The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  "We must be certain that she does not summon you over this matter. I fear no man, but hers is a sorcery I would not care to have working against me. I will see to Hassem and discuss the outcome with you later."

  Lamici bowed again, opened the door, and left as quietly as he had entered. Despite his calm outward appearance, the eunuch's mind was spinning with disturbing thoughts. He did not care to dwell on the fate that lay in store for him should he be linked to the death of the princess. He was upset that the body had been discovered and confused as to how this could have happened. He certainly had not plundered the corpse, but he could not help but believe that Valtresca must suspect some involvement on his part. He had always admired the general, whom he had seen grow from a strong-willed, impetuous youth to an efficient if heavy-handed leader of men. Valtresca represented what he considered the true model of Brythunian nobility. Born of a long line of pure Brythunian blood, and the son of a baron, he should rightfully have been chosen king when the previous monarch had died, leaving no heir.

  For more than twenty years, the eunuch had served the former royal family and their king, Khullan. Brythunian blood had run true in Khullan, but not in his successor, "King" Eldran. Lamici resented the presiding monarch, whose blood was a mix of Kezankian, Brythunian, and even a little Hyperborean. Although the hillmen were technically Brythunian, he considered them peasant stock, suitable only for herding goats and tilling fields. He still cursed the day, just over a year ago, when this unworthy peasant had been chosen king.

  True, Eldran had served well as soldier and then as leader in the border wars, but his bloodstock was illsuited for a king. Valtresca's worst fears about Eldran had proven to be true; the man preferred to negotiate and trade with rival kingdoms, as if his land and its people were goods to be haggled over at a marketplace. He had not the backbone to stand up to his peers, and he hid behind his useless treaties and words like a spineless weakling.

  Only a strong man of noble blood could bring together all the people of Brythunia and restore the power inherent to the throne. When Lamici was very young, his grandmother had served the royal family of her time, and she had told him many tales of the wealth and position that had once made Brythunia a mighty nation. Lamici was proud to have been chosen as a royal eunuch; the sacrifice of his manhood was insignificant in comparison with the honor of serving the royal family.

  Over the years, he had watched quietly as the throne began to lose power, eroding slowly but surely, until Brythunia itself was in danger of breaking apart into squabbling factions. As generations passed, the once-proud people of Brythunia were degenerating into barbarism.

  Invasions by bordering countries were commonplace, the rulers of rival nations considering the royal house of Brythunia to be a joke, its ruler a "king of oafs." The words had burned in Lamici's heart, and he longed to make these rulers regret saying them.

  Valtresca was the man who could accomplish this. He was aggressive, and would not tolerate these "accidental" raids across the Brythunia border, made with increasing frequency by its neighboring kingdoms.

  Instead, he would band together the scattered, localized militia and push the borders west across the Yellow River and south into Corinthia.

  King Valtresca would begin the new age of the Brythunian Empire, which would ultimately swell to the shores of the great Western Ocean.

  Lamici's heart soared as he visualized this dream; he could see the banners, decorated with the colors of the great nation, flying over the gleaming cities.

  The eunuch had pondered for months how to go about the usurping of Eldran. The king was guarded day and night by stout Kezankian hillmen, whose loyalty to him was unbreakable. Such was their fierce devotion that they would consider it an honor to die for him. Their senses were sharp, their blades even sharper.

  To worsen matters, a renegade, power-hungry baron from southeastern Brythunia had recently hired an assassin to poison Eldran.

  Unfortunately, the nobleman's fool plan had failed, and maddened citizens had burned him alive in his own castle. The would-be poisoner was beheaded, the traditional punishment for capital crimes. Now, with the king's suspicion aroused, not even the most skillful of assassins could guarantee success, and Lamici could not risk even one failure. If the king were to suspect him, his vision would be ended forever by the keen edge of the executioner's ax. Fervently, he had prayed to the gods for help.

  Three weeks ago, late in the evening, his prayers had finally been answered. While in the city purchasing supplies, he had been approached and greeted by a strange young woman who somehow knew his name. She had simply stepped out of one of the many alleys and introduced herself as Azora. She had been clad in an ankle-length, shapeless brown cloak and had worn thin leather gloves. A hood had been cast over her face, concealing her hair and forehead. At first, he had noticed her entrancing eyes; they had glowered in the evening darkness with dim red light, like rubies in torchlight. When he had blinked and looked again, he had seen that they were just normal brown eyes. She had told him where she was from, but he could not recall the place now. The meeting was like a dream; he remembered little of it, but he thought it had lasted for hours.

  For reasons he still could not recall, he had followed her to a deserted, ancient part of the city he had never visited before. There were old structures there, predating the city built around them. Out of superstition, the structures had been declared off limits, and the city guard chased away any vagrants or curious passersby who wished to take a closer look. On that evening, they had walked past the patrol and into one of the aged, crumbling buildings. The guards had looked right through them as if they were not even there. He had been frightened at the time, but had entered nonetheless.

  The building was reminiscent of a temple, but rough, unadorned, and unfurnished. Azora spoke, and at the sound of her voice, a huge block of stone at the far wall swung outward, revealing a winding corridor beyond. The contrast between the corridor's trappings and the crude stone of the outer room was striking. Deep carpets, red like mats of blood, covered the gray stone floor, and strange-looking torches hung from the walls, burning with smokeless green fire. Lamici had followed her to a bronze double door nearly twice his height, with a heavy lock clasped around its two bizarrely carved wooden handles. At her command, the lock opened and the portals swung inward, as if some invisible giant had pushed them.

  A gust of foul air rushed past the doors, flowing over him. His stomach had almost heaved at the odor, which was strong with death and decay.

  He had wanted to run, but was no longer in full control of his actions.

  Instead, he had followed her into the darkness beyond. She lit several dozen candles, carefully placed in a ring around some large object in the chamber's center. When his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, he had seen that the object was some sort of altar and that the odor emanated directly from it. He had squinted at it, trying to make out the strange symbols etched on its surface, but then Azora had turned to face him.

  "I know who you are and what you want, eunuch," she had said in a hauntingly beautiful voice that echoed unnaturally in the strange room.

  "Such knowledge is the gift given to a high priestess of the Mutare. I have led you here because you can bring me something that I want. In return for this, I will use my power to assist you in deposing the king and putting another of your choosing in his place."

  "You have such power?" he had asked, then regretted doubting it. "What is it you want of me?"

  "The king trusts you, and you have free access to the palace. Further, he has charged you with the duty of educating his daughter. I will give you a salve that, when rubbed on the skin of a woman, will put her fast asleep. You will touch the king's daughter with this salve. While she sleeps, you will bring her to me."

  "What if I am seen? And why, with your power, can you noth"

  "hperform this deed myself?" she had interrupted. "My true countenance cannot be hidden from a human female. The ways of the Mutare are
not without some limitations."

  "Your true countenance? Whath" He had gasped in shock when she pulled back her hood and cast off the leather gloves. She smiled at him, revealing rows of pitch-black teeth. He had seen that his first glance at her eyes had been right; they did glow red-orange, like hot iron taken from a smith's forge. Her fingernails were as black as soot, contrasting sharply with her dove-white flesh. He had shuddered, and he remembered having been so terrified that he had nearly lost control of his bladder, like a frightened young whelp.

  "Know what I am, eunuch. I must not be seen; the priests of Mitra are age-old enemies of the Mutare, and I have no time for interruptions.

  The affairs of this land mean nothing to me; I care not who herds these human sheep. My concerns are for other matters, far beyond your human comprehension. All you must do is bring me the girl, unharmed and unmarked. Long have I waited for this opportunity a virgin of white skin and golden hair, born of a king in this very city. So was it written; the prophecy is true.

  "If you heed my words, you will not be seen, nor will you be suspected of any wrongdoing. Bring her to me. When I am through with her, you may dispose of the body as you see fit. After you have brought her, I will see that the king dies of a wasting disease, which will come from within his body. You need do no more. Nothing will cure him, not even the useless prayers of the dotard, drooling priests of Mitra as they croon foolishly to their weak, indifferent deity. Eldran will die, and the next man to sit upon the throne will be chosen by the people as their new king."

  After the plan had been revealed to him, Lamici had been given two keys. One activated the mechanism that moved the great stone block in the temple, the other fitted the lock that secured the immense bronze double doors leading to Azora's altar room. He was also given a small jar of salve. When he had left the ancient temple and returned to the palace, the hour had been late and his head had ached terribly. The next morning upon awakening, he was convinced he had dreamed it all. He had then seen the keys and the jar lying on his night table, mute testimony that the priestess had been real. He had hastily hidden them in a hollow space behind a loose brick in the wall of his bedchamber.

  Now, weeks later, his part of the bargain was finished. All that remained was for Azora to finish her part. He gazed out a palace window as the great yellow face of the sun rose above the mountains far to the east, its warming rays shining through the sparse, billowing clouds.

  Yes, he thought, his old eyes were at last witnessing the dawn of a new era, an era in which Brythunia would reign supreme. Smiling at this thought, he hurried down the corridor toward Eldran's chambers. Perhaps the king was not feeling well this morning.

  Three

  The Healer and the Hunter

  Conan awoke suddenly, alerted by the faint noise of a door closing. He had been sleeping for several hours, but his senses were sharp immediately. After a night like the one he had been through, most civilized men would have woken in a foggy stupor, but the barbarian's instincts were as keen and fresh as a panther's.

  By reflex, the Cimmerian grasped the hilt of his sword gently but firmly, ready for trouble. He winced slightly when trying to use his right hand; the fingers would not move, and his lower arm ached with a dull, steady throb. His head also ached, but with a more familiar sort of pain, induced by the bottles of wine he had quaffed last night. His mouth was as dry as the Zamoran desert.

  He relaxed slightly when he saw that the noise was only that of Yvanna, returning with one who was most likely a healer. The man wore the trappings of a priest of Mitra, but he was younger looking than most priests Conan had seen. His robes were travel-worn but clean, and his feet were clad in heavy sandals, patched many times. Long, reddish-brown hair framed his solemn, light-skinned face; a dense, curling beard and moustache covered his jaw. He gripped a heavy, iron-shod birch staff with his right hand, balancing the large, well-worn leather sack that hung from his left shoulder by heavy straps. He had tied a belt of rope around his waist, but he wore no blade, at least not openly.

  Conan rose slowly from the makeshift bed of furs and walked over to the large urn of water that sat in a corner of the chamber. He set his sword against the wall, lifted the urn with one hand and drank deeply.

  After setting the vessel back down, he wiped his mouth, stifling a belch.

  Yvanna spoke to him in a concerned tone of voice. "Conan, this is Madesus, the healer I told you about last night. He can be trusted not to reveal your whereabouts."

  Conan eyed the man suspiciously, as if he doubted this. "You are a priest, Madesus?" he asked, gesturing toward the man's garments.

  "Once I was, three years ago, at a Temple of Mitra in Corinthia. Now I am simply Madesus, the Healer. I wear these robes by choice and by right, and am still a devout worshiper of the Lord of Light." He changed the subject suddenly, as if reluctant to explain further. "Your wrist is badly broken; allow me to tend it, and I will be on my way.

  Yvanna speaks truly in saying that I will tell no one you are here. As a healer, I was taught to cure the sick, not to question or betray them." He opened his large sack and began removing various phials, jars, and other objects from it, placing them on a nearby table. He asked Yvanna to bring him water from the urn, then took several candles from his sack and lit them.

  Conan scowled, but said nothing more. If the healer was lying, it was too late to do anything about it now. He would have to move on soon anyway, as the guards were probably searching the whole accursed city for him. Healed or not, he would find Hassem and pay the swindling cur for his treachery. The Zamoran would soon be fencing his stolen goods in hell. He looked over toward the table, where Madesus was mixing a noxious-looking liquid. His nose twitched at its pungent odor.

  "Please extend your wrist, palm up, mind you." Madesus applied the salve to the swollen, bruised flesh, then wrapped his hand around the wrist and closed his eyes. "Holy Father, bringer of light, defender of good, hear the prayer of your humble servant" he began, bowing his head.

  The priest chanted in this manner for several minutes. Conan began to feel a strange tingling in his lower arm, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up straight. He suppressed the urge to jerk his hand away from the healer and his magick, forcing back his instinctive distrust of any sorcerous mummery. He bore no ill will toward Mitra or his worshipers, although his own god was Crom, who lived under the cold, gray mountains of Ben Morgh, in Cimmeria. His people seldom prayed to their grim deity, as Crom's gift to themhthe strength to strive and slayhwas given at birth. Praying to the god for anything else would be an admission of weakness. Conan doubted that Crom would even answer such prayers.

  Finally, Madesus stopped praying and let go of the wrist. His brow was beaded with sweat; he wiped it with a slightly shaking hand. Then he dumped the contents of a small phial into a cup of water and drank it down. After a moment, his hand stopped shaking. Noting the mystified expression on Conan's face, the priest smiled and spoke reassuringly.

  "Although very short, the prayer of healing is somewhat taxing. Now, try flexing your fingers."

  Conan clenched his right fist, then opened it. Slowly and stiffly, the fingers responded. Visibly, his wrist was still swollen and discolored, but it was quickly returning to normal.

  Conan decided that whatever else he may be, this healer was no fakir.

  Gruffly, he thanked the priest.

  "What do you wish in payment for this cure?"

  "I can accept nothing personally. You must, however, give me something to bring to the temple as an offering. Normally, a priest would ask for three gold crowns in return for this service, done for one who is not of the faith. If you give me nothing, the cure will soon wear off."

  Conan was about to object, but he had learned the wisdom of not bandying words with priests and wizards. Besides, he had his winnings from the dicing table. His purse had always emptied quickly; he would fill it again, in time. He reached for the pouch, then realized with a shock that it was not where it should be
. His eyes searched the room, hoping that it had simply fallen off, or that Yvanna had taken it when cleansing his wounds last night. "My pouch! Have you seen it, Yvanna?"

  Her gaze went to his belt, where the pouch had been attached. A few strands of frayed purse strings were all she could see. 'The cords must have broken in your scuffle with ah, when you had your accident last night," she finished lamely as Conan shot a warning look in her direction.

  "I see," said Madesus, shaking his head. "If I do not make an offering soonh"

  "Wait! Take this, healer. Its worth is doubtless more than three crowns, but I am grateful for your help." Conan pulled out the cloth-wrapped silver bracelet, still tucked firmly in his belt. He had planned to give it to Yvanna, but she could not safely wear it anyway, considering its source. Since he had paid only two crowns for it, he was still coming out ahead. He unwrapped the bauble and handed it over.

  Madesus took it, then dropped it suddenly with an exclamation, as if it were a venomous serpent.

  "Mitra protect us!" he burst out in an astonished tone of voice, then carefully picked up the bracelet, examining it curiously. "An aura of diabolical evil emanates from this object. It has faded, but I sensed it when I first touched the bracelet. Whoever last wore it died a horrible, unnatural death. Judging by the strength of the aura, this occurred very recently. How did you come by the object?"

  For a moment, Conan considered spinning a yarn to explain, then decided that telling the healer the truth could do little to worsen his present situation. "I bought it last night from a Zamoran named Hassem. His price was low, so I asked not where he had obtained it. He most likely stole it, or swindled someone for it."

  Madesus had looked straight into Conan's eyes as he spoke, as if trying to tell if the Cimmerian was being truthful. The healer's fair-skinned face was a mask of grave concern. "Where can Hassem be found? I fear that an ancient evil has awakened, here in this very city! Unless it is found and stopped, it will grow in power until none can withstand it.