Conan the Vindictive
Dec 31, 2020 18:05:19 GMT -5
Post by headlessvulture on Dec 31, 2020 18:05:19 GMT -5
Hiya. I posted this little fanfic/pastiche on the old forums and though I'd re-post now that my membership to this one came through.
The hour was late, and the king of Aquilonia sat brooding, his chin resting in one brown, muscular hand and a cup of wine cradled half-forgotten in the other.
He admitted he had little to sulk about. Given up for dead, he had risen from the dust and ashes of Valkia. He had overcome Nemedian scheming, black sorcery, and blacker treachery to outface rumors of his death at the Valley of Lions. He had wrung an indemnity from King Tarascus of Nemedia that would keep the neighboring sovereign from raising another host to invade his kingdom anytime in the foreseeable future. In the months following the battle in the Valley of Lions, he had restored prosperity to a kingdom that had suffered sorely from the reign of that Nemedian-backed devil Valerius and that Acheronian arch-devil Xaltotun, may their souls drift and mutter in the lowest depths of Hell! Best of all, by Crom, he had found his queen. A momentary half-smile creased his dark features and his blue eyes glinted at the thought of Zenobia, who had risked her pretty neck to save his from Taracus’ malice when he was a prisoner in the royal dungeons at Belverus.
As if answering the thought, a page in black hose and a black silken tunic worked with the Lion of Aquilonia in gold thread entered the small dining room where Conan sat moping. Clearing his throat softly, he bowed before his monarch.
“What is it, Paulinus?” the king rumbled testily.
“The queen yet lies awake in the royal bedchamber, Sire,” the youth answered. “She would know when you will deign to join her.”
Conan snorted. This small matter that was fretting him must indeed have been sticking in his craw, if he had neglected this most pleasant of royal duties: the getting of an heir by a beautiful, brave woman who happened to adore him. Crom’s devil’s, but it nettled him to leave an enemy secure and wealthy! He had come to the dog for help when he sought the Heart of Ahriman, and for his trouble, he been left on an Argossean beach with a broken head. He wished he could have a reckoning with the wealthy merchant who had set hired killers to set upon him, but that son of a Messantia gutter-slut was beyond the reach of his sword. All because he wished nobody to know that the source of his wealth had been his past dealings with ---
Suddenly, the giant Cimmerian sat up straight, threw back his black-maned head, and bellowed a booming, gusty laugh that echoed off the ornate chamber’s tapestried walls. Grinning at the startled page, he threw off his cup of wine in one draft and tossed the golden cup carelessly onto the floor.
“My compliments to Her Majesty. Tell her that I shall join her presently, but first, fetch me pen, ink and papyrus.” Suddenly jovial, he picked up the golden wine-jug on the table and gulped thirstily as the page hastily withdrew. Argos may be hundreds of miles away, and an enemy in Messantia was indeed beyond the reach of his sword. But Dexitheus, the high priest of Mitra, had once told him that the pen was oftimes a mightier weapon, because of its longer reach.
By the time Paulinus returned with writing materials, he was already beginning to compose the letter he would write.
Conan, King of Aquilonia, to Ariostro, King of Argos,
I have news of the pirate Amra, who with the she-pirate Belit and the Black Corsairs once troubled your kingdom and others. I am pleased to inform Your Majesty that this Amra has fallen into my hands and will never more plague your sea-trade or any other’s. Moreover, expert questioning has extracted certain information that will surely interest your Majesty …
Orassio the page looked up, startled, at the clatter of hoofbeats on the marble flags of the courtyard to see a half-dozen men riding in through the gold-worked gate. They wore the gold-chased bronze cuirasses and greaves of Royal Guardsmen, carried long, slender lances, and wore short swords at their belts. As the troopers unceremoniously dismounted, the officer, identifiable by the jeweled hilt of his sword and the sidewise horsehair crest of his helmet, addressed himself to Orassio, recognizable as a page by his jagged silken jupon.
Orassio the page looked up, startled, at the clatter of hoofbeats on the marble flags of the courtyard to see a half-dozen men riding in through the gold-worked gate. They wore the gold-chased bronze cuirasses and greaves of Royal Guardsmen, carried long, slender lances, and wore short swords at their belts. As the troopers unceremoniously dismounted, the officer, identifiable by the jeweled hilt of his sword and the sidewise horsehair crest of his helmet, addressed himself to Orassio, recognizable as a page by his jagged silken jupon.
“Your master is within?” the officer demanded brusquely.
“Indeed, sir, but he is at table, breaking his fast,” Orassio quavered, taken aback by the soldier’s abrupt entry and even more by their abrupt manner. “If you will abide here ---“
“I care not if he is at his window breaking wind,” snapped the officer. “You will take us to him at once!”
“Y-yes, … of course,” Orassio stammered. “This way.”
Publio was busily dissecting a roast fowl when the clattering of armor made him look up from his meal. As the guardsmen unceremoniously entered the room, he pushed back his gilded, teakwood chair and rose to his feet, a short, dark-haired man with a massive head in a blue morning robe of the finest watered silk.
Publio was busily dissecting a roast fowl when the clattering of armor made him look up from his meal. As the guardsmen unceremoniously entered the room, he pushed back his gilded, teakwood chair and rose to his feet, a short, dark-haired man with a massive head in a blue morning robe of the finest watered silk.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” the merchant demanded, accustomed to the respect that had come with his wealth and irritable at being disturbed at this hour of the morning.
The officer in charge of the guardsman looked around the lavish furnishings not with the awe that Publio had come to expect, but with a faintly contemptuous sneer.
“Are you Publio, son of Socabo?” the officer inquired, not at all respectfully.
The merchant narrowed his eyes. “I am indeed, and you must be indeed be ignorant not to know me at least by reputation,” he answered haughtily. “I have many friends at the king’s court, and I could easily have you broken for your rudeness, but I shall excuse you because of your obvious ignorance …” But the officer cut him off in mid-bluster.
“By order of King Aristro, I place you under arrest.” The officer smiled maliciously. “So much for your ‘friends at court,’ merchant!”
“This is outrageous!” Publio expostulated. “What is the charge?”
“Trafficking with the Black Corsairs,” the officer answered. Turning to the troopers, he gestured toward Publio with the same loathing he would have accorded a rat in a granary. “Take charge of the prisoner, men.” Instantly, the troopers advanced on the sobbing merchant, spearpoints leveled at his heaving chest.
