The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  “What massacre took place here?” Achilea wondered, holding a fold of her robe across her nostrils to dull the stench.

  “A caravan?” asked Yolanthe, thrusting her head from within her enclosure. She seemed curious, not at all repelled by the horrific spectacle.

  Conan dismounted and walked among the corpses and the scattered limbs. The burdens carried by the camels had been torn open and scattered about. These he examined as well.

  “I think not,” he reported at length. He pointed to several sections of bloodied cloth and jointed poles. “They were traveling with some good-sized tents. Caravaneers take only small ones, to save on cargo space. I think this was a nomadic tribe on the move. See, mere were women and children among them.” He indicated some of the scattered remains, although only a practiced eye could discern such distinctions as age and sex, so thoroughly mutilated were they, “I saw no sign of a band this large as we fared hither,” said .Achilea. The stench may have repelled her, but the horrific sights left her unmoved.

  “I think these must have been coming up from the south when they were attacked,” Conan said. “I estimate mere must have been at least a hundred folk of all ages slain here.”

  “We could collect the heads and make a count,” Kye-Dee suggested, sounding bored. Dead people did not interest him. especially since someone else had already looted them of all valuables.

  “No need,” said Monandas. “Who, think you, did this deed, Cimmerian?”

  “I see no arrows,” Conan answered. “Sometimes a tribe may be identified by its style of fletching. In fact―” he bent over a corpse that still possessed its head and upper limbs ―I see no wounds save those made by the teeth of these scavengers. That means little. Such destruction as these carcasses have suffered could well obliterate all sign of wounds,” He was far from satisfied with this explanation, but he felt that it would do for the others.

  “We’ve no reason to stay here longer,” Achilea said, her face contorted with disgust. “Let’s be away.”

  “The rest of you ride on,” Conan said, “I want to investi-gate the land around here and see if I can find out who did this killing and whither they went from here. If they are ahead of us, best to know it now.”

  “Very well,” Yolanthe concurred, “but rejoin us before nightfall without fail.”

  The Cimmerian merely grunted assent and nodded, not taking his eyes from the ghastly carnage littering the desert floor. The others rode off to the south. For a while, he walked among the corpses, ignoring the snarls of the hyenas. The creatures were powerful enough to drag down a full-grown bull, but they entirely lacked combative spirit. Only prey that was weak, helpless or already dead attracted them.

  Satisfied that he would learn no more from the dead, the Cimmerian remounted and began to ride around the slaughter site, looking for signs of the killers. Employing an ancient hunter’s technique, he walked his horse slowly in an ever-widening spiral. Once be stopped and dismounted. The ground roundabout was hard, but here he saw marks that looked out of place. He squatted and studied them.

  They were faint, mere parallel lines in the dust. There were two sets of them, as if a clawed creature had crouched there, then launched itself at its victim, leaving the scratch-marks behind. Frowning, the Cimmerian looked nearby and saw no others from the same creature. Whatever it had been, it sprang by the use of only two clawed feet. He brushed the dust away from one such mark and his scalp prickled.

  The marks, though faint, were etched into the stone below the dust. He knew that no natural beast had claws hard enough to make such impressions.

  Crouched low as he walked, the Cimmerian searched the area and found another score of identical marks. When he had found them all, he realized that they formed a slightly staggered line. From the tapering depth of the scratches, he knew that the creatures had been facing south when they sprang. For many days, the wind had come from the south. The things had set their ambush so that the wind would cany their scent away from the approaching nomads.

  The entire scene, as he reconstructed it in his mind’s eye, left him profoundly uneasy. He had known wolves, and sometimes the big cats, to hunt often in packs or in small hunting teams, but never to lay so premeditated an ambush. What manner of creatures were these?

  The victims had not been newcomers to the desert as was his own party, nor even desert-wise caravaneers. These had been nomads who passed their whole lives among the sands and stone and scorching sun of this wilderness. Yet they had been caught completely by surprise. Perhaps the uncanny creatures were unknown even to the desert nomads.

  Before leaving the scene, Conan went back over the line of marks. He found one that was clearer than the others. It was in a slight depression, shaded by a jagged stone topped by a scrubby bush. This mark had been protected from the wind Mid the direct sunlight He lowered himself to his belly and miffed. Faintly, but distinctly, there came to his nostrils a pungent, unpleasant odor. It was as sharp as vinegar, but it was a smell he did not associate with living creatures. It put tern in mind of the workshops where craftsmen etched designs into the blades of swords and daggers with acid. He knew of no creature that bad such a smell.

  Remounted, be rode on southward, his eyes alert for sign I at the things that had wiped out the tribe of desert people. What had been their motive? Food? The scavengers had been ML the bodies so long that it was difficult to tell. And why had to creatures made off with the tribe’s belongings? Human •avengers might have looted the corpses, but if so, they had carefully obliterated all sign of their presence.

  Conan was willing to allow that this might have happened. He accounted himself a master tracker, but he had been among people who, within their own territory, could hide every sign of their movement with a skill that was all but supernatural.

  He did not ride straight for his companions. Rather, he zigzagged, covering much more ground than necessary. He did Ms so that he might espy any further sign of the marauders, or any other threat to the group. The desert was devoid of farther traces. He reached the party at sunset. Even before he saw them, the southerly breeze wafted to him the scent of grilling meat When he arrived, he found that the Hyrkanians had bagged a fine gazelle. His stomach rumbled, for he had had no food save for a few

  scraps of dry bread, and that had been early that morning. The alarm of the slaughtered tribe had driven all thought of food from his mind, but now he was famished.

  He rode to the fire and dismounted, drawing his dirk even as his boot struck the ground. He crossed to the low-burning coals where the animal’s disjointed carcass sizzled.

  “Did you find anything?*’ Kye-Dee asked as the Cimmerian cut slices of gazelle from a well-roasted haunch.

  “Little that made any sense. Just now I have better use for my mouth than talk.” When he had satisfied his hunger with the savory meat and handfuls of dried dates from a leather bag, washing down with water from a skin, he told them of the strange marks and their even stranger attendant odor, “Like acid, you say?” Monandas commented, his face more somber than usual.

  “Aye. I have smelled something the like in the shops of the blade-etchers, and where jewelers test the purity of gold. But never have I known any natural creature to have such a smell.”

  “What of unnatural beasts?” asked one of the Hyrkanians, his fingers twisted nervously in his long, black plaits.

  “I want nothing to do with any such,” Conan said firmly.

  “Scholars learned in the natural arts,” Yolanthe said, “affirm that the tiniest creatures are made quite differently from the greater ones. Four centuries ago, Uhnas of Kordava wrote a monumental treatise on the six-legged creatures, in which he stales that many of them employ acid as a weapon, or to prepare materials for their nests, or to soften their food to an edible state. Even the common ants have a strong acid within their bodies.”

  “Ants do not grow so large,” Conan said. “Nor do they go about on two legs.”

  “Much as I esteem learned discourse,�
�� Achilea grumbled, “I think you are reading too much into some scratches on the ground and a bit of smell. That tribe was probably attacked by enemies, and the killers wiped out their own traces. What was left was obliterated by the hyenas and the other scavengers.

  There is no mystery. We must take special care to watch for them, that is all.” Her stubborn tone suggested that she was trying to convince herself. “So we must,” Monandas said.

  As they continued south, the rocky, eroded soil, scrubby brush and cactus began to give way to sandier terrain, then to true dunes that marched away in the distant horizon like the waves of the sea. The horses began to hang their heads and grow sullen, not liking the change.

  “At first opportunity,” Conan announced, “we must trade the horses for camels. There is an oasis not far from here where several caravan paths meet. There we will find caravaneers looking to trade their beasts for horses for the trek north.”

  “I do not like the idea,” Achilea said. “And I do not like camels! They are ugly, smelly creatures without grace or beauty.”

  “Not fit for a queen, you mean?*’ said Kye-Dee, giving forth one of his high-pitched laughs. ‘1 do not like them, either, but I fear the Northerner is right. The horses will not last much longer, and even a camel is better than going afoot.” The other Hyrkanians made sounds of vigorous assent.

  “This we will do,” Monandas said. “Our destination lies yet farther south and we must have mounts.”

  “Camels!” said the dwarf, spitting into the fire.

  The next day, they crossed a range of low hills and saw a few scant acres of greenery lying in a small valley, protected from the winds. To reach the oasis, they had to ride through a gap in the hills, and across this gap were ranged a half-dozen men on camels, arrows fitted to the strings of their short bows.

  They were lean and fierce-looking, wearing spired helmets wrapped with black turbans. From the turbans hong veils dyed with multicolored stripes and reaching to their stirrups.

  “We can easily brash these aside,” said Kye-Dee, idly thrumming the string of his great bow. “Our weapons have twice the range.”

  “Aye,” Achilea affirmed. “I’m in a mood for some target practice. I’ve shot at nothing but hares and gazelles for many a day.”

  “Nay,” Conan said. “These are Omri tribesmen by their colors, and if mere are six of them here, there are a hundred more at the oasis. The man I spoke to back in the village said that the Omri have staked out this oasis as their own and levy a toll upon passer-by. We will pay because we must.”

  “I will deal with them,” said Monandas,

  They rode forward with weapons handy, but without any show of truculence. While Monandas conferred with the leader of the pass guards, the Cimmerian and his companions eyed the tribesmen and were eyed in turn. The desert men showed the deep contempt that all nomad tribesmen held for strangers. They were aided in this by the advantage in height their camels gave them. They were so swathed in their striped robes that nothing of them showed save their hands and their fierce, black eyes.

  Their boots were of soft blue leather, and their swords had long, straight blades.

  “Paying for water!” Achilea said sullenly. “It is as bad as being in a town.”

  “Nay,” said Conan, “for these fellow charge only for access to their water and grass. Townsmen would levy a tax on goods passing through and would want a percentage from our Livestock exchange.”

  “Townsmen!” the dwarf snorted. “No wonder they are such natural prey for real men.”

  “These are not,” Conan cautioned. “They are predators just like us. Do not provoke them. I wish to ask them about conditions to the south, and about that exterminated tribe we found.”

  Monandas handed over the toll demanded by the guards and they descended into the valley, fighting at their reins to keep the horses, maddened by the smell of fresh water, from breaking into a run. The tall camels kept to their more dignified pace.

  When the horses had drunk enough, the riders tugged them away from the water lest they founder.

  Conan gave orders that the beasts be carefully curried and otherwise well tended. He wanted them looking their best for the trade. That settled, be went to find the Omri chief. An inspection revealed that three caravans camped at the oasis. One of them carried a number of spare camels, and he made a mental note to speak with the master of that one before nightfall.

  The Omri was encamped closest to the spring-fed water hole, allowing others to bring their beasts to the water to drink, but reserving the shade of the palm trees for themselves. Conan estimated that there were about eighty fighting men present, with no women or children. With detachments of a half-dozen guarding each of the approaches, that made his original guess of a hundred men reasonably accurate. He knew that the lack of resources made larger bands impractical, save for occasional small armies put together to raid the towns of the desert periphery.

  He found the chief lounging beneath a black tent of woven goat’s hair. The Omri took his ease upon a rude couch made of camel saddles and blankets. Pram time to time, the man sniffed the smoke of herbs burning in a tiny brazier that rested by his side. As the Cimmerian approached, the desert chief’s keen eyes took in his brawny frame and arrogant walk.

  “Welcome to the water and grass of my tribe, stranger,” the chief said. He gestured to a broad platter of hammered brass that lay before him. Upon it rested some scraps of bread sprinkled with grains of coarse salt. “Break your fast with me.”

  Conan sat cross-legged upon the ground and took one of the bread scraps. “You are generous, O

  Chieftain,” he said before thrusting the dry morsel into his mouth. In the desert, Accepting bread and salt was a symbolic act, placing him under the chiefs protection by the ancient laws of hospitality. Now any act of treachery toward him would be punished inexorably by the gods.

  For a while, the two spoke of minor things: the condition of me desert to the south, the likelihood of a favorable exchange of horses for camels. Then Conan broached what was really on his mind: the exterminated tribe they had discovered. The chief was roused to consternation, his eyes wide with alarm as the Cimmerian described what he had found.

  “Set and Iblis!” the chief cried, making a gesture to ward off evil. “Was there anything left of the robes or other trappings of these people?”

  “I found some scraps of black cloth with thin, white zigzag lines embroidered on them.”

  The chief looked marginally less disturbed. “That means those folk were Beni Nuer. They are a

  worthless people who scavenge at the desert’s edge, too cowardly to brave the great sands of the inner fastness, so they are no loss, but I do not like these signs and marks you found!”

  “What do they mean?” Conan asked.

  “You have eaten my bread and salt, so I am bound to warn you: The Beni Nuer were slain by the hadizza, the demons of the whirlwind! They are unclean things from the deepest desert Not since my grandsire’s time have they come out to the desert’s edge, but in the last turning of the moon, I have heard of three such attacks.”

  “What brings them hither?” Conan asked.

  The man shrugged. “They are things of spirit and the netherworld, so who can say?”

  “Know you what they look like or how they slay?**

  “They leave none alive to describe them, but their victims, both human and beast, are rent asunder.

  The hearts are eaten, and often the brains, but the rest is wanton savagery.”

  It was clear that the man knew little of the things save for old tales, but it was valuable to learn that there had been other such attacks and that all had occurred within the last moon. Conan thought to try something else.

  “Know you of an ancient lost city called Janagar, said to lie in the deepest desert?”

  The chieftain laughed. “My friend, the desert is full of lost cities. I myself have seen half a hundred.

  Some yet rear their ruined towers against the st
ars, others are buried so deep in the sands that the colossal images of their great men can only peer over the sand that covers them to their noses. It is the folly of men that causes them to build cities. Always, the gods of the desert reclaim their own. Wisdom lies only in knowing the ways of the desert. If you wish, you may ask Asoq, the Teller of Tales. He knows more old stories than any other of our tribe, and he may have heard of this Janagar.”

  Conan thanked the chief courteously and left to look for the Teller of Tales. He was satisfied that his party was now safe, for the rules of desert hospitality were more powerful than any civilized laws. This did not mean that the chief was henceforth his lifelong companion. The protection extended only while they were at the oasis. As soon as they rode away, [hey became legitimate prey once more as far as the Omri were concerned.

  A few questions led him to a small pen of heaped stones where a single tribesman watched over the camels of the Omri. He was an elder by the standards of the desert nomads, among whom few lived to see advanced years. His eyes were still bright, albeit buried in a mass of wrinkles. He was spared the more rigorous patroling and guard duties carried out by the younger warriors, but a fine sword hung at his side and fee looked as ready as any to use it.

  Conan saluted the old man and held out a hoarded flask of date wine. “Your chief tells me that you are a font of knowledge, deeply learned in the tales of the desert.”

  The elder’s mouth was hidden by his veil, but his eyes crinkled even more with a smile. “Aye, that I am, stranger.” He accepted the flask, then turned his face modestly aside as he lifted his veil to drink. He replaced the veil and handed the flask back to Conan. “I thank you. What tales would you have, stranger? I know all the stories of Rustum the Magnificent I know the tales of kings and rogues, and of the loves of men and of gods. I can tell of battle and death, and of the wooing of princesses, and of the curses of mighty wizards. What would you hear?” The old man’s voice was deep and mellifluous, the voice of a born storyteller.