The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

Yasbet appeared from the dark to nestle her hip against Conan's shoulder. "It grows cold," she said.

  "Will you warm me?" Ribald laughter rose froth the listening men, but, oddly, a glare from her silenced them, even Tamur and Baotan.

  "That I will," Conan said, and as he rose flipped her squealing over his shoulder.

  Her squeals had turned to laughter by the time they reached her tent. "Put me down, Conan," she managed between giggles. "Tis unseemly."

  Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck rose, and he whirled, staring into the dark, at the headland.

  "Are you trying to make me dizzy, Conan? What is it?"

  Imaginings, he told himself. Naught but imaginings. The galley and those it carried were far to the south, sure Foam Dancer and all aboard had perished in the storm.

  "'Tis nothing, wench," he growled. She squealed with laughter as he ducked into the tent.

  Che Fan rose slowly from the shadows where he had dropped, and peered at the beach below, dotted with campfires. There was no more to learn by watching. The barbarian was abed for the night. He made his way across the headland and down the far slope, gliding surefooted over the rough ground, a wraith in the night.

  Suitai was waiting at their small fire-well shielded by scrub growth-along with the six they had chosen from the uninjured to accompany them. The men huddled silently on the far side of the fire from the Khitans. They had seen just enough on the voyage to guess that the two black-robed men carried a sort of deadliness they had never before encountered. Thus they feared greatly, and wisely, although still ignorant.

  "What did you see?" Suitai asked. He sipped at a steaming decoction of herbs.

  Che Fan squatted by the fire, filling a cup with the same bitter liquid as he spoke. "They are there. And they have obtained horses from that dungbeetle Baotan."

  "Then let us go down and kill them," Suitai said. "It may be more difficult if we must find them again." The six who had accompanied them from the galley shifted uneasily, but the Khitans did not appear to notice.

  "Not until they have found what they came to seek," Che Fan replied. "The Great Lord will not be pleased if we return with naught but word of their deaths." He paused. "We must be careful of the barbarian called Conan."

  "He is but a man," Suitai said, "and will die as easily as any other."

  Che Fan nodded slowly, uncertain why he had spoken such a thing aloud. And yet.... In his boyhood had he learned the art of appearing invisible, of hiding in the shadow of a leaf and becoming one with the night, but there was that about the muscular barbarian's gaze that seemed to penetrate all such subterfuge.

  That was nonsense, he told himself. He was of the Brothers of the Way, and this Conan was but a man.

  He would die as easily as any other. Yet... the doubts remained.

  Chapter XVIII

  Tugging his cloak closer about him against the brisk wind, Conan twisted on his sheepskin saddle pad to look behind for the hundredth time since dawn. Short-grassed plain and rolling hills, so sparsely grown with a single stunted tree was a startlement, revealed no sign of pursuit. Disgruntled, he faced front. The pale yellow sun, giving little warmth in the chill air, rose ahead of them toward its zenith. The V layet lay two nights behind. No matter what his eyes told him, deeper instinct said that someone followed, and that instinct had kept him alive at times when more civilized senses failed.

  The party rode well bunched, half of the Hyrkanians leading strings of pack horses, cursing. The small beasts, seeming little larger than the hampers and bales lashed to their pack saddles, tried to turn their tails into the wind whenever they found slack in the lead ropes. The men not so encumbered kept hands near weapons and eyes swiveling in constant watch. It was not unknown for travelers to be attacked on the plains of Hyrkania. Traders were usually immune, but more than one had lost his head.

  Tamur galloped his shaggy horse between Conan and Akeba. "Soon we shall be at the Blasted Lands."

  "You have been saying that since we left the sea," Conan grumbled. His temper was not improved by the way his feet dangled on either side of his diminutive mount.

  "A few more hills, Cimmerian. But a few more. And you must be ready to play the trader. One of the tribes is sure to be camped nearby. Each takes its turn guarding the Blasted Lands."

  "You've said that as well."

  "I hope we find a village soon," Yasbet said through clenched teeth. She half stood in her stirrups then, seeing the amusement that flitted across the men's faces, sat again hastily, wincing.

  Conan managed to keep a straight face. "There is liniment in one of the packs," he offered. It was not his first time to do so.

  "No," she said brusquely, the same answer she had given to his other offers. "I need no coddling."

  "'Tis not coddling," he snapped, exasperated. "Anyone may use liniment for a sore... muscle."

  "Let him rub some on," Sharak chortled. The astrologer clung to his horse awkwardly, like a stick figure placed on a pony by children. "Or if not him, wench, then let me."

  "Still your tongue, old man," Akeba said, grinning. "I see you ride none too easily yourself, and I may take it in mind to coat you with so much liniment that you run ahead of us the rest of the way."

  "You have done well, woman," Tamur said suddenly, surprising everyone. "I thought we would have to tie you across your saddle before the sun was high, but you have the determination of a Hyrkanian."

  "I thank you," she told him, glaring at the Cimmerian. "I was not allow... that is, I have never ridden before. I walked, or was carried in a palanquin." She eased herself on her saddle pad and muttered an oath. Sharak cackled until he broke into a fit of coughing. "I will use the liniment this night," Yasbet said stiffly, "though I am not certain the cure won't be worse than the disease."

  "Good," Conan said, "else by tomorrow you'll not be able to walk, much less-" He broke off as they topped a rise. Spread before them was a great arc of yurts. More than a thousand of the domed felt structures dotted the rolling plain like gray mushrooms. "There's the encampment you predicted, Tamur. I suppose 'tis time for us to begin acting the part of traders."

  "Wait. This could be ill," the nomad said. "There are perhaps four tribes camped here, not one. Among so many there may well be one who remembers that we swore vengeance on Baalsham despite the ban.

  Do they realize we have brought you here to break the taboo on the Blasted Lands...." A murmur rose from the other Hyrkanians.

  From the tents two score of fur-capped horsemen galloped toward them, lance points glittering in the rising sun.

  "It is too late to turn back now." Conan kicked his mount forward. "Follow me, and remember to look like traders."

  "For violating a taboo," Tamur said, trailing after the Cimmerian, "a man is flayed alive, and kept so for days while other parts important to a man are removed slowly. Burning slivers are thrust into his flesh."

  "Flayed?" Sharak said hollowly. "Other parts? Burning slivers? Perhaps we could turn back after all?"

  Yet he followed as well, as did the others, Yasbet riding with shoulders back and hand on sword hilt, Akeba in an apparently casual slouch above the cased bow strapped ahead of his saddle pad. The rest of the Hyrkanians came more slowly, muttering, but they came.

  Tamur raised his sword hand in greeting-and no doubt to show that he did not intend to draw the weapon-as they approached the other horsemen. "I see you. I am called Tamur, and am returned to my people from across the sea, bringing with me this trader, who is called Conan."

  "I see you," the leader of the mounted nomads said, lifting his right hand. Squat and dark, mustaches thick with grease dangling below his chin, he eyed Conan suspiciously from beneath the fur cap pulled down to his shaggy brows. "I am called Zutan. It is late in the year for traders."

  Conan put on a broad smile. "Then there will be no others to compete with me."

  Zutan stared at him, expressionless, for a long moment. Then, wheeling his horse, he motioned them to follow.

&nb
sp; The riders from the encampment spread out in two lines, one to either side of Conan and his party, escorting them-or guarding them, perhaps-into the midst of the yurts, to a large open space in the center of the crescent. People gathered around them, men in fur caps and thick sheepskin coats, women in long woolen dresses, dyed in a rainbow of colors, with hooded fur cloaks held close about them. Those males who had reached an age to be called men were uniformly surrounded by the rankness of rancid grease, and those of middle years or beyond were so weathered and leather-skinned as to make their ages all but impossible to tell. The women, however, were another matter. There were toothless crones among them, and wrinkled hags, but one and all they seemed clean. Many of the younger women were pretty enough for any zenana. They moved lithely to the tinkle of ankle bells beneath their skirts, and more than one set of dark, kohled eyes followed the young giant above full, smiling lips.

  Sternly Conan forced himself to ignore the women. He had come for a means to destroy Jhandar, not to disport himself with nomad wenches. Nor would the need to kill father, brother, husband or lover help him. Nor would trouble with Yasbet.

  As he swung down from his wooly mount, Conan leaned close to Tamur and spoke softly. "Why do the women not grease their hair also?"

  Tamur looked shocked. "'Tis a thing for men, Cimmerian." He shook his head. "Hark you. I have meant to speak on this to you for some time. Many traders adopt this custom while among us. It would aid your disguise to be seen to do so. Perhaps you could grow a mustache as well? And this washing you insist on is a womanly thing. It saps the strength."

  "I will think on these things," Conan said. He noticed Akeba, a wry smile on his dark face, peering at him over his horse.

  "Long mustaches," the Turanian said. "And mayhap a beard like that of Muktar."

  Conan growled, but before he could reply a sharp cry broke from Yasbet. He spun to see her half fall from her saddlepad in attempting to dismount. Darting, he caught her before she collapsed completely to the ground.

  "What ails you, wench?"

  "My legs, Conan," she moaned. "They will not support me. And my... my...." Her face reddened. "My...

  muscles are sore," she whispered.

  "Liniment," he said, and she moaned again. The crowd about them stirred. Hastily he lifted her back to her feet and put her hands on her sheepskin saddle-pad. "Hold to that. You must keep your feet a moment longer." Half-sobbing, she tangled her hands in the thick wool; he turned immediately from her to more pressing matters.

  Zutan pushed his way to the forefront of those watching. Four squat, bow-legged elders followed him, and the murmurs of the onlookers were stilled. "I present to you," Zutan intoned, "the trader called Co-nan. Know, Co-nan, that you are presented to the chiefs of the four tribes here assembled, to Olotan, to Arenzar, to Zoan, to Sibuyan. Know that you are presented to men who answer only to the Great King. Know this, and tremble."

  It was near impossible to tell the age of any man above five-and-twenty in those tribes, but these men had surely each amassed three times so many years, if not four. Their faces were gullied rather than wrinkled, and had the color and texture of a boot left ten years in the desert sun. The hair that straggled from under their filthy fur caps was as white as bleached parchment, beneath a coating of grease, and their mustaches, just as pale, were long and thin. One had no teeth at all, muttering through his gums, while the other three showed blackened stumps when they opened their mouths. Yet the eight black eyes that peered at him were hard and clear, and there was no tremor in the bony hands that rested lightly on the hilts of their yataghans.

  Conan raised his right hand in the greeting Tamur had used. What did traders say at these times, he wondered. Whatever he said, though, it had best come fast. Zutan was beginning to tug at his mustache impatiently. "I see you. I am honored to be presented to you. I will trade fairly with your people."

  The four stared at him unblinkingly. Zutan's tugging at his mustache became more agitated.

  What else was he supposed to say, Conan thought. Or do? Suddenly he turned his back on the chiefs and hurried back among the pack animals. Mutters sounded among the tribesmen, and the Hyrkanians who held the guide-ropes eyed him with frowns. Hastily he unroped a wicker hamper and drew out four tulwars, their hilts ivory and ebony. The blades had been worked with beeswax and acid into scenes of men hunting with bows from horseback, with silver rubbed across the etchings hammered till the argentine metal shone. Conan had raised a storm when he found the blades among the trade goods-he was still of a mind that Tamur had meant them for himself and his friends-but they had already been paid for. Now he was glad of them.

  As the Cimmerian returned, two swords in each huge fist, Tamur groaned, "Not those, northerner. Some other blades. Not those."

  Conan reached the four chiefs and, after a moment, awkwardly sketched a bow. "Accept these, ah, humble gifts as a, ah, token of my admiration."

  Dark eyes sparked avariciously, and the blades were snatched as if the squat men expected them to be withdrawn. The etched steel was fingered; for a time Conan was ignored. At last the chief nearest him-Conan thought he was the one called Sibuyan-looked up. "You may trade here," he said. Without another word the four turned away, still fingering their new swords.

  Akeba put a hand on Conan's arm. "Come, Cimmerian. We traders must display our wares."

  "Then display them. I must see to Yasbet."

  As he returned to her, Conan ignored the bustle of hampers being lifted from pack saddles, of pots and knives, swords and cloaks being spread for eager eyes. The throng pressed close, many calling offers of furs, or ivory, or gold as soon as items appeared. Some of Tamur's followers began gathering the horses.

  Yasbet had sagged to her hands and knees on the hard-packed ground beside her mount. Muttering an oath Conan stripped off his cloak and spread it on the ground. When he had her lying on it, face down, he removed the sheepskin saddle-pad from her horse and put it beneath her head.

  "Are you all right?" he asked. "Can you stand at all?"

  "I do not need to be wrapped in swaddling," she replied between clenched teeth.

  "Hannuman's Stones, wench! I do not swaddle you. You must be able to ride when it is time to go."

  She sighed, not looking at him. "I can neither stand nor ride. I cannot even sit." She laughed mirthlessly,

  "It is possible we may have to leave suddenly," he said slowly. "It may be needful to tie you across a saddle. And again I do not mean to mock you by that."

  "I know," she said quietly. Suddenly she grasped his hand and pulled it to her lips. "You have not only my body," she murmured, "but my heart and soul. I love you, Conan of Cimmeria."

  Brusquely he pulled his hand away and stood. "I must see to the others," he muttered. "You will be all right here? It may be some time before your tent can be put up."

  "I am comfortable."

  Her words were so soft he barely heard them. With a quick nod he strode to where the trade goods were displayed. Why did women always have to speak of love, he wondered. The most calloused trull would do it, given a fingerbreadth of encouragement, and other women took even less. Then they expected a man to act like a giddy boy with his first hair on his chin. Or worse, like a poet or a bard.

  He glanced back at Yasbet. Her face was buried in the sheepskin, and her shoulders shook as if she cried. No doubt her rump pained her. Growling wordlessly under his breath, he joined his fellows acting the trader.

  Sharak bounced from nomad to nomad, always gesticulating, here offering lumps of beeswax, there pewter cups from Khauran or combs of tortoise shell from Zamboula or lengths of Vendhyan silk. Akeba was more sedate in his demonstrations of the weapons, tulwars bearing the stamp of the Royal Arsenal of Turan, glaives from far Aquilonia, and even khetens, broad-bladed battleaxes from Stygia. Tamur and his men, on the other hand, squatted to one side, passing among themselves clay jars of the ale they had gotten from men of the tribes.

  Conan walked among the goods, stopping fr
om time to time to listen to Akeba or Sharak bargain, nodding as if he agreed with what was being done. A merchant who had two men to do the actual peddling surely was not expected to do more.

  The trading was brisk, but Conan was soon thinking more of quenching his thirst with a crock of ale than of his playacting. It was then that he noticed the woman.

  Past her middle years, she was yet a beauty, tall and well-breasted, with large dark eyes and full red lips.

  Her fur-trimmed blue cloak was of fine wool, and her kirtle of green was slashed with panels of blue silk.

  Her necklace of intricate links was gold, not gilded brass; the brooch that held her cloak was a large emerald; and the bracelets at her wrists were of matched amethysts. And she had no eye for the perfumes or gilded trinkets that Sharak bartered away. Her gaze never left the muscular Cimmerian. An interested gaze.

  Conan judged her to be the woman of a wealthy man, perhaps even of a chief. That made her just the sort of woman he should avoid, even more so than the other women of the tribe. He made sure there was nothing in his expression that she could read as invitation, and turned away to make a show of studying the goods laid out on a nearby blanket.

  "You are young to be a trader," a deep female voice said behind him.

  He turned to find himself face to face with the woman who had been watching him. "I am old enough," he said in a flat tone. His youth was a touchy point with him, especially with women.

  Her smile was half mocking, half... something more. "But you are still young."

  "A man must begin at some age. Do you wish to trade for something?"

  "I would think you would be demonstrating the swords and spears to the men, youngling." Her gaze caressed the breadth of his shoulders, trailed like fingers across the tunic strained by the muscles of his deep chest.

  "Perhaps kohl for your eyes." He snatched a small blue-glazed jar from the blanket and held it out to her.

  His eyes searched the crowd for a man taking an unfriendly interest in their conversation. This woman would have men after her when she was a grandmother.