The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

"Fear not, the glory will be ours!" Favian gave his full attention to the glade ahead. "A chariot can go places a horseman would never dare, because it is so much lower to the ground!"

  So saying, he lashed his team down a tangled, tortuous rabbit trail in pursuit of a pair of fleeing ambushers. Conan clutched the rail and crouched low as the horses strained and surged before him, their tails close to flicking him in the face. Under Favian's demonic guidance, the wheeled platform seemed to spend more time in the air than it did on the ground, caroming past man-sized trunks and bounding over massive roots, threatening at each jolt to catapult its passengers high into the treetops.

  "Hiee, that's it! Turn and fight, you skulking coward!" Favian bore down on one of the fugitives, who had stopped between two trees to aim an arrow at his pursuers. But the jolting chariot was an unstable target and the shaft went wide. The lordling, in his turn, slewed the battle-car close under the trees to give Conan a clear stab.

  The javelin took the man in the armpit as he turned to run. Conan did not intend to relinquish the spear, for his others had been lost in the wild chase, and so he held on to it, dragging his victim a dozen paces through the forest before the weapon pulled free of the body. Then he raised it to face his last quarry.

  This one had gained the top of an ancient, fallen log too high for even the baron's son to surmount. The hooded figure held no bow and gazed back for only an instant before vanishing on the far side. From that glimpse, Conan gained a strange conviction; he felt it as a pang deep in his stomach. The oval face coldly regarding him had been that of a female.

  "Damned rebel snake-kisser! I'll have your head yet!" Favian, still hot in pursuit, drove his team on a long detour around the upended roots of the great tree. There he halted, cursing, at the brush-choked bank of a stream that splashed among boulders at the floor of the forested ravine. Conan stepped down from the platform and walked to the torrent's brink. There was no sign of the woman; the talking of the water masked any sound of her flight.

  As he returned to the chariot and helped Favian attend to the half-dead, frothing horses, gruff voices and the cracking of twigs heralded the arrival of mounted troopers. They came at a walk, winding through the trees with no great urgency other than that raised by the visible agitation of their leader, Baron Baldomer, who sat astride a common soldier's horse.

  "Favian! Here he is! Come on, men, this way," he cried with a wave of his arm. "Boy, what do you mean by chasing away so far afield?"

  "Father, we were slaying rebels-" the lordling began.

  "Well, I will not have it! You yourself might have been slain, and the royal line of Dinander cut short!" The baron jerked his horse aside in irritation, halting the animal before the chariot. "Henceforth stay at my beck and call."

  Marshal Durwald, also riding a commandeered mount, reined up close behind him. "It was a respectable feat of charioteering just to get here, Milord! After all, the young lord did scatter the rebels, and he dispatched quite a number of them along the way."

  "Aye. This barbarian shows an able hand with the javelin." Baldomer nodded in grudging respect. "No doubt you did the driving, Favian? I thought as much." He frowned, shaking his head. "Well, someday you must learn to be a true commander and lead your troops honorably, from the back of a fine steed."

  Making no answer to his father, Favian went to fill his helmet with stream water for the horses. But as the lordling turned away, Conan saw that his features were distorted in anger, and wet with unmanly tears.

  Meanwhile, a lesser officer came riding up through the trees to make his report to the baron. "Eleven rebels dead, sire. None left alive for questioning, sad to say. We think that five or six others may have escaped, but it will be dangerous to track them in this forest."

  "Nay, there is no need. Squire Ulf knows the district and will tell us how best to strike at them." Baldomer turned to Durwald. "These were a desperate lot. Likely these were the snake-cultists we have heard tell of, judging by their hoods. Wouldn't you say?"

  The marshal nodded uncertainly, watching the baron as if to gauge the risk of frankness. "'Tis hard to tell, indeed, Milord. The cloaks were obviously meant to hide their identity. But the few heads we now have may lead us to more in coming days." He raised a hand to tug his mustache. "I saw no sign of cult fetishes or distinctive markings among the dead rebels."

  "They were brigands of the worst stripe, 'tis clear, since they shot our horses!" Baldomer shook his head in righteous wrath, his scarred eye glinting fiendishly. "The swine will pay for their murder of those fine, costly animals!"

  "Indeed, sire. They were not simple thieves, or they would have spared the horses."

  "Ah well, there is no telling what incites these turbulent types to revolt and take up heinous religions." Baldomer wheeled his horse impatiently. "But come, let us get back to the road and on our way. Drive this wagon out of here if you can, Favian; follow us closely. Squire Ulf will be able to tell us more about these rebels once we reach Edram Castle."

  CHAPTER 8

  River of Blood

  "And so you see, it was a costly skirmish on both sides." Baldomer paused in his account to sip wine from a silver goblet. "We lost a dozen of our troops and some of our best horses to their first arrow-flight. Yet in turn we routed the ambushers and slew most of them. Even my son, in his disguise as a commoner, took some small part in the fray." The baron spared a glance across the littered board toward Favian, who sat within an arched window of the circular dining hall.

  The lordling, resting taciturn with one foot propped before him on the brick sill, did not return the look, nor did he make reply. Nursing his wine-cup, the young aristocrat continued gazing out across the slow-rolling river. He cut a dashing figure even in the office of a common cavalryman.

  His double, Conan, sat easily at the broad oaken table, tearing at the remains of a roasted boar the others had long since lost interest in. The Cimmerian had recently accomplished a brief, stiff masquerade before the rural populace. He had passed from his chariot through Edram Castle's yard and up into the keep, suffering no further attempts on his life. Now he remained with the nobles* decked in his borrowed armor but with no pretense at nobility.

  Their host, the rotund Squire Ulf, shifted his leather-armored body in his capacious chair to face Baldomer. "Aye, Milord, your grave inconvenience is a sorrow to me. 'Tis a shame, I fear, to this entire district. Would that my men and I had ridden forth earlier and met your party higher in the hills. Would that I myself had taken the arrow that slew your noble steed!" He clutched the flesh of his broad belly as if it had been pierced by a clothyard shaft. "But the infamy is done. I promise to initiate harsh measures against the rebels at once!"

  "We might assist you in that," Baldomer said, with a glance aside at Marshal Durwald. "You have some idea, I take it, as to a local source of this mutiny?"

  "Oh, aye, Milord!" Ulf nodded vigorously, setting his stubbled jowls aquiver. "Heresy and treachery lurk in many quarters these days, especially since the resurgence of the snakecults; I have more to tell you on that score later." The stout squire shook his long, unwashed blond locks in fervent commiseration with his baron before continuing.

  "Even locally there are nests of viperish disloyalty. One village in particular, a mere half-day's ride from here, I have long yearned to chastise myself, even before this latest offense. If you could send part of your elite force to help in the task, Milord, 'twould be most welcome. I can say with some certainty that these miscreants had a hand in the cowardly attack on your party."

  "Ah, that is what I like to hear!" The baron nodded approvingly, with another sidelong glance at Durwald. "A plan of action, without posing endless riddles and hypotheses. We would be glad to assist you, Squire."

  "Aye, Milord, but we should act carefully." Durwald regarded the fat squire with some doubt. "If you recall, we noticed that the weave of the ambushers' cloaks had the look of city workmanship, perhaps from Dinander or Numalia. It may be that the rebels preceded us here fr
om the west."

  "Aye, but undoubtedly they had local support -else why did they not fall on us deep in the hills? And where did they flee?" Baldomer shook his head, a frown setting his mouth askew. "Nay, Marshal, there are times when it is best simply to act, swiftly and decisively, with no hint of hesitation."

  He swiveled his vulpine gaze back to Ulf. "I shall send a score of horse-troopers to aid you, Squire. My son, Favian, shall lead them-properly this time, in the uniform of a cavalry officer, with a keen blade in his hand and a strong mount between his legs. You will ride along, Durwald, to oversee the boy. Take the barbarian, of course, to make sure no harm comes to my heir."

  "Aye, Baron," Durwald said resignedly.

  "Thank you, sirs!" Squire Ulf bowed unctuously, his small eyes calculating swiftly. "We should dispatch the troops before dawn tomorrow. I myself will abide with you here at the castle, so as to ensure your safety and comfort."

  Baldomer nodded magnanimously and surveyed the room. If he expected his son to thank him for the boon of a cavalry command, he was disappointed. Favian only glanced briefly at them all with a look of disinterest, then returned his gaze to the river.

  After a moment of awkward silence, Durwald spoke. "You said you had further information, Squire, on the activities of the snakecult?"

  "Better than that," Ulf gloated. "I have a captive!" He clasped his hands together, savoring the others' earnest attention. "Recently I sent a party of tax gatherers eastward to Varakiel to collect overdue shares from a balky landholder. They found his tracts abandoned and his croft aflame, with no sign of the serf-master himself. But in the forest nearby they spied the marauding rebels, and captured one. A devout snakeworshiper by any measure, though perhaps caught up only recently in the hysteria."

  "And where is this prisoner?" The baron rose from his seat, restless for action. "How soon can we see him?"

  "This very moment, if you like, Lord Baldomer. We kept him alive especially for you." With a grunt of effort, Squire Ulf hove himself up from his seat. "Though I warn you, he has not proven cooperative; the power of Set is strong within him. Both water and fire have been applied, and each has failed to drive the devils out."

  "I hope you have left enough of him for us to question," Durwald muttered. He rose to follow his baron and Squire Ulf toward a side door of the dining hall. Conan went too, taking with him a couple of ripe quinces from a fruit bowl on the table. Behind him, Favian left his window seat to trail along after them.

  The hall opened onto a broad parapet stretching between two of the castle's five towers. The sun shone bright on yellow bricks fretted with the black, angular shadow of the battlement. The Sky was clear blue, dotted with white puffs of cloud driven before a fresh breeze; beyond the river stretched fields of emerald green, with the yellow thatches of the town huddled at the bridgehead.

  Ulf led them past a large, wheeled ballista, one of several standing ready to sink riverborne boats or drive attackers from the bridge. Waddling past racks of stones and tar pots kept nearby as ammunition, the stout squire approached the next tower. He halted before a pair of sentries standing rigid at each side a bolted, metal-clad door.

  "We use the north tower as a guardhouse," Ulf explained to his guests while undoing the latch. "The foundations of Edram Castle are too wet from river floods to provide us a livable dungeon. But I think you will find these facilities well-equipped."

  He pushed the door inward on its grating hingepost and ushered them into a room that felt warm with the heat of a brazier. Shards of daylight fell in through arrow-slits in the walls. Stable harnesses and metalworking implements, incongruous here in the guard tower, arrayed the curving walls; other devices of obscure function littered the floor.

  At the room's center hung a great spoked wheel, suspended at an angle by a chain from the ceiling; lashed to it, spread-eagled, was a half-conscious peasant youth. Where his rough garb had been cut or torn away, his skin bore marks of scalding, charring and other abuses. His wan boyish face stared upward with a fixed expression, unresponsive to the men's arrival.

  "He makes no utterances except that of weird curses," the squire explained. "Yet when he had strength, he fought like a very fiend." He waved a hand invitingly over the brazier of fluttering pink-and-gray ashes. "Here, Milord, try your skill with the hot pincers. Mayhap you will have more success than we did."

  The baron ignored Ulf, eying the captive with skepticism and evident disappointment. "A mere child! Not a very formidable rebel."

  "Have him say 'Kaa nama kaa lajerama,'" Favian remarked from the doorway. "No follower of the snake-god can utter those words and live."

  Marshal Durwald leaned over the prisoner, swiftly assuming the experienced interrogator's role of a succoring friend. "Come, lad, do not fear! I am not here to hurt you." He pinched the boy's cheeks together so as to force open his jaws, and peered inside. Abruptly he released him, and wheeled upon Ulf in outrage. "Here now, how is he supposed to tell us anything? Some fool has disfigured his mouth!"

  "Nay, nay, that is part of the snakecult ritual!" Shaking his head anxiously, the squire seized an unheated pair of tongs from the wall and leaned over his captive. "They slit their own tongues, so they can utter the sacred syllables of Set." He delved into the slack mouth for the tongue, but instantly jumped back and dropped his tongs as the victim came snarling to life at the intrusion.

  "Hathassa fa Sathan!" the pale face spat at them. "Sa setha efanissa, na!" As the peasant lad cursed, the watchers gained eerie glimpses of his forked tongue, lashing like that of a serpent. Though the voice rasped with startling vehemence at first, the blaze in the pale eyes swiftly faded. The head thumped back weakly on the wooden spokes, and the slim body sagged even lower in its bonds.

  "What did he say?" Baldomer asked, gazing around at the others' blank looks. "Does anyone know the language?"

  "'Tis no local dialect, Milord. Nor even a human one, I would guess." Ulf shrugged. "I do not know his meaning, but I know one thing: I shall check my boots carefully for vipers in the morning!"

  Conan, lingering near the half-open door, had long since lost the appetite for his second quince; now he set it aside on a charred table. He pressed forward behind Favian, a little surprised at the anger tapping in his temples and not sure of just what action it boded. Memories of the lockup in Dinander were rankling at him, renewed by the unmanly doings before him in this smoky cell.

  But one glance at the prisoner showed that there was no point in intervening. The last remnant of life had quit the emaciated serf, whose eyes now glared sightlessly upward. Feeling soiled and somewhat queasy, Conan turned and made his way out onto the sun-bright battlement.

  The next morning a double chain of horsemen rode abreast across the meadows of the Urlaub Valley. They did not follow the river upstream, for it meandered too widely to mark a sensible route. Nor did they use any road, for their ride had detoured in the first hour after dawn to the fringe of a forest tract. There they gathered twigs and bound them together into faggots, which they tied in bunches behind their saddles.

  Conan, by virtue of his noble armor, was exempt from carrying wood, as were the officers. He rode in his cavalry officer's equipage with Durwald and Lord Favian, near the center of the line. The two less-aristocratic riders flanked the young lord to protect him, and Favian in turn was sullen, so there was little conversation.

  But the lordling made a show of commanding the others, frequently ordering a brisker pace and savagely rebuking any trooper who failed to stay in line. The twenty cavalry supplied by Baldomer were better at maintaining their ranks than were Ulf's men; these struck Conan as lax and surly, especially the weasel-faced guide who rode beside Durwald.

  As the morning sun angled toward noon over the hazy eastern plain, the cow pastures beneath the horses' hooves changed to lush grainfields. A curving line of trees and brush ahead signaled the position of the river. One of the Dinander cavalry, a farmer by origin, voiced dismay at the broad swath of rich oats they were tramp
ling down. At this sentiment the others laughed and hooted.

  Harshly, Favian commanded them to silence. But it mattered little; a moment later, at murmured instructions from Durwald and the guide, the lordling called the troop to a halt. He signaled Ulf's men, who carried torches and a firepot, and waited while they set their brands alight. Then he drew his sword and shouted the order to charge.

  At first it was impossible to see their goal; the guide reassured the officers at the top of his voice that it lay straight ahead. Conan let his horse dash forward on faith with the others, concentrating on keeping his perch in the awkward, bulky saddle.

  The drumming of the hooves was muffled by soft soil and knee-high grain, but there was no real obstacle to their flying advance. The rich fields of river bottomland, lacking hedges and walls, were divided only by low, weedy mounds that flew beneath the horses' swift leaps.

  Suddenly, just ahead, roughly clad figures were seen looking up from their labor in the fields at the approaching tumult. The peasants dropped their hoes and fled in panic. Conan, to his surprise, heard the steely whisper of swords being drawn all along the plunging line, amid the baying of vengeful cries. A moment later the unresisting farmers had been cut down or ridden down without so much as a slowing of the horsemen's charge.

  Ah well, these Hyborians play rough, Conan told himself. They were even quicker to slay one another than they were to slay strangers, he had observed. He felt relieved that none of the wretches had come before his own steed's churning hooves.

  Nevertheless he was in the thick of it, and had better be alert. Having drawn his blade along with the others, he now had to lend more attention to staying astride his plunging steed one-handed.

  Soon the riders found themselves among scattered orchard trees and outbuildings. Their formation curved and widened to encompass one flank of the village, which lay ahead on a slightly raised area of ground near the riverside. The surprise of their appearance was total, it appeared, for more frightened figures could be seen ahead scurrying for shelter. The pace of the horses slowed, but their gallop grew rougher and louder on the hard-packed earth.