The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  The spell holding Conan vanished of a moment, and the release sent the Cimmerian forward like a hurled rock. His sword's hilt slammed into the dying wizard's abdomen and the mage was knocked from his feet and two spans backward by the force of it. He twisted as he fell, and landed on his side.

  "N-n-n-o-o-o-o-ooooo!" was all that he said, a lamenting wail. He shuddered once, and was still.

  Dimma the Mist Mage was no more.

  Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  "Is he dead?" Cheen asked, coming to stand next to Conan.

  Before he could speak, the body on the floor began to change. As they watched, the solid form of the Mist Mage began to shrivel, as a piece of fat tossed into a hot fire shrinks. The magician's skin thinned and wrinkled and became like old parchment, then disappeared completely. The flesh under it did much the same, and after a moment only the bones remained, yellowish at first, then turning pale, chalky white before crumbling to powder. The entire transformation took less than a minute, and at the end, nothing remained of the Mist Mage save a thin layer of dust on the flagstones.

  "Aye," Conan said, "I would say he is dead."

  "Older than he looked, too, I would wager," Tair added.

  Cheen turned away and went to the cause of their quest. She lifted the Seed gently from where it lay and held it up before her face, staring at it reverently.

  "We can go now," she said.

  Conan looked around. "Aye. But perhaps we might tarry long enough to collect a few baubles." His keen eyes detected the yellow gleam of gold in some of the fittings in the room, and surely that faceted green jewel next to the destroyed door was of some value? This venture might prove most rewarding after all.

  The floor rumbled beneath Conan's feet, rocking him.

  "What was that?" Hok said.

  The adults looked at each other. "It felt like an earth tremor," Conan said.

  "On the water? Not likely?"

  The castle shook again, hard enough so that Conan had trouble maintaining his stance. Cheen fell to one knee, and even the fine balances of Tair and Hok were disturbed. A large crack appeared in the ceiling and dust showered down from the gap.

  "Whatever the cause, best we get out of here before it collapses on us," Conan said.

  The others followed his lead as the Cimmerian ran for the doorway. He skirted the dead monster, reached out to snatch the jewel from the stand next to the opening, and stuffed the gem into his belt pouch as he ran.

  A creature with the body of a dog and the face of a monkey ran past, looking fearful, and Conan fell in behind it.

  "What are you doing?" Cheen asked. "We came in from the opposite direction!"

  "This beast lives here, likely it knows the halls better than we."

  The dog-thing scrabbled across the stones as it rounded a corner, Conan and the others right behind it. Ahead, a pair of selkies also ran, and if they noticed the people behind them, they gave no sign of it.

  The floor shook again, the hardest tremor yet, and even Conan could not stay on his feet. He tumbled, managed to roll on one shoulder and come up without injury. A chunk of the wooden archway supporting the ceiling just ahead of him shook itself loose and fell to the floor with a loud clatter. More cracks laced up the walls and across the ceiling.

  Whatever it was that had the wizard's castle in its grasp, it did not appear that the structure would survive.

  "Quickly!" Conan ordered.

  The other three managed to clamber to their feet to rejoin Conan once again.

  The dog-thing was nearly out of sight, but Conan spied it up ahead and once again gave chase.

  Through the corridors they ran, with the building shaking and twisting around them, walls starting to collapse, the floor buckling.

  Finally the dog-thing led them to a door. It moaned at the closed portal, scratching at the wood with its paws, until Conan arrived. "Move aside!"

  The dog-thing obeyed, and Conan twisted the handle and shoved the door wide. Beyond lay another door. They all ran toward it, opened it, and saw yet a third portal. Conan swore and leaped at the final barrier, flinging it wide.

  Night still held sway outside, but the stars shined down on them, and Conan led his companions and the dog-thing out into the clean air. A heartbeat later, the Sargasso shook violently and the portal through which they had only just passed collapsed behind them.

  "A near thing," Tair said, staring at the fallen doorway.

  "We are not safe yet," Cheen said. "Look!"

  Conan turned to follow her pointing finger.

  In the distance, great clouds of steam rose from the lake, nearly blotting out the moon. The clouds were lit from below by an orange glow.

  The weed undulated again, and a roaring sound in the distance came as more steam boiled upward and the orange glow increased in brightness.

  "A volcano," Tair said. "The mountain is coming to life underneath the lake!"

  Conan nodded. He knew of such things, where the rock itself flowed like honey down the slopes of hollow mountains, burning everything in its path. The lake would boil like a pot on a cookfire, and everything in it would be scalded to death, the weed included.

  The Sargasso rippled, and they were all thrown down by the hard wave.

  "We have got to get away from here!" Tair said.

  Not far from where they lay, the weed tore suddenly asunder, and water splashed up through the rent.

  Conan stood. "It is a day's walk to the water's edge," he said.

  The Sargasso erupted to his left, spraying torn weed high into the air, and the stench of rotten eggs filled the air. Before Conan could speak, another patch of weed, fifty spans away in the opposite direction, flew upward, and a gout of flame filled the air over the torn weed, roaring and then vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

  "Crom!"

  "We will never make it to the shore," Tair said. "Not through that!"

  "We have no choice," Conan said. "Better to die trying than not."

  "Wait," Cheen said. "Maybe there is another way.

  "I am open to suggestion," Conan said.

  The weed shook again. In the distance, balls of gaseous fire flared and vanished, lighting up the night. A low rumble began and grew louder, and the weed rocked as if it were a boat in a stormy sea.

  "The Seed," she said. "It has great powers."

  "Enough to calm this?"

  She pulled the talisman from her belt and looked at Conan. "Nay. But perhaps it can transport us home."

  "What?"

  "There is a legend that says one who is attuned to the Seed can call upon it for a return to the grove."

  "A legend? Do you know how to invoke it?"

  "I am not certain."

  A blast of fire rose upward a hundred spans from them, a ball that floated upward into the darkness. The heat singed the hair on Conan's arm.

  "Our time runs short," he said. "Try your spell."

  "Gather close," Cheen said. "Link hands."

  Conan and Tair clasped wrists to the Cimmerian's left, and he reached for Hok with his right. The boy darted away.

  "Hok!" Conan called.

  The boy ran to the dog-thing and gathered it up into his arms. The thing quivered, but made no resistance as the boy held it, then ran back to where Conan stood.

  "What are you doing?"

  "It is afraid. We cannot leave it here to die," Hok said.

  He hoisted the thing over one small shoulder and grabbed Conan's right hand with his left, then extended his right arm and hooked it around his sister's arm. Tair also linked elbows with Cheen on her right, leaving her hands free to cup the Seed. She started speaking quietly and quickly, saying something Conan could not understand.

  The noise of an explosion filled the air. In the distance a fountain of red orange reached from the lake toward the stars. A moment later, the weed began to buck wildly. When the others would have fallen, Conan held them up, using all the strength of his thickly thewed legs to stand fast on the gyrating weed.

&nbs
p; Cheen continued to speak in a low, hurried voice.

  The weed snapped upward suddenly, like a man popping a whip, and Conan and the others were hurled skyward. Even as they flew, still connected, he glanced down and saw the weed burst open beneath where they had stood, and a ball of fire coming up from the water. Conan sucked in what he thought would surely be his last breath-When he exhaled, releasing his breath, Conan found himself standing on solid ground beneath the great branches of a giant tree.

  "It worked!" Tair yelled, releasing his grip on Conan to clasp his sister to his chest.

  To Conan's other side, the boy Hok danced in a circle, clutching the dog-thing tightly. The animal yipped excitedly.

  Conan grinned. Magic was by and large something he avoided when he could, but this time he had no problems with this particular example of it. He could not recall looking death so closely in the eye before. He was most glad to be alive.

  For a moment, Conan thought he heard a familiar laugh in .the distance. Is that you, Crom? Making up for your joke by sparing me? If so, you have my thanks.

  The laugh, if there was one, faded, and Conan's grin grew into a full smile. Tomorrow he would resume his interrupted journey to Shadizar. He would bid farewell to Cheen and Tair and Hok and their giant trees, and he would go. The wicked City of Thieves awaited him, its treasures ripe and ready to plunder.

  Conan the Formidable

  ONE

  Along the road toward wicked Shadizar from the Karpash Mountains came the young man, a long blued-iron sword sheathed over his left hip. The lone figure loomed larger than most men; he was tall, broad of shoulder and thick of arm and leg, his skin tanned the color of dry rawhide, with flashing blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong chin.

  Here, the sun remorselessly baked the Zamoran plateau, drawing spirals of heat from the flat, cracked ground. A hot breeze blew and spun small wind devils that twirled briefly with nowhere to go before dwindling to their dusty death.

  That same sweltering breeze stirred the squarecut black mane of the young man as he paused to drink from the leathern water sack he carried. The liquid was tepid and reeked of iron and sulphur, but Conan of Cimmeria had tasted worse and been glad of it. He lowered the skin and looked around.

  There was little to see. The plateau bore scant growth, a few scrubby bushes here and there. Ahead, perhaps another three hours' walk, was a rocky outcrop, not quite a foothill, but offering some trees and shade, did Conan's sharp eyes not lie.

  The journey toward Shadizar had been long and treacherous, and even though the sun smote him with its hot hand, Conan was glad of the quiet desolation. Thus far he had encountered all manner of dangers from men and beasts, and things worse than either. It was his good fortune to have survived, albeit he would have done so in a somewhat better style had he been able. He wished now for a robe to reflect the bright light from his brawny frame; that would make the walk cooler and easier.

  The Cimmerian laughed aloud. "Aye," he said to the empty, cooked landscape, "a robe and a horse, and a bag of gold across the fine saddle, while I am wishing!"

  He took another drink of the water, plugged the skin, and started walking again. He had a fine sword, its edge sharped to razor keenness; he wore a pair of leather under-breeks, a wide belt and a purse, though this container was empty, and he had a water skin yet half full. More, he had strong legs, and sturdy feet shod in well-cut sandals. A man could do a lot worse. Conan's god was Crom the Warrior, and Crom allowed a man measures of things at birth: a certain amount of strength, this much cunning, that much wisdom. After that a man was on his own; Crom cared not for whiners, and it did not pay to call upon the god for favors.

  Conan had seen Crom once. Or thought he had. He smiled at the memory. Aye. What a man did with what he was given was up to him. And what Conan had was a desire to travel to the City of Thieves to ply the trade of that metropolis and become wealthy. A few more days and he would finally arrive. Once there and laden with stolen jewels and coins, he could drink and wench and enjoy his well-earned luxury.

  Until then, he would walk.

  As night drew her twilight veils across the land, she allowed a welcome coolness to flow into the air. Conan found himself in the outcrop toward which he had trudged, and the road to Shadizar wound now its way through hardy evergreen trees and thicker scrub brush. He saw signs of small animals and decided he would construct several snares with which to catch his supper before making camp for the night. He had no cloak, nor had he furs to soften the ground, but it would be the work of only a few moments to make a bed of branches and aromatic needles. The evening was already cooler than the day by far, but it would not grow much more so; he had outwalked finally the frosty breath of the mountains.

  It was while setting his third snare of twisted vines that the Cimmerian's keen hearing detected a noise normally foreign to the lairs of ground squirrels.

  Somebody sneezed. He had never heard such a sound from a rabbit, and certainly no rabbit would follow the sneeze with a soft but definitely human curse.

  Giving no sign that he had heard, Conan continued to set the snare, looping the vine over the bent sapling and locking into place the notched pegs that held the trap cocked. Alerted, however, the Cimmerian strained his ears to catch other sounds in the gathering dusk.

  He was near the edge of the road, astride a narrow animal trail that disappeared into a thicket of thorny bushes. A small clearing of dry grasses lay to his left, and a stand of evergreen trees with heavy undergrowth stood across the road. It was from this last area that the sneeze had come.

  As he finished the snare, Conan's ears continued their report. There came the rasp of iron against leather-a short sword or dirk being drawn-the liquid clink of chain mail and the creak of leather armor, another sneeze and a muted curse, followed by a whispered admonition for silence. This last was in a heavily accented version of the Zamoran common tongue.

  So. He had unseen companions in yon trees, and from the sound of them, they had questionable intent. A friendly party would have hailed him in the open and not skulked about in hiding, drawing weapons and urging each other to silence.

  Conan considered his surroundings. He would move toward the thorn bushes and put his back to them. No one would be coming from that direction.

  With the Cimmerian, the thought was the deed. He strode to the bushes, turned to face the woods, and drew his broadsword. Night had not yet won her battle with day, and the sinking sun glinted from the blued blade as it sang forth from its scabbard with the tones of dry leather rubbed on cold iron. Conan gripped the handle with both hands, right over left, and swung the weapon back and forth to limber his wrists and shoulders.

  "Ho, dogs of the night! Come forth and declare yourselves!"

  After ten heartbeats, the bandits began moving noisily through the brush and out onto the packed dirt of the road. There were six of them, and Conan did not doubt that they were brigands. They wore the vestiges of military gear; odd collections of mail, gauntlets, and bowl-shaped brass helmets. Perhaps they had once been warriors in some army, or perhaps they had merely waylaid some poor troop and stolen the armor. Two of the men carried short and curved swords; two more held wooden spears with daggerlike points; one man bore a pair of fat knives, and the last man carried a morning star-an iron ball studded with spikes and mounted on a wooden handle as long as Conan's arm. A motley assemblage, to be sure.

  The man with the morning star stepped out ahead of the others. He was short but wide and muscular, and nearly bald. He did not wear a helmet. "No need to be insulting, barbarian. We are not night dogs, but merely . . . ah . . . poor pilgrims on a journey."

  Conan laughed. Was that supposed to make him put away his sword? "Pilgrims?"

  "Aye, and as such, we are short of coins. Perchance would you happen to have any you could contribute to our cause?"

  No.

  "Ah. Well, that sword you wave about so dangerously might be worth something. We could sell it."

  "I am not di
sposed to give it up."

  The man waved the morning star at his band. "There are six of us and but one of you. Give us the sword and whatever valuables you carry and you may leave here unharmed."

  "Pardon me for not trusting you, but I think not."

  "There are still six of us to your one."

  "That can be changed." Conan grinned wolfishly, showing his strong white teeth.

  The man with the morning star shrugged. He turned to his men. "Alas, the gods wish us to work for our living, brothers. Slay him."

  The six spread out and began to move toward the Cimmerian. He watched them and assessed their strengths as they came at him. The spear carriers plodded, both being fat men, and Conan ranked them low in skill. The swordsmen were young, although one walked with a limp and the other nervously shifted his grip on his weapon like a man playing a flute. If the bandit with the two knives had survived many encounters such as this with no more than those weapons, he must be fast and adept. And the leader, with the spiked iron ball, had probably become leader by besting any challengers. All of them could kill and had probably done so before, but the leader and the knifeman were the ones to be most wary of, Conan judged.

  Likely they expected him to stand fast and parry their attacks, using the thorn bushes as protection for his back. That would be the most prudent and expected defense.

  It was for that reason that as they formed a ragged semicircle around him, Conan screamed and leaped at the brigands.

  The two spearmen were closest. Startled, they tried to back up and thrust with their spears at the same time. Neither act did they do well. The Cimmerian swung the sword and slammed the first man's spear shaft aside. He continued the stroke in a circle over his head and brought the blued-iron blade down. The sharp edge sheared through the brass helmet and bit deeply into skull and brain, and the spearman dropped as if his legs had disappeared.

  The other spearman turned to flee, and Conan jerked his blade from the head of the first attacker and jumped at the man, skewering him from the side, driving the point of the sword deeply in between two ribs and through one lung and the heart. The man screamed and dropped his spear to grab the thing killing him. He lost four fingers as Conan jerked the blade free and slung blood from it into the eyes of the nervous swordsman trying to sneak behind him.