The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  What bothered Fosull more than the immediate threat of being drenched, however, was what the storm might do to the tracks of the wagon he followed. A hard storm would churn the earth into muck, and the wagon's imprint might well be lost.

  Ah, well. He would have to slay that dog when it appeared, he supposed. Vargs had no control of the weather, despite the appeasement deasils the shaman would sometimes offer to the sun and gods.

  The smell of rain grew stronger.

  The herald rain found Raseri nearing a thin patch of young trees, far from other shelter. He knew as well as any Jatte the ways of weather, and in a village of farmers and hunters, such knowledge was considerable. The storm's brunt approaching was nearly upon him, and he expected that it would be short, but fierce.

  Raseri used his obsidian knife to cut branches for a lean-to he quickly constructed against a medium-sized tree on the edge of a grove. He placed the makeshift structure well away from the larger and higher trees. It was known that the gods would sometimes hurl lightning at the tallest objects in an area, perhaps to teach them humility. The leader of the Jatte had no desire to be roasted by the gods' lightning; he had seen one of his kind so struck and the sight had not been pleasant.

  It was but the work of a few minutes to build the slanted shelter and pile the lashed branches thick with the roughly woven thatch. It would hardly be proof against the heaviest-driven gusts of rain, but it would keep the most part of the water from within. Being perhaps a little damp was considerably better than being drenched and chilled to the bone.

  The lean-to finished, Raseri crawled into it on his hands and knees just as the first fat drops began to spatter around him. Lightning shattered the dark and thunder smote at his ears, but the gods chose to spare him. A nearby tree exploded and the sharp smell of boiled sap and wood filled the air for an instant even as the now-pounding rain sought to wash the stink away.

  Not a fit night to be without, Raseri decided. Lucky he was to have even this much protection from it.

  The villagers of Elika gathered almost to a man around the area of Dake's wagon, waiting for the fight. Bad weather was coming to add to the night's tension. Conan was aware of the rain's less-than-stealthy approach, heralded as it was by the lightning, thunder, and hard winds. The storm, however, was hardly uppermost in his mind as he circled to his left, watching carefully the man circling opposite him. Torchlight cast wavering shadows every which way, and even the dimness was not kind to his opponent.

  The Cimmerian, having fought more than a few men, had thought to tie his hair back with a short leather thong, to deny Deri any easy grasp. The large villager looked to be powerful, but slow, though Conan did not count upon this latter aspect greatly. Often bigger men moved considerably faster than it would seem at first glance.

  Deri feinted a grab at Conan's right wrist and followed the fake attack with a round kick at the Cimmerian's head.

  Conan ducked, jumped in, and shoved at Deri's shoulder, using both hands.

  The bigger man began a fall, then turned it into a dive away from the shove. He rolled into a ball and came up, spinning to face Conan.

  He was faster than he looked, and he had some skill in tumbling. Conan added that to his store of knowledge.

  Deri grinned. "Is that your best, girl-face? Mosquitoes bother me more!"

  He was a talker. Some men liked to talk when they fought. Conan himself preferred to save his energy for the battle rather than to waste it in words, except when he saw some advantage in taunts. Sometimes a word could anger an opponent into doing something foolish.

  " 'Twas not I rolling around in the dirt," Conan ventured.

  Deri laughed, showing the large gap in his teeth. "A man needs to loosen up, don't he?"

  Conan circled back to his right. A childish taunt would not reach through the thickness of this one's skull.

  Deri shifted his weight, as if he were going to move to his right, then lunged suddenly, hands outstretched.

  Conan dodged and knotted his right fist into a fleshy mallet. He hammered at Deri's ducked head, missed, and slammed the edge of his bunched hand into the man's back just below the right shoulder. It was like hitting a leather-covered tree trunk.

  Deri grunted, dived into another roll, and twisted as he came up.

  "My sister hits harder than that."

  "A man needs to loosen up."

  Deri grinned again. "I will loosen your limbs from your body, barbarian!"

  Conan reasoned that since Deri was larger, and likely as strong as he himself was, it would be better to say out of his grip and continue to strike or kick him.

  Deri rushed in again, seeking to grapple.

  Conan sprang aslant to the charge and punched, the knuckles of his fist catching Deri over the left eye. The skin split under the blow, but the bigger man spun away and chased after Conan.

  As the Cimmerian backed quickly from the attack, he heard Dake yell, "Stay in the ring! Who leaves it loses!"

  Conan glanced down to see where his feet were in relation to the ring. The distraction proved costly.

  Deri lunged, almost in a dive, and wrapped his arms around Conan's waist.

  The Cimmerian hammered down with both fists, but the angle was bad and the force of his strikes was absorbed by Deri's thick back.

  Deri raised from his crouch and lifted Conan free of the ground, then snapped backward and hurled the smaller man through the air.

  Conan also knew something of tumbling. Even so, the angle of his fall was less than optimum, and he hit hard on one shoulder as he tried to tuck into a ball. He came up, then dived forward and rolled again.

  The second roll caught Deri short. Expecting to catch Conan standing, the village overbalanced and nearly lost his footing.

  Lightning struck nearby, the sound of the thunder coming almost as one with the flash of white.

  "Mitra!" someone yelled.

  The light and noise drew some of Deri's attention. Conan dropped his left shoulder and charged, driving his powerful legs hard. He hit Deri square in the chest with his shoulder.

  The villager went sprawling, and such was the force of Conan's rush that he nearly stepped on the fallen man. He was forced to leap to clear the obstacle.

  By the time he landed, Deri was up again, though no longer grinning.

  It began to rain then, a hard patter that quickly increased to a downpour.

  Crom! The rain fell so hard that Conan had to wipe it from his eyes to see his opponent. At least it was not mixed with his own blood, as was the water flowing down Deri's face.

  As Conan circled past Dake, the man whispered behind him: "Enough toying, Conan. You may finish him now. The rain is uncomfortable."

  The young Cimmerian gave no sign that he had heard the mage speak. Toying? This Deri was as strong as a bull! If he should get a good grip-The thought called to itself the deed. Deri lumbered forward. The muddy ground offered a poor support for Conan's intended sidestep. He slipped, not enough to fall, but enough to allow Deri to close. The larger man threw his arms around Conan's waist and laughed in triumph as he lifted him from the ground.

  Strong as he was, Conan knew that Deri would break his spine unless he got free. The man's arms tightened and the pressure on Conan's lower back increased. Conan's fists against the man's back and shoulder were to no avail. Crom, the pain-!

  Conan opened his hands and brought them together with all the power he had, striking Deri on the ears with the flats of his palms. The sound was loud to Conan's own ears; it must have been deafening to Deri.

  The brute screamed, an inarticulate and high-pitched yell, and dropped Conan to clasp his hands to his wounded ears.

  That was all that Conan needed. He snapped his foot up and connected with the instep against the big man's crotch.

  Deri's eyes bulged as his hands left his ears to clutch at the new injury.

  Conan drew back his fist and slammed the stunned man square between the eyes. The blow hurt the Cimmerian's knuckles, but it was w
orse for Deri. He fell backward like a tree being toppled. A great splash erupted when he hit the puddled ground. The rain beating down was not enough to rouse the fallen combatant, and it became obviously and immediately apparent that the fight was over. The only way Deri was going home this night would be if he were carried.

  "Well done," Dake said.

  Conan turned to face the man who enslaved him, and for a moment his rage blossomed enough so that he once again felt the lessening of the magic that gripped him. Not enough so that he could attack, but with a noticeable difference.

  "Collect the wagers, Kreg," Dake said, turning his back to Conan. "I shall be in the wagon drying myself."

  Dake moved away, splashing through the mud and puddles, toward the wagon.

  Lightning flared and thunder hammered the ring and the suddenly weary Conan.

  This, he decided, was not going to be a pleasant life.

  He had to escape.

  Somehow.

  SIXTEEN

  With the storm still beating upon the thick canvas roof of the wagon, Dake dried and then dressed himself in a clean robe. He grinned. Quite a profitable evening this had been. The show had drawn nearly everyone in the village and they had been captivated, as he had known they would be. Conan's battle with the gap-toothed fool had paid off even better. A pity about the storm, though. Dake had no intention of standing about in the rain while customers dallied with the catwoman or giantess in the wagon, so that would have to wait for a better night. Still, all in all, he could hardly complain. Most of the loose money in the village had found its way into Dake's purse, of that he was certain, and it seemed a good omen. A good beginning did not guarantee a good ending, but certainly it helped.

  Dake moved to the doorway and yelled out into the rain. "Come inside, fools. I would not have you sicken because of the weather."

  Obediently-how else?-his thralls moved to heed his command.

  Rousing Balor from his stupor amid the wine casks had proved impossible, so Fosull left the man and crawled under the wagon. The oxen were tethered by their nose rings to large rocks and would not be going anywhere. When the storm broke, there was little shelter to be found, so the wagon would have to do.

  As the rain showered down, Balor began to curse again, louder than before. There came a sodden thump as the man jumped-or more likely fellfrom the wagon's bed and landed next to the rear wheel. He scrambled across the rapidly muddying ground and collapsed next to Fosull.

  "Why did you not wake me?"

  "I tried. You seemed content to slumber."

  "I might have drowned!"

  "But you did not."

  "What of the oxen?"

  "Tied securely."

  "I do not suppose you bothered to bring any wine?"

  "As it happens, I did."

  A nearby flash of lightning lit Balor's face, revealing his grin. "Ah, for a small man, you are large of wit."

  "Next to the front wheel."

  The space under the wagon was not such as to allow Balor room to sit upright, but he was able to crawl well enough to reach the small wine cask. He returned to sprawl next to Fosull after a moment, the smell of fresh wine on his breath and beard.

  "I fear the water may pool and flow under our shelter," Balor said.

  "I have dug a trench around the wagon to prevent that."

  "Ah, what a clever one you are! Have some wine?"

  Fosull nodded. "Aye. Might as well."

  But as he drank, Fosull was full of dark thoughts. This was no mild spring shower, 'twas a fierce rain. On the morrow the dirt road would quickly dry out, but it would be washed clean of recent tracks. Finding the wagon carrying Vilken would be made more difficult.

  Why, he wondered, did the gods task him this way?

  The innermost thatch of Raseri's lean-to had become soaked by the time the storm abated; still, the shelter had done no less than he had expected and had kept him virtually dry. As the lightnings and thunder grew distant and quieter, moving away with the heavier rains, he considered his options.

  He could leave immediately after the rain stopped, but this did not seem wise. The road would be a sea of mud, and someone of his size and weight would negotiate such a venue with difficulty at best.

  Better that he should wait until the sun had baked some of the water from the earth, say, until mid-morning. Had the wagon he followed at a distance been within the realm of the storm, surely it would have to wait at least that long before attempting travel. A heavy conveyance would sink even deeper into rain-softened ground than would a giant.

  Yes, that would be the wiser choice, Raseri felt. Thus satisfied with his reasoning, the leader of the Jatte fell into a comfortable, if somewhat damp, slumber.

  Conan's lower back ached, as did his ribs where they curved around toward his chest. He had fought against more skilled men, but few if any had been much stronger than Deri.

  The fat lamp near his pallet upon the floor of the wagon guttered and sent a lazy tendril of smoke toward the already-stained canvas ceiling, painting a new line of black against the rain-sodden material.

  Dake and Kreg were fast asleep, as were most of the others. Close to where Conan lay, however, Teyle was awake.

  "Are you in pain?" she asked, her voice in a low whisper.

  "Some. It is bearable." He kept his voice quiet, a match for hers.

  "Where does it hurt?"

  Conan pointed at his injuries.

  The giant woman shifted slightly. Though she moved slowly and with care, the wagon creaked under her. She held herself still for a moment, but the sound did not appear to have roused any of the sleepers. Her motions were enough to bring her close to Conan. She sat next to where he lay on his back.

  "Lie upon your belly," she said.

  "Why

  "My people have a technique for healing with their hands. Perhaps I can lessen your injuries."

  Conan shrugged and rolled onto his belly.

  After a moment he felt Teyle's hands on him. Her touch was soft as she slid her palms down to cover most of his lower back. After shifting them so that her hands were centered over the places where it hurt the most, she held them still.

  Several moments passed, and Conan felt Teyle's hands begin to grow warmer against his bare skin. Soon it was as if her flesh were somehow heated from within; his own sinew grew hot under her touch. Not so hot as to burn him, but certainly of a degree higher than he would have thought possible from another's mere laying on of hands.

  The warmth was soothing, if nothing else, and Conan relaxed under the giant woman's ministrations.

  How long she kept her palms pressed against him he could not say, but it seemed a lengthy period. When she pulled her hands from his body, the ache he had felt was much abated; in fact, it was almost completely gone.

  Conan sat up and faced the giant woman who sat smiling down at him. Even seated, she was much taller than he.

  "I have no more pain," he whispered. "Is this some kind of magic?"

  She said, "Perhaps it is. I cannot say. I was taught the skill by my grandmother. She told me that anyone could learn it, so I think that if it is magic, it is of a natural kind." Her voice was tinged with sadness.

  Conan felt a sudden urge to hug the woman, feeling somehow that she was afraid and in need of comfort, despite her size. From where he sat, his face was level with Teyle's large breasts; still, he leaned forward and put his arms around her and pulled her to him.

  She did not resist, and her arms, as thick as his own, encircled his shoulders and tightened.

  "I fear for what will happen to my brother and sister," she said, holding Conan in a grip stronger than any woman had ever done. "And I fear for what that evil man will do with me as well."

  Pressed against those formidable breasts, Conan turned his head to the side and said, "Do not worry, Teyle. I will find a way to free us."

  But as he stroked and comforted her, Conan wondered how he would manage to do what he promised.

  When morning
broke cloudlessly over the village, Dake stood on the seat of the wagon and surveyed the land around him. A vast stretch of mud existed where the ground was bare, and the vegetation was still sodden from the night's storm. The wagon would not get two spans before it became mired, he realized. They would have to wait some hours until the sun dried things up a bit before they could leave.

  As the others awoke, Dake had Tro prepare a breakfast. He informed them of his conclusion regarding travel.

  Vilken said, "But if we hog down, can you not have your demon pull us free?"

  Kreg laughed. "Fool! The demon is naught but an illusion!"

  "Kreg! Hold your tongue or I shall remove it!" Dake glared at his assistant. The idiot revealed things better kept secret. Though it hardly mattered to his thralls, Dake would not put it past Kreg to say the same thing in a room full of potential enemies. Kreg was definitely losing his usefulness, there could be no doubt of it. Something would have to be done about him, and in the near future.

  Dake and Kreg left the wagon to examine the road leaving the village. After they had gone, Conan turned to the other captives. "I have no intention of arriving in Shadizar as a slave," he said. "We must try to escape."

  "We have tried many times," Penz said. "To no avail."

  "Have you all attempted escape at the same time?"

  "Aye," Tro put in softly. "Even three together made no difference."

  "We are now eight," the Cimmerian said. "Numbers sometimes lend strength."

  The original three captives looked dubious.