L. Camp - Conan Of The Isles

'Aye, aye,' the burly redbeard agreed with a wheezing sigh, wagging his head so that the firelight glinted from the golden hoops in his ears.' 'Twas much the same with me, Lion, though I never got a crown or a kingdom from the hands of Fate. Nay, I left the Trade years ago - ran a merchantman between Messantia and Kordava. Can ye imagine old Sigurd Redbeard, the terror of Baracha, a merchant?’ His belly quivered with laughter.

'Ah, and that's not the worst of it, either. Like you, Lion, I settled down with a wench - a fine woman, too, even if she had more than a drop of Pictish blood in her veins. Well, we raised a crop of squalling brats, and now the boys are as big as I am. She's gone years ago, aye, Frigga bless her stout heart, and the younglings grown and thriving on their own. What to do with old men who will not die, eh?

'Ho! I sold everything when the last child wed. Now I'm on my way back to red, roaring Tortage for one last taste of the old life before the long night sets in. What about you, Lion? Come with me, man, back to the pirate deck, and Set take these ghostly prophecies and spectral dooms! Let's sack black-walled Khemi in Stygia! Sink me for a lubber, but either we shall get a spear in the guts and go out like heroes in the sagas, or we shall grab more golden loot than Tranicos, Zarono, and Strombanni rolled into one! Eh, what say ye, man?s

A black shadow fell between them. Conan looked up, one hand going to his sword hilt as the black-cloaked stranger who had been watching them from across the room eased himself into a seat at their table.

'Do you seek a ship, gentlemen?' he said in a purring voice. The Northman rumbled-with suspicion, but the catlike stranger, whose face was still concealed in his hood, placed both gloved hands upon the table, clear of any weapons.

‘I could not but help overhear some of your talk’ the intruder said smoothly. 'Pray forgive this intrusion, but if you will spare me a few moments, I think we can discuss business to our mutual advantage.'

Sigurd eyed him dubiously but grunted with curiosity. Conan fixed the man with a level, noncommittal stare. 'Speak up, then,' he growled. 'Say your piece.'

The other nodded with a polite half-bow. 'Unless I misunderstood the little I overheard, I believe that both of you are old seamen, now thinking of taking ship and resuming a career out of the - ah - Pirate Isles? No, fear not.' He raised a placating hand. 'I am no spying informer, no police agent - but I may be able to finance you in the purchase of a suitable vessel.'

Swift as a striking serpent, the stranger's lean hand vanished into his cloak and reappeared to spill a handful of glittering stones on the wine-ringed wood between them. Winking up in the ruddy firelight lay a princeling's ransom in sapphires blue as the southern seas, emeralds like cat's eyes glowing in the dark, topazes and zircons as yellow as a Khitan's skin, and rubies as scarlet as fresh-spilt blood.

Conan, unimpressed, fixed the stranger with a suspicious glare. 'First,' he growled, 'I want to know who in Crom's name you are. Curse it, I take no gift from a man who hides his face even here in an Argossean inn, with King Ariostro's guardsmen on every street, making the city so safe a juicy wench can walk the length of the waterfront unmolested!'

With a smile in his purring voice, the stranger replied: ‘I thank you for the implied compliment, seaman! I hide my face here for good reason, as Argos-folk know my features all too well.'

'Well then, your name!' rumbled Conan. 'Or I'll pitch you across the room as I did that fat-arsed bully.'

'Gladly, to put you at your ease,' the other laughed. Drawing himself up a little, he said softly: 'Know, sailor, that I am Ariostro, king of Argos!'

Conan grunted with astonishment. The stranger drew off one of his gloves and extended the bare hand. The ancient royal seal ring of the Argossean monarchy blazed in the firelight with the brilliance of the huge diamond in which the royal sigil was cut.

CHAPTER FOUR

SCARLET TORTAGE

Black waves break on the wet, black shore

In a thunder of shattering spray –

But what care we if the storm gods roar,

And lash at the pane and claw at the door.,

And we sail at the break of day ?

A lone gull cries like a poor, damned soul

That the waves have washed away –

But what care we if the cold seas roll?

There's ale in the cup and wine in the bowl,

And the dawn is hours away!

- Barachan pirate chant

Tortage roared defiance to the stars. In a cup of rocky cliffs, the pirate port blazed with light and resounded with roaring song, for the Red Brotherhood was in. Tall caracks and slim caravels bobbed at their moorings along the stone quays and wooden piers or lay at anchor in the harbor. Every alehouse, wine shop, inn, and brothel did a roaring business, when half the freebooters of the Western Sea swaggered through the cobbled alleys of red Tortage with pouches bursting with gold, bellies bulging with beer and ale, and hearts inflamed by lust and truculence.

Wine-shop signs, blazoned with skulls, torches, crossed scimitars, dragons, gryphons, crowned heads, and other devices swung creakingly in the stiff sea wind. Surf boomed as it broke at the foot of the cliffs that loomed against the stars above the little town.

Salt spray exploded against the docks, and the whistling wind carried its warm, salt splatter through the crooked streets that wound past low, flat-roofed houses, walled with whitewashed stucco, with iron grilles over their windows. The wind made the fronds of the palm trees lash like fly whisks against the dancing stars above.

For two hundred years and more, the little town in the cliff-walled cove had been the capital of a pirate empire that scourged the seas between Pictland and Rush. Here no law ruled but the rude and simple pact of the Brotherhood. Beyond that,, the only law was the fist, the knife, the sword, and the skill of the battler.

Tonight the pirate city was ablaze with roaring mirth and song. Duels over some slight, real or fancied, exploded in the streets. Rings of shouting men gathered about the cursing duellists, who fought to the death over an accidental shove, a trivial insult, or the favors of some red-lipped, hip-swinging wench. This was a night to remember. The ships were in, their holds gorged with treasure - the loot of the merchant fleets of the southern seas. And Amra the Lion had returned!

Thirty years had not yet buried his portentous name in forgetfulness. On the contrary, the passage of time had only added fresh luster to the legends of his swashbuckling days, in the wild times of Belit, the Shemitish she-pirate, and Red Ortho, and grim Zaporavo of Zingara. In those distant days, when Vilerus and then Numedides had reigned in Aquilonia, Conan had come among them - first as Belit's partner in command of a bloodthirsty crew of black corsairs; then, years later, as a pirate of the Barachas and a leader of Zingaran buccaneers.

For several years off and on, his ships - the galley Tigress, the caravel Red Lion, and the carack Wastrel -had sailed the seas, returning heavy-laden with treasure.

For a time Amra, as some called him, or Conan, as he was known to others, had stood tall among the captains of the Red Brotherhood. But then he had vanished into the little-known lands of the interior and was heard of on the Main no more. Tales and legends spread from these inland realms of a wild, unconquerable warrior-king named Conan, but few of his old seafaring comrades -even those who had known Conan by that name - recognized, in the inland monarch, the Cimmerian pirate of former days. Thus Amra became a myth of that fading past.