The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Conan gripped one end of the loose bone and pulled, putting his back and shoulders fully into the effort. The strut creaked and seemed to give somewhat. He relaxed a moment, then tugged again.

  The thought of smashing Raseri gave Conan reason to smile grimly. Killing one of the giants would go at least a short way toward making up for not having seen the trap.

  He kept working at the bone.

  It was not as if he had anything better to do at the moment.

  FIVE

  The attack upon his party took Dake by surprise. On the cusp of one moment, the five of them were slogging through a marshy clearing; on the cusp of the next moment, a horde of screaming little green men brandishing spears streamed out of the thick brush that lay ahead.

  In that instant, which seemed to stretch slowly like hot resin pulled from tree bark, Dake realized that he and his collection of oddities would be overwhelmed by the sheer number of attackers. There must be at least a score of them. He had to do something quickly were he and his to survive.

  Dake hurriedly spoke the words of a spell. The space behind him shimmered; there came a clap like thunder, and of an instant there stood behind him a gigantic red demon. Three times the height of a tall man, the thing flashed cruel fangs and slashed at the turgid swamp air with claws that appeared easily capable of disemboweling an ox.

  The dwarves skidded and slid to a halt almost as one.

  Dake waved at the demon and it took a step forward.

  The little green creatures broke and ran back toward the cover of the swamp, chattering at each other and calling no doubt on their gods for protection.

  Dake smiled. The demon was, of course, no more than an illusion, with less substance than the smoke of a campfire. Certainly it appeared real, and who in his right mind would care to get close enough to be able to say otherwise?

  As the dwarves fled, Dake called to Penz, "Catch me one!"

  The wolfman nodded and trotted forward, uncoiling his rope. Penz kept a sliding noose formed on one end of the rope, and now he twirled this over his head and threw it so that it encircled one of the fleeing dwarves. Penz pulled the rope taut, and the sudden jerk snapped the green dwarf from his feet. The little man sat hard upon the squishy ground.

  Well. If catching a giant were this easy, they would be back on the road to Shadizar before much longer.

  The green dwarf struggled, but Penz kept the rope tight so that there was not enough play for the captured one to regain his footing. Dake hurried toward his new prize.

  The demon faded into nothingness as its creator withdrew his attention from it. He had a real spell to cast, the mage did, and the threat of attack was gone.

  As the dwarf moved toward Penz, seeking to slacken his bondage, Dake spoke the words of his most effective enchantment. The holding spell settled over the dwarf almost visibly, so that he ceased struggling and became calm.

  "You are mine now," Dake said. "You cannot escape my geas."

  Whether the little man understood him or not Dake could not say, but he was now bound-as were the other members of the mage's collection by a magical net that rendered him helpless to harm or flee from his new master.

  "Loose the rope," Dake commanded Penz.

  The wolfman did so.

  The new thrall looked at his captors. Dake made an upward motion with one hand, indicating that the dwarf should arise. The little man did so, albeit somewhat reluctantly. He tried to fight the spell-they all did that at first-but Dake only smiled again. This was the one magic of real power that he currently used, and it worked exceedingly well. Better to be able to do one thing well than nothing at all, and his trick had served him unfailingly thus, far.

  "Let us continue," Dake said.

  "Wh-what of this one's brothers?" Kreg asked.

  "You saw how they reacted to the demon. They will not bother us again."

  Kreg looked doubtful, but he was not one to gainsay his master. The troops, newly enlarged by one, moved on.

  Behind Raseri, four male giants entered the room that had become Conan's prison. Each of the four carried a long, straight staff. These sticks appeared to be at least the length and thickness of a giant's spear shaft. At a signal from Raseri, the giants gathered around the cage, one on each side.

  Raseri spoke a single word and the four stepped toward the cage and lowered their staves.

  From behind Conan, the first staff was thrust into his cage, hard. Conan felt the motion somehow and twisted to avoid being poked. He clubbed at the staff with one knotted hand, the hammer of his fist connecting solidly and battering the stick downward, but before he could further react, a second staff jabbed him in the back.

  The Cimmerian grunted and absorbed the blow, dodging to one side as a third attack entered his domain.

  The cage was of sufficient height for him to stand, but any upward leap would bring Conan's head into contact with the top of the prison, so he was limited to moving from side to side or dropping. Unfortunately, there was no one place in the cage where he could avoid all four cudgels.

  A staff hit him a glancing blow on the thigh, knocking him to one side, where another poke took him in the belly.

  Conan's mind scrambled for a way to protect himself. These four were too strong; he would be battered to death within a few moments did he not do something!

  A near miss gave him a chance. He grabbed and tried to pull one of the staves from the grasp of its wielder. The giant pulled the stick back with such force that Conan lost his grip.

  With death riding his shoulder, Conan saw another small hope.

  The dimensions of the cage were such that while he could not avoid all four staves, were he to stand in the middle of one side pressed against the bars, three of the attackers would not be able to reach him without moving; thus far, they had kept their places. Of course such a move would render him more open to the attacker on that side, but better one than four.

  He leaped as the nearest giant thrust his staff at his belly, turned so that the end of the weapon slid by, barely touching him, and slammed into the bone wall, shoulder and hip first. Conan grabbed the extended staff with both hands, scissored his legs around the wood and locked his ankles together, pulled the staff to his chest, clutching at it with hands, arms, thighs, and ankles.

  Even the giant could not hold a man of Conan's weight extended at arms' length on the end of a stick. Conan crashed to the floor of the cage, pulling the staff from the surprised giant's grip.

  Instantly the Cimmerian was up. He had a weapon!

  He shifted the heavy staff as he came to a crouch, and thrust it back at its former owner with all the power he possessed.

  Guided by Conan's hasty but well-aimed jab, the staff caught the giant squarely on the forehead. The sound was like that of a mallet striking a tent peg. The startled giant's eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to his knees, then fell onto his right side. The cage shook from the fallen giant's impact with the ground.

  Conan pivoted and pulled the staff halfway back into the cage. It was too heavy for him to swing properly, even had he the room, but perhaps he could land a few blows before the others beat him senseless. He grinned wolfishly.

  "Excellent!" Raseri said, clapping his hands. He spoke another foreign phrase and the three remaining giants lowered their staves.

  Conan regarded the giant leader. His blood sang with rage and he would have liked to attack, but despite his small victory, he was still caged and at Raseri's mercy.

  "Most resourceful," Raseri said. "And given the nature of the attack, the only possible response."

  "Free me from this cage and I will demonstrate other responses," Conan said, hefting the staff.

  Raseri smiled. "Oh, no, of course not. We have many more tests for you. Surrender the staff."

  "Nay, I would keep it. Take it if you can."

  "I cannot allow you to keep it, for it might be used as a lever. The ekad glue is hard, but you are strong and might be able to wrench an opening by which you c
ould escape."

  Conan did not move.

  "I can have them batter you again," Raseri said, waving at the trio.

  "Better to die fighting than to submit like a goat to the slaughter."

  "Ah. A warrior's code. Very good. But it is not yet time for you to die. Tender the staff."

  "No."

  With that, Raseri reached into a pouch at his belt. His hand was closed when he removed it.

  Conan shifted his stance. He lifted the staff, balanced it in his hand, and drew back his arm. It had no point, but hurled with sufficient force, it might do some damage. A blunt spear was better than none at all.

  Before the Cimmerian could make his desperate cast, however, Raseri flung the contents of his hand at the caged man. A black powder shimmered in the air. Conan leaped to the side but could not avoid the dust. He made to hold his breath, but an acrid stink told him he had already inhaled some of the powder. His vision swam and blurred, and he felt his legs weaken. With the last of his strength, Conan threw the staff, but already the drug had stolen his power. The staff sailed from the cage and clattered harmlessly at Raseri's feet.

  Once again the darkness claimed Conan for its own.

  Raseri was elated.

  The specimen his daughter had collected was perhaps the best upon which he had ever experimented. This outland small man was brave, strong, and clever. There was much to be learned from him.

  The leader of the Jatte looked up from his writing table at the unconscious captive in his cage. His personal elation was tempered by the knowledge that small men like this one represented a great danger for his kind. The local specimens had not demonstrated such abilities or defiance. Most of them had been so terrified at the mere existence of such as the Jatte that their resistance had been almost nil. Most had died quickly, most had done so pleading. Were they the norm, then the Jatte could prosper without undue worry.

  But . . . if this outlander was more representative of what the small men could do and be, there was indeed a problem. Sooner or later the Jatte would become known to the outside world. Already a few small men had somehow managed to overcome the swamp, and even the Vargs, to arrive at the village, though none had left. It was but a matter of time before others managed the task.

  Teyle had no stomach for his experiments, but she was too softhearted. What she saw as torture, Raseri saw as only necessity. She saw the little men as people and not as the threat that Raseri knew they would someday become. She could picture things only in the moment, while Raseri had to take the long view. Ten seasons or a hundred seasons might pass without incident, but what of his children's children? Without a means to understand and defend themselves, their future might be lost. Raseri had long ago given up his regret at doing what must be done to ensure the survival of his people. Life was, after all, difficult, and the gods helped those most who were willing to help themselves. Conan there in the cage would die, but his death would be of benefit to the Jatte. That was all that was important. Knowledge was strength-the more, the better.

  He turned back to his parchment and began to outline the results of the most recent test. The pictures necessary for the task were most intricate, and it took a great deal of care to inscribe them properly. It would do no good to put them down if later they were to be misinterpreted. Raseri bent to his purpose.

  Deep in the swamp, in the ceremonial clearing where sometimes he presided over the ritual slaughter of captured enemies, Fosull gathered his shaken warriors about him. The sun revealed himself here, and his light showed more than Fosull cared to see. Even the Vargs, accustomed to fighting Jatte thrice their size, had been terrified at the appearance of the red giant, who made the Jatte seem small. A being from the depths of nightmare it had been, and the warriors still spoke of it breathlessly.

  "Have you ever imagined such a monster?"

  "Those teeth could crunch a turtle's shell!"

  "It was looking right at me-!"

  "Silence!" Fosull commanded. "You babble like children."

  "But you yourself saw it, Fosull-"

  "I saw that it was big, but only one and we were many. And my warriors ran like mice from a tree cat!"

  "What would you have had us do? Die under those talons? This was a magical being, not of this world!"

  Fosull did not speak to that, for that much was true enough. He had seen the monster shimmer into life from the air, and no Varg magic could begin to match such a thing. The shaman could cure chills and sometimes heal a barren womb with his spells, but no shaman had ever been able to create monsters from nothingness. Maybe a spear would be as a thorn prick to such a beast.

  "We will have a war council," Fosull said. "And decide how to deal with these outswamp men. Where is my son? Vilken? To me."

  After a moment the Vargs realized that the chief's oldest male child was not among them.

  "Vilken! Where are you?"

  But Vilken was not to be found. Fosull's belly clenched as he realized that he had not seen his son since the attack on the small band and its demon protector.

  Could it be that Vilken, his heir and the next chief of the Vargs, had been caught by the monster? That Vilken was now no more than a half-digested meal for that hideous red thing from the bowels of Gehanna?

  Fosull shuddered at the thought.

  Shaken though he was, Fosull was chief, and showing his emotions to his warriors would belittle him. He cast the worry from himself. "We will have a war council."

  "The outswamp men may escape," one of the warriors said.

  "Nay, they will not. They move toward the Jatte village," Fosull said. "Even their demon cannot overcome all the Jatte, I will wager. And if they escape from the giants, we will be waiting for them when they return."

  "But how can we fight such a thing?"

  "There are ways," Fosull said. "There are always ways."

  SIX

  Dake's group, less one, crouched in the thick brush a short way off the trail. A thicket of fanshaped plants concealed them from the eyes of any passersby upon the trail, and it would take more than a casual intent to wander through the vegetation accidently, dense as it was. Dake's clothing had suffered from an encounter with a thorn bush not ten spans away, and he did not envy anyone else who might chance upon that needle-tipped plant.

  Penz, whose lightness and fleetness of foot matched well his wolfish appearance, made his way quietly back to where the rest of them lay hidden. The wolfman arrived and squatted next to Dake.

  "Well?" the mage said.

  "The village is but ten minutes from here."

  Ah! Then the rumor was true. "Did you see any of them alone?"

  "Nay. I saw only groups, working."

  Dake mulled that over. His plan for securing a giant was simple enough. If they could find one alone, keep it distracted so that he could get close enough to enspell it with his obedience geas, the task would be done. Size should not affect the magic, but distance from the subject did. Unless he was close to the quarry, the spell would not work. Better it was a giant who would not be missed for a time, a woodcutter away from prying eyes, or a hunter or gatherer. That way they could be a goodly distance away from the village before anyone started searching for the captive. Dake did not fancy having to fight an entire horde of giants, and he suspected his demon illusion would fare less well with them than it had with the green dwarves.

  The master of freaks glanced at his latest acquisition as he thought this. Nasty little brute, his teeth all filed to points that way, his skin near the shade of a spotted tree frog, dark green splotches against a lighter hue of the same color. Unlike most dwarves, this one's head and hands and feet were in proportion to his body. Save for his size, the little green creature was built much like any ordinary man. Still, Dake was most pleased with the capture, and in itself, the froggish one alone was worth the trip. But back to the object of the original quest.

  "Just how large are these giants?" Dake asked.

  Penz spread his arms wide and glanced at his hands ea
ch in turn. "Nearly two spans, the men. The women are somewhat shorter."

  Almost twice the height of a man. Excellent!

  "Very well. We shall move closer and await our opportunity to ensnare one of them."

  Visions of a sinecure danced in Dake's thoughts. Wealthy patrons would fight each other for the right to sponsor his breeding program, and he would become a man of substance and standing, respected for his talents and skills. Ah, yes!

  When Conan awoke this time, the room was quiet. He sensed a presence behind him, and he sat up in the cold and uncomfortable cage of bones and turned to see who watched him.

  Two children stood there.

  Conan recognized them as the twins Teyle had named upon his arrival at the village. Her younger siblings, she had said. Assuming she had not lied about this, and there was no reason Conan saw for her to have done so, they were called Oren and Morja.

  "Why do you stare?" Conan asked. "Have you never seen a normalsized man before?"

  "We are normalsized," Oren said. "You are one of the small men."

  "And we have seen only a few such as you," Morja added. "Mostly they did not survive our father's experiments for long."

  Conan was not comforted by this knowledge.

  "You shall not last long either," Oren said.

  Came then the sound of someone's approaching footfalls.

  "Father comes!"

  The twins looked around in panic. "We must hide!" Morja said.

  Against the far wall, away from the door, was a collection of large baskets. The two giant children ran toward these and secreted themselves behind the containers.

  After a moment Raseri entered the room and approached Conan, obviously looking for something. Or someone.

  "I seek my youngest children," he said. "A boy and a girl of thirteen seasons. Have you seen them?"

  Conan was a warrior, and as such, normally straightforward and forthright in his speech. There was no dishonor, however, in lying to a captor who intended to torture you to death. Anything a man could do to thwart an enemy in such a situation seemed perfectly valid to the Cimmerian. "Nay," he said. "No one has been here save yourself."