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Product Description
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
One wizard is bad. Two are a disaster...And a deadly disaster, too. For Conan, after refusing to help the evil wizard Ethram-Fal, has been cursed with a spell that is slowly, inexorably squeezing the life from his mighty frame.
The only person who can banish the spell--besides Ethram-Fal, of course--is the sorceress Zelandra: a raven-haired beauty who practices only white magic...or so she says. Zelandra has offered to lift the spell from the Cimmerian, if only he will do her one small service: steal the deadly Emerald Lotus from the clutches of Ethram-Fal in his impregnable desert fortress.
No good can come of this, Conan thinks to himself. Once sorcery gets mixed up in it, the whole job goes to hell!
Unfortunately, he's right.
The only person who can banish the spell--besides Ethram-Fal, of course--is the sorceress Zelandra: a raven-haired beauty who practices only white magic...or so she says. Zelandra has offered to lift the spell from the Cimmerian, if only he will do her one small service: steal the deadly Emerald Lotus from the clutches of Ethram-Fal in his impregnable desert fortress.
No good can come of this, Conan thinks to himself. Once sorcery gets mixed up in it, the whole job goes to hell!
Unfortunately, he's right.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
One
The night air was warm and close, but it was of polar freshness compared to the dense atmosphere within the tavern. A stout, sturdily built man in the mail of a mercenary of Akkharia shoved open the door and surveyed the scene within. The main room was spacious, but crowded with a motley variety of locals, mercenaries, and travelers. The visitor ran a callused hand through his graying hair and scanned the gathering for the man he’d come to see.
In the closest corner a number of men were throwing dice, alternately crowing in triumph and cursing in defeat. The center of the sawdust-strewn floor was dominated by a huge table bearing the nearly denuded carcass of an entire roasted pig. Men clustered about it, drinking and stuffing themselves.
“Ho, Shamtare!” a voice thundered over the tavern’s clamor. There, in the farthest corner, was the man he sought. Shamtare made his way across the floor, dodging gesticulating drunks and busy serving wenches with practiced ease.
The one who had called his name lounged against the tavern’s rear wall with his long muscular legs propped up on a table. He was a hulking, powerful-looking man whose skin had been burnt to a dark bronze by ceaseless exposure to the elements. He was clad in a chain-mail shirt and faded breeches of black cotton. At his waist hung a massive broadsword in a worn leather scabbard. A white smile split a face that seemed better suited to scowl, and piercing blue eyes flashed as he hoisted his wine jug in a rakish salute, gesturing for Shamtare to join him. The scarred table-top held a loaf of bread and a joint of beef, as well as heaping platters of fruits, cheese, and nuts. From the crusts and rinds scattered about, it would seem that a celebration of sorts had been going on for some time.
“Conan,” said Shamtare, “I thought you said your money was running low.”
“So it is,” answered the other with a barbarous accent. “What of it? Tomorrow I shall surely be working for one of this cursed city’s mercenary troops, and tonight I find that I have missed civilization more than I had realized.” The barbarian washed the words down with a great swallow of wine.
Shamtare sat and helped himself to a handful of ripe fruit. “Traveled far, have you?” he asked, popping pomegranate seeds into his mouth.
“Aye, from the heart of Kush across the Stygian deserts. It seems that I’m no longer welcome in the southern kingdoms.”
Shamtare raised his thick eyebrows in puzzlement. “But surely you are a Northman…”
“A Cimmerian,” said Conan. “But I have done much traveling.”
“Indeed,” murmured Shamtare, to whom Cimmeria was a chill and distant place of myth. “But about your choice of mercenary employment…”
Conan took a bite out of the beef joint and chewed enthusiastically. “Still trying to get me to join your troop?”
Shamtare lifted his hands. “You can’t blame me for that. When I saw your performance on the practice field, I knew that you’d be an asset to any troop that signed you on. And you know I’m paid a bounty for each new recruit. I admit that when I asked where you’d be dining tonight, I had more in mind than tipping a jug with you. I say again that Mamluke’s Legion could well use a man like yourself.”
Conan shrugged, shaking his square-cut black mane. “I’ve been to see all four troops in this pestilent city, and they all offer the same wages. The king must keep close watch on his mercenary commanders that none of them can outbid the other for an experienced soldier. What in Ymir’s name does King Sumuabi need with four troops of sellswords anyway?”
“The king watches over his mercenaries because he has plans for them.” Shamtare’s voice dropped to hushed, conspiratorial tones. “Rumor has it that Sumuabi may need all four armies very soon.”
“Crom, it seems that all you Shemites do is hole up in your little city-states and venture out once a year to try to conquer your neighbor. It is but a larger version of the clan feuds of my homeland. You fight a few battles and then slink back home with nothing gained. And this with Koth hungering at your border.”
True,” said Shamtare tolerantly. “But this time it is whispered that we may go to aid a revolt in Anakia. Sumuabi may soon king it over two cities. If this comes to pass, then the plunder should be rich for even the lowliest foot soldier.”
Conan thought on this while Shamtare borrowed the wine jug. “That is good news, yet it still matters little which troop I join.”
“Come now, Conan.” Shamtare set the empty jug down with a hollow thump. R
The night air was warm and close, but it was of polar freshness compared to the dense atmosphere within the tavern. A stout, sturdily built man in the mail of a mercenary of Akkharia shoved open the door and surveyed the scene within. The main room was spacious, but crowded with a motley variety of locals, mercenaries, and travelers. The visitor ran a callused hand through his graying hair and scanned the gathering for the man he’d come to see.
In the closest corner a number of men were throwing dice, alternately crowing in triumph and cursing in defeat. The center of the sawdust-strewn floor was dominated by a huge table bearing the nearly denuded carcass of an entire roasted pig. Men clustered about it, drinking and stuffing themselves.
“Ho, Shamtare!” a voice thundered over the tavern’s clamor. There, in the farthest corner, was the man he sought. Shamtare made his way across the floor, dodging gesticulating drunks and busy serving wenches with practiced ease.
The one who had called his name lounged against the tavern’s rear wall with his long muscular legs propped up on a table. He was a hulking, powerful-looking man whose skin had been burnt to a dark bronze by ceaseless exposure to the elements. He was clad in a chain-mail shirt and faded breeches of black cotton. At his waist hung a massive broadsword in a worn leather scabbard. A white smile split a face that seemed better suited to scowl, and piercing blue eyes flashed as he hoisted his wine jug in a rakish salute, gesturing for Shamtare to join him. The scarred table-top held a loaf of bread and a joint of beef, as well as heaping platters of fruits, cheese, and nuts. From the crusts and rinds scattered about, it would seem that a celebration of sorts had been going on for some time.
“Conan,” said Shamtare, “I thought you said your money was running low.”
“So it is,” answered the other with a barbarous accent. “What of it? Tomorrow I shall surely be working for one of this cursed city’s mercenary troops, and tonight I find that I have missed civilization more than I had realized.” The barbarian washed the words down with a great swallow of wine.
Shamtare sat and helped himself to a handful of ripe fruit. “Traveled far, have you?” he asked, popping pomegranate seeds into his mouth.
“Aye, from the heart of Kush across the Stygian deserts. It seems that I’m no longer welcome in the southern kingdoms.”
Shamtare raised his thick eyebrows in puzzlement. “But surely you are a Northman…”
“A Cimmerian,” said Conan. “But I have done much traveling.”
“Indeed,” murmured Shamtare, to whom Cimmeria was a chill and distant place of myth. “But about your choice of mercenary employment…”
Conan took a bite out of the beef joint and chewed enthusiastically. “Still trying to get me to join your troop?”
Shamtare lifted his hands. “You can’t blame me for that. When I saw your performance on the practice field, I knew that you’d be an asset to any troop that signed you on. And you know I’m paid a bounty for each new recruit. I admit that when I asked where you’d be dining tonight, I had more in mind than tipping a jug with you. I say again that Mamluke’s Legion could well use a man like yourself.”
Conan shrugged, shaking his square-cut black mane. “I’ve been to see all four troops in this pestilent city, and they all offer the same wages. The king must keep close watch on his mercenary commanders that none of them can outbid the other for an experienced soldier. What in Ymir’s name does King Sumuabi need with four troops of sellswords anyway?”
“The king watches over his mercenaries because he has plans for them.” Shamtare’s voice dropped to hushed, conspiratorial tones. “Rumor has it that Sumuabi may need all four armies very soon.”
“Crom, it seems that all you Shemites do is hole up in your little city-states and venture out once a year to try to conquer your neighbor. It is but a larger version of the clan feuds of my homeland. You fight a few battles and then slink back home with nothing gained. And this with Koth hungering at your border.”
True,” said Shamtare tolerantly. “But this time it is whispered that we may go to aid a revolt in Anakia. Sumuabi may soon king it over two cities. If this comes to pass, then the plunder should be rich for even the lowliest foot soldier.”
Conan thought on this while Shamtare borrowed the wine jug. “That is good news, yet it still matters little which troop I join.”
“Come now, Conan.” Shamtare set the empty jug down with a hollow thump. R