The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  "Not the Ring, night-child. I am Sovartus of the Black Square, adept, and soon to be master of the Four Ways. I do not delude myself with the scarlet dreams of the black lotus, nor dabble in base necromancy such as those inept Stygian pretenders. It is not the Ring but the more powerful Square that binds and now commands you, Djavul. Know you of the Square in the pit?"

  Djavul gnashed his fangs. "We know of it."

  "Ah. And shall you serve as I bid?"

  "I shall serve," he said. He flashed his teeth yet again at Sovartus.

  "Yet take you care, man, for if you should make the smallest mistake-!"

  "Threaten not, demon. I can bind you to a rock and have you carted to the Vilayet Sea to be tossed in to contemplate the bottom muck, should I so choose!"

  Djavul's eyes flared redly, but he spoke not.

  Sovartus turned away from the demon and looked to the wall nearest him.

  Three children languished there, two boys and a girl, bound as was the demon, but by more mundane means: They were chained to the gray wall.

  The children seemed beyond fear; they stood or sat staring at nothing, as if drugged. There were three of them-only three.

  Sovartus turned back toward the demon. "Look upon these children," he commanded.

  The demon beheld the three. He nodded. "I see them."

  "Do you know them?"

  "I know them," Djavul said. "They are Three of the Four. The girl is Water, the boys are Earth and Air."

  "Very good. So you would recognize the Fourth if you beheld her?"

  "I would know her."

  Sovartus nodded. He smiled, his own teeth flashing whitely in the frame of his black mustache and beard. "I thought as much. Here, then, is your task, demon. To the south and east lies the city of Mornstadinos; within that city, the Child of Fire abides, but hidden. You will find her and bring her to me, alive and well."

  Djavul glared at the wizard. "And then?"

  "And then I will release you to return to your pleasures in Gehanna."

  "I shall look forward with great joy to seeing you there, human. "

  Sovartus laughed. "Of that I have no doubt; but when I arrive in Hell, it will likely be as your master, demon. More, you shall help me to achieve it; best, then, you take care not to offend me meanwhile."

  Djavul's sharp teeth grated together and he started to speak in his metal-shredding voice. "I see-" He stopped.

  Sovartus's black eyes gleamed in the light of the guttering lamps lining the walls. "Yes? Speak."

  Though the demon was obviously reluctant, he nodded and said, "As I saw the Essence of the three children, so, too, I see your Essence, sorcerer. There is power in you, much power, and the promise of greater forces hangs upon you like a malignant shroud."

  "Ah," Sovartus said, nodding in return, "you are perceptive for one born of the pit. You recognize how well-served you would be to avoid antagonizing me, then?"

  "Aye. The Black-Souled Ones allow many things in their dealings with men. You may well do as you speak. I shall serve you, human. I have no desire to spend ten thousand years buried in black mud at the bottom of the Vilayet Sea."

  "You are wise for a mere demon," Sovartus said. "When I arrive in Hell to rule after a few thousand years-after tiring of my rule here-mayhap I shall need a wise assistant such as yourself. Consider such as you do my bidding and so serve me well." He stroked his pointed beard with one slender hand. "For now, I bid you leave. Accomplish your mission and return quickly."

  The demon gathered himself. "I hear, O master," he said, "and I obey."

  Gigantic muscles flexed and bunched as the inhuman thing squatted and prepared to spring. He leaped, and another bruised flash lit the dank chamber; when it dimmed, Djavul was gone, leaving only the pools of sludge staining the floor where he had stood.

  Sovartus laughed again, and stared at the three children. Soon he would have the Fourth; soon he would bring together the energies each held.

  Then, ah, then, he would command all of the Four Elements and not merely the undines and wind-devils; not merely the salamanders and flames; not only the demi-whelves. No, when he at last had all Four of them, he would be able to create and unleash the Thing of Power, a force so awesome even Black-Souled Set himself must take notice.

  Sovartus spun away, and his black silk robe flared about him. He was the most powerful of all the Black Square, and save for Hogistum, he always had been.

  Hogistum had sought to keep the power from him by hiding it. The old one had ensorcelled a maiden, and then impregnated her. The maiden had birthed four children at once, quadruplets, and each child carried within it the lines of power for one Element. They had been separated at birth and scattered, to keep Sovartus from them.

  Thirteen years he had searched, thirteen long years, and all the while he looked, he studied the arcane, to improve his skills. He had traveled to the corners of the world, seeking the children and knowledge. In the far-eastern jungles of Khitai he had dealt with the frozen-faced and yellow-skinned wizards; in the ruined temples of Stygia he had learned the skills of the Black Ring. Too, the mage had seen with his own eyes the emerald-skinned alien monster with the misshapen head of an elephant enshrined in Yara's tower in Arenjun, the Zamorian City of Thieves. Yes, he had learned his evil lessons well; even without the power of the Four, Sovartus was a force to be reckoned with, a sorceror second to none in all of Corinthia. Such power was not enough, of course, not when he could be the supreme power in all of the world.

  Sovartus smiled as he stalked forth from the chamber and walked down the dark hallway toward the main hall of Castle Slott. Rats chittered and fled from his passage, and spiders climbed higher in their webs when he passed them.

  Hogistum was dead, poisoned by Sovartus's hand, and the slain magician's plan was no more than a fading memory. The children had been gathered, save the one, and he possessed them. Sovartus had spent fortunes to obtain the first three. His henchmen had found them in Turan; in Ophir; in Poitain; how ironic that the last one would be in Corinthia, practically upon his own doorstep! He had three of them, and the bodies of those mortals who had aided or known of his quest now fed the fishes or more unspeakable water creatures, or lay moldering where no man's eye would ever behold them. When his demon collected the last, he would triumph. Too bad the old man was dead; Sovartus would like him to see the victory. Perhaps he would bring Hogistum back to life. He would have that power. Yes, that would be a fine jest, to bring the old mage back long enough to savor his failure and Sovartus's victory. He laughed loudly at the thought. He would do it, by Set he would. It was not every man who could bring back his murdered father from the gray lands.

  Chapter One

  In the nameless village at the foot of a pass from Zamora through the Karpash Mountains into Corinthia, a ramshackle inn squatted forlornly.

  To this rickety and dilapidated place rode a tall and muscular young man, astride a fine buckskin horse for which he seemed ill-suited. The deep-chested horse carried a fine saddle and exotic silk blankets, and had bridle fittings of silver cast in the shapes of cranes and frogs; obviously, this was an animal belonging to a rich man.

  The rider, however, wore a harbergeon of old and cracked leather, sans both mail and basinet, and his half-breeches appeared supple, but well-stained with age and sweat. His cape was ragged about the edges, if well spun. Strapped to his forearm in a sheath rode a long and wicked-looking dagger; and by his side a great broadsword with a plainly wrapped grip nestled in an even less ornate leather scabbard.

  The evening winds blew the young giant's black hair into an unruly mane about his head, and his deepset eyes cast back the setting sun's fiery glare almost as if those eyes held blue fire of their own. He was Conan of Cimmeria, and if any man noticed the discrepancy between horse and rider as the pair approached the inn, none made so bold as to speak of it.

  A boy of ten stood near the doorway of the inn, which, like the village, boasted no name that the rider could see. The man leaped
from the back of the horse and observed the lad.

  "Ho, boy, have you a stable in this place?"

  "Aye." He stared at Conan's attire. "For those who can pay."

  The boy's look amused Conan. He laughed and fished around inside the pouch on his belt, producing a small silver coin, which he tossed toward the boy.

  Deftly, the boy snatched the coin from the air. He grinned widely at the man. "Mitra! For this you could near own the stable!"

  "Food and water and brushing for my horse will be sufficient," Conan said. "And there might be another coin such as that for you on the morrow if my horse's coat gleams."

  "It will outshine the sunrise!" the boy avowed. He leaped to catch the proffered bridle.

  "Bide a moment," Conan ordered. He lifted a pair of heavy bags from the horse, being careful to keep the gold coins within from clinking as he did so. Those bags would better pass the night undisturbed next to him and not in some stable; Conan knew about thieves, for he was one himself. He watched the boy lead his horse away, and then turned to enter the inn.

  The inside of the place certainly did not belie the promise of the exterior; the main room was dirty and enshrouded in smoke that curled from a sputtering fire in a blackened fireplace at the far end. There were no windows; the only other light came from cracks in the low roof and a few smoky oil lamps set on several of the rough wooden tables.

  A fat man in a stained apron scurried toward Conan, his gapped smile displaying much blackness and rot. "Ah, good evening, my lord. How may I serve?"

  Conan looked around. There were ten people in the room, and those he saw seemed as disreputable as the place itself. There were dark-skinned Zamorians, of course; two short and slant-eyed men who looked as if they might be Hyrkanians; a pair of sad-eyed and weary-looking women in torn pantaloons who could only be plying the oldest of all trades; finally, perched on a stool was a short and round man with gray hair, who watched Conan as a hawk might watch a serpent.

  Conan turned back to the innkeeper. "Would you have other than moldy bread to sup upon in this wretched place? And wine less sour than vinegar?"

  "Of course, my lord-"

  "And a room for the night," Conan interrupted. "A room with a door and bolt."

  "Mitra has blessed my establishment with such things as you seek," the fat innkeeper said, showing his blackened teeth again.

  Conan grunted. "Fetch me food then, and we shall see if Mitra's blessing extends to the cook. And wine, your best."

  The man appeared to appraise Conan shrewdly; but before he could speak, the wide-shouldered youth flipped a coin at him. The fat innkeeper's eyes widened as he caught the reflection of dim lamplight on yellow, even as the disk flew, through the air. He snatched the piece from its flight faster than a falcon slays a thrush, then opened his fingers carefully, to keep the coin hidden from the curious stares of the others in the dank room. But the flash of gold would not be denied.

  "Gold!" The fat man's whisper spoke at once of greed and lust, and reverence. He made as if to bite the gold, to assure its purity, but apparently considered the stage of his teeth and only weighed the money in his palm. He clamped his fingers tightly around the shining disk and glanced around at his patrons, seeming, as he did so, kin to some wily rodent.

  Conan chose that moment to stretch his mighty frame. Sinews cracked and joints popped as he rolled his massive shoulders and flexed his thick arms. The sounds and motion seemed to startle the innkeeper from his greed-fed trance. He bowed, mumbled, and hurried away. He was back in a moment bearing a wineskin and cup, which he fawningly placed on the table nearest Conan.

  "Your meal will be prepared at once, my lord."

  Conan grinned, aware that the riffraff of the tavern were staring at him. Disdaining the cup, he snatched up the wineskin and lifted it over his head. The stream of thin red wine tasted slightly bitter; but it was cool enough. Thrice Conan filled his mouth and swallowed before he downtilted the skin for breath. He stretched again, his muscles dancing like tame beasts under his deeply tanned skin, then sat upon the rude bench next to the table.

  Around him the inn's customers turned back to pursue their own business-save the rotund man, who continued to watch the young giant from the corner of one pale eye.

  The innkeeper returned in a short while bearing a wooden platter covered with a slab of steaming beef. The meat was as thick as Conan's hand and dripping blood, being only lightly seared, but the Cimmerian fell to eating, using his razor-edged Karpashian dagger to hew great chunks from the steak. He chewed lustily and washed the half-raw meat down with streams of the thin wine. It was not the best meal he had ever had, but it would suffice.

  When he finished the meat and most of the wine, Conan turned to search for the innkeeper. Before he could do more than glance around, the obsequious man with the blacktoothed smile appeared at Conan's elbow.

  "My lord?"

  "I am no man's lord," Conan said, feeling sated with food and wine.

  "But I am tired and would see the room Mitra saw fit to bless in this .

  . . establishment."

  "At once."

  The innkeeper led Conan from the smoke-filled room, through a narrow corridor, to a steep set of wooden stairs. Each step creaked as Conan trod upon it, so that his ascent reminded him of a twittering flock of feeding birds. He grinned. Good. No thief could climb these steps to take a man unawares in the night.

  The room was scarcely an improvement on the scene below, save that it was empty of anything but a pile of clean straw and a rough wool blanket. There was a round hole cut in the outside wall-window enough to admit air or moonlight, but too small for a man to enter. The door seemed solid, and there was a well-oiled brass bolt that slid easily in its recess to seal the portal. Odd, that. The bolt was the best-kept part of the room. Conan waved the innkeeper away, bolted the door, and tossed his leather bags full of loot into the corner near the mound of hay.

  Something scuttled away from the solid thump of the gold and silver, chittering unseen in the dimness. Conan pulled his dagger and crept closer to the rude bed, his blue eyes alert. When he was ready, he rustled one edge of the hay.

  The rat burst forth, fleeing, but he moved too slowly.

  Conan stabbed with remarkable speed and impaled the brown-furred rodent on his dagger.

  Conan grinned. That one would not be nibbling at him this night. He stood and flicked the dagger toward the small window, flinging the dead rodent from the blade, outside into the deepening evening. He wiped the dagger on the hay, sheathed the knife, and settled himself for sleep.

  A whisper of a noise came in the hours before false dawn. It was so faint that it would have seemed to be hidden from ordinary ears by the night-creaks of the inn growing older. Conan awakened instantly, his senses alert.

  Skritch. Skritch. It was a tiny thing, this aural intruder upon his rest; but it boded ill, for Conan detected in the noise the scrape of metal upon metal. Only a man used instruments of iron or brass, and a man at this hour meant danger.

  Through the hole in the wall a faint beam of sinking moon and starlight entered the room. This was hardly enough for a cat to navigate by, but the Cimmerian's vision was sharper than other men's, and honed by many past dangers. He swept his gaze around the room until he focused upon the cause of the nocturnal sound.

  In the pale glow Conan saw a thin wire sliding between the door and its jamb, a hooked bit of copper that tugged at the well-oiled bolt.

  For a moment Conan felt a prickle of fear along the back of his neck.

  No man born of woman had mounted the stairs that he had climbed earlier-this he would wager. He reached for his sword.

  Suddenly, the greasy bolt slid free and the door burst inward. Three men rushed into the room, each wielding a dagger raised to strike.

  Conan leaped up, jerked his broadsword free of its scabbard, and lunged for the assassins. If they thought to slay a sleeping man, they were sadly mistaken, for the Cimmerian attacked.

  The firs
t man was spitted before he saw his mortal danger. Conan ripped his sword free as the man fell gargling in his death throes. The Cimmerian instantly swung the heavy blade with a force denied all but the most powerful of men. The second assassin halfturned and managed to raise his dagger in defense, but his effort counted for naught.

  Sparks flew as the broadsword mated with the dagger and swept it aside as if it were no more than a feather. Conan's blade bit deeply into the villain's side, shearing ribs and organs alike, and the man screamed in his final agony as he fell, to lie prone upon the filthy wooden floor.

  The third man backed quickly away into the tight corridor, fear staining his features.

  The wall across the corridor kissed the would-be assassin's back. He looked frantically to the right and left, but seemed to know that if he turned to flee, the berserk giant would be on him instantly. He switched grips on the dagger, holding it like a sword, and jabbed the point in Conan's direction.

  Just then, from the stairs came a cacophony of screeching footfalls.

  Flickering tapers threw ghostly fingers of yellow light ahead of their bearers. Conan did not take his attention from the dagger-bearing thief; however, the man must have thought it so. He lunged at Conan, seeking to bury the point of his weapon in the Cimmerian's groin. Conan leaped lithely to one side, fast for so large a man, and swung his sword overhead and downward with all his might. The sharp edge connected with the villain's head and bisected it, as a cook might split a melon. Gore splashed patterns upon the walls of the corridor, now better-lit by the innkeeper and the roundish man Conan had seen earlier in the common room. Conan turned toward these two with the point of his bloody sword aimed at the innkeeper's heart, a heart hidden under a grimy nightshirt.

  The innkeeper went deathly pale and began to sweat profusely.

  "P-p-please, sir, I have a family!"

  Conan fixed the man with an unblinking stare, with eyes blazing like two glowing blue coals. He looked away, finally, at the mortal remains of those men who would have killed him had he been less vigilant. "Who were these scum?" he asked, pointing his blade at the nearest corpse.