The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  Something struck him atop the head. He recoiled involuntarily, jerking backwards so that he almost fell from the ledge. His right hand clawed at the air and caught the rope.

  Conan was above him. Heng Shih gripped the line and stared up along the cliff face to where it vanished into lashing clouds of grit. The rock was almost featurelessly smooth, devoid of all but the tiniest irregularities. These had apparently sufficed. Conan had scaled the wall to its summit.

  Heng Shih gave the rope a yank. It held fast. With repeated grunting and effort, the Khitan went hand-over-hand up the rope. He braced his feet and knees upon the slippery rock face when he could, but depended on the strength of his upper body to draw him to safety. The muscles of his shoulders quivered with effort, and he found himself slowing. Dust and sweat stung his eyes. His boots slid over stone, striving for purchase and finding none. Then the rope began to rise of its own accord, reeling him in like an ungainly fish until he was drawn over the edge of the cliff. Heng Shih scrambled onto level ground, released the rope, and stood with his hands on his knees, breathing deeply.

  Conan of Cimmeria unwound the rope from his fists, clapped the Khitan on the back, and unleashed a guffaw audible even above the wind.

  "Thought you'd lost me, eh? It takes more than a bit of climbing to stop a Cimmerian. Come, we're almost there."

  The canyon wall continued only another dozen paces before it reached the courtyard's corner and angled sharply inward to form the back wall of the natural cul-de-sac. They had climbed to the far corner of the courtyard and now stood a mere spear's cast from the Palace of Cetriss.

  The Khitan found that he could discern the massive pillars of the palace's facade, flickering in and out of visibility between veils of windblown sand. Its outlines shifted, giving it the appearance of a sinister mirage created by the ferocious storm.

  The footing was blessedly even. Conan and Heng Shih climbed a low ridge of weathered stone, and passed beyond the courtyard. The dark and shadowy mass that they had seen through the storm now rose directly before them. Their harrowing climb had brought them up beside the palace roof. The uppermost portion of the Palace of Cetriss was fashioned from a section of canyon that rose in a promontory, towering above all around it. The palace's flank lifted from the stone at their feet as sharply as a man-made wall sprang from a city's cobbled sidewalk. Gazing up its face almost twenty feet to the tortured sky, Heng Shih found himself wishing that he could see so much as a single star. Conan walked beside the wall, trailing the fingers of one hand along it. He turned to the Khitan, slapping his palm on the wall and shouting above the gusts.

  "It's been worked. Leveled and sanded. Long ago."

  Heng Shih nodded that he understood, wondering if this meant the Cimmerian would be unable to scale it. They walked for a few more moments, passing over almost-level stone, with Conan staring ceaselessly up at the wall. At length he stopped, pointing high to a single fissure marring the smooth surface. As Heng Shih looked on, the Cimmerian took several steps back, then ran forward and leapt up at the slender split in the stone wall. His body seemed to fly into place and stick, like a dagger hurled into soft wood. Steely fingers dug into the narrow gap, supporting the full weight of his powerful frame. He writhed, clawing his way up the wall with his fingertips alone. After an instant of breathless struggle, his hands found purchase atop the wall. Then his legs swung up and he was over the top, out of sight.

  Heng Shih stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head. He reflected upon how reluctant he had been to allow the barbarian to accompany Lady Zelandra's expedition. He grimaced, tugged the wrapped silk away from his lips, and spat downwind. The rope came tumbling down the wall to him. He flexed his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and climbed.

  The roof of the Palace of Cetriss was as large as the courtyard, rectangular, and bounded by a low wall that reached to a man's hip. It was as level as a floor beneath their feet and patterned with whirling eddies of sand. In its center lay a wooden board as thick and heavy as a tavern's tabletop. Conan knelt beside this anomaly and, as Heng Shih watched nervously, pressed an ear to the rough wood. He rose quickly and padded to the Khitan's side.

  "An entrance," he explained. "Probably guarded. Look here." The barbarian went to one knee again, pointing out a collection of odd items in the blowing sand of the rooftop. Five black candles were set in congealed pools of their own melted wax. Each was positioned at one of the five points of a large star inscribed upon the roof's surface.

  Strange symbols and traceries stained the stone on all sides of the great pentagram.

  "I'll wager this is where the Stygian cast forth his image to pester your mistress," said Conan.

  The mention of Zelandra drove a surge of fresh energy through Heng Shih's tired body. He jogged to the front of the palace, motioning for Conan to follow. Gripping the carved rim of the low wall, the Khitan leaned over the courtyard and peered below. The flattened-facade above the great pillars stretched down about ten feet. Below that he could make out the protruding cornice of one of the pillars. Conan moved toward the facade's center, where another slim fissure split the low wall, and began unspooling the rope.

  "We'll go down here. We want to swing in between the pillars."

  Heng Shih watched as the Cimmerian tied a heavy knot in the rope's tail. Conan stood on the cord and wrenched upon it to tighten the knot.

  Then he fit the rope into the fissure, Wedging the knot flat against the inside of the wall and carelessly tossing the remainder over into the courtyard to dangle in space.

  "It should hold, unless our weight tears the knot loose or the stone cuts the rope." Conan stretched like a lazy tiger, seemingly confident and unconcerned. Heng Shih swallowed heavily.

  "I'll go first," said the barbarian as he straddled the wall and grasped the line. With a lithe twist, Conan rolled over the edge and began to lower himself down the rope. Sandy gusts tore at him, trying to pluck him loose from the wall and swing his body like a pendulum.

  The Cimmerian fought the wind, staying in close to the carved stone face. When Conan reached the base of the facade, he planted the soles of his boots against the wall, kicked back, and slid down the rope.

  Then he swung out of sight beneath the facade and between the pillars.

  The skin between the Khitan's shoulder blades tingled as the rope stayed taut and Conan failed to reappear. After a long moment the rope went slack and trailed back into view, flailing loosely in the relentless wind. Heng Shih briefly considered that Conan might have fallen, or worse, swung right into a room full of waiting soldiers.

  Then he seized the rope and drew himself over the wall.

  He slid too quickly down over the facade; its ancient, faded inscriptions rasped his knees and elbows. The rope felt thin and inadequate in his fists. Heng Shih slipped, dropping below the facade and dangling between two of the pillars, which loomed to either side like huge and shadowy sentries. The wind spun him on the rope, swinging him to and fro helplessly. The black square of an open window beckoned to Heng Shih, recessed beneath the overhanging facade less than ten feet away. Hurling his legs forcibly out and away from the palace wall, the Khitan swung himself under the overhang and up to the window.

  Deftly hooking a boot over the sill, he pulled himself toward safety.

  When one fist released the rope and reached for the window's edge, a strong hand thrust out to catch him and drag him in. Heng Shih tumbled into a darkened room, landing on his much-abused knees. Conan stood beside him, his silken mask discarded, a fierce white grin creasing his hard countenance. His scimitar shone naked in his fist. Heng Shih stood and drew his own sword. He and the Cimmerian were inside the Palace of Cetriss.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  -

  The armored soldier thrust Neesa through the portal and into the huge stone room. She turned, snarling in hot-eyed defiance and straining at the chains that clasped her hands behind her back. Zelandra, similarly bound, stumbled against the scribe and staggered for bal
ance. A lance of poignant pain thrust through Neesa, undercutting her rage with sorrow. Zelandra was moving like an aged and infirm crone.

  "Are you all right, milady?" she asked, trying to sound strong and unafraid. The soldiers pushed into the room behind the women, surrounding them.

  "You were told to stay silent. Obey or I'll slice out your tongue,"

  said the Stygian who had shoved her. He thumbed the edge of his shortsword with crude suggestion.

  The tallest of the soldiers spoke in a voice of calm authority. "Easy, Daphrah. The master wants them in one piece."

  "Erlik's fangs," cursed the one called Daphrah. "This one threw a dagger into Teh-Harpa's throat as neat as you please. I hope the master feeds them to the lotus."

  Wrenching her gaze from the raw hatred in the eyes of Daphrah, Neesa looked around the room. It was massively vaulted and circular, lighted by a collection of strange globes set around the walls. These crystalline spheres appeared to hold only water and some sort of leafy plant, yet they shone with strong yellow light. The center of the room was dominated by a statue the size of a small house. It was a carven sphinx of the sort occasionally seen in Stygia, but it was exceptionally large, fashioned of glossy black stone, and had no facial features. Between its paws lay a flat slab of similar black stone.

  Gazing at the altar and its faceless idol, Neesa felt her blood slow and grow cold. What manner of men worshipped such a god?

  The women were herded into the room's center until they stood beneath the overhanging oval of the statue's blank visage. Neesa retreated before the advancing mercenaries, halting when she backed into the altar slab. She sat upon it defiantly, curling her lips in a sneer of disdain. Zelandra shuffled to her side, head bent. The lady's silver-threaded hair was bloodied at the crown by the blow of a sword hilt. A cruel leather gag had been fastened about her head to prevent her from casting any spells. Neesa doubted that Zelandra would have been able to work any sorcery even without the gag. Her mistress, seemed taxed by merely standing upright.

  Neesa clenched her eyes shut. She should have physically fought Zelandra to keep her from building the fire.

  The camp should have been moved immediately, just as Conan had said.

  They had been taken so swiftly. It seemed only a moment ago that she was arguing with Zelandra inside the tent. Her mistress had been so adamant about being safe and only needing some rest, all the while clinging with hands like gnarled talons to that damned silver box. Then there were voices outside the tent, and even Zelandra, for all her illness, could tell that they were not the voices of Conan and Heng Shih. The women burst out of the tent together, and there were Stygian soldiers coming over the rim of the hill. Neesa had taken the foremost with her nape-dagger and Zelandra had just enough time to bark out a single spell. She sent an incandescent bolt of fiery green light from the palm of her hand into the horrified face of the second Stygian.

  Then the soldiers were upon them. Zelandra had clawed at her silver box, trying to unwrap it, until the pommel of a sword dashed her turban from her head and sent her sprawling. Neesa drew another dagger, screaming out for Conan and Heng Shih, not quite able to believe that they weren't there. The warriors had encircled her, obviously unwilling to do harm unless it was necessary and wary of the knife she held ready to throw. The blade of a shortsword held to the throat of the stunned Zelandra was sufficient threat to get her to toss her dagger aside.

  Then she had been struck down by the mailed fist of the one called Daphrah. The mercenaries had milled about for a short time, looking for her companions, whom they shortly determined had fled. Satisfied that they had captured the sorceress that Ethram-Fal desired, and fearful of the coming storm, the soldiers escorted their captives back along the canyon. En route, the sandstorm fell upon them, railing and screaming in the narrow passage. Neesa had faced it numbly. Her thoughts seemed somehow paralyzed by the fact that Conan and Heng Shih had failed to come to her aid.

  Even the marvelous facade of the Palace of Cetriss, wreathed in swirling, windblown dust, had made little impression upon her. The labyrinthine corridors within led them through empty rooms as silent as sepulchers, through a great hall full of neatly arranged cots, and finally to this fearful temple.

  Now they waited for the one who ruled here.

  Zelandra gave a low moan, grasping at her belt. Dangling leather thongs showed where the silver casket had been cut away. The tall, hawk-faced captain held the box in one hand. He observed Zelandra's distress dispassionately, glancing from her mindlessly grasping hands to the box in his grasp. Rage and helplessness warred in Neesa's breast until it felt as though her heart would be torn asunder.

  Footfalls came from the far door. The clustered crowd of mercenaries parted, allowing a small, gray-robed figure to approach. The man was shorter than Neesa and hunched slightly, his head concealed beneath the hood of his robe. His sandaled feet slapped smartly on the smooth stone floor. Drawing to a stop before the women, he considered them for a moment, then crossed his arms over his narrow chest.

  "Ah, Zelandra," came a soft voice from within the hood. It held pity and amusement in equal measures. "Your powers of endurance are nothing less than remarkable. I was a fool to underestimate you. But you were the greater fool to underestimate my Emerald Lotus."

  Zelandra did not respond, but stared sightlessly forward, one arm crooked about her ribs and the other clutching uselessly at the place on her belt where the box of Emerald Lotus had once hung.

  "Ath," called the wizard imperiously. "Loose the lady's companion from her bonds and affix her to the altar."

  The tall soldier advanced as commanded, passing Zelandra's silver box to a comrade, and producing a key from within his polished breastplate.

  Terror seized Neesa by the throat, sending a shuddering palsy down through her belly. She crouched and showed her teeth, clenching her fists to fight. The captain drew to a stop, his stern face betraying no emotion.

  "Now, now," said the robed man gently. "Don't be a fool. You may still survive unscathed. All depends upon your mistress. It will be much the worse for you if you struggle. Think of what might befall you here if you displease me. Imagine."

  Neesa went limp, half swooning as Ath unfastened her bonds. The captain put a hand beneath each of her arms and hoisted her easily up onto the altar. She went unresisting, clenching her eyes closed as he used lengths of rawhide to tie wrists and ankles to the black metal rings set in each of the altar's four corners.

  "Very good," said the robed man, then louder: "Now, men, leave me. Be vigilant. These two may have friends. Hep-Kahl, give her box to me.

  Ath, you may stay."

  Subdued grumbles of disappointment came to Neesa's ears. All of her senses seemed heightened to an unendurable pitch. The altar felt much colder against her spine than it should have. She lifted her head and saw the soldiers filtering out the doors. The last stragglers looked behind themselves wistfully.

  "Ath, remove the lady's gag. Do not worry, I fear that she is beyond any wizardry at this point."

  Neesa kept her head raised to watch even as the muscles of her neck began to ache dully. The gag fell away from Zelandra's mouth, though she seemed to take no notice. Her eyes were dull, staring at nothing.

  The tall warrior stepped back uneasily, one hand on the hilt of his heavy, northern broadsword.

  The sorcerer lifted his hands and lowered the hood. His countenance wrung an involuntary gasp from Neesa. The bulging brow and shrunken jaw marked Ethram-Fal as a man who would never be called handsome, but the ravages of the Emerald Lotus had transformed him into something that could scarcely be called human. Tufts of mouse-brown hair stood out from his mottled scalp. His complexion had faded from the dusky tone of a healthy Stygian to a grayish pallor better suited to a corpse. The wasted flesh of his face bore an infinitude of tiny wrinkles, giving him the appearance of an animated mummy. The whites of his eyes shone pale green.

  "Now, lady, we have so much to discuss."

  Ze
landra might have been deaf. She stood like a sleepwalker, unaware of the grim tableau that surrounded her.

  "Ah, I know what you need," said Ethram-Fal happily. "Look here, milady." With a flourish, he thrust the silver box aloft. Zelandra's eyes focused suddenly, locking onto the gleaming casket.

  "Come, a few grains should make you more communicative." He opened the box and held it so that she could see the contents. Zelandra took a hesitant, dragging step forward. Her arms hung lax at her sides.

  "Yes, that's very good. You want to feel better, don't you?"

  Zelandra took three pained steps toward the Stygian and stretched out her hands blindly.

  "So little left," mused Ethram-Fal. "Even so, you shall get only a taste." He used two fingers to scoop a bit of the deep green powder out of the box, and then extended his hand to the Lady Zelandra.

  "There will be more if we can reach an agreement. All that you like, in fact."

  The sorcerer caught his breath as Zelandra took two more steps toward him, grasped his wrist with both hands, and began to lick the Emerald Lotus from his proffered fingers.

  Ethram-Fal threw back his head and laughed like a fiend out of hell.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  -

  The chamber was square, hewn directly from the canyon wall, and without any furnishings. It was obvious that it had not been occupied, or perhaps even visited, for a very long time. A small, hardened drift of sand stretched across the floor, the accumulation of ages. On the far wall a single portal opened on darkness. The storm raged unabated outside, scouring the window frame with whips of sand.

  The two warriors leaned against the wall to either side of the window, resting a moment and taking stock of their situation. The only sound was that of the wind. Conan fumbled beneath his cloak, pulling into view a small, leather backpack that Heng Shih hadn't seen. The Cimmerian opened it and produced a wineskin.