The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  "And who might that be?"

  "The guard-the one who left. He must have offended the god."

  "Aye, likely he offended more than one god," Conan said. "And escaped, to boot."

  The guard looked grave. "Nay, friend. There is no escape from the Shes. If you bear the curse, they will follow ye to the ends of the Earth. They never quit until they accomplish their mission." He shuddered. "I would not be in that man's boots for all the gold in the city."

  Conan turned away and walked back to the two women. "We shall have to find horses and supplies," he said. "It seems that Skeer has escaped us once again."

  Elashi made as if to speak, then apparently thought better of it. Good. Conan's mood would not have suffered any snideness readily.

  Chapter Twelve

  Conan had four pieces of silver left from his sale of the dire-wolf's skin, but in this city, he could at most buy a single horse for that, and not one apt to carry a man very far before collapsing of old age or infirmity. He needed two horses, at the very least, and three would be better. In addition, he needed supplies, food for two, and assorted gear for travel-blankets, cooking utensils, and the like. They had not the time to earn these things, for every hour that passed gave Skeer that much more of a lead.

  So it would be theft that gave them what they needed, Conan reasoned. There were many men who had much more than necessary for comfort, and the Cimmerian had no qualms about taking from the rich. As a boy, he had gone with other men on raids from Cimmeria; booty from these raids was considered just compensation. In this case it would not be war, but certainly it was necessary.

  Men in cities tended to keep their gold and silver either well-hidden or well-protected, or both, and so the theft of money might entail no small risk. Thievery being a skill he had only the rudiments of, Conan felt no great confidence in his ability without more practice. If he had to go directly to the items he needed, however, it meant also no small amount of time used to locate mounts and supplies, and then to liberate them. Time was the key factor here: with each passing moment Skeer distanced himself farther. So, the trick lay in minimizing the risk but gaining hard currency as soon as possible.

  It came at this point that the Cimmerian noted something rather strange: a night workman stretching canvas for an awning nearby. Not that there was anything strange about the man or his actions per se, but rather in the manner-there was something passing familiar in his motions.

  As Conan watched the man, it came to him. Early in the day, he had passed an old man smoking from a water pipe. Something about the set of this man's moves brought that old man to mind. They looked nothing alike, the two, and yet, bodies did not lie as did clothing. He was reminded of Skeer, posing as a guard just an hour past.

  Conan, Elashi, and Tuanne walked past the man, and the worker gave no obvious indication that he watched them. And yet, now that the thought lodged in his mind, the young Cimmerian felt an interest from the man, almost as a pressure upon his back. What could it mean?

  Conan grinned.

  "Something is amusing?" Elashi asked.

  "Aye. Perhaps."

  The Disguise Master waited until the trio was out of sight, then he abandoned the awning and hurried to circle the block of housing and stables, to await further sight of the barbarian and two women. As he ran, he shed his outer layer of clothing, to reveal a long robe that had been carefully rolled up around his waist. With motions made economical through practice, he shook the robe loose, raised the cowl that had been hidden under his jacket, and lo! he was no longer a worker, but a priest.

  He slid to a stop well ahead of the trio he followed. From beneath the robe, he pulled a prayer mat, and quickly unrolled it and laid it upon the door stoop of a small temple dedicated to the worship of Vela, a minor harvest deity. He knelt upon the mat, pressed his hands together in prayer, and lifted his eyes to stare toward the night sky.

  He heard the voices, then the footsteps, as his quarry approached. Ah, yes, he could see them peripherally-but wait-there were only two, the women. Where was the giant outlander-?

  Night-cooled metal touched the Disguise Master's throat at that moment, and he instantly knew to where exactly the barbarian had gotten.

  "Why do you spy on us?" Conan asked.

  "M-m-my son; you are mistaken-"

  Conan tossed the clothes he had seen the man strip away moments earlier in front of the "priest."

  The man swallowed. "W-what do you want of me?"

  "Answer my question."

  "I am paid by the High Priest of the Nameless One. I followed the one who left the city pursued by the curse of the spiders."

  "Then why watch us? He is no friend of ours."

  "You came together; you pursued him; there is a link. The High Priest will have no mystery in his city."

  "Ah. And were you well paid for this labor?"

  When the man spoke, pride tinged his voice. "Yes. I am the best in this city at what I do. My disguises are second to none, and I am never seen."

  "Until now. I hope you have some of this pay upon your person. "

  "Why?"

  "As a token of your affection. And to maintain the integrity of your neck." Conan pressed the sword a bit deeper into the spy's throat.

  "In my purse," the man said. His voice now seemed little more than a whisper.

  Elashi and Tuanne had come to stand in front of Conan and his captured footpad-spy. Conan said, "Fetch his purse."

  Elashi bent and pulled open the leather pouch on the man's belt.

  "Mitra! He carries gold! A dozen coins, at least!"

  To the spy Conan said, "Well paid, indeed. And what measure of affection would you have us take as compensation for being the first to penetrate your skills?"

  "A-a-all of it."

  The big Cimmerian withdrew his sword's pressure against the man's flesh, grinning as he did so. "Nay, we would not leave a man without a copper. What price would it take to buy three horses and supplies for a month's travel?"

  "Two gold solons."

  "Take three," Conan ordered Elashi.

  "Only three? But surely a man who carries this much on his person must have much more buried somewhere-"

  "Nay, three is all we need."

  "You are generous," the spy said. "I have no argument with you. I will be on my way-"

  "Hold," Conan said, lifting the sword to point at the spy's belly. "I would rather you did not run to your High Priest until we are well away from this city."

  "I would not think of it-"

  "And to that end, I think we should bind you."

  "It is not necessary. I shall give you my oath-"

  "My experience is that rope binds better than oaths," Conan said. "Or, in this case, strips from the clothing you abandoned should do."

  "Truly you need not do this," the spy began.

  Elashi leaned over and said, "Better bound than to have one's throat slit, eh? My friend over there loves to watch blood flow. Sometimes he drinks it."

  The spy shuddered, cast a fearful glance at Conan, and quickly extended his hands, wrists crossed, to be bound.

  Moments later, the trio headed for the trader's store where Conan had sold the dire-wolf's pelt only little more than a day past.

  "I am certain he would not mind doing business with us, even at this late hour, if we obtain two gold coins worth of good but pay him three."

  "Then we leave this night?" Elashi said.

  "The road is visible, and if Skeer travels in the dark, so can we," Conan replied. "At least far enough away so that casual pursuit will not happen upon us."

  "Travel at night is not so bad," Tuanne said. "One can get used to it."

  They continued to the merchant's place.

  Neg stood contemplating his image in the looking glass when one of the Men With No Eyes glided silently into view behind him. The necromancer turned. "Yes?"

  They did not speak, these blind priests, but they had a rich vocabulary of gestures and signs. The priest held up six
fingers, pointed to himself, then drew a finger across his throat sharply. The message could be no plainer.

  "Dead? All six?"

  The priest nodded.

  "Set curse them! How?"

  The Man With No Eyes shrugged.

  Neg considered the information. That the man knew was no mystery. They had some kind of link among them. But-what was he to do? Obviously, they had found Tuanne, and had been slain for their trouble. They must be close to her still. He could send more priests, or . . .

  Neg spun away and stalked toward his Spell Chamber. Unless the bodies of the killed priests had been burned or hacked to bits, they could still be useful. He would recall their souls from the Gray Lands and reanimate their bodies. Whoever had dealt them the death-cards would find dealing with zombies much more difficult ....

  Conan, Elashi, and Tuanne, now mounted on solid horses and bearing food, blankets, and assorted utensils strapped to their mounts, approached the South Gate of Opkothard. The guard there was the same who had been working earlier, when Skeer made his escape. The man recognized Conan, and said not a word, merely ordered that the gate be opened.

  With the night half done, the Cimmerian youth, the desert woman, and the beautiful zombie departed the city of spiders.

  The Opkothardian morgue had been dug deep into the earth, so that the heat of the sun would not accelerate the decay of its occupants. It was both cool and dark, even at noon, and as the hour approached midnight, the only light came from flickering fat lamps set in sconces here and there on the walls. The air was mostly still, but shadows danced on the dark walls as the fat sputtered and sent smoky tendrils toward the low ceiling.

  The attendant sat propped on a high-backed stool, leaning back against the wall nearest the door, contemplating his next meal. He had cheese and wine and even some fresh fruit, and he debated with himself as to which he should devour first, and when. He had been busy earlier. There were eight new bodies, all dead of violence, to be palleted and tagged for burial. Six of them blind men, now there was an unusual happenstance. In his twelve years running the morgue, he had seen corpses aplenty, but never six so alike, and blind to boot. Then there was the priest from up the mountains, the Ulblats or Oblates or some such. Finally, there was the nightwatchman, with his caved-in skull and slit throat. Somebody out there with a lust for blood, right enough.

  The cheese, he decided, washed down with the wine. He would save the fruit for later.

  As he unwrapped the cheese, something disturbed the flies.

  Normally, there were not many flies in the morgue. The attendant did not much care for them buzzing over his charges. A few managed to slip in now and then, and eventually, when he was bored enough, he would hunt them down and swat them. Mostly; they were no bother. Now and again, a gas bubble would shake a corpse, and rattle the flies enough so they would buzz around a moment before alighting again. Likely that was the cause of the buzzing he now heard.

  Odd, though, he thought, as he sliced a chunk of the cheese with his knife and popped it into his mouth. A trick of the flickering light made it look like one of the cadavers in the back corner had moved.

  He chuckled. That had happened a time or two. Somebody they thought dead came out of a deep trancelike sleep. None of these bodies were going to do that, though. None of them had any illness claim them; 'twas cold steel and hard brick that done 'em in, and none were ever deader.

  The flies buzzed again. Very loudly this time.

  The attendant sat up, clutching his cheese knife. Could maybe a rat have gotten in? Set-damned rats! He hated them. He slid from the stool. Best go see.

  He was bent over, searching the floor for any sign of rodents when one of the blind men sat up.

  The attendant jumped high enough to smack his head on the ceiling. Gas, it had to be-One by one, the other blind dead men began to stir.

  When one of them slipped from the pallet and stood, turning his head from side to side, the attendant ran, dropping his cheese and knife, screaming. This was black evil and nothing else!

  When the attendant had done, the Men With No Eyes filed silently out of the morgue, saying nothing, united once again in their purpose. They sought one like them, and this time, they would have her or live forever as zombies.

  Skeer rode at a gallop until the horse, exhausted, could do no more than walk. The vision of the spiders had caused in him more panic than he could remember ever-feeling, but now that he was far away from the city, he felt better. A little better, but if knowledge was power, then Skeer's weakness rivaled that of a newborn babe. Whatever had happened back in Opkothard lay beyond his ability to understand at the moment. His temptation was to rein in his stolen mount, find some small creature for bloodletting, and try to contact Neg. Years of self-preservation and caution held that thought in check, however. There seemed to be some treachery afoot, and Neg might well be involved in it. Skeer had not managed to survive this long by trusting anyone.

  Once he arrived at his destination, Neg's stronghold near the fabled Triple Juncture of Corinthia, Zamora, and Koth, he could survey the lay of his situation. He had friends-well, at least those who would supply information for a heavy stipend-who could apprise him of Neg's demeanor. From that position he could proceed accordingly.

  Likely, some mistake lay at the root of all that insanity back in the walled city. It would be properly rectified when he arrived at Neg's castle. But just in case things were not as he wished, he would move as the sharp-spined anteater did when making love in the old joke: slowly and with great care.

  A chill wind touched him, and he pulled the stolen cape closer about his shoulders.

  "We ride for a hour or two, then make camp," Conan said.

  Elashi said, "I thought we could travel at night, that the road was clear and wide."

  "Skeer must sleep eventually. So must we. You and I, at least."

  But it was only three-quarters of that time later that Conan pulled his mount to a halt. He stared off into the darkness, then turned to Elashi.

  "Those spiders prefer warmth, you said?"

  "They are common in the desert, yes. Such cold air as this would certainly disable or destroy them."

  "I think not. Look."

  Elashi seemed to strain her eyes against the darkness. "I see nothing, save a small mound."

  Conan turned to Tuanne.

  "I see them," she said quietly.

  "Them? Where?" Elashi raised herself higher upon her saddle, using her knees against the horse's back. Conan noted the play of strong muscle in her legs as her split skirt shifted to reveal her thighs.

  "The mound," the Cimmerian said. "Watch it carefully."

  A moment passed. Then, "It moves!"

  "Aye. It is composed of the spiders. Perhaps those on the outside might expire in the night air, but I think maybe those within might well survive."

  "Spiders do not behave so!"

  "Normal spiders do not," Tuanne said. "These are enspelled. They have a purpose."

  Elashi shuddered, and Conan felt a chill crawl along his own spine. He would not like to be the object of those enchanted creatures.

  "We shall move back down the road for our camp."

  "A good ways, I hope?" Elashi said.

  "Aye."

  Chapter Thirteen

  The clothing used to tie him had been childishly easy to escape from, but not so the emotions that dogged him. Even the night could not hide the Disguise Master's humiliation; he felt as if it glowed from him, beckoning to any passerby: see, I am shamed by a barbarian! The agony of it chewed at him, like some unseen rodent, sharp teeth drawing constant professional blood. In twenty winters, he had never been seen for what he was while he plied his trade. True, those with natural suspicion had looked upon him askance, but then, they looked upon everyone that way. No one had ever entrapped him as had the muscle-bound outlander, no one had ever seen him for what he was. It had always been a point of high pride with him. But now, he could no longer carry that unblemished affirma
tion. And worse, after the ultimate insult, that barbaric lout had robbed him!

  The Disguise Master stalked the night streets, enraged. The money was nothing. He had amassed a fortune over the years, had more than he could ever spend. Gold meant nothing. Craft was the thing, craft and honor. And now, his honor stood in ruins. A single spot of black amidst all the white had turned it gray. True, one man out of thousands could hardly be considered monumental failure, but gray was still gray, no matter how light the hue.

  What was he to do?

  The solution seemed obvious. As long as the barbarian-Conan, he called himself-walked the land of the living, the Disguise Master's honor could not be cleansed. Alive, he was a blot. Dead, the statement could be made: No living man can claim to have bested the Disguise Master.

  Yes. That offered the only respite.

  He himself had killed now and again, but he was no assassin. But he had more money than he could possibly spend, and there were those more adept at striking a man down than he, those who would do so gladly for sufficient payment.

  The priest was shut of the whole matter now that the participants had departed his city. But honor must be served. He would rectify the matter, even if he had to travel to the end of the Earth to do it. He would watch the barbarian squirm before he had him killed. The Disguise Master smiled. There lay a pleasant thought. Conan of Barbaria dead, and the Disguise Master's honor reclaimed.

  He would gather men and supplies and leave as soon as possible.

  Elashi screamed.

  Conan came up from sleep, sword in hand, looking for the threat. It proved to be easy enough to dispatch when he found it.

  One of the black spiders scuttled from Elashi's blanket. Before it moved far, Conan trod upon it. It made a crackling, pulpy sound as he crushed it.

  When Conan turned back toward Elashi, he found his two female companions hugging each other tightly.

  "It was only a single spider," he said. "Likely lost from the main group."

  "I hate them!" Elashi said. Then, after a moment, she said, "Tuanne, you are so cold!"

  The pale-skinned woman nodded. "I have been cold for as long as I remember, it seems. It is an ache one learns to stand; it never becomes comfortable."