Conan the Swordsman

by L. Sprague De Camp

  Tall and lean was this dark figure, and strangely misshapen, although Conan could discern no obvious deformity. Perhaps it was his high, hunched shoulders that lent his figure a suggestion of abnormality, or the crooked, bony jaw and slitted yellow eyes that glared from the mask of his face like the feral orbs of a savage beast. But the shadow of nameless, misshapen evil clung as tightly about his motionless form as the dark cloak that shrouded him.

  Although the dreaming Conan clearly saw both the brooding man and the tall stranger hovering behind him, Gonzago seemed entirely unaware of the masked and evil presence. Then within the barbarian's brain flared up the bright blue flame of apprehension. He struggled in the toils of his unseemly vision, trying to cry out to warn the seated man of the imminence of danger. But he could neither speak, nor move, nor otherwise attract the attention of Gonzago, who sat bemused beside the dying fire.

  Then, with startling suddenness, the cloaked figure sprang into motion. He hurled himself out of the jungle, amber eyes burning through the gloom. Straight for the back of the unknowing Gonzago the dark man launched himself, and coming, spread strange, slender arms with gaunt fingers hooked to rend and tear, like talons of some monstrous, predatory bird.

  As the being spread his arms, Conan saw they were not arms at all and what he had perceived as the long folds of a dark cloak were the wings of an enormous bat.

  And still Conan fought within the confines of his dream to rise, to shout to the oblivious figure of his captain, to warn him of the evil shape of darkness about to spring upon him with bared fangs and wicked claws extended.

  Then a sudden scream ripped the unnatural stillness of the night, shattering the dream like tinkling shards of glass. For a timeless moment Conan lay propped against the palm tree, his heart thudding, not knowing whether he had waked or still lay trammeled within a nightmare's grasp.

  -

  That hoarse, despairing shriek aroused the other sleeping pirates with the same abruptness that wrenched Conan from his haunted slumbers. As the Cimmerian snatched up his cutlass and rolled to his feet, he sought the cause of the cry that had awakened him. His. comrades likewise shambled from their earthen beds, fumbled with their weapons, and muttered confused questions.

  The moon rode high in the sky, and in its opalescent light all eyes were drawn to the slumped figure of their captain. Silent and motionless, he sat upon his log before the gray-veiled embers, head bowed upon his knees. He alone had not been shocked awake by the scream that floated on the breeze. Deep indeed must be Gonzago's dreams if that terrible cry did not awaken him.

  Conan's scalp prickled with a superstitious premonition as he strode to the captain and shook him by the shoulder. Gonzago sagged and tumbled forward as limp as a rag doll; and as he fell, his head flopped back upon one shoulder. Then Conan knew who had voiced that raw, despairing shriek, knew, too, that they were not alone on this small island. For Gonzago's throat, like Mena's, had been sliced across, as if by a hooked knife or by the talon of some monstrous bird of prey. Through the mask of blood that once had been a face, eyes stared forth sightlessly.

  -

  6 • Murder in the Moonlight

  No raider slept for the remainder of that night. Not even the hardiest among them wanted again to risk the oblivion of slumber and an untimely end. So the men gathered more wood and built the fire again, piling the brush higher and higher still, until the flames licked the tops of the palms, and the rising smoke enveloped the unwinking and uncaring stars.

  Conan had not spoken about his dreams, wherein he watched a hideous winged creature strike and slay from the dense shadows. Nor could the Cimmerian explain, even to himself, why he held his tongue in this matter. Perhaps it was simply that the men were frightened enough already by the weird demise of the conjuror and their captain; and it would be incautious of a commander to excite the primal superstitious fears of his unruly band. For were they to conceive the notion of a gaunt and murderous specter stalking the shadowy aisles of the jungle night, not even one such as the mighty Conan could hold them obedient to his orders.

  With the death of Gonzago, command of the ill-starred expedition devolved upon Conan; for Borus, the first mate of the Hawk, was still aboard the pirate ship moored on the farther side of Siptah's isle. And even on his brawny shoulders the burden would rest uneasily.

  Conan posted fresh sentries, twice as many as before, and sternly bade them to be vigilant. Gonzago's murder, he assured the men, had been the work of some strange jungle beast, which might still prowl abroad.

  Conan was not entirely certain of the falsity of this explanation. A dream may be a dream and nothing more; yet the Cimmerian had never discredited the claims of those who read the future by means of a man's dreaming. And yet the slayer was more likely to be a little-known beast of prey brought by some unknown means from a distant coast of Stygia. Perhaps one of Gonzago's men, nursing a grudge against the captain, had stolen up behind him in the dark and cut his throat. Or, perhaps, again, the winged figure in his dream was some hybrid monstrosity, bred of an unholy experiment performed by the Stygian sorcerer. Who could say what creatures dwelt on such a nameless and unholy isle?

  So meditated Conan, sitting among his sleepless men around the roaring fire. Then a strangled cry of horror ripped the velvet night.

  Shuddering at the clammy touch of grisly premonition, Conan sprang, cursing, to his feet, his steel naked in the firelight. A running figure shouldered through the twisting jungle vines and, speechless, stopped before him.

  It was no cloaked and amber-eyed thing with hunched and bony shoulders, but one of the posted sentries—a burly-chested, tawny-bearded Argossean named Fabio. The man's face was ghostly pale, and his hands shook as he pointed wordlessly into the jungle. Harshly bidding the others to remain, Conan followed the sentry back along the narrow path.

  Up the jungle trail hacked out the previous day prowled the Cimmerian with catlike gait behind the trembling sentry. As he strode forward, his blue eyes penetrated the darkness, and he sniffed the air for telltale odors. Then Fabio halted, pointing.

  Dappled moonlight filtering through the foliage revealed two men sprawled upon the ground. Conan bent and rolled the corpses over, grimly certain of the cause of death. The sailors earlier dispatched for tools and provisions had been returning, laden, when met by pitiless death. For bulging canvas bags were strewn beside the bodies, which lay with faces mangled almost beyond recognition.

  Conan frowned and knelt, dabbling his fingers in the trickling gore. The blood was fresh and warm, and just beginning to scum over as it dried. Thus he knew the hapless men had perished within the quarter hour, and like the captain, died by the same hand— or claw.

  -

  7 • Winged Horror

  Conan and Fabio hastened to the clearing wherein the huddled crew awaited them. Now there was no concealing from the crew the nature of the thing that had thrice struck from the shadows; for the sentry had seen the killer crouched before its prey. And he babbled the tale excitedly to all who listened.

  "Like a tall man, he was—a winged man—and bald, with the yellow eyes of a cat and a long, crooked jaw. t first I thought he wore a black cloak; but as I matched, he spread his arms wide—so—and I saw he cloak was a pair of wings, black wings, like those )f a bat. An enormous bat."

  "How tall was he?" growled Conan.

  Fabio shrugged. "Taller than you even."

  "What did he then?" asked the Cimmerian.

  "He slashed with talons affixed within his wings, cutting their throats. And then he—he sprang into the air and disappeared," said Fabio, wetting dry lips.

  Conan was silent, scowling. The men looked fearfully at one another. Never had they heard of a man-sized bat that ripped out throats in the dark of the night. Unbelievable it was; yet there were three corpses to attest to the sentry's tale.

  "Is it Siptah himself, think you, Conan?" a pirate asked.

  Conan shook his raven mane. "From all that I have heard," he said, "S
iptah is a Stygian sorcerer, naught more—a man like you or me, even though master of the blackest arts."

  "What manner of beast, then?" asked another.

  "I know not," growled the Cimmerian. "Maybe some demon Siptah has conjured out of the foulest pit of Hell to ward his tower against unwanted visitors. Or a survivor of some monstrous breed else vanished in the mists of long-forgotten ages. Whatever it is, it's made of solid flesh and blood, and so can die. Slay it we must, lest it destroy us one by one or force us to leave this misbegotten island empty-handed."

  "How do we kill it, then?" demanded a hook-nosed Shemite named Abimael. "We know not where it lairs, and we must find it to attack it."

  "Leave that to me," said Conan shortly. He studied the leaping flames of the roaring fire, and something in the seething fury of their crackling seemed to fascinate him. As he stared, an idea came to him.

  "Surely, on all this isle the dwelling of the winged thing is in the tower of Siptah. For it occurs to me that a bird-man has no need of doors or windows."

  "But the tower has a spire," said Abimael, "rising above yon parapet. How could it enter there?"

  "In truth, I know not. But it seems the likeliest place. And the lair of every creature has an entrance, although we know not where," said Conan.

  "If you be right, how can we reach the accursed thing?" asked Fabio. "We cannot fly, and the tower lacks doors or windows."

  Conan nodded toward the fire and grinned. It was a mirthless thing, that smile: a wolfish baring of the teeth, white in a somber face suffused with fierce determination.

  "We'll smoke the devil out."

  -

  8 • Death from Above

  By dawn the men had finished their task, and weary but alert, they rested on the beach. Under the Cimmerian's direction, they had dragged piles of brush to join the driftwood on the beach. They felled trees and cut trunks apart to furnish logs and laid them in a ring around the tower's base. Frantically they labored, chopping and hauling, through the small hours of that terrible night.

  When the east flamed with the approach of dawn, the makings of a tremendous bonfire circled the base of the black tower. Higher than a man the mass of logs and brush and leaves were heaped, and, Conan hoped, the coming conflagration would create such billowing smoke that no live thing within the tower could long endure the heat and choking fumes.

  Surely the winged horror, if it nested in the tower, would emerge to fight or fly away; and then, in daylight, they could attack the demon-thing with man-made weaponry and hope to win. And to this end, Conan posted his finest archers so that they might command the tower's crest from every angle.

  Dawn rose out of the sea in crimson and gold, as restless waves moaned against the strand and gulls circled the blue waters, uttering their harsh and lonesome cries. When the first rays of the rosy sun struck the tower's upper reaches, Conan shouted: "Fire!"

  Men thrust torches into the high-piled brush, and flames leaped, like nimble dancers, from branch to branch. As the fire roared along the ebon stones, the tower shimmered before the gaze of the expectant watchers, who shielded their weary eyes against the glare of sun and flame. Clouds of pale-gray smoke swirled beneath the parapet and vanished within the tower or wafted into the azure sky.

  "Pile on more logs," ordered the Cimmerian.

  "Surely," said Abimael the Shemite, "nothing can long endure within the tower now."

  "We shall see," growled Conan. "It takes time to penetrate so vast a mass of stone. Pile on more fuel, buckos."

  At last a bowman, shouting and waving to attract attention, pointed to the tower's upper reaches. Conan raised his eyes.

  A dark, hunch-shouldered creature stood out against the morning sky, leaning like a gargoyle above the parapet to survey the beach with hate-filled yellow eyes. Conan heaved a gusty sigh of relief. Now it was all over but the killing!

  "Ready with your bows," he roared.

  A bowman yelled, as from the tower's crest the black-winged monster cast itself upon the ambient air. Colossal was the stretch of its batlike pinions; no earth-bred bird had ever soared the winds on wings so broad.

  Tense bowstrings snapped, and swift arrows flicked about the soaring figure; but with the armor of enchantment around it, not one struck home. The creature wavered in a zigzag, batlike flight, so that no barbed shaft grazed its feathered flesh.

  Conan stared skyward, eyes narrowed against the growing glare, and clearly saw the winged devil. The thing he saw was naked, with a pallid body, lean and fleshless. Its upper chest bulged forward to form a kind of keel; and on either side of its bird's breast bulged massive muscles. Its narrow, elongated skull was bald and shapen like that of some ancient, predatory reptile. Its translucent, leathern wings were supported by a structure that corresponded to a human wrist, whence were prolonged downward two free digits that ended in hooked and lethal claws.

  Swooping like a striking hawk, the devil-thing approached the beach and slew a bowman as he nocked an arrow. The Cimmerian with a roar of rage rushed to meet it, his cutlass flashing in the morning sun. He aimed a blow that should have cloven the creature's skull in twain.

  The blade snapped near the hilt, and only a small cut gaped in the creature's skin. Then Conan knew that he had struck no ordinary skull, but one of strange and sinister density.

  Down came the taloned feet toward Conan's chest. With a mighty sweep of his left arm, he knocked aside the deadly claws and struck the devil's body with the brazen knuckle guard of his shattered sword. The grinning monster, ignoring Conan's hammerlike blows, closed in; and Conan fought for life against a relentless adversary. With superhuman strength, the wicked talons on feet and wings ripped the Cimmerian's leather jerkin, gashed his arms, and tore an opening in his scalp, streaking his face with crimson.

  Beside him stood the Shemite Abimael, screaming curses as he slashed the winged form to no avail; and Conan realized with the clarity of the beleaguered that his life's span was measurable in minutes.

  Half-blinded by his blood, Conan fought on, as other pirates, yelling and waving weapons, rushed toward him from all sides. And Conan knew, if he could but hold out a heartbeat more, the demon would be ringed with glittering steel, outnumbered, and cut down despite its unnatural vitality.

  Suddenly, alerted to its peril, the otherworldly brute sprang away from Conan, turned, and spread its wings. But Conan, in a crimson fog of battle lust, refused to let it flap away, to attack again. With a howl of primal fury, he leaped upon its back and hooked an arm around its throat. He strove to break its neck or strangle it, but that lean neck was steel beneath its leathery skin.

  The black wings spread, catching the shoreward breeze. Lean sinews writhed across the gaunt torso as the monster soared on laboring pinions with Conan on its back. A score of yards above the sea they rose, while Conan measured the languid, curling swells and wondered if he might survive a fall and swim ashore. And then he dug his iron fingers deeper into the gullet of his aerial steed. Behind them, pirates stared, eyes bulging in consternation, and none dared send an arrow after them, lest this seal Conan's doom.

  The monster spiraled upward. Higher it rose with every turn, until at last it fanned the air adjacent to the parapet. The parapet, Conan saw, stood a mere foot above a flagstone walk. Over it, a cone-shaped roof, thrusting upward like a spire, was supported by four columns of black basalt. These strange supports were richly carved in high relief with creatures never before seen by mortal man. On one writhed squidlike beasts with reaching tentacles; another bore serpent bodies bedight with feathered pinions. A third showed horned beings with merciless eyes charging an unseen foe; and on the fourth were scribed narrow, manlike bodies with widespread batlike wings, which Conan recognized as like that which bore him now aloft.

  Like some ungainly bird, the monster fluttered to the parapet and hopped upon the flagstoned walk. Conan slid free of its back. As the being whirled to face him, Conan snatched the poniard from his sash. It was a feeble weapon; but now that h
ope had fled, Conan prepared to sell his life as dearly as he might.

  The thing came on, the claws of its bird-feet clicking on the flagstones, wings half-spread to reveal the knifelike digits on each wing joint. Conan crouched, his dirk held low, prepared for one last upward thrust.

  Suddenly, with a cawing screech of pain, the monster lurched sidewise, one wing gone limp. The shaft of an arrow protruded from the fleshless shoulder, its point imbedded in a dorsal muscle. A cheer, wafting from the strand, did honor to this lucky shot by a Barachan archer. The winged devil was not so invulnerable as first appeared. If it could be hurt, it might be killed. Conan smiled grimly.

  One wing outspread, the monster attacked again. It did not seem too discommoded by its wound. For a brief moment, Conan and the demon circled the stone pit that cut into the center of the flagstone pave. Then Conan, taking the offensive, ceased waiting for the creature to approach.