The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  The whole cave shook to strange vibrations. Far to the rear, near the feet of Crom, he could see two tiny figures capering about some sort of altar. He walked toward the rear, collecting firewood as he went. As he had suspected, he now saw that the two were the foreigners he had first spied with the Vanir. One of them, the smaller, saw Conan, and his eyes widened. Drawing a long dagger from his sash, the younger foreigner came at Conan.

  Conan dropped his bundle of wood and smashed the fire pot down upon it. The dry wood caught quickly.

  "Filthy barbarian!" squealed the young man, whom Conan now recognized as a Vendhyan. "How dare you interfere!"

  The man darted in expertly, like a trained assassin. The dagger was a blur as it lanced toward the Cimmerian's belly. With an almost casual flick of his sword Conan sent the Vendhyan staggering back, hands clasped to his bloodied head, screaming.

  The fire was going well now, and the first rays of sunlight were beginning to stream into the cave. Conan pried the stopper from the flask he had borne so far and poured a fine dust, like ashes, upon the flame.

  "Hathor-Ka! Hathor-Ka! Hathor-Ka!" Conan's voice boomed through the cave like thunder, and his scalp prickled at the sorcerous forces being unleashed here.

  His mission had been carried out. His vow was fulfilled and he could leave if he wished. Something kept him from making his escape, much as

  he wished to be away from these doings. A thick cloud of smoke formed over the flames of the fire he had built. Gradually, as if from far away, he began to hear a voice singing in a language never meant for human tongue. The smoke took shape and solidified, and the voice grew nearer, and he saw the beautiful, evil Stygian sorceress before him in the cave.

  Her feet amid the flames were not burned, and her garments stirred to a wind that Conan could not feel. She ignored Conan, and he watched awestruck as she walked toward the back of the cave. Drawn by a force he could not have named, Conan followed.

  She stopped by the edge of the pit before the feet of Crom. Jaganath stood a few paces from her, sweat pouring down his fat face as he shrieked his spells. The two mages carried on each as if the other were not there. A deep rumbling came from the pit at their feet and the light within the cavern altered subtly. Conan stood in silence. His sword was clenched in his white-knuckled fist, but what use was a sword against the sorcerous forces being unleashed here?

  Then yet another figure appeared. From behind the statue of Crom, a stately form emerged from shadowy obscurity into the light. It wore long, elaborate robes into the sleeves of which its hands were tucked. A towering headdress crowned the apparition. Although Conan did not know it, the latest wizard to appear wore the regalia of a Khitan Wizard of the First Rank, with the special attributes of the Order of the Silver Peacock.

  "You have changed, Cha," Conan said.

  "You look much the same. What you see before us is the spectacle of two foolish, presumptuous mages who think they can become gods."

  "Can they?"

  "It is possible." Cha removed a hand from a sleeve and stroked the long, snowy beard and dangling moustaches that spread over his breast. "But all shall take place as the gods wish."

  Now the rumbling was all-pervasive. The chanting of the two wizards had become so high-pitched that it almost left the realm of human hearing. An unthinkable shape began to ooze from the pit leading to the caverns below. Conan remembered it from the other pit. It was a writhing horror of tentacles and jointed legs and sucker pads and fanged mouths. It

  had eyes like jewels and in all was so unnatural that Conan could bear to look upon it for only a moment. Most horribly, it bore an unmistakable air of terrible intelligence.

  "This is the thing they have called from another universe," Cha said as calmly as if he were commenting upon the evolutions of a country dance.

  "It is a sort of god which they think will strengthen their spell. They are wrong. These things give no help to this world. From that same world Hathor-Ka brought the beings you thought of as demons. She wanted them to round up prisoners and have them here, ready for sacrifice. You and your Cimmerians foiled that. The Vendhyan brought his own men for sacrifice, but they cheated him and died cleanly. No advantage to either now."

  Suddenly, Hathor-Ka's voice faltered while Jaganath's continued steadily. Her eyes widened with some awful knowledge. Lovingly, the monstrous thing reached out a tentacle and wrapped it about her waist. It raised her slowly while she chanted madly. Her chant broke into a shriek as it drew her into one of its clusters of mouthlike orifices.

  Jaganath's voice swelled to a triumphant climax and then stopped abruptly. All was silent in the cavern. Then Jaganath began to grow. He swelled and gained bulk and majesty until he towered above the two little figures on the cavern floor.

  "I fulfill the prophecy of Skelos!" he shouted ecstatically. "I am master of all the sorcerers of Earth, until the next fall of the Arrows of Indra!"

  "No foreign wizard reigns in Crom's House!" Conan bellowed. Striding to the huge figure, Conan took his sword in both hands and, with all his weight and bulk behind it, thrust the blue steel into the belly before him.

  To his own astonishment, it went in easily and stayed there. He released the hilt and backed away.

  Jaganath looked down in puzzlement, then smiled. "Think you that any weapon made by mortal hands can harm me?" He enveloped the hilt in his huge hand and tugged, but it would not pull free. Now Cha raised his arm and pointed at the sword protruding from Jaganath's vast belly.

  "Behold the sword of the Kings of Valusia, forged more than four thousand years ago from a fragment of a meteor―one of the Arrows of Indra!"

  Jaganath's face became transformed with rage. Frantically, he wrenched at the sword, widening the great rent in his belly. Blood, smoke, and flame poured from the wound, and Jaganath's demented howling reverberated through the cave, causing stones to fall from the ceiling.

  Slowly, the wizard-demigod began to shrink.

  "This cannot be!" Jaganath shrieked, his voice dwindling as did his body. "I am a god! I am the king of sorcerers!"

  Conan stepped forward and gripped the sword. With a powerful heave he pulled the blade loose from the obese body with a hideous wet sound.

  Jaganath collapsed to the floor, a mere fat man once again. Soon he was a fat corpse.

  An unearthly sound came from the back of the cave. Conan looked to see the pit-thing coming toward them. Cha took Conan by the shoulder.

  "Time to go now!"

  Cha's massive dignity disappeared as he gathered his long robes up around his skinny knees and dashed for the cave entrance. Conan wasted no time in following. Behind them a great rumbling began, and the whole mountaintop trembled.

  They had gained the entrance when Conan stopped and looked back.

  The evil thing was still there, but something was different about the scene.

  Then he saw it. The throne of Crom was vacant. His mind just had time to register mis fact, then he saw a gigantic stone foot descend upon the squirming horror and the body of Jaganath, grinding them relentlessly into the stone floor.

  Sixteen

  Farewell to Cimmeria

  Conan sat upon a rock outcropping with his cloak drawn close about him. Snow had been falling since he and Cha had come out of the cave.

  Winter had come to Ben Morgh, but any Northlander preferred the clean privations of winter to the unnatural warmth they had found on Ben Morgh. All day and all night the clans had scoured the caves beneath Ben Morgh, bringing out what captives they could find alive. Many were Cimmerians or other northern people, but some were of nations nobody

  could identify, not even Conan or Cha. The tunnel entrances of the lower pit gaped wide now, but nobody had been able to work up the nerve to look into the House of Crom.

  Cha came up to Conan. Once again he was a ragged mountebank. "All out now. Lower caverns caving in. Soon this pit collapse as well. Your Crom not want them."

  "Why did Hathor-Ka fail?" Conan asked.


  "She ally herself with Thoth-Amon. He very great wizard, evil but very wise. He know better than to fool with these powers. He pretend to give her whole spell of Great Summoning, but he leave out crucial verse. He could have put an end to this thing long ago, but he think it good way to get rid of rivals."

  "I hope I never encounter him," Conan grumbled.

  Cha held out a hand, palm up. "Now, you give me back amulet? One of my best. I may need it."

  Conan took the thing in his hand. "I paid for this. What will you give me for it?"

  Cha grinned. "Tell you good fortune?"

  "It had better be a good one, not like last time."

  "Very well. How you like this? Someday you be king of Aquilonia. Good, not so?"

  "Weil, I suppose that's worth an amulet." Conan took it off, not believing a word. He tossed the thing to Cha, who caught it, chuckling.

  "Good-bye now. Got to go catch my dragon." The old man disappeared among the rocks, and Conan shook his head, sorry to see the last of him.

  At the bottom of the Field of the Dead he found the host assembled. A new cairn marked the burial place of the men who had fallen in the battle.

  The Cimmerians had completed their simple funeral rites and were ready to depart. Conan found Canach with the other chiefs. "What shall we do with these?" he said, gesturing toward the group of freed prisoners who shivered in the cold.

  "Give them provisions and send them on their way, I suppose," said Canach. "Some of the women might make good wives. A little new blood now and then does not come amiss."

  "After the caves," said Wulfhere, grinning, "even Cimmeria might seem tolerable."

  They descended the slopes of Ben Morgh, and into the hills beyond.

  From time to time the fighting men of a clan would split off from the main group to return to their lands. All would be at peace until the last clan had returned home, then the feuds would begin once more. Once they all halted and looked up. Overhead, above the clouds, they could hear a sound, as of the beating of great wings.

  By the time they reached Canach land all had gone except Conan's closest kin and the little band of Aesir. Near the winter village they halted for a last time. Conan and Chulainn stood together. Chulainn with his arm about Bronwith. "Will you stay the winter with us, Conan?'' Chulainn asked.

  "No, my place is not here. It was good to come back and see my kin, but it will be good to be away again. I go with Wulfhere's band, to winter in the halls of Asgard."

  "Then good fortune to you, kinsman," Bronwith said.

  Conan turned to go but something stopped him. The great sword at his waist did not feel right somehow. It had been his sword. Now it was not.

  He took it from his waist and handed it, sheathed, to Chulainn. "For your son," he said. With the Aesir, he mounted one of the little mountain ponies.

  "Don't ride naked, Conan," said Wulfhere. The As tossed him a Vanir blade taken in the battle and Conan belted it on.

  "Conan!" called Chulainn. Conan wheeled his pony to face his kinsman.

  "To which son shall we give this? We intend to have many. To the first?

  That one we shall name for you."

  Conan thought for a moment, then said: "To the strongest." He turned again and, with the Aesir, he rode from the land of his people.

  Look for the Next

  Original Conan―

  Conan the Fearless

  ―Coming From Tor in January The sun had made but a small part of its journey across the morning sky when Conan entered the city of Mornstadinos. From a distance the Cimmerian had been unable to perceive the convolutions of the narrow streets. He now traversed myriad alleys, cul-de-sacs, and cobbled roads, which appeared to have been laid out by someone besotted, blind, or mad.

  If a pattern existed to the maze, Conan was unable to discern it. Here sat a stable, full of horses and stinking of dung; next to the stable stood a temple, replete with cowled oblates; beyond that edifice, an open air market dealt in fruit and baked goods.

  The barbarian's stomach rumbled, insistent in its hunger. He strode to the market, attracting more than a few stares at his muscular form. From a woven basket Conan extracted a loaf of hard black bread. He poked the loaf with one finger, then waved the bread at an old woman. "How much?"

  he said.

  The woman named a figure: "Four coppers." Conan shook his head.

  "Nay, old one. I do not wish to buy your house and grandchildren, only this loaf of stale bread."

  The old woman cackled. "Since it is obvious you are a stranger, I shall make you a bargain. Three coppers."

  "Again, I have no desire for the entire basket of these rocks you would sell as bread, only the one." Conan waved the loaf and scowled.

  "Ah, you would cheat an old woman of her hard labor? Very well then, I will accept two coppers and the loss, so that you may think us hospitable in the Jewel of Corinthia."

  "Where is your dagger, old woman? Surely a cutpurse who would steal my money must need a blade. Though I will allow that your tongue and wit are sharp enough."

  The woman cackled again. "Ah, you're a handsome boy; you remind me of my son. I could not see you starve for want of a copper. One will buy you the best bread on the street."

  "Done, grandmother."

  Conan reached into his pouch and retrieved one of his few coins. He handed it to the old woman, who nodded, smiling.

  "One other favor," Conan said. "You are right in calling me a stranger.

  Where might a man find an inn and some wine with which to wash down the best bread on the street?"

  "A man of means might find a number of places. But a man who would haggle over a few coppers with an old woman has fewer choices, meseems.

  Down this road, two turnings to the right and one to the left such a man could find the Milk of Wolves Inn. And, if this man was some outlander who might not be able to read civilized writings, he might look for a picture of a wolf salient above the door."

  "A wolf what?"

  "Standing on her hind legs about to leap," the old woman said, cackling again.

  "Well-met, then, mistress Baker. And farewell."

  Conan located the Milk of Wolves Inn with no difficulty, and bearing his loaf of black bread, strode inside. The youthful hour seemed no barrier to the fair-sized crowd standing or seated at long wooden tables around the room. Most of the men appeared to be locals, judging from looks and clothing; several women were serving steaming bowls, and others offered hints of pleasures other than food or drink. He had been in many such places, passable, for the most part, and cheap.

  The Cimmerian found a vacant place at one end of a table and seated himself. He looked around the room, scrutinizing the patrons. Most of the men were probably poor but engaged in some honest trade: coopers, smiths, tradesmen, and the like. To his left Conan saw a group of four men who looked more unsavory, probably cutpurses or strong-arm thieves. The largest of the four was of medium height, but very broad and heavily muscled, with dark eyes and blue-black hair; further, he had an enormous hook nose, which resembled a bird's beak. Conan had seen men with similar countenances before, men bearing a mix of Shemite and Stygian blood. This beak-faced one looked dangerous, not a man to turn one's back on.

  Seated near the four were an odd pair: an old man with white hair and the weight of a good sixty or seventy winters 'riding his stooped shoulders and, a girl, a child of twelve or thirteen. The old man was dressed in a long robe with full sleeves. The girl, auburn-haired, wore blue hose and boots and a short jerkin of supple leather; additionally, she carried a short sword under a broad belt, in the Turanian style: "Your pleasure, sir?"

  Conan looked up at the speaker, a fat wench draped in a shapeless dress much stained by food and drink. He fetched out one of his last three coppers and held it up. "Would this buy me a cup of decent wine?"

  "It will buy you a cup of wine. How decent such a beverage is I leave to your judgment."

  "That bad, eh? Well, I am in no positon to be choosy. I shall ris
k the vintage."

  The girl left, taking Conan's coin. The latter half-turned, to study the old man and the girl.

  Conan quickly became aware that he was not the only person regarding the pair. The four he had marked as strong-arm thieves were also taking an uncommon interest. Such did not bode well for them, the Cimmerian figured. Well, it was not his business. He turned his gaze back toward the serving girl, who approached bearing an earthen mug brimming with dark red liquid. Some of the wine sloshed over the lip of the cup as she set it onto the table. Without saying anything, the girl moved off to see to other patrons.

  Conan tasted the wine. In truth, it was not bad; certainly, he had drunk both better and worse. It would wash the bread down and help fill his belly, for now. Later, he could worry about his next meal. He broke a chunk of the black bread and tore off a mouthful of it with his strong teeth. The bread, too, was passable. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste.

  Nearby, beak-nose gestured at the old man and girl with a quick movement of his head. Two of his companions rose from the table and began to sidle toward the pair. One of the men toyed with the handle of his dagger; the other man merely scratched at his scraggly beard.

  Beneath drawn brows Conan watched, interested. He took another bite of the bread.

  When the two men were a few steps away from the old man, several people seated or standing near the inn's doorway gasped. Conan glanced toward the door and saw men scrambling to get out of the way of something. He could not see what caused the commotion, but it was as if a wind cut a path through a field of tall grain. As the crowd rippled aside, the cause became apparent.

  Scuttling across the sawdust-covered floor was a spider. This creature was like none the Cimmerian had ever gazed upon before. It was the size of Conan's fist, covered with fine hair, and glowed like a lantern inlaid with rubies: indeed, the thing pulsed, as might a throbbing heart.

  Without hesitation the spider ran to the table at which the old man sat; in an eye blink it scuttled up a table leg; another second saw the glowing arachnid leap in a graceful arc to land squarely in the mug of wine the old man held in one gnarled fist. The wine emitted a loud sizzle, a pop, and a small cloud of red vapor suddenly floated above the mug.