Conan: The Shadow of Vengeance: The Heroic Legends Series

By Scott Oden

Capturing the electric short fiction energy that led Robert E. Howard to be one of the top fantasy writers of the century, with exclusive serialized eBook stories starring Conan, Solomon Kane, and more by many of today’s top writers in fantasy and sword-and-sorcery.

“Conan: The Shadow of Vengeance” is an intended follow-up to “The Devil in Iron.” A classic sword and sorcery tale by Robert E. Howard himself.

In far eastern Turan, the regent of Khawarzim seeks bloody revenge. To achieve it, Ghaznavi is willing to strike a bargain with Karash Khan, the master of the Nine—acolytes of the god of Death, their powers and ruthlessness are spoken of only in whispers.The object of Ghaznavi's hatred rides at the head of a score of Zaporoskan kozaks, bandits formed from fleeing criminals, escaped slaves, and deserting soldiers. Men of many crimes and countries. Their leader is accompanied by Octavia, a statuesque royal from Nemedia whose devotion to him is without question. The object of Ghaznavi’s burning hatred is Conan of Cimmeria.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Titan Books
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9781803366371

Scott Oden

Scott Oden was born in Indiana but has spent most of his life shuffling between his home in rural North Alabama, a Hobbit hole in Middle-earth, and some sketchy tavern in the Hyborian Age. He is an avid reader of fantasy and ancient history, a collector of swords, and a player of tabletop role-playing games. When not writing, he can be found walking his two dogs or doting over his lovely wife, Shannon.

Book preview

Ghaznavi, regent of Khawarizm and the one-time chief counselor to its dead lord, Jehungir Agha, laid aside the parchment scroll and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Another petition. Another beggar’s lament couched in ornate lettering, from a local grandee whose pride of birth could not hide his dearth of accomplishments. A dozen such appeals cluttered the regent’s work table, all of them wrought by desperate men trying to improve their state of affairs before the new lord of the city arrived.

If he arrives.

The old regent reached for a goblet of wine, glancing out the shuttered window as silvery jags of lightning stitched across the heavens; thunder followed on its heels, strong enough to rattle the soot-blackened chimney of his oil lamp. With the fall of night had come one of the many violent storms that plagued the Vilayet during winter, bearing upon it the icy breath of the far Himelians. He doubted the royal cousin who was Khawarizm’s new lord would brave the weather to take up the Agha’s mantle before

spring—and

the courtiers knew it, too. Hence their flurry of petitions.

Make old Ghaznavi decide it, he muttered aloud to himself, smoothing his gray-shot beard. Then old Ghaznavi can weather our new lord’s displeasure at being surrounded by so many newly-emboldened incompetents. Ghaznavi gave a short, sardonic laugh. He drained his goblet, and then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. The sweet wine of Kyros; it fortified him when nothing else could. He reached for the decanter, found it empty, and was on the verge of calling for a slave to fetch more when a savage gust of wind burst open the shuttered windows.

The howling gale snatched the petitions from the regent’s work table as easily as it snatched the flames from the candles in their sconces; even the oil lamp guttered and died, plunging the study into darkness. Cursing and grumbling under his breath, the old counselor clambered to his feet and moved to close the shutters. The wind plucked at his robes. It bore the tang of salt, and it drove sharp pellets of rain before it. Lightning burned white and brief across the nighted skies above Khawarizm.

Ghaznavi latched the shutters and cuffed moisture from his cheek with the sleeve of his robe. He made his way back to the work table. There, he fumbled among the riot of scroll weights, quills, ink bottles, waxed boards, and ivory styli until he found flint and steel.

Strike no light, whispered a voice from the shadows.

Though his heart leapt into his throat, the old counselor nevertheless maintained his composure. He paused with one hand poised above the lamp’s leaded glass chimney, a bushy eyebrow cocked in the direction of the intruder. If you’ve come to kill me, he said, a slight tremor in his voice betraying his discomfiture, I bid you do it quickly. I am weary and relish the thought of being greeted by my ancestors in the next world.

Lightning flared; in that hard white glare, Ghaznavi had the impression of a cloaked silhouette, tall and lean, with a zealot’s stare and the end of a spade-like beard showing from the depths of a hood. The Nine have heard your whispers, Ghaznavi of Khawarizm, the figure said. The Nine have heard your prayers.

The newcomer’s words struck Ghaznavi like a physical blow. He reeled and would have fallen had he not grasped the table’s edge to steady himself. The Nine!

You…

Ghaznavi cleared his throat until he found his voice. You are their master? You are Karash Khan?

The figure gave an all but imperceptible nod.

Ghaznavi’s phlegmatic resolve crumbled, as if by the intruder’s presence he witnessed the fulfillment of a

dream—or

the lifting of a great weight from age-bowed shoulders. He leaned heavily against the work table. Then Black Erlik has truly answered my prayers.

The

Nine—those

acolytes of the god of Death who called themselves the

Sicari—were

the stuff of fable and myth to the common folk of Turan, scapegoats around whose necks were hung myriad sins; Ghaznavi, however, knew better. He knew why wise men only spoke of them in hushed voices or through subtle innuendo, for daring to speak openly of them was tantamount to a death sentence. But Ghaznavi had dared. He had dared speak their name to the spymasters and informers, dared venture into the reeking alleys of the River Quarter of Khawarizm. He had braved the stealthy knife, the throttling garrote, the poison-laced cup to seek redress for his fallen lord, Jehungir Agha. Now, before him stood the secretive master of the Nine, who had learned the arts of deception beneath the nighted domes of accursed Sabatea.

You wish for a death.

I wish for more than that, Ghaznavi said, after a moment. "A mere death I could procure on my own, given

time—though

my nemesis has proven inscrutably resilient to guile and force of arms. No, what I

wish… what

I desire more than anything, is to see him humiliated and cast out in shame ere you deliver him unto your dark and bloodthirsty god. I seek vengeance, O Karash Khan!"

What do you offer in exchange?

The wealth of Khawarizm! Ghaznavi’s fingers gripped the edges of his work table.

But such wealth is not yours to give, is it? Karash Khan replied. "You are merely its steward, and only for a short time. Offer us something else.

Something… within

your power."

Ghaznavi’s eyes narrowed. As Jehungir Agha’s

counselor—and

now as Khawarizm’s

regent—his

business was discerning intent,