The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Conan flushed slightly. Everyone seemed to know the name was not his, but he could not bring himself to say that he had lied about it. "I have fought demons," he said, "but I am none of their breed."

  "You have fought demons?" Vyndra exclaimed. "Truly? I saw demons once, a score of them, but I cannot imagine anyone actually fighting one, no matter what the legends say."

  "You saw a score of demons?" Despite his own experience seemingly to the contrary, Conan was aware that demons-and wizards, for that matter-were not so thick on the ground as most people imagined. It was just that he had bad luck in the matter, though Hordo insisted it was a curse. "A score in one place?"

  Vyndra's dark eyes flashed. "You do not believe me? Many others were there. Five years ago in the palace of King Bhandarkar, he who was then the court wizard, Zail Bal, was carried off in full view of scores of people. The demons were rajaie, which drink the life from their victims. You see, I know whereof I speak."

  "Did I say I did not believe you?" Conan asked. He would believe in twenty demons in one place-much less anyone escaping alive from that place-when he saw it, but he hoped devoutly that his luck was never quite that bad.

  A small crease appeared between Vyndra's brows, as though she doubted his sincerity. "If you have truly fought demons-and you see I do not question your claim-then you must certainly stay at my palace in Ayodhya. Why, perhaps even Naipal would come to meet a man who has fought demons. What a triumph that would be!"

  It might have sounded promising, he thought ruefully, if not for this other man. "Do you wish me there, or this Naipal?"

  "I want both of you, of course. Think of the wonderment. You, a huge warrior, obviously from a land shrouded in distance and mystery, a fighter against demons. He, the court wizard of Vendhya, the-"

  "A wizard," Conan breathed heavily. Hordo would believe he had done this apurpose, or else he would mutter about the curse.

  "I said that," Vyndra said. "He is the most mysterious man in Vendhya.

  No more than a handful other than King Bhandarkar, and perhaps Karim Singh, know his face. Women have arranged assignations with him merely in the hope they might be able to say they could recognize him."

  "I have never met the man," he said, "nor intend to, yet I do not like him."

  Her laugh was low and wicked. "He keeps the assignations, too, with those women pretty enough. They are gone for days and return on the point of exhaustion with stories of passion beyond belief, but when they are asked of his features, they grow vague. The visage they describe could belong to any handsome man. Still, the transports of rapture they speak of are such that I myself have considered-"

  With a curse Conan hurled the golden goblet aside. Vyndra squeaked as he pounced, catching her face between his hands. "I do not want you to attract some sorcerer," he told her heatedly. "I do not want you because you are from a country distant from mine or because you would seem strange to the people of my land. I want you because you are a beautiful woman and you make my blood burn." There was invitation on her face and when he kissed her, she tangled her hands in his hair as though it were she who held him, not the reverse.

  When at last she snuggled against his chest with a sigh, there was a mischievous twinkle in her big dark eyes, and small white teeth indented her full lower lip. "Do you intend to take me now?" she asked softly and then added as he growled in his throat, "With Alyna watching?"

  Conan did not take his eyes from her face. "She is still here?"

  "Alyna is faithful to me in her fashion and rarely leaves my side."

  "And you do not intend to send her away." It was not a question.

  "Would you have me separated from my faithful tirewoman?" Vyndra asked with a wide-eyed smile.

  Clearing his throat, Conan got to his feet. Alyna was there, bright eyes glinting with amusement above her veil. "I have half a mind," he said conversationally, "to switch both your rumps till you have to be tied across your saddles like bolts of silk. Instead, I think I will see if there is an honest trull in this caravan, for your games bore me."

  He stalked out on that, thinking he had quieted her, but laughing words followed him before he let the tent flap fall. "You are a violent man, O one who calls himself Patil. You will be a wonderment to my friends."

  Chapter XV

  There were panderers on the outskirts of the encampment, as Conan had known there would be in a caravan so large and going so far. Two of them. Karim Singh might have his own women along, as would the Vendhyan noblemen and even many of the merchants; but for the rest-for guards and camel drivers and mule handlers-from Khawarism to Secunderam was a long way without a woman. Except for the panderers.

  They had set out tables made of planks laid on barrels before their tents, with casks to sit on and drink while a man waited his turn for the use of the tents. Cheap wine they gave away to those who bought their other merchandise, sour wine served by sweet women, slender jades and voluptuous trulls, tall wenches and short. Soft, willing flesh. If the gilded brass girdles low on their hips and their strips of diaphanous silk were more than a purdhana dancer wore, all could be removed for a coin, for women were the goods sold here.

  And yet, Conan realized, it was not a woman he wanted. He sat on an upended keg before the second panderer's tents, a leathern jack of thin wine in his fist, a slender wench wiggling on his knee as she bit at his neck with small white teeth. He could not pretend disinterest in her, but she seemed a distraction, if a pleasant one. A buxom jade at the first panderer's tent had been the same. Though he was not yet twenty, he had long since learned to curb his anger when need be, but on that day he had held it in check with Karim Singh and lashed it down with Kandar. And then there had been Vyndra. Now he wanted to loose the rage, to strike out at something. He wanted one of the other men fondling a woman to challenge him for the doxy on his lap, or two, or five. Hammering fists, even bloody steel, would drain the anger coiled in his belly like a serpent dripping venom from its fangs.

  The slender trull snuggled against him contentedly as he stood with her in his arms, then stared at him in consternation when he plopped her bottom onto the keg. "I am not a Vendhyan," he told her, dropping coins in her hands. "I do not take out my anger on others than those who have earned it." Her look was one of total uncomprehension, but he spoke for his own benefit as much as hers.

  The raucous laughter of the panderers' tents followed him into the encampment. Many of the merchants' tents were darkened now, and silence lay even on the picket lines of animals behind each, though the thin sounds of zither and flute, cithern and tambor, drifted from the nobles' portion of the camp. Sleep, he thought. Sleep, then journey on the morrow, then sleep again and journey again. The antidote would be found in Vendhya, and the answers he sought would come, but he would dissipate the tightness of anger with sleep.

  The fire burned low in front of the lone tent shared by Kang Hou and his nieces. A Khitan servant poking the embers was all that moved among the blanket-wrapped shapes of smugglers scattered about the merchant's tent. But Conan stopped short of the dim light of that fire, a jangling in the back of his head that he recognized as a warning that something was wrong.

  His ears strained for sounds below normal hearing, and his eyes sought the shadows between the other tents. The sounds were all about him now that he listened. The rasp of leather on leather, the soft clink of metal, the pad of softly placed feet. Shadows shifted where they should be still.

  "Hordo!" Conan roared, broadsword coming into his hand. "Up, or die in your blankets!" Before the warning was past his lips, smugglers were rolling to their feet with swords in hand. And Vendhyans as well, afoot and mounted, were upon them.

  To attempt to make his way to his companions was madness, the Cimmerian knew. They did not fight to hold a piece of ground but to escape, and every man would be seeking to break through the ring of steel. He had no time for thought on the matter. He had killed one man and was crossing swords with a second by the time he shouted the last word.
>
  Jerking his blade free of the second corpse, he all but decapitated another Vendhyan, searching all the while for his path to freedom, ignoring the screams and clanging steel around him as he fought his way away from the Khitan's tent. A turban-helmed horseman appeared in front of him, lance gone but tulwar lifted to slash. The Vendhyan's fierce, killing grin turned to shock as Conan leaped to grapple with him.

  Unable to use his sword so close, the horseman beat at Conan with the hilt as the horse danced in circles. The big Cimmerian could not use his broadsword either, merely wrapping that arm about the Vendhyan, but his dagger quickly slid between the metal plates of the brigantine hauberk. The horseman screamed, and again as he was toppled from the saddle. Then Conan was scrambling into the other's place, seizing the reins and slamming his heels into the horse's flanks.

  The calvary-trained animal burst into a gallop, and Conan, lying low in the saddle, guided it between the tents. Merchants and their servants, roused by the tumult, jumped shouting from the path of the speeding rider. Suddenly there was a man who did not leap aside, a caravan guard who dropped to one knee and planted the base of his spear. The horse shrieked as the long blade thrust into its chest, and abruptly Conan was flying over the crumpling animal's head. All of the breath was driven from him by the fall, yet the Cimmerian struggled to rise. The guard rushed in for an easy kill of the man on his knees, tulwar raised high. With what seemed his last particle of strength, Conan drove his sword into the other's chest. The force of the man's charge carried him into the big Cimmerian, knocking him over. Still fighting for breath, Conan pushed the man away, extricated his blade, and staggered into the shadows. Half-falling, he pressed his back against a tent.

  Wakened merchants shouted on all sides. "What happens?"

  "Are we attacked?"

  "Bandits!"

  "My goods!"

  Vendhyan soldiers shoved the merchants aside, beating at them with the butts of their lances. "Go back to your tents!" was their cry. "We seek spies! Go back to your tents, and you will not be harmed! Anyone outside will be arrested!"

  Spies, Conan thought. He had found his fight, but there was yet a trickle of his previous anger remaining, a trickle growing stronger.

  Moments before, escape from the encampment had been paramount in his mind. Now he thought he would first visit the man who considered all foreigners spies.

  Like a hunting leopard, the big Cimmerian flowed from shadow to shadow, blending with the dark. Curious eyes were easily avoided, for there were few abroad now. No one moved between the tents save soldiers, announcing their coming with creak of harness and clink of armor and curses that they must search when they would be sleeping. Silently Conan moved into deeper shadows as the Vendhyans appeared, watching with a feral grin as they marched or rode past him, sometimes within arm's reach, yet always unseeing.

  Karim Singh's tent glowed with light within, and two fires blazed high before the canopied entrance. The fires made the dim light filtered through golden silk at the rear seem almost as dark as the surrounding light. A score of Vendhyan cavalry sat their horses like statues in a ring about the tent, facing outward, ten paces at least separating each man from the next.

  Like statues they were in truth, or else thought they guarded against attack by an army, for on his belly Conan crawled unseen between two at the rear of the tent. As he prepared to slit an entrance in the back wall of the tent with his dagger, voices from inside stopped him.

  "Leave us," commanded Karim Singh.

  Conan opened a small slit only, parting it with his fingers. A last Vendhyan soldier was bowing himself from the silk-walled chamber within. Karim Singh stood in the middle of the chamber, a cavalryman's sword in his hand, and before him knelt a Vendhyan bound hand and foot.

  The kneeling man wore the robes of a merchant, though they hardly seemed consistent with his hard face and the long scar that crossed his nose and cheek.

  "You are called Sabah?" the wazam asked in an easy tone.

  "I am Amaur, Excellency, an honest merchant," the kneeling man said, "and even you have no right to simply seize my goods without cause."

  The harsh, rasping voice made Conan stiffen in memory. The rider in the dunes. He would listen for a while before killing Karim Singh.

  The wazam set the point of his sword against the other's throat. "You are called Sabah?"

  "My name is Amaur, Excellency. I know no one called-" The kneeling man gasped as the point pressed closer, bringing a trickle of blood. "An honest merchant?" Karim Singh laughed softly. As he spoke, he increased the pressure of the blade. The kneeling man leaned back but the sword point followed. "Within the bales of silk you carry were found chests sealed with lead. You are a smuggler, at least. Who are the chests destined for?"

  With a cry, the prisoner toppled. From his back he stared with bulging eyes. The sword still was at his throat and there was no farther he could go to escape it. The hardness of his face had become a mask of fear. "I ... I cannot say, Excellency. Before Asura, I swear it!"

  "You will say or you will face Asura shortly. Or, more likely, Katar."

  The wazam's voice became conspiratorial. "I know the name, Amaur. I know. But I must hear it from your lips if you would live. Speak, Amaur, and live."

  "Excellency, he ... he will kill me. Or worse!"

  "I will kill you, Amaur. This sword is at your throat, here, and he is far away. Speak!"

  "N ... Naipal!" the man sobbed. "Naipal, Excellency!"

  "Good," Karim Singh said soothingly. But he did not move the sword.

  "You see how easy it was. Now. Why? Tell me why he wants these chests."

  "I cannot, Excellency." Tears rolled down Amaur's cheeks now and he shook with weeping. "Before Asura, before Katar, I would tell you if I could, but I know nothing! We were to meet the ship, kill all on board and bring the chests to Ayodhya. Perhaps Sabah knew more, but he is dead. I swear, Excellency! I speak truly, I swear!"

  "I believe you," Karim Singh sighed. "It is a pity." And he leaned on the sword.

  Amaur's attempt to scream became a bubbling gurgle as steel slid through his throat. Karim Singh stared at him as though fascinated by the blood welling up in his mouth and the convulsions that wracked his bound form. Abruptly the wazam released the sword. It remained upright, its point thrust through man and carpets into the ground, shaking with Amaur's final twitching.

  "Guards!" Karim Singh called, and Conan lowered the dagger with which he had been about to lengthen the slit. "Guards!"

  Half a score of Vendhyans rushed into the chamber with drawn blades.

  Staring at the sight that greeted them, they hastily sheathed their weapons.

  "The other spies," the wazam said. "The giant, in particular. He has been taken? He cannot be mistaken, for his size and his eyes set him apart."

  "No, Excellency," one of the soldiers replied deferentially. "Four of that party are dead, but not the giant. We seek the others."

  "So he is still out there." Karim Singh spoke as though to himself. "He seemed a stark man. A slaver born. He will seek me now." He shook himself and glared at the soldiers as if angered that they had overheard. "He must be found! A thousand pieces of gold to the man who finds him. All of you, and ten others, will remain with me until he is dead or in chains. And he who does not die stopping the barbarian from reaching me will die wishing that he had. Have someone dispose of this," he added with a nod toward Amaur's corpse.

  The wazam strode from the chamber then, the guards clustering about him, and Conan sagged where he crouched outside. Against a score of guards he might not even reach Karim Singh before he was cut down. He had known men who embraced a brave but useless death; he was not one of them. Death was an old acquaintance to him and had been long before he found himself with Patil's poison in his blood. Death was neither to be feared nor sought, and when he met it, the meeting would not be without purpose. Besides, he now had a name, Naipal, the man who had begun all of this. That was another who must die as well as
Karim Singh.

  Silently Conan slipped back into the night.

  Chapter XVI

  A horse and a water bag were what he needed now, Conan knew. In this land a man afoot and without water was a man dying or dead. There were far more camels than horses in the caravan, however, and many of the horses were animals suitable for show but not for a man who needed to travel far and fast. Moreover, word of the reward must have been spreading quickly, for the soldiers were now more assiduous in their searching. Twice he located suitable mounts only to be forced to abandon them by turban-helmed patrols.

  Finally he found himself in the nobles' portion of the encampment. Most of the tents were dark and the silence was as complete as in the merchants' part. He wondered if the soldiers had been as brusque here in quieting curiosity as they had been with the merchants.

  Something moved in the darkness, a shadow heaving, and he froze. A grunt came from the shadow, and the rattle of a chain. Conan peered more closely and then stifled a laugh. It was Vyndra's dancing bear. On sudden impulse, he drew his dagger. The bear, sitting in a sprawl, eyed him as he cautiously approached. It did not move as he sawed at the leather collar about its neck.

  "It is a harsh land," he whispered, "with many ways to die." He felt foolish in talking to an animal, but there was a need, too. "You may find hunters or stronger bears. If you do not run far enough, they will chain you again and make you dance for Vyndra. The choice is yours, to die free or to dance for your mistress."

  The bear stared at him as the collar fell loose, and he held the dagger ready. Just because it had not attacked him so far did not mean it would not, and the shaggy creature was half again as large as he.