"Wh-where are we?"
Fosull glanced around to see Balor struggling to sit up, clutching his head with one hand.
"On the road. Other than that, I know not."
The fat man managed to purchase a sitting pose. He glanced around. "Bu-but this is well past the village!"
"We stopped there this morning," Fosull lied. "Do you not recall?"
"We did?"
"Certainly. You sold two casks of wine and then gambled the money away betting upon a race between two beetles."
"No!"
"Indeed."
Balor started to shake his head, moaned at this, and stopped, now gripping his skull with both hands. "I recall none of it. Was I drunk?"
"Aye. You drank a dozen flagons of wine."
"Only a dozen? Odd, that normally would not cause me to lose my memory."
"That was before the race. Afterward you drank a dozen more."
"Ah. That must explain it,"
"Perhaps you might drink a bit more now, since it seems you are afflicted with some malady."
"Hair of the dog that bit me for a cure, eh? Not a bad idea. What did you say your name was again, small friend?"
Fosull could not stop his grin in time.
Balor's eyes grew wide. "I think maybe I have had too much wine, friend. I am seeing things."
"Wine is the cure for many illnesses, is it not?"
"You do have a point. And you are kind to drive my wagon while I attempt to heal myself. I shall reward you in Shadizar. If I survive that far."
With that, Balor lay back down and reached for one of the smaller kegs.
Fosull still had his main problem, though. His prey had become enveloped in a very large collection of like folk, and that put a different face on how he would manage to recover his son and deal his foes justice. Perhaps he could leave off the justice portion and simply recover Vilken? As he reckoned it, he was no more than an hour behind the wagons, and it would be dark soon. Night was a friend to the Vargs back in the swamps, and Fosull did not think it would be less so here. Much could be done under the cover of darkness that would fail under the sun's harsh eyes, especially when none knew he was about.
Of course, there was that cursed Jatte dogging his tracks; he knew of Fosull's existence. To be caught between the many hands of the outswamp men and a Jatte was not high among Fosull's worldly desires. Something would have to be done about the giant, without a doubt. And soon, too.
Suddenly a thought pierced the clouds of Fosull's mind, a thought so stunning as to nearly unseat him from the wagon. It blossomed like a toadstool after a hard rain, invisible one moment, there the next, and it was so incredible as to nearly overwhelm him. Simply, yes, believable, hardly, and yet . . . and yet it could be the solution to retrieving his son and dealing with the Jatte.
Fosull grinned, no longer worried that Balor might see his pointed teeth. His proposal was a thing no Varg had ever done before, so audacious was it, but it appealed to him. After all, was he not Fosull, bravest and cleverest of all his kind? Would it not be fitting that he be the first to ever attempt something so radical?
Aye, he decided. It would be fitting.
Of course it could also be fatal, but without risks, life held little meaning.
By all the gods, he would do it!
When the six-wheeled wagon tracks began to be partially obscured by others, Raseri knew he was confronted by a new set of difficulties. His quarry now rode with a rather numerous escort of its own kind, and that boded ill for the leader of the Jatte. To be sure, he had raised that possibility in his mind earlier, but it had been dismissed as not being very likely until they reached a settlement. That had been a miscalculation, and Raseri was not one to suffer such things gladly.
"The Creator's lowest curse upon you all!" he said under his breath.
So intent was Raseri upon his misjudging that he paid less than full attention to his tracking task. He reasoned that as long as he could see the wine cart there in the distance, there was no real need to be overly assiduous, but this proved to be another error.
Out of the thin brush next to the road to his left, the hooded form of the Varg suddenly appeared, brandishing his spear.
"Hold, Jatte!"
Raseri swung his own spear around and hefted it in preparation for a throw. "Are you mad, Varg, to dare face me alone?" Raseri made ready to skewer the little green beast. He drew back his arm "Nay, stay your cast, Jatte."
This surprised Raseri. "Why should I?"
"We trail the same quarry."
"What of it?"
"They have taken my son, Vilken."
"That matters not bug's dung to me."
"But they have also taken three of your people."
Raseri reminded himself that knowledge was power. He lowered his spear arm slightly. "You have seen them?"
"Nay. But I saw the tracks earlier, back along the road, so they still live."
"Praise the Creator for that," Raseri said. Then, "Why did you stop and confront me, about-to-be-dead Varg?"
"I want my son back. You want your own back. There are many of them and only one each of us."
"This is true. So?"
"I propose a . . . temporary alliance."
Raseri was tempted to laugh, but the statement intrigued him. He lowered his spear a little more. "An alliance? Jatte with Varg? You must be mad."
"Each of us has certain abilities the other does not. You are much more powerful, but I can hide in places you cannot. You are clever in ways different than I. I am agile, and you are strong. Would we not stand a better chance of accomplishing our respective tasks together than separate?"
Raseri lowered his spear so that the butt rested on the ground. He stared at the Varg, amazed.
"You are passing clever for an animal. I must concede that you have a point."
The Varg lowered his own spear and grinned, showing his wicked teeth. "You are considering my proposition, then?"
"Nay. I have already considered it. It makes sense, though I am not inclined to trust you."
"If I give my word as leader of the Vargs to offer you no danger until after our people are rescued, would that suffice?"
"You are the leader of the Vargs?"
The little green creature drew himself up to his full height, such that it was. "I am. Fosull, I am called."
"Well, I will be dipped in goat dung. I am Raseri, shaman and chief of the Jatte."
"Then we have a truce?"
Raseri paused for a moment. He could squash the Varg at any time, should it prove necessary. Meanwhile, the little beast had a logical point that could not be denied.
"We have a truce."
"Good. Let us go then, Raseri, and find a way to recover our own."
"Lead on, Fosull."
Raseri was not quite ready to turn his unprotected back on the Varg, but he was quite amazed. That a Varg would have the sense to think of such a thing was beyond any experience that Jatte had ever had of Vargs. He had underestimated these little green beasts, and badly.
Would wonders never cease?
Dake could feel the admittedly excellent wine working upon him, but its effect only made his wits quicker. The transaction was essentially complete; all that remained now was to fill in the final details. The meat of the bargain was, he felt, mainly his. In exchange for the merchant's notinconsiderable protection and patronage, Dake would tender to him one quarter of the profits gained from display and other uses of the freaks. After operating expenses, of course. And the day that Dake could not conceal the amount of such profits by fifteen percent in his favor, he would dance naked through the streets of Shadizar with a rancid goat draped over his shoulders.
"And as to the breeding procedures . . . ?" Capeya asked, rather delicately.
"How do you mean, my partner?"
"Could we not . . . ah . . . charge admission to watch?"
Dake covered his smile with a sip of wine from the carved wooden cup. This merchant was perhaps more clever,
than he appeared. His suggestion was an excellent idea.
Dake said so, eliciting a smile and nod in return.
"And I must say that the idea of this . . . circus, as you call it, a large circle filled with attractions, has a certain merit. I have also properties in the city of Arenjun, as well as some small holdings in the neighboring country of Khauran, to the southeast, which might stand conversion to smaller replicas of this, provided you can produce enough of your oddities to people them."
"Never fear, good man; that I can surely do. I am not without certain . . . magical skills that will ensure just what I say."
"Excellent. I foresee a long and profitable association, Dake, my friend."
"As do I. Let us drink, then, to your continued good health."
"And to yours."
The two men drank deeply of the wine.
Capeya put his cup down and clapped his hands twice.
A young woman draped revealingly in red silks entered the tent, disturbing the balance of the moving wagon only sightly.
"This is one of my slaves," the merchant said. "To use as you will."
"Why, you are most kind, good man. Perhaps you would enjoy a . . . visitation with one of my more comely thralls? It would be the least I could do."
The merchant's eyes took on a sudden gleam. "Ah, yes. The giantess, the younger sister, she reminds me of one of my daughters. I could find things to say to her."
Dake grinned, as one man of the world to another.
"Doubtless, doubtless. Tonight, then, when the wagons are still, I shall have her brought to you for your pleasure."
"You are a generous man."
"No more than yourself."
The two smiled at each other again, but Dake's was the larger grin. Aha, he thought. You have revealed a weakness to me, my new partner. I shall not forget that you are a molester of children.
Not that Dake cared a whit for the girl's fate. He would have taken her himself earlier, save that it had not been convenient. Perhaps he would attend to that before he sent the girl to the merchant's wagon.
Dake smiled, and the expression was full of all manner of things.
TWENTY
Night scattered her stars across the skies like bright grains of sand, tiny pinpricks through the curtain of darkness to the pure white beyond. A gibbous moon waxed near to full, bathing in pale silver the land, casting cool shadows in eerie shapes. Far from the abodes of man, and with no more than cooking fires to disturb the night, the caravan stood halted, the draft animals grazing on what vegetation they could find.
Conan returned to the wagon from the call of nature, taking in the sights and smells of the camp and evening. Were he free, this was the kind of place in which he felt most at ease. The quiet night did not have the call of a busy town, no inns at which to drink or wench, but it had a grace of its own.
As he moved the wagon, he saw a flash of gray under the bright moon, someone moving into concealment behind a scrubby clump of brush not far away from where he walked.
While the Cimmerian's eyes were as sharp as any man's, they could not penetrate the bush sufficiently to reveal what lay within. The figure that had darted behind the cover was small, childlike, but Conan felt that there was another, larger person also concealed there, though he could not have said exactly why he felt this.
He would have investigated but he -was under magical orders to attend to his functions and return to the wagon, and the wards were too powerful to try on such a casual curiosity.
Inside, there were other problems more pressing.
Morja sat quietly sobbing in one corner of the wagon. She was attended by Teyle, who glanced up with pain in her eyes as Conan returned. Dake meant to send the girl to the merchant for the man's perverted pleasure, and there was nothing any of them could do to stop it. Impotent rage filled the wagon; all within were seething at the prospect.
To the catwoman Conan said quietly, "Ask Dake for permission to leave the wagon. When you pass it, look carefully at the large bush that grows thirty or so paces to the left."
Tro looked puzzled.
"Someone hides there, and I would know who."
She nodded and moved to the front of the wagon to speak through the curtain to Dake.
After the catwoman left, Conan moved to confer with Teyle.
"We cannot allow this to happen," she said, her voice tight and brittle. "She is but a child!"
Conan nodded. "Mayhap we can do something."
Her look of hope touched the Cimmerian's young heart. "What?"
He started to tell her of his belief that sufficiently powerful rage could break the spell.
Dake stuck his head into the wagon at that moment and interrupted them. "I go to enjoy my new benefactor's largess," he said. "A lush woman in red silks awaits my pleasure." He looked at the still-crying Morja. "Kreg shall come for you in a few moments. Stop that crying-no, wait, continue it. It will add spice to Capeya's enjoyment of you, unless I miss my guess."
He looked around at the others. "The rest of you behave yourselves quietly until I return in the morning."
With that, Dake was gone.
"Conan?"
To the giantess he said, "Wait a moment."
Kreg arrived, grinning. "Come along, big little girl. Tonight you learn how to be a woman."
Teyle lunged after her sister as Kreg led her from the wagon, but it was as if she struck an invisible wall. Dake had taken pains to instruct each of them not to try to stop Kreg.
Tro returned.
"Conan!" Teyle said, her voice cracking.
"I understand your fear," he said, "but bide a moment." To the catwoman he said, "Well?"
"There are two men there. One is very small, Vilken's size. The other is like Teyle, even larger."
"Father!" Both Vilken and Oren spoke as one.
Conan grinned. Good. The more confusion, the better. To the other slaves he said, "Attend closely! I think we can break free of Dake's spell. And we must hurry, if we are to save Morja."
"The one like a cat saw us," Fosull said.
"Perhaps not," Raseri said. "Else there would have been an outcry raised."
"Not if she is a prisoner like the others. I think perhaps the only one free is that lout with the straw-colored hair. And the dark one, of course. Dake."
"Is it not odd that neither she nor the barbarian man tried to escape? None watched them as they came and went. What would have stopped them from simply walking away?"
The Varg shook his head. "I know not. It is as you say, decidedly odd."
Raseri mused on this point for a moment. Then he said, "Well. Both this Dake and the straw-haired man are gone, and that girl with the latter is my daughter, Morja! We should free those in the wagon first and then go after her."
"Agreed. I am less likely to be seen. You keep watch and I shall approach the wagon."
"That seems reasonable."
Fosull took a deep breath, let it out, and started for the wagon in which his son was imprisoned.
Inside the peaked canopy that covered the pillow-strewn conveyance, Dake leaned back on a thick cushion and allowed the comely slave to pour him another flagon of excellent wine. He sipped at the liquid, then smiled at the young woman. She smiled nervously in return, and the flickering of the tapers set here and there inside the tent illuminated a comely face.
"I would see what you look like under those silks," Dake said. "Remove them."
The girl did so, and the mage was not unimpressed by what she revealed. Her skin was of a tawny shade, and unblemished, and she was heavy of breast and wide of hip, a body made for a man's pleasure, he reckoned.
"Come closer," Dake said, grinning.
Conan felt the simmering anger of the others around him begin to boil, as did his own. To be slaves, to be forced to obey Dake's every whim, it was intolerable!
For a barbarian, accustomed to uncomplicated emotions, it was not a difficult task to allow one's rage to burst forth. But if Conan thought that the others
held less anger than his own, he quickly realized that he was mistaken.
Penz seemed to glow with anger, his eyes wide and his lips skinned back to reveal his long eyeteeth.
Tro and Sab shook with their emotion, the woman growling softly deep in her throat, the four-armed man clenching and unclenching all of his hands into tight fists.
Spittle flew from Vilken's mouth as he chanted something over and over, toneless words Conan did not understand.
Teyle merely stared at the place where last she had seen her sister, but her face was flushed and her breathing came fast and loud.
Even the giant boy, Oren, seemed about to sunder apart from pressures inside his body.
Conan felt the rage gathering as a tangible thing, a thickening of the very air around them into dark emotion, as if the wagon had become filled with black smoke.
It grew, stronger and stronger, until Conan knew he must move . . . or die.
"Now!" he yelled. "Now!"
Fosull was nearly to the wagon when suddenly it flew apart, as if it were a melon dropped upon hard ground. The door to the rear burst open and was ripped from its hinges as the large barbarian sailed forth Another man followed the barbarian; no, it was a young Jatte, screaming something incoherent The heavy canvas of upper wall shredded under the claws of the wolfman, and he dived through the opening, howling-Through the front of the wagon came the catwoman and a man with four arms, both plummeting to the ground and rolling up to stand again Vilken-Vilken!-sliced open another section of the canvas with his spear and leaped forth, yelling the Suicide Attack Chant at the top of his voice The giant woman stood and burst the roof with her hands, tearing the heavy cloth as if it were a spider's web, yelling in a booming voice for someone named Morja!
Fosull stood stunned under the onslaught of activity, unable to think of what to say or do.
"This way!" came the deep voice of Raseri, a sound surely loud enough to disturb the sleep of the dead.
Fosull turned and saw that the escapees had also heard the roar.
The Conan Compendium Page 122