatures. The old hermit dipped his hand in and slurped noisily from it, taking most of what was in the shallow basin; then he gestured hospitably for Khumanos to drink. The Exalted Priest refused meekly, backing away.

  "Sublime One,” he said, "I come to your holy shrine to drink my fill not of your scarce water but of your plentiful wisdom! Our great god Votantha, through the mediation of Anaximander the King, has set a mighty task before me... yet I know not whether I have the resolution to carry it out.”

  "I know of your trial,” Solon said, pushing past him. "The very heavens are at war. Signs and omens tell us to prepare the way—that the hour again draws near for Votantha to show himself in our sphere. A great thing indeed—it is a rare privilege for a human to confront a god, to cast frail mortal eyes on his living face." Creeping on all fours into a low corner of the cave, the hermit settled his grimy haunches on a soiled mat, where he sat with his callused, spindly legs crossed. "There is, of course, the eventuality of one’s own death..

  "It is not alone dying that frightens me,” Khumanos said, falling to his knees before the sage. "After so great an honour as meeting the Great One, I would hardly expect to cling to my puny life. It is more the dread of the moment itself.... What will be the god’s true aspect, and how can I, a mere moth before a hurricane, rightly acquit myself? Also...” here he bowed his shaven head in shame.. there is an unworthy squeamishness in my soul, a weak-hearted reluctance to unleash such terror on other mortals, who after all may be ignorant of our creed—who may, until the last dreadful moment, retain their faith in tamer, weaker gods." The young priest shook his head in embarrassed discomfiture. “If so, they will never truly appreciate the grandeur and glory that is to be theirs—”

  "The sacrifices, you mean,” Solon prompted him with an air of certainty. "The folk of the city that is to be offered up."

  "Yes,” Khumanos admitted with downcast eyes. "Qjara, the place is, a trading station to the north, which Votantha in his wisdom has seen fit to fatten for our sacrifice with plentiful rains and caravans.”

  "A city of unbelievers,” Solon said.

  "Yes, ’tis true.” Khumanos nodded glumly. "I know nothing of the town... but I imagine it is much like Sark, with farmers and merchants, men, wives, and children—”

  "An impious waste,” the hermit echoed. "I think I see—you would not have them die before accepting Votantha as their lord, and lose the chance to serve at his feet hereafter—that is most pious of you, my child!” Solon cackled a laugh. "But the answer is easy, and is provided for in our holy dogma. Offer the city a mission from your temple, to teach the true way! Give them a chance to convert before the end comes.”

  Khumanos shook his head. "Many of them would not accept it, at least not in a short while. Most city-states of the Shemitish League have their own gods, you must know—or in this case, a goddess. They cling stubbornly to their beliefs—”

  "It does not matter,” Solon interrupted curtly, picking food from between his last two adjacent teeth with a grimy, cracked fingernail. "Once you have offered them the choice, it is on their heads. If they choose not to follow, they are unworthy, and deserve an infidel's torment in the afterlife.”

  "But, Sublime One, do you not see? They are innocent!” Meeting the hermit's eye, Khumanos’s sudden tears and breaking voice revealed the full depth of anguish that filled his soul. “Humble, honest men, young women, little babes! Can I really deliver them to the vengeful fury of the Living God without a true, fair opportunity to accept him and make their peace?”

  “I understand, Khumanos,” Solon said, sternly regarding him. “Your sin is great indeed. At heart you lack the iron faith that is necessary to an Exalted Priest of Votantha.” Over the priest’s renewed sobbing, he continued calmly. "You are young. Your heart still cherishes idyllic notions of earthly life— nature's plenty, the joys of honest work and family, the carnal love of women—you have not lived enough yet to be burned and tempered fully in the harsh fires of faith.” The hermit pivoted on his gaunt shanks and rummaged in a tattered bag of charms and fetishes that lay beside his mat. “A grave failing, but understandable. I have here that which will relieve your suffering.”

  “You... you have?” Recovering somewhat from his sorrow, Khumanos watched the wise old man through wet, blinking eyes.

  "I have indeed." From his medicine bag Solon drew a tarnished holy relic; at a distance, it resembled a short, blunt knife. "This can sever the painful ties of youth and cut the cords of your unattainable yearnings.”

  As the old hermit hunkered up in the low part of the cave and crept forward, ducking beneath the flattened skeletal imprint of a long-tailed bird, Khumanos saw that the object he held had once been a sword or heavy knife, long since broken off near its heavy bronze hilt. The decaying stub of blade was black and jagged with corrosion, and could not have been very keen; yet Solon gripped it between crosspiece and butt as if it were a full-sized weapon.

  "What, then, do you intend to do with that?” Khumanos asked him, frightened.

  "This?” Solon said, still approaching. "This is the legendary Sword of Onothimantos, a fabled mystic charm. Do you know its power?”

  "No.” Khumanos, feeling panic leap in his vitals, began involuntarily backing away. “What is it for?”

  “Very simple, really. It will kill your youthful soul and release you from its torments.” Solon, up on his feet now, slowed with an appearance of manoeuvring subtly for position—no great challenge, really, since he stood between Khumanos and the open mouth of the cave. “Do not fear—it will be a great relief in the long run. Your mind and body will be freed for the work that lies ahead.”

  "What? You mean... kill only a part of me? But how can that be?... will it hurt?” The Exalted Priest, obviously unwilling to be rushed into a magical rite, moved nervously to avoid the hermit’s advance.

  "All things are possible with faith in Votantha,” Solon said with a wily grin, choosing that moment to strike. “And all things worthwhile... hurt!”

  Young Khumanos, obviously expecting to be slashed or jabbed by the stubby remnant of a blade, did not throw himself back energetically enough from the hermit's blow. Old Solon, astonishingly, executed a lithe, leaping thrust, as a palace fencer would have done. He struck not with the broken stub but with the whole blade, its main section long vanished—and the young priest, from his bulging eyes and gasp of agony, obviously felt his body pierced by its entire, invisible length.

  The ghost-blade struck straight to the heart, true and clean. Khumanos took the blow deep in his fellow feeling; it jabbed sharply through his credulity and, with a skilful twist, severed his noble aspirations
. All the earthly human passions in his breast cried out in anguish at the stroke, and his face contorted in searing pain. But by the time the shard of corroded metal thumped against his chest and rebounded without doing visible harm, his soul was already dead.

  "I see.” Exalted Priest Khumanos spoke coldly and immediately to his attacker, while still brushing away flakes of rust from the chest of his tunic. “You were right, everything is much clearer now.” He sank to his knees and waited patiently before Solon. "You must instruct me about the opening of the way."

  Solon, putting aside the mystic blade, sat down cross-legged. He then addressed the priest at length, explaining in careful detail the steps which were to be taken. As he spoke on, the hour grew late. Day blaze faded from the sky outside; it deepened to a sunset of gold and crimson, making the valley resemble a true cauldron of fire. Inside the cave, so that his student might discern the diagrams he scratched in the filth of the floor, Solon was forced to light a flame of turtle oil in a lamp made from an inverted tortoise shell. Its unsteady glow caused the shadows of projecting bones to dance and shimmer on the cave’s red walls.

  "Thus it must be done, and only thus. Make the least error, and the wrath of the god will be visited on you in ways you could not dream.” Solon carefully wiped the last scratchings from the cave floor. "The idol is the key.”

  "I see,” Khumanos said, arising. "How did you, Solon, become the keeper of this timeless knowledge?”

  "I was a high priest of Sark, younger than yourself when the city of Yb was visited by our god. I was not the Exalted Priest—he was consumed in the sacrifice. But I served as his assistant, sent to watch the city from afar and carry back word of Votantha’s coming. I remember the rituals clearly.”

  "The city of Yb was destroyed seven centuries agone, Solon.”

  “Perhaps so. After bearing the news I wandered mad in the wastes for a time, and then lay here in this cave, weak unto death. For know you, I was callow and lacked faith even as you did. The Sword of Onothimantos saved me.” “You are soulless by virtue of its power?” Khumanos asked.

  "Perhaps. I had to wield the blade myself, and so may have done a poor job. I suspect that some part of my soul has since grown back, like a chancre imperfectly excised.” The hermit shrugged, face knotted in his habitual grin. "But as you can see, it did me no harm and indeed, much good! By Votantha’s grace I have enjoyed a long life.”

  "Yes. Long enough, I think." Leaning suddenly forward, Khumanos seized the hermit by the neck and one scrawny shoulder, dragging the tough old carcass up to chest height. "You have passed along the burden of your wisdom.” Heaving his victim aside, the Exalted Priest dragged the struggling hermit onto the prong of dragon's jawbone set into the foot of the wall. Lunging at it, he bore down so hard that the upward-thrusting fang pierced deep into the base of Solon’s skull. "Now your usefulness is ended.”

  Turning aside from the slackening body, Khumanos gathered up his tutor’s meagre belongings. Then, under the starry loom of night, he strode forth from the cave to prepare the way for the Implacable One. With what he had gained this day, he saw no further difficulty in carrying out his life’s purpose—to serve his god Votantha, the mighty Tree of Mouths.

  III

  The Caravansary

  The barefoot dancer leaped and twisted in the sand before the fire. With a quick gesture of her red-nailed hand, one of the filmy gossamer veils that screened her loins was snatched away and flung into the flames. There it ignited; floating skyward like a spent dream, it consumed itself and vanished into the starry night.

  Sharia’s dance resembled the leaping flames themselves, Conan thought as he regarded her— the light, lilting steps, the quick pirouettes and prances, all performed to the droning insistence of pipes and the urgent chiming of cymbals. Now as he watched he could plainly see firelight reflecting from the pale-sheened skin of her belly and haunches; to avoid straining his neck unduly, he pivoted his chair in its place under the shelter.

  About him, the caravan quarter of Qjara was a fringe of low buildings and alleys centred on the large, dusty yard just inside the Tariff Gate. It contained a water trough, stables, and ample space for the horses and camels of a half-dozen caravans—as well as the tents of the camel-drovers, who often as not preferred to dine and sleep in the sand with their mounts. The caravansaries and inns that served the quarter were built as open stalls, oriented toward the outdoor fire pits, with canopies that could be lashed down tight during wind storms.

  Tonight was a quiet, off-season night. Only the one caravan was in, westward bound and not richly laden—unless, like the Stygians, one valued salt highly enough to wage wars for it. The yard was dark and still except for this one fire. From where he sat, Conan could see stars glinting all the way down to the loom of the city wall on one hand and, on the other, the lower, battlemented wall that separated the caravan quarter from the rest of Qjara.

  As the dance approached its climax, the talk and drunken laughter around the fire diminished. The camel-drovers’ interest was heightening dangerously; yet Sharia knew her business. When a hand clutched too close or a shadowy shape rose toward her in the firelight, she would evade it deftly—otherwise, a casual scuff of her bare foot would fling sand into the offender's eyes and effectively end the distraction.

  Another of her veils darted into the fire and floated heavenward, a dissolving arc of flame. That left two of the original seven. At least so Conan judged, if his count wasn’t hindered by wine—he would never have undertaken to compute how many beakers of arrak he had downed this evening. Counting the veils still affixed to the whirling dancer was a near-impossibility.

  The performance accelerated swiftly toward a close, as more of the woman-starved nomads of the caravan began rising up and moving in on the dancer. Sharia combined fine art with finer evasion, keeping them just out of reached as she danced.

  The actual moment of near-nudity, when her last veil was sacrificed to the ravening flame, passed briefly and tantalizingly. A pale flash of sleek, supple torso... then the skirling and chiming wound to a close, and Sharia dashed behind a screen in the sturdy stone and timber part of the lodge.

  When she emerged again some time later, her supple charms coyly draped in silk, the would-be pursuers were already being staved off with more drink and with the good-natured attentions of the less athletic but more accommodating women of the caravansary. It was to Conan’s side, at the long, oiled table in the head of the shelter, that Sharia went.

  "Tap-keeper, a long, cool drink!” she called out. "And for this outlander, no more arrak!" she teased, laying an arm on his shoulders. "He must stay sober to keep me satisfied!”

  Easily she settled into the chair beside Conan. She did not twist away from his large, familiar hand as it crept around her waist—rather, she glanced bright-eyed around the room so that the other patrons might notice and stay clear of this hulking northerner who laid open claim to her.

  "So, Conan,” she asked, turning to him, "how did you like my dance? Did it remind you of your wicked nights in far-off Shadizar?”

  Conan laughed, pondering. "Such a dance in the Maul in Shadizar, by such a maid... nay, the fools would not appreciate it! The audience would be too intent on slitting each other’s throats, or purses, or on avoiding such a fate. But here in the desert...” he moved his hand up the dancer's back to stroke her lithe neck "... why, girl, a dance like that is a wonder, a gem beyond price.”

  "Oh? I danced it specially for you.” Seeming less than completely satisfied with his praise, Sharia twisted from beneath his touch and turned to accept her drink.

  "Your dance... my child, it was the flight of a star streaking across the heavens!” a third voice broke in. "It was the gallop of the swiftest, costliest racing camel of Afghulistan! O Lovely One, I am Memchub.” The speaker was a plump, short-bearded, silk-robed man of eastern Shem—chief merchant, Conan guessed, of the caravan currently laying over in Qjara. Approaching the dancer from behind, he laid covetous finge
rtips on her shoulder. "If you would but come and sit with me, I will tell you more of what I thought of your dance. Yea, I would commend your talents to Ellael’s bright stars above—”

  "Nay—thanks for your praise," Sharia said shortly, "but go see one of the tavern maids for companionship. I am an artist, and will someday dance in the temple of the One True Goddess, or in noble Shadizar—and tonight I have an escort.” With a toss of her head she indicated Conan, who loomed up straighter in his seat to lend substance to her point.

  "An escort?—I see, a fine, manly young ox! I have employed many such, and could use a few more of them just now on my caravan.” The Shemite glanced dismissively past Conan, back to Sharia. "But surely, as an artist you yearn for finer things—the worldly and genteel conversation a cultured man can offer you, polite treatment for once, and rare little gifts and trinkets—” Pulling aside his embroidered silk vest from his silken shirt waist, he jingled the beaded purse that was tied there "—pretty gold coins from faraway lands—”

  "Here, now,” Conan said, grasping the merchant by one shoulder and twisting it until silk tourniquetted the soft flesh, “the wench wants to be left alone—”

  "He is right!” Sharia said. "But Conan, remember, Master Anax doesn’t want you damaging his customers needlessly—you can let him go if he promises to behave.” To Memchub she said sweetly. "If you want company, I’m sure sweet Babeth will be happy to entertain you.”

  The harlot Babeth came swiftly at the mention of her name, leaving a less prosperous camel-keeper abandoned on a nearby bench. "Indeed, I will be pleased to share the company of such a sophisticated aristocrat as you,” she tittered, pursing her plump berry-stained lips at Memchub. “It would be a rare pleasure to spend time with a man who doesn't prefer to romance a girl while leaning on his camel!” The merchant, massaging his crumpled shoulder, blinked at Babeth with grateful relief, no longer daring to meet Sharia’s gaze. She spent some moments introducing the two and shooing them off into a corner. Then she turned to back Conan, who had returned to his drink.