for example, that breaking Ukafa’s arm was related, in some small way, to an injury the giant had done to Conan’s father. And the way Conan drew the man on, then beat him back, would be attributed to the Cimmerian’s desire to teach Ukafa a lesson, to prove who was the better man.
But this was not a battle of civilized men. It was barbarian against barbarian. Conan’s vision had long since drowned in a sea of blood red. He did not think, he
Finally, after Conan ducked a blow and delivered two in return, the Kushite slumped against a post. He clung to it to remain upright, for to fall was to die. Conan lashed out with a foot, snapping the man’s head into the post. The Kushite collapsed, and then, in the darkness, Conan found his knife and harvested the man’s head.
“Conan!” Tamara appeared before him out of the shadows. She bore a poniard dripping blood. “Two of them came for me. They’ll come for no others.”
The Cimmerian looked up. “There’s more that need killing.” He stalked off in search of his sword and found it at the stairs. Then he ascended into battle with Tamara in his shadow. Khalar Zym’s men had forced the
And Conan laughed. “You did not wait for me, Artus.”
“I’ve just played the good host at this party, Conan, awaiting you, the guest of honor.”
Conan bounded across the deck, sword singing and reaping lives. From one of Khalar Zym’s dead archers, Tamara appropriated a bow and arrows. She skewered her counterparts, leaving them hanging tangled in rigging before they could twist around and find her. And the
Several went over the side, scrambling for strange boats that, to Conan, most closely resembled clamshells. Each could carry two dozen or more people, and the first survivors to reach them sought to pull the halves closed. Leather gaskets appeared to make them watertight, though as later experimentation proved, the wood burned easily enough. Still, the Cimmerian saw neither sail nor oar, so had no idea how the invaders had traveled to the
Artus, fresh from helping the rest of the crew toss bodies to the circling sharks, could shed no light upon the mystery of the burning clamshells. “Save for being small, and lacking any propulsion or steering mechanism, they appear to be quite nice.”
“I wonder.” Conan returned to the wheel deck and looked over the aft rail. Aside from five sharks circling the ship, he saw nothing.
The Zingaran shaded his eyes with a hand. “Sorcery to track the girl and get the boats here?”
“Probably.”
Artus beckoned Conan into his cabin and pointed to a map spread out on a table. “Cove up the coast, near that other set of ruins we’ve explored. We’ll be there in a couple hours. We can take on water and leave with the morning tide. From there, you can find a village, steal a horse, and head to Asgalun. We’ll make our way to—”
Conan held a hand up. “Don’t tell me. Don’t decide yourself. Just as you sail along, throw dice and let them decide.”
“A wise plan.” Artus nodded. “And I know, even if he were to capture you, you’d tell him nothing.”
“Not whilst alive, but his daughter has something of the necromancer about her.”
“And we will alert people as we go that Khalar Zym would make himself emperor. Most won’t care, and some will hire on with him. Let’s hope that those who opposed him in the past will rise again.”
Conan smiled. “And you’ll take good care of the woman, yes? You’ll be as good a friend to her as you have been to me?”
“I shall guard her life as if it were my very own.”
“Thank you, Artus.” Conan studied the map again, measuring the distance to Asgalun and then to Khor Kalba.
“Have you given a thought, my friend, as to where I shall meet you again?”
“Hyrkania, Artus.” The Cimmerian tapped the map with a blood-encrusted finger. “And if you need me sooner, I shall find you.”
Conan left his friend and descended into the ship. He paused in his cabin to set aside his weapons. He intended to clean them and oil them, whetting away nicks and burrs. Before he could gather his tools to work, however, he caught scent of something odd. He moved along the companionway and stopped beside the opening to Tamara’s berth.
She knelt, naked, before a low, makeshift altar. Two sticks of incense burned on it. Three gold coins had been arranged in a triangle. A small bit of cheese had been set at the triangle’s center. A small bowl with bloody water and a damp cloth sat on the deck beside her left knee. The lamplight washed her hair and back in gold, from her shoulders to the flare of her hips.
She reached out and drew the incense smoke over her. Conan knew the scent well: myrrh. It overrode the stench of death. She bowed her head so smoke billowed over it. Spreading her arms, her palms facing the sky, she prayed in low tones.
“Mitra grant that my actions have been right and pleasing to you. I took life to save life, I imprisoned evil in death so others could be free. Judge not my companions by their actions, but by the content of their hearts, as they help me do thy will.”
Her head remained lowered, but cocked slightly, as if she were listening for a reply. Conan remained still and held his breath, lest she detect his presence. Though she betrayed no sign of knowing he was there, he felt certain that she did. Despite that feeling, he could not drag himself away.
“Mitra, I beg thee for the strength to overcome any taint of my blood, from my actions or the sins of ancestors aeons past. Confirm me in my purpose. Point me to peace in your service.”
The sincerity of her words surprised Conan. His own god, Crom, invited no such intimacy. He pitched infants into the world screaming and waited their recitation of their life after they died. He expected them to make the most of his gifts, and their failure was of no interest to him. Similarly Conan had dealt with many men—be they commoners, kings, or high priests—who professed devotion to gods and then, in turn, blasphemed in preference to worship, claimed all glory to themselves, and placed all blame for adversity on the gods. As he had come to discover was the case with most civilized men, they paid lip service to the gods, and relied on selfish motives to govern their behavior.
Tamara’s voice rose just a bit, her throat tightening. “With your gentle wisdom, bless this man who protects me. Lift his burden of pain, as you do mine. As it is your will, abide by my wishes. I am yours forever, heart and soul.”
She drew her hands toward her body and wrapped her arms around her middle. Then she began rocking forward and back. The myrrh smoke swirled around her, fragrant threads creating a ghostly cocoon.
Conan watched until the incense burned to nothing and she ceased moving. Were it not for her chest rising and falling, he might have thought her dead. He entered her cabin silently and scooped her up in his arms. He laid her on her bunk and checked that none of the blood she’d washed off had been hers. He wrapped her in a blanket, then stole back to his cabin.
As she had found peace in her prayers, so Conan found it in caring for his weapons. He washed and oiled them, scraping away all tarnish and rust. He wiped them clean of oil, then held each blade over a lamp’s flame. Soot blackened the steel so no reflected moonlight would reveal it. He similarly blackened a cloth so he could darken his face as needed, then opened his sea chest, pulled out a mail surcoat, and repeated the process with it.
He prepared his weapons for war with the same sincere devotion Tamara had showed in her prayers. Not because Conan worshipped war, but because he had been born to it. It occurred to him, with a degree of grim satisfaction, that as long as wars raged, and men like Khalar Zym sought to elevate themselves over others, he would never truly be alone. War might be a fell companion, but it was one he knew well.
