Conan: Spawn of the Serpent God E-Book

Tim Waggoner

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 506

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A new chapter of the Titan comics & Heroic Signatures massive narrative event: Scourge of the Serpent Men. A thrilling story about Conan the Barbarian facing violent abominations written by Bram Stoker Award Winning Author Tim Waggoner Uzzeran, a sorcerer, and his serpent men take over Ravenhold monastery, a sanctuary for humans who have been experimented on by sorcerers. Uzzeran intends to create a race of human-serpent men hybrids. The sorcerer conducts unspeakable experiments on the residents, hoping to learn how to create hybrids. However, he fails and the residents become hideous monsters. A monk named Renwick and a resident named Valja escape and go to the city of Charnhelm in search of help. There they encounter Conan battling several young warriors out to make a name for themselves by killing him. Valja hopes Conan can free Ravenhold from Uzzeran and the monstrosities he's created, but Conan is uninterested. Vaija's pleas hold no sway over Conan, but he relents when he learns that Uzzeran is the sorcerer. Conan has unfinished business with the sorcerer and sees an opportunity for revenge. The trio band together and form a team to fight Uzzeran and reclaim Ravenhold.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Map

Part One

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

Part Two

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

Acknowledgements

About the Author

ALSO AVAILABLEFROM TITAN BOOKS

Conan: Blood of the Serpent

Conan the Barbarian: The OfficialMotion Picture Adaptation

Conan: City of the Dead

Conan: Cult of the Obsidian Moon

Conan: Songs of the Slain

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Conan: Spawn of the Serpent God

Print edition ISBN: 9781835411834

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835411841

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2025 Conan Properties International (“CPI”). CONAN, CONAN THE BARBARIAN, CONAN THE CIMMERIAN, HYBORIA, THE SAVAGE SWORD OF CONAN and related logos, names and character likenesses thereof are trademarks or registered trademarks of CPI. ROBERT E. HOWARD is a trademark or registered trademark of Robert E. Howard Properties LLC. Heroic Signatures is a trademark of Cabinet Licensing LLC.

Tim Waggoner asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

EU RP (for authorities only)eucomply OÜ, Pärnu mnt. 139b-14, 11317 Tallinn, [email protected], [phone]

PART ONE

Near midnight in Arenjun, a gibbous moon floating in a sea of glittering stars, light breeze stirring cool air. Conan, near the end of his eighteenth year, crouched behind an acacia tree, senses alert. A Zamorian woman a couple years older crouched next to him, and she leaned close to whisper in his ear.

“I have never stolen a god before.”

Conan grunted but otherwise did not reply.

They had come this night to the Temple District, the section of the city reserved for houses of worship. All gods were welcome in the City of Thieves, provided their priests regularly shared a portion of their tithes with the crown. There were no temples or shrines in Conan’s homeland of Cimmeria. His people’s god was Crom, a grim and distant deity who gave mortals their first breath of life and had nothing to do with them after that. Crom demanded no prayers, accepted no sacrifices. He wanted his people to leave him alone to brood in peace, and the Cimmerians were only too happy to do so. As did many in Zamora, Valja honored Bel, the god of thieves, and gave a portion of whatever she stole to his temple. A small portion.

The two thieves—one experienced, one still learning—crouched near the Temple of Ishtar. Acacia trees marked the borders of the temple grounds, while rows of date, pomegranate, and olive trees grew closer to the building. The temple was a large, three-story stone structure, with crenellated towers flanking a pair of high doors fashioned from ironwood. Above the doors was a tile mosaic depicting the goddess, naked and smiling, a variety of fruits and vegetables piled at her feet. In her right hand she held stalks of wheat; in her left, a severed ram’s head.

A paved walkway lit by rows of burning torches led to the temple entrance, and a steady progression of late-arriving worshippers filed into the building. A pair of guards—one Argossean, one Kothian—garbed in tunics and metal breastplates stood outside the entrance, sheathed longswords hanging from their belts. Their hands rested on the pommels of their weapons as they scrutinized the new arrivals with suspicious eyes. Midnight marked the beginning of the spring solstice, Ishtar’s high holy day, and the faithful had gathered to celebrate. Ishtar was a fertility goddess of the Shemites, although her worshippers could be found throughout the known world—no surprise, given the orgiastic rites that took place in her temples. Conan wondered how many of her followers were true believers and how many merely pretended to believe so they could enjoy the pleasures of the temple prostitutes. So long as her worshippers made the proper sacrifices, perhaps Ishtar did not care how sincere their devotion was.

“Ready?” Valja whispered.

Conan was not certain this was a good idea—Ishtar might not take kindly to a pair of thieves invading her temple on her most holy day—but he had promised Valja he would aid her in this foolishness, and so what if he had done so after drinking too much wine? To a Cimmerian, a vow was a vow, never to be broken.

He nodded, rose to his feet, and began running toward the temple, Valja close behind him, their booted feet nearly silent on the hard ground. Conan wore a tunic and breeks, his sole weapon a broadsword sheathed in a leather scabbard strapped to his back. A coil of rope around his left shoulder while an empty leather satchel was slung over his right. He opted for speed and maneuverability when thieving, and armor such as chainmail would only slow him down.

Valja wore a thin tunic, along with a hooded black cloak, and carried an empty satchel. She appeared to have no weapons, but a half-dozen throwing knives were concealed on her person, along with a pair of daggers, the blades’ edges all sharply honed. She was short, broad-shouldered, with light brown skin and steel-blue hair in the manner of her people. Conan seemed like a giant next to her, and she often teased him about his height. It is better to be small when you’re a thief. Easier to hide. She kept her hair cut short, not only so it would not get in her eyes while she worked but also so opponents had one less thing to grab on to.

Conan did not bother cutting his long black hair, other than keeping his bangs trimmed so they would not interfere with his vision. As far as he was concerned, if he allowed a combatant to get close enough to take hold of his hair, he deserved to die.

The temple’s only windows were on the third floor, to prevent thieves from gaining entrance as well as to keep voyeurs from gawking at the activities within. Conan and Valja had discussed posing as worshippers and walking in through the main entrance with everyone else, but they had ultimately decided against it. The guards would not have allowed Conan inside with his sword, and they would pat down Valja if for no other reason than to have an excuse to run their hands over her body. They would find her hidden knives, and a fight would likely break out. While Conan was confident that he and Valja could handle the guards, they would be forced to flee afterward, without acquiring what they had come for.

So the windows it was.

The temple was constructed from large blocks of gray stone, cut so precisely and fitted so perfectly that the seams were all but invisible. As a boy, Conan had climbed the sheer faces of rocky cliffs in Cimmeria with naught but his hands and feet. This wall posed no challenge to him. He moved upward swiftly, finding purchase where another would feel only smooth stone, and within moments he had reached one of the third-floor windows. Its wooden shutters were open, and Conan crouched on the sill and peered inside. Moonlight shone past him to reveal a large room with a dozen beds, wooden wardrobes, and dressing tables. Quarters for the temple prostitutes, he guessed. A lingering scent of perfume told him this was the females’ room. He assumed the males’ quarters were located elsewhere in the building. As he and Valja had hoped, everyone was busy celebrating the solstice, and with luck they would have the top floor to themselves.

Conan climbed into the room, removed the rope coil from his shoulder, tied one end around his waist, then tossed the other end through the window and down to Valja. He gripped the rope with both hands, it went taut, and he leaned back to brace himself as Valja climbed. A moment later, she joined him in the room, and he pulled the rope inside, untied it from his waist, and started to coil it around his shoulder once more. Valja stopped him. She took the rope, tied it to the wooden frame of the bed closest to the window, then dropped the rest of it onto the floor.

“In case we need to make a hasty departure,” she said. Conan saw the wisdom of this and nodded. He had been thieving for only a few months, and he still tended to fight his way out of situations rather than use his wits, but he was learning, and he had Valja to thank for that. They had met two months ago, outside the shop of Hutai the Nemedian, a merchant who sold knives and daggers, from simple, sturdy blades good for slipping between someone’s ribs in a dark alley to more ornate weapons primarily used as fashion accessories by the wealthy. Hutai was also a fence, one of the most well regarded in the city, for he never divulged a secret and cheated his clients far less often than others.

Conan had been leaving Hutai’s shop, his purse heavier by a dozen pieces of silver, just as Valja had been entering. They had nearly bumped into one another, but Valja stepped aside at the last instant with a fluid grace that impressed the young barbarian. On impulse, he invited her to have a drink with him once her business with Hutai was finished, and to his surprise she agreed. One drink had become two, then three, and after that they stopped counting. They ended up sharing a bed in a room above the tavern that night and had been together ever since, spending their nights thieving when they were not making love.

Valja walked to the closed door, and Conan followed, taking note of the wooden crossbar propped against the wall. It was thin and did not look particularly strong, but he supposed it served well enough.

Valja leaned forward, cocked her head, listened.

“I hear music,” she said softly. “People talking, laughing…”

“Drinking too, I hope,” Conan said. The more drunk the revelers were, the less likely they would notice a pair of thieves in their midst.

“I have heard the priests burn incense derived from the black lotus during celebrations. If the worshippers breathe in enough of it, we could step on them and they would never notice.” Valja looked Conan up and down, then grinned. “Well, they would not notice if I stepped on them. You, I am not so sure about.”

She reached into a tunic pocket and withdrew a small clay jar, then removed the wax stopper and dipped an index finger into the tallow inside. She then smeared the thick, viscous substance on the door hinges, replaced the stopper, slipped the jar back into her pocket, and used the edge of her cloak to wipe the excess from her finger. The tallow was a precaution to prevent the hinges from creaking when the door was opened. It was doubtful that anyone but themselves was on this floor at the moment, but there was no sense taking unnecessary chances.

Valja listened at the door one more time, and then, satisfied, she turned the knob and opened it slowly. The hinges remained silent, and when the door was fully open Conan drew his sword and stepped into the hallway. He looked in both directions, saw no one, and motioned with a jerk of his head for Valja to follow him. A knife appeared in her hand as if by magic, and not for the first time Conan marveled at his lover’s unearthly speed with a blade. She closed the door behind them and the two thieves began making their way down the hall. It was wide enough for them to walk side by side. They moved silent as shadows, keeping close watch on doors as they passed rooms in case someone should suddenly step into the hall. No one did.

When Conan had first come to Arenjun, he had resorted to thievery in order to survive. Cimmerians bartered for goods or services, and they farmed and hunted for their food. But in the civilized world, people required copper, silver, and gold to purchase the things they needed. It did not take Conan long to realize that thieving was a different kind of hunting. You identified your prey, entered its domain, employed patience and stealth as you stalked it, and struck when the time was right.

The hall terminated in an open doorway, and the sounds of celebration grew louder as they approached. Conan could see the orange glow of firelight, and the air was heavy with the sickeningly sweet scent of the black lotus. Without saying anything, Valja reached into a pocket and removed a pair of scarves. Conan laid his sword quietly on the stone floor, accepted a scarf from Valja, and tied it tight around his nose and mouth while Valja tied a scarf around her own face. Then he retrieved his sword and they continued to the doorway. The young barbarian had no idea how much protection the scarves would provide against the intoxicating fumes of the black lotus, but they were better than nothing.

The hallway opened onto a mezzanine level above the temple’s sanctuary. Conan and Valja lowered their weapons, stepped to the iron railing at the edge of the mezzanine, and gazed down at the revelers. Burning braziers and torches in wall sconces lit the sanctuary, casting dancing, writhing shadows on smooth stone walls. A thirty-foot-tall marble statue of Ishtar stood in the center of the sanctuary. Like the mosaic on the outside of the temple, the statue depicted the goddess as naked, but this version had huge swollen breasts, a round protruding belly, and a sex organ as large as the statue’s head. She stood with her hands on either side of her stomach, head bowed, looking upon her worshippers with a beatific expression. The goddess’ symbol—an eight-pointed star—had been carved into her forehead. A goddess of fertility, indeed, Conan thought.

But that was only one side of the statue. The other side depicted Ishtar in her male aspect, as a slender man with a goatlike beard, short, curly hair, and a huge erection—also with an eight-pointed star on his forehead. Conan had known little of Ishtar or her worshippers before coming to Arenjun, but Valja had told him that the goddess could manifest as either male or female, and that among her various titles was the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, which Conan supposed explained her male half’s beard as well as why the ram’s head was her symbol. Valja had also told him that, to the faithful, images of Ishtar were not mere representations of their goddess; they believed she literally inhabited all objects—statues, paintings, carvings, woodcuts—that depicted her. Some said she even dwelled within her written name, though Conan had difficulty understanding this concept. And while he could see how a god might live inside a single statue, Ishtar’s worshippers believed she inhabited every image of herself, no matter how large or small, grand or humble, at the same time, and that seemed to him to be a feat beyond even a god’s capabilities.

The worship chamber was filled with men and women from across the known world, although Shemites predominated. The vast majority of celebrants were naked, and many were engaged in exploring carnal pleasures, sometimes in pairs, more often in groups, their sweaty bodies writhing on the numerous couches and pallets spread throughout the chamber. Not everyone indulged in sex, though; wooden tables laden with meat, cheese, fruit, and wine were positioned at regular intervals throughout the temple, and men and women—most of them naked, too—talked and laughed as they sated appetites of a different sort than those of their fellow worshippers. Some of the congregants wore scarves over their noses and mouths, and Conan was glad to see this as it meant that he and Valja would not stand out as much. Priests both male and female, garbed in white robes, stood in a circle around the statue, arms raised, singing praises to their deity accompanied by a small group of flute players and drummers. Firepits had been built into the floor on both sides of the statue, and curls of dark smoke rose from the flames—fumes of the black lotus. Those closest to the fires reclined upon pallets, eyes half closed, expressions of dazed bliss on their faces. The priests seemed unaffected by the lotus fumes, perhaps having grown used to the drug’s effect in the performance of their duties.

Guards were stationed throughout the chamber, hard-looking men and women in leather armor, sheathed swords and daggers hanging from their belts. They looked like professionals, and Conan assumed they were mercenaries hired by the priests to watch over the night’s proceedings and ensure none of the revelry got out of hand—and to protect against thieves, of course. He counted fourteen guards, and while he was certain Valja and he could best any of them one on one, they would have more difficulty if all fourteen came at them at once. Best to make sure that did not happen.

Scattered around the chamber, resting atop stone pedestals, were smaller statuettes of Ishtar, each a foot tall and fashioned from gold. Conan was a blacksmith’s son, and he thought the gold was likely alloyed with silver to make it stronger, as the precious metal alone was too malleable for sculpting. The statuettes depicted various aspects of the goddess—Sower, Reaper, Lover, Life-Giver, Warrior—sometimes female, sometimes male, sometimes a combination of both. Conan did not know what purpose these statuettes served, and neither did Valja. Perhaps they were merely decorative, or perhaps they were designed to make celebrants feel that the goddess had joined them in their revels. Whatever their purpose, it was these statuettes that had brought Conan and Valja to the temple this night: they had indeed come to steal a god—more than one, if they could manage it.

He had been doubtful at first. Steal the statuettes while worshippers celebrate all around us? Are you mad?

Think about it, she had said. It will be easier to move unnoticed among so many people, especially when they are distracted by food and drink and sex. And the spring solstice is the only time the statuettes are brought into the main temple. The rest of the year, they are kept locked away in an underground vault.

They will be difficult to sell, he had pointed out. Even Hutai will be reluctant to buy objects stolen from one of the city’s temples.

Then we will take them to Shadizar, or go somewhere else, even if we must leave Zamora altogether.

Your mind is set on this course, is it not?

Valja had only grinned in reply.

Conan’s lover tended to choose jobs that carried what he viewed as unnecessary risks. But he admired her wild, impulsive spirit, and he always ended up going along with her schemes. After all, as she was fond of saying, a life without risk was not worth living.

Conan could not carry his sword on the main floor—the guards would never permit it—so he unbuckled the scabbard and removed it from his back. He would have to hide the weapon somewhere downstairs and retrieve it later. Valja’s throwing knives were concealed, so she should have no trouble with the guards, at least not on that score. Conan would have felt perfectly comfortable walking among the worshippers unclothed, but without a weapon he would feel truly naked.

Two stairwells led from the mezzanine down to the bottom floor, one on their left, the other to their right.

Valja’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Time to join the party.”

He smiled back. “May your Bel favor us.”

Valja went left, Conan went right, and they began their descent.

*   *   *

A pair of ferns in large clay pots stood on either side of the stairwell’s bottom entrance, and Conan quickly stashed his sword behind one and then walked away without a backward glance. He waited for someone to raise an alarm, but when that didn’t happen he knew no one had seen him hide his weapon—or if anyone had, they didn’t care. It would have been safer to leave his sword on the mezzanine, but he wanted it nearby in case he needed it.

He looked across the chamber and saw Valja walking away from the other stairwell entrance. She noticed him looking at her, winked, then moved on, striding with easy, relaxed confidence. The more dangerous a situation, the more she enjoyed herself. Such an attitude might well result in her early death, but he knew she cared not. I intend to get the most out of life while I am alive, however long that may be, she had once told him.

He admired that philosophy, for it was one he shared.

It was uncomfortably warm in the sanctuary, the air thick with the mingled odors of sweat, sex, and black lotus. The temple’s entrance remained open, presumably to let fresh air in, but it helped little; there were definite disadvantages to not having any windows on the first two floors. Conan began making his way through the sanctuary, weaving among the celebrants, keeping clear of both guards and priests, as well as the fires where black lotus burned. He knew his scarf could do only so much to protect him from the drug’s fumes, and he wished to remain as far from their source as possible. He already felt a little lightheaded, so he began taking short, shallow breaths, hoping to lessen the effects of the lotus.

He tried to stay focused on their mission, but it was difficult with so many naked people rutting like animals all around him. He did not find the sight of their bodies distracting—he was not attracted to men, and while many of the women were comely, just as many were plain. What did distract him was the variety of sexual positions on display. He had learned much of lovemaking during his short time with Valja, but Ishtar’s worshippers were doing things that he had never conceived of, let alone done himself. He wondered if he could convince Valja to forget about stealing the statuettes and try out some of the techniques he had witnessed. He was about to head off in search of her when an older Shemite woman wearing a sheer gown and nothing else stepped in front of him.

“My, you’re a big one, aren’t you?”

The woman was in her forties, Conan judged—nearly ancient to a young man like him—with the dark brown eyes and curly black hair of her people. Like most in Arenjun, she spoke Zamorian, but in her case with a thick Shemitish accent. Despite having been in the city for only a few months, Conan had discovered he had a talent for languages, and he had picked up Zamorian quickly.

The woman was of medium height, but next to Conan’s six and a half feet she looked as small as a child. She was not unattractive, but he already had a lover and few women could compare to Valja. He gave the Shemite woman a nod of acknowledgment and moved to walk past her, but she stepped into his path to block him.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” she chided. “On this most sacred of nights, Ishtar demands we enjoy ourselves in her name—and I would most definitely like to enjoy you.”

One of Ishtar’s golden statuettes stood on a pedestal ten feet away. It depicted the goddess in the process of slipping out of a long, flowing dress, one shoulder and breast exposed. Conan had the feeling the statuette was watching the two of them closely, as if curious to see what would happen next. It was a foolish fancy, no doubt brought on by what Valja had told him of the statuettes, but it was one he could not escape.

The Shemite woman wore no facial covering to protect against the black lotus fumes and her eyes were half lidded, her speech slightly slurred. Conan was surprised she was conscious enough to remain standing, and he assumed she was a regular user of the drug and used to its effects. That meant she had money, for black lotus was not cheap. A merchant’s wife, perhaps, likely used to getting her way. Not tonight, though.

“I am pledged to another,” Conan said.

The woman looked at him blankly for a moment, then laughed. “What does that have to do with anything? That’s my husband over there.”

She pointed to a pallet where a portly, gray-haired Zingaran man was being vigorously ministered to by a pair of well-endowed Vendhyan women half his age.

“It’s only fair that I get to have some fun too, don’t you think?” She reached out and trailed her fingers down Conan’s left arm, her eyes widening in delight. “Big and strong! Praise Ishtar for bringing you to me this night!” She frowned. “But how can you kiss me properly with that cloth covering your face?”

She moved her hand toward Conan’s scarf, but he caught her wrist before she could take hold of it. Her eyes widened in surprise at first, but then her mouth stretched into a slow smile. If she had been a cat, she would have purred.

“My, you have a masterful grip for one so young! I simply must feel those big, strong hands on my body!”

She attempted to pull free from his grip, but Conan held her fast. He tightened his grip slightly, not enough to hurt her but enough so she felt it. He had little patience for the games so-called civilized people played, and none for those with money and power who felt they could do whatever they pleased with him. He was no one’s toy.

He leaned his face close to the woman’s and spoke in a low, dangerous voice, cold fire burning in his ice-blue eyes. “Listen closely, for I will not say this again. I am not interested in lying with you. There are many others here tonight. Choose one of them and leave me alone.”

He tightened his grip on her wrist a little more, and she gasped in pain. He held her like that for a moment more before releasing her. She took a step back, massaged her wrist with her other hand, and looked at him in fear. Behind his scarf, Conan smiled grimly. The woman had gotten off lightly. In Cimmeria, if you touched someone you did not know without permission, man or woman, you would be lucky to lose only a hand.

He walked on, glancing at the statuette of the disrobing Ishtar. It looked the same as the last time he had seen it, but now he heard a faint echo of laughter in his mind. He took his gaze off the statuette and continued moving. He did not truly believe Ishtar was present in the small gold figures, but he would avoid eye contact with them from now on even so.

Just in case.

*   *   *

He met Valja at one of the food tables, the satchel on the floor next to her feet. She had removed her scarf and was eating a pear, unconcerned about the juice running down her chin. The table was located near the open entrance, and the scent of black lotus was almost nonexistent. It was a little cooler here, too. Conan had done no more than walk through the sanctuary, but he was dripping with sweat. As big as he was, the Cimmerian still had not attained his full growth, and he examined the spread on the table with an eager eye. There were platters filled with roast beef, mutton, goat, pork, and poultry; bowls overflowing with dates, figs, plums, pomegranates, olives, and of course pears; a variety of nuts and cheeses for dessert; and pitchers full of wine and ale to wash it all down. Worshippers could serve themselves, and Conan lowered his scarf, filled a clay plate with meat, and began feasting.

“Any luck?” Valja asked.

Conan answered through a mouthful of mutton. “If you call almost getting groped by a Shemite matron luck, then yes.”

Valja laughed. “I had to fend off a few lustful hands myself, men and women. Have you filled your satchel yet?”

Conan swallowed the mutton and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “None of the statuettes appealed to me, but I do not have an eye for art. The guards may not be drinking, but they have been breathing in lotus fumes all night and are not as alert as they should be. Some are even asleep on their feet, or near enough to it. If we take a pair of statuettes near the entrances to the mezzanine, I believe we can leave the way we came without being seen.”

Valja nodded approvingly. “It is a good plan. There’s only one problem.”

Conan was about to toss a slice of beef into his mouth, but he returned the meat to his plate. “What is it?” he said.

Valja knelt, took hold of the satchel’s strap, then straightened. Conan saw that the leather pouch hung heavy as it came off the floor, and when Valja cradled it in her arms she opened the flap and he leaned forward to look. He already knew what he would find, and he was proved right when he saw a glimmer of gold. It was a statuette of Ishtar in her warrior aspect, dressed in a breastplate, leather skirt, and boots, holding two swords crossed over her chest. Valja quickly closed the flap, tied its leather thongs to hold it secure, and grinned. “We need only one more now.”

Conan returned her grin. Their job was half done. All they needed to do now was—

His thoughts were interrupted by a woman shouting.

“There he is! That’s the young brute who accosted me without my permission!”

Conan turned to see the Shemite matron he had spurned standing close by and pointing at him. A pair of guards stood on either side of her—a turbaned Vendhyan and a short, stocky Argossean—and neither looked drugged in the slightest. What’s more, both had drawn longswords, and they looked ready to use them.

Without a weapon, Conan was forced to improvise. He gripped the edge of the table, intending to flip it at the guards with all his strength—it would be a shame to waste so much good food, but he could see no other recourse. Before he could follow through with his plan, however, Valja put her hands on her hips and glared at the Shemite matron.

“Mother! You promised you’d leave him alone!”

The matron’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, and the guards exchanged puzzled looks.

Conan did not throw the table, but neither did he release his grip on it.

“I know you think the solstice gives you the right to ___ him…” Valja had spoken a Shemite word that was not familiar to Conan, but from the way the matron’s eyes widened, he guessed it was a less-than-polite term for what most of Ishtar’s worshippers were engaged in at that moment. Valja moved next to Conan and laid a hand on his forearm possessively.

Conan continued gripping the table, waiting to see how this was going to play out.

“But he’s mine,” Valja continued, “and I do not intend to share him. Besides, you couldn’t handle him. One good thrust and you’d break apart like dried clay.”

The matron’s face contorted with fury, and she tried to speak, but all she managed was incoherent sputtering. The look the guards shared this time was a knowing one and they smirked as they sheathed their swords, turned, and walked off.

Only when Conan was certain the men were not going to change their minds and return did he let go of the table.

Valja fixed the matron with a sharp look.

“You should leave the lying to those who are better at it.” She gave the matron a mocking smile, then added, “Mother.”

The Shemite woman’s eyes burned with hatred. Her body tensed, she balled her hands into fists, and for a moment Conan thought she would launch herself across the table at Valja. He hoped she would. Valja had already taught the woman one lesson, and he would enjoy watching her teach her another. But after a moment, the matron let out a growl of frustration, turned, and walked away, head high, back straight, pretending she had not just been humiliated by a girl half her age—at least—whom she doubtless considered a piece of Maul trash.

Valja grinned at him. “There are many ways to fight a battle,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “But my way would have been more satisfying.”

*   *   *

They ate and drank their fill, pulled their scarves over their noses and mouths once more, and then left the table. Conan gave his empty satchel to Valja and took the one containing the gold statuette of Ishtar. The statuette was heavier than it looked—gold always was—but he carried it easily. He was the stronger of the two, but Valja was by far the better thief, and it made sense for her hands to remain free so she could steal the next statuette.

They wandered through the sanctuary, Valja occasionally stopping to admire a gold statuette for a few moments before moving on. Conan followed close behind, keeping an eye on the hired guards lined up against the walls. Any man carrying a heavily laden satchel would certainly have drawn Conan’s notice if he were tasked with guarding the sanctuary, yet no one paid him any attention. All the guards were drowsing now, thanks to the black lotus, and several sat cross-legged on the floor, heads bowed, deep in slumber. Many of the celebrants had abandoned their revelry by this point and slept blissfully in tangled clusters of naked bodies. The priests continued their chanting, although their voices were quiet, their words slurred, and the musicians accompanying them played so softly now they could barely be heard. It would not be long before everyone in the temple succumbed to lotus fumes, Conan thought, including him and Valja.

He placed a hand on Valja’s shoulder to stop her, and she turned to look at him with bleary eyes. Barely able to stand upright, he feared she would soon pass out if they remained in the temple much longer. They were near the entrance to the mezzanine where he had stashed his sword and he steered her toward it.

“We must go,” he said.

His vision grew slightly hazy, his tongue lay thick in his mouth, and he began to sway. They needed to move swiftly. The goddess might not require human sacrifices as a rule, but her worshippers might decide to make an exception in the case of two thieves who had attempted to steal a fragment of their deity.

They were less than three yards from the stairwell entrance when Valja said, “Oh, how beautiful!” She slipped out from under Conan’s hand and ran toward one of the golden statuettes of Ishtar which was located near the giant marble sculpture of the goddess and the priests who surrounded it.

“Ymir’s beard!” he swore and ran after her.

The statuette depicted Ishtar, grape vines encircling her body in place of clothes, right hand stretched outward, offering a bunch of plump grapes to the observer. This was the Reaper aspect of the goddess, sharing part of a bountiful harvest with her devoted worshippers. Conan had to admit it was beautiful, but not enough to be worth risking their lives for.

Valja’s gait was unsteady as she drew near the pedestal upon which the statuette rested, and Conan thought she might trip and fall before she could reach it. His own body felt sluggish, hands and feet numb. But Cimmeria lay in the far north, and its people endured harsh winters that would slay weaker folk. As a child, Conan had learned how to function with extremities deadened by cold, and he called upon those memories now. He did not try to feel his feet falling but instead went by the sound of his boots hitting the floor. He flexed his fingers rapidly to work some life into them, and when he had closed the distance between himself and Valja, he reached for her…

He could not compensate for his increasingly blurry eyesight, however, and he misjudged the distance between them. The tips of his fingers jammed into her back, and the impact caused her to stumble forward, palms outward, and collide with the pedestal. The pedestal was carved from stone, and Valja hitting it did nothing more than make it shake a little, but that was enough—the statuette of Ishtar wobbled and fell forward. Valja attempted to catch it, but her reflexes were dulled by black lotus, and the statuette slipped through her fingers and struck the floor with a high-pitched ringing sound. Gold normally resisted breaking, and this gold was alloyed with silver to strengthen it further, but even so the bunch of grapes in Ishtar’s hand broke off when the statuette hit the floor, skittering across it for a few yards before coming to a stop. Everyone in the sanctuary fell silent, and all heads turned in their direction. In the quiet, the pinging of the statuette’s impact lingered in the air for a moment before finally fading.

Valja looked at Conan, horrified by what had just happened, but his attention was focused on the worshippers surrounding them. His survival instincts were strong after growing to young manhood in Cimmeria, and they had been further honed in the sack of Venarium as well as in his time raiding with a band of Aesir. He knew the onlookers’ shock would not last long. Soon it would give way to outrage, which would quickly lead to demands to seize the blasphemers who had dared to insult their beloved goddess. He had no intention of waiting for that to happen.

Fighting back the lethargy caused by the black lotus, he darted forward, snatched the (slightly) broken statuette off the floor, turned, and hurled it toward the nearby firepit. The replica of Ishtar tumbled through the air, and the worshippers cried out in alarm as it plunged into the flames. Both gold and silver had high melting points, and Conan knew a simple fire would not be hot enough to damage the statuette, but he had counted on the worshippers not knowing this, and indeed, judging by their reaction they believed the object that served as host for at least part of their goddess’ essence was melting. A priestess impulsively leaped into the firepit to save the statuette and shrieked in agony as she was instantly wreathed in flame. Distraction achieved, Conan grabbed Valja, threw her over his shoulder, and sprinted for the mezzanine’s entrance.

“Put me down!” she shouted.

“Not until you can walk in a straight line,” he replied.

The mercenaries hired by the priesthood to guard the celebration were not worshippers, and they cared nothing about the statuette. They had been forced to watch people indulging in all manner of pleasures while being forbidden to join in, and those whose minds had not been completely deadened by black lotus were excited by the prospect of finally getting to do something.

A half dozen of the warriors for hire came at them from different directions, including the Vendhyan and Argossean who had accompanied the angry matron. Conan’s system had fought off the worst effects of the lotus, and while he moved fast for a normal person, he ran more slowly than usual. He knew he would not be able to reach the mezzanine entrance—and his sword—before at least some of the guards got to them, so there was no point in trying. He stopped running and set Valja down on her feet.

“I hope you can still throw a knife straight,” he said.

She ignored the jibe and stepped behind him to cover his back, then drew one of her daggers from its sheath and offered it to Conan over her shoulder, hilt first. “Take it!” she shouted.

Conan gave the blade a quick glance, then laughed. “No need. I already have a weapon.”

Before either of them could say anything more, the first of the guards was upon them. As the Vendhyan came at Conan, shortsword in hand, eyes gleaming with bloodlust, the Cimmerian slipped the satchel off his shoulder, grabbed the strap in one huge hand, and swung it like a war hammer at the mercenary’s head. The satchel—and, more importantly, the heavy gold statuette of Ishtar it held—slammed into the Vendhyan with devastating force. There was a sickeningly loud crack as the left side of man’s skull, from crown to chin, shattered. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth, along with several teeth, and he fell to the floor limp, like a giant rag doll, and did not move. Conan didn’t know if the man still lived, and he didn’t care. All that mattered was that the Vendhyan was no longer a threat.

The Argossean roared a furious challenge as he came at Conan, sword raised to deliver a chopping strike to the side of the young barbarian’s neck. Conan stood his ground, and when he judged the Argossean was close enough, he swung the satchel upward as hard as he could. The bag smashed into the man’s testicles, instantly crushing them. Air gusted from the man’s lungs as he toppled sideways and crashed to the floor only a few feet from his Vendhyan comrade. The mercenary still lived, although given the amount of pain he must be in, Conan thought he likely regretted this, and he decided to come to the man’s aid. The Argossean still gripped his sword, so Conan stepped forward and pressed his foot down on the man’s wrist so he was unable to wield the weapon. Then he raised his other foot and brought it down hard on the man’s throat. There was a loud snap as the man’s neck broke, then his eyes went wide and he stopped moving. Conan switched the satchel to his left hand, then bent and grabbed the mercenary’s shortsword. It wasn’t as if the man was ever going to use it again.

He spun around to see how Valja was faring. Two guards lay dead on the floor, one with the hilt of a throwing knife protruding from her right eye socket, the other with a blade embedded in his heart. It seemed even breathing in black lotus could not hinder Valja’s skills, or perhaps being under attack gave her body the jolt it had needed to throw off the worst of the drug’s effects. Conan understood. He never felt so alive as when he was facing death.

Evidently, the next pair of guards to attack had gotten a stronger dose of lotus, for they moved more slowly than their companions, their gaits and footfalls clumsy and heavy. Conan started forward, intending to cut down the easy prey with his newly acquired sword, but Valja laid a hand on his arm to stop him and shook her head. He got the message. As much as his warrior’s spirit longed to destroy all his enemies, Valja and he could not afford to remain in the sanctuary any longer.

With no one left to toss more lotus into the fires, the air in the sanctuary was beginning to clear. The guards who had been too drugged to attack right away were rising unsteadily to their feet, regaining enough control over their bodies to become a threat. And the City Watch would soon be upon them. Conan slipped the satchel over his shoulder, grabbed Valja’s hand, and together they ran toward the stairwell to the mezzanine along with the fleeing worshippers and priests shouting for the City Watch.

A lone guard whose head had not yet fully cleared staggered into their path. Conan laid open the man’s throat with a single stroke of the shortsword as they ran past. Blood fountained from the wound and Conan heard a dull thud behind them as the man’s body hit the floor.

When they reached the mezzanine entrance, Conan released Valja’s hand. “Go first,” he said. “I will follow.”

Valja scowled but acquiesced, running up the stairs. Conan put the shortsword on the floor, retrieved his broadsword from behind the clay pot where he had hidden it, and swiftly donned and buckled the scabbard. He then drew the broadsword and picked up the shortsword—and then a thought occurred to him: With everyone evacuating the temple, the golden statuettes of Ishtar were unguarded and ripe for the taking. For an instant, he considered attempting to obtain a second statuette before heading up the stairs, but while the prospect was tempting, he decided against it. He was not sure there was enough room in the satchel for a pair of statuettes, and he did not want to be slowed down by the additional weight.

He sighed and bolted up the stairs, a sword in each hand, satchel bouncing against his hip.

*   *   *

Valja was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, daggers in hand. Now that there was no chance of their obtaining a second statuette, she had tossed her empty satchel to the floor, along with her scarf. Her eyes were clear and sharp, and Conan knew the black lotus was fully out of her system now, or near enough to it. When she saw him, she smiled with relief, but her gaze flicked to the satchel and her smile became a grin.

His hands were full, so Valja removed his scarf for him and let it drop to the floor.

“Did you think I would leave our prize behind?” he asked.

“Leave, no. Lose, maybe.”

Anger darkened Conan’s face. She should have more faith in him than that! But before he could say anything, they heard boots pounding on the steps, accompanied by the shouts of men and women calling for their heads. The rest of the guards were coming, and they were coming fast.

In a single, smooth motion, Conan whirled around to face the stairwell and extended his broadsword in a one-handed lunge. The first of the guards—an Afghuli male, tall and powerfully built, with brown skin, curly hair, and a long beard—ran straight onto the blade. His torso was protected by studded leather armor, but Conan was strong and his blade too sharp, and the sword sank into the man’s gut and burst out of his back in a gout of blood. The warrior behind him—a Brythunian female with pale skin and long, blonde hair—had been following too close, and she was unable to stop in time to keep from being impaled on Conan’s sword too. The Afghuli still lived, and his eyes focused on Conan as the Cimmerian youth planted a booted foot on his chest and shoved at the same instant he withdrew his sword. The Afghuli and Brythunian flew backward, colliding with the other guards on the staircase and knocking them down. Conan heard some cry out in pain while others shouted profane curses as they tumbled down the stone steps in a tangled mass of arms and legs.

He wagered the fools still had some black lotus in them, else the short fight would have gone very differently. Whether wounded or dead, the Afghuli and Brythunian guards would not be coming after them anymore, and with luck some of the others had broken enough bones to cause them to abandon their pursuit as well. But some was not all.

He turned and gave Valja a shove. “Go!” he shouted.

The two of them ran down the hallway toward the room they had used to gain entrance to the temple, but they were still ten feet away from the door when the first of the uninjured guards emerged from the stairwell, howling for the thieves’ blood. The guards began running, weapons in hand, faces twisted into expressions of pure rage. Conan and Valja raced the rest of the way to the temple prostitutes’ room, threw open the door, dashed inside, then slammed the door behind them. Conan dropped his two swords to the floor, grabbed the crossbar, and slipped it into the iron brackets attached to the door.

“That flimsy thing will not last long,” he said.

He picked up his broadsword and sheathed it, but he left the shortsword where it lay, for he had no more use for it. He and Valja ran to the bed that she had tied the rope to, and Conan shoved the bed to the window. Valja gave him a questioning look.

“The wall will brace the bedframe and better support our weight on the way down,” he explained.

The guards reached the barred door and the metal knob rattled as they attempted to open it. When that failed, they began striking the door’s surface with sword pommels, axe handles, and fists, trying to knock it down. Conan knew that, once the guards realized they should work together to hurl the combined mass of their bodies at the door in unison, the crossbar would break and they would rush inside.

He grabbed the coil of rope, threw it through the open window, then faced Valja. “Get on my back and lock your arms around my neck,” he told her.

“Why?”

“Because we must reach the ground as fast as we can.”

For an instant she looked horrified, but then she sheathed her daggers and grinned. “Sounds like fun,” she said, then eyed the satchel still hanging from his shoulder. “Leave the statuette here. We do not need its extra weight.”

“After everything we’ve gone through this night? I would sooner die.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are jesting… are you not?”

Conan did not answer. He bent over and Valja climbed onto his back, wrapped her arms around his thick neck, and grabbed hold of each wrist with her opposite hand to secure herself. Conan reached down, took hold of the rope, then straightened. At that moment there was a loud crash, the crossbar broke in two, and the door was flung inward so hard it tore partway off its hinges.

Their time was up.

Conan bent his powerful legs and launched himself through the window, while Valja let out a scream that was as much from joy as fear and held on for her life. Conan relaxed his grip as they fell, and his palm began to heat up quickly as it slid over the rope, but he wasn’t concerned about friction burns. His hands were calloused from a lifetime of hard work and swordplay and would take little damage. But even if the flesh of his hand was stripped to the bone, it would be worth it to escape with their lives—and their loot.

When they were a third of the way down, Conan tightened his grip, and they jerked to a stop. He closed his other hand around the rope for a better grip, then angled his body to face the temple wall. As they swung toward it, he bent his knees, and when the soles of his boots hit stone, he allowed his legs to bend the rest of the way and then shoved, sending them flying out into the air once more. He loosened his grip with both hands this time and they slid down another third of the way. Again, he tightened his grip, swung toward the wall, kicked off, and then they slid down the rest of the way. When they landed, he bent his knees to absorb the impact, but a painful jolt still lanced up his legs and into his lower back, likely due to the extra weight he carried. The pain began to lessen almost immediately, and he thought no more of it.

Valja still held onto him, and she leaned her head forward and kissed him on the side of his face. “You have to teach me how to do that,” she said.

Conan still held the rope, and he felt it jerk. He looked up and saw that one of the guards had crawled through the window and was in the process of climbing down. He leaned to the side, a signal for Valja to get down, and she did. He straightened and then yanked the rope downward with both hands as hard as he could, which was very hard indeed. The other end tore through the section of bedframe it was attached to, and the rope and the guard holding on to it plummeted downward. Conan and Valja quickly moved back, and the guard hit the ground where they had been standing. Upon impact, the man’s back snapped like kindling. He coughed an impressive amount of blood and then lay still.

Conan looked up and saw a pair of guards standing at the window, gazing down at him and Valja. One of them, a red-bearded Vanir man, held the shortsword Conan had discarded, and with a snarl he hurled it at them like a spear. Conan drew his broadsword and casually batted the blade away as if it were a bothersome insect. The sword tumbled through the air and thunked into the ground a dozen feet away. The guards cursed and quickly withdrew into the room. Conan knew they would head back to the stairs, return to the sanctuary, and then rush outside to pursue them.

Worshippers covered the temple grounds, most of them naked, standing in groups, shivering in the night air, and talking loudly about the two thieves who had ruined the solstice celebration. Priests stood among them, but instead of talking they were looking around, trying to spot the pair of rogues who had blasphemed against their god. Normally, Conan would have taken advantage of the confusion to slip away, but by now the City Watch had arrived—only a handful of officers so far, but more would come, and those present had drawn their swords and begun to patrol the temple grounds, already on the hunt. The joke in Arenjun was that if you needed the City Watch’s aid, it was best to summon them two weeks in advance, but either the priests of Ishtar paid regular graft for them to respond so swiftly or officers had been amongst the celebrants tonight. Likely both, Conan thought.

He and Valja had a choice to make: run and risk drawing the Watch’s attention, or calmly walk away and hope no one noticed their departure. Conan would have chosen the latter tactic if he had not been carrying the statuette of Ishtar, but any Watcher coming upon them would demand to look in the satchel, and while Conan was confident he and Valja could escape if that occurred, he doubted they could do so without slaying one or more officers. Slay a random citizen, especially a Maul denizen, in Arenjun and the City Watch would not blink an eye, but slay one of their own and the Watch would never stop looking for you. Worse, they would offer a reward for your capture, dead or alive, and every criminal, mercenary, and assassin in Arenjun would seek to collect it. If that happened, Conan and Valja would have to flee the city, assuming they could manage to get out of it alive in the first place.

Neither choice appealed, but the longer they stood there, the greater the chance they would be discovered, either by the Watch or by the surviving guards who would emerge from the temple at any moment.

To the nine hells with it, Conan decided. The thought of running galled him. Better to stay where they were, make a stand, and take as many of the bastards with them to the afterworld as they could.

“We can offer you a third choice.”

The voice—a woman’s—came from directly behind them. Valja drew her daggers and she and Conan spun around, ready to attack. But just as Conan was about to swing his broadsword at this unknown enemy, he stopped himself. There were two women, both older than Valja and him by ten years, perhaps a bit less, though their sex had nothing to do with why Conan restrained himself. Cimmerian women could fight as well as their men, but they were also far more important to a clan’s survival than men. When clan feuds erupted, which was a regular occurrence in Conan’s homeland, the men were careful to avoid slaying women if they could. The survival of the entire Cimmerian people depended on it. Conan had inherited this cultural reluctance to harm women, but what stayed his hand in this case was that one of the women appeared to be a priestess of Mitra.

She wore leather armor over a tunic and a metal helmet with a phoenix—the symbol of Mitra—engraved into its surface. She carried dagger and flail, both hanging from her belt, and wore a pair of well-worn leather boots, which told Conan that she was a priestess who walked among the people rather than remaining secluded in a safe, comfortable temple. Her tan skin, dark hair, and lean body marked her as Ophirian.

The other woman was a Kushite, tall and lean, with dark skin and close-cropped black hair. She wore a long-sleeved green shirt, brown pants, boots, and a hooded green cloak. Her clothes were well worn, and from the faded colors Conan assumed that she spent a great deal of time outside. He had met only a few Kushites before, but like his own people, they were fierce warriors with a strong connection to the land, and he thus felt a kinship with them.

“I am Naerys, priestess of Mitra,” the Ophirian woman said, then gestured to her companion. “And this is Anot, shaman of the Wild.”

The Kushite bowed her head. “Well met,” she said.

It had been her voice that Conan had heard a moment ago. Almost as if she had read my thoughts…

He scowled. Shamans were not sorcerers, but many of them could work some measure of magic, such as the bear shamans of his own people. All magic was unnatural as far as he was concerned, and it was the only thing he feared in this world. He considered burying his broadsword in the shaman’s chest, just to be on the safe side, but he restrained himself. The shaman was with a priestess of Mitra, and Conan did not need another god angry with him after the way things had gone in Ishtar’s temple. He would listen to what the priestess had to say; if he did not like it, he could always slay the shaman afterward.

“I am Conan, a Cimmerian,” he said. “This is Valja of Zamora.”

Valja nodded a curt greeting.

“I can hide you both from the eyes of those who would do you harm,” Anot said. “Just as I hid Naerys and myself from your sight.”

“But there is a price,” Naerys cautioned.

Valja smiled wryly. “Of course there is.”

“A small one,” Naerys said. “You need only have a drink with us and listen to a proposition.”