Stygian Nights/barbarian Days

Stygian Nights Barbarian Days A story by Casey Peterson, based on Characters created by Robert E. Howard

I In the city of Luxur, the rising sun was beginning to kiss the sturdy buildings as three figures on horses thundered down the main road toward the Stygian temple of Set. The three rode in a hard line and were clad in heavy armor: helmets, breastplates, and grieves atop dark mail that clung to their sturdy limbs. Dragging behind the horses, by a rope tied to the center rider’s saddle, was a fourth man. This man was larger than the others. His unadorned flesh was bloodied and torn from being dragged. Underneath the dust and darkened, dried blood, it was easy to make out a mighty form: muscles like that of a jungle cat wrapped about the entire body. But despite the obvious discomfort and pain, the man’s eyes, a volcanic blue like none other, blazed with alertness fueled by the desire for vengeance. The horses stopped before the temple of the dreaded serpent God. The men sprang down from their mounts and stared in reverence at the monument before them. “We’ve reached our destination, barbarian. Here’s where we leave you. And where we get paid,” spat one of the riders as he stood over the prone captive. “Aye. All accounts shall be paid upon death,” said a second as he knelt before the captive and began to untie him from the horse. The captive’s eyes, ever alert, snapped to the man kneeling near him, “Dog, you know not with whom you deal. Untie me and I shall make yours a swift end!” The third, the man riding point, leaned over and dealt a gauntleted backhand to the captive, “Barbarian scum. No one gave you permission to talk. And you flatter yourself to think that you might best three armed and capable Zingarians. Or did the ride here jar your memories to the point of forgetting what happened in our last tussle?” The barbarian’s face bled from the backhand, but through the blood his eyes burned with a deeper intensity, “Mitra take me if I was bested by you. Untie me and we’ll see if you can once again ‘best me’, but this time without first drugging my wine. Now for the last time, dog, UNTIE ME!” His mighty thews struggled at the bonds, but the ropes held fast. The kneeling man finished his task and quickly leapt back from the barbarian. The first man laughed, saying “Artem, don’t tell me that you’re frightened of the fool. His words are empty. No one can escape from an Zingarian knot.” Artem shot a look of scorn at his companion and replied, “Garath, if you’re so sure of your knots, then you stand him up.”

Garath balked at the offer and looked to the third man, “Barakat, how are we going to get him into the temple? He’s wide awake now and sure to make himself deadweight if we try to carry him. Might we get someone from inside the temple to help us?” Barakat offered his hand, palm up, at the temple. “By all means, Garath. If you want to enter a temple of Set and ask a Stygian priest for help, I wouldn’t dream to stop you. But I fear their dark rites as much as I fear the thought of what this barbarian would do if he were loosed upon us. No, we’ll need to put him under again.” “If you think you’re going to get me to drink more of your tainted wine, you’re sadly mistaken. But tell me, why is it that you would bring me to a temple of Set in the heart of dark Stygia, if you fear those who dwell within?” the barbarian barked. “There was a price on your head. It was placed there by the high priestess of Set. I don’t know what you’ve done, and I don’t care. But we’re going to get paid and you’re going to die,” said Artem, “Barakat, perhaps if we drag him up the steps of the temple by a rope?” “Fool. It took all three of our chargers to drag him here. And now they won’t be able to ride more than 10 miles at a time. And you think that we can drag him up those steps? No, we’ll have to cut the ropes at his feet and walk him into the temple,” Barakat spat. “Right, it’s the only way. You hear that, you barbarian slime? You’re going to walk into that temple at the points of our blades and if you act up, we’ll run you through,” Garath kicked the barbarian in the side. “I’ll live to make you regret that kick, dog. And you won’t run me through, because though I don’t know what the priestess of Set wants from me, I know that she wants me alive, or you would have spared yourselves the trouble of dragging me and just delivered her the head of Conan. So untie my feet, and we’ll see if I can still walk.” Barakat nodded to Artem. Artem knelt once again and pulled a short knife from the belt at his waist. He sawed through the ropes and sprang backwards to give Conan a wide berth. The Barbarian rolled over so that his hands were below him; he pushed himself to his knees and then rose to full height. He towered over the three Zingarian bounty hunters. The bounty hunters, though fully clad in armor and each with sword drawn, all took a small step backwards as Conan stretched his legs and cracked his joints. “Well dogs, it’s three of you to one of me. You’re all armed and armor clad. I’m naked save this loincloth and have no weapon but my wits and myself. Obviously the upper hand is yours. But perhaps we should just see how tough an Zingarian really is.” With those words Conan lunged at Artem, and drove his massive shoulder into him. Despite the polished breastplate, Artem faltered and fell to the ground in a clatter. The sword bounced from his hands and slid under one of the horses. Quick as an uncaged wildcat, Conan pounced upon the

downed Zingarian. He landed on him, like a falling tree hits the ground, and began to pummel Artem’s face with his bound hands, swinging them back and forth like a pendulum. Garath and Barakat rushed to their fallen companion’s aide, but Conan, whose senses are like that of an animal, rolled off of Artem just as the two blades came plunging down. The Zingarians were unable to stop their strokes in time and they stabbed Artem twice in the chest. Garath yelled in anger as they pulled their blades from Artem’s body and spun to find their captive. Conan was scrambling, his legs bent and back hunched like a mighty ape, toward Artem’s sword. Barakat raced towards him with blood dripping from the raised sword. Conan spun around, sweeping a leg in a low kick. It caught Barakat square in the right knee and his leg made a sickening snap. Barakat crumpled to the ground with a yelp of pain. Conan snarled at him, but continued toward the sword. He scooped it up in his powerful, yet bound hands and rose, once again, to full height. Then he felt the cold point of a sword press into the small of his back. “You may have gotten the best of Artem and crippled Barakat, but I’ll not be so easy. I ought to run you through. But I think that you’ll meet much grislier fate within those dark walls. You will walk into the temple and I will walk away with your bounty. Now drop the blade. Drop it,” Garath hissed through clenched teeth. Conan grunted and then flung the blade high into the air. He heard Garath issue a breath of surprise and then the barbarian stepped forward and twisted to face the Zingarian. Conan planted a foot into the center of Garath’s chest and kicked, sending him flying back. The falling sword came crashing to the ground next to Conan. He leaned down and picked it up. With a fluid, upward move of his hands, he cut through the ropes at his wrists. He adjusted his sore muscles and then advanced on Garath who had witnessed Conan’s freedom and was struggling to his feet under the weight of his armor. Barakat was in a seated position, holding his shattered leg. He shouted as Conan passed him, “So, you have a blade. We still have the upper hand. Where is your armor? His blade will pierce your soft skin and—” Conan’s sword fell in a smooth arc and sent Barakat’s head sailing to the ground with a spray of blood. Garath was on his feet and charged Conan. The barbarian gave a mighty roar and tensed all of his muscles. He exploded towards the Zingarian with teeth bared. There was a shower of sparks as their blades smashed together. Conan’s blue eyes locked with the dark eyes of Garath. Their swordfight rang out and echoed off of the walls of Luxur in the early morning light. Conan constantly shifted his weight and moved his feet, avoiding the thrusts of his opponent. But Garath was quick with his blade. He parried and feinted with a deftness that the Barbarian could not match.

The bounty hunter thrust with his sword and at the same time pulled a short blade from his belt. With the short blade he cut at Conan while the barbarian dodged the thrust. The knife sunk deep into Conan’s thigh. He let out a thunderous yell and smashed his empty hand into the side of Garath’s head, knocking his helmet to the ground. He bashed again with his bare fist, this time colliding with Garath’s exposed ear. Garath squealed in pain and dropped his sword. At the same instant, Conan brought his sword down in a great strike. It connected with Garath where his neck met his shoulder. The metal cleaved down, through flesh and bone, stopping just above the heart. Garath turned a ghastly pale shade and his jaw dropped. He looked at the Barbarian with pain and remorse, but there was no pity in the fiery blue eyes. Conan, with a loud grunt, snapped the blade from the handle and pushed Garath to the ground. “Dog, I told you I would live to make you regret that kick. You’ll die slow enough to regret it by the time your soul plunges to hell.” Conan pulled the knife from his leg with a hiss of pain. He dropped the knife into the dust and moved to the horses. He did not know what the high priestess of Set wanted of him, but he was determined to not find out. As he gingerly lifted his hurt leg into the stirrup of a Zingarian charger, an arrow whistled by his ear. It struck the horse in the throat, causing the horse to neigh and rear onto its hind legs. Conan was pitched from the horse as it fell to the ground in a heap. Arrows flew through the air and pierced the other horses’ throats. They too collapsed to the ground. “Ishtar! Those marks were too well made to be accidental. They were not aiming at me, but at the horses. To prevent my escape. But who?” Conan exclaimed to himself as he rushed to pickup a sword. He looked up the temple steps to the open doorway. There, flanked by eight men with bows drawn, stood Zoryanna, the high priestess of Set. II The priestess, clad only in a sheer gown and a girdle of silver, strode down the stairs toward the tensed barbarian. She swept her long, black hair over her shoulder and stretched her left hand at Conan in a gesture of welcome. “My dear Conan. I see you have spared my soldiers the trouble of paying your captors. I thank you for that. Zingarians are such an unruly lot. But, enough of this idle chatter on the temple stairs… the city will soon be abuzz with citizens and it’s unacceptable for them to see you in such a state. Come, come! Into the temple where I’ll have my maidens bathe you and treat your wounds. I’m sure you’re hungry as well?” Conan recoiled from the Stygian as a dog shies from an untrustworthy hand. “What business do I have with you? If you wished to treat me with such hospitality, why have me dragged here behind a horse?” The priestess reached Conan and laid a slender hand on his

tremendous arm. She said, “I gave no such command to have you dragged here. My request was simply for your presence. It was their interpretation of my desires… and I see that you have already given a fierce reprimand. Now,” her voice gained a sharp tone, “into the temple with us. At once.” Her eyes flashed into Conan’s and then looked suspiciously about the empty street. He was led to a room deep within the labyrinthine twists of the temple, and though he tried to maintain his bearings, was moved so quickly that he was soon lost. They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, inlaid with gold. There were two guards posted. Each man held a broad halberd and had a sword at his belt. The priestess opened the door before them and Conan entered the room first. There, within the room, was a large, central table. It was low to the ground and there were large pillows to sit on. Coal fires burned in braziers in each corner of the room. Atop the table was a feast for twenty, though Conan knew it would merely whet his appetite. The priestess gestured for him to sit at the table, “Conan, eat and drink your fill. Should you require any more food or drink, simply tell the guards outside. My handmaidens will be here shortly to bathe you and dress your wounds. I will leave you now.” She turned to leave, but Conan lashed out and grabbed her tiny wrist in his hand. The soldiers moved to strike him, but Zoryana raised her free hand. Conan growled “Perhaps you could be so kind as to tell me what I’m doing here.” With her free hand, Zoryana struck Conan across the face, “You forget your place. The dragging must have made you lose all sense. Although I am treating you well, do not think that you are not my prisoner.” “Stygian strumpet! Whole armies have lost their lives for less than a slap on my face. Know that barbarian blood boils in my veins, and should you ever think to strike me again, I cannot be responsible for my actions,” Conan flung her hand from him. “I shall call on you in two hours. Your purpose shall then be made clear.” And with that, Zoryana and her soldiers left the room. Conan sulked down before the table. He grabbed a joint of beef in front of him and sunk his teeth into it voraciously. Conan finished all of the food at the table and was setting to work on a large skin of wine when three handmaidens came into the room. Their black hair sat high on their heads and their faces were made to draw attention to their cheekbones, their faces most striking feature. They were slender yet buxom and dressed in snugly-fitted gowns. The animal instinct within Conan flared up and he rose from his seat at the table. “And just in time. I’ve finished my meal and perhaps you can help me with a different hunger. Would you prefer one at a time? Or are you the adventurous sort?” One of the women stepped closer to Conan, “Sir, we are not here

to fulfill that hunger. We are only to bathe and clothe you. And should you try anything, we will call to the guards outside. Is that understood?” There was a tone to her voice that made Conan believe that perhaps she was only saying a line, be he decided not to test it. “Very well, I prefer a willing partner. Only a Hyrkanian would take what is not offered to him of a woman. And I am no Hyrkanian, but a Cimmerian. And of the purest blood at that.” “Very well sir. Now, let us set to the task of cleaning you.” the first handmaiden spoke again. And not a word was said from then on. They cleansed and oiled Conan’s body and dressed his wounds. The wound on his thigh was cleaned and bandaged. They clothed him in Stygian apparel: Billowy pants and a sash that draped his shoulders. They anointed his hair with perfumes. Then, bowing to him, they made to leave the room. Conan sprang to his feet and snatched the third handmaiden before she could slip out the door. He put his back to the door and held it closed. He could hear the guards and handmaidens trying to force the door from the other side. With a grim smile, Conan held the girl about her waist. His face was calm as he spoke: “Tell me. What is it that your priestess wants from me? Am I to be some sort of sacrifice? Or perhaps she plans to use me to her own ends. Speak, or has Ishtar got your tongue?” “No. I may speak freely, but at a price. If it is discovered that I have revealed to you what you are doing here, they shall have my life. But I will tell you, because you have been gentle with me thus far. Zoryana seeks an assassination of Ramsett.” “The King of Stygia?” Conan softened his grip on the girl, enjoying her womanly curves. “The very same. Zoryana wishes to seize control of the country, but cannot do it as long as Ramsett is in power.” “But why have me here to assassinate him? Couldn’t she buy a Stygian assassin?” Conan’s mind was turning as he worked out the plot in his head. “Of course, but her plan is two fold. You will kill the king. And once the king is dead, it will be determined that it was you, Conan the Northron who killed him. When the country learns of your crime, they will assume that a northern king had paid for the murder, for even in the darkest pits of Stygia, your name precedes you as a mercenary and cunning barbarian. The country will unite behind any leader willing to take them to war against the northern countries. That leader will be Zoryana.” “But why will they follow Zoryana? Certainly there must be a whole mass of men ready to take the helm of Stygia.” “They will follow Zoryana because she will be the one to put you to death. She will apprehend you and shed your blood before Set. She will be their hero, and will become their leader!” Her face flushed with

excitement from the plan. Conan once more tightened his grip. “And if I should refuse? There is nothing to compel me into the task.” Conan ground his teeth and furrowed his great brow. He had been involved in many assassination plots before, but never as a patsy. “You cannot refuse her. She has ways to make you obey. I am sorry, but you will carry out the task.” She bowed her head. Conan grunted in disagreement and released her. She stole quickly through the door. Conan sat down on the floor and pondered a course of action. III Conan was lounging on a pillow when Zoryana returned to his cell. She entered the room with an escort of ten armed men. She tossed a long, slender knife at Conan’s feet. “Up with you, Barbarian. This is yours.” Conan plucked the tiny knife from the floor and held it in his mighty hand. “And I am supposed to pick my teeth with this? Why give me a knife?” “As I said before, there is work for you here in Stygia. That knife is the knife that will bring down the infamous King Ramsett. And by your hand.” Zoryana moved closer so that she stood above Conan’s sprawled body. “And when I tell you no? Do not forget who I am. Greater forces than you have tried to use me as a tool. None of them live to speak of their failure.” Conan began to rise, but Zoryana drove a strong knee into his chest and pinned him to the ground. She drew two daggers from behind her back and, one in each hand, placed the points to Conan’s throat. “I know who you are. I know all about you. Which is why I know that you will do exactly what I tell you to do. You fear the supernatural, typical of stupid barbarians. Well, you should try saying no to Alkanaz.” She leaned her head back and gave a deep whistle. The door was opened and a robed figure entered. The figure glided across the room until it was above Conan. Through the darkness of the hood, Conan could make out facial features that were not human. Conan’s hair stood on end and he struggled against Zoryana. His heart sped like a cornered animal. All humanity left his eyes and he gnashed his teeth. He was terrified of this Alkanaz. Zoryana, whose strength did not match her figure, grinned at Conan’s efforts. Then her eyes rolled back into her head and, in a voice not her own, moaned“Alkanaz, do my bidding. Here is your prey!” A hiss issued from Alkanaz’z hood. An arm of the robe reached down toward Conan’s chest. He thrashed, but could not prevent Alkanaz from touching him. Alkanaz’s touch was cold, like ice, and it burned Conan’s flesh. His mind was filled with images of sorrow and

he could hear a great dirge in his ears. His world went black. It was dusk when Conan awoke. He was no longer in the temple. He was underneath a canvas awning in the open air. He felt empty inside, as though he was missing something. He staggered to his feet and took stock of himself. He was still clad in the outfit given him in the temple. But tucked into his belt was Zoryana’s knife. And around his neck hung a small medallion. He touched the medallion and was struck by a great rushing sensation. Zoryana’s voice filled his head, “You will complete the task, Barbarian. If you refuse, you will die. Alkanaz has taken your soul and will devour it, as is the way of Soul Eaters, within a day if you do not complete the task. Once you have killed the king, return to the temple. There, you will receive your soul. You cannot remove the medallion, but you may use it to contact me when your task is accomplished.” Conan let go of the medallion and the priestess’s voice left his head. He stood once more and stepped out from under the awning. He was in a dark street next to the palace. Zoryana had delivered him to the doorway of his quarry, but she had not provided him with a way inside. Conan’s hand went to the short knife at his hip and he laughed lightly. It was not going to be an easy task, but he dreaded the thought of a monster such as Alkanaz eating his soul. This image urged him on. There were two armed men on guard before the palace’s large stone doors. Conan, on feet as light as a jungle cat, crept along the wall towards the guards. Conan was a lunge away from the guards when the man closest to him turned towards the barbarian. His eyes went wild, but before he could say a word Conan’s knife was driven home under the man’s jaw. The other guard heard his compatriot collapse to the ground and drew his broadsword. He whirled on his toes and rushed to the fallen body, but Conan had sprung back into the darkness of the side street. The guard looked all around him, trying to find the hidden attacker. When the man turned his attention back to the body, Conan leapt from the darkness. His fists pummeled the guard to the ground and Conan slashed at the guard’s neck in a bloody slice. He picked up the dead man’s broadsword and tucked the bloodied knife back into his belt. He put a shoulder to the stone door and entered. On the other side of the gate was a troop of men. They looked up as Conan entered, but his outfit gave the impression that he was a soldier of Stygia. They returned their attention to the things they were doing before he entered. Conan felt a bit uncertain, thinking: Why should I raise no alarm in these men? Unless they are under Zoryana’s control. And if that is the case, they shall be waiting for me when I try to leave. He

tightened the grip on his sword and moved quickly through the gatehouse. He entered a well-lit hallway and ducked into the first room that he came to. He brought his hand up to the medallion at his neck. The rushing returned and Zoryana’s voice uttered “Have you killed him already? So quickly?” “No. But I am within the palace walls. Where must I go from here?” “The king’s quarters are on the second floor of the palace. They are located near the far parapet. He is sure to be well guarded, be alert. And, do not try –” Conan let his hand fall and he made his way to the second floor, extinguishing every torch on his way. At the top of the stairs was a lone soldier. Conan drove his sword through the man’s stomach and stepped over the fallen form. The soldier gasped for life, but Conan did not turn back. He continued to extinguish the torches set into the wall, hoping to use the darkness to his advantage in his escape. As he was putting out a torch, several women came into the hallway. One of them said loudly, “Just what are you doing?” The two women behind her paced nervously. “Do not worry, I’m under the orders of the captain of the guard. We’re expecting an assassin tonight and we do not wish to aid him with a well-lit palace. Do be so kind as to put out any torches you should happen across. And please point me towards the king’s quarters.” “We are on our way to the quarters right now. You may accompany us.” “Indeed.” Conan grimaced to himself, hoping that he would not have to harm these women. The four of them proceeded to the king’s chamber. Before they entered, Conan turned to the three women. “It would be best if you waited a moment before entering. I have news for Ramsett that is not fit for your ears to hear. Please, it will only be a moment.” The women looked at Conan trustingly and nodded. He placed the broadsword under his belt and entered the room. The king’s chamber was a large, round room. In the center was a large bed with a mattress of feathers. There were windows set high in the walls. There was a massive fireplace along one wall, in front of which were several chairs and pillows. The king sat in one of these chairs, reading a scroll. “Your majesty?” Conan coughed the words timidly, so that the king would look up. The king removed his gaze from the reading and gazed on Conan inquiringly. “What business have you here, with me?” He rose from the chair, his lean body dwarfed by his kingly garb. “Only a brief message from the high priestess of Set,” Conan pulled the slim knife from his belt and flung it, side arm, at the king. The knife metal flashed in the firelight and the king flinched reflexively.

This flinch caused the knife to miss its mark. It hit the king in the shoulder. “You coward! Assassin! Assassin! Guards!” Ramsett howled as he clutched the handle of the knife in his shoulder. Conan drew his sword and charged the wounded king. Ramsett recoiled in fright and scrambled backwards, kicking over chairs and throwing pillows at Conan. Conan sidestepped the chairs and sliced through the pillows, filling the air with white and grey feathers. His face was determined and his jaw set. The king mumbled incoherently and continued to move backwards in fear. The door to the chamber swung open and the three women rushed in. They were followed by the troop of soldiers from the gatehouse. The king turned his attention to the new faces in his room. As he did so, his feet tangled in one another and he fell backwards into the fireplace. A cough of sparks and ash was kicked out into the room as the king screamed in pain. He rose from the fireplace with his robes ablaze. His hair was on fire and he was pulling it from his head in burning clumps. Conan brought his sword mercilessly down onto the king’s neck. Ramsett fell to the ground and continued to burn. Conan now turned his attention to the other soldiers in the room. There were ten of them and they were moving to encircle him. He put his back to the fireplace, feeling the waves of heat from the flames. He reached behind him and picked the fire spade from the rack of hearth tools. He thought: They may be with Zoryana, but even if they are, they do not wish to take me alive. The smell of the burning king floated in the air as Conan gave a great roar and rushed at the soldiers. He swung with the sword and stabbed with the spade. The soldiers fell before him. He caught one man across the face with the point of his blade. He speared another with the spade and then ripped the wound open with the spade’s hook. The spade was knocked from his hand and he grabbed the soldier responsible with the empty hand. He threw the man head first into the fire. Conan fought with a ferocity the Stygian guard had never seen before. Finally the room held only Conan and the three women. They looked at him with frightful eyes. Conan snarled at them and yelled “The temple of Set will have its day!” then fled from the room. The hallway was completely dark and he let his instinctual sense of navigation lead him back through the palace. Only once did someone get in his way, but Conan sliced the soldier in half and did not slow down until he was in the open air. Conan grabbed at the medallion and as the rushing filled his head, he said, “It’s done. I’m coming for my soul.” Before Zoryana could respond, he had let go and was running towards the temple. IV Conan mounted the steps of the temple in the dark of night. At

the top stood Zoryana and her escort. Alkanaz was there as well; his robed form nearly invisible in the inky blackness. “Your king is dead. As well as most of the palace guard. Now I want my soul.” Conan tore the medallion from his neck and threw it to the ground before Zoryana. The priestess looked at him in disbelief: “But did you not encounter my men at the palace? Did they not aid in your escape?” “They are dead. Which is all of the help I could have expected from them, I’m sure.” Conan strode toward Zoryana, but the escort, swords drawn, stepped in between. Conan grinned and raised his sword as well. “If you want blood, you’ll have it. But it will not be my blood. I’m through being an instrument. Now, I want my soul back.” He pointed his sword at Alkanaz, “I’ll take it by force, with pleasure.” Alkanaz stepped forward and let the robe drop from its body. Even in the dark, its body glowed with an iridescent light. It was covered in sharp, knifelike scales and had deep, empty pools for eyes. It had no mouth and only two slits for a nose. Its hands were great claws, and on their palms were bristled pads. It was these pads that allowed Alkanaz to remove the soul from a body. It hissed through the nostrils and pounced at Conan. At the same time, the escort rushed Conan. The barbarian steadied himself against the charge, but it did not come. Alkanaz fell upon the escort, slashing them into ribbons with its heavy claws. It latched its padded palms onto their chests and, as it extracted their souls, its empty eyes came to life. The escort screamed and tried to fight back against the demon, but it was too quick for them and all ten succumbed in the chaos. Now Alkanaz turned its attention to Conan. It gave off a more brilliant glow and its eyes were filled with a pale fire. It flexed its claws and ran at Conan. “Hellspawn! I’m ready for you!” Conan swung his sword and it connected with Alkanaz’s scales, but it was deflected in a shower of sparks. The demon’s claws swiped at Conan’s face, but he dodged them. “Crom, but you’re invincible! There must be a weakness to your foulness!” Conan stabbed his blade at Alkanaz’s stomach, but the scales deflected it once again. The demon’s eyes blazed at Conan and, suddenly, the barbarian knew how to defeat the monster. But before he could make his move, a claw clapped him in the chest. Like razors through silk, Conan was slashed. Blood poured out and he staggered. Alkanaz reared back and then, on all fours, came running. Conan pulled his sword back and drove, with all of his might, into the demon’s eye. The sword sunk in up to its hilt. Alkanaz fell to the ground and shrieked in pain. The screams came from its nostrils and were like whistles. The body lurched and writhed and then went limp. Dark foam began to spill from the deep pool on an eye. Conan knelt down gingerly, and scooped up a handful of the foam. He put his

hand to his lips and drank the foam. At once, Conan felt full again. His soul was returned and his body reacted as though afire with energy. Just then, he heard Zoryana clambering down the steps of the temple. “Where are you going? You have to stay here to take over your kingdom. Isn’t this what you had in mind? You can’t leave now!” Conan leapt down the steps and landed in front of the priestess. He swept his sword through the air and clipped into her knee. Zoryana collapsed in a cloud of dust. She wailed as she held her severed limb. Blood fountained from her wound and she looked at Conan with eyes full of hate. “Next time you want someone to do your bidding, be sure that you are ready to deal with the consequences,” Conan heard the thundering of hooves as the army of the fallen king rushed towards the temple. “And I believe this is yours.” He dropped the small knife before her and then fled before the mob arrived. He stole a horse from a nearby post and rode hard from the city. He had a score to settle with Zingara.