Conan and the Shaman's Curse

by Sean A. Moore

  Conan awakened, feeling warm sand against his skin. Bright sun made him squint. Blinking, he stared at the narrow stretch of beach separating him from the sea. His back felt stiff, and stout ropes still bound him to a thick board from his raft—the only board in sight. He surmised that while he slept, a storm had smashed his frail craft and washed him ashore.

  He had slept off the numbing effects of the poison, and the arm cut was scabbed over. Aside from a parched throat and a gnawing hunger in his belly, he felt better than he had in days. He did not remember any strange dreams, and best of all, he had reached land. Even his sword, still driven into the board, had travelled to the beach with him.

  The salt water had not treated its edge too kindly, but he would have time to tend it later.

  He scanned the beach for landmarks, but the lay of this place kindled no flame of familiarity in his memory. Sparkling blue water melded with the finely powdered coral of the beach, stretching as far as he could see to either side. Behind him, the beach gave way to tall, leafy plants. Above these towered fan-leafed palm trees, their gently sloping trunks swaying in the pleasant midday breeze.

  Of man or beast Conan saw no signs. He tugged at the cord securing his waist and legs to the sturdy timber from the raft, but the knots had tightened and would yield only to the edge of his sword. Cutting himself free, he stretched until the circulation returned to his limbs. He wanted to explore the area for clues to his whereabouts, but first he would seek food and water.

  He moved toward a short palm and climbed it with ease, clinging to the trunk beneath the fronds and knocking loose a bunch of coconuts. Scanning the area from his improved vantage point, he saw that he had landed upon the tip of a thin, crescent-shaped island. The beach filled the interior of the crescent, partially shielded from the sea by the curving points that formed a bay.

  The verdant island seemed devoid of settlers, but he could not be certain without exploring the other side. He could see what appeared to be a large clearing at the crescent’s far tip. It did not look like beach, for its floor was of a greyish-white colour.

  Deciding to investigate this clearing, Conan slid down the tree and feasted upon the fruit from the palm. With a bellyful of sweet and chewy meats, he felt ready to survey his surroundings.

  He had lost the last remnants of his garments on the night of his transformation, but he gave his appearance only a moment’s consideration. Modesty was not one of his stronger instincts. Like a naked savage from a primitive jungle tribe, he prowled the shoreline, gripping his sword and looking for any signs of inhabitants, human or otherwise. The coast bore some resemblance to Zembabwei, but the latter’s water was not so blue, its sand not so pristine. And Conan heard only the soft rustle of huge leaves and the surf’s gentle susurrations.

  Where were the sea birds? The beach wore silence like a mask, as if concealing something beneath its scenic flora and rose-tinted sand. Conan tensed; the absence of any normal jungle noises set his nerves on edge.

  From the sinking sun’s position, Conan judged that he travelled west, following the interior curve of the crescent. No tracks disturbed the virgin sand, and the plethora of sea creatures that clogged most shores seemed absent from this island. From his perch in the palm tree, the isle had not seemed large. In spite of this, he had reached only the halfway mark between the crescent’s curving points. Quickening his pace, he hastened toward the clearing he had marked earlier.

  Gradually, the beach’s colour. dulled, its fine, pale pink sand mingling with duller granules of white and grey. When the clearing came into view, he stared at it, noting that stones of irregular sizes and shapes formed a wide, uneven mound. No palms or grass grew among the stones, and a narrow border of sand ringed the clearing.

  But more interesting by far was a discernible, apparently man-made path which led to the mound. Eager to investigate, Conan ran toward the low hillock of stones.

  Before he reached it, he stopped to examine a large stone, partially buried in the centre of the wide, sandy path. Brushing the grit from its round surface, he uncovered it and took an involuntary step backward. “Crom!” he gasped, his flesh crawling.

  What he had uncovered was not stone, but the top of a grotesquely misshapen skull.

  Its breadth was twice that of Conan’s head. A lumpy, bony ridge ran along it, and he kicked away more sand to reveal eye sockets the size of eggs staring hollowly at him. The sockets were on nearly opposite sides of the skull. Conan saw no ear holes or nostril slits, and the sloping forehead tapered into a bony snout, ending in a broken homed bill. He slid his sword’s point into an eye socket, lifting the surprisingly light skull for closer examination. Rows of jagged teeth jutted from the insides of the thick grey bill, curving back slightly.

  The skull bespoke an unnatural breed of bird. From the cruelly sharp fangs of its beak, Conan could easily see that the creature had been no plant eater. He wondered what had become of the rest of the skeleton.

  Frowning, Conan let the bony abomination slide from his sword. Then he chopped at it to prevent the lifeless eyes from staring up at him. At first, his sword glanced from the bony ridge, but a second powerful stroke crushed through its pate, shattering the skull and ending its eerie gaze. Conan strode past it and soon reached the clearing. He drew in a breath, muttering in revulsion at what he saw ahead.

  Lying atop the sand, jumbled in piles that rose as high as Conan’s waist, were vast mounds of bleached skulls. They stretched all the way to the shoreline, like a bony grey carpet. The tide lapped at them, shifting the skulls at the edges of the piles, imbuing them with eerie movement. Most were as large as the one Conan had first discovered, but others were bigger.

  Nowhere did Conan see any rib, leg, or arm bones... only disembodied skulls.

  Morbid curiosity prompted him to sift through a pile with the point of his sword, looking for any clues to the nature of these dead creatures. At the bottoms of the mounds, the bones seemed older and more brittle. Some had begin to crumble from the slight weight of the skulls above them. Tiny shards, perhaps centuries old, formed a gruesome beach of death upon die tip of the macabre isle.

  Movement on the horizon caught Conan’s eye. Astonished, he watched as a small fleet of strange boats appeared, moving swiftly toward the island. He counted eight vessels, each bearing four men—no, the one in the rear carried only two. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered at the boats until he could see the rowers.

  They were men, but unlike any he had seen before. Bright designs covered their olive-skinned, heavyset bodies. They rowed with mighty strokes that would have satisfied the harshest pacer. In spite of their swift progress across the water, the boats looked awkward. Their rowers sat atop a thick, central beam, doubtless carved from a palm tree. Curving crosspieces, like wooden arms, held smaller trunks that paralleled the larger body and provided stability. Each boat’s four oarsmen gripped one oar and rowed a single stroke on alternating sides.

  Conan reckoned that the efficient but simple design of the craft rendered it suitable only for short voyages as it seemed to be impossible to control in rough waters. Perhaps they had come from a nearby island, or even the mainland—this crescent-shaped isle seemed too deserted to be their home. Although they appeared to carry no weapons of any kind, the Cimmerian did not consider them harmless. Primitive, cannibalistic cults who worshipped ancient gods of evil were not uncommon in the lands of the South. Slipping hastily into the dense foliage, Conan’s pulse quickened as he watched their approach.

  A few men glanced backward as they rowed. When they drew nearer to the isle, Conan saw that their eyes were actually turned skyward. Lifting his gaze, the Cimmerian uttered a startled grunt.

  Swooping from the azure sky and diving toward the frantic rowers, a flock of birds flapped into view. Yet something seemed wrong about their appearance. The afternoon sun shone directly into Conan’s eyes; perhaps the light was affecting his vision. At such a distance Conan could not be certain, but his squinting stare beheld
vulture-like creatures... enormous birds larger than men.

  VII

  The Shore of Skulls

  When the swiftly moving boats neared the shoreline, the men used their oars for poles to propel their vessels toward the beach. From his hidden place among the leafy brush, Conan watched the colourfully painted oarsmen leap from their sitting positions and drag their boats ashore.

  The faces of the men bore some resemblance to those of natives from Old Zembabwei. Their wide noses flattened across their faces, nostrils flaring above thick lips, and jutting ridges of bone shadowed their eyes. But even the war chiefs of Zembabwei were not as tall and stocky as the olive-skinned strangers. The shortest of these men dwarfed Conan; he doubted that his head would reach their shoulders. Their waists were nearly as thick as his chest. They wore no garments, not even a simple breech clout. Prominent navels, half as long as Conan’s thumb, jutted from bellies that were large but not paunchy. Each of the men’s shaved heads bore a single lock of hair. The younger ones had shorter locks with a single knot; the older men sported several knots.

  The tallest, most elaborately decorated man reached the beach first. His long white hair was tightly twisted into a rope of twelve knots each a full handspan apart. Deep lines furrowed his brow, and a jagged scar ran from his neck to his waist. A string of lambent shells—blue, violet, green, and red—circled his short, thick neck, scintillating in the afternoon sunlight.

  While the other men dragged their boats onto the skull-laden sand, he turned to face them. Raising his arms to the sky, he opened his hands and uttered a strange, deep cry. Conan had never heard such a sound issue from a human throat. The fierce, guttural echoes stirred coals of a battle fire that smouldered in the Cimmerian’s breast. He watched, eyes narrowing, while the men mimicked that gesture and cry, lowering their knees to the sand while the imposing, white-haired giant addressed them.

  But one man—an unsmiling youth—did not kneel. His sculpted muscles rippled beneath yellow triangles that adorned his chest, arms, and legs. Locks of hair grew from behind each of his ears, braided together behind his neck in apparent indifference to the custom of the others. Ignoring this youth, the old man began talking.

  Conan had expected the language of these men to be guttural, like that of Zembabwei. To his surprise, the tongue was a bizarre mix of two familiar dialects. Zembabwan names for places and things mingled with other, distinctly Vendhyan words. The Cimmerian’s brow furrowed in concentration as he struggled to comprehend.

  “Mighty Ganaks,” the white-haired man began, in tones that rumbled like low thunder. He instantly commanded the attention of the others. Not one man fidgeted or averted his eyes from that solemn old face. Only the youth showed indifference, standing behind the others with his huge hands resting on his hips.

  The Cimmerian shook his head in wonder. Why did they not take refuge from the winged pursuers or at least seek a more strategic defensive position?

  The old Ganak continued. “This day you have fought well. You have sent many Kezati to the grey lands. But many remain—too many, perhaps.” He paused, lowering his arms to his sides. ‘The fathers of our fathers stood upon these sacred shores, and the fathers of their fathers. Tales of their bravery are told by the bones of our ancient enemies.” He swept his arm sideways, indicating the skull heaps. “It is our birthright to honour. their memory. We are few, but we are strong!” He made a fist and shook it toward the approaching aerial horde.

  “Many among you have fathered sons and daughters. Today, some among us may pass into Muhingo’s lands of grey. But our tribe will live on... if we drive back the winged ones. Let us turn the shores red with the blood of the Kezati!”

  “Muhingo, Muhingo...” the men chanted, and they began to sway. Behind them, the winged predators closed the distance to the shore, close enough for Conan to hear the rhythmic beat of their wings. The skies were thick with them. Only the impassive youth turned his head to look at them.

  “Strike for your ancestors!” the speaker bellowed, raising his hands and clenching them into fists.

  "Muhingo...”

  “Strike for your women!” He beat his upraised fists together in the air above his head.

  “Muhingo...” Their voices rose, feverish, and they echoed his gesture with their fists. But the yellow-painted warrior did not join the chant.

  “Strike for your sons and daughters!”

  “Muhingo!" Twenty-nine voices thundered as one, and the strange oath rang out across the skull-covered beach. For a moment, the noise drowned out the flapping of the Kezati army.

  Conan watched from the brush, fascinated. These Ganaks were either brave or foolish, to face their winged foes bare-handed. Then he observed that some of them did indeed have weapons: the oars. At one end, each oar had been notched and fitted with a pointed shell. Lifting the sharp ends of these sturdy implements, the warriors braced themselves to meet the wave of winged doom.

  The huge birds flew close enough for the Cimmerian to see their cruel features. Their faces and necks were leathery and wrinkled, like those of vultures. The skulls littering the beach were certainly from creatures such as these. Feathers in hues of black, red, and dark amber covered their bodies. Each of their stubby legs ended in five curving, many-jointed talons that were as long as a man’s fingers. Inexplicably, their eyes looked human.

  The piercing shrieks of their attack assailed Conan’s ears, like the wailing of a hundred wretches dying upon torturers’ racks. Fiercely hooked beaks, crimson as dried blood, dominated their cruel faces. The shrill cries, the cruel faces, and the misshapen heads—Conan knew these to be distinctive features of vultures. But these devil-birds apparently preyed not on carrion, but on the living.

  Extending their talons and screaming with murderous fury, the first wave of Kezati descended. The vultures were somewhat smaller than their prey, but they seemed to outnumber the stout Ganaks by at least ten to one. They flew straight at the upraised oars, as if heedless of the danger of the shell tips.

  Conan could not sit idly by while these brave warriors faced that macabre onslaught. He was no whelp, to cower in the bushes while a desperate battle was fought. The Ganaks were not kindred of his, and he owed them no debt, but they were men with families. If he simply watched them die, their blood would be as much upon his hands as upon the talons of the Kezati. Compelled by his barbaric code of honour., the Cimmerian decided to join the apparently hopeless battle against the hideous vultures.

  Though Conan’s upraised sword was somewhat tarnished by days of immersion in the brine, his vigour was not. Leaping from the brush like a jungle cat, Conan joined the melee.

  He crossed the clearing, nearly reaching the shore before the olive-skinned warriors took notice of him. Their eyes widened, but they had no opportunity to react. Conan arrived as the Kezati struck.

  The Ganaks moved with speed astonishing for men of their bulk. Those without oars ducked, avoiding the sweeping talons and grasping the legs of their attackers, fingers locking in iron grips. The lighter vulture beasts were unable to break loose. Dragged down, they thrashed and kicked, their beaks darting toward the faces of their captors, stabbing and tearing at olive-hued flesh.

  A husky Ganak, standing at Conan’s right, faced two attackers. The man’s oar impaled one, but he failed to swerve from the path of the other. The Kezati sank its terrible talons into the warrior’s eyes and face, peeling flesh from skull, tearing eyes from their sockets, and driving the stricken man to the ground. Once downed, the blinded warrior groped helplessly before the Kezati buried its beak into the Ganak’s round belly. In a single, vicious jerk, the fanged bill disembowelled its victim, ripping out a dripping mass of vitals.

  Enraged by this butchery, Conan lunged toward the blood-spattered Kezati, swinging his sword in a brutal overhead sweep. The sharp-edged steel bit into the beast’s torso, sundering it into tumbling halves.

  The gutted Ganak, who, incredibly, still breathed, looked up into Conan’s eyes, smiling weakly be
fore slumping to the sand. Conan glanced at the man’s ravaged belly, tom open to the spine. He would slay ten Kezatis in payment for that fallen warrior’s demise.

  Diving talons and slashing beaks filled the air around his head, giving him ample chance to attain his mark. His flashing blade clove a neck, adding a leathery head to the heap at his feet. Then the Kezati wave veered skyward, preparing for another assault.

  During this pause, the Ganaks again set the blades of their oars against the ground—all but the white-haired man, whose face paled as he stared at Conan. The others nervously averted their eyes from the Cimmerian, as if they feared to look him in the face. “Kulunga...” the giant warrior whispered, then Conan saw that the scarred man’s gaze was directed at his sword, not at him. Blood from Kezatis, thin and purple, trickled from its gleaming point.

  Conan was about to speak, but the shrieks of the swooping Kezati would have drowned his words. The Cimmerian readied his sword for the second wave of airborne warriors. He counted five fallen Ganaks, but smiled grimly at the tally of nearly thirty dead Kezati. Those spear-oars had taken their toll. Even so, thirty was but a tithe of that hook-billed army’s number. Determined to account for more of the vile things, Conan flexed his arms, poising his legs to respond more swiftly this time. A few paces away, the Ganak speaker lifted a dead man’s oar from the ground and raised it to meet the screaming Kezati.

  Conan looked into the rounded, red eyes of a vulture-beast before shearing the creature asunder. Three others plunged simultaneously toward him, talons extended like small daggers, beaks open to strike. The Cimmerian tried to spring away from two while slashing at the third, but his ankle turned on a skull beneath his foot. Stumbling, he smote blindly with his sword, stopping only one of the Kezati. The untouched pair screeched triumphantly, their beaks stretching toward Conan’s unprotected flesh.

  The Cimmerian heard a swish in the air behind him, and the white-haired Ganak’s oar swept into the path of the Kezati attackers. It batted one aside, striking the other’s wing and snapping bone. Wielding the oar like a quarter-staff, the Ganak: lashed out with the flattened end and hit one Kezati hard enough to crack its thick skull. The other, unable to fly, screamed and folded its wings. Bending its legs, it sprang toward the prone Cimmerian. Conan thrust his sword into its path, spearing it through the belly. He rolled to his feet and finished it off with a single thrust, before feeling something sharp graze the skin on the back of his neck. A sharp pain knifed through his scalp as a Kezati tore a lock of his hair from his head. He heard the sharp clack of a beak behind him.