AGE OF CONAN: Hyborian Adventures.
Know, oh seeker of truths, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars — Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandalled feet."
— The Nemedian Chronicles.
The sun had set. Darkness covered the land of Aquilonia. Dusk had long since surrendered it's warm glow to the dark and bitter cold of deepest autumn night. The ebon night lay like a tattered black cloak around the shoulders of Tarantia, the capital of Aquilonia, greatest empire of the world.
In the middle of the fair city, was a palace. In the day, it was a place of politics, a center of power, a house of governance. A den of serpents, admittedly, but where else would the Byzantine politics of an empire be worked out and recorded in letters of blood?
At night, it was different.
Quiet, almost a tomb; except that it was the silence of rest, not of death. Funny thing, silence. It had a voice to it, a tone. One could almost hear the silence speak, if one listened closely. The one who sat on the throne could. He had spent many a long night listening to the silence, when all others had gone to their beds. He did not sleep. No, the crown that he wore upon his troubled brow would not let him. His burdens where crueler than any he had inflicted on his foes.
The firelight illuminated his face. There, do you see it? No? Look closely, then. Watch as the shifting glow of the fires, burning in ornate stone holders by the throne, burning fragrant cedar, show his face. Watch as they highlight the chiseled planes of his face, his dark hair, his sullen eyes. See the dark circles, the weary gaze that stares at nothing, see the emptiness.
You look upon a man, a king, who is waiting to die.
You see a wolf that has been cornered by the hunters, and awaits the coup de grace.
You see a king, whose kingdom is dying.
You see a hero, in an Age that is done with heroes.
Conan sighs bitterly. "A murrain on such thoughts," he growls to himself, rising from his throne. "More wine, and perhaps such thoughts will leave my aching head." He staggers towards a table, his stride ruined by drink, weariness, and apathy. In front of him, glowing in the soft light, is a golden goblet, and a pitcher of wine. They seem to call to him, saying, "Come. We will ease your sorrow." Like a moth to a flame, the king of a once proud nation staggers onward.
Now, let us leave the brave king for a time. We journey out of the room, we leave the palace, we depart the Royal Square. Instead, we hurry swiftly to the outer wall, to the West Wall. Why, you ask? Why, we've an appointment, of course.
Shadows cloak the gate. There are no torches, save a small one outside the guardhouse, and that has burned down to a smoldering cinder or two. The smell of ale and the sound of snores are open testament to the fact that the gate is all but unguarded. The hooded figure that slips through the gate knows this well. After all, it is the cloaked figure who arranged for a drugged pot of ale to be delivered to the guardsman. The wench who delivered it, the figure notes with distaste, is sprawled across the guard's lap, her skirt hiked up around her ears, also asleep.
The shadow is content. This lessens the possibility of detection.
It does not stride through the open streets to its destination. It does not, after all, want to die. Instead, the cloaked figure keeps to the complex network of alleys that cover Tarantia like a giant spider web of stone and mortar. This image plays across the mind of the shadow, who smiles in amusement.
Ah, there, you see? Things do come full circle; here we are, back at the palace.
The shadow ducks into those few spaces not covered in firelight, avoiding the sight of the watchful- if sleepy- Palace Guard. From one shadows to the other, eventually working its way up a convenient trellis (which it makes note of), onto the roof, and across.
Ah, we must be careful, now, mustn't we? The roofs of the city are damp this time of year, damp and slippery. A fall would be an embarrassing way to die, for one who has slain so many.
Down, now, using ornate stone gargoyles as hand holds. A short drop from the lowest one, a shimmy down a wide column, and the figure is in the Hall of the King.
Conan, meanwhile, has the goblet of wine in one hand, but has yet to drink from it. Instead, he stares into the distance. Is he remembering the days of his youth? Is he planning the day's work ahead? Does he think at all? One cannot tell. He shakes himself from his stupor, and turns to a large map on the table. He has been perusing this, ever since he came to get his wine. Ah, he's a strong-willed lad, is this king. He denied himself the indulgence of wine, and chose to see to his duty.
His back is turned to the figure, who rushes at the defenseless king, drawing its knife, plunging it down in a strike against his helpless back.
The king whirls, his long hair swirling about his face, and grabs the arms of his attacker, throwing it to the ground. The hood of the cloak falls back, revealing… a woman!
Her hair is dark, and braided with bones. Her eyes are dark, and her tanned skin is broken by stark green tattoos. The expressions on both the faces of the king and his would-be-assassin reveal her to be nothing of the sort.
"You grow careless, my king," she says mildly.
"Bah!" Conan snorts. "You made enough noise to wake a drunken Nemedian." His tone is gruff, but also playful. He casually hauls her to her feet, pushing her away from him. "Now," he growls. "What news from your spies?"
Her expression becomes serious, perhaps even troubled. As her normal expression is one of cold calculation, it's difficult to tell. "The hill tribes of Cimmeria hold our northern borders, Sire, but they cannot last." She clasps her hands behind her back in military fashion, her precision at odds with her barbaric appearance, and strides over to the map table. "In the west, Picts gather in force, while to the east the scheming Nemedians break your truce." She pointed to each location with her dagger. "From beyond the River Styx, an ancient evil crawls from the tombs of Stygia towards out southern border."
"Aye," the king growls. "We are surrounded and outnumbered." His eyes go distant, ad if he remembers all the times when 'surrounded and outnumbered' meant 'him against three other warriors in hand to hand combat.'
"But what now, My Lord?" the woman demands.
"Now," he replies coolly, "we sound the bells of wars. We shall call upon every strong arm and sharp sword to fight; we will bring them to their knees and see them crushed by the fury of our kingdom!" He slams his fist into the table. His goblet of wine tips over as the table shudders; the red wine flowing across the map like the river of blood the woman is sure will flow over the lands as the result of his wrath. "Send out the call, Zakhara. Call all the mercenary companies, all the free-lancers. Muster every armed force we have. Institute a draft if need be; even call upon those damn priests in their stinking temples to cast spells upon our foes!"
His gaze pierced her to the core. "I will not let my kingdom fail!"
