Conan and the Shaman's Curse

by Sean A. Moore

  Carefully they placed the atnalga into the chest and wrapped the burst comers with vines to secure it.

  Laughing and joking, they left the tower with renewed hope. Only now a new concern had arisen.

  “If anything happened to them, we shall see the signs,” Conan said.

  When they reached the area by the spring of water, they drank their fill quickly before searching the place for signs of the Ganak women. While Sajara splashed water on her face, Conan studied the dirt and rubbed his jaw in bewilderment.

  “No signs of a struggle, but I count four sets of footprints leading toward the doorway.”

  “Four?” Sajara was at his side in a few supple strides.

  “Come on. We’ll follow them.”

  They hurried toward the tall, arched exit, slowing when they heard the wall.

  “Did they—” Sajara began.

  Conan raised a finger to his lips, then pointed at the doorway.

  Outside, a shadow lay across it... a colossal shadow with an all-too-familiar shape.

  Conan whispered. “That portal is too narrow for the thing to come through. We’re safe enough, but...”

  “Makiela... Kanitra... Avrana,” she moaned. “No. It cannot be.”

  “Aye, I hope not,” Conan said fervently. “What of this fourth set of footprints?”

  “Sajara?”

  They both nearly fell over backward in surprise when a head appeared in the doorway.

  “Makiela!” shouted Sajara.

  “By Crom, what—”

  Makiela walked into view, followed by Avrana and Kanitra. “Sajara!” they called out. “Do not worry. We are safe.”

  The shadow shifted its position, unmistakably belonging to a stalker.

  Sajara rushed through the archway, Conan following her and cursing. Ranioba and her hunters hugged briefly while the Cimmerian gaped at the green-bodied monstrosity. He stayed back a few paces, respectful of the creature’s astonishing speed. His sword was in his hand by instinct.

  Astride the stalker’s neck sat an old Ganak woman with a sun-wrinkled face. Her skin was not painted in typical Ganak fashion, though she wore a necklace similar to Sajara’s. A braid of grey hair swept down past her waist; tied to the end of it was a white, cylindrical seashell the size of a man’s forefinger. Smiling down at them, she turned, revealing that her left arm was entirely gone.

  The old woman’s smile turned into a stare as Conan walked into view. She seemed as startled by his appearance as he was by hers.

  Sajara blinked, her eyes registering both recognition and disbelief. “Nyona Ranioba!”

  “Yes, child. Your eyes were ever keen, as befits a Ranioba. Though when I last beheld you, you were a girl with only a stub of hair. Has it been so long? It has, I suppose. The passing of sun to moon means little to us here. There is much to tell, but first”—she waggled a finger at Conan—“I must know by what name this one is called, and from where he has come. My tale is for the ears of Ganaks, not njeni!”

  “He is called Conan, from the land of Cimmeria that lies faraway. He is not njeni! He fought the Kezati with our warrior-leader, drank kuomo with our spirit-leader, and he has saved me and these others from death—more than once.” She glared at Makiela. “As Makiela should have told you,” she added in an icy tone.

  “There was not a chance—” Makiela began to protest. “Nyona Ranioba came to us just after sunrise, Sajara.” Kanitra offered.

  Nodding, Avrana joined in. “We were about to explain why we had come to the Deadlands when—”

  “Silence, children!” the old woman commanded. “Sajara, speak. The rest of you, hold your tongues.” Conan was burning to know why the stalker did not simply devour them all, but he suspected that this strange Ganak rider would brook no further interruptions. He stood uneasily, fidgeting with his sword while Sajara related an abbreviated account of recent events, beginning with Conan’s arrival at Ganaku. Nyona seldom interrupted for more details, seeming curiously well-informed of much that had transpired—particularly in the Deadlands.

  While they spoke, the Cimmerian studied the stalker. He had seen them often enough before but never had the opportunity to examine one at leisure. The thing had made no hostile move, but its bluish-green eyes—their hue different from that of the other stalkers—glittered with unnatural intelligence that still made his flesh crawl. He saw that this stalker had narrow, leathery fore-wings and large, fan-shaped hind-wings. The latter were folded neatly beneath the fore-wings. Spots of red and white adorned its thick forelegs. Conan was certain that the others had lacked these colorations. A sheaf of bark had been fitted around the treelike neck, upon which Nyona was seated.

  While listening, Conan deduced that Nyona had vanished into the Deadlands while Sajara was a young girl. Another Ranioba had taken her place and was later succeeded by Sajara. Conan was still uncertain of the exact privileges of a Ranioba, though the title seemed to convey authority over a select group of women—“huntresses and seekers,” he had heard them called. He guessed that a Ranioba was at least the equal of a warrior-leader.

  Finally Sajara satisfied the last of the old woman’s curiosity.

  Nyona nodded approvingly to Conan. “Your eyes and skin are of a man from Cimmeria, I do not doubt. But the gods gave to you the heart and spirit unseen since the Ganak warrior-leaders of old walked upon the soil of Ganaku.” Conan made no thanks for the compliment, instead seizing the opportunity to speak. “Whence come you, then? Surely not from this accursed place of old stones!”

  “Old? Yes, the stones are old,” she agreed. “More than you know. Accursed? Perhaps once, though no longer. You slew the last—and worst—of the denizens born in the war of gods. Life may again rise from these stones.” A tone of regret softened her voice. “I have been hiding in the Deadlands, not here, mind you, for you have seen only the part of the Deadlands that is outermost. Where I come from is deeper, beyond reach of Ganak—or Cimmerian. Even the anansi do not dwell there.

  “When I was of the same age as Sajara, I sought knowledge in the Deadlands as had many before me. Fools all, we were, those of us who followed the path of Kulunga— yet so proud, so brave. Like so many, I ran afoul of the anansi. They chased me through the sward, to a place of trees not far from here. I was trapped; it was impassable. No,” she grinned at Conan, who was nodding. “The place is not this circle that surrounds Rahamji. Where I ran the trees are thicker and grow against each other. Only from above can one enter. And then only on the back of a mzuri vugunda like this one,” she tapped the tree bark. “Rasangwa rode upon a mzuri when she saved me from the anansi. Rasangwa was a Rahaman... the last of her race.”

  “A Rahaman saved you?” Sajara’s awed whisper echoed Conan’s thoughts.

  “The fountain of the gods flowed with water that gave her this gift of life—or curse, Rasangwa called it. She was one of few who escaped from Rahamji when the gods of Jhaora fought those of the Rahamans. They knew many secrets of this land.” She lifted the shell tied to the end of her long braid and raised it to her mouth as if blowing into it. The shell made no sound, but the stalker stirred and changed its position, like a monstrous steed guided by invisible reins. “The mzuri vugunda—those who bear marks of red and white—obey the wind-spirits who haunt these shells, if one knows how to command them. Rasangwa taught this art to me.

  “You see, she spared me from death in the jaws of those anansi, though my arm was tom away as I escaped. She took me to the place of which I spoke and treated my arm. It was there that I later gave bir—gave her my vow to not reveal her to the Ganaks, but to remain with her, for she was alone.

  Never shall I return to her.

  “Twenty times has the face of Asusa risen since Rasangwa fled to the lands of grey. Yet her face was smooth, her hair as black as the night. She had been lonely for so long, her life empty but for the memories of those she loved... they all passed into the lands of grey. before her, broken and lonely.” Nyona swallowed, wiping briefly at her eyes. “I d
o not wish to die as she did, from a heart broken in sorrow. It was time for me to return to my people, and my vow to Rasangwa no longer kept me away.

  “In the night I have flown over Ganaku to see the village. I watched when you entered Rahamji. But I arrived too late to warn you, and I could not save you from the terror of old that Conan defeated. It slew even the vugunda who strayed too near. And Dawakuba, whom you see before you, is almost as old as I. Mzuri are rare; they do not prey upon each other as the other vugunda do. That is a sight to sicken you, should you ever witness it. The female slays the male even as they mate, biting his neck in twain and devouring his head.”

  Conan flinched at the vivid image. “Can you not teach us to command these wind-spirits? Mounted on an army of stalkers, those Kezati hell spawn would stand no chance against us.”

  Nyona shook her head. “The boys in the village would reach manhood before you learned the art. But I will do what I can in the battle that we must fight.” She looked over the Ganak women and Conan as if sizing them up. “Though Dawakuba does not fight well, she flies like no other of her kind.” She blew into the shell, and the stalker lowered its huge body to the ground. Makiela, Avrana, and Kanitra squeezed themselves onto the bark-covered neck, but there was no room for Conan or his vine-wrapped trunk.

  The Cimmerian eyed the stalker dubiously. “I can walk,” he said, content to forego his ride. He still harboured some mistrust toward the stalkers, however obedient this one might be. The harrowing encounter in the tower was too recent a memory.

  Sajara nodded agreement, evidencing similar feelings.

  She, like Conan, had carefully distanced herself from the winged mount.

  Nyona smiled knowingly. “I felt the same once. Do not worry. Dawakuba and I shall come back for you. Stay inside, near the spring of water where you will be safe from any vugunda. Only those who are vicious fly within the walls at all, and even those do not get close to the ground. They do not know that the vines can snare them no more. The face of Asusa will yet be above us when we return.”

  Much of the day had passed during their encounter; morning had become afternoon. But Conan did not doubt Nyona’s claim. He had seen how swiftly those beasts could move. He and Sajara watched as the old Ranioba blew soundlessly into the shell, the mzuri ascending with powerful beats of its wings that raised a small cloud of dust beneath them. Conan averted his eyes from the image of Kahli that filled the wall above him, re-entering the ruins that Nyona—or rather the Rahamans—had called Rahamji.

  Sajara headed straight for the spring, taking a drink and splashing herself liberally with its refreshing water. Conan knelt near her, cupping his hands to get his fill. He was completely off-balance when she shoved him in from behind. He plunged in head-first but grabbed her slender, muscular forearm as he fell, dragging her in with a splash.

  “We should not be covered with dust when we return,” she said when she recovered from the unexpected soaking. “And the way you smell, even that stalker may refuse to bear you upon its back.” She laughed, slapping the water with her palm and dousing Conan.

  He dunked his head and yanked it out quickly, shaking his hair and spraying water at Sajara as he flipped it back. Dewy beads caressed the smooth, olive skin of her face, dripping onto full breasts that were partially submerged in the sparkling waters of the spring. Sajara smiled coyly at Conan, still laughing, and they embraced.

  The wait for Nyona’s return passed quickly.

  XVIII

  Duel in the Dark

  Night had fallen long ago, and Conan had consumed considerable quantities of kuomo before retiring, as had Jukona and the elders, even Y’Taba. Ngomba had surprised everyone by publicly apologizing to the Cimmerian for both the theft of his sword and the subsequent misdeeds he had committed. Sajara and the women, who by custom did not drink kuomo, had nevertheless been in as jovial a mood as the others. The successful return of Sajara, Conan, and the others had polished the tarnished hopes of the Ganaks, it seemed.

  Y’Taba had seemed distracted all night, more reticent than usual. He had avoided Nyona, averting his eyes from her for reasons beyond Conan’s grasp. The spirit-leader had reacted with some consternation when learning that Conan was not the chosen one; the atnalga's usefulness in the upcoming conflict was now in doubt. But a handful of wounded warriors had begun to recuperate from dire injuries sustained in battle, and Ngomba seemed completely recovered. Nyona and her stalker would surely be unstoppable, they agreed.

  Further, Conan had pledged to lead the Ganaks in their decisive battle. Y’Taba and many others seemed satisfied that the stranger from Cimmeria, who they deemed beloved of the gods, would turn the tide and ensure their victory. Confidence flowed like kuomo, and for the first time in many days, the fog of despair lifted from the villagers.

  But now Conan stirred restlessly, staring at the ceiling of Jukona’s hut. The warrior-leader had consumed an incredible volume of kuomo; he snored like a bellowing Corinthian buffalo.

  The Cimmerian knew the reason for his sleeplessness. He was anxious for morning to come; Y’Taba would summon the shell-spirits and rid him of the shaman’s curse that lingered in his mind like an ever-present thundercloud. Through one of the many holes in the hut’s roof, he could see the moon staring down at him. How long had it been since his bestial night of butchery aboard the Mistress? The moon looked nearly full again. He turned away from it onto his belly, burying his face in his crossed arms. The pile of leaves under him was far from comfortable, but he had slept upon beds much worse in his travels.

  Closing his eyes, he imagined the heady smell of Sajara's hair and skin, which had lingered delightfully long after his tryst with her in the pool. Eventually he slipped into a light doze, then a heavy slumber...

  He was racing through the underbrush, the foetid smell of his breath rising hotly in his nostrils. From the sward ahead rose other smells; leaves, rain, bugs, snakes, a medley of odours that he keenly and instinctively distinguished from that of his prey. He loped relentlessly onward, faster and faster, until he heard the animal ahead. Its fear rolled from it in waves, whetting his appetite. Saliva dripped from his mouth onto his chest as he closed in, charging madly after his victim. He paid no attention to the whipping of leaves against his face, the venomous serpents under his feet. They were nothing to him.

  He hungered for the hot blood that would gush from a slashed throat, a torn belly, a still-beating heart ripped from the splintered ribs of a heaving breast.

  Seizing a thrashing hind leg of the galloping beast, he pounced onto its back, crushing it to the ground, enjoying its squeals and struggles. His claws shredded its flesh, digging into its vitals and he snarled and roared, revelling in the kill.

  Its anguished face looked up at him, crying out in terror...

  Conan bolted up, choking back a scream. Sweat covered him like a soaked blanket, and his heart hammered in his chest.

  The face in his crimson nightmare had been Sajara’s.

  “Crom,” he groaned, brushing off leaves that stuck to his drenched body. He would not even attempt sleep after that grisly dream. The morning could not come soon enough for him. For the twentieth time since their arrival at Ganaku on Nyona’s stalker, he wished that the shell-spirits would do their work at night. But Y’Taba had insisted upon waiting for his sun god to awaken before attempting his cure.

  A fresh snore from Jukona blasted across the hut, the reek of sour kuomo assailing Conan’s nostrils. He stepped soundlessly outside for fresh air, inhaling deeply and trying not to look up at the moon. He rubbed his face tiredly, strolling toward the place of gathering. The bench would be as good a place as any to pass the night.

  To his surprise, Sajara was there. She held a flower in her hand, spinning its stem between her fingers and staring at petals whose cheerful hues seemed dimmed by the moon’s dull glow. After his dream, he was reluctant to sit by her, but she saw him and smiled, beckoning him to her side.

  He planted himself glumly upon the bench, su
mmoning a forced smile.

  “Conan, are you not happy that Y’Taba will cure you tomorrow?” she asked, looking into his eyes.

  “By Crom, of course I am,” he said gruffly.

  “And after we defeat the Kezati, you will leave... to return to Cimmeria.”

  “More likely to Vendhya, if those books we found—” He stopped, biting his tongue. He should have recognized the nature of her question, having heard it before. Had he not been so muddled from the kuomo and the disturbing dream, he would have noticed the signs and been better prepared.

  Sajara continued, staring at the flower in her hand. “You may stay as long as you wish. Back at Rahamji, when you told me that you must go back, I did not realize how much I would miss you.”

  Conan gave the matter some thought. Sajara was a treasure, of that there was no doubt. She was as comely a wench as any Conan had known, and a spirited fighter besides. With her as his mate, he could set himself up as a prince of sorts among these people. When they rid the place of the damnable Kezati, Ganaku would be an island paradise. Many a rogue would cheerfully sacrifice any of his limbs to live there.

  But not Conan. He was as different from most rogues as a lion was from jackals. And he was far from ready to consider settling down. He would have none of the domestic life, surrounded by squalling brats, bound to one place and one woman—even a woman as voluptuous as Sajara. Further, most of the excitement would vanish from this place without the Kezati to stir things up.

  “You do not have to fight for us again,” she said.

  “Only a knave would depart tomorrow, when your need is great.” Conan had vowed to see this through to the end, when the blood of the last giant vulture flowed down his blade. “I think I shall stay here, at least for a while,” he told her. When the curse was banished, a few days would make little difference. Preparing for his northward voyage would take time anyway, and he would peruse Jhaora’s books in hope of finding his exact whereabouts. He even had half a mind to go back for the rubies at Rahamji and take his chances that Kahli’s vile clerics had not bedevilled them. He had risked his neck for smaller rewards, by Crom.