Scion of the Serpent: Anok, Heretic of Stygia Volume I 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

  The acolytes had divided their forces, half hanging back to hold the torches and prevent her escape, the others moving in to engage her directly.

  One of them had already fallen, though he wasn’t dead. He screamed and flailed on the ground, his robes flopping around like a rag with a mouse trapped inside.

  The woman stood in the middle of them, fierce and defiant, blood—whose he couldn’t tell—splattered across her face and body. She held her sword at the ready for the next acolyte to step within range.

  But seeing their fallen fellow, the others were in no hurry. They could wait for weakness or inattention. Perhaps they would even wait for reinforcements to be attracted by the noise. With a little patience, they probably could have killed her easily enough, but they wanted to take her alive.

  They wanted a living sacrifice.

  Then Anok struck, and everything changed in a second . . .

  Coming soon, the continuing adventures

  of Anok, Heretic of Stygia . . .

  HERETIC OF SET

  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.

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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.

  SCION OF THE SERPENT

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

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace edition / October 2005

  Copyright © 2005 by Conan Properties International, LLC.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-16142-5

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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 this 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 offered 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 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.

  Though I have traveled across the known world, there is one land I have never visited, never been allowed to visit. Few civilized outsiders have ever penetrated the feared borders of ancient Stygia and lived to tell the tale. Of those that have, they speak of it only in whispers, if they speak at all.

  Of all the lands of the Thurian continent, it is the one most shrouded in mystery and legend. All that is certain is that it was once a great power, holding dominion over much of the world, and this power faded, not by war or conquest, but by some calamity or corruption from within. This once-great and fertile land is now but a dusty shadow of its former glory.

  Some say great evil was unleashed here, liberated from the sumptuous depths, or called down from the dark ether, or simply released from a forbidden box. Some say there was a war between gods here, where men chose sides, and all lost in the end. Some say that all evil in the world, and of that I have found a great deal, originated within its
trackless deserts. They say it poisoned the lands to the south forever with dark magic, turned its own forests into deserts, and released countless demons and monsters that will trouble mankind until the end of time.

  As for me, I cannot say. For how does one find truth in a land forged from evil and lies?

  Yet, I believe this: The land of Stygia cannot be, as many say, a land that is entirely evil, for such a place would consume itself in a single night. For this black ember of a place to have smoldered so long, there must be good there as well, holding back evil from its final conflagration.

  There must be love, courage, honor, loyalty, and all the noble inclinations of the heart.

  And I wonder if, for all that, we would be better off if it were not so, and the foul place would simply burn, before it can produce more evil to plague the affairs of men.

  —THE SIXTH SCROLL OF VAGOBIS, THE TRAVELER

  PROLOGUE

  The Port of Khemi, Stygia

  THE BOY, SEKHEMAR, stood in the small garden, sandaled feet planted apart, sword clutched in his sweaty right hand, a shield of hammered brass over his left arm. His heart pounded, every sense alert, his eyes studying the dark corners behind the shrubberies and trees. He sniffed the air, smelled the night-blooming desert flowers. It seemed peaceful and serene, but he knew attack would come.

  He heard a slight rustling in the high, decorative grass behind his right shoulder but gave no sign. He struggled to keep his breathing slow and even, but his body tensed, like a trap, waiting for the right sound to put him in motion.

  There!

  Time slowed.

  He took one long step forward, then spun. He threw his shield up to intercept the sword, which he heard slicing air long before he saw it.

  He planted both feet, bracing for the impact. The sword clanged against his shield, nearly knocking him backward. His attacker was a head taller than he, half again his weight.

  The sword slid off his shield to the left, and as it did, he shifted his left arm, pushing against the sword to throw the attacker off-balance.

  He jabbed with his sword, but the attacker jumped back, and the point of his sword only grazed the attacker’s chest plate. He couldn’t match his attacker’s reach any more than he could his size or power. What he did have was speed and agility.

  He prayed they would be enough.

  The attacker replied, sword slicing through the air in front of him. The move was more defense than attack, and Sekhemar sensed a momentary weakness. He lunged forward with the shield, taking the offensive. He feigned a high jab with the sword, pulling back just as his adversary moved to counter.

  Sekhemar used his shield to push the attacker’s sword aside, making an opening. He swung the sword at his attacker’s exposed right side. Once again, the man was too fast for him, stepping to one side, quickly recovering his stance. He made two quick slashes at Sekhemar, back and forth, pushing the boy back off the garden path.

  Sekhemar stumbled in the loose gravel, lost his stance. The attacker pressed forward rapidly, his footwork sure and aggressive. The sword swung down toward Sekhemar’s head, and he raised his sword defensively.

  Blade clanged against blade, and pain seared down Sekhemar’s arm as though he had been stuck by lightning, nearly causing him to lose the sword. His hand went numb from the impact, and he struggled for breath. Desperately, he swung the shield, striking his attacker’s left arm edge on.

  The blow landed solidly, but the man took advantage of the opening to grab the strap of the shield, using it to hold Sekhemar defenseless. He stood eye to eye with the man for a fraction of a second, close enough to smell his scented hair oil.

  The man’s sword jabbed, and Sekhemar was barely able to direct the point past his body using his own sword.

  Sekhemar yanked his arm free of the shield, and it clattered to the stone walkway. The attacker pressed his advantage.

  Sekhemar turned and ran toward a wooden table covered with weapons. His eye fell on another sword, a twin to the one in his still-tingling right hand. He scooped it up in his left hand and turned to face his attacker just as the sword fell toward his head.

  The boy bent his knees to absorb the impact, the swords crossed above his head. One sword met two, the twin blades slid across each other in response to the impact, until their guards locked together, stopping the blade with a loud report. Using both arms, he was better able to withstand the blow, and he straightened his legs suddenly, pushing the man back.

  Sekhemar followed him onto the path. Disengaging the lower sword, held in his left hand, he pushed the attacker’s sword away with the sword in his right.

  Unused to the left-handed attack, the man was slow and clumsy in his defense. The sword struck chest armor hard enough to knock the wind from the man’s lungs.

  Sekhemar pressed again, slicing both swords back and forth in front of him. He changed his footing and attacked with the right arm again, using the left sword defensively. The sword struck the man’s left shoulder solidly, causing him to gasp in pain.

  The boy shifted his feet again, feinting right, striking left, then left again. Shift. Then right.

  The blades danced in front of him, and the boy’s confidence grew. His attacker was confused, off-balance. Sekhemar struck with his left sword at his attacker’s sword arm, forcing an awkward defense that left the man totally open to the right sword, the point of which struck out, viper quick to find the man’s throat.

  It stopped there, poised just in front of the man’s bobbing Adam’s apple.

  “No,” said the man, “this is wrong.”

  Sekhemar smiled a twisted smile. “You say this only because you are losing.”

  “I say this is because it is wrong. Put down the sword, my son.”

  The boy’s smile faded, and he drew back, lowering his swords. “I was winning.”

  The man pulled off the bronze helmet covering his curly black hair and sighed. “How many times have I told you, Sekhemar? This is not a contest. This is so you can learn.” He put the helmet and his own sword on the table. “You are too impatient. You have certain natural gifts that give you an advantage, yes. You are young and fast. You can fight with your left hand just as easily as your right, but this is only a trick, not true skill.” He reached out, and Sekhemar handed him the swords, hilt first. He placed them on the table alongside the others.

  As he unstrapped the leather practice armor that covered most of his upper body, Sekhemar’s father turned back to study his son. “You must learn to fight with one sword in your right hand, like any other boy. Then you can fight with one sword in your left. When you have mastered that, then you can learn to fight with both. That is the way it should be done.”

  The boy stood as tall as he could, squaring his shoulders. “I was winning.” His voice cracked as he said it.

  His father smiled sadly and shook his head. “Your impatience will be your downfall, Sekhemar. You must learn to wait. All things have their appointed time.”

  “I was winning,” he insisted.

  Sekhemar’s father laughed and reached out to tousle the boy’s hair. “You were. But I am only an old merchant with some small skills, not a true warrior. Your tricks might work on me, but they would fail against a true warrior.”

  “You’ve said yourself that most men who wield a sword, even soldiers, are clumsy louts.”

  The expression on his father’s face turned serious. “So most are, Sekhemar, but you must not let that fool you.” He gestured toward a carved stone bench, near the high wall that separated the compound from the city beyond. “Sit with me.”

  Sekhemar sat down next to his father. As he did, he noticed that the difference in their height was not so great as when they were standing. He was growing by the day. Soon he would be as tall and broad as his father. Perhaps even taller.

  “Son, you must understand the limitations of what small skills I have impressed upon you. In any group of fighting men, be they soldiers, pirates, or bandits, most are unskilled an
d unseasoned and man to man, easy pickings for a true warrior of skill. Few ever truly have those skills tested. They survive battles though luck, surprise, number, tactical advantage, and the aid of more seasoned warriors. When the fateful day comes that their mettle is challenged, few survive.

  “If they do somehow survive that first real battle, they have learned enough to become at least a little dangerous, though even this only occasionally stays with them through the second day. But if they survive a third true test, then they are to be respected and feared. Few men live to fight a dozen battles. Not one in a hundred, or perhaps one in a thousand, but those men are almost unstoppable.

  “Wars are lost by the unseasoned many, but they are won by the practiced few. Before such men, the likes of you or I would stand no chance.”

  “I am skilled, father. I am quick, and I grow stronger by the day.”

  “You are the son of a merchant, Sekhemar. A trader, not a warrior. Pray these skills I have given you are never tested. I teach you only so you can defend yourself. Perhaps, if I have taught you well, you have almost the skill of a soldier on the second day of battle. But you have never known true fear, never known true pain, never experienced the horrors of the battlefield. To steel yourself against those things is also part of the seasoning of a warrior.

  “Do not fool yourself, Sekhemar. When you turned and ran from me, that was the correct course for such as we. Run if you can and let others fight the battles.”

  At these words, Sekhemar felt an unexpected anger growing in his heart. He was no coward! “Did you run, father, when the bandits came for mother and me?”

  Immediately Sekhemar regretted the words. He had been but a toddler when their trading caravan was set upon by bandits. He remembered the events of his mother’s death only in flashes of sense memory, and his father had rarely spoken of it. Even now, long years later, it caused him great pain.