The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Gold was always a good place to end, for the word then loomed large in the listeners' minds.

  To his surprise, Hasan drew in his oar and stood silently. Ghurran shifted and wrapped his cloak tighter about himself. No one else moved.

  Conan ran his gaze down the two shadowy lines of men, and some of those who had been with Hordo before his coming stirred uncomfortably on their rowing benches. It would not be easy convincing them. Outright cowards did not last long among the Brotherhood of the Coast, but neither did those too eager to seek battle. As well to start with the hardest to convince.

  "You, Prytanis?"

  The slitnosed Nemedian's teeth showed white in what could have been a smile or a snarl. "You want this journey, northlander? You lower the chain then. I'd as soon be back ashore with a mug of ale in my fist and a wench on my knee."

  "A much safer place, it is true," Conan said dryly and there was a small laugh from the others. Prytanis hunched angrily over his oar.

  Shamil, pulling an oar almost by Conan's side, had made no move to rise, but there was an air of watching and waiting about him that was plain even in the dim-mooned night.

  "What of you, lighter of lamps?" the Cimmerian asked.

  "I merely waited to be asked," the lanky man answered quietly. His oar rattled against the thole pins as it was pulled inboard.

  Abruptly two men stood who had been with Hordo when Conan arrived in Sultanapur. "I would not have you think only the newlings are with you," said one, a Kothian named Baltis. Thick old scars were layered where his ears had been none too expertly removed in the distant past.

  The other, a hollow-faced Shemite who called himself Enam, did not speak but simply drew his tulwar and examined the blade's edge.

  "Fools," Prytanis said, but he said it softly.

  Conan waved his arm in signal to Hordo, only a gray blur in the stern, and the vessel curved toward the mole. The great breakwater reared before them, a granite wall rising from the dark waters, more than the height of a man, higher than the vessel's deck. Even the new men knew enough of boats to know what was needed now. They backed water smoothly; then those on the side next to the mole raised their oars to fend the craft off from the stone.

  The big Cimmerian wasted no time on further words. Putting a foot on the strake, he leaped. His outstretched hands caught the top of the mole, and he pulled himself smoothly up onto the rough granite surface.

  Grunts and muttered curses announced the arrival of the others, scrambling up beside him. There was no dearth of room, for the breakwater was nearly twenty paces wide.

  "We kill them?" Hasan asked in a low voice.

  "Perhaps we'll not need to," Conan replied. "Come."

  The square, stone watch-tower occupied all of the end of the mole except for a narrow walkway around it. Its crenelated top was fifty feet above them, and only a single heavy wooden door broke the granite walls at the bottom. Arrow slits at the second level showed the yellow gleam of torchlight, but there were none higher.

  Motioning the others into the shadows at the base of the tower, Conan drew his dagger and pressed himself flat against the stone wall beside the door. Carefully gauging distance, he tossed the dagger; it clattered on the granite two long paces from the door. For a moment he did not think the sound had carried to those inside. Then came the scrape of the bar being lifted. The door swung open, spilling out a pool of light, and a helmetless guardsman stuck his head through. Conan did not breathe but it was the dagger at the edge of the light that caught the Turanian's eye. Frowning, he stepped out.

  Conan moved like a striking falcon. One hand closed over the guardsman's mouth. The other seized the man's swordbelt and heaved. A splash came from below, and then cries.

  "Help! Help!"

  "The fool's fallen in," someone shouted inside, and in a clatter of booted feet, four more guardsmen rushed from the tower.

  Without helmets, one carrying a wooded mug, it was clear they had no presentiment of danger. They skidded to a halt as they became aware of the young giant before them, and hands darted for sword-hilts, but it was too late. A nose crunched under Conan's fist, and even as that man crumpled, another blow took one of his companions in the jaw. The two fell almost one atop the other.

  The rest were down as well, Conan saw, and no weapons had been drawn.

  "Throw their swords in the harbor," he ordered, retrieving his dagger, "and bind them." The cries for help still rose from the water, louder now, and more frantic. "Then make a rope of their belts and tunics, and haul that fool out before he wakes the entire city."

  Sword in hand, he cautiously entered the tower. The lowest level was one large room lit by torches, with stone stairs against one wall, leading up. Almost the entire chamber was taken up by a monstrous windlass linked to a complex arrangement of great bronze gears that shone from the fresh grease on them. A long bar ran from the smallest gear to a bronze wheel mounted on the wall below the stairs. Massive iron chain was layered on the windlass drum, the metal of each round link as thick as a man's arm, and unrusted. It was said the ancient Turanian king who commanded that chain to be made had offered the weight in rubies of any smith who could produce iron that would not rust. It was said he had paid it, too, including the weight of the hands and tongue he took from the smith so the secret would not be gained by others.

  From the windlass the chain led into a narrow, round hole in the stone floor. Conan ignored that, examining the gears for the means of loosing the chain. One bronze wedge seemed to be all that kept the gears from turning.

  "Look out!"

  At the shout Conan spun, broadsword leaping into his hand. Toppling from the stairs, a guardsman thudded to the stones at the Cimmerian's feet. A dagger hilt stood out from his chest and a still-drawn crossbow lay by his outstretched hand.

  "He aimed at your back," Hasan said from the door.

  "I will repay the debt," Conan said, sheathing his blade.

  Quickly the Cimmerian worked the wedge free, tossed it aside, and then threw his weight against the bar. It could as well have been set in stone. By the length of the thick metal rod, five men at least were meant to work the windlass. Thick muscles knotted with effort, and the bar moved, slowly at first, then faster. Much more slowly the windlass turned, and huge links rattled into the hole in the floor. Conan strained to rotate the device faster. Suddenly Hasan was there beside him, adding more strength than his bony height suggested.

  Baltis stuck his head in at the door. "The chain is below the water as far out as I can see, Cimmerian. And there is stirring on the far side of the channel. They must have heard the shouting for help."

  Reluctantly Conan released the bar. A boat would be sent to investigate, and though it would not likely carry many men, the purpose was escape, not a fight. "Our craft draws little water," he said. "It will have to do."

  As the three men hurried from the tower, Shamil and Enam straightened from laying the fifth guardsman, bound and gagged with strips torn from his own sopping-wet tunic, in a row with the four who were still unconscious. Without a word they followed Conan onto the narrow walkway that led around the tower. Hordo's one eye, the Cimmerian knew, was as sharp as Baltis's two. And the bearlike man would not waste precious moments.

  Before they even reached the channel side of the tower, the soft creak and splash of oars was approaching. The vessel arrived at the same instant they did, backing water as it swung close to the breakwater.

  "Jump," Conan commanded.

  Waiting only to hear each man thump safely on deck, he leaped after them. He landed with knees flexed, yet staggered and had to catch hold of the mast to keep from falling. His head spun until it seemed as though the ship were pitching in a storm. Jaw clenched, he fought to remain upright.

  Ghurran shuffled out of the darkness and peered at the Cimmerian. "Too much exertion brings out the poison," he said. "You must rest, for there is a limit to how much of the potion I can give you in one day."

  "I will find the man responsible
," Conan said through gritted teeth.

  "Even if there is no antidote, I will find him and kill him."

  From the stern came Hordo's hoarse command. "Stroke! Erlik take the lot of you, stroke!"

  Oars working, the slim craft crawled away from Sultanapur like a waterbug skittering over black water.

  With a roar Naipal bolted upright on his huge round bed, staring fixedly into the darkness. Moonlight filtered into the chamber through gossamer hangings at arched windows, creating dim shadows. The two women who shared his bed-one Vendhyan, one Khitan, each sweetly rounded and unclothed-cowered away from him among the silken coverlets in fright at the yell. They were his favorites from his purdhana, skilled, passionate and eager to please, yet he did not so much as glance at them.

  With the tips of his fingers he massaged his temples, trying to remember what it was that had wakened him. From a narrow golden chain about his neck a black opal dangled against his sweat-damp chest. Never was he without it, for that opal was the sole means by which Masrok could signal obedience or ask to be summoned. Now, however, it lay dark and cool against his skin. A dream, he decided. A dream of great portent to affect him so, but portent of what? Obviously it had come as a warning of some ... Warning."

  "Katar's teats!" he snapped, and the women cowered from him even farther.

  Summoning servants would take too much time. He scrambled from the bed, still ignoring the now-whimpering women. They had many delightful uses, but none now. Hastily he donned his robes, a task he had not performed unaided for years. The narrow golden coffer stood on a table inlaid with turquoise and lapis lazuli. He reached for it, hesitated-no need now to summon Masrok; no need to threaten-then left the coffer and ran.

  Desperate wondering filled his mind. What danger could threaten him now? Masrok shielded the eyes of the Black Seers of Yimsha. Zail Bal, the former court wizard and the one man he had ever truly feared, was dead, carried off by demons. If Bhandarkar divined his intent, he might summon other mages to oppose him, but he, Naipal, had men close to the throne, men the King did not know of. He knew what woman Bhandarkar had chosen for the night even before she reached the royal bedchamber. What could it be, What?

  The darkness of the high-domed chamber far below the palace was lessened by an unearthly glow from the silver pattern in the floor.

  Naipal darted to the table where his sorcerous implements were laid out, crystal flasks and beakers, vials that gave off eerie light and others that seemed to draw darkness. His fingers itched to reach for the ebony chest, for the power of the khorassani, but he forced himself to lift the lid of the ornately carved ivory box instead. With shaking hands he thrust back the silken coverings.

  A harsh breath rasped in his throat like a death rattle. A shadowed image floated on the polished surface, silvery no more. Reflected there was a small ship on a night-shrouded sea, a vessel with a single forward-raked mast, making its way by the rhythmic sweep of oars.

  Strange devices of crystal and bone trembled as his fist pounded on the table. As it was meant to, the mirror showed him the source of his danger, yet he cursed its limits. What was the danger here? Across what sea did it come? There were seas to the south and far to the east was the Endless Ocean, said by some to end only at the brink of the world.

  To the west lay the Vilayet and even farther the great Western Sea. At least Mount Yimsha had been recognizable.

  He ground his teeth, knowing it was to keep them from chattering and hating the fact. Like an inky cloud, terror coiled its tendrils around his soul. He had thought himself long beyond such, but now he knew that the years with the mirror standing watch had softened him. He had plotted and acted without fear, thinking he had conquered fear because the emptiness of the mirror had told him his plans were unthreatened.

  And now this ship! A tiny speck on the waters, by all the gods!

  With tremendous effort he forced his features back to their normal outward calm. Forcefully he reminded himself that panic availed nothing. Less than nothing, for it hindered action. He had agents in many places and the means to communicate orders to them more swiftly than flights of eagles. His eyes marked the craft well and fingers that shook only slightly moved among the arcane implements on the table.

  From whatever direction that vessel came, on whatever shore it landed, there would be men to recognize it. Long before it ever reached him, the danger would be purged as though with fire.

  Chapter VII

  With his feet planted wide against the rise and fall of the deck and one hand on the stay supporting the mast, Conan peered through the night toward the blackness that was the eastern shore of the Vilayet.

  The vessel ran as close inshore as its shallow draft would allow. Not far to the west were islands of which the most pleasant thing said was that they were the lair of pirates. Other things were said as well, whispered in dark corners, but whatever lurked there, no one wanted to draw its attention.

  The Cimmerian shared his vigil in the bow with only the two remaining goats and the wicker cage of pigeons. The chickens had gone the way of the other goat, into the smugglers' stomachs. Most of the crew were sprawled on the deck, heads pillowed on arms or coils of rope. Clouds covered the moon, and only through brief rents was there even a slight lessening of the darkness. The triangular sail was fullbellied with wind, and the rush of water along the hull competed with the occasional snore. But then, he thought, none of them had his reasons for eagerness to be ashore, to find the men for whom the chests below were bound.

  Keen as his eye was, however, he could make out no details of the land.

  Worse, there was no sign of the signals Hordo had told him of.

  "They must be here," he muttered to himself.

  "But will they have the antidote?" Ghurran asked, handing Conan the goblet that had become a nightly ritual.

  Conan avoided looking at the muddy liquid in the battered pewter cup.

  It did not grow to look more appetizing with repeated viewing.

  "They will have it." Holding his breath, he emptied the goblet, trying to pour the mixture down his throat rather than let it touch his tongue. "But if they do not?" the old man persisted. "There seems not even to be anyone there."

  The Cimmerian's grimace from the taste of the potion turned to a smile.

  "They are there." He pointed to three pinpricks of light that had just sprung into being in the blackness of the shoreline on the southern headland of the river mouth. "And they will have the antidote."

  The herbalist trailed after him as he made his way down the deck. Hordo was kneeling beside a large, open chest of iron-bound oak that was lashed to the mast.

  "I saw," the one-eyed man muttered when the Cimmerian appeared. "Now to see if they are the ones we seek." In short order he had assembled a peculiar-looking apparatus, three hooded brass lamps fastened to a long pole. There were hooks for attaching more of the lamps if need be, and pegs for crosspieces if other configurations were desired. This was a not-unusual method of signaling among the smugglers.

  Once the lamps were alight, Hordo raised the pole high. Those few of the crew not asleep stood to watch. Ashore, the center light of the three disappeared as though suddenly extinguished. Thrice the bearded smuggler lowered and raised the pole of lamps.

  The remaining lights ashore vanished and, with a grunt, Hordo lowered the pole and put out his own lamps. Almost with the breath that extinguished the last flame, he was roaring. "Up, you mangy curs! On your feet, you misbegotten camel spawn! Erlik blast your tainted souls, move!" The ship became an anthill as men lurched out of sleep, some aided by a boot from the one-eyed man.

  Conan strode to the tiller and found Shamil manning it. He motioned the lanky newcomer aside and took his place. The lower edge of the sail was just high enough for him to watch the coastline ahead.

  "What has happened?" Ghurran demanded. "Were the signals wrong? Are we to land or not?"

  "It is a matter of trust," Conan explained without looking away from his task. "The m
en ashore see a ship, but is it the smuggler they expect? Signals are exchanged, but not with the place of landing. If a shipload of excisemen or pirates lands at the signal lights, they'd find no more than a single man, and that only if he is slow or stupid."

  Another tiny point of light appeared on the coast, separated from the location of the others by almost a league. "And if we had not given the proper signals in return," the Cimmerian went on, "that would not now be showing us where to come ashore."

  Ghurran peered at the bustle among the smugglers. Some eased tulwars and daggers in their sheaths. Others loosed the strings of oilskin bags to check bowstrings and arrow fletchings. "And you trust them as much as they trust you," he said.

  "Less," Conan grinned. "Even if those ashore haven't tortured the signals out of the men we are truly here to meet, they could still want what we have without the bother of paying for it."

  "I had no idea this could be so dangerous." The herbalist's voice was faint.

  "Who lives without danger does not live at all," Conan quoted an old Cimmerian proverb. "Did you think to journey all the way to Vendhya by magic? I can think of no other way to travel so far without danger."

  Ghurran did not reply, and Conan turned his whole attention to the matter at hand. The wind carried them swiftly toward the waiting light, but a landing on a night shore was not made under sail. To the creaking of halyards in the blocks, the long yard was lowered and swung fore and aft on the deck, a few hasty lashings being made to keep the sail from billowing across the deck and hindering movement. Men moved to the rowing benches. The rasp of oarshafts on thole-pins, the slow swirl of blades dipping into the black water, and, incongruously, cooing from the cage of pigeons became the only sounds of the vessel.