The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  "The priests of Keshia had little liking for me," he said thoughtfully.

  "They made my life difficult. So before I left that city I stole much knowledge from them. Much knowledge and several precious items to make my life outside Keshan easier. The glass balls are one thing I acquired. These are another." Shakar arose from the chest and held his hands out to Conan.

  Suspended from each fist was an amulet the size and shape of a hen's egg. They were the color of tarnished brass and inscribed in black with a single serpentine rune. Instead of a chain, each amulet dangled from a flexible loop of thin golden wire. With a quick motion, Shakar flipped one wire noose over the top of Conan's head and released it.

  The strange pendant fell heavily upon the Cimmerian's breast. The black warlock leaned forward, pulling the barbarian's long hair out from beneath the encircling wire until the metal rested against his flesh.

  "There," he murmured. "There." He stroked the amulet lovingly. Then his eyes narrowed, his lips tightened against his teeth, and he bent over to stare Conan full in the face.

  "Hie Vakallar-Ftagn," he whispered in a voice like the stirring of dead leaves. Conan went rigid. The wire necklace contracted around his neck until the cold weight of the amulet nestled unpleasantly into the hollow of his throat. A thrill of horror coursed along the barbarian's spine. Shakar stood up straight and grinned in satisfaction. He held the other amulet away from his velvet-clad body.

  "Now you shall do as I require, barbarian. You must do it because your life will be forfeit if you do not. This night you will go to the estate of Lady Zelandra, slay her, and steal for me her silver casket.

  And you shall have it back here by sunrise, thief, or I will speak to your amulet thus."

  Held at arm's length, Shakar's remaining pendant swung slowly on its necklace of wire. The man in green stared at it and spoke.

  "Hie Vakallar-Nectos." His voice died and there was an expectant silence. Then the dangling amulet flared with white incandescence and a sharp sizzling sound filled the room. A wave of heat hit Conan's face like the rush of, air from an opened forge. The blaze of light stabbed fiercely at his eyes. For a moment the amulet hung from its wire as a fusing gobbet of nigh-intolerable brilliance; then it fell in a molten stream to spatter brightly on the polished floor. Acrid smoke arose in whorls as the liquid metal gnawed into the marble. It burned out after a long moment, leaving the floor deeply pitted and scarred. A shrill laugh broke from Shakar's lips.

  "O Damballah! An ugly way to die, is it not? If you are not back by sunrise, I speak the words. If you attempt to remove the amulet, it will blaze up of its own accord. If you displease me in any way, I shall speak the words. Do you understand?" Mad triumph trembled in the warlock's voice. In the corner, Gulbanda moved uneasily. "Let him loose," Shakar ordered.

  "Master?" Gulbanda hesitated and Shakar spun on him in sudden fury, cloak swirling.

  "Now, fool!" The warrior hastened to Conan's side and bent to his task.

  In a moment the barbarian was free of the steel chair, if not of all bonds. He stretched hugely, bending to chafe his legs where the metal cuffs had cut into his flesh.

  "Do you know the Street of the Seven Roses?" asked the black sorcerer.

  Conan nodded curtly. "It is where they store the shipments of wine in from Kyros."

  "That is the warehouse district. Zelandra's mansion is in the residential district at the opposite end of the street. Across the city from the warehouses. It is a respectable area and often patrolled by the city guard."

  "It has a very high wall," said Gulbanda coldly. "A smooth one." Conan met the bodyguard's eyes with a gaze as bleak and stark as the blade of a stiletto.

  "I want my sword," he said.

  Shakar nodded. "Of course. Fetch it, Gulbanda." For a moment the warrior seemed to pause, then he strode quickly from the room. The black mage looked upon Conan and lifted his gloved hands imploringly.

  "Do you need to see the map again?"

  "No. Do you give me your word that if I bring you the casket, you will remove this thing?" The barbarian touched the amulet about his neck as though it were a sleeping serpent coiled there.

  "I swear it. And if it happens that you do not slay the woman, I shall still free you if you bring me the silver box. I must have it. Do you understand?"

  The Cimmerian showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. "I understand that well enough."

  "Another thing, barbarian, do you know of a Shemite named Eldred the Trader?" Shakar watched Conan intently for a reaction and was visibly disappointed by his reply.

  "No. The name means nothing. Another of your rivals seeking position as the king's court wizard?"

  "No. It need not concern you." At that moment Gulbanda returned, bearing Conan's sword and scabbard.

  He tossed them roughly to the Cimmerian, who snatched them from the air and affixed them to his belt while moving toward the garden window.

  "Remember the amulet. Do not fail me," called Shakar, but Conan had already stepped into the night and disappeared.

  Chapter Five

  The great wagon lumbered along the Street of the Seven Roses beneath the overarching darkness of a moonless night. Massively spoked wheels ground on the cobblestones as the driver reined his team around a bend.

  Two huge wooden casks sat ponderously in the wagon's bed, their weight causing the wagon to sag alarmingly. The driver called encouragement to his straining horses and, thus distracted, did not notice the shadow that detached itself from the murk of an alley to furtively sprint across the cobbles and leap up onto the back of the rearmost cask, clinging to it like a cat. The man held himself to the curved surface of the massive barrel with powerful arms as the wagon continued its laborious progress. In the next block a high wall arose on the left side of the street. Seeing it, the man drew himself lithely atop the cask and crouched with his legs drawn up tightly beneath him. He swiftly removed a light leather helmet tucked into his belt at the small of his back and clapped it onto his head.

  The wagon swayed, drawing closer to the wall. Its wheels scraped the stone curb and the man jumped, hurling himself into the air with all the strength of his mighty frame. Like a quarrel from" a crossbow, the man shot up and against the wall. His body met it with bruising impact, hands clapping against the cold stone with the fingertips alone finding purchase and digging in atop the wall. He dangled, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Then he chinned himself, threw over a muscular leg and pulled himself up so that he was lying along the top of the wall. He lay motionless for a moment, waiting for the surging vertigo to pass. It seemed that Shakar's Keshanian drug had not entirely left him. He shook his head like a troubled lion, trying to rid himself of the persistent dizziness and see into the darkness below.

  An elaborate garden lay spread out in the shadows beneath him. Dim, tangled outlines of trees and undergrowth led up a gentle, landscaped slope to an expansive villa that loomed as an unlit and angular silhouette against the stars. The perfume of night-blooming flowers floated on the slow breeze.

  Conan stood on the narrow top of the wall. Heedless of the height, he ran swiftly along it to where a tall tree thrust leafy branches toward the wall. He squatted, peering intently into the tree, then leapt abruptly from his perch, dropping down and forward to capture a sturdy limb in iron fingers. Leaves shook and rustled as the branch bent and then rebounded, holding his weight. The Cimmerian glanced down, then released the limb. He dropped, hit the ground, and rolled in the dewy grass. Conan came to his feet in a fighting crouch, hand on hilt and eyes raking the darkness for sign of a foe.

  He was alone on a well-trimmed greensward. In front of him two dense clumps of shrubbery framed a white gravel path that shone dully in the starlight. The path wound up the hill toward the dark mass of Lady Zelandra's mansion. The barbarian moved parallel with the trail, skulking in the shadows as silently as a prowling wolf. Skirting a tiled courtyard adjacent to the manse, Conan approached a darkened window and froze in midstride.

&
nbsp; Footfalls rattled gravel along the path. Conan ducked into the shadow of a manicured hedge, hand once again gripping his hilt. Two uniformed men walked into view along the trail. They conversed softly, voices carrying on the night air. The Cimmerian crouched motionless as the pair came to a halt not ten paces away. The men wore light armor with shortswords belted at the waist, and the larger of the two bore a long, barbed pike on one shoulder. Conan's body tensed, preparing for instant violence. The pike bearer produced a wineskin from beneath his cloak, drank deeply and passed it to his companion. The other took a swallow and returned the skin, clapping his comrade on the back with crude good humor. The pair continued down the path, blithely unaware of how close they had stood to death.

  Conan relaxed, once again feeling a slight stirring of vertigo. He cursed vehemently under his breath until it passed, calling down a plague upon all dabblers in the dark arts. Then he stole silently across me grass to the waiting window. The stout shutters were thrown wide to allow the cool air of evening to ease the day's accumulated heat.

  There were bars, but they were slender. Inevitably there was some noise, but Conan worked slowly and with great deliberation, bending the bars rather than tearing them from their settings. Soon he had a space wide enough to squeeze through. With a last look behind, he pulled himself through the window and into the mansion of Lady Zelandra.

  He dropped into a long hall lit by a single taper. The floor was thickly carpeted, and rich Vendhyan tapestries graced the walls. The faint odor of sandalwood hung on the still air. Silence lay over the house in a heavy shroud.

  Recalling the map that Shakar had shown him, Conan took his bearings and then paced soundlessly down the dim hall. He drew his sword, and the taper's soft light glimmered liquidly along its burnished length.

  Ahead, the corridor turned right. At the corner a short pedestal held an elegantly fluted vase of Khitan porcelain. Conan rounded the corner and stared down a wood-paneled hall that stretched into the heart of the manse. Another lonely taper lit the corridor with a diffuse amber glow.

  A woman stood stiffly in the hallway, looking at him.

  "Hush!" Conan lowered his sword and lifted a finger to his lips. "I mean you no

  The woman quickly reached a hand behind her dark nimbus of hair, then whipped the hand forward with all the strength of her arm and shoulders. A dagger shot toward Conan as swiftly and directly as a hurled dart.

  "Crom!" The barbarian twisted his upper body so that the blade nicked his flapping sleeve in passing rather than burying itself between his ribs. The dagger sank almost half its length into the wooden wall five paces behind him.

  Conan lunged forward, covering the distance between himself and the woman in two great bounds. An outstretched forearm struck her across the collarbone, knocking her from her feet and sending her sprawling gracelessly on her back. The Cimmerian's sword made a short, blurred arc that stopped a hairsbreadth from her exposed neck. Cold, sharpened steel lay upon her pulsing throat.

  "Hush," said Conan grimly.

  "Miserable thief!" hissed the woman. "Damned assassin! Kill me and be done with it!"

  The barbarian raised his brows. Here was a beautiful woman. And unafraid. Her thick hair spilled upon the carpet, an ebony cloud surrounding a fine-boned face now sneering in defiance. Her pale eyes shone in the gloom like polished opals.

  "I have no wish to harm you or anyone else in this house." Conan stepped back, keeping his sword leveled at the prone woman, but removing it from her throat. She sat up, twisting full lips with disdain.

  "You're mad, then."

  "No. I am not here of my own choosing. My life is in the balance. If you will aid me, I will be swiftly gone." Conan's hand went to the eldritch amulet wired at his throat. The dark-haired woman drew long legs up beneath her and regarded him steadily.

  "I should scream. I am not afraid to die."

  "Then why are you whispering?"

  She was silent a moment.

  "What is it that you seek?" she asked suddenly, her voice slightly louder and more animated than before. "Are you alone? How can I help you?" Her gaze flickered from Conan's face to a point somewhere over his right shoulder. From behind him came the almost inaudible creaking of a floorboard.

  Conan spun about and received a blow to the head so savage that it tore off his helmet and sent him reeling blindly across the hall. His shoulder hit the wall with a crash that seemed to shake the building.

  Stinging blood sluiced hotly into his left eye. Snarling, the barbarian lashed his sword to the left and right, but the blade met no resistance. He blinked, shaking the blood from his face.

  Across the hall stood a giant of a man, naked to the waist. The taper's light gleamed upon his skin, casting yellow highlights over heavy arms and a wide, hairless chest that descended into a broad, firm paunch.

  The man's head was shaved and his features were those of a pure-blooded KM tan. In his hands was a short wooden club, its head adorned with iron studs. The man was silent, but he brandished the club with casual purpose, slanted eyes glittering coldly.

  Conan struck with furious speed, taking the offensive with such suddenness that the giant Khitan was nearly impaled upon his sword.

  With an agile twist of his brawny body, the Khitan battered the barbarian's blade aside so that it scraped its length along the wooden bludgeon, throwing splinters. Unable to halt his headlong thrust, Conan's body slammed into that of his foe. They grappled, and the Khitan sought to seize his sword arm. With an explosive grunt, Conan tore free of the powerful grip and drove his mallet-like left fist home against the side of his enemy's face. Despite the unexpectedness of the move, the Khitan managed to react, attempting to roll with the blow. If he had not, it might well have broken his neck. Even the reduced impact drove him to one knee and started blood streaming from his lips.

  As the Cimmerian's sword shot up for the death stroke, a tremendous blow struck the back of his skull. Vision ablaze with flying yellow sparks, Conan went down, his blade thumping on the carpet. In an exhibition of almost superhuman vitality, the barbarian writhed painfully onto his back. Through a thickening haze he saw the dark-haired woman, gaping at him, clutching a sturdy chair. Two of its legs were splintered stumps. The stinging sweet taste of Shakar's potion crept into the back of his throat like bile. Conan tried to rise and felt a sick vertigo, a drugged dizziness that' rose from within to smother him in cloying darkness. He reached for his sword, put his hand on the hilt, and passed out.

  Chapter Six

  There was stale straw in his mouth. The floor where he lay was strewn with the mildewed stuff. With effort, Conan spat, pushed himself into a sitting position, spat again, and leaned back against a dank stone wall. Though his head throbbed like a blacksmith's anvil, he put his hands first to his throat.

  Shakar's lethal amulet was still in place, still promising searing, lingering death. Conan probed his battered skull with tentative fingers. Drying blood matted his hair over two conspicuously swollen lumps. He pressed his fingertips around them and winced, but found no evidence of serious damage. Satisfied, he cast his eyes about his prison.

  It was a narrow, windowless slot of a cell, a little longer than the prone body of a tall man and barely wide enough for two men to stand abreast. The door was a heavily barred iron grate, scaled with flakes of red rust.

  Conan wondered how long he had until morning. A hollowness opened deep in his belly. To be incinerated by magic while locked in a cage like a helpless animal was no way for a warrior to die.

  He saw that the iron bars of the grate were far too thick for bending and that the hinges were set too deeply in stone to be wrenched free.

  The barbarian rose slowly to his feet, staring at the bars and clenching his fists until the tendons stood out across the backs of his hands. Conan's will for freedom was as elemental as that of a penned wolf. No matter if it would avail him nothing, he would tear at the bars of his prison until the amulet burnt through his throat.

  The Cimmer
ian's nostrils flared as he stepped to the door of his prison, peering through the holes in the encrusted grate into the dimness beyond.

  "Who's there?" he growled.

  Scarcely visible in the darkened corridor outside his cell was the lissome figure of the woman he had encountered in the halls of the mansion above. She shrank away from the grate, one pale hand at her throat.

  "How did you know I was here?" she stammered.

  "You wear a scent in your hair. It is out of place in this pit."

  The woman fumbled awkwardly at her belt for a moment, then there was a bright spark of flint on steel. A small, golden flame began guttering from an oil lamp that she thrust forward with one hand.

  "What is your name?" she asked in a stronger voice.

  "Conan," he replied.

  The mellow light revealed the woman in full, her skin gleaming dusky ivory. Dark leggings clung to shapely legs.

  A simple brown tunic was belted tightly around her trim waist and fell open at her throat.

  "Let me out," rumbled the Cimmerian. In spite of the situation, his eyes were drawn to her beauty, captured by the loose fall of her lush black hair and the elegant oval of her face.

  "A curious name." Her gaze seemed to pierce the cell's iron door, moving over the Cimmerian with a restless curiosity.

  "If you do not set me free before dawn, it will be the name of a dead man," Conan said.

  "Then you have a few hours of life remaining. Who are you, thief?" The barbarian heaved an exasperated sigh and gripped the bars of his prison with both hands.

  "I am Conan, a Cimmerian."

  "What kind of a thief breaks into the home of an accomplished sorceress and yet scruples to kill one who discovers him therein?" The tiny flame of the oil lamp was mirrored in her eyes.

  "Listen to me, woman. This amulet around my neck was placed there by Shakar the Keshanian. He charged me with breaking into this house and stealing a small silver chest. If I do not return with the chest by sunrise, his amulet will slay me with hellfire. Set me free and I swear by Crom to do nothing to harm anyone in this house. I will return to Shakar without your silver box and seek to persuade him to remove the amulet at sword's point."