The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  "The right fork is definitely the better way to go," he said. He waited for a heartbeat, and was not disappointed.

  "I think it would be better to travel the other fork," Elashi said.

  Ah, ha! He was right. But the trick lay in not agreeing too readily. He had to agree without seeming to agree. Complex creatures, women; they would rather argue than do almost anything else.

  Conan shrugged. "Very well. I think the right branch would be better, but perhaps you are correct."

  "Of course I am."

  He turned his head away so she would not see him smile. It worked, this time. Of course one snowflake did not a blizzard make, but at least it was a beginning. Perhaps he might come to understand the ways of women after all.

  They paddled the fish into the left branch of the split.

  The Harskeel was more than a little tired and much more than a little irritated. What should have taken but a short while had turned into a major imbroglio. All these sundry beasts darting and flittering about to obscure what should be a simple quest. It did not ask for much, the Harskeel―merely to be less than the sum of its parts once again. Was that too much? One brave man and his sword was small compensation for the reversal of its unnatural joining; why could not the fates and the gods tender such a miniscule request? But no. Nothing, nothing, nothing was ever easy. Instead of a clean capture and subsequent sundering back into its natural and rightful selves, the Harskeel was forced to grub around under the ground Ijke some ilysüdaen snake! It was all too much.

  Well, when it finally captured this Conan fellow, the man would be made to know some of the Harskeel's own torment. After the sword was blooded, perhaps some slow torture would repay the barbarian for the effort expended to retrieve him.

  It seemed only fair.

  The Harskeel's tracker returned. "We found a tunnel that goes around that bat cave and gets us back on the trail again, m'lord."

  "Good. Let us move foward. Mind you keep your pikes at the ready." This last command was hardly needed as the four remaining men had yet to to lower their weapojis since the slaughter in the bat cave; still, a leader had to remind its followers who did what every now and again.

  The Harskeel smoothed an eyebrow and patted its hair,―somewhat to its own disgust, as well as a sense of lightness―and followed the tracker along the new trail.

  Rey now rode in the sedan chair, rocking comfortably with the walking rhythm of its two bearers. The wizard looked around. It had been too long since he had ventured out to observe his domain, far too long. What was the point in ruling if one could not go out and lord it over the realm now and then? He resolved that once this man was dispatched to the Gray Lands and That Bitch dealt her just reward, he would get out more often.

  The drone of the marching Cyclopes, keeping step together, lulled the wizard into a comfortable somnambulance. He leaned back against the chair, his head lolling to one side as he dozed and daydreamed of future glories.

  The undulations of the worm clasped within her spread thighs gently shifted Chuntha back and forth like a waving frond in an alternating breeze. The rasp of belly plates over the damp rock was almost melodic: scrape, scr-a-a-p-e―a short beat followed by a longer one as the coils slid the creature forward. A pleasant way to travel, although she could easily think of several ways that would increase the pleasure. But another time; the stalemate between herself and the wizard needed to be put to rest; that concerned her now more than her immediate pleasure. Settle with him once and for all. After that she could perhaps expand her activities to take in a portion of the world above the caves. A more ready supply of men existed there, of course, and one could never have too many of them around. They went so fast.

  Rocking with pleasure, Chuntha dreamed of future glories.

  * * *

  Ten

  The silken vessel was most interesting, Deek and Wikkell agreed. It was light enough for Wikkell to lift with one hand, and yet banging it accidentally against a wall produced no apparent damage. The craft would easily hold them and perhaps two more passengers as large as they, and the plants had thoughtfully provided a floor inside for added support and comfort.

  Once the cyclops and worm reached the sea, the wondrous boat rode high in the water with nary a leak. Utilizing a large sculling oar produced by the plants―at no extra charge―Wikkell saw Deek safely aboard, locked the oar into place, then hopped into the vessel and rapidly propelled the boat away from the shore.

  While Deek had no hands, he was able to use the tip of his tail to assist Wikkell with the sculling. The gleaming, silvery craft sped over the smooth water at a pace both occupants found quite amazing.

  "I doubt that I could run this quickly," Wikkell observed.

  Deek made no audible reply, the bottom of the boat being too smooth for his vocal apparatus to engage, but he was of a like mind. The plants built well, no arguing that. Something to keep in mind for the future. One could construct a number of things from this remarkable webbing.

  "Surely the prey we pursue cannot travel half so fast," Wikkell said. "We should catch them in short order."

  If we do not take a wrong turning, Deek thought.

  "That is, if we do not take a wrong turning," Wikkell said. "But we have help from the plants, after all."

  Deek could not speak but he lifted his head and waved it up and down in a gesture that he hoped would pass for a nod.

  Wikkell caught the motion and smiled, showing his square and sturdy teeth. "Yes, indeed. I begin to have hopes that this venture might well turn out in our favor after all, Deek old son."

  Deek nodded again. The boat skimmed along the water, carrying them after their quarry. Perhaps, Deek thought, he might yet escape the lime pits and come out of this with some kind of victory. A shame he was going to have to flatten Wikkell, though. He was beginning to grow fond of the cyclops. Perhaps there was another way to get the people without killing his new friend. He could explore that idea, certainly; it was the least he could do.

  A single cruising bat spied the Harskeel's man sitting alone on the rock next to the sea, and apparently decided that such a meal was simply too good to bypass. The bat dived, already extruding his pointed feeding tube to skewer the unsuspecting delicacy.

  Unfortunately for the bat, the man was not alone, and merely acting as bait for just such an attack. The flying rodent had no sooner lit upon the man than he was set upon and captured by three other men who had lain hidden nearby, under the direction of the Harskeel. The bat thrashed and fluttered, but the touch of cold and sharp iron at his throat brought the struggle to a fast end.

  "I would speak with you," the Harskeel said.

  The bat made no reply.

  "Ah, you do not understand civilized speech. A pity. Kill it," the Harskeel ordered.

  "Wait!" the bat called out. His voice was high and the accent made the word almost unintelligible, but the Harskeel grinned at the sound of it.

  "Hold," it commanded.

  The Harskeel's men stayed their pikes.

  "Now," the Harskeel said, "how are you called?"

  The bat gnashed sharp teeth. When he spoke, his voice was haughty. "I am Crimson So Strong, High Flier and Drinker of Life."

  "Crimson?"

  "Named for the beautiful splash of that same color upon the fur of my back."

  "Fine. 'Red' will do for a name. Now, Red, I have a proposition for you."

  "A proposition? We do not deal with those who hold us captive."

  "Let him go."

  The Harskeel's men released the bat, who gathered himself for a fast escape.

  "Before you leave, Red, you should at least hear my proposition. Not that I think you shall get very far, you understand. Zate over there can skewer you before you rise more than this high." The Harskeel held up its thumb and forefinger, separated by the thickness of a boot heel.

  Red turned slightly to look at the man called Zate. That worthy grinned brightly and hefted his pike meaningfully.

  "I was merely
stretching my cramped wings," Red observed. "Certainly I should be most interested to hear your proposition."

  "Your kind drinks blood for sustenance, do they not?"

  "I feel that you already know that," Red answered.

  "As it happens, I have dabbled in magic now and again," the Harskeel said.

  Behind the Harskeel, one of its men snickered. The Harskeel did not pause, nor did it turn. As soon as all of this was done, that man was as good as dead, one could bet one's fortune on that.

  The Harskeel continued smoothly. "And, as it also happens, I am in possession of a spell that will produce fresh blood in a large quantity."

  "You jest," Red said. "You are pulling my wing."

  "Perhaps a sample for your edification?"

  With that, the Harskeel produced a small brass bowl from its purse and held it out for the bat to inspect. Red took the bowl and looked at it carefully. "This is empty," the bat said. He rapped a knuckle against the metal, producing a hollow clink. "I see no blood."

  The Harskeel retrieved the bowl. "I wished you to be assured there was no trickery involved." The Harskeel pushed its shirt-sleeves back, showing its arms to be bare, and held the small brass bowl cupped in its hands. It began to speak quietly in a language that it knew none around it could understand.

  The Harskeel finished its incantation.

  The bowl began to fill. Dark liquid welled quickly, reaching the brim of the bowl and forming a meniscus. The Harskeel handed the bowl to Red, who sniffed it.

  "Why, it smells just like―"

  "―blood," the Harskeel finished. "Go ahead, taste it."

  Red looked at the blood and his feeding tube started to flick out, then stopped, "How do I know it is not poisoned?"

  The Harskeel smiled. "You do not. However, why should I bother? If I had wanted you dead, I could have easily had you impaled upon three pikes earlier."

  Red considered this. "That makes good sense." He extruded his feeding tube and inserted it into the bowl of liquid. Faster than it had come, the blood vanished.

  "Why, this is excellent! The best I have ever tasted!"

  "So glad you liked it."

  "This spell, what would it take to obtain it? And how much of this nectar can it produce?"

  "I thought you might get to that. The spell has limits, of course. You might get as much as, oh, six or seven barrels."

  "Seven barrels? How… how wonderful! We could feast a hundred of us on that."

  "Of course the spell will recharge itself after a few days, and be able to make that much more each time."

  "I must have it! Ask anything!"

  The Harskeel grinned. Truly these bats were not adept at trading. In fact, the spell would produce a half dozen barrels of blood, but only once. Were this fluid not consumed rapidly, it would clot within a matter of hours, making it totally useless. Of course by the time the bats found that out, the Harskeel planned to be long gone.

  "I am following someone who escaped via this body of water," the Harskeel said. "I require a boat, and someone who can tow it as well."

  "That's all?"

  "I am a generous sort."

  Red glanced at the empty bowl. "Well, I must confess that there is little free wood in the caves. Boats are normally made from wood."

  "I care not if the craft is made from dung, so long as it floats."

  "Hmm. I am certain that we can come up with what you require. I shall convey this offer to my brothers and we will most assuredly manage something. You, ah, will wait right here until I return?"

  "Indeed I shall."

  "I shall hurry." Red gathered himself to leap into flight, then paused. "You might want to tell Zate to stay his pike."

  The Harskeel laughed. "No problem, Red, my friend."

  With that, the bat zipped into the air and darted away.

  The Harskeel watched the bat flit off through the nearest exit. It was very pleased with itself. A small spell that would buy him the barbarian's capture was cheap enough. If all of the bats were as gullible as Red, the transaction would be as smooth as a looking glass. They could be easily bluffed and tricked; Zate's skill with a pike, for instance, was such that he would be most lucky to hit a man-sized target at two paces, much less a flying bat at five times that distance. Pikes were not meant to be thrown; it would take a stronger man than Zate to manage such a task.

  "This river seems to go on forever," Elashi said.

  "Aye," Conan responded. "And it seems also to be curving to our right."

  "Best hope we come to a stopping point soon," Tull said. "Look."

  Conan and Elashi followed the direction of Tull's pointing finger. Conan saw what the man meant immediately, although Elashi did not. "What?" she asked. "I see nothing amiss."

  "The fish rides lower in the water," Conan said. "Observe the'steps' I cut out."

  Indeed, it was obvious that their boat was sinking, albeit slowly; several of the steps nearest the edges of the great fish were under the water.

  "Why is it doing that?" Elashi asked.

  Conan shrugged. He knew little of such things.

  Tull said, "Perhaps other fishy predators were at the bottom during the night. Or perhaps our mount is becoming waterlogged."

  "Can we do anything about it?"

  "Find a good spot to start walking, I should think," Tull said. "Although we can probably get another day or two out of it before it goes under for good."

  An hour later Conan shook his head. "I like this not," he said.

  "What now?" Elashi asked.

  "We have turned almost back in the same direction whence we came."

  "I see no signs of that. How can you know this?"

  Conan shrugged again. He had an innate sense of direction, had had it as long as he could remember. It was possible for him to get lost, of course, but some inner guide usually oriented him quickly, no matter what the surroundings.

  "Well, it does not really matter, does it? Anyone following us will have to take the same waterway. So it loops and twists a bit, so much the better―we shall be harder to find and see for that."

  Conan did not speak to this. Perhaps Elashi was right. He had no logical reason to feel trepidatious; still, some atavistic sense stirred within him, and he prepared himself for the worst.

  Rey was surprised as he entered the breeding cave of the Bloodbats: the place was virtually empty. Well, of living things, in any event. The floor showed signs of a fairly active stour: the dessicated bodies of several Blind Whites and men lay strewn carelessly about, as well as a number of slain bats. Hmm. It seemed that his prey had passed this way. But… where were the bats who normally clung to the walls and ceilings? There were only a few of them dead upon the floor, and the wizard could not imagine the remainder abandoning their cave over such trifles. A little blood never bothered the bats.

  Rey laughed, amused by his own joke. Blood did not bother the bats. That was a good jest! He would have spoken it aloud, but he realized that his escort of cyclopes would likely see little humor in it. Stupid creatures, one and all, and fit only for thralls.

  Yes, well, that was all fine and good, but he had business to which he must attend. The bats had obviously gotten off somewhere to do something, and he would likely discover that purpose eventually. Besides, that was not the primary reason for his trip by any means. No, and the presence in the cave of dead men other than those he sought did not seem a benevolent augury. One had to wonder who they were and how they had gotten here, and in what way were they connected to the ones Rey sought. That a connection existed he doubted not at all. He had not lived as long as he had by trusting coincidence any farther than he could pitch a cyclops one handedly.

  Rey waved, and the pair of cyclopian chair-carriers bent and lifted his sedan from the ground. Well, he would get to the root of it soon enough.

  In that grating-over-rock voice her thralls had, the advance worm returned to tell Chuntha of the carnage in the bats' breeding cave. That news did not bother the witch a whit, bu
t the worm also bespoke a more unpleasant fact: the wizard had moved through the cave, along with a number of one-eyes carrying large amounts of cargo.

  Chuntha shifted uneasily on the worm she rode. This boded ill. Something was definitely out of order in the caves if that sluglike wizard would bother to stir his indolent self and go venturing about. That he wanted to steal her barbarian she knew; the lengths to which he would go to thwart her surprised her somewhat.

  The witch's resolve hardened. So be it. If the wizard wanted a fight, fine. She would give it to him. She was no fragile wisp to be blown away by his hot air. She would see about this!

  Her mount responded to the pressure of Chuntha's knees and began his segmented glide once again. The other worms initiated their own crawls, and the party moved on.

  Perhaps two-score bats arrived at the Harskeel's location, dragging by lines behind them what appeared to be several large wooden doors.

  The bat named Red flitted down to stand before the Harskeel. "Your boat," he said.

  The Harskeel observed the ancient planking. "You call these things a boat?"

  The bat shrugged. "You said it need merely float."

  "It must also hold my weight and that of my men."

  "If it does not, no matter. We shall fly above and support the difference as we tow the thing."

  The Harskeel considered that. In point of fact, it had little choice, were it to continue its pursuit of Conan and his companions. With the bats towing the "boat," surely they would make good speed. "Very well," the Harskeel said. "Let us assemble it and make ready to depart."

  Red smiled, showing his needle-pointed teeth. "We would fly much faster were we not so hungry."

  The Harskeel grinned. So, the creatures were not quite as trusting as he had at first thought. Ah, well. No matter. "Have you a container?"

  "As it happens, there is a depression in the rock, just over there." Red pointed with a wing tip. "The cleft at the bottom of the declivity should hold about a barrel's worth of liquid, if I am any judge of such things."