The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Carefully the Cimmerian straightened. The horse flicked an ear but munched in seeming unconcern at another clump of grass. Sand crunched underfoot as Conan approached with slow steps. His hand touched the reins ... and the stallion seemed to explode.

  Fingers tangled in the bridle, Conan was jerked into the air as the ebon animal reared. Like a cat he twisted, throwing his legs around the horse's neck, clutching its mane with his free hand. The stallion dropped, and the added weight of the man pulled it to its knees.

  Scrambling back to its feet, the horse shook its head furiously. With wild snorts and whinnies, the animal leaped and plunged but Conan clung tenaciously. And as he knew it must, his presence in such an unaccustomed place began to take a toll. The leaps became shorter, the rearings farther apart. Then the stallion was still, nostrils flared and blowing hard.

  The animal was not beaten, Conan knew. He was all but staring it in the eye, and that eye was filled with spirit. The question was whether or not it had decided to accept a strange rider. He knew better than to let go of the beast. With infinite caution he pulled himself onto its back, then lifted himself over the high pommel and into the saddle. The stallion only shifted as he took up the red-fringed reins. Finally letting himself relax, Conan patted the glossy arched neck and gently kneed the animal into a trot toward the beach.

  The charred ribs of the smugglers' craft, awash in the frothy surf, yet with tendrils of gray smoke still rising, spoke eloquently of the previous night's attack. Some three hundred paces to the north, gray kites screamed and circled above the dunes as they contended with the larger vultures for the pickings below. No one among the smugglers had considered digging graves for the Vendhyan dead, not after digging three for their own.

  The situation on the beach had changed since Conan's leave-taking that morning. Then the smugglers had been gathered around the fire, where the last of the arrow-slain goat still decorated a spit. Now they were in three well-separated knots. The seven survivors of those who had previously sailed with Hordo formed one group, huddled and muttering among themselves, while the men who had joined on the night they left Sultanapur made a second group. All were bedraggled and sooty-faced, and many sported bandages.

  The third group consisted of Hordo and Ghurran, standing by the eight Vendhyan horses the smugglers had spent the morning gathering. Hordo glared indiscriminately at newcomers and oldsters alike, while the herbalist looked as though he wished he knew the location of a soft bed.

  As Conan swung down from his saddle beside Hordo, Prytanis limped from the cluster of old crew members.

  "Nine horses," the Nemedian announced. His tone was loud and ranting but directed only to his six fellows. "Nine horses for three and twenty men."

  The newer men stirred uneasily, for the numbers were plain when considered the way Prytanis obviously intended. If they were left out of the calculation, there were horses to go around.

  "What happened to his foot?" Conan said softly.

  Hordo snorted. "He tried to catch a horse, and it stepped on him. The horse got away."

  "Look at us," Prytanis shouted, spinning to face Conan and Hordo. "We came for gold, at your urging, and here we stand, our boat in ashes, three of our number dead, and the width of the Vilayet between us and Sultanapur."

  "We came for gold and we have it," Hordo shouted back. He slapped the bulging sack tied at his wide belt; the clinking weight of it pulled the belt halfway down his hip. "As for the dead, a man who joins the Brotherhood of the Coast expecting no danger would do better to become a real fisherman. Or have you forgotten other times we have had to bury comrades?"

  The Nemedian seemed taken aback at the reminder that the gold was still with them. It would be difficult to work up much opposition to Hordo among the smugglers as long as the one-eyed man had gold to hand out.

  Mouth working, Prytanis cast his eyes about angrily until they landed on Ghurran. "The old man is to blame," he cried. "I saw him among the Vendhyans, talking to them. What did he say to stir them up against us?"

  "Fool!" Ghurran spat, and the coldness of that bony face was startling.

  "Why should I bring them down on us? A sword can split my head as easily as yours, and my desire to live is easily as great as yours. You are a fool, Nemedian, and you rant your foolishness because seeking to blame others for your troubles is easier than seeking solutions to those troubles."

  Every man there stared at the unexpected outburst, Prytanis the hardest of all. Face pale with rage, the Nemedian stretched, a clawed hand toward the scrawny old man, who stared at him disdainfully.

  Conan drew his sword, not threatening anyone, just letting it hang at his side. Prytanis' hand stopped short of the herbalist's coarse brown robes. "If you have something to say," Conan said calmly, "then say it.

  Touch him, though, and I will cut your head off." The Nemedian jerked his hand back and muttered something under his breath. "Louder," Conan said. "Let everyone hear."

  Prytanis took a deep breath. "How are nine horses going to carry three and twenty men back to Sultanapur?"

  "They are not," Conan said. "One horse goes to Vendhya with me, and another for Ghurran."

  "A horse each for the two of you, while the rest of us-" The Nemedian took a step back as Conan raised his blade.

  "If you want the horses badly enough," Conan said grimly, "then take them. Myself, I want the animals very much indeed."

  Prytanis' hand moved slowly in the direction of his sword, but his eyes shifted as though he wished he could gauge the support of those behind him without being so obvious as looking over his shoulder.

  "Four horses go to Vendhya," Hordo said quickly. "At least. I will ride one, and we will need one for supplies. Anyone else going with us gets a horse, as well, for we have the longer way to go, and the harder.

  What are left over go to those returning to Sultanapur. I'll give each man his share of the Vendhyan gold before we part. That should buy all the horses you need before you reach Khawarism-"

  "Khawarism!" Prytanis exclaimed.

  "-Perhaps sooner," Hordo went on as though there had been no interruption. "There should be caravans in the passes of the Colchians." The Nemedian seemed ready for further argument, but Baltis pushed by him.

  "That is fair enough, Hordo," the earless man said. "I speak for the others as well. At least for those of us who have been with you before.

  It is only Prytanis here who wants all this crying and pulling of hair.

  As for Enam and myself, we have it in mind to go with you."

  "Aye," the cadaverous Shemite agreed. His voice matched his face.

  "Prytanis can go his own way and take his wailing with him. Straight to Zandru's Ninth Hell for all I care."

  The other group, the newcomers, had been stirring and murmuring among themselves all this time. Now Hasan growled, "Enough!" at his fellows and moved away from them. "I want to go with you, too," he said to Hordo. "I will likely never get another chance to see Vendhya."

  Shamil was almost on Hasan's heels. "I, also, should like to see Vendhya. I joined you for gold and adventure, and there seems little of either in trudging back to Sultanapur. In Vendhya, though ... well, we have all heard that in Vendhya even beggars wear gold. Perhaps," he laughed, "some of it will stick to my fingers."

  None of the rest of the newlings seemed tempted by tales of Vendhyan wealth and when it came to them that but a single horse was left for those returning to Sultanapur, they lapsed into glum silence, slumping like half-empty sacks on the sand. The experienced smugglers were already seeing to their boots and sandals for the long walk around the Vilayet.

  Prytanis seemed stunned by the turn of events. He glared about him at the men, at the ruins of the ship, at the horses, then sighed heavily.

  "Very well then. I will go as well, Hordo."

  Conan opened his mouth to refuse the Nemedian but Hordo rushed in.

  "And welcome, Prytanis. You are a good man in tight places. The rest of you see to dividing the supp
lies. The sooner we travel, the sooner we all reach our destinations. You come with me, Cimmerian. We have plans to make."

  Conan let himself be drawn away from the others, but as soon as they were out of earshot, he spoke. "You were right in Sultanapur. I should have broken his head or slit his throat. All he wants is that last horse to himself instead of having to share it. And mayhap a chance to steal the rest of the gold."

  "No doubt you speak the truth," Hordo replied. "At least about the horse. But credit me with the one eye I have. While you and Prytanis stared at each other, I was watching the newlings."

  "What do they have to do with the Nemedian? I doubt they trust him as much as I do."

  "Less, of a certainty. But they are none too sure of setting out afoot either. It would not take much spark-say you and Prytanis attempting to slay each other-for half of them to try for the horses. Then instead of going to Vendhya, we can all kill each other on this Mitra-forsaken bit of coast."

  Conan shook his head ruefully. "You see a great deal with that one eye, my old friend. Karela would be proud of you."

  The bearded man scrubbed at his nose and sniffed. "Perhaps she would.

  Come. They will be wanting their gold and likely thinking they should have twice as much."

  The gold-three pieces laid in each man's calloused palm-caused no squabble at all, though there were a few sharp looks at the leather bag Hordo tied to his swordbelt. The way it tugged the broad belt down less was clear the proof that he had shared out most of the contents.

  The division of the supplies was the source of greater friction.

  Conan was surprised at how many arguments could arise over dried fruit ruined by heat and immersion, or coils of rope for which no one could think of any use at present. Eventually, however, water bags, blankets and such were parceled out in proportion to numbers. The live goat and the remains of the cooked one would go with the men afoot. The cage of pigeons was lashed to the spare horse, along with a sack of grain for feed.

  "Better to give the grain to the horses," Conan grumbled, "and feed ourselves what we can catch." He tossed a stirrup leather up over the silver-studded saddle on the big black and bent to check the girth strap. The two parties had truly become separate now. Those who would ride to Vendhya checked their horses while a short distance away, the men who were returning to Sultanapur bundled and lashed their share of the supplies into backpacks, murmuring doubtfully among themselves.

  "Mitra's Mercies, Cimmerian," Hordo told him, "but there are times I think you do your best just to avoid a few comforts. I look forward to a spitted pigeon or two roasting over the fire tonight."

  Conan grunted. "If we put less attention to our bellies and more to riding hard, we could catch that caravan by nightfall. The Vendhyans spoke as if it were not far off."

  "That," said Ghurran, leading his horse awkwardly by the reins with both hands, "would be a good way to travel to Vendhya. We could journey in safety and in comfort." As though realizing that he intruded on a private conversation, he gave an apologetic smile and tugged his horse on.

  "That old man," Hordo muttered, "begins to fray my patience. The Vendhyans nearly kill us, my boat is burned, and through it all nothing seems to matter to him except reaching Vendhya."

  "His single-mindedness does not bother me," Conan said, "though I should be glad to be able to do without his potions."

  The one-eyed man scratched at his beard. "You know it would be best to forget this caravan, do you not? If the men we fought last night have gone to join it, there will certainly be trouble there for us. We will be strangers, and they members of the caravan already."

  "I know," Conan said quietly. "But you must know the antidote is not enough for me. A man has tried to kill me, and perhaps succeeded, over chests that look to be worth more than their contents. I will know the why of it, and the answer lies with those chests."

  "But be a little careful, Conan. It will profit you little to be spitted on a Vendhyan lance."

  "We tried to be careful last night. From now on, let them be careful of me." Conan swung up into the saddle and had to catch hold of the high pommel as his head spun. Grimly he forced himself erect.

  "Let them be careful of me," he repeated and kicked the Bhalkhana stallion into motion.

  Chapter IX

  Sand dunes quickly gave way to plains of tough, sparse grass and low, isolated hills. Scrub growth and thorn bushes dotted the land, though to the east taller trees could be seen along the banks of the Zaporoska. To the south the grayness of mountains, the Colchians, rose on the horizon. The sun climbed swiftly, a blazing yellow ball in a cloudless sky, with a baking heat that sucked moisture from man and ground. A puff of dust marked each hoof-fall.

  Throughout the day Conan kept a steady pace, one the horses could maintain until nightfall. And he intended to maintain it that long and longer, if need be, despite the heat. His sharp eyes had easily located the tracks left by the Vendhyans and their pack mules. No effort had been made to conceal them. The harsh-voiced man had been concerned with swiftness, not with the unlikely possibility that someone might follow his trail. Enam and Shamil proved to be good hands with a bow, making forays from the line of travel that soon had half a score of lean brown hares hanging from their saddles.

  The Cimmerian ignored suggestions that they should stop at midday to cook the hares. Stops to give the horses a drink from cupped hands he tolerated, but no sooner had he pushed the plug back into his water bag than he was mounted again and moving. Always to the south, though drifting slightly to the east as if not to get too far from the Zaporoska. Always following the tracks of two score of mounted men with pack horses.

  The sun dropped toward the west, showing a display of gold and purple on the mountains, and still Conan kept on, though the sky darkened rapidly overhead and the faint glimmerings of stars were appearing.

  Prytanis was no longer the only one muttering. Hordo, and even Ghurran, joined in.

  "We will not reach Vendhya by riding ourselves to death," the old herbalist groaned. He shifted on his saddle, wincing. "And it will do you no good if I am too stiff and sore to mix the potion that keeps you alive."

  "Listen to him, Cimmerian," Hordo said. "We cannot make the journey in a single day."

  "Has one day's riding done you in?" Conan laughed. "You who were once the scourge of the Zamoran plains?"

  "I have become more suited to a deck than a saddle," the one-eyed man admitted ruefully. "But, Erlik blast us all, even you can no longer see the tracks you claim to follow. I'll believe much of those accursed northern eyes of yours, but not that."

  "I've no need to see the tracks," Conan replied, "while I can see that." He pointed ahead where tiny lights were barely visible through the thickening twilight. "Have you gotten so old you can no longer tell stars from campfires?"

  Hordo stared, tugging at his beard, then finally grunted, "A league, perhaps more. 'Tis all but full dark now. Caravan guards will not look with kindness on strangers approaching in the night."

  "I will at least be sure it is the right caravan," Conan said.

  "You will get us all killed," Prytanis grumbled loudly. "I said it from the first. This is a fool's errand, and you will get us all killed."

  Conan ignored him, but he did slow the stallion to a walk as they drew closer to the fires. Those fires spread out like the lights of a small city, and indeed he had seen many respectable towns that covered a lesser expanse. A caravan so large would have many guards. He began to sing, somewhat off tune, a tavern song of Sultanapur, relating the improbable exploits of a wench of even more improbable endowments.

  "What in Mitra's name?" Hordo growled perplexedly.

  "Sing," Conan urged, pausing in his effort. "Men of ill intent do not announce themselves half a league off. You would not wish a guard to put an arrow in you just because you came on him suddenly in the night.

  Sing." He took up the song again, and after a moment the others joined in raggedly, all save Ghurran, who sniffed lo
udly in disapproval of the lyrics.

  The bawdy words were ringing through the night when, with a jingle of mail, a score of horsemen burst out of the darkness to surround them with couched lances and aimed crossbows. They wore Turanian armor for the most part, but mismatched. Conan saw a Corinthian breastplate and helmets from three other lands. He let the song trail off the others had ceased in mid-word-and folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle.

  "An interesting song," one of the lancers growled, "but who in Zandru's Nine Hells are you to be singing it here?" He was a tall man, his features hidden in the dark by a nasaled Zamoran helm. At least his voice was not a harsh rasp.

  "Wayfarers," Conan replied, "journeying to Vendhya. If you also travel in that direction, perhaps you could use a few extra swords." The tall lancer laughed. "We have more swords than we can use, stranger. A few days past Karim Singh himself, the wazam of Vendhya, joined this caravan with five hundred Vendhyan cavalry sent to escort him from the shores of the Vilayet."

  "A great many Vendhyans," Conan said, "to be this close to Turan. I thought they stayed beyond Secunderam."

  "I will tell Yildiz of it the next time I speak with him," the lancer replied dryly. A few of his men laughed, but none of the weapons was lowered.

  "Do You have other latecomers in your caravan?" Conan asked.

  "A strange question. Do you seek someone?"

  Conan shook his head as though he had not noticed the creak of leather and mail as the caravan guards tensed. In the long and often lawless passages between cities, caravans protected all of their members against outsiders, no matter the claims or charges. "I seek to travel to Vendhya," he said. "But if there are other latecomers, perhaps some of them need guards. Possibly some of your merchants feel less safe, not more, for the presence of five hundred Vendhyans. Soldiers have been known to have their own ideas of what taxes are due, and how they should be collected."

  The lancer's long drawn-out breath told that the idea was not a new one to him. Caravans had paid one tax to the customs men before, and then another to the soldiers supposedly sent to protect them. "Eight swords," he muttered, shaking his head. "Two score and three parties of merchants make up this caravan, stranger, including seven who have joined us since we rounded the southern end of the Vilayet. There are always those-no offense intended-who think to make the journey alone until they see the wastes of the Zaporoska before them and realize the Himelias are yet ahead. Then they are eager to join the first caravan that appears, if they are lucky enough that one does. I will pass the word of your presence, but you must understand that I can allow you to come no closer in the night. How shall I tell them you are called, stranger?"