Conan Of The Isles

They stood gaping as his words intoxicated them, for the wild and lawless magic of his own heroic sprint was as contagious as fire in tinder. Gold and gems he promised them, wealth and glory, and the fame of a great adventure into the Unknown, among new seas, forgotten isles, and strange peoples. They should venture into the deeps of nameless seas, whence they would emerge, not as lawless of legend would beguile soft wenches and win immortal fame in songs and epics for aeons to come.

And there at anchor rode Amra's ship - a stout, deep-bellied carack called the Red Lion, like Amra's caravel of former times.

Conan did not reveal all the story. He did not tell them of King Ariostro of Argos, whose gems had purchased the mighty vessel. And why frighten them away with tales of the Red Shadows and the weird apparition of Epemitreus, the long-dead prophet?

For, just as the Terror had carried away hundreds of Conan's subjects, so the mysterious curse had struck at the citizens of Argos. Ariostro's court magicians and seers had read the omens of the stars. They had opened certain long-undisturbed books of magical lore and told their king that the Red Shadows struck from some unknown realm beyond the mysterious Western Ocean.

Ship after ship had the shrewd and able king of Argos launched into the Western Sea, but none had ever returned with a clue to the mystery. At length, even his navy grew nervous at the hint of further ventures into the unknown West, But still the Red Shadows struck and slew, and the kingdom hovered on the edge of mutiny and rebellion.

So, venturing into the streets of Messantia in disguise, King Ariostro had searched for reckless master mariners whom he might persuade to undertake the adventure. For this last desperate gamble, he had found the men he sought in Conan the Cimmerian - whose identity he quickly divined, although he was too discreet to betray the fact - and Sigurd Redbeard, the bluff and hearty old sea rover from distant Vanaheim. With his gems,, they had bought the powerful carack and were now come into port to enlist a crew of lawless rogues from among the Barachan pirates.

Some of the faces among the throng were known to Conan from his pirate days of old, and to them he spoke out boldly. One gigantic, grinning black from the southern jungles caught his eye. He thrust out an arm toward the majestic Kushite, whose bare arms gleamed like oiled ebony in the orange light of the blown torches, and whose bulbous mass of kinky black hair was streaked with gray.

'You know me, Yasunga!' he thundered. 'You were but a lad when I roved the black coast, years and years ago by the side of your bold mistress, Belit. What of you ? Will you join my venture?'

Yasunga threw up his long, black arms with a shout of joy. ‘Ya Amra! Amra!’ he roared, drunken with old memories.

'Back, you black dog!' snarled a voice in chill, deadly tones, as a sum, deadly form thrust itself in front of the black and pushed him back into the crowd. The man turned to fix Conan with coldly venomous eyes.

Conan looked down at the newcomer with narrowing eyes., taking in the lean, sallow face with inky brows and thin lips, the slim, sinewy body in a breastplate of polished, gold-inlaid steel over black velvet, the diamonds flashing at earlobe and wrist, where a lean, strong hand jutted from amidst foaming lace to fondle the wen-worn hilt of a long cut-and-thrust rapier.

In a soft voice, whose lisping accents marked him for a Zingaran, the black-clad, sallow man addressed the crowd: 'Back to your kennels, dogs! Do you listen to the wild dreams of this crazy old fool, who has come out of nowhere to lure you with wild promises on a harebrained quest into the unknown? Mayhap this be the same Amra of whose deeds we have heard - and mayhap not. What matters it? Amra or no, this deluded old wolf has come amongst us to disrupt the Brotherhood. What care we for adventures and glory? We are practical men, earning our living from the sea, and to the eleven scarlet Hells with dream-befuddled heroes!'

He glared contemptuously at Conan. 'And seek not to lure my navigator, Yasunga, into your mad schemes, gray dog. I taught him the lore of sun and stars - and by Mitra, he stays with me: Black Alvaro, of the Falcon of Zingara! So up anchor and take your rotten carack back to whatever port of dreams you hale from. We have no room for your sort here.'

Alvaro had half turned to stride away through the muttering throng, when Conan's deep bellow of laughter stiffened him. Conan spat loudly.