The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  The distant fire cast yet enough light for him to see the trail. And more than enough illumination to reveal the sudden appearance of a dozen little men half his size, brandishing spears and showing pointed teeth that gleamed whitely against their dark faces.

  Crom! What was this?

  The sounds issuing from the giants' village grew fainter as Dake and his captives followed the catwoman's lead into the swamp. Dake was elated. Even the insects seemed less bothersome; perhaps they had been drawn to the fire and consumed. By the time any pursuit might be initiated, he and his troop would be halfway to the wagon. Another few days would see them nearing Shadizar, and fame and fortune. Ah, life was good!

  Conan would have retreated had there been any haven to hand. Behind him lay the village, and he had no intention of ever returning there. To either side the swamp spawned patches of deadly mire that would suck a man to his death. Ahead were the spear-carrying dwarves. None of the choices appealed, but Conan realized there was only one that he could make.

  He lifted his sword. The dwarves seemed as surprised to see him as he them. His one chance lay in hacking through before they could gather their wits. He charged, screaming.

  Half of the spear carriers scattered immediately, darting off the trail into the swamp. The others were slow to react. One, a bit braver or more foolish or both, hurled himself at Conan and thrust his spear at the Cimmerian's groin.

  Conan twisted, swung his sword, and cut the spear's shaft cleanly. The force of the slash against the spear knocked the dwarf aside.

  A second attacker jabbed at Conan, and the obsidian point of the short spear tore a shallow furrow over Conan's left hip. The Cimmerian chopped downward with his blade, and the edge bit the attacker's neck. The blur of iron passed through the rubbery padding between bones and lopped the head from the body. The dying head screamed without sound.

  Never pausing, Conan leaped, his sandaled foot using the next crouching dwarf as a springboard, and flew half his own height into the air, hurtling over yet another startled dwarf, who could only watch him fly by in amazement.

  Then he was past the milling horde, still on the trail, and running as fast as he could. With that ability to recall trails, Conan managed to keep his pace for some distance before he misstepped and stumbled. He fell, and at that same instant a short spear passed over him and thudded into a tree two spans away.

  Conan scrambled up, regained the path, and continued to put distance between himself and the dwarves. Apparently that last-thrown spear was the extent of their pursuit, at least for the moment. He did not hear the thumps of small feet behind him; neither did the startled cries of the dwarves seem to be drawing nearer.

  Giants, and then dwarves. The world, Conan realized, was full of mystery.

  EIGHT

  Tro's eyes equaled those of any night cat, and she led Dake and his enthralled group unerringly through the darkness along the swampy trail. What missteps she might have failed to see were spotted by Penz, whose distant kin and kith had also mastered the night. Between the two of them, the risks were minimal. The group did not run, but it moved briskly and at a pace no normal-sighted man could possibly manage without chancing the quicksand's slow death.

  Whether the Vargs and the Jatte could see better than could men was not something Dake knew.

  The mage was tired, but the thought of capture by either the dwarves or the giants fueled his steps, and where he went, his thralls had no choice but to accompany him.

  Kreg was not under the spell that draped the others, however. "Can we not stop and rest for a moment?" he asked. "Surely they cannot pursue us, save but slowly?"

  Dake shook his head. "We do not know that for certain."

  "Why not ask the freaks?"

  Dake slowed his pace. On occasion Kreg astounded him by making such simple yet profound statements, proffering reason that certainly should have come to Dake's own mind, but had not. Dake did not compliment his assistant on his wit; that was not his way. Compliments were useless unless there was something to be gained. He merely nodded and moved closer to the giant female.

  "What is your name?" Dake spoke in the same tongue in which he had communicated with the little green man.

  The woman, who was dressed in a simple homespun shift, appeared to try to fight the spell in which she was trapped. Her arm muscles bunched into tense knots. Her face tightened from the strain, and she shook her head from side to side, her hair whipping out like a dark cloud. Her efforts were to no avail of course. After a moment of struggling, she said, nearly spitting the words, "I am called Teyle."

  "Can your people follow us along this trail in the dark?"

  Another small time of trying to withstand his magic ensued. "Yes, but-" She bit off the rest of the reply, having met his question directly.

  Dake grinned. He had had some experience with these matters. "Can they match our speed?"

  "No."

  "At what pace can they follow compared to ours?"

  "Much slower."

  His grin widened. Dake thought it unlikely that anyone would notice the missing trio before the fire was either quenched or done feasting upon the building. But even if someone did, it seemed there was little danger of being caught from behind.

  Dake turned toward the dwarf and asked him the same questions. The little one had apparently accepted his lot and did not resist as he said that the Vargs could not follow quickly in the darkness either. And that was assuming they would try, believing that Dake could field a demon.

  Stopping presented little risk. "Hold," Dake said to the troop. "We will rest a moment."

  The group halted.

  Dake turned once again toward Teyle. "Remove your garment," he said.

  This time the fight to resist took longer, but in the end the giant woman did as she was told.

  The moon and starlight that filtered through the canopy of trees was dim, but enough to reveal that the woman was most comely. Unlike some misshaped giants born of normal parents, Teyle was built like a woman of Dake's own kind, albeit much larger. Her form was shapely; she had melon-sized and firm breasts, wide and womanly hips, and muscular, but definitely feminine, arms and legs.

  "Turn around."

  Teyle obeyed.

  Yes, Dake mused, this one was as attractive from behind as from the front, with nary a splotch upon her perfect form. She would produce excellent offspring; she had the body for it.

  What those offspring might be was another matter.

  "Put your clothing back on."

  Teyle again obeyed, but this time much faster.

  Dake could not tell if she had blushed. He turned, however, and noticed that the giant boy was staring at the woman as she dressed. Dake could not see his expression clearly. Was that some interest on his face? Perhaps he was old enough to breed?

  "Move along," the mage ordered. "We want to be well away from here when dawn finds us."

  The troop started down the path once again.

  Dake laughed softly to himself. They were well ahead of any pursuit, and would be much more so by first light. Once they reached the wagon, they would be able to maintain that lead, for aided by a small spell, the transport could easily move at the pace of a man on foot, even a giant. Upon reaching civilization, the giants and dwarves, if they bothered to follow that far, would have to cease their chase. They would hardly keep their lives or their freedom long if they continued, whether they caught up with Dake or not.

  Dake laughed again, pleased with himself. Fame was only a matter of time. There were no obstacles in his path now, and none likely to be, he thought.

  Conan moved along the twisty path at a steady if slow pace, his keen eyes searching for places he remembered. Trees and thick bushes loomed in the night, shadowy and indistinct, and while the swamp was cooler than it had been in the day, it was no less damp. Insects buzzed past with hums and high-pitched whines. Though his vision was sharper than that of most men he had known, the darkness required that he take special care. Signs
that were easily visible in daylight were sometimes well concealed by the night's ebon cloak. Several times he had started to put his weight down upon places that would not support him, only to be saved by his quick reflexes. To slacken in his alertness could well be fatal.

  The Cimmerian detected no signs of either giants or the small green men as he wound his way through the mire. Aside from that single thrown spear immediately after his encounter with the Vargs, no indications of followers had reached his senses.

  He considered stopping long enough to make a torch with which to light his path, and thereby increase his speed, but decided that the risk might prove more than the aid. True, he would be able to move faster could he see better; but true also that a man carrying a flaming brand in the dark is all too visible. And a man who sat within the light of a campfire could not see into the night, being blinded by the nearness of flame. In the dark Conan was more or less concealed, and he preferred it that way. No, he would continue to grope his way along. When dawn stretched and touched the world, he could increase his pace.

  Conan was both hungry and thirsty, and he did risk pausing long enough to drink from a small and sluggish stream that burbled near the trail at one turning. The water was surprisingly sweet and it refreshed the fleeing man greatly. His belly growled, complaining from lack of food, but Conan ignored it. He could, he knew, go several days without eating, and it was far better to be hungry than captured. Or dead.

  Conan moved along the treacherous path, putting ever greater distance between himself and the Jatte village. An occasional break in the trees revealed orange flickers against the distant sky. These glimpses of the fire's continued life brought smiles to the Cimmerian's face.

  Would, he thought, that the entire village caught flame and perished. 'Twould certainly serve them right.

  Raseri ordered his people back from the burning building when it became evident that the structure could not be saved. The captured man was within, as were a number of scrolls and other items of value that he hated to lose, but there was no help for it.

  The chief and shaman of the Jatte directed his firefighters to turn their efforts to the buildings closest to the one inflamed, to prevent spread of the raging blaze. Buckets of water began to splash upon the roofs and walls of those structures most likely to catch an errant spark. Within moments the drenchings had wet down all of the houses close to the fire. Heat brought forth clouds of steam, but more water was sloshed onto the drying walls to replace that stolen by the fire's breath.

  Hours passed before the encircled fire began to dim. No longer free to feast, the fiery beast ate the last of its meal, unable to reach far enough to affect the surrounding structures. Like an old man, the fire grew feeble, sending up showers of sparks as a support post collapsed here and there, threatening to begin anew as the posts took flame, but impotent to go any farther. Now the buckets of water brought hissing groans from the failing creature of heat and light. Its time was almost over.

  Raseri watched as the flames and heat died, leaving only smoldering spots and glowing red coals in its stead.

  Miraculously, the cage of bone had escaped destruction. It stood alone in the circle of what had been a building, blackened by the heat and soot, canted slightly to one side as if a heavy weight had pressed down upon it, but still whole.

  As the heat further decreased, Raseri was able to approach the cage. He expected to see the charred remains of the warrior, either sprawled upon the bottom slats or lying in roasted chunks beneath the cage. A pity. The man had shown promise of lasting longer than any other captive had ever By the Great Sun above!"

  Raseri could feel the heat through the soles of his sandals as he trod upon the hot coals, but he ignored the smoke coming from his footgear as he ran toward the cage.

  There was no sign of the body.

  The captured man was gone!

  Raseri stood staring at the empty cage. Abruptly one of his smoking sandals scorched and took flame. The giant cursed and jumped, then ran from the burned compound to cooler ground. He stamped his foot and extinguished the leather, bent and pulled both of the hot sandals from his feet, then cursed again.

  The man had escaped. And the cause of the fire now seemed most obvious. The Creator curse him to the end of infinity!

  Raseri turned to look at his people, who were watching him in puzzlement. The chief of the Jatte shook his head. Done was done; the building could not be brought back. How the little man had managed to free himself was a question that could be put only to him-had he not perished in the swamp, which Raseri thought to be likely. Still, they would have to be certain. If by some miracle this Conan had managed to stay to the trail and survive, he could not be allowed to return to others of his kind. The whereabouts of the Jatte village might be suspected by some on the outside, but none who had actually seen it could be allowed to go free to speak of it. The small men could not threaten that about which they did not know.

  Night was waning; false dawn approached in front of his more truthful brother. At first light they would have to seek out the escapee and recapture him.

  Raseri turned toward a young Jatte male. "Ready the hellhounds!"

  The youth looked puzzled.

  "The captive has escaped the fire and fled," Raseri said. "He must be tracked and caught."

  The shaman looked around. Teyle had a bond with the hellhounds; she could control them better than any man in the village. "Teyle!" he called out loudly.

  His daughter did not answer. Nor, as he found out within a few moments, would she respond. She was gone, and with her, the twins.

  What kind of sorceror was this Conan, to escape the cage and to take Raseri's three favorite children?

  "Bring the hellhounds!"

  Far enough into the swamp and sufficiently away from the Jatte village to feel safe, the Vargs followed in confusion, and none were more addled than Fosull.

  The chief of the Vargs stood leaning against a thick-boled tree, the smooth bark cool against his skin. His men had dragged three downed warriors away from the perimeter of the Jatte village, the three slain by a maddened creature that could be nothing other than one of the outswamp men. Another Varg was injured to the extent that he, too, would likely be making the journey to meet his ancestors at any moment.

  Who was that man? None of the Vargs who had seen the party of outswamp men-and that included Fosull himself had recognized the attacker. Her had burst into their midst and carved a bloody path through them, running away at a speed that would surely send him into the sandy grip of death.

  "My leader!"

  Fosull turned toward the warrior who called. "What is it?"

  "The Jatte. They have released the hellhounds!"

  As if to emphasize the warrior's words, there came the skin-pebbling howl of one of the, monsters, a sound closer to a great cat's scream than that of a wolf.

  By the Great Forest God! Hellhounds! "Quickly, to the warrens!"

  "What of the bodies of our comrades?"

  "Leave them! They might slow the hellhounds."

  But even as Fosull spoke, one of the faster of the Jatte's killer beasts bounded along the trail, foamy drool dripping from its fanged jaws.

  The first glimmerings of dawn had only just begun, but there was more than enough light to see the hound clearly. Large it was, twice the size of Fosull, and while it might or might not claim hell as its birthplace, it bore little resemblance to any creature ever born of dog.

  The thing paused as it arrived in the clearing, giving the Vargs a better view of their doom. The beast's head was squarish, like unto a bear, with deep-set black eyes and flaring twin pits for a nose. Teeth it had many of, long and sharp for rending its prey, and tiny round ears to the sides of its ugly head. The hellhound's body was wolverine-like, but covered in a thick reddish fur, and its feet were wide, clawed and flat, big enough that it could use them like paddles in the swamp. A hellhound could swim with equal ease through water or quicksand, and any prey stupid enough to think to esc
ape offside the trail would make a quickly fatal mistake.

  Fosull readied his speak for a cast. Were it simply the one, his Vargs could prevail, for they had successfully fought single hellhounds before. But with others following and his troops already weakened and in disarray, it would appear as if the battle were lost. The Jatte seldom loosed the hounds, for the warrens were protected by poisonous stakes that even the beasts could not surmount. But in the open ....

  The hellhound sniffed the air, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet clearing. Then, after a moment that seemed to stretch as long as any Fosull had ever endured, the hellhound turned and bounded off.

  Fosull stood staring at the disappearing monster.

  What in the name of any god-?

  The remainder of the hellhound pack, at least another seven or eight of them, streamed past, following the lead beast.

  Fosull continued to stare stupidly at the pack as it bayed and growled, moving away from him and his startled troops. Even after they were long past, he held his spear ready for what he had thought to be his last throw.

  Finally he lowered his weapon. The hellhounds were not after the Vargs. That much was clear. But . . . who were they chasing?

  In an instant the answer came to him. The outswamp man, the one who had killed three of the Vargs. The Jatte were after him! Somehow that one must be connected to the others, those who had taken Fosull's son. They had set fire to the Jatte lodge, with the giant cage therein, and now the Jatte sought them.

  Of the other outswamp men there was no sign; they must have taken another trail, but of a moment Fosull was convinced that the band who controlled the demon was also gone from the village.

  If the hellhounds caught them, then Vilken would be as dead as they would be, assuming the hounds could overcome the demon. Certainly it would be a fight worth seeing, the hounds against the more-than-giant demon.

  "After them!" Fosull ordered.

  "Are you gone mad?" one of his warriors said. "You want us to pursue the hounds?"