Conan - Conan 106 Read online

  Conan

  The

  Avenger

  By

  Robert E. Howard,

  Bjorn Nyberg and L. Sprague deCamp

  digital edition hitman66

  Contents

  Introduction, by L. Sprague de Camp

  The Return of Conan, by Bjorn Nyberg and L. Sprague de Camp

  The Hyborian Age, Part 2, by Robert E. Howard

  Introduction

  Conan the Cimmerian is the hero of over thirty stories by Robert E. Howard (1906-36 of Cross Plains, Texas), by my colleagues Bjorn Nyberg and Lin Carter, and by myself. Nyberg, Carter, and I have completed a number of unfinished Howard manuscripts and have written several pastiches, based upon hints in Howard’s notes and letters, to fill the gaps in the saga.

  The Conan stories are of a kind called “heroic fantasy ” or “sword-and-sorcery fiction.” Such a story is a tale of swashbuckling adventure with a strong supernatural element, laid in an imaginary world, perhaps this planet as it is once supposed to have been, or as it will be some day, or some other world or dimension; where magic works and modern science and technology are unknown. Here all men are mighty, all women beautiful, all problems simple, and all life adventurous. The genre was developed by William Morris in the late nineteenth century and by Lord Dunsany and Eric R. Edison in the early twentieth. Notable recent examples are J. R. R. Tolkien’s trilogy, The Lord of the Rings; Fletcher Pratt’s The Well of the Unicorn; and Fritz Leiber’s stories of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser.

  During the last decade of his short life (1906-1936), Howard turned out a large volume of what was then called “pulp fiction ” From sport, detective, western, historical, adventure, weird, and ghost stories, besides his poetry and his many fantasies. At the age of thirty, he ended a promising literary career by suicide.

  Howard wrote several series of heroic fantasies, most of them published in Weird Tales. Of these, the most popular as well as the longest single series has been the Conan stories.

  Howard was a natural storyteller, whose narratives are unsurpassed for vivid, gripping, headlong action. His heroes “King Kull, Conan, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane” are larger than life: men of mighty thews, hot passions, and indomitable will, who dominate the tales through which they stride. With all, as I have learned from editing his works, Howard had an excellent prose style: precise, straightforward, simple, unobtrusive, and highly readable. He had the rare knack of giving the impression of a highly colorful scene without actually using many adjectives to describe it.

  Eighteen Conan stories were published during Howard’s lifetime. Eight others, from complete manuscripts to mere fragments, have been found among his papers since 1950. Late in 1951, I discovered a cache of Howard manuscripts in the apartment of the then literary agent for Howard’s estate. These included a few unpublished Conan stories, which I edited for publication.

  The incomplete, open-ended nature of the Conan saga presented an irresistible temptation to add to it as Howard himself might in time have done had he lived.

  Besides editing the unpublished Conan stories, I undertook, in the early 1950s, to rewrite the manuscripts of four other unpublished Howard adventure stories to convert them into Conan stories. This did not prove difficult, since the heroes were much like Conan, and I had merely to delete anachronisms and introduce a supernatural element.

  Meanwhile a citizen and resident of Sweden, Bjorn Nyberg, took a further step. Introduced to Conan by his friends Ostlund and Chapman, he had been hooked, as so many others have been, in reading of the deeds of the mighty Cimmerian. Nyberg had the courage to sit down and write a whole novel about Conan, in a language that was not his mother tongue. This endeavor resulted in a collaboration between Nyberg and myself, the outcome of which was “The Return of Conan ” herein.

  Howard’s Conan stories are laid about twelve thousand years ago in the imaginary Hyborian Age, eight thousand years after the sinking of Atlantis and seven thousand years before the beginnings of recorded history.

  A gigantic barbarian adventurer from the backward northern land of Cimmeria, Conan arrived as a youth in the kingdom of Zamora (see map) and for several years had a precarious living there and in neighboring lands as a thief. After a gore-spattered career as mercenary soldier, pirate, treasure hunter, and chief of various barbarian tribes, he became a scout on the western frontier of Aquilonia, fighting the savage Picts. After rising to command in the Aquilonian army and defeating a Pictish invasion, Conan was lured back to Tarantia, the capital, and imprisoned by the jealous King Numedides.

  Escaping, he was chosen to lead a revolution against the degenerate king. Conan slew Numedides and took the throne for his own, to become ruler of the mightiest Hyborian Kingdom.

  Conan soon found that being king was no bed of houris. A cabal of discontented nobles almost succeeded in assassinating him. By a ruse, the kings of Koth and Ophir trapped and imprisoned him, but he escaped in time to turn the tables on these would-be conquerors of Aquilonia.

  Other enemies conjured an ancient wizard back from the grave and, with the help of this living-dead sorcerer, broke Aquilonia’s armies and drove Conan into exile. But again he returned to confound and destroy his foes.

  In the process, Conan acquired a queen, with whom he settled down happily, dismissing his harem of concubines. For about a year, his reign was more or less peaceful. But then another foe gathered his forces to strike him down.

  And here the present story begins. At this time, Conan was about forty-six or forty-seven years old, showing few signs of age save the scars that crisscrossed his mighty frame and a more cautious, deliberate approach to adventure and revelry than had been the case in his riotous youth.

  When Howard began writing the Conan stories in 1932, he gave serious thought to the setting of his “Hyborian Age ” civilization. To fix it firmly in his own mind, he wrote an essay in which he set forth the pseudo-history of prehistoric times that he used as a background for the stories. In the last year of his life, he submitted this essay for publication in a fan magazine, The Phantagraph, with an apologetic note explaining that this was purely a fictional device to enable him to make the Conan stories internally consistent. It was not to be taken seriously as setting forth his true beliefs about the prehistory of mankind.

  The first half of The Hyborian Age was published in The Phantagraph before that periodical ceased publication.

  The whole essay was then published in 1938 in a mimeographed booklet, The Hyborian Age, put out by a group of science-fiction fans. The first half, which carries this pseudo-history down to the time of Conan, was re-printed in Conan, chronologically the first volume of the present series. The second half, which begins after Conan’s time and continues down to the beginnings of recorded history, is reproduced here.

  L. Sprague de Camp

  THE RETURN OF CONAN

  For two months after the battle of Tanasul, which destroyed the Nemedian conquerors of Aquilonia and their sorcerous ally Xaltotun, Conan is kept furiously busy by the tasks of reorganizing his kingdom, repairing the damage done by the invaders, and collecting the promised indemnity from Nemedia.

  Then Conan prepares to visit Nemedia, to return the captured King Tarascus to his homeland and to fetch back to Aquilonia the girl Zenobia, who saved his life when he was imprisoned in the dungeons of the palace at the Nemedian capital of Belverus. Before his departure, he tactfully dismisses his harem of shapely concubines. With his usual chivalry towards women, he makes a point of finding them husbands or at least other protectors before bidding them farewell.

  The journey to and from Belverus is a triumphal procession without untoward incident. Back in Tarantia, Conan celebrates his wedding to
Zenobia with all the pomp of which a rich and ancient kingdom is capable. Between the pressure of state business and his absorption in Zenobia, the next few months puss swiftly for Conan. Those who know him best are a little surprised to see the king, in middle age, turn monogamous and even uxorious; but the moody, mettlesome Cimmerian has always been unpredictable. Then, however…

  Know furthermore, O Prince, that Conan the barbarian thus won at last to great fame and high estate as king of Aquilonia, the starry gem of the green West with its gallant nobles, sturdy warriors, intrepid frontiersmen, and beauteous damsels. But dark and terrible forces were at work to rock his throne and wreck his fortune. For, on the night of the feast at Tarantia to celebrate the year of peace that followed the overthrow of the conspiracy of Valerius, Tarascus, and Amulric, and the destruction of the wizard Xaltotun, Conan’s lately-wedded queen Zenobia was snatched from the palace by a winged shape out of nightmare and borne off eastward. Thinking it better to travel swiftly, namelessly, and alone than to take an army with him, Conan set out in search of his stolen mate.

  THE NEMEDIAN CHRONICLES.

  Prologue

  The chamber was murky. Long, flaming tapers, set in iron brackets in the walls of stone, dispelled the gloom but little. It was difficult to discern the robed and hooded figure at the unadorned table in the middle of the floor. It was even harder to see the outlines of another form, huddled in the darkness, seemingly engaged in muted speech with the first one.

  There was a gust of wind through the room, like the sweep of giant wings. The tapers flickered madly, and the figure at the table was suddenly alone.

  CHAPTER 1: Wings of Darkness

  The forbidding walls of the royal palace at Tarantia rose in jagged silhouette against the darkening sky.

  Watchmen strode along the battlements, halberd on shoulder and sword on hip, but their vigilance was relaxed.

  Their eyes strayed often toward the entrance of the palace. Over the lowered drawbridge and under the raised portcullis, gay-clad knights and nobles entered with their ladies.

  The sharp eye could discern Prospero, the king’s general and right-hand man, arrayed in crimson velvet with golden Poitainian leopards worked upon his jubon. His long legs measured his strides in high boots of the finest Kordavan leather. There went Pallantides, commander of the Black Dragons, in light armor later to be doffed; Trocero, hereditary count of Poitain, his slim waist and erect carriage belying the silver in his hair; the counts of Manara and Couthen, the barons of Lor and Imirus and many more. All went in with fair ladies in rich silks and satins, while their retainers removed the litters and gilded chariots in which their masters had been conveyed.

  Peace reigned in Aquilonia. It had prevailed for more than a year since the last attempt of the king of Nemedia, aided by the revived Acheronian wizard Xaltotun, to wrest the kingdom from Conan. Years before, in his turn, Conan had torn the crown from the bloody head of the tyrant Numedides, whom he slew on the very throne.

  But the Nemedian scheme had failed. Heavy damages were exacted, and the withered mummy of the dead Xaltotun was borne away on his mysterious chariot to haunts dark and unknown. King Conan’s power waxed stronger and stronger, the more his people became aware of the wisdom and justice of his rule. The only disorders were the intermittent raids of the savage Picts on the western border. These, however, were held in check by seasoned troops on the Thunder River.

  This was a night of feasting. Torches flared in rows about the gate; colorful carpets from Turan covered the coarse flagstones. Gaily-clad servants flitted about, guided and spurred by shouts from the majordomos. This was the night when King Conan gave a royal ball in honor of his queen, Zenobia, one-time slave girl in the Nemedian king’s seraglio. She had aided Conan to escape when he lay a prisoner in the dungeons of Belverus and had been rewarded by the highest honor that could be conferred on a woman of the western lands. She became queen of Aquilonia, the mightiest kingdom west of Turan.

  Well could the glittering throng of guests observe the ardent love that bound the royal sovereigns to each other.

  It was apparent in gestures, mannerisms, and speech, though Conan’s barbarian blood probably urged him to do away with civilized dissimulation and crush his lovely queen in his strong arms. Instead, he stood at arm’s length from her, answering bows and curtseys with an ease which seemed natural but was really newly acquired.

  Ever and anon, though, the king’s eyes strayed toward the far wall, where hung an array of splendid weapons, swords, spears, axes, maces, and javelins. Much as the king loved to see his people at peace, no less could he curb the urge of his barbarian heritage to see red blood flow and to feel the crunch of an enemy’s armor and bones beneath the edge of his heavy broadsword. But now it was time for peaceful pursuits. Conan let his eyes wander back to linger briefly on the fair countess curtseying before him.

  Fair were the ladies, and a judge would be sorely put to decide a contest for beauty at least, if he were choosing among the guests. For, in truth, the queen was more beautiful than anyone. The perfection of her form was outlined by the clinging, low-necked gown she wore, with only a silver circlet to confine the foamy mass of her wavy black hair.

  Moreover, her perfectly-molded face radiated such innate nobility and kindliness as were seldom seen in those times.

  However, if the king was counted fortunate by his fellow men, no less was Queen Zenobia envied by the ladies.

  Conan cut an imposing figure in his simple black tunic, with legs clothed in black hose and feet booted in soft, black leather. The golden lion of Aquilonia blazed upon his breast. Otherwise his sole ornament was the slender golden circle on his square-cut black mane. Looking at the great spread of his massive shoulders, his lean waist and hips, and his legs muscled with a tiger’s deadly power, one could see that this was no man born to civilization.

  But Conan’s most arresting features were the smoldering blue eyes in the dark, scarred face, inscrutable, with depths no one could plumb.

  Those same eyes had seen things undreamed of by this gay throng, had looked on battlefields strewn with mangled corpses, decks running red with blood, barbarous executions, and secret rites at the altars of monstrous deities. His powerful hands had swung the western broadsword, the Zuagir tulwar, the Zhaibar knife, the Turanian yataghan, and the forester’s ax with the same devastating skill and power against men of all races and against inhuman beings from dark and nameless realms. The veneer of civilization lay thin over his barbaric soul.

  The ball began. King Conan opened it with his queen in the first complicated steps of the Aquilonian minuet.

  Though he was no expert at the more intricate figures of the dance, the primordial instincts of the barbarian took to the rhythm of the melody with an ease and smoothness that enhanced the results of hurried lessons given during the past week by the court’s sweating master of ceremonies. Everyone in the glittering throng followed suit. Soon couples milled colorfully on the mosaic floor.

  Thick candles cast a warm, soft light over the hall. Nobody noticed the silent draft that began to waft through the air, causing the flames of one chandelier to tremble and flicker. Nobody noticed, either, the burning eyes that peered from a window niche, sweeping an avid glance over the crowd. Their glare fastened upon the slim, silver-sheathed figure in the king’s arms. Only the burning eyes were to be seen, but a soft, gloating chuckle whispered through the darkness. Then the eyes disappeared and the casement closed.

  The great bronze gong at the end of the hall boomed, announcing a pause. The guests, hot from dancing, sat down to refresh themselves with iced wine and Turanian sherbet.

  “Conan! I want a nip of fresh air; all this dancing has made me hot. ”

  The queen flung the words over her shoulder as she made her way toward the now open doors to the broad balcony.

  The king started to follow but was detained by a score of ladies begging him to tell them of his early life. Was it true that he had been a chieftain of wild hordes in h
alf-fabulous Ghulistan in the Himelian Mountains? Was it he who by a daring stroke had saved the kingdom of Khauran from the Shemite plunderers of the mercenary captain Constantius? Had he once been a pirate?

  Questions like these flew like hailstones. Conan answered them curtly or evasively. His barbarian instincts made him restive. They had prompted him to accompany Zenobia out upon the balcony to guard her, even though no danger could threaten his beloved spouse here, in his capital, in his own castle, surrounded by friends and loyal soldiers.

  Still he felt uneasy. There was a feeling in his blood of impending danger and doom. Trusting his animal instincts, he began to make his way toward the doors of the balcony despite the beseeching wails of his lovely audience.

  Elbowing his way forward a bit more brusquely than became a king, Conan caught sight of the silver figure of Zenobia. Her back was toward him, her hair moving in the soft, cool breeze. He grunted with relief. For once, it seemed, his senses had deluded him. Nonetheless he continued forward.

  Suddenly, the slim form of the queen was shrouded in night. A black pall fell over the company. Secret words were mumbled into handkerchiefs by painted lips and bearded mouths. An icy breath of doom swept through the hall. The ground trembled with thunder. The queen screamed.

  When the darkness fell, Conan sprang like a panther for the balcony doors, upsetting noble guests and wine-laden tables. Another cry was heard. The sound dwindled, as if Zenobia were being carried away. The king reached the balcony to find it empty. Conan’s glance sought the unscalable sides of the palace and saw nothing.

  Then he lifted his gaze. There, limned against the moonlit sky, he saw a fantastic shape, a horrible anthropomorphic nightmare, clasping the silvery glint that was his beloved wife. Carried along by powerful beats of its batlike wings, the monster shrank to a dot on the eastern horizon. Conan stood for a moment, a statue of black steel. Only his eyes seemed alive with icy rage and terrible despair. When he turned his gaze to the audience, they shrank back as if he had become the very monster that had carried off his queen. Without a word, he went out of the hall, scattering people, tables, and chairs heedlessly before him. At the exit he paused before the weapon-laden wall and tore down a plain but heavy broadsword, which had served him well in many campaigns. As he lifted the blade, he spoke words thick with emotion: