The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Down a final length of hall and around a corner, the sorcerer came upon his captain, Ath, standing guard beside a doorway. A luminous sphere of crystal filled a niche in the wall. It gave off a steady yellow-green glow that painted the soldier's polished armor with warm light.

  "My Lord," said Ath, bowing low.

  "Light," commanded Ethram-Fal, striding past his tall captain and into the circular chamber. The small room remained as it had ever been, save that light globes had been placed in niches set to either side of the doorway. Ath touched these with his own globe, and they brightened so that the cylindrical room blazed with light.

  Above their heads the band of writhing hieroglyphics that encircled the walls was clearly visible. Above that a circular balcony of black metal spanning the room's circumference could now be seen. Higher still arched the chamber's domed roof. But the two men's eyes rose no higher than the floor.

  In the center of the room lay the leathery husk of a human body wrapped in a tangle of dry, thorny growths. The withered corpse of Ethram-Fal's luckless apprentice, still clad in yellow tatters, was embedded in the tight embrace of dozens of crooked and browning branches. There were no flowers to be seen.

  "Blood of Mordiggian!" Ethram-Fal cursed as fear swelled in his voice.

  "It is dying!" A sick horror swept through his body, weakening his limbs and closing his throat. Had he killed his dreams even as they were being born, and done so with stupid negligence? The thought was too much to bear. The little sorcerer swayed on his feet.

  "Ath," he rasped, "fetch a pack pony." The soldier turned to the door.

  "Hurry!" cried his master, as Ath ran from the room.

  The captain was gone long enough for Ethram-Fal to scourge himself a thousand times over because of the foolish and unnecessary nature of his predicament. When he finally heard the scuff of boots and hooves in the outer hall, he felt the relief that comes with action.

  Ath led the party's smallest pack pony into the circular room. The horse was dun-colored and long-maned. Saddleless, it stood blinking in the unnatural yellow-green illumination as the soldier bent and hobbled its legs with lengths of rawhide.

  "Here," said Ethram-Fal, "bring it here."

  Ath cooed softly to the beast, drawing it forward. Suddenly, the pony seemed to notice the overgrown corpse and shied away, eyes rolling whitely.

  "Here, Ath!" insisted the sorcerer. The tall soldier pulled helplessly at the horse's reins.

  "He's afraid, My Lord."

  Ethram-Fal snatched out his irregularly shaped dagger and moved toward the hobbled pony with the abrupt swiftness of a pouncing spider.

  Ath drew back involuntarily at the sight of his master advancing with clenched teeth, wild eyes, and bared steel. The sorcerer seized the pony's forelock and slashed its throat with a single quick, brutal stroke. The beast gave a pathetic whinnying cry as its blood splashed on the stone floor. It reared, then fell forward on its knees as Ethram-Fal staggered back, crimsoned knife in one rigid fist.

  There was a sound like the dry crumpling of aged parchment, and the fungus-riddled corpse moved. Barbed growths beneath the body stirred, rasping on rock, and the Emerald Lotus scuttled across the floor like a gargantuan crab. It battened onto the pony, climbing the animal's breast to sink thorned branches into its gaping throat.

  "Holy Mitra!" Ath stumbled backward out of the room, his face pale as ash; but Ethram-Fal stood his ground, held by an astonished fascination that was stronger than fear.

  The horse collapsed heavily with the nightmarish growth clutching it in a loathsome embrace, whipping suddenly animate branches around its body as it fell. The barbed and hooked limbs extended impossibly, lashing the air like the tentacles of an octopus.

  Realizing his danger, Ethram-Fal tried to dodge past the monstrosity and out the door. A spiked branch flailed against his right leg in passing, laying open the flesh of his calf and drawing a cry of pain.

  The sorcerer reeled, but Ath lunged back into the room, seizing his master's shoulders and dragging him bodily out into the hall. The two fell against the wall opposite the doorway and would have fled had not the Emerald Lotus suddenly ceased to move. The room went silent and the pony's body lay still, half blanketed by the grotesque bulk of the vampiric fungus.

  Ethram-Fal bent to nurse the wound in his calf, but Ath could only stare into the circular room with wide eyes.

  "That was well done, Ath. There will be an extra leaf for you tonight."

  The sorcerer's voice held a satisfaction and pleasure that were lost on his captain, who said nothing.

  "I imagined that it might react more swiftly to nourishment since it did not have to revive itself from spores," said Ethram-Fal absently as he tightened a torn strip of his robe around his wounded calf.

  "I did not expect it to seek nourishment on its own. I see now why the room was designed as it is. We must feed it from the balcony above or its blood madness, like that of a shark of the Vilayet Sea, may lead it to attack us. You must have the men build some sort of door for the room as well, Ath."

  The tall captain wiped his brow and nodded mutely. Then Ethram-Fal caught his breath as the Emerald Lotus and its prey, shuddered briefly and broke into bloom.

  Chapter Thirteen

  -

  A horseman rode through Akkharia's market square. A voluminous caftan swathed his rangy body, as though he and his mount had already traversed the desert wastelands far to the east. The rider sat his horse stiffly, looking neither to the right nor left at the teeming activity of the open-air market around him.

  Beneath gaudy canopies, merchants hawked their wares to the interested and the disinterested alike, crying out the merits of their products in lilting, sing-song cadence. Stalls packed with richly woven clothing, worked metals, and medicines crowded others heaped high with Shem's bountiful harvest of dates, figs, grapes, pomegranates, and almonds.

  All drew customers willing to haggle for what they sought, filling the dusty afternoon air with the clamor of a thousand disputing voices.

  A potter, clad in the spattered robes of his profession, lunged from, his sparsely attended stall brandishing a slender ceramic flask.

  "Ho, warrior!" he shouted to the rider. "I have just the wine vessel a traveler needs! Flat enough to strap to your saddlebag and as sturdy as stone, it will outlast a wineskin by years! With Bel as my witness, I fired it myself and it is yours for the meager sum of three silvers!"

  The man on the horse rode past as though he heard nothing, not even turning his head to look upon the insistent merchant. The potter's continued declamation of the wonders of his work were soon lost in the tumult as the rider moved on.

  The city wall loomed ahead, a massive fortification of sun-bleached brick that rose to four times the height of a tall man. The imposing caravan gate stood wide open, but was clogged with travelers both entering and leaving Akkharia. The arched opening was decorated with inlaid tiles of vivid blue; two golden ceramic dragons struggled above the gate in a time-worn bas relief.

  The rider nudged his skittish horse into the slow stream of humanity before the towering gate. He drew the eyes of the guards, for most men led their beasts into or out of the city, and the mounted man overtopped all heads in the seething throng. But the guards took note of the rider's size and said nothing. After all, there was no law against riding from the city; dismounting was merely a courtesy to the thickly packed crowd.

  Another man also noticed the horseman and shouldered into the press toward him. He was a stout Shemite with a florid face, dressed in colorful silks that marked him as a wealthy merchant.

  "Your pardon, sir," he cried, as he struggled toward the rider. Ducking around a wooden cart bearing stacked cages full of squawking chickens, the merchant drew up beside the mounted man, who did not slow his pace or otherwise acknowledge the merchant's presence.

  "You're not traveling the Caravan Road alone are you? It is most dangerous for a single traveler, even a slayer like yourself." The merchant panted
as he dodged along beside the rider, his florid face growing even redder. "Take passage with my party and be a guard. I pay as well as any betwixt here and Aghrapur."

  The horseman did not respond. The merchant made a wordless sound of exasperation and snatched the horse's reins, drawing the beast up short amid the moving crowd.

  "I tell you that the Caravan Road is dangerous for a man alone. Zuagirs roam the plains as well as the hills these days. You should¦"

  The rider bent rigidly from the waist, leaning over and thrusting his face into the merchant's. Eyes like frosted balls of black glass stared out of a sunken, yellowed visage. Bearded lips twitched over clenched teeth, throwing a pale scar into bold relief.

  "Death," said the rider in a voice like two stones grating together.

  The merchant released the reins and the rider put spurs to his mount, plunging forward into the throng, out through the gate and into the open air beyond.

  The crowd dispersed along the wide, dirt road as the rider urged his horse to a full gallop. Around him the golden sun fell upon the sprawling, verdant grasslands of Shem, but the horseman was blind to all but his mission. Caftan flapping about him, Gulbanda looked to the horizon, his glazed eyes full of pain and purpose.

  "Death," he said again, and the wind tore the word from his yellow lips.

  Chapter Fourteen

  -

  Caravan routes lay across the length and breadth of Shem like an intricate system of arteries, bearing the ceaseless trade that was the mighty nation's lifeblood. From the gleaming ziggurats of the lush western coast to the sprawling tent-cities of the arid east, Shem, in all her contrasts, was united by the continuous flow of commerce. The routes the trading caravans followed ranged from broad roadways of bare, hard-packed earth to vague trails but rarely traversed.

  Two days' travel east out of Akkharia, the Caravan Road forked, sending a branch questing north toward prosperous Eruk and ancient Shumir, while the original route continued east toward the ill-regarded city of Sabatea. Countless sub-routes broke south out of the main road,

  seeking the smaller cities and villages built along the fertile coast of the world-girdling River Styx.

  Along the central route to Sabatea came four riders leading two well-laden pack horses. The party moved at a steady pace upon a dusty road that cleft luxuriant meadows blanketing low, rolling hills. The sun shone down from a cloudless, brassy sky. Off to the north, where the hills rose in slow undulations, a scattered herd of cattle grazed in a sea of waving grass.

  Conan of Cimmeria tugged at the throat of his new shirt of white silk, popping stitches in the collar to loosen it around his bull neck. Also new were the blue cotton breeches tucked into the tops of his battered old boots. Heng Shih had reluctantly furnished the barbarian with clothes from his own wardrobe. The size and weight of the two men were similar, but the shape of their frames was so different that Conan found the garments binding where they should have been loose and baggy where they should have been tight. The collar of the shirt emitted another pop as he pulled at it, then ripped jaggedly down across his breast, revealing Conan's weathered and rust-spotted mail beneath.

  Heng Shih winced at the tearing sound and let loose a sigh audible even above the clomping of the horses' hooves. Turning in the saddle, Conan gave the Khitan a wide grin of infuriating friendliness. Then the Cimmerian nudged his mount up toward Neesa.

  The scribe had never ceased looking about herself in wide-eyed wonder since they had passed through Akkharia's gates. As Conan moved up beside her, she took her eyes from the distant hills, lowered the hand shading her face from the sun and favored him with a shy smile. The barbarian nodded expressionlessly. For the last two days Neesa had taken pains to address him only when necessary, and then to speak only in the most bland and business-like fashion. Now her smile was warm and friendly, if somewhat wary. He wondered once again how long he would have to live before he found the ways of women to be predictable.

  He reined up alongside the Lady Zelandra, who led the small caravan on her roan. The sorceress took little note of him, her eyes focused on the hazy, far-off point where the road met the horizon.

  Conan noticed a bulky leather pouch attached to her belt. It thumped heavily against her rounded hip with each step her horse took.

  "Milady," said Conan roughly, "that looks to be uncomfortable. There is room in my saddlebags. If you wish, you can stow it there."

  Zelandra shook her head. "No, Conan, this is my cask of Emerald Lotus.

  I must have it on my person at all times in case the craving grows too great." As she spoke, her voice softened with shame and her gaze fell to the road passing beneath the horses' hooves.

  "Crom," murmured the Cimmerian, "you are a canny woman and a sorceress in the bargain. How is it that you are enslaved to a magical powder?"

  The barbarian's natural bluntness did not seem to disturb the Lady Zelandra. She sat up straight in her saddle. The warm breeze drew her silver-threaded hair out for a moment in a fluttering pennant.

  "I have lived on an inheritance for all of my life, Conan. It left me free to indulge in my studies in sorcery and the healing arts. The inheritance is now much depleted. Of almost a score of servants, now only Heng Shih, Neesa, and a pair of drunken guardsmen remain."

  Conan, having witnessed the incompetence of her guardsmen firsthand, merely nodded. "With the inheritance gone, you sought employment with King Sumuabi as his Court Wizard."

  "Yes, it seemed a worthy way to continue my lifestyle as scholar and sorceress. I should have been granted the position immediately if Shakar the Keshanian had not also offered his services to the king. To think that Sumuabi cannot choose between that jester and me!"

  The Cimmerian frowned reflectively. "I have heard rumors that King Sumuabi may soon lead Akkharia to war. If this be so, he would likely seek a wizard with war-like skills. Perhaps he meant to set you and the Keshanian at each other's throats and select the stronger as his sorcerer."

  Zelandra looked at the barbarian, her brows raised in surprise. "I hadn't thought of that. How barbaric!" She flushed. "I'm sorry, Conan.

  I didn't mean

  "It is nothing, though that sort of guile sounds damned civilized to me."

  "Well, we were at a stand-off in any case. When Ethram-Fal sought audience with me in the guise of Eldred the Trader, I was pleased to see that he offered a number of rare and exotic magical components for sale. I should have been more wary when he claimed to have acquired a quantity of the Emerald Lotus."

  "You knew of this lotus?"

  "It is legend, supposedly created by Cetriss, a mage of Old Stygia, who bargained with the Dark Gods for it. It is said that the sorcerous power of the lotus helped the seers of Old Stygia keep the world-hungering empire of Acheron at bay almost three thousand years ago. Legends disagree as to its uses and effect, but all agree that Cetriss saw little value in his lotus or in any of the works of man and that he devoted his life to the pursuit of immortality. Disdaining his fame and power, he disappeared into the wilderness, taking the secret of the Emerald Lotus with him. You see? The Emerald Lotus is like the perfect love philter or the fountain whose waters bestow youth: a fable born of men's wishful imagining."

  Conan squinted skeptically in the sun. "Yet you accepted it from a stranger?"

  "It was easy to ascertain that it was not a natural lotus and easier still to determine that it was not a poison. When Eldred”I mean Ethram-Fal”told me that he had just sold a casket of it to Shakar the Keshanian, I felt bound to at least experiment with the stuff. How could I know?" She paused, mouth twisting into a wry smile. "He sold it to me at a very reasonable price," she added with measured irony, drawing a gusty laugh from the barbarian.

  "I'll wager he did at that. And the next thing you know the powder has you by the throat?"

  Zelandra's left hand shot out to seize his thick right forearm in a cold-fingered grasp. She stared at the Cimmerian with darkly imploring eyes.

  "You don't know what
it's like. When I first sampled it I felt that there was nothing in the world that I might attempt that would not come to success. There was a mad confidence and exhilaration unlike anything I have ever known. My sorcery almost doubled in its potency. Complex spells seemed obvious. Spells I knew increased in power and effectiveness. It was like a wild and glorious dream until it began to fade. Then came the craving, and I knew that I was lost."

  Her hand fell from his arm. She blinked rapidly, as though holding back tears. Conan pretended not to notice her discomfiture, looking ahead wordlessly.

  "It is like a leech upon the flesh of my soul." Zelandra's voice had dropped to a husky whisper, but she continued to speak as though driven by some grim compulsion. "At first I could think of nothing but the damnable powder and the power it brought, but I held myself in check. I vowed that each dose I took would be smaller than the last, if only by a few grains. And so it has been since the first time I tasted it. I had hoped to lower the quantity until I needed none. It is not so easy.

  My supply is running low and there is simply not enough left to safely purge myself of it. If I could get more, then I might be able to taper off completely, but without a greater supply of Emerald Lotus I shall surely die."

  For a moment there was a silence, broken only by the scuff of hooves, the creaking of saddle gear, and the soft surge of the summer wind.

  "So," Conan said evenly, "we ride into Stygia and maybe into hell itself just to get you more of this cursed powder?"

  "No!" Zelandra's head snapped up, her profile hawklike against the clear sky. "No, Ethram-Fal deceived and poisoned me as an experiment.

  And now the arrogant bastard would use his drug's power over me to make me his slave. I'll see him die for it."

  The Cimmerian grinned fiercely and, digging his heels into his horse's flanks, urged the beast to greater speed.