Tales of Conan – Deliverance from the Sea

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Age of Conan – Fictional Story
Series Continues
by


Michael Lafferty

GameZone.com presents the first
in a series of original fictional stories by Michael Lafferty stemming from the
massively multiplayer online world of Age of Conan – Hyborian Adventures. The
following story was written with the permission and cooperation of Funcom, the
developer of the game. This tale continues series of stories that deal with the
world, the characters and the lore involved in Hyboria. Some of these stories
may contain spoilers for quests, so by Crom, be forewarned!

Deliverance from the Sea

The skies roil black
in anger
While chaos churns the seas
Hull and deck scream in protest
Drowning out the slavers’ pleas

Could this be Crom’s
vengeful might
Spitting violence at Stygian chains?
The foaming nightmare of the water
Crushes ships as madness reigns

Consciousness stirred
slowly, the web of darkness fading. The voice was gone; the mocking voice,
compelling, overwhelming, subduing her in chains more real than those that
fettered her wrists. She laid on the cold, wet sand, the tickle of the ocean
lapped at her legs, the chill sending shivers up her spine despite the warm
breeze that skipped off her shoulders.

She tried to remember.
There were images, shattered, drifting through her mind in small fragments of
reality. Some of the images were definitely her, scenes playing out before her
eyes, but others seemed to be someone else – as though she was a spectator,
viewing from a distance as her body moved to the will of another, and did things
… she shuddered as she tried to discard the imagery.

Another small wave
crested the beach, drenching her lower body. Ainya pushed herself up, willing
herself to move from the water’s edge. A dark-skinned man was sitting on his
haunches, watching her. His words were kind, invoking more images. She
remembered a fight, long ago, in a distant place. Her hand touched her left
brow. That fight had left a scar, a tangible memory. She had the inkling of a
mage, reading from a scroll, chanting, and then … nothing – only passages in
which she saw herself from a distant place.

The man, Kalanthes, said
something that stirred her to awareness in the present. She was not the only
survivor from the shipwreck; another had survived. The man said the name, a
hateful word that swelled her heart in anger – Saddur. He was the slaver from
the ship, the one who attached the cuffs to her wrists, and chains to the cuffs.
He was the one that had clothed her in the silvered gown of a slavegirl, the
trappings of one used for the pleasures of others. Even now she could smell his
fetid breath, see his leering eyes, and feel the touch of his greasy, fat hands.

Her eyes cast about the
beach, seeking something to use as a weapon. There was a piece of a broken oar,
slightly longer than arm’s length, splintered on one end, but strong through the
middle. Club or spear, it would not matter. This was the weapon she would use.
Saddur had fled into the jungle of this island, Tortage, heading for the city.
She vowed silently that he would never lay eyes on it.

The jungle was alive. The
undergrowth smelled of rotted vegetation trading scents with flowering plants.
The whole of the landscape was painted in vibrant greens, yellows and flowering
reds. But more than plants, there were others roaming the pathways. Pirates and
Picts, and jungle cats trained to hunt for human masters. She avoided what she
could, killed those she could not avoid. The slave costume was left behind for
leathers that were no longer of use to a Pict she encountered. Sticking to the
lush wall of ferns and trees, she moved quickly. It was not long before she saw
a wall, and knew there would be a gate there. If Saddur was beyond that, the
task would merely become more difficult. But … and then she saw him, standing
partially in the wall’s shadow, looking at the gate with a mixture of perplexity
and anger. The jungle had not treated him well. He bore the marks of some fights
of his own, but he had survived those.

‘This one will be
different,’ she vowed.

Ainya stepped into the
dappled sunlight caressing the clearing near the gate, locking eyes with Saddur.
Few words were needed. Both knew what was to follow.

Saddur’s scimitar caught
a glint of the sun as it arched from the shadow of the gate, swinging downward
with enough fury to cleave Ainya in half. But the lithe Cimmerian was too quick.
Her feet danced to the side, barely beyond the blade’s path, while her shoulders
twisted, knotting muscles released as the weapon, the broken oar, rose in a
vicious sweeping arc of its own. There was a resounding thunk! as the wood
connected with the left side of Saddur’s skull, staggering Stygian, splitting
flesh and releasing a stream of blood. Saddur tottered backward, dazed, but far
from finished. His left hand felt the wound, coming away wet and sticky.

“Now you have a scar of
your own to bear witness of your beating at the hands of a woman, Stygian,”
Ainya hissed, feet setting again.


Art by Rashad Baiyasi

Saddur roared, his bulk
pulsating with pure rage. Senses somewhat regained, he rushed forward, intent on
skewering the tormenting woman. Ainya let him come, waiting until his momentum
was beyond the point of stopping. This time she moved toward the sword, then
ducked under it to Saddur’s right, her own momentum behind a thrust with the
broad end of the oar at the Stygian’s right knee. The leg was thrust wide, the
bulk of Saddur’s weight thrown off balance. In an effort to catch himself,
Saddur let go of the sword and threw his hands out to meet the rising ground.
His arms were barely able to hold his shoulders and head from hitting the stone
and dirt, but even then his vision, focused downward, caught the glimpse of the
small feet of the woman, positioning themselves off his right shoulder. Then he
saw the oar, a mighty swing upward, catching him squarely in the face and
elevating him upward.

Ainya waited until the
Stygian’s torso was fully exposed; then the jagged, sharp end of the oar found
its target in the mountain of flesh that was the Stygian’s belly and buried
itself there. The body, already expelling the last vestiges of life, tumbled
backwards, convulsed once and then was still.

Ainya leaned down and
picked up the discarded scimitar.

“That is but one debt
paid,” she murmured and then looked to the gate that would lead her to Tortage
City.

 

The first story can be found
here:
Tales of Conan: In Service to a King