"What is there to lose?"
Sab spoke to that. "Dake will become angry and punish us."
"How shall he know?"
"He always knows," Penz said. "The magic is tied directly to him."
"Then you may tell him I forced you to attempt it," Conan said.
The group filed out of the wagon, Conan leading the way. He slogged through thick mud, away from the vehicle and in the opposite direction taken by Dake and Kreg.
Not more than ten paces distant, a barrier stopped the Cimmerian's advance. There was nothing visible in the clean morning air, but all of a moment, Conan found himself pressing against what felt much like a wall of gigantic bow strings. The barrier gave under his hands but pushed back; after a struggle that advanced him another two steps, the wall shoved him hard enough that he could not maintain his footing in the mud, and he slid backward for two paces before stopping.
"Come and stand next to me and push," Conan ordered the others.
With all eight of the captives pressing, against the invisible barrier, the resistance lessened and allowed for more give. The group managed six hard-won steps before they were halted. Slowly, the magical ward began to slide them toward the wagon, until they were back where first they had encountered the spell.
Conan's smoldering rage flamed into a hot blaze. He charged the barrier again, drawing his sword as he did so. Perhaps he could cut his way through it-To his surprise and that of his companions, the Cimmerian managed to slosh over the muddy ground for a good fifteen spans, at least three times the distance he had managed with the help of the others. The sword was still lifted, but he had not used it. As he felt the springy tension of the spell start to halt him again, Conan let out a wordless growl of anger and cut at the force that sought to push him back.
The spell gave way!
Conan drove himself forward another five paces, his rage giving way to triumph. He was defeating the mage's curse!
As his anger faded, however, the invisible hand clutched him and hurled him backward. Conan was lifted from his feet and propelled through the morning sunshine, a rock tossed by a playful god. He hit the ground well past his startled companions and skidded through the mud, throwing up a shower of water and muck before sliding to a halt near the wagon.
Even as Conan stood and began to wipe the guck from his arms and legs, he puzzled over the event. He had been about to break free of the curse, he was certain of it. What had happened?
Dake returned with his dog Kreg at that moment, and the Cimmerian saw at first consternation, then relief, on the dark man's face.
"Tried to leave us, did you, Conan? Ah, can you not see that it is a waste of time and energy? Best you save your strength for the fights I shall procure for you on the road to Shadizar. My spell is unbreakable."
Conan continued to strip the ooze from his body, saying nothing.
"Still, I am the master, and attempts to defy me must be punished."
"Vent your anger upon me," Conan said. "I forced the others to try it."
Dake looked at his thralls, then back at Conan. "Yes, you would do that. Try to use brute strength to solve every problem. Very well, then. Suffer for it.
The mage turned to Kreg. "Hurt him. But do not do any damage, do you understand?"
Kreg grinned.
To Conan, Dake said, "Stand still and allow Kreg to chastise you, barbarian fool. And remember the lesson: To go against my wishes is futile."
Kreg's first slap hit Conan's face, and the Cimmerian stared at the man with contempt, unable to resist or to move away. While he knew it was unwise, he could not keep from taunting the blonde. "Is that your best, dog? A mosquito stings harder."
Conan saw the anger flood into Kreg's face, darkening his fair skin. The man drew his booted foot back to kick.
"Take care, Kreg," Dake said. His voice was mild. "If he is too injured to fight, I shall inflict matching wounds upon you."
Kreg's anger seemed tempered by the threat and he put his foot down, withholding the intended kick. Instead, he stepped forward and punched Conan under the breastbone. The strike was powerful, and even the thick muscles there could not absorb all the force of it. Conan felt his wind go, and his knees buckled slightly. He did not fall, but it was only with great concentration that he stayed standing.
"I can cause pain without injuring you, barbarian."
Kreg's grin grew wider as he further proved that he could do just that.
SEVENTEEN
As the wagon worked its way slowly over the still-boggy ground, Conan lay on his pallet, Teyle attending to the new aches Kreg had given him. He was bruised, but the slaps and punches had injured his pride more than they had harmed his body.
As Teyle took away his pain, Penz sat nearby, fingering one of his hempen ropes, uncurling then recurling it into tight coils. Outside the covered doorway, Kreg drove the wagon, with Dake next to him, and those inside spoke in quiet tones when speak they did.
"He has done the same to us," Penz said. "Tro, Sab, and I have all felt Kreg's fists. He enjoys using them."
"So I noticed," Conan said. A twinge of hurt fled under Teyle's hot hands even as he spoke.
"It is better not to anger him," Sab added.
Conan essayed a shrug, difficult to do while lying facedown. "A man enraged often loses his control. I thought to cause him to expend more energy and thus finish sooner."
"That was brave. He could have hurt you," said Oren.
"I was consoled by the knowledge that Dake would punish him did he do so."
"A risky business," Penz said.
"All of life is a risk, friend."
"Well, at least now we know that we cannot break Dake's spell," Teyle said.
For a moment Conan considered telling his fellow prisoners what conclusion he had reached about that, but then decided against it. While he felt he could trust them, it was possible that Dake might be able to compel them to supply answers to questions they might not otherwise heed. That the freakmaster was wily and dangerous was a given. What his companions did not know, they could not reveal. Better for them. Better for him.
For the spell could be broken, Conan felt.
Despite his lack of civilization's manners, Conan was no slackwit when it came to reasoning. Those times when he had most successfully resisted Dake's magical enthrallment had been when his rage had been at its strongest. On each occasion, as his anger had lessened, so had the the geas reclaimed him. He had very nearly broken free when last he tried, and he reasoned that his elation at near release had dampened his anger sufficiently so that he had failed.
This was powerful knowledge. A sword was a good weapon, but knowing how to use it made it a dozen times better. Armed with this new understanding, Conan now had a plan, which he would confide to the others at the proper time. Under this plan he surmised that if they could all grow as enraged as had he, surely they could overcome the magical barrier and escape. The gods must know they had just cause.
'Twould be best to attempt it when Dake was not around, for there was nothing to prevent the mage from reinstating the curse, and furthermore, burning anger could not be maintained forever. Then again, once outside Dake's influence, a strong arm might hurl a spear or rock that would end the man's threat permanently.
It was, as these things went, a simple plan, but 'twas the simple ones that most often worked best.
So, no, Conan would not reveal what he had learned, not yet. He would wait. Shadizar must still be some distance away, and with only Dake and his cur to watch them, the right moment would certainly arise.
Patience was not Conan's strength, but he had learned that sometimes nothing else would serve. He would bide his time, and then he would act.
Fosull began to grow irritated at his companion's lamentations. The redheaded fat man maintained his drunkenness with a continuing influx of wine, and his babblings had become a grating upon the Varg's concentration.
Fosull himself no longer imbibed any of the wagon's contents, for it took all of his sober
attention to continue his main task. The storm had done that which he had feared, smoothing the road and removing most of the wagon's tracks. Here and there, an especially deep rut remained, but those partial impressions were few and easily missed without a sharp eye. Balor's mutterings served only to distract Fosull, and he could ill afford a divided attention.
The Varg considered several options open to him. He could leave the wagon and continue his pursuit on foot. This would be slower and present the same associated risks as before. Or, he could put his spear into the fat man's heart and dump the corpse and continue on alone. Only there might be those along the way who would recognize the winejack's wagon and wonder at how a small person with muddy skin came to occupy it. Fosull had no desire to answer questions of this stripe.
Or, he could continue on as things were now, turning a mostly deaf ear to the fat man until the drunken ravings deepened into unconsciousness once again, as surely they would.
In the end, Fosull decided that the latter was the best course of action. Balor was still of more use than harm, and during a lucid moment had even told the Varg that they were fast approaching the village of Elika. Someone there might have seen the wagon, the Varg figured, and could keep him to the correct path.
So, as the sun cooked the wet earth and wrung from it the moisture of the night's storm, Fosull continued to drive the wine wagon, searching for the occasional track that belonged to the wagon of his son's captors.
Just ahead of Raseri was an open wagon drawn by oxen, working its way along the road. The Jatte shaman slowed his pace so as not to overtake the vehicle, and made to examine the conveyance and its occupants without being seen. The wagon was stacked with barrels, likely filled with wine, to judge from the faint odor of it in the air. Two small men sat upon the driver's platform, one of them apparently a child who wore a cowled robe. A father and son, likely, delivering their wares to some village farther up the road.
The wagon's speed was slower than Raseri's own, but he decided that while it offered little threat to him, it might be better to dog it for a way rather than to pass it. The giant's reason for this was simple enough: Anyone approaching from the opposite direction would likely pause and exchange greetings with the wagoneers, giving Raseri time to conceal himself did he so desire. It was a matter of giving himself more options, always a good idea. Soon enough he would have to seek answers from the small men again, as the rain had erased the tracks of the larger wagon containing his children. He hoped to find a village or a farm near one of the forks in the road so that he could make inquiry against taking the wrong path.
Keeping far enough back so that he could dart from the road did the wagon stop, the Jatte shaman and leader followed the pair of small men.
A few moments later the larger of the two occupants crawled into the back of the wagon and disappeared from sight. Raseri worried that he had been seen, but the vehicle did not slow and it appeared that the man had not noticed him. The smaller of the men-surely a child, at that size? continued to urge the oxen forward.
Several hours from the village, the western road from Ophir joined the wider, southerly road to Shadizar. As they approached this juncture, the sun had already begun to dry the shallower puddles along the way into traceries of cracks. There was even dust in the air ahead, a fact remarked upon by Kreg to his master.
Dake, roused from a partial slumber upon the seat, awoke fully and saw that this was indeed so. In the distance, a haze of dust did fog the air. At the same time that he noticed this, Dake also saw that the road past the melding of the highway to the distant Ophir Pass, itself just north of the border with Koth, was deeply rutted with wagon tracks and human scandal and boot prints.
"Oh-ho," Dake said. "A wealthy caravan precedes us, and only a short distance ahead."
Kreg looked at his master. "How do you know this?"
Dake said, "Did not you yourself just point out yon cloud of dust?"
"Well, aye, but-how can you tell the dust of a wealthy caravan from that of a poor farmer driving sheep or pigs?"
Stupid, and no doubt of it. Dake sighed. "Use your wits. There are tracks of at least a dozen wagons ahead of us, as well as the prints of thrice that many men on foot. No poor farmer could manage either for driving sheep. And the tracks are fresh, laid down after the rain, and from the direction of the Ophir Pass. A simple deduction."
"True, but there could be several farmers, could there not?"
Dake sighed again. Why did he bother to explain? "Do you not recall that the Ophir Pass is thick with bandits who prey upon unwary travelers?"
"Aye."
"How much resistance do you think even a large number of dirt farmers or sheepherders would offer such brigands?"
"Not much, I expect."
"So if this group has come from that direction, then it must be protected by armed troops. Mercenaries, most likely, or mayhaps even regular soldiers. And such troops cost money; therefore, whatever they are protecting must have some value."
Watching Kreg's face was like unto watching the sun light up the morning skies. Truth dawned upon his features. "Ahhh. I see."
Hardly more than a blind man, Dake thought. And even that with as much difficulty as a goat trying to fly.
"Increase our speed," Dake said. "I would know who peoples this caravan."
Obediently Kreg stirred the oxen to a faster pace.
The sun was half through his daily journey when Fosull, still driving the wagon of the besotted and unconscious Balor, came upon the turning for the village of Elika. He would not have known this, save that a local resident was by chance arriving at that same juncture from the opposite direction at almost the same moment.
"Ho!" the man called out. "Is that Balor's wine wagon?"
"Aye," Fosull replied, "it is."
"Where then is Balor?"
Fosull had a moment to be glad he had not slain the drunkard. "He is, ah, asleep in the wagon."
The farmer laughed. "More likely soused in his own wares, I would wager"
"Just so. Tell me, friend, have you taken notice of a large wagon traveling the roads hereabout?"
"Oh, you mean Dake and his band of freaks?"
Fosull's heart sped up. "That would be it, yes."
The man shook his head sadly. " 'Twas an interesting display of oddities the freakmaster offered, but I also bet my last copper that Deri would best Dake's champion in a fighting match. Who would have known that the barbarian could move like that?"
"Would you happen to know where Dake and his band might be now?"
"On the road to Shadizar," the man said, waving in the direction from which he had come. "Four or five hours along."
The hunting instinct in Fosull flared and he felt a surge of cold twist his bowels. Only a few hours ahead!
"One other question, friend. Are there turns that must be taken to reach this Shadizar?"
"Nay. Straight down this road as the crow flies will do it."
Fosull grinned, remembered in time that view of his teeth might cause some consternation, and managed at the last instant to keep them hidden. "I thank you. Well, we must be going."
"But are you not planning to stop at Elika and deliver some of Balor's wines?"
"To be sure, but . . . ah . . . upon our return, in a few days."
With that, Fosull snapped the reins over the back of the oxen and the wagon lurched forward. Balor did not gainsay this move, being at the moment as dead to the world as an average corpse. And if he should awaken later and offer a grumble about missing his stop, they could always part company, Fosull knew. One way or another.
Raseri watched the meeting of the wagon and the farmer from a vantage point nearer than he would have hoped for. A large clump of hedgelike bushes near the turnoff grew almost to the very edge of the road. Using care so that his great feet did not smash too many twigs or small plants, the giant was able to creep within a few spans of the wagon, to a position whereby he could hear snatches of the conversation between the driver and the
pedestrian.
From the voice it was apparent that the driver of the wine wagon was no child. And a tiny flash of green under the grayish skin-not skin at all, Raseri realized-on the small man's hand gave the leader of the Jatte the final clue he needed: The driver was a Varg!
As the wagon jerked forward and began to move off, with the farmer going down the hill away from the main road, Raseri pondered this new information.
The news about the wagon, commanded by one called "Dake," was welcome of course, but what in the name of the Creator was a Varg doing here, so far away from home?
When the wagon was some distance down the road, far enough so that Raseri thought he might safely resume his own progress, he left the cover of the brush and started walking.
Vargs, like the Jatte, were not known to leave their home and travel among the small men. Then again, Raseri reasoned, he himself was here, having been given sufficient need. Too, the Varg must have some compelling reason to be on the road to Shadizar, following the path of those who had kidnapped three of the Jatte-Aha!
Of a moment Raseri had a reason for the Varg's presence. The pedestrian had called the one known as "Dake" a freakmaster. Someone who displayed "oddities." A Jatte would seem an oddity, to the small men. Would not a Varg seem one also?
This Dake had taken a Varg, as well.
And as for the "barbarian" fighter of whom the farmer spoke, Raseri felt certain that this was Conan, which confirmed his earlier suspicion that his former captive was indeed in league with those who had stolen his children. And only a few hours ahead!
Raseri smiled grimly to himself. The heavier wagon would move more slowly than either the wine cart or Raseri himself. By nightfall, perhaps, he and this unknown Varg would overtake their prey.
The Jatte shaman and leader twirled the shaft of his spear reflectively in the fingers of one hand. This adventure would be finished soon, and the road would be awash in the blood of those who had caused it to begin. A Varg or two in the bargain would certainly be worth a little extra effort.
An hour after meeting the local villager, Fosull became aware that he was being followed. Taking care not to reveal this new knowledge, the Varg surreptitiously reined the feeling while pretending to check on the slumbering Balor.
The Conan Compendium Page 120