Conan Compilation - The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian Part 59

"Be not so sure!" the fiendish hatred of the Stygian glittered for an instant redly in his eyes.

"Some way, some how, I will find the Ring again, and when I do, by the serpent-fangs of Set, you shall pay "

The hot-tempered Aquilonian struck him heavily across the mouth with his open hand. Thoth reeled, blood starting from his lips.

"You grow over-bold, dog," growled the outlaw. "Have a care; I am still your master. If you have served me, I have protected you. Go upon the house-tops and shout that Ascalante is in the city plotting against the king if you dare."

"I dare not," mumbled the slave, wiping the blood from his lips.

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"No, you do not dare," Ascalante grinned bleakly. "For if I die by your stealth or treachery, a hermit priest in the southern desert will know of it, and will break the seal to a ma.n.u.script I left in his hands. And when he reads what I wrote thereon, a word will be whispered in Stygia, and a wind will creep up from the south by midnight. And where will you hide your head, Thothamon?"The slave shuddered and his dusky face went ashen.

"Enough!" Ascalante changed his tone peremptorily. "I have work for you. I do not trust Dion.

Ride after him, and if you do not overtake him on the road, proceed to his country estate and remain with him until we send for him. Don't let him out of your sight. He is mazed with fear, and might bolt might even rush to Conan in a panic and reveal the whole plot, hoping to thus save his own hide. Go!"

The slave bowed, hiding the hate in his eyes, and did as he was bidden. Ascalante turned again to his wine.CHAPTER 2.When I was a fighting-man, the kettle-drums they beat,

The people scattered gold-dust before my horse's feet;

But now I am a great king, the people hound my track

With poison in my wine-cup, and daggers at my back.

The Road of Kings.

The room was large and ornate, with rich tapestries on the polished-panelled walls, deep carpets on the tiled floor, and with the lofty ceiling adorned with intricate carvings and scrollwork.

Behind a gold-chased writing table sat a man whose broad shoulders and sun-browned skin seemed out of place among those luxuriant surroundings. He seemed more a part of the sun and winds and high places of the outlands. His slightest movement spoke of steel-spring muscles knit to a keen brain with the co-ordination of a born fighting-man. There was nothing deliberate or measured about his movements. Either he was perfectly at rest still as a bronze statue or else he was in motion, not with the jerky quickness of over-tense nerves, but with a cat-like speed that blurred the sight which tried to follow him.

His garments were of rich fabric, but simple style. He wore no rings or ornaments, and his

329.square-cut black mane was confined merely by a cloth-of-silver band about his head.

Now he laid down the golden stylus with which he had been laboriously scrawling on papyrus, rested his chin on his fist, and fixed his smoldering blue eyes enviously on the man who stood before him. This person was occupied in his affairs at the moment, for he was taking up the laces of his gold-chased armor, and abstractedly whistling a rather unconventional performance, considering that he was in the presence of a king.

"Prospero," said the man at the table, "these matters of statecraft weary me as all the fighting I have done never did."

"All part of the game, Conan," answered the dark-eyed Poitanian. "You are king you must play the part."

"I wish I might ride with you to Nemedia," said Conan enviously. "It seems ages since I had a horse between my knees but Publius says that affairs in the city require my presence. Curse him!

"When I overthrew the old dynasty," he continued, speaking with the easy familiarity which existed only between him and the Poitanian, "it was easy enough, though it seemed bitter hard at the time. Looking back now over the wild path I followed, all those days of toil, intrigue, slaughter and tribulation seem like a dream.

"I did not dream far enough, Prospero. When King Numedides lay dead at my feet and I tore the crown from his gory head and set it on my own, I had reached the ultimate border of my dreams. I prepared myself to take the crown, not to hold it. In the old free days all I wanted was a sharp sword and a straight path to my enemies. Now no paths are straight and my sword is useless.

"When I overthrew Numedides, then I was the Liberator now they spit at my shadow. They have put a statue of Numedides in the temple of Mitra, and people go and wail before it, hailing him as a saintly monarch who was done to death by a red-handed barbarian when I led her armies to victory as a mercenary, Aquilonia overlooked the fact that I was a foreigner now she can not forgive me.

"Now in the temple of Mitra, there come to burn incense to Numedides' memory, men whom his hangmen blinded and maimed, men whose sons died in his dungeons, whose wives and daughters were dragged into his seraglio. The fickle fools!"

"Rinaldo is largely responsible," answered Prospero, drawing up his sword belt another notch.

"He sings songs that make men mad. Hang him in his jester's garb to the highest tower in the

330.city. Let him make rhymes for the vultures."

Conan shook his lion head. "No, Prospero, he's beyond my reach. A great poet is greater than any king. His songs are mightier than my sceptre, for he has near ripped the heart from my breast when he chose to sing for me. I will die and be forgotten, but Rinaldo's songs will live forever.

"No, Prospero," the king continued, a sombre look of doubt shadowing his eyes, "there is something hidden some undercurrent of which we are not aware. I sense it as in my youth I sensed the tiger hidden in the tall gra.s.s. There is a nameless unrest throughout the kingdom. I feel unseen snares about me. I am like a hunter who crouches by his small fire amid the forest and hears stealthy feet padding in the darkness, and almost sees the glimmer of burning eyes. If I could but come to grips with something tangible, that I could cleave with my sword! I tell you, it's not by chance that the Picts have of late so fiercely a.s.sailed the frontiers, so that the Bossonians have called for aid to beat them back. I should have ridden with the troops."

"Publius feared a plot to trap and slay you beyond the frontier," replied Prospero, smoothing his silken surcoat over his s.h.i.+ning mail, and admiring his tall lithe figure in a silver mirror.

"That's why he urged you to remain in the city. Forget these doubts. They are born of your barbarian instincts. Let the people snarl! The mercenaries are ours, and the Black Dragons, and every rogue in Poitain swears by you. Your only danger is a.s.sa.s.sination, and that's impossible, with men of the imperial troops guarding you day and night. What are you working at there?"

"A map," answered Conan with pride. "The maps of the court show well the countries of the south, east and west, but in the north they are vague and faulty. I have copied my map from the best of the lot, and am adding the northern countries myself."

"By Mitra," said Prospero, "those lands are known to few. All know that east of Aquilonia lies Nemedia, then Brythunia, then Zamora; south lies Koth and the lands of Shem; west, beyond the Bossonian marches stretches the Pictish wilderness; beyond the northern Bossonian marches lies Cimmeria. Who knows what lies beyond that country?"

"I know," answered the king, "and am setting down my knowledge on this map. Here is Cimmeria, where I was born. Here "

"Asgard and Vanaheim," Prospero scanned the map. "By Mitra, I had almost believed those lands to be fabulous."

Conan grinned and involuntarily touched the various scars on his dark face. "By Mitra, had you spent your youth on the northern frontier of Cimmeria, you had known otherwise! Asgard lies to the north, and Vanaheim to the northwest of Cimmeria, and there is continual war along the

331.borders. The western part of Vanaheim lies along the sh.o.r.es of the western sea, and east of Asgard is the country of the Hyperboreans, who are civilized and dwell in cities. East beyond their country are the deserts of the Hyrkanians."

"What manner of men are these northern folk?" asked Prospero curiously.

"Tall and fair and blue-eyed, and of like blood and language, save that the aesir have yellow hair and the Vanir, red hair. Their chief G.o.d is Ymir, the frost-giant, and they own no over-lord, but each tribe has its king. They are wild and wayward and fierce. They fight all day and drink ale and roar their wild songs all night."

"Then I think you are more like them than you are like your own race," laughed Prospero.

"You laugh greatly, drink deep and bellow good songs, whereas I never saw another Cimmerian who drank aught but water, or who ever laughed, or ever sang save to chant dismal dirges."

"Perhaps it's the land they live in," answered Conan. "A gloomier land never existed on earth.

It is all of hills, heavily wooded, and the trees are strangely dusky, so that even by day all the land looks dark and menacing. As far as a man may see his eye rests on the endless vistas of hills beyond hills, growing darker and darker in the distance. Clouds hang always among those hills; the skies are nearly always gray. Winds blow sharp and cold, driving rain or sleet or snow before them, and moan drearily among the pa.s.ses and down the valleys. There is little mirth in that land."

"Little wonder men grow moody there," quoth Prospero with a shrug of his shoulders, thinking of the smiling sun-washed plains and blue lazy rivers of Poitain, Aquilonia's southern-most province.

"Strange and moody, indeed," answered Conan. "Life seems bitter and hard and futile. The men of those dark hills brood overmuch on unknown things. They dream monstrous dreams.

Their G.o.ds are Crom and his dark race, and they believe the world of the dead is a cold, sunless place of everlasting mist, where wandering ghosts go wailing forevermore. They have no hope here or hereafter, and they brood too much on the emptiness of life. I have seen the strange madness of futility fall upon them when a little thing like a spinning dust-cloud, or the hollow crying of a bird, or the moan of the wind through bare branches brought to their gloomy minds the emptiness of life and the vainness of existence. Only in war are the Cimmerians happy.

Mitra! The ways of the aesir were more to my liking."

"Well," grinned Prospero, "the dark hills of Cimmeria are far behind you. And now I go. I'll quaff a goblet of white Nemedian wine for you at Numa's court."

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"Good," grunted the king, "but kiss Numa's dancing girls for yourself only, lest you involve the states!"

His gusty laughter followed Prospero out of the chamber. The carven door closed behind the Poitanian, and Conan turned back to his task. He paused a moment, idly listening to his friend's retreating footsteps, which fell hollowly on the tiles. And as if the empty sound struck a kindred chord in his soul, a rush of revulsion swept over him. His mirth fell away from him like a mask, and his face was suddenly old, his eyes worn. The unreasoning melancholy of the Cimmerian fell like a shroud about his soul, paralyzing him with a crus.h.i.+ng sense of the futility of human endeavor and the meaninglessness of life. His kings.h.i.+p, his pleasures, his fears, his ambitions, and all earthly things were revealed to him suddenly as dust and broken toys. The borders of life shrivelled and the lines of existence closed in about him, numbing him.

Dropping his lion head in his mighty hands, he groaned aloud.

Then lifting his head, as a man looks for escape, his eyes fell on a crystal jar of yellow wine.

Quickly he rose and pouring a goblet full, quaffed it at a gulp. Again he filled and emptied the goblet, and again. When he set it down, a fine warmth stole through his veins. Things and happenings a.s.sumed new values. The dark Cimmerian hills faded far behind him. Life was good and real and vibrant after all not the dream of an idiot G.o.d. He stretched himself lazily like a gigantic cat and seated himself at the table, conscious of the magnitude and vital importance of himself and his task. Contentedly, he nibbled his stylus and eyed his map.

"South of Hyperborea lies Brythunia," he murmured aloud. Selecting a broad blank s.p.a.ce far enough out on the Hyrkanian desert to baffle inquisitive explorers, he wrote laboriously, "Here be dragons." Then leaning back he surveyed his work with childish pride.CHAPTER 3.Under the caverned pyramids great Set coils asleep;