The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  "Ernando!" he roared at the cook. "A double flagon of wine, and the strongest we have in the butts!"

  Thus the Sea Queen was taken and, very shortly, died. Boarders from the Petrel swung aboard, picked up the frozen figure of the girl, and carried her to Zarono's quarterdeck. Others piled combustibles around the bases of the masts and doused the piles with oil. Then all returned to the Petrel and shoved off with poles and boathooks.

  When there was a safe gap between the two ships, a squad of archers lit fire arrows and discharged them at the Sea Queen. In a few minutes, the piles caught fire. One by one, the sails blazed up with a roar, spreading black, charred fragments far and wide. Flames spread over the ship, engulfing the living but motionless crewmen.

  The Petrel spread her sails again and plodded onward toward the coast of Shem, leaving the blazing wreck behind.

  From the main top of his own carack, Conan gazed toward the mushroom of smoke that marked the end of the Sea Queen and muttered an oath to his grim Cimmerian god, Crom. The Wastrel lay ofl the horizon to the northwest, invisible from the deck of the Petrel―although, had any of Zarono's folk thought to scan the sea in that direction from the mastheads, they might have glimpsed the tops of Conan's rigging as the Wastrel rose on the swells.

  From his eyrie, Conan had watched the doom of the Zingaran royal yacht. Why Zarono should stop to destroy a ship of his own nation, Conan could not imagine.

  There must, he thought, be more to the plot than a simple rape of a treasure chart and a dash to seize the fabled hoard. But the mighty Cimmerian had long ago learned to set aside unanswerable questions until further information should cast light upon them, rather than futilely to brood and fret over them.

  Whoever the unknown victims on the caravel were, he thought, he would avenge them at the same time that he settled his own score with Zarono. Perhaps he would soon have an opportunity.

  Chapter Four

  THE NAMELESS ISLE

  Sunset transformed the cloudy vault of heaven into a canopy of burning splendor.

  Over the dark waves, flecked with crimson reflections, the blunt black bow of the Petrel threw up a snowy bow wave as she ran free to the southwest under a quartering west wind. Far behind her and unknown to any aboard her, Conan followed in the Wastrel, hovering just beyond easy detection under the burning sunset and later under the silently wheeling stars.

  In the master's cabin, Zarono sprawled in his great chair, brooding over a silver goblet set with uncut smaragds. The bouquet of strong Shemitish wine filled the wood-paneled chamber. The swaying lamps, hung by chains from overhead, shed wavering light on crinkled parchments pinned to the walls between ribbed stanchions. The light winked on the jewels in the hilts of swords and daggers, which also adorned these walls.

  Zarono's sallow features were gloomy and his cold black eyes withdrawn. He wore a loose, full-sleeved blouse of soiled white silk, with lacy ruffles at throat and wrist. His thick black hair was tousled, and he was deep in drink.

  When knuckles rapped lightly on his door, he growled a curse, then called a grudging permission to enter. In came Menkara with the rolled chart in one hand.

  The lean Stygian surveyed the sprawled figure of the privateer with prim disfavor.

  "More sorceries?" sneered Zarono, and hiccuped. Can you never leave an ordinary mortal to the pleasures of the vine, without thrusting your ugly face into his thoughts? Well, say your say."

  Without answering this flare of drunken temper, Menkara unrolled the chart on the table before Zarono and pointed a bony finger at the lines of cryptic glyphs wherewith the enigmatic scroll was inscribed.

  "I have been puzzling over the Mitraist priest's chart ever since we took it from him," said the Stygian, with unusual tension in his normally dull and listless voice. "The coastline shown here is obviously that of southerly Stygia.

  Although the language is unknown to me, I found that some of the captions bore a tantalizing familiarity. I have bent my intellect to the task of deciphering the inscription, while you have sat here swilling like a fool―"

  Zarono flushed and started to rise, one hand going to the hilt of his sword. But Menkara halted him with a raised palm.

  "Control your personal feelings, man. This is a matter of greater importance.

  Listen: I have studied comparable tongues in my magical apprenticeship, and I know that the ancient Valusian tongue, like those of ancient Stygia and Acheron, was writ with an alphabetic script, each symbol denoting a sound. Since certain parts of this chart show the lands we know as Shem and Stygia, with cities like Asgalun and Khemi, I was able to deduce the meaning of certain letters in the inscription, where they appear in the captions denoting these places. Other inscriptions seem to mark the sites of such vanished elder cities as Kamula and Python."

  The music of these devil-haunted names sent a chill of sobriety into Zarono's befuddled wits. Frowning, he bent forward to listen closely. Menkara continued: "Thus, adding to my familiarity with this ancient tongue through the symbols representing known names, I was at length able to elucidate the inscription about this particular island, which I had never seen on a chart before."

  Zarono frowned at the dot on the chart indicated by Menkara's gaunt forefinger.

  "Unknown to me as well, sorcerer. Pray continue."

  The Stygian went on: "I deciphered the inscription marking this isle as something like siojina-kisua. Now, this would seem to be from the old Stygian word siojina, or at least a cognate thereto. And siojina, in the oldest known form of Stygian, may be rendered into Zingaran as 'that which hath no name.

  Zarono's black, restless eyes, fully sober, were alight in his masklike ivory features. "The Nameless Isle," he whispered.

  "Yes," hissed Menkara with cold satisfaction in his reptilian gaze. "That kisua means 'island' we may be sure, for the same word occurs in connection with several other isles shown on this chart." He moved his forefinger from one dot to another, and another. "And I assume that one of your piratical trade may have heard, ere now, the legends of this demon-haunted Nameless Isle: how it is a remnant of elder Valusia, wherein a mouldering ruin survives to attest the powers of the pre-human serpent-men."

  "I only know that sailors' lore tells of an isle without a name, where lies the greatest treasure ever assembled in one place," said Zarono.

  "True," said Menkara, "but there is something else of which you may not know.

  There is loot enough of the usual land, forsooth. But aside from tawdry gold and gems, it is said that here also lies a vast magical treasure―an authentic copy of the Book of Ske-los."

  "I seek no accursed magic, but only honest goldl"

  Menkara smiled thinly. "Aye, but think. We fain would persuade the earth's mightiest magician to help our lord Villagro to the throne of Zingara. He would be pleased, of course, to see the cult of Set exalted and that of Mitra cast down. We could, however, truly win his favor and enlist his support by presenting him with so mighty a magical treasure as the Book of Skelos. It is a crime against the sacred science of magic that so potent a volume of ancient lore should languish neglected. It is thought that there are but three copies of the book in existence: one in a crypt beneath the royal library of Aquilonia, in Tarantia; one in a secret temple in Vendhya; and the third here." The Stygian tapped the chart with his fingernail.

  Zarono asked: "Why, if this damned book is so precious, has none taken it yet from the Nameless Isle?"

  "Because, until I saw this chart, neither I nor any other seeker after the higher truths knew precisely where the Nameless Isle lay. As you see, it lies afar from the coast of the black countries and from the isles we know. There is no land within a hundred leagues of it in any direction, nor lies it near the lanes of ships that ply between the ports of civilized lands. A mariner who sought it at random in that waste of waters could plow the sea forever without finding it―or at least until he was becalmed without food and water and miserably perished.

  "Furthermore, you know that sailors are a
superstitious lot, whose fancies have peopled the southern sea with deadly reefs and man-eating monsters. It is no accident that the Nameless Isle has long been lost to knowledge."

  "Even with fair winds, 'twould take us several days to reach it from here,"

  mused Zarono, his long chin in his fist.

  "What imports it? We have the girl safe, and a few days more or less will matter not. With the Book of Skelos as our bribe, the added certainty of enlisting Thoth-Amon will be well worth the delay. Nor, I think, are you insensible to the charms of gold." The fires of fanaticism flickered in Menkara's normally expressionless eyes.

  Zarono rubbed his jaw. While he cared nothing for magic, it seemed good to do everything possible to win the powerful prince of magicians to Duke Villagro's cause. And, could Zarono win the treasure of the Nameless Isle for his own, why, not only wealth but also rank, privilege, and respectability would again be his.

  Decision flashed in his dark eyes. He sprang to his feet and pushed out the cabin door, bellowing: "Vanchol"

  "Aye, Captain?" said the mate.

  "Set course due south, until the pole star be but one point above the horizon!"

  "Into the open sea, sir?" said Vancho incredulously.

  "You heard me, damn your hide! Due south!"

  Blocks rattled and ropes slapped as the PetreTs yards rotated to take the wind right abeam on the starboard tack, and the carack's blunt bow swung into the new course across the star-spangled sea.

  Menkara retired to his cabin to study the chart. He was afire with the lust for old and sinister knowledge. With the Book of Skelos, Thoth-Amon could become all-powerful. To help Villagro to a throne would be a mere trifle; the great Stygian wizard might even hold the empire of the world within his grasp. And, when the sons of Set held dominion over all lands, what might not be the fortune of the priest Menkara, who had made it all possible?

  Conan thoughtfully followed the running light of the Petrel as the larger carack changed course from east-by-south to due south. He knew nothing of Chabela's presence aboard the Petrel, or Villagro's . plot, or Menkara's ambitions. He only knew―or thought he knew―that Zarono had taken the chart from Ninus and was on his way to the Nameless Isle and its treasure. The reason for the sudden change of course he could not even guess.

  The giant Cimmerian scrambled down the shrouds from the main top with the agility of a monkey. "Zeltran!"

  "Aye, Captain?"

  "Six points to starboard! Full and by on the starboard tackl Follow the PetreTs light!"

  "Aye aye, sir. Start the starboard braces; helms down; trim the port braces…

  Helms up; straighten her out… Steady as you go…"

  Conan stood silently at the quarterdeck rail as the Wastrel took her new course into strange waters. Once they left the coast of the continent, they would have no means of knowing where they were beyond the pole star, which, on clear nights, would tell them how far they had come in a north-south direction. Zarono had better know whither he was bound. If he got lost on the featureless plain of water, he would lose the Wastrel as well.

  As far as Conan knew, the darkly glittering immensity of water before him ran clear to the world's edge. What might lie beyond it he could not even guess.

  Old legends whispered of fabulous islands, strange continents, unknown peoples, and weird monsters.

  The legends might even be true. Less than a year had elapsed since, in this selfsame Wastrel, he had sailed with its former captain, the saturnine Zapo-ravo, to an unknown island in the West, where Zapo-ravo and several of the Zingaran crew had met their doom. Few things in Conan's adventurous life had been stranger or more sinister than the Pool of the Black One and its inhuman attendants. Now, for all he knew, he might be on his way to even deadlier perils.

  He drew a deep breath and laughed gustily. Croml A man can die but once, so what boots it to maunder over imaginary perils? Enough to combat the terror when you meet it, with steel in your hand and battle madness in your heart. He would take his chances with fate on the Nameless Isle, ahead of him on the rim of the world.

  Chapter Five

  AT THE WORLD'S EDGE

  All night, the two caracks plied the warm southern waves. With dawn, the Wastrel, as she had done for the past five days, took in sail to drop back, so as not to be seen from the Petrel in the waxing light. With nightfall, if they had not yet reached the Nameless Isle, she would make up the time, since her slimmer hull and hollowed bow gave her an advantage in speed over the blunter, beamier Petrel.

  Meanwhile, the WastreVs sharp stem cut through the endless hillocks of blue-green. Flying fish leaped from her forefoot to hurl themselves aloft, soar for half a bowshot, and plunge back into the sea. Neither carack had sighted another ship since taking the southerly course.

  Presently, a cluster of cloudlets appeared in an otherwise clear sky. The Petrel altered course to starboard, and in a few hours an island hove into view on the horizon, beneath the clouds.

  From the PetreFs forecastle, Zarono thoughtfully scanned the unknown island. It looked innocuous enough: a tawny-sanded beach; tall, slender palms with emerald fronds. What lay beyond the fence of palm trunks, none could say as yet.

  Menkara, a black cloak wrapped about his lean shoulders, joined Zarono. "It is the island," he said tonelessly.

  Zarono's white teeth showed in his sallow face as he smiled. "Aye, priest, so it isl Now about this treasure: how is it guarded? Ghosts, demons, or merely a few dragons? I count on your supernatural powers to shield us from harm whilst we loot the tombs or crypts or whatever they are. Vanchol Take her into yonder bay, if it prove deep enough…"

  A quarter-hour later, Zarono commanded: "Let go the anchor! Trice up all sailsl Vancho, lower the first longboat and pick a landing party―all stout men, well armed."

  With much bustle and clatter, the boat was lowered and a dozen Zingarans, clanking with arms, swarmed down ropes to take their places on the thwarts. They pulled away from the Petrel to the beach. There they ran the boat's nose up on the sand, then piled out into shallow water to haul the boat farther up on the strand. Under the boatswain's command, they spread out along the beach, swords drawn and fingers on the triggers of crossbows, warily watching the palms. A small group pushed into the trees out of sight and presently reappeared, waving an all-clear signal to the Petrel.

  "Lower the other boat," said Zarono. He and Menkara took their places, together with eight more sailors. Vancho remained aboard the Petrel.

  The second boat reached the shore without incident. Zarono mustered his men. In a few minutes he, Menkara, and the bulk of the landing parties had vanished into the palms. Three buccaneers were left to guard the longboats: a swart, hook-nosed Shemite, a giant black from Kush, and a bald, red-faced Zingaran.

  All of this Conan, in the main top of the Wastrel, observed with keen interest.

  His ship lay just over the horizon, hove to with her foresail backed and rolling uneasily in the long oceanic swells.

  For a time, Zarono's party hacked its way through dense, tropical undergrowth.

  There was no sound save the grunts and heavy breathing of laboring men, the chopping sound of the blades of broadswords and cutlasses as they sheared through the stems of vines and saplings, and the rustle of leaves as the pirates pushed their way through the jungle.

  The air was hot and steamy. Sweat glistened on muscular arms, matted bare chests, and scarred brows. The smell of decaying vegetation blended with that of exotic flowers, which blazed in gold and crimson and white against the dark green of the forest.

  Zarono became aware of another odor, as well. It took him some time to recognize it. At last he realized, with a prickle of revulsion, that it was the musky stench of snakes. With a muttered curse, he pressed to his nostrils a gilded pomander ball, wherein scraps of citron peel and bits of cinnamon yielded a spicy scent. But, even above the soothing smell of the pomander, he could still detect the odor of snakes. This puzzled him, when he thought about the matter.

>   In his piratical career he had visited many small oceanic islands, and never had he known any to harbor serpents.

  It was sweltering; the close-set palm trunks, draped with loops and curves of flowering lianas, cut off the fresh sea breeze. Soaked with sweat, Zarono probed the greenery about them with sharp black eyes. He spoke to Menkara: "Save for this damnable stink of serpents, Stygian, I sense naught dangerous about your Nameless Isle."

  Menkara gave a wan, thin-lipped smile. "Do you truly notice nothing, then?"

  Zarono shrugged. "Outside of the stench and the 't heat, no. I had expected supernatural terrors, and I am disappointed. No ghouls or specters―not even a gibbering, drooling thing from a tomb? Ha!"

  Menkara gave him a coldly meditative stare. "How dull are you Northerners'

  senses! Do you not even feel the silence?"

  "Hm," grunted Zarono. "Now that you mention • • •

  A cold prickling crawled over Zarono's flesh. Truly, the jungle was ominously silent. One would not expect large beasts on a small island; but still, there should have been the whir of birds, the rustle of scuttling lizards and land crabs, and the rattle of the fronds of the palms overhead as the breeze stirred them. But there was no sound at all, as if the jungle held its breath and watched them with unseen eyes.

  Zarono muttered a curse but controlled his feelings. Busy hacking their way through the brush, the men had not yet noticed anything. Zarono signed Menkara to hold his tongue and plodded after his crew into the interior. But the sensation of being watched did not cease.

  Toward midday, the buccaneers reached their goal. It was strange: pushing through a dense tangle, they suddenly found themselves in an open glade. The jungle ended abruptly, as if the foliage dared not cross an invisible boundary.