Conan and the Spider God

by Lyon Sprague de Camp

  Illumined by the flickering firelight, the woman appeared to be a decade older than Conan, comely of person, and richly clad in garments more suitable for a lordly Hyrkanian’s harem than for travel in the wilderness. The firelight was reflected in the links of a golden chain about her columnar neck; and from the chain hung an enormous gem, of purplish hue, in an ornate setting. While the light was too weak for Conan to pick out details, such an ornament, he knew, bespoke the wealth of princes. As the woman slowly approached the fire, Conan perceived her curiously blank stare, like that of a sleepwalker.

  “Ja—my lady!” Harpagus’s voice rose sharply. “You were bidden to remain within the tent.”

  “It’s cold,” murmured the woman. “Cold in the tent.” She stretched pale hands toward the flames, glancing unseeingly at Conan and away again into the night.

  Harpagus rose, grasped the woman’s shoulders, and turned her around. “Look!” he said. Before the woman’s face he waved a hand that bore a ring with a great fiery gemstone, muttering: “You shall reenter the tent. You shall speak to no one. You shall forget all that you have seen. You shall reenter the tent … .”

  After several repetitions, the woman bowed her head and silently retraced her steps, dropping the tent flap behind her. Conan glanced from Harpagus to the tent and back. He urgently wished for an explanation of the scene he had witnessed. Was the woman drugged, or was she under a spell? Were the Zamorians carrying her off? If so, whither? From the few words she had spoken, Conan thought the woman must be a high-born Turanian, for her Hyrkanian speech was accent-free.

  Conan was, however, sufficiently seasoned in plots and intrigues not to utter his suspicions. First, his assumptions might be wrong; the woman’s presence might be perfectly legitimate. Secondly, even if a plot were afoot, Harpagus would concoct a dozen plausible lies to explain his actions. Thirdly, while Conan had no fear of the small Zamorians, he did have scruples against picking a quarrel with men with whom he had just eaten and whose hospitality he had enjoyed.

  Conan decided to wait until the others had bedded down for the night and then have a look in the tent. Although the Zamorians had been friendly, his barbarian instincts told him that something was amiss. For one thing, there was no sign of the usual stock-in-trade that such a party of merchants would normally carry with them. Also, these people were too silent and secretive for ordinary merchants, who, in Conan’s experience, would chatter about prices and boast to one another of their sharp bargainings.

  Conan’s years in Zamora had given him an abiding mistrust of the folk of that nation. They were an ancient, long-settled civilized folk and, from what he had seen of them, notably given to evil. The King, Mithridates VIII, was said to be a drunkard manipulated by the various priesthoods, who struggled and competed with one another for control of the King.

  As the evening progressed, one Zamorian produced a stringed instrument and twanged a few chords. Three others joined him in a wailing song, while Harpagus sat in silent dignity. Then a Zamorian asked:

  “Can you give us a song, stranger?”

  Conan shook his head with a shamefaced grin. “I am no musician. I can shoe a horse, scale a cliff, or split a skull; but I’ve no skill at singing.”

  The others persisted in urging him until at last Conan took the instrument and plucked the strings. “Forsooth,” he said, “this thing is not unlike the harps of my native land.” In a deep bass, he launched into a song:

  “We’re born with sword and axe in hand,

  For men of the North are we … .”

  When Conan finished, Harpagus asked: “In what language did you sing? I know it not.”

  “The tongue of the Æsir,” said Conan.

  “Who are they?”

  “A nation of northern barbarians, far from here.”

  “Are you one of that tribe?”

  “Nay, but I have dwelt amongst them.” Conan handed the instrument back and yawned elaborately to cut off further questions. “It’s time I were abed.”

  As if inspired by Conan’s example, the Zamorians, yawning in their turn, composed themselves for sleep—all but the one told off for sentry duty. Conan wrapped himself in his blanket, lay down with his head pillowed on his saddle, and closed his eyes.

  When the gibbous moon had risen well above the eastern horizon and the four Zamorians were snoring lustily, Conan cautiously raised his head. The sentry paced slowly around the encampment with spear on shoulder. Conan noted that, on the northern side of the rise, for a considerable time during every round of the camp, the sentry passed out of sight.

  The next time the sentry disappeared, Conan slid to his feet and, stalking in a crouch, approached the tent, moving as silently as a shadow. The fire had burned down to a bed of coals.

  “You find it difficult to sleep?” purred a Zamorian voice behind him. Conan whirled, to find Harpagus standing in the light of the rising moon. Even Conan’s keen barbarian senses had not heard the man’s approach.

  “Yes—I—it is a mere call of nature,” growled Conan.

  Harpagus clucked sympathetically. “Sleeplessness can be a grave affliction. I will see to it that you sleep soundly the rest of the night.”

  “No potions!” exclaimed Conan sharply. He had a vision of being drugged or poisoned.

  “Fear not, good sir; I had no such thing in mind,” said Harpagus gently. “Do but look closely at me.”

  Conan’s eyes met those of the Zamorian. Something in the man’s gaze riveted the Cimmerian’s attention and held it captive. Harpagus’s eyes seemed to grow strangely large and luminous. Conan felt as if he were suspended in a black, starless space, with nothing visible saved those huge, glowing eyes.

  Harpagus slowly passed the prismatic gem in his ring back and forth in front of Conan’s face. In a hypnotic monotone the Zamorian murmured: “You shall go back to sleep. You shall sleep soundly for many hours. When you awaken, you shall have forgotten all about the Zamorian merchants you encamped with. You shall go back to sleep … .”

  Conan awoke with a start to find the sun high in the heavens. He rolled to his feet, glaring wildly, and shook the air with his curses. Not only were the Zamorians and their animals gone, but his horse had vanished also. His saddle and saddle bags still lay on the ground where he had made his rude bed, but the little leather bag of gold pieces was missing from his wallet.

  The worst of it was that he could not remember whom he had companied with the previous night. He recalled the journey from Aghrapur and the fight with the swamp cat. The remains of the campfire and the traces of riding animals proved that he had shared the high ground with several other persons, but he had no memory of who they were or what they had looked like. He had a fleeting recollection of singing a song, accompanied by a borrowed stringed instrument; but the people whom he had serenaded were less than insubstantial shadows in his memory. There had been such folk, of that he was certain; but he recalled no detail of their clothing or countenances.

  He remembered that he was on his way to Sultanapur. So, after venting his rage on the indifferent wilderness, he shouldered his burdens and grimly set out northward, tramping through the crowding reeds with saddle bags slung over one massive shoulder and his saddle balanced on the other. If he could no longer navigate by sun and stars, being afoot, he could at least follow the trail of his erstwhile companions by the track they had left through the trampled reeds.

  chapter iii

  THE BLIND SEER

  Four days after Conan’s encounter with the Zamorians, a heavy knock sounded on the door of the house of Kushad the Seer, in the port city of Sultanapur. When Kushad’s daughter swung open the portal, she started back in alarm.

  Before the door stood a haggard giant of a man, unshaven and mud-caked, carrying a saddle, a pair of saddle bags, a bow in its case, and a blanket roll. Although he presented a horrific aspect, the man grinned broadly through sweat and dirt.

  “Hail, Tahmina!” he croaked. “You’ve grown since I saw you last; in a few
years you’ll be a woman, ripe for the plucking. Don’t you know me?”

  “Can it be—you must be Captain Conan, the Cimmerian!” she stammered. “Come in! My father will rejoice to see you.”

  “He may be less joyful when he hears my story,” grunted Conan, setting down his burdens. “How fares the old fellow?”

  “He is well, though his sight is nearly gone. He has no client at the moment, so come with me.”

  Conan followed the girl back to a chamber in which a small, white-bearded man sat cross-legged on a cushion. As Conan entered, the man stared from eyes clouded by cataract.

  “Are you not Conan?” said the old man. “I discern your form but not your features. No other man has so shaken my house with the weight of his tread.”

  “I am indeed Conan, friend Kushad,” said the Cimmerian. “You told me once that if I were ever on the dodge, I could seek asylum here.”

  Kushad chuckled. “So I did; so I did. But it was only a fair return for saving me from that gang of young ruffians. I recall how you scoffed at the notion that you, now a full captain in His Majesty’s forces and a pillar of the kingdom, should ever again be forced to flee and hide. But you seem to draw trouble as offal attracts flies. Sit down and tell me what mischief you have been up to now. You do not require me to employ my astral vision for the finding of a lost coin, I trust?”

  “Nay; but to find a whole sackful of them and a fine horse as well,” growled Conan. While Tahmina went to fetch a jug of wine, Conan related his misadventure with Narkia, his flight from Aghrapur, and his encounter with the Zamorians.

  “The strange thing was,” he continued, “that for two whole days I could not remember with whom I had spent the night on that knoll. The memory was wiped clean from my mind, as by some devilish enchantment. Then yesterday, the scenes began to return, a little at a time, until I could picture the whole encounter. What, think you, befell me?”

  “Hypnotism,” said Kushad. “Your Zamorian must be skilled in the art—a priest or sorcerer, mayhap. Zamora crawls with them as does an inn with bedbugs.”

  “I know,” grunted Conan.

  “You displayed great resistance to the sorcerer’s wiles, or you would not remember the Zamorians even now. You Westerners lack the fatalism that ofttimes palsies the will of us of the East. Yet I can teach you to guard yourself against such manipulation. Tell me more of these so-called Zamorian merchants.”

  Conan described the group, adding: “Besides, there was a woman in the tent, who came forth to warm her hands at the fire but was ordered back by the leader, Harpagus. She acted like one demented or under an enchantment.”

  Kushad’s eyebrows arched. “A woman! What manner of female was she?”

  “The light was poor; but I could see that she was tall and dark. Somewhat above thirty years of age and well-favored; wearing fluffy silken things, unsuited to—”

  “By Erlik!” cried Kushad. “Know you not who the lady was?”

  “Nay; who?”

  “I do forget! You have been out of touch with mankind for a fortnight. Had you not heard that Jamilah, the favorite wife of King Yildiz, has been abducted?”

  “No, by Crom, I hadn’t! Now that I think on it, the night I fled, a company of Yildiz’s horsemen galloped past without pausing to question me. I thought at first that such gentry would be searching for me on account of Orkhan’s death; then I idly wondered if they were not on the trail of bigger game.”

  “It is your misfortune that you knew not of this kidnapping. Had you rescued the lady, your recent indiscretion would have been forgiven. His Majesty’s men have turned the kingdom upside down in search of her.”

  “When I served at the palace,” mused Conan, “I heard rumors of this favorite, but I never clapped eyes upon her. It was said that Yildiz was a simple, easy-going fellow who relied on this particular wife to make all his hard decisions. She was more king than he. I daresay the camel was her mount. But even had I rescued the lady from the Zamorians, I have no wish to continue in Yildiz’s service.”

  “Why so?”

  Conan grinned. “When I was galloping about the Hyrkanian steppe, being roasted and frozen and chased by wolves and dodging the arrows of nomads, my heart’s desire was duty with the palace guard. I thought I should have naught to do but swagger about in well-polished armor and ogle the ladies.”

  “But when I became Captain of the Guard, I found it a terrible bore. Save for a little drill each morning, there was naught to do but stand like a statue, saluting the King and his officials, and looking for spots on the uniforms of my men. As much as anything, ‘twas to escape the tedium of my post that I commenced my intrigue with that bitch Narkia.

  “Besides, the unfortunate Orkhan, it appears, was a son of Tughril, High Priest of Erlik. If I know priests, he’d sooner or later find means of revenge, with or without the King’s approval—poisoned needles in my bedding, or a dagger between the shoulder blades some moonless night. Anyway, two years with one master is long enough for me; especially since, as a foreigner, I could never rise to general in Turan.”

  “The rosiest apple oft harbors the biggest worm,” said Kushad. “What would you now?”

  Conan shrugged and took a gulp of Kushad’s wine. “I had meant to flee to Zamora, where I know people from my old days as a thief. But the cursed Zamorians stole my horse—”

  “You mean King Yildiz’s horse, do you not?”

  Conan shrugged. “Oh, he had horses to spare. The thieving devils got not only the beast but also the little gold I had hoarded. You it was who persuaded me to save a part of each month’s pay; but see what good that’s done me! I might as well have spent it on women and wine; I should then at least have pleasant memories.” “Count yourself lucky they did not cut your throat whilst you slept.” Turning, Kushad called: “Tahmina!” When the girl appeared, he said: “Pull up the board and give me what lies beneath it.”

  Tahmina thrust a finger into a knothole in one of the floor boards and raised it. Crouching, she put an arm into the orifice and brought out a small but heavy sack. This she gave to Kushad., who handed it to Conan.

  “Take what you think you’ll need for a new horse, with enough besides to get you to Zamora,” said the seer.

  Conan untied the sack, inserted a hand, and brought out a fistful of coins. “Why do you this for me?” he asked gruffly.

  “Because you were a friend when I needed a friend; and I, too, have my code of honor. Go on, take what you need instead of gaping at me like a stranded fish.”

  “How knew you I was gaping?”

  “I see with the eyes of the mind, now that those of the body have failed me.”

  “I have met cursed few men in my wanderings who would do such a thing, or whom I could truly call ‘friend,’” said Conan. “All the rest seize whatever they have power to take and keep whatever they can. I will pay you back when I am able.”

  “If you can repay me, good; if not, do not fret. I have enough to see me through this life. Daughter, draw the curtains and fetch my tripod. I must try to perceive with the eye of the spirit whither these Zamorians have gone. Conan, my preparations will take some time. You must be hungry.”

  “Hungry!” roared Conan. “I could eat a horse, hair, hide, bones, and all. I haven’t eaten for two days, because the loss of my beast so delayed me that I ran out of provender.”

  “Tahmina shall prepare you a meal, and then you may wish to patronize the bathhouse down the street. Take my old cloak and keep your face within the hood. The King’s agents may be on the watch for you.”

  An hour and a half later, Conan returned to Kushad’s house. Tahmina whispered: “Hush, Captain Conan; my father is in his trance. He said you may join him if you will do so quietly.”

  “Then give these boots a pull, like a good girl, will you?” said Conan, thrusting out a leg.

  Carrying his boots, Conan stole into the sanctum. Kushad sat cross-legged as before, but now in front of him stood a small brass tripod supporting a tiny
bowl, in which some nameless substance smoldered. A thin plume of greenish smoke spiraled up from the vessel, wavering and swaying like a ghostly serpent seeking an exit from the darkened chamber.

  Conan seated himself on the floor to watch. Kushad stared blankly before him. At length the seer murmured:

  “Conan, you are near. Answer not; I feel your presence. I see a small caravan crossing a sandy steppe. There are—I must position myself closer—there are four asses, three horses, and a camel. One horse, a big black stallion, serves as a pack animal. That must be your mount. The camel has a tented saddle, so I cannot see who rides within; but I suspect that it be the lady Jamilah.”

  “Where are they?” whispered Conan.

  “On a flat, boundless plain, stretching to the horizon.”

  “The vegetation?”

  “It is all short grass, with a few thorny shrubs. They move toward the setting sun. That is all I can tell you.” Slowly the aged seer shook off his trance.

  Conan mused: “They must be crossing the steppe country between the western bourn of Turan and the Kezankian Mountains, which border Zamora. The kings of Turan talk much of extending their sway over this masterless land, to crush the nomads and outlaws who dwell there. But they have done naught. The kidnappers have moved fast; they’re more than halfway to Zamora. I doubt I could catch them with the fleetest horse ere they were well within that realm. But catch them I will, to get my horse and money back—or, failing that, to wreak revenge.”

  “If chance enable you to rescue the lady Jamilah, by all means do so. The kingdom has need of her.”

  “If I can return her without losing my head in the process. But why should Zamorians abduct one of Yildiz’s women? For ransom? For royal spite? If aught would stir this do-nothing King to action, that’s it. And Turan’s might is far greater than Zamora’s.”