Conan and the Shaman's Curse

by Sean A. Moore

  Jukona frowned. “Ngomba must have sensed the coming of the Kezati—how, I do not know. Did the Kezati send him to Muhingo?”

  Sajara spoke before Y’Taba could reply. “With the atnalga, he killed many Kezati. As they flew, blood dripped from their wounds like red rain. It was a terrible fight. They were as thick as the flies of the swamps, but Ngomba had the worst of it. Three, sometimes four, flew at him.” Admiration was evident in her tone. “For a while, he drove them away... but there were too many. Even Ngomba could not withstand them all.”

  Conan listened, fascinated equally by the tale and its teller. Since the battle with the Kezati on the skull-covered beach, he had been curious about the Ganaks and their winged enemies. “Why do these vultures attack you?” “For food,” Y’Taba said. “Their land is barren. Long ago, they stripped from it all things living. The children of Ezat dwell on Zati, a great rock devoid of birds, beasts, and plants. Our enemies cannot dive deep enough to feed upon the fish in the sea, as we do. Once, they preyed upon the beasts of Arawu, which is a small isle that lies between here and Zati. Now Arawu is dying. Only trees and bushes remain; even the birds have been hunted and eaten.” Conan remembered the eerie silence that pervaded that isle, where he had first seen the Ganaks. “The shore of skulls,” he muttered.

  Y’Taba nodded. “For generations, we have sent our warriors to Arawu to meet the Kezati in battle. If we did not, their hunger would drive them here, to prey upon us and our families... as they did on this dark day. Not since the time of the first Y’Taba have our enemies invaded our village. We defeat them at Arawu, where they bear away their own dead and feast upon the bodies, though they leave the heads behind.”

  Conan grunted with revulsion. “But after they devour their kin, how then do they survive?”

  “They do not survive... they all starve after fighting among each other and eating each other. Or so it has been,” Y’Taba answered solemnly. “But always, after a generation of peace, they return. We believe that they lay eggs before they die, eggs which bear young only after the passing of many, many moon-cycles. The hatchlings then burst forth, the stronger devouring the weaker. These survivors, who are aggressive and strong, mature quickly and become able to fly. They first seek food at Arawu and consume whatever meagre animal life has sprung up since their predecessors’ scouring of the place. Many more perish as they quarrel over a plump bird or other choice catch.” Y’Taba paused, clearing his throat. “It is then that Ataba, god above gods, sends the dream to me. Ataba warns us of the coming of the Kezati.”

  Conan, becoming restless, scratched his whiskered chin. “Why do you wait until they can fight? Destroy the eggs!” Jukona shook his head. ‘The nests of Zati lie atop a sheer wall of rock, taller than any tree on Ganaku. In the past, some among us tried to reach the nests but failed. Zati is impossible to climb.”

  Conan had his doubts. He seldom encountered a cliff that he deemed unscalable. As a youth, he had learned to climb by scaling steep hills and slippery, ice-covered mountains in Cimmeria. On this island, the Ganaks would have no means to develop such skills. He wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. “Then who discovered the Kezati eggs?”

  “Omjdu, whose mother and father were among our fist ancestors. When the Kezati first met our warriors at Arawu, they captured Omjdu and several others, bearing them back to Zati... alive. A few Ganaks ran to the log-boats and gave chase.

  “Omjdu, in the grip of a Kezati, was taken to Zati, but before his captor dragged him inside for a feeding, he fought it for a while and broke its neck. Through a hole at the top of Zati, he saw a cavern that bulged with eggs beyond counting. Huge they were, their shells swollen with unborn Kezati. Helpless to intervene, he watched as the other Ganaks were fed to hatchlings. But then more Kezati came for him, and he jumped off the cliffs atop the island. Our warriors found him upon the rocks below, broken and dying. He spoke before passing into the lands of grey, describing what he had seen. The elders still tell Omjdu’s tale.”

  “He was an ancestor of my family,” Sajara added proudly.

  “You and Jukona are the last of his line,” Y’Taba said sorrowfully. He looked at Jukona. “Her brother—your son—met Muhingo today. He lies with the others who fell before the Kezati.”

  “Pomja,” Jukona whispered, his eyes turning toward the slain Ganaks who lay on the mound. Tears welled in his huge eyes and spilled down his stricken face. “Bunoab... Sobhuza... Rozwi! Ah, what a day of evil this is, by Asusa!”

  “We must pray to Asusa for aid, not swear by his name,” Y’Taba chided. “Perhaps the gods are angry with us, or they may be at war themselves. If so, now is the time for prayer and also the time for difficult decisions.” He straightened. “Sajara, gather the elders. Before the Kezati return, there is much to discuss. We shall speak of many things after I have tended to the hurts of our people. Your huntresses took wounds, but none beyond my skill. However, I fear that Ngomba will live only if the gods grant me the power to heal him.”

  Scowling, Conan balled his hands into fists. “If he does not return my sword, not even the gods will be able to heal him.”

  Jukona nodded. “And if he lives, Ngomba must face me. He tried to kill me in the Deadlands. My heart holds no pity for him. His deeds today do not wash from him the red stain of treachery. Do not trust him, Spirit-Leader! The serpent who bites an enemy today may bite a friend tomorrow. And this serpent was ever the mightiest of my warriors—and the most dangerous.”

  Y’Taba sighed. “Peace, Jukona. Whatever else he is, Ngomba is Ganak, not a beast of scales and cold blood. But we shall speak of this later.” He rubbed at a cut above his eye. “Conan of Cimmeria, your weapon will be given back to you. If Ngomba survives, you may punish him for his crime in whatever manner your people would choose. We shall neither interfere nor help you, for this is the way of my people. If he perishes, mighty Ataba will have chosen Ngomba’s punishment.” Y’Taba looked directly into Jukona’s eyes. “And if our wounded men do not survive, you will become the last Ganak warrior.”

  The sullen warrior-leader did not reply, his gaze still resting upon fallen comrades.

  Y’Taba’s voice was slowing with weariness. “Conan of Cimmeria, if you would later join me, I would welcome your company, for I have many questions. Jukona, I must speak with you before we join the elders.”

  Sajara glared at Jukona, who seemed oblivious to her. “Ngomba saved us today. Will you never see him as a warrior pure in heart and purpose?” She whirled away from him.

  Y’Taba sighed. “She speaks truly. Ngomba fought bravely this day. But Sajara, you must see that Jukona also speaks truly, as does the njeni, the stranger, Conan of Cimmeria. None of us can trust Ngomba. But we have no more time to speak of this. Before we heal the wounds of heart and soul, there are wounds of flesh and blood to tend. Ngomba and the other warriors need me. Sajara, find the weapon that belongs to Conan of Cimmeria and have it returned to him. Then assemble the elders. Our enemies will return, and we must be prepared for their coming.” Sajara nodded, her temper seeming to cool. “We should meet under the roof of celebration. My huntresses will need time to clear the foul remains from the place of gathering.” Her eyes blazed as she looked upon the heaped Kezati carcasses.

  Y’Taba began walking toward the village. “No longer will it be called the roof of celebration,” he said. “Let all Ganaks call it the roof of sorrow; never again shall our people feast there. Had Ngomba’s warning been heeded, we might have better withstood the attack.” He moved ahead of the others, mumbling quietly to himself. “Among us, only he knew. I must ponder what has come to pass and seek the meaning.”

  “I would as soon seek victuals,” Conan grumbled. “I am nigh famished, by Crom!” He stared unabashedly at Sajara's voluptuous body as she walked ahead of him. The natural, lithe sway of her hips was more arousing than the practised movements of an emperor’s seraglio-dancer.

  Jukona nodded glumly. “You are right, Conan. The mourning must wait. We can eat and drink w
hile Y’Taba hears of our journey in the Deadlands.”

  “How can you look upon death and yet think of food?” Sajara shook her head in bewilderment. “I shall ask a bearer to bring meat and gourds of kuomo to you.”

  “Two bearers,” Jukona advised. “Conan of Cimmeria may look small, but a warrior’s appetite always matches his prowess.”

  Conan grinned, reluctantly shifting his stare from Sajara. He did not wish to earn Jukona’s ire by ogling the warrior’s daughter. Silently, he observed the devastated villagers as they went about their grim labours. Conan saw only the young and old at work, dragging Kezati corpses toward the swamp near the village’s edge. The Ganaks seemed content to let their dead lie upon the mound, gathering flies as they baked in the hot afternoon sun. “You do not bury or bum your slain?” he asked.

  Jukona wrinkled his brow. “Bury? Bum? Are these prayers or rituals of your people?”

  “Rituals, you might say. In many lands where I have travelled, people dig holes, called graves, for their dead. They cover the bodies with dirt while a priest mumbles or mourners croon a dirge. Stygians have even more elaborate customs, building vast chambers—tombs, or even pyramids—according to the status the deceased held in life. Others dispense with all the bother and set fire to corpses, letting them bum into ash.

  “Priest... tombs... pyramids... fire... ash.” Jukona shook his head. “I understand some of what you say, but not all of your words hold visions for me. Our elders remember all Ganak lore and may know of what you speak. Let me show you my village, that you may learn of my people.” He led Conan past a long bench fashioned from a tree. Two other such benches formed a triangle with the mound of the dead rising from its centre. “This is the place of gathering, where my people hear the voice of Y’Taba, wisdom of the elders, reports of our Ranioba, or other words of importance to all.”

  Conan nodded, observing that the wooden benches had been smoothed to a polish by generations of observers. He also noticed that the top edges were slightly squared and bevelled on the back side. This and something about their curvature made their appearance maddeningly familiar. He doubted that three such trees could have simply grown into such a shape and size. But these Ganaks possessed no evident tools of carpentry. “Where are the benches from?” he asked.

  Jukona shrugged. “The elders would know, or Y’Taba. Look over there. That is what once was the roof of celebration, which shaded feasts of victory when our warriors returned from Arawu. Look what the Kezati have done to it, Asusa curse them! Will the goddess fashion another for us, I wonder?”

  “Crom, it’s—” Conan blurted, staring slack-jawed. From a distance, he had thought it to be a simple roof of dried leaves and branches, crudely propped up by a frame of trees.

  The roof consisted of crumbling sailcloth, doubtless the mainsail of some ancient craft. Stained and shredded, its remnants hung like the tatters of a centuries-old burial shroud. The sight of them opened a door in Conan’s mind—the benches. Their distinctive shape... they were keels, salvaged from immense ships. Conan’s eyes narrowed as he studied the village, whose origin raised a hundred questions.

  “Yes,” Jukona nodded, misinterpreting Conan’s reaction. “It is ruined.” His voice became distant.

  “The gods made this for you?”

  “For Kulunga, a first ancestor. It was the veil of Jhaora. When Kulunga saved our village from the Kezati, there was a feast of plenty held to honour. the gods. But Ezat, angered by the deaths of his children, hurled his tears of bitterness upon Ganaku and put an end to the feasting. So Jhaora, who hates Ezat more than any of the gods, made a gift of her veil to our first ancestors, protecting them from Ezat’s tears.”

  Conan feigned interest as Jukona continued his tale. Perhaps the warrior-leader did not know the true origin of their roof of celebration. But what if the elders knew secrets of the past and deliberately kept their people ignorant? Conan decided to spare the warrior-leader from further questions for now. But when he spoke with Y’Taba, Conan would demand some real answers.

  He needed to leave this strange island and return to the kingdoms of Hyborea, where he could seek a cure to the shaman’s curse. The sooner he left, the better. He wanted no more of the strange dreams. Worse yet, the curse might strike him again. If it came upon him at night in the village... he would butcher Ganak elders and children. He shuddered, cold sweat suddenly dampening his brow.

  Ships had landed here, perhaps centuries ago, and Conan was determined to learn of their origin. Even the mariners of old kept logs or carried maps and charts. If Conan could but find where the mainland lay, half of his problem would be solved.

  The other half—how to get to the mainland—was another problem entirely.

  XIII

  Song of the Shell-Spirits

  Ngomba groaned, struggling to rise from his bed of leaves and marsh grass. His body was a red mass of ravaged flesh. Multi-hued salves had been applied to the slashes; blood-crusted leaves covered patches on his head and upper body where the Kezati talons had tom away the skin.

  Y’Taba stood over the injured Ganak, watching for a short while before deciding what should be done. Ngomba had lost so much blood that his skin was as pale as the stranger’s. The jumbura and gurundi berry-juices, which had considerable healing power, had not closed the deep gashes in Ngomba’s body. Y’Taba believed that Ngomba’s wounds and his pain were punishment, meted out by the gods for the sins of pride and disobedience.

  Ngomba would recover. He might even grow wiser, if he learned any of the harsh lessons taught by the day’s events. Y’Taba had watched Ngomba grow up; a stubborn boy with a tongue as sharp as his wit who had never before known defeat. And he had always gotten his way— until Jukona forbade him to join with Sajara.

  At first Ngomba had driven himself to win Jukona’s favour. Ngomba had ever been larger than Ganaks of his age, but still he pushed his body beyond the limits of endurance. When Jukona told the warriors to circle the village seven times as fast as they could run, Ngomba would circle it ten, twelve, even fourteen times. When the sun dipped from the sky and the other warriors slept in their huts, Ngomba sat at the feet of any elder who would talk to him, drinking lore like kuomo.

  Ngomba learned patience. He asked Jukona again, this time in proper custom, for permission to become Sajara’s mate. She pleaded with Jukona, telling him that she would join only with Ngomba.

  Still, Jukona refused to give his consent. On that day, he and Ngomba had become enemies, bitter as the oil of vanukla leaves. The young warrior immediately challenged Jukona in the Ghanuta. But Y’Taba had forbidden the combat, saying to Ngomba that he must first prove himself in battle with the Kezati. Later, the village’s old Ranioba named Sajara as her successor. The joining was then impossible; Raniobas may not be joined until they have chosen and trained a replacement. And indeed, Sajara had seemed to lose some interest in Ngomba when she became Ranioba.

  Ngomba finally seemed to give up. He withdrew from the other Ganaks, spending much time by himself. The only enthusiasm he showed was during the warrior exercises, at which he excelled. He became more surly with the passing of every day.

  Y’Taba looked down upon the battered, slashed form of his son, a tear wetting his wrinkled cheek. No Ganak knew this hidden truth: their spirit-leader was the father of Ngomba. And Y’Taba would never confess. The gods would damn him for it, he knew. For his silence, Ngomba had suffered as no Ganak should.

  His son had been conceived on the very eve that he had become Y’Taba. He had been weak on that night of madness, and the gods had punished him for it.

  The elders said that kuomo opened the ears of men to the whispers of Anamobi, Moon Goddess who delighted in the pleasures of the flesh.

  The moon goddess need not have whispered to Y’Taba on that night; Nyona Ranioba's beauty spoke well enough for itself. He had fallen in love with her, but he was Y’Taba. Spirit-leaders of old who had joined had lost much of their powers to heal—their power to command the spirits
in the shells that hung around Y’Taba’s neck. And Nyona was Ranioba. To seek a joining was to ask her to name a successor and give up her chosen way of life.

  After their night together, she vanished into the Dead-lands. The face of the moon thinned, vanished, and became full again until the search for Nyona ended. The Deadlands swallowed her up.

  When he saw her again, he had become Y’Taba. He had no memory of his former name; it was a shadow, washed from his mind like a footprint in a rainstorm. It had ever been so, since the first Y’Taba. But he would never forget the night of her return. A woman had given birth to a child that day, a child suffering from a wasting disease. Y’Taba, alone with the child, had used every herb, every berry, every prayer at his disposal to heal the child. But the gods had sealed the infant’s fate, taking him into the lands of grey.

  On that moonless night, Nyona slipped unseen into Y’Taba’s hut. In her arms she held an infant boy... their son, Ngomba.

  She had begged him to give their son to the parents of the dead child, and he had agreed. After a brief, almost bitter embrace, she had taken the body of the other infant and disappeared again. He wondered what had become of Nyona. Had she fallen prey to a beast of the Deadlands, or had she made a secret home in the trees? Sometimes he dreamed that she still lived, still came to the edge of the village and watched him.

  Y’Taba covered his face with his sweating palms, his heart almost bursting from the burden of guilt that lay upon it. That weight had grown heavier with the passing of every day. Had his misdeed brought about the evil that had come to pass? Had the gods waited until now to mete out his punishment? If so, the blood of all Ganaks might stain his soul eternally. He shivered, although his hut was warm. Crouching, he placed his palm upon Ngomba’s feverish brow.

  “You spoke truly, my son,” he whispered. “I am an old fool. May the gods forgive me for my pride and grant me the power to heal you.”