The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  After what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, he felt one of the bricks loosen, its mortar crumbling as it succumbed to the combined force of Conan's mighty arms and legs. He continued pulling, concentrating on the brick. Finally it slid out of the wall with a grating sound, nearly pulling Conan's arm out of its socket as it did so. Now he had at least one free leg and the partial use of one arm.

  Swinging the block of stone like a club, he hammered it against the chain by his foot. More than once he struck his foot, sending waves of pain up his leg. Gritting his teeth, he continued, until the iron chain-link finally parted under the pounding. The stone block was badly cracked and chipped, but he had only to free his other arm and he could escape this accursed cell. Heaving, he strained against the last ring set into the brick wall. The mortarwork was too solid. He paused to chip at the brick with the remnant of the stone block that hung from the end of his free arm's shackle. Without warning, the iron ring he struggled with broke loose of the brick, sending him crashing to the floor.

  He grabbed the keys and unlocked the shackles, then bent to see if Salvorus was still breathing; the captain's chest rose and fell in shallow, even breaths. He tore off Hassem's cloth tunic and stuffed it beneath the captain's mail shut to stanch the flow of blood from the knife wound. The edges of the puncture were a sickly, purplish-black color, and a ghastly odor rose from the wound. If he left Salvorus here, the man could die from this poison before proclaiming Conan's innocence. Perhaps the healer, Madesus, could be sent to tend his wounds. He had told Conan that he was an expert in healing poison victims.

  Conan wrestled with his options, finally deciding that he would make better time unburdened by the huge captain's slumbering body. He must find Madesus quickly; if anyone could heal Salvorus, it would be the strange priest who had restored Conan's wrist. He disliked abandoning the captain, who had saved him from an unpleasant end on the blade of Hassem's knife. Now, if not for Salvorus, Conan would be burning in the hot fires of the lowest pits of hell. Silently he vowed to help Salvorus, though the man was in part responsible for Conan's recent woes.

  Taking the keys and arming himself with the captain's huge sword, he emerged from the cell, looking each way down the corridor. He had been out cold when dragged into the cell, so he had no clear idea of the way to take. He began walking in the direction that Salvorus and Hassem had come from. After a short while, he discovered that the mazelike corridors of the dungeon were laid out in a random series of forks and turns, like in a maze. Fortunately, there were dim lanterns at some of the junctures; after his brush with death in the city sewers, he had little desire for another journey in the dark.

  Still, he must be very careful to avoid getting lost in this labyrinth.

  Time was a luxury he did not have; he had to reach Madesus as quickly as possible. As he tried to think of a way out, he caught a glimpse of a small, wet spot on the corridor floor. He wiped at it with a finger, then held the finger closer to the lantern. Blood! Fresh, too, from the look of it. Hassem's face had been bleeding when he had arrived at the cell door with Salvorus. The wretched thief had unwittingly left Conan a trail to follow!

  Relaxing a little, readying his sword, Conan swiftly followed the crimson path, which he knew would eventually lead him out of the musty corridors to fresh air and freedom.

  Seven

  The View in the Pool

  Trembling, Madesus laid the jeweled bracelet down on a rough-hewn corner table in his cramped, crudely furnished room. Tarocles, the balding, scrawny high priest of the city's poorest temple to Mitra, had permitted him to use this tiny room. Normally, it was reserved for acolytes.

  Madesus shifted in the seat of an uncomfortable wooden chair and rubbed his tired eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep. Since he had touched the bracelet the day before yesterday, strange dreams had disturbed his repose. Yet when he had awakened, he had remembered nothing of the dreams. Last night he had decided to learn more of the bracelet's origin. Conan had claimed no knowledge of its history. Madesus had had no choice but to perform the rites of loretelling, and to pray to Mitra to reveal the nature of the strange bracelet, which had radiated such strong evil.

  From sunset yesterday until dawn this morning, Madesus had chanted, while in his brazier burned the acrid leaves of the Maljorna, the holy tree of knowledge. Sometimes he wondered sacrilegiously if Mitra actually had a sense of humor. Why else would the god have chosen the harsh-smelling Maljorna as his holy tree, which stank more than smoldering cow dung, instead of something with a more pleasant fragrance that would have served as well? Madesus's eyes still burned from exposure to the smoke, and he felt strangely light-headed. To make matters worse, his loretelling prayer had apparently failed. He lowered himself into the wretched cot that served as his bed, praying that his sleep might be less fitful than it had been the night before last.

  Closing weary eyes, he began breathing deeply and fell into a fitful doze.

  At the sound of his creaking door opening, he awoke. Feeling refreshed but still light-headed, Madesus rose to see who was at his chamber. His eyes widened in surprise at what he saw, and his throat suddenly felt very dry. Standing in the doorway was his old mentor, Kaletos.

  "Master! 'Tis good to see you, after all these years. Why, just recently I considered returning to Corinthia to see how you and the temple fared. Your health looks to be as good as ever. The years have been kind to you."

  "Madesus." The old man in the doorway wore voluminous, bright white robes and spoke in a deep voice, roughened by advanced age. Eyes of bright green blazed like emeralds, contrasting with his pale, wrinkled face and skin. He was bald but for a few thin tufts of shockingly white hair above each ear. Around his neck was an amulet similar to Madesus's, a seven-pointed silver star with a multifaceted amethyst mounted in the center. He leaned on a birch staff, not unlike Madesus's but bowed after decades of bearing the venerable priest's weight.

  "Master?" Madesus asked hesitantly.

  "Forgive me, Madesus, for entering unbidden. The cold moon of Derketo hath waxed and waned threescore times since our parting, and the curiosity of an old man hath grown since that time. Thy brow is furrowed with worry. What troubles thee, my young friend?"

  Still feeling fuzzy from his sudden awakening, and recovering from the surprise of seeing his old tutor, Madesus cleared his head with effort and spoke. "I have slept poorly these past days, Master. I fear that an ancient evil is stirring in this city. This objecth" he pointed to the jeweled silver bracelet on his table "his somehow linked to it. I have prayed for guidance, but holy Mitra did not find me worthy of it last night. Strange but fortuitous that you should appear in the city in my hour of need. Still, I would not impose upon you to intervene in a matter that has fallen to me. How have you fared these past years, Master? What news from the temple in Corinthia?"

  "The weight of many years rests heavily upon my shoulders, Madesus. All is well at the temple, but I wished to see what befell thee after our parting, before Mitra at last puts my weary bones to rest and claims my soul. You were my best acolyte, and the burden I laid upon thee at our parting was great. 'Tis not an easy path thou hast chosen; I followed it for many years, until holy Mitra, in his boundless wisdom, directed me to the temple of Corinthia, where I initiated thee into the ancient and secret Order of Xuoquelos. In time, thou wilt tutor another, as it hath been for centuries uncounted. Thou art the last of an Order that hath watched the world since the age of the Lemurian Empire.

  "Thou hast been drawn here, to this place, for a purpose yet unclear.

  Cast aside thy doubts about thy unworthiness and worry not about 'imposing' upon an old fool! Hand me the bracelet; let us lift the veil that conceals the face of evil from us. This simple floor will serve as a font from which the knowledge we seek will flow, Mitra willing.

  Prepare for the Rite of the Font."

  Madesus reached over to a clay pot on a corner table of his room and dipped water out with a wooden ladle. He poured it out onto the fl
oor of the small room, forming a thin, oval pool several feet in diameter.

  Replacing the dipper, he carefully picked up the bracelet and passed it to Kaletos. The old man took it gingerly, turning it over in his hand and closing his eyes, his brow furrowed with concentration. Moments later, a scintillating silver nimbus appeared around his hand, expanding to encompass the bracelet and his upper arm. As the nimbus flickered and grew, Kaletos's amulet began to glow brightly, like a seven-pointed star in the night sky. A cone of white light blazed from the amethyst to the shallow pool of water, which began to steam.

  "Behold, the view in the pool!" exclaimed Kaletos. "Observe the font with caution, for its visions can oft lead one astray."

  On the surface of the pool, through the steam, Madesus could see the image of an ancient stone building. The view in the pool was like a painting made by an artisan with a keen eye for color and depth; it was so realistic that he felt he was standing before the building itself.

  The scene changed, and he could now see inside the structure. He recognized the trappings of a primeval temple.

  Then the pool clouded before clearing once more to reveal the familiar figure of Conan. This new scene was even animated, portraying the barbarian stalking through the streets of the city, like a jungle beast in search of prey. Madesus could see Conan approaching the edifice present in the previous scene. The Cimmerian beat futilely on the building's huge doors in a vain effort to gain admittance. Madesus tried to pinpoint the building's location; there was something very familiar about its stone walls, which he could not quite recognize. He had the feeling that he had passed by it before, in the not-too-distant past.

  The view shifted again to the inside of the building. In the dimly lit interior stood a woman wearing a long black cloak, the hood cast back.

  Although only her head was exposed, Madesus could see that she was young and beautiful. Her straight, raven-black hair cascaded down over her shoulders and onto her back like an ebon waterfall, contrasting with the flawless white skin of her perfectly formed face. Her full lips looked as smooth and moist as rain-washed red roses.

  A tall, stately man of middling years stood before the woman. With a start, Madesus saw that the man was none other than Eldran, King of Brythunia. She led him toward a large stone block at one end of the building, which looked like some sort of crude altar. When she reached the altar she turned to Eldran and smiled invitingly, then opened her cloak, letting it slide down to the floor. She wore nothing beneath it.

  Reaching for him, she pressed the bared ivory globes of her full, firm breasts against his muscular chest and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him with wanton abandon.

  Eldran returned her passionate advances eagerly, stroking and embracing her with increasing intensity as the fires of his lust flamed hotter.

  Madesus's face reddened at the sight of the two lovers, writhing obscenely in the view revealed by Kaletos's amulet and the thin pool of water. Then he gasped in shock as the scene suddenly changed before his eyes, or rather as the woman changed. He first noticed that her eyes now glowed redly like smoldering embers. Her nails had grown, transforming into wickedly curved black talons. She opened her mouth wide, revealing row upon row of sharp, cruelly hooked black teeth, which she sank into the unsuspecting king's neck.

  Struggling to free himself, he thrashed and kicked, but to no avail. As Madesus watched in horror, Eldran's struggles weakened and the teeth remained fastened in his flesh, draining his lifeblood like pointed ebon leeches. She paused, leaning back from the prone form of the king, and let a few droplets of blood drip to the hard stone floor. Then she looked up suddenly, staring straight at Madesus, as if he had been looking in at her through a window. The surface of the water rippled, the view blurred, and the thin pool of water slowly evaporated in a hissing cloud of steam.

  Kaletos stood quietly in place, watching Madesus. The room was silent for several minutes as the healer struggled to interpret the gruesome and bizarre revelations of the pool. Finally he spoke, his voice filled with dread and loathing.

  "Mutare. The woman in the pool looked exactly like a Mutare priestess, from the drawings in the iron-bound Books of Skelos. I have seen it, but I cannot believe my eyes. The Mutare were a corrupt cult, descendants of the decadent Thurian serpent-people who were obliterated centuries ago! How is it possible?"

  "The Mutare hath long been dead, and the last Thurian died several millennia hence," said Kaletos solemnly. "Yet thine eyes have not deceived thee. Truly, thou hast seen a Mutare priestess in the font.

  Remember, great as their powers were, the Mutare were but upstart pupils of their Thurian masters. Many a sage hath sworn that the Thurians laid much of their lore down in tomes, lost when their empire fell into ruin. No matter how deep these vile tomes were buried, they were bound to surface in time. Holy Mitra hath brought thee here to face this ancient evil and drive it back to the hell from which it hath risen. Thy path hath been revealed, my young friend. To this fate hast Mitra consigned thee!"

  Madesus sat down wearily on his crude cot and assumed a resigned expression. "So this is the evil I have sensed here in the city a Mutare priestess. My only links to her are this bracelet, King Eldran, and Conan of Cimmeria." Sighing, he pondered his predicament for several moments before speaking again. "Master, although I have read much from the Books of Skelos, I remember little about the Mutare. The drawings were hauntingly familiar, but the passages describing this degenerate post-Thurian cult were obscure. What knowledge have you of the Mutare?"

  Kaletos leaned against the wall of Madesus's small room, rubbing his snowy-white beard thoughtfully. "I recall only bits and pieces, Madesus. The subject is taboo, spoken of in whispers by foolish old loremasters. Thou must not rely completely on the writings in the Books of Skelos. Many of the passages art subject to interpretation. As much as I can recall, I will relate to thee. The Mutare were terrible, hideous beings. Once human, they twisted their souls with frenzied rituals of blood and sacrifice. They hungered not for wealth, nor for the passions of the flesh. Their motives were those of hate and chaos, and they sought the power to bring pain and suffering to mortals. They despised humans, though they had once been human themselves, for humans have what the Mutare had lost forever: their souls.

  "Using forbidden knowledge of demon-haunted Thuria, they traded their souls for the power to perform feats of sorcery that were far beyond the capacity of other mages and priests of the time. Their power was exceeded only by their malice; they thrived on the woe and travail of hapless humans. During the century of their dominion, they slaughtered thousands of innocents every day with pestilence, famine, or outright butchery. They incited war among the peoples of their time, and revived grievances among men that would otherwise have remained forgotten. The most notorious of the Mutare was Skauraul, a cruel, self-proclaimed monarch of the southern land now known as Shem. His palace, a breeding ground for obscenity and horror, was surrounded by thousands of sharpened poles, upon which any who defied him were skewered like meat on a spit. He reveled in the groans and screams of the dying, sounding all hours of the day and night outside his palace, as the wretches he tortured so brutally would die slowly from their ghastly wounds. Other tales of similar atrocities abound from this era.

  "As with all evil, the Mutare proved to be their own worst enemy. Their numbers grew, but the numbers of available victims decreased, so the Mutare quarreled among themselves over the rights to human death and misery like a flock of desert vultures over a pile of carcasses. The lesser Mutare were eradicated quickly in violent confrontations, until of the original hundreds, naught but a dozen remained. Some preferred to avoid the risk of conflict and withdrew into places of hiding. The others were eventually overthrown, including Skauraul, who was himself impaled on a silver spike. The spike was forged and, by one of our Order, ensorcelled with spells to bring about his downfall. A great scouring took place; sages tell of priests who spent their lifetime searching out and destroying any books or magicked items
of the Mutare.

  Much that was recorded of them was lost in this crusade.

  "Still, bits and minutia of Mutare history can be gleaned, as you have done, from such works as the Books of Skelos. Legends say little of the physical details of Mutare. They may appear as normal humans, or as humanoids with eyes that glow as hot and red as the flames of the abyss, obsidian-black fangs and talons, and unnatural voices that ring hollowly.

  Some claimed that Skauraul never aged, that his was the power to withstand even the ravages of time. The Mutare were hard to kill. They bled not, nor did they feel pain from injuries that would mortally wound a normal man. More deadly to them were the symbols and prayers of good.

  "Madesus, if thou must face a Mutare, thou must first steel thyself in heart and mind, and rely on thy resolve and the powers of thy amulet.

  It will serve thee well in such a conflict, but let it not stray from thy grasp! This is all I can say now to thee. I grow weary, and must needs rest these creaking bones. At my age, I have not the strength to help thee face this challenge, but my prayers go with thee. Take not the time to resthgo forth now, for the Mutare's powers will grow with every passing moment. I will take my leave of thee, but perhaps we will meet again soon. Until such time, I bid thee farewell and confer upon thee the blessings of guidance and goodness, which holy Mitra hath given us. Fare thee well, my young friend!"

  With a feeble wave, Kaletos straightened up somewhat, turned slowly, and hobbled out of the room, closing the door behind him. Madesus watched him leave, then rubbed his eyes and splashed water over his face. After a short prayer, he rose from his knees, his mind made up.

  He would first visit King Eldran again, now with the certain knowledge that the king was dying from the foul sorcery of the Mutare. The amulet's power might lift the curse, or at least stop the wasting disease from progressing. Madesus took his cloak from the peg on the wall and donned it hastily. He tied a large pouch to his belt and left for the palace.