The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  Angered that his friend had been struck, but wary that a brawl was brewing, Malgoresh yelled desperately at the two men. "Stop! Stop, I say! If fight ye must, then fight outside!"

  Unfortunately, the Turanian's words fell on deaf and drunk ears. Conan balled his hands into tight fists and drove them into his stunned opponent's ribs. The unmistakable sound of breaking bones was followed by earsplitting curses. Spitting out a few fragments of bloody teeth, the man yelled for help through his broken jaw. "Kulg! Wenak!" he wailed, sinking to the floor and retching noisily, his hands drawn up over his smashed rib cage.

  At a table nearby, two heads turned. As the commotion spread through the crowd, conversations died down and a strange quiet settled in.

  Kulg, a hulking brute of a man, looked up from his ale cup. He bore a strong resemblance to the injured Vansa, writhing on the floor before Conan, but was much larger and uglier than his brother. He was so hairy that many jests were madehbehind his back, of coursehabout his probable ancestry. His shaggy black beard crept up his face and nearly covered his cheeks. Bushy eyebrows stuck out from below the thick ridges of his sloping forehead, and coarse hair sprouted from the neck of his ragged, ill-fitting tunic. Even compared to his brother, Kulg was not very bright. He was, however, quickly enraged by the sight of his kin on the floor, spewing blood and twitching in agony.

  Beside him, Wenak slid a small, well-honed knife out of its sheath and palmed it. Wenak was nothing like his older brothers; he was small, mean, and cowardly. Keeping his eyes on Conan, he readied his throwing knife and waited for the Cimmerian to turn his back.

  Kulg's tactics were much more direct. Growling in bestial fury, he raised his immense bulk from the groaning bench that had borne his weight. Holding his hairy, long-nailed fingers out, he rushed straight at Conan.

  As a veteran of many tavern fights, the barbarian reacted instinctively, sidestepping the shaggy giant and tripping him as he lumbered past. Kulg collided with the high table and proved to be more than a match for the heavy wood. The table flipped over, toppling Malgoresh and sending ale and tankards flying. The flailing Turanian groaned in dismay as he landed on the floor, pinned beneath the table.

  Madesus, upset by the turn of events but powerless to stop them, moved around to examine the dent in Kailash's head.

  Turning, Conan grabbed one of Kulg's treelike arms and twisted it behind the big man's back, in the same motion, he kicked the back of Kulg's knee and drove him to the taproom floor. Both men landed on the table, bringing another groan from Malgoresh, who bore the brunt of the impact. Wenak, seeing a chance to bury his shiv in Conan's unprotected back, drew his hand back in a smooth, well-practiced motion.

  Madesus caught the glint of steel as Wenak made ready to throw the knife. "Conan! Behind you!" he gasped, jumping toward Wenak desperately, hoping to spoil his aim.

  Wenak hesitated for a moment, nearly deciding to cast his knife at this onrushing green-cloaked stranger. Instead, he hastily threw it at Conan, then turned nimbly to make an escape.

  The Cimmerian heard Madesus's warning cry, but had no way to roll out of the knife's path. Wenak's throw was high; the weapon sailed through the air several feet above Conan and sank into one of Malgoresh's empty ale barrels. With renewed fury, Conan grabbed the back of Kulg's head and pounded the man's hairy face repeatedly into the bottom of the wooden table.

  A helpful patron stuck his foot out as the fleeing Wenak ran by, sending him flying into a table. Wenak rolled off and crawled underneath. The table's annoyed occupants chose to blame the loss of their ale on the patrons of a nearby table. Within moments, the fighting spread through the taproom like a brushfire through a dry prairie.

  Sixteen

  Departure

  Lamici reached Innasfaln about an hour after Conan, Madesus, and Kailash had arrived. The eunuch cautiously approached the village, leading his horse to the tavern at the center. Many years had passed since he had traveled this far from the city, and never had he traveled so far alone. His bones ached and he was miserably cold, but not once did his determination wane. Now more than ever, he was bent to the singular purpose of vengeance.

  The eunuch's cadaverous appearance would have shocked those at the palace who knew him. His gaunt, haggard face had the look of a man twenty years older. His eyes, normally cool and placid, were fervent and bloodshot. The skin beneath them was dark and sagging, as if Lamici had not slept for several days. Nevertheless, the same obsession that had driven him to this state gave him the energy to go on. He had ceased to think of his own future, or of any future beyond the death of those who had shattered his lifelong dreams.

  They were here. He could see their horses tied to a rail out side the tavern. A terrific racket issued from the building's crude doorway.

  Alarmed, Lamici circled to the back of the structure, lashing his horse to a nearby tree. He listened carefully, trying to pick out the voices of his quarry. All he could hear were the mixed sounds of wood breaking and men shouting. He pulled his hood down over his face as far as it would go, warily approaching the tavern's doorway.

  Lamici entered, and his fears of being noticed proved unfounded. The taproom was a frenzied melee of punching, kicking, and shouting bodies.

  He veered around a pair of drunken clods who were cheerfully pulping each other, and stopped in a less chaotic corner. From this vantage point, he scanned the large room, hoping for a glimpse of his prey.

  At the opposite side of the room, less than thirty feet away, he saw Conan. The barbarian was struggling with some hairy, apelike brute who was even taller than the Cimmerian. He could not see Madesus or Kailash. Trusting to his disguise, he inched along the wall, closer to the barbarian. A flying iron goblet clanged off the wall before him, and he was forced to step over a few bodies that had been rendered senseless during the brawling. He guessed that there were over two-score combatants slugging it out in the small taproom. The ruckus afforded him perfect cover. No one noticed him as he moved closer and closer to the back of the room, where Conan and Kulg still struggled.

  The Cimmerian was amazed that Kulg was conscious. He had beaten the man's head into the bench, slammed him into the stone wall, and had probably broken one of the hairy giant's arms. In spite of this abuse, the tenacious Kulg kept getting up and charging the barbarian head-on.

  As Kulg rushed at him again, Conan braced himself for the bone-jarring impact. If the stubborn ape would not lie down after this exchange, Conan would have to draw his sword and take sterner measures.

  As Kulg reached out for him, Conan twisted aside and prepared to send his assailant flying. At that instant, he felt a tug at his ankle, and his balance was spoiled. Vansa had managed to stop retching and clutching his broken ribs long enough to grab hold of Conan's leg. The Cimmerian kicked at the interfering hand, dislodging it as Kulg plowed into him. Grunting, Conan toppled over and soaked up Kulg's crushing weight. Enraged, the Cimmerian groped futilely for his sword.

  Only a few paces away, Madesus was trying unsuccessfully to revive Kailash. The iron tankard had dug an ugly groove in the hillman's tough skull, and blood still oozed from a flap of skin that had been torn from Kailash's forehead. The priest was cursing himself for not having tried harder to keep his two companions out of this place. He had been against the dalliance from the start.

  With a sigh, Madesus fished around in his spacious leather pouch and extracted a small clay jar of ointment. He daubed the balm generously on the ugly gash to stop the bleeding. Probing the wound gently, his skilled fingers found a crescent-shaped break in the hillman's skull.

  This wound would be much more difficult to tend; to save Kailash, he would have to use the amulet. "Malgoresh!" he shouted to the Turanian, who was still freeing himself from the wreckage of a table.

  "How bad is he?" the panting barkeep asked as he crawled over the table to the priest.

  "He lives, but we must carefully move him to a safer place, where I can mend his cracked skull."

  Together, they slow
ly pulled the hillman to the back corner of the taproom. Madesus drew forth his amulet, shielding it from all in the room but Malgoresh. The Turanian's eyes widened.

  "Tell no one what you have seen," the priest cautioned.

  Malgoresh licked his lips and got to his feet. "Nary a word, I swear by the hair on Hanuman'sh"

  "Watch me no more! Try to stop the fighting, while your tavern still stands." Madesus turned away and laid one palm on the Kezankian's gore-smeared brow. In his other hand, he held the amulet. Closing his eyes, he began the chant of healing.

  Malgoresh limped over to Conan and Kulg. His legs throbbed painfully where the table had struck them. He saw that Kulg had trapped the Cimmerian with his vast bulk and was smothering the breath out of him.

  Malgoresh selected a heavy plank from a ruined table, which he used to bludgeon the back of Kulg's hirsute head.

  His swing whacked solidly against the base of Kulg's granite-hard skull. The dense oak board made a booming thud as it struck, but Kulg did not even flinch. Eyes agog in disbelief, Malgoresh swung the thick plank again, bearing down with all his strength. This time Kulg let out a deep growl and stopped throttling Conan long enough to rub the back of his bruised head.

  Gasping for breath, the Cimmerian wasted no time in squirming out from under the giant's deadly clutches. He kneed the stubborn Kulg in the forehead, while Malgoresh brought his wooden maul down hard on the man's spine. Kulg, reeling from the abuse, got slowly to his knees, trying to focus his badly blurred vision. Malgoresh aimed another blow at him, but the wounded giant somehow managed to put his good arm out and catch the end of the plank in his hand. He yanked on it, trying to wrest it from Malgoresh's grasp. The Turanian hung on tightly, but got only a handful of splinters for his trouble.

  Brandishing his new weapon, Kulg tottered in place, pausing to decide which foe to strike first. Conan immediately closed his hand around his sword-hilt and raised the blade with grim ferocity. Malgoresh backed off, turning to retrieve Wenak's knife from the ale barrel.

  Crouching unseen less than ten feet away, Lamici chose this moment to make his move. All backs were to him, including Madesus's. The priest wore no leather jerkin to turn aside Lamici's point. The eunuch advanced on the unsuspecting priest, who chanted over Kailash in the corner of the taproom. The high table, lying on its side, hid him partially from view. Lamici slid along the wall, reaching up his sleeve for the concealed stiletto. He was close enough to hear the priest's soft chanting. He freed the stiletto from its wrist sheath, then froze as the priest suddenly became silent.

  Madesus finished the prayer of healing and opened his eyes. Kailash coughed, stirring weakly. The priest heard a sharp hiss from behind his back and looked over his shoulder in time to see a thin tongue of steel plunging toward him. Alarmed, he sprang up, but could not avoid the blade's deadly arc. As he pivoted, the stiletto slashed open his left arm and bit into his shoulder. He reached out, his fingers grabbing hold of Lamici's sleeve. The wound in his shoulder was shallow; he would easily heal it later.

  Lamici let out a hissing laugh between clenched teeth. "Meet thy doom, fool! Pay the price for thy crimes against my country!"

  A torrent of unbearable agony suddenly coursed through Madesus's veins.

  Poison! The priest fell to the floor, dropping his amulet. As Lamici grabbed it, the amulet flared up brightly, searing his palm and blinding him. With the amulet in one hand and his stiletto in the other, the eunuch pulled back, pivoted, and beat a hasty retreat. The amulet cooled, and its light subsided. He stuffed it into a pocket of his cloak and felt his way along the taproom wall, until he reached the doorway.

  Madesus clutched vainly at his healer's pouch, praying desperately to Mitra as the searing pain from the shoulder wound spread into his heart. Convulsing, he tried to cry out for help, but no air would come from his still lungs. Praying silently to Mitra, he closed his eyes and quietly departed from the world of mortal men.

  Conan whirled as he saw the flash of light, and wrenched his dripping, gore-stained blade from Kulg's motionless corpse. Ten feet from him, a gray-cloaked form was moving rapidly along the wall, clutching a thin-bladed knife in one hand. The barbarian drew in a sharp breath as he looked toward the back corner of the taproom, his mind reeling with shock. The overturned table blocked most of his view, but lying in plain sight was Madesus's limp, outstretched arm. All around it was a rapidly spreading pool of blood.

  Acting purely on impulse, Conan made straight for the fleeing, gray-hooded knife-wielder. The Cimmerian plunged like a stampeding bull through the sparring villagers. He gained quickly; his dark-garbed quarry moved uncertainly, groping along the wall like a blind man, unaware that Conan was looming nearby. The barbarian's face was a dark thundercloud of fury, and he uttered the bone-chilling war cry of his native Cimmeria as he closed the distance. He was near enough to see blood still glistening wetly on the knife, and he had no doubt that the blood was the priest's.

  Conan extended his sword in preparation for a thrust that would skewer the man like a boar on a spit. At that instant, the irksome Wenak, still cowering beneath a table, stuck his foot out. The Cimmerian lost his sword first, then his balance. The blade clattered to the floor, several feet away from the sprawling Cimmerian, as Lamici slipped out of the doorway and into the night.

  Enraged, the frustrated Cimmerian went berserk. Glaring through the red mist that swam before him, he seized Wenak by the ankle and hauled him out from under the table. Wenak screamed shrilly, squirming in his captor's viselike grip.

  "Motherless whelp! Join your brother in hell!" Conan heaved Wenak up and dashed his head against the taproom's hard stone wall. Wenak's skull burst open with a sickening, muffled crack, like the splintering of rotting timber, and left an odious smear of reddish-gray pulp on the wall.

  Conan's blood raced through his veins; his temples throbbed with hot fury. He snatched his dropped sword from the floor and heaved a table out of his way, intent on finding and slaying the priest's attacker.

  Behind him, a battle-crazed villager was swinging a sizable chunk of wood, striking wildly at everyone who came within his reach. Raising up his crude but effective weapon, he landed a mighty blow on the base of the oblivious Cimmerian's neck. So forceful was the blow that the wood splintered on impact. Conan took several faltering steps toward the door before tumbling to the taproom floor, still clenching his sword.

  He crawled for a few more feet before his eyes closed and his head sagged against the frame of the doorway.

  When Conan awoke, the morning sun had already climbed into the eastern sky. It shone through the window in his room at Malgoresh's inn.

  Startled, the disoriented Cimmerian lurched to his feet and instinctively groped for his sword. Then the memory of last night's ill-boding events returned to him. He slumped back down on the crude cot he had been sleeping on and rubbed his aching neck, wincing as his fingers found a lump the size of a date protruding from the base of his skull.

  Conan's head was pounding like a Pictish war drum. He felt queasy from rising so quickly, but he managed to rise again and shuffle across the floor toward a bowl of water he had seen in the corner. From the room's appearance, he judged that he was in one of the village's stone buildings, maybe the inn next to the tavern.

  He downed a few swallows of water and poured the rest of it over his throbbing head. He had no idea of who or what had felled him, but he hoped that his attacker had fared worse. Gratified to find his sword leaning against the wall, he picked up the weapon and moved on. By some miracle, his pouch of gold still hung from his belt. Silently he thanked Crom for giving him the strength to recover so quickly from last night's foray. With sword in hand and a bag of gold at his belt, the Cimmerian's spirits were lifted somewhat.

  He found that his judgment had been correct; he had spent the night in one of the inn's cottages. The taproom was less than thirty paces distant. He saw a small cluster of villagers milling about by the taproom's main door and wondered what had becom
e of Kailash and Malgoresh.

  Madesus, he felt with grim certainty, had not survived last night's encounter. The sight of the priest's limp arm, with its pale hand thrusting out from a blood-soaked sleeve, filled him with rage and despair. His heart burned like a fiery coal at the memory, and a voice inside him cried out for revenge. He would find Madesus's assailant and deal with him later. First he would see what had happened to Kailash.

  The taproom's main doorway had been barricaded. A few sullen looks were cast at Conan by several of the villagers, who lowered their voices and moved away as the Cimmerian approached. Two old men remained, staring at him as he came closer. The barbarian doubted that these two graybeards had been in the taproom last night.

  "Where is Malgoresh?" he asked gruffly, being in no mood to exchange pleasantries.

  One of the men harrumphed indignantly at Conan's tone and did not answer. The other, whose craggy face was as roughened and weatherworn as the Karpashian Mountains themselves, paused before responding.

  Leaning forward on a worn walking-stick, the old man finally spoke, through a mouth entirely bereft of teeth.

  "Inside. Been 'oled up in there for th' whole o' th' mornin'," he told Conan, his tone indifferent and his words barely understandable.

  Conan stepped past them, stopping at the wooden barricade. He pounded on it with his fist, bellowing Malgoresh's name in a voice loud enough to crack stone. Impatiently, he shoved the heavy wooden barricade back and stomped into the taproom.

  Malgoresh stood inside, his pale face and slumped shoulders conveying much news to the Cimmerian. The Turanian had evidently been making a halfhearted effort to clean up the taproom. "I put up the barrier last night to keep everyone out," he said. "There is a back door, if you would have waitedh"

  "Never mind the barrier." Conan barged in. "Where are Kailash and Madesus?"

  "I took you and Kailash to separate rooms last night, to let you recover from your wounds. I've no doubt that he still sleeps. His wound was dire enough to send a lesser man to the grave. That blow you took would have stopped a charging boar in its tracks. Yet here you stand!"