Conan and the Shaman's Curse

by Sean A. Moore

  Y’Taba closed his eyes and wrapped his fingers around his necklace of ebon shells. During his lifetime, he had seldom called upon the spirits in the shells. They heeded only the spirit-leader’s call; their secrets were known only to the Y’Tabas, who passed them down to successors.

  Clearing his mind of turbulent thoughts, he inhaled and exhaled in slow, regular intervals. Speaking to the shell-spirits was in some ways like a game played by young Ganaks, in which flat stones were skipped across the waters adjoining the Ganaku beaches. A stone thrown just so would skip many times and travel far if the seas were placid.

  Y’Taba, however, was not throwing stones. He was skipping words—his thoughts—across the sea of his mind. Concentrating, he found his inner voice and began whispering to the shell-spirits. His palm pressed against Ngomba’s sweat-slicked brow as his grip on the shells tightened. His thoughts skipped and spun outward until they faded into the distance. He listened for a response, for something to reach the ears of his mind.

  There! They had heard him. His hand tingled, as if covered with hundreds of biting ants. The feeling travelled along his arm and moved inward, past his skin, until he felt it in his bones. A hum—the song of the shell-spirits— emanated from his fist, deafening him.

  Ngomba’s mouth opened in a cry that was drowned by the hum. Y’Taba clenched the shells in a grip so fierce that it whitened his knuckles. Sweat streamed down his face and veins pulsed at his temples. The spirits had awakened; their song rang in his ears, unbearably loud, and he fought to keep his eyes closed. The shell-spirits were angry at him for rousing them. The song ended as suddenly as it had begun. They were resisting him; he must try harder.

  Heart pounding, pulse racing, he again called out to them with his thoughts. “By the will of Asusa Sun God, come to me—now!” And be bore down again on the shells, so fiercely that one cracked in his palm, its shards digging painfully into his flesh.

  The room was plunged into silence, and before him stood the spirits. They appeared as shapes of water, transparent and rippling, and they shimmered like veils of dew in the hut’s dim light. Their forms changed constantly: tall, thin spirals; squat, bobbing spheres; and shallow, spinning ovals.

  “Long has it been since you last dared to awaken us,” they murmured, their voices a distant wail in his mind. “Again we hear your call, if only to honour. our promise to Asusa. Speak your purpose for this summons.”

  ‘To heal the wounds of Ngomba, who lies here before us. Wash him in your waters of healing and make him well again.”

  Twisting and churning, the spirits spoke again. “Know that you have broken the trust which binds us to obey you. You have joined with the one called Nyona.”

  “That was long ago,” Y’Taba objected.

  “Your voice does not bend us to the will of Asusa. For the sake of Muhingo, who is beloved of Asusa, we shall do the task to which you have set us. Know also that only once more shall we come when called by you, and then only if your summons pleases Muhingo.”

  They flowed together, forming a wave that swept across Ngomba, leapt into the air, and vanished.

  Y’Taba sat heavily, panting. His ears rang and a dull pain throbbed in his bones. He stared at his son, whose wounds were closing, fading before his eyes. Realizing that he was still grasping the shells, he relaxed his grip and eyed his aching palm. Fragments of a crushed shell had lodged into his palm, blood welling up in the tiny punctures and seeping into the cracks of his skin.

  Ngomba stirred, looking up at Y’Taba’s face through half-closed eyes.

  The spirit-leader’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Your body is well. Rest, Ngomba... let your spirit heal.”

  The young Ganak’s eyes closed again; his breaths became deep and even, slowing as he drifted back to sleep.

  “As for me,” Y’Taba said under his breath, “my night will be long.” He brushed shell fragments from his hand, wiping off the blood with damp leaves.

  He rose slowly, standing tall and squaring his shoulders. His people needed a strong Y’Taba. He must appear confident, not weary or afraid. Stifling a yawn, he walked outside to hear the stranger’s tale.

  Then Y’Taba would make decisions that would save —or perhaps destroy—the Ganak people.

  Jukona shifted on the smooth wood that marked the edge of the place of gathering. A sudden weariness had settled over him.

  He and Conan were finishing their tale of escape from the Deadlands. Y’Taba and a small group of elders listened, staring intently. “And when I found Conan, she had nearly drawn the spirit from his body—or was it spirits?” Jukona took a long drink from his coconut shell, draining every drop of kuomo juice. “Unless some trick of the Deadlands deceived my old eyes. You cast two shadows back there—one in your shape, the other in the shape of... something else. How could this be—unless you have two spirits? Or is this the way of people from Cimmeria, Conan?”

  Conan’s eyes narrowed. Two shadows? “Nay. Perhaps it was a tree’s shadow, or as you said, some trick of the sun.” He took a casual swig of kuomo. It was an agreeable, heady drink, its flavour similar to Zembabwan coconut wine.

  Jukona rubbed his jaw. “It was taller than any Ganak. Its head was huge and misshapen, and its arms reached nearly to the ground. Its legs were short but thick. It looked more like... a beast... than a man. I hope never to meet a beast that casts such a shadow.” He grabbed another shell, gulping kuomo.

  Y’Taba’s brow wrinkled. “The shadow was no trick of the Deadlands,” he said, studying Conan’s face. “When I first saw you, Conan of Cimmeria, I saw this beast. It lurked in your eyes, cringing back from the bright face of Asusa Sun God.”

  Conan scowled, his fingers twitching instinctively toward the hilt of his sword, which had finally been returned to him. This spirit-leader was no hoax; he had somehow discovered the shaman’s curse. It was still there, no doubt waiting for the moon to again wax full. Conan’s flesh crawled at the memory of the carnage his ape-self had left aboard the Mistress... slaughter more wanton than a tribe of berserk £iris.

  A thought sparked in Conan’s mind, kindling a flame of hope. Earlier today, Y’Taba had spoken of healing the wounded. He was shaman, a spirit-leader. Did he have the power to disenchant the shaman’s ape-spell?

  “But all men have a beast inside them,” Y’Taba continued, and the elders nodded solemnly. “A newborn is more beast than man, but the gods make our spirits stronger than the beast within us. We draw strength from our beasts and wisdom from our gods. It is this balance that separates us from animals—like the Kezati, who are dominated by their beasts. But I will speak more of them later, and we will decide what is to be done.

  “You, Conan of Cimmeria, play a part in our decision. Already you have fought alongside our warriors, slaying many Kezati. You owe nothing to us. Yet I ask you, on behalf of my people, to aid us in what may be our only hope of survival.” He surveyed the sombre faces of the elders, many of whom had locked their gaze on Conan.

  Jukona rose suddenly, eyes flashing. “By Asusa, you would ask this of him? He sides with us once though we are not his kin, turning the tide of a hopeless battle. And we thank him by stealing his weapon and leaving him to die—”

  “You abandoned him on the shores of bone,” Y’Taba glowered. “As warrior-leader, you should have opposed Ngomba.”

  Jukona reddened; his shoulders slumped. “It is as you say, Y’Taba. But in this you give no choice to Conan, for his is the honour. of a warrior. If he declines, you steal his honour. As you said, he owes us nothing.” He sighed heavily. “And yet I understand why you ask this of him.”

  Y’Taba stood. He was even taller than Jukona, and his stem gaze further shortened the warrior-leader. “Conan of Cimmeria, you are by all accounts as mighty a warrior as any Ganak who ever lived. The elders believe that our gods summoned you to save us from doom. But we know not how—or if—we can defeat the Kezati. The clouds of a great storm darken what few days may be left to us. As it was in our past, one warri
or may make the difference between the survival... or destruction... of the Ganak people.

  “As spirit-leader, I have knowledge that no other Ganaks possess. Every Y’Taba is entrusted with secrets. Tonight I tell you a tale left untold, unknown even to our elders. In the hope of saving our people, it falls to me to break a vow of secrecy I made long ago, to the Y’Taba before me. He revealed the true nature and origin of the Deadlands but swore me to secrecy.

  “But in that dark place lies what may be our only hope of salvation. But what lurks there may be worse than the threat of the Kezati. With your help, Conan of Cimmeria, we may retrieve that which was lost long ago... that which has the power to rid us of our enemy—forever.”

  Conan hunched forward on the bench, his mind awhirl. The Ganak spirit-leader’s voice had an entrancing quality to it, compelling him to listen. The eyes of the elders gleamed expectantly under the darkening sky, and Jukona sat motionless, his kuomo apparently forgotten. The Cimmerian exhaled, trying to loosen the fingers of the tension that gripped him.

  Y’Taba stepped back, fingering his necklace of shells. “Long ago, before the time of our first ancestors, a tribe of giants inhabited Ganaku. Their customs and language were unlike our own. In fact, even their name for our land was different. They called it Rahama. At the centre of Rahama was a great pool, enchanted by the gods so that its water spouted upward in a spray that was cool and clear. They called it the fountain of the gods, and all those who drank from it never sickened or grew old.

  “In gratitude, the Rahamans built a wall of stone around this fountain. Upon the stones they carved praises and prayers. This pleased the gods, who blessed the Rahamans with many generations of fertility. The Rahamans spread peacefully across the land, provided for by their gods, living without fear of hunger, disease, or enemy. The Kezati never troubled them, and the Deadlands did not exist... not yet.

  “The Rahamans were masters of stone. They built an outer wall to protect their village from storms that were hurled at Rahama by jealous gods. Soon after the wall’s completion, three boats were seen approaching Rahama. Huge they were, many times the size of our log-boats, their construction as strange as the people they conveyed across the sea. These people were small in stature, shorter than even Conan, their skin as pale as kuomo. Their leader was called Jhaora, a woman from a land whose name we do not know. The Rahamans welcomed her, and she soon learned the powers of their fountain. Its waters preserved her youth and beauty, which pleased her. But she was not content to share the fountain with the Rahamans.

  “On one night of treachery, Jhaora and her people attacked. The sleeping Rahamans were massacred. Only a few dozen escaped; they fled and found shelter in what is now our village. They were joined by some of Jhaora’s people, those who refused to take part in the murder of the Rahamans.”

  Y’Taba paused to sip his kuomo. His audience was rapt. Sajara and some of her hunters had gathered behind the elders and were listening intently. Y’Taba raised his voice. “The children of these people were our first ancestors.”

  A startled murmur rippled along the row of elders. “By Asusa!” and other cries were uttered until the crowd again fell silent.

  Y’Taba continued. “Without the fountain, the Rahamans became sick with age and began to die. To worsen matters, Jhaora had turned the wall of praises into a wall of blasphemies. Her people carved the image of their cruel goddess upon the outer wall and blocked all but one of its openings.

  “The Rahamans beseeched Jhaora for pity, but she slew any who came within the walls. The Rahamans prayed to their gods, but the only power their gods held was power over the fountain. So they fouled its waters. All who drank from it were transformed into creatures of evil, beasts of hideous aspect who fought among themselves for food or for the joy of killing.

  “The water of the fountain seeped into the ground and spread; soon nothing living could grow within the walls, and the evil creatures were forced to dwell in the jungle. The Rahaman gods then tried to restore the fountain. But Jhaora, who was last to transform into a beast, had cried to her goddess of evil for vengeance before she lost forever her womanly form. The goddess fought with the Rahaman gods, a terrible battle joined by the jealous storm gods. In that clash, Jhaora’s goddess and the Rahaman gods were destroyed. The fountain ran dry. What became of the twisted creature of evil that was once Jhaora, I do not know.”

  Conan leaned forward, intrigued. The origin of that immense castle was now clear. But from where had Jhaora come? Which of the seafaring Hyborian races were short and pale-skinned? The answer, he felt, was within his reach, if he could hear but one more clue.

  “The Rahamans never returned to their village within the walls. Beasts infested the jungle, and the hardships of survival occupied the Rahamans and their children. They began to call themselves ‘Ganak,’ which means ‘born of stone.’ But they no longer worked stone as they had, for the people of Jhaora were too small and lacked the craft. It was a time of trials, worsened by the appearance of the Kezati. When they first attacked, their numbers were few. But they returned again and again, their forces growing. The Ganaks prayed to their gods for help. But they lacked hope, for they knew that the Rahaman gods were no more.

  “Most of Jhaora’s people worshipped a god whom they called Azhura. Their god was neither good nor evil. But Jhaora had forced some of their people to pledge their souls to Khatar, a goddess of death.” He pointed to an elder whose body was painted with yellow triangles. “Their descendants—many of you—bear marks of warding to protect your spirits from Khatar. She does not hear prayers unless they are accompanied by the screams of victims who are offered in sacrifice. As for Azhura, he hears only the voices of his priests, none of whom had come to Ganaku. Our ancestors would have perished, were it not for Muhingo War God.”

  Conan nearly choked on his kuomo. Azhura... could it be Asura, a god of Vendhya? Khatar, though the spirit-leader pronounced it strangely, was surely Katar, an evil goddess of Vendhya. Conan had spent little time in that land. It lay many leagues to the east of Iranistan. Although it extended far into the Southern Ocean, Vendhya lacked abundant seaports. Its ways and peoples were strange. Yet it seemed likely that Jhaora had been Vendhyan. Perhaps Ganaku was one of the Misty Isles, a cluster of small islands off the western coast of Vendhya. If so, Conan reckoned, he had drifted more than five hundred leagues after the sinking of the Mistress. He focused his attention back on Y’Taba, hoping to hear more clues.

  “He appeared in a dream of a first ancestor who was also the first Y’Taba. Muhingo said that the Kezati were the spawn of his brother, Ezat. He told Y’Taba about Ataba the All-Father and Asusa Sun God, who were strong and good. These gods were sorry that their son, who was evil, had brought harm to the Ganaks. He was forbidden by Ataba to slay any Kezati, but he gave Y’Taba the kabukruh.” Y’Taba lifted his black shell necklace briefly, letting it fall back onto his chest with a clatter.

  “He then said to Y’Taba: ‘I name you Y’Taba Spirit-Leader. You must guide your people in the ways of Asusa. In return, I shall make you master of the shell-spirits who dwell within the kabukruh. Choose one among your people to become warrior-leader. Command the shell-spirits to protect him. Then send him and his warriors to a place of battle which I shall reveal to you. There your warriors will triumph and the children of Ezat will not come to your village. The shell-spirits have other powers; you may command them to heal the sick and the dying. They will obey you for as long as your people remain true to Asusa, but if..” He paused, stopping himself to clear his throat. “‘If you ever beget a child, your mastery of the spirits will wane and the kabukruh will become dust. If you stray from the path of Asusa, the spirits will not obey you.’” “Have we lost our way then, Y’Taba?” Jukona asked, his forehead wrinkling.

  “Perhaps we have. It has happened before—long ago, when the first warrior-leader aged and passed into the lands of grey. Then our warriors fought among themselves until only Kulunga remained, and again Muhingo came to o
ur aid. Since then, the Kezati have never come to Ganaku. It may be that we suffer for the misdeeds of Ngomba.”

  A wizened Ganak spoke, his voice softened by advanced age. “What of Kulunga and the atnalga? Can a chosen one rise again?”

  Others nodded in agreement. They looked expectantly at Y’Taba.

  “That is why we need the help of Conan,” he said solemnly. “When I told you that Muhingo took up Kulunga and the atnalga, I repeated a falsehood that every Y’Taba has told. Glad am I to speak the truth, though in doing so I break my vow to the Y’Taba before me.” He drew in a deep breath. “Kulunga was not taken up. After driving back the Kezati, he journeyed in secret to the Deadlands. Only the Y’Taba knew, and he forbade Kulunga to go. But the chosen one would not obey. He sought the fountain of the gods and spoke of reclaiming the village built by his ancestors. His mother and father were Rahamans, and they instilled in Kulunga a desire to see the walled village. He hoped that with the atnalga, he could defeat the creatures of evil that lie in the dark heart of the Deadlands. So Kulunga entered the outer wall... and never returned to his people.”

  “Why was this truth hidden?” A thin-faced elder demanded, his voice shrill and angry.

  Y’Taba shook his head. “I know not. But the Y’Taba’s people had endured much. He may have deemed it wise to give them hope, knowing that the shell-spirits would again obey him.”

  Whispers buzzed among the elders, dying down quickly when Conan spoke. “I have heard enough, by Crom! Ask what you would have me do and you will have my answer.” “You have seen the outer wall already,” Y’Taba answered coolly. “None here save you and Jukona know where it stands. He is our last warrior, and he must stay here to protect the village if the Kezati strike again. If the shell-spirits still obey me, they will protect him as they have before.”

  “Then why should I not go?” Jukona jumped up. “Send me! Let Conan guard the village.”

  Y’Taba shook his head. “Only the chosen one may wield the atnalga. It is death for any other warrior who lays a hand upon it. I believe that Muhingo has sent Conan to us. Kulunga’s chosen one is Conan of Cimmeria.” Conan emptied his shell of kuomo and tossed it aside, rising from the bench. “So you want me to hack my way through the beast-infested Deadlands, enter the devil-haunted walled village, and bring back this atnalga. Crom, man, why didn’t you just say so! I’ll go—but first you must swear by your gods that you will use these shell-spirits to banish the beast that you saw within me.” Y’Taba fingered his necklace of shells. Would this summons please Muhingo? Would the spirits obey him one more time? He did not know, but he knew that he must not waver. He had no choice but to do as Conan demanded. Y’Taba’s dark, round eyes met the smouldering blue eyes of the Cimmerian. “I swear by Asusa Sun God and Ataba the All-Father that I shall command the shell-spirits to banish the beast from within you.”