Conan the Barbarian Read online

  Unperturbed, Conan asked the ancient one: “What know you of this Thulsa Doom? Rest assured, I am not one of his.”

  Relief flooded the oldster’s face, and he grinned a toothless grin. “Well, you don’t look much like a pilgrim. If you mean to enter the mountain thus disguised, beware. Doom’s people are deceivers, fierce and treacherous. Besides, you cannot wear that sword; even beneath your robe, they’d instantly perceive its presence.”

  “Well then, I must needs do without.” Conan reached under his robe, unbuckled the baldric, and handed the scabbarded blade to the wizard, saying: “Keep it oiled, and find forage for my horse. I’ll reward you well when I return... if I return.”

  Adjusting his wreath of drooping field flowers, Conan strode away toward the mountain. The wizard, muttering protective cantrips, watched him go.

  The road grew steep as it zigzagged up the side of the Mountain of Power. Conan, walking briskly, joined a straggling line of youths and maidens. Their features were haggard, their faces dusty, and their eyes vacant. So vast was the difference between the robust barbarian in his fresh garment and the weary, travel-stained band that Conan feared nothing could save him from discovery.

  Along the winding way, girls in fresh robes called encouragement, chanting and waving the pilgrims onward. At the first bend in the road, Conan saw a small temple of white marble, which gleamed against the brooding obsidian on which it rested. This white shrine, the least of the Shrines of Doom, bore on its outer walls a frieze of writhing shapes, obscene and serpentine; beneath its swelling cupola all seekers must pass for cleansing and renewal.

  At the arched entrance to the shrine, a woman stopped Conan to hand him a fresh garland, for the chaplet he had woven some hours before was already wilted. Bowing his head to receive the wreath, he prepared to move on; but the girl with upraised hand detained him. Panic seized him until he realized this was a ritual greeting.

  “You must give up all that you hold, tall pilgrim,” murmured the girl in a sing-song monotone. “You must see yourself in clear water, as you have never seen yourself before.”

  Copying the reply of the pilgrim who preceded him, Conan intoned, “I wish to be cleansed.”

  As the girl smiled vaguely at him, Conan became aware that she did not really see him, and he guessed that she was dragged. Unaware of his agitation, the girl hastened through the prescribed words, devoid as they were of warmth and meaning: “You are safe now from the perils of the road. We are all safe here in the shadow of the mountain. Fear no more; for this is the road to paradise!”

  Conan mumbled an unintelligible reply and hastened toward. At the next turning of the road, he passed through it narrow cleft between two slabs of rock, and found himself in a natural amphitheatre, a bowl-shaped area shielded from the wind. Tents and rude pavilions littered the rocky ground. On either side stood burly guards, proud and imposing in their armour of lacquered black leather; beyond them he saw, or thought he saw, black-robed priests from the Temple of the Serpent.

  Instinctively, the Cimmerian drew back, then hastily assumed a vacant-eyed, slack-jawed expression. Attracted by his failure to move forward, a priestess hurried over. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Conan gestured toward the faceless guards. “Who are they?”

  “They are our friends. They are here to protect us.”

  “To protect us? Protect us from what?”

  The priestess answered soothingly, as to a frightened child; “Very often from ourselves. Seldom do we know what is good for us; always are we beset with doubts and fears. We are so blind that rarely can we discern the path of truth. Only the Master can set our feet upon the path to paradise.”

  Gently taking his hand, she drew Conan to the rear of the procession of which he had been a part, and there she left him. Swept along with the rest, he found himself in a crowd of boys and youths, who were being herded into a long line by several priests and ordered to strip off their travel-stained garments. On the far side of the amphitheatre, a line of women were vanishing from view.

  The wily barbarian stood for a moment, undecided, among the bewildered throng. If he doffed his robe, the long dirk at his belt would instantly expose his imposture. As the line moved forward, he slipped between two tents and ran into a slender, robed and hooded priest.

  “Whither go you, brother?” asked the man mildly.

  “I... I know not,” stammered the Cimmerian. “I fear...”

  “You fear to bare yourself, eh lad! My boy, you should be proud of that splendid body.” The priest reached out to touch him, but Conan fended off his hand. Undeterred, the priest continued, “How can you expect to reach the ultimate emptiness, my son, unless you have full knowledge of your body?”

  Conan spied a cleft in the rocks well-shielded from public view.

  “Can we not talk alone... where the others cannot see?” Conan motioned to the alcove. With a thin and knowing smile, the robed man bent his footsteps thither, saying, “We priests know much about the bodies and souls of men; you need feel no shame....”

  Once within the alcove, Conan turned. “Tell me,” he asked with feigned innocence, “is the robe your only garment?”

  “Aye, my son. It is all...”

  “Good,” grunted the barbarian and drove an elbow into the priest’s ribs. As the bones cracked, only a strangled wheeze issued forth. Then a Pit fighter’s hammer blow broke the man’s neck.

  A tall man in a hooded robe moved briskly through the line of naked pilgrims and headed for the temple. A priest, descending from the sanctuary, met his eyes and made a cryptic sign with his fingers. Conan clumsily mimicked the wordless greeting and, noting the look of puzzlement on the other’s face, quickly moved on.

  A pair of priests went by, deep in a fiery argument. Conan saw that on each breast hung a medallion like that which he had taken from the altar in the Serpent’s Tower. Tumbling inside his unfamiliar robe, he brought forth his sigil and, despite its clumsy thong, placed it in view. The temple guards, rough, half-witted fellows with beetling brows, looked sharply at the false priest; then, seeing the medallion with its twin serpents, drew themselves to attention and let him pass. Thus Conan entered into the Mountain of Power.

  X

  The Mountain

  Conan progressed along a passageway among other figures, little noticed, who drifted, mist-like, in the same direction. In time, the barbarian emerged into a courtyard of incredible beauty. Here were gardens bright with rainbow-tinted flowers, interlaced with strange, exotic trees. A fountain threw its crystal waters into a quiet pool, which was surrounded by marble benches.

  Beyond the pool, he saw a ceremonial staircase, whose impressive risers led upward toward the portal of 3 temple. This doorway, splendidly embellished with marble carvings, led to a cavernous interior, hewn, Conan thought, from the living rock. In this vast sanctuary, the Cimmerian saw a semicircle of marble benches, row on row, backed by a walkway that was curtained, as it were, by a row of pointed columns, like obelisks.

  Before the benches rose a dais, reached by a lesser flight of steps. Over the whole chamber a stained-glass dome filtered, from an unknown source of light, a radiance that rivalled that of the orb of heaven.

  Beautiful women, clad in diaphanous veils, clustered about the steps of the dais, as reverent pilgrims sought seats among the welcoming benches. Conan, moving softly, joined the waiting throng; and reassured of his safety, he studied the subservient youths and maidens at his side. Their robes of fine fabrics and the brave ribbons on their brows marked them as beings above the common lot gathered outside the rock-hewn opulence he now enjoyed.

  Presently, graceful young women brought trays of lighted candles and handed one to every votary. As the dome light dimmed, the slender tapers winked like stars in I he nighted sky and, shining into the young faces of the worshippers, gave them the visages of gods.

  Absorbed in this pageantry, Conan was unaware that two of the apelike sentinels followed him into the temple within the Mou
ntain of Power. Now, in the deep shadows behind him, they held converse in sign language with the lowering black priest, Yaro of Shadizar. Hither had come Yaro with his retinue to report the loss of the temple talisman, so that word of the theft could be trumpeted among the faithful in all the lands wherein the cult of the serpent god held sway. Here, too, Yaro hoped to discover the whereabouts of the purloiner and to prepare to apprehend him.

  Summoned to the temple by the simian guards, the black giant studied the Cimmerian with narrow, thoughtful eyes. He had caught but a glimpse of the thief who had stolen the Eye of the Serpent, as Conan and Subotai scrambled up the narrow ladder to the top of the tower; but the burly shoulders, the swelling thews, the mane of coarse black hair hacked off at shoulder length were unmistakable.

  The black priest turned to mutter a comment to another figure curtained by the darkness. As he moved forward, he proved to be a man of gigantic stature, wearing armour of blue steel backed by black leather; and on his breast-piece, in high relief, wriggled two serpents, intertwined.

  Rexor, for it was he, had aged in the years since he had led the slave raid on the village of Conan’s childhood and curried off the youth to toil long years at the Wheel. Yet the passage of time had somehow enhanced his presence and vitality. Strong beyond belief were the corded muscles that crawled down his naked arms, his massive thighs, his thickset neck. Free of the confining helmet, the brutality of the features appeared to-have been refined by the passing years. Colder than ever were his eyes and deeper the lines of cruelty about his thin-lipped mouth. The iron grey that streaked the hair about his temples bespoke a man of steel.

  His chill eyes took the measure of the Cimmerian seated before him. He did not remember the child snatched from his mother’s side after her murder, but that did not matter. Any intruder in the Temple of the Serpent was a foe-man; any uninitiated onlooker who observed the secret rites was an impious and blasphemous infidel. And the penalty was death, slow and painful death.

  Conan’s attention now was riveted on a procession of priests, who marched with cadenced stride toward the dais. Their deep-throated chanting swelled in volume as two lines of naked girls, their bosoms draped with coiled serpents, danced down the aisles to the blare of brasses and the clash of cymbals. Behind them a group of Stygian priests bore aromatic torches, which filled the air with undulating smoke and a sweet, pungent odour. Behind them all came the catlike figure of the man called Doom.

  With eyes narrowed to smouldering slits, Conan stared at his arch-enemy. Ignoring the magnificent fur-trimmed robes, which swept behind Doom as he walked, the barbarian youth focused on the evil face. The years had not lessened the sensual allure of his hooded eyes and lean, ascetic features, nor had time withered the seductive smile with which he greeted his worshippers and the ecstatic handmaidens who showered rose petals at his feet.

  To Doom’s left and a single step behind him, Conan saw a young woman of breath-taking loveliness. Clad in a gossamer gown that accented her voluptuous form and golden flesh, she walked demurely, but the slumberous gaze with which she caressed her master was shot through with hidden fire. Conan grunted as he recognized the princess he had glimpsed in the veiled palanquin on a street in Shadizar —Yasimina, the missing daughter of King Osric.

  While Yasimina knelt in humble adoration, Doom stepped forward, raised his arms majestically, then abruptly turned his palms down. The chanting ceased upon the instant of the gesture. On the sepulchral silence that ensued, his resonant voice rose and fell, like the tolling of a bell.

  “Who amongst you fears the warm embrace of death? When I, your father, ask it, will you take life for me? Will you strike true to the infidel heart, whether it be the heart of friend, or lover, or loved one in your former life?”

  Pausing, he turned his hypnotic gaze on the entranced laces, upturned in ecstasy. “Doom!” they moaned, swaying in rhythm to the beat of his utterances. “Doom! Doom!” The catechism went on. “Will you slip the silken noose over the heads of Set’s enemies? In the wide world, will you stay true, ignoring the blandishments of the leaders, judges, and parents who have taught you falsely? Will you clutch the hilts of your daggers and spill the heart’s blood of the infidels, to give them the infinite benison of eternal peace?”

  Doom’s magnetic eyes darted from face to face and held each follower in thrall. Now the questions ceased and the litany began.

  “You will feel naught but joy when you perform your duty to your god and lord, when you strike for Set and Doom, when the infidel bows before the blade, the cord, or the bowstring, accepting the inevitable. You will grow in love of the Dark Master, the Wise Serpent, in the embrace of whose coils lies eternal life and bliss unutterable; for the day of Doom is at hand, the day of the Great Cleansing.” As the discourse proceeded, Doom’s voice gained in intensity. He moved slowly down the dais steps and closer to his audience. With eyes transfixed, the votaries followed their leader’s every move, until their unseeing gaze came to rest on Conan. The barbarian’s primitive instincts alerted him to action, and he gathered himself for a leap to freedom.

  “Your parents deceived you; your teachers deceived you. Fool others as they seek to fool you!”

  Glaring directly at Conan, with hate-filled eyes, Doom shot out an accusing finger and addressed him:

  “Infidel, you are deceived as you sought to deceive me. On this day you shall die.”

  Conan sprang to his feet, his teeth bared in a snarl. As lie rose, footsteps crunched on the marble pave behind him; and alerted to danger, he whirled. Catlike though his movement was, it was not quite swift enough; for even as he pivoted, a heavy cudgel crashed down.

  The blow, aimed at the nape of his neck, went slightly awry and struck him on the temple. Although death was thwarted, the massive impact sent the barbarian hurtling into a spinning vortex of blackness, beyond the reach of pain. He never felt the crushing blows that struck his inert 1 body, as the guards leaped upon him, snarling like wild dogs. Boots thudded against Conan’s ribs and belly while merciless cudgels rose and fell, bludgeoning his face, his ' torso, his helpless limbs. But he knew it not.

  Consciousness returned haltingly, like an unwilling schoolboy bending slow steps towards school. Each muscle 5 throbbed, as if every inch of flesh were one vast bruise. I Through half-open eyes, Conan saw the sun was shining and dimly realized that a new day had dawned. Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to test each limb and, half-astonished, discovered none was broken. Although the beating had been expert and thorough, it had not maimed or crippled him.

  At last he dared to open his swollen eyes. So blurred was his vision that he mistook the sculptured fountain, splashing its sprays of crystal water into rainbows, for a dream. But as he glared from under tangled locks matted with sweat and dried blood, he perceived paths of mosaics meandering among beds of daffodils and tulips and all manner of flowers that defied the painter’s palette. Then he knew he was lying in a garden in the sun. He noticed that a high wall surrounded the garden and defined it, setting off its colour from the paler stone of the temple lieu beyond, the so-called Mountain of Power, the stronghold of Doom.

  With great effort, the Cimmerian raised his head an inch or two above the pavement on which he lay. He saw that the garden was tenanted by groups of youths and maidens, some lounging atop the wall, some strolling among the shrubs and flowers, and some seated by the fountain at the feet of a towering figure who was busy eating a ripe fruit. It came to Conan with a shock of recognition that the man was Rexor, chief in command under the supreme leader Doom.

  A wave of nausea overcame the barbarian youth. He forced his aching body to its knees; the world swung dizzily about him; and he vomited. As he struggled to regain his feet, the clatter of chains made manifest to him that he was shackled, confined as he had been as a slave of the Wheel, and later as a Pit fighter. From broad bracelets and anklets locked about his limbs, strong chains were fixed to a bronzen ring set into the pavement.

  Trembling with weakness,
and overcome by despair, the once-mighty Cimmerian slumped to the ground and lay in his vomit. A pair of young votaries paused to look at the huddled form with an expression of distaste; the others continued past him, averting their indifferent gaze. As from a great distance, Conan heard their laughter carried on the gentle breeze.

  How long he lay thus, Conan did not know; but at length Rexor strode over to him and barked: “The Master would speak to you now; and you, filthy swine, are unfit to come before him.” So saying, Rexor stooped to unlock the manacles and, straightening up, pitched the half-conscious prisoner into the fountain. The sting of the icy water revived the battered youth enough so that, upon Rexor’s command, he managed to crawl out of the basin to collapse on a marble bench.

  A moment later the sibilant voice of Doom hissed in his ear; and looking up, Conan found the snake medallion suspended before his eyes.

  “How came this plaque into your possession?” Doom asked in his sonorous voice. “Was it you who stole it from my house in Shadizar? And what befell the Eye of the Serpent—do you know who bore it off? Speak truth, and no further harm shall be your lot. Refuse, and pain—exquisite, ravishing—will carry your spirit into the ultimate ecstasy of death itself.”

  Conan spat a gobbet of bloody spittle, then, setting his jaw, stared in silence at his enemy. Doom considered him, his uncanny gaze boring into the barbarian’s rebellious eyes as if to probe his very soul. At last, the cult leader sighed, shook his head, and pocketed the talisman.

  Turning to his watchful lieutenant, Doom said: “His mind informs me that he gave the great jewel to some woman. For a few moments of pleasure, I have no doubt, caring not that it holds the key to the power of the world. Such a loss! Such animals have no understanding—no sense of the consequences of their actions.”