The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  For a long time she stared at the brazier before turning to him. "An you enter the Blasted Lands, scores will die," she said bleakly, "among them perhaps Baalsham. And perhaps you, as well. Your bones may feed the twisted beasts that dwell trapped in that accursed place."

  "Perhaps?" he said. "What means of divining is this? Even Sharak does not so hedge his star-readings about."

  "The fire shows the many things which can be. Men choose which will be by their decisions. What is, is like a line, but at every decision that line branches, in two directions or ten, and each of those will also branch until numbers beyond counting are reached. I will tell you this: if you enter, you, or Baalsham, or both, will stare Erlik's minions in the eyes. But if you do not, you will surely die. A hundred lines I examined, hoping to find an escape for you, and a hundred times I saw you die, each time more horribly than the last. And if you do not enter, not only will you die. Tens upon tens of thousands will perish fighting the spread of Baalsham's evil, and every day hundreds more will walk willingly to their deaths for his necromancies. Kings and queens will crawl on their bellies to worship at his feet, and such a darkness will cover the earth as has not been seen these many thousands of years, not since the attainted days of foul Acheron."

  Conan laughed mirthlessly. "Then it seems I must try to save the world, whether I will or no." His blade leaped into his hand; he tested the edge carefully. "If I must wager my life, the odds will grow no better for waiting. I will go to these Blasted Lands now."

  "No," she said sharply. He opened his mouth, but she hurried on. "Nigh is best, it is true, but not this night. Think of the girl with you. When you have done this thing, you must go immediately, for others sit Guardian besides me, and they will soon know what has been done. But she cannot stand, much less sit a saddle."

  "Then I'll tie her across it," he answered roughly. Already the battle rage was rising in him. If he was to die this night, he would not die easily.

  "But if you let me bring her here, I can cure her sore flesh in a day. She will be able to ride by tomorrow night." Samarra smiled. "Many women have asked me to take the pain from a smarting rump, but this will be the first time I have used my powers for so low a purpose."

  "The longer I wait, the greater the chance that someone else will remember Tamur."

  "But you still cannot enter the Blasted Lands without any help. The barrier of the Outer Circle will slay only those of Hyrkanian blood, but that of the Inner Circle, where you must go if you are to find what you seek, will destroy anything that lives. I must give you special powders to spread, and teach you incantations, if you are to survive."

  "Then give them to me," he demanded.

  Instead she untied her silk sash and tossed it aside. "No Hyrkanian man," she said, staring him in the eye,

  "will look at a shamaness as a woman. I have slaves, young men, full of vigor, but full of fear, too." She began to undo the silver pins that held her garment. "They touch me because I command it, but they do so as if I might shatter, afraid of hurting or angering. Until you put your hands on me, no man in my entire life has touched me as a woman, who will not break for a little roughness in a caress. I can wait no longer." The long kirtle slid to the carpets and she stood in lush nudity, all ripe curves and womanly softness. Feet apart she faced him, defiance in her eyes, fists on the swelling of her hips, shoulders thrown back so that her breasts seemed even fuller. "There is a price for my aid. If that makes me a harlot, well, that is something I have never experienced. And I want to experience everything that a man and a woman can do to each other. Everything, Conan."

  Conan let his sword fall to the ground. Battle rage had changed to a different sort of fire in his blood.

  "Tomorrow night will be time enough," he said hoarsely, and pulled her into his embrace.

  Chapter XX

  Early the next morning Conan sent a message to Akeba that the Turanian was to see to the trading that day. Soon after, Yasbet was brought to the shamaness's yurt on a litter borne by two of Samarra's muscular young male slaves. Samarra scrambled red-faced to her feet, hastily pulling a silk robe around her nudity. The slaves glared at Conan with covert jealousy.

  "Conan, why am I here?" Yasbet almost wept. Lying face down on the litter, she winced at every movement. "I hurt, Conan."

  "Your pain will soon be gone," he told her gently. "Samarra will see to you."

  Still blushing furiously, the shamaness led the litter-bearers to another part of the yurt. Half a turn of the glass later she returned, with high color yet in her cheeks. Conan lay sprawled on the silken cushions, occupying himself with a flagon of wine.

  "I gave her a sleeping potion as well," she said. "The spell took her pain away immediately, but she needs rest, and it is best if that does not come from magic. If I relieved her fatigue so, she would repay it ten times over, later. The powers always demand repayment."

  All the while she spoke she remained across the chamber from him, rubbing her hands together as if in nervousness. He motioned her to him. "Come Sit, Samarra. Do not make me play host under your roof."

  For a moment she hesitated, then knelt gracefully beside him. "Everything, I said," she murmured ruefully,

  "but I did not mean to have my own slaves enter while I lay naked in a stupor of lust. Not to mention the woman of the man I am lying with. I feel strange to have your lover but a few paces away."

  Her ardor had surprised Conan in its fierceness. "What she does not know will not harm her," he said, tugging her robe from a smooth shoulder.

  She slapped his hand away. "Is that all women are to you? A tumble for the night, and no more?"

  "Women are music and beauty and delight made flesh." He reached for her again. She shrugged him away, and he sighed. So much for poetry, even when it was true. "Someday I will find a woman to wed, perhaps. Until then, I love all women, but I'll not pretend to any that she is more to me than she really is.

  Now, are you ready to remove that robe?"

  "You know not your own vigor," she protested. Attempting to stretch, she stopped with a wince. "I am near as much in need of aid for sore muscles as that poor girl."

  "In that case, I might as well return to Akeba and the others," he said, getting to his feet.

  "No," she cried. Ripping the robe from her, she scrambled on her knees to throw her arms around his legs. "Please, Conan. Stay. I... I will keep you here by brute force, if I must."

  "Brute force?" he chuckled.

  She gave a determined nod. Laughing, he let her topple him to the pillows.

  By two glasses after sunfall he was ready to go. Briefly he looked in on Yasbet. She slept naturally now; the potion had worn off. He brushed her cheek with his fingers, and she smiled without waking.

  When he returned to the large chamber Samarra had donned her kirtle, and put on a somber mien as well. "You have the powder?" she demanded. "You must take care not to lose it."

  "It is here," he replied, touching the pouch that hung from his belt along with sword and dagger. Within were two small leather bags containing carefully measured powders that would weaken the barrier of the Inner Circle enough for him to pass it, one portion for entering and one for leaving.

  "The incantation. You remember the incantation?"

  "I remember. Do not worry so."

  He tried to put his arms around her, but she stepped back out of his embrace, her face a mask. "The gods be with you, Conan." She swallowed, and whispered, "And with all of us."

  There was more help in steel than in gods, Conan thought as he went into the night. The moon hung bright in a cloudless sky, bathing the countryside in pale light, filling the camp with shadows. It seemed a place of the dead, that camp. No one was about, and even the guard dogs huddled close to the yurts, only lifting their heads to whine fretfully as he passed. He gathered his cloak against the chill of the wind, and against a chill that was not of the wind.

  Akeba, Sharak and Tamur were waiting, as they had agreed, east of the crescent of yurts. The
rest of the Hyrkanians remained in their small camp, so that it should not be found empty. The horses remained in camp as well; the sound of hooves in the night might attract unwanted attention.

  Tamur peered beyond Conan nervously and whispered, "She did not come with you, did she?"

  "No," Conan said. Tamur heaved a heavy sigh of relief. "Let's do this and be done," he went on. "Tamur, you lead."

  Hesitantly, the Hyrkanian started to the east. Akeba followed, horsebow in hand and arrow nocked, to one side of Conan. Sharak labored on the other, leaning on his staff and muttering about the footing despite the bright moonlight.

  "Tamur almost did not come," Akeba said quietly, "so afraid is he of Samarra. Did he hate Jhandar one iota less, he would have ridden for the coast, instead."

  "But he does hate Jhandar," Conan replied. "He will lead us true."

  "I wonder you have energy for this night, Conan," Sharak snickered, "after a day and a night with this witch-woman. I saw little of her, not nearly so much as you," he paused to cackle shrilly, "but I'd say she was a woman to sap a man's strength."

  "Watch your step, old man," the big Cimmerian said drily. "I've not seen you read your own stars of late.

  This could be the night you break your neck."

  "Mitra!" Sharak swore, stumbled, and almost fell. "I have not," he went on in a shaken voice. "Not since Aghrapur. The excitement, and the adventure, and the...." He stumbled, peered at the sky and muttered,

  "The brightness of the moon blinds me. I cannot tell one star from another."

  They traveled without words, then, following the dim shape of Tamur until abruptly the Hyrkanian stopped. "There," he said, pointing to two tall shadows ahead. "Those are the marks of the barrier. I can go no closer."

  Samarra had described the shadowy objects as well as telling Conan what she knew of what lay beyond them. Around the perimeter of the Outer Circle huge pillars of crude stone had been set, thrice the height of a man and four times as thick. To pass those stelae meant death for one of Hyrkanian blood.

  "There is no need for me to accompany you, Conan," Sharak said. "My eyes. I would be more hindrance than help. No, I must remain here and learn what I can of our prospects from the stars." He suddenly clutched the arm of a surprised Tamur, and though the Hyrkanian tried to shake himself free, Sharak clung tightly, pulling on the other man. "Can you tell one star from another, Hyrkanian? No matter. I will tell you what to look for. Come." The two moved off to the side, Tamur still jerking futilely at his arm.

  "I, at least, will come with you," Akeba said, but Conan shook his head.

  "Samarra told me that any who enters other than myself will die." She had said no such thing, but what she did say convinced him that two men, or fifty, would have no better chances of survival than one, and perhaps less.

  "Oh. Then I will await your return, Cimmerian. You are an odd fellow, but I like you. Fare you well."

  Conan clapped the slighter man on the shoulder. "Take a pull at the Hellhorn, an you get there before me, Akeba."

  "What? 'Tis a strange thing to say."

  "Other countries, other customs," Conan said. "It is a way of saying fare you well." His amusement faded abruptly as he eyed the stone pillars. It was time to be on with it. His blade slid from its scabbard, steel rasping on leather.

  "Strange, indeed, you pale-eyed barbarians," Akeba said. "Well, you take a pull at the... whatever it was you said."

  But Conan was already moving forward. Without pausing, the Cimmerian strode by the crude pillars, sword at the ready. As he did, a tingle passed through his body, as if nails and teeth had all been dragged across slate at once. The greatest tingle was at his waist, beneath the pouch at his belt. Samarra had warned him of this, and told him to ignore it, but he fumbled for the two smaller sacks anyway. Both were intact.

  There was no growth of any kind, not even the tough grass that covered the plains of Hyrkania. The ground was smooth, yet ridged, as if it had flowed then hardened in waves. He had seen such before, where fissures had opened and the bowels of the earth had spewed forth molten rock. The moonlight here was tinged with the xanthous color of flesh gone to mold. Shadows moved furtively in that nacreous light, though no clouds crossed the moon.

  Had he been the hero of a saga, he thought, he would seek out those creatures and hack his way to the Inner Circle. But the heroes of sagas always had the luck of ten men, and used it all. He went on, deeper into the Blasted Lands, moving with pantherine grace, yet carefully, as if avoiding seeking eyes. That eyes were there, or something that sensed movement, he was certain. Strange slitherings sounded from the rocks around him, and clickings, as of chitinous claws on stone. Once he did indeed see eyes, three unblinking red orbs, set close together, peering at him from the dark beside a boulder, swiveling to follow his passage. He quickened his pace. The sound of scraping claws came closer, and more quickly. A piping hiss rose, behind and either side, like the hunting cry of a pack.

  Abruptly there was silence. Did the shadow creatures attack in silence, he wondered, or had they ceased their pursuit? And if they had, why? What could lie ahead that would frighten ....? The answer came as he skidded to a halt, a bare pace from a pillar marking the deadly Inner Circle.

  Despite himself he let out a long breath. But he still lived, and perhaps fear of the barrier would hold whatever followed at bay for a time longer. Behind he heard the hissing begin again. Hastily he pulled one leather sack from his pouch and sprinkled the scintillating powder in a long line by the stone pillar. With great care he spoke the words Samarra had taught him, and a shimmering appeared in the air above the line, as wide as a man's outstretched arms and reaching nearly as high as the stone marker. Within that shimmer the barrier was weakened, not destroyed, so Samarra said. A strong man could survive passing through it. So she said.

  The scraping claws were louder, and the hissing. Whatever made those sounds was almost to him.

  Taking a deep breath, he leaped. The hisses rose to a scream of frustrated hunger, and then he struck the shimmer. Every muscle in his body knotted and convulsed in agony. Back arched, he was hurled into the Inner Circle.

  Head spinning, he staggered to his feet. Somehow he had retained his sword. If that was a weakened barrier, he thought, he wanted no part of it at full strength. He checked his pouch again. The second sack was still safe.

  Whatever had hunted him had gone, sucked back into those writhing shades outside the Inner Circle. The shimmer in the barrier yet held, but by the time he could count to one hundred the force of its protection would be gone. That second portion of the powder was his only way of crossing the barrier again, unless he went now. Turning his back on the shimmer, he went deeper into that twisted country.

  Blasted Lands they were indeed. Here hills were split by gaping fissures, or stood in tortured remnants as if parts had been vaporized. Fumaroles bubbled and steamed, and the air was heavy with the stench of a decay so old that only sorcery could have kept it from disappearing long since. Foul vapors drifted in sheets, like noxious clouds hugging the ground; they left a feel of dampness and filth on the skin they touched.

  Samarra had told him where Jhandar's unfinished palace had stood on that day when nightmares were loosed. What he might find there she could not say-the forces unleashed had been more than even the shamans could face-but it was the only place she could suggest for his search. In the midst of these hills the land had been leveled for the palace. Ahead he saw the hills end. It must be the location.

  He hurried forward, around a sheer cliff where half a hill had disappeared, out onto the great leveled space... and stopped, shoulders sagging in defeat.

  Before him marble steps led up to a portico of massive, broken columns. Beyond, where the palace should have stood, a huge pit opened into the depths, a pit that pulsed with red light and echoed with the bubbling of boiling rock far below.

  There could be nothing there, he told himself. And yet there must be. Samarra had foretold that his entry into the B
lasted Lands would bring at least the chance of Jhandar's destruction. Somewhere within that blighted region something must exist that could be used against the necromancer. He had to find it.

  A slavering roar spun him around, an involuntary, "Crom!" wrenched from his lips.

  Facing him was a creature twice the height of a man, its gangrenous flesh dripping phosphorescent slime.

  A single rubiate eye set in the middle of its head watched him with a horrifying glimmer of intelligence, but with hunger as well. And that gaping fanged maw, the curving needle claws that tipped its fingers, told what it chose to eat.

  Even as the creature faced him, Conan acted. Waving his sword, he screamed as if about to attack. The beast reared back to take his charge, and Conan darted for the cliff. A being of such size could not be his equal at scaling sheer heights, he thought.

  Thrusting his blade into its scabbard as he ran, he reached the cliff and climbed without slowing, fingers searching out crevices and holds with a speed he had never matched before. Chances he would have eschewed if men had pursued him he now took as a matter of course, hooking his fingernails in cracks he could not even see, planting his feet on stone that crumbled at his weight, yet moving with such desperate quickness that he was gone before its crumbling was complete. Catching the top of the cliff, he heaved himself over, lay with chest heaving.

  A slime-covered, clawed hand slammed down a handsbreadth from his head. Cursing, Conan rolled to his feet, blade whispering into his grip. Its eye above the rim of the cliff, the beast saw him and roared, clawing with its free hand for him instead of securing its hold. Burnished steel blazed an arc through the air, severing the hand that held the ground. With a scream like all the fiends of the pit the beast toppled back, and down, into the fetid mists. The crash of its fall sent a shiver through the cliff that Conan could feel through his boots.