The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Thus disguised, Fosull returned to the main road and resumed his journey along the trail of the wagon that carried his son.

  THIRTEEN

  Conan awoke from a hot sleep as the wagon halted.

  The overhead canvas kept most of the sun out, but the thick cloth absorbed and then passed on the heat to the extent that the interior of the vehicle was thereby made cloying; it was a sticky warmth, devoid of breezes and less than comfortable.

  His efforts to free himself of the spell in which he was ensnared had proved fruitless. Even as he came up from slumber, he tested himself against the magician's power yet again, willing his legs to carry him away from the wagon.

  Again his best was to no avail. He was held more firmly than if he were wrapped in thick ropes. Hemp would stretch and give, at least, and this curse felt the same as it had when first it had been laid upon him.

  "Everybody out!" Kreg ordered.

  The inhabitants of the wagon trooped out into the afternoon sunshine. A small wind stirred Conan's black mane as he alighted from the step, and the air was refreshing after the enclosure of the wagon. There was a small wooded patch to the left of the road, and a field of boulders on the right, most of which were inset into the dusty red ground.

  The hated slaver Dake stood nearby, grinning at his captives.

  "I have arranged a small entertainment for you," he said. "Our newest addition, while not the beneficiary of nature's largess as are the rest of you, is not without a certain rough charm." He smiled at Conan, who returned the expression with a cold stare. "Barbarians tend to make good fighters, and while large muscles do not always indicate great strength, I expect that Conan is not without a certain amount of power within his sinews."

  Conan glanced at his companions. Penz's face was impassive. Vilken's sharp-toothed smile played over his countenance. The catwoman and the four-armed man watched Dake, a trace of worry evident on their features. The giant children merely looked on with curiosity. Teyle towered over them all, arms folded under her ample breasts.

  "There," Dake said, pointing. "That rock. Go and fetch it for me, Conan."

  The Cimmerian tried yet again to resist the magic, but it was as if his legs belonged to another. He stalked toward the boulder, a misshapen stone that was as high as his knees and as wide as his shoulders. He squatted, wrapped his thick arms around the rock and clutched it tightly with both hands. Using in the main the strength of his thighs and hips, he pulled the boulder free of the dust and stood. It weighed about as much as he did, Conan judged.

  The Cimmerian walked back toward Dake. Where he stood next to the magician, Kreg's eyes widened as he watched Conan approach.

  "Very good," Dake said. "You may put it down."

  "Where?"

  "Why, anywhere you choose. It matters not."

  Conan would have hurled the heavy rock at Dake, but the magician's leave about where he could put the stone did not extend to the spot upon which the slaver stood. It was not from want of trying, however, that the young Cimmerian was unable to crush his enemy. When it became apparent that he could not use the rock to smash Dake, Conan turned away from the restraint and shoved the weight at Kreg instead.

  "Set's balls!" the man yelled. He scrambled back, nearly tripped, but managed to maintain his footing and avoid being flattened by the falling boulder. The heavy rock hit the ground with a whump! and kicked up a small cloud of dust.

  "You-you barbaric fool! You almost hit me!"

  Conan's grin was as wolfish as any of Penz's. And in fact, Penz and the other enslaved oddities smiled at Kreg's discomfort.

  Even Dake's face wore a slight grin. He said, "Not a bad effort, but surely you can do more. There, that one, fetch it to me."

  Conan's smile vanished as he turned and beheld his second task. The rock did not appear to be buried, but it was larger than the first, probably half again his own weight.

  The Cimmerian moved to the boulder. Its shape, much like that of a lopsided mushroom, offered convenient handholds under the lip of the cap, and while it took a great deal of straining, Conan's thews were equal to the task. His steps were solid from the weight of the rock, if slow, and he managed to keep the stone from dragging the earth as he made his way back to where Dake and Kreg stood.

  "Excellent! Put it down." Dake turned to look at his assistant, then back at Conan. "Right there. And take care that you do not startle Kreg here by dropping it too close to him."

  Kreg glared as Conan deposited the rock.

  "One more. Ah, that one."

  Conan looked in the direction of Dake's pointing finger.

  The boulder was taller than Conan and easily twice his weight, he figured. It was narrow only at the top, and smooth, and offered no easy grip. Conan shook his head even as his feet moved to obey Dake's command. "I cannot see a way to lift it," he said.

  "But you must try."

  Rage flared behind Conan's eyes, and he felt the heat of it burn his skin. To be ordered about like a dog, it was more than he could bear!

  For a brief moment Conan felt the spell holding him slacken, if only just a little. Joy surged in him, but he did not reveal his feeling. Something had affected the curse. What was it?

  In that moment the full power of the geas returned and Conan reached the subject boulder. He would have to think on it later.

  There was no easy way to manage this labor. The smooth rock offered no purchase, and in any event it was too large to reach around to lock his hands together. He pondered the problem for a moment, then he had an idea.

  He began to push against the top of the boulder, tilting it slightly, rocking it up from where it was buried at the base. He moved to the opposite side and shoved it the other way, then returned to his original position to repeat the action yet again. The boulder, resting undisturbed for an eon, began to teeter. This would take precise timing, Conan knew, and he waited for the rock to begin to overbalance before he ran around it and put his back against it, holding it up.

  The boulder now partially rested upon the ground and partially on Conan's broad back. With great care the Cimmerian leaned forward, moving slowly, so that the weight rested more and more upon him. At the same time, he bent his knees and squatted, lowering his body so that the top part of the huge stone began to pivot over the fulcrum he had provided it. He shifted again, striving for a perfect balance, bringing his arms up to the sides to cradle the immense mass upon his back and shoulders.

  The boulder came free of the ground and rested entirely on Conan's back. He had misjudged the weight, he realized; it was heavier than he had thought. If he misstepped and fell, the rock would crush him against the ground.

  With steady and slow steps, Conan covered the distance between himself and the slavemaster.

  "Amazing," Dake said. "I did not think that you could manage it. Put it down-I would not have you injure yourself."

  Conan leaned back; the boulder slid from his shoulders and thunked against the ground. It looked as if it might topple, but remained upright, if canted at an angle.

  "Sab, Penz, and Kreg, to me."

  The four-armed one and wolfman hurried to their master, as did his assistant.

  "Lift that stone for me."

  The three gathered around the tall rock, tried to find means by which to hold it, but could not.

  "Tip it, as he did."

  They did try. But when the stone was overbalanced, it proved too much for the trio. Despite their efforts, the rock fell, kicking up a great explosion of dust when it did so.

  "Enough," Dake commanded. To Conan he said, "You are very strong. Can you wrestle?"

  Grudgingly, Conan said, "Aye."

  "Do you know the fist style of fighting?"

  "I have some knowledge of it."

  "Are you adept at either?"

  "Both."

  "Good, good! We will clean out every village on the way to Shadizar! With you as my champion, we shall quite probably be rich by the time we arrive in the City of Thieves!"

 
; Conan did not speak. The prospect of being made to fight for wagers did not sit well with him. Being made to do such a thing by magic only made it worse. Then again, it was better to be considered useful as a fighter and alive than useless and dead, by any measure of which Conan knew. Living, you had a chance to escape and wreak vengeance. Dead, you faced the Gray Lands, a prospect that he knew was much worse, having visited there via magic.

  Aye, he would fight if he must. But would that his opponent were Dake.

  Fosull's plan was working out better than he had expected. The few outswamp men he encountered stared, or made comments to each other about his short stature, but none offered any real bother. Perhaps they could see that his spear was sharptipped and smooth from use; a short man with a spear is equal to a tall man without a weapon, after all. At least that was how Fosull counted it.

  As the sun smiled down from his highest perch, a wagon filled with brass-bound wooden casks appeared on the road behind the Varg; it was drawn by a team of four oxen and driven by a hugely fat outswamp man whose beard and hair seemed joined into a mass of greasy red spikes extending in all directions.

  As the wagon neared, Fosull stepped from the road to allow it to pass. Instead, the fat redhead, dressed in fringed leather shirt and pants as greasy as his hair, pulled the oxen to a halt.

  "Ho, short one."

  "Ho," Fosull called back, somewhat suspiciously. Why had he stopped?

  "Are you bound for Elika?"

  Fosull had no idea where Elika was, or even what it was, but it seemed like a good idea to be bound for somewhere. "Aye," he called from beneath his hood.

  "Well, then, climb up and ride, for I am also traveling to that same said village and I would enjoy company."

  The Varg considered the idea but for a moment. The tracks of the wagon he followed lay ahead, and riding would certainly be easier than walking. The obese one seemed amiable enough. Fosull scrambled up to sit on the wide plank next to the driver.

  The fat man urged the oxen forward and the wagon bounced along.

  "I am called Balor the Winejack, short one."

  "Fosull."

  "Well-met then, Fosull."

  They rode along for some way, Balor making most of the conversation and apparently content to have Fosull nod now and then or utter a word of encouragement for him to continue.

  "Of course there's bandits," Balor said, "and I keep my iron babe handy for 'em." He reached under the seat and produced a short-handled battle axe. The weapon had seen some use and a number of years, to judge from the nicks and rust on the blade and the worn handle, but it appeared no less effective for those. Fosull gripped his spear tighter, but Balor shoved the axe back under the seat and laughed.

  "Then again, the bandits is been slack hereabouts of late. I suppose you heard about the pack of 'em slaughtered a few days back along the Corinthian Road?"

  No, Fosull hadn't heard. That opening provided Balor with enough material for another half hour of talk. He explained that one of the nastiest bunch of bandits for quite a ways had been killed in the hills. From what the wolves and vultures had left, the unfortunate brigands had for the most part been sword-cut, although one had a hole punched in him as big around as a man's forearm, and what do you suppose could do that to a fellow?

  Fosull allowed as how he knew not, and that gave Balor leave to talk about the various ways he had seen men killed over the years.

  Aye, the man was as long-winded as a spring deer, but Fosull would likely not be bothered by other outswamp men as long as he was in the company of one of them, and riding was faster and easier than walking. Listening to the boring stories was a small enough price to pay.

  Later, however, the Varg gained another dividend when Balor brought forth one of the kegs of wine and tapped it. A man hated to drink alone, Balor said, and surely Fosull would oblige him by quaffing a few cups of this excellent vintage, would he not?

  Surely Fosull would.

  The ride became more and more pleasant as man and Varg drained cups of the admittedly excellent vintage wine. Amazing what the product of the grape could do to heighten one's spirits, was it not?

  Indeed, Fosull said, laughing and slapping his new companion on the back.

  Indeed!

  Raseri's steps were not in the realm of mythology-no magic boots to carry him a day's walk at a stride-but his long legs did move him half again as fast as a walking small man. Thus far no one had spoken directly to him or otherwise slowed his pace. A confrontation with a giant bearing a spear apparently called for more effort than most of the small men wished to expend for whatever gain might be made.

  No one had overtaken the leader of the Jatte from whence he had come, and those passing from the opposite direction were soon lost to view behind him. Thus it was that when Raseri arrived at a forlorn and ramshackle inn that squatted toadlike next to the road, no one had come before him with news of passing giants.

  Raseri had to bend very low to enter the building; fortunately, the structure, rude though it was with oilskin flapping over open windows and lashed-beam construction, had a high-framed ceiling, so that he could stand erect.

  The Jatte leader took some interest in the reaction of the few patrons within as they noticed him. Awe, fear, surprise, all these were reflected on their faces. He judged that most of the half dozen or so were locals, farmers or shepherds. Two were women, one old and cronelike, the other younger and dressed provocatively. The inn's trull, Raseri reasoned, having been taught of the small men's custom of selling certain pleasures.

  "Wh-wh-what d-do ye w-want?"

  Raseri looked down at the speaker, a man wearing a patch over one eye and several scars where half his beard would have otherwise grown.

  "Food. And drink."

  "We h-h-have mutton and ale. And w-wine."

  "Those will do."

  Raseri reached into his belt pouch and produced several of the copper and silver coins he had taken from various captives over the years. "Are these sufficient?"

  The greedy gleam in the innlord's eye told the Jatte chief what he wanted to know before the man spoke.

  "Yes. To be sure!"

  "Give me as much as these are worth," Raseri said. "What I do not eat immediately I shall take with me."

  "At once!"

  The younger of the women moved toward Raseri. She licked her lips, which seemed to have gone dry, and her voice when she spoke was nervous. "Would ye be wantin' anything else, milord giant?"

  "Of what do you speak?"

  The woman gestured at herself with one hand.

  Behind Raseri, two of the men drinking ale at a rough table laughed. One said, "Feki's dreaming, eh?"

  The other man said, "I think not. I think she could manage it. She handles me, after all."

  "Ho, ho! So could a female mouse!"

  Raseri said, "I need only food. And information. A large wagon passed this way recently. How long ago?"

  The woman nodded. "Aye. Yesterday, past noon. Had a strange driver, all hooded he was, and wearing gloves, even in the hot sun."

  The Jatte reached into his pouch and produced several silver coins. He handed them to the woman. "For your trouble."

  The woman's face lit in a bright smile. "Thank ye, milord giant!"

  Raseri shrugged and turned toward the innlord, who brought forth several slabs of cold and greasy mutton and a small cask of ale. The giant collected the food and drink and put them into the sack he had slung over his shoulder. He would walk and eat.

  Were he only a day behind the wagon, he could gain upon it, for oxen were slower than he. If he walked at night, likely he could close the gap even more, for the small men seldom ventured forth during the night, even on well-marked roads. But what frightened a small man did not necessarily do the same for a giant.

  Yes, this gathering was frightened of a single giant, but a dozen small men with weapons would not be, and strength did not always lie in size, but sometimes in numbers.

  Raseri left the building an
d the mutterings of those within it behind. He chewed on the cold meat as he walked, washing it down with swallows of the ale, holding the cask as might a -small man holding a cup. In a way, this trip was good, despite its cause. It had been too long since he had gone out among the small men. There was always something to be learned, and knowledge, after all, was the ultimate power.

  FOURTEEN

  It had been some years since Dake's last visit to the hamlet of Elika, a mere half an hour's journey along a side path to the southwest. The small track was barely large enough to allow passage of the wagon, but allow it it did. The village itself nestled within a meander of the Illitese River, a broad, cold waterway fed by numerous mountain streams born largely of snowmelt high up the southern slopes of the Karpash range.

  Kreg guided the creaking wagon toward the village through stands of white-barked hardwood trees that grew so thick as to form arches over parts of the road. The land here was fertile, and warm enough year-round so that grapes were the main crop, furnishing a steady supply of the fruit for local winemakers. The Elikans also caught rainbow-colored fish in the river and grew certain grains and other fruits. As small towns went, Elika had more to boast about than did many, and while not rich, neither was it particularly poor. Many stout people lived there, always a reliable indicator of how much food was to be had.

  By the time the wagon managed to lumber into the town, news of its arrival had spread, and more than a score of curious villagers-men, women, and children-had gathered to watch.