The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  Satisfied that the arcane device was safely nestled away, the senator turned around. A warm wind ruffled his long blond hair, giving his head almost a tawny glow. The sun glinted from his eyes as he moved, and that glint showed strangely shaped pupils more akin to a creature designed for predatory attack from above than to a man. Methodically, Lemparius removed his clothing. He stripped away his tunic and silken underbreeches first, then his sandals, until he stood naked on sandy ground bounded by a wall as tall as three men. He was alone in the vast clearing, so none beheld his nakedness.

  None saw what followed.

  Lemparius began to change. His contours altered, the skin and muscles flowing like fresh potter's clay. Bones crackled; cartilage tore asunder; the blond hair of a man thickened and turned into the tawny pelt of an animal, the hair sprouting as might weeds in some hellish garden. Lemparius's face seemed to sink. His nose flattened and broadened at the nostrils; his mouth stretched and his teeth fused and grew until the canines became fangs.

  What had been a man groaned as it dropped onto all fours. Claws replaced nails, paws metamorphized from fingers and toes. The man's form shrank in places, stretched in other places, and when at last the metamorphosis was complete, the sthenic form that stood there was no longer any design of ape.

  That which prowled the estate of Lemparius, one of the Treble Strands of the Senate Whip, was the spawn of cats: It was Lemparius, panther, one of the werefolk.

  And the cat-beast was hungry.

  Chapter Three

  The sun had made but a small part of its journey across the morning sky when Conan entered the city of Mornstadinos. From a distance the Cimmerian had been unable to perceive the convolutions of the narrow streets. He now traversed myriad alleys, cul-de-sacs, and cobbled roads which appeared to have been laid out by someone besotted, blind, or mad. If a pattern existed to the maze, Conan was unable to discern it.

  Here sat a stable full of horses and stinking of dung; next to the stable stood a temple replete with cowled oblates; beyond that edifice an open air market dealt in fruit and baked goods.

  The barbarian's stomach rumbled, insistent in its hunger. He strode to the market, attracting more than a few stares at his muscular form.

  From a woven basket Conan extracted a loaf of hard black bread. He poked the loaf with one finger, then waved the bread at an old woman.

  "How much'?" he said.

  The woman named a figure: "Four coppers."

  Conan shook his head. "Nay, old one. I do not wish to buy your house and grandchildren, only this loaf of stale bread."

  The old woman cackled. "Since it is obvious you are a stranger, I shall make you a bargain. Three coppers."

  "Again, I have no desire for the entire basket of these rocks you would sell as bread, only the one." Conan waved the loaf and scowled.

  "Ah, you would cheat an old woman of her hard labor? Very well then, I will accept two coppers and the loss so that you may think us hospitable in the Jewel of Corinthia."

  "Where is your dagger, old woman? Surely a cutpurse who would steal my money must need a blade. Though I will allow that your tongue and wit are sharp enough."

  The woman cackled again. "Ah, you're a handsome boy; you remind me of my son. I could not see you starve for want of a copper. One will buy you the best bread on the street. "

  "Done, Grandmother."

  Conan reached into his pouch and retrieved one of his few coins. He handed it to the old woman, who nodded, smiling.

  "One other favor," Conan said. "You are right in calling me a stranger.

  Where might a man find an inn and some wine with which to wash down the best bread on the street?"

  "A man of means might find a number of places. But a man who would haggle over a few coppers with an old woman has fewer choices, meseems.

  Down this road, two turnings to the right and one to the left, such a man could find the Milk of Wolves Inn. And if this man was some outlander who might not be able to read civilized writings, he might look for a picture of a wolf salient above the door."

  "A wolf what?"

  "Standing on her hind legs about to leap," the old woman said, cackling again.

  "Well met, then, mistress baker. And farewell."

  Conan located the Milk of Wolves Inn with no difficulty and, bearing his loaf of black bread, strode inside. The youngful hour seemed no barrier to the fair-sized crowd standing or seated at long wooden tables around the room. Most of the men appeared to be locals, judging from looks and clothing; several women were serving steaming bowls, and others offered hints of pleasures other than food or drink. He had been in many such places. Passable, for the most part, and cheap.

  The Cimmerian found a vacant place at one end of a table and seated himself. He looked around the room, scrutinizing the patrons. Most of the men were probably poor but engaged in some honest trade: coopers, smiths, tradesmen, and the like. To his left Conan saw a group of four men who looked more unsavory, probably cutpurses or strong-arm thieves.

  The largest of the four was of medium height, but very broad and heavily muscled, with dark eyes and blue-black hair; further, he had an enormous hook nose, which resembled a bird's beak. Conan had seen men with similar countenances before, men bearing a mix of Shemite and Stygian blood. This beak-faced one looked dangerous, not a man to turn one's back on.

  Seated near the four was an odd pair: an old man with white hair and the weight of a good sixty or seventy winters riding his stooped shoulders, and a girl, a child of twelve or thirteen. The old man was dressed in a long robe with full sleeves. The girl, auburn-haired. wore blue hose and boots and a short jerkin of supple leather. Additionally, she carried a short sword under a broad belt, in the Turanian style.

  "Your pleasure, sir?"

  Conan looked up at the speaker, a fat wench draped in a shapeless dress much stained by food and drink. The barbarian fetched out one of his last three coppers and held it up. "Would this buy me a cup of decent wine?"

  "It will buy you a cup of wine. How decent such a beverage is I leave to your judgment."

  "That bad, eh? Well, I am in no position to be choosy. I shall risk the vintage."

  The girl left, taking Conan's coin. The Cimmerian halfturned, to study the old man and the auburn-haired girl.

  Conan quickly became aware that he was not the only person regarding the pair. The four Conan had marked as strong-arm thieves were also taking an uncommon interest. Such did not bode well for them, Conan figured. But it was not his business. He turned his gaze back toward the serving girl, who approached bearing an earthen mug brimming with dark red liquid. Some of the wine sloshed over the lip of the cup as she set it onto the table. Without saying anything, the girl moved off to see to other patrons.

  Conan tasted the wine. In truth, it was not bad; certainly, he had drunk both better and worse. It would wash the bread down and help fill his belly for now. Later he could worry about his next meal. He broke a chunk of the black bread and tore off a mouthful of it with his strong teeth. The bread, too, was passable. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste.

  Nearby, Beak-nose gestured at the old man and girl with a quick movement of his head. Two of his companions rose from the table and began to sidle toward the pair. One of the men toyed with the handle of his dagger; the other man merely scratched at his scraggly beard.

  Beneath drawn brows Conan watched, interested. He took another bite of the bread.

  When the two men were a few steps away from the old man, several people seated or standing near the inn's doorway gasped. Conan glanced toward the door and saw men scrambling to get out of the way of something. He could not see what caused the commotion, but it was as if a wind cut a path through a field of tall grain. As the crowd rippled aside, the cause became apparent.

  Scuttling across the sawdust-covered floor was a spider. This creature was like none the Cimmerian had ever gazed upon before. It was the size of his fist, covered with fine hair, and glowed like a lantern inlaid with rubies:
indeed, the thing pulsed, as might a throbbing heart.

  Without hesitation the spider ran to the table at which the old man sat; in an eyeblink it scuttled up a table leg; another second saw the glowing arachnid leap in a graceful arc to land squarely in the mug of wine the old man held in one gnarled fist. The wine emitted a loud sizzle, a pop, and a small cloud of red vapor suddenly floated above the mug.

  With every eye locked into a stare upon him, the old man smiled calmly, raised the cup to his lips, and drank.

  Beak-nose's two minions suddenly decided they had business elsewhere, that they were late for such business, and that further delay would be disastrous. At least it seemed that way to Conan as he watched the two men scramble over each other in order to be first to reach the door.

  Behind Conan someone uttered an oath and muttered, "Magic!"

  At that moment the girl seated next to the old man leaped up. She tossed a moldy sunfruit into the air. Conan saw her set and guessed what would happen. A heartbeat later the girl pulled the short sword from its sheath smoothly and slashed it back and forth at the falling fruit. At first it might have appeared she had missed with her strokes, but Conan's sharp eyes beheld the truth and he grinned even as the fruit continued its fall-now in four pieces instead of one.

  The Cimmerian chewed another bite of bread. Here was a message for all who chose this particular morning to breakfast at the Milk of Wolves Inn: This old man and girl were not so helpless as they might appear; best to tread elsewhere for easy pickings.

  Beak-nose was not amused. He glowered at the old man, his own cup of wine clutched so tightly that the knuckles of his dark hand were chalk-white.

  Someone at the door gasped again. A second spider appeared, this time heading for the foot of Beak-nose's table. Without preamble the hairy arachnid scrabbled up onto the rough wood and leaped into the man's wine.

  Conan laughed. A challenge! Would he dare to drink?

  Uttering a cry of wordless rage, Beak-nose leaped up and tossed the mug away with a backhanded flinging motion. The mug and its contents flew straight at Conan's face.

  There was no danger, Conan knew. He raised one muscled arm to bat the mug away; unfortunately, the hand he chose contained the loaf of bread, the better part of which was as yet uneaten. The wine drenched the bread as the mug struck it, knocking Conan's breakfast onto the filth of the muchtrodden sawdust floor. Conan stared at the bread as it rolled over three times, covering itself with a layer of grime.

  In better times, such an occurrence might be amusing, especially were it to happen to someone else; but at the moment Conan failed to see the humor. First his horse and all his gold had been lost; now his food.

  The Cimmerian took a deep breath, and the air fed his quick rage as wind feeds a hot fire.

  Beak-nose had drawn his own blade and was advancing upon his intended victims. The child bravely pulled her own small sword and moved to cover the white-haired man, who tried to pull her back to safety.

  Conan's broadsword hissed as the leather sheath stroked it in its passage. Conan raised his blade and clenched the handle with both hands.

  "You-you filth!" Conan roared.

  The man turned in surprise. What he saw must have surely alarmed him, for he spun and tried to position his sword for a block or parry. At the same time, he tried to backstep away. He managed neither. Conan's sword caught Beak-nose in the middle of the breastbone and a hand's span of sharp steel sliced its way downward, opening the man as might a vivisectionist, from sternum to crotch. The man's face contorted in shock as his entrails spilled through the massive rent in his body. He fell backward, his spirit already on its way to join his ancestors.

  Conan's rage was only partially spent. He looked around for the fourth member of the band. That one, however, was not in evidence. Conan glared at the inn's patrons, who all shrank away from the big youth with the bloody sword. All save one.

  The young girl approached Conan, smiling. She had sheathed her sword, and when she drew near Conan saw that the girl barely reached his chest in height. With great reluctance he lowered his broadsword. He stared at the child. "Well?"

  "Thank you, sir, for saving us." Her voice was warm. Indeed, the very air seemed to grow warmer as she stood there staring up at the Cimmerian.

  "Do not thank me," Conan said, his voice still rough and angry. "The scum destroyed my breakfast. Would that he had put up a better fight, so that I might have made him suffer for it."

  The girl's mouth opened into an O as Conan spoke, her face filled with shock and puzzlement.

  The murmur of voices began to rise to fill the inn.

  "-you see that strike? Such power!"

  "-split him like a chicken-foreigner from some backwoods-"

  A thin man with a jagged scar that lifted both his lip and left nostril came closer, warily watching the Cimmerian's unsheathed blade. He wore a splattered apron that might have once been white, but now displayed the remains of too many spilled wine cups and meals to be more than a splotched gray. Likely the owner of the inn, Conan judged.

  The innkeeper glanced down at the dead man. His perpetual sneer seemed to increase a bit. "So, Arsheva of Khemi has finally picked the wrong victim." The man looked up at Conan. "Few men deserve such an exit from this life so much as he; he shall not be missed, and no mistake about that." Pulling a rag from the pocket of his apron, he tendered it to Conan. "Here. wipe your blade, sir, lest Arsheva's gore chew upon the steel with teeth of rust."

  Conan took the greasy rag and methodically cleaned his sword.

  "Still," the man said, "the Senate's Deputation will no doubt eventually arrive for an investigation of Arsheva's passing. I trust you had sufficient reason to dispatch him to the next world?"

  Conan slid his sword into its leathern home. "Aye," he began, "my reasons were just. This offal-intended to attack myself and my assistant," the old white-haired man said. "This man is our bodyguard; he was merely performing his job in protecting us."

  Conan stared at him. What was he about? He started to speak, but the old man interrupted again. "We shall finish our breakfast whilst awaiting the deputies. If you would bring my friend here a tray to replace the meal he lost, along with a bottle of your better wine, I should be most grateful." Here the old man raised a wrinkled and age-twisted hand bearing a small coin of silver. "And the balance of this for your trouble in this matter."

  Scar-face took the coin, and nodded. "Aye. Obviously, a gentleman of means such as yourself will have no difficulties convincing the Senate's Deputation of your position in this matter." He drew back a chair at the old man's table for Conan. "I'll tend to your meal, sir."

  Seated with the old man and girl, Conan waited for answers to his unasked questions. Earlier, he had held his tongue, reasoning that the old man had some purpose in coming to his aid. Perhaps it was merely to thank him for splitting the blackguard who would have attacked the girl. While unintentional, Conan had served them, certainly. But the barbarian now suspected there was more to be said than words of thanks.

  The old man waited until the inn's patrons focused their attention elsewhere before he spoke. "I am Vitarius and this"-he waved his arm in its voluminous sleeve toward the girl-"this is Eldia, my assistant. I am a conjurer of small talent, an entertainer of sorts. We wish to thank you for taking our part in this matter."

  Conan nodded, waiting.

  "I sensed you were about to speak of your true reason for slaying our would-be assassin-he who slew your loaf of bread-which is why I injected my remarks."

  Conan nodded again. The old man was not without sharpness of sight and wit.

  "The deputies who will come to speak with us are corrupt for the most part. A few pieces of silver will expedite the resolution in our favor without a doubt; still, carving a man for knocking a loaf of bread to the floor is hardly considered just punishment in the minds of the Mornstadinosian Senate. Protecting a patron from attack by a cutthroat thief is sufficient reason to draw steel, however."

&nb
sp; The young giant nodded. "I am Conan of Cimmeria. I have done you a favor and you have thus returned it; let us then consider the scales balanced."

  "So be it," Vitarius said. "After breakfast, at least."

  "Aye, that I will allow."

  A serving girl arrived with a tray of hard rolls, fruit, and a greasy cut of pork, along with another cup of wine of a vintage better than the first drink Conan had partaken of. He ate with gusto, and washed the food down with gulps of the red liquid.

  Vitarius watched Conan intently. When the Cimmerian was done with his meal, the conjurer spoke. "We are quits on debts; still, I have a proposition in which you might find some merit. Eldia and I demonstrate our simple illusions at street fairs and market gatherings, and we could use a man such as yourself."

  Conan shook his head. "I truckle not with magic."

  "Magic? Surely you do not think my illusions are magic? Nay, I work with the simplest of the arts, no more. Would I be in such a place as this were I a real magician?"

  Conan considered that. The old man had a point.

  "Still, of what use could I be to a conjurer?"

  Vitarius glanced at Eldia, then looked back at Conan.

  "That blade of yours, for one. Your strength, for another. Eldia and I are hardly capable of protecting ourselves from such as the one you slew. She is adept with her own sword for demonstrating speed and skill, but hardly a match for a full-grown man in a duel. My illusions might scare the superstitious, but in the end can hardly sway a determined assassin, as you have just seen."

  Conan chewed on his lower lip. "I am bound for Nemedia."