swarming jungles of the south, but there were limits even to his instincts.
With no light, no landmarks, no feel of wind, he had no point of reference, only an inner sense that was no longer reliable. Even though he knew that the wizard could not keep up this unnatural “sandstorm”
for much longer, it was not within his nature to halt and wait passively for better conditions. Always, it was his urge to fight and forge onward, to meet all challenges head-on. Nevertheless, mere was nothing to be gained by it on this night. He might even become turned around and blunder right back into the wizard’s camp.
He decided to stop while he was still half-certain that he was going in the right direction. Testing the sand beneath his feet for firmness, he sank down to sit cross-legged, facing the direction he would set out in when he could see again. With another strip of rag, he fashioned a blindfold to protect his eyes while he waited. Since he could not see anyway, there was no sense in further risking his eyes.
He settled himself to breathe slowly so as not inadvertently to suck in any more of the powder. It was miserable to be sitting still while the sand sifted down over him, and he wished that he had his robe and head-cloth, which would have greatly reduced the discomfort. But there was no way he could have foreseen this eventuality and he could only wait it out stoically, as he had endured so many other torments.
Then, just when he thought that he was adjusted to the worst that could happen, he heard something. He strained his ears, trying to listen through the constant whispering, sifting noise of the falling sand. Then he heard it again: a chittering and rustling, as of bats. But bats would not be flying in this maelstrom. Then the sound came closer, and it was louder man any sound that could possibly be made by ordinary bats.
Cautiously, Conan raised the edge of his blindfold with his thumb. There was nothing save utter blackness. The noise was coming from his right. Then he heard it again from his left. There was more than one of them, whatever they might be. Slowly, making no noise, he slid his sword from its sheath. Even more slowly, he rose, not using his hands, but only uncoiling his long, powerful legs. Standing, he turned his head this way and that, striving to catch every sound.
Then something came to him that set his heart beating wildly. Not a sound this time, but a smell: the sharp, powerful, acid smell of the blade-etcher’s shops. Whatever unholy creatures had wiped out the nomad tribe were now stalking him through the sandy darkness. He gritted his teeth and set himself for a terrible death-fight. He heard no more than two of them. Apparently they could not see through the gloom ei-dier, for they were not charging straight for him. They were definitely homing on something, though; if not sound, then perhaps upon the heat of his body.
The one on the left sounded marginally closer. Conan did not like fighting in the dark, even against human opponents. It left too much to chance. His barbarian senses could home in on an enemy in the dark, but it was easy to fall victim even to a sword clumsily flailed by a third-rate swordsman under such conditions. Now he faced something he could not see, had never seen before, and whose weaknesses, if any, he did not know. He had no idea of its size or what it fought with, whether fangs or claws or gripping arms. For all he knew, these demons used weapons. He did know that they killed hideously and without compunction.
He had some advantages over that nomadic tribe, though. He had no preconceptions about invincible desert demons to weaken him. His attention was not distracted by the presence of wife or child. Most of all, he had his strength, his speed, a matchless fighting brain and a Cimmerian heart. He would fight fearlessly to the last breath.
His sword poised in both hands, he awaited their arrival. On his left, me pitch of the chittering raised. The creature had found him. There was a rushing, rustling sound and the Cimmerian felt the brush of displaced air. He whirled, crouching, the full power of arms and back in the horizontal slash of his sword. It connected with something and he dragged me blade free even as he dived to one side, rolling and then springing to his feet, facing back the way he had come.
There was an earsplitting shriek and he felt a fierce rush of satisfaction. They could be hurt! He had
wounded that one, and what could be hurt could be slain. Another rush came and he cut again, but this time, his blow met nothing. It had come hi below his blade, but he wasted no breath in cursing. With a wrist-straining change of direction, he brought the blade straight down even as something hit him in the midsection. He felt his blade bite just as he was bowled over and something tore at his back with a red blaze of pain.
He grasped a hide that seemed to be graced with both hair and scales, and he heaved at it while he bashed with his pommel against where he guessed the thing’s head should be. Something gave with a crunch and he was sprayed with hot, foul liquid. His hewing and striking redoubled as the reeking fluid began to bum his skin with a pain worse than fire.
Conan drew back his arm and thrust with all his might, driving the long blade through what might have been bone, and into soft vitals. There came the awful keening again, and the thing let go. This time, the Cimmerian rolled away, over and over, trying to scrub off the bunting liquid. Luckily, the sand seemed to absorb most of it, and it came off along with the grease of his camouflage paint.
He scrambled to his feet and waited, his hilt gripped tight in bom his powerful hands. He could hear the things and they were angry, but they were also hurt. The screeching of one slowly quieted into a final, abrupt squawk. He smiled grimly. That one was surely dead. The other searched about, chittering and moaning, but there was a dragging sound, too, as if one of its limbs were crippled. In time, silence reigned.
Conan remained still for a while, ah1 but suffocated by the acid reek. Then, slowly, he crouched and plunged his sword into the sand again and again, cleansing it of the stinking liquid. He set himself to wait once again.
After an hour, he detected a faint light through the cloth of his blindfold. With a thumb he raised the band once more. This time, he could see for several paces. The light was diffuse, but he knew that its source lay to his left and so he was facing south. A few minutes later, the sand had settled and he took the bandages from his eyes and mouth and nostrils. The morning sun was rising above the dunes to the east and he stood in a landscape devoid of all traces of human or animal passage. The uncannily raised dust had settled thickly over everything.
Before even seeking his bearings, the Cimmerian searched the sands nearby, working in a widening spiral, for signs of his fight. As he searched, he noted that his bare chest and shoulders were liberally dotted with red spots, many of them bearing angry blisters in their center. He examined the cloths he had used for veil and blindfold and saw that the multiple folds now had many small holes in them. He knew then how easily he might have been blinded. The creatures had acid blood, or spittle.
He came to an irregular heap in the sand and drew his sword to poke at it with the tip. He noticed that the once-bright steel was now stained with streaks of black, brown and blue. He brought the steel closer to his eyes and saw that it was pocked with many toy pits. More acid damage. It was good that he had so thoroughly cleaned his blade, else it might have been badly weakened His prodding of the sand turned up a pile of puzzling fragments. If they resembled anything in his experience, it was the shattered shell of a crab. But this shell was shaped in many small humps and it bore scraps of lumpy, leathery skin. In spots, the skin sprouted clumps of greasy hah”. He found a bandlike collection of talons and knew that this was what had clawed at his back. From its attached arm-bone dangled a tough flap that resembled the membrane of an atrophied bat’s wing.
A single, long toe bore a hooked claw of a milky, translucent substance like alabaster It looked fragile, but when he drew its point down his stained, pitted sword-blade, it left a long, bright scratch in the hard steel. Claws like this had made the scratches in the stone near the site of the ambush massacre.
A final flip of the blade brought up the thing’s skull. “Crom and Llyr!�
�� he swore. The skull was almost human in shape and proportion. But instead of human jaws, it had a series of fingerlike palps that worked vertically, like those of an insect. And instead of deep eye sockets, it had a pair of shallow, circular pits that took up twice me space of human eyes. There was no trace of a nostril opening. It was crushed in on one side, where his pommel had smashed the bonelike chitin.
The creature seemed to combine the traits of many beasts: bat, insect, even reptile. Beneath the fragments was a glassy amalgam, some of it adhering to the bits of shell and bone. Was this the effect of its acid fluids on the sand below? Or was it the softer parts of the creature itself dissolving? The dissolution of the thing was unnaturally rapid.
In the past, Conan had had much unwanted experience with uncanny creatures, and he knew that things called from another world often failed to maintain their structural integrity in this one, when the magick force that had called them forth was withdrawn, or when their otherworldly life fled, leaving their bodies lifeless in a world in which they did not belong.
He resheathed his sword and turned away from the repellent remnants. It was time to search for his companions.
Eight
The sun stood high above the horizon when the Cimmerian stopped and cursed. At first the curses were whispered, then muttered. Soon he was cursing in a conversational tone and, finally, he bellowed in rage and frustration. The Cimmerian pantheon had little scope for blasphemy, so he quickly switched to the deities of Asgard and Vanahiem: robust gods of simple tastes. He worked his way through the sophisticated pantheon of Nemedia and then on to the truly decadent and scabrous gods of Zamora, Not only was he angry, he was embarrassed, a rare feeling for him.
For one of the very few times in his life, Conan of Cimmeria was lost.
Look in whatever direction he might, he saw only the limitless dunes. He had been slogging south all morning, certain that he was heading directly toward his companions, but within the first hour, he knew that he had somehow missed them. He began to work his way southward in zigzag fashion, like a ship tacking into the wind, in hope of cutting their trail.
Still nothing. Having no choice, he kept on going south. That was the direction in which they were headed, and that was the only way he would find them. It never crossed his mind to turn north and try to forge his way back. If any man could make it alive, he could, but it was not his nature to abandon companions in adversity.
As he trudged on, he thought of Achilea. Was she as lost as he was? He feared so. If so, she was in even greater danger than he, for the sun was rising, and here the sun was the greatest enemy.
Near-naked as she was, the searing rays could kill her before nightfall. He was as bare as she to the elements, but he had endured many years hi the hottest southern lands, while this was her first journey hither. And inured as she was to the stem northern climate, it would probably not occur to her how vulnerable she was.
What rags he could assemble he tied into a makeshift headscarf. It was better than nothing to keep the searing, brain-numbing rays of the sun from his scalp. For the rest, he would just bum and make the best of it. Here there was no bush or tree, no cloth or hide for a tent, not so much as a rock overhang to offer shelter. The deep desert was a sun-baked wasteland where the only shadow was his own.
Before him, the beat-haze shimmered from the sands. In the lower spots, the desert mirage made silvery lakes. He knew that the realism of the “water” would increase with the viewer’s thirst Even experienced desert-farers could end up chasing mirages when they grew truly parched.
With the brute endurance of his kind, the Cimmerian strode onward, ignoring the sun, ignoring the heat, ignoring his growing thirst. He gave no thought to hunger. A man would die of thirst long before hunger became a cause for concern. When the searing glare of sun off sand caused nun to squint despite the black paint remaining around his eyes, he tore a strip of cloth from his erstwhile blindfold and bound it over his eyes. The action of the acid had reduced it to the semblance of gauze, and he could see quite well through it, while it reduced the glare to a tolerable level.
The sun was low in the west, throwing his shadow long across the sand, when he found the footprints. They angled from the northeast, and he crouched to study them eagerly. They were large for a woman, but he recognized them as the marks of Achilea’s high-arched feet. The woman never wore footgear, and he had seen enough of her tracks during the journey to recognize diem instantly.
The signs restored his energy, and he sped along following them, no longer cutting his zigzags across the landscape. The others could take their chances for the nonce, his only concern right now was to find the Amazon queen.
For miles, the tracks bore Achilea’s characteristic, long-legged stride; then they began to falter. At first they left long, heel-dragging marks behind them, a sign that she was not lifting her feet as high with each step. Then the tracks blended into one another. She was taking shorter steps, not getting her feet quite clear of the sand. She was weakening fast.
Soon he found signs that she had fallen: pits made by her knees, handprints where she had pushed herself back up again. Not far after that, she began to fall full-length, pushed herself up, then staggered on a while. Her once-straight line to the south began to wobble and weave. Once, for a few steps, she got turned around and doubled back north for several paces, but she must have seen her own footprints, for she turned back south again. When he saw that she was going on all fours, he knew she had to be close.
The lower rim of the sun was touching the western horizon when he found her.
She lay in a small depression in the sand, curled on her side. Even the hardened Cimmerian winced when he saw how fiercely the sun had burned her. Her weather-browned skin was brick-red. At least she seemed to be breathing. He rushed to her side and crouched beside her, gently rolling her onto her back.
“Leave me,” she said, her voice no more than a croak. She stared upward but did not seem to see him. “I want no man to see me like tis. Go away. No, cover me with sand first and let me die. I do not want to be seen like this even dead.”
He smiled grudgingly. She still had the spirit to defy him. “You give up too easily, woman. We’ll live through this.”
“Cimmerian? Nay, I’ll not live, nor do I want to. I am blind. If I’d the strength, I would have put an end to it with my dagger.”
Conan waved a broad hand before her eyes and drew no response. “When did you lose your sight?”
“Just before I fell for the last time. Perhaps an hour ago. My vision had been fading since afternoon.
The sun of these parts has struck me blind. This is not my land and it does not want me here. The sun is the only lord in this forsaken place.”
“Just an hour? Then cheer up; it is merely temporary. You are just glare-blind. Has it never happened to you in a sunlit snowfield?”
“Aye, but it never hurt this much.”
“It is the same anyway. You will be able to see by mom-ing, and we’ll make you an eye-mask like the one I have been wearing since noon.”
“Truly?” she croaked, a note of hope creeping into her voice.
“I promise. The sun is almost down. When it is fully dark, we’ll go on. Rest for now.”
“I must find my women and Jeyba,” she muttered. “I am their queen and I cannot leave them alone in this hellish place.”
“Keep to that thought,” Conan said approvingly. “You are not as ordinary women and you must not die like one.”
She said no more and fell unconscious in his arms. At last the sun was below the horizon, giving blessed relief from its terrible rays. In the swiftly fading light, he examined her. As near as he could tell, she bore no wounds save those inflicted by the sun. Her feet were not bleeding, their soles as tough as the leather covering of a shield. All that was to the good.
He let her sleep for about three hours, the rest restoring his own strength. Then he gently shook her awake. She jerked abruptly with surprise, her hands going fo
r her weapons. Her face whipped around, her eyes gone wide. Then her shoulders stumped.
“I am still here,” she said dully. “And I am still blind.”
“You’ll see by morning,” he assured her once more, getting to his feet. He took her hands. “Now get
up. We must be go-ing. She uncoiled to her full height. Her face was a rigid mask as she forced herself not to cry out. He knew that she must feel as if she had been flayed of every square inch of her skin. He was not in much better condition himself, “I know,” he told her. “You feel as if you’ve been dipped in boiling oil. It won’t kill you, although you may wish it had.”
“How can I travel blind?” she asked. Her voice was a little stronger and less hoarse than before.
“Put a hand on my shoulder and walk behind me,” he said. “I’ll tell you of any dangers in our path.”
And so they set out beneath the desert moon, the stars blazing overhead in their countless millions, Conan strode confidently, the need to guide the blind woman slowing him only a little. She was too proud to take hesitant steps.
“Can you see any moonlight at all?” he asked her.
“Not a bit,” she answered, shaking her head so that he felt the ends of her tawny hair brushing across his back. “How do you stand it so well? You are a Northerner, too.”
“But I am a Cimmerian,” he said, as if that explained everything. She snorted in derision.
Her strength held up well through most of the night. The absence of the sun made a tremendous difference. As the moon set in the west, she paused for a moment and pointed in that direction.
“Is that the moon?”
“Aye. Can you see it?”
“Just a little glow,” she said doubtfully.
“But it means that your vision is coming back. Did I not tell you it would?”
The Conan Compendium Page 508