The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Skeer heard the fight before he saw it. His inclination was to turn and move the other way, opposite the crowd that appeared from nowhere as they always seemed to do when a fight broke out. But the best way to blend in was to go with the flow, so he circled a horse stall with the others to see the cause of the outcry.

  What he observed sent very cold chills rolling along over his spine, and forced a sweat onto his brow.

  By Set! It was that barbarian lout from the temple! And the zombie bitch was with him! More, one of the Suddah Oblates also waved a sword in the air, and four-no, three of the Men With No eyes opposed them-one seemed to be very dead, and one of the remaining ones bled rather profusely. And there was a girl he did not know, also engaging in swordplay.

  Something was wrong here.

  Skeer did not understand all that he observed, but he understood that none of it was to his benefit. The barbarian and the zombie were bad enough; that Neg had sent some of his damned priests also did not bode well.

  His first reaction was to flee-to grab the nearest horse and ride for the South Gate at a full gallop. But even as he watched the barbarian cut down another of the priests, Skeer's sense of caution took him. He had a vision of himself being stopped at the gate by some unknown agent, tugged from his stolen mount, and enchained. The vision filled him, leaving no room for doubt. That it could happen seemed quite likely, what with all this going on. What else might be possible? No, he would hide in the city until darkness, and utilize stealth for his escape.

  With the clash of steel in his ears, Skeer hurried away from the battle.

  "It is him!" Tuanne yelled.

  Conan, busy chopping at one of the priests, did not register the exclamation's meaning.

  "What? Who is it?"

  "Skeer. And he's getting away!"

  The big Cimmerian managed to cut down his opponent just then, when the man slipped on something in the street and half-fell. Conan assisted his meeting with the dirt.

  Behind him, another priest toppled, headless. This one was attacked by someone Conan did not recognize at first. After a moment, he recalled the face: Malo, the priest he had sparred with at the Oblates' temple. Good that he chose now to appear, Conan thought.

  Elashi, though spirited, lacked both strength and speed to match her opponent. Tuanne, however, was assisting the desert woman, and between the two of them, they managed to keep the last blind man at bay.

  Conan stepped in behind the man. "Ho!" he said.

  The man turned at this new threat, and Conan drove his sword's point through the man's breastbone and heart.

  Even as the priest fell, Tuanne called out. "Hurry, Skeer escapes!"

  But as Conan and the two women turned to leave, they found their path blocked-by Malo.

  "Stand aside, priest!" Conan commanded. "A murderer makes good his escape."

  "Aye," Malo said, "perhaps. But another shall not!"

  "Are you daft? There are no murderers here! We fought to protect ourselves!"

  "Your tongue should freeze from your lies," Malo said. He raised his sword over his head, edge up, and angled so that it formed a horizontal shield. "This blade is not wood, barbarian, and neither do you wear a gauntlet."

  "Conan!" Tuanne cried. "Skeer moves farther away."

  "I have not the time for this, Malo! Move!"

  "To examine your corpse I shall move."

  Conan's rage rose to fill him. He lifted his heavy sword high, as a man preparing to split firewood might, and leaped.

  Malo held his position, sword raised to block. His form was perfect.

  Unfortunately, Malo's training had not prepared him for the wrath of Conan of Cimmeria. Conan's blued iron weapon came down so fast and hard that it whistled in the morning air. The force of the blow knocked Malo's blade down, and the brawny Cimmerian's razored edge bit into Malo's forehead, slicing him open as might a cook opening a melon.

  The spirit of Malo, Suddah Oblate, escaped through the rent and went to join his ancestors. By the time the body collapsed to the ground, Malo was quite dead.

  Conan, however, did not pause to examine the corpse. He and Tuanne and Elashi left abruptly, chasing the vanished Skeer.

  Chapter Eleven

  During the balance of the day Skeer did not stop for more than a few moments. He snatched a meal almost literally on the run; he felt the urge to keep moving, as if the breath of doom beat hot upon his neck. It seemed more than coincidental that the barbarian and zombie bitch had followed him here; too, the presence of the Men With No Eyes bothered him. And there was something else, some unnamed fear that lurked about him, as if nothing evil dogged his footsteps. This latter fright had no reasonable basis, for he had neither seen nor heard anything to cause it. And yet there was no denying that he felt it. So he moved, casually for the most part, but frequently and without tarrying. To a watcher, he would have seemed unhurried, for he took pains to make it appear so. But to himself, Skeer was in full flight, death pounding along behind him.

  "Which way?" Conan asked.

  Tuanne closed her eyes, tilted her head slightly backward, then pointed down a twisted street. "There."

  Elashi started to run down the street, but Conan caught her arm. "Nay, hold a moment."

  Tuanne opened her eyes. "Why do you hesitate?"

  The three of them stood at the conflux of four streets, surrounded by more of the ubiquitous stone housery. A wagon of melons sat broiling in the high afternoon sun nearby, giving the air a sickly sweet scent; women picked over the fruit, bargaining with the wagon's owner. Behind Conan, an old man sat by a large water pipe, smoking some aromatic mixture that stained the space around him with blue fumes.

  "We have passed this place before," Conan said.

  "So?" Elashi made as if to hurry off again.

  "We have passed this place and several others more than once. Our quarry is not standing still."

  "As always, you state the obvious," Elashi said.

  Tuanne raised a hand and touched the other women on the shoulder. "Wait. I think I take his meaning. Skeer is running, and with only my link to the talisman to go on, we cannot follow fast enough to catch him. Is this correct, Conan?"

  "Aye."

  "Then what would you have us do?" Elashi asked.

  "There is only one way out of the city," the Cimmerian said. "Unless he chooses to escape into a box canyon, he must pass through the South Gate. We take up a stance nearby and wait."

  "How long?" Elashi said.

  "As long as it takes. We can sleep in turns, if need be."

  Elashi nodded. "I must admit your plan sounds valid."

  Conan wondered why it pained her so to admit such a thing, but he did not speak his thought aloud.

  As the barbarian and two women moved off, the old man drawing upon the water pipe stood and abandoned his smoky pleasure. He moved out into the street, to watch the trio. When they were nearly out of sight, he waved. One of the women picking at the melons nodded and hurried off down the street, following the three outlanders. The man selling the melons left his work and scurried over toward the old man.

  The smoker wiped at his face, and streaks appeared as the paint-and-powder disguise he wore rubbed off. "These three have something to do with the other one," he said. "Tell the High Priest that I would have another five of his men. Send two of them to the South Gate, and have the other three meet me here. My own agents will continue to follow our quarry."

  "By your leave, Disguise Master."

  "I have just given it, fool. Go."

  In the Inner Sanctum of the temple, Emreaves finished his final ritual. He had only to burn the ceremonial incense for the final touch, and he could safely instigate the Death of the Shes. Not a pleasant way to die, if there was any such method, but a certain one. In the history of the temple, no man had ever lived through the curse of the Shes; indeed, it might not always befall the victim instantly, like a clean lightning bolt, but eventually, befall him it would. The Shes, once summoned, never stopped until
they had accomplished their task. For those so condemned who were True Believers, a requisite part of the torture was to inform them of the curse, then do nothing to hinder their escape. Many chose suicide rather than face what would happen in its stead.

  Night began to shade the streets outside as Emreaves lit the ceremonial incense. Pungent smoke wafted into the dark timbers arched over his head, and in the falling light, he imagined he could hear the rustlings of ten thousand tiny feet as they stirred into life.

  The High Priest smiled as he waved the incense. Those who carried magic into his city did so at their peril. The Priests of the Nameless would ever see to that.

  When evening cast its dark net over the city, Skeer felt much relieved. Darkness was his brother, cloaking the activities of thieves and whores with welcome cover. No one could catch what they could not see, and in the night, Skeer moved among the shadows as one rendered invisible.

  Through the day he had not been troubled by the barbarian and his women; neither had he gazed upon any other danger to himself. That bothersome worry persisted, but no manifestation of it had come to pass.

  Well. Soon he would be shut of Opkothard and all its problems.

  The plan he had mentally drawn was simple: here squatted another of the public inns, replete with a good crowd of wine swillers. Outside, tethered to a rail, a half-dozen horses awaited riders. A sleepy-looking guard leaned against a nearby wall, ostensibly watching the mounts and securing the peace. Skeer would slit the guard's throat, take the strongest-looking mount, and make his way to the gate, wearing the dead man's clothes. If any man searched for him, they would not see anyone in Skeer's raiment approach the exit. He would talk his way past the gatemaster and be off. With the supplies he had liberated a few moments earlier, he could be halfway to Neg's stronghold before he needed to stop; by then, no one could catch him even if they knew where he was bound.

  That the barbarian knew Skeer's destination seemed apparent. He was in league with the zombie bitch-he should have severed her head and tossed it far from her body when he'd had the chance, dammit!-and doubtless she had told him of her encounter with Skeer. He berated himself once again for failing to recognize the zombie when first he had seen her. Fool!

  Well, there was nothing to be done for it now. Better to accept the past and get on with the present.

  The guard nodded, asleep on his feet. Without the wall to prop him, he surely would have fallen. Skeer had no trouble at all walking right up to the doomed man. His greatest worry was how best to dispatch the man without getting blood on the guard's clothing. After a moment of thought, he had the method.

  With his knife, Skeer pried a loose paving stone from the road. He hefted it, to get the feel, then drew his arm back and smashed the stone into the guard's temple. He felt the bone give under the blow, and the man fell, instantly unconscious. Likely to die from the cracked skull, given a chance, but Skeer would not risk that. After hurriedly stripping the man of his clothing, Skeer bent and nicked the great vessels on both sides of the unconscious man's neck. As the man's life poured onto the street, Skeer dressed himself in the guard's uniform. In another moment, he had picked a large gray stallion, mounted the low saddle, and urged the horse into a walk. Rot in Gehanna, Opkothard, he thought, as he moved toward the South Gate.

  When he stopped at a narrow intersection, to peer around for any sign of pursuit, Skeer thought he heard something. Like tiny fingers tapping lightly on dry paper, it sounded, or rats' feet over broken glass in some dead cellar, perhaps.

  Ah, well. It was nothing to worry about. He kicked the horse lightly, and started off.

  As the moon sailed across the clear skies dotted with the cold fire of ten thousand stars, Conan shifted uncomfortably upon the edge of the hay cart parked near the South Gate. Though it had been his idea to watch the gate for Skeer's departure, he much disliked the idea of waiting instead of acting. He turned and looked at the two women behind him, lying in the hay. Elashi slept, wrapped in a blanket Conan had found hanging on a line to dry earlier in the day. Tuanne's eyes were open, but she stared sightlessly into space, seeming to take no notice of her surroundings.

  The cart had been parked near the juncture of an alley and the main street of Opkothard. From Conan's position, he could easily see the gate, though the shadows of the buildings flanking the alley hid him from all but the sharpest of views.

  So it was that when the rider approached, the sharp-eared Cimmerian heard and saw him without being detected by the horseman. One of the nightwatchmen, Conan noted, probably come to relieve the gate guard.

  The new guard reined his horse to a halt and called out something to the man posted over the gate. Conan could not quite make out the words, but it seemed that his first idea had been incorrect.

  Abruptly, Tuanne sat up, shaking the cart. Conan turned toward her.

  "The talisman! It is very near!"

  Conan turned back to stare at the new guard. The sliver of moon did not cast enough light to reveal the man's face, but Conan's thoughts leaped ahead of his sight. Though not civilized, his wits were not dull-Skeer sat astride that horse, in disguise.

  Drawing his sword, the young giant pushed nimbly away from the cart and started toward the gate.

  "Why would ye be desiring exit at this time o' the eve, fellow guildsman?"

  Skeer regarded the man with what he hoped was an expression of exasperation. He shrugged. "I would not, brother. 'Tis the orders of the Watch Commander. He's expecting somebody and I be sent to meet him."

  "Why was not I told of this order?"

  "Ask the Unnamed One, brother, for I do not know. I just follow orders. Open the gate, hey? and we can discuss the philosophy of upranks when I return."

  The gate guard grumbled, muttering some not-quite-beneath-his-breath curse, and finally called down to the gatemaster to crank open the door.

  Skeer grinned. This was too easy, fooling fools.

  That sound he had heard earlier, the skritch-skritch, suddenly returned. He turned in the saddle and looked behind him. Nothing there-wait! There was a man stalking across the road, a big-shouldered figure whose face was in shadow, but who carried a bared sword in his right hand, and from his size, could be only the barbarian!

  He would have tried to hurry the gatemaster, but then Skeer saw something even more riveting than the barbarian: the statue of the spider seemed to be . . . undulating. Skeer strained his eyes against the darkness, and it seemed to him that a living carpet had somehow overlain the stone statue, a dark stain that seemed to ooze down and onto the road. As he watched, the stain moved closer, filling the street. It took a moment for him to see that of which the carpet was actually composed Spiders! Thousands of them! They were hairy-legged and big, each at least the size of a man's hand and fingers, all scuttling directly toward the gate!

  And directly toward Skeer.

  Of a moment, Skeer knew that the arachnids were meant for him. That sense of foreboding he had felt all day focused, and he knew, he knew that these hellish creatures sought Skeer and none other.

  The thought filled him with terror.

  The gate was partially open now, almost wide enough to admit a horseman. Skeer could not wait. He spurred the horse, and the beast leaped forward, knocking the gatemaster sprawling and cursing. Skeer's left knee scraped against the rusty iron and tore his pants leg, but that didn't matter. A bruised knee would heal; the bites of a thousand giant spiders very likely would not.

  The guard suddenly caught sight of the advancing tide of eight-legged creatures.

  "By the Nameless! Let it not be me!"

  He grabbed a torch from its holder and extended it toward the spiders. Yellow light danced over the cobblestones.

  Yellow light danced over the cobblestones, and Conan stopped, hearing the guard's yell at the same instant he became aware of the ten thousand tiny footfalls. He looked down, and saw the spiders then, advancing like a wave along a shoreline.

  "Crom!"

  He would have run
, but the first of the hirsute things began to stream past him then, and he might as well have been a tree for all the attention they paid him. The spiders flowed over his feet and around his ankles, but they did not molest him, neither did they pause. Conan stood very still; to step on one might raise the attention of the others, and a sword seemed little defense against such a horde of fat-bodied crawlers.

  Skeer, meanwhile, had bolted through the partially opened gate. Conan heard the hoofbeats rapidly gaining away from the city. Damnation! He had escaped again.

  He turned and beheld both Elashi and Tuanne, watching in wide-mouthed horror as the street seemed to move under him. Conan breathed very slowly, holding himself as still as he could. If the spiders decided to attack him now, he would be hard-pressed to escape. Elashi had said that these creatures-if they were indeed the same kind whose image decorated the Tarantula Inn-carried no lethal poison. Still, a hundred bites would no doubt carry a man a long way toward meeting his god, and Conan had no desire to join Crom just yet.

  It seemed hours, but more likely was no more than a few minutes before the final spiders straggled past him. By this point, the vanguard of the black wave had passed through the open gate. When the last ones had cleared the portal, Conan ran to the city's exit and stared after the retreating mass of eight-legged creatures.

  Above him, the guard chanted some prayer over and over; of the gatemaster, there was nothing to be seen. And as for Skeer, he was lost in the distant darkness.

  The big Cimmerian looked up at the frightened guard. "What manner of infestation is this?" he called.

  "Hail O Nameless and protect thy faithful servant from harm. Hail O Nameless and protect thy faithful servant-"

  Conan rapped on the gate with the pommel of his sword. "Guard! Must I scale the wall and separate you from your head? What of the spiders?"

  The guard seemed to awaken from a trance. "What?"

  "The spiders, the spiders!"

  "They are sent by the One With No Name, whose form they copy. It is the Curse of the Shes-each one is female-and they seek the death of one who would oppose the spider-god."