Conan and the Shaman's Curse

by Sean A. Moore

  Conan ran a hand over one of the elephant’s ears. “She must have taken this with her... Orissa eventually drove her out of Vendhya. Angered by the grotesque butchery of his brother, he appealed to the priests of mighty Ihndra, the god whose icon you see graven hereupon.

  “By inciting a holy war, Orissa closed his powerful fist around the priestess’s realm and crushed it, though she somehow slipped through his fingers with a few devout followers. No one knew what became of her—until now. Doubtless she hired mercenaries and ships, fleeing to the safety of the seas... perhaps hoping to build a new base of power.”

  Sajara gazed thoughtfully at the throne. “When Y’Taba spoke of Jhaora, did her name not bring this tale to your mind?”

  He shook his head. “Her name was stricken from all writings and banned by Orissa. It was death to utter it. For years he searched for her, seeking vindication for his brother’s murder. He died a bitter greybeard on that vain quest.”

  “What now, Conan?” Sajara asked, gesturing at the ebony blade lying upon the floor. “How shall we bring the atnalga to the village?”

  “In one of these chests,” he replied, clearing away the rubble that buried one of the smaller trunks. He was curious to learn of their contents anyway... without arousing too much suspicion. On the island, Jhaora would have had no way of spending the loot from her empire that she had surely taken with her. Conan was of a mind to haul it away with him when he left this island. And now he was reasonably certain where the mainland lay.

  Jhaora could not have strayed too far from the coast of Vendhya. Vessels of those times were ill-suited for long voyages. Further, the Vendhyans had never been a people noted for their seamanship.

  And he would not return empty-handed. Not if these chests contained even a tithe of the wealth rumoured to have been in the priestess’s possession. Licking his lips, Conan slid the point of his sword under the bronze hasp and gently worked it loose. The lid was wedged in tightly, probably warped by prolonged contact with rain and sun. He pried it off with his blade, standing aside and as far back from the thing as he could. The absence of locks often indicated the presence of insidious traps.

  In this case, however, it simply indicated the lack of valuable contents. Conan frowned as he leaned over the mildewy mass of tomes stacked in the trunk. The humidity had all but destroyed them. He peered at the cover of one and withdrew it carefully, as it seemed ready to crumble between his fingers. He squinted at the ghosts of characters with which it was haunted. Conan had gathered the general sort of knowledge that accumulates in the memories of those who travel the length and breadth of many lands. He had acquired skill at the speaking and reading of so many tongues that many a chair-bound scholar would have been amazed by Conan’s abilities. To thief, warrior, mercenary, or adventurer, the difference between life and death can lie in the meaning of a single syllable or a simple rune.

  These writings were incomprehensible, though the characters that formed the words were unmistakably Vendhyan. He was loathe to abandon them, yet he deemed this neither the time nor the place to peruse the mouldy old manuscripts.

  He picked up an arm bone and wedged the atnalga into it. Holding it as if it were an irate asp, he set the bizarre weapon atop the pile of books. The lid closed neatly over it, and he hefted the low-sided chest onto one of his brawny shoulders. It was heavy but manageable, though he doubted he could run far or fast while burdened with it.

  Setting it down, he kicked aside some of the jagged chunks of rock that half-buried the other three trunks. Cracks in the floor spread from under these to the opposite wall, suggesting weighty contents that fired the Cimmerian’s imagination. He bent apart the latch securing the centre chest and lifted its lid, grinning at the golden coinage within. It was a haul that a year of piracy could not have matched. He groaned inwardly, frustrated by the presence of such a hoard when he had no means to haul it away. The winding ramp to this room had crumbled away, and he had no rope to fashion any sort of conveyance.

  “Conan!” Sajara screamed, shrinking against the wall as she stared past his shoulder.

  A shadow suddenly enveloped her; Conan instantly dropped to the floor as the rush of air came from behind him.

  The chest saved his life.

  Spiny forelegs seized the bronze bands and hardened wood, crushing the trunk like a bug. Green jaws snapped in the air a finger’s breadth from Conan’s neck, sunlight glinting wickedly on razor-like edges.

  “Crom curse it!” he growled, crawling forward to clutch his dropped sword.

  The gigantic stalker filled the room, easily thrice the size of the deadly predator they had faced before. Its antennae, tall as two men, swept backward from the top of the bulbous-eyed head, twitching. The spines on the monstrous forelegs jutted like rapiers, and three men of Conan’s size would scarcely have filled the thing’s segmented abdomen. Its carapace gleamed like emerald armour.

  Bending down, the stalker shot out pincer-like legs toward the prone barbarian, who rolled for cover under the throne. The spines clacked against the opal, gouging chips from its edges and lifting it into the air, exposing Conan.

  A loud crack sounded from between the stalker’s forelegs, and a shower of opal shards rained down from the throne’s ruined arms.

  Dumbfounded by this display of strength, Conan looked at the puny blade in his hand and sprang from his crouch toward the doorway, grabbing the petrified Sajara. “Come on!” he shouted, pulling her with him.

  The stalker tossed the wrecked throne. It struck the wall above the ramp, bouncing off and nearly squashing Conan, who avoided it by twisting in mid-leap. Lunging again with the speed of a lighting strike, the creature’s deadly legs struck, their spines raking the wall where Sajara had stood moments before.

  They were cut off from the ramp. There was no other exit from the chamber.

  Galvanized into action, Sajara followed Conan’s evasive moves. They began a shuffling, diving dance, avoiding attack after attack with desperate dodging and rolling. With uncanny precision, the stalker began to anticipate their manoeuvres, forcing them to change tactics. Time and again they leaped toward the exit, only to be driven back by the powerful swipe of those lethal spines.

  Conan knew that they could not keep up the pace; the footing was poor and their foe seemed tireless. The slightest slip would result in a bloody death between the stalker’s snapping forelegs. To worsen matters, the cracks underfoot were spreading as the aged floor vibrated from the strain. A distant rattling filtered up to them, as if pieces were falling from the ceiling and crashing onto the fountain below. The clattering echoes brought cold sweat to Conan’s brow. If the floor gave way...

  Better to fight than plunge to a horrible death. Conan knew that his own sword had been of little use against these things. The Cimmerian seized a desperate chance. Rolling forward, he groped for the hilt of the atnalga, snatching it from the wreckage of the smashed trunk. The warm tingle returned at once, but he risked the pain for a brief span, coming out of the forward roll on his feet and springing straight for the stalker.

  As he had hoped, the beast’s tactics did not change. When it lowered its head to snap at him, his jump brought him up to the pair of shiny, sinister eyes. His powerful downward stroke drove the atnalga right between those orbs, razor-like edges parting fibrous green tissues as the blade sank to its hilt. As before, he felt his muscles clenching; in a moment they would refuse to let go of the thing in spite of the searing pain he felt.

  With a surge of strength he wrenched his hand from the weapon’s grip, letting himself fall to the floor. A massive foreleg batted him across the room; he skidded, scattering chunks of rock and crashing into a wall.

  The stalker’s unearthly wail filled the air with deafening tones. The enraged monster flailed about with its forelegs, whipping its head from side to side, trying to dislodge the deadly spike. Its eyes glowed like a pair of huge, hot coals, wisps of smoke rising from their red-orange surfaces. The stalker’s head glowed, swelling, cha
nging from green to a scarlet blister as its frenzied spasms weakened and its shrieking subsided. Its head burst in a messy spray of steaming pink muck, splashing the walls with scorched matter so foul it made Conan’s eyes bum. The gigantic body collapsed, twitching feebly; its head naught but a ragged, smoking stump.

  The floor collapsed beneath it, giving way with booming crack.

  Trapped in the centre of the room, Conan had no place to go but down. He slid forward, feeling the sickening rush of weightlessness as the supporting stones dropped away from him.

  Sajara’s fingers hooked onto the ledge they had used to enter the ruined chamber.

  Conan threw out his hand, nearly dislocating his shoulder. His fingers brushed Sajara’s calf before grasping her ankle.

  She winced as the Cimmerian’s mass nearly tore her hand from its grip on the ledge. They swayed together like a pendulum, their combined weight gradually forcing her fingers to straighten.

  Sajara held on with waning strength, slipping downward slowly, inexorably. She craned her neck and shouted at Conan, her pained expression telling of the strain she was under. Her words were lost in the booming crash of chests bursting against the crystalline fountain, and the din of rocky debris pelting floors and walls. The opal throne struck a ledge on its way down; spinning, it shattered against the floor in a shower of iridescent shards.

  Staring down along the wall, Conan saw the ledge beneath them. It looked wider than the one above... a silent, stony dare. His sweaty hand relaxed its hold on Sajara’s ankle; he braced himself to grab that beckoning edge, hands sliding along the wall as he plummeted. His clutching fingers at last encountered it, breaking his fall. He clung to it for a moment, savouring the reassuring feel of unyielding stone.

  Without Conan weighing her down, Sajara manoeuvred along the thin ribbon of rock, improving her hold. Moving hand over hand, she descended the ledge, pulling herself up when it widened sufficiently.

  The clattering and crashing subsided, leaving only a dull ringing in Conan’s ears. He hauled himself up onto the stone ledge and sat there, tilting his head backward against the wall and panting from exhaustion. After catching his breath, he stared down at the jumble of stones atop the stalker’s crushed carcass. Coins gleamed everywhere, sprinkled across the chamber like golden drops of dew. The contents of the other chests were buried beneath the wreckage.

  Conan joined Sajara, his eyes flashing a silent thanks to her for hanging on. She wiped her brow and smiled at him.

  “Gods, but that was close. We’d be filling that beast’s belly were it not for the atnalga. But now we must prolong our stay in this damned tower and pick through yon pile there to retrieve that strange sword. Surely it survived the fall.”

  “Twice we have escaped death in the jaws of a stalker,” Sajara mumbled. She seemed dazed by their harrowing escape. “Although you are not the chosen one, the gods must hold you high in favour. Either that, or your Crom bestowed upon you a measure of fortune far beyond that granted to most men.”

  “Ha! Spend an eve at my side in a gambling den whilst I roll the dice and you’ll say otherwise. Ill fortune follows at my heels like a stray hound seeking food. This time, though, the bones rolled and came up winners. But what we need now is haste, girl! The sunlight fades, and our task awaits us. With luck”—he almost bit his tongue as he said it—“we can rejoin the others before sunset.” Before a stalker finds them was the unspoken fear that stewed in the back of Conan’s mind.

  XVII

  The Ranioba

  “Y’Taba, another night comes. Why have they not returned?” Jukona fretted, pacing in the dirt outside the door to Y’Taba’s hut.

  “Be at peace, Jukona. A sky of clouds clears not while one stares up at it. Worry will not serve you as well as rest— you have not slept since the morning of their departure.” “The Deadlands will devour my daughter, and Conan, and the others. I should have accompanied them,” he groaned, ignoring the spirit-leader’s admonishment.

  “To what end? Those whom you have sworn to defend are here—our women, our children, the elders, and your handful of warriors, wounded or dying but yours to protect. If the Kezati come—”

  “Then they will face not one warrior but two,” a sombre voice sounded from the doorway to the hut, causing the two old men to turn and stare. Ngomba strode up to them, muscles rippling under the afternoon sun. He looked like anyone but a man who a few days ago had lain upon a deathbed. Aside from some scabs and bruises, his body showed no evidence of the beating it had taken. His bright, fierce eyes radiated exuberance.

  “Ngomba! By Asusa, you look fit as ever,” Jukona marvelled.

  Y’Taba regarded the young warrior with a stem gaze. “You must be careful, Ngomba. Your vigour may wane when you most need it. To you I say what I said to Jukona: rest.”

  “Not while the Kezati hover nearby, waiting to prey upon us. Dreams of them darken my sleep, Y’Taba Spirit-Leader. When I close my eyes I see them hover like winged clouds, waiting to rain down upon us in a storm of beaks and claws. And who shall stand before that rain of doom?” he snapped, jabbing a finger at Jukona. “You?” Snorting, he shook his head disdainfully.

  Jukona stiffened, eyes flashing. “Hold your tongue, Ngomba. I have suffered it to wag with your words of scorn, but no more!”

  “I see. You will punish me if I do not show proper respect for a warrior-leader who is no longer even fit to follow?” His laugh rang harshly, bitterly.

  Jukona’s open palm struck the young warrior’s face with a resounding slap, so forceful that it knocked his head backward.

  Snarling, Ngomba balled his huge hands into club-like fists, cocking his arm backward.

  Y’Taba caught Ngomba’s fist with a meaty smack, wrapping his hand around it. The imposing spirit-leader bored his eyes into Ngomba’s. “Be silent, insolent one!” Y’Taba boomed, his eyes narrowing in anger. “Once I banished you; I shall do so again if you disobey me. Your heart is true to our people, I think, but your mind is a pit into which I cannot see. You are strong, Ngomba. The gods have granted you a boon that you must not abuse. Apologize to Jukona.”

  Ngomba glowered in silence, tugging at his fist to loosen it from the spirit-leader’s powerful grip.

  Jukona stood expectantly, his arms folded across his chest.

  Y'Taba’s muscles quivered as he forced Ngomba’s arm down. “Apologize,” he insisted. Cords rippled along his forearm, and his biceps bulged as he pushed back the younger warrior’s upraised fist. But if he felt any strain, his voice did not show it.

  Ngomba’s lips drew back across his bared teeth. Then his shoulder slumped as he seemed to give up the struggle. “Forgive me, Jukona Warrior-Leader,” he mumbled, bowing his head.

  Y’Taba let go, planting his hands on his hips.

  “You need me. Our people need me,” Ngomba said to the ground. “You dare not banish me, and if you did I would not go. As for the stranger, Conan, we need him not. If he returns, send him away. If she who will one day be joined with me has perished, I shall not forgive you, Spirit-Leader. You should have not let her go.”

  “She is Ranioba, and by our custom the right is hers.” Y’Taba slowly flexed his fingers, setting his jaw as if to conceal a grimace of pain.

  Ngomba watched him. “How shall you wash your hands of her blood, Spirit-Leader? How? My heart tells me that like Jukona, you have faded. It is dusk for you, Y’Taba; the sun that was your wisdom is sinking from the sky. But you are still Y’Taba, and you have strength I did not guess at.” He unclenched his hand, rubbing the palm, then shaking his fingers. “So we wait Who will return first? Our enemies, or the stranger who—you say—will save us?” Tight-lipped, he clasped his hands before him, tapping the forefingers together.

  Jukona stood impassively, his face a block of chiselled stone.

  Y’Taba’s eyes flickered between the trees that bordered his village and the darkening sky that loomed above it. He did not answer the question.

  “Where in the blazes o
f Zandru’s seventh hell are they?” Conan asked, surveying the area by the pool of water as they neared it. The mid-morning sun provided excellent visibility, but he did not see anyone in the expected place.

  Sajara quickened her pace. “Maybe they sought shelter—from a stalker, perhaps.”

  Conan hurried along the stone pathway, glad to put the tower behind him. The search through the rubble had taken longer than he had hoped, forcing them to stop when the light failed. At first the prospect of spending a night in the tower soured Conan’s mood further. His flaring temper had been more than assuaged when Sajara had, in gratitude, kissed him. Their lips lingered in an embrace that preceded an evening of passion. The beautiful Ganak huntress had herself seemed surprised by desires that Conan awakened in her.

  The Cimmerian felt somewhat bruised and battered this morning, but he doubted he would have slept anyway. In spite of the rough comforts of the tower, the amorous encounter had been just what he needed.

  Sajara, for her part, also seemed to be in much better spirits. When the dawn’s bright light filled the tower’s interior, they had resumed their search and located the atnalga beneath a heap of splintered wood. Conan had found some interesting object among the debris, which he tucked into the pouches he had originally fashioned for the rubies. After divining that those crimson gemstones represented eyes in a carven image of Kahli, he had given up his plan to pry them loose. Such treasures bore the stench of black magic upon them, and his experiences with such loot had brought nothing but trouble in the past. He might return for them one day, but for now he was content with some of the baubles retrieved from Jhaora’s hoard.

  He had also picked up the small chest. One side of it had been smashed, but not too badly, and he stuffed it with a few books that remained more or less intact. A casual flipping of pages revealed some interesting contents, further brightening the Cimmerian’s mood.