The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  With his final conscious thoughts, Rey unleashed all the powers at his command. Not stopped, such energies would consume everything for half a day's walk in all directions.

  Conan stopped in mid-stride, blade lifted to strike; as if he had hit wall of packed feathers, or encountered one of the fierce winter winds of his homeland, a wind a big man could lean into without falling. He could force himself forward a little but then it pushed back at him, this invisible barrier. What―?

  The wizard began to glow under the black flame. Rays of red and yellow and blue light shot forth, lighting the dim cave to the brightness of full daylight, albeit a day like none ever seen by mortal man.

  Rocks rumbled and seemed to leap up and fly away from the ground around the tortured form of the wizard.

  A weird humming―like the wings of a million bees―began.

  Conan felt a weakness enter him, turning his arms and legs into pigs of lead. He wanted nothing so much as to lie down, to rest…

  A crackling beam shot out from the wizard's face, or where Conan assumed the face had been, and the beam lanced into one of the cyclops halfway across the corridor. The cyclops exploded, bursting into thousands of pieces, shattering like glass.

  Around Conan the air seemed suddenly filled with ice, so cold was it all of a moment, and yet a second later the air seemed as hot as if it were from an oven. Then the heat faded… and still Conan could not move.

  The Cimmerian realized the great threat. The wizard, whatever his condition, was still dangerous. He had to strike him down―or they might all die.

  Against the force of the invisible barrier, Conan strived to move. An inch, two, three he managed, only to be pushed back past his starting place. And he felt wearier with each passing second. If he could but rest, for only a moment, he could finish this…

  No! Conan told himself. Any rest now would likely be his last.

  The humming increased; the rays grew brighter, turning the wizard into something that could not be gazed upon without going blind; and the crackling beams shot forth and blasted at the cyclopes and the worms. One of the beams barely missed Conan; he felt the heat of its passing. The ceiling rumbled overhead, as did the walls and the floor.

  Conan closed his eyes. Even through their lids he could see the bright glow that the wizard had become. He pushed again against the unseen barrier, utilizing his great strength to its utmost. The Cimmerian youth managed to lower the blade, knowing he could not swing it in a cut. He pushed against the wall of feathers, leaned into the magic wind, gaining a step, then two, the muscles of his legs bulging with the effort, the sinews creaking with the strain.

  Rocks fell from the ceiling, but Conan ignored them. Another step, a tiny one, like a small child might take. His boots slid backward a hair on the stone, but he willed himself forward, pressing down as well as forward, gripping the ground through the leather of his shod feet as best he could.

  A section of wall collapsed behind Conan, followed by more rock from the ceiling. He felt the floor shudder and shift under him. Another moment or two of this and an earthquake would likely bury them all.

  But try as he might, Conan could get no closer. The point of his blade was only a handspan away from the shining wizard, but it might as well have been a. thousand miles.

  Then, over the unnatural noises produced by the dying wizard, there came a single voice, cutting as only it could through the cacophony, the voice of Lalo, the cursed one: "I knew he could not do it! Such a weakling!"

  Conan's rage could no longer be contained. All of Lalo's previous insults added to his ire, and this one was the final straw. Weakling? Weakling! I will show you who is a weakling!

  Burning with the fires of outrage and insult, Conan bunched his powerful thews in a final, total effort. He lunged, slowly for all his strength, but a definite surge forward.

  The point of Conan's blued-iron sword touched the rotting form of the wizard on the chest over his black heart, paused for the briefest of instants, then plunged through and sliced open the throbbing pump. Blood sprayed forth in a fountain, covering Conan.

  After what seemed like forever, the wizard collapsed.

  The lights winked out, the humming stopped cold, the walls and ceiling stilled.

  The silence after Rey's fall was almost tangible.

  Then the quiet was broken. Without a trace of irony in his voice, Lalo said quietly, "Well, I stand corrected."

  Nobody had anything to say for quite a while after that.

  * * *

  Twenty-six

  Wikkell and Deek moved to where the remains of the wizard lay on the rock and stared at the spot. A thin black powder covered the floor there, all that was left of the once-powerful mage.

  Several more of the cyclopes and worms moved in to look upon the dust and ash that had been wizard and witch.

  "We have won," Wikkell said.

  "I-i-indeed."

  Some of the cyclopes approached Wikkell, and a contingent of worms moved with them.

  What, they asked, do we do now?

  As easily as that, Wikkell and Deek found themselves cast in the role of rulers.

  Conan sheathed his sword and went to his Mends.

  Lalo had arisen and moved to stare into the wizard's chambers. "The black smoke is gone," he said. "And the wizard and the witch are both dead, thanks to you, Conan. You are most resourceful."

  The Cimmerian shook his head. Could his ears be deceiving him? Had Lalo offered a compliment without a cutting edge? He waited for the verbal slash, but none came. And when Lalo turned to look at the others, something even more amazing occurred: Lalo had stopped smiling.

  Elashi spoke first. "Lalo! Your face!"

  Lalo reached up to touch his mouth. The smile returned, but it was different this time. "The curse! It… it is gone!"

  Elashi ran to Lalo and embraced him.

  Tull and Conan glanced at each other. Tull said, "The wizard's dying must have done it."

  Conan nodded. He looked on as Lalo and Elashi hugged, but he felt no sense of jealousy. They seemed destined for each other, and his path was to have diverged from that of the desert woman's soon in any event.

  Lalo and Elashi broke their embrace and turned to regard Conan. Each looked abashed.

  Conan grinned. "Nay," he said. "You two shall have my blessing." To himself, Conan thought: although you might come to see this as a curse someday too, Lalo; her tongue is as sharp as yours was, and without any spell to drive it.

  Wikkell and Deek approached the Cimmerian. The cyclops smiled. "We owe you much, Conan." he said. "Without you, we would still be enslaved. How can we repay you?"

  That question needed no contemplation whatsoever. "Show us the way out of here," Conan said.

  "D-d-done," the worm said.

  So it was that Conan, Tull, Elashi, and Lalo were taken along a twisted corridor that wound upward. Against the dim green of the glow-fungus, a shaft of almost solid-looking white light stabbed down at the end of the tunnel: sunshine, from the world above.

  "There," Wikkell said. "There is the entrance to your world."

  Conan nodded and extended his right hand. Wikkell understood the gesture, and his own huge hand enveloped the Cimmerian's hand in a powerful squeeze. The two smiled at each other. "Go in peace, Conan."

  "F-f-farewell," Deek added.

  Tull, Elashi, and Lalo had already hurried up the incline and out of the cave when Conan turned away from the worm and the cyclops and walked toward the exit. In his belt pouch he still had a handful of valuable gems, which he would divide equally with the others. Not enough to make any of them rich, but enough to keep them in food and drink for some time. And they had come through the duel with witch and wizard exhausted, but alive and unharmed. It could have been much worse, but never had he been so glad to see the end of an adventure.

  Striding boldly, Conan of Cimmeria walked into the sunshine and out of the dim caves. He blinked against the unaccustomed brightness of the day.

  A f
ew spans away his friends awaited him, but for the moment Conan was content to stand with the warmth of the sun on his face and the cold wind ruffling his dark hair. Free! At last!

  Then he smiled and walked away from the entrance to the vast caves. He did not look back.

  Conan the Freelance

  PROLOGUE

  Ten million years before the birth of the first man, the tallest peak in what would be called in dimly future times the Karpash Mountains stood in ice-capped majesty near what was to become the border between Corinthia and Zamora. It had no name then, there being no creatures with language to make names; later, it would be called Mount Turio. On a cold winter's day and without warning, an explosion shook the earth to its roots, and the top half of the mountain blew off. Pulverized rock formed ebon and stormy clouds that hid the face of the sun; glowing lava spewed and flowed down, feeding upon and consuming giant trees flattened for two days' march in any direction from the wounded mountain. The sweeping hand of destruction wiped away a hundred thousand animals, scouring the land with a stone wind that spared no living thing exposed to its abrasive touch.

  Halfway to the edge of the world, beasts paused in their paths at the sound of the mountain vomiting itself up and darkening the skies.

  It was a noise to rival the scream of a god.

  After a million years, the crater left by the titantic explosion became a lake as large as a small sea.

  After ten million years, the scars of the cataclysm had mostly been erased by time and weather, smoothed by winds and rain and snow and sun. The great crater lake remained, however, icy and clear and deep.

  In the center of that vast lake, nameless and mostly unknown to the eyes and thoughts of men, the floating mat of a unique plant thrived upon the surface of the azure water. The growth was called Sargasso weed by those with a need for such names. Dense the weed was, and buoyant and thick enough to support the weight of a low, rambling structure large enough to house a thousand men. A careful man could walk from the center of the Palace of the Sargasso for most of a day and not reach the closest edge of the living island, though finding water was seldom a problem. In places the mat was carefully thinned by predators who lived below and sought .to trap prey; a misstep would send the unwary to a watery death in the jaws of some hungry denizen spawned in the lake's cold, dark depths. Even should a man avoid the quicksandlike traps in the Sargasso, he was ever at risk, for things also lived in the tangled growth above the chilly water, things that had over centuries developed a taste for human flesh.

  In the center of this construction of nature and man, in the bowels of the sprawling and low castle, dwelled the one known as the Abet Blasa, Dimma of the Fogs, called by some the Mist Mage.

  Although the roof of the chamber bore several large openings covered with sheets of clearest quartz to allow a goodly measure of the sun's light to flow into the room, a perpetual fog enshrouded Dimma where he sat upon a throne of carved woods and ivory. Indeed, Dimma's form itself seemed to blend with the swirling mist. He had no hard edges, appearing as insubstantial as the grayness he wore about himself as a billowing cloak.

  Into the shifting grayness came a thing that upon land could pass for a man. Once the ancestors of this creature had dwelled Below, but through the arcane arts of the Mist Mage, these beasts had been elevated, both in form and in intelligence. Dimma called them selkies, and through his crafting, had made them into most useful servants. No longer were they simple beasts, and although they could pretend to be human upon the land, in the water they reverted magically into something from a man's nightmare.

  The selkie's name was Kleg, and it spoke in a singsong tone, more as if using some stringed instrument than a true voice. "My lord, I am here."

  The wavering image of the Mist Mage turned toward the selkie. Dimma focused his attention upon the creature to whom he was literally a god. "Speak to me of your mission, Kleg."

  "My lord. Six days' ride from here upon the back of the packbeast you created stands the Tree Folk's forest. We have determined that the . . . ingredients you seek can be found therein."

  The Mist Mage leaned forward. His face shimmered as a wisp of fog passed over-and through-it, becoming for a moment more sharply etched. Kleg felt a spasm of fear clutch at his bowels, turning them cold.

  "And have you brought these ingredients to me?"

  "No, my lord. The Tree Folk are powerful and vigilant. In the attempt to secure that which you seek, four of your servants were destroyed. Only two of us remained, and our escape was a near thing."

  Dimma leaned back in his throne, the wood and ivory visible to the selkie through his master's body. "You are as powerful as three men, Kleg."

  "Even so, my lord. The Tree Folk themselves are agile and strong, and they control their grove so that even such as we could not overcome them."

  The Abet Blasa sat silently for a moment. "You are certain that which I require can be obtained from the Tree Folk?"

  "Certain, my lord."

  "Then it does not matter how agile or strong they are. I will have what I must have. You must do whatever is necessary to accomplish this task. Go and gather your brothers. A dozen, a hundred, as many as you think needed. All the beasts of the Sargasso are at your disposal."

  "Your word is my life," Kleg said as he bowed and backed from the chamber.

  Indeed, Dimma thought as he watched the selkie leave. Your life and the lives of ten times ten thousand are nothing compared to what I must have.

  Dimma rose and floated across the huge room. Where he moved, the fog thickened about him, centering upon his person as if flowing from his body outward, and indeed that was the case.

  Five hundred years past, Dimma had been a young and foolish student of the arts. In his travels, he had grown arrogant in his power. One fateful day, he sought to test the mettle of the Wizard of Koth, a shriveled and toothless old man whose reputation Dimma had carelessly deemed larger than his true power.

  Dimma had been wrong. Toothless he might be, but the Wizard of Koth was not without a fierce and sorcerous bite. In the ensuing battle, the old man had died, but not without first laying his curse upon the cocky Dimma.

  As he lay breathing his last, the old man had managed a smile. "You are a hard one," he'd said. "Flint and fired iron, and giving away nothing. But from this day forth, it shall not be so. You shall give away all; your body will become that of a man of mist, and ever shall you dwell in fog. So shall it be said, so shall it be done."

  The old man had died then, and Dimma had been unworried. A dying curse was to be expected; he had weathered more than a few as he had slain various adepts. They meant nothing. He, Dimma, had stalked wizards of the Ring and of the Square. He had bested the yellow Seers of Turan, crushed the darkskinned spell singers of Zembabwei. One more mage meant little to him.

  At first.

  A month after his duel with the Wizard of Koth, Dimma sought his pleasure with a woman. He reached for her, and-His hand passed through her body!

  Dimma fled from the encounter and convinced himself he had fallen prey to an illusion, a trick resulting from much wine and too little light, and at first, it seemed to be so. But during the ensuing months, the old Kothian's curse had flowered into a bitter, airy blossom. Dimma became more and more insubstantial, and there seemed no cure for it. It came and it went without reason.

  He was not without skill, and he utilized all of it to rid himself of the geas, but it was to little avail. More and more of his time was spent as a creature less of flesh than of vapor. Days, sometimes weeks would pass before he regained the flesh. He could still perform most of his own conjurations, using one of his servants as a standin for those things needing a physical hand, but the other pleasures of the body were lost to him. He could not eat or drink or enjoy erotic pleasures with women, nor could he feel the sensations of heat or cold or texture. He became a kind of ghost, living in perpetual fog, a thing more brother to mist than to man.

  Five hundred years is a long time, however, a
nd the constant searching eventually turned up clues to a cure for the affliction. From a sacred cave in Stygia came a tattered scroll with part of the cure; from a ruined temple on Siptah's Isle came another part. Dimma's agents roamed to the Black Kingdoms-Kush, Darfar, Keshan, and Punt-as well as to the northern cold lands of Vanaheim and Asgard. No place was too distant to reach if some hope might be offered for a cure, no cost too great. Some of the spells collected stretched from before the time Atlantis had been swallowed by the sea.

  At last, Dimma had the pieces of the puzzle he needed, all save one. And the final item lay practically in his own realm! He would have it at any cost. It had been twenty years since last he managed a few moments of solidity; he never knew for what reason or when he might be given a brief respite from his curse. Now he saw the end of his torment looming only days or weeks away, and he would use every bit of his not inconsiderable power to achieve that end, no matter if it required destruction of a kingdom!

  Dimma felt a stray breeze lift and shift him sideways. Someone had left a door ajar or a window open, and that someone would die for the error. Soon he would not have to suffer such indignities, and woe to any man or anything that stood in Dimma's way.

  Woe, indeed.

  Chapter ONE

  The narrow mountain path lay upon a steep grade, patches of loose gravel strewn over it, but the young man walking the route did so with both agility and grace. He was, after all, a Cimmerian, and those from the mountains of his birth learned to climb as soon as they could walk. The man was called Conan, and the slanting rays of the setting sun reflected from smoldering blue eyes framed by a thick, black square-cut mane that touched wide, heavy shoulders. Conan wore the hastily tanned hide of a wolf over his brawny back, short leathern breeches, and sandals with thongs that laced up around his muscular calves. The chilly mountain air nipped at the places where his skin lay bare, but he ignored the cold stoically. After the confinement of the vast underground system of the Black Cave in which he and his then companions almost died a dozen times, the open air was welcome, no matter what its temperature.