The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  The Turanian sucked air between his teeth. "Mitra send us time to get to our horses."

  With no more words the four men broke into a run, Conan and Akeba covering the ground with distance-eating strides. Tamur ran awkwardly, but with surprising speed. Even Sharak kept up, wheezing and puffing, and finding breath to complain of his years.

  "Awake!" Tamur cried as they ran into their dark camp. The fires had burned low. "To your horses!"

  Nomads rolled instantly from their blankets, booted and clothed, seized their weapons, and stared at him blankly. "We must flee!" Tamur shouted to them. "We stand outside the laws!" Leaping as if pricked, they darted for the horses. Tamur turned to Conan, shaking his head. "We shall not escape. We ride reedy coastal stock. Those who pursue will be astride war mounts. Our animals will drop before dawn, while theirs can maintain a steady pace all the way to the sea."

  "The pack horses," Conan said. "Will they carry men?"

  Tamur nodded. "But we have enough mounts for everyone."

  "What if," Conan said slowly, "when our horses are about to fall, we change to horses that, if tired somewhat from running, have at least not carried a man? And when those are ready to fall...." He looked at the others questioningly. He had heard of this in a tavern, and tavern tales were not always overly filled with truth. "We have several extra mounts for each man. Even these war mounts cannot outrun them all, can they?"

  "It could work," Tamur breathed. "Kaavan One-Father watch over us, it could work."

  Akeba nodded. "I should have thought of that. I've heard this is done on the southern frontier."

  "But the trade goods," Sharak complained. "You'll not abandon-"

  "Will you die for them?" Conan cut him off, and ran for the hobbled pack horses. The others followed at his heels, the old astrologer last and slowest.

  The nomads wasted no time once Conan's idea was explained to them, hastily fumbling in the dark with bridles, finishing just as roaring horsemen burst from among the Hyrkanian yurts. Conan wasted but a single moment in thought of the gold from their trading, and the greater part of his own gold, hidden in a bale of tanned hides, then he scrambled onto his mount with the others, lashing it into a desperate gallop.

  Death rode on their heels.

  As they entered the tall, scrub-covered sand dunes on the coast, four men rode double, and no spare horses were left. The sweat-lathered mounts formed a straggling line, but no man pressed his horse for fear of the animal's collapse. In the sky before them the sun hung low; the two-days' journey had consumed less than one with the impetus of saving their lives.

  Conan's shaggy mount staggered under him, but he could hear the crash of waves ahead. "How much lead do we have?" he asked Akeba.

  "Perhaps two turns of the glass, perhaps less," the Turanian replied.

  "They held their animals back, Cimmerian, when they saw they would not overtake us easily," Tamur added. His breath came in pants almost as heavy as those of his mount. He labored the beast with his quirt, but without real force. "Ours will not last much longer, but theirs will be near fresh when they come up on us."

  "They'll come up on empty sand," Conan laughed, urging his shaggy horse to the top of a dune, "for we've reached the ship." Words and laughter trailed away as he stared at the beach beyond. The sand was empty, with only the cold remains of fires to show he had come to the right place. Far out on the water a shape could be seen, a hint of triangularity speaking of Foam Dancer's lateen sail.

  "I never trusted that slime-spawn Muktar," Akeba muttered. "The horses are played out, Conan, and we're little better. This stretch of muddy sand is no fit place to die, if any place is fit, but 'tis time to think of taking a few enemies with us into the long night. What say you, Cimmerian?"

  Conan, wrestling with his own thoughts, said nothing. So far he had come in his quest for a means to destroy Jhandar, and what had come of it? Samarra dead, and all her slaves. Yasbet taken by Jhandar's henchmen. Even in small matters the gods had turned their faces from him. The trade goods for which he had spent his hundred pieces of gold-and hard-earned gold it was, too, for the slaying of a friend, even one ensorceled to kill-were abandoned. Of the gold but two pieces nestled in his pouch with flint, steel, Samarra's pouch and a bit of dried meat. And now he had fallen short by no more than half a turn of the glass. Muktar had not even waited to discover that Conan lacked the coin to pay for his return voyage.

  Though, under the circumstances, a show of steel would have disposed of that quibble.

  "Are you listening?" Akeba demanded of him. "Let us circle back on our trail to the start of the dunes.

  We can surprise them, and with rest we may give a good account of ourselves." Muttering rose among the Hyrkanians.

  Still Conan did not speak. Instead he chewed on a thought. Yasbet taken by Jhandar's henchmen. There was something of importance there, could he but see it. A faint voice within him said that it was urgent he did see it.

  "Let us die as men," Tamur said, though his tone was hesitant, "not struggling futilely, like dungbeetles seized by ants." Some few of his fellows murmured approval; the rest twitched their reins fretfully and cast anxious backward glances, but kept silent.

  The Turanian's black eyes flicked the nomad scornfully; Tamur looked away. "No one who calls himself a man dies meekly," Akeba said.

  "They are of our blood," Tamur muttered, and the soldier snorted.

  "Mitra's Mercies! This talk of blood has never stayed one Hyrkanian's steel from another's throat that I have seen. It'll not stay the hands of those who follow us. Have you forgotten what they will do to those they take alive? Gelded. Flayed alive. Impaled. You told us so. And you hinted at worse, if there can be worse."

  Tamur flinched, licking his lips and avoiding Akeba's gaze. Now he burst out, "We stand outside the law!" A mournful sigh breathed from the other nomads. Tamur rushed breathlessly on. "We are no longer shielded by the laws of our people. For us to slay even one of those sent by the shamans would be to foul and condemn our own spirits, to face an eternity of doom."

  "But you didn't kill Samarra," Akeba protested. "Surely your god knows that. Conan, talk to this fool."

  But the Cimmerian ignored all of them. The barest glimmerings of hope flickered in him.

  "We will face the One-Father having broken no law," Tamur shouted.

  "Erlik take your laws! You were willing to disobey the edict against revenging yourself on Jhandar."

  Akeba's thin mouth twisted in a sneer. "I think you are simply ready to surrender. You are all dogs!

  Craven women whining for an easy death!"

  Tamur recoiled, hand going to the hilt of his yataghan. "Kaavan understands revenge. You Turanians, whose women have watered your blood for a thousand years with the seed of western weaklings, understand nothing. I will now teach you!"

  Steel slid from scabbards, and was arrested half-drawn by Conan's abrupt, "The ship! We will use the ship."

  Akeba stared at him. Some of the Hyrkanians moved their horses back. Madmen were touched by the gods; slaying one, even in self-defense, was a sure path to ill luck.

  Sharak, clinging tiredly to his mount with one hand and his staff with the other, peered ostentatiously after Foam Dancer. The vessel was but a mote, now. "Are we to become fish, then?" he asked.

  "The galley," Conan said, his exasperation clear at their stupidity. "How much before us could Jhandar's henchmen have left the camp? And they had no reason to ride as we did, for no one was pursuing them.

  Their galley may still be waiting for them. We can rescue Yasbet and use it to cross the sea again."

  "I'd not wager a copper on it," Akeba said. "Most likely the galley is already at sea."

  "Are the odds better if you remain here?" Conan asked drily. Akeba looked doubtful. He ran an eye over the others; half the nomads still watched him warily. Sharak seemed lost in thought. "I'll not wait here meekly to be slaughtered," Conan announced. "You do what you will." Turning his horse to the south, he booted it into a
semblance of a trot.

  Before he had gone a hundred paces Sharak caught up to him, using his staff like a switch to chivy his shaggy mount along. "A fine adventure," the astrologer said, a fixed grin on his parchment face. "Do we take prisoners when we reach the galley? In the sagas heroes never take prisoners."

  Akeba joined them in a gallop; his horse staggered as he reined back to their pace. "Money is one thing,"

  the Turanian said. "My life I'm willing to wager on long odds."

  Conan smiled without looking at either of them, a smile touched with grimness. More hooves pounded the sand behind him. He did not look around to see how many others had joined. One or all, it would be enough. It had to be. With cold eyes he led them south.

  Chapter XXII

  0ne horse sank to its knees, refusing to go on, as they passed the first headland, and another fell dead before they were long out of sight of the first. Thick scrub grew here in patches too large to ride around.

  There were no paths except those forced by the horses.

  Conan grimaced as yet another man mounted double. Their pace was slower than walking. Keeping their strength was important if they were to face the galley's crew, or Jhandar's henchmen, but the horses were at the end of theirs. And time was important as well. They must reach the ship before Yasbet's captors did, or at least before they sailed, and before the pursuing Hyrkanians overtook them. The nomads would have little difficulty following their tracks down the coast.

  Reaching a decision, he dismounted. The others stared as he removed his horse's crude rope bridle and began to walk. Sharak pressed his own mount forward and dropped off beside the big Cimmerian.

  "Conan," Akeba called after him, "what-"

  But Conan strode on; the rest could follow or not, as they chose. He would not spend precious moments in convincing them. With the old astrologer struggling to keep up he plunged ahead. Neither spoke.

  Breath now was to be saved for walking.

  Where the horses had struggled to pass there were spaces where a man might go more easily. Akeba and the Hyrkanians were soon lost to sight, had either chosen to look back. Neither did.

  There was no smooth highway for them, though. Even when the sandy ground was level, their boots sank to the ankles, and rocks lay ready to turn underfoot and throw the unwary into thornbushes boasting black, fingerlong spikes, that would rip flesh like talons.

  But then the ground was seldom level, except for occasional stretches of muddy beach, pounded by angry waves. For every beach there were a pair of headlands to be descended on one side and scaled on the other, with steep hills between, and deep gullies between those. Increasingly the land became almost vertical, up or down. One hundred paces forward took five hundred steps to travel, or one thousand. The horses would have been useless.

  Of course, Conan reasoned, sweat rolling down his face, grit in his hair and eyes and mouth, he could move inland to the edge of the plain. But then he would not know when he reached the beach where the galley lay. He would not let himself consider the possibility that it might no longer be there. Too, on the plain they would leave even clearer traces of his passage for their hunter, and most of the time gained by traveling there thus would be lost in struggling to the beaches when they were sighted.

  A crashing in the thick brush behind them brought Conan's sword into his hand. Cursing, Akeba stumbled into sight, his dark face coated with sweat and dust.

  "Two more horses died," the Turanian said without preamble, "and another went lame. Tamur is right behind me. He'll catch up if you wait. The others were arguing about whether to abandon the remaining horses when I left, but they'll follow as well, sooner or later."

  "There is no time to wait." Resheathing his blade, Conan started off again.

  Sharak, who had no breath for speaking, followed, and after a moment Akeba did as well.

  Three men, the young Cimmerian thought, since Tamur would be joining them. Three and a half, an he counted Sharak, the old astrologer would be worth no more than half Akeba or Tamur in a fight, if that much. Mayhap some of the other nomads would catch up in time, but they could not be counted on.

  Three and a half, then.

  As Tamur joined them, plucking thorns from his arm and muttering curses fit to curl a sailor's hair, fat raindrops splattered against the back of Conan's neck. The Cimmerian peered up in surprise at thick, angrily purple clouds. His eyes had been of necessity locked to the ground; he had not noticed their gathering.

  Quickly the sprinkling became a deluge, a hail of heavy pounding drops. A wind rose, ripping down the coast, tearing at the twisted scrub growth, howling higher and higher till it rang in the ears and dirt hung in the air to mix with the rain, splashing the four men with rivulets of mud. Nearby, a thick-rooted thornbush, survivor of many storms, tore lose from the ground, tangled briefly in the branches around it, and was whipped away.

  Tamur put his mouth close to Conan's ear and shouted. "It is the Wrath of Kaavan! We must take shelter and pray!"

  "'Tis but a storm!" the Cimmerian shouted back. "You faced worse on Foam Dancer!"

  "No! This is no ordinary storm! It is the Wrath of Kaavan!" The Hyrkanian's face was a frozen mask, fear warring plainly with his manhood. "It comes with no warning, and when it does, men die! Horses are lifted whole into the air, and yurts, with all in them, to be found smashed to the ground far distant, or never to be seen again! We must shelter for our lives!"

  The wind was indeed rising, even yet, shaking the thickets till it seemed the scrub was trying to tear itself free and flee. Driven raindrops struck like pebbles flung from slings.

  Akeba, half-supporting Sharak, raised his voice against the thundering wind and rain. "We must take shelter, Cimmerian! The old man is nearly done! He'll not last out this storm if we don't!"

  Pushing away from the Turanian, Sharak held himself erect with his staff. His straggly white hair was plastered wetly to his skull, "If you are done, soldier, say so. I am not!"

  Conan eyed the old man regretfully. Sharak was clinging to his staff as to a lifeline. The other two, for all they were younger and hardier, were not in greatly better condition. Akeba's black face was lined with weariness, and Tamur, his fur cap a sodden mass hanging about his ears, swayed when the wind struck him fully. Yet there was Yasbet.

  "How many of your nomads followed, Tamur?" he asked finally. "Will they catch up if we wait?"

  "All followed," Tamur replied, "but Hyrkanians do not travel in the Wrath of Kaavan. It is death, Cimmerian."

  "Jhandar's henchmen are not Hyrkanian," he shouted against the wind. "They will travel. The storm will hold the galley. We must reach it before they do and they put to sea. They, and Yasbet, will surely be aboard by then. If you will not go with me, then I go alone."

  For a long moment there was no sound except the storm, then Akeba said, "Without that ship I may never get Jhandar."

  Tamur's shoulders heaved in a sigh, silent in the storm. "Baalsham. Almost, with being declared outlaw, did I forget Baalsham. Kaavan understands revenge."

  Sharak turned southward, stumping along leaning heavily on his staff. Conan and Akeba each grabbed one of the old man's arms to help him over the rough ground, and though he grumbled he did not attempt to pull free. Slowly they moved on.

  Raging, the storm battered the coast. Stunted, wind-sculpted trees and great thornbushes swayed and leaned. Rain lashed them, and grit scoured through the air as if in a desert sandstorm. The wind that drove all before it drowned all sound in a demonic cacophony, till no man could hear the blood pounding in his own ears, or even his own thought.

  It was because of that unceasing noise that Conan looked back often, watching for pursuit. Tamur might claim that no Hyrkanian would venture abroad in the Wrath of Kaavan, but it was the Cimmerian's experience that men did what they had to and let gods sort out the rights and wrongs later. So it was that he saw his party had grown by one in number, then by two more, and by a fourth. Rain-soaked and wind-ravaged, the grease washin
g from their lank hair and the filth from their sheepskin coats, the rest of Tamur's followers staggered out of the storm to join them, faces wreathed in joyous relief at the sight of the others. What had driven them to struggle through the storm-desire for revenge on Jhandar, fear of their pursuers, or terror of facing the Wrath of Kaavan alone? Conan did not care. Their numbers meant a better chance of rescuing Yasbet and taking the galley. With a stony face that boded ill for those he sought, the huge Cimmerian struggled on into the storm.

  It was while they were scaling the slope of a thrusting headland, a straggling file of men clinging with their fingernails against being hurled into the sea, that the wind and rain abruptly died. Above the dark clouds roiled, and waves still crashed against cliff and beach, but comparative silence filled the unnaturally still air.

  "'Tis done," Conan called to those below, "and we've survived. Not even the wrath of a god can stop us."

  But for all his exuberant air, he began to climb faster. With the storm done the galley could sail. Tamur cried out something, but Conan climbed even faster. Scrambling atop the headland, he darted across, and almost let out a shout of joy. Below a steep drop was a length of beach, and drawn up on it was the galley.

  Immediately he dropped to his belly, to avoid watching eyes from below, and wriggled to the edge of the drop. The vessel's twin masts were dismounted and firmly lashed on frames running fore and aft. No doubt they had had time to do little more before the storm broke on them. Two lines inland to anchors in the dunes, to hold the ship against the action of the waves, and the galley had been winched well up the beach, yet those waves had climbed the sand as well, and still clawed at the vessel's sides. Charred planks at the stern, and the blackened stumps of railing, spoke of their first meeting.

  As each of the others reached the top of the headland they threw themselves to the ground beside Conan, until a line of men stretched along the rim, peering at the ship below.