CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Leave us a Review

  Copyright

  Map

  Lethal Consignment

  1 A Proposition of Employment

  2 The Fortune’s Dawn

  3 Screams in the Night

  4 Leonidos’ Tale

  5 The Truth Revealed

  6 The Creature

  About the Author

  Coming Next Month

  LEAVE US A REVIEW

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  CONAN: LETHAL CONSIGNMENT

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781803366500

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  www.titanbooks.com

  First edition: April 2024

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this short story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © 2024 Conan Properties International (“CPI”). CONAN, CONAN THE BARBARIAN, CONAN THE CIMMERIAN, HYBORIA, THE SAVAGE SWORD OF CONAN and related logos, names and character likenesses thereof are trademarks or registered trademarks of CPI. ROBERT E. HOWARD is a trademark or registered trademark of Robert E. Howard Properties LLC. Heroic Signatures is a trademark of Cabinet Licensing LLC.

  Shaun Hamill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  CONAN:

  LETHAL CONSIGNMENT

  SHAUN HAMILL

  NOTE: This story is intended to take place before Robert E. Howard’s The Tower of the Elephant.

  A PROPOSITION OF EMPLOYMENT

  It was late afternoon in the Zingaran capital of Kordava, and the tavern was nearly empty. Most of the regulars wouldn’t be in for a couple of hours, so the bartender, Mugido, had little to do besides check his stores, clean his mugs, and keep an eye on the youth drinking in the corner.

  The young man wore dun-colored, threadbare trousers and shirt, out of keeping with the flamboyant styles often favored by the locals, and this marked him as a foreigner as surely as his ice-blue eyes. He was also larger than most Zingarans, his shoulders broad and imposing, even as he slouched forward like a lazy teenager. A sheathed broadsword lay on the table in front of him as he stared out the window that offered a view of the ships in the harbor below.

  Something about the youth made Mugido uneasy.

  Despite the boy’s sullen bearing, the threat of violence seemed to radiate from him, as though, at the merest prompting, he could wreak a great deal of damage. So, despite the fact that the lad had ordered only a single ale since his arrival an hour earlier, the bartender didn’t harass him, or try to coax him into buying more drinks. Rather, he let the youth drink in peace, and when a second figure darkened the tavern’s doorway, he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn’t be alone any longer with this imposing stranger.

  The new customer was a compact, ruddy-faced man whose manner of dress—a wide-brimmed hat, puffed shirt sleeves, and knee-high boots—marked him as a Zingaran sailor of some rank. A captain, or first mate, at least. His clothing was black and red, and he wore a long sword at his side. For a wonder, he smiled when he spotted the youth in the corner.

  The Zingaran sailor stopped at the bar and placed a coin upon the wood. “Two ales, please.”

  The barkeep took the payment and filled the order with a nod of thanks. The stranger in the wide-brimmed hat approached the lad by the window. The youth looked up at the stranger’s approach, frowning with instinctive distrust.

  “Hello, my fine fellow,” the Zingaran said. “May I join you?”

  “As you will,” the youth said, but he straightened a little as the man sat opposite him, and he didn’t refuse the fresh ale as it was pushed across the table. He hurriedly downed the dregs of his first drink and clasped his hands around the second before narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

  “Who are you, that comes offering free ale?” he said.

  “Who are you, that takes a gift when it’s offered?” the Zingaran countered.

  “I am Conan,” the youth said. “Of Cimmeria.”

  “And you may call me Flavio de Palma the Bold,” the man said. “First mate on the Fortune’s Dawn. Tell me, young Conan, how came you here, drinking during the hours when most honest men would still be working?”

  “I came to Kordava seeking adventure or employment,” Conan said, “but have found neither.”

  “Well, lad,” Flavio said, “your fortunes are about to change. As it happens, I can offer you both adventure and employment.”

  Conan’s look of mistrust remained, but was now tempered by a glimmer of interest.

  “I’m here to hire for the crew of Fortune’s Dawn,” Flavio said.

  The interest in the young Cimmerian’s face winked out. “I know nothing of sailing, or the sea.”

  “I’m not looking for sailors, lad,” Flavio said, “but rather, security. The Dawn is transporting valuable cargo to Aquilonia, and the Shirkri River is crawling with pirates. A strong young man such as yourself could come in handy in ship-to-ship combat, and I’m willing to pay handsomely.”

  “Are you?” Conan said. He knew of Aquilonia. It was one of the most populated regions in the world, often called “the heart of civilization.” He thought he might like to see Aquilonia.

  When Flavio named the figure, he lowered his voice so the barkeep couldn’t hear, but Conan’s dour countenance lightened with surprise.

  “Crom!” he exclaimed.

  Mugido watched as the two men shook hands, sealing the deal. Conan, it seemed, would hire on to the Fortune’s Dawn, which was setting sail that night.

  THE FORTUNE’S DAWN

  Conan had spoken truly when he said he knew nothing of sailing, or of the sea, and so Flavio escorted the young Cimmerian to the docks immediately after their handshake, to prevent him from getting lost amid the myriad ships in the harbor.

  The Fortune’s Dawn was a merchant carrack with three masts and high stern and forecastles. She wasn’t the largest ship Conan had ever seen, but sizable nonetheless. He would have guessed her to be about ninety feet from bow to stern and somewhere between twenty and thirty feet wide. It was a strange sensation, standing aboard a ship for the first time. The deck was solid beneath him, and yet everything felt like it was moving. Something in his head seemed to stretch and distort at this sensation of simultaneous stillness and perpetual motion, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. This he did by looking around, grounding himself in the details around him. The first thing he noticed was that, despite the ship’s size, the weather deck seemed sparsely populated, with only a few men in sight, all preparing for departure.

  Flavio introduced him to all five: Marco, the lookout, who had a wooden leg and an unreadable expression; Anen, the helmsman, sporting a gold tooth; Obares and Theoros, who served as sailors; and Leonidos, a sandy-haired bull of a man who was also serving as security on the voyage.

  The first mate led Conan below decks to show him where he would sleep. The narrow corridors were no trouble for the Cimmerian, who was used to small spaces. What struck him, though, was the smell: the rank stink of unwashed flesh, combined with the ghosts of past cargoes—spices, alcohol, and lumber—all mixed to form a strange and pungent miasma. What was most surprising to Conan was that he saw only a few men working or taking their ease down there.

  “Is this a normal crew for a vessel this size?” he asked Flavio. “The ship seems to have few men aboard. And where is your captain?”

  “It’s an easy voyage,” Flavio said. “Up the Shirkri River, with little time at sea. I like to run a lean ship when I can. It means more money for each member of the crew, so they don’t complain. As for the captain, his name is Bertoldo. He’s busy with his own duties. I’m sure you’ll meet him at some point.”

  Conan nodded his understanding. He dropped his few belongings near a hammock in the crew quarters, then joined the men up on the weather deck as the Dawn unfurled its sails and set off out of harbor. The ship had actually come further up the coast than necessary to stop in Kordava, Marco informed him, and now doubled back to the south, toward the Shirkri River.

  Conan spent most of that first evening standing near the bow of the ship, watching the water part before it. He marveled—not for the first time—at what a strange, wide world it was into which he had wandered.

  After a time, the other sellsword, Leonidos, approached him.

  “Is this your first time on a ship?” Leonidos asked. He had a surprising ly gentle speaking voice, given his size—rich, but soft. It was the sort of voice you might expect from a priest or poet more than a sellsword.

  “Yes.” The Cimmerian peered at him with curiosity.

  “I thought you had the look.” Leonidos smiled at Conan, and Conan took the opportunity to study the other man for the first time. He was large and muscular, with deeply tanned skin, curly dark hair, and merry eyes. He had the bearing of a young man, but up close he betrayed the marks of middle age: his face was lined and weathered from years under the sun, and strands of gray curled out from his temples. He had to have been a cunning warrior, to have lived so long in the sellsword profession.

  “And yet,” Leonidos said, “you seem a natural already. Most first-time sailors find themselves sick at sea, but you stand here steady as a rock. The seafaring life might suit you.”

  “I’ll go where the gold is,” Conan said, “be it at sea or on land.”

  “Spoken like a true sellsword,” Leonidos said, giving a broad grin.

  “And what about you?” Conan asked. “How long have you been in this life?”

  “For longer than I’d care to admit,” Leonidos said. “Since I was about your age, I would guess. Come, I’ll show you where we keep all our defenses in case of boarding.”

  He led Conan to the bottommost deck, to a room just next to the hold. Here was the ship’s armory, containing a motley assemblage of rusty boarding axes and pikes, along with a few gaffs and belaying pins.

  “It seems a poor arsenal,” Conan said. He leaned forward, sifting through the axes, and was surprised to discover a single sword buried among them. It was sheathed in a leather scabbard, and when Conan drew the blade he was surprised to find its steel shone as if recently polished. “Except for this. How did such a fine blade end up among such garbage?”

  Leonidos glanced at the sword, then away again. “Your guess is as good as mine, lad—but you’re right that, on the whole, it’s a poor selection of weapons, and if we’re ever boarded, our own swords will do most of the heavy work. But we do have one special weapon, to be used only in the case of greatest need.” He knelt before a wooden crate and beckoned Conan closer. When he lifted the lid, with exaggerated care, he revealed two brown jugs nestled on a bed of straw. Each was the size of a large flagon, stoppered by a lid fashioned in the shape of a dragon’s head.

  “Two bottles of Argossean fire,” Leonidos said. He looked to Conan, as if expecting a reaction. When he did not receive it, he sighed. “Know ye not Argossean fire, lad? It’s the most potent weapon in ship-to-ship combat, thought by many to be a myth. The contents of those bottles will set a flame that cannot be doused except by full immersion in water. I’ve seen it sink ships bigger than this.”

  Conan nodded his appreciation. Given what Leonidos had said, he could understand why the bottles were stored with such care. They were a danger to anything they came near, including— and especially—the ship on which they sailed.

  “You’ve been with this voyage since the beginning?” Conan asked.

  “I have,” Leonidos replied.

  “Then perhaps you can tell me why the crew is so small.”

  All the good humor left the older man’s face, which went momentarily blank. Then he shook his head.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, and he walked away on the pretense of resuming his patrol on the upper deck, leaving Conan alone in the dark with his confusion and suspicions.

  SCREAMS IN THE NIGHT

  A day passed.

  The Fortune’s Dawn made its way down the coast and started up the Shirkri River. Conan and Leonidos took alternate shifts patrolling the decks—Leonidos during the day, Conan at night, his sword always close at hand. While Conan was allowed a full shift of sleep each day, the rest of the crew slept in short two-hour shifts, rolling into and out of their hammocks with exhausting regularity. When Conan was on the deck, the crew mostly ignored him. He would occasionally catch them looking at him, however, with anger and unmistakable disgust. Conan was confused by this reception, and brought it up to Leonidos one night at shift change.

  “They’re overworked, lad,” Leonidos said. “And you’re spending all your time wandering around, not helping.”

  “Should I help?” Conan said.

  Leonidos shook his head. “No. Flavio hired you for security. Your job is to be vigilant. Let them do their own jobs.”

  Conan elected to ignore the glares of the crew, who passed the time in constant motion, their heads bowed beneath Flavio’s barked commands.

  And it was always Flavio giving the commands. Captain Bertoldo never appeared to take over—at least, not while Conan was awake. Perhaps during the daytime…

  Conan spent his time pacing the confines of the ship, keeping a wary eye on the riverbanks, watching for potential threats. As he did, he continued to marvel at Flavio’s promised payment, which had seemed high to begin with, and seemed doubly so now that Conan was in the midst of the assignment. Shouldn’t there be more dangers? More for Conan to do? Had he stumbled into the greatest stroke of luck imaginable, signing on for this voyage?

  That peace was broken on the third night, when a piercing cry rang out from the sterncastle.

  Standing near the bow, Conan dashed the length of the ship and up the stairs, lantern in hand. At once he saw the shape of a body, but only when he drew close did his lantern illuminate the details. Anen, the helmsman, lay face-up on the deck, eyes and mouth wide in a rictus of terror, his hands spread and fingers outstretched before him as if still trying to ward off whatever had attacked him. His throat had been torn out, his blood staining the deck crimson.

  The rest of the crew—a mere eight men—arrived seconds after Conan, led by Flavio, who bore a lantern of his own. None of the men cried out, or even swore beneath their breaths. They stared at their fallen shipmate with blank faces that looked almost sinister in the faint lantern light.

  Flavio turned to the crew. “Wrap him in a spare hammock and throw him over the side,” he said. “And then back to work, all of you.”

  The crew obeyed at once, hurrying off to find a hammock.

  “Crom,” Conan swore. “I heard and saw nothing out of the ordinary before the man cried out. What could have done this?”

  He peered through the darkness at the first mate, concerned that he might be blamed for the helmsman’s death, and that his fee might be in jeopardy.

  “We live in a large world full of terrors, lad,” Flavio said. “I told you this journey would be a risky one. Clearly something came aboard and tried to make a meal of Anen. Now, I’m not blaming you for what happened. Just do your best to keep an eye out for threats in the future.”

  “But—” Conan said.

  “I’ve given my command,” Flavio said. “We will speak of it no more.” With that, he left the deck, returning to his quarters below. As he disappeared from sight, Conan caught a glimpse of Leonidos standing some distance away, a wary expression upon his face. But before Conan could question the older man, Leonidos had followed Flavio below.

  Conan spent much of the rest of that night pondering. There were twelve men left aboard now—the eight crew members plus Conan, Leonidos, Flavio, and the captain. Death had come for Anen. This wasn’t Conan’s first brush with mortality, but he felt its closeness now in a way he never had before. If death came for him here, on this small ship, would he be able to best it, as he had in the past? Or would this be the end of his adventures?

  LEONIDOS’ TALE

  The next day, the Dawn anchored in a small fishing village. All of the crew, Conan included, were ordered to remain aboard. Only Flavio left. He was gone for several hours, and when he returned, he was in the company of a strapping young man who looked to be about Conan’s age.

  “This is Atreus,” Flavio said, introducing the stranger to the crew. “He’ll be joining us as a lookout now that Marco has been promoted to helmsman.”

  Conan glanced at Marco, who leaned against the deck railing a short distance away, his arms and legs crossed. If the man had any feelings about his promotion, he didn’t betray them now. He looked as grim and stolid as when he and Conan had first been introduced. Perhaps it was just the way of sailors, Conan thought, to display stoicism no matter the circumstances.

 

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