The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Conan kicked the door so hard it flew from its hinges. He leaped into the room. Light from a single candle shined within, to reveal-By Crom! What a woman this was!

  Gloriously nude, she spun to face him.

  Before she could speak, he said, "Fear not, lady. My business is with your friend there." Conan pointed with his sword. "He sleeps soundly for all this noise."

  "He is not asleep, big man. He is unconscious. He sought to-to . . . take advantage of me. I managed to hit him on the head. He is a villain most foul."

  "Aye, that he is, lady." He continued to stare at the woman. He had seen his share of women undraped, but none so lovely as this one. And he was young enough so that the fires ran very hot in his blood at a sight such as this.

  "You have rescued me, and I am most grateful," she said. She smiled at Conan, then seemed to notice for the first time that she was naked. "Oh."

  Conan did not feel as though he had done much in the way of rescue, but certainly he had no intention of arguing with this woman. She could be as grateful as she wished. He lowered the point of his sword. She moved closer. "I am called Tuanne," she said. "And what is your name, my bravo?"

  "Conan. Of Cimmeria."

  "Ah. One of the strong northern men."

  While his attention was focused upon her, Conan's vigilance suffered. The room bore a window, covered with a thin layer of cloth. It was through this aperture that the supposedly unconscious Skeer suddenly took leave. The man leaped to his feet sans covering, and dove through the portal.

  Conan leaped past the woman, uttering a curse, and would have followed, but a voice from behind stopped him.

  "Hold!"

  Conan spun, his sword raised.

  Elashi stood in the doorway, brandishing a sword of her own. Where had she come by that? Conan wondered.

  "Skeer escapes," he said, gesturing at the window.

  "I will have the talisman," she said. "Give it to me."

  "I do not have it," the Cimmerian began.

  "Now, or I will skewer you like a pig!" She advanced, her sword leading.

  Woman or not, Conan was not a man to take such a threat lightly. He moved to meet her attack. Peripherally, he noticed the woman called Tuanne scrambling to gather her clothing. He turned his attention away from her; she was no threat, but this mad desert woman might well be.

  "For my father!" Elashi yelled, and lunged at Conan.

  He parried her thrust with his blade, but held his own return cut. Whatever else she was, she was no swordfighter. Her balance was wrong, her strike awkward, and her footwork almost comical.

  He allowed her to strike at him twice more before he slammed his own weapon into her sword, hard. The shock of it tore her grip loose, and the blade fell upon the floor with a clatter. She made as if to attack him barehanded, and he had to move his sword quickly to avoid accidentally injuring her. She was foolish, but certainly brave.

  "Stop," he said. "I yield."

  "Do not make sport of me, barbarian!"

  "Nay, Elashi. I am not your enemy, though you refuse to see it. Skeer left without a stitch to cover him. If he has your talisman, it still lies here."

  She drew herself up. "Very well. Where?"

  "Perhaps Tuanne saw it-" The brawny Cimmerian stopped speaking. Where was the beautiful woman?

  "If you are looking for the harlot, she left."

  Conan moved to the pile of clothes Skeer had left. He had seen, briefly, a pouch lying among them when he'd entered the room. The pouch no longer lay there.

  "Well? Where is it?"

  Conan said, "It seems that Tuanne has taken it."

  "And you just let her do it."

  "It was you who created the diversion," he said. "Had you not come in with your swordplay, we would have Skeer and the talisman. Now we have neither."

  "Your talent for stating the obvious is wonderful, Conan. Now we have to find them both."

  She turned and stalked from the room, and Conan could only shake his head. Women. What man could understand them?

  Chapter Six

  Whatever vestige of wine remaining within Skeer had lost its ability to fog his mind. No, the chill of the evening upon his bare skin alone would have remedied that even if he had not bounced from a low rooftop onto the hard ground outside the inn while making good his escape. His head hurt where the woman-the zombie woman, he corrected his thought-had clouted him with something; but far worse, he had lost the Source of Light; in the end, that would be fatal.

  There was much confusion within Skeer. The woman was a zombie, certainly. He had seen enough of the creatures at Neg's beck, and he felt a fool for not recognizing her sooner. As to the massive barbarian, he recognized him from the temple. A hound sent by the priests, no doubt, and one able to recognize the false trail, as well. Not good.

  Well. The hound was one thing, the zombie another. One of them had the talisman now, and he would have to determine which, and then retrieve it. He had no desire to become one of Neg's undead himself, and his failure would lead to that, not to mention a most horrible passage before reaching that loathsome state. Neg had never been accused of being merciful.

  He had clothing, of a sort. A drying line yielded a coarse shirt and breeches, and a cobbler's shop with a poor lock had given him a pair of new boots that almost fit. A further foray into a merchant's shop had provided a short sword and a supply of salt.

  This latter substance held no enchantment, and thus its effectiveness was sorely limited; still, it was the best he could do under the circumstance. Mixed with water and held now in a stoppered jar, the solution offered a temporary stay to the zombie, should he encounter her first. A sufficiently saline solution would paralyze one of the undead for a short time. Long enough to recover the talisman and be several hours distant before she could recover.

  If she had the magical object.

  It might be that the barbarian swordsman had it, which produced a different set of problems. But he had to sleep sometimes, and Skeer could forgo that pleasure to save his hide.

  So, the first problem lay in figuring out which way whoever had the Source of Light would travel. The barbarian would no doubt be returning it to the Suddah Oblates for some reward, and therefore retracing the path Skeer had taken to arrive at the village. An unpleasant thought, that, to contemplate meeting with those worthies.

  As for the zombie, well-who could tell what a dead woman might think? If she were one of Neg's, then she would have come from the east, opposite his own trek from the west. But why had she come at all? Had Neg sent her, not trusting Skeer's abilities? While he would not put it past the necromancer, that made little sense. But if she wanted the talisman, then she would probably wish to avoid the priests, did she know they, too, wished to possess it. So she would go the opposite way.

  So, the zombie or the barbarian?

  In truth, neither choice appealed greatly to Skeer. But the third choice, of eventually having to face Neg's wrath, appealed even less. And deciding wrongly of the first two would ultimately bring upon him the third.

  Well. Since both the zombie and the barbarian wanted the talisman, and both had been there with it, he had to think upon which would likely prevail. As clever as he himself was, he had been duped by the woman. What chance would a mere barbarian lout have against the wiles of such a beauty? Little or none, Skeer figured. So, east it was.

  On his way from the village, he stole a horse. Were she on foot, he would catch her before daybreak.

  Tuanne kept the Source of Light encased within the thick leather of the purse so that it could not come into contact with her flesh. She felt the pull of it, a mystic call that whispered for her to touch it and be free, but her resolution remained firm. No, when she could release the others from their bondage, then she would know that freedom herself. Until then, she would ignore the siren call from the magical key.

  The arrival of Conan and the woman who obviously knew him had been a near disaster. She had been lucky to escape. The Source of Light w
as sought by more than just herself, and she would have to be vigilant until her need for it passed. After that, she did not care who had it as long as it was not Neg. To be called from the Gray Lands a second time would be more than she could bear.

  The night and its cold enveloped her as she walked along the road, retracing her earlier path. She was tired, in a way that the living could not be tired, but she did not need sleep or food as they did. A mortal pursuer would have to rest and sup, and each moment thus wasted would advance her lead.

  In the dark, Tuanne walked, feeling, for the first time in a hundred years, hope for her own future.

  "We must go east," Conan said.

  "I understand," Elashi said.

  The big Cimmerian looked at her. Thus far, she had questioned virtually all his decisions. He did not ask, but she told him anyway.

  She said, "Anyone going west will run into the priests, and thus will be taken captive. We can always check that. Anyone going east will escape, unless we capture them."

  "Mm," he said, acknowledging her logic. "At dawn."

  "Yes, we might as well use the room Skeer left for us. You sleep there." She pointed at the corner and tossed him a blanket. "I shall sleep here."

  Conan shrugged.

  She settled upon the bed, while the young giant moved to his assigned corner. Just as he began to drift into slumber, however, she spoke.

  "Did you think she was beautiful?"

  Conan came back from the edge of sleep. "Who?"

  "That woman. Tuanne, you called her."

  "Yes."

  "You thought so? With such unhealthy white skin you thought her beautiful?"

  "Yes."

  "Men!"

  Conan awaited further dialogue, but none came. He shrugged again and sank into blissful sleep.

  As the false dawn neared, Skeer beheld his quarry trudging along the trail toward him. Ah! He had risked his neck and that of his mount by leaving the trail to circle ahead. He had been fortunate; the horse still had use of all four legs and here his risk was now repaid!

  He lay in wait behind a thick-holed evergreen tree, his horse tied to another such well back from the road. The zombie's walk was listless, if steady, and she seemed to take little notice of her surroundings.

  Skeer unstoppered the jar of saltwater and held the container ready. Soon . . . soon . . .

  She came abreast of him. He leaped out into the road and hurled the contents of the jar at her. She threw up one hand to protect herself, but the gesture did not help. As the liquid struck her, she stiffened, and fell into a supernatural swoon.

  Skeer moved to the downed figure, bent, and tore his purse from her grasp. He laughed. " 'T'would pay you not to meddle in Skeer's affairs, undead bitch." He looked at her, helpless on the dusty road. She could hear him and see him, he knew, she just could not move.

  He considered dallying for a few moments, to finish that which he had desired earlier at the inn. She would not object, and he had no interest in her pleasures, in any event. It would be the work of a few moments to undress her ....

  No. He had nearly lost the Source of Light that way earlier, and in those few moments, pursuit could draw that much closer. A pity, but he valued his life much more than any woman, no matter how comely. Riches and women by the hundreds awaited him farther along; merely quick pleasure and risk existed here.

  He turned and moved toward his tethered horse.

  "Farewell, undead one."

  His laugh echoed in the trees.

  The sun rose and beamed down upon her, but its heat was scant, and its light showed only cloudy skies. Tuanne had been trying to move for hours, and not even the smallest vibrations had she managed. She gathered her energies once again . . . .

  Under the drying crust of salt, she moved her left arm. It was only a small motion, barely a quiver, but it meant that the effect of the saltwater had nearly worn off. Skeer would be far away, but once she could move, she could follow. That single goal held everything for her.

  Conan spied the woman. She seemed to be sitting in the middle of the road, odd. He drew his sword, as did Elashi. (The blade, she finally reported, had been lifted from the side of a drunken man in the inn's common room. Likely he had yet to awake and miss it. A lesson in thievery of which the Cimmerian took note. Anyone who could allow his sword to be stolen thusly surely had little need of it.) Tuanne must have heard their approach, for she turned to look at them; still, she did not rise. Perhaps she was injured? Good for them, Conan thought, if not for her.

  Conan loomed over the sitting woman. He pointed his sword at one shapely breast. "We'll have Skeer's purse and that which it contains," he said.

  Tuanne began to cry. Her body shook with great sobs, and lines of tears tracked her perfect skin. She cried as does a child who has lost her mother.

  Conan found himself backing a pace away and lowering his weapon. "Hear, what is this?"

  The woman continued to cry. She was not especially loud, but it was obviously founded in deepest grief.

  "Stop that," the young Cimmerian said, feeling awkward. "Nobody will harm you. We want only-"

  "Oh, hush, fool barbarian!" Elashi said. She had already sheathed her own sword, and now she bent to put her arms around the crying woman. Tuanne buried her face in Elashi's breast and continued to sob quietly. Elashi petted the dark hair and murmured softly, "There, there." She turned and glared at Conan. "See what you have done."

  "I? I have done?"

  "Yes, you and your threats."

  Conan's rage rose in his breast, but he had no focus for the anger. He wished to slay something, but what? A crying woman huddling against another? He turned and stomped to the edge of the road, hoping something would leap out and attack him. A bear, a wolf, a demon, anything. Nothing did, however, and his frustration merely increased.

  After a few moments, Elashi called to him.

  "Conan. You should come and hear this."

  Tuanne had stopped crying, and with Elashi's help, had gained her feet. Conan saw that her clothing was crusted with some whitish powder.

  "I do not have the talisman you seek," she began. "The one you call Skeer followed me and took it."

  Conan ground his teeth together. Everybody wanted this accursed device!

  "I must have it," she said.

  "Why?"

  She turned to answer the Cimmerian's question. "I need it to help me die."

  When she finished her story, Conan could think of little to say. "You are truly a zombie?"

  "I died more than a hundred years past," she said. "But I have not been permitted to take my rightful place in the land of the dead. Nor have dozens of others under Neg's thrall. "

  "This Neg deserves killing," he said.

  "If he obtains the Source of Light, he shall be able to raise legions of dead. And he will certainly use his powers to do more evil."

  Conan shrugged. "It is not my business to meddle in magical affairs. I have a debt to pay to Cengh, that is all."

  "We must help her," Elashi said. Her voice was firm.

  Conan said nothing, knowing she would explain. She always did.

  She did not disappoint him. "We shall catch Skeer and retrieve the Source of Light. Then, we shall travel to the crypts where the other prisoners are held and use it to free them-and her. You"-she nodded at Conan- "may then slay Neg, and I shall take the talisman back to my home."

  The muscular youth shook his head.

  "Is there a flaw in my plan? Is it not simple?"

  "It is simple enough," Conan said.

  "Then what?"

  He thought about that for a moment. He did wish to settle the score with Skeer; and, since Neg had dispatched the killer, such settlement extended to him, as well. The plan was direct he liked that part of it-only, the idea of traveling with two women, well, that might be more complex. It was difficult enough with one.

  "Well?" Elashi demanded.

  "Nothing," he said. "We shall try your plan."

  "I do not s
ee how it can fail," Elashi said.

  Prudently, Conan chose not to speak to that statement.

  Winter, however, did choose that moment to make his presence felt. He did so in the form of a blizzard that quickly boiled over the mountaintops, battering all beneath it with sleet, hail, and, of course, snow.

  Conan knew how to deal with such weather, and immediately began to build a lean-to in the woods nearby, using his sword to trim branches and vines for the structure. Within an hour, he had shelter for the three of them, a small fire going to fight the hard chill, and a nest of evergreen boughs for added warmth.

  "How long must we stay here?" Elashi asked.

  "Until the storm stops."

  "We do not have weather like this in the desert. How long will that be?"

  He shrugged. "An hour, a day, three days. Only the gods know."

  "But Skeer will escape!"

  Before Conan could answer, Tuanne said in a soft voice, "Not likely. If you cannot travel, neither can he."

  Elashi regarded the pale woman. "Could you travel in this storm?"

  "I could, but slowly. And I would be . . . colder than usual."

  The woman of the desert sighed. "Well. I suppose we shall just have to wait, and hope we do not lose his trail."

  "I can locate that which he carries," Tuanne said. "He can flee, but he cannot hide, not from me."

  The coldness of her voice touched Conan then, with a finger more icy than the wind blowing around them. She was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, but she was also something outside his experience. She did not look dangerous, but that she was, he also had no doubt. He put more wood on the fire against the cold, but it did not drive this particular chill from him.

  Skeer's fortune had shifted into the realm of the less-than-good. When the storm started, he had pushed his mount, in an attempt to outrun it for shelter. As the snow thickened, he lost the trail. His mount stumbled and threw him, fortunately without injury to himself. Unfortunately, the horse had broken his leg. Skeer realized he was going to be stranded for the duration of the storm.

  Well, he thought, as he pulled his sword and advanced on the hapless animal, at least he would not be hungry ....