Conan and the Shaman's Curse
Page 24
Staring over the side, he witnessed a strange sight: Sajara was disappearing into the face of the cliff! Her cry of surprise and horror was cut short as she vanished. Damn his haste! He should have stayed at her side! Sajara had taken a different path up the cliff side and must have found a cave undoubtedly occupied by a Kezati.
Cursing, Conan descended the wall, going straight to the place where Sajara had been lost to sight. Sure enough, he found a narrow opening there, a third of the way up. Her knife lay upon the stony floor of the tunnel beyond, which was barely wide enough to accommodate a man. Beyond the entrance, its ceiling rose rapidly to thrice Conan’s height. A scraping echo sounded faintly from within, then the cave fell silent.
Conan stepped in without a moment’s hesitation. His eyes adjusted to the deepening darkness, nostrils twitching at the pungent air wafting past him. A shuffle and a thump echoed from somewhere far ahead. Fortunately, the sun offered dim, indirect light, even as Conan crept deep into the upwardly sloping tunnel.
Irregular niches pocked the cavern walls. With a start Conan realized that he had blundered into the Kezati aerie. He peered into a jagged recess, his hand feeling along the wall and encountering the rough edges of a large nest. He snatched away his fingers as he realized that its sides were not made of sticks and mud, as he had thought, but of bones—large, human bones, mixed with the stranger bones of the Kezati. No wonder the Ganaks carried away their dead from the shore of skulls.
At the very back of the niche, wedged in place above the nest, a single Kezati skull leered at him. He moved on, glancing into the other macabre beds of bone to be certain that no vultures lurked in the shadows. Rounding another bend, he saw that the tunnel spiralled upward, probably all the way to the top where he had seen the pit and was sure that he would find the winged she-devil.
He continued upward past scores of empty nests. It seemed Y’Taba was right; the place was deserted. Perhaps the Ganaks had slain all but the last of this abominable race.
Ahead the winding corridor widened and reflected sunlight from above. He slowed, sword raised in readiness, his footsteps as stealthy as the padding of a stalking panther.
Where the corridor ended, the tunnel opened into a vast chamber. Bright rays of sunlight filtered from a hole in the roof—the pit that Conan had seen atop the islet. The scene inside filled him with nausea.
Hundreds, nay, thousands of lumpy eggs the size of ale barrels lay upon the floor. Among them, a few speckled red shells were quivering slightly. One shivered violently before splitting. The puckered, slimy head of a Kezati infant emerged, its tiny but sharp beak cawing.
A few paces away lay the prone forms of Y’Taba and Sajara. Y’Taba’s chest rose and fell with ragged breathing, reviving Conan’s hopes. Sajara stirred weakly; Conan could see her nasty head wound from across the chamber.
The giant Kezati squatted near them, her back turned away from Conan. As she straightened, a wet plop sounded above the faint screeching of the newborn Kezati. A muck-encrusted egg wobbled on the floor beneath her.
The young Kezati emerged, tearing away the rest of its shell with its hooked beak. It was the size of a fully grown eagle, though its wings showed only minimal development. Waddling on its revolting legs, it wobbled toward the fresh meat brought home by its mother.
Conan had seen enough. Blade whirling like a steel cyclone, he bounded into the chamber, smashing eggs beneath his feet, hacking apart the repulsive Kezati weanling as the vulture-queen turned to face him.
So baleful were the crimson pupils of her weirdly human eyes that their very malevolence stopped him for a moment. In their red depths lurked ageless evil, an undying and cosmic hatred so intense that it pierced Conan’s soul. In that awful instant, he knew he faced no mere oversized Kezati, but a diabolic fiend spawned in Hell’s most blasphemous breeding pit.
The reason for the desperate sacrifices of the vultures at once became clear. This she-devil had fresh hatchlings to feed, and she cared only for the future of this new brood. In those eyes he had seen lust for pain and blood, for the suffering of anything that lived. She had deliberately not slain Sajara and Y’Taba, out of vengeance—to watch them suffer, to hear their tortured screams as her brood devoured them... alive.
The moment ended abruptly as the Kezati queen struck, her talons lashing out in a disembowelling sweep beneath Conan’s upraised sword. He sprang backward, narrowly avoiding them, his defiant shout ringing in the chamber. He threw Sajara’s knife in a smooth motion, burying it in the queen’s side. She plucked it out with her beak and tossed it aside, screaming in rage as she lunged at Conan.
So tall was she that her neck rose beyond the tip of his blade. The reach of her talons exceeded that of his sword, forcing him to weave his way through her slashing assault. When she lowered her beak to strike, he rolled onto the floor, eggs crunching under his back, thrusting the sword toward her underbelly. Sajara stirred nearby, rising to her elbows.
A quick beat of the Kezati’s wings carried the she-devil above Conan’s attack, then she dropped back onto him, talons ripping into his shoulders. A desperate blow lopped off her leg, her enraged screeches of pain nearly bursting his eardrums. He struck again, shearing a chunk of feathered flesh from her side, exposing her quivering vitals before a gout of black, oily blood gushed over them.
The sweep of her talons knocked Conan through the air and slammed him into the opposite wall, spinning his sword away. Clutching his gouged side in an effort to stem the flow of blood, he scrambled for the blade.
Although his stroke had wounded the queen severely, it was not enough. She glared at him maliciously, then took to the air, flapping slowly toward the opening in the ceiling.
From where she lay, Sajara reached out, her fingers grasping the remaining leg of the retreating queen. Ignoring the Ganak, the Kezati continued her flight, pulling Sajara with her.
Bellowing curses, Conan lumbered toward them, blood streaming from his side. He jumped and caught Sajara’s foot in a one-handed grab. Such was the queen’s strength, even wounded, that she continued to fly, clearing the edge of the hole. Once outside, the shrieking Kezati began shaking her leg, trying to kick loose the Ganak who clung so tenaciously.
Conan maintained his tenuous hold on Sajara’s foot by sheer strength and willpower, hooking his own feet under the edge of the opening to prevent the queen from rising further. His other hand was still wrapped around his hilt.
Unable to either ascend or to shake loose the clinging woman, the enraged Kezati bent forward, her beak stabbing downward toward Sajara’s exposed head.
Conan howled savagely. Releasing his toe-hold on the aperture below, he swung himself up to meet the queen’s attack. His flashing blade struck the queen’s lunging neck, slicing through leathery flesh and cleaving bone.
The beak stopped a handspan from Sajara’s face, as the queen’s severed head bounced off the rock to splash into the sea far below.
Conan’s hand slipped from Sajara’s ankle. He landed on his feet, swaying at the edge of the cliff before recovering his balance. The Kezati’s final shuddering convulsion dislodged Sajara. Talons slashed across Conan’s chest, ripping loose the necklace he had tied there... sending Y’Taba’s string of shells flying outward in a wide arc toward the sea.
The moment froze before Conan’s eyes.
Sajara’s arms flailed, missing the cliff’s edge as she fell in the direction of the Kezati queen’s headless body— away from that of the plummeting necklace.
Without hesitation, Conan threw himself after Sajara, his powerful hands closing around her slender wrist and pulling her to safety. He heard a faint splash below, but put all thought of it from his mind. Leaning down into the pit, he called to Y’Taba, hoping that the spirit-leader was still breathing.
He climbed down carefully, dropping to the floor. Sajara followed, still numb with shock. Conan stomped every egg in the chamber. Sajara managed to revive Y’Taba, although the old Ganak’s shoulders were a shredded ruin. He wa
s weakened from the loss of the blood and barely able to stand, so Sajara and the Cimmerian supported him on their shoulders, winding through the tunnel to the opening in the rocky wall.
Nyona and Dawakuba waited below on the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff. The stalker clutched a huge, half-eaten carcass in its forelegs—one that Conan recognized at once. He deemed it appropriate that the last Kezati would itself wind up in the belly of another beast.
“Dawakuba will yet bear us home,” Nyona said, breaking the silence. “She needed food.”
Y’Taba coughed, clutching at his neck. “Conan of Cimmeria, I shall fail to keep my vow. All that I have is yours, but I cannot cure you of the curse. The spirit-shells must have fallen from me as I was borne by that—”
“Do you mean these, Y’Taba?” Nyona lifted the string of black shells from her lap.
Conan’s heart leapt into his throat. “Ha! So the gods do have a sense of humour!”
“I saw them fall as we watched from below.” Nyona smiled.
“And this time, warrior of Cimmeria, you shall not wait,” Y’Taba vowed. His typically sombre lips were curled in an ear-to-ear grin as he took, the shells from Nyona.
XXI
Unfettered
Conan wiped his brow and peered ahead, shifting uncomfortably on the bark between him and Dawakubwa’s back. At first he thought it to be a trick of his mind, but he blinked and looked again.
Land! He grinned as Nyona blew into her shell, the stalker angling downward. Sajara’s arms were flung around his muscled waist, her eyes alight with anticipation. They had recovered completely from the day a fortnight earlier, when the last Kezati was slain.
After a brief rest, Dawakuba had borne Conan, Nyona, Y’Taba, and Sajara back to Ganaku. The elders, the Raniobas, and Jukona, had witnessed the ceremony that night in which Y’Taba had summoned the spirits in his necklace of shells. The ritual had taken little time—the spirit-leader had mumbled no arcane nonsense, nor had he gesticulated wildly, like a Pictish or Kushite shaman. Eyes closed, brow furrowed, he had clasped the shells of his necklace and concentrated until sweat dripped from his face. A loud hum droned from his fist—then a booming crack followed by utter silence.
Conan shivered at the memory of the spirits summoned forth—watery spectres that had swirled around him. Before he could move, those dewy ghosts had flown through him, driving out a red mist that had quickly dissipated into the air. Then the spirits had vanished. Awestruck, the Ganaks and Conan turned to face Y’Taba, who stood wearily as crushed pieces of shells fell from his palm. Conan had felt a brief flash of pain, then a tingling in his head that quickly abated. That night, though the moon had shone brightly, he had been visited by no malefic dreams.
A few weeks of resting at Ganaku under the tender care of Sajara had healed his body and given him time to study the aged books from the tower. Among them he had found log books and with some difficulty had divined Ganaku’s position: due south of the Islands of Pearl, which in turn lay to the west of Vendhya.
Ngomba had recovered from the battle a changed man. Either his brush with death or the voices of the spirits in the atnalga had transformed him. Gone had been his impetuousness and pride. In their place emerged a personality that had reminded Conan of the spirit-leader, which indeed made sense, if the Cimmerian’s feeling about Y’Taba and Nyona was founded in truth. At any rate those two had taken the young Ganak under their wing.
Sajara, overcoming only mild objections from Y’Taba, had decided to accompany Conan on his journey. By mutual agreement, Nyona would come back for her at the next full moon.
Conan had managed a grin when hearing of the appointed time. He was relieved to be free of the curse and felt a new man: unfettered by enchantments, snakeskin sack bulging with loot from the tower at Rahamji, sword hanging ready at his hip, and a beautiful, spirited girl at his side. What more could a man ask for?
No sooner had Dawakuba set them down on the beach than the locals approached. Their garments bore a look familiar to Conan, and he laughed boomingly. As he had hoped, they had landed upon the isle occupied by the Gwadiri, a friendly tribe of pearl fishers. He had chosen this destination for its proximity to Ganaku, doubting that Dawakuba had the endurance to fly them all the way to Vendhya.
Conan had other reasons, too. Not long ago, back in Iranistan, he had saved the Gwadiri chief’s daughter from a horrible fate.
The heavyset, deeply tanned chief approached, spear in hand but its point raised skyward. “Conan of Cimmeria?” his deep voice asked incredulously.
“Aurauk!” the Cimmerian replied heartily. “How is Nanaia?”
“Fine, fine, already she has married a chieftain of the Bajris. We can speak of that later, eh?” The big man’s eyes lit up excitedly. “First you must tell me who these lovely women are, and what manner of beast is that?”
“It is a long tale,” Conan said. “Better told over a gourd of wine.”
“Wine we shall have, and a feast fit for kings! How glad I am to see you. I owe you more than that for the rescue of my daughter. And you could not have come at a better time.”
“Only a rogue would have—” Conan began.
Aurauk waved aside Conan’s protest. “Anyway, I was going to tell you that the Bajris are now our friends. But the three tribes of Udwunga threaten to attack—a territorial dispute in which I must offer my aid. What say you, Conan? Lead us to victory, and I’ll give you all the pearls that your winged monster can carry!”
“What more could a man ask for?” mused Conan. “Why, with such a haul of loot, I could buy myself a kingdom. And after battling beasts that fly and crawl, I relish the prospect of pitting myself against men of flesh and blood. Aye, by Crom,” he rumbled. “Ready your men, chieftain, and hasten—we have Udwunga blood to spill ere the sun sets!”
Table of Contents
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XXI