At the first snap of a twig, Conan’s hand had instinctively flashed to his hilt. Although he had no reason to fear ill will in this great, gloomy forest northeast of Tanasul, the habits of a lifetime were not easily broken. Then, seeing that the new-comer was one of his oldest comrades and staunchest supporters, he relaxed a trifle.
The younger man spoke:
“No sign of the prince back along the trail, sire. It’s possible the lad has ridden ahead on the trail of the white stag?”
“ ’Tis more than possible, Prospero,” growled Conan. “The foolish cub had inherited more than his share of his sire’s thickheadedness. ’Twill serve him right if he’s benighted in the woods, especially if the damned rains begin again!”
Prospero, the Poitanian general of Conan’s armies, politely masked a grin. The burly Cimmerian adventurer had risen, by chance or fate or some wild whim of his northland god, to the throne of the most brilliant and sophisticated kingdom of the West. He still had the explosive temper and unruly ways of his primitive people; and his son, the missing Prince Conn, was growing into the very image of his father. The boy had the same surly, grim-jawed face, coarse black hair, swelling thews—and the same reckless contempt of danger.
“Shall I summon the rest of the party, sire?” said Prospero. “ ’Twere not good to let the heir to the throne be lost in the woods overnight. We can spread out, sounding our horns …”
Conan considered, chewing his mustache. About them stretched the gloomy forests of eastern Gunderland. Few knew the paths of these untamed woods. From the look of the clouds, the nightly rains of an early fall would soon be upon them, drenching the primeval wilderness with a cold, relentless downpour. Then the king laughed shortly. “Forget it, man! We’ll account this part of the lad’s education. If he be of the stuff of kings, a slight wetting and a sleepless night will hurt him little and may teach him something. Why, when I was the cub’s age, many were the black nights I spent on the naked fells and in the wooded draws of the Cimmerian hills, under the glitter of the stars. Let’s back to camp. We lost the stag, but we have the boar, and those skins of the good red wine of Poitain will go well with roast pork. I am nigh starved!”
Hours later, his belly filled and his spirits lifted by many a draft of wine, Conan sprawled before a snapping fire in the rude camp. Wrapped in a pile of skins, somewhat the worse for wine, the stout Guilaime, baron of Imirus, snored lustily. A few huntsmen and courtiers, wearied from a hard day of hunting, had also taken to their rough beds. A few yet lingered beside the steaming fire.
The clouds had broken, and a wintry moon, nearly full, glared whitely down through scattering mists. The rains had not begun again, and with the sky’s clearing had come a brisk, cold wind, tearing autumnal leaves from their branches.
Wine had loosened the King’s tongue, so that he held forth, his face brooding and flushed in the flicker of firelight. Bawdy jests and anecdotes from his long career of wild adventure poured from him. But Prospero noticed that, from time to time, Conan broke off, silencing the others with a lifted hand, to listen for distant hoofbeats or to probe the darkness of the gloomy forests with keen glances from his deep-set eyes of volcanic blue. Conan was plainly more worried over Prince Conn’s failure to return than his words suggested. It was all very well to shrug it off, saying the experience would do the half-grown boy some good. But to pretend indifference, when the twelve-year-old lad might be lying under a wet bush with a broken leg amidst the black night, was another matter.
Prospero reflected that Conan might be feeling the pangs of guilt—a rare thing for the wild, brawling, half-civilized Cimmerian warrior-king. The hunting trip into northern Gunderland had been Conan’s idea. His queen, Zenobia, had fallen ill after long labor giving birth to their third child, a daughter. During the slow months of her recovery, Conan had been with her as much of the time as he could afford to take from his royal duties. Feeling neglected, the boy had become surly and withdrawn. Now that Zenobia had regained much of her strength and Death had seemingly withdrawn his dark wings from the palace, Conan had suggested a few weeks of camping and hunting together, hoping to find a new closeness to his son.
And now the headstrong boy, wild with the excitement of his first grown-up hunt, had ridden off alone into the gathering darkness of the unknown forest in crazy pursuit of the elusive snow-white stag they had vainly chased for hours.
As the sky cleared, revealing the glittering stars, the rising wind whined in the boughs and dry leaves rustled as if to the tread of stealthy feet. Conan again broke off amidst a wild tale of sorcery and pirate life to search the gloom with probing eyes. The great Gunderland wood was not the safest place, even in this turbulent age. Bison and aurochs, wild boar, brown bear, and gray wolf stalked the woodland paths. And there lurked another potential enemy as welclass="underline" the most cunning and treacherous of all foes—man. For rogues, thieves, and renegades took to the wilds when city life became too dangerous for them.
Snarling an oath, the king came to his feet, doffing his black cloak and tossing it on his pile of duffel.
“Call me woman-hearted if you dare, you bastards,” he growled, “but I’ll sit here no longer. With this moon as bright as day, I can follow a trail or I’m a Stygian. Fulk! Saddle up red Ymir for me; the black’s winded. You men! Pass the wineskin one last time around and saddle up. Sir Valens! You’ll find the torches in the third wagon. Distribute them, and let’s forth. I’ll not sleep easy till I know my boy is safe.”
Swinging astride the big roan, Conan muttered: “That unlicked cub, haring off like a jackass after a stag that could outrun two ponies like his! When I find him, I’ll teach him to make me leave a nice warm fire for the cold wet woods!”
A snow-white owl floated across the gibbous moon. Conan choked off his curses with a sudden shiver. A black foreboding swept his barbaric soul. His backward people whispered strange tales of a thing that fled in the night—a were-stag, ghostly white and swift as the winter wind. Pray Crom that this was a beast of normal flesh and blood, and not some uncanny thing from nighted gulfs beyond space and time…
TWO: The Faceless Men
Young Conn was cold and wet and weary. The insides of his thighs were chafed from hours of hard riding, and he had developed more than a few blisters. He was also conscious of a growling emptiness where his stomach should be. Worst of all, he was lost.
The white stag had floated ahead of him like a ghostly bird, glimmering against the darkness. The elusive brute had come almost within spear-shot a dozen times. Each time that cool caution overcame Conn’s excitement the magnificent stag had faltered, proud antlers drooping, as if it had reached the edge of its endurance—and each time the vision of bearing so splendid a prize back to his father had spurred the boy on just a little farther.
The boy reined his panting pony to a halt amidst thick bushes and stared around through the dense gloom. Boughs creaked and leaves whispered above him under the rush of the wind, and foliage blotted out stars and moon alike. He had not the faintest idea of where he was, nor of the direction in which the white stag had led him, except that he knew he had strayed far beyond the bounds his father had set. The boy shivered a little in his leather jerkin. He knew his father’s temper; he would be beaten with a heavy belt when he came limping back. The only thing that might mitigate Conan’s anger would be for Conn to return triumphant, to throw the great stag at the feet of the king.