Conan and the Shaman's Curse

by Sean A. Moore

  Furtive movement above the mound caught Conan’s eye. Behind him, through the veil of jungle sounds, he heard a hiss. To his left, a tree limb creaked, as if bending under the strain of a great weight.

  Conan flexed his knees, crouching. His only warning was a faint rush of air on a huge leaf that waved a few feet above his head.

  Springing to his right, he landed on his right shoulder, rolling. Gooey strands of web clung to his left ankle, stretching until they snapped. A green, bulbous object thumped onto the path, scurrying toward him even as it landed. The bones clattered as something large dropped onto them, scattering the pile.

  By the time Conan climbed to his feet, the path was alive with wriggling, hissing horrors. As if drawn by his scent, they moved ponderously toward him, their shiny eyes brimming with malice. More spiders dropped from the trees, spiny legs flexing, obscene bodies bobbing up and down as they lumbered toward their prey.

  He shuddered in revulsion, standing fast to face their charge. The sight of that slavering hell-horde would have made the most stout-hearted Æsir berserker soil his own breeches. Conan had slain many monstrosities in his travels and battled beasts that crawled from Hell’s darkest crevices, but these creatures made his blood curdle like no others had. He was in no condition to take on a whole army of the things. Cursing, Conan half-ran, half-walked through the trees, their branches whipping at his naked flesh, raising welts as he plunged into the murky depths of the jungle. He loathed spiders almost as much as he loathed spell casters.

  Only when he reached a tightly packed row of trees did he slow down. His pursuers’ bulk kept them from catching up; their rustling and wheezing had faded to far-off whispers. But they showed no signs of abandoning their prey. They tracked him with the relentless precision of Picts on a blood trail.

  The chase had fully awakened Conan’s limbs. He ignored the hot throb in his sides, concentrating on his search for a gap in the barrier of trunks and limbs.

  He heard the click of mandibles as the spiders approached him.

  Conan clenched his teeth in frustration. The trees formed a wall that began curving out, forcing him back toward the path. Jammed together, the thick trunks grew so closely that he could not force himself through them.

  The trees offered no refuge. These spiders had demonstrated their climbing skills, and Conan did not delude himself with false hopes of escape. Their webs would catch him, and they would drag him down, tearing his flesh, crushing his bones in their jaws.

  He would not become another skeletal trophy in their ivory mound of death. Panting, growling with the fury of a cornered lion, he turned to circle around them and escape.

  With his back to the wall of trees, he spent a few precious seconds choosing the direction in which he would charge. He could slay one or two of them, perhaps more if he kept beyond reach of their deadly jaws.

  Uncannily, his eight-legged enemies had organized their attack with the precision of a Turanian general. The smaller, more mobile spiders scurried through the forest, flanking him. The foliage directly ahead rustled with the sounds of approaching predators.

  They formed a living web. Escape was impossible.

  Clenching his fists, Conan braced himself for the onslaught.

  XI

  Treason and Terror

  Jukona paused, wiping sweat from his forehead. Nightfall had made the path difficult to follow. His progress was painfully slow, and the tense trek was wearing him down.

  But the sweat on his furrowed brow came not from exertion; it rose from the sense of being watched. The denizens of the Deadlands lurked all around him. The snakes were the least bothersome, for they could be sidestepped. He had clumsily trod upon one earlier, receiving a stinging bite for his carelessness. The serpent’s teeth had sharpened his senses. Since then, he had remained vigilant. When the green, net-throwing beasts had approached, he had been prepared.

  Tales told by his grandfather had warned him of their insidious tactics. To ward them off, he carried a sack of their eggs, which the beasts laid in clusters, covering their jellylike spawn with a thin, leathery shell. They seemed to value the safety of their unborn, for they would not attack one who toted an egg. Jukona did not know why such creatures would care about their spawn, but the minds of the anansi were unfathomable.

  They permitted him to pass, although he could still feel their eyes on him, burning with the hatred they harboured for all warm-blooded beasts—especially the two-legged variety.

  He wondered how the stranger had avoided them. Perhaps he also carried a talisman. But Jukona was concerned; he had heard a commotion farther ahead, before the moon goddess had begun her descent from the sky.

  He took a few steps forward, peering down the shadowy path. He stopped to stare at a huge object, huddled on the path a few paces away.

  His eyes widened and he sucked in his breath.

  Before him lay the maimed carcass of a net beast.

  Slain by the stranger... or by something far worse, something that might lurk ahead?

  In the distance, thrashing sounds broke the night’s silence. Creatures were stirring, moving through the dense vegetation. A loud, bestial cry ripped through the jungle, startling Jukona. He recognized the sound: the cry of war, made by the stranger on the shore of bone when the Kezati attacked.

  He hastened toward it, wondering what monsters beset the warrior who had fought so bravely against the Kezati. Even though the warrior was not a Ganak, Jukona would gladly die to save him.

  Bolting through the brush, Jukona tripped over the outstretched foot of Ngomba. Jukona fell heavily, gasping as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Eyes flashing, the yellow-painted warrior raised his weapon to smite Jukona. He swung it with enough force to fell a tree.

  As the glittering blade descended toward the prone Ganak’s neck, its hilt twisted in Ngomba’s grip. The flat of the blade struck the base of Jukona’s skull, driving his face into the ground. Ngomba stepped away, watching the old warrior roll onto his back, groaning. Jukona lifted his chin, his bewildered gaze meeting the fierce eyes of his assailant. Blood trickled from one ear, seeping into the ground.

  “You should have listened to me, Warrior-Leader,” he whispered. “You have brought this doom upon yourself. Better that you died before leading our people down the path of death.”

  Ngomba jabbed his thumb with the sharp point of his weapon, then stuck the weapon into the dirt. He smeared his finger with blood and painted three simple symbols upon Jukona’s brow, warrior marks that would permit Jukona’s soul to pass freely into the grey lands of Muhingo.

  He had been reluctant to strike Jukona, but the old warrior could not be allowed to save the intruder. Ngomba listened with satisfaction to the rustling and thrashing sounds of the net beasts as they hunted the doomed stranger.

  Ngomba bent to pick up the egg sack that had kept him safe from the web-throwing beasts. He felt more certain than ever that his actions tonight were justified. After all, the war gods had delivered Jukona before the fool’s overconfidence could doom the Ganaks. And the dark gods had sent their children, the Deadland beasts, to slay the stranger. Clearly, Ngomba was favoured equally by all the gods, light and dark.

  He strode down the path that would take him home. It was time for him to return, to tell his people what had transpired, to fulfil his destiny.

  He had taken only a few steps when faint sounds reached his keen ears. Listening intently, he heard the flapping of wings, a sound he knew all too well. It came from afar, like distant clouds that foretold the coming of a cruel storm.

  As he had feared, the Kezati were approaching. But they had come so soon, before he was ready! From the sound, there were many more than even he would have expected—a hundred, maybe more.

  Their wings beat slowly; the long flight must have made them weary. But Ngomba guessed they would reach the village before dawn, attacking while his people were recovering from their feast of victory.

  He cursed the foolishness of Y’Taba and Jukona
. Their false assurances might yet be the death of the Ganak people... and the death of his beloved Sajara. An image of her rose vividly in his mind’s eye. He pictured her, tom to pieces by stabbing beaks and slashing talons. It must not come to pass! His blood boiled, hotter than the sun god’s fiery breath. He tightened his grip on the new weapon. With it, he could save her.

  He sprinted madly down the path, his mind awhirl. His people had cast him out, but they needed his help. They must not die from the wrongful decrees of Y’Taba. Ngomba would show them that their spirit-leader had acted foolishly, convince them that he was the chosen one. When he drove away the Kezati, they would acknowledge his claims. They would honour. him, demand that he be chosen as the new warrior-leader.

  Then Sajara would become his mate.

  Jukona had forbidden their joining. Sajara was his only daughter, and he had never liked Ngomba. But the old fool was gone. And Y’Taba would gladly give Sajara to one who saved the Ganak people from the winged ones—he would have no choice but to obey the demands of the chosen one.

  Ngomba’s legs pumped furiously, his muscles burning from his pounding strides. He threw aside all caution; no serpent or Deadland beast could stop the chosen one from fulfilling his destiny.

  “Sajara!” he cried fiercely, raising the weapon as he ran, his heart hammering in his chest.

  Conan backed against a sturdy tree to keep the pack of bloated spiders from surrounding him. He extended his arms, hands ready to seize the first beast who struck. Though he was unarmed, he would sell his life dearly before they dragged him down.

  A rustling in the trees overhead warned him of an attack from above. “Crom’s teeth!” he bellowed, diving aside as the thing smacked wetly to the ground where he had stood. A low tree limb nearly knocked him senseless.

  His ill-aimed jump landed him on the pulpy back of another spider. Its hide was thick enough to support him. Hissing, it heaved upward, dislodging Conan.

  All around him, menacing shadows closed in, a clicking hairy mob of malignance. Their cloying reek filled the night air, putrid as the devil’s breath. Hundreds of evil, unseen eyes stared at him with such hateful intensity that he felt their presence, their touch, upon his naked flesh.

  Sharp mandibles brushed his calf, and his outstretched arms touched a pudgy, bristling body.

  Deeply inhaling fouled air, he bent his knees and sprang straight up, reaching for a tree limb above him. The fingers of his right hand curled around the top. Flexing his arm, he hauled himself onto the smooth branch, the spiders’ dripping jaws clacking shut on empty air below him.

  The hideous green horde began swarming up the tree in pursuit, incredibly agile for creatures of their size. Cursing, Conan balanced himself on the slippery limb, which shook and swayed. He looked up, seeking other branches to climb, but none were in reach.

  The moon’s light had nearly vanished, but enough remained for him to scan his surroundings. The wall of trees seemed to extend forever upward, as impassable as ever. Jutting tree branches were tangled and twisted together in wooden embraces.

  Conan observed that the trunks tapered gradually, and he immediately devised a plan. Leaping as high as he could, he threw his arms around the trunk and began climbing.

  Mere paces below him, the shadowy hunters chased Conan. Their limbs, as if coated with invisible glue, clung to the slippery wood.

  Conan’s fingers grappled the moist bark, his nails digging in, his legs wrapping around the tree.

  Frothing jaws lunged toward his ankle, splattering his toes with gooey droplets.

  Conan clung to the tree, pulling himself up by his hands, the nail of his middle finger peeling back. He ignored the burst of pain, wrenching his foot away from the spider below. He let go of the trunk, wedging his hands back-to-back between the tree he had climbed and the tree to his right. He swung to the right, supported only by the pressure his palms exerted on the two trees.

  Shoulder muscles flexing, he hurled all of his upper body strength into his hands, desperately trying to pull apart the two trees. If he could spread them just a little, enough for him to slip through, they would snap shut behind him and cut off pursuit.

  Straining, his muscles trembling, he pitted his considerable might against the unyielding bulk of wood. His chest heaved as he drew in deep breaths, his body feeling every ache from the hardships of the past few days. The trees bent slightly, giving an inch or two but no more.

  An explosion of hot pain burst from his calf as the spider below him sank its jaws into his flesh.

  Exhaling with a bestial roar, Conan’s thews swelled, the bones of his arms grinding in their sockets from the strain. The trees bent apart, giving in to the incredible pressure. Conan pulled himself through, feeling the agonizing scrape of mandibles as they slid down his calf, stripping the flesh to his ankle.

  The creature lunged through the gap, relentlessly pursuing Conan, its bulbous eyes agleam with dark fury, its dripping mouth agape with hunger. In the pale moonlight, blood from Conan’s leg glistened wetly on its snapping jaws.

  Then he was through, past the wall of wood. He let the trees snap back onto the thing’s hideous head. It burst like a hairy black grape crushed between powerful fingers, spraying viscous brain-jelly in all directions.

  Gasping, Conan plummeted to the ground, unable to maintain his grip. He rolled instinctively as he fell, and the muddy loam softened the impact. On the other side of the makeshift barrier, his pursuers wheezed in agitation, frustrated by the unexpected escape of their prey.

  Conan scanned his new surroundings. Strangely, the trees ended abruptly where he had pushed past them. He lay in a vast clearing.

  Numb from traces of spider venom absorbed, he leaned against a tree, panting. He scrubbed the wound with a handful of watery mud, barely able to make his muscles perform this simple chore. His arms hung loosely as if attached to his shoulders only by a thread. Rashes of red blurred his vision, making him dizzy. But the pain kept him conscious until he could steel himself.

  When his vision returned, he stared ahead, eyes widening in amazement. He looked upon the high, slightly rounded wall of an immense castle. Its gargantuan dimension matched the mightiest of Aquilonian fortresses; indeed, it was of sufficient size to encircle a whole village.

  Had the fall addled his wits, or was it some trick of the night’s shadows? The sky had begun to colour. with the deep blue of dawn, further improving visibility. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, shaking his head to clear it. When he looked again, the structure was still there. Its wall loomed over him like a massive tombstone, silent and grim, a stone sentinel guarding the bones of whatever lay within.

  Mesmerized, he lay unmoving, listening to the fading squeals of his would-be devourers, who were doubtless retreating to their leafy lairs. Whether they had given up the chase or were simply hiding from the light of morning, Conan knew not. He was simply thankful to have escaped.

  As he gawked at the stone edifice, the first rays of sunlight touched the tops of the trees, dispelling the castle’s eerie, brooding aspect. Conan yawned, weary from the last night’s desperate flight through the forest. His arms had never known the throbbing ache he now felt. But he noticed these ailments with detachment. The bizarre wonder before him dominated his thoughts.

  The sky had brightened, enabling Conan to note the wall’s state of advanced decay. Its massive bricks sagged as if weary from centuries of standing. Cracks permeated its surface like wrinkles on an aged face.

  He tilted his head to study the battlements. There, remnants of decorative stone sprouted crookedly like broken stumps of teeth in an expansive jaw. A crumbling minaret towered beyond the wall, its tapering spire worn to a nub.

  Conan saw no means of entry. The castle, though crack-ridden and apparently untended, appeared impenetrable. Its appearance was altogether forbidding, but Conan felt its irresistible lure. Its very existence on this forsaken, primitive island presented an intriguing mystery. What hands had shaped it, and where had the
stone come from? Why had the jungle not overtaken it?

  A new observation brought a scowl to Conan’s face. Where the wall of trees ended, the clearing contained no vines, no leaves, and not one blade of grass. In a circle that radiated from the round-walled castle, Conan saw no trace of anything green or living. Even insects shunned this place. The utter absence of life suggested a number of unpleasant possibilities.

  But he longed to know what lay inside its walls. Favouring his sore calf, he walked in a slow circle, staying near the trees. The curving wall contained thousands of close-fitting, dark brown blocks. Conan judged that any one of these might equal him in weight. He marvelled at the craftsmanship, wondering how many backs had bent to the task of building this hulking structure. Was it the work of whip-driven slaves... or had free hands laboured to construct a haven for their families?

  On the other side of the clearing, Conan found an oval-shaped portal where a gate might once have hung. “Ymir’s beard,” he whispered, his eyes widening as they travelled upward.

  From top to bottom, a horrific bas-relief image of a naked woman covered the wall. Sitting cross-legged, she leered at Conan, her lips twisted in a snarl. Tusks curved upward from her open mouth; long, ragged locks radiated like sunbursts from her face. She wore a necklace of skulls, bracelets of snakes, a belt of severed limbs, and tiny arms looped through her pierced lobes—arms attached to children’s corpses.

  Ten arms sprouted from her bare, huge-breasted torso. In one claw-like hand she gripped a wide-bladed scimitar; from another long-nailed hand dangled a severed, blood-dripping head. The arched doorway gaped open below her navel, a repugnant and lewd invitation.

  Conan remembered seeing a likeness of this freakish female, but he did not recall exactly where or when he had looked upon it. He sifted through the nooks and crannies of his memory, but failed to dredge up anything but a vague sense of familiarity. The sculpted effigy radiated cosmic hatred, a malevolence that would have frozen the very bowels of many stout-hearted men. Conan shuddered.