The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  With a bestial cry, the Cimmerian yanked his blade out of the guard's shattered corpse. The blood of his foes dripped from his body and sword, and his eyes swam in a red mist. His savage instincts had taken control of him. Shaking the gore from his dripping blade, he roared a defiant challenge, like a tiger among a pack of wolves. "Who dies next?"

  Fighting at his side, Salvorus found the Cimmerian's battle prowess impressive. The captain was a war-hardened veteran, and he doubted that any of the Kezankian warriors he had known could have matched Conan.

  Motivated by Conan's bravado, Salvorus renewed his attack on the guardsman he faced. He speedily disarmed the man, then chopped viciously at his mailed torso. His blade punched through the mail and drove deep into the guard's innards. He wrenched the blade out sideways, tearing away mail and spilling entrails. Still gripping a dagger and sword, he stepped toward the fourth guard as Conan moved to do battle with the last three men surrounding Valtresca.

  The crossbowmen were reloading frantically; they finished as Conan moved toward them. Aiming hastily, they let their bolts fly at the charging Cimmerian. This was what Conan had hoped for. He dived and rolled, losing no momentum. By ill luck, one bolt fleshed Conan in the thigh. Its shaft snapped off as he came out of the roll. Wincing, he withdrew the splintered bolt with his free hand and flung it aside, ignoring the steady trickle of blood.

  "Cowardly dog!" he yelled to Valtresca. "Will you whimper behind the skirts of these women, or will you pit your blade against mine and fight like a man?"

  "Your squeals amuse me, Cimmerian pig! I would not deign to sully my blade with your uncouth barbaric blood! Besides, Captain Rogar here has requested the pleasure of separating your unsightly head from your shoulders."

  From behind the two archers stepped a short, heavyset man with a face flat and square, as if chiseled from stone. A crudely forged breastplate covered his huge chest, and he carried a mace and shield in his enormous hands. Brass gauntlets adorned his wrists. He flexed his bare, apelike, muscle-bound arms and grinned crookedly at Conan, revealing stumpy, yellowed teeth. The archers backed up behind him before Conan reached them.

  Salvorus spared a glance at Rogar whilst skewering the last of the guards. He recognized the man as one of Valtresca's handpicked mercenaries. In fact, not one of the men in the corridor was a native Brythunian. "Captain" Rogar was little more than a hired Zamoran butcher. Valtresca had justified Rogar's rank by citing the body count the man had piled up in the border wars. Salvorus knew that the grossly fat man was deadly with his mace. As he hurried forward to aid Conan, he yelled a warning.

  "Conan, avoid his shield! Do not strike it!"

  The cry came too late as Conan made a powerful cut to Rogar's shield, hoping to crush it and bury his blade in the man's bulging gut.

  Instead, he found with a start that the shield had caught his blade; he could not withdraw it. The odd-looking shield was a powerful lodestone!

  Cursing, he wrenched at his trapped blade with all his might, trying to dodge Rogar's spiked mace. This was evidently what the Zamoran had hoped for. He swung the heavy weapon diagonally, catching the side of Conan's head with a terrific blow. Stunned, the Cimmerian let go of his hilt and lurched into the corridor wall, staggering from the awesome force of the strike.

  As Rogar hefted the mace for another swing, Salvorus tossed his remaining dagger, praying for Hanuman to guide his arm. This time his throwing knife was not knocked aside; it sank to the hilt in Rogar's beefy arm. The chunky man dropped his shield but gave no other sign that he even felt the dagger. Conan's sword popped free with a clang.

  Rogar's small, black eyes sparkled as he turned to lash out at Salvorus with the mace. He missed narrowly, and Salvorus stepped back a pace, thrusting at Rogar with his sword. His blade clanged harmlessly off the guard's breastplate. Glancing past his opponent, Salvorus noted with dismay that the archers had nearly finished loading their crossbows again. Conan would be easy prey for their bolts if Salvorus could not dispatch this mace-wielding brute quickly!

  With speed matching his desperation, the captain dropped his sword and hurled himself at Rogar. Surprised, the huge Zamoran flailed futilely at Salvorus with his mace, but the heavy weapon was useless in close quarters. Salvorus locked his powerful hands on Rogar's throat and squeezed with all his might. Rogar grabbed at Salvorus's arms, trying to pull them away. The two stood grappling for several moments, until Salvorus saw the bowmen take aim at Conan, who still leaned against the wall, his hand pressed to his ringing skull. With a mighty shove, Salvorus bore down on Rogar and used his superior strength to push the shorter man into the line of fire.

  Salvorus's timing was perfect. Once again the bowmen fired, but this time they cried out in dismay. One bolt sank into Rogar's back, bringing a yowl of pain. The other bolt flew over the short man and buried itself deep in Salvorus's shoulder. His grip on Rogar loosened immediately, and the Zamoran broke free, choking through his bruised windpipe and clutching at the shaft protruding from his back. He pulled it out and raised it over his head as if to plunge it into the captain's bare neck.

  His thrust went astray as Conan at last recovered his senses, kicking Rogar in the knee and sending him sprawling. Gasping from the pain of the bolt in his shoulder, Salvorus tore the shaft out and fought to recover from the shock of the wound. Conan reached down to retrieve his dropped sword as Rogar stretched his hand toward his mace. They grabbed their weapons simultaneously; Rogar, still scrambling to regain his feet, was slow with his swing at Conan. He looked up just in time to see the Cimmerian's blood-smeared, razor-sharp blade descending. It sliced the handle of Rogar's mace in two and bit deep into the Zamoran's thick bull neck.

  Rogar gaped stupidly at the stub of mace in his hand. His eyes glazed over and his head fell backward, tumbling to the floor with an obscene thud. His twitching, decapitated corpse pitched forward, spewing gouts of thick blood. Conan kicked the gory head aside and rushed straight for the two bowmen, brandishing his blade and bellowing an earsplitting Cimmerian war cry.

  Valtresca, looking less smug than before, assumed a fighting stance and retreated a few paces. "Quickly, you fools!" he shouted to the bowmen.

  "Ready your blades and dispose of this lout!"

  The two men dropped their crossbows and reached for their hilts, but the sight of a Cimmerian juggernaut coming for them was more than they could stomach. They turned and sprinted down the corridor past Valtresca, leaving the general to stand alone. Cursing, Valtresca ran after them, but his armor slowed him down. The bowmen slammed the corridor's iron door shut behind them, and Valtresca swore vehemently as he heard the heavy outer bolt and iron crossbar fall into place. He was trapped.

  "Cowardly swine! I will flay the useless flesh from your spineless bodies and feed you to the rats for this outrage! Open the door, I command you! Come back at once, I say!" He continued to rant, but the only sound from the other side of the door was the fading footfalls of the fleeing guards.

  Valtresca turned to face Conan and resumed his fighting stance. The general's jaw was set with determination, but a glitter of fear shone in his eyes. He held his ornate sword deftly in his mailed right fist.

  The dim, shifting light in the passageway glinted on the gauntlet's metal studs, and his eyes were pools of menace.

  With his left hand, he reached into a belt pouch. Conan approached warily, suspecting that Valtresca's bragging was backed by expert swordsmanship. He also had little doubt that the general would resort to dirty tricks.

  Farther back in the corridor, Salvorus picked up his sword with his good arm, favoring his wounded shoulder. He hastened to catch up with Conan, but was wary of Valtresca. He knew that the general was a master of strategy and tactics, and was a lethal threat even without his guards.

  The Cimmerian moved in, trying to force the general back against the barred door. He was closer than a dozen paces when Valtresca made his move. He sprang forward toward Conan, lashing out with his blade. Conan parried quickly, then mad
e a lightning-quick riposte. His blade scraped across the general's solid breastplate, digging a deep groove in its decorative crestwork. Valtresca stepped back and tossed the small phial of liquid he had retrieved from his pouch, aiming for Conan's head.

  Conan, expecting this, ducked the tiny projectile. It flew past his head and struck Salvorus, shattering against his chain mail with a tinkle of glass. Salvorus continued moving forward, disregarding the impact. As he advanced, his nose twitched, catching an acrid scent. He glanced down with horror at the front of his mail, which was steaming and melting. He grunted in agony as the strange liquid burned into his flesh, hissing like water dumped onto hot coals.

  Valtresca's throw had put him slightly off balance, but Conan moved in again, feinting for the general's arm. Valtresca's parry was late, and Conan's blade sliced through the general's mailed sleeve and gashed the arm beneath.

  "Swine!" Valtresca snarled. "Prepare to meet your bestial ancestors in hell!" With a twisting motion, he chopped at the hilt crosspiece of Conan's sword, which had snagged slightly in the tough mail of the sleeve. The crosspiece was no match for Valtresca's keen, expertly tempered steel. It snapped off, and the general's blade sank into Conan's hand, knocking the blade from his grip.

  Valtresca raised his blade immediately, then plunged it straight at the Cimmerian's unprotected chest. Conan dived aside, dodging the thrust, but his blood-slimed feet slipped out from under him. He sprawled to the floor, weaponless, as Valtresca's gleaming blade flashed through the air toward his exposed neck. Defiantly, he put his arm up in a desperate effort to protect himself.

  A loud scream sounded in the corridor. Valtresca's blade continued its descent toward Conan's neck, but spun wide of its intended target. The general's arm and hand fell with it, no longer attached to Valtresca's body but still gripping the blade. Salvorus, severely wounded but finally reaching the battle, had swung his sword with bearlike strength, shearing through Valtresca's mailed arm and chopping it off.

  He raised his sword again to finish the general off, but his great strength finally failed him, and he slumped heavily to the floor, overcome by his wounds.

  For a heartbeat, Valtresca's eyes met Conan's. Then both men looked over at Conan's sword, lying on the floor between them. Neither man moved, as if trying to determine if the other was closer to the weapon.

  Conan's hand, though cut deeply, bled only a little. His dented head throbbed hotly, as if it were a chunk of iron on a smith's anvil, and blood oozed sluggishly from his pierced thigh. The Cimmerian felt no pain from these injuries, which would have devastated a lesser warrior.

  Like a wounded animal, he fought on ferociously, showing no weakness.

  Valtresca, a product of civilization, was far less accustomed to searing agony, like that coursing from the blood-spewing stump of his arm to his numbed brain.

  The general made the first move, groping vainly for the loose sword with his remaining arm. His fingers closed only on empty air. As he saw Conan snatch the sword and slam it through the breastplate into his body, his only thought was that he had finally been beaten. He felt three feet of tempered steel rip through him, and a black void engulfed him. A choking rattle issued from his throat. He shuddered briefly, then sank to the dungeon floor.

  Exhausted, Conan rose awkwardly and moved over to Salvorus, limping slightly. He bent to help the captain up, then grimaced. He could see that Salvorus was dying. Wisps of smoke rose from a fist-sized cavity in the big man's chest, bubbling hideously. The vile liquid from Valtresca's missile had burned a hole through muscle and rib and was eating away at Salvorus's vitals. Conan shuddered at the thought of what the seething fluid would have done to his head.

  "Conan," Salvorus whispered, "is he dead?"

  "He burns in hell, Salvorus. But say no more, by Crom! I will fetch the healer, who will tend your wounds. Stay here!"

  Salvorus shook his head faintly. "Nay, Conan. Mitra calls to me my time is short." He wheezed, and red froth bubbled from the corners of his mouth as he struggled for breath. "You owe me not, but I would ask a boon from you. Take the priest to the king. Help him find and destroy the evil he speaks of. Save the king." Weakened from the effort of speaking, Salvorus closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then spoke his last words to the Cimmerian, who listened solemnly. 'Trust no one but the hillman, Kailash. Take news to him. Tell him king must know

  promise me." Salvorus gasped vainly for breath, closing his pain-misted eyes.

  "He will know, or I will die bearing him the news. The evil will be destroyed. You will be avenged, I swear by Crom and Mitra!" Conan's eyes burned blue with flames of anger. The Cimmerian's blood seethed from the battle, and his thoughts were of rage and vengeance for the death of a comrade who had paid the ultimate price to save his life.

  With a final, choking sigh, Captain Salvorus joined his ancestors.

  Conan closed the captain's eyelids and placed Salvorus's sword on the dead man's breast. Tonight he had fought side by side with a man.

  Salvorus had died a warrior, and Conan would honor his oath to his former ally or pay for it with his own blood. Such was the way of Cimmerians, and so it was with Conan. Giving the matter no further thought, he turned to see what had become of Madesus.

  The priest raised his aching skull from the hard stone floor, his vision clearing in time to see the sweat-drenched, blood-slimed Cimmerian step into the cell. Madesus blinked in a vain effort to focus his eyes and rubbed the side of his head gingerly with one hand. A large lump had formed by one ear. He winced as his fingers probed the rising to make certain his skull had not been cracked. Groaning, he sat up and faced Conan.

  "Conan, praise Mitra! You live! Is Salvorus with you, or was he captured?"

  "Neither, healer. Valtresca struck him down with trickery, but I sent the treacherous dog to hell, where the fiends are gnawing his bones.

  The others fled, or were slain."

  "I must see Salvorus! My arts may yet save him, if he still lives."

  Conan shrugged and shook his head doubtfully. "I have seen the look of death in thousands of fallen men. though my years are less than yours.

  Still, were it not for him, I would be dead. Look at him if you will.

  Take not too much time, for we are trapped here through the treachery of Valtresca's guardsmen."

  Conan pulled Madesus to his feet, and the two walked into the gory corridor, past stiffening corpses to the prone form of Salvorus.

  Madesus's face turned grim and he closed his eyes, hanging his head.

  "I can do nothing for him but pray for his soul. His flesh has been consumed by the blood that flows in the veins of the scaly, winged Drakken, ancient beasts from a nameless era. Where Valtresca came by it, I know not. No man has told of seeing Drakken since the days of my great-grandfather." Kneeling, Madesus drew forth a phial. He shook droplets of it out onto Salvorus's body, while softly chanting a prayer to Mitra.

  As the priest chanted, Conan walked over to the general's corpse and snatched the pouch that hung from the dead man's belt. Parting its strings and peering inside, he saw another phial, carefully wrapped in cloth. What interested him more was the gleam of gold at the bottom of the pouch. Carefully, Conan tucked the pouch into the thickest pocket of his leather vest.

  Madesus finished his prayer and stood, gazing solemnly at his dead comrade. "Conan!" he called to the barbarian. "Let me bind your wounds, so we may leave this forsaken place."

  Conan shook his head. "We have no time for that, healer."

  He moved over to the iron door that had cut off Valtresca's escape. "I have a promise to keep, and we must leave now!"

  Conan turned to face the iron portal that blocked his way. It was stoutly built and appeared to be in perfect repair. He shoved against it hard, without budging it. Drawing in a deep breath, he pushed again, throwing his full weight into the door.

  "Crom!" he swore, exhaling. "The door is barred from the other side.

  Only a battering ram could break it down. We are
stuck in this accursed place, like rats in a trap!"

  Madesus frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. "We should wait for the guards to let us out. Surely they will arrive soon, to see what became of Valtresca and his patrol."

  "Wait here? Nay, there must be another way out."

  Pacing like a caged tiger, Conan scowled as he racked his brain. As he gazed at Salvorus's body, an idea struck him. He dug into his vest and took out the tiny glass phial. Very carefully, he drew out the tightly stoppered cork, then stood back from the iron door. Taking aim, he splashed the liquid generously on the front of the portal. Immediately the hard metal began to bubble and hiss like boiling water. Acrid smoke billowed from the door, making Conan's eyes and nose burn.

  Slowly the smoke dissipated. The potent fluid had chewed a hole, as big as Conan's head, right through the door. Holding his hand steady, Conan reached into the hole and lifted the bar on the other side from its brackets, letting it clatter to the floor. Groping, he found the bolt and drew it. His upper arm brushed against the edges of the hole, and he felt the agony of contact with the residue. His flesh burned as though stung by a hundred wasps, but he kept his grip on the bolt, drawing it and flinging it aside. An ugly red welt formed on his arm and spread slowly. Madesus looked at it with concern but said nothing.

  Conan kicked the door open viciously. It swung out easily, slamming into the wall with an echoing clang. "Quickly, Madesus! We must find the king and his man Kailash, before the guards reach us. Follow me!"

  Nodding, Madesus hastened to keep up with the fleet footed barbarian.

  He managed to stay within sight of the Cimmerian, whose uncanny sense of direction chose the right path through the winding corridors. They saw no one during their flight to the palace's ground floor. At the top of the stairs, Conan paused to check for guards. Madesus leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, puffing from his exertion. After catching his breath, he ascended the stairs slowly, watching Conan.

  The Cimmerian waved him forward and moved quietly into the guardroom.