The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  As Lemparius padded along behind the wagon he considered for the hundredth time how he might effect Djuvula's destruction. She had rendered him impotent against her directly, but there must be another manner in which he could attack. Something indirect. But-what?

  For a moment the beast took over. Lemparius had to resist the urge to snarl; he had to hold himself in check to keep from sprinting to the front of the wagon, to slash at the horses, to drink from their blood before leaping upon Djuvula to rend her lifeless.

  The moment passed, and the mind of the man once again rode in full control of the animal's form. It would have been a foolish move to be prompted by such feline passions, a wasted effort, doomed from the start.

  The catman shook his head. He would have to do something soon; he must do something ere he lost his human sanity to become a panther in thought as well as in form. He had but one hope in that regard: If Djuvula were to die, perhaps her bewitchment of him might also die. He might then regain his human form. A fragile hope, he knew, but all that he had.

  Of course, there was the matter of Conan, who must die in any event.

  But whether the barbarian was killed by the panther or by the man he had been mattered little. He would die; more, he must die in such a way that Djuvula-if she still lived-could not obtain the man's heart for her simulacrum. She must be denied that pleasure even if she survived it by only a moment.

  Revenge was a dish to be savored slowly, Lemparius was finding, in all of its flavoring, before settling into partaking of it in full earnest.

  The wind and dust settled then, but a sniff of the night air brought to the cat's sensitive nostrils the smell of something he liked less: rain, and coming soon.

  Lemparius held the cat's voice, but the snarl and low growl existed in thought if not sound.

  The rain came across the plain at a driving slant, presaged by lightning and booming thunder. In the light of the crackling discharges Conan saw the first fat, heavy drops splatter against the dry ground, raising dust as they thunked into the earth. In a moment the wall of water neared, a blanket of gray reaching to enshroud the two riders.

  Despite the moisture in the air, the hair on Conan's arms and neck stirred, as it sometimes did on removing a heavy woolen cloak on a winter's day. His horse made as if to bolt, and Conan held him steady only with difficulty.

  Vitarius suddenly reached skyward, arms extended fully, fingers spread.

  He yelled a short phrase.

  A jagged bolt speared from the heavens, straight at the pair of men and horses. Conan saw the bolt deflected somehow, several spans over his head. The thunder that followed the thwarted charge was also muted, so that it was felt more than heard.

  Vitarius now glowed with a pale light not unlike that produced by the flashes of lightning. The rain that should have fallen upon them fell before and behind and to either side, as though an invisible tent had been erected over the men and mounts. The storm raged at the shield; lightning crackled at it, thunder drummed upon it, hail the size of Conan's fist shattered against the clear air. The dry ground around them, outside of Vitarius's protection, became like a swamp, yet Conan could smell the dust disturbed by his frightened horse's hooves as the animal pawed the ground.

  The storm standing over him must be supernatural, Conan knew.

  Unprotected from the tempest, he would have surely paid a dear price, maybe even his life. Despite his distrust and dislike of any form of magic, Conan found himself most glad to be next to Vitarius at the moment. Most glad.

  Spray from the driving rain found its way through the canvas that formed the roof of Djuvulas wagon, thick as the material was. She dared not use any more of her magic to augment the material's natural protection, for fear of attracting either Vitarius's or Sovartus's attention. She had risked erecting a shelter for the horses, speeding up the process with a spell so that the hail, at least, would not bash them senseless. That same hail battered at her own roof, denting it deeply in places and making a terrible racket when the ice struck a supporting wooden hoop.

  Djuvula lay on the bed next to the box containing her Prince. She stroked the smooth wood idly, and spoke to the form inside as if it were alive. "Fear not, my love. We may be dampened, but not for long.

  Do not allow the din to disturb your slumber . . . . "

  Crouched under the witch's wagon, the panther held very still, even to breathing shallowly and with great care. He did not think that Djuvula would hear him with the storm howling about them, but he knew he must not be careless.

  He would have found other shelter had there been any; upon this portion of the plain, however, there existed no protection from even a normal rain, much less one driven by wizardry. Despite his ability to withstand ordinary dangers, the panther was no proof against such magic as Sovartus controlled. Hail so heavy that it dug holes in the ground would smash a skull easily enough even his.

  A funnel began near one edge of the dry spot underlying the wagon and sought to cross to the opposite side. Lemparius would have moved, but the hail chose that moment to cease falling and the relative quiet might have allowed the witch to hear such a movement. So the panther held his place as the cold finger of water reached his belly and began to puddle there, running along his length.

  His nostrils flared and the panther laid his ears back in rage. Yet another indignity for which Djuvula owed him. He cursed inwardly, but remained as a stone statue as the cold and muddy water soaked his fur.

  As quickly as it had begun, the rain stopped. The stars appeared behind the scudding clouds along with a sliver of settling moon. As the storm faded so did the glow surrounding Vitarius. For a moment the wizard looked tired. Then he took a deep breath and straightened slightly, shaking off the weariness as a dog shakes off water.

  "It has been too long since I played these games," Vitarius said. "I am out of practice."

  Grudgingly, for all his dislike of sorcery, Conan said, "You did well enough."

  "Aye, but these are but small tests. When Sovartus tries with real force, I shall have to do better."

  The Cimmerian nodded.

  "Then the sooner we get to yon castle, the sooner we can depart this cursed plain."

  "Aye, Conan. Ride on."

  They urged their horses onward.

  High in his castle, Sovartus became aware of an irritation, something amiss in the mystical web of forces with which he surrounded himself.

  On Dodligia Plain a faint glimmer of antithetical forces existed where none should, as a boil upon otherwise healthy skin. Well, he had no time for such things. He sent a wind to blow it away.

  Sovartus returned to his preparations for the arrival of the girl of Fire. He donned his virgins'-hair robe, feeling the power it carried.

  He called for a bottle of his oldest and finest wine and sipped of the liquid as he contemplated his new place in the cosmic scheme of things.

  Ah, what power he would command!

  He felt an itch in his side then, but it was metaphysical and not manifested in his own flesh. He expanded his consciousness, searching for the source of the bothersome itch.

  Damnation! That glimmer upon the plain remained despite his broom of nightwind. Well, he could take another moment from his anticipation of glory to deal with it. Within his own sphere of influence Sovartus need not call for everything upon any of the Three he had pent. He was not without powers of his own, especially so close to his lair. He called for a storm, sending hellish force upward into the skies to shape the resulting tempest to his will. Then, like a boy casting a ball, Sovartus sent the tropical zephyr toward the troublesome speck. Defy this, insect!

  Presently, the itch grew worse. After his astonishment that it persisted, Sovartus knew it for what it was: Vitarius, of the White, moved against him!

  Truly astounding. Surely the old man knew better? He had not even kept himself young with his magic-those of the White seldom used their powers for personal gain or enhancement-and even if he were senile; he must know how fooli
sh it would be to proceed against one of the Black in his own Square of power.

  When the girl of Fire had been taken, Sovartus had given Vitarius no further thought; unless the man were mad, he would simply go away, for he could not hope to compare his feeble powers with those of Sovartus's own. To contend would be suicide-the man had to know thateven if Sovartus did not control the Thing of Power, which he shortly would.

  There was very little for the White Square to draw upon here, not with the near-omnipotence of the Black focused as it was upon this plain.

  Hogistum had taught them both that White and Black had their places; and this place belonged to the Black as surely as night followed day.

  Vitarius had been the better student, he must know that.

  Unless-unless Vitarius had some hidden focus? Some trick he concealed to spring upon an unwary opponent?

  Sovartus rubbed at his face with one hand. Yes. That must be it. The old man has some hidden card: he had to have such. Best I find out what it is before I do anything that might turn back upon me, Sovartus thought. A probe, to see how Vitarius reacts.

  Sovartus smiled, pleased with his sharpness of wit. And he had just the thing to try upon his old training mate. Just the thing . . . .

  Dawn approached, but darkness still reigned when Vitarius once again motioned for Conan to halt. The two men had only a short distance left before reaching the base of Sovartus's mountain-castle, and Conan had hoped they might do so without further incident. He was wrong.

  Vitarius said, "Our enemy is about to task us. And it will be no small thing this time. I think it better that we should part, Conan. You must ride for the castle; I shall try to occupy Sovartus while you search for the children. And Kinna. May the White protect you, Conan of Cimmeria."

  Conan slapped at the hilt of his sword. "I will put my faith elsewhere, old one. But I wish you good luck. I will return with the children and Kinna as soon as I can."

  The old mage nodded, and waved one aged hand. He alighted from his horse and sat cross-legged upon the ground.

  Conan spared him a final glance before turning his attention-and his horse-back toward Castle Slott.

  Djuvula felt a prickling on her skin as she drew near the old magician.

  The air was full of anticipatory flux, presaging some magical production. Even within her concealing shroud of darkness she felt a chill touch her.

  She was nearly past the old man, who sat upon the bare ground with his eyes closed when he called out. Djuvula started at his words.

  "Ho, witch; best if you depart this area quickly. There is apt to be some spillage from my coming confrontation with Sovartus."

  Djuvula almost spoke, then thought better of it. Could he really see her?

  Vitarius answered her unspoken thought. "Aye, I have known you followed us for some time, witch. And I know, too, of that which shadows you.

  Whatever your purpose, you would be better served to turn around and flee. My sense of future is very dim for the most part; but in this instance I see ruin for many near to this venture."

  Djuvula stared at the White magician. What did he mean, that which shadows me? And what of his ill prophecy? Djuvula's chill intensified, and she glanced around the edge of her wagon, searching for any pursuer. She saw none.

  No point in maintaining the cloaking spell, she knew. She allowed the shroud to dissipate. For a moment she considered what the old man had said. She decided to ignore him. He was about to receive the brunt of Sovartus's magical ire; he was no threat to her. And, more important, the barbarian no longer had the White to look after him.

  The witch grinned. Conan would have gone on ahead to the castle.

  Djuvula still knew not why, but that was where she would find him. She popped her whip at the horses.

  The White mage never opened his eyes, but he spoke three words as Djuvula drove past, three words that touched her as might a fiery brand upon her flesh: "You were warned."

  Chapter Nineteen

  The first gleamings of morning light found Conan staring at the entrance to a large cave in Castle Slott's mountain base. The hole in the rock was easily large enough for a mounted man to enter, a perfect, open invitation at the end of the trail leading to the wizard's home.

  Conan grinned. The cave mouth was, if anything, too perfect and too open. His experience as a thief had taught him many things, not the least of which was to beware of things that looked too good to be true.

  His memories of the easy stroll into the home of Senator Lemparius were all too fresh in his mind; only a fool refused to learn from his mistakes. Conan of Cimmeria would not march into what must be a trap.

  How else to enter the mountain, then? He smiled and looked up at the wall of craggy rock. He was, after all, a Cimmerian; mountains had yet to be made that could not be climbed, especially by those hardy northern people from whom Conan had been bred. He would go up, and he would find a way.

  Before he did, however, Conan was curious about some thing his sharp senses detected in a stand of trees not far from where he now sat on his horse. There came the sounds of pent animals, and the odor of beasts tainted the morning air.

  He slid from his mount and used a large rock to peg the animal's bridle to the ground. Moving with catlike grace, the big man went to see what lay within the cover of the trees.

  Horses: A corral full of them milled about, guarded by a single man wearing a hooded black robe and holding a long staff. To one end of the enclosure sat a wattle-and-daub stable, with piles of hay and grain within.

  From the cover of a thick-leaved bush Conan's grin stretched as wide as it got. Well, well, well.

  The Cimmerian backed away from the corral. He would certainly return here when he had done his business with Sovartus; for now, however, he must finish that business.

  Conan removed the bridle and unsaddled his mount, allowing the animal to graze among the sedge. No telling how long his errand might take, and there was no point in the horse suffering while his master was gone. He hid the mount's gear carefully, taking only a skin of wine and some dried meat for supplies. He made certain his sword and Lemparius's knife were securely in place, then approached the outcrops of the mountain. Pausing only to remove his sandals, he began his climb.

  Sovartus was seated near his talisman table, working the intricate spell of the Rain of Cosmic Fire, from the unholy book called the Zilbermankarikatur, the use of which nearly always brought ruination to its object. That powerful and cursed energy now focused upon Vitarius of the White Square, a shower of annihilation that rarely failed.

  Let's see you escape this time, old classmate!

  One of his black hoods arrived then, and interrupted Sovartus's gloatings. The shrouded form bowed low and pointed speechlessly.

  Sovartus turned to see what the hooded servant wished him to see.

  A brace of demi-whelves stood there, looking nervous at being inside Castle Slott. More important, however, was the child held between them: It was her! The Child of Fire, his, at last!

  So taken by this vision was Sovartus, that at first he did not notice the young woman standing near to the girl. When he did, Sovartus asked, "And who are you?"

  The woman drew herself up stiffly. "I am Kinna, half-sister to those children you have stolen!"

  Sovartus smiled, to reveal teeth as white as bleached bone. "Ah," he said, "then you are sister to me as well."

  "Nay, black-souled warlock, I am not! Stepsister, perhaps, and that reluctantly."

  Sovartus swept his gaze over the girl's comely form.

  "No matter," he said. "I am certain I can find some good use for you, dear. But later we can discuss our mutual pleasure; for now I have other matters to which I must attend." The wizard clapped his hands, and more hooded figures appeared. Sovartus pointed to the girl. "You two, take Eldia to join her brothers and sister." To Eldia he said, "I have been waiting for you since you were born, girl. You will no doubt enjoy meeting your long-lost kin-for a few moments anyway."

&nbs
p; Kinna said, "What are you going to do with them?"

  Sovartus shrugged. "After they are drained of the essences I need, I shall have no further use for them. Magically, that is. I suppose I can devise some entertainment utilizing such tender things."

  He waved at the remaining hoods. "Take her to a lockroom; see that she is well fed and made comfortable against my future use." To the two demi-whelves Sovartus said, "You may depart. And see that you advise the whelves that it would be wise to descend to your lowest tunnels for a time; the surface of Dodligia Plain will not be a healthy place to be in a few hours."

  Sovartus spun, his robe flaring widely as he started for the tower. At last! At last!

  The morning sun shone brightly, but not so brightly as the conflagration spraying from the skies onto Dodligia Plain. The panther had to swing wide to avoid the fires. Had he worn a man's body, the cat would have cursed; this would delay him, and he had already done one stupid thing by falling asleep at the wrong time. This act had allowed the witch to pull away from him. There had been no help for it; even his supernormal panther abilities had limits, and he had been stretching them for days, resting and eating little. He now thought to hurry and catch Djuvula, only this magical assault upon the empty plain slowed him again-Wait. The plain was not empty. Squinting against the splashes of brilliant red and orange, the panther saw a seated figure, protected from the incandescent air by a shimmering white glow. The old magician?

  It must be, though the eyes of the feline watcher were not efficient enough to discern such details amid the surrounding brightness.

  But, as the panther-who-had-been-a-man looked, the seated figure managed to stand. It raised one arm, and the hand seemed to ignite with a cooler flame, more blue than red. The flame grew into a ball half the size of the figure, then an indigo beam shot out, undimmed and unhampered by the fiery rain. The line of glowing energy arced away from its generator and splashed against the mountain with the castle atop it, creating a fountain of blue sparks where it hit.

  The panther turned and loped away. He wanted no part of this, whatever it was. He had his own problems that must be attended to, and they did not include being fried by an angry wizard.