The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  "Very well. There are four of them and three of us," Conan said.

  "Nay, there are four of us!" Hok allowed. He sounded indignant.

  "Very well, four, then. If we attack quickly, we can overcome them and retrieve the stolen Seed."

  Tair hefted his spear. "Aye. I am ready."

  Cheen nodded.

  Conan drew his sword and took a deep breath. "On my count of three," he said. "One. Two. Three!"

  With that, the Cimmerian leaped around the corner and sprinted toward the guards.

  "Shhh," Rayk said, waving for Thayla and Blad to halt. "The Tree Folk and that large man are just ahead."

  The three Pili crouched, and Thayla moved enough so that she could see that what Rayk said was true. The four humans were likewise crouched at the juncture of two corridors not far ahead of them.

  "They do not know we are here," Rayk said. "We can steal up and slay them before they notice us." He drew his obsidian knife: "Ready your spear," he whispered to Blad. "You take the big one, I will cut down the female and the smaller man. Thayla, you kill the child."

  "Rayk-" she began.

  "Silence! Do as I order!"

  Moving with great stealth, the three Pili crept up behind the four. Thayla risked a glance at Blad, who returned her look. She nodded at the king, then at Blad's spear. Now is the time, she thought.

  Just as Rayk gathered himself to leap, Thayla heard Conan begin counting. What was he doing?

  When the big man reached the number "three," the entire group leaped up and darted around the corner.

  The move caught the Pili by surprise.

  After a moment, Rayk said, "After them!"

  With that, the king jumped up and ran around the corner.

  Blad and Thayla followed.

  Two verses of the spell were complete, and Dimma had just begun the third when he heard some kind of commotion in the corridor outside the strong-room door.

  The Mist Mage frowned. His concentration was broken, and he mispronounced the third word in the second line.

  "Set and Drakkar take you!" he screamed.

  Now he would have to begin the spell again! Oh, whoever had caused this was going to die! But not now. Everything could wait until he was finished.

  He began the first verse of the spell again.

  In his near exhaustion, Kleg had allowed the monster to gain upon him. It dogged him closely now, only a dozen spans behind, loping along in a slow, but steady run that never seemed to vary, shaking the walls as it moved.

  Ahead was the corridor that led back to the strong room. Kleg was nearing the end of his strength, and were he to survive, he would have to do something soon. Perhaps He Who Creates was finished with the spell by now. Even if his master was not, Kleg felt as if he had no choice. He had to have help with this thing, and soon. If nothing else, the guards might be able to fight it to a standstill.

  Calling upon the last of his reserves, Kleg increased his speed a final time and rounded the corner.

  As the selkies turned to face the unexpected attack by Conan and the Tree Folk, the Cimmerian looked past them to see another selkie dash round the far corner toward them.

  A moment later, the monster who had chewed its way into the castle also came round the turning.

  Conan slashed at the startled guard and his blade bit deeply into the selkie's skull, dropping him.

  "Conan!" Cheen yelled. "Behind us!"

  Conan spun past the other guards and, in turning, saw a trio of Pili armed with knives and a spear, charging toward him, weapons raised to strike.

  Crom! What was happening?

  Selkies, Pili, Tree Folk, and a giant monster all ran pell-mell toward each other. The corridor was chaos. Confusion reigned.

  So much for a simple plan.

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  Keg rounded the corner nearest the strong room and faced more than he had expected. What was this? Men and Pili, battling with his brother selkies!

  Unarmed and naked, Kleg would have turned back, but the monster behind him forbade that option. Given no other choice, he ran forward to join the fray.

  Thayla ran next to Blad. "Now!" she commanded. "Kill him now!"

  Blad glanced at her. Confusion lit his face. "Which one?"

  "The king, fool! Use your spear!"

  Conan parried the second guard's lance point and cut at the selkie's belly. The wounded guard doubled over and dropped his weapon.

  The Cimmerian spun away, slinging blood from his blade as he cocked it over one shoulder against the next enemy foolish enough to get within range.

  To Conan's left, Tair traded jabs with the third selkie guarding the door, while Cheen and Hok worried the fourth guard with spear and knife.

  To his right, the Cimmerian saw three Pili running closer. The leader held only a knife, but the one behind him carried a spear. The third Pili was the female with whom Conan had been intimate, and she was screaming something he could not quite understand.

  The Pili would get to him in a moment, so Conan shifted his stance to await the charge.

  But as the leader of the lizard men approached, he suddenly threw up his hands and screamed. The knife flew, bounced from one wall, and clattered onto the flagstones.

  Conan was puzzled, but only for a moment. As the leader fell, the one behind him jerked, the spear from the dying lizard man's back and raised the weapon in triumph.

  "I am king!" he yelled. "Long live the new king!"

  Conan leaped forward and thrust his broadsword into the Pili's chest.

  The Pili blinked and gave Conan a look of absolute surprise, then pitched backward and fell flat upon his back, his open eyes still staring.

  A short reign to be sure, Conan thought.

  "May the Great Dragon shrivel your manhood!" the female Pili screamed. She drew her knife and leaped at Conan.

  He hated to cut down a female, but if the choice was her life or his, Conan was prepared to decide it in his own favor.

  He did not get the chance, however. Something slammed into his back and sent the Cimmerian sprawling. On the way down, he lost his sword.

  Thayla's rage wrapped her like a cloak as she lunged toward Conan, her knife set to gut him. But the selkie who had come running around the corner ran smack into the barbarian and the two tumbled to the floor. Thayla leaped to one side and barely avoided being knocked over by the tumbling pair.

  She moved back toward them, knife lifted. If the selkie bested the man, then she would sink her blade into his back. If Conan survived, she would do for him likewise.

  The man was strong, Kleg thought as they wrestled on the floor, maybe twice as strong as any the selkie had ever faced, but he was thrice as powerful as a man, and this contest would be his.

  Not easily, though. The man shifted, and his muscles bulged as he avoided Kleg's hands on his throat. The pair rolled, slammed into a wall, and it was Kleg who took the brunt of the impact. The selkie's grip was broken and the man took advantage of this to slip free. The man dived, rolled, and came up, fists doubled to strike.

  Kleg came to his feet and observed the man. He obviously intended to box, and even a weaker opponent could defeat a stronger one, did his blows land solidly. Kleg shifted warily to his left-The selkie's foot touched something cold on the floor and he spared it a fast look to see what it was.

  The man's sword lay there.

  Quickly as he could, Kleg squatted and snatched up the weapon. The man was too far away to get to him before he completed the action.

  Kleg grinned as he hefted the weapon. "Prepare to die," he said. He stepped forward, raising the sword easily as he moved, and made to slice the man in twain.

  "Look out behind you, fool!" a female voice called.

  Kleg ignored the cry. He was not stupid enough to fall for that old trick.

  Then he caught the stink of his nemesis and felt the hot breath of the thing on his back. No! He tried to turn, but it was now too late. Everything went dark.

  The last thing
the Prime selkie felt was the sharp teeth of the monster closing on him.

  Thayla screamed a warning, but the fishman paid her no mind. The monster behind him opened hellish jaws and bit the selkie, taking his whole upper body into its mouth. The thing lifted its victim from the floor and shook it like a dog shakes a .rat. Bones crunched. Blood oozed from the selkie.

  The Queen of the Pili stared in horror, but the monster had no apparent interest in her or anyone but the selkie. The beast turned away, the surely-dead fishman securely in its mouth, and padded down the hall toward the door.

  Conan also turned to watch the monster, and Thayla realized this was her chance. Of course, the king was dead, but her hatred of Conan had grown enough so that it no longer mattered. She leaped at his back, her knife raised to stab.

  "Conan!" a woman screamed.

  The man in front of her reacted instantly. He dropped flat, and Thayla's lunge, overbalanced as she was, carried her past. She tripped and fell. She threw both her hands out to stay the fall, but she was too close to the wall. The knife in her hand hit the wall and she could not release it as she continued her headlong fall. She saw the point coming at her right eye and she managed a final scream before the knife claimed her.

  Dimma's anger bordered on madness, so black was it. Once again he had lost the words of the spell, such was the uproar outside his chamber.

  Before the wizard could restart the first chant, the door burst open, sending a blast of air that battered the Mist Mage and knocked him across the room almost to the ceiling.

  "Who dares!"

  When Dimma had righted himself, he saw the Ranafrosch standing in the shattered doorway, the body of a selkie clenched in its jaws.

  "Not now, you moronic beast!"

  The Ranafrosch dropped the body onto the floor. It thudded against the flagstones and lay still. The monster looked at Dimma like a fetch-dog at its master.

  Dimma's rage exploded and he cursed the thing, extending one wavering hand that sent a beam of heat and light splashing over the beast like a bucket of fire.

  The Ranafrosch's skin blackened and crackled under the magical attack. It emitted a moan and fell, rolling over onto its back. The stink of its flesh filled the air.

  Dimma managed to will himself back into position over the various talismans and other ingredients.

  Once again, he thought. For the last time.

  Conan looked at the Pili female. She was dead, sure enough, with that wicked-looking black blade buried in her eye up to the hilt. Killed by her own hand.

  He picked up his sword and turned toward his companions. Cheen and Hok had been joined by Tair, and they finished off the last selkie guard as he watched.

  The monster, meanwhile, shoved the door open and stepped inside the chamber beyond. After a moment, the thing was rewarded for this action by a blast of light and a fierce heat Conan could feel even where he stood. All the Cimmerian could see was the thing's hindquarters, but it was apparent that the monster would walk the land of the living - no more. Smoke rose from its carcass.

  Conan moved to where the three Tree Folk stood.

  "The Seed is in there," Cheen said.

  "Aye. You see what the monster got for going through that door?" Conan said.

  "We have come too far to realize defeat now," Tair said. He started for the door.

  Conan sighed. Aye, that they had. He made after the smaller man, and Cheen and Hok followed.

  The Mist Mage was nearly done with his spell. A few words more and he would regain the flesh permanently. He felt a surge of happiness build within him, but he kept it from spilling forth, at least until he could say the last line of the spell. Eight words more, six, four "There it is!" a woman yelled.

  Dimma mispronounced the second to last word of the spell that would have made him whole.

  He screamed. "Is there no end to this!"

  He turned his attention to the four people who had invaded his chamber. A woman was moving toward one of his talismans. Who were these interlopers? What were they doing here, voiding his attempts to free himself of his curse?

  The largest man, a barbaric-looking fellow replete with thick muscles, leaped toward Dimma, wielding a sword. The man swung the blade in a manner that would have cleaved the wizard in half, had he been other than mist. As it was, the sword passed harmlessly through him, trailing no more than wisps of fog.

  The swordsman looked puzzled, and tried a second cut, to the same end. Dimma would have laughed, had he not been so enraged.

  The blast of magical force Dimma had directed at the unfortunate Ranafrosch had almost completely depleted his personal powers; otherwise he would have swept the four from his sight with the same kind of infernal rays. As it was, his ire so disrupted his thoughts that he could only come up with a simple holding spell. He spoke aloud three words and made the proper signs and the four people froze into immobility, the big one with the sword raised for a third strike. The fool would die in that pose, as soon as Dimma was finished with his important business.

  To assure his privacy, Dimma floated to the shattered door and peered into the hall. There were a number of bodies lying about, but no sign of anyone else alive to disturb his conjuration. Thank all the base Gods for that!

  Dimma returned to his strong room and began his spell for what he hoped would be the final time.

  Conan felt as -though he were bound in an invisible net; he was unable to move more than a hair before he met the unseen resistance. He strained his powerful muscles to their utmost, to no avail. The wizard had laid some kind of spell upon them, and whatever he was saying at the moment, Conan felt certain that it would not serve him and his companions were the wizard to finish it.

  The mage floated with his back to them, and Conan could see the wall beyond through the body of the wizard as the man-was he a man?-droned out some doubtlessly evil incantation.

  But . . . what could he do? He was trapped. and even if free, he had seen that his weapon was useless against the magician.

  The breath of doom cooled his spine.

  Dimma unwound the final words carefully, all his concentration upon them. Nothing would interrupt him this time, not if the entire castle were to sink, nothing!

  The last syllable of the last word rolled forth from Dimma's lips into the still air and hung there echoing softly.

  The wizard held his breath, waiting. He had done it. Would it work? Would anything happen?

  The air about the Mist Mage began to swirl, he could feel himself stirring. Something was happening!

  The currents of magic within which Dimma had lived almost his entire life also stirred as did the air, drawing into themselves all the esoteric forces available in the room.

  It was working!

  The spell, it seemed, was gathering its own power, pulling energies from the air and water and building to add to its tapestry. It took from Dimma part of his own force; he felt it drain from him, but that meant nothing, for when it worked he would be a man again, and able to command much greater powers than he had as a halfling!

  As he felt himself begin to form bones and organs and muscles and start sinking slowly toward the floor, Dimma leaned back his head and howled in triumph. Yes! Yes! It was happening, after all the centuries! At last!

  Conan had been trying unceasingly to break the invisible bonds upon him when he felt them suddenly weaken. His upraised arms came down a little, and now the spell felt more like thick mud around his limbs than a tightly wrapped net. He could move, but slowly.

  In front of the Cimmerian the magician was growing more opaque and solid, settling toward the floor like a broad leaf falling from a tree, floating gently from side to side.

  Conan felt certain that were the wizard to reach the ground and turn, it would be all over for him and his companions. The spell over his body weakened a little more, but he was still sluggish. He would not be able to move fast enough to chop the mage down; it would be like trying to move the sword underwater.

  As the wiz
ard lowered toward the floor, Conan also lowered his blade so that it pointed straight ahead. He could not cut, but mayhap he could use the point like a spear. He managed a step. His legs felt as if they were bound in pants of iron, his feet shod in boots of lead. Sweat broke from his skin as he strained to take another step. The wizard was only three spans away, another four or five steps and he would be there.

  If he had the time.

  Yes, he was becoming as he once was, Dimma felt, and in another moment he would be free, forever. He had already decided how he would destroy this entire realm. Far below the waters of the lake, a magical shield kept the molten rock under it from bursting forth as once it had ten million years past. He had placed the shield there when the mountain had rumbled two centuries ago, linking the protective device to his own soul. Should he die, the shield would vanish, and a river of lava would jet up to boil the waters of the lake before spilling over the sides of the mountain to cook everything it touched: He could also release the spell as he transported himself magically away, and by all the Dark Gods, he would do so!

  His feet were nearly touching the floor now, and' he knew that when they did, he would have defeated the old wizard's dying curse. He began to laugh. Triumphant, finally!

  Conan took another step, the sword held in front of him with both hands. His speed increased a little, but it was still no more than a crawl. Three paces more and he would be there; two . . . but-the magician had settled to the floor now, and he was starting to turn-Dimma felt his muscles tense as they took up his new weight, the floor solidly under his feet. Done. And now to destroy personally those who had dared to interrupt his labors before leaving the molten rock to finish everyone else.

  He turned slowly. "Time to die," he said.

  With all his strength, Conan lunged. It was slow, the move, but his entire being was behind the sword. The wizard turned as the point of the blade arrived. The broadsword sank into the magician's new body just under the breastbone and continued on, slowly, but surely. Blued iron passed through the mage's heart and between two segments of spine before piercing the skin of his back and then his cloak, to emerge into the still air.