What an incredible collection of people. All gathered together under the roof of one wagon. What could it mean?
"Do you find my freaks interesting?" came a voice from behind Conan.
The Cimmerian spun and came up, drawing his sword as he moved.
"No, this will not do," the man said. He mumbled something Conan did not understand and made a casting motion with one hand.
Conan shifted quickly to one side and raised the sword to strike. How had the man managed to come upon him without being heard? There were few who could stalk so close to him, -and this rather ordinary-looking, swarthy man, with his black hair and long mustache, seemed an unlikely candidate. While he did not appear to be armed, this fact did not dispose Conan to lower his blade.
"Put that thing away," the man said. It was not a request, but an order from the tone of it, and Conan started to laugh.
The sound died in his throat as a deathly chill gripped him and he felt his arms obeying the stranger's commands. It was as if bars of lead had been laid upon his wrists, weighting them heavily, forcing his hands downward.
Conan strained against the force that held him. Sweat sprang up and beaded on his face and shoulders as he resisted the incredibly strong pull. For a moment, the sword halted, quivering in the cool morning air.
The stranger frowned.
The blade began to shake harder. Even though he resisted with all his might, the muscles of Conan's shoulders and arms bunched, the tendons standing out under his tanned skin, the point of the blued-iron sword beginning again to settle toward the mouth of its sheath.
The Cimmerian watched himself as he inserted the weapon into the scabbard, and it was as if his arms belonged to another man.
"That is much better," the dark man said, grinning.
The realization of what had just happened swept over Conan in that instant: magic! The man had put a spell upon him!
The Cimmerian laughed, hands spread to choke his captor, but the air itself seemed to thicken, so that he was suddenly pressing against a barrier he could not overcome.
"You waste your time," the man said. "I am Dake, and you will obey me, like it or not."
Conan managed half a step, the effort turning his face red with exertion.
"You are very strong," Dake observed. "Perhaps instead of merely killing you, I can find some use for you. How are you called?"
Conan, realizing the futility of trying to attack the magician, ceased his attempt. He did not plan to speak, but the same kind of power that had forced him to sheathe his blade now pulled at his voice. He clamped his mouth shut and tried to resist.
A dozen heartbeats went past.
"Conan," he heard himself say.
"Ah, well, then, Conan. Come along."
He walked past the Cimmerian toward he wagon.
Perhaps it was useless to resist, but Conan tried. Despite his efforts, he found himself turning and following the mage. He could not stay his feet; neither could he move forward to throttle the man. The spell was powerful, more so than Conan's ability to defy it. He was like a leashed dog with a choke-strap about his neck.
As they walked down the slight grade toward the conveyance, Conan realized that it was probably magic that had allowed Dake to sneak up behind him. Teyle and her twin siblings must also be under a similar spell. He wondered how many of the rest of those assembled by the wagon were held there by this magician's curse.
Well. Like as not, he would find out soon enough.
It looked as if his intention to avoid being sidetracked on his way to Shadizar had just been thwarted yet again.
When they reached the end of the swamp without having come upon the outswamp men or Vilken, Fosull felt himself impaled upon the horns of a dilemma. To travel outside of the swamp was most dangerous. The outswamp men were not a tolerant lot, as the Vargs had learned the hard way through the years. A band of his kind invited attack, and while they could defend themselves against the odd bandit or curious farmer, there were many more of the outswamp men than there were Vargs. Fosull's grandfather had led a hundred warriors from the swamps to forage during the Great Drought some forty seasons past, and had returned with only half that number alive. The philosophy of the outswamp men seemed to be that if somebody was different from them, they should kill them out of hand.
What was to be done? He did not want his warriors slaughtered. Then again, he could not hope to retain their respect did he let his son's captors escape. Fosull knew he was growing older, and that he was no longer the Varg he once was. While he was fairly certain he could best any Varg in the tribe, he was not positive. Allowing his son and heir to be taken without doing everything possible to retrieve him would certainly appear to be a weakness, and any sign of weakness would bring the challenges. Such was the way of the Vargs.
Curse those outswamp men to the deepest pits of hell!
Something must be done, and while reluctant to bow to the reality, Fosull knew what it must be. A troop of fifteen Vargs could not easily remain invisible outside the swamp, but a single Varg might.
Fosull turned to his warriors. "Go back to the warrens. I shall fetch Vilken on my own."
"My leader!"
"A group of us only invites curiosity and attack. Alone I can avoid detection."
"But-but the red demon!"
"I am Fosull, I do not fear Varg, outswamp men, or demons. Do as I order."
They were reluctant, but they obeyed. They muttered to each other of his bravery to attempt such a thing alone, and Fosull knew that if he survived, he would have a stockpile of respect that would last a long time. Who would challenge the Varg who ventured alone outside the swamp to contend with a demon bigger than a Jatte?
For his own part, Fosull was not thrilled with the idea, but already he had begun to conceive a plan. Vargs had a natural camouflage in the swamp; they could blend into the background easily and remain undetected by their prey. The outswamp men came in various sizes, some not much larger than Fosull, especially the children, and there were ways to disguise what he was. There were always ways.
TWELVE
There was a short ladder built into the rear of the wagon and Dake used this to climb onto the wooden platform that was part of the frame of the structure. The peaked canvas would not support his weight, of course, but the beam immediately next to the ladder was both thick and wide, and a careful man could sit upon this plank and watch the road behind the wagon. Often Dake would make the ascent and sit, enjoying the heat of the sun upon his face, along with the feeling of superiority that came from being high above the ground.
Dake had, he felt, much to feel superior about.
This new addition, this Conan with the large muscles, had sparked a number of thoughts. Many of the villages in which the mage piled his trade were full of unsophisticated folk. True, a four-armed man, or a woman who looked like a cat, or any of the other freaks in his entourage, always drew those who would pay to view them; still, there was only a limited amount of profit to be made from such displays in a small village. At a few coppers each, a hundred souls did not amount to all that much.
Mostly Dake had fattened his purse in such towns by using his thralls in other ways. Many men were curious as to what it would be like to lie with a catwoman, and long-hidden silver would be produced for the chance. Penz was an expert with his rope, and contests against those who fancied themselves adepts at catching things with a noose would bring in the odd wager. The green dwarf might well prove to be good enough with that short spear to best locals who thought themselves better in throwing at targets. The giant woman might challenge the lusts of some men, though he would have to be careful there about the possibility of offspring-a miniature giant would impress no one.
More than anything, however, even in the smallest backwater village they did love to gamble. And in those places where men were hard from working the land or hunting for food, they loved to gamble on a man's physical prowess. Feats of strength, wrestling matches, fights-those were the even
ts upon which the simple folk would wager. Dake had seen fifty silver coins, and even a few gold ones, proffered as bets upon a contest between two fighters, and this in a village where the land, houses, and belongings combined did not seem worth a handful of hollow-eared coppers.
For a man who could field a contestant who was strong and agile, there was money to be had. True enough, once they reached Shadizar, the freaks themselves would be enough of an attraction so that a fighter would not be necessary. Then again, the thieves of Shadizar had even more money with which to wager, did they not? Besides, a man with a good sword arm would make an excellent guard for all the riches Dake intended to possess, especially a thrall made loyal by a magical spell.
How adept was Conan had yet to be determined. One could not judge a man's abilities by mere appearance, albeit that the barbarian certainly looked fit and fierce enough. A few tests before they reached the next village would be in order.
Dake smiled, once again pleased with himself. A clever man would always find a spot near the top of things, did he but use his brain with care.
Inside the wagon, Conan regarded his fellow captives. They were no less odd at close quarters than they had seemed at a distance. The catwoman sat next to the multi-armed man and the two spoke together in quiet tones scarcely above a whisper. The wolfman kept his cowl up and kept also to himself. The green dwarf scratched himself under his breechskin and grinned, revealing his pointed teeth. The trio of giants merely looked glum. Currently the wagon was being driven by the blond man, who seemed the only occupant not under the dark man's magical control.
Teyle, who lay stretched at great length upon a makeshift pallet, rolled up onto one elbow and regarded Conan. "You escaped from my father's cage on your own?"
"Aye."
"Most impressive." She paused for a moment, seemed to consider something, then continued. "I am glad that you did."
This surprised Conan. "Why?"
She gestured at the interior of the wagon. "I find being held captive an unpleasant experience. I had not known how it felt before."
Conan nodded, but did not speak. Aye, he thought. Having been held against his will a number of times had never lessened his distaste for it. If anything, it only worsened his feelings each time. Slavery was not a fit state for a man-or for women.
"What do you know of this man who calls himself Dake?" Conan finally asked.
"He has some magical powers," Teyle said.
"Tell me that which I do not already know."
"He is taking us to Shadizar to be exhibited as freaks of nature. He intends to breed us and bring forth more and different kinds of beings."
"He told you this?"
"No. But his lackey, the fair-haired man named Kreg, has spoken of it gloatingly. And Tro, Sab, and Penz have verified the plot."
With this, Teyle introduced the other captives to Conan. The green dwarf was named Vilken.
The Cimmerian digested this new information and considered how best to use it.
"Escape is impossible," Penz said, as if in answer to Conan's unspoken question. "The spell the mage casts is powerful. It binds us to him and prevents us from harming him or disobeying his direct command."
Conan nodded. Aye, he had struggled with all his might and had been unable to overcome the geas. Even now he tested the bonds of the magic and found them unchanged.
Penz went on. "I have been Dake's prisoner for five seasons. Tro has been held for three, Sab for nearly as long. The spell has not weakened in all that time. We cannot act against him."
"My father can," Vilken said, showing his teeth.
Conan turned to look at the dwarf, who had a gamy odor that was unpleasant. "Your father?"
"Aye. He is the leader of our tribe. He will come for me."
"You seem very sure."
"He cannot do less and remain leader."
Conan considered this.
"And our father will come too," Oren said. Next to the boy, his sister Morja nodded.
The Cimmerian looked at their older sister, who also nodded and confirmed their statement. "Raseri cannot allow the whereabouts of our village to be known to the outside world of small men. And he would scarcely allow three of his children to be taken without some recovery effort."
Conan said, "Green dwarves and giants will hardly have an easy time of it wandering about in places occupied by people my size."
"My father is the cleverest of all the Vargs,"
Vilken said, not without a large measure of pride in his voice.
"And my father is twice as clever as your father, beast," Oren said.
Vilken bared his teeth and made as if to attack the giant boy. Oren halfway rose to meet the Varg.
"Hold!" Conan commanded.
The two stopped and looked at him.
"We gain nothing by fighting among ourselves."
"Vargs are no more than vicious beasts!"
"And Jatte are no more than stupid meat!"
"Enough!"
The Varg and the Jatte boy glanced at each other with hatred again, then at Conan. It was Vilken who spoke first. "Who elected you leader, to give us orders?"
Conan's grin was full of menace, and he knotted one fist into a fleshy hammer. "I elected myself. I do not intend to spend the rest of my life held captive. Dake's spell does not prevent me from enforcing calm."
The two would-be combatants looked at Conan and apparently decided that they would rather not test his mettle. They subsided without further demonstration or speech.
"Now," Conan said, "I want to know everything about Dake and his dog Kreg."
Raseri had considered several plans for his pursuit of those who had stolen his children and had finally settled upon the one he thought most reasonable. He sent the men of his tribe back to the village and proceeded alone from the swamp and onto the road of small men. The giant's logic gave him a simple mode by which he intended to operate. He would travel at night, keeping to well-used roads, avoiding contact with the small men except to ask about his quarry. A giant would be remarkable and a topic of conversation, but not nearly as much so as a group of such beings. By the time word could spread of a giant, Raseri would have moved onward.
Night travel held its dangers of course, but there were few beasts that could stand against a Jatte armed with spear and a long obsidian knife, as Raseri was. During the day he would sleep, hidden from small men. Conan he knew by sight, and the others left distinctive tracks. Following a trail at night was difficult if not altogether impossible at times, but Raseri figured that once a direction was established, like as not his quarry would maintain it. A check now and then with one of the small men would certainly be enough to ensure that he stay on the correct path. If he would be noticed, so too would his children, who could hardly be less conspicuous than he.
Once he caught up with the abductors, he would formulate a specific plan of attack. Generally, his intent was to slay the small men and take back his children.
He found a shady spot hidden from passing eyes and settled down to make a meal of the rabbit meat and dried fruit he carried, after which he would sleep until dark.
All things considered, Raseri was happy with his plan. 'Twas not unduly complicated, and it also allowed him some options, should the need arise. He was pleased with his thoughts as he drifted into sleep.
Fosull had already spent the morning in travel, and he had discovered that the ones he sought had a conveyance. If anything, that made things easier, for following the deep track of a wagon was a lesser problem than keeping sight of footprints. The width and weight of the vehicle guaranteed that it would have to keep to the road, or hard ground at the least, and as long as the weather held dry, a Varg of Fosull's ability could follow such ruts to the end of the world.
Perhaps more interesting was the fact that the ones who had stolen his son now traveled with at least three Jatte. One adult-a woman, Fosull judged-and two children. True, the prints of these latter were the same size as those of the outswamp men, and
a lesser tracker might assume them to be so; however, Fosull knew Jatte footgear as well as he knew his own bare toes, and if those two were not Jatte, he would spit on his own father's burial pit.
Whether the Jatte had come of their own accord or not was less of a certainty, but Fosull reckoned it not likely. Jatte had less use for outswamp men than did Vargs-they did not even eat the ones they caught and killed.
A bad business, this, outswamp men who could take Varg and Jatte alike.
The few times Fosull detected travelers approaching from the opposite way, he scurried from the road and hid himself until they passed.
When the Varg reached the little-known fork that led to a tiny settlement of outswamp men, he deviated from his tracking of the wagon.
Upon reaching the cluster of several houses-they could hardly lay claim to being a village-Fosull moved with great stealth, staying downwind of the local dogs until he saw what he needed.
Hanging in the hot sunshine from a line strung between two trees was an assortment of outswamp men's clothing. The Varg spotted the item he deemed necessary and crept through the shrubbery and tall grass until he was close enough to make his sprint. Up he leaped, and quickly he dashed to the line of nearly dry clothes. He snatched a cowled robe from the hemp rope and never paused a moment in his flight. One of the dogs caught his scent and set up a furious barking, but Fosull would be far away before anyone came to investigate the source of the dog's lament. If by some chance the beast pursued him, then it would be the animal's last misfortune. Hellhounds were one thing, common dogs something else.
When he deemed that he was far enough from the settlement, Fosull considered his prize. The cloth was rough and coarse homespun, a muchfaded brown that was closer to tan than the dye must have been when fresh. It was but the work of a few moments to shorten the sleeves with his knife and to cut away the hem so that it would not drag upon the ground. With the garment on and the hood raised, naught but the Varg's hands and feet were readily apparent to a passerby. Fosull located a small pond and from the edge of this he scooped up some mud, which he applied to his feet and hands, darkening them to a mottled gray. The outswamp men had among them those of short stature, children, dwarves and the like, albeit none of them were apt to be green-skinned. With the clothing and the dirt caked upon his extremities, Fosull figured to pass all but a careful scrutiny, and it was his intent to avoid giving too many of the outswamp men a chance to examine him closely.
The Conan Compendium Page 116