Chapter 16: Melkronias

After riding several miles, his companions noticed that the king had fallen into a contemplative mood, as though he pondered the weighty things awaiting his arrival. Gallardo commented upon the king's silence, asking him if ought were amiss: did he dread the return to the politics of rule, or was he but anxious about Vasa, his granddaughter?

"Certainly, I can scarce wait to pull Vasa's spirit from where it roams back to the waiting world, Gallardo. Spring comes, and I will not have her miss it. But it is not this, nor is it the duties of my station—which you intuitively guessed quite often pale as compared to the life I led as a common man—that have me thinking."

The king eyed the dagger that Gallardo had discovered in Herzog's palace together with the atlas where the weapon stuck out of his belt, the serpent gem gleaming from its pommel like green Hellfire. "You two will keep this between us: I have been mulling this entire misadventure, brought on by the illness into which Vasa suddenly fell prey. In doing so, I have thought much of the solution—which the sorcerer, Melkronias, offered."

"Melkronias!" burst Gallardo. "What of the wizard, my king?"

"He alone knew of this stone," continued Conan, long accustomed to Gallardo's youthful outbursts, "and in supplying the knowledge of it he came into possession of certain objects I had accumulated over the years without understanding their potentiality—items similar in nature to the objects I saw in the serpent cavern, one of which was this gem."

Conan's companions caught the insinuation, but it was Yrdihz who voiced his understanding.

"You suspicion this wizard, Melkronias, of having caused the malady to your granddaughter in the first place, with the intention of eventually coming into possession of the serpent stone which you were to bring back to Aquilonia?"

Conan's face was dark. His keen eyes scanned the trail and he didn't bother turning his head when he made his reply. "I do. And, not merely the gem, but the location of the serpent chamber which I believe he intends to loot. When we return, I deem I shall shortly receive a visit from the wizard, who has never visited me before the day I summoned him as a last resort to save Vasa. But when he comes this time, I'm guessing it will be to take the green stone—and a man."

Gallardo jerked, "A man? What man, my king? And how would he ever find the cavern of relics to loot it? You said yourself that the map fell to the floor where it still remains. It's lost. Without it, how will Melkronias find the chamber? Only you and Yrdihz know its whereabouts—Oh!"

Conan glanced at young Gallardo. "Now you know what 'man' I was referring to, Gallardo. Melkronias is a powerful mage. It's my guess that the same spells he used to learn the words necessary to unleash the power of the green stone—which he gleaned from tormented ghosts—could be brought to bear to scour the brains of me or Yrdihz to divine the location of the cavern as surely as would have the map. I figure he's coming for me."

"Why didn't he use his powers of divination to locate the cavern himself and leave you out of it?" quizzed Gallardo.

"Apparently," mused Yrdihz, "the serpent cavern is somehow hidden from sorcerer insight—a hiding spell of the serpent men. I guess that either the map, or the knowledge of the cavern's location from someone who has physically been there, is necessary to locate it. And either King Conan, or I, could provide that information."

"He would also wish to understand what traps were in place to guard the relics," added Conan, recalling the gore-smeared, icy plateau and the ensorcelled tunnel that devoured a man and horse.

Their moods somber, the three rode on in silence. Shortly, they crossed into Nemedia where they would skirt towns and cities that they might make their way in secret to their own borders. They currently didn't war with the Nemedians, but that could change with the shifting of a single breeze.

Consummatum est

About the Author

Chris spent years playing guitar in and out of bands and was, during that time, more of a voracious reader than a writer. After that last band collapsed, he turned from writing songs to writing stories, eventually turning out a half million-word Barsoom series as a tribute to Edgar Rice Burroughs (currently under contract to ERB Inc.) and a host of self-published short stories and poems.

Something inside drives him to create, and so together with writing and playing guitar, he also dabbles in painting (the cover for his novel, The Hunter and the Sorcerer, is one of his).

You may find him on his website where you'll find links, information on available stories, and other things you might find of interest.

Chris enjoys talking about favorite authors, writing and collecting books so feel free to shoot him an email from his Contact page.

Chris resides in Southern West Virginia with his wife and two children.

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About Robert E. Howard

I wanted to ramble a moment about Robert E. Howard—and not, mind you, buy brainlessly copying a bunch of text off the web. I discovered the writings of REH in my teens when I somehow ended up with a copy of Donald A. Wollheim's, The Macabre Reader, which contained Howard's tale, The Cairn on the Headland. So, the first Howard yarn I ever read was one of his horror stories, not one of his Conan yarns.

But . . . my first exposure to REH was definitely his famous Cimmerian character, I just didn't realize at the time that what I was reading was inspired by a long-deceased author, because it was not in the reading of one of Howard's stories that I first learned of Conan, but was, rather, in the pages of The Savage Sword of Conan, an amazing B&W, magazine-sized comic featuring some of the most talented artists I've ever encountered drawing amazing characters and action scenes from a time I'd never before heard … the Hyborian Age. My uncle was a huge SSOC fan and bought them religiously and then left them laying around for us kids. I loved going to his house and finding these. So, it was in the pages of SSOC that I first fell in love with Conan, and this was years before I would read the original stories or dive into the biographical details of the barbarian's creator.

At the time I became a full-blown REH fan I was also reading Edgar Rice Burroughs, A. Merritt, H. P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith . . . REH's contemporaries who also made a living selling stories (with the exception of Merritt, of course). I'd begun paying attention to the credit information in the front my paperbacks where it listed where each story originally appeared, and the year, and I discovered that these guys that I loved well were all writing at about the same time.

This sealed-the-proverbial-deal insofar as me and the pulp-era was concerned. I started seeking other writers from that time and earlier. I went on to discover Haggard, Edmond Hamilton, Hodgson, Dunsany and so on. The more I delved, the more, new names I discovered; the discovery of new authors seemed endless then, and it still does.

But what was a real eye opener was finding out about all the characters REH created besides Conan. It was staggering. In the burgeoning days after my discovery of Howard where I began actively seeking everything I could find by him, I read Solomon Kane, Cormac Mac Art and Cormac Fitzgeoffrey. I devoured Sailor Steve Costigan, Breckenridge Elkins, and James Allison. And Esau Cairn! By Crom, I laughed when Breck said, "That ear's been chawed!" and I roared in approbation of Esau's derring-dos. And I loved Kull, and El Borak, too. I loved everything I got my hands on my Howard, and I still do. I especially enjoy his horror stories which I think hold up well against Lovecraft and Smith.

What I really appreciate about Howard, though, besides his indefatigable creativity, was his ability to say so much in so few words. I admit, I struggle with that as a writer and wish that I, also, was gifted with an ability for short and sweet brevity. The man could make your blood boil in a handful of words or wring an oath out of you in a single sentence. I love that about him. The Atlas of the Serpent Men weighs in at about 13k words—I have no doubt that Howard could have done a better job in half that. I hope you enjoyed the tale, tho, even though it's but a shade of its inspiration.

Regards,

Chris.

Bizarre Tales

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