Fosull inspected the area, observed the tracks, and like any Varg with only one eye and less than half a brain, quickly came to realize that the hellhounds had been slain by a single man. One of the outswamp ones, and likely the same half-naked man who had killed several of his warriors at the outskirts of the Jatte village. There were no prints or signs of the group that had fielded the demon.
This was bad. Very bad. Six hounds killed by one man. Here was a warrior to avoid, unless he was on your side, and he and his troops were following him instead of those who had taken Fosull's son. Not a good idea.
His warriors looked at Fosull expectantly. Despite his awe, he was the leader and it fell to him to present an appearance of non-concern, if not of outright nonchalance.
"I had thought there were more hounds," he said.
The scout, a fleet-of-foot young Varg of nineteen seasons named Olir, blinked and stared at Fosull. "My leader?"
"I thought there were eight or nine. To slay that many would have been a fair chore. But a mere six . . ." He allowed his words to trail off as he tested the obsidian tip of his spear with one callused thumb. The implication was that he, Fosull, could have taken six hellhounds without raising a decent sweat.
There was a murmur among his warriors. Disbelief, Fosull reckoned, but he smiled anyway. One did not get to be-and remain-leader without a certain prowess, and it had been a dozen seasons since anybody had challenged him at anything. The last to try him had eaten Fosull's spear before he could do more than stamp his feet and wave his own weapon. More than half of this band had been but children when Fosull had slain that challenger, and the story had been embellished over the seasons so that many of the younger warriors thought Fosull invincible. Even so, somebody who could slaughter six hellhounds and walk away was no one with whom they wished to trifle.
"We waste our time here," the leader of the Vargs said.
"We are going to follow the one who did this?" Olir asked.
"Of course. I expect that he shall lead us to the others. Vilken remains their captive, or had you forgotten?"
"N-no, my leader."
"Then let us depart. Go and scout, and see that you don't trip over our quarry."
Fosull watched Olir as he moved off ahead of the others. His pace was slower than normal, to be sure. And Fosull was more than a little certain that the young Varg would do everything in his power to avoid happening upon the man who had slain the hounds. As would Fosull, were he the scout.
Lawi was pale as he returned to the spot where Raseri and the other two Jatte sat finishing their hastily packed midday meal. The group rested in a small hollow formed by the larger branches of a lightning-felled tree. Moss coated much of the downed timber, whose wooden body had lain here for at least five seasons.
"Have you determined why the hounds have gone silent? Have they caught up with their prey already?"
Lawi shook his head and sat down upon a fat log that angled up from the mire on the side of the trail. "Aye, they caught up with the one we seek."
"That is good-" Raseri began.
"Nay," Lawi cut in. "The hellhounds are dead."
"What? Impossible!" That from Kouri.
"It cannot be!" Hmuo said.
Raseri withheld comment.
"Come and see for yourselves."
When the four giants arrived at the scene of the slaughter, it was Kouri who spoke first: "Varg tracks! So that is why the hounds are dead. A large party of Vargs were here!"
Raseri bent over one of the dead hounds, then moved to examine a second, and then a third. "Nay," he said. "These wounds were not made by Varg spears."
"Then who-?" Hmuo began.
"Conan of our cage. See?" He pointed at a gaping wound. "This was done by a sword. Examine the other three and you will find like injuries."
"You say that all six were killed by one small man?"
Raseri turned toward Kouri. "Aye. He is most resourceful, as we know by his escape from the cage and his flight along the trail. And never have we captured a fiercer example of the small men. You should recall that."
Kouri raised one hand to his forehead and rubbed at it. When the caged Conan had been attacked by the four Jatte with staves, it had been Kouri who had lost his weapon to the small man and been slammed unconscious for his trouble. It was unlikely that Kouri would forget that episode.
"But what were the Vargs doing here?" Lawi asked.
Raseri shrugged. "Who can say? Perhaps they wished only to obtain a meal."
"But they continue to follow the man after seeing this. Surely even the Vargs cannot be that stupid?"
Raseri mused upon this for a moment. "It is odd," he finally allowed. "And most interesting. They must have compelling reasons. We have seen the same thing and yet we also continue to follow, is this not so?"
Hmuo said, "Regarding that. I have examined the trail carefully and have yet to see Jatte tracks. What of Teyle and Oren and Morja? It would seem that they are not with the fugitive."
That was even odder, Raseri thought. But surely there must be some connection between the barbarian and his own missing children? That Conan had escaped from the cage alone was most difficult to believe; mayhaps he had had help. It might be that he had comrades unnoticed by Teyle when she captured him. Perhaps these comrades had freed Conan and then taken the children for revenge, fleeing along another of the trails?
Raseri had to admit that the hypothesis seemed farfetched; still, one had to account for the reality somehow, and that Conan had escaped and his son and two daughters had disappeared at the same time were facts. How these things had come to pass might be difficult to ascertain, but the ways of reason dictated that for every effect there was a cause. Whatever else happened, Conan must be captured. What he knew could be determined only after that was accomplished.
Raseri nodded to himself. Aloud, he said, "Come. There are no more answers to be gained here. We must catch Conan."
"And get past the Vargs to do it," Kouri said.
"If need be, we shall do so."
Conan made good time along the trail. The swamp was thinning; there were now patches of dry land that extended for long stretches along the path, and he knew it would not be long before he regained the road to Shadizar upon which he had met the giants.
The Cimmerian considered himself lucky to be free, and his intent was to continue his trip without further adventures into danger, could he avoid them. He was alive, albeit somewhat hungry, and with each moment that passed, he moved farther away from both giants and dwarves. He would be glad to be shut of the swamp.
Only moments later Conan found a kind of berry he recognized as edible, and he paused long enough to make a short meal of the things. 'Twas not as solid as meat or fowl, but better than listening to the rumble of his empty belly. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and continued on his way. He would, if his memory served him correctly, be nearing the road soon. It would not come fast enough to suit him.
The wagon rolled along the bumpy road, and Dake fell into a doze, lulled by the rocking motion. He had a dream. In the dream he was master of a huge circus, a hippodrome packed with thousands of spectators, all of them watching the hundreds of oddities that he had collected and bred. Catwomen performed acrobatic dances; four-armed men and women juggled dozens of colored balls; green dwarves and towering giants paraded back and forth; wolfmen fought each other with tooth and nail. All of this took place under the largest tent in creation, a high-peaked, blue-and-white-striped roof of pure silk that shaded the viewers in the stands.
Suddenly there was a crack! and one of the huge poles holding the tent aloft snapped. The billowing silk collapsed upon the throng of customers and freaks; people began yelling at Dake for help. "Dake! Dake! Dake . . . ."
He awoke to find Kreg shaking him. "Dake."
The mage slapped his assistant's hand away from his shoulder. "Why do you disturb my slumber?"
At the same moment of his question, he noticed that the wagon was not movin
g.
"Why are we stopped? I did not call for a halt!"
Kreg shook his head. "We have broken a wheel."
"What? Show me."
Dake alighted from the rear of the wagon and followed Kreg around to the front. The wheel on the side upon which Teyle now sat next to Penz was indeed broken. At least four of the spokes had shattered or cracked badly, and a segment of the circle under the protective iron rim was knocked loose, the rim itself flattened where the support had failed.
"By Set's scaled scrotum! What happened?"
Penz looked down from where he sat. "We rolled over a large rock that had a larger hole behind it."
"Fool! Why did you not go around it?"
"No room. See for yourself." Penz pointed back along the road, and it was apparent that what he said was true. The road had narrowed where the protruding rock jutted up from the surface, and one side was lined with brush while the other dropped sharply into the shallow ravine.
Dake cursed again, calling upon several lesser known gods, and describing some of their more disgusting personal habits in his imprecation. The malediction was enough to make the oxen stamp their feet nervously.
Finally he said, "Unpack the spare wheel and replace the broken one."
Penz grinned, showing his wolfish teeth. "Alas, we cannot. We have already used the spare wheel. Recall the ascent of the Haraan Pass?"
Dake clenched his fists in voiceless rage. Yes. They had not had time for a wheelsmith to construct them another since the accident. And the weight of the massive wagon was such that all six wheels were necessary for support.
"Can you not use your magic to effect repairs?" Kreg asked.
No, he had no such spell, but Dake did not deem it wise to reveal the limits of his powers to anyone, much less his weak-brained assistant. "Magic is not to be wasted on such mundane chores," he said. "You and Penz and Sab shall take the woodcutting tools and carve replacements for the broken parts. There are sufficient trees about for suitable lumber."
"But-but that will take hours!"
"So? I am disposed to enjoy the countryside for a time."
"What countryside? There is nothing here but a patch of forest and a red-dirt road."
"Hold your tongue, idiot, or lose it!"
Kreg glowered, but fell silent. He knew well that Dake had but to wave Penz on and the wolfman would delight in tearing out Kreg's throat. Or Dake could simply put his obedience spell on his assistant and have him stand fast while the freakmaster smashed Kreg's head with the nearest handy rock. Kreg had seen his master kill before, and he knew well that murder bothered Dake not one whit.
"Sab! Bring the cutting tools!" Kreg bellowed. "And get yourself down from your perch, hairy face!"
Penz leaped from the driver's seat, landing lightly, and continued to grin at Kreg. Dake saw that Kreg's insult had no effect, for the wolfman was taking great delight in Kreg's barely controlled anger. Ah, a pity, but certainly Kreg was nearing the end of his usefulness. If Penz behaved himself, perhaps he would be allowed to dispatch his tormentor to the Gray Lands.
As the trio moved to locate wood sufficiently dry and unrotted with which to replace the spokes and broken wheel segment, Dake looked for a shady spot wherein to continue his nap. Mayhaps his dream would resume itself. That would be pleasant.
ELEVEN
Once he regained the road, Conan increased his pace, enjoying the feel of the solid ground beneath his sandals. His powerful legs, made strong and sturdy by lifting heavy rocks and logs as a boy in Cimmeria and subsequent years of walking and running, propelled him along with effortless strides.
He was, he reflected, little the worse for wear. He had his sword, and the adventure with the giants had cost him some comfort and time, but little else. Shadizar and wealth lay before him, and he would not be deflected from his goal again.
As the sands of the day trickled down toward dusk, Conan found a place suitable to stay the night. He set snares, quickly caught a rabbit, and by full dark had a fire lighted and a meal cooking over it. As he tore at the roasted meat with his strong white teeth, he smiled. Someday when he was old and grizzled, he could tell the story of the giants and the green dwarves to his grandchildren. Until then he would waste no more of his time worrying about it, for the events were in the past, over with, done.
"The wheel is repaired," Kreg said. His face and hands were begrimed with dirt and axle grease, blended artfully together with sweat, and he stank in the bargain.
Overhead, the partial moon shined her pale and waxy light down upon Dake and his party.
"It has taken you long enough," Dake said. "There is a stream down the hill. Go there and clean yourself and your garments. Take Sab and Penz with you and have them do likewise, then return. It is too dark to risk travel. I do not wish to have another broken wheel."
As Kreg led the four-armed man and the wolfman to the stream, Dake sent a glance back along the road behind the wagon. The forced stop had cut by several hours the lead they had gained on any pursuers. True, it was unlikely that followers would march through the swamp at night, and any of the giants who might have taken up the chase were likely still half a day behind, even considering the broken wheel. Be that as it might, Dake would feel better once the sun reclaimed the night and allowed them to continue their journey.
When Kreg and the others returned, he had them move the wagon from the road and into a small clearing near a grove of reddish-barked evergreen trees. As the night's chill settled over them, the unusual band climbed into the wagon and slumbered.
Fosull slept badly, tormented by dreams. His night visions were peopled by huge red demons, half-naked outswamp men, Jatte, and other shadowy figures he could not recognize. Fosull, fleet of foot and quick of arm while awake, found himself unable to run faster than a crawl in the dream, and all the power of his arm could hurl his spear but at the speed of a falling leaf. Where normally he wore his kilt of soft deerskin around his loins, he was naked. He kept trying to find his hut, but was hopelessly lost within the warrens, unable to recall the path leading home. During one frantic flight from a herd of four-armed catwomen, Fosull realized that he was dreaming; even so, he could not shake himself from the nightmare upon which he rode.
This dream was not, he managed to think, among his better ones.
Raseri lay awake long into the night, turning over possibilities in his mind, considering, thinking, trying to make the events of the past two days fit into a neat package. It was difficult, nay, more, it was not yet possible to do so. Too many variables had yet to be eliminated. Raseri could not devise a single theory that would account for what he knew.
The leader of the Jatte was sorely perplexed. Generally he could determine the reasons for happenings. Of course that might be because most of the things in his world were simple on the face of them, and easily laid to rest. Here instead was a complex problem unlike any he had dealt with before, and while it distressed him on one level, on another he found it quite invigorating. One's satisfaction at solving a difficult situation would be proportionately greater than the satisfaction of handling a simple problem.
Raseri smiled at the thought. That he would resolve the problem was a certainty; the questions were when? and where? and how difficult?
He was worried about his three missing children, of course, but he reasoned that they were in no great danger, at least for the time being. Had the abductors-and he was now sure that there were more than one-wished to kill the kidnapees, they would hardly have taken them so far away from the village to do so. No, likely the childstealers had some other use in mind for Teyle, Oren, and Morja. Perhaps they had in mind experimenting upon them, like he had done with Conan. Or displaying them. There were many possibilities, and Raseri sorted through as many of them as he could before sleep claimed him.
Conan arose early, prodded by a desire to put more distance between himself and his nearly fatal visit with the giants. Even as the first glimmerings of dawn sparkled redly through the skies, the Cimmer
ian was up and walking, eating the remains of another cooked rabbit as he moved, pausing only long enough to wash down the meat with a handful of water from a brook near the road.
By the time the day was fully alight he had been on the road for the better part of an hour.
As he crested a slight rise in the highway, he saw in the distance, stopped next to the side of the road, a wagon. Quite large it was, and perched upon six wheels. Eight or ten oxen grazed near the conveyance, which was roofed and very nearly the size of a house.
Conan loosened his sword in its sheath as he stepped from the road into the cover of a stand of small trees. His recent adventure had reinforced his caution, and while the inhabitants of the large wagon might be harmless, he was not disposed to trust them sight unseen.
The big Cimmerian moved easily through the trees, taking care to do so quietly, keeping some measure of cover between himself and the wagon.
He found a spot covered with dried tree needles and squatted down behind a scraggly bush to observe the situation. He would watch for a time and see what transpired.
After a few moments a fair-haired man emerged from the vehicle, followed by another man wrapped in the folds of a robe and wearing a cowl. Conan was unable to see this second man's features clearly, but the third man to exit the wagon was another matter.
This man had no fewer than four arms.
Conan was reflecting on this oddity when the wagon creaked and shook, and a giant woman, bent to avoid hitting her head on the door frame, emerged. When she straightened, Conan saw at once that the woman was Teyle, of the Jatte.
Decidedly strange, he thought. The strangeness increased when the Jatte twins, Oren and Morja, followed their older sister. Behind them came a woman covered in short fur, with the face and features of a cat. And behind her there came a mottled green dwarf, whose kin Conan had recently met.
He continued to watch as the fair-haired man and the four-armed one collected the oxen and harnessed them to the wagon. The cowl covering the face of the second man Conan had seen fell away as he examined the front wheel of the wagon, and Conan saw then a face that reminded him of a dog. No, he corrected his thoughts, not a dog, but a wolf.
The Conan Compendium Page 115