Conan the Barbarian (16 page)

“Thank you, my friend, but I
am
free.” Conan perched himself on the end of a bench. “I have to take leave of the crew, Artus.”

The Zingaran slapped a girl who was sleeping in a corner booth on the rump. “Run along now”

Surprise widened her dark eyes, then she stretched and made as if to resume her place again. Artus spanked her once more and slid onto the seat opposite Conan. “Go, woman. We have serious business here.”

Shooting Conan a venomous glance, the woman crawled over Artus. She paused long enough to give the Zingaran a good look at the red mark his hand had left on her pale bottom, then slinked off into the crowd.

Conan watched her go, smiling. “She’ll have a knife in your ribs next time you see her.”

“Won’t be as sharp as the one you just shoved there.” Artus leaned forward, his eyes keen. “Why are you leaving?”

“Last night I found one of the men who destroyed my village.”

“Caarzyn? You found him?” Artus shook his head. “I remember that once you mentioned him. You were deep in your cups, my friend, and I thought him equal parts bad dream and demon. He’s here, in Messantia?”

“No, and ’twas not him I spied.” Conan hesitated, surprised that Artus knew as much as he did. Though the Cimmerian counted Artus as a friend, few had ever been Conan’s intimate confidants, and he could not think of a one who still breathed. “The master of mines, Lucius, traveled with him. And Caarzyn or Klarzin was not his name. It was Khalar Zym.”

Artus’s expression slackened. “You’re certain of that name?”

“Yes.” Conan pulled the banner that had hung on the wall of Lucius’s chamber from a small pouch and laid it on the table with the mask crest uppermost. “This was the crest beneath which they destroyed my village. What do you know, Artus?”

“Fell things, Conan. Dark and shadowy things.” The pirate sat back. “That name, the man owning it,
is
half nightmare and all demon. A decade ago, two, maybe three, he was a bandit king who commanded a horde. It raided where it would. Cities and towns paid tribute or faced destruction. At times he struck without warning, and none could anticipate him. I never saw him, but my mother told stories of him to keep me abed with fright.”

Artus stood abruptly and shouted at the bartender. “Why is my flagon dry? And bring me a bottle of that goat piss you sell as fortified Shemite wine. Two goblets.”

His command quelled the party’s high spirits and even awakened Navarus. The pirates stared at their captain, awaiting another outburst. When he sat down again, they resumed their celebration, but much subdued. Wolves of the sea, they knew winds had shifted and that they would be sailing soon. Each drink, each kiss, became that much sweeter, as it might be their last.

Artus said nothing until ale and wine had been served. “I’m not afraid of Khalar Zym, Conan, but there are many who are. After he traveled where he desired, his force went away. He was never defeated. No armies found him, no one set torch to his stronghold; so like the creatures used to frighten children, he lurks out there causing sleepless nights for many a crowned head. But if my brother Conan is set on harvesting his head, then I am with him. And the
Hornet’s
crew as well.”

The Cimmerian shook his head. “No, Artus, this is not for you.”

Artus gripped Conan’s upper arm. “Don’t mistake me, Cimmerian. I understand revenge. He destroyed your village. He killed your people. He owes you a blood debt, and you’ll collect. I know you will. So Khalar Zym is yours, my friend, but his horde is mine.”

Conan looked up from the dark depths of the goblet clutched between his hands. “I’d grant you his horde or his hoard, Artus. I yet will. But this is not about revenge.”

“No? Do you not wish to see his blood steaming in the gutter? Do you not wish to hear the lamentations of his women?”

“I do and shall.” Conan frowned. “For so long I did not even know his name.” He stopped, wondering if Connacht had recognized Khalar Zym in the name
Klarzin
and had said nothing. He did not know, but would not have put it past his grandfather to protect him that way. Conan understood and respected such a decision, just as he respected all his grandfather had taught him.

“Khalar Zym wiped my village from the face of the earth for a tiny piece of a mask.” Conan laid a hand on the image of the crest. “Though I do not know why that piece had been entrusted to my people, it had. Whatever the reason, it must have been good. My people died to keep that shard away from him. Their obligation passes to me.”
Through my father.

Artus nodded slowly. “So, you will go after him to take back what is yours,
then
you kill him to avenge your people.”

“Not exactly. I will win back the mask. Then I will kill him. But not to avenge. Not for revenge.”

“No?”

Conan smiled coldly. “A decade and a half ago I trimmed his ear when I meant to cleave his skull. I go, Artus, to finish the job.”

 

 

ARTUS STILL PRESSED
Conan to make use of the
Hornet
and her crew in his adventure. Conan countered that he did not know enough about Khalar Zym to make any use of the ship or crew. “I do not even know if the information Lucius gave me is true.”

Artus had scoffed. “Seeking a woman in the Wastes? Stuff and nonsense of faery stories, but we agree that you must investigate.”

Just about the time when the influx of freed mine slaves to Messantia began to be a source of annoyance to the city guard, the pirates quit the alehouse and returned to the
Hornet
. They set sail with the tide to the southeast, to the coast of Shem and up a muddy river where they were able to put Conan ashore with a horse. They agreed he would work his way inland and east, seeking signs of Khalar Zym. They would travel on a parallel course down the coast and rendezvous at the cove nearest the Shaipur outpost.

Though Conan felt regret at leaving Artus and the others behind, those feelings passed after he’d ridden the first mile with a strong horse between his legs. Conan’s career as a pirate had well accustomed him to the sea and the life it fostered, but to one born in the mountains, the sea would forever be an alien realm. And the fondest memories he had of that seafaring life were intertwined with memories of Bêlit.

After she died, he had turned his back on the ocean and begun a journey inland. He didn’t know where he was going, nor did he particularly care. The ocean had become desolate, a shining waste that drew all things good and bad into its cold, dark depths. He had burned the
Tigress
, making it Bêlit’s pyre, so she would not have to endure eternity frozen in still waters.

It had never been his intention to return to the seas, but Artus had prevailed upon him. Enough time had passed, enough dry distance had passed beneath his feet, that he hoped his memories would have faded. Some of them had, but not the ones he’d hoped. Little things, like the creak of planking or the shrill cry of a gull, would spark something. Memories of love would spike through him, then withdraw, leaving him wounded.

And yet from those wounds he slowly healed. He made himself heal.
For her.
Had he allowed himself to succumb to those wounds, he would never have been the man worthy of being her consort.

As he rode inland, his thoughts turned away from things nautical and the memories associated with them. He searched his mind and heart for the true reason he was riding eastward, chasing a story spun by a fat man in the faint hopes of saving his life. He had spoken to Artus truly about wanting to finish Khalar Zym. He thought Artus almost believed him, too. Had he been riding with other men, he likely would not have thought any further about the matter, and would have convinced himself that concluding unfinished business was his only reason to pursue Khalar Zym.

As comforting as that might have been, Conan could not let himself off so easily. He knew in his gut that revenge was not what he sought. Connacht’s lesson in futility had never left him. And stories of the continuous raids and counterraids that both Cimmeria and Aquilonia perpetrated on each other, or of the sorties that the Vanirmen undertook against the Cimmerians, or of blood feuds elsewhere lasting for generations; all of these reinforced his grandfather’s lesson. While killing Khalar Zym might settle accounts between them, it would doubtlessly leave another thinking he had to seek vengeance against Conan, and so the cycle would perpetuate itself. While Conan feared no man, he did not wish a life of watching for assassins or dueling with anyone who claimed even the faintest of kinship with Khalar Zym.

He flashed on a memory of Khalar Zym’s daughter.
What had been her name? Marca?
He cursed himself for being unable to remember, then realized he’d not
wanted
to remember. She had been odd in ways he’d not seen before, and had seen since only in places where things ancient and remorseless slithered around with foul intent. His skin burned at the memory of her tongue’s rasp, then he laughed aloud.

“You thought I would be troublesome. By Crom, I pray you are a prophet.”

He remembered the sword she’d taken, the one he had made with his father. It had seemed huge then, suitable only for his father’s hands. Conan had so wanted to be full grown, so he could accept the blade and wield it to win his destiny.

He frowned. No, he had wanted his father to grant him the sword. He had no doubt his father loved him and had been proud of him. Corin had looked to a future where Conan would be a great warrior. But he had insisted that his mother, that the both of his parents, had wanted more for him than a life of fire and blood. A life of peace, perhaps? A life much like Corin’s?

The youth Conan had been would have rejected that idea, for his father, while known for his strength and skill at combat, was not the adventurer that Connacht had been. Conan had thrilled to his grandfather’s stories, and his father had none to match them. It was not that he had thought less of his father than of his grandfather, but it was obvious that they were very different kinds of men. They had chosen different paths, and Conan had equated his life of destiny with his grandfather’s adventuring.

Suddenly Conan found himself reexamining his life and his memories of his father. Corin had not just wanted to raise a son who could be a great warrior. He had wanted to raise a son who was capable of accepting great responsibility. When Corin had said there was too much fire in him, he meant more than Conan’s immaturity and youthful enthusiasm. He meant that Conan could not yet be entrusted with a secret upon which the fate of the world might hinge.

The day he had been ready, the day fire and ice mixed in him, the day he proved he had been tempered as had that sword, Corin would have granted it to him. His father would have shared the secret of the mask, a secret so powerful and terrible that it kept a great Cimmerian warrior from following his father’s footsteps. It would have kept Conan there, too, in the Cimmerian village.
And my son and his son and so on.

The tempering Conan had been denied in the mountains of Cimmeria he had gained through his adventures. When Khalar Zym had stolen the mask, Conan could not have understood the nature of the evil it represented. But he had seen things, like the sorcerer Yara, and the horrible excesses that were, for such people, nothing. And while Khalar Zym might have slain Corin simply because he was an impediment to his ambition, Corin had died in the hopes of preventing the deaths of others.

That distinction opened Conan’s eyes to the things his grandfather had tried to teach him about the futility of revenge. “Revenge is not part of a warrior’s heritage. It is an unworthy indulgence.” To be a warrior was to be more than a creature of emotion who struck out blindly and singlemindedly at that which irritated him. Conan could seek revenge, or he could be a warrior, but he could not do both.

And only as a warrior can I be worthy of the heritage my father intended for me.
The Cimmerian’s eyes tightened. Khalar Zym had destroyed his past, but that was not the same as destroying his future. Khalar Zym did not have that power. Only Conan could do that to himself, and only if he acted in a self-indulgent way that was truly beneath him.

Conan brought his horse to the crest of the ridgeline and looked down toward the Red Wastes. A barren land in which twisted black trees sprouted like thorns from the earth, it had not earned its name from the color of the soil. Men called it the Red Waste because of the blood it had drunk.

Somewhere out there, Khalar Zym hunted.

Conan would find him.

He hoped the land was still thirsty.

ALONE IN HER
cabin aboard her father’s land ship, Marique knelt naked before a three-paneled mirror. The warm golden light of the swaying oil lamps that hung from the ceiling caressed her alabaster flesh. The woman staring back at her from the mirrors would be judged flawless by any who dared render judgment. Others would declare her perfect, and were she to truly study her reflection, she might agree.

But those others used mirrors to reveal what
was
. In them Marique sought what would be. She never had a clear vision. Just as the voices that whispered to her never made their messages distinct or crisp, so the shadows reflected upon her by the future
suggested
instead of proclaiming, hinted and seduced instead of explaining, and coaxed instead of commanding. She watched, she took it all in, every nuance, letting pleasure and fear mingle within her breast, but never letting them overwhelm her.

Some of what she saw pleased her. Ghost images matched the arcane tattoos which ran from shoulder to shoulder, up her neck, past her ears, and along her high hairline. She’d only seen bits and pieces of them before, but had tracked them down through endless researches in tomes long thought lost by those who should have known better. She’d drawn the images she wanted and showed a legion of tattooists where to place each individual design, then had her father’s men slay the tattooists so they could never re-create the designs again.