Heretic of Set Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  He saw Fallon ride past, her camel practically stepping over the others. From the corner of his eye, he saw a Kushite horse rearing, rider preparing to stab with his lance, below him a boy holding the fallen servant’s sword.

  Fallon let go the corner posts and took up her long sword with two hands. She swung, hard, as she rode past.

  For a moment, the white camel’s body blocked his view, and when it passed, Anok saw the bandit’s severed head spinning through the air, the horse charging away as its headless rider slowly slumped from the saddle.

  Anok heard rapid hoofbeats behind him and turned, barely deflecting the point of a lance past his head with his sword.

  He answered with his other sword, catching the rider as he passed, opening a wide, red gash between the bandit’s ribs.

  Anok did not follow as his attacker rode away, but turned and headed back into the center of the fight . . .

  Don’t miss the first adventures of Anok, Heretic of Stygia . . .

  SCION OF THE SERPENT

  Coming soon, the continuing adventures of Anok,

  Heretic of Stygia . . .

  THE VENOM OF LUXUR

  And don’t miss the Legends of Kern . . .

  BLOOD OF WOLVES

  CIMMERIAN RAGE

  SONGS OF VICTORY

  Millions of readers have enjoyed Robert E. Howard’s stories about

  Conan. Twelve thousand years ago after the sinking of Atlantis,

  there was an age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread

  across the world. This was an age of magic, wars, and adventure,

  but above all this was an age of heroes! The Age of Conan series

  features the tales of other legendary heroes in Hyboria.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  HERETIC OF SET

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Conan Properties International, LLC.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace mass market edition / November 2005

  Copyright © 2005 by Conan Properties International, LLC.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-16196-8

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  Acknowledgments

  This trilogy is the most massive undertaking I’ve ever been involved with, and it could not have happened without the assistance, support, and occasionally the patience of many wonderful people.

  First I’d like to thank my agent, Jodi Reamer, for her able support and council.

  As always, my deepest thanks to my wife, Chris, whose huge assistance proved not merely to be invaluable, but indispensable. Also for her eternal understanding and support. I hope I’m up to returning the favor as she faces her own deadlines.

  My thanks to all the great folks at Conan Properties International who have participated in the project and guided it through its various stages, including Fredrik Malmberg, Matt Forbeck (with special thanks to Matt for tolerating my frazzled nerves, all the way to the end), Theo Bergquist, and Jeff Conner.

  Special thanks to Ginjer Buchanan at Ace, who has stood with me through five novels now.

  My thanks to all the friends who have offered encouragement, support, advice, and feedback through the project, including Sean Prescott, Dean Wesley Smith (yes, Dean, you told me so), Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Loren Coleman, Rose Prescott, the entire Sunday Lunch Gang, and my buds from the Sandbox who helped keep me sane when I ceased to have a life.

  Thanks to my family, especially my father, Jim York; my mother, Martha York (secret sleuth of the Internet); and my brother, Tim, who all help keep me anchored through all the rough spots. Thanks to my kids, Shane and Lynette, for actually thinking something I do is cool.

  Finally, my gratitude to Justin Sweet for some of the most breathtaking covers I’ve ever seen.

  And of course, my appreciation to Robert E. Howard. Without him, we are nothing.

  It is through the port city Khemi, located just south of the mouth of the River Styx, that the cursed land of Stygia conducts much of its congress with the more civilized lands to the north.

  There outside traders and merchants are reluctantly welcomed, rarely traveling beyond the harbor, or Akhet, walled enclave of foreigners that nestles between the vast slums of Odji, and the walled inner city of Khemi proper.

  The inner city is a citadel, protected by great black walls of stone, where those of Stygian blood retreat by night to feed their dark urges and foul desires. It is there that they perform unspeakable rituals of blood, torture, and sacrifice to appease their dark snake-god, Set.

  Know, fellow traveler, that Stygia is foremost the land of Set. All power resides in his cults, and even their king is but a puppet in the thrall of his evil servants. It is clear to anyone who sees Khemi. For as the walled i
nner city towers over the Odji slums, so, too its fine houses are dwarfed by the tall palaces of the most rich and powerful families who have gained their station through service to Set. And towering over it all, the Great Temple of Set, its spire topped with a statue of Great Set. It is said his eyes burn like coals, even by night, and he looks down upon Stygia, master of all he surveys.

  —THE SIXTH SCROLL OF VAGOBIS, THE TRAVELER

  PROLOGUE

  4,600 years before the Hyborian Age

  THE MAN, OR sort-of-man, know as Graymoy the Sage, limped to the mouth of the cave and looked down the rocky side of the mountain. An icy wind whistled up the canyon to the south, past the ruins of a great marble temple, now crumbling bit by bit down the side of the cliff.

  Dark clouds rolled rapidly across the sky in an unbroken stream, and flashes of lightning bubbled in their depths, filling the air with rumbles of thunder. It was a sky with no promise save misery. It was the end of an age.

  Far below, he saw two men like himself climbing up the rocks.

  To more modern eyes they would have looked bestial, apish. They were short, hairy, thick of limb and body, their faces wide and flat, dressed in animal furs and hides. To Graymoy they were distant brothers, with faces little different than his when seen reflected in still water.

  Yet all of them were descended of people who had once been men, before the cataclysm brought down the world and doomed them to slide back, generation by generation, till they were little more than beasts. They would slide further still before they could begin the long climb back to civilization.

  Graymoy was a sage, as were the men climbing up the rocks, a last spark of knowledge and wisdom in an age of darkness. Graymoy was wise enough to know that the world had fallen before and that it would fall again. He was wise enough to know that even his spark would soon be extinguished, and their like might not come again for a hundred generations.

  Someone tugged at the fur cuff of his sleeve. He looked down into the dark eyes of a small boy, dressed in rough furs, hunched at his feet.

  “Grandfather,” said the boy, “is someone coming?”

  He pointed to the back of the cave, past the fire and the many paintings of animals and men, to where a narrow passage led into blackness. “Go, Amet, and hide. Do not make a sound until they have gone.”

  The boy reluctantly nodded and scampered across the chamber, vanishing into the narrow maw of darkness.

  As he did, Graymoy heard a clattering of rocks outside, and the wide figure of a man, bundled in furs, appeared in the cave mouth. The man stepped inside, put down his shoulder bag, bow, and quiver, and hunched beside the fire without a word. He warmed his hands as the second man entered and repeated the process.

  Graymoy joined them at the fire, squatting on a flat rock, putting him a head higher than the others. Both men were younger than Graymoy, not much older than his son would have been had he not been struck down three seasons earlier by one of the great cats that sometimes stalked the canyon rim.

  One man, blue-eyed, and golden-haired, looked up at him. “Why have you summoned us, Graymoy? Our time of wisdom is ending. We are the last sages of our people. What purpose can such a meeting serve?”

  The other, of dark hair and dusky skin, nodded. “I have no wish to be away from home. My son’s woman is large with child. I pray it will be a son this time.”

  “It will be, Kaleth,” said Graymoy. “I have seen it in the sacred flames. Each of you will have heirs, to carry your blood through the dark times to come. That is part of why I have summoned you. You know my only son was killed many years ago. There will be no heirs for me.”

  The fair-haired one scowled. “What matter is it to you that we have heirs?” He snorted in contempt. “Do you intend to steal our sons?”

  “In a manner of speaking, Reloth” His eyes narrowed. “I have found them, all that are left. Two of the three golden scales.”

  Reloth’s eyes widened. “The golden scales? Where?”

  “On a mountaintop, three days south of here, amid the bones of two great demons who appear to have battled over them to the death.”

  Kaleth chuckled. “It is fitting justice. Death to all demons, gods, and creatures from beyond the veil, who have visited such ruin upon us.”

  Graymoy frowned. “They could never have done it without the aid of men. Were it not for the worship and service of men, our lust for power, such creatures would have little interest in our sphere.”

  Kaleth frowned, then nodded reluctantly. “It may be so, but they certainly warred over the three scales.”

  “Only,” said Graymoy, “because the three scales gave them dominion over men. But now the necklace is broken, and I have learned that one of the scales is lost into the deep ocean, where no man can ever find it, and even gods will be humbled by the task. So until gods or demons return it to the world of man, only these remain—” He reached beneath his fur jacket and pulled out two leather cords. At the end of each, a shiny medallion of gold hung, each carved with a flaming sword and two inward-facing serpents. He held one out in each hand.

  “I give these to you for safekeeping. In time, you must pass them to your heirs, and they to theirs, for the rest of time, or at least until the inevitable fallibility of men breaks the circle. Take them back to your native lands and let them be kept separate and lost to time.

  Reloth held his over the fire, where the flicking flames reflected off its shining surface. “Why not just melt them down?”

  “They were forged by powers beyond man. I don’t think they can be destroyed, at least by such as us,” answered Graymoy. “No hammer or axe or fire of man can harm them.”

  “Then,” said Kaleth, “cast them into the sea as well, or into the sands of the desert, or into a mountain of fire.”

  “Such,” said Graymoy, “would hide them from men, but not from supernatural beings, who would be drawn to retrieve them, no matter the cost. Just as someday the third scale may return, and must never be reunited with these two. Cast into the ocean, sooner or later they would be found and the war of gods would begin again. Only if they are always hidden by men may they remain safe from those who covet them. Perhaps not forever, for as we have seen, men are weak, but perhaps long enough that the wheel of time may make another turn.” His eyes narrowed, and he studied the other’s faces. “Do you see now?”

  Reloth stood and nodded. “You speak wisely. I will take this back to my distant land, guard it closely, and charge its safety to my heirs when the time comes. Even if all we have learned is lost to history, perhaps they can still carry this burden through the long darkness ahead.”

  Kaleth stood, putting the leather cord over his head as he did. “Then I shall do so as well.” He nodded to the other two men in turn. “We should make haste, for every moment these two remain together is a danger.” He stood. “We will never meet again,” he said. “Pray that the Scales never meet again as well.” He turned and walked out of the cave.

  Reloth reached out and clasped Graymoy’s hand. “So it shall be. Perhaps I shall see you in the land beyond the veil.” Then he turned and left also.

  Graymoy crouched there by the fire, watching the empty entrance to the cave for a while, feeling a sense of great relief. They were wise men, these two, good men, but they were still just men. Better they do not know. Better they never be tempted as I have been tempted, for on another day, in a moment of weakness, even I might have failed against it.

  He heard a rustling noise behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the boy peering over the rocks. He signaled the boy over with his hand.

  The boy trotted over and sat down in front of the fire, looking into the flames.

  “It is just us now,” said Graymoy. “The two golden scales are gone.” He glanced over at the boy. “Now show me the third.”

  The boy looked down, reached under his fur shirt, and pulled at a leather cord. He drew out the golden scale and looked at it in the firelight. He glanced up at his grandfather. “What i
s it for?”

  “It is for you and your line to keep safe,” Graymoy said. “It is the most important thing you will ever have and the most important thing you will ever do. That is all you must know, and all you must pass to those that follow you. If I told you more, you would just forget, and if you remembered, it would still be lost in the river of time. Or worse, you would pass your knowledge along, someday to send men on dark quests to wrest the power of the gods. Nothing but doom and suffering could ever come from that. It is a thing, and you must hide and protect it. That is all.”

  The boy hefted it in his hand.

  “It is heavy,” he said.

  Graymoy frowned. “In time,” he said, “it will become heavier still.”

  1

  “WELL,” SAID ANOK Wati as he and his fellow acolyte, Dejal, marched up the marble steps to Great Temple of Set, “that was a poor excuse for a day, wandering the streets chanting praise to Set and frightening small children.”

  Dejal threw back the hood of his robe and glared at Anok, his eyes black as obsidian against his pallid skin. “Hush, brother, before one of the priests hears you! We serve Set in even our most humble tasks in his service.”

  You serve Set, Anok thought, not I. But he dared not even whisper his true feelings about Set or all his servants, for if it ever became known, he would be branded a heretic and killed by the slowest and most terrible means known to the High Priests of Set, and it was said that they could start killing a man on the night of one full moon and only end it on the next.

  But heretic was what he was, a pretender in Set’s temple, whose true intention was to bring down the snake-god, or at least to do him as much damage as possible before Set’s followers could crush him.