Less than the Dogs of the King

fanfic for Robert E Howard "The Hour of the Dragon"

Goran and Odo are my creations. This is meant to be in line with canon, although I have only read the one book, so I likely have mistakes here.

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King Nimed of Nemedia sat in a courtyard of his palace in Belverus under the royal canopy. One of his women sat on a plush cushion of royal purple at his feet, her bare legs tucked under her, rubbing her back against his legs. A gold circlet, that came perilously close to looking like a coronet, sat on her brow, contrasting nicely with the tawny tresses that cascaded down past her delicate shoulders, but the Queen was well away from this courtyard where the King liked to take the air with the current favorites from his seraglio.

Goran grunted as the whip crossed his back again.

“Twenty-five!” called Odo, the slave wielding the whip. His leathery beardless face, etched with the lines of age, and his solid, stolid build made him look more like a laborer than the palace eunuch that he was.

Zenobia stood next to him, by a table with an exquisite porcelain bowl full of water with healing herbs, a cloth, and ointment. Odo was just using the leather cat-o-nine tails, not the scourge with bits of glass and jagged bone embedded in each strap. Goran was part of the entertainment for the day. The woman at the king’s feet had picked him out of the crowd on the main public street through Belverus, so that the traveler had found himself taking a detour through the palace, but the programme did not call for death or mutilation this time. So far.

“Thirty-nine!” Odo looked over to the King and the girls under the canopy.

“What do you think?” Nimed asked the woman at his feet, with a smile.

She pouted. “He was so dull. He didn’t cry out once!”

“Shall we get the scourge after all?”

The girl looked over at Zenobia, who schooled her face to utter indifference. If she showed the slightest emotional reaction to what was going on, Senai might convince their lord to switch to the scourge after all, and then there would be a good chance the young man would die of his wounds. She had learned the price to others, of exposing her heart.

“No, my lord,” the girl said reluctantly, seeing the impassive face of the lowest status member of their sisterhood. She gave up on getting a reaction from any of the three “entertainers” in the courtyard. “Let’s go in. See? The sun is getting strong. You know how delicate my complexion is.”

She flirted with the King, and Zenobia heard girlish chatter and the King’s low chuckle as he and the other girls moved indoors.

Goran stood still. It was never good for a commoner to be called into the Nemedian palace under this king. People didn’t always come out alive and undamaged. Odo and Zenobia also stood quiet and motionless until the royal party was gone and the doors shut completely. Then Odo nodded his head, put down the whip, and walked over to the young man.

“Keep your voice down,” he warned, as he released the straps that held up Goran’s hands.

Goran shook out his arms and got the blood circulating again. “Can I go yet?” he asked.

“Not for awhile,” said Zenobia. “Come over here. I’ll tend that, so it heals cleanly.”

He looked at her briefly, then lowered his eyes and presented his back to her. He knew about the concubine who worked like a servant. He had assumed there must be something wrong with her, for them to waste her like that, but he could see no aspect of her beauty that was inferior to that of the other women in the seraglio. On the other hand, the Nemedian king was not known for his good judgment. Still, it seemed strange for such a woman to be ministering like this to a commoner.

“You may need to stay for a few days. It would be very bad for you to be gone if they ask about you,” said Odo.

Goran frowned. It wasn’t the time wasted that bothered him so much, as much as the fact that the longer he tarried here, the more likely he would lose everything from his peddler’s cart. Belverus was a regular part of his route, so he had some acquaintances who had seen him taken up by the king. They would watch over it, taking some “reward” for their efforts but leaving most of it to him. But not indefinitely. And certainly not if there was any chance that someone from the palace remembered the cart, as well as the man.

Odo recognized the look. “It’s your own fault,” he said. “Did you have to be totally silent? You weren’t entertaining enough.”

Goran glared, but then sighed. “I know that.”

“They’d have forgotten you already otherwise,” said Odo. “You didn’t have to scream or beg like a woman. Just something –.”

“I know!” he interrupted, snarling.

“Cimmerians!” Odo said quietly to himself.

Goran sneered but said nothing in exchange.

Zenobia looked curiously at him. She’d never seen a Cimmerian man up this close. He was somewhat taller than most of the Nemedian men, as were the Cimmerians in general, but not excessively so. His shoulder length hair was dark brown, almost black, with hints of lighter brown and even red. Blue eyes were not uncommon among his people, but his were still the most common color: dark brown, like his hair. He had very much the build and the manner of a fighting man.

“Were you a soldier before?” she asked.

Goran’s face darkened, but then, the woman had a strange mixture of the naivete, that he connected with the cowardly, indolent peoples, and a calm practicality, that would not have been out of place among the women of his own village. It was probably not meant as an insult.

“Warrior,” he said. “Of course. I’m a man.”

“But not anymore,” she said.

Odo sucked in a breath. He was quite fond of the young woman, but was she really trying to provoke the barbarian? But then, she was mainly among eunuchs, such as himself, and the weak and venal king.

Goran lifted his eyes, then, and raked them over her black hair and eyes, and her alabaster skin. A lot of alabaster skin. Her near nakedness showed her supposed role here, and the richness of the wisp of silk around her hips, and the jewel encrusted breast plates covering very little of her form, showed that the man she belonged to was rich and powerful indeed. What an idiot, to waste such a woman.

She stood quietly but calmly, taking his attention as tribute rather than impertinence. She knew she could have him killed at a word. Even she, the lowest in the seraglio, was more powerful than he. But she had not meant her words as they had been taken.

“You are now a peddler, I mean,” she corrected herself.

“Yes, my lady,” he answered, and inclined his head briefly.

“What are your wares?” she asked.

Odo smiled. They were back to the business at hand. The king was so disliked, and so unpredictable, that it was necessary for the servants and slaves of his palace to make connections, as discreetly as possible, on the outside. One needed to have people to help and a place to go if one became the sudden target of his unpredictable attention.

“Metalware. Cutlery.”

“Knives?” Zenobia asked, meeting his eyes.

“Of course,” he said. “Many kinds of knives.”

“Like this one?” She showed him a dainty stiletto with a gold guard. A typical toy of a civilized man’s kept woman.

“More like this,” he said, and suddenly he had drawn Odo’s poniard from its hiding place, broad bladed and fifteen inches in length. Odo had not been on his guard, and had neither the training nor the instincts of a warrior. He worked in the seraglio doing menial physical work, as a laborer.

For a moment, Goran actually considered fighting. The woman and the eunuch were clearly no match for him. But neither did they have any love for the king, and both had kept him alive so far. He turned the hilt of the poniard toward Zenobia.

She took it and held both weapons, one in each hand, comparing them. “You are right, Odo,” she said. “This would be better. But it is much too big for me to carry.”

“I have leather goods, as well,” said Goram. “And livestock. Many people are happy with my wares. People who need to ride hard and fast.”

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Photo by Sophie Hollies on Unsplash

A few days later, Goran was gone.

Zenobia was alone with Odo in her small bedchamber. She sat on her couch, mending a jerkin for him, while he fixed a tapestry back to the wall, that one of the king’s mastiffs had torn down.

“Thank you, Odo,” she said. “The king’s dogs are valued higher than I.”

Odo smiled. “And you higher than I. Shall we both worship the king’s dogs?”

She chuckled and put the mending down, then went over to look out the window. “That must be them.”

He joined her. “The barbarian knights from Aquilonia?”

She nodded her head. “They’re Cimmerian, like Goran.” That connection had been well made. She and Odo had discreet access to military supplies now.

The knights came into view. She saw the resemblance between them and Goran, in form, in size, in bearing. But as they came closer, she saw that she had misjudged their leader. Conan was easily two heads taller than all his other men, even adjusting for the relative sizes of their steeds. His hair was black, much darker than Goran’s dark brown, and he was one of the blue-eyed of his people.

Barbarian though he was, she thought she had never seen a man more noble. Her heart seemed to leap from her breast and fall in the dust of the street, where trod the hoofs of his horse. The blood rose in her face, and her breath stopped.

Odo turned to look at her. He had not wondered at her kindness toward Goran, but now he understood. There would only ever be one man for this woman. He looked out the window again at the barbarian. And it would be well done, he thought.