The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Conan tried to force the door back by pushing directly against its stone edge. He heaved against it, muscles knotting from the effort.

  Kailash threw his weight into it, straining and sweating. The door closed with a stony thud. They gave up, leaning back against the temple wall, gasping for breath from the exertion. Madesus shrugged, untroubled that they were shut inside the temple, with no way out.

  "Save your strength," he said in a tone of grim determination. "We may be trapped, but if we are, so is she. No doubt there is a trick to opening the door. If we search long enough, we will find it. We must find her instead. I sense her presence faintly, so she must be nearby.

  There must be another exit or doorway somewhere. Let us seek it!"

  "I'll look along this wall, Kaih" Conan began, but Madesus quickly cut him off.

  "Hush! Do not speak his name, or any of our names! If she can hear us, she will use our names against us. Your name forms an invisible link to you; it opens a chink in the psychic armor that protects your mind from her insidious spells."

  Kailash and Conan looked at the priest quizzically, but Madesus was in no mood to explain this strange statement further. The priest spoke a few soft words in a strange tongue, and the amulet in his hand flared up brightly, illuminating the room. Conan moved along one wall, while Kailash took another. They found nothing along the walls, and simultaneously they reached the stone block. Madesus walked between the rows of benches, heading straight for the block.

  As he neared it, he identified it as an altar to Targol, an obscure and strange god with even stranger worshipers. As far as Madesus knew, the Targolian religion had not existed for over five centuries. Targol had been described as a harsh, cruel god, demanding much from his followers and giving little in return. In spite of this, the priesthood of Targol had once been a powerful force, albeit a neutral one, indifferent to current events and politics. Yet Madesus recalled a tale of what had happened in ancient Zamboula to the priests of Yog, who had tried to ban the worship of Targol in their city. One by one they had disappeared without a trace, until none remained. Later, their fully clothed skeletons had been found heaped in a pit.

  Madesus examined the altar, momentarily distracted by his curiosity about the Targolian religion. He brushed at a layer of fine dust covering some faint runes etched in the altar. Mo ments later, a drowsy feeling settled over him; he found concentration difficult. The light from his amulet began to dim, and he blinked, trying to focus his eyes on Conan and Kailash and tell them about Targol. Kailash was standing to the right of the altar, near Madesus, frozen in place with a glassy stare. Madesus tried to move toward the hillman and awaken him, but his feet felt like leaden bricks. The priest realized that he and Kailash were paralyzed.

  Conan had begun searching the stone block, which rose to waist level on him. It was oblong and five-sided, like much of the temple's architecture. He noticed a pattern of curving scrape marks on the floor by the base of the block. He was about to tell his companions of this when a wave of exhaustion rolled over him. The Cimmerian shook his head to clear the haze, and yawned. Even after this, he felt unnaturally tired, so he rubbed his face. The room darkened no, it was Madesus's amulet dimming. He thought about leaning against the block and resting briefly. When was the last time he had slept? It felt like days ago, or weeks. He slumped against the block, his sword slipping from his gasp.

  The razor-sharp blade clanged against the altar and nicked his calf on its way down. Conan's mind cleared instantly as a thin trickle of blood ran down his shin. His heart pounded at the sight of Madesus and Kailash, slumped against the altar. They were dozing with glazed, open eyes that stared with an eerie blankness. The amulet still dangled from Madesus's hand, but its light had faded to an almost imperceptible glow. Instantly alerted, Conan picked up his sword and moved over to Madesus, shaking him. The priest would not awaken; his lips moved, but no sound came forth.

  Deciding on his course of action quickly, Conan used his blade to cut carefully along Madesus's exposed forearm, until blood welled out of it. The priest quickly woke up, startled, and his amulet brightened.

  The Cimmerian strode purposefully toward Kailash, pulled back his sleeve, and made a small cut along the hillman's arm. Kailash, still holding on to his sword somehow, jerked and took a swing at Conan, who deftly ducked the blade as Kailash gathered his wits and checked his motion.

  "What in the name of Wiccanah" the hillman blurted out, then got a grip on himself. "What happened to us?"

  Madesus's face tightened in anger. "Already she is toying with us. Oh, this one is crafty, more dangerous than I thought." He let out a low chuckle, then pointed to a fine layer of dust surrounding the altar.

  The dust was now disturbed in several places. Madesus held up his hands, still chuckling. "Look at your hands."

  Conan and Kailash opened their palms and examined them, their eyes widening in surprise at the light purple stains that covered them.

  "Powder from the blossoms of the purple lotus," said Madesus softly, as he looked at his own palms. "Just a thin layer, not enough for us to detect, but enough to send us into a drugged, sleepy paralysis. Have a care not to touch the altar again. I wonder, what fate did she have in store for us while we slept? Fortunate that we did not get more of the dust on us, or the lotus-spell would have resisted the sword-cuts."

  "Look here," Conan said, pointing at the scrape marks he had seen earlier.

  Kailash studied the marks. "This stone swings open, in the same direction as those curves. If you push against it from the other side, it may just slide aside."

  Madesus held his amulet close to the altar, moving it around so as to cast a more direct light.

  "Why not make it as bright as you did in Eldran's chambers?" Kailash asked.'

  "Already I have used a great deal of energy today, for the healing. As even you could not carry a sackful of heavy stones over your head for hours, I cannot keep the amulet so bright for hours. Waithlook at the bottom corner." Madesus pointed down, by Conan's foot.

  Conan bent and squinted, then he saw it. A small corner at the base of the altar was conspicuously bare of the purple lotus dust. He was about to press against it, but Kailash halted him.

  "Hold a moment," the hillman said, thrusting his sword into his belt and rummaging through his leather pack. "Here. Let me try." He extracted a pair of thick leather gloves from the pack and pulled them on. Conan stood aside as Kailash reached down and pushed against the corner. The altar slid aside easily, as though well oiled, making only a faint grating sound against the hard stone floor. Beneath it, a dark shaft plunged into the floor, with steep stone steps leading down.

  Madesus moved his amulet over the dark pit, while Kailash peered down into the shaft, craning his neck for a better view. "The stairs lead down as far as I can seehugh!" A reeking stench of decay washed over his nose, causing him to gag. It was worse than the sickly sweet odor of rotting carcasses strewn thickly about a sunbaked battlefield.

  Kailash pulled back to exhale.

  As strong as the smell was, Madesus was struck more by the increasing feel of evil. It was so overpowering that he felt he could almost touch it in the air about him. "She is down there," he said.

  Kailash lowered himself to descend, pausing to plant his feet squarely on the steps. Madesus continued holding the amulet over him, illuminating the stairway. The Kezankian stood on the first step, his body visible from the knees up, then proceeded carefully. Soon he was at shoulder level with the edges of the pit, only his head and shoulders visible from above. At that moment, Conan heard a barely audible click from somewhere under the floor, near the base of the altar. Before he could yell a warning, a finely honed, gleaming metal blade swept out across the opening of the shaft, aiming straight at Kailash's exposed neck.

  The hillman's battle-sharpened reflexes and iron cap saved him. He ducked into the shaft, almost beneath the blade, which bit deeply into the forge-hardened iron of his helm and struck it from Kailash's head. />
  The blade, designed to reset in the base, jammed on the helm and snapped off. A foot-long piece of metal jutted from the cap. Kailash looked at it in horror, blood rushing in his ears from his close brush with death. He pounded the cap against the stone until the blade popped loose, then set the cap back on his head.

  "Mitra take this accursed place!" A stream of even more colorful curses issued from him before Conan and Madesus could urge him to move on.

  Conan was taking no chances. Ripping another piece of bronze loose from the bench, he wedged it between the altar and the floor to prevent the block from swinging closed. Madesus went behind Kailash into the shaft, to keep the light in the center. Conan followed closely, his nostrils wrinkling at the pungent stench.

  Madesus fished a small philter out of his belt pouch and shook some powder from it. The smell cleared, and Conan felt somehow refreshed just by breathing the powder. The clean smell traveled with them as they descended further into the tunnel. The stairs went on for several dozen paces, spiral-ing straight down and slightly to the left. The ceiling was high; even Conan did not have to hunch forward.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the corridor took on an entirely new appearance. A thick red carpet, woven with strange patterns, covered the gray stone floor; torches of black iron hung along the walls. They did not burn, but radiated a peculiar light nonetheless, giving the passage a greenish cast. Madesus called them to a halt when Kailash reached the bottom stair.

  "Targolian torches," he murmured, gesturing at the walls. "Many have sought the secret of their making, but the art is lost. They burn without heat and last for centuries before winking out. Incredible that these are still lit."

  Kailash prodded the carpet with his sword, expecting another trap of some kind. This time, nothing happened. He breathed a sigh of relief and stepped onto the carpet. Madesus and Conan followed, spreading out in the wide corridor. The priest took the lead, with Kailash and Conan an arm's length behind him. The deep pile of the carpet cloaked the sounds of their footfalls as they walked carefully down the winding passage.

  The walls were simple and unadorned, with torches spaced two or three paces apart on either side. Madesus bent down and perused the carpet, suppressing a shudder at what he found. The evenly woven fibers were actually human hair, the variance in shades of red accounting for the pattern. He kept this to himself, deeming it unnecessary to disclose this unpleasant detail to Conan and Kailash.

  Conan counted the torches along the wall, trying to estimate how far they had gone. He found the green glow unsettling, and being underground in this tunnel reminded him of his recent encounter with the hideous beast in the sewers. His eyes flickered back and forth, and he frequently glanced over his shoulder, just to be certain that nothing was creeping up from behind. The silence in the corridor unnerved him, and he reckoned that the plush carpet would muffle the sound of anyone approaching unbeknownst.

  Kailash was more uneasy than Conan. Unlike the barbarian, he had little experience in this sort of situation. Although he was easily a dozen years older than the Cimmerian, he had seen fewer battles and had seldom traveled beyond the borders of his native Brythunia. Nervously, he rubbbed his neck and silently thanked Mitra for sparing it. He envied Conan's apparent calm; in an effort to appear as composed as the Cimmerian, he steeled himself and wiped the sheen of sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. The corridor was not at all warm, but another bead of sweat rolled down his nose before falling soundlessly to the carpet.

  Conan had counted fewer than thirty torches when Madesus paused, holding his hand up to signal a stop, but not looking back. Conan could see nothing, and wondered why the priest had halted.

  "May Mitra guard our souls from the evil that awaits us," the priest whispered. "Around that bendh" he pointed to the far end of the corridor, which took a sharp turn to the right "hher presence is so strong that every bone in my body cries out from the chill of her decadent malice. She has most likely detected our intrusion, for she can sense my nearness just as I sense hers. Remember, do not let her escape!"

  Conan breathed out, forcing himself to relax and be loose, ready for whatever was to come next. Madesus gripped his amulet firmly, while Kailash raised his sword. After what seemed an eternity, they reached the bend in the passage. In the next few moments, events became a simultaneous blur.

  First, the three stared dumbfounded at what they saw around the bend.

  Hoping and yet dreading to find the priestess, they instead saw a huge bronze double door, filling the corridor and appearing more impervious than the gates of a fortress. Next, they heard a muffled thud several paces behind them. Conan glanced over his shoulder and saw with dismay that a heavy bronze portcullis had slammed down, barring their retreat.

  The sturdy bronze bars were twice the thickness of his thumbs, and much less pitted and tarnished than the bronze backs of the benches in the temple above.

  As Conan glanced over his shoulder, he felt an unpleasant dampness on the sides of his sandaled feet, and a familiar, pungent odor assaulted his nostrils. After watching the portcullis cut off their retreat, he looked down. Rising up through the carpet, filling the entire corridor, was a warm flood of crimson: thick, coppery human blood.

  Kailash bellowed in terror at the sight, making a futile attempt to shake the red droplets from his boots, then regaining his composure.

  Conan fought back the overpowering urge to retch. Desperately, he racked his brain for a way out of their horrifying predicament. The sanguine tide had already risen above his ankles; it felt grotesquely warm and sticky against his exposed flesh.

  The Cimmerian could tell that in a matter of minutes, the flow of crimson would rise above their heads, drowning them in its suffocating warmth.

  Eleven

  The Crimson Corridor

  Die, fools! Your puny swords and sniveling gods cannot save you now!"

  Azora cackled wickedly to herself. Through her Augur, she watched the corridor beneath Targol's temple fill with blood. The Augur was an orb no larger than an apple, but powerful enough to display images of events occurring thousands of leagues distant. Many years ago, she had stolen the instrument from a Stygian necromancer. The arrogant, self-centered dotard had believed that only he was powerful enough to evoke its magic.

  At present, Azora had focused it on the events taking place in the corridor outside of her former altar room. Her red eyes glinted with cruel gratification as she watched the three doomed men, struggling to free themselves from her trap. Fear and despair flowed from them; she soaked it up like rainwater on hot desert sand.

  Before her three victims had reached the temple, Lamici had paid her a visit. At first she had been livid over his unbidden arrival, but as he related the events that had transpired, her anger had dissipated. She had already been forewarned of the priest's presence; his interference with her invocation of death had revealed his nearness to her, like a bonfire blazing in the night sky.

  Her awareness of him had awakened an ancient hatred in her. His kind was stronger than most bumbling, cowardly half-wits who constituted the laughable priesthood of Mitra. She had not known that any of his Order still existed, but she had quickly resolved to crush this one. At first she had not known his name. She could only see him and feel him, since the Augur conveyed no sounds to its bearer.

  Fortunately, the unscrupulous Lamici had told her their names, and of their simplistic plan to challenge her. The eunuch amused her; he was refreshingly corrupt for a human. Earlier, she had planned a slow, agonizing death for him, eagerly anticipating the pain and fear she would wring from his dying body. Now she supposed that in gratitude for his services, she would kill him quickly when he had outlived his usefulness.

  When Azbra had learned of Madesus's intentions, she had quickly conceived a scheme to ensnare the unsuspecting priest, and the ineffectual dolts who accompanied him out of misguided loyalty. Honor and loyalty were the refuge of slack-witted weaklings.

  She watched the image
in the Augur with amusement. Balberoth, the Demon Lord she had bidden to carry out her lethal scheme, had done so with a delightfully hellish ingenuity. She would have to use him in the future, to entertain her with the deaths of others who sought to defy her.

  Even if the slow-witted blunderers had gotten past the bronze doors, they would have found nothing. Azora was now far, far away from the temple. She was confident of her ability to destroy Madesus, but she had no time to waste in doing so personally. After making her pact with the Demon Lord, she had begun the rite of translocation. The pathetic city of Pirogia and the mindless human insects who infested it had begun to bore her, anyway. Her business there was nearly concluded.

  There was one more secret she sought, a secret that would make her invincible. Already she was powerful, but she was irked by the thought that an insignificant priest and a thick-skulled barbarian had interfered with her plot to destroy the king. She needed more power, and she craved the long-lost secret of invincibility.

  According to a vague passage in a dusty grimoire she had perused, this secret had been known to only one being: Skauraul. Centuries ago, he had been the most powerful of the Mutare. By piecing together information from numerous obscure and dire tomes, she had divined the location of his long-deserted stronghold. Even its memory had passed from the minds of living men, but she had found it through her Augur.

  When Conan and his companions had stood upon the outer steps of the Targolian temple, Azora had completed the rite of translocation, arriving on the path leading into Skauraul's stronghold. Once inside, she would learn Skauraul's secret and become impervious to any contrivances of Madesus or his Order of simpletons.

  Unfortunately, translocation was difficult, even for her. The rite had taken all the power she could muster; she would need several days to regain it fully. When she had recuperated and added Skauraul's powers to her own, she would return to Pirogia and turn the city into a mass grave. The hapless dwellers there would have the honor of being among the first victims in a spree of chaos and carnage she would embark upon.