The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  For a moment, no one spoke. Then, Elashi looked up at Conan. She raised one knee slightly, and her skirt fell back to reveal her shapely thigh, tanned brown by the sun. Her skin contrasted darkly next to Tuanne's, and the effect struck Conan in such a way that he found his breath coming faster.

  "She is cold, Conan. Come, and help me warm her."

  At first, the young Cimmerian took her meaning simply. But when Elashi moved her knees farther apart, raising her skirt so that he could see clearly her dark triangle, it dawned on him that her intent went past merely warming Tuanne. It was an invitation he did not expect, sudden in its tendering, but also one he did not intend to refuse. He did not question her change of heart-he had yet to meet the man who understood why women behaved as they did.

  "Aye," he said, sheathing his iron sword, "we shall all warm each other."

  Both Tuanne and Elashi smiled, and Conan also grinned as he went to join them under the blankets.

  The Brute stank of wine and sweat, but the Disguise Master minded it little; after all, the man was a killer, and supposedly the best in the city. He had plied his trade for some six years, and that he still lived surely meant he was adept at it. According to his sources, the Brute-if he had another name, no one seemed aware of it had slain in personal combat some seventeen men; additionally, he had backstabbed twice that many more. He was big, dirty, brutal, and coarse. Exactly what the Disguise Master desired for this particular job.

  As the dawn's light painted the skies, the Disguise Master readied his crew. Along with the Brute, he had engaged a pair of footpads whose skills ran more to petty thievery than to mayhem, but who would do anything for money. Murder seemed no barrier, and he would have trusted them less than the distance he could heave them, without the Brute as protection. The latter might slay him for his gold easily, save that he had been promised a large sum on the return to Opkothard, and the Disguise Master had made certain that his party knew he carried only small coinage upon his person. Alive and back in the city, he would be worth money; dead on the trail would serve no one.

  It had taken no small effort to learn all there was to know about Skeer, and the knowledge gained left much to be desired. Still, where he was bound seemed known: he was likely a minion of the necromancer Neg, about whom little good could be said. This was inference, but the presence of the woman zombie and the raising of the six dead men from the morgue gave truth to some form of necromancy. And, since Neg the Malefic was the leading exponent of this form of magic anywhere close to the city, then likely Neg's hand lay upon the proceedings in some manner. His castle was known, even in Opkothard, and if Skeer traveled there, his pursuer Conan must surely follow. Therefore, to find his quarry, the Disguise Master need only travel to Neg's domain. Somewhere along the way, perhaps, they would happen across the doomed Cimmerian. If not, they could await his arrival. A simple plan, and like most of his plans, most workable.

  Feeling his confidence return, the Disguise Master led his motley entourage through the South Gate of Opkothard and into the morning light.

  The new sun aborning caught Skeer in the grip of a nightmare: he was buried under thousands of crawly spiders, being bitten and injected with venom that burned in his veins like acid . . . .

  Skeer sat up suddenly, cold sweat beaded on his face. Spiders-!

  He shuddered in the chill air. A dream. It was only a dream.

  Nonetheless, Skeer hurried to gather up his blankets and to stoke up a quick fire for breakfast. There seemed no way that spiders, no matter how determined, could follow him through the cold mountain passes. In less than a week, he would be in Neg's domain, and that worthy magician's magic surely was proof against any threat that might be dogging him, arachnidal or human.

  They marched together, footfalls landing in uniform cadence, six who had been alive but now were animated by necromantic mantology. Dead the Men With No Eyes were, but moving inexorably after their assigned quarry. They did not rest, neither did they stop for food or drink.

  The dead have no need for such things.

  In his cleanest of rooms Neg paused in his movements to stroke the spire of crystal that occupied the center of the marble-walled temple. Soon, he would have the power to bring this room to its function. Soon, he would be not merely Neg the Malefic, but Neg the Omnipotent.

  He smiled, feeling the cold crystal under his fingers. Yes, the promise of it touched him almost orgasmically, a thing he had not known in itself for hundreds of that years. Power. Power was the best aphrodisiac. When he had that power, he would call Tuanne to him and make use of her as he had never been able to before. Yes.

  Conan awoke with an arm around each of the women. Elashi, in his left, was warm, her breath tickling his bare chest lightly. Tuanne, much less cold than before, lay quietly curled against his right side, her lips pressed against his skin gently.

  The young Cimmerian had never spent such a night before, and the memory of it brought a smile and a catlike satisfaction to his thoughts. He would revise his opinion of traveling with two women, to be certain.

  Elashi woke, and Tuanne's eyes opened. They lifted their heads and smiled across Conan's broad chest at each other, then at him.

  "Sleep well, Conan?" Elashi asked.

  "Never better."

  Tuanne said, "I have not been warmer in a hundred years. Thank you, both."

  "Anytime," Conan said. "If you are feeling a chill at the moment . . . ?"

  Elashi swatted his shoulder. "Goat!"

  Conan grinned. Not a goat, perhaps, but not found wanting, at least. Pride stirred within him.

  Within a few moments, Conan started a fire, upon which a quick meal was prepared. Again there was no meat, it being difficult to carry other than dried without spoiling, but there was bread and cheese and hot herbed water to drive away the earliness of the hour.

  After clearing the camp and loading the horses, the three departed.

  Farther up the road, they paused at the spot where they had seen the spiders the previous night.

  Only a few arachnid carcasses remained, quivering in the sun's early rays, or being picked apart by carrion feeders, ravens, and larger vultures.

  "They have departed ahead of us," Conan said. "Save the ones who were exposed to the cold directly."

  Elashi said, "Ooh. It makes me shiver to think of all those black creatures scuttling along!"

  "Think how you would feel if you knew they pursued you instead of Skeer," Tuanne said.

  "An unpleasant thought," Conan said.

  Indeed. He would not wish such a fate upon any man, even Skeer. His plans for the brigand included merely an appointment with a sword, a clean and honorable end. Perhaps better than Skeer merited, given the list of offenses of which Conan personally knew; still, magic was better left alone, and Conan would not curse Skeer with such a fate as some spider-god had done.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The days passed quickly for Skeer. He slept little, stopping only when the obnubilation of darkness forced him to rein his tired horse to a halt. He would rise with first light, eat of his sparse supplies, and resume his journey. He looked back frequently, but saw nothing threatening. The weight of the magical talisman in his purse seemed to increase each day, but his hard riding brought him closer to Neg's domain with each of his mount's footfalls. Another day, and he would be in territory where he was known and respected as one of Neg's own. Another day.

  "We near the village that is the gateway to Neg's domain," Tuanne said. "I can feel his presence ahead of us like some malignant beacon."

  "Skeer pushes himself. We have gained but little," Conan said.

  Elashi said, "I would catch him, but I must confess that I look forward to nights now."

  Conan grinned. He, too, did not mind the coming of darkness, not with Tuanne and Elashi to bracket him as they lay together.

  Neg could feel the approach of the Source of Light, as a cold man might feel the warmth of a distant fire. It was only a glimmer now, the faintest of heats, b
ut it came.

  He stood in the ingress of one of the high tower windows, watching a thunderstorm spend its fury upon the castle and surrounding land. Lightning turned the night into stark day for a heartbeat, and thunder punctuated the flash with the voice of an angry giant. Torrents of rain swept over the ancient stone of his castle, wafting that unique dusty smell to his nostrils on the wings of the damp wind.

  Soon the land would ring of steel and boots, as he commanded a different kind of thunder, that of the marching dead. Soon.

  Dead, the six Men With No Eyes marched stolidly, stoic in the face of the angry storm. They moved as always, slowed only by the mud and wind. They had no supernatural speed, but like a tortoise, they continued relentlessly. What they lost to the horses, they regained during the night, so that they drew closer, albeit slowly, to her whom they sought. Where she journeyed was of no import, neither did it matter how long it took to make up the distance.

  Eventually, they would prevail, even had they to walk to the ends of the Earth. Or beyond.

  Brute grumbled. "Gods-be-damned rain!"

  The tarp over his conical head leaked, spilling a trickle of cold water onto his neck, and he shifted his position, shoving one of the sniveling footpads halfway out into the deluge.

  "Hey, hey!" the man said.

  The Disguise Master did not know the man's real name, if he had one, but called him "Port," since it seemed he always took the left when they traveled. The other one naturally became "Starboard." For a well-remembered and detested year, the Disguise Master had been impressed into a ship's gang, sailing the dog routes across the Vilayet Sea to the Eastern Cities of Turan: Khoraf, Khorusun, Onagrul, and half a dozen smaller ports. He knew sailing terms well, and sometimes used them as part of his costume when disguised as a seaman.

  Brute turned to glare at the protesting man. "Something you wished to say, rat-eater?"

  Port took little time to consider his reply. "Nay, Captain. I 'uz just startled, 's all."

  Brute turned away, uninterested. The Disguise Master had restrained the man from killing both Port and Starboard several times. Good. The more irritated he got, the worse for Conan when they caught him. Which, he hoped, would be soon. He cared little for the rain, and his tarp fared only slightly better than the one under which Brute hunkered.

  Once, during a lull in the mostly-steady rain, Conan arose from the communal arrangement with Tuanne and Elashi to attend to a function of nature. As he avoided the larger puddles outside their strung-and-staked tent, he saw something scuttle across the wet ground. A rat? Or a ground squirrel-?

  No.

  He was slow to move, and the creature escaped his boot and vanished into the wet night. He finished his business and returned to the makeshift tent. Elashi stirred and smiled at him. Sleepily, she said, "Everything all right?"

  "Aye," he replied.

  He did not mention the eight-legged denizen he had seen. There seemed no point in so doing.

  But a glance at Tuanne's dark eyes showed that she had seen what he had.

  It had many names, the village. It was sometimes called "Vanatta," in honor of a local man who had proved himself adept in politics a hundred years past, becoming advisor to the then-king. Those distant workers of magic familiar with Neg's proximity tended to call it "Necromancer's Hold." The villagers, when they bothered, usually just called the place "Rain Town," for the long season of storms that seemed to always find the village even when the surrounding countryside stayed dry. Many blamed the constant rain on Neg's influence, but few dared to speak such a thing aloud. Even the dead had ears, and no man wished to call necromantic attention to himself by speaking ill of the local wizard.

  Skeer cared nothing for the names, and thought little of the village at all, but never had he been so glad to see it as he was on this evening. He had friends here, or at least comrades willing to help him, either for Neg's favor or hard cash.

  It was to the smallest of the town's three inns that he rode, saddle-weary and edgy from lack of sleep. Darkness had begun to claim the day, but at last the damned rain had ceased. At the inn, Skeer flung the horse's reins at the stoop boy. "Care for the animal," he said.

  "Aye, my lord Skeer! And fine to see you, sir!"

  Skeer ignored the boy and tromped through the mud to the inn's entrance. It was called "The Boiled Pig," for reasons known only to the first owner, long dead, and as such places went, it would take either major reconstruction or burning down to improve it. "Pig's Sty" would be a better name, but even so, he welcomed it. The Boiled Pig offered safety. Anyone who asked for him here would meet bland looks and raised brows. Skeer? No one here by that name. No one arrived here of late at all. Perhaps you might try the Necropolis, or the Smoking Cat ....

  Inside, the innkeep, a large man bearing several scars on his face from his years as a soldier, nodded at Skeer.

  "A room," Skeer said. "And a bottle, with a woman to bring it and stay. You have not seen me."

  Scarface nodded. "Take four," he said. "Imelda will deliver your wine."

  Skeer nodded. Imelda kept herself relatively clean, talked little, and asked no questions. Good. What he wanted now was company and sleep, more the latter than the former, a measure of how tired he was.

  Skeer shuffled over the sawdust floor toward the room. There was no talk of money, nor would there be any: Skeer held a half interest in The Boiled Pig, and such a thing entitled him to some privileges.

  In the morning he would ask questions, to discern, if possible, Neg's current mood. But first he would rest.

  As night stole the light from the skies, Conan, Elashi, and Tuanne came to an unexpected halt. Ahead lay a deep ravine, at the bottom of which ran the fast-moving waters of a river. There had been a bridge constructed of thick ropes and planks over the ravine, but the anchoring posts on Conan's side of the drop had weakened, from the storm, apparently, and one of the logs had pulled loose from the wet earth. A single strand of arm-thick hemp stretched across the abyss to the remaining post, itself leaning precariously; the other post lay on a ledge a hundred feet down, and the ropes to which it had been attached dangled near it.

  "Oh," Elashi said. "We shall have to go around."

  Tuanne shook her head. "It is fifty miles to the next bridge-if it still hangs."

  Conan dismounted and peered over the edge of the cliff. He stood, brushed mud from his hands, and began to look around.

  "For what are you searching?" Tuanne said.

  "There would be spare rope for repairs, if the bridge builders had any foresight. Protected from rot, I'll wager."

  "What good would that do?" Elashi asked. "There are no trees thick enough to support the weight of the bridge anywhere around here. And the ropes are out of reach."

  "Ah," the young Cimmerian said, "there is a box sheltered in those rocks. Let us see what it contains."

  As Conan had guessed, the thick wooden box, sealed with some rancid oil, proved to contain several lengths of hemp of various diameters. Conan began to coil one of the lines, somewhat thicker than his thumb, into a series of hoops.

  "In Cimmeria, we learn to climb before we can walk. I shall climb down and attach the rope to the post. Our horses can pull the post up, we shall replant it, restring the bridge, and go on our way."

  "What about the ropes on the bridge?" Elashi said.

  "A simple matter. I shall climb out and fetch them back."

  "In the dark?"

  He laughed. "Morning would be better. Even a Cimmerian avoids climbing on wet rock in the dark unless there is a compelling hurry to do so."

  "Perhaps we should bed early," Elashi said, "so that you will be strong in the morning?"

  Conan smiled at her, then at Tuanne. "Aye. A good idea."

  In the morning, Conan arose, feeling much refreshed and very strong. While the two women fixed breakfast, he tied one end of the coil of thick rope to the remaining bridge support, after hammering the pole upright with a head-sized boulder, then tossed the rope over the clif
f and began his descent into the gorge.

  The rocks were somewhat drier after the night without rain, and the footholds were many, so it took only a few minutes to make the climb down to the fallen post. Once the rope was attached to the fallen support, it was but a matter of a few more moments for him to scramble up the hemp hand over hand.

  It took longer to weave a makeshift harness for the three horses, but before the sun had risen far on his day's journey across the heavens, the fallen bridge support was raised. Conan's muscles bulged as he helped the horses drag the post to its former place of residence, upending the thick wood into the soggy hole.

  Another two hours work saw the two posts firmly implanted in the ground, with heavy rocks to aid the tamping and support.

  Finally, Conan climbed out onto the bridge on the single line, swinging like a monkey until he reached the wooden planking, then dangling down to snatch at the free-swinging lines.

  By noon, the structure's repair was accomplished. Conan's skill with rope came from years of practical application, and the knots were pulled tight not only by his own mighty thews, but by those of the horses, as well. Likely the bridge was as strong as it had ever been, he figured.

  But as they began to cross the bridge, Tuanne turned sharply in her saddle to look behind them.

  Conan said, "What-?"

  "The Men With No Eyes!"

  He turned to see six forms approaching at a run, all moving in eerie unison. He reached for his sword.

  "Conan, no! They are dead-like me. Your blade will be useless!"

  "I'll take off their heads! Let them find us without them!"

  Elashi said, "There is a better way!"

  Conan turned to stare at her. She held one hand stiff, pointing down at the bridge upon which their horses now stood. Conan understood instantly. "Good idea."

  The Cimmerian giant dug his heels into his horse's sides, and the animal started forward.

  Once on the opposite side of the bridge, Conan quickly dismounted as the women thundered past. He drew his blade, and waited. Timing would be important. A shame to waste all the morning's work, though.