The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Raseri muttered something under his breath and turned away. After a moment he was gone again.

  Oren and Morja peeked from behind their hiding place, then slipped from concealment and approached the caged man.

  "We are forbidden to enter here whenever our father conducts his experiments on the small men or the Vargs," the girl said. "To do so and be caught means that we would be beaten and restricted to the children's huts for a full cycle of the moon. Why did you not tell him we were here?"

  "Why should I? He is my enemy. I owe him nothing but resistance."

  "Come," Oren said. "Best we leave before our father returns." The boy started toward the doorway.

  Morja said, "As children of our father, we must be considered your enemies as well. You could have caused us much suffering."

  "I do not make war on children."

  "We are as large as you and likely as strong," the boy said. "I would wager I can throw a spear as far as any small man!"

  "Even so," Conan said.

  The girl turned to follow her brother, but as she did, she spoke, softly so that Oren could not hear. "Thank you, small man."

  "I am called Conan."

  "Then thank you, Conan."

  After they were gone, he returned to the cage slat upon which he had expended no small effort. The bone felt as if it had a slight bit more give to it than when he had begun working on it. He did not know how much time he might have left, but he had no better options to explore at the moment. Better to die trying something, anything, than to sit and wait helplessly for fate to claim him.

  Grasping the strut, Conan tugged at it, relaxed, pulled again, rested, then strained against the ironhard bone yet one more time. Apparently Raseri did not intend to feed him or allow him water, doubtless to test his ability to do without. Did he not escape soon, hunger and thirst would begin to weaken him. Whatever happened, Conan did not intend to die parched or of starvation. A man could effect his own end in many ways, especially in a cage as unyielding as this one, or as long as he could reach his own flesh with his teeth.

  He hoped, however, it would not come to that. Perhaps Raseri would bring back others to torment him with sticks again. That way he could meet his end on his feet and in combat, as a warrior should.

  The night was alive with sounds. Bats chattered, frogs croaked, hunting cats cried in the distance. Insects buzzed and hummed in the fetid darkness, and small, scaled things splashed in the myriad bodies of stagnant and scummy water all around the six who lay hidden near the Jatte village.

  Dake slapped at an insect biting the side of his neck. Curse this swamp! There were more crawling and flying vermin here than ever he had seen anywhere. Did they not secure their quarry soon, they would be bled dry by the clouds of mosquitoes and other pests that inhabited the darkness!

  No opportunity had yet presented itself to catch one of the giants. None had left the village, at least not that the mage or his entourage could ascertain.

  Dake considered several options. Moving about in the night would offer a mixed blessing. On the one hand, they would be much less likely to be seen. On the other hand, the risks associated with the bungling about in unfamiliar surroundings in the dark were high. Morning might bring the chance that a solitary worker would leave the village, or it might not.

  Another small denizen tried to steal Dake's blood, this time from the back of one bare hand. He crushed the insect with a quick slap.

  In the end, the noxious living and biting clouds of pests decided it for Dake. There were no guards posted; the villagers obviously felt safe in their homes. They would steal into the village while the giants slept and secure a captive. Between Penz and Tro's animal senses, they should be able to travel in the dark without losing the path. When morning came, the troop could be far away from the village.

  Dake motioned for the others to gather in closer so that he could explain his plan.

  In the darkness of his prison Conan heard a faint crack as he pulled on the bar of his cage. The bone shifted in his hands; 'twas only a hairsbreadth, but enough to bring a wide grin to the Cimmerian's face. He could not see the joint where the green glue coated the whiteness, but a quick exploration with his fingertips told the tale. The coating was like unto the hardness of rock, but it was also brittle. The constant small flexing of the bone under the adhesive had been enough to cause a tracery of fine lines to appear beneath Conan's touch.

  Cracks. Faint ones to be sure, but definitely there.

  Conan redoubled his efforts. There came to his ears further splintery sounds. Chips of the hardened glue popped away from the joint, unseen in the dark but felt as they struck his hands and wrists. The bone now had more slack in it. He shifted his grip toward the joining, which had begun to squeak and make a grinding sound with each tug. It was definitely moving more readily!

  With a suddenness, the bone wrenched loose at one end.

  Conan uttered a short, sharp laugh, and without pausing, pivoted the free end of the bone upward. The opposite end, still anchored, cracked the Surrounding glue, shattering it as a smith's hammer might shatter a small stone.

  The bone was quite heavy in Conan's grip as he lifted it. As long as his arm and thicker than his wrist, the thing made a formidable club. Conan swung it back and forth, continuing to smile at the pitch-black room. More important, the bone was a tool. With it he could pry at other joints, mayhaps even shatter the glue by pounding at it. The gap he had created was not nearly large enough to allow him to escape, but given a few hours unimpeded, Conan felt certain he could free himself. Once he was out of the cage, the Jatte would not recapture him so easily as they had taken him. He still had his flint and steel, and yon baskets against the wall would make fine tinder. With this building-and perhaps a few others-in flames, the giants would be too busy to worry about him. 'Twould serve them right if the entire village burned to the ground.

  Conan raised the club and smashed it downward. Glue chips flew.

  In the arms of night, and further hidden beneath the safety of a thorn thicket, the Vargs slept, save for the watch and Fosull. The chief sat just outside the wicked bushes with his spear across his lap. He brooded. He had told his warriors that he had a plan for combating the giant red demon and that he would reveal it when the time was ripe.

  In truth, Fosull had no such plan. Oh, he had an idea. When the great demon had sprung forth, Fosull had been looking at one of the outswamp men, a darkish, swarthy person with black hair on his head and dangling from his face. This one was evidently the leader, and it was he who had summoned the monster. Put a few spears through that one before the demon was called and perhaps the others could not raise the hideous thing. Or, even if the demon did arise, mayhap the slaying of its master would cause it to turn on the others.

  As strategy and tactics went, this idea was not particularly well formed. If, however, attacking the demon seemed foolish, this at least seemed less so to Fosull. Were it not his son who was held by the outswamp men, he would have been disposed to allow the group to leave unmolested, rather than risk the unknown dangers. But a chief who did not try to free his heir would hardly remain chief for long. Vargs respected strength, and they had little patience with any kind of weakness. Already his warriors had halfway convinced themselves that they had not really been afraid of the demon, merely startled. For Fosull to admit that the monster had frightened him would be his downfall.

  And there was Vilken to consider. The boy was his oldest son, after all, and while he had half a dozen other sons and nearly that many daughters, a Varg did not let his first-born simply be taken-not by anyone, not by another tribe of Vargs, not by Jatte, not even by a monster from the pit. Some recovery effort had to be made.

  Fosull sighed and rolled his spear back and forth with his fingertips. At first light they would move toward the Jatte village and see what was to be seen. And if the idea he had did not work, well, everyone had to die eventually. If not one day, then on another. The gods would decide.

  Per
haps he should offer up a few words to the gods, so that their thoughts might favor him in the coming battle. It might do no good, as often his entreaties seemed to fall upon deaf ears; then again, it certainly could not hurt.

  The gods always decided one way or another, did they not? If a few well-chosen words could sway them in a given direction, a Varg would be foolish not to utter them.

  The chief of the Vargs went to find a prayer rock.

  SEVEN

  Dake the freakmaster led his force carefully and quietly into the village of the giants. The newest of his collection, the little green man, had reluctantly supplied Dake with his name, delivered in a thickly accented but understandable variation of the local dialect. Vilken, he was called, and while the dwarf moved with reluctance, Dake saw at once that the nearness of the giants excited him. When Dake questioned Vilken about this, the answer was simple enough: "We eat them, when we can catch them."

  Dake lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. How wasteful. Then again, he supposed, were there a large number of giants available to the outside world, the ones he planned to command would be lessened in value. That would hardly do.

  "There," Dake said, pointing. "That house."

  "Why that one?" Kreg asked.

  What a fool. What difference did it make? Dake did not bother himself to answer his assistant.

  They approached the structure. The wolfman and the catwoman kept watch as Dake and Kreg moved toward the door, followed by four-armed Sab and the green Vilken. Dake saw their shadows dance across the wall of the huge house.

  The freakmaster frowned. Dancing shadows? That was wrong!

  He became aware of several things almost at the same instant: The scene before him was growing brighter and seemingly orange in color; there came a crackling sound from behind, and also a strong smell of smoke in the air.

  Dake spun in a half turn.

  Behind them a building was on fire. Even as

  Dake registered this, the entire roof blossomed into flame with a deep whuff and the night became as bright as day.

  And the night also came to life with the startled cries of a village full of giants.

  Escaping from the cage provided Conan with one of his most satisfying experiences. In life, failure was to be expected at times, but failing to try, even when faced with a situation that seemed hopeless, was the worst failure of all. Every battle produced victors and vanquished, and that was the way of things; there was no dishonor in losing an honest fight. It was only in giving up when any chance still existed for winning that a man truly lost.

  As the blows of his makeshift hammer shattered the final obstacle to his freedom, Conan laughed aloud. His days at the knee of his blacksmith father had not gone without producing some knowledge. Conan suspected that his father would have admired his skill as the third slat was knocked from the cage of giants' bones. Without pause, the Cimmerian wriggled through the gap and hurried through the dark toward where his sword stood propped against the wall.

  Once he had buckled the sheathed blade around his hips, Conan felt better.

  He moved to the baskets where the children had earlier hidden from their father. Squatting next to the containers of woven, dry reed, Conan drew hot sparks from his flint with the chunks of worn steel. The basket under the shower of tiny stars began to smolder. With the application of tiny puffs of air from Conan's pursed lips, the reed quickly took flame. In another few moments the entire collection of baskets blazed, filling the room with light and heat and smoke.

  Conan felt better still as he paused long enough to watch the flames begin to lick at the wood of the wall behind it, then to greedily consume the thatch of the roof above.

  The blued-iron sword sang its razor-edged hum as he snatched it from the leather scabbard and then ran toward the door. No other man would ever again occupy a cage in this building.

  Grinning with satisfaction at having escaped from an enemy, the young man darted outside into the cool, safe arms of the night.

  Even though he was still sitting outside the protection of the thorn bushes under which his warriors sheltered, Fosull had surrendered to a light and troubled slumber. The leader of the Vargs was startled from this fitful sleep by the shout of the watch.

  Fosull rubbed at his eyes. "What is this bellowing about?"

  "Fire, my leader! From the direction of the Jatte village!"

  Fosull came to his feet and stared. Orange flickers painted the low night clouds in the distance. Yes, something was aflame over that way, and a large fire it was, too.

  "Up!" Fosull yelled. "Awaken! To me!"

  He felt a thrill of excitement rush through him. Trouble at the Jatte village could only benefit the Vargs. Maybe the fire might even provide a succulent roast or two! "Hurry, fools! The gods smile upon us and frown upon our enemies! Hurry!"

  So much for his plan, Dake thought, as he led the others hurrying for the cover of a small structure behind the house they had intended to enter.

  This smaller house was large enough to hold all six of his party, and at first Dake thought it was a storage shed. As the last of them entered the place, though, the stench within told a different story.

  "Gah," Kreg said, wrinkling his nose. "We have found a giant's nightchamber!"

  "Silence, fool!" Dake whispered. "Someone may hear you, and nightchambers do not speak!"

  The mage peered through the door at the burning building. A number of the village's inhabitants had gathered to fight the fire and were hurling buckets of water onto the flames.

  After his initial panic, Dake realized that this event might work in their favor. Everyone in the village would be concerned with the fire. What better time to collect a specimen? The fire had a good grip on its prey. At the very least, that one building would succumb to its hot talons and smoky fangs; it would be hours burning.

  "Everybody out," Dake ordered.

  "But-but the fire!" Kreg said.

  "It will keep their attention, idiot. We shall collect our giant and be gone. The fire has done half our work. Hurry!"

  The six made their way around the village, using the flame-created shadows of buildings to cover their moves.

  Most of the men in the village fought the burning. A pair of enormous living chains led from a well to the fire, and buckets of water danced along the first line toward the building, then back along the second to the well. Those who were not in either line gathered in knots of five or ten, calling encouragement as they watched.

  Gods curse them! He needed one alone!

  "Find me one by himself!" Dake said.

  "There stands one," Kreg said a moment later. "But it is only a woman."

  Dake turned to look in the direction his assistant pointed to. A woman? A giant woman would be as good as a man, would she not? Maybe better. He could breed her perhaps. Breeding a giant man with a normalsized woman might be a problem, but the other way around would be easier.

  "Good. Circle around to her left, and if she starts to look in my direction, attract her attention."

  Kreg obeyed, and Dake moved in toward his quarry.

  She was too entranced by the fire to notice her stalkers until the last instant. Something alarmed her and she started to turn, but she did not manage it before Dake finished the words of his spell. She stood frozen, staring at him, unable to make even a whisper of alarm.

  Dake almost laughed aloud. He had done it! He had captured a giant!

  Time to depart, he thought. He hurriedly so ordered his thralls away from the frenetic activity.

  As the seven moved quickly from the conflagration, they were startled to see a pair of normalsized men come toward them out of the darkness. No, not normal men, Dake realized, but giant children!

  Some god must want this venture to succeed, the mage thought. He was not one to look askance upon such a gift from a god. He quickly spoke the words of the geas yet again. Taken unaware, the children struggled, but their efforts were useless. Once again Dake's spell wove its unbreakable net, and the two
young giants came into his power. Not one giant, but three! True, it would take some time for these latter two to grow to full size, but Dake could wait. And with a male and two females, he certainly had enough breeding stock with which to raise others.

  Dake turned to the catwoman. "Lead us out of here, Tro. And be quick about it."

  Nine figures hurried from the light of the fire and out of the village toward the swamp.

  In the chaos of the burning building, Conan was tempted to stay and test his blade on a giant or two, but he knew that such a risk was unwarranted. Only a fool would attack an entire village of giants alone. The harsh land of Cimmeria did not allow many fools to reach maturity, and Conan did not count himself among those slackwits who might have somehow cheated death. He had escaped and destroyed his prison, along with the giant's precious writings about what he called natural philosophy. While he would have cheerfully cut Raseri into bloody tatters, it was not worth the risk of trying to find him in the midst of all the confusion. Giants ran this way and that, yelling, scooping water, and trying to douse the fire. Light danced, casting weird shadows, and smoke and steam boiled, making the night smell of steam and burning wood together.

  Aye, he would slay Raseri, but this was not the best of times to do so. Plus, that sleep powder was tricky, and the giant leader likely had more of it in his pouch, along with who knew what else.

  Nay, he thought as he slipped into the swamp, better to count himself lucky and now schooled somewhat better in the ways of the world. He would be more careful in the future about trusting people, be they his kind or giants. Crom might forgive a man a mistake once; repeating the error would likely draw the god's anger. The lesson was cheap enough, 'considering how costly it could have been.

  Conan had enough to do as he tried to recall the treacherous path by which he had come to this place. Retracing it in the night would be no small accomplishment either. There, by that large-boled fern, he remembered that the path went that way ....