John Maddox Roberts - Conan the Champion

A WAR OF SORCERY. A WAR OF STEEL. A WAR IN TWO WORLDS.

Stranded in the furthest northern reaches of Brythunia, Conan the Cimmerian pledges himself as the champion of the haughty and beautiful Queen Alcuina. Soon the mighty barbarian is embroiled in a war with two kings who covet Alcuinas lands and the evil wizard Iilma, who wants even more. From the blood-drenched snows of the Brythunian forests to the sorcerous Shifting Lands the battles rage. The dead rise to slay, and victory can only come from CONAN THE CHAMPION.

A TOR Book

First edition: April 1987

ISBN: 0-812-50094-6

Cover art by Ken Kelly

by John Maddox Roberts

For Harriet McDougal

and James Rigney

Editors and friends

One

For two days and three nights the terrible storm had carved the sea into a clashing army of shifting mountains, battling one another like the giants and the gods in the days when the world was young. Not for nothing was the Vilayet named the Sea of Storms, the Mother of the Tempest, and other titles that expressed the awe of men at the way the usually-placid inland sea could turn without notice into a savage, primeval chaos, the Grave of Sailors.

The man who tossed helplessly upon the waves, lashed to the stump of a mast and a bit of decking, thought none of these things. Since the midst of the second day of the storm, when his ship had broken up under the relentless pounding of the sea, he had been afloat. By now he was nearly senseless from the tossing of the waves and the numbing cold of the water. He was able to keep only a single thought in his mind: The storm was taking him north, and the Vilayet narrowed to the north. Soon he must be tossed ashore, and that was his only chance for life. When he neared the land, he must cut himself free of the mast or risk being crushed as the heavy timber was dashed against beach or rock. Still in his belt was his long, curved Kothian dagger in its hide sheath. Frequently the man flexed his fingers so that he would be able to grasp its hilt when the time came. This and nothing more occupied his thoughts as the wind howled like demons in agony and the sea writhed beneath the flogging of the wind.

Dawaz rose early on the morning after the storm to find what the sea had left. Many interesting things were yielded by the sea on such occasions, and sometimes they were things that could be turned to profit. Profit was never to be taken lightly. Thus, he wrapped himself warmly in woolen cloaks of local weaving and left his little trading post, the northernmost of many maintained by Kyros Brothers of Aghrapur.

The post was situated in a tiny cove on the western shore of the Vilayet, where the sea was no more than a league in breadth. The water was calm this morning. The Vilayet was a shallow sea, thus a wind that would cause no more than a heavy swell on the Western Ocean could stir titanic waves on the surface of the Vilayet. For the same reason, the cessation of the winds left the tideless sea calm within hours.

Dawaz found a great deal of storm-wrack in the form of tree trunks, seaweed, and shredded vegetation, much of this blown up from the south. There were dead fish and an occasional marine mammal, but he saw no amber, which was among the seas finest gifts. Finest of all would be a complete shipwreck, with a salvage-able cargo. Dawaz determined to send his servants north and south along the coast to search for such. It must be done discreetly, of course, for the kings thereabout claimed all such sea bounty as their personal property. He was about to go back to the post for his breakfast when he saw the corpse.

Corpses were among the more common of the seas yieldings, and had no value whatever. Sailors rarely had more jewelry than an earring, and this loinclothed figure plainly had not been a wealthy passenger. It had been a big man, and Dawaz would need his servants aid to push the body back into the sea. He did not want this fellows spirit haunting his post. The ghosts of drowned seamen properly belonged at sea, which was their element.

He was about to turn his steps to the post when the corpse moved and groaned. Dawaz stared, fascinated. This human hulk was battered, savaged by the elements, and blue with cold, yet it lived. The man on the beach began to vomit copious amounts of seawater, and Dawaz went to fetch his servants.

Conan awoke in the dim interior of a low, boothlike building, its walls constructed of flat stones piled without mortar and chinked with moss. The upper half of one long wall was a swinging, top-hinged shutter, designed to be propped outward in better weather so that the whole building might be used as a shop of sorts. Just now the shutter was tied down and draped with rough cloth against drafts. Bales and bundles filled most of the building, kegs and stacks of goods, some of them with Turanian writing upon them. A driftwood fee burned on a low hearth, the salt in the wood making crackling, multicolored sparks.

He lay on a pallet of skins, and over him were rough woolen blankets. The room was heaving as if in a slow earthquake, but Conan knew that this was caused by his long sojourn among the tossing waves. It seemed that he had survived. He did not find that as surprising as many might have. He had survived more mortal threats than he could readily remember.

There were at least two other men in the room. They could not be too unfriendly, since they had not cut his throat when they had the chance. As the lettering he could see was Turanian, he decided to try that tongue first.

What is this place? His voice sounded more like the croak of a crow than the speech of a man, but it brought a heavily-bundled man to his side. The mans features were Turanian, as was his speech.

Welcome back to the land of the living, friend. I am happy to tell you that it is a dry land, albeit cold.

Any solid ground is better than the Vilayet in a storm, said Conan. You are a coastal trader?

For Kyros Brothers. The trader placed his fingertips against his breast and bowed very slightly. I am Dawaz.

I am Conan of He was about to say of the Red Brotherhood, but thought better of it. of Cimmeria. I was serving on a ship somewhere to the south of here when we were caught by the storm. His stomach grumbled loudly, and his host signaled a servant. The servant, a Turanian of low caste, brought a carved wooden cup of steaming spiced wine.

This should settle your stomach a bit, said Dawaz. Then we may try some solid food. Doubtless youve not eaten in days, and your belly was quite full of salt water, which I witnessed myself.

The only thing thats ever kept me from eating, Conan said with a little more life, is already having a belly full of food. He took a long drink of the spiced wine, which was wonderfully bracing to a half-drowned man. What land is this? Our ship had just paid a visit to a settlement near the northern border of Turan when we were struck by the storm. He thought it best not to mention that they had just finished looting the settlement.

You are far north of there, Dawaz told him. We are no more than fifty leagues from the northern tip of the Vilayet, and beyond that is the land of snow-giants and dragons. Here there are no true kingdoms, just the petty domains of the local kinglets. Each of them claims wide lands, but none truly rules beyond the reach of his sword.

Conan nodded. This was true of most of the North, which was still primitive and tribal in nature.

The servant brought a bowl of thick, fragrant stew and a stack of flat loaves, tough and leathery.

You are here late in the year, Conan observed as he ate. Do you plan to winter here?

We may have to, Dawaz admitted. He filled a cup for himself and poured more wine into Conans. The last ship of the season was supposed to come for us many days ago, to take us and the years trade goods back to Aghrapur. Something must have befallen it. Perhaps the storm.