The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Sab's second set of arms was smaller than the first, but both sets were functional, and he always drew those willing to pay to see him. The crowds had thinned somewhat of recent days though, and Dake knew he needed something better with which to draw paying audiences. And something mayhaps bigger.

  Between his small skills as a mage and his collection of freaks he would not starve, but Dake's ambition was to be the chief entertainer of a king somewhere, with enough money to indulge his main desire: to breed and grow stranger and stranger creatures, to become a master of the grotesque, with dozens, maybe hundreds, of monsters, things never before seen by the eyes of men. There were wizards who could produce such with a wave of one hand, he knew, but Dake's magicks were of a small order, and it was not within him to rise to the heights of those wonder-workers. No, he could conjure little things, but it was not his to be a great wizard. He could, however, become a great collector.

  Rumor had it that there was a race of giants somewhere off the road to Shadizar. And the same tale-tellers spoke of a dwarfish folk, no taller than small children when fully grown, also living nearby. Dwarves were common, but these tiny men were said to be the color of tree frogs. To add two such creatures to his collection would greatly augment Dake's chances of finding a patron, so it was with this intent that he traveled toward the City of Thieves. He even had a rough map, purchased from a fine example of drunken tavern scum at a run-down inn just inside the wall of the city of Opkothard. The man had been down to drinking dreg wine, and a bottle of more of the same had bought his treasure. For a few coppers, Dake had a location that might produce a specimen of great value to him. Of course there was always the chance that the map was a fake and not even worth the sheepskin upon which it had been enscribed, but Dake did not think it so. He had a nose for such things, and the carefully maintained map, folded and refolded hundreds of times over years, had the look of authenticity. Were this so, it would be worth a vineyard and cheap at a dozen times the price he had tendered.

  The thought of besting another, even a total sot, in a business deal and the possibility of attaining a wealthy patron cheered Dake somewhat, enough so that he felt a rush of pleasure that changed into another kind of desire.

  He smiled at the catwoman and nodded toward the big bed that he alone was allowed to use-save for times when he invited another to join him there. As he did now.

  Tro sighed and stood, moving toward the bed.

  Dake went to join her, and he laughed as he saw Sab turn his face away. The four-armed man was in love with the catwoman, as she was with him, though neither knew that Dake was aware of this.

  Too bad. It did not matter what they wanted. They were not people, they were oddities. It mattered only what Dake desired, for he was the master, was he not?

  When the sun had made two full circuits of the skies and the moon had bathed the world in her light twice also, the wagon arrived at the place where its occupants would have to depart from the well-made road.

  The wolfman stood next to the wagon. Dake stood next to Penz, and Kreg next to him, observing a winding path that descended a rocky decline toward what appeared to be a stream a ways below.

  "There," Penz said, pointed one gloved finger toward the south.

  "You are certain?" Dake asked.

  "Aye. See there in the distance the thick green? That would be the swamp."

  Dake unfolded the map and looked at it again. He had another copy of it, one he had made with his own hand in the event this one was lost or damaged. It seemed that Penz was correct.

  The dark man said, "We shall have to find a place to conceal the wagon. That patch of forest half an hour's walk back should do it."

  Kreg said, "What of the oxen?"

  "They can roam free, they will not wander far. And they will come when I call them." Dake waved his hand, curling the fingers in a-come-hither gesture. A geas to call domestic beasts was hardly a major spell, and one Dake could perform without much ado. Though he had not been born a magician, he had shrewdly learned over the years that sometimes even mages could fall upon hard times and that during those periods they could be induced to sell some of their smaller spells, were the price offered high enough.

  "Should not we leave someone to guard the wagon?" Kreg asked.

  "No." Dake could also put a repellent conjure upon the wagon so that any passersby unskilled in the arts would find themselves uncomfortably near vomiting in the immediate vicinity. Such a magical ward could hardly keep a witch or wizard of any talent at bay, but then, a mage of any real power would hardly need or want a wagon, even such a fine one as Dake's. "No, we shall all go down the path together. I may need your talents in securing our new companions."

  Penz went to turn the wagon and start it back toward its place of concealment. Dake stood for a moment gazing out at the distant trees that likely stood rooted in a swamp. It had been some years since he had graced Shadizar with his presence, but he knew there were wealthy men there who would enjoy the notoriety of being the sponsor of Dake's menagerie . . . especially if Dake could obtain a true giant and a new kind of dwarf to add to it.

  Already the possibilities of interbreeding stimulated the mage's imagination: a giant catman or woman? A dwarf wolfman with green fur? A four-armed giant or dwarf, perhaps? True, certain species did not always conceive when bred with other species, but there were spells that could aid in such couplings. Dake knew some of the easier conjurations, and he knew that with sufficient gold, he could purchase others.

  He turned and climbed up onto the back of the wagon, smiling as he did so.

  The possibilities were many, and rife with excitement.

  FOUR

  Conan awoke to find himself inside a cage.

  The Cimmerian had a pain in his head and stiffness in his' muscles. The cause of the latter appeared to have come from lying on the floor of an odd cage; it took a moment for his mind to recall the reason for the former. The memory, when it carne, was not pleasant.

  The woman giant had struck him while his attention had been elsewhere. And as for her claim of being a weakling, Conan was unconvinced. No man had ever struck him that hard.

  His situation did not look promising. Conan sat and rubbed at the sore spot on his head. He looked around. His sword and scabbard were gone, but save for that, he had been left with his clothes, belt, and purse. He had flint and steel and punk, and therefore the ability to make fire. This oversight was a mistake on the part of his captors.

  The cage, which he had not had time to observe closely before, was constructed of a hard white substance that for a moment defeated his attempts to identify. The odd-shaped bars and rods were of varying sizes, woven together in strange patterns and sealed at the joints by a greenish material, obviously a kind of glue. Attempts to pick away the seals with a fingernail and the firesteel proved no more effective than an equal effort would be on stone. And when he struck the white rods with a knuckle, they gave back a tone that was metallic, as if he had tapped on bars of bronze.

  Bones.

  It came to Conan suddenly that the rods and bars of his cage were made of bone. And judging from the lengths of the longer ones, the bones had come from creatures considerably larger than was he.

  "Ah, awake, I see."

  Conan twisted and spotted the giant whom Teyle had identified as her father, Raseri, standing behind the cage.

  "Tell me," the giant continued, "have you any idea as to the situation in which you find yourself ?"

  Conan was not disposed to be talkative, but the other had the advantage of him. It might not be wise to irritate a giant who had you in a cage. He said, "I am in a cage made of bone that is exceedingly hard, bones taken from those of your kind, I suspect. I cannot guess as to the reasons why. Perhaps you people are cannibals."

  The giant laughed, a deep and booming sound that bounced from the walls of the room. "Very good! You are correct about the cage. Our Creator, knowing we would need special structures were we to be useful to him, gave us stronge
r bones than little men have. And your conjecture as to our being cannibals is a good theory, given your circumstances, but wrong. Unlike the Vargs, we are not savages; rather, we are natural philosophers."

  Conan did not know the term and he did not speak. The more knowledge the giant gave him, the better Conan's chances of escape.

  "I see by your expression that you are unfamiliar with our doctrine. Natural philosophy is the study of the world and that which is within it. We seek to know all things about all things."

  The giant moved closer toward the cage, until he came to stand his own height away. He looked down at Conan. "If we are to survive in a world where we are greatly outnumbered by men who hate and fear us, we must know everything there is to know about our enemies. Therefore you have become a specimen for our study."

  "I am no scholar," Conan said. "I can tell you little."

  "Ah, but you are not the first to occupy that cage.

  We have . . . studied those you call scholars. We know that there are many different kinds of little men, just as there are of us. We have need to question a warrior, one from another land."

  "I do not need to be in a cage to answer questions."

  "Ah, but I am afraid you must be. Some of the questions are physical ones, and painful."

  Conan stared at Raseri. For a moment the Cimmerian's flashing blue eyes grew smoky. They meant to torture him. Well. When the cage door was opened, he would see how strong they were against his most potent rage. He knew that his speed was greater than theirs and if -he could somehow get to his sword-there it was, propped against the wall behind the giant-then he would see how hard the flesh of giants was when compared to a sharp blade. Better certainly to die with sword in hand than to submit meekly to torture. Crom welcomed warriors but had little use for men who would not fight. Since it seemed that Conan was soon to join his god, best if he did so accompanied by as many of his enemies as he could bring with him. There were worse things than dying; dying badly was one.

  The swamps were thick and full of dense vegetation, scummy pools, and treacherous footing. The sun's rays managed to pierce the canopy in only a few places, and the resulting darkness, even at midday, gave the air a constant gloom.

  Perhaps this gloom was why Kreg strayed from the narrow path down which Tro's sure feet led the group. The fair-haired man began to sink into the ubiquitous sludge.

  "Help!"

  Dake shook his head in disgust. To Penz he said, "Pull him out."

  The man-wolf nodded once and removed the coil of rope looped over his shoulder. He uncoiled the end of the hemp carefully and held it in his left hand as he made ready to toss the rope to Kreg.

  "Hurry, you hairy fool!" By this time Kreg had sunk to his thighs in the muck and his struggles to free himself only caused him to settle faster.

  Dake sighed. Kreg was loyal to a fault, but more than a little stupid. For a man trapped in a mire that would swallow him to hurl insults at his rescuer demonstrated a lack of wit. Did not Dake command Penz to save him, then the wolfman, no doubt grinning all the while, would certainly allow Kreg to sink to his bubbly death. One did not want one's assistant to be too smart or too ambitious and therefore dangerous, but perhaps Kreg's loyalty was overly offset by his dullness.

  Penz hurled the rope. Since Kreg was but a few spans away, the circles of heavy hemp uncoiled only a little and the main mass of the line struck, the trapped man solidly, hitting him hard on the face and chest.

  "Ow! Set curse you!"

  Dake could not see Penz's face, hidden as it was by his cowl, but he felt certain that the man wore a wolfish smile.

  Around them, the swamp buzzed with insects. Kreg's legs made sucking noises as Penz hauled him free of the entrapping ooze. When Kreg was halfway free, Penz jerked the rope a little too hard and Kreg fell forward onto his face, splattering mud in all directions.

  Behind Dake, both Tro and Sab laughed.

  Kreg dragged himself back onto the path and stood shaking with rage. He glared at Penz. "You off-balanced me on purpose!" He pulled a long dagger from his belt. "I will have your ears for this!"

  "Put the knife away," Dake commanded.

  Kreg, too stupid to realize his own danger, turned to glare at his master. "You saw what he did!"

  "And I saw that it was you who strayed from the path. Next time I shall let you sink!"

  Penz began methodically recoiling the rope.

  Kreg shook with rage, but he put the dagger back into its sheath.

  Dake turned away. One day these two would try seriously to kill each other. Penz was too valuable to lose, and if Kreg did not mend his anger, then he would have to be dealt with. Assistants were easy to come by, wolfmen were not. It was sad, but loyalty could not make up for everything.

  And there were more pressing matters to be settled first. Dwarves to find, and giants to capture.

  As if in answer to his thought there came a strange sound from the depths of the swamp, a sing-song drone unlike anything the mage had ever heard before.

  "What is that?" Kreg asked.

  "Let us proceed forward and find out," Dake said.

  Deep in the bowels of the swamp, where no human had ever ventured, past the quickest of killer sands and through trees that sometimes grew as thick as a palisade wall, lay the home of the southernmost tribe of Vargs. In the clearing next to the cold soaking pool, Fosull, the leader of the tribe, picked a bit of flesh from between his pointed front teeth with a sharpened fingernail, then chewed thoughtfully on the bit of gristle. He was the tallest and best-knit of his people, nearly a quarter as high as one of the Jatte, and he could run faster and climb quicker than Vargs half his age. His mottled green skin had a few wrinkles here and there, and his eyes were perhaps not quite as sharp as they had been a dozen summers past, but no one dared challenge him for the leadership yet, not even his oldest son, Vilken, though that day would not be long in coming. The boy needed a bit more seasoning, but Fosull would have no problem in stepping aside in another summer or two to allow Vilken to do the hard work of leader while he, Fosull, attended to his nine wives and accepted the due of a retired rather than a dead leader.

  As Fosull prepared to remove his breechskin before stepping into the pool, Brack, one of the trail watchers, came running up. "Ho, Leader!"

  Fosull sucked his teeth and affected a bored look. "The day is warm and I am about to enjoy the water. What is it?"

  "Trespassers, Leader."

  "Jatte?"

  "No. Outswamp men. And odd ones."

  "How odd?"

  "One has four arms. Another the face of a dire beast. There is a catlike female. The other two are ordinary."

  "Interesting. And where did you see this group?"

  "On the lower Turtle Trail."

  Fosull considered this information. True, the outswamp men were not nearly so tasty as were the Jatte; then again, food was food, and better outswamp men than no men at all. The Varg diet of late had been confined mostly to swamp pigs and assorted rodents, so five outswamp men, even if odd ones, would be worth a feast. The soak pool would have to wait.

  "Very well. Assemble the warriors at high Turtle. We shall take the intruders at the mossback turn."

  "My leader."

  Brack sprinted off into the bush. Fosull went to collect his spear where it stood propped against the lush vinelimb tree that overhung the pool. Perhaps the oddity of the intruders would add to their flavor?

  One could hope.

  Conan had been alone in the cage for most of the morning. His eyes still smarted from the smelly liquid that Raseri had splashed upon him before leaving. The giant had hurled the contents of a smallish wooden bowl at him, and the resulting odor reminded Conan of a dead rat left three days in the hot sun. Other than a mild stinging in his eyes, the Cimmerian had noted no ill effects from the stinking shower. Raseri had watched him for a moment after the spray, nodded to himself, then departed.

  This was like no torture of which Conan had ever heard.

&nbs
p; Teyle entered the structure and walked toward the cage. Conan glared at her but did not speak.

  "The koughmn caused you little distress, I see," she said.

  He held his tongue.

  "You must understand that I bear you no ill will," she said. "I was charged by my father to obtain a specimen of littleman warrior, and you were unfortunate enough to happen along."

  Conan found small consolation in this. He still did not speak.

  "We are few and the little men are many," she continued. "To survive, we must know our enemies. Surely you can understand this?"

  "Until I arrived here, I was not your enemy," Conan finally said.

  "But your kind are. I regret that I had to trick you, but I had my duty."

  "I would be more forgiving were you to unfasten the door to this cage and release me."

  "Alas, it cannot be so. I only wanted you to know that your being here is not personal."

  "It seems that I am to die in a cage under the hand of your kind, so you will forgive me if I take it personally."

  Teyle had nothing to say to this, and she turned and walked away.

  Conan looked again at the cage. Where he judged the door began and ended, the joints were sealed with that same greenish glue as were the rest of the bars. He had already determined that the substance was impervious to being scratched by his flint or steel, and that it would not burn. Neither would the metallic bones take fire.

  Carefully the Cimmerian pitted his muscles against each of the bones forming his prison, trying to find a weak spot. In one corner he came across a single bone the length and approximate thickness of his arm; it creaked a little as he tugged on it. Removing it would not allow an opening large enough to permit escape, but it would give him a possible tool with which to pry. Too, he could use the bone as a club. Should Raseri come close enough, he could try to shatter his skull; mayhaps he could throw the makeshift club and effect some damage. Better something than nothing.