Conan and the Shaman's Curse

by Sean A. Moore

  “You need not go alone,” Sajara said, stepping forward. “I and three of mine will accompany you.”

  “We may need you,” Y’Taba said sternly.

  “And if Conan fails, we all may perish,” she replied, crossing her arms. “As Ranioba, the decision is mine to make, and I have spoken.”

  Y’Taba sighed. “So be it.”

  “We leave at dawn,” Conan grinned, slapping the hilt of his sword. He eyed Sajara as she gathered her hunters and left. Her size gave her natural beauty an exotic flair that he found more intoxicating than the kuomo. And she seemed as strong as she was supple, qualities he admired in a woman. He knew she would prove her worth in the jungle if the accursed spider-beasts or other jungle denizens attacked.

  Conan had decided to enter the walled village, with or without the spirit-leader’s promise. He reasoned that within the walls he might find Jhaora’s ships’ logs or charts. With these, he could find his way to the mainland. And the rubies in that wall, if he could devise a scheme to pry them loose, would fetch a handsome price when he returned to civilization. Each of those beauties was easily worth a room full of gold.

  Smiling, he walked alongside Jukona and the others to turn in for the night. There was little doubt that his luck was about to change.

  XIV

  The Vugunda

  In the rising sun, the dense jungle leaves glinted and winked like emeralds, a swaying and shimmering wall of green at the edge of the Ganak village. Conan inhaled the humid, sea-scented air, invigorated after a night of dreamless sleep and a meal of raw, flavourful fish called panga. His head suffered none of effects he would have expected from a night of excessive kuomo consumption. Aside from a negligible twinge where the spider-beast’s mandibles had nearly halved him, Conan felt like a new man.

  Y’Taba stood with the elders near the place of gathering. His eyes had a dark, swollen look to them. He apparently had not slept as well as Conan—if indeed he had slept at all.

  “This atnalga is made of stone?” Conan asked sceptically. “Yet it resembles my blade.” He shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword, the polished steel flashing in the bright sun.

  “No Ganak among us has actually seen the atnalga, of course,” Jukona said, approaching Conan and joining the conversation.

  Y’Taba rubbed his eyes, blinking to clear them. “Jukona speaks truly, but you should have no difficulty in recognizing the atnalga. Our legends describe it in detail. It is said to be the length of a man’s arm, the shape of a serpent’s fang, and the colour. of the sea on a day without wind. The stone from which Muhingo moulded the atnalga was said to have come from afar... from a place beyond even the lands of grey, where only gods may dwell. And though it be moulded from stone, the atnalga’s edges were said to be sharper than the shell-blades and shell-sticks fashioned by our huntresses.”

  Conan tried to visualize such a weapon, shaking his head in puzzlement. Never had he seen or heard of such a thing, and he was beginning to question its existence. Storytellers were prone to enhance tales with every new telling. Even sages and learned historians had a way of gilding worthless lore, knowing that history’s truth lay silent, buried forever in dusty tombs with the men who had made it. Conan cared not if the atnalga was forged from the shin bone of Mitra, so long as he could find it.

  Conan turned his head at the sound of a light step behind him. Sajara stood there with three Ganak women, all of whom were smiling. “Crom,” he muttered. Their approach had been stealthier than that of a kitten padding across a thick rug. It was as he had thought; Sajara and her band would be welcome companions on this foray.

  “So, Conan of Cimmeria, are you ready to face the Deadlands?”

  He grinned. “I was ready last night. What took you so long to prepare?”

  “We awakened long ago, before the face of Anamobi Moon Goddess dipped from the sky. Avrana, Kanitra, Makiela and I were spearing fish with our shell-sticks, as we often do before the others rise. We must take provisions with us. The beasts and the plants of the Deadlands are not safe to eat.”

  Conan grunted agreement, remembering his gut-curdling experience with the spider’s eggs. He began rubbing himself with a handful of berry pulp given to him by Jukona, wrinkling his nose. “This berry juice reeks like a Zamorian offal-pit.”

  Jukona grinned. “The berries have no scent; they serve only to give it colour. What you smell is fresh droppings from the tsatsa bird, which preys on the small creatures in the jungle. The odour is strong enough to drive away the stinger-bugs and winged blood-bugs, whose bites may bring sickness or death. We mix the juice of berries with the droppings so that we may paint our bodies for protection from these bugs. You will soon become accustomed to it.” Casting a dubious eye on his besmeared torso and limbs, Conan shrugged. “Doubtless that same smell attracts other predators who are capable of doing worse than stinging. No matter; if it works, I suppose that I care not how vile its aroma is. What matters is that we be under way. Perhaps we can find the atnalga and bring it back to the village by dusk. I would as soon not pass the night in the Deadlands.” Agreement to his sentiment was universal.

  Jukona turned to Y’Taba. “How is Ngomba this morning?”

  “His body has begun to mend. He is ashamed of his treatment of you and Conan, and asked me to wish you safe and swift return from the Deadlands. In truth, he seemed sad that he could not go with you.”

  Jukona’s eyes were downcast; he said nothing.

  “We shall return soon,” Conan said, dropping the subject of Ngomba. He had not yet forgiven the impetuous Ganak.

  After making their farewells, Sajara and Conan followed Makiela, the tallest of the Ganak women, out of the village. Two Ganak hunters walked behind them, shell-sticks in hand. Both women wore crudely wrapped pouches— snakeskin, or possibly eel skin, Conan thought—on their left hips; these contained what few provisions the party needed for their excursion. Makiela moved with panther-like grace, scanning the ground, choosing the path taken by Jukona and Conan the day before.

  “Makiela is a huntress without equal,” Sajara said proudly.

  Nonplussed, Conan watched the tall Ganak critically. “In a land near Cimmeria are a race of people called Picts, born and bred in the forests. A Pictish scout can track a grown snake to its place of spawning. Any woodsman worth his salt could follow the trail that Jukona and I made.” Inwardly, however, he had to admit that Makiela moved at least as fast as any Pict he had ever seen, and she was certainly better looking.

  Sajara smiled. “In time you will see what I mean, Conan of Cimmeria. You are proud of your people, as we are of ours. But there is much you do not know of our land and our people.”

  They entered the trees that bordered the village, following Makiela. She never slowed, guiding them decisively, keeping a constant distance a few paces ahead of Conan and Sajara. The others followed behind, walking alongside each other and scanning the trees incessantly. The jungle was quiet this morning; the few serpents they encountered were sluggish or often asleep, and only a few birds were about.

  “We will find some eggs of the anansi soon and take them with us. The anansi do not come to this part of the jungle; the sun is too bright. Where the trees become thick and the path becomes dark, we must tread with care.”

  “I saw little else before I reached the clearing,” Conan said. “Nothing that could stop us from reaching the walled village, at any rate.”

  “You were fortunate,” Sajara replied quickly. “The anansi are food for many predators who prowl the region that we seek. It is good that you have your weapon at ready. Our own weapons cannot slay the stalkers of the Deadlands. It is for them we watch, though even Makiela may not detect their presence until it is too late.” “Stalkers?”

  “The elders call them vugunda. They hunt alone, never in packs like the anansi. The Ranioba before me once saw two of them fighting each other; the larger—vugunda females are much larger than males—tore the limbs from her opponent one by one, eating it alive, sa
ving the head for last.” She swallowed nervously. “An elder once saw a stalker that was twice the height of Jukona, with a body as long as a log-boat.”

  “Such a beast must be easy to see or at the very least too large to surprise its prey,” Conan said.

  “Not the stalkers. If you watched them hunt, you would believe me. Their bodies are—”

  Makiela turned around, scowling. Squinting, she brought a finger to her lips, halting everyone with a raised palm. She swept the jungle with her eyes.

  Conan peered into the trees, wondering what she had seen. The vegetation was still thin here, affording little cover. Besides, they had not yet come to the wide pathway that Conan had taken into the Deadlands.

  Brow furrowing in annoyance, Makiela lowered her arm and spoke. “I heard a sound behind us.” Her voice was as deep as a man’s, but its tone was pleasant, almost musical. “It may have been a bird above us or the wind in the trees.”

  Conan had heard nothing, and in spite of his idle talk with Sajara, he had been watching and listening for signs of anything nearby. But the wind had begun to stir the leaves, and insects swarmed everywhere—a bountiful feast for the small birds that nested in the trees near the Ganak village.

  “I can lead if you wish,” Conan offered. “I remember the way from here, and as Sajara said, your weapons are of little use against the fiercer denizens of this place.” Makiela laughed. “A man, a stranger, leading the Ranioba and her three best huntresses into the Deadlands, as if we were children. I think not, Conan of Cimmeria.” “The decision is mine to make, Makiela,” Sajara interjected. “Were he a Ganak, I would agree with you. Our warriors are not as skilled in the ways of the jungle as are we. But Conan has been to the wall of the ancient village; we have not. He has survived the attack of the anansi. Let him lead.”

  Wordlessly, Makiela stepped aside, gesturing for Conan to replace her. “We must find the eggs of the anansi soon to be safe from them.”

  “I saw them near the path,” Conan said. “A bird was feeding upon one.” He was irked by Makiela’s doubts of his ability as a guide and determined to show her and the others what a Cimmerian could do. He had been on his share of jungle expeditions. The terrain and conditions bore almost no similarity to those of his homeland, but Conan adapted readily to any primal environments. Indeed, he felt more at home in a teeming wilderness than a crowded city. In his experience, men were often more devious than any creatures of the wild, and the streets of so-called civilized settlements could be more hazardous to navigate than any jungle.

  Whenever men founded cities, they made laws that even strangers passing through were expected to understand and obey. Penalties for infringement were severe; many times had Conan left a city with its guards chasing him for violation of some foolish local rule. But whether it was the hills of Cimmeria, the deserts of Shem, or the jungles of Ganaku, he knew well the simple law of the wilderness: the strong and wary survive, the weak and heedless perish. Conan was a barbarian, and in many ways he was closer kin to beasts than to men.

  Quickening his stride, sword in hand, he took the lead. By Crom, he would show this Ganak wench a thing or two about tracking.

  The midday sun hung in the air like an immense, white-hot sphere of coal in a vast blue brazier. Its unrelenting heat had turned the jungle into a sweltering green hell.

  Sweat poured down Conan’s face and gleamed on his bare, powerfully muscled body. Like the women, he was nearly unclothed. Early in the morning, back in the village, he had obtained a long, wide strip of snakeskin and fashioned it into a crude breech clout. This he had done not for modesty’s sake, but for practicality. The scaly green-black hide would afford him a means to store his rubies; he would wrap them in a spare piece and tie them with loop-knots around the waist of the breech clout. His simple garment provided a sword-belt of sorts, a feature that could prove to be invaluable later.

  Sajara and the others wore snakeskin girdles that offered minimal coverage. They were tied diagonally across the waist, fully exposing the right hip and reaching down to the middle of the left thigh. He could not help but to admire the view. It was a practical enough fashion, affording them freedom of movement and a place for their shell-knives, but little else. They were bare from navel to neck with the exception of Sajara, who wore her necklace of snake fangs. Their fashion was not unlike that of women in Punt and Zembabwei, lands that lay south of Stygia. These savage kingdoms were as densely swarded as Ganaku, but by Conan’s estimation, their climes were milder. This jungle was as sultry as a Turanian steam-bath.

  He noticed that the Ganaks were perspiring far less than he; their skin gleamed where his dripped. The paint on his face and chest had begun to run, but their spiralling stripes of green and yellow held fast. Their heads, nearly bare but for their braids, were clearly more comfortable than his thick, black mane. He glanced over his shoulder again, wiping sweat from his eyes. He was struck again by the exotic look of these voluptuous women. It was just as well that he had moved in front of them, where their appearance would not distract him.

  “There,” he pointed to a cluster of vines that dangled from a nearby tree.

  “Anansi eggs, at last.” Sajara sped up, walking alongside Conan toward the lumpy, dull-coloured objects.

  Conan recalled that before, while traversing this stretch of jungle, he had seen fewer small birds but noted increasing numbers of the larger, hook-billed variety. The brooding quiet of the place unsettled him, for it usually signified the presence of a predator so nasty that even the swift jungle birds shunned it.

  Makiela’s troubled expression mirrored Conan’s. “The Deadlands are too silent. By Asusa, it is as if the jungle itself awaits us, lurking like a snake in the grass, unmoving, making no sound until it lunges and strikes.”

  “Aye,” Conan muttered. “But this snake will find no mouse in its maw. Any beast who would prey upon us must first deal with my blade.”

  “And my shell-stick,” added Kanitra, one of the hunters who had followed behind them. She watched the leaves with fierce eyes. She gripped her spear, the muscles of her arm flexing.

  Makiela climbed nimbly up a vine, pulling several eggs from it. She dropped back to the sward, handing out the lumpy things to the others. She stood warily at Sajara’s side, egg in one hand, shell-knife in the other, ready to jab anything that burst from the trees.

  Conan noted with approval that the shell-knife had been scraped, apparently against a hard stone, to sharpen its edges. ‘The pile of bones will lie a few paces ahead, and the vines will become thicker. I care not for this unnatural calm. When I last came this way, there were birds aplenty who feasted on these things.” He flipped the anansi egg into the air, catching it in his left hand. As he led them along the path, he devoted much of his attention to the limbs above them. “Beware their webs, which they drop before pouncing.” He realized that the prospect of facing the loathsome spiders troubled him little, now that he had his sword. Its blade would hew them down like a scythe harvesting wheat. What concerned him more was the beasts the others had mentioned—the stalkers. A predator of immense size with stealth to match it would be formidable. He took comfort in the knowledge that these creatures were at least flesh and blood. The real danger doubtless lurked within the demon-haunted walls of stone, which they neared with every step.

  “There are the bones,” Sajara said, spotting the pile as they rounded a bend in the path.

  “No sign of the anansi’' Conan scowled. “Never did I think that I would wish to see them again.”

  Sajara looked at the splintered mound of ivory, replete with decaying skulls. “The remnants of brave Ganaks,” she mused. “So many who perished before venturing farther into the Deadlands.” She lagged a pace or two behind Conan, solemnly pondering the horrible fate that had befallen those slain Ganaks.

  “There is the carcass of the beast I slew,” Conan pointed with his sword. Although it was long-dead and rent asunder, the thing looked as vile and venomous as it had in life. It real
ly had been nearly his size.

  Sajara stared at Conan. “With your hands, while its jaws closed upon you, you ripped it apart?” She reached out a hand and laid it upon one of his massive biceps, squeezing. “Jukona did not treat you fairly when he said you were as mighty as any Ganak. Few if any of our warriors have strength to match yours, Conan.” She left her hand on his arm and walked beside him.

  Conan grinned. “Not even Ngomba?”

  “Poor Ngomba,” she sighed, but did not take away her hand.

  There was an awkward silence as they walked, the only sound was that of their breathing and the quiet tread of their bare feet on the damp, leafy ground. Conan wondered if his gibe had offended her.

  Presently Sajara spoke again. “He may be able to best you in a contest of strength, but wisdom has eluded him. You have the better of him, Conan, and I am sure that he hates you for it. Did you know that he and I might once have joined as mates?”

  Conan raised an eyebrow but made no comment.

  “I loved him—I still do—but as a sister loves her brother. Now I would not become his mate, not after all that has happened. His spirit is strong, but his vision of what is right for our people has possessed him. He was not always so grim.”