The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  "From the way that sword sits on your hip, I would name you, not merchant, but..." she put a finger to her lips as if in thought "... warrior."

  "I am a trader," he said emphatically. "If not kohl, perhaps perfume?"

  "Nothing," she said, amusement in her eyes. "For now, at least. Later I will have something from you."

  She turned away, then stopped to look at him over her shoulder. "And that is perfume. Trader." Her laughter, low and musical, hung in the air after she had disappeared into the crowd.

  With a sudden sharp crack the small jar shattered in Conan's grip.

  "Erlik take all women," he muttered, brushing shards of glazed pottery from his hand. There was nothing to be done about the smell of jasmine that hung about him in a cloud.

  Grumbling, he resumed his pacing among the trade goods. Occasionally a man would glance at him in surprise, nose wrinkling, or a woman would eye him and smile. Each time he hurried furiously elsewhere, muttering ever more sulphurous oaths under his breath. A bath, he decided. When their camp was set he would bathe, and Mitra blast all the Hyrkanians if they thought it unmanly.

  Chapter XIX

  Throughout the day the trading continued briskly, goods from the west for goods looted from eastern caravans. As twilight empurpled the air Zutan returned. The bargaining tribespeople began to trail away at his appearance.

  "I will show you to your sleeping place," the greasy-mustached Hyrkanian said. "Come." And he stalked off in the rolling walk of one more used to the back of a horse than to his own feet.

  Conan set the others to repacking the trade goods, then scooped Yasbet into his arms. She was in an exhausted sleep so deep that she barely stirred as he carried her after Zutan, to a spot a full three hundred paces from the yurts.

  "You sleep here," the nomad said. "It would be dangerous to leave your fires after dark. The guards do not know you. You might be injured." That thought apparently caused no pain in his heart. Traders might be necessary, his expression said, but they warranted neither the hospitality of shelter nor trust.

  Conan ignored him-it was better than killing him, though less satisfying-and commanded Yasbet's tent to be erected. As soon as the stakes were driven and the ropes drawn taut, he carried her inside. She gave but a sleepy murmur as he removed her garments and wrapped her in blankets.

  Perhaps sleep would help her, he thought. His nose twitched at the scent of jasmine that was beginning to fill the tent. Sleep would not help him.

  When he went outside, Zutan was gone. The sky grew blacker by the moment, and fires of dried dung cast small pools of light. The yurts could have been half a world away, for their lamps and fires were all inside, and the encampment of the tribes was lost in the dark. The horses had been tied to a picket line, near which the hampers of trade goods were shadowy mounds.

  Straight to those mounds Conan went, rummaging through than until he found a lump of harsh soap.

  Thrusting it into his belt pouch, he hefted two water bags in each hand and stalked into the night. When he returned an odor of lye came from him, and it was all he could do to stop his teeth from chattering in the chill wind that whipped across the plain.

  Settling crosslegged beside the fire where a kettle of thick stew bubbled, he accepted a horn spoon and a clay bowl filled to the brim.

  "I am not certain that lye improves on jasmine," Akeba said, sniffing the air pointedly.

  "A fine scent, jasmine," Sharak cackled. "You are a little large for a dancing girl, Cimmerian, but I do believe it became you more than your new choice." Tamur choked on stew and laughter.

  Conan raised his right hand, slowly curling it into a massive fist until his knuckles cracked. "I smell nothing." He looked challengingly at each of the other three in turn. "Does anyone else?"

  Chuckling, Akeba spread his hands and shook his head.

  "All this washing is bad for you," Tamur said, then added quickly as Conan made to rise, "But I smell naught. You are a violent man, Cimmerian, to act so over a jest among friends."

  "We will talk of other things," Conan said flatly.

  Silence reigned for a moment before Sharak spoke up. "Trade. We'll talk of trade. Conan, it is no wonder merchants are men of wealth. What we bargained for today will bring at least three hundred pieces of gold in Aghrapur, yet a full two-thirds of the trade goods remain. Mayhap we should give up adventuring and become traders in truth. I have never been rich. I think I would find it pleasing."

  "We are here for more important matters than gold," Conan growled. He set aside his bowl; his hunger had left him. "Know you that we have been followed since the coast?"

  Tamur looked up sharply. "Baotan? I thought he had an eye for more than he received for the horses."

  "Not Baotan," Conan replied.

  "You looked back often," Akeba said thoughtfully, "but said nothing. And I saw no one."

  Conan shook his head, choosing his words with care. "Nor did I see anyone. Still, someone was following. Or something. There was a feel... not human about it."

  Sharak laughed shakily. "An Jhandar, or Baalsham, or whatever he chooses to call himself, has come after us to these wastes, I will think on journeying to Khitai. Or further, if there is any place further."

  "Baalsham is a man," Tamur said nervously. He eyed the surrounding darkness and edged closer to the fire, dropping his voice. "But the spirits-if he has sent dead men after us...."

  A footstep sounded beyond the small pool of light from the fire, and Conan found himself on his feet, broadsword in hand. He was somewhat mollified to see that the others had drawn weapons as well.

  Even the old astrologer was shakily holding his staff out like a spear.

  Zutan stepped into the light and stopped, staring at the bared steel.

  Conan sheathed his blade with a grunt. "It is dangerous to leave your fires in the dark," he said.

  The Hyrkanian's mustache twitched violently, but all he said was, "Samarra will see you now, Co-nan."

  "Samarra!" Tamur's voice was a dry speak. "She is here?"

  "Who is this Samarra?" Conan demanded. "Mayhap I do not wish to see her."

  "No, Conan," Tamur said insistently. "You must. Samarra is a powerful shamaness. Very powerful."

  "A shamaness," Sharak snorted. "Women should not be allowed to meddle in such matters."

  "Hold your tongue, old man," Tamur snapped, "else you may find your manhood turned to dust, or your bones to water. She is powerful, I say." He had turned his back to Zutan and was grimacing vigorously at Conan.

  The young Cimmerian eyed him doubtfully, wondering if Tamur's fear of this woman was enough to unhinge him. "Why does Samarra wish to see me?" he asked.

  "Samarra does not give reasons," Zutan replied. "She summons, and those she summons come. Even chiefs."

  "I will go to her," Conan said.

  Tamur's groan was loud as Conan followed Zutan into the dark.

  They walked to the yurts in silence. The nomad would not deign to converse with a trader, and Conan had his own thoughts to occupy him. Why did this Samarra wish to speak with him? Her sorcerous arts could have told her the true reason for his presence in Hyrkania, but only if she had purposely sought it out. In his experience of such things nothing was found unsought, and nothing was sought casually.

  Knowledge had its price when gained by thaumaturgical means, and though he had met sorcery and magic in many forms, never had he known it used to satisfy mere curiosity.

  Had this Samarra been a man he could have first explained, then, an that did not work, slain the fellow.

  But it was not in him to kill a woman.

  Lost in the workings of his mind, Conan started when the other halted before a huge yurt and motioned him to enter. The structure of felt stretched on wooden frames was at least twenty paces across, fit for a chief. But then, he told himself, a shamaness who could summon chiefs would certainly live as well as they. Without another glance at Zutan, he pushed open the flap and went in.

  He found himsel
f in a large chamber within the yurt, its "walls" brocaded hangings. The ground was covered by Kasmiri carpets in a riot of colors, dotted with cushions of silk. Gilded lamps hung on golden chains from the wooden frames of the roof, and a charcoal fire in a large bronze brazier provided warmth against the chill outside.

  So much he had time to note, then his eyes popped as eight girls burst from behind the hangings. From lithe to full-bodied they ranged, and their skins from a paleness that spoke of Aquilonia to Hyrkanian brownness to the yellow of well-aged ivory. Gilded bells tinkled at their ankles as they ran giggling to surround him; such was the whole of their costume.

  His vision seemed filled by rounded breasts and buttocks as they urged him to a place on the cushions before the brazier. A scent of roses hung about them.

  No sooner was he seated than two darted away to return with damp cloths to wipe his face and hands.

  Another set a chased silver tray of dates and dried apricots by his side, while a fourth poured wine from a crystal flagon into a goblet of beaten gold.

  The music of flutes and zithers filled the chamber; the remaining girls had taken up the instruments and, seating themselves cross-legged, played. The four who had served him began to dance.

  "Where is Samarra?" he asked. "Well? Answer me! Where is she?" The music soared, and the dancers with it, but none spoke.

  He picked up the goblet, but put it down again untouched. Strong powders could be put in wine; he wagered that this shamaness knew of them. Best he neither eat nor drink till he was gone from Samarra's dwelling place. And best he not eye the girls too closely, either. Mayhap the shamaness had a reason for wishing his attention occupied. He kept a close watch on the hangings, and a hand on his sword.

  But despite his intentions he found his eyes drifting back to the dancing girls. Graceful as gazelles they leaped, legs striding wide on air, then rolled to the carpets, hips thrusting in abandon. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he wondered if perhaps the fire in the brazier made the yurt too hot. Did this Samarra remain away much longer, he might forget himself. Even though they would not talk, these girls might be willing to disport themselves with a young northerner.

  A single sharp clap sounded above the music. Immediately the girls left off playing and dancing, and dashed behind the hangings. The grin that had begun on Conan's face faded, and his hand returned to his sword as he sprang to his feet. The hangings parted, and the woman who had taunted him earlier appeared. The cloak was gone now, and long hair as black as night hung in soft waves about her shoulders. Her long kirtle clung to her curves.

  "I prefer the dancing of young men," she said, "but I did not think you would share my taste."

  "You?" Conan said incredulously. "You are Samarra?"

  She gave a throaty laugh. "You are disappointed that I am not an aged crone, with a beak of a nose and warts? I prefer to remain as I am for as long as the arts of woman and magic combined can keep me so."

  Her hands smoothed the bosom of her kirtle, pulling it tight over full round breasts. "Some say I am still beautiful." Delicately wetting her lips, she moved closer. "Do you think so?"

  The woman had no need of sorcery for distraction, Conan thought. The musk of her perfume seemed to snare his brain. With no more than what was known to every woman she had his blood inflamed, his throat thick with desire. "Why did you send for me?" he rasped.

  Her dark eyes caressed his face more sensuously than hands might have done, slid lingeringly across his broad shoulders and massive chest. Her nostrils flared. "You washed the scent away," she said, a touch of mocking disappointment in her tone. "Hyrkanian women are used to men who smell of sweat and horse and grease. That scent would have gained you many favorable looks. But even so you are an exotic, with your muscles and your size and that pale skin. And those eyes." Her slender fingers stopped a hair's breath from his face, tracing along his cheek. "The color of the sky," she whispered, "and as changeable. The spring sky after a rain, the sky of a fall morning. And when you are angry, a sky of thunder and storms. An exotic giant. You could have your pick of half the women in this encampment, perhaps three or four at a time, if such is your taste."

  Angrily he wrapped an arm about her, lifting her from the ground, crushing her softness against his chest.

  His free hand tangled in her hair, and the blue eyes that stared into hers did indeed have much of the storm in them. "Taunting me is a dangerous game," he said, "even for a sorceress."

  She stared back unperturbed, a secretive smile dancing on her lips. "When do you mean to enter the Blasted Lands, outlander?"

  Involuntarily his grip tightened, wringing a gasp from her. There was naught of the sky in his gaze now, but rather ice and steel. "It is a foolish time to reveal your sorceries, woman."

  "I am at your mercy." With a sigh that smacked of contentment she wriggled to a more comfortable position, shifting her breasts disturbingly against his hard chest. "You could break my neck merely by flexing your arm, or snap my spine like a twig. I can certainly perform no magic held as I am. Perhaps I have made myself helpless before your strength to prove that I mean you no harm."

  "I think you are as helpless as a tigress," he said wryly. Abruptly he set her heels on the carpets; there was a tinge of disappointment in her eyes as she patted her hair back into place. "Speak on, woman.

  What suspicions caused you to bend your magic to the reason of my coming?"

  "No magic except that of the mind," she laughed. "You came in company with Tamur and others who I know crossed the Vilayet to find and slay Baalsham. I know well the horror of those days, for I was one of those who laid the wards that contain what lies within the Blasted Lands."

  Conan realized why Tamur had been agitated at hearing her name. "Perhaps I, wishing to trade in Hyrkania, merely took Tamur into service."

  "No, Conan. Tamur has many faults, but he, and the others, swore oaths to defy the ban on Baalsham's memory and avenge their blood. That they returned with you merely means that they think to find success in the Blasted Lands. Though their oaths led them to defiance, they know that violating the taboo means death for one of Hyrkanian blood, and so sought another to do the deed."

  "Then why am I not fighting for my life against your warriors?"

  She answered slowly, her voice tense, as if her words held import below the surface. As if there was danger in them for her, danger that she must carefully avoid. "When the barriers were erected, I alone among the shamans believed that they were not enough. I spoke for pursuing Baalsham and destroying him, for surely if he managed to establish his evil elsewhere it would eventually return to haunt us. The others, fearing another confrontation with him, forced me-" She stopped abruptly.

  "Forced you to what?" he growled. "Swear oaths? What?"

  "Yes," she said, nodding eagerly. "Both oath and geas. Do I break that oath, I will find myself the next dawn scrubbing pots in the yurt of a most repulsive man, unable to magic the pain from a sore tooth or think beyond a desire to obey. Many take it ill that there is a line of women who use the powers, and they would as soon see it end with me." Again her words halted, but her eyes begged him to question further.

  "What holds your tongue, woman? What oath did you swear?"

  "It took long enough to bring you to it," she sighed, tightness draining visibly from her face. "Firstly, I can speak to no one of the oaths unless asked, and no Hyrkanian but another who, like me, sits Guardian on the Blasted Lands would ask. Betimes one or another of them likes to taunt me with it."

  "So you must trick me into asking," Conan muttered.

  "Exactly. For the rest, I can aid no Hyrkanian to enter the Blasted Lands or act against Baalsham, nor can I seek out any man to do those things."

  A broad smile spread over his features. "But if a man who is not a Hyrkanian seeks you out ... ."

  ". . . Then I can help him. But he must be the right man, outlander. I will not risk failure." Her mouth twisted as at a foul taste. "Anator, the repulsive toad of whom I spoke, waits f
or me to fall into his hands.

  Death I would risk, but not a life with him till I am old and shriveled."

  "But you will help me?" he asked, frowning.

  "If you are the right man. I must consult the Fire that Burns Backwards in Time. And I must have a lock of your hair for that."

  In spite of himself, he took a step back. Hair, spittle, nail parings, anything that came from the body could be used in thaumaturgies that bound the one from whom they came.

  "Do you think I need magicks to bind you?" Samarra laughed, and swayed her hips exaggeratedly.

  "Take it, then," he said. But a grimace crossed his face as she deftly cut a few strands from his temple with a small golden knife.

  Swiftly then she opened a series of small chests against a hanging, removing her paraphernalia. The hair was ground in a small hand-mill, then mixed in an unadorned ivory bowl with the contents of half a score of vials-powders of violent hue and powerful stench, liquids that seethed and bubbled-and stirred with a rod of bone. Setting up a small golden brazier on a tripod, Samarra filled it with ashes, smoothing them with the bone rod. Chanting words unintelligible to Conan, she poured the contents of the bowl onto the dead ash, and set the bowl aside.

  Her voice rose, not in volume, but in pitch, till it pierced his ears like red-hot needles. Strange flames rose from the ash, blue flames, not flickering like ordinary fire, but rolling slowly like waves of a lazy sea.

  Higher that unnatural fire rose with Samarra's words, to the reach of a man's arm. Unblinking she stared into its depths as she spoke the incantations. A rime of frost formed on the outside of the golden dish that held the flames.

  The other fires in the chamber, the flickering lamps and blazing charcoal, sank low, as if overawed, or drained. The Cimmerian realized that his fingernails were digging into his palms. With an oath he unclenched his fists. He had seen sorcery before, sorcery directed at him with deadly intent. He would not be affrighted by this.

  Abruptly Samarra's chanting stopped. Conan blinked as he looked into the golden dish; half-burned pieces of wood now nestled among ash that was less than it had been. Then Samarra set a golden lid atop the brazier, closing off the blue fire.