The House of the Hooded Falcon

Ten Years Ago:

Numair crept swiftly across the Stygian desert; a low wind covered his shallow footprints. He headed silently towards a distant keep whose high walls were shrouded by the towering cliffs. No moonlight would give him away that eve as a pall of clouds rolled slowly through the night sky. Numair was tired, his muscles ached from the long journey; quietly, he cursed his horse who had died many miles back.
“No bother,” he then thought, “I would have had to leave that bastard animal by now, regardless,” he then finished the last drops of water from his skin and tucked it back into his bag. At this pace he would reach the keep well before dawn.
After a short while clouds broke in the night sky illuminating the road leading towards the small desert keep. Numair froze watching the soldiers armor glisten in the moonlight; suddenly his keen eyes noticed something else, an inky figure against the black horizon. “Another fiendish rogue?” He grinned, “those Turanian dogs have more enemies than I.” With only a few more paces he was upon the side walls of the Turanian outpost, the guards at the gate still none the wiser.
Silence loomed behind the high stone walls as Numair climbed noiselessly up the side. With a quick push of his sinewed arm he flung himself over the wall on to the parapet landing as softy as a panther stalking through Kush jungle. The guard ahead was still oblivious to his presence. Quickly Numair moved plunging his dagger deep within the man's throat. There was no struggle, only a low choking cough and a slight creak as the body hit the wooden walkway. The soldiers in the outpost were fast asleep in their beds as he made his way to the second parapet guard. Again, the guard fell swiftly to his gleaming blade, but something was amiss. As Numair looked down over the stone wall he spied an unsettling sight. The guards at the gate were slain, too quietly for even his pantherine senses.
Then, feeling a presence behind him he wheeled around readying his twin blades, but the man before him was different, a bronze-skinned westerner with blue lupine eyes. A large blade was gripped comfortably in the stranger's right hand, and in the left a curious glistening necklace bearing an enormous stone.
“You are not a Turanian,” said the stranger in a low growl.
“Neither are you,” smiled Numair lowering his weapons thankful this iron-thewed man showed no intention of killing him. “Why are you here?”
“I should ask you the same,” he grinned, “Who are you?”
“I am Numair, from the House of the Hooded Falcon.” Numair eyed him questioningly.
“I am Conan,” he said as he sheathed his great blade, “Captain Aran Kazadh stole this necklace from a friend of mine. Tonight I took it back.” With that he leapt over the rail landing silently on the outside of the wall. The dead guards took no notice.
Chuckling to himself Numair let loose a strange call; soon after a falcon could be seen distant in the sky. Numair finished writing his note as the bird landed keenly upon his shoulder.
“Take this my friend,” he whispered and the falcon quietly soared away. With the guards dead, he hopped down to the gate and unfastened the bolt. “We will drive those Turanian jackals out yet.” As the keep lay unguarded and open Numair slunk silently back into the desert.