The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  "We are not their intended prey," Fosull said. "And they will lead me to my son. Move, quickly!"

  The habits of obedience were strong in the Vargs, and the warriors followed their leader as he moved out onto the trail. Daylight painted bright streaks into the sky of night, changing the dark into light.

  So far this venture had been costly and not to Fosull's liking. Time to take control and change that, the Varg leader thought. He managed a grin as he moved along the trail.

  As he smiled, an early ray of sunshine gleamed from his wicked, pointed teeth.

  NINE

  The rising sun found Conan in a section of the swamp full of short, odd trees with broad, waxy leaves the length of a man's arm and as wide as two hands side by side. Already the fetid swamp seemed hot. Behind him in the distance suddenly came the cry of some thing, echoed in a moment by similar beastly voices. The calls were faint and unlike any he could recall, but his immediate worry was that the things-whatever they might be-were on his trail.

  This could bode ill. The edge of the swamp lay some distance away yet, and the howls behind Conan grew louder and closer at a speed faster than his own.

  Whatever made that noise would be upon him before too much longer, and Conan had no desire to meet this new threat while balanced on a narrow path in a desolate swamp. He needed a clear spot in which to make his defense, a place with room in which to move and use his blade to its best advantage.

  The Cimmerian began to run, trusting his memory to keep him to the winding trail. As he recalled, there were places not too far ahead that offered safe footing, one in particular that might serve him. With good fortune he might arrive there in time.

  Aye, with good fortune he would have never come to be in this predicament in the first place. True, he had escaped the cage, but smiling luck had played only a small part in that; to die a few hours later would hardly be much improvement. Mayhaps it was time that chance ran in his favor. Then again, Conan knew that Crom helped most those who helped themselves. The man from the frozen north would rather put his trust in a sharp blade than in the hands of the gods. A sword could be directed by skill; the gods did only as they would. A keen edge cut deeper than any prayer of which Conan had ever heard.

  With the things baying distantly at his back, Conan ran.

  The wagon in the small clearing off the road was a welcome sight, Dake had to admit, if only to himself. Nothing had been disturbed, and the freakmaster hurried to remove the simple spell that protected the conveyance and its grazing beasts. The scene was as he had left it, and the lack of any half-digested meals upon the short grass indicated that none had come near the wagon in his absence.

  "Harness the animals," Dake ordered his crew.

  As they obeyed, the mage smiled. This entire adventure had been without major impediment. He had four new additions to his menagerie, and Shadizar lay waiting. Along the route there were a number of smaller towns and villages in which he could hone his performances, and even earn a few coins, to arrive at his final destination in good fettle.

  Yes, if a man had wits, he could rise to the top like the finest cream. By the time they reached Shadizar, Dake would have his presentation ready to amaze the rich merchants and thieves who ruled the city. They would vie for the right to sponsor him, he was certain of it.

  He watched as Sab harnessed one of the oxen, the man's four arms moving with practiced speed and grace over the beast of burden. Was Sab alone not amazing? Who else had such a wonder on display? Indeed, who else had a collection to equal a four-armed man, a catwoman, a wolfman, three giants, and a green dwarf ? No one, Dake answered himself.

  The oxen were finally in place, the wagon ready to depart. Dake considered the logistical problem of Teyle for a moment. Although the interior of the wagon would carry a dozen normalsized men in tight if relative comfort, the vehicle had not been designed with one such as the giant woman in mind. True, space could be made for her to lie easily, and she could sit, did she do so resting upon the floor, but moving around inside would be a problem for her. The interior roof barely cleared Dake's own head when he stood, and a rough road would sometimes bounce him enough so that he struck the ceiling when he was standing. Teyle would have to crawl in order to move about inside, and while that might be an interesting and pleasant sight to behold, it might also rub raw spots upon her knees.

  Dake wanted to avoided marring her if at all possible. This was not due to any weak-willed worry on his part; he would butcher any or all of his thralls if absolutely need be, but there was no point in damaging valuable goods unless one had no other choice. No, better she should ride out front with Penz. The driver's platform had an overhanging roof to keep rain and snow off, and was high enough to that even Teyle could sit there without bumping her head. She could crawl inside to sleep when necessary.

  Having solved that small worry, Dake ordered his crew into the wagon, save for Teyle and Penz. As the massive cart rolled from its concealment toward the road, Dake stood on the rear step, holding on to the door's frame, and looked back toward the unseen village of the Jatte. He marked it well in his memory. Should anything happen to the three giants he had collected, he could always return for more.

  He smiled as the wagon achieved the road. Fame and fortune awaited ahead, and not more than an easy journey lay between them and himself.

  Raseri, along with three of his best hunters, moved along the path through the swamp, following the hellhounds. They had come to the big leaf trees, and the tracking beasts were far ahead, so far that only an occasional faint howl reached the Jatte's ears.

  The leader of the giants was not one to trust either the gods or fortune, believing that examination and documentation served the Jatte better than wishes or prayers. While most of the experimental material gathered about the barbarian his daughter had captured had been destroyed in the fire, not all of it had been lost. Raseri had taken samples of the small man's hair, his clothing, even a patch from the sheath of Conan's sword, to compare against samples taken from others who had occupied the cage. These items had been kept in the root house, in the deepest and coolest corner where sometimes frost formed even on the hottest summer days. The Jatte had long ago discovered that cold would preserve once-living things considerably longer than open exposure allowed.

  It was the faint scent of these samples that the hellhounds followed, and they would continue to seek that odor until they found the escapee. Raseri had known the beasts to follow a trail five days cold; there was no animal in the swamps able to overcome a pack of hellhounds. If Conan had blundered into a patch of quicksand and drowned, the hounds would recover the corpse. If some great cat had eaten the man, the hounds would bring that back. Even if no more than a few patches of the barbarian remained, they would be enough to draw the hounds.

  Raseri moved along the trail at a steady pace, in no great hurry. There was no way they could manage the speed of the hounds, just as there was no way Conan could outrun them. Like as not, the four Jatte would be met by the tracking animals returning home with whatever bits of barbarian gristle and bone remained after they had savaged him.

  The leader of the Jatte did worry about his missing three children, though. How a single man could abduct a trio, the smallest of whom were his own size, was a mystery to Raseri. One that he looked forward to solving. Soon.

  Ahead of the leader, Lawi, the youngest of the four Jatte on the hounds' trail, called out. "The left turning," he said.

  Raseri nodded and waved at the other two Jatte behind him. These were the brothers Kouri the Older and Hmuo the Younger, and also Raseri's nephews once removed. "To the left."

  The four Jatte took the left tine of the trail's fork, following the distinctive tracks of the hellhounds.

  From far ahead came the barely discernible yowls of the hunting beasts. Closing in on their prey, Raseri hoped.

  Conan found the clearing he recalled. It was to the left of the trail, bounded on one side by a loop of stagnant pond covered with virid scum
and darker green lily pads. A semicircle of swollen-based trees grew thick upon a slope that dropped sharply away, directly opposite the trail. On the side to the immediate right grew smaller trees and an underbrush of thorny brambles. Save for the trail's opening, not much wider than Conan's arm span, there was no easy entrance to the clearing.

  Unless his pursuers could walk on water or bull their way through the wicked thorns at speed, they would have to come into the clearing in a single file, which, Conan felt, gave him an advantage. The beasts could circle around and come up the slope, assuming they were smart enough to recognize that option; even so, they would be slowed greatly by such a maneuver. Could they swim, they could cross the pond, but again at a reduced speed. He did not know how many of the things trailed him, nor did he have any idea as to their size or capabilities, but there was little choice in the matter. The sounds of the approaching pursuers grew closer, and if volume was any indication, they were nearly upon him., Conan moved into the clearing, halting just inside the entrance, and unsheathed his sword. He stood with his back against the underbrush, hidden from a viewer upon the trail. He took several deep breaths, gripped the sword's handle in both hands, and lifted the blade over his right shoulder as might a man about to split firewood with an axe. He was as ready as it was possible to be, he decided. He managed a tight grin. Were it his time to die, he would do so with his sword in hand and he would go down swinging iron death at his killers. A man could do much worse, and no man would live forever.

  Ho, Crom, he thought. Is today my day to join you?

  The God of the Mountain did not deign to reply. Just as well, Conan thought. He would rather not know that answer until it came.

  Fosull and his warriors moved along the empty trail, dodging a patch of quicksand and skirting a pond that had grown to nearly reach the path, listening to the Jatte's hellhounds howling ahead of them. The leader of the Vargs had already thanked several favorite gods for sparing him and his from the beasts, but that mercy did nothing to return Vilken or to avenge the deaths dealt by the outswamp men. Given the nature of the hounds, it seemed likely that those unfortunate men would be torn to bloody tatters long before the Vargs arrived upon the scene. Too bad, since Fosull would have liked to deal the offenders pain and suffering on his own; still, dead was dead, and if the gods chose to use the hellhounds as their agents, Fosull was not one to argue with them. Could they recover his son, he would be satisfied. A few scraps of meat for the pot would certainly not be looked upon askance, should that favor be also granted, but not at the cost of facing hellhounds or monstrous demons.

  Nay, he and his would be content with what bounty the gods elected to allow them, Fosull decided.

  The rear scout came running up, all breathless.

  "Yes?"

  "-J-J-Jatte, my leader." He had to pause for air.

  "Where?"

  "Behind us."

  "How many? How far?"

  The scout held up one hand with the thumb folded into his palm. "F-four. Maybe an hour back."

  Fosull considered this information. He had, he saw, fourteen warriors. In a confrontation with four Jatte, he might prevail, though he would like better odds. Still, were they an hour back, a fight might be avoided. If the hounds brought the outswamp men to earth, it was possible that he and his troops could retrieve Vilken and disappear into the swamp, using small animal trails the Jatte would not chance. It seemed a workable plan, and at the very least, the Jatte would not happen upon them in less than an hour.

  "Quicken your pace," Fosull called to his warriors.

  The fifteen Vargs hurried along the trail.

  Conan could now hear the footfalls of the approaching pursuers, so close were they. He took another deep breath, released half the air, and held the rest. The sword was rock-steady over his shoulder.

  So fast did the thing enter the clearing that Conan's cut took it above the hindquarters instead of in the neck. The shock of the strike vibrated up the Cimmerian's hands and was absorbed by his thickly muscled arms. The blued-iron blade sheared through the animal's backbone and was very nearly wrenched from Conan's grip as the beast howled and went limp. Conan clung to the handle with all his might, and the wounded creature fell away from the sword and skidded to a stop two spans away. It quivered and tried to move, but only the forepaws still worked.

  Ugly brute, Conan had time to see. Bigger than a big dog and not like anything he had ever known before. He moved to the half-paralyzed beast and cut at it again, this time connecting with the back of the neck and nearly severing its head. The thing quivered a final time and died.

  More of them were coming, lagging behind the leader, and the Cimmerian readied himself for the fight. He stepped out into the path, sword held ready to slash.

  The second beast bounded into view, spied Conan, and hurtled itself toward the man. Conan allowed the thing to get within range, then swung the heavy blade from right to left; at the same time he jumped to his right, so that the end of the sword chopped into the side of the animal's head. The strike was fatal, for the-for what of a better name-dog tripped and rolled past Conan and did not move.

  The third dog to arrive scrabbled to a halt at the entrance to the clearing and sniffed the air repeatedly as Conan stepped into view again, sword pointed at the next enemy.

  Likely the thing smelled the blood of its companions, Conan judged, for this one held its position and made a whining noise.

  After a moment, three other of the hellish dogs arrived to stand next to this one. These too sniffed at the air, and all of them milled about for a moment as if confused.

  "Ho, dogs! Come in and die!"

  One of the remaining four leaped forward, and the other three followed it.

  Conan sprang to meet the charge, and his movement must have startled the attackers, for the leader stopped abruptly and the three behind it slammed into it. One of those in the rear fell into the pond, gave a catlike yowl, and started to scramble out.

  Taking advantage of the confusion and the fact that the dogs had to come at him one after another, Conan charged.

  The leader tried to turn but could not manage it for the others blocking its retreat, and Conan's blade opened the dog's side from shoulder to belly. Crimson gouted, and the dog bit at the moving blade, but far too slowly.

  Conan drew back the sword and thrust it point first. The blade entered between two ribs at a spot where he judged the thing's heart would be. The dog howled and leaped up, knocking its nearest comrade into the nest of thorns opposite the scummy pond. The wounded dog leaped at Conan but fell short as the man hurriedly backed away; then the dog collapsed, blocking the trail.

  One dog, upon the path, was moving backward. Another was trying to dig itself from the tangle of brambles and only becoming more enmeshed, and the third beast, the one in the pond, was about to regain the narrow trail.

  Conan took three quick steps, put his foot upon the back of the dead dog on the trail, and leaped at the one behind it.

  The dog turned and ran.

  Even as he came down, Conan hacked at the dog in the pond. The thing lifted one fat paw, as if to ward off the strike, and then the sharped iron sliced the leg through.

  The beast howled and fell back into the water. It tried to swim but the missing leg off-balanced it, and it began to move around in a tight circle.

  The brambles still held one animal prisoner, and Conan turned to deal with that one.

  But as the Cimmerian moved to dispatch the struggling beast impaled upon the hundreds of thorns, the dog that had retreated along the trail must have regained its courage, for it returned and leaped, its dripping fangs aimed at Conan's throat. As he twisted to meet the threat, Conan slipped upon a patch of blood on the trail and fell to one knee. The accidental move saved him, for the attacker flew over the man's suddenly lowered form and landed upon the dog still trapped in the thorn bushes, the weight driving them both deeper into the brambles.

  The swimming dog had nearly completed another circle a
nd was facing the trail when Conan pierced its neck with his sword's tip. The greenish water turned ruby as blood pumped from the dog. It continued to struggle, but to no avail. Even as Conan turned away to deal with the two still wrapped in their blanket of thorns, the dog in the water sank.

  One of the final two dogs scrambled free of the plants that held it, only to meet bloody iron.

  The last of the monster dogs reached for Conan with fangs smeared with its own blood, but it could not move freely with its rear still held fast by the myriad small hooks dug into it, and the man's blade sang its song of death once more.

  After Conan's heart slowed and he wiped sweat and gore from his face, he looked around at the carnage. Six of the things, all dead. He felt suddenly tired from his exertions. It was often that way after a battle, but there was no time to rest. He had triumphed over these formidable beasts, but their masters must surely be not far behind. Dogs, even such as these, were one thing. Giants were another.

  He wiped his blade clean on the fur of one of the dead dogs, resheathed the sword, and made his way back to the trail. He turned away from the Jatte village and took up his route. At the very least, he had provided the Jatte with some measure of his worth and repaid them somewhat for his stay in their cage of torture. He would have had it be Raseri who lay slaughtered here, but the leader of the giants would find a surprise when he came for his dogs.

  Conan smiled at the thought.

  TEN

  When Fosull's forward scout came running back, he bore news that sounded unbelievable.

  "My leader! The hellhounds! They are dead!"

  "All of them?"

  "All of them."

  Fosull considered that, but spoke to it no further. He would not have his warriors see him disturbed, even by such news as this.

  The band of Vargs continued on to the site where the fight had taken place. They were dead, all right. Half a dozen of the most vicious animals in the swamp, cut down by what appeared to be a sword. Incredible.