Michael Stackpole - Conan the Barbarian

The second reason he felt no alarm was that his return elicited smiles, hoisted ale jacks, come-hither glances, and shouted challenges. Though Conan was not a man who cared about the opinions others held of him, to be welcomed by men with whom he had shed blood did ignite a sense of pride. These were men and women who judged him for what he had done and could do. They cared not for his past adventures. They’d had ample chance to measure his worth, and the sincerity of their smiles reflected how highly they valued him.

Conan found Artus descending from an upstairs apartment, girded for war. “There you are, Cimmerian. Damned if any of these rogues bothered to alert me when you were taken. I just now heard and was going to gather the boys to free you.”

“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 PRESSEDConan 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.