The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  He also did not wish to give Vuona cause for jealousy. Well-bedded as she now was, she would have little cause, but women did not always need cause for jealousy. Nor was Vuona powerless to make her jealousy dangerous, if she chose to betray the band to Lysenius. Doubtless some Bamula would spare Conan from having the girl's blood on his hands, but he would rather she returned alive and hale to the Black Kingdoms with her comrades.

  Now Conan intended to cover the whole path to Scyra's chambers and meet her there”if needs be, waiting until she returned. In spite of what he had said to Kubwande, he had no plan to give her the crystal without demanding knowledge of what it was. If he had any doubts that she could be trusted with it, he would guard it, with his life if necessary.

  He told Kubwande that if he had not returned before dawn, the Bamulas were to seek safety by themselves. He did not instruct the man on how.

  Kubwande certainly had fewer scruples than the Cimmerian, and might gladly think his best hope was serving Lysenius. Govindue would most likely not be able to prevail against him.

  If it had not been for the mystery of the crystal, Conan might not have risked seeking Scyra. But two duties to his people now weighed in the balance, and the mystery of the crystal was the heavier.

  Turning down a side tunnel, Conan quickly came to a crack in the rock.

  On the outside, it was large enough to admit him if he slipped through sideways, though not without some scraping of hide. Inside, it broadened into a chimney. The chimney offered only a few cracks as finger and toeholds, but for much of its way, Conan could go up it feet against one side, back against the other. He tied his lantern, a brass casing holding pressed moss soaked in oil, to his belt and began his climb.

  He finished it with more care for silence than usual. It was his experience that sentries were always the most alert when you could least afford their attentions. He still made good time and was soon padding along the tunnel above.

  This led to a corridor carved by an underground stream, which still flowed waist-deep through the premises. Conan stopped at the hole giving entrance to the corridor, and wrinkled his nose. Smell could tell of danger where eyes and ears failed, and he smelled something rank that had not been there before.

  He heard nothing however, and the light of his lantern revealed even less”only the bare rock of the tunnel, eroded by the stream over the eons, and the chill, dark water flowing past at its usual swift pace.

  Conan put a finger into the water and tasted it. No trace of anything uncanny, or even foul.

  There were several ways to Scyra's chambers beyond this tunnel, but here it was the only path, unless one could burrow through solid rock as easily as a mole through fresh-turned earth. Lacking that power, the Cimmerian slipped into the water and began his advance, breasting the stream that seethed around him. He held the lantern high and his sword in his free hand, and his eyes searched both ahead and behind, while his feet sought firm purchase on the tunnel-bottom with each new step.

  It was well he used such caution. The foul odor grew stronger with each step, and now he began to hear what seemed to be breathing that was not his. He held his breath; silence did not return. He advanced; whatever lay in wait suddenly had the wits to halt its own breathing.

  Now Conan felt a chill from more than the water. Obviously, what lay ahead had sensed his approach. It could choose the time and place of its attack, and he could only meet it with precious little warning, and possibly with less room. That was still better than having to pursue it through the caves, or worse yet, having it roaming the darkness ready to attack less robust prey.

  The Cimmerian passed the narrowest portion of the corridor without incident. He thought he heard a scraping from ahead and well off to one side, and remembered that several dry branches led into the tunnel just beyond.

  He stepped forward”and the tunnel rang with a hideous scream as a massive weight surged against him. Water sprayed, the lantern hissed out, and darkness swallowed the battle.

  Conan recognized at once that he faced two assailants. One, bolder than its comrade, clutched at his left arm, then tried to twist, claw, and pull all at once, without securing its grip. Conan pivoted from the hips, breaking the enemy's hold and dashing the creature against the wall behind him.

  That gave him a respite for a moment only, but all he needed. He rammed his free hand, clenched into a fist, into the darkness where he judged the others throat to be. At the same time, he slashed, clumsily because of the angle, dangerously because of his strength and the newly keen edge of his sword. Aquilonian steel came hard across the back of the neck of the being in front. It howled again, and its fetid breath stifled Conan.

  The first attacker now tried to seize him from behind. But once again it was slow to secure its grip, overly eager to do its victim injury.

  Conan brought both feet up and kicked hard at the attacker in front, at the same time driving himself backward against the foe behind.

  He heard a crack as the rear attackers skull met the tunnel, and felt its grip weaken. Now he had a hand free with which to draw his dagger, and he stabbed furiously into what lay before him. Another scream, and this time a spray of blood mingled with the reeking breath. Conan stabbed again and more blood sprayed, but no scream came. He stepped from between the assailants and brought his sword down, feeling bone give once to the right, once to the left.

  Then only the echoes of the death-screams remained, and the gurgle of the water washing over two hairy bodies, carrying away two streams of blood.

  Conan sheathed his weapons and climbed out of the water. He thought he had suffered no great hurt, although he felt as if he had been pounded with clubs and flogged with nettles. Whatever he had faced had been strong, quick, not highly intelligent, but far too dangerous to be allowed to roam the tunnels.

  That made one more question he was going to put before Scyra, and demand that she answer before he handed over the crystal. He touched his belt to see that it was still in its pouch, and assured of that, began the next stage of his journey.

  ***

  Conan had no way of rekindling his lantern, but no need to either. The last part of the way to Scyra's chambers was so easy to traverse that any apprentice thief could have done it without light. The Cimmerian's scrapes and bruises had barely started to throb before he was at Scyra's door.

  He drew his dagger, sheathe and all, reversed it, and tapped on the door with the hilt. He heard movement” faintly, for the door was heavy wood bound with brass, some of the brass forming curious figures that might have been runes in a tongue Conan had never encountered. He heard a faint ting, beyond doubt the opening of a peephole, then a sharp hiss of indrawn breath and the sound of a bolt being drawn.

  With a creaking of hinges that seemed as loud as the war cries of an army, the door opened. Scyra stood there, her dagger in one hand, a cloak of supple rawhide thrown hastily about her. It left her feet and lower legs bare”as well-formed as Conan had suspected. It also left him certain that she wore nothing under the cloak.

  "Conan! What brings you here?"

  "Curiosity."

  "About me?" In another woman, that might have been flirtatious. Scyra's sober expression and level voice gave the lie to any such notion.

  "About something I took from the Bossonian caravan."

  "You fill me with curiosity. The more so, coming here looking as you do. You look as if you have fallen down a cliff. My father said there were dangers in roaming our tunnels." She beckoned him into the chamber and he followed.

  "There are more dangers than your father believes, unless he has turned loose giant apes in the caves," he said. Scyra's eyes widened. Conan continued, describing his foes as best he could without having seen them clearly.

  Scyra had turned pale before he finished, and was silent for a moment afterward. Then she said slowly, "You met chakans. Pictish wizards tame them and use them for tracking¦ and killing. They are not allowed in our caves."

  "Tell that to whoever sent the
m," Conan said brusquely. "And meanwhile, keep your door locked and barred, and a dagger ready to hand. Or a spell, if you have one potent against those brutes. One of them could tear you limb from limb without breathing hard."

  For a moment, Scyra seemed about to faint. The cloak nearly slipped from her shoulders, and she seemed not to notice when Conan rearranged it. She sat down as if her legs had failed her, and hung her head for a moment.

  "Is your peace with the Picts breaking?" Conan asked, seating himself beside her. He wanted to shout, but forced himself to speak as to a child. Scyra had wits and courage, but tonight was bringing her much bad news all at once.

  "If they have unleashed chakans on us, it may well be," she replied.

  "What else did you come for?"

  Conan drew out the crystal. Scyra's eyes grew even wider, but her voice was steady as she spoke.

  "That was from the caravan?"

  "Yes, stoutly coffered and well-defended. Three Bossonians looked ready to sell their lives to keep it."

  "I understand why."

  "Then if you do, tell me, and I will understand also. I hardly think we have time for riddles."

  She shook herself. "No. We do not." She reached for the crystal. Conan hesitated for a moment. If this was something of sorcery and gave her new powers when she held it”

  But his sword and dagger were ready and could deal with Scyra”or anything she could turn herself into” well enough. He drew the dagger and rested his other hand on the hilt of his sword.

  For a moment, Scyra seemed to have eyes for nothing except the steel, and no power of speech. Then she held out her hand again, and Conan put the crystal in it.

  Silence, long enough that Conan feared other chakans would find their dead comrades and come prowling in search of vengeance. Scyra seemed to be in a trance. He hoped she was finding some answers with these delvings into other worlds, and might in time condescend to give them to him.

  Before his impatience forced the Cimmerian to speech, however, Scyra stood up. She seemed calmer, although the hand that gripped the crystal was clenched so tightly about it that the knuckles were white.

  "This is, by its appearance a Crystal of Thraz," she said.

  "That tells me nothing," Conan said.

  "Forgive me. Such crystals are very old, said to be Atlantean, but of course everything that old is blamed on Atlantis, even when there is no mention of it in the chronicles of

  "Scyra, I have no time to listen to you imitate your father at his worst. What does the cursed thing do?"

  "It can increase the power of a sorcerer. It can also clean temples or other holy places of the taint of dark sorcery."

  "Useful little device, isn't it?"

  "Please. There are only six of them known to exist. I never dreamed that one would come into my hands."

  "Then you intend to keep it?"

  "Do you mean, to keep it from my father?"

  Conan grunted. Scyra was too shrewd by half. He was almost tempted to snatch the crystal back and smash it on the floor. He doubted it was harder than the mountain stone, and a few shrewd cuts with his sword would finish the work. '

  "You're the best judge of your father's honesty. Would it help him use the demon's gate”the world-walker”to send us to the cave of that image he's planning to bring back to life? If it will do that, I won't ask you to keep it from him. It's my life and the Bamulas's at stake."

  Scyra's eyes widened again. They were very fine eyes, and Conan would not mind seeing them widen on a pillow, but he wished the woman would find words more quickly.

  "He is sending your band to the cave?"

  "So he said, in words I understood. Which of us is astray in his wits?"

  "No one. You heard¦ you heard the truth, but not all of it."

  "And the whole truth is?"

  Scyra took a deep breath, and now the words came swiftly and clearly.

  There was a woman of sense under that fidgety exterior, the gods be praised!

  "The statue must be animated by a blood-sacrifice. Either the nearest kin of the sorcerer, or twenty-some other folk. My father considered sacrificing me. He then changed his mind and wished to sacrifice twenty Picts."

  "How was he going to persuade them?"

  "I was to marry a Pictish chief. My bride-price would be the lives of twenty of the chiefs warriors."

  "The chief wouldn't live to the next day's sunset after that. Your father may know magick, but he knows less about Picts than young chief Govindue knows."

  "He was desperate. Also, the other Picts might have forgiven him after his magick brought them victory."

  "The victory of turning the Marches into a howling wilderness. You wished that?"

  "He is my father. He loved my mother, and saw the Marchers as her murderers. Vengeance comes easily when you look at the world thus."

  "Madness comes even sooner, and I think it has come to your father." A suspicion buzzed in Conan's mind, like a marsh bug whining in his ear.

  It grew louder, then turned into an ugly certainty.

  "My band goes to the cave in the world-walker, and then we become the blood-sacrifice? No Picts killed, none turned to enemies, and the statue on the march? Is that your fathers scheme?"

  Scyra nodded. "He has not said so plainly, but from what I have heard and what you have said”I can hardly doubt it."

  "Nor can I," Conan said. "Scyra, if I give you this crystal, can you keep it out of your father's hands? I think you have need of some defense against him, even if you do not choose to fight him. I would not ask that. But I swear I will destroy it if you do not swear to keep it, and if you betray us, you will join us in death."

  It always made sense to arm a friend in the enemy's camp. It was ever a question, though, whether the friend would remain one and any weapons given him stay out of the enemy's hands. Conan's luck in such ventures had been mixed. He wanted to trust Scyra, and if she could be trusted, she might do much good.

  If not, she might be the doom of them all, and not only himself and his band. Bossonian corpses would be piled high before the Picts were beaten back across the frontier.

  "I will swear, Conan. While I am thinking of the oath, I would like to tend to your wounds. The chakans did not bite, did they?"

  "Not so I've noticed, but they have claws and muscles in plenty."

  "You were fortunate as well as strong. Their bite festers so that only spells can remedy the wound. Warm water and a herb poultice for the scratches, a potion for the pain of the bruises

  "No potions."

  "You do not trust me?"

  "I need to trust my wits. I've never yet taken a potion that didn't slow them, and my arm as well. Those may not be the only chakans about."

  "Very well. Turn your back."

  Confident that she could not stab him without warning, Conan perched on a low stool. It creaked ominously under his weight. He heard bare feet padding across the floor, and then warm dampness touched his back. So did something else warm”the bare breasts of a woman.

  He spun on the stool, raising his legs as he did. They swept Scyra off her feet. He caught her and dragged her onto his lap. She wore only a Pictish loinguard, and all the rest of her was as fair to look at as were the feet and legs.

  She shook her head, making lights dance on her hair. "Is this enough of an oath?"

  "For now¦ but I thought sorceresses needed to be maidens."

  "A man who has no ghost-voice cannot weaken a woman's magick," she said.

  "No what?" Conan asked.

  She explained. The explanation was long, but this time Conan did not mind the length. She remained in his lap, kissed him, sponged down his wounds, and in due course, removed her loinguard. They were in the bed shortly after that, and entwined almost at once.

  How long they remained thus, Conan never knew. He only knew that Scyra had cried out for the third time, when a fierce shock made the chamber quiver. Earthquake, he thought at first. The bed creaked and swayed, the stool toppled over, spon
ges and the water basin fell to the floor.

  As the quivering faded, Conan heard the rumble of stone, and then a cry that could have come from no human throat.

  He rolled from the woman's embrace and bed and snatched for his clothes, steel, and the crystal. All were where he had left them.

  Neither Scyra nor any minion of hers had used this moment to steal the jewel. He might ask the woman more, should ask more if there was time.

  "Scyra, I will trust you to be no enemy to us even though you be none to your father. The crystal is yours. It is best you and it remain here, though. I am taking my people away. We may be fighting chakans, Picts, and the gods alone know what else."

  She looked up at him with eyes that were no longer wide but half closed, even sleepy, with satisfaction. "Conan, for a safer journey, look to the chest over there, by the hanging with the blue castle. It is not locked."

  The chest contained a motley array of goods, but only three were of interest. The first was a new lantern. The second was a packet of oiled parchment, holding a map of the wilderness, embroidered on the thinnest of Khi-tan silk. Conan judged that with a little time, he could master it.

  The last was a heavy purse. Conan opened it briefly, judged that the coins were gold all the way down, and added it to his load.

  Scyra had neither moved from the bed nor donned her clothes. Conan threw her a final admiring look, and she writhed with pleasure as if the look had been a caress.

  "Go swiftly, Conan. If you are beyond my father's reach soon enough, he may not punish me."

  "You haven't seen swiftness, Scyra. Not until you've seen a Cimmerian and a host of Bamula warriors running for their lives!"

  Fourteen

  Govindue woke the men when he heard the distant sounds of a battle. In this jungle of stone, it was hard to tell where and how far away the battle was fought, but it seemed to lie on the path Conan had taken.

  The men were sleepy, many of them, and not pleased to be awakened. Nor was Kubwande friendly to the young chief.

  "Conan said that we had until dawn to await him," the iqako said.

  "Until then, we should rest and save our strength."