Gianfranco Mancini’s Reviews > Conan: The Shadow of Vengeance > Status Update

“Do you not recognize the face of the man you sent to kill me?” Conan said, stepping into the solarium from the curved balcony. Shoeless, he looked like a mendicant priest in his hooded robe; mail glittered beneath the coarse white fabric he wore. For a moment that seemed to stretch on for an eternity, Ghaznavi glared at the Cimmerian. Somewhere, from beyond the void, he heard the sardonic laughter of the Gods.

Conan’s gaze swept across the ruin, but of the beast there was no sign. A handful of pirates approached, led by Karduniash. Behind him came Dragutin, cloak-wrapped and red-eyed; tears stained his cheeks as he looked out over the wreckage of his ship. He leaned heavily on Zhal’s shoulder. The dogs of the Brotherhood, always a mercurial lot, greeted Conan like a conquering hero.

Here were two foes well-matched in height and in reach, equally skilled, divided only by the gulf that separates the barbarian from the civilized man—a gulf that no amount of skill, reach, or height could bridge. While Karash Khan paused to wring sweat from his eyes, Conan’s fierce vitality—the birth-gift of Crom—flooded his limbs with fresh vigor.

The Cimmerian hefted it, cut the air as he made a few test passes. All the while, he kept his gaze fixed upon the stern of the ship. “If you would avenge your captain,” he said to those men around him, “then fill your hands with steel and take back his ship, you dogs!” Blades rasped and whickered; howls of outrage rose from a score of throats, echoed by hundreds of men ashore.

Suddenly, Karduniash recoiled; blood drained from his dark features. “Merciful Bel! What deviltry is this?” A hush fell over the waterfront, pierced only by muttered imprecations and prayers. Men pointed and made a sign of warding against the evil eye; some faded from sight as terror gripped them. For from the belly of the galley, with blade and chain in hand, rose Conan the Cimmerian…

Harkhebi’s eyes lit up. “So-ho! The rumors are true, then? You mean to take Khawarizm!” “The time is ripe,” Conan replied with a shrug of his massive shoulders. “But getting this pack of motherless dams to agree to anything is like trying to herd the fabled cats of Ulthar!”

But when she raised her head from his shoulder to meet his gaze, she was dry-eyed; a smile plucked at the corners of her mouth. Unseen, she drew her knife from beneath the coverlet. “My name?” Ivanos leaned back a space, his head tilted to fix her with his good eye. A furrow creased his brow. She cupped his face with her left hand. “My name is Death.”

Once outside, Conan shrugged free of the Corinthian’s grasp. “Crom’s devils! You should have let me kill the bastard! Damn his black heart!” “By Mitra! You were a captain, once,” Ivanos said. “You know our ways as well as any man. Violence is forbidden at the conclave.” Conan hitched his sword belt. “Well it’s no longer a conclave, is it?”

She leaned down and, with her eyes on Harkhebi, slowly—sensuously—drew a long, double-edged knife from the kozak’s sash. “With this, I will be fine.” And slowly, Octavia straightened. Drawing her cloak close about her splendid limbs, her face lost to shadow, she made her way out into the cold Vilayet night, a prowling cat in search of prey.

“Be careful. These men…” “They’re greedy swine like the rest of us,” Conan replied. The Cimmerian reached up. His iron-hard fingers tangled in Octavia’s hair as he drew her down to him. She gasped at the ferocity of his kiss. Then, with a gusty laugh, he released her and slapped her horse’s haunch. “Go on, girl! Do as you’re told.”