The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  "Set's balls-!" the man began. He did not finish the curse, for Conan's sandaled foot caught him in the belly and knocked him back into the knifeman.

  It was unexpected, and the knifeman thrust out with his knives in reaction, burying both to the hilt in the amazed swordsman's kidneys. The killed man fell, taking one of the knives with him.

  The limping swordsman lunged at Conan, slipped, and fell onto his face. As the Cimmerian dodged back to avoid the fallen man, he in turn tripped over the first spearman.

  "Crom!"

  The knife wielder leaped in to gut him, but Conan snapped his blade up even while lying sprawled on his back and the tip entered the man's pubis. The man screamed girlishly, dropped his knife and clutched at himself, staggering off and out of the fray.

  The limping sword carrier scrambled up and dove at the fallen Cimmerian-only to impale himself on the awaiting blued iron. Here was good luck and bad. Conan's sword buried itself in bone and was wrenched from his grip in the other man's final agony. He fell across Conan's legs and clutched them in a death grip. He was trapped!

  "Prepare to meet your god!" the leader said as he jumped in and raised the morning star to smash Conan's face. Conan twisted, nearly tearing free of the death grip on his legs, but he knew he was too slow-!

  Then from out of the night came a whooshing noise, almost like that of an arrow whistling but louder, and the bandit leader suddenly sprouted a fence post from the center of his back. The morning star fell and sank into the body of the dead man on Conan's legs.

  Conan stared. What had entered the leader's back and pierced through to exit from his chest was no post. It was a spear, but what a spear! The leaf-shaped blade was longer and wider and thicker than Conan's hand, and the shaft to which it was affixed was as big around as his arm.

  The leader fell backward, but stopped as the butt of the huge spear hit the ground. After a heartbeat, the dead bandit toppled to one side.

  Conan bent and pried the dead swordsman's fingers from his leg and pulled himself free of the corpse. He stared at the bandit leader. What kind of arm could throw a spear that big, hard enough to go through a man that way?

  As Conan got to his feet and looked for his sword, three forms came from the trees. In the thickening dark and at first glance, he could see that they were two men and a woman, dressed in leather and homespun wool. The men carried spears, which meant it was likely the woman had thrown the one that had killed the bandit and saved Conan. Amazing.

  He stared at them in awe. They looked just like other men and women he had seen throughout his travels, save for one important difference. Even the woman, who was the smallest of the three, was easily half again Conan's own height, and probably twice his weight.

  Giants. He was facing three giants.

  Two

  Despite his amazement, Conan recovered his sword and began wiping the gore from the blade, using the shirt of one of the dead bandits. A man who did not see to the care of his weapons did not deserve to have them.

  "I owe you my life," he said to the giants.

  The three spoke slowly to each other in a language Conan did not know. A moment passed. Then the woman, who had raven hair past her shoulders and a form that was unmistakably female despite her great size, turned toward the Cimmerian. She spoke to him in the same Zamoran commontongue in which he had addressed the trio.

  "You fought well. You are not of the local tribes of men."

  Her voice was understandably deep, but feminine. Her features, large though they were, were not unattractive, and her proportions were like those of an ordinary woman grown nearly twice normal size. Conan had seen men who were supposed to be giants, but most of those were oddly built, with thick brows and lips, and hands and feet distorted from the usual.

  "I am Conan, of Cimmeria," he said, "a country far to the north of here. I journey to Shadizar." He inspected his blade for nicks and was pleased to find it free from such defects.

  Another pause, and the woman turned to speak to her companions in that same language they had used earlier. After yet another long moment, she turned back toward Conan. They seemed very deliberate in their actions, he noted.

  "Our village is near the road to Shadizar. Perhaps you might like to visit us?"

  "Are any more of your people so . . . large as you?"

  "Except for the children, we are all of like size."

  Conan considered that. A village full of giants! Certainly that would be a sight to behold. Shadizar had waited this long-surely it would wait another day or two?

  "Aye, a visit to your village would be worthwhile."

  One of the male giants went to retrieve the woman's spear from the body of the bandit leader. The weapon came loose easily in the giant's grip; it made a noise somewhat between that of a boot being pulled from mud and a nail twisted free of wet wood. He handed it to the woman.

  "That spear was well thrown," Conan said.

  "I am called Teyle," she said, "and we are known as the Jatte people. I can sometimes hit my target with this-"she thumped the spear's butt on the hard ground-"but I have little strength compared to most."

  Conan looked at the wound in the chest of the dead bandit, a hole into which he could easily have inserted his hand. The strongest normal man would have difficulty lifting and hurling the weapon that had done such damage, and this giant woman claimed to be a weakling. What the Jatte people lacked in speed, they most definitely made up for in strength.

  "Have you food?" Teyle asked. "We have wine and cheese and meat. You are welcome to share it."

  "I am in your debt already," Conan said.

  Teyle looked at the dead bandits. "These were carrion eaters," she said. "They deserved no better than death. It is you who have saved us the effort of removing most of them."

  Well, that was true enough, though he had done it for his own reasons. And such work did make a man hungry.

  "Wine, you said?"

  "Aye."

  Conan slept well, his dreams fueled by the free and excellent wine, his rest made better by knowing a trio of stalwart giants shared his campsite.

  Surely they meant him no harm, when they could have easily slain him at the same time they slew the bandit leader.

  When dawn streaked the clear skies with its first glimmers, the Cimmerian arose feeling much refreshed. Here was another adventure, but one that seemed without the dangers of his most recent travels. A village of giants need fear little, and he was their guest.

  As they set out on the road after a filling breakfast, Teyle, the only one of the trio with whom he could converse, told Conan something of the Jatte's history.

  "Three hundred years past," she said, "our ancestors were brought to life by a wizard who needed strong backs for construction of his castle. He was a benevolent magician, and when the work was done, he gave the Jatte their freedom. Since that time, we have lived more or less peacefully in the village where first we began."

  It seemed to Conan that a cloud of emotion passed over Teyle's face when she spoke this last sentence, but he did not press her on it.

  They walked in silence for some hours, save for slow conversations among the Jatte trio that Teyle did not bother to translate for the Cimmerian.

  Around midday they came to a narrow path that wound down a cleft in the rocks to their right. Conan followed the three along this trail until it came to parallel a small stream lined with willow trees and cattails. Another hour's walk took them into thicker vegetation, and yet another hour brought them to the beginnings of a swamp. Here the ground turned mushy and the trees grew taller, forming a canopy that kept out the sun's light in many places. A stray beam lanced through here and there, but the buzz of insects and the slosh of the water were largely undisturbed by the sun that had rested so heavily upon Conan only the previous day.

  The path had long since vanished, but the giants seemed to know just where to step to avoid sinking into the increasing mire. This was not a journey the Cimmerian would like to undertake the first
time alone, for patches of quicksand and mud were apparent nearly everywhere, and serpents slithered across their track more than once, some of the snakes being as big around as Conan's legs and thrice the length of a man. As long as he was following the giants, however, he did not worry. Where they could put their huge feet and enormous weight, he had no fear of treading.

  It was while they halted on a relatively dry patch of the swamp to eat that Conan's keen ears detected a strange chittering noise in the distance. It was almost like that of a ditch frog after a hard rain.

  The giants noticed the sound as well. The taller of the two males snarled and said, "Vargs!" He spat on the damp ground.

  Conan turned to Teyle. "Vargs?"

  The woman nodded, "Swamp-dwelling beasts. They are like Jatte but very small. Smaller even than you. They have green, mottled skins, they file their teeth to points, and they are the worst kind of savages. They roam in packs and they . . . eat Jatte flesh."

  Conan considered that. A creature that ate giants might also be disposed to eat human flesh. Unconsciously, his right hand drifted over to touch the handle of his broadsword.

  "They are cowards," she continued, "and attack only if they outnumber us a dozen to one. Probably we shall not be bothered by them."

  Conan nodded. Nevertheless, he would stay alert.

  They followed the twisting trail through the swamp. Several times the Cimmerian was warned against a misstep by his companions, and he realized that the village of the giants was unlikely to be visited by accident. Nay, even if someone knew where it lay and was bent on reaching it, the journey would be perilous at best. Conan had a sharp eye for detail, and his memory of trails once traveled would stay clear for long periods. But even so, this was not a trip he would wish to make without great care as to where to put his feet.

  It was late afternoon before they broke free of the swamp and found themselves at the edge of the Jatte village.

  It was an impressive sight.

  The houses were made mostly of wood, with thatch roofs, and even the smallest of them was large by men's standards. A number of the Jatte moved and worked in Conan's view. Here, women pounded grain for flour; there, men cut logs for firewood or construction; yonder, children played at mock battles. It made the Cimmerian feel as if he were but child-sized, as indeed here he was; even those children who had only begun their earliest changes into adults were as large or larger than Conan. He had never seen the like.

  Some of the villagers stopped what they were doing and came to greet the returning trio, and those that came looked at Conan with curious eyes. They chattered at each other in their own tongue, and Conan heard his name mentioned by Teyle.

  After a few moments, Teyle and her two companions led Conan to a large structure near the center of the village. Close to the entrance were a boy and a girl. Both were slightly larger than Conan, though he judged their ages at around thirteen winters. They wore spun-wool shirts and short kilts, and their feet were shod in mottled green leather boots that rose halfway to their knees. Each had hair the color of Teyle's, and there seemed to be a family resemblance.

  Teyle pointed to the boy. "This is Oren." The boy smiled. "And this is Morja, his twin sister. They are my younger siblings."

  Conan nodded at the children.

  "A fine specimen, Teyle!" the boys said.

  Conan looked at the giant woman. "Specimen?"

  "I have taught them something of the language you use," she said. "But they often speak it badly."

  Conan accepted this; true, the young often did things badly.

  "My father is inside," she said. "He wishes to meet you."

  "How can he know of my arrival?"

  "The twins would have told him."

  Inside, the large building was dim, lit only by the numerous windows cut through the walls and left open to the outside. A particularly large giant, nearly twice Conan's own height, stood next to what appeared to be a solid but empty cage near the center of the room. There were tables and chairs set around the perimeter of the enclosure, as well as large baskets of woven straw reeds here and there.

  "Ho, Teyle!" the giant called.

  "Ho, Father."

  Conan and the woman left the others at the doorway and walked toward her father. He wore a dark beard flecked with gray, but was naked save for a tanned animal hide wrapped around his hips and extending to his knees. His chest and shoulders and arms were mounded with heavy muscle, and his skin was tanned darker than Conan's. Conan got the impression that this giant could break him in half with no more effort than a man would expend in breaking a broomstick.

  "This is the man Conan," she said, "who slew five of the men bandits at the plateau outcrop. My father, Raseri, chief of the Jatte, and also the tribe's shaman."

  "Five bandits, eh?" Raseri said, his voice booming loudly in the enclosed space. "Excellent, my daughter! A fine specimen you have brought me!"

  There was that word again, and this time Conan did not think it was used accidentally. He had a sudden stab of worry, and he started to turn to face Teyle.

  He saw her hand, knotted into a great fist that made his own seem tiny, blurring toward his head. "I am sorry," she said.

  Before even his quick reflexes could protect him, the world flashed red and yellow and went black as Conan's consciousness fled his body.

  THREE

  The wagon wound along the High Corinthian Road over the packed snow of the pass into Zamora. The conveyance laboring under the frigid breath of the mountains was constructed mostly of wood, built long and wide, with high sides and a peaked roof of taut and heavy cloth that protected the inside from many of the vagaries of weather. The tall wooden wheels, six in number, were bound by bands of iron, the hubs packed thick with black grease, the spokes wrapped in strips of aged green copper for extra strength. Along the baseboard a vitruvian design had been carved deeply into the wood, though the intricate scrollwork had been bleached as gray as the rest of the aged timber by the sun's unforgiving gaze.

  The vehicle's size was such that it was necessarily restricted to the larger roads, and the speed achieved by its six harnessed oxen was slow at best.

  On the front of the wagon, before a cloth curtain that screened the interior, sat a cowled figure whose face lay in deep shadow. He held the reins connected to the oxen in gloved hands.

  After a moment a second figure emerged from the wagon's bowels and sat next to the driver. This second man was fair, with hair the color of fresh straw, his face clean-shaven and handsome by most standards. He wore a gray woolen robe similar to the driver's. He slapped the driver on the back of one shoulder. "Ho, Penz. Dake would have you stop so that we may prepare a meal."

  A wordless growl issued from under the hood.

  The blond man grinned, showing beautiful teeth. "Ah, hairy one, you are too dour. You need to enjoy life more!"

  With that, the man reached up and grabbed the cowl covering his companion's face and jerked the cloth back, uncovering the one called Penz.

  Penz snarled and swung his gloved fist at the other, hard. The backhanded gesture was powerful, and the force of the strike knocked the blond man from the seat, to fall nearly his own height to the packed snow of the road. Penz reached for his cowl and pulled it back into place, but not before the reason for his distress was obvious to any who might be there to see.

  Penz had the face of a beast. Of a wolf.

  Where a man would have a nose, Penz had a muzzle, ending in a snout. When he showed his teeth in rage, they were long in front, pointed, designed for tearing flesh. And, except for the snout and the deep-set eyes, his entire face was covered with coarse, stiff hair. More like fur than human hair.

  As the oxen drifted to a stop, Penz made as if to leap from the wagon onto the fallen man when a powerful voice cut through the air's hard chill like the lash of a whip.

  "Penz! Hold!"

  The man with the face of a wolf froze as if slammed on the head by a hammer.

  Through the curtain cam
e a third man. He was the opposite of the man struggling to rise in the snow next to the wagon. The third man's skin was swarthy, his hair the color of a flock of ravens; a long mustache dangled well below his squarish chin. He was wide under his robe, and the muscles of his forearms where they cleared the sleeves danced with power as he flexed his fingers into huge fists.

  The blonde meanwhile came to his feet. "I will smash your furry face!"

  The swarthy man glared at the blonde. "Silence, Kreg!"

  The enraged Kreg glared at the speaker, then found cause to look down at the damp spots on his robe. He brushed at the snow still clinging to him and did not speak against the command to hold his tongue.

  To Penz, the swarthy man said, "You are not to strike Kreg. Punishment is mine, do you understand? I am the master here!"

  Penz nodded.

  "Say it!"

  The wolfman managed an understandable reply. "Dake is the master."

  "Good," Dake said. And with that, he swung one of his huge fists and clouted Penz in the chest, knocking him from the wagon and into the grinning Kreg. The blonde's grin vanished as the heavy form of the wolfman knocked him flat into the snow again.

  "And you are not to taunt Penz again," Dake said. He moved back into the wagon, leaving the two men lying on the cold ground.

  Inside, the wagon appeared larger than it did from without. There were benches upon which to sit, latched cabinets built into the sides, and enough sleeping space for a dozen large men. Tro the catwoman and Sab the four-armed man sat looking apprehensively at Dake as he returned to the padded bench that was reserved for his use. He scowled at them. No one in all of Corinthia or Zamora, or even in Koth, had a collection of oddities such as his, but Dake was not satisfied. Tro was as feline as Penz was wolfish. Her body was very womanlike under the fur, however, and more than a few men had paid for the privilege of enjoying the catwoman. Dake had used her himself, though of late he had less desire that way.