Conan and the Grim Grey God Read online

  Prologue

  The Jackal of Acheron

  For nineteen centuries, the Holy City of Nithia had stood unconquered. Would-be assailants faced a nine-day ride through arid dunes of sun-scorched sand. On foot, the trek would have been suicidal. Only thrice in the city’s history had mounted armies actually crossed the desert to reach Nithia’s towering walls of white marble and stand before the massive brass gate. Always had these beleaguered invaders been forced to depart, for siege was impossible in the barren Nithian desert. Water and food lay only within the city walls, where the legendary Seven Fountains of Ibis fed bounteous gardens and nourished the city’s dwellers.

  Today, neither desert nor barriers of brass and stone had protected the Holy City. The gate lay mangled upon the white marble streets, crumpled like parchment in the fist of a baleful god. Nearby, Nithia’s hundred elite warriors sprawled lifelessly; blood from their ghastly wounds smeared the once-pristine pavement. Tracks from the bloodied boots and hooves of Nithia’s conquerors painted a crimson path from the ruined gate to the centre of the city—to the greatest temple in the known world.

  The gate-crashers had swept through the streets like an inescapable wave of death. Every building had been searched, every man, woman, and child butchered. Two millennia of peace and isolation had rendered the benevolent Nithians incapable of resistance. None had been able to escape the doom, for the walls that had once protected them now imprisoned them. In a morning massacre, a few hundred ruthless raiders had turned the Holy City into a grisly tomb for some nine thousand worshippers of Ibis.

  By midday, the anguished cries of the last victims dwindled to silence. The only sounds were the steady booming of an immense battering ram against the temple’s marble door, the grunts of the men who swung it, and the harsh commands of their leader. He sat proudly atop his steed, his crooked smile turning his face into a diabolical mask. Smeared from beard to boot with blood and gore, his red-rimmed eyes blazing with baleful fire, he looked more like a devil than a man. He raised his four-foot blade of ebon steel and shouted angrily, eager to batter down this barrier and deal more death.

  The sharp bark of his cruel voice was akin to that of a jackal, and in years past, those who whispered of his deeds had dubbed him the Jackal of Acheron. None dared to utter that name in his presence— for that matter, few would speak to him at all save at his request. Indeed, only the bravest of men dared to look him in the face. The Jackal had killed men on a whim if displeased with their tone of voice or if he perceived the slightest lack of respect.

  His given name was Dhurkhan Blackblade, a name that filled the hearts of men with fear and hate. His brutish biceps were thicker than a strong man’s calves; his shoulders rose above a tall man’s head. And Blackblade’s ability to intimidate was more than physical, for he was Supreme Warlord of the Army of Acheron and brother of the dreaded Xaltotun—the necromancer whose powers exceeded those of any twenty Stygian sorcerers.

  Blackblade cursed and shook a mailed fist at his men, his voice like the crack of a whip. A soldier paused to wipe his sweat-drenched brow and, in the process, threw off the rhythm of the others. An instant later, the soldier’s head flew from his shoulders in a scarlet spray. It thumped down the marble steps as Blackblade ordered another to take the dead man’s place. Twenty backs bent anew to the task, muscles flexing, and the exertion wrung groans and grunts from the men. A glowing, bile-green nimbus surrounded the dark iron of the battering ram’s head. Xaltotun himself had imbued the metal with mighty spells that had been the bane of many portals. Sparks flew from the metal as it struck stone, and the massive door shivered in its frame.

  “Solnarus!” roared Blackblade, shaking red droplets from his sword. “Thy doom is at hand, cowardly herder of Ibis’s mewling flock! The Grim Grey God shall be mine!”

  His diabolical laughter echoed from the stones of the dead city, and the ensorceled ram boomed again.

  Beyond the weakening marble portal, seven Nithians awaited their fate in the temple’s inner sanctum. Six of them knelt calmly, each facing west as they chanted slowly in low, musical tones. Dove-grey satin robes, the simple ceremonial garb of the high priests of Ibis, covered the men from their shaven heads to their bare feet. Only their hands were exposed, palms pressed against the floor, fingertips pointing forward.

  Behind them stood Solnarus, the Priest-King of Nithia. His flowing robe resembled those worn by the other priests, but he had cast back the cowl. His skin and garments were either white or the palest grey. Sunlight blazed through the temple’s crystalline roof and bathed the Priest-King’s serene face in a whiteness that some would have found unbearably bright.

  Solnarus stared into the sun as if its warm brilliance nourished him. His skin was strangely light for a desert-dweller. His face and scalp were as smooth as a young man’s, though nearly a century had passed since his birth—the Priest-Kings of Nithia descended from Atlantean kings, whose lifespans were thrice those of normal men’s.

  In Solnarus’s eyes, a keen observer could see the wisdom of a century and more. The Priest-King’s left iris blazed with a hue of blue so deep that it rivalled the azure of the sky. His right iris gleamed like polished amber. In a setting devoid of colour, the Priest-King’s contrasting eyes were at once startling and captivating.

  Like the other priests, Solnarus chanted slowly and rhythmically. He raised his hands until his sleeves fell back to expose slender arms as pale as alabaster. He held a hollow globe of thin crystal in his fingers, a globe filled with fine white sand: Abruptly, he ceased his chanting.

  “It is done,” Solnarus sighed.

  The six priests rose in a chorus of popping joints, straightening their bent backs and stiff knees. They did not seem weary, though they had knelt and chanted since dawn. They pulled back their cowls to reveal solemn faces and clasped their hands as they turned to face the Priest-King.

  “The power of a god is within our reach,” whispered a short, pudgy priest whose name was Milvius. He gazed despondently toward the centre of the inner sanctum, at the only object in the entire temple. “Is it the will of Ibis that our people be shredded in the jaws of the Jackal?”'

  Five priests stepped away from Milvius, staring at him in open-mouthed astonishment. “Madness,” one of them whispered.

  Solnarus raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps it is not Ibis who condemns us, Milvius,” he murmured. His bare feet shuffled across the floor as he walked toward the object of Milvius’s attention. The Priest-King cradled his globe of sand as he stared morosely into the face of the Grim Grey God.

  The statue had rested upon the floor of the temple for two millennia, the sole relic that linked the Nithians to their Atlantean ancestors. According to legend, the god had been artfully carved from a dull, silvery pearl twice the size of a man’s head. Upon the marble floor it squatted toad-like, returning Solnarus’s stare with its cold, graven eyes.

  The Priest-King sighed and shook his head. “Ah, Milvius. I condemn you not for your tumultuous thoughts. Perhaps that which we have guarded for centuries—that which played a part in the very fall of Atlantis—”

  An ominous boom drowned out the rest of his words. From the outer door it echoed, a peal of thunder that filled the high-ceilinged hallways and shattered the quietude of the inner sanctum.

  Solnarus frowned, a row of furrows wrinkling his smooth forehead. “Verily, it may be the Grim Grey God that has sealed our fate, Milvius. But we have sworn by Ibis to protect it.”

  Five priests nodded solemnly, then gazed disapprovingly at Milvius. “Its power is evil,” said one of them.

  “The power of Chaos,” whispered another.

  “It is accursed.”

  “Forbidden,” muttered two men, sh
aking their heads.

  As Milvius nodded humbly, a splintering crash made him jump. He rubbed his jaw with shaking, spidery fingers. With a final, wistful look at the pearl statue, he turned toward the hallway to face the defilers who would soon swarm the temple. “The door crumbles, Solnarus!” he whispered, trembling.

  “Peace, Milvius,” the Priest-King said, his tone a balm that soothed the raw nerves of those who listened. He lowered his eyes to the sphere in his hands. “If we succeed, know you that Blackblade must suffer a fate far worse than ours. His own sword shall undo him; no more shall he crush cities like ours beneath his boot-heel. Our sacrifice sets a wind to blowing, and that wind is destined to disperse the clouds of Acheron before they obscure our world in foul darkness.”

  “If we succeed,” Milvius quavered. “And if we cannot prevent him from seizing that," he gestured toward the statue, “who will stop him then?”

  Solnarus’s brow wrinkled again. “No one, Milvius. We are the last line of defence.” He paused gloomily. “And know this: No priest, no sorcerer—perhaps not even a god—can undo what is wrought by the forces within the Grim Grey God. The ancient gods of evil imbued it with their power. Had the Atlanteans not wrested it from their ancient foes before it could be put to use, the world would already be a festering hell.”

  “They should have destroyed it,” said Milvius. He flinched when the ram struck another ear-splitting blow upon the door.

  “No sane man would attempt to do so, even if he could. You have read the verses in the Eleventh Codex of Eibon. ‘No one, neither man nor woman, may harm it, nor any thing of the world do it injury. And should the world be rid of it, the ancient gods within shall be reborn, and their ancient evil shall again darken the lands.’” Solnarus shook his head. “These passages and the others have haunted me since the day it befell me to become the guardian of the Grim Grey God. Long have I pondered their meaning—”

  The crash of broken stone drowned out the Priest-King’s words, and the demonic laughter of Blackblade sounded in the halls.

  Milvius’s eyes widened in terror. “The Jackal comes!” Sweat rolled from his nose and dripped onto his robes.

  Blackblade rode into the spacious temple, roaring like a maddened giant. By his own order, none of his men followed too closely. He burst into die inner sanctum and brought his mount to an abrupt halt. The clopping of hooves echoed like the palpitations of a stone heart.

  Solnarus stepped forward, clutching the glass sphere in steady hands. His face was smooth and dry, as serene as ever. He smiled wanly at Blackblade.

  “Solnarus,” the warlord of Acheron sneered triumphantly. “Kneel before your master, snivelling lamb of Ibis! Long has my blade craved your blood.”

  “You have reached too far this time, and doomed yourself to failure. You should have brought your brother! Verily, without Xaltotun's dark arts, you could not have crossed the desert or breached Nithia’s gate. Nay, Jackal! Ne’er again will your blade take the lives of innocents.”

  Chuckling, Blackblade dismounted with an agility that should have been impossible for a man of his enormous size. He strode toward Solnarus, who stood unwavering. The other priests, like Milvius, stayed at Solnarus’s side, nervously eyeing Blackblade’s blood-smeared, four-foot scimitar.

  The Acheronian warlord swept his arms back, then swung his blade in a murderous two-handed stroke. The heads of two Nithian priests thumped to the marble floor as their severed necks jetted blood. Three others fell slain before the survivors could even move. The Jackal struck again, silencing Milvius’s terrified wail. Sharpened steel sheared through the little priest’s ribs, severed his spine, and shattered his shoulder blades, halving him at the torso.

  Blackblade tore loose the upper half of the corpse, sliced out the heart and speared it on the tip of his scimitar. Grinning wickedly at Solnarus, he lifted the glistening organ to his teeth and tore out a dripping chunk. He licked his lips and spat a copious gobbet of blood into the Priest-King’s face.

  “Dotard,” he mouthed, still chewing. “Now that the Grim Grey God is mine, nothing is beyond my reach. My armies will sweep across the land in a glorious tide of blood. The fist of mighty Acheron will soon grip the entire world and silence the whimpering of pathetic weaklings like you.” He swallowed and noisily smacked his lips.

  Solnarus made no reply. Blood from the slain priests had begun soaking into the hem of his spattered robe, but he stood fast, his gaze never leaving Blackblade’s face. Only the Priest-King’s eyes showed emotion, his blue eye gleaming like ice, his orange eye glowing like a hot ember.

  Blackblade lunged without warning. His sword flew through the air like a striking serpent.

  Solnarus raised his sphere into the path of the blade. Its fragile glass shattered in a spray of sand. Unchecked, Blackblade’s sword bit into the Priest-King’s neck and lopped off his head.

  The body fell forward, but at the neck-hole from whence the blood should have spurted, there poured only sand. The head landed upright, its eyes rolling upward to stare defiantly at the astonished Jackal. “So, Jackal, it ends..Solnarus’s hollow voice echoed tauntingly from his lips. “You have smashed the Sphere of Souls each grain of sand is a soul, an innocent life taken by your bewitched blade. Hell awaits you, Jackal of Acheron—”

  Bellowing with bestial fury, Blackblade stomped the Priest-King’s skull beneath his iron-shod boot and ground it into a pile of powdery bones and sand. He cursed and ranted as he trampled the Priest-King’s corpse until it was a shapeless mound that bore no resemblance to a man. Two rapid strides brought him within arm’s reach of the pearl statue, which he reached for greedily.

  Abruptly, a fierce wind howled through the temple. The light from the crystalline roof darkened as the sun was obscured. From above, a faint pattering sounded like rain, and yells from Blackblade’s men filtered into the temple. Even as the Acheronian warlord gloated over his prize, the soldiers’ cries faded to muffled whispers and were extinguished.

  The Jackal hoisted the polished-pearl statue high into the air. “The Grim Grey God is mine!”

  A splintering crash from above smothered Blackblade’s shout of exhilaration. The roof shattered from the weight of the sand heaped atop it, showering the wide-eyed warlock with knife-like shards and burying him in a sandy grave. His death-yell was buried in a whirling, shrieking storm of sand that utterly engulfed the temple, the marble walls, the buildings without.

  For twenty-three days the wind raged relentlessly, submerging the Holy City of Nithia in a veritable sea of sand. No lofty tower or brass spire was visible.

  There would the Brass City lie hidden for some three thousand years, lost beneath the desolate dunes of what would one day become the eastern desert of Shem... hidden, but not forgotten. For one day howling winds would lay bare the secrets in the sand, and men would once more seek the Grim Grey God.

  I

  The Stowaway

  Messantia’s most infamous tavern, the Stowaway, lay unmarked at the city’s outskirts amid a cluster of slovenly buildings. It marked the end of Merchant Street, which originated at the busiest harbour in Argos’s capital city. At the harbour, the street was wide, paved with stone, and well-maintained by King Milo’s taxes. But as it twisted, branched, and wound its way through the largest port city in any of the Hyborian Kingdoms, it dwindled to a narrow strip of dirt that was paved with naught but rubbish and traversed only by a dense population of rats. Here the locals named it Pirate’s Lane, for those who trod upon it were less accustomed to hard-packed dirt thaft to wood-planked deck. They were seafaring rogues: stocky, tawny-haired Argosseans; lean, sallow-skinned Zingarans; and swarthy, black-bearded Shemites.

  They clustered in the Stowaway’s dim, wood-furnished confines like barnacles on a hull. Six of Messantia’s boldest smugglers feasted on haunches of flame-roasted mutton, washing down their greasy repast with draughts of thick ale. A swarthy Kothian cut-throat watched them with a predatory gaze, stroking his thick black moustache. A sweaty Sh
emite captain locked wrist and hand in an arm-wrestling match with a rival Zingaran, while a scarred, tattooed Nemedian collected wagers from the contestants’ crewmen.

  Of course, drinking and gambling were but two of many vices in which the Stowaway’s motley patrons engaged.

  Clad in the scantiest wisps of garments, wenches from a dozen lands moved among the throng, their bared hips swaying provocatively as they served ale, wine, and platters of steaming meat to patrons. Their voluptuous bodies drew many stares, though for the most part, their faces had a hard-eyed, jaded look. The tavern attracted the sort of men who preferred coarse, lusty harlots. Of course, no self-respecting doxy would go near a place with the Stowaway’s reputation.

  One would have to visit a dungeon to find a more ruffianly lot gathered in one room. Even so, the crowd seemed at ease—many of the rogues were bitter rivals at sea, but the Stowaway was neutral ground. Here they rollicked: drinking, wagering, and wenching away their plunder.

  The crowd tonight was thicker than usual, for the crew of the notorious Hawk had put ashore after months at sea. Her captain was a pirate whose very name was cursed and feared by every seafaring merchant in the region. At the Stowaway’s largest table sat this notorious rogue, Conan: a black-maned, blue-eyed giant from the frozen hills of Cimmeria. His crew—a motley band of villainous scum— surrounded him, laughing lustily as the Hawk’s first mate finished a bawdy lyric.

  “By Crom, Rulvio, the most jaded strumpet would blush at your jests!” Conan guffawed, thumping the bearlike Argossean on the back.

  Frothy Argossean ale slopped from Rulvio’s leathern jack onto his hairy chest and drenched his baggy silken breeks. The first mate took no notice of the spill, quaffing the rest of his ale in a single gulp and belching thunderously.

  Conan yelled for more ale. He leaned backward and playfully swatted the shapely backside of Rubinia, the Stowaway’s comeliest serving-wench. She giggled and strolled away, her swaying hips and scanty shift turning the head of every man nearby. Conan’s eyes drank in the sight wolfishly, and he gulped down another measure of strong ale.