Conan Of The Isles

Conan laughed and threw back his feathered robe and cowl. His broadsword hissed from its scabbard, The bullies stopped as if they had run into an invisible wall - but not, it seemed, from simple fear.

'Lords of Hell - iron, or I'm a blind man!' gasped one of them.

Another muttered an expletive and peered more closely at Conan, observing with wonder his height, his unshorn mane and beard, and his smouldering blue eyes.

'Gods of death, what is he?' the fellow swore. 'No such man has ever been seen in all Antillia! ‘

With his back against the wall, Conan barked a laugh, swinging his blade from side to side to menace all five hoodlums.

'One who stole this robe from its owner, friend, and no spy for your rulers, if that is what you think!' he rumbled. 'Moreover, one who would see your chief on business, to profit of both. And I will see him, whether you like or not!'

He held his sword level so that the daylight flashed from its blade. The four guards and the cutpurse gave back, eyeing him with growing alarm. Strangely, his sword seemed to arouse more interest than he himself did. Conan guessed that for some reason - perhaps lack of ores in this island chain - ferrous metals were virtually unknown here, although legendary tales of the iron and steel of ancient Atlantis had been handed down through the generations.

'Now,' he grunted, 'will you take me to your leader, or would you rather fight?'

They were happy to oblige.

The local underworld lordling was an enormously fat man named Metemphoc. His face was a bulging mass of lardlike flesh in which a pair of cold black eyes glittered like fragments of polished obsidian. His mouth was a thin-lipped gash across his round, brown face; his nose, a mere blob between his swollen cheeks.

His headquarters was a series of abandoned cellars beneath the ruined houses at the end of a filthy alley. The walls of stained, crumbling plaster were hung with gorgeous tapestries of strange design, and on the cement floors were scattered elaborately woven mats and the tanned skins of beasts of many kinds. Silver thuribles filled the air with rich incense. The quiet luxury and gilded splendor of Metemphoc's apartment contrasted vividly with the squalor of the exterior.

Like a fat toad, Metemphoc lay wrapped in gorgeous brocade amidst a nest of cushions as he listened to Conan's tale. His face impassive and his black eyes coldly glittering, he uttered no word until Conan had finished his account. Then a long, suspenseful moment stretched on while Metemphoc examined Conan from head to foot, paying almost as much heed to the sword that lay across the Cimmerian's knees as to the man who held it.

With a sigh, Metemphoc rubbed fat jowls with pudgy fingers, whereon sparkled a king's ransom in gem-studded rings. He laughed throatily and called for wine and meat. The suspense broke.

'By the gods of stealth, big man!' he chuckled, 'old Metemphoc has never heard such a tale in all his poor, sick days; therefore it must be true! Aye, with that barbarous mane and uncouth face fur, and those uncanny sky-colored eyes - and, ahem, an accent such as these tired old ears can barely understand - this fat old man has no choice but to believe that you do, forsooth, hail from an unknown land to the east. Notwithstanding that our beloved masters, the holy priesthood - ha! - inform us that naught lies thither but a wild waste of waters, with never a speck of land.'

They amicably toasted each other. Conan gulped thirstily at a sweet, pungent wine such as he had never tasted. Doubtless, he thought, this drink was fermented, not from grapes, but from some unfamiliar local fruit.

He felt quite at home. By pure instinct, he and the toad-like master thief understood each other. Although born thousands of leagues apart and of alien cultures, they spoke the same lawless language in their hearts.

While they drank, food was brought and set out on the low table between them. Conan dug hungrily into the repast. Besides the Antillian foods with which he had already become familiar, there were nuts and berries of a dozen kinds. The repast ended with a curious, large,, prickly fruit with a spray of sword-shaped leaves growing from its top. Metemphoc cut it into ring-shaped, yellow-green slices. Conan found the taste startling at first but not bad after a few bites.

Meanwhile they carried on a desultory conversation between mouthfuls. Metemphoc said: 'Aye, I know of that strange ship, full of barbarous foreigners, which our Sea Guard captured a few days past. That is one reason I was willing to believe your tale.'

'Are my men still alive, and if so where?' grunted Conan.

'They live, or did last night. They are in a dungeon below the Anteroom of the Gods - that gay citadel that stands on the edge of the Square of the Great Pyramid.'