The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  "Conan, I am sorry that you have become involved in this affair,"

  Eldran apologized in a hoarse, uneven voice. "I absolve you of the oath you made to my captain. You need not venture south. In fact, if you would consider it, I would offer you the position of captain in the city guard. You have proven yourself worthy. If you do not wish to be captain, I would ask at least that you accept a full purse of gold, and passage through the gates of the city to wherever you wish to go. This is the least I can do to even the score between us."

  "Nay," the Cimmerian responded. "You cannot discharge my oath. The oath of a Cimmerian is no cloud in the sky, to be swept away by a passing breeze. Salvorus's spirit will not rest until the priestess is slain.

  Your captain was a stalwart man, and the wrongful death of such a man must be avenged." Conan snorted. "To think that men call me and my kin barbarians! I will live or die by my oath. However, I would accept the bag of gold, for the expenses of our journey."

  Eldran's head drooped wearily, but the ghost of a smile was on his face. "Last night you were in my dungeon, awaiting the fall of my headsman's ax, and now you will travel hundreds of leagues to vanquish my foe. You speak truly. We civilized people could learn much from you.

  I am grateful that my borders do not cross with those of Cimmeria! Go south then, if you must. Equip yourselves as you will from the armory, and take the finest stallions our stables have to offer. With such resolve as you have, you will triumph over this depraved priestess and return to the city. My prayers go with you."

  Completely drained, Eldran slid back down onto the dais, his chest heaving as violent spasms of coughing wracked him again. Sweat drenched his furrowed brow, and all color had fled from his face. The monarch said nothing more to them, finally closing his eyes and drifting into a troubled slumber.

  They left his chamber without comment, their eyes downcast. Several of Kailash's fellow hillmen swarmed around the chamber's only exit.

  Kailash gave them specific orders for the king's safekeeping. He trusted every man in the chamber implicitly. He had fought side by side with these men at one time or another; over the years, they had become like brothers to him.

  Kailash's main concern now was to find a suitable blade, and a horse on which to ride south. He realized that in a way, he was looking forward to the journey. Many years had passed since he had been on a campaign in the wilds. Recently he had been confined to the city with the king, leaving only to escort Eldran to places within a day's ride. His initial suspicion of Conan and Madesus had been replaced with respect, even with admiration. Conan was a finer warrior than any in Kailash's memory, and Madesus wielded power that Kailash had never seen the like of.

  Like the hillman, Conan was also reflecting on the imminent journey. He was neither eager nor apprehensive about the quest. For all his talk of oaths, he still harbored other good reasons to travel south. Madesus's tale of Skauraul and his fortress had reminded him of tales he had heard from others of the vast hordes of forgotten wealth lying heaped in dusty treasure-vaults.

  If Skauraul had been as powerful as Madesus had described him, the evil Mutare lord must have piled up countless riches in his lifetime.

  Superstition may have kept looters away from the ruins of the stronghold, until its very existence was forgotten. Mayhap a thorough search would turn up some material rewards for their quest. With his mind's eye gazing upon casks full of glinting gold coins, and urns spilling over with shimmering gems, the barbarian youth followed Kailash and Madesus to the palace armory.

  The armory, located less than a hundred paces from Eldran's chambers, was a storehouse of weapons and armor from all over Hyboria. In the past, Brythunia had acquired many of its war implements from other lands. Some weapons had been taken from slain invaders; others had been purchased, or given to Brythunian nobles as gifts. There was little order to the jumble of equipment packed into the small, poorly lit room. Several racks of swords stood near the door, and a few worktables had been piled high with other weapons needing work. Against one wall, a precariously balanced stack of breastplates and shields looked as if the slightest touch would topple it.

  Standing in the doorway, Madesus shifted impatiently from foot to foot while waiting for Kailash and Conan to select their gear. The burly, muscle-bound Kezankian finally settled on a hand-and-a-half sword over three feet in length. Such was his strength that he could easily wield it with one hand. Its quillons were cunningly crafted in the likeness of a hawk's outspread wings. A carved iron hilt suggested the head of a fierce hawk, its sharp beak forming the pommel. So keen was the blade's edge that Kailash had sliced his thumb while testing it. Such a sword was not made to be sheathed. Instead, the hillman donned a leather harness with which to strap the immense blade to his back. Then he picked out a new helm to replace the one he had lost in the temple.

  Finally he selected a pair of arm-guards, studded with plates of iron.

  Conan declined to wear any corselet, jerkin, or mail. They were confining, and he did not wish to be burdened by them. He would trust his sword-arm and his blade to protect him from whatever enemies they might encounter. As he scanned through the bewildering assortment of gear in the armory, a broad-bladed dagger caught his eye. The weapon protruded slightly from beneath a disorderly pile of other daggers.

  Pulling the weapon free, the Cimmerian grasped it by its blackened iron hilt and hefted it, checking its weight and balance. Forged for thrusting and throwing, the dagger had no crossguard. Its wide blade was nearly as long as Conan's forearm. Nodding in approval, he slammed it into its heavy leather scabbard. The seams of the scabbard were secured by strips of beaten copper, tarnished over the years. With apparent fascination, Kailash watched Conan's selection of this dagger.

  "You would have me choose another?" the barbarian rumbled, wondering why Kailash was staring at him.

  The hillman paused, then found his voice. "Nay, you are welcome to any that are here. That dagger is very old; it has been in the armory for years beyond my memory. Eldran once told me that hundreds of years ago, it was given as a gift to King Maelcinis of Brythunia. Maelcinis never had a son to pass his weapons down to; his spirit may have guided your hand to this weapon. May he guide it as well in battle!"

  Conan looked at the dagger dubiously, disliking this thought. He hoped that the spirit of Maelcinis would keep out of his affairs, especially in battle. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to keep the dagger.

  "With luck, you will not need your weapons and armor," Madesus interjected, his voice showing irritation at the time being spent in the armory.

  Kailash snorted. "Luck is the armor of fools. Trust in it too often and your corpse will be buzzard-feed. In a battle, I trust naught but steel." Conan grunted in agreement.

  Madesus sighed, shaking his head, but a mild tone of mirth crept into his voice. "As you wish. Interesting, how two seasoned warriors can take longer to ready themselves for battle than a bride takes to ready herself for her wedding ceremony."

  Kailash's face reddened, and Conan tensed at this insult. In Cimmeria, he would have split a man's skull for making such a gibe. However, in his years of association with men outside his homeland, he had learned to suppress such urges. Kailash was ready to retort, but began to laugh instead when he saw the dark look on Conan's face. The Cimmerian continued to scowl, while Madesus chuckled and the Brythunian hillman roared at Conan's discomfort.

  Wiping the tears from his face, Kailash clapped a beefy hand on Conan's tensed shoulder and tilted his head toward the door. "The priest is right. We must tarry not, else we arrive late at the wedding!"

  Conan gritted his teeth at this affrontery. Civilized men had a puzzling sense of humor. In an attempt to put a halt to further jesting, he pounded Kailash jarringly on the back, then followed him out of the armory. In a lighter mood, the three men went to the stables, where sturdy Brythunian mounts awaited them with leather packs bulging with provisions. Wool riding-blankets, dyed dark green, were strapped across the b
acks of the reddish-black horses.

  Kailash deftly flipped his blanket back, rolled it up, and tied it down securely. He vaulted onto his horse with a smooth, practiced motion, holding the reins loosely in his left hand. Conan, who had less experience with horses, took a little while longer but was soon atop his steed. She was the largest of the three, her shoulders even in height with Conan's head. Although she shifted a little as Conan settled onto her back, she bore his considerable weight with no visible strain.

  Madesus, who had watched the others carefully, made several unsuccessful attempts to mount his horse. On the third try, he fell back heavily, landing squarely on his backside. To his embarrassment, Conan and Kailash found this mishap hilarious.

  "I have ridden only a few times before, and that was in my youth," the priest said in his defense as he put a hand to his bruised posterior.

  "Priests of Mitra are accustomed to traveling on foot, not on the backs of beasts!"

  Kailash's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Worry not, my friend. You will quickly remember how to ride. By the time we reach the Brythunian border, your backside will wish you had forgotten!"

  After a careful check of their provisions, they took off at a trot, deciding to put off sleep for a while. Kailash suggested that they ride until several hours after sunset. He would lead them to an inn he knew of in the village of Innasfaln, by the foot of the western slopes of the Karpash Mountains. Conan was content with this arrangement if the inn was directly on their path to Skauraul's stronghold. He had no objection to letting Eldran's bag of gold pay for lodging, hot food, and a jack of ale or two.

  He was more concerned with what their plan would be when they reached Shan-e-Sorkh. He had seen the region marked on the crude maps at the palace, and it had looked large to him. As they rode to the southeast, he again asked Madesus how they would make their way to Skauraul's stronghold. He had no wish to spend endless dry, hot days on a fruitless search of that haunted desert wasteland.

  "As I have explained, I can sense the Mutare's presence," the priest reiterated. "If I sense her not, we must put our faith in Mitra to lead us to her. Our cause is just, and when our steps falter, he will guide us. Leave this to me, and let it trouble you no more. I have underestimated the powers of the priestess one time too many, a mistake I will not repeat. She is resourceful, and will no doubt see us approaching when we are close. You and Kailash must be ready then to overcome whatever obstacles she may place in our path."

  Conan pressed Madesus further, somewhat dissatisfied with this vague response. The priest was unable, or unwilling, to answer his questions, so the barbarian eventually gave up. Kailash, riding a few lengths ahead of them, kept his eyes and mind focused on the road before them.

  They had left the city gates quietly, hoping to attract no attention.

  Kailash's garb was that of a simple hillman, if somewhat better armed, and hillmen were a common enough sight at the city gates. Several of the guardsmen had recognized him and waved as he passed. Word had probably leaked out among the soldiery that Kailash was on some urgent mission at the king's bidding.

  In fact, Conan received most of the attention. The sight of a Cimmerian in Brythunia was rare indeed, but the sight of a mounted, blue-eyed giant of the north, accompanied by a Kezankian warrior and a priest of Mitra was enough to start the most reticent of tongues wagging. As it happened, the people were preoccupied with news of King Eldran, who was recovering rapidly from his illness. The trio of questors would soon be forgotten as later that night, the wineshops and fleshpots of Pirogia would fill with revelers drinking toasts to the king's health and the end of the period of uncertainty that his near death had brought about.

  In the days that followed, kings and politicians of the neighboring kingdoms would greet this news with far less enthusiasm. Nemedia and her ally, Corinthia, had already been plotting invasions. King Yildiz of Turan, who would hear some two days later of Eldran's miraculous recovery, would be in ill humor for the remainder of the week. Yildiz's imperial expansion plans had long included Brythunia, and he had been shifting troops and hiring mercenaries in anticipation of Eldran's demise and the opportunity it might present.

  Yet there was one who was already more upset than any of these kings would be. There was one who fumed and plotted, his cunning but twisted mind bent to a single dark purpose: revenge. He was hunched over the back of a reddish-black horse, outfitted with sacks of supplies and wearing the dark gray cloak of a Brythunian villager.

  He rode southeast, in single-minded pursuit of the three who had shattered what might have been his last chance to restore Brythunia to its ancient splendor. As he followed their trail, Lamici began weaving together the threads of a new plot, which would bring about the death of a certain priest of Mitra and send those sword-wielding dogs to hell in the process.

  The eunuch's eyes, shielded by his hood, stared intently forward with the obsessed glaze of madness.

  Fifteen

  Innasfaln

  With Kailash leading Conan and Madesus through pastures of Brythunian countryside, the first leg of the trip passed quickly. Kailash knew the area so well that he needed no road, nor did he pause even once to get his bearings. Waning sunlight fell on the edges of deep green forests carpeting the northern horizon. These great woodlands thinned to the south, giving way to the grim, stony foothills of the Karpash Mountains.

  They passed no villages, as the southern regions were only sparsely inhabited. Kailash had told them that the king of Zamora actually claimed much of this land, although he stationed no troops or made no garrison north of the mountains. The hillman took pride in this, and credited Zamora's lack of military presence to Eldran's influence.

  Conan saw little worth claiming; the countryside was barren.

  The sun had just dipped behind the Karpash's looming peaks when Kailash called a halt. He scanned the rocky steppes of the mountainside as if looking for a landmark.

  "The village is not far," he said, nodding. "Two or three hours at most. We must soon dismount and lead our beasts up yonder." He pointed to a rocky incline in the distance. "Beyond that rise lies Innasfaln."

  Their progress was impeded by fading light and uncertain footing. The terrain was rocky and steep at times, and Madesus had no skill in leading his horse through it. Eventually they reached a grassy knoll, with strange two-limbed trees growing atop it. Kailash came down off his steed, and the others did likewise. From here, they would go afoot.

  They could make out a stony path leading away from the hillock, deep into the forbidding stone wall of the Karpash.

  Madesus walked stiffly, leading his horse carefully along the path. He quickened his pace and moved up alongside the hillman. "Why is there a village in this isolated place?"

  "There are but few passes through the mountains, and Innasfaln lies at the narrow mouth of one of them," Kailash replied. "There we will get news of what to expect on the road to the south." Then he winked slyly at Conan. "But we can anticipate getting more than just newshthe taproom at Innasfaln is reputed to have the smoothest ale in Brythunia, and the lustiest wenches of easy virtue to pour it for us." With amusement, he watched Madesus's reaction to his comment.

  "I see," the priest said skeptically. "In that case, you two should make camp outside this village whilst I venture in to obtain news of the road. You have no time to waste on a drunken debauch this evening.

  We must sleep as little as possible, for this I will tell you: the priestess sleeps not. Every moment we waste, her power grows and the odds of our victory diminish. Had I knownh"

  Kailash broke in with a chuckle. "Worry not, priest! I jest with you.

  Conan and I are seasoned warriors; we can handle ourselves in this place. 'Tis best that we stop at the inn for a flagon or two, lest we attract too much attention from the locals. I would as soon not arouse their curiosity. Besides, the innkeeper knows you not. Years ago, he and I were campaigners in the Brythunian border wars."

  Madesus conceded to the logic of the h
illman's argument, but again a hint of skepticism crept into his tone. "Very well, a jack or two, then we retire. Be warned that I shall rise a few hours before dawn and wake you both, regardless of your condition."

  This remark brought more chuckling from Kailash. Conan, who had listened with interest to the hillman's description of the inn, was disappointed. He would have welcomed the hot embrace of a full-bosomed tavern harlot on a cold night like this. Several days had passed since he had been with Yvanna, and he did not see why a little revelry would slow down their progress. Let Madesus sleep while he and Kailash caroused in the taproom, or elsewhere, each in the arms of a willing wench!

  When they reached the edge of the village, the only light in the sky came from the cold, white disk of the moon. The orb looked down upon them like a pale, frowning face. Nightfall had sent the temperature plummeting. The cold air bit at every uncovered patch of skin with unseen teeth, and the horses' breath rose from their nostrils like steam from a boiling water pot.

  Conan barely took notice of the chill; the Brythunian autumn was nothing like the bitter cold of his native Cimmeria. Kailash had pulled a hood over his head and put his helmet on over it. His thick hillman's tunic kept the cold out, and he was from the northeast, where the weather was similar to Cimmeria's. In spite of his robes and cloak, Madesus felt the chill most keenly. He had to admit that a warm inn appealed to him at the moment. Mitra would surely forgive him for venturing into a den of iniquity under these circumstances. Or so he hoped.

  Innasfaln was a small village. They passed by several crude wattle-and-daub huts. Nearly all of them were apparently occupied.