KING CONAN - THE LEGEND.

Steven Dilks

(First draft 5/4/2013)

Narrator: “Between the time when the oceans drank Atlantis, and the rise of the sons of Ayras, there was an age undreamed of - when the greatest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west… and unto this Conan, thief, reaver, slayer… destined to wear the jewelled crown of Aquilonia upon a troubled brow…. and now, as the last dusk fires fade and dim, so to shall this - the last days of his great saga - be finally told… Let me tell you of the days of high adventure!”

Title - King Conan - the legend.

Tarantia, capital of Aquilonia.

At the centre of the metropolis stands the imperial palace, a thick walled edifice inside it’s own inner city wall. Between the portals, stone lions flank the way in.

Inside the court, the admitted populace. Armoured guards stand around the chamber - the Black Dragons, resplendent in plate and mail. A colourful throng is gathered; men and women from a multitude of races. Merchants and guildsmen, emissaries from far off lands, statesmen and courtesans. Music plays from harp and lute. Dancing girls entertain visitors seated on cushions. There is laughter. Incense drifts in the air.

On a squat carved throne, at the far end of the hall, sits the king. Dressed in barbaric splendour he is at distant glance a symbol of

power and strength. The crown is upon his brow and yet, as we draw closer, we see his jaw weighs heavily on his massive fist. We see that he is bearded; the thick mane of his once dark hair, cut to shoulder length, now streaked with grey. His eyes are clouded and brooding; weariness evident in the lines of an impassive face. To one side of the throne an elderly statesmen drones on, reciting to him the orders of the day from a lengthy scroll that scrapes along the floor. The man is Publius, the king’s chief advisor and chancellor.

Conan looks bored.

FEMALE VOICE: ( off screen )

Sire?

Conan turns his head. Kneeling to his left is a serving girl, scantily clad. She bows, holding outstretched to him a gold beaten goblet. Conan’s eyes light up. Smiling, he reaches for it. Publius frowns.

PUBLIUS:

My lord…

Without looking at him Conan waves impatiently with his right arm.

CONAN: Enough!

( He sips the wine then, looking at the goblet, sighs ).

Nothing purges the ill humours like Kordavan wine, Publius… Continue.

Sighing, Publius lifts the parchment and begins to read again.

PUBLIUS:

Oh…ahem, Baron Kambach from Nemedia.

( he leans in to whisper to Conan )

This a delicate matter of state, my lord. As you know, relations with Nemedia have been strained of late. It appears the baron has come here wishing to open new trading negotiations. Handle with caution.

As they talk Publius has one eye on an entourage approaching the throne. At the forefront is a round heavily set man dressed in a loose flowing tunic. A thick gold chained medallion hangs around his neck. He is fair haired, young, with arrogant features. About him are several bodyguards, Teutonic warriors in plate armour.

BARON KAMBACH: ( Bowing ) King Conan. On behalf of King Tarascus of Nemedia, I bid thee greeting. I am Baron Kambach, your humble servant.

Conan nods, eyes hooded over the rim of his goblet as he sets it down on the tray. Absently he nods to the serving girl who begins to pour again. The baron sees this. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

BARON KAMBACH:

Most honoured am I, sire, to be in the presence of the mighty lord of Aquilonia. Your feats of prowess are famed throughout the land… Your exploits as commander in her legions are the stuff of legends. King Numed, Mitra grant him peace, was a fool to turn his back on you. Oh, I crave pardon lord. I meant - fool, as in when he left you behind enemy lines with only a handful of men… as when you fought that campaign for him in Pictland, all those years ago… As the poets tell. CONAN:

I know full well what you meant Baron Kambach - no need to apologize. Poets tell many stories. Numed was a tyrant and a madman. It was a long time ago. Aquilonia is a different country now.

BARON KAMBACH:

Aah, yes. So it is. The wine is good, the women exquisite. You have many a good poet here too, I am told. There is one… Ridondo, is there not? I have heard many great things of this man and his…talents.

Publius leans in to whisper into the king’s ear but Conan half raises his hand to stay him.

CONAN:

Ridondo is, as you say, a great poet. When he chose to sing for me, many years ago , he nearly ripped the heart from me with his passion. I have no doubt his skill has far improved since then. I was but a soldier in those days.

BARON KAMBACH:

Yes. True. Though now he sings a different tune. One about - a black hearted savage who was once a slave…

CONAN: ( laughs ) Times change, Baron. Ridondo is an artist - a champion of the people. It’s his job to ever oppose those in power.

The baron inclines his head smiling.

BARON KAMBACH: Wise and just your majesty… Tell me, is there no royal hunt this year? I have heard that the winter has proven too harsh.

CONAN:

The winter has been hard. But that is not why we have delayed the hunt. The great stag has not been seen. Many believe the animal is extinct. A shame - as this is a great tradition for the Aquilonian people.

BARON KAMBACH: Then you will be delighted to know that it has been sighted, good king.

Conan raises his head.

BARON KAMBACH:

Not two days past - as we crossed the straits of the mountain border range. Heading straight into the forests. A magnificent creature.

PUBLIUS:

‘Tis true my lord. The stag was seen and reported only yesterday eve by two field workers - CONAN:

Why was I not told of this?

Publius sighs, looking in exasperation at the lengthy scroll in his hands.

PUBLIUS:

Well there are other things, more pressing matters that -

CONAN:

Publius… ( Getting to his feet and looking around )

I want a full hunting party ready and waiting at dawn… Baron?

( he steps down from the throne )

This is indeed great news! Have you ever been on a great stag hunt before?

BARON KAMBACH:

Nay, my lord. The privilege has thus far eluded me -

CONAN: ( Looking him in the eyes and slapping a hand on his shoulder )

You wish to speak on matters of trade between our kingdoms do you not? Then get to one of my retainers. Make sure you and your men get good bows, before the best are taken. Before winter’s end Aquilonia will know feasting as it’s never seen!

*

A pale sun stares down from a wintry sky. The plateau beneath is frozen; white with hoar frost. Sparse shrubs are dotted here and there. To either side are straggling trees, thickening out as they recede into the distance. In that distance are hills, thickly wooded. A light snow is falling. Ice hangs heavy in the branches. The hunting party is on the move. First come the hunting dogs, whining and straining at the leash. Behind them their handlers, dressed in furs and tartans, carrying axes. They wear horned helms. Behind them follow the horsemen. Some of these carry winding horns over their backs, others massive barbed spears. Wedged in the middle, flanked by the outriders, rumbles a giant bronze chariot pulled by two muscular stallions. Standing in that chariot is King Conan, dressed in heavy furs and a knee length tartan tunic of checkered blue and black. Belted at his waist is a one handed Aquilonian sword. He is busy stringing a war - bow. On the other side stands Baron Kambach, huddled in his furs. His teeth chatter as breath steams from his mouth. His face is red from cold. He grips the rail of the chariot. Between them stands the charioteer dressed in the imperial leathers and tunic of Aquilonia - the crest of which is the profile of a roaring lion’s head.

CONAN:

Prospero!

From behind, a horseman reins up along side them. We see he is a tall, handsome, dark man with wide shoulders and clear mischievous eyes. His hair, like wool, is closely cropped. He is dressed in scale mail beneath his furs.

PROSPERO: ( Saluting )

My lord!

CONAN:

Anything from the scouts?

PROSPERO:

No. Not after the last sighting. The snow hereabouts is clearing up and turning to slush. Be careful.

BARON KAMBACH:

We’ve been at this for three days now. I thought we would be back before lunch!

CONAN: (Breathing in deep of the frosty air)

It feels good to be alive and out in the open, does it not baron?

Prospero grins and coughs to hide his amusement at the baron’s discomfort.

CONAN: (continues) Ahh, but this reminds me of my own wild old days… struggling behind enemy lines - trapped in the wilderness with only a knife and some beads for trading against the whole blood mad horde… Good times… (he winks and grins at Prospero)

Any of that wine left?

PROSPERO:

Aye, my lord. I will bring it.

He falls back and Conan, turning to the baron, gives a practise thrum on the bow he has just strung.

CONAN: Here. When we sight the stag the first shot is yours.

The baron takes the bow gingerly, looking from one end to the other, dubious as to whether he can actually bend it. The bow is about five feet in length. He shivers, looking around as the chariot trundles on. Prospero arrives once more.

PROSPERO:

Here.

He tosses Conan an ornate flask. The king, catching it deftly, unstoppers it and takes a long swig. Smacking his lips he outthrusts his arm into Kambach’s chest.

CONAN:

Put some of this in you. Wine from Poitain. It’s like fire in the guts.

Kambach takes the flask and swallows. He nods gratefully. Conan bids him drink more. He does so, this time with more relish.

CONAN:

See that ridge in the distance?

Kambach looks to where the king is pointing. He sees hooded slopes surrounded by fir trees. He nods.

CONAN:

That’s where he’s hiding. He’s aware of us and keeping a close watch - most likely he’ll sweep around and head for that thick cluster of trees and try to lose us in the bush.

Prospero, who has ranged ahead to talk to the dog handlers, comes back before the chariot. Conan raises his head in silent order and Prospero, nodding, wheels his mount with arm upraised. He barks a command. A deep primal burst of trumpets splits the air. The handlers curse as the dogs yap and snarl, fighting their leashes. Then they are loose and, as one, are off into the distance, splashing through frozen mud and ice. Two scouts on foot range after them carrying bows and heavy axes. When they have covered a respectful distance there sounds another short burst on a bugle. Prospero heels his mount after them at a steady pace, flanked by two outriders. All that remain with the chariot are a lone horseman and three of the dog handlers. They move slowly forward in a loose formation.

Conan reaches outside the chariot and pulls up a heavy quiver that is tied there. It is stuffed with arrows. He pulls one out at random and inspects the tip with a fore thumb. There is silence, disturbed only by the creaking wheels of the chariot, the soft clop of horses hooves on frozen mud. They are passing a long thick wall of fir trees to their left which are on a slope leading down into a densely wooded gully.

CONAN:

I am informed that King Tarascus is open to trade negotiations again… that is good.

BARON KAMBACH:

Of course sire! I don’t think it was ever an intentional snub, on the part of Nemedia, to stop trading with you at all. After all - it is the lifeblood and cornerstone upon which all civilization is founded.

CONAN:

And what is your vested interest Baron?

BARON KAMBACH: ( Coughs )

To the point my lord! Well… I have taken over the ownership of several mines. We produce a lot of mineral wealth. Copper and tin mostly but also iron ore. Affordable too. .. Truth be known the loss of trade with Aquilonia over the years, due to old feuds and rivalries, has hurt our economy… as you are doubtless aware. You import a lot from Zingara and Vendhya these days. But you also know the quality of mined Nemedian ore is far richer than anything from the south and east. Too, our craftsmen are second only to Akbitana in the forging of good quality steel.

Conan nods and grins. He is inspecting the feathers of an arrow as he listens. He blows into them then squints down the shaft with one eye.

CONAN:

I’ll say this for you Baron. I had my doubts back in court - but your words out here are sound.

The baron blinks, looking thoughtfully at the king. He is trying to watch what he is doing over the charioteer’s shoulder. As he stares at the arrow shaft in his hand Conan’s eyes narrow. They turn to slits then move slowly to the left. His nostrils dilate. Lowering the arrow, he raises his head. He half roars out a warning and reaches violently across to grab the bow from Kambach’s hand.

Something huge and monstrous explodes from the trees. Branches whip and snap in it’s wake, frost and ice spraying freely into the air. We see the great stag, it’s massive antlers outlined against the sky. We see the breath steaming from it’s nostrils as, head tilted back , it throws out a challenge of defiance. Then those antlers whip down and it charges - ploughing straight into the front end of the chariot.

The horses scream in agony and fear. There is a metallic crunch and the whole chariot tilts back onto it’s right wheel. It stands poised in mid-air an instant, frozen in space, as the axle groans in protest. Then it slams back down to earth again as the occupants hang on for their lives. Kambach, still gripping the rail with one hand, slips and falls to the floor. Staggering, Conan crashes to his knees over him as the chariot driver, losing balance, topples and rolls out the back into the mud.The horseman behind fights to control his panic stricken mount. Prancing and pawing the air it tramples the charioteer, screaming, into the earth. Then the animal bolts, unseating it’s rider who is dragged across the ground, one foot entangled in his stirrup.Meanwhile, from the front, a dog handler moves in to distract the beast. Shouting an oath he hurls his axe. It hits the animal’s flank and bounces back. Blood spurts. The stag flinches then stands still an instant, weighing up it’s attackers who are moving in slowly to encircle it. Then, with incredible speed, it leaps forward and crouches low amongst them. It launches itself too it’s full height again, sweeping it’s antlers from ground to sky in an effortless tossing motion. All three handlers are sent spinning through the air like tossed rag dolls, spraying blood. They hit the ground with lifeless thumps and lie motionless, broken and twisted.The remaining stallion, tied to the chariot, rears in panic as it’s fallen brother lies stricken in the traces. Alone it cannot hope to pull the chariot. Conan and Kambach are crouched down inside. The king, on one knee above Kambach, keeps him from moving by holding his palm down over him. Quietly he reaches for the bow. Picking it up he selects an arrow from among those spilled on the deck.

The stag, turning it’s head this way and that, makes for the chariot, it’s nostrils steaming and blowing inquisitively.Slowly Conan fits and notches an arrow onto the string.The horse neighs in terror as the stag advances. It’s huge shadow casts menacingly over the chariot.Conan draws back the bow with a heaving creak of wood and cord. His face is taut. Sweat beads his brow. The stag stops. It regards the prancing horse then lowers it’s head. A hoof paws the earth.Closing his eyes and tilting his head back, Conan takes a deep breath. Then he leaps up and turns. He slams one booted foot high up on the rail and braces as the stag begins it’s charge.

CONAN: (arrow feathers brushing his cheek)

Eat this!

The shaft strikes home, burying itself feather deep in the stag’s left shoulder. Yet still it comes on, like a relentless juggernaut of death. Flinging the bow aside Conan stands, one foot braced, facing the onrush. He turns his head.

CONAN:

Baron! Keep down!

Then he leaps, high up and away from the chariot. Hitting the ground he rolls, coming up on the left hand side of the stag as it charges. He scrambles over to a fallen spear and snatches it from the ground. He is breathing hard. The stag alters it’s course, veering toward him. On one knee Conan waits, javelin poised. At the last moment he hurls it, the full might of his shoulder behind the cast. He dives to one side but is not quick enough. Lowering it’s head the stag sweeps him flying into the air with a toss of it’s great antlers. Conan yells as he is flung crashing through the trees. Branches snap with the impact. He comes down hard through the foliage and hits the slope . He bounces down the incline in a tangled thresh and is soon swallowed by dank forest darkness.

The stag stands still an instant - breathing hard and fast. We see the spear, driven deep into it’s chest. It takes a faltering step forward then collapses, crashing mightily to the ground. It lies motionless, blood seeping all around it into the earth. Silence…Over the rim of the chariot Baron Kambach slowly raises his head.

*

Conan lies unconscious. One side of his face is pressed into a tiny bubbling brook that meanders through the valley. There are many trees, moss covered rocks and boulders. A strange light slants

hazily through the trees. Mist drifts along, clinging to hewn rocks etched with strange symbols and runes. It crawls over Conan and out across the valley floor. From somewhere a thin reeded melody begins to play, rising and falling. In the woods, across the stream, a shadow moves and is gone. A branch wavers. The whistling reed abruptly stops. With a start Conan wakes. His eyes move around in panic. He tries forcing himself up but, with a cry, falls onto his back, gritting his teeth. He shakes his head and slowly, holding his ribs, sits up. He looks around, breathing hard. Shaking his head, he forces himself onto his feet with a groan. He staggers into the tangled roots of a big oak. He puts one hand against the trunk at arms length, to steady himself, and wipes the back of a shaking wrist across his brow. Blood, from a gash over his left eye, runs down his face. He looks around, head lowered, right hand falling to his sword. He scans up and down the gully as if unsure of something. He looks up through a weave of branches clawing at a now strangely lighted sky. Again that eerie melody, rising and falling through the valley. Half heard whispers murmur in it’s wake. Conan stands statue still. The brook gurgles on. He stares hard into the shadowed depths of the forest across the brook, hand firmly on his hilt. Murmurs, whisperings, tinkling laughter… Then all is silent. Still motionless as a statue and staring into the wood beyond , Conan suddenly whips out his sword. A denser, darker shadow solidifies there among the trees. Lambent eyes burn in the darkness. Then slowly a form appears, coming stealthily into the light. A wolf. It slinks forward, a gargantuan beast with snow white fur and curiously slanting emerald eyes. It comes to the brook, regarding Conan. Then, lowering it’s head, it laps at the stream. It lifts it’s snout and stares at him. They look into each others eyes for what seems an eternity. Then slowly the wolf turns. It looks behind at him an instant then begins to pace off up the valley. As if caught in a dream, Conan hesitantly begins to follow. He holds one hand pressed against his side as he walks. We see - where the tartan he holds is torn - the links of silver chain mail beneath. He splashes on through the shallow stream and comes up the other side, loose stones turning under his booted feet. The wolf pads on, past broken menhirs carved by a race long forgotten. They lean in the earth or lie shattered and half buried. Conan passes them, regarding them with superstitious awe.

They begin climbing a slope. There are trees and more rocks. Every so often the wolf stops, as if waiting for him, then it climbs on again, ranging ever ahead. Conan is panting now. He slumps against a boulder and, looking up the jagged incline, sees the wolf has disappeared. He lowers his head and, raising it again, sees it standing there, outlined further up against the crest of the ridge. Once more he begins to climb. He slips in the mud as the incline becomes more treacherous. Without sheathing his sword he forces himself up and on, by his feet, knees and elbows, grasping at roots with his free hand. Then suddenly he is in a wide clearing and, as he pulls himself upright, we see him standing there looking into a weirdly coloured sky. The wolf has gone. Standing above him, on a higher outcropping of rock, is a woman- the likes of which he has never seen before. Her arms are outstretched, her head tilted back. Silver hair floats in the wind. She wears a tattered dress of shifting patterns, alternating between red and black. She is mouthing words, singing in an enchanted tongue. We hear; WOMAN:

Morriggan, Manu, Macha - Nemhain! Ymir, Cthulhu - R’lyeh!

Then slowly her arms lower and she holds out her hands, talon like, toward him. She is old, old. Her face is heavily lined, her eyes green and slanted. She drops her hands to her sides as she gazes far off over the land.

WOMAN: Can you hear it, King Conan?

CONAN:

I hear nothing. ... You know me?

WOMAN: (looking at him)

I know all in these lands…

(looking off once more)

Can you not hear it? The sound of war, my liege. The grind of axe against shield, the tramp of legions treading kingdoms too dust beneath iron heels! CONAN:

Of what do you speak woman? There is no war in this land. There is only peace - as there has been for nearly twenty years… Who are you? WOMAN:

I am among the first and the last. I have been and I shall be again. I am the wolf that suckles nations… I am the black raven of death… and rebirth! (She throws her arms wide in exultation of her glory then slowly lowers them, as with a great weariness and sorrow).

I have known, and will know, many names. To you, and yours, I am Zelata.

She stares at him with those slanting emerald eyes and, suddenly, she points a taloned finger at him.

ZELATA:

Know, great king, that war is stirring upon the wind. A great evil war that is blowing in from the south as on the wings of a black plague! There is treachery in the kingdoms of the west - aye, even in yours, great king. The hosts of the world shall gather and there will be a final reckoning - when gods and men clash and the world will drown in fire and blood! For our age has passed, King Conan. Man will sink into the slime and ruin from whence he crawled and begin the long upward climb again. His gods will abandon him and in this, his last final hour, he will curse them! For this is the final reckoning, and even the gods must die!

She throws her arms wide again, tossing her head to the heavens. The clouds turn in on themselves, forming strangely above her. She cries out into the wind and falls to her knees. Conan, buffeted by that wind, is beaten back. He throws up his left arm. A tornado

forms , spiralling down from a dark hole in the sky. Ravens fly, encircling her; a streaming column that reaches up far above her into the vortex. Zelata laughs, a silvery musical laugh. Blinking, Conan sees her through the whipping column of wind and snow. She is young, beautiful. Curled red foaming tresses play around her elfin face. Her lips, sensuously parted, are ruby red. Only her eyes are the same; slanting and emerald. The black tatters of her dress whip around her and begin to break up. Then she is no more. There is only a column of ravens sweeping into the dark hole in the sky above where she stood. When the last has been swallowed the hole abruptly closes and is gone. The sky tilts crazily and falls. Conan falls with it - back down into an abyss, still gripping his sword.Darkness… VOICE:

Does he live?

Conan opens his eyes. Above him a white sky, a circle of heads peering down. CONAN:

Prospero! Uh… How did you find me?

PROSPERO: Easy, sire. (talking off to his right)

Hurry with that litter! (Back to Conan)

We followed your trail. What made you wander off ?

CONAN: There was a wolf… a great wolf. Did you not see it’s tracks?

Prospero frowns and shakes his head.

PROSPERO:

Only yours, sire.

CONAN:

There was a woman too…

PROSPERO:

What woman?

CONAN:

Zelata…

Prospero looks uneasy. SOLDIER:

He’s delirious. Look at that cut on his head.

PROSPERO: (angrily)

Just get that damned litter!

SOLDIER:

But -

PROSPERO:

Move!

Grumbling, the soldier moves off down the slope to help the others who are hacking at branches and tying them together.

PROSPERO: (leaning down)

We’ll get you to the chariot and make camp.

CONAN:

No point hanging around here, Prospero. I won’t make it through the night … I finished the wine. Just get me back to Tarantia before I die of thirst!

Prospero grins, putting a hand on his shoulder.

PROSPERO:

As you wish, my lord.

He stands up and moves to help supervise the men. A little way off Baron Kambach sits shivering in his furs. Conan regards him a moment then turns his head and stares into the empty sky. A single black feather is falling, turning slowly as it comes down. It lands gently on the ground next to his face. He turns to stare at it laying there in the frozen ice.

*

Tarantia. The streets are busy. Market stalls are trading. People are moving with purpose; a multitudinous throng both colourful and vibrant. The sun is out. Baron Kambach is being borne on a draped litter held by four muscular blacks. His bodyguards pace alongside. Kambach is unhappy with the progress they are making and the noise of the people. He leans out of the palanquin. BARON KAMBACH:

Damn rabble! (waving an arm at his guards)

Tell these fellows to head for a side street off the main avenue. We’ll find a tavern where I can sit and be at peace - away from this mob.

A guard nods and barks some orders in a foreign tongue. The blacks change direction as the rest of the guards, forceful in their heavy armour, begin to clear a way through the crowd toward a

side street.Here it is less crowded. We see Baron Kambach settle back in his palanquin, a little more relaxed and at ease. Then the sound of a commotion in the street makes him sit upright. He pulls back the drapes and cranes his head out.

BARON KAMBACH: What’s going on?

He sees two of his guards restraining a tall man in a dark hooded cloak. Holding up a hand, Kambach bids the litter stop.

GUARD:

Sir, this one tried to approach your litter. He says he wants words with you.

BARON KAMBACH:

Who is he? What do you want, knave? If it’s a few coppers be warned - I am in ill humour today. Rest assured a damn good thrashing will be your lot if you are wasting my time. Well? Speak up!

The guards bring the tall man over. He shrugs them off and stalks forward. We see in the shadows of his hood a lean hawkish face, dark and scarred. He inclines his head. When he talks it is in a harsh whisper. HOODED MAN:

My good baron. You are everything I expected. That medallion about your neck… You are of the house of Armus are you not?

Kambach flinches.

BARON KAMBACH:

Yes. How do you know that?

Soft laughter. HOODED MAN:

I have travelled far and wide my lord. But… save your coppers. I have no use for them. He who bids me greet you says I should recite these words…. ‘when the snake hides, the raven flies’…

BARON KAMBACH: (murmuring)

“ …‘ the wolf never far behind’. You are - Thuthmekri?

THUTHMEKRI: (Bowing)

At your service.

The baron looks up and down the narrow street. Only a handful of children can be seen, playing in the dirt with a hoop and stick. BARON KAMBACH:

Lower the litter!

As the palanquin is set on the ground he waves at Thuthmekri to enter. When he has done so he closes the drapes hastily and sits back again.

BARON KAMBACH: What foolishness! Couldn’t you have contacted me without drawing so much attention?

Undaunted, Thuthmekri lowers his hood. We see a shaven headed man, dark skinned with thin lips and piercing blue eyes.

THUTHMEKRI: (calmly)

We are safe, Baron. Bid your men move. We must be to business.

Irritated at being so ordered, Kambach nonetheless claps his hands. Once more the litter is raised and they are off again.

THUTHMEKRI:

Have you sent word to King Tarascus of your progress here?

BARON KAMBACH:

As yet there is little to report. I have made some progress in mapping the palace and surrounding gardens but that is all. The king’s personal chambers, alas, present much more of a problem.

Thuthmekri leans forward.

THUTHMEKRI:

What of the king himself? Does he appear in good health?

Kambach snorts.

BARON KAMBACH:

He is a sot. Either drunk or on his way to being drunk. He is impetuous and easily distracted from the court. He nearly got me killed within three days of meeting him on some damned stag hunt. But… for all that he is a brave man and an honest one. I see why he has remained popular with the common folk for so long - despite being a foreign born barbarian and a usurper. He is much like their ideal.

Thuthmekri leans back thoughtfully. A brief silence.

BARON KAMBACH:

Does… Tarascus send word? Of… when I am too return?

THUTHMEKRI: This is not your thing is it Baron? Espionage?

Kambach shakes his head slowly.

BARON KAMBACH:

My nephew has acquired some debts and, in return for clearing his name… (sighs).

Thuthmekri nods. THUTHMEKRI:

There is something you must aid me with Baron, before you are given leave from here.

Baron Kambach looks at him tensely.

THUTHMEKRI:

You must set up a meeting for me with the poet Ridondo. He will be a fine asset in our cause.

BARON KAMBACH:

How? I have never met the man. What cause?

THUTHMEKRI: The Nemedian cause! In twelve nights Ridondo will be performing at the Eagle Tavern in the Zingaran quarter. That will be your chance. He will be interested to meet a man of noble birth, particularly one from Nemedia… one who is a follower and admirer of his works. I am told you are already familiar with much of his verse.

BARON KAMBACH: (sighs)

If I do this and introduce you - that’s it?

Thuthmekri looks at him.

THUTHMEKRI:

Just be there Baron. Leave the rest to me.

He places a hand on the curtain. On the finger of his right hand is a curious jade ring, coiled like a serpent. He draws the curtain aside.

THUTHMEKRI:

Hold!

The palanquin stops. As it is slowly lowered he turns to the Baron.

THUTHMEKRI:

Remember - the Eagle Tavern. In twelve nights time.

Then he is gone.

*

Wild clouds whip across a full moon. There are few stars. We see a narrow dirt roadway winding between twin banks of pine trees. From somewhere an owl hoots. Down the road come two figures - an old man, bent over carrying sticks on his back, and a young boy, carrying a pile of freshly cut logs. A dog trails behind them. The old man uses a knobbed staff. They are making slow but steady progress. Suddenly there is a cry on the wind, a strange haunting cry. The old man stiffens, raising his head. He holds out a hand. The boy stops in his tracks. He looks confusedly at the old man. Then another cry, as if in answer to the first. The old man’s eyes are ablaze with apprehension and panic. The dog whimpers and growls.

BOY:

Grandfather?

The old man turns and puts a hand on the young boy’s shoulder. He is looking into the darkness of the road behind them.

OLD MAN:

Forget the logs, Tarkun. Take the dog and get to the village as fast as you can. Raise the alarm and get to the fort.

BOY: (panicking)

What is it, grandfather?

OLD MAN: (Raising his head to stare beyond)

Picts…

From the shadows, blood mad howls and screams. Then emerging from the trees, under the moonlight, come the Picts. A wild, savage horde. They wave stone axes and flint tipped spears. They are naked save for scraps of cloth about their waists. They wear necklaces of teeth and talons. Their hair is long, dark and shaggy, their skin dark brown with knotted muscles rolling beneath. They come on in a sweeping wave, fired with the lust to kill. Their faces are apish, with small set eyes and snouts - the remnants of Neanderthal man. Cut to - The small boy running, the dog loping after him.Cut back to - The old man. He drops his pile of logs to the ground and raises a single bladed chopping axe in a gnarled hand. The blade gleams in the moonlight. He stands alone. No emotion is written on his face. From the shadows the Picts sweep toward him and, with a frenzied yell, he throws himself forward, axe swinging before him.

Cut to - A village - burning red and orange in the darkness. Bodies lay outlined in the flames; men, women and children. Their eyes are fixed; frozen in the horrors of death. Many have notched and stained weapons in their fists. Shadowed figures dance and howl, waving their axes. Some weave to and fro, upending jugs of wine and bottles as they stagger off into the darkness.

Cut to - The inside of a hut. A woman frantically tries to hide her child. She is kneeling on the floor, cradling him in her arms. Her hair is dishevelled, tears streak her face. The sounds of screams, buildings burning. The hut door crashes open. We see the shadow of a drunken Pict outlined on the wall behind her. He drops a jug crashing to the ground and staggers in, raising a two headed flint axe. The woman screams in terror, throwing up her arm. We see a knotted fist swing the axe up high. It comes down with a crunch. Blood sprays the wall. Written in the shadows of that wall we see the Pict bend down and raise a still dripping severed head into the air as a grisly trophy.

*

Tarantia. The king’s personal quarters. Sunlight streams in through long narrow windows, illuminating a marble floor and a huge bed stood at the centre of the chamber. We see three naked women laying there, each sprawled in delicious attitudes of slumber. In the midst of them lays King Conan, naked and lying on his back. He snores lightly. There is a knock at the double brass bound doors at the far end of the room.

SOFT VOICE:

My lord…

Conan snores on. A girl rolls over, dreamily throwing an arm over his chest.

DIFFERENT VOICE:

Here - get out of the way, let me…

( Again the knocking, this time more insistent and louder )

My lord Conan! Are you awake? There are urgent matters at hand!

Conan grunts, throwing an arm over his head.

CONAN: ( in a groaning whisper )

Uhhh… Publius…

He opens one eye. Putting the girl’s arm to one side, he turns his head to the door.

CONAN:

One moment, Publius.

He sits up slowly and, wincing, puts a hand to his ribs. There are bandages taped around his midriff. He swings his legs off the bed and fumbles through some clothing strewn on the floor. He casts some female garments aside and pulls on his breeches. Turning he sees a well rounded rump and, with a grin, gives it a resounding spank. He laughs at the resulting squeal of outrage.

CONAN:

Better get some clothes on those charms of yours. Publius is on the war path. Given his tone, if he sees you like this, he may well give you up to Mitra to live out the rest of your lives in chastity.

Gasping, the girls scramble over and around the bed, climbing over Conan and each other in frantic haste as the king, still sat, pulls on his boots and tunic. He casually snaps some bronze forearm guards on his wrists as the knocking begins again.

PUBLIUS:

My lord, I must insist -

CONAN: ( standing and stretching his back and arms wide )

Come in Publius, don’t wear those panels out. They’re good oak.

He yawns into a fist and moves over toward a small table where a jug and some fruits are laid out. He guzzles deep of the water jug then picks up an apple , taking a huge bite just as the double doors swing open. Two Black Dragon guards admit Publius who wastes no time sweeping into the chamber. He spares the girls

barely a second glance, as if he is well accustomed to such sights. One of the girls takes a bite of the apple Conan holds before scurrying off. Another swipes some grapes as the last girl, falling to her knees, lifts the water jug he holds in both hands and guzzles deep. Then she too is gone.

PUBLIUS:

( Stopping before Conan and looking serious)

Trouble my lord. The Picts have razed Tuscelan.

*

A long hallway of the palace. Conan is striding purposefully, looking neither left nor right. He is fixing a brooch to his shoulder that holds in place a fur cloak slung over his shoulders. He is wearing heavy armoured greave boots. His face is grim. On one side of him walks Publius, desperately trying to keep pace. Behind him are three young scribes carrying quills and parchment. Two Black Dragons flank them.

PUBLIUS:

This was a planned attack. Two outlying villages were taken at the same time. A war party stole across the river and razed Tuscelan to the ground. From what intelligence has already been gathered, there are thought to have been three separate waves. Nothing on this scale has been seen in -

CONAN:

Twenty years. Any survivors?

PUBLIUS:

A few. The commander of the fort, one Garius, is in your office now waiting to deliver his report.

CONAN:

He survived?

PUBLIUS:

Yes, my lord.

The party reaches a double set of doors. Two Black Dragons, standing there, salute. Those guards escorting the party move to join them and add to the salute. Conan and Publius wait as the doors are opened. Publius nods as the party walk in. The doors close.

We see the king’s private office. There is a huge writing desk to one side of the room. Directly in front of them is a black onyx chair. To one side of that is a small table. Across from that stands a bigger conference table. A huge window lights the room from behind it. As the king and his entourage enter four people, seated at the table, stand.

We see Prospero and three military men. One is wearing high ranking uniform. He is tired looking and dust stained. One arm is in a sling.

Conan stops short and looks at him from across the table.

CONAN:

You are Garius, commander of Fort Tuscelan?

The man nods wearily.

GARIUS:

Aye, my lord.

CONAN:

Report.

GARIUS:

Th- they came from nowhere, sire. They were already inside before the alarm was sounded. Then the screaming…Mitra, the screaming!

( he chokes and shakes his head )

…Women, children… it - it was massacre. No one knew what was happening. Until… until it was too late.

Conan, face grim, eyes ablaze, walks slowly forward. His hands clench into fists. A vein swells on his forehead. He towers over Garius.

CONAN:

( Voice thick and heavy )

And you, Commander… survived? You… escaped?

Garius, looking up at him in horror, shrinks back into his chair.

CONAN:

Those people died, Garius. What did you do to try to save them? You - the commander of the fort?

GARIUS:

( Swallows hard )

I -

Conan slams a fist down on the table.

CONAN:

( Shouts)

You should have been prepared, man! You should have died with sword in hand as befits a man of your station - as befits a man of honour!

GARIUS:

( Chocking tears)

My wife, my son… I -

Conan, leaning imposingly over the table, throws out an arm, indicating the window behind Garius.

CONAN:

And what of the women and children of the men whose lives you were entrusted with, Garius? What do we tell them? That their commander is a coward? That he dishonoured Aquilonia by deserting his post rather than facing death as - a man?

PROSPERO:

( Leaping to his feet )

My lord!

Conan, leaning across the table, is staring hard at Garius. He looks slowly across at Prospero who stands silently still, an expression of outrage and shock on his face. Slowly the fires fade from Conan’s eyes. He bows his head wearily. No one moves. Conan falls back from the table. Garius sobs. Publius moves quietly in.

PUBLIUS:

( Bowing to the military staff at the table )

Thank you gentlemen. That will be all for now. You have leave to go.

Getting up they file in dejected silence to the doors. Garius slinks

behind them. They exit.

All eyes turn to Conan. He slumps into the onyx chair and sits brooding. We see that he is looking at the small table beside him. Resting on it is the single jewelled crown of Aquilonia.

CONAN:

Garius… His wife and son?

PROSPERO:

Were killed when the fort was attacked, sire.

Conan puts his head in his hands then raises it again.

CONAN:

Have him released from service… a years full pay.

A scribe begins scratching on a papyrus sheaf with his quill.

CONAN:

( To the scribes )

That is all. Go!

The three scribes bow and withdraw.

Silence.

Thoughtfully, Conan picks up the crown with one hand. He looks at it, turning it slowly this way and that.

Prospero leans back against the table across from him and folds his arms. Publius hovers to one side.

Conan sighs and puts the crown back down.

CONAN:

Well, Prospero? What do you suggest?

PROSPERO:

( Stroking his chin )

Well my lord, a statement of address to the people expressing -

CONAN:

( Waving impatiently )

As a fighting man, Prospero - not a damned statesman!

PROSPERO:

( Stands upright )

We send in the infantry, sire. Flush them out with fire and steel. An elite squadron of the Black Dragons closes off their retreat and crushes them. Drive them from the borders for good.

Conan nods.

CONAN:

Publius?

Publius shrugs.

PUBLIUS:

The people of Aquilonia will expect nothing less. As would the Picts… There is a madness here I do not understand.

PROSPERO:

They are savages! Who can understand the minds of those sub-humans?

PUBLIUS:

Quite.

( turns to Conan )

My lord, I will begin work on a statement of address to the people. I will have a summary by this evening. We can go over the finer points then.

CONAN:

( Waving a hand )

As you wish, Publius. I will be inspecting the troops or in the planning room. Prospero- I want you to accompany me. I have plans.

PROSPERO:

Sire?

CONAN:

I want you to lead the Black Dragons. I, myself, will lead the regular infantry.

PUBLIUS:

Really, sire! I must protest -

CONAN:

About what?

PUBLIUS:

Well for start you are unfit to ride, much less wield axe or sword! When was the last time you trained with steel, much less rode into battle? The physicians advised two months rest- yet still you feast, guzzle and cavort with women less than half your own age. And you drink - excessively! My lord…

( he leans over the small table with both hands )

… You are not a young man in the prime of life.

CONAN:

No. But I am still king… my word is still law. And I WILL ride

with my troops.

Conan gets to his feet.

CONAN:

Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend breakfast.

He moves off to the doors and places a hand on one of the big bronze handles.

PUBLIUS:

Sire, before you go there is just one other thing… Queen Rahne of Asgard arrived this morning with a detachment of troops…

Conan half turns.

PUBLIUS:

… Your daughter is here to see you, sire.

*

The royal gardens. The sun stares down but it is still cold. The chill of winter is still in the air. The trees have yet to start budding for spring. There are many shrubberies, rocks and pathways. On the boundary of the gardens stands a lone cherry tree. Leaning against it we see a figure. As we draw closer we see it is a tall, young woman with wide sweeping shoulders. She wears a fur cloak and gloves. She leans with arms folded, her clear blue eyes gazing far off, as if deep in thought. Her jaw is strong and firm. Her hair, long and dark, is bound into a single braid that falls down over her shoulder.

Behind her Conan emerges. He stands at the top of a set of steps leading into a small courtyard. An old fountain stands at it’s centre.

The crown is on his brow. His hair is smoothed; his beard trimmed. He wears a long, heavy robe.

CONAN:

When they told me you had arrived I knew exactly where to find you.

The young woman turns slowly and smiles.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Father.

CONAN:

( Coming down the steps )

Rahne.

They meet before the fountain and embrace. They break apart slowly.

CONAN:

What are you doing here on your own? Where’s that plundering husband of yours, King Siegvald ?

RAHNE:

Doing the good duty of the king. Anyway, since when do I need my husband’s permission to visit my father?

CONAN:

I was just not expecting you is all. Is everything alright?

RAHNE:

( Smiles. )

Everything is fine.

She turns, walking slowly back to the cherry tree. Conan follows, looking around the garden as he walks. He looks up.

CONAN:

Spring will be here soon.

RAHNE:

And the dawn of new life.

Conan swivels his head around, looking at her.

Rahne leans against the tree. We see now where, and at what, she was first looking. Before the tree stands a great carved tomb. Above the heavy iron doors, sculpted in marble, is the bust of a regal woman. There is a brief silence. Conan scratches his beard.

CONAN:

You came here often as a child, to play and hide from me … in the branches of this very tree, as I remember. Back then you swore you’d grow up to be a pirate or a bandit, just to spite me. Now you’re the queen of Asgard…

( he shakes his head )

I knew you’d end up disappointing me and throwing your life away.

Rahne laughs, turning to face him. Of a sudden her expression

turns serious. She looks into his eyes.

RAHNE:

Publius told me you’d been in an accident.

CONAN:

( shrugs )

A stag on the royal hunt got a little wild. Nothing unusual.

RAHNE:

He said there were deaths.

CONAN:

( frowns )

You know when Publius talks - doom and misery are not far behind.

Rahne moves to Conan and takes his hand.

RAHNE:

Why do you not marry again, father?

CONAN:

For what purpose?

RAHNE:

No male heir … no one to keep you in line… People worry for the future of Aquilonia.

CONAN:

Aquilonia can take care of herself. She will be here long after you and I are gone. Your mother though… she was taken from both of us. I would not replace her.

RAHNE:

( softly )

I was only a child…

( she turns, looking at the tomb )

… my biggest memory of her is of this tomb being erected for her.

( she looks at Conan )

… Do you not yearn for love again?

Conan frowns at her and moves off, down toward the tomb. He stands before it, looking up at the bust. He runs a hand along the inscriptions, as if deep in memories.

CONAN:

Beautiful as a sunrise was your mother … beautiful as a newly risen moon in the stillness of a desert night…

( he shakes his head and smiles)

… there will be no other for me in this life.

RAHNE:

( folding her arms )

Apart from your concubines.

CONAN:

( shrugs and walks back to the tree )

Apart from them.

He puts a hand on the trunk and looks up into the branches. A bird is singing there. He turns to stare at Rahne.

CONAN:

You have something to tell me.

Rahne leans against the tree beside him and stares into the sky. She crosses her arms then looks down. When she lifts her face again she is smiling.

RAHNE:

I am with child. You are to be a grandfather.

Conan swallows and blinks. He looks up again at the branches, the singing bird, and grits his teeth.

CONAN:

( chokes )

Crom, you bastard …

He turns, walking off to stand facing the tomb. Rahne lets him stand there a while, her hand still pressed to her belly, still leaning against the tree, still smiling. Then, after a while, she moves off and comes up slowly behind him. She puts a hand softly on his shoulder. Conan turns and embraces her, putting his head deep into her shoulder.

CONAN:

I hear your mother singing to me, Rahne. Singing the joys of life - singing in joy for us both.

( he looks up at the blackbird still singing in the tree )

For us - it will always be springtime.

*

In a small chamber, lighted by torches bracketed along the walls, a meeting is in progress. Various war like men are gathered around a sturdy heavy table. On that table is stretched a hide map of the outer regions of Aquilonia, the Thunder river and the Pictish widerness beyond. Conan sits before them, reclined broodingly in an onyx chair. Flickering shadows, from the torches mounted on the walls, play over them.

A heavy set man stands opposite him at the table. He is wearing the robes and chains of office of the chief magistrate. As he talks he stabs with one finger at a region of the map, a cluster of loosely connected villages on the Pictish frontier.

MAGISTRATE:

Here lies the stronghold of the Jaguar clan. A powerful tribe. Their leader is Jhil Zerig. We bought him off a long time ago in order to stop him harassing the outlying villages along the frontier. In those days, as the king may recall, Zerig was known for his raids - cattle mostly, and whatever else he could lay his hands on. These days we find it easier to give him what he wants in exchange for whatever goods the clan can make themselves. Until recently that’s how things worked out - and worked out well.

Just a few months ago, though, all that started to change.

The Jaguars became secretive and withdrawn. Traders were sent away with stones and the threat of spears. Well… this is nothing unusual in itself, so we left them alone - thinking they were preparing for, or were in the middle of, one of their abominable rites.

The Picts worship the moon but also other strange deities of the forest. For many nights a drum could be heard across the river. Again, nothing unusual - but this time the reports coming in were

different… This was a single drum, it was said - unlike the usual frenzied tribal tattoo of the Picts. Too there were strange voices heard from across the river, eerie lights glimpsed through the trees. Many villagers believed the work of some foul sorcery was to blame - but they dared not report what they had seen or heard for fear of being ridiculed or worse, accused of the mind sickness. Living on the border can give rise to many strange fears and fancies - as one can imagine living in close proximity with a savage people.

It appears we were wrong to ignore the warnings. Among the dead were found, not only those of the Jaguar, but also those of the Leopard and Hawk clans. This was a deliberate and organized attack. Never, in my years as magistrate, have the clans concentrated their forces in such a way. If Jhil Zerig has united them then… Mitra preserve us, we have a major problem on our hands.

CONAN:

The clans have united before. But only in cause of a common enemy… Us. When King Numed tried to stretch Aquilonia’s borders twenty years ago, he wanted to plough their lands, chop down their trees and hunt their game. When they refused he answered as all arrogant dictators do - with military might and fire and steel. I was commander of those legions - as well you know.

( He shakes his head )

We lost then and - in a drawn out retaliation - we’ll lose again.

MAGISTRATE:

But that - as you say - was in united cause against a common foe… Why then now? What can they hope to gain? Surely not conquest?

CONAN:

It is strange…

( He is thinking back on his meeting with Zelata )

All I know is this… whatever we do has to be done fast - with a minimal amount of force. Strike at the heart of their compound

and cut the heart from the enemy. Take their stronghold and scatter whoever are left… Agreed?

Nods and murmurs of assent from around the table.

MAGISTRATE:

What of Jhil Zerig?

CONAN:

I’ll leave his head on a spear in the ashes of his own village - as a warning to others.

Loud murmurs greet this decleration and, satisfied, the magistrate nods to the king and takes his chair.

*

Morning. In a small antechanber. Conan is being buckled into his mail and cuirass by two retainers. He stands with arms outstretched before a full length mirror, turning this way and that. Across from him sits Prospero, busily gnawing on a bone of lamb, his feet up on a wooden stool.

CONAN:

Uh… not so tight there with those straps.

It’s been a while but I don’t remember feeling as restricted as this.

PROSPERO:

Too much soft living.

Publius appears in the doorway. He bears a scroll.

PUBLIUS:

I trust you are happy with the final draft of the speech my lord. Or do you need to go over it again?

CONAN:

No… It’s fine.

Publius nods and picks up some grapes from a table. He sits wearily.

Rahne appears, leaning in the doorway.

RAHNE:

Well, well - a conclave of rogues if ever there was one.

They turn to see her leaning there, arms folded.

PROSPERO:

( getting to his feet )

My lady!

RAHNE:

( moves into the chamber smiling )

Prospero! As ever the only one true gentleman in the room.

They touch hands and kiss.

PROSPERO:

It’s been a long time, my lady. I hope you are well.

RAHNE:

Never better Prospero. It is good to see you.

( she turns to Conan )

Well - I hope you know what you are doing father.

CONAN:

Has Publius put you up to this?

RAHNE:

No. In fact… I want to ride with you.

CONAN:

( turning to look at her)

Absolutely not. You’re the queen of Asgard.

RAHNE:

The women of the Aesir fight alongside their men. As do all the women of the north - as well you know. Even queens bear the shields of their husbands into battle.

CONAN:

( shaking his head )

Not this time, Rahne. If anything happened to you I’d have King Siegvald at my gates within the week demanding my head. This is not your fight.

PUBLIUS:

Your father is right, my lady. You are visiting royalty. It is not wise to involve the Aesir in matters of state without first -

RAHNE:

( angrily )

To hell with state! I am a daughter of Aquilonia! Of course it is in my interests!

CONAN:

( sighs )

Leave us… I will speak to my daughter alone.

The retainers leave. Publius and Prospero both bow and depart. Conan moves to the door and closes it slowly.

CONAN:

( softly )

You carry a child, your husband’s child - my grandson perhaps. The future of Asgard and Aquilonia. Can you afford to risk that, Rahne? If something happened to you…

( he puts a hand on her shoulder )

I will not seek to stop you, Rahne. But - I will ask you to consider.

They stare into each others eyes. Rahne, prepared for a battle of wills, loses defiance under her father’s softened gaze. She lowers her head. She takes the hand resting on her shoulder then looks up at him.

RAHNE:

I am a daughter of Aquilonia - and the daughter of a king… for me, father, it is no choice.

Conan, holding her gaze, nods. He turns. Swinging open the doors, he passes through and tramps down the corridor in his iron grieve boots.

CONAN:

( off screen - shouts )

Prospero! See to the horses and have them ready in the courtyard! Make sure you bring my charger!

*

Outside the palace city gates. Tarantia’s main square. Upon a platform stands a large round man in a toga. He is reading aloud from a scroll.

People are gathering; milling expectantly around him.

CRIER:

Thus speaks his majesty King Conan to his subjects, the people of Aquilonia -

No man, no army, great or small, shall transgress Aquilonia’s laws, wrong her citizens or take her property. The penalty for these

transgressions shall, and will always be, dealt with the harshest of extremities that her sovereignty allows. Every man, woman and child of Aquilonian birth and citizenship shall be protected by her state and her armies. Her people reserve the right to live in freedom and in peace. Further ; they reserve the right to pass without fear - wherever they may be, and in whatever lands they may travel. These are the values that I, King Conan, place upon this great nation and have thus sworn to uphold and protect…

Sitting on a wall, at the far end of the square, is a foppishly dressed man. He wears a lace white shirt beneath a doe skin jerkin. His knee high boots are of finest supple brown leather. He has a pale complexion and bright eyes. His mouth is petulant . Beneath a feathered cap he has straight dark hair, squarely cut to collar length. He sits posed picturesquely; lounging back with one elbow resting on an upraised knee. From the other hand he idly dangles a lute. As he listens to the news crier, a cynical smile plays on his lips.

Leaning against the wall below him are several of his followers - prostitutes, toughs and assorted hangers on. He is Ridondo - poet and minstrel.

RIDONDO:

We bow in humble obeisance to your greatness, good king.

He snatches up his lute and, saluting the crier with it, absently plucks a chord.

RIDONDO:

“ So from the wheel to the blade-

( another chord )

the battlefield to the crown,

and for the earth in the grave -

he struck our monarch down…

We bow before him now -

this slave who killed a king!

He who cast the good line out -

that they took to under wing.

Thief or betrayer ? he cries answer with his blade -

This black hearted savage -

who was once only but a slave … ”

The last line ends with a despondant chord, ringing out softly. His friends clap and whoop jubilantly, making a show in front of the growing number of people gathering in front of them. Ridondo, jumps acrobatically to his feet on the wall and bows mockingly.

RIDONDO:

( looking out over the gathering crowds )

Come my friends, let us be away from here. The smell of blind rabble is not unlike livestock to these nostrils.

Hoots and laughter.

From below a tough looks up.

TOUGH:

But Ridondo! Don’t you want to wait for the king to come out and play him some of your verses?

The rest of the group laugh and respond enthusiastically.

RIDONDO:

( looking toward the gate )

No. Leave this rabble to their blind obeisance. Time enough for a proper reception when our liege returns. Now I am for The Cup and Trident and a good flagon or two of wine…

( then louder - looking down at his gang with his hands on hips )

Who is with me?

Cheers and boisterous noise greet this. Ridondo leaps agilely from the wall and begins pushing his way through the throng, his gang close behind.

*

The palace steps. Conan, in mail and cuirass, looks around at the horses and men gathered below. Spying Rahne, sat proudly in her armour, he nods and begins descending the stair. A retainer bows as he passes and hands him his plumed helmet. Conan takes it without pausing and straps it on his head. As he approaches the bottom stair another retainer leads out his steed - a magnificent black stallion. Grasping the saddle pommel he swings up into the leather. He reins the horse around, surveying his mounted troops. They sit motionless in their armour, lances held aloft - awaiting his command. The lion banner flutters in the wind. From the top of the palace stair Publius stands, the wind blowing his robes.

CONAN:

( turning to an officer )

Let’s move out.

The order is relayed with a shout and, as one, the company turns in formation. The palace gates are pushed open. They file out, a hundred mounted horsemen. Behind them come wagons and supplies.

Outside the gate they are greeted by the populace - jubilant and cheering. They throw petals before their horses feet. The infantry file in double formation. At the head of the column Prospero rides at Conan’s side. Behind him come his retinue of thirty Black Dragons, resplendent in their distinctive armour.

The crowd surges forward, held back by the city watch with their polearm fuschards. Cries of -

“ All hail the king!” -

and -

“ Conan! Hail, King Conan!” -

- reach the ears of the horsemen above the jubilation. The crowd follows them until they have passed on out of the great square and it is left deserted.

*

Pictland -

A Pict runs breathlessly through a corridor of trees. He is panting - throwing occasional glances behind him. In one hand he carries a flint tipped spear. He comes into a clearing suddenly and stops. He barks out something in a guttural tongue, all the while looking nervously around. We see rocks and a fallen tree under the canopy of a clear blue sky. He barks again, this time thumping his chest with the hand that holds the spear.

Slowly and warily, figures emerge from the shadows, from behind the fallen tree and out of the hollows of the surrounding rocks. They come slowly together and a primitive snarled conversation ensues. The Pict who was running indicates back along the trail. Another Pict pushes violently into the circle and snarls at him. The runner backs down as the newcomer faces the group. He begins barking at them, waving a double headed stone axe menacingly, in a primitive show of dominance. The Picts cower from him and crouch submissively. Suddenly the runner screeches out a warning, spear outthrust and pointing back along the trail. They look up.

Horses crash through the trees and break into the clearing.

Armoured men, with sweeping swords and shields, lean from their saddles. The Picts scatter but are cut down by the whickering blades or else trampled beneath the iron shod hooves of the horses.

A Pict hurls his axe. It bounces from the helmeted skull of a rider who falls from the saddle. Another Pict, with a howl, leaps upon the fallen man. His spear drives splintering through the greaves of his cuirass. Blood spurts. The soldier jerks and lies still.

Realizing they are trapped, the savages begin a desperate fight for survival.

At the foot a rocky knoll, Rahne reins her horse sharply and leaps from the saddle. She begins climbing, unlimbering a bow as she goes. Reaching the summit she kneels, nocks an arrow, draws and looses - all in one swift motion. A Pict’s cry of triumph is cut short, an arrow through his throat.

Prospero wheels his charger, his curved sword reaping a bloody harvest as his men rage in combat all around him. His teeth are gritted, his eyes alive with the blood lust of battle. He slashes down, spitting a skull to the teeth.

Rahne’s bow is taking it’s toll. Two more savages fall to her feathered shafts.

A Pict screeches and, throwing up his axe, indicates her.

Four hairy savages splinter from the main group and begin climbing the rocks. One goes down, an arrow through his chest, but the rest keep swarming toward her.

At the last moment she casts down her bow. As they reach the crest she reaches over her left shoulder, grasping the haft of a single bladed copper axe tied there. No sooner is it in her hand than she is moving forward.

The first Pict comes at a run. He swings for her head with a flint toothed war club. It whistles through empty air as she ducks beneath. She spins and he goes down from a backhanded stroke that sweeps up through his ribcage and cleaves out of his chest, leaving a comet’s trail of blood in her axe’s wake.

Arcing up on his toes with an astonished grunt, the savage falls.

The second Pict comes in - thrusting with his spear. She twists lithely to one side, catching the haft with her left hand as it grazes over her mail. She yanks it toward her, chops down through the wood then, with a vicious back swing, severs the head of the spearman. She yells in fierce exultation as blood from the gushing stump sprays over her. Still fountaining, the headless body collapses to the ground, twitching spasmodically.

She steps over the corpse, casting fragments of the broken spear aside.

The last Pict backs off, yelling a challenge. He crouches low, swinging a bola in his right hand, even as he moves slowly round to encircle her. Rahne, countering with a yell of her own, launches her axe. It spins through the air, demolishing the skull of the Pict into bloody fragments. He falls lifeless. The haft of the axe leans, pointing at the sky from the ruin of his shattered head.

Her own face a bloody streaked mask, Rahne stands panting. She breathes out deeply then moves forward. Without looking she wrenches the axe from the Pict’s skull with a sucking pop and moves on down the rock face.

The skirmish is over.

Prospero reins up before her, shaking scarlet drops from his own fouled blade.

PROSPERO:

( looking satisfied )

That’s the last of ‘em.

He cleans his sword on a rag and slams it back into his scabbard.

Rahne looks out over the dead as the Black Dragons cautiously pick their way through the corpses.

RAHNE:

( looking up at Prospero )

Jhil Zerig?

Prospero nods his head over to one of the Black Dragons. The officer looks back and shakes his head.

Prospero sighs, leaning on his saddle pommel.

PROSPERO:

Damn. He’s not here… Let’s hope your father had better luck.

Rahne looks frustrated. Then, spying something, she moves over to where a group of Black Dragons are gathering. As she comes over she sees a Pict - lying wounded and caked in blood. He is desperately trying to stave off the points of swords being jabbed at him by the jeering soldiers. One, bored with the sport, draws back his blade to administer the death blow. Reaching across Rahne cuffs the sword aside.

RAHNE:

Wait!

( She looks down at the Pict )

Here is one who can lead us to Jhil Zerig…

*

Buzzards wheel in the sky. We look from them to see a village below, torn in the aftermath of brutal massacre. Bodies lay in heaped piles. Flies swarm. The remains of bramble weaved huts smoke and smoulder in the light of a lowering sun. Some still stand, burning like pyres for the dead. Log walls have been torn down. Arrows and spears thrust up through the mangled heaps of the slain.

In the midst of that slaughter sits King Conan; grim and bloody in

his black and gold embossed armour, sat astride his war horse. He surveys the carnage, one gauntled fist resting on the pommel of a war axe that leans across his saddlebow.

Through the smoke and dust a rider comes up. He is stained, his mail caked in dried blood. He salutes.

CONAN:

What news lieutenant?

LIEUTENANT:

Nothing, my lord. If Jhil Zerig was here - he’s gone now. We had the element of surprise too.

A raven lands close by. Conan watches as it hops over to a pile of bodies and pecks the eyeball from a corpse. It squawks at him before taking flight into the branches of a nearby tree.

LIEUTENANT:

Cursed vermin!

He reaches for his bow.

Reining over to him Conan clamps a hand down on his arm.

CONAN:

He is a chooser of the slain. A raven of battle …

He squints, craning his head to stare up into the tree. The raven flies off, landing somewhere deep in the forest beyond. Conan tracks it’s flight.

LIEUTENANT:

( confused )

Sire?

CONAN:

( shaking his head )

It is nothing… a barbarian superstition.

( laughs then nods over to the forest )

Tell me - what is beyond over there?

LIEUTENANT:

A defile - a valley of sorts, sire … Why?

CONAN:

Just a feeling. Gather the men.

*

Sunlight slants through the branches as mounted troops file into the forest. Conan leads - his lieutenant riding beside him.

They come out of the trees, reining up before the mouth of a down curving valley. Conan, shading his eyes, scans the jumbled terrain. The sun is dipping.

LIEUTENANT:

A good place for an ambush.

CONAN:

( nodding )

And a good place to hide.

Follow steady - but keep in loose formation.

He kicks his heels and the column moves along behind him, in a spaced out even line, into the defile.

We see walls steep and broken, but not very high.

There is a cry on the wind, the lonely cry of a small bird. Conan jerks his head up. The cry is echoed further up the valley.

CONAN:

( shouts )

Shield formation! Look alive dogs!

Suddenly the walls erupt with life. From the shadows spring the Picts, hurling down rocks. Boulders, levered from above, slam down the broken wall face, creating an avalanche of smaller rocks and loose shingle in their wake.

Horses rear in panic. Men scream as they are buried beneath slides of rubble. Dust thickens the air, making it hard to see. Arrows whicker, spears rain down. Shields from the horsemen lock up.

Conan, strapping on his own buckler, kicks his horse forward.

LIEUTENANT:

It’s a trap!

CONAN:

Ride! Before they can cut us off !

Spears and crude arrows splinter on their upturned shields as, heads down, they make for the end of the pass. Those behind follow suit.

Others, snared by thrown bolas and rocks, are set upon by Picts wielding axes and spears as they leap from the walls above.

Thundering round the bend in the pass, Conan sees a sheer incline leading back down into the forest. Veering to the left, he makes for it, his lieutenant slightly behind.

But beyond that curve are Picts - waiting with bows drawn.

Conan and the lieutenant make it round just as the bowstrings snap. Conan, tying the reins around his saddle pommel, unlimbers his war axe. His horse leaps down the incline into the forest. Too late he spies the trap. A wide carefully dug trench. Man size spears lean here and there from the pit. Conan’s eyes widen. Holding onto his axe and shield, he throws his arms wide as his horse goes down headfirst. It screams as it falls then they are down in the trench.

From the depths Picts rear up - axes, clubs and crude shields in their hands. Conan twists in the saddle as the horse, falling, rights itself. He swings wildly with his war axe, narrowly missing a savage on his right. From his left another charges in with a long spear and impales his horse through the neck. The stallion goes down with a scream and Conan hurls himself from the saddle. He lands among the giant horse stakes leaning up from the black mud. He rolls, reeling up just in time to see his lieutenant’s horse careening down the bank behind him, followed by a storm of whickering arrows. Both horse and rider separate and come down heavily, splashing in a pool of muddy water. Feathered with arrows, the horse does not move. The lieutenant, coughing, grasps at the mud, pulling himself along and half out of the water. He tries to stand then collapses with a coughing curse, an arrow through his neck. Before Conan can get to him three Picts splash over to him and begin battering him back into the mud. He struggles to rise again but, under the ferocious beating, he sags then lies still, floating face down in the murky red stained water.

Everywhere a similar tide of events is played out as riders plunge unaware into the giant trap. Some, spying the pit just in time, carry on round the valley bend. Whatever awaits them, Conan can not tell, but the desperate sounds of struggle soon reaches his ears.

Those soldiers in the pit, not impaled on the horse stakes, meet

fates similar to those of his lieutenant. Choked screams go unheeded as armoured bodies are battered down into the wet earth. Gauntleted hands, risen from the mire, can not stop the hammered swing of stone headed axes wielded in hairy hands, nor the thrusts of flint tipped spears. Blood congeals in the pool. Armoured corpses wallow in the mud, dented and streaked with scarlet.

A group of Picts, spying Conan, make toward him. He hauls himself out through the entangling stakes, making for the opposite side of the pit, armoured boots sucking in the wet mud. He slips and falls. Bracing himself on his shield rim and panting, he throws himself up again, just as a Pict reaches up to him from behind. A stone axe comes down on his back plate and, with a grunt, he goes onto his knees. He forces himself up as another, lunging forward, drives a spear into his side. The flint slides off his cuirass and Conan swings his heavy shield around. The Pict leans back and Conan, off balance, staggers away. The Pict with the axe swings again, catching him a glancing blow on his helmet.

More Picts come wading through the mud to join the pursuit.

Conan, reaching the steep embankment, tries hurling himself up it’s sides but slides down again, weighted by his armour.

Again the Pict with the axe, close behind, catches him - this time a glancing blow on his shoulder plate. He leaps back before Conan can bring his own axe into play. Half crouching and panting heavily, Conan stands awaiting the onslaught. Feet sucking in the heavy mud they face each other - sweating and exhausted.

As one they come in, hoping to drag him down by sheer weight of numbers. Conan yells and swings his axe, catching the spearman. He shears through his ribcage and blood gushes as if from a broken hydrant. Conan wrenches but the axe is lodged fast in the Pict’s spine. The corpse sags and wallows in the mud. He releases the haft and goes down to one knee, raising his shield as a vicious spike toothed war club crashes down. The shield rings and buckles under the stroke. More wild blows rain down and Conan staggers back as his shield begins to splinter under the fury of the assault. A blow from a steel axe finally tears the top half of the shield away, leaving a torn jagged rent. He turns under the force of the impact.

With a cry, a Pict leaps on his back, flint knife upraised. He stabs down - again and again, aiming for his jugular. Conan, teeth gritted and on his knees, flings back his right arm, grabbing the Pict by his hair. He heaves upright, snapping his head back. The Pict’s face explodes in a gorey ruin. With a yell he rams him back into the embankment, pinning him. Then, with the jagged remnants of his shield over his left arm, he slams his elbow back, driving the rent metal deep under the Pict’s heart.

Another Pict comes at him from the front. Conan kicks out and the Pict goes down, an iron heel in his guts. Conan falls to his knees in the mud. The Pict wielding the spike toothed club towers over him. He swings the club up on high. He stares down.

Conan looks up in acknowledged defeat. Then, suddenly, he lunges forward - tearing upward with the broken remains of his shield. The Pict’s eyes widen as it slices up through his abdomen and rips on through to lodge deep in his ribcage. Entrails and blood vomit out into the mud. His eyes roll as Conan, twisting, wrenches the shield out again. His corpse drops.

Exhausted and bloodied, Conan falls back.

He stares at the wild faces closing in around him without fear of death. With the broken shield over his arm he gives the Pit fighters salute.

The three remaining Picts grip their weapons nervously. They tense - ready to spring upon him. Conan, crouching low, awaits the death grip.

Then, from behind, comes a frenzied shout. The Picts half turn. Over their shoulders they see a bull like man charging toward them. He swings a heavy battle mace in two hands. With the first sweep he obliterates a savage’s skull, turning it to mush. On the backswing he crushes the head of a second. Blood and matter spatters everywhere. The third Pict barely has time to raise his hide covered shield. With a mighty downward swing, the armoured man brings the mace down. Shield and arm break together. As the Pict falls, screaming, he swings the mace upward, hammer like, and brings it down again, dashing out his brains.

The soldier steps back, a veritable giant in his grieved armour. His helmet is gone, a red scarf wound over his brows. Conan sees that

he is dark bearded with short hair and is heavily muscled. He casually tosses the mace over one shoulder and offers his hand.

SOLDIER:

My king! The Black Dragons have arrived. The Picts are scattering.

Conan hauls himself up, casting the shattered shield from him. He stares hard at the soldier - then clasps the hand held before him in an iron grip. They stand there braced - like grim titans from the primordial dawn.

CONAN:

What’s your name, soldier?

SOLDIER:

Grommel, sir.

Conan nods. He limps forward and, crouching, Grommel puts his head under one arm and supports him. Together they move off through the muddy trench, picking their way through the dead.

They come to the area of the crossed stakes, leaning up from the earth like grotesque trees. Beneath them horses and men lie slaughtered. Under a stake, bearing the corpse of an impaled Aquilonian, Conan bends down and picks up a fallen sword. He straightens.

Together they stand - staring under a reddened sky at the chaos and devastation around them.

CONAN:

( murmuring )

Let us get out of this pit of death, Grommel…

Grommel nods. Together they begin climbing the slope, helped by vines and the roots of trees.

*

Outlined against the setting sun we see the silhouettes of riders, hear the drum horses hooves on hardened ground.

On the outskirts of the forest Conan stands, leaning wearily against a tree. Grommel crouches nearby. A contingent of Black Dragons sweep past. One rider, recognizing the king, breaks off and reins over. The rest ride on obliviously.

BLACK DRAGON:

My lord! You’re alive! Praise Mitra!

He leaps from his saddle and kneels.

CONAN:

If you need praise anyone, praise Grommel here. He saved my life… Where’s Prospero - and my daughter?

As he talks he walks stiffly over. Wrenching off his helmet, he sits down on a rock.

BLACK DRAGON:

( standing )

When the Picts saw us coming they disappeared into the shadows, sire. We branched into two divisions. Prospero and Rahne took the lower west ridge. They have a captive.

Conan sits with chin on fist, a booted foot on his helmet. He looks around.

CONAN:

Is this area secure?

BLACK DRAGON:

Pretty much, sire.

CONAN:

Good!

( he rams his sword point first into the ground beside him )

Then make camp and fetch the wine.

*

Night. A red moon wreathed in scudding clouds. Below - a wide sweeping valley. Tall grass wavers in the breeze. Through that grass we see figures moving. There are four Black Dragons, armed with swords and shields. One carries a nocked bow. The captive Pict lopes along , a knotted rope about his throat. Out in front we see Rahne and Prospero. They are making for a ridge of rocks at the valleys end. On the crest of those rocks we see torches burning in the mouth of a carved temple. A dull drum throbs. As they draw closer a hoarse chant can be heard. Steps, ancient and worn, lead up from the valley floor.

The Pict crouches down and, pulling back, refuses to go any further. One hand pulls on the leash at his throat. His eyes are wide with fear. Moving over to him, Rahne draws her short sword. The Pict looks up at her. Wordlessly she severs the rope from the Black Dragon holding it and jerks her head. The Pict makes off back through the grass at a loping run.

She moves back to crouch down beside Prospero who is looking up the cliff face.

PROSPERO:

( whispering )

There is madness here, Rahne.

RAHNE:

The madness of Jhil Zerig…

PROSPERO:

We can’t be sure of that. This is only a reconnaissance - remember?

Rahne says nothing. She moves forward. Prospero follows her.

Silently they reach the stair. Crouching low, they wait - listening and watching. No guards can be seen. They begin padding upward, keeping close to the wall - silent as shadows in their light black armour.

A Pict appears above them. He looks out over the valley, a spear resting casually over one shoulder.

The company freeze. Rahne looks to Prospero. He hesitates then, turning his head, signals to the archer. The archer leans out, drawing silently. There is a breath of wind. With a grunt the Pict stiffens then falls from the cliff. Prospero looks at Rahne and shakes his head.

Rounding a bend, they come up to the mouth of the temple.

Inside -

We see torches mounted along walls crumbling with decay and festooned with vines.

At the far end of the temple stands a cracked set of steps. At the top of them is an altar of obsidian. Lying on it’s surface is the

corpse of a sacrifice.

Before the altar stands the figure of a man - arms outspread, chanting and swaying in invocation. He is naked but for a loin cloth, his skin glistening with painted woad. He holds a dripping knife in one clenched fist.

Behind the altar is the statue of a serpent, coiled with head raised and jaws agape. It looms up the height of a tall man, it’s jewelled eyes glittering life like in the torchlight.

A shaman, crouching beside the altar, beats on a hide covered drum.

PROSPERO:

Mitra…

They move cautiously into the temple, weapons ready. Rahne, holding a short sword, moves slowly across the broken flagstones. The shaman looks across and, seeing them, stops beating the drum. Silence descends.

The Pict standing before the altar slowly turns. He has a low brow and square flat features. His hair is bound up into a top knot. His eyes are an enigmatic blue. He raises an arm and points at them.

JHIL ZERIG:

Shamballah! Hai - Set!

RAHNE:

Jhil Zerig…

Prospero motions with his arm. The archer behind him raises his bow and looses. As he does so the shaman leaps from the stair, placing himself before Jhil Zerig. The arrow takes him in the chest

and he slumps forward, rolling lifeless down the steps.

RAHNE:

Jhil Zerig! Prepare to die!

She moves forward. Jhil Zerig stares dispassionately. He comes slowly down the stair. Reaching the bottom he regards them, eyes burning strangely. His lips writhe in a twisted smile. Then slowly his eyes roll back. He opens his mouth in semblance of a silent scream. He sinks to his knees and throws his head forward. Rahne, half way across to him, freezes. Prospero is close behind her.

Jhil Zerig’s jaw widens, elongating downward. His eyeballs, rolled all the way back now, are blank white orbs. Something bulges unnaturally in his throat before forcing it’s way up and out of his mouth.

Stepping back, Rahne, Prospero and the Black Dragons look on in horror.

The wedge shaped head of a serpent appears in Jhil Zerig’s mouth. It forces itself out, flowing down in slimy, undulating coils before flopping out onto the paving.

Jhil Zerig collapses to the stones.

The snake sways before them, tasting the air with a forked tongue before slithering off with incredible speed into the shadows.

Lying on the floor, Jhil Zerig begins to move. He groans. Getting to his knees, he begins crawling over toward them. Spittle drools from his mouth. His eyes are brown now, like any other Pict’s. He looks confused and fearful. Seeing the soldiers, he stands. He staggers forward, hands outstretched - gibbering wildly in the Pictish tongue.

Rahne moves in. Her sword whips up and, with a powerful thrust, slashes him through the heart. He stiffens, the sword standing out from between his shoulder blades. Stepping back, she wrenches her blade free. Jhil Zerig falls to his knees and looks slowly up at her - uncomprehending as blood begins to pool around him.

RAHNE:

A quick death is a mercy of sorts, Jhil Zerig.

With a final blow, she swings her blade down - severing his head.

She turns sharply - looking into the shadows. A sibilant whisper plays in her head. Beckoning, pleading, enticing…. Almost without her own violition she moves forward. Her sword lowers slowly, hanging down forgotten at her side. She is oblivious to Prospero’s questioning voice behind her… She walks into the shadows… they envelope her invitingly…. Twin diamond shaped eyes burn in the darkness ahead of her… She stares at them, transfixed. Still she hears the sibilant whispering playing deep in her conciousness… The wedge shaped head of the serpent moves out of the darkness, swaying before her… mesmerising… enchanting…. Dim torchlight glistens from the black coils …

Suddenly Prospero snatches her around the waist. He twists her behind him even as he lashes out with his curved sword.

The serpent jerks back - hissing and spraying venom from curved fangs. With a screaming hiss it sweeps away and is gone through a crack in the wall. A trail of black blood glistens wetly along the flags.

PROSPERO:

Sorcery! Vile black sorcery!

The hand that grasps the sword shakes. He holds Rahne around the waist in the curve of his left arm. He moves back with her as the Black Dragons surround them in shield formation.

When they are far enough away Rahne comes to herself. She puts a hand to her head, screwing her eyes shut as if in pain.

She staggers. Prospero holds onto her arm.

PROSPERO:

Are you alright?

RAHNE:

My head… uh. It spoke to me, Prospero… it spoke to me with the voice of my mother… I was ready… ready to go to her…

PROSPERO:

Come, let us get out of here.

( he looks around )

We’ll come back and burn this place to the ground.

*

Conan’s tent. A wide pavillion, lighted by torches on poles. The entrance is open. Two Black Dragons stand guard just outside.

The sounds of horses and men can be heard from without, the glimpses of torches seen in the darkness beyond.

Conan is pouring wine into two goblets from a pitcher on a table. He moves over with them to the centre of the tent where Grommel is sat leaning at a larger table. There are scrolls and maps. Conan sits down opposite him. Both men are in plain tunics now.

CONAN:

I drink to you Grommel - and your health.

He salutes him with the goblet then, tilting back his head, takes a huge swallow. Upending the rest of the contents on the ground, he makes a curious heathen gesture with his hand over the rim of the goblet then tosses it to the floor.

Grommel, reclining his head, drinks.

CONAN:

Grommel… Tell me. Where did you learn to fight like that?

GROMMEL:

In the pits - in the arenas. Once I was a champion… of both.

Conan nods.

CONAN:

I, too, was once a champion of those places… I wonder what would have happened - had we met before the roar of the crowd?

GROMMEL:

( shrugging )

I would have won.

CONAN:

( smiles )

You saved my life, Grommel… I will not forget that. When we return to Aquilonia I will make you captain of the palace guard.

The goblet freezes at Grommel’s lips.

GROMMEL:

That… is a mighty honour, sire.

A Black Dragon appears in the doorway of the tent.

Conan looks up.

BLACK DRAGON:

( saluting )

Sire, Prospero and your daughter have returned.

Stiffly, Conan gets to his feet. He walks over to the tent awning.

Riders are approaching, back lit in the glare of the camp fires. First comes Rahne, followed by Prospero, and then the rest. They are weary and dust stained.

Conan stands motionless as Rahne swings her mount up before him.

She stares silently down at him. Then, reaching back across her saddlebow, she turns and holds up the severed head of Jhil Zerig.

Conan nods.

She lowers the head.

RAHNE:

There is something you must see father… Tomorrow, when the sun rises.

*

Sunlight slants in through the cracks of the ancient temple. Conan stands - unspeaking at the top of the crumbled steps. He is staring at the statue rearing up from behind the altar. His face is expressionless.

Around the temple soldiers move, checking and peering into every nook and cranny.

Prospero comes up beside Conan as men begin searching around the altar, blades drawn.

PROSPERO:

( whispering )

The bodies that were here have gone. But, I swear, whatever that - that - thing was… I slew it or else mortally wounded it.

Conan betrays no sign of having heard him. He is still staring at the statue.

A soldier climbs up and stands on the altar. He looks up at the statue and draws out a knife.

SOLDIER:

Ishtar’s tits! Look at these!

He reaches up, trying to prise out the jewelled eyes.

Conan steps forward and grabs him by the arm. He pulls him down, shoving him forcefully to one side.

CONAN:

We are not here to loot! Carry on your search!

The soldier scurries off. Conan turns to Prospero.

CONAN:

No man is to carry anything away from this temple, is that understood?

Prospero nods curtly.

Conan, looking around, draws his cloak over his shoulders and stalks down the steps toward the entrance.

CONAN:

Prepare to move out. We ride in two hours.

*

A double column of horsemen files slowly along a dusty trail. To either side are cliffs, surmounted by trees. There is little sound - only the creak of leather and harness, the clop of horses hooves, the creak of wagons. Conan rides at the forefront. He is in full armour. His expression is dour. Occassionaly he lifts a wine skin to his lips. Behind him Prospero and Rahne ride in silence.

Lined along the cliffs we see Picts - women, children and old folk. They stare down at the riders in dejected silence. Looking up Conan sees a young boy. The boy stares back at him from under tangled locks. He is holding the hand of his mother.

Conan raises the wine skin again.

They pass the outskirts of the still smouldering village. As the horses come by we see two soldiers are erecting something there.

When they are done they move off and mount their horses.

We see what they have left behind. The head of Jhil Zerig impaled on a stake - his long hair blowing in the breeze.

*

Tarantia. Night. The Eagle Tavern thrums with life. Boisterous and noisy, patrons spill out onto the street.

Inside, the large room is crowded. At a bench close to one wall sits Baron Kambach in his finery - ill at ease among the wild ribaldry around him. His four bodyguards sit with him, more sensibly attired, with steel showing at their sides. A single candle gutters on the table. Drinking jacks and a near empty plate show evidence of a recent repaste.

At the middle of the floor a large space is cleared - ready for a make shift stage. Baron Kambach looks around uncomfortably. He drinks deep of his mug and sets it down, grimacing.

BARON KAMBACH:

Where’s that fool Thuthmekri? If he doesn’t show soon -

From a pillar behind him a shadow appears, falling over the table. Kambach looks up sharply. Thuthmekri stands there, in a long hooded cloak. He draws back his hood and bows stiffly.

THUTHMEKRI:

Apologies for the delay, Baron. I trust you have not been kept waiting long.

BARON KAMBACH:

N- no not at all Thuthmekri. Please -

( he indicates a stool to one side )

- join us. Ale?

( he picks up a pitcher at his elbow questioningly )

As he sits Thuthmekri holds up a hand and shakes his head.

BARON KAMBACH:

Is aught amiss, Thuthmekri? You seem… unwell.

THUTHMEKRI:

A fever. It will soon pass… Have you seen Ridondo yet?

BARON KAMBACH:

He keeps us waiting with childish expectancey. Any longer and I

fear the rabble will break out in mindless violence.

Thuthmekri looks around the tavern. He leans on the table, breathing hard. He turns to Kambach.

THUTHMEKRI:

Wait for me. I will return shortly.

He gets up and shoulders through the crowd, heading toward the back of the tavern. Throwing aside a drape he enters a long corridor and slumps wearily against the wall. Sweat forms on his brow.

A stocky, shaven headed man in a leather jekin follows him through. In one hand he holds a cudgel.

MAN:

No lurking around here, Stygian. If you want to use the women do so.

Then again - if I know you pansy lot, it’s not women you’re after.

If it’s young boys you want -

Thuthmekri moves fast, clamping a hand vice like around his throat. He drags him, throwing him up hard against the opposite wall. The man’s eyes bulge in fear and surprise. His tongue hangs out.

THUTHMEKRI:

I like my boys as I like my men. Struggling - and in fear of their lives… So maybe later, hmm?

He throws him aside and, coughing, the tough staggers away - back through the drapes.

Thuthmekri moves off down the corridor. From behind curtains can be heard cries and grunts of pleasure.

In the shadows of an empty alcove he turns, pulling the curtain across. He opens his jerkin. A long wound, as from the stroke of a sword, runs down his ribs. It is freshly healed. The newly formed skin shimmers faintly with reptilian scales. Thuthmekri grits his teeth.

THUTHMEKRI:

For that, Prospero, you will pay. Most dearly… and with your life. This… I swear by Set.

Out on the tavern floor.

Ridondo finally appears. Cheers greet him. Foaming jacks are held high. He bows, taking up his lute. A man behind him sits cross legged on the floor. Before him is a hide covered drum. A gypsy woman, in a long dress, stands to his right. The drum begins to beat - a staccato rhythm. Ridondo plucks his lute in a scale melody - simple, rousing and quick. The woman sways in time, making eccentric motions with her hands and body.

Ridondo begins to sing - a raucous ballad. The crowd stamp their feet, banging their drinking jacks on the tables in approval.

*

Later -

A backroom of the tavern. A party is in full swing. Naked women cavort as men drink and play on instruments.

Ridondo reclines in a sumptuous chair, laughing as he is attended by female admirers. His followers, gathered around him, sample greedily of the delights on offer.

Baron Kambach and Thuthmekri appear at the doorway and observe. Kambach’s guards hang back. A big man, with brawny arms, steps up, blocking the entrance. He lifts his head with a

contemptuous sneer.

BARON KAMBACH:

My good man… tell Ridondo that Baron Kambach of Nemedia would like to speak with him. That is…

( he holds out a palmful of coins )

… if it is not too much trouble.

The man sniffs. Snatching the coins he turns and makes his way through the throng. He comes back and waves them through with a tatooed arm.

Kambach and Thuthmekri edge their way in. They come before Ridondo who, merrily drunk, is sprawled in his throne like chair. He looks up, regarding Baron Kambach.

RIDONDO:

Well, well - what have we here? A nobleman no less. Did you enjoy the show?

BARON KAMBACH:

( Bowing and looking around )

Your reputation does you a small justice, Ridondo. A fabulous performance… I am Baron Kambach of Nemedia.

RIDONDO:

( sitting up and spilling his goblet )

Nemedia, you say? Well, my friend… though you be in good company here, may I be so bold as to enquire what you are doing in Aquilonia?

BARON KAMBACH:

Merely a small matter of visit of state. I am residing at the king’s palace.

RIDONDO:

( Sipping of his wine )

Indeed?

( he nods at Thuthmekri )

He is no Hyborian. He has the look of…

THUTHMEKRI:

( Bowing )

I am Thuthmekri, good sir. Once of Khemi - in Stygia. A great admirer of yours.

Ridondo laughs. He swings his arms wide and, splashing more wine, shouts aloud.

RIDONDO:

‘ Tis true! I have the world at my feet!

( laughs then regards them more seriously )

Come… let us be away from here where gentlemen may… discuss more serious concerns.

He passes his goblet to one of his toughs, who throws the contents back greedily. The minstrel staggers to his feet.

Outside -

In an alleyway Ridondo leans back against a wall, looking up at the stars. He breathes in.

RIDONDO:

Which is the quickest way to get to my villa in this cursed city? I can split the cost of the fare.

BARON KAMBACH:

If young sir would be so inclined, perhaps he would care to travel with me? I have a palanquin waiting out front of the tavern -

THUTHMEKRI:

Perhaps you would rather travel with me, sir. My chariot also awaits at the main entrance.

Both look to Thuthmekri.

RIDONDO:

Chariot, you say?

( laughs and, staggering over, claps a hand on Thuthmekri’s shoulder and begins walking )

Then let us be away my Stygian friend!

As they walk, Kambach looks to Thuthmekri who smiles.

They come round to the entrance.

Thuthmekri motions to a young man lurking near by.

The man nods and whistles.

A chariot sweeps into view, driven by an attendant. He steps down.

Thuthmekri bowing, motions for Ridondo to step aboard.

Thuthmekri climbs up after him and takes the reins. He leans down.

THUTHMEKRI:

We will see you at the villa, Baron.

RIDONDO:

Ask for the street of Hadrius should you get lost.

Kambach bows and, sighing, walks back to his palanquin.

The chariot pulls off.

RIDONDO:

You intrigue me Stygian… Curse it - I don’t suppose you have any wine?

THUTHMEKRI:

( smiling, reaches into his robe with one hand and produces a small ebon box )

Black lotus?

RIDONDO:

Aaahh!

( takes and opens the box )

That’s more like it! Now you DO intrigue me Stygian!

THUTHMEKRI:

( smiling sinisterly )

Good… then I’m sure we have much to discuss.

*

Tarantia.

Day -

Crowds line the avenue down where file Conan’s weary, but victorious, troops.

Cheers are raised and petals thrown, but the welcome is subdued.

Cries of -

“ Hail the king! ”

and-

“ Justice! ”

- can be heard. But for all that there is a darker undercurrent.

As they look, Conan and Prospero see unmoved expressions just beyond the crowd. There are those who stand with open hostility written on their faces. Occassional jeers can be heard.

Mutterings of discontent -

“ He led brave men to their deaths! ”

“ The king is a drunkard! ”

“ He wars on women and children! ”

“ Shame on Aquilonia! Shame! ”

Conan rides on, looking neither left nor right.

Beside him, Prospero looks angry.

PROSPERO:

The people curse and spit on us. This is Ridondo’s doing, my liege! While we’ve been away, avenging his countrymen, he’s been stirring up the common folk - poisoning them against you. Let me take a detachment of soldiers. By Mitra, I’ll make an example of him in the main square!

CONAN:

You think that will help? It will only serve to strengthen his purpose and prove to the people he was right… Forget it Prospero. This will pass.

The column files on, down toward the great square and the gates of the inner city.

*

The palace -

Conan’s study.

Conan sits at a slanted writing desk, raised up on a dais. He is busy scratching with a heron feather quill, signing papers and moving them aside. Behind him, on the wall, is a huge map on tanned hide of the Hyborian nations.

Rahne enters the study quietly. She stands, dressed in Nordic finery. Conan looks up, pausing briefly, then continues signing.

RAHNE:

We are ready to depart… with luck we should make it to the Nordheim borders before the ice melts and the rivers start to flood.

Conan keeps writing. He does not look up.

CONAN:

Prospero will accompany you. He has personally handpicked some men to ride with him.

RAHNE:

My thanks… Father… were you ever angry at the gods for taking mother away?

Conan stops writing. He looks up again.

CONAN:

Illness took your mother from us, Rahne. Not the gods.

She stares at the wine jug at his elbow. Looking back at him she nods. Conan continues signing papers. Rahne bows her head and turns to leave the room.

CONAN:

Rahne…

She turns. They stare at each other an instant.

RAHNE:

Farewell, father… May it always be spring time with you.

She turns again and is gone.

Conan stares after her, the quill frozen in his hand. He looks to the wine jug and, reaching across, pours a goblet with a trembling hand. He drinks.

Later -

Propero is buckling on his armour, whistling and admiring his reflection in a long mirror.

It is afternoon.

PROSPERO:

Grommel will be moving in to the palace quarters once his training is complete… But, for now, he resides in the outer city with his wife. I trust there will be no difficulties. He is a fine soldier and good with orders, by all accounts. However, Publius is not best pleased…

We see Conan, still at his desk. He sits propped on an elbow, leaning with his chin on his fist. In the grip of his outstretched right hand is a goblet.

CONAN:

Publius is never pleased.

PROSPERO:

( laughs )

The only recommendations he makes are men of noble birth with no formal experience. I told him that - this is a soldier’s position.

CONAN:

Prospero. I have been meaning to ask. What do you know of …Zelata?

Prospero, polishing his grieved boot plate, pauses. He looks up and shrugs.

PROSPERO:

She is an old legend - a myth. A goddess of the common folk - foresters and farmers mostly. In the old days, before Aquilonia rose to power, she was a powerful deity here abouts… She ruled the woodlands and the glades. Some say that she suckled at her breast the heroes who founded our nation… and that we have abandoned her.

CONAN:

Why abandoned?

PROSPERO:

( sighs )

With Aquilonia’s ascension, Mitra took place over all the pagan deities in the west. They built their shrines and temples on the sacred sites of the old gods and banished them away.

Even this was foretold - that her shrines would be cast down but that one day she would return.

CONAN:

How so?

PROSPERO:

The legends say she will appear before a king… A king who was once a common man. She will appear before him and warn him that a great change is coming and that the gods have come to reclaim his kingdoms.

CONAN:

What then?

PROSPERO:

War, my liege. War as the world has never seen…

Well, I mustn’t keep her highness - your daughter, waiting… Any word to King Siegvald?

CONAN:

Only that to take good care of my daughter and I will see him before the next winter season.

PROSPERO:

( bowing and turning to leave )

Very good my lord.

CONAN:

And Prospero…

PROSPERO:

My lord?

CONAN:

Make sure any kisses you have for those Nordheim girls are just for yourself… I don’t want a national incident on my hands.

PROSPERO:

( salutes and grins )

You have only but to command, sire.

He turns and exits, closing the door. Conan’s smile follows him out of the room.

As the door closes that smile fades. He sighs wearily. He slumps in the chair, looking at his reflection in the brass wine jug at his elbow. He reaches for it and freezes - hand outstretched. He grimaces then stands and, with a yell, hurls the jug from him. It clatters, spilling wine across the room.

Night -

Conan lays sprawled at his desk, asleep. Two servants enter the room and begin lighting tapers. Seeing Conan, they look to each other. One girl shakes her head. The other shrugs and, quietly, they withdraw.

Conan snores on. He dreams…

Through a filter of twilight grey we see the razed Pictish village. A raven squawks and comes down, pecking at the ground. It faces toward him with hooded eyes and beak before taking flight again.

In the distance we see a long pole driven into the ground. We draw closer until we make out the features of Jhil Zerig’s severed head resting there. Flies buzz around it, maggots gnaw in the rotting flesh. The eyelids are drooped down, the mouth sags. Then suddenly those eyes open, staring at him with diamond blue hardness. The mouth opens and screams…

Conan wakes with a start. He grips the table and looks around. Cursing under his breath, he runs a hand through greying locks.

He picks up the papers he has signed, rolls them and ties them with a ribbon. Getting stiffly to his feet he moves over to a shelf and places them there. As he does so he hesitates.

In the dust, in one corner of the shelf, he spies a huge iron key. He picks it up, staring thoughtfully at it in his hand a moment. He looks slowly across the room toward his reflection in the mirror. He sees a man standing there; greying, bearded, overweight and tired.

He looks back at the key and clenches it hard in his fist.

*

Conan is walking down a palace corridor. It is quiet. He comes to a curtain and draws it aside. We see there is a door set in the wall. He looks up and down the corridor. With a small key, procured from his tunic, he unlocks it. Then, taking down a nearby

torch, he steps in.

A narrow set of steps lead down; winding beyond the flickering flames of his torch, into darkness. Silently, Conan closes the door and moves down the stair. His torch casts fantastic shadows over the walls as he descends. It seems he has walked for an eternity until, at last, he sets foot on flagged stone again.

Groping along the wall, he lights two torches bracketed to either side. Then, with his own torch held high, he cranes his head forward.

He is looking at an iron braced oak door stood before him. He lifts the huge iron key and turns it in the lock. There is a clack of tumblers and, hesitantly, he heaves with one shoulder. The door groans inward. He steps in, the torch playing over the heaped treasures of his kingdom. The light flickers over mounds of minted coins, bronze shields and the wealth of empires. But he has no eye for these. He is looking at the shadow draped walls beyond, staring into the darkened spaces as he walks. Then, finally, he comes to the far end of the vault and, holding his torch high, looks up. It flickers over something on the wall, hanging wreathed in the shadows. We see the gleam of reddened steel, the sweeping curve of bronze langets, the intricate carvings of a cross guard and, finally, the runes etched by a forgotten art into the blade itself - of the ancient Atlantean sword.

It hangs on the wall, held by iron rivets driven into the stone. Conan brackets the torch beside it and, reaching up, takes the hilt in one hand. He lifts it down slowly, feeling it’s weight, staring at the runes and at the steel shimmering in the light. He holds the blade up before him and, as he does, he remembers…

Feuds and long forgotten battles play a sweeping panorama across his mind’s eye…

We see him in the mud of a field workers village, standing in the slanting rain, the Atlantean sword held in one hand. Head lowered, he faces three bandits with drawn curved blades. Peasants in straw hats cower on their knees in the mud or peer from the shelter of thatched huts. A bandit shouts something in an eastern tongue and, as one, they charge toward him. Conan seems to barely move as the blades wicker and clash around him. He steps out from among

them and freezes - his sword held pointing out and dripping darkly before him in two hands. In the background, his assailants crumple to the ground, slashed through by three fast moving strokes. Snatching a rag from his belt, he cleanses the blade and, without looking, sheaths it in a single fluid motion. Turning to one side, he looks back - surveying his handiwork…

The scene dissolves to -

Horses thundering across a war torn plain. Conan, in mail and helm, leans low from the saddle - sweeping a spiked helmet from it’s shoulders with his sword. A castle burns in the background. Tattered standards snap under a smoke filled sky…

The scene dissolves to -

Conan standing in his armour and leaning on the Atlantean sword before the throne of Aquilonia. Behind him kneel troops of the Black Dragons. The people of the court are hailing them. On the throne is King Numed; a fat man dressed in an imperial toga. Gold dust and petals shower down on the armoured warriors.

The king smiles but his eyes are cold.

Cut to -

Conan kneeling naked and bloodstained in the mud, a heavy log tied with chains and weighted down over his shoulders. Rain lashes down. He is in the compounds of a fort. Over him, sheltered by slaves holding parasols, stands King Numed dressed in imperial robes. Upon his head is the jewelled crown of Aquilonia.

He sneers at Conan then spits down on him in disgust. An effeminate boy giggles.

Cut to -

Men clash before the palace of Tarantia. Axes hammer at the torn doors of the throne room. Pikes and swords crash against mail and shield. Armoured bodies are trampled in the press. The lion banner raises as the serpent banner of the old dynasty sways and falls.

Cut to -

The deposed king slumps forward to a marbled floor, his eyes

fixed in death.

Above him stands Conan, his arms spread wide in victory, the jewelled crown of Aquilonia grasped in one bloodied hand. Around him steel bearing fists are raised in thunderous salute….

The scenes fade…

A wind springs up in the corridor behind him, dousing the torches.

Conan looks back at the sword and bows his head to the blade in the warrior’s salute

END OF ACT 1.

*

ACT II

Tarantia. The arena.

At the centre of the sands stand a line of men. They are dressed in the garb of charioteers. They wear worn leathers and hold helmets under their arms. Behind them are their single horse chariots. Attendants stand with the horses. The charioteers are gathered at the base of a statue of some long forgotten hero holding aloft spear and shield. Before them stands a huge powerful figure. He is wearing a tunic and sandals. He is not pleased. He is Brunna - from Gunderland, a northern province of Aquilonia. He walks up and down the line.

BRUNNA:

Varius - you still lean too far to the left when you come out into the straits. In a true race this could prove fatal. Your eyesight is being restricted by your visor. I want you to try using another helmet for the next session.

A man nods and stands back in line to attention.

BRUNNA:

Farsul! No more dirty tricks! A stunt like that could put a man’s life in danger! No one in my camp goes into the arena having learned those techniques from me. Understand? You are fined 20 talents… Harus - make a note.

A scribe behind him scribbles on a parchment.

A charioteer throws his arms up in despair and, shaking his head, begins to remonstrate.

FARSUL:

But -

BRUNNA:

20 talents! Any more, Farsul, and you forfeit the games. Is that clear?

FARSUL:

( Bowing his head )

Yes sir.

BRUNNA:

( Stopping before them - hands clasped behind his back with legs braced wide )

Good. Overall an improvement. But there is still much to be done before the games… For now - dismissed.

The charioteers, saluting, turn and march across the sands. The attendants, taking charge of the chariots, unhitch them from the horses and roll them away.

Brunna, turning to watch them leave, sees a retinue approaching from the compound gates. It is King Conan with Grommel and two Black Dragons.

Brunna awaits them, still standing at the base of the statue.

CONAN:

( Holding out his hand as he comes up )

Brunna!

They clasp hands and embrace.

BRUNNA:

Well, this is a surprise… Am I behind on my taxes?

CONAN:

You mean you’re paying them?

( Turning he indicates Grommel, standing behind him )

Come, I want you to meet my new captain of the palace guard… Grommel - this is Brunna.

BRUNNA:

( Nodding )

Yes, I had heard about your… foray into Pictland, my liege. Well met, Grommel.

They grip hands.

CONAN:

( To Grommel )

When I became king I gave Brunna, here, my job as commander of the Aquilonian army. Some people didn’t notice the change. I’ll admit he did a good job impersonating my softer side there for a while.

BRUNNA:

( Sarcastically )

But there will only ever be one Conan, though, right?

CONAN:

That’s right. You were the best damn charioteer in the arena though. I made a small fortune on you in the old days.

BRUNNA:

Those were good times. We lived well and played hard. Now…

( looks at his hands )

… the spirit is willing - but the flesh… not so much.

CONAN:

( Slapping a hand on his shoulder )

You were a fine soldier, Brunna. And a great racing champion.

( looks around the empty stands of the arena )

Now you train new heroes for Aquilonia.

( Nods and looks up at the great statue )

You have done many great things.

BRUNNA:

So… what can I do for you old friend?

Conan looks around at his guards.

CONAN:

Come, let us walk.

They move off together. When they are far enough away, Conan speaks.

CONAN:

I want you to retrain me, Brunna. I need to get something back of my old self.

BRUNNA:

How do you mean?

CONAN:

You still train. With swords and horses, I mean. I need someone my own age - to help me get back into that discipline again.

Brunna stops and turns.

BRUNNA:

For what purpose?

CONAN:

I don’t know how to say this… Publius was right. I’m not a young man. Out on the battlefield I made errors. Errors I would not have made 20 years ago… I got men killed, Brunna. I very nearly got killed myself. I feel old in combat. Like an old dog ready to just give in and die.

BRUNNA:

But you’re king. Leave the real fighting to the younger men. Ride your horse, wave your sword, but - in Mitra’s name, man - live your life! I retired from the army nearly ten years ago. You think I was enjoying it? All that toil and sweat and grind - competing against men half my age? Take my advise old friend - screw your women, drink your wine and be content.

CONAN:

( Shaking his head )

It’s not enough, Brunna. Besides, it’s more than that… not just the vanity of some old man mourning his lost youth. No… There’s something coming… I don’t know what - but something big. Like as a child when I sensed a panther hiding in the hills, or a wolf lurking in the glade. I didn’t get to where I am by ignoring warnings like those, Brunna. I need to be prepared.

BRUNNA:

You speak of omens…

CONAN:

( Shrugging )

If you will. You’re a barbarian - like me. Civillized men, they don’t understand the nature of things as we do. They have built their walls and forgotten - or else are afraid. But I have not forgotten, Brunna - and I am not afraid… So - I am asking for your help.

They stand facing each other in silence.

Brunna puts his hand on his hips.

BRUNNA:

I thought I was away from all this… the army, politics… Why else do you think I moved to the outskirts?

( Sighs )

Meet me at my villa. Tomorrow morning… We will see if the lion still has his fangs - or not.

CONAN:

( Grins )

You have my thanks, Brunna.

Brunna nods and, turning, walks back across the sands.

*

Ridondo’s villa. Morning.

In a large shaded chamber we see Ridondo. He is lying naked on his bed atop a pile of disheveled sheets. A wine jug lays broken on the floor. Groaning, he rolls over - just as a servant in a long tunic pads softly into the room.

SERVANT:

( standing and bowing from the doorway)

Master… are you awake?

RIDONDO:

( cursing under his breath)

Trellus! What do you want? What hour is it?

TRELLUS:

Thuthmekri is here to see you, master.

RIDONDO:

( Eyelids flickering open)

Thuthmekri? Mitra’s name! Is it evening already? How long have I slept?

TRELLUS:

Nay, master it is only morning… He awaits without in the guest hall. He… has some men with him.

RIDONDO:

Men you say? What men? Fetch my robes.

*

Fully robed now and followed by Trellus, Ridondo comes into his guest chamber. A large table dominates the room. At the entrance Ridondo stops short. We see three men seated at the table. Another sits casually on top of it - a scar faced, evil looking tough, arms folded over his chest. Before them stands Thuthmekri, hands clasped behind his back.

Imposed by the sight Ridondo clears his throat.

RIDONDO:

Thuthmekri. To what do I owe the pleasure? I have barely recovered from last night’s escapades.

THUTHMEKRI:

( Inclining his head)

Good Ridondo. I crave pardon for so early an intrusion. I thought you might be interested in some developments.

RIDONDO:

Developments? Forgive me Thuthmekri, I do not understand…

THUTHMEKRI:

( Moving closer )

Bid your servant fetch wine and water. I would introduce you to some friends of mine.

With an impatient gesture, Ridondo sends Trellus away. When he has left, Thuthmekri turns, indicating the men behind him with an outstretched arm.

THUTHMEKRI:

I am sure some of these men are familiar to you. This -

( he indicates a burly, bearded , heavy set man with a scar running down one side of his face )

- is General Borak. One time general in Aquilonia’s army.

And this -

( he steps back a little to introduce a lean and young, waspish man with cruel features )

- is Farius, nephew and direct descendant of King Numed himself.

( he nods to the tough sitting casually perched on the table edge. He is scarred and tattooed, evil looking with long dark hair and a drooping moustache)

- And this is Valtho…. from Zingara.

RIDONDO:

I am acquainted with two of them well enough. Well enough to know the merest presence of them in my house is a treasonous act punishable by death… The third -

( he looks at Valtho )

- well, let us just say his very appearance betrays what line of work he is in. A rogues gathering, Thuthmekri. You will forgive me if my welcome is a little subdued and my complexion a little paler than usual.

Thuthmekri, moving closer, reaches inside his robes with one hand. When he brings it out again Ridondo sees he holds the small ebon box.

THUTHMEKRI:

A little lotus? To take the edge off the night’s …forays?

Seeing the contents, Ridondo begins to sweat. He licks dry lips. With trembling hand he reaches in and takes a leaf.

RIDONDO:

Perhaps … Just a little, to take the edge off.

He places the leaf on his tongue and closes his mouth. His body visibly relaxes.

Thuthmekri, smiling, snaps the box shut. Putting a hand on his shoulder, he guides him over to the table.

Valtho moves off and begins pacing the room, absently toying with a sheathed dagger.

As Ridondo sits, Trellus enters the chamber, bearing a tray with jugs and cups. He places it before them and pours. When he is done he bows and departs.

THUTHMEKRI:

A comfortable abode, Ridondo. But you deserve better.

RIDONDO:

You flatter. I recall no complaint from you during the last month’s debauch.

THUTHMEKRI:

( lifting a cup and sipping )

You wrong me, Ridondo, as ever. I mean only that a man of your talents, with your vision, deserves more. I have seen too many men fail in life, content with their lot. Falling short of their true potential due to lack of ambition.

RIDONDO:

Really, Thuthmekri? And how do you suppose one of my meager means elevates himself ?

Ridondo is looking suspiciously at Valtho as he stalks the chamber, inspecting the plants and looking at the décor, as if bored with the proceedings.

BORAK:

We’ll get to the point, minstrel. We’re going to take back the kingdom and we want you to be the voice of the people.

Ridondo sits back in stunned silence. He looks slowly around him then laughs.

RIDONDO:

Really?

BORAK:

( leaning across the table )

Yes. Really.

THUTHMEKRI:

These exiled men are but the spark of a raging tempest soon to be sweeping throughout the land. The old dynasty is still missed. Farius, here, claims direct descent and lineage to the throne. We will make him king. Seizing Aquilonia will just be the start.

RIDONDO:

You’re mad. You have no army, no miltia, no might. What - you expect Conan to just lay down his arms and ride off into the night at the sight of a few old ghosts?

FARIUS:

( steep ling his fingers )

Conan’s… renouncing of his duties as monarch are being set in motion as we speak.

BORAK:

He was a fool to let us live and, by Mitra, it is a decision I will live to see him regret.

RIDONDO:

Yes, that puzzles me. Why did he let you live?

FARIUS:

Conan is no fool. He is a usurper. When he first came to power

he needed to keep favour with those in ministerial government, many of whom counted both myself and Borak as friends.

RIDONDO:

I see… And Thuthmekri, what is your interest in this? I, at first, thought you a spy for the Nemedians, like Kambach. But I know, ultimately, such things are beneath you. Speaking of Kambach - where is he? I thought he , at least, would be here.

THUTHMEKRI:

Kambach’s services are nearly at end, though he has one last pivotal role to play for us before he departs.

As for myself…

( he inclines his head )

… let us just say, I work to serve a higher purpose.

Borak, shifting uncomfortably, drinks from one of the goblets.

BORAK:

We have plans of our own.

FARIUS:

Aye. The foundations are being laid. The downfall of the barbarian is nigh. We await only the right moment to strike.

RIDONDO:

( Genuinely surprised, if wary )

Oh? And how so?

FARIUS:

( Grinning )

You, yourself, Ridondo have played a great part in paving the way - by rousing the common folk. It was we who organized rallies against the king upon his return from Pictland and who lauded

your songs… The people love you, Ridondo.

RIDONDO:

The people are fools. They loved Conan too, once - when they hailed him as liberator.

FARIUS:

( Leaning forward )

You have power, Ridondo! In your words, in your songs! Use them and join cause with us. Become great and your name will live on in the annals of history when all kings are forgotten dust.

RIDONDO:

( Sips slowly from his goblet )

It is the dream…

BORAK:

There is a man of Conan’s… Grommel. He has but recently been made captain of his personal bodyguard. Fortune indeed favours us. Information has but newly reached me. It seems Grommel has been long wanted in Corinthia for the murder of a wealthy merchant at the gaming tables. This is the lever we have been waiting for. If we can get to Grommel - and we will - then the rest will fall into place.

RIDONDO:

How? There is no deposing that old lion. He will not go quietly into the dark. Nay, I fear me that Aquilonia will drown in blood long before he relinquishes grip of the throne.

FARIUS:

That is why - alone in his chambers at night - the king must die!

RIDONDO:

( Shaking his head )

You cannot hope to win through the Black Dragons, his most

trusted guard.

BORAK:

With Grommel we won’t need to. Fortune favours the brave, minstrel. I, myself, will administer the death blow that will send the barbarian howling into the dark.

FARIUS:

And you are forgetting one thing, Ridondo. We have Thuthmekri at our side. A most valued ally, whose knowledge and power is beyond that of other men…

Ridondo looks across to Thuthmekri who sits poised, stroking his chin, a half smile playing on his lips. The jewelled eyes of the serpent ring, coiled on his finger, glimmer as with a life all their own.

FARIUS:

Are you with us, Ridondo?

Ridondo looks around the faces before him. Fear, and something of excitement, are mirrored in his eyes. He trembles, sweat forming on his brow. Borak, drawing a poniard from his girdle lays it gently on the table before him. The minstrel stares at it intently. There is a subdued silence. Thuthmekri, lighting a candle, moves it in it’s holder, across into the middle of the table.

RIDONDO:

( Licking his lips feverishly )

Aye! I’m in. For glory - or death!

He laughs and, snatching up the knife slits diagonally across his left hand then lays the blade down. Farius picks it up next and does the same. After him, Borak, then, finally, Thuthmekri.

Valtho stands back, watching distractedly; as if well used to such sights down the long course of his career.

Over the dripping candle the four conspirators clasp hands. Their blood hisses onto the guttering flame.

FARIUS:

For glory ….or death!

*

Montage :

Conan and Brunna running along a forest trail.

Conan practicing with a sword-master, mirroring his moves. Brunna looks on from a table, gnawing at a beef bone. Conan is rusty and slow.

Conan climbing up a steep hill. A wooden pole, over his shoulders, bends under the weight of baskets containing rocks. At his side, Brunna urges him on.

Conan and the sword-master again. They spin together and stop. The sword-master shakes his head and, moving over, corrects his positioning. Conan nods.

In the arena Conan watches intently, standing close to the side of a gladiator who is showing him moves with a pole arm glaive.

Conan -- again mirroring moves with the sword-master. He is quicker now. They move in synchronized harmony - fluid and graceful. They end with a sweeping figure of eight sword pattern that brings them up poised before Brunna. He nods in approval.

*

A tavern in the city.

Grommel is at the gaming tables.

There is a boisterous atmosphere. Many people crowd around.

Grommel laughs as dice thuds over the rough hewn boards. Drinking from a cup, he trades jests with a veteran soldier.

A hooded figure appears at one side of the table. A gambler turns.

A gleaming coin lands before Grommel. He looks at it then sits back, raising his head. All eyes at the table turn to the figure of the hooded man.

THUTHMEKRI:

I see you recognize a gold coin from Corinthia, my lord. Perhaps it can buy a moment of your time?

Grommel hesitates. Looking round the table, he nods and gets slowly to his feet.

Beneath his hood, Thumekri smiles.

*

Grommel sits at the end of a bed. He is staring into nothing. Behind him we see the outline of a woman standing in the shadows, the purple slash of her dress highlighted in the dark. Her belly, large and round, strains against the fabric. One hand moves gently over the swollen curve.

WOMAN’S VOICE:

What is wrong, my love?

Grommel makes no reply. A hand reaches out, touching his shoulder. He shakes his head and, rising, moves swiftly away.

The woman leans forward into the light. We see her face, strained with concern.

WOMAN:

Grommel!

*