The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  `It followed me,' she shivered. `I saw it climbing the cliffs.'

  `And following his instinct, he lurked in the shadow of the cliff, instead of following you out across the plateau. His kind are creatures of darkness and the silent places, haters of sun and moon.'

  `Do you suppose there are others?'

  `No, else the pirates had been attacked when they went through the woods. The gray ape is wary, for all his strength, as shown by his hesitancy in falling upon us in the thicket. His lust for you must have been great, to have driven him to attack us finally in the open. What-'

  He started and wheeled back toward the way they had come. The night had been split by an awful scream. It came from the ruins.

  Instantly there followed a mad medley of yells, shrieks and cries of blasphemous agony. Though accompanied by a ringing of steel, the sounds were of massacre rather than battle.

  Conan stood frozen, the girl clinging to him in a frenzy of terror. The clamor rose to a crescendo of madness, and then the Cimmerian turned and went swiftly toward the rim of the plateau, with its fringe of moon-limned trees. Olivia's legs were trembling so that she could not walk; so he carried her, and her heart calmed its frantic pounding as she nestled into his cradling arms.

  They passed under the shadowy forest, but the clusters of blackness held no terrors, the rifts of silver discovered no grisly shape. Night-birds murmured slumberously. The yells of slaughter dwindled behind them, masked in the distance to a confused jumble of sound. Somewhere a parrot called, like an eery echo: `Yagkoolan yok tha, xuthalla!' So they came to the tree-fringed water's edge and saw the galley lying at anchor, her sail shining white in the moonlight. Already the stars were paling for dawn.

  4

  In the ghastly whiteness of dawn a handful of tattered, bloodstained figures staggered through the trees and out on to the narrow beach. There were forty-four of them, and they were a cowed and demoralized band. With panting haste they plunged into the water and began to wade toward the galley, when a stern challenge brought them up standing.

  Etched against the whitening sky they saw Conan the Cimmerian standing in the bows, sword in hand, his black mane tossing in the dawn wind.

  `Stand!' he ordered. `Come no nearer. What would you have, dogs?'

  `Let us come aboard!' croaked a hairy rogue fingering a bloody stump of ear. `We'd be gone from this devil's island.'

  `The first man who tries to climb over the side, I'll split his skull,' promised Conan.

  They were forty-four to one, but he held the whip-hand. The fight had been hammered out of them.

  `Let us come aboard, good Conan,' whined a red-sashed Zamorian, glancing fearfully over his shoulder at the silent woods. `We have been so mauled, bitten, scratched and rended, and are so weary from fighting and running, that not one of us can lift a sword.'

  `Where is that dog Aratus?' demanded Conan.

  `Dead, with the others! It was devils fell upon us! They were rending us to pieces before we could awake - a dozen good rovers died in their sleep. The ruins were full of flame-eyed shadows, with tearing fangs and sharp talons.'

  `Aye! put in another corsair. `They were the demons of the isle, which took the forms of molten images, to befool us. Ishtar! We lay down to sleep among them. We are no cowards. We fought them as long as mortal man may strive against the powers of darkness. Then we broke away and left them tearing at the corpses like jackals. But surely they'll pursue us.'

  `Aye, let us come aboard!' clamored a lean Shemite. `Let us come in peace, or we must come sword in hand, and though we be so weary you will doubtless slay many of us, yet you can not prevail against us many.'

  `Then I'll knock a hole in the planks and sink her,' answered Conan grimly. A frantic chorus of expostulation rose, which Conan silenced with a lion-like roar.

  `Dogs! Must I aid my enemies? Shall I let you come aboard and cut out my heart?'

  `Nay, nay!' they cried eagerly. `Friends - friends, Conan. We are thy comrades! We be all lusty rogues together. We hate the king of Turan, not each other.'

  Their gaze hung on his brown, frowning face.

  `Then if I am one of the Brotherhood,' he grunted, `the laws of the Trade apply to me; and since I killed your chief in fair fight, then I am your captain!'

  There was no dissent. The pirates were too cowed and battered to have any thought except a desire to get away from that island of fear. Conan's gaze sought out the bloodstained figure of the Corinthian.

  `How, Ivanos!' he challenged. `You took my part, once. Will you uphold my claims again?'

  `Aye, by Mitra!' The pirate, sensing the trend of feeling, was eager to ingratiate himself with the Cimmerian. `He is right, lads; he is our lawful captain!'

  A medley of acquiescence rose, lacking enthusiasm perhaps, but with sincerity accentuated by the feel of the silent woods behind them which might mask creeping ebony devils with red eyes and dripping talons.

  `Swear by the hilt,' Conan demanded.

  Forty-four sword-hilts were lifted toward him, and forty-four voices blended in the corsair's oath of allegiance.

  Conan grinned and sheathed his sword. `Come aboard, my bold swashbucklers, and take the oars.'

  He turned and lifted Olivia to her feet, from where she had crouched shielded by the gunwales.

  `And what of me, sir?' she asked.

  `What would you?' he countered, watching her narrowly.

  `To go with you, wherever your path may lie!' she cried, throwing her white arms about his bronzed neck.

  The pirates, clambering over the rail, gasped in amazement.

  `To sail a road of blood and slaughter?' he questioned. `This keel will stain the blue waves crimson wherever it plows.'

  `Aye, to sail with you on blue seas or red,' she answered passionately. `You are a barbarian, and I am an outcast, denied by my people. We are both pariahs, wanderers of earth. Oh, take me with you!'

  With a gusty laugh he lifted her to his fierce lips.

  `I'll make you Queen of the Blue Sea! Cast off there, dogs! We'll scorch King Yildiz's pantaloons yet, by Crom!'

  Conan the Champion

  The Sea of Storms

  For two days and three nights the terrible storm had carved the sea into a clashing army of shifting mountains, battling one another like the giants and the gods in the days when the world was young. Not for nothing was the Vilayet named the Sea of Storms, the Mother of the Tempest, and other titles that expressed the awe of men at the way the usually-placid inland sea could turn without notice into a savage, primeval chaos, the Grave of Sailors.

  The man who tossed helplessly upon the waves, lashed to the stump of a mast and a bit of decking, thought none of these things. Since the midst of the second day of the storm, when his ship had broken up under the relentless pounding of the sea, he had been afloat. By now he was nearly senseless from the tossing of the waves and the numbing cold of the water. He was able to keep only a single thought in his mind: The storm was taking him north, and the Vilayet narrowed to the north. Soon he must be tossed ashore, and that

  was his only chance for life. When he neared the land, he must cut himself free of the mast or risk being crushed as the heavy timber was dashed against beach or rock. Still in his belt was his long, curved Kothian dagger in its hide sheath. Frequently the man flexed his fingers so that he would be able to grasp its hilt when the time came. This and nothing more occupied his thoughts as the wind howled like demons in agony and the sea writhed beneath the flogging of the wind.

  Dawaz rose early on the morning after the storm to find what the sea had left. Many interesting things were yielded by the sea on such occasions, and sometimes they were things that could be turned to profit. Profit was never to be taken lightly. Thus, he wrapped himself warmly in woolen cloaks of local weaving and left his little trading post, the northernmost of many maintained by Kyros Brothers of Aghrapur.

  The post was situated in a tiny cove on the western shore of the Vilayet, where the sea was no more than a
league in breadth. The water was calm this morning. The Vilayet was a shallow sea, thus a wind that would cause no more than a heavy swell on the Western Ocean could stir titanic waves on the surface of the Vilayet. For the same reason, the cessation of the winds left the tideless sea calm within hours.

  Dawaz found a great deal of storm-wrack in the form of tree trunks, seaweed, and shredded vegetation, much of this blown up from the south. There were dead fish and an occasional marine mammal, but he saw no amber, which was among the sea's finest gifts. Finest of all would be a complete shipwreck, with a salvage-able cargo. Dawaz determined to send his servants north and south along the coast to search for such. It must be

  done discreetly, of course, for the kings thereabout claimed all such sea bounty as their personal property. He was about to go back to the post for his breakfast when he saw the corpse.

  Corpses were among the more common of the sea's yieldings, and had no value whatever. Sailors rarely had more jewelry than an earring, and this loinclothed figure plainly had not been a wealthy passenger. It had been a big man, and Dawaz would need his servants' aid to push the body back into the sea. He did not want this fellow's spirit haunting his post. The ghosts of drowned seamen properly belonged at sea, which was their element.

  He was about to turn his steps to the post when the corpse moved and groaned. Dawaz stared, fascinated. This human hulk was battered, savaged by the elements, and blue with cold, yet it lived. The man on the beach began to vomit copious amounts of seawater, and Dawaz went to fetch his servants.

  Conan awoke in the dim interior of a low, boothlike building, its walls constructed of flat stones piled without mortar and chinked with moss. The upper half of one long wall was a swinging, top-hinged shutter, designed to be propped outward in better weather so that the whole building might be used as a shop of sorts. Just now the shutter was tied down and draped with rough cloth against drafts. Bales and bundles filled most of the building, kegs and stacks of goods, some of them with Turanian writing upon them. A driftwood fee burned on a low hearth, the salt in the wood making crackling, multicolored sparks.

  He lay on a pallet of skins, and over him were rough woolen blankets. The room was heaving as if in a slow

  earthquake, but Conan knew that this was caused by his long sojourn among the tossing waves. It seemed that he had survived. He did not find that as surprising as many might have. He had survived more mortal threats than he could readily remember.

  There were at least two other men in the room. They could not be too unfriendly, since they had not cut his throat when they had the chance. As the lettering he could see was Turanian, he decided to try that tongue first.

  "What is this place?" His voice sounded more like the croak of a crow than the speech of a man, but it brought a heavily-bundled man to his side. The man's features were Turanian, as was his speech.

  "Welcome back to the land of the living, friend. I am happy to tell you that it is a dry land, albeit cold."

  "Any solid ground is better than the Vilayet in a storm," said Conan. "You are a coastal trader?"

  "For Kyros Brothers." The trader placed his fingertips against his breast and bowed very slightly. "I am Dawaz."

  "I am Conan of" He was about to say "of the Red Brotherhood," but thought better of it. "of Cimmeria. was serving on a ship somewhere to the south of here when we were caught by the storm." His stomach grumbled loudly, and his host signaled a servant. The servant, a Turanian of low caste, brought a carved wooden cup of steaming spiced wine.

  "This should settle your stomach a bit," said Dawaz. "Then we may try some solid food. Doubtless you've not eaten in days, and your belly was quite full of salt water, which I witnessed myself."

  "The only thing that's ever kept me from eating," Conan said with a little more life, "is already having a

  belly full of food." He took a long drink of the spiced wine, which was wonderfully bracing to a half-drowned man. "What land is this? Our ship had just paid a visit to a settlement near the northern border of Turan when we were struck by the storm." He thought it best not to mention that they had just finished looting the settlement.

  "You are far north of there," Dawaz told him.! "We are no more than fifty leagues from the northern'tip of the Vilayet, and beyond that is the land of snow-giants and dragons. Here there are no true kingdoms, just the petty domains of the local kinglets. Each of them claims wide lands, but none truly rules beyond the reach of his sword."

  Conan nodded. This was true of most of the North, which was still primitive and tribal in nature.

  The servant brought a bowl of thick, fragrant stew aid a stack of flat loaves, tough and leathery.

  "You are here late in the year," Conan observed as be ate. "Do you plan to winter here?"

  "We may have to," Dawaz admitted. He filled a cup for himself and poured more wine into Conan's. "The last ship of the season was supposed to come for us many days ago, to take us and the year's trade goods back to Agnrapur. Something must have befallen it. Perhaps the storm."

  Conan wondered whether that ship might have been ooe that he and the Brethren had looted. "Much can happen to a ship on the Vilayet. Will one of the local bogs protect you through the winter?"

  'Perhaps," Dawaz said moodily. "After all, they depend upon the southern trade for many goods they produce. However, they are also greedy, and are many bands of outlaws as well. It shall be a

  hard winter, and we shall be fortunate to get through it with our lives and goods intact." "Who rules here?" Conan asked. "The king who claims this stretch of coast is called Odoac. His nation, or more properly his tribe, are the Thungians. They are a crude people, who lust after gold and the silks and other luxuries of the South. For these they trade the furs they trap and the slaves they capture from other peoples."

  "Do you trade slaves?" Conan asked suspiciously. It was always possible that the merchant had saved him for other than generous reasons.

  "No. We have an agreement with the House of

  Yafdal that we trade only for nonliving goods and they have the slave trade. You really must have special ships to transport slaves, so it is not practical to deal in both. The slave compound is now empty, as the factor for Yafdal left a moon ago."

  Conan was relieved. There were many other questions he wanted to ask, but sleep overcame him before he could finish one of them.

  For the next two days the Cimmerian recovered from his ordeal. By the third day he was as strong as ever and fretting to be away. Dawaz wondered at the man's swift recovery. He had thought that Conan would have to be nursed along for at least a month, but except for a little shakiness in the first two days Conan had showed little effect from his experiences. Dawaz studied the strange barbarian. The man prowled catlike about the compound, eyeing the surrounding, tree-clad hills. Had Dawaz been a slaver, he might have entered Conan on his ledger as: "male, age about thirty, very powerful, black hair, blue eyes, skin fair but darkened by sun and

  weather, tall and sturdy, all teeth present and sound, northern in origin, prime stock."

  In the rare sunlight of early winter, Dawaz sat bun-died in his woolens, writing with a brush upon a scroll set on a low table before him. Conan strode up to him in the midst of his writing. The Cimmerian wore a wolfskin tunic, which Dawaz had given him, and leggings of wolfskin above his heavy sandals. This left his arms and thighs bare, and that seemed to suit his north-on blood. "What do you write?" he asked.

  "I flatter myself that I am a bit of a scholar. Since I seem to be stuck here for a while, I am adding to my writings about my travels, although Mitra knows there is little to write about these northern lands."

  "Are there any wars going on?" Conan asked.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Because I must have something to do. There shall be no ships this way until spring. When I am not on the sea, I serve as a soldier. As long as there is a war brewing, I can earn my bread."

  "Stay here with me," Dawaz said. "I enjoy your company. You have traveled f
ar, and I should like to hear more of the places you have visited. We have plenty of provisions for the winter, and the local fisher-Ben and hunters come often to barter their catch. We'll not go hungry."

  "It is good of you to ask," Conan said, "and I thank you. But it is not my way to while (Jie months away in fleness. If you can lend me arms, I can pay you for em from my earnings."

  "Very well," sighed Dawaz. On the table before him be began to draw a crude map. "Here we are north of the steppe. The land is hilly and covered with dense forest, most of it pine. There are no great rivers, but are many streams, most of them soon to freeze.

  each man in his own place, the lines neatly arranged and the cavalry riding by in rows as if all were on but a single horse. The people here get together on a field and swing their weapons until only the men of one side are left on their feet. I understand that it is not rare for nobody at all to be standing after one of these battles."

  "Then they fight like all the other northern people of my acquaintance," Conan said with satisfaction. "That is well, since am a northerner and I like to fight that way too."

  One of Dawaz's servants called to him. "Master! Men come riding!" Dawaz looked inland, toward the tree line. A little knot of mounted men were barely visible, black against the dark trees.

  "Four men on horseback," reported Conan, his keen eyes glittering. "All armed. Do you think they mean mischief?"

  "We shall know when they get here," said Dawaz uneasily. "If they are Odoac's men they will probably not rob me. They could be bandits, though."

  "Bandits or king's men," Conan said, "you may rest easy. There are only four."

  Dawaz stared at him. "You are nothing if not confident." Conan just smiled.

  The bronze-girt warriors rode stocky ponies with uncut manes and tails. The riders were similarly shaggy, with brown or yellowish hair and beards spilling from their helmets over their shoulders and breasts. All wore ar-mor similar to that which Conan now wore. They rode into the little compound, and one with a stylized raven cresting his helmet rode a little forward. He addressed Dawaz, but his eyes were on Conan.