The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  "May I roast in Zandru's Hells, Cimmerian," Akeba breathed, "but I did not think we'd do it. The end of the storm and the ship, just as you said."

  "The Wrath of Kaavan is not spent," Tamur said. "'That is what I was trying to tell you."

  Conan rolled onto one elbow, wondering if the nomad's wits had been pounded loose by the storm.

  "There is no rain, no wind. Where then is the storm?"

  Tamur shook his head wearily. "You do not understand, outlander. This is called Kaavan's Mercy, a time to pray for the dead, and for your life. Soon the rain will come again, as suddenly as it left, and the wind will blow, but this time it will come from the other direction. The shamans say-"

  "Erlik take your shamans," Akeba muttered. The nomads stirred, but were too tired to do more than curse. "If he speaks the truth, Cimmerian, we're finished. Without rest, a troupe of dancing girls could defeat us, but how can we rest? If we don't take that ship before this accursed Wrath of Kaavan returns...." He slumped, chin on his arms, peering at the galley.

  "We rest," Conan said. Drawing back from the edge, Conan crawled to Sharak. The aged astrologer lay like a sack of sodden rags, but he levered himself onto his back when Conan stopped beside him. "Lie easy," the Cimmerian told him. "We'll stay here a time."

  "Not on my account," Sharak rasped. He would have gotten to his feet had Conan not pressed him back.

  "This adventuring is a wet business, but my courage has not washed away. The girl, Conan. We must see to her. And to Jhandar."

  "We will, Sharak."

  The old man subsided, and Conan turned to face Akeba and Tamur, who had followed him from the rim.

  The other nomads watched from where they lay.

  "What is this talk of waiting?" the Turanian demanded. "Seizing that galley is our only hope."

  "So it is," Conan agreed, "but not until the storm comes again."

  Tamur gasped. "Attack in the face of the Wrath of Kaavan! Madness!"

  "The storm will cover our approach," Conan explained patiently. "We must take the crew by surprise if we are to capture them."

  "Capture them?" Tamur said incredulously. "They have served Baalsham. We will cut their throats."

  "Can you sail a ship?" Conan asked.

  "Ships! I am a Hyrkanian. What care I for...." A pole-axed expression spread over the nomad's face, and he sank into barely audible curses.

  In quick words Conan outlined his plan. "Tell the others," he finished, and left them squatting there.

  Crawling back to the rim, he lowered himself full-length on the hard, wet ground, where he could watch the ship. The vessel could not sail until the storm had passed. With the patience of a great cat watching a herd of antelope draw closer, he waited.

  The rain returned first, a pelting of large drops that grew to a roaring downpour, and the wind followed close behind. From the south it screamed, as Tamur had predicted, raging with such fury that in moments it was hard to believe it had ever diminished.

  Wordlessly, for words were no longer possible, Conan led them down from the height, each man gripping the belt of the man ahead, stumbling over uneven ground, struggling against the wind with grim purposefulness. He did not draw his sword; this would be a matter for bare hands. Unhesitatingly Conan made his way across the sand, through blinding rain. Abruptly his outstretched hand touched wood. The side of the ship. A rope lashing in the wind struck his arm; he seized the line before it could whip away from him, and climbed, drawing himself up hand over hand. As he scrambled over the rail onto the forepart of the galley he felt the rope quiver. Akeba was starting up.

  Quickly Conan's eyes searched the deck. Through the solid curtain of rain washing across the vessel, he could see naught but dim shapes, and none looked to be a man, yet it was his fear that even in the height of the storm a watch was kept.

  Akeba thumped to the deck beside him, and Conan started aft with the Turanian close behind. He knew the rest would follow. They had nowhere else to go.

  A hatch covered the companionway leading down into the vessel. Conan exchanged a glance with Akeba, hunched against the driving rain. The Turanian nodded. With a heave of his arm Conan threw the hatchcover back and leaped, roaring, down the ladder.

  There were four men, obviously ship's officers, in the snug, lantern-lit cabin, swilling wine. Goblets crashed to the deck as Conan landed in their midst. Men leaped to their feet; hands went to sword hilts.

  But Conan had landed moving. His fist smashed behind an ear, sending its owner to the deck atop his goblet. A nose crunched beneath a backhand blow of the other fist, and his boot caught a third man in the belly while he still attempted to come fully erect.

  Now his sword came out, its point stopping a fingerbreadth from the beaked nose of the fourth man. The emerald at his ear and the thick gold chain about his neck named him captain of the vessel as surely as their twin queues named all four sailors of the Vilayet. The slab-checked captain froze with his blade half drawn.

  "I do not need all of you," Conan snarled. "'Ts your choice."

  Hesitantly licking his lips, the captain surveyed his fellows. Two did not stir, while the third was attempting to heave his guts up on the deck. "You'll not get away with this," he said shakily. "My crew will hand your hearts in the rigging." But he slowly and carefully moved his hand from his weapon.

  "Why you needed me," Akeba grumbled from a seat on the next-to-bottom rung of the ladder, "I don't see at all."

  "There might have been five," Conan replied with a smile that made the captain shiver. "Get Sharak, Akeba. It's warm in here. And see how the others are doing." With a sigh the soldier clattered back up the ladder into the storm. Conan turned his full attention on the captain. "When are those who hired you returning?"

  "I'm a trader here on my own-" Conan's blade touched the captain's upper lip; the man went cross-eyed staring at it. He swallowed, and tried to move his head back, but Conan kept a light pressure with the edged steel. "They didn't tell me," the sailor said hastily. "They said I was to wait until they returned, however long it might be. I was of no mind to argue." His face paled, and he clamped his lips tight, as if afraid to say more.

  While Conan wondered why the galley's passengers had affected the captain so, Akeba and Tamur scrambled down the ladder, drawing the hatch shut on the storm behind them. The Turanian half-carried Sharak, whom he settled on a bench, filling a goblet of wine for him. The astrologer mumbled thanks and buried his face in the drink. Tamur remained near the ladder, wiping his dagger on his sheepskin coat.

  Conan's eyes lit on that dagger, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing. Putting a hand on the captain's chest, he casually pushed the man back down in his seat. "I told you we need these sailors, Tamur. How many did you kill?"

  "Two, Cimmerian," the nomad protested, spreading his hands. "Two only. And one carved a trifle. But they resisted. My people watch the rest." A full dozen remain."

  "Fists and hilts, I said," Conan snarled. He had to turn away lest he sty too much. "How do you feel, Sharak?"

  "Much refreshed," the astrologer said, and he did seem to be sitting straighter, though he, like all of them, dripped pools of water. "Yasbet is not here?"

  Conan shook his head. "But we shall be waiting when she is brought."

  "Then for Jhandar," Sharak said, and Conan echoed, "Then for Jhandar."

  "They resisted," Tamur said again, in injured tones. "There are enough left to do what they must." No one spoke, or even looked at him. After a moment he went on. "I went down to the rowing benches, Conan, to see if any of them were hiding among the slaves, and who do you think I found? That fellow from the other ship. What is he called? Bayan. That is it. Chained to a bench with the rest." Throwing back his head, the nomad laughed as if it were the funniest story he had ever heard.

  Conan's brow knitted in a frown. Bayan here? And in chains? "Bring him here, Tamur," he snapped.

  "Now!" His tone was such that the Hyrkanian jumped for the ladder immediately. "Tie t
hese others, Akeba," Conan went on, "so we do not have to worry about them." With his sword he motioned the captain to lie down on the deck; fuming, the hooknosed seaman complied.

  By the time the four ship's officers, two still unconscious, were bound hand and foot, Tamur had returned with Bayan. Other than chains, the wiry sailor from Foam Dancer wore only welts and a filthy twist of rag. He stood head down, shivering wetly from his passage through the storm, watching Conan from the corner of his eye.

  The big Cimmerian straddled a bench, holding his sword before him so that ripples of lantern light ran along the blade. "How came you here, Bayan?"

  "I wandered from the ship," Bayan muttered, "and these scum captured me. There's a code among sailors, but they chained me to an oar," he raised his head long enough to spit at the tied figure of the captain, "and whipped me when I protested."

  "What happened at Foam Dancer? You didn't just wander away." The wiry man shifted his feet with a clank of iron links, but said nothing. "You'll talk if I have to let Akeba heat his irons for you." The Turanian blinked, then grimaced fiercely; Bayan wet his lips. "And you'll tell the truth," Conan went on.

  "The old man is a soothsayer. He can tell when you lie." He lifted his sword as if studying the edge. "For the first lie, a hand. Then a foot. Then.... How many lies can you stand? Three? Four? Of a certainty no more."

  Bayan met that glacial blue gaze; then words tumbled out of him as fast as he could force them. "A man came to the ship, a man with yellow skin and eyes to freeze your heart in your chest. Had your... the woman with him. Offered a hundred pieces of gold for fast passage back to Aghrapur. Said this ship was damaged, and he knew Foam Dancer was faster. Didn't even bother to deny trying to sink us. Muktar was tired of waiting for you, and when this one appeared with the woman, well, it was plain you were dead, or it seemed plain, and it looked easy enough to take the woman and the gold, and-"

  "Slow down!" Conan commanded sharply. "Yasbet is unharmed?"

  Bayan swallowed hard. "I... I know not. Before Mitra and Dagon I swear that I raised no hand against her. She was alive when I left. Muktar gave a signal, you see, and Tewfik and Marantes and I went at the stranger with our daggers, but he killed them before a man could blink. He just touched them, and they were dead. And then, then he demanded Muktar slit my throat." He made a sound, half laughter, half weeping. "Evidence of future good faith, he called it. And that fat spawn of a diseased goat was going to do it! I saw it on his face, and I ran. I hope he's drowned in this accursed storm. I pray he and Foam Dancer are both at the bottom of the sea."

  "An ill-chosen prayer," Conan said between clenched teeth. "Yasbet is on that vessel." With a despairing wail Bayan sank groveling to his knees. "Put him back where he was," Conan spat. Tamur jerked the wiry seaman to his feet; the Cimmerian watched them go. "Is this galley too damaged to sail?" he demanded of the captain.

  The hook-nosed man had lain with his mouth open, listening while Bayan talked. Now he snorted. "Only a dirt-eater would think so. Once this storm is gone, give me half a day for repairs and I'll sail her anywhere on the Vilayet, in any weather."

  "The repairs you need, you'll make at sea," Conan said levelly. "And we sail as soon as the storm abates enough for us to get off this beach without being smashed to splinters." The captain opened his mouth, and Conan laid his blade against the seaman's throat. "Or mayhap one of these other three would like to be captain."

  The captain's eyes bulged, and his mouth worked. Finally he said, "I'll do it. 'Tis likely we'll all of us drown, but I'll do it."

  Conan nodded. He had expected no other decision. Yasbet was being carried closer to Jhandar by the moment. The storm drumming against the hull seemed to echo the sorcerer's name. Jhandar. This time they would meet face to face, he and Jhandar, and one of them would die. One or both. Jhandar.

  Chapter XXIII

  Jhandar, lounging on cushions of multicolored silk spread beside a fountain within a walled garden, watched Davinia exclaiming over his latest gifts to her, yet his thoughts were elsewhere. Three days more and, as matters stood, all his plans would come to naught. Could the wench not sense the worry in him?

  "They are beautiful," Davinia said, stretching arms encircled by emerald bracelets above her head.

  Another time he would have felt sweat popping out on his forehead. Her brief, golden silks left the inner slopes of her rounded breasts bare, and her girdle, two fingerwidths of sapphires and garnets hung with the bright feathers of rare tropic birds, sat low on the swelling of her hips. Sultry eyes caressed him. "I will have to think of a way to show my gratitude," she purred.

  He acknowledged her only with a casual wave of his hand. In three days Yildiz, that fat fool, would meet with his advisors to decide where to use the army he had built. Of the Seventeen Attendants, eight would speak for empire, for war with Zamora. Only eight, and Jhandar knew that Yildiz merely counted the number of those who supported or opposed, rather than actually weighing the advice given. Jhandar needed one more to speak for war. One of the nine other. Who could have believed the nine lived lives which, if not completely blameless, still gave him no lever to use against them? One more he needed, yet all the nine would speak for peace, for reducing the numbers of the army. Short of gaining Yildiz's own ear, he had done all that could be done, yet three days would see a year's work undone.

  It would take even longer to repair matters. He must first arrange the assassination of an Attendant, perhaps more than one if his efforts to guide the selection of the new Attendant failed. Then it would take time to build the army again. If things were otherwise, three days could see the beginnings of an empire that would be his in all but name. Kings would journey to him, kneel at his feet to hear his commands.

  Instead, he would have to begin again, wait even longer for that he had awaited so long.

  And that wait added another risk. What had the man Conan sought in Hyrkania? What had he found that might be used against the Power? Why did Che Fan not return with the barbarian's head in a basket?

  "You will let me have them, Jhandar?"

  "Of course," he said absently, then pulled himself from his grim ruminations. "Have what?"

  "The slaves." There was petulance in Davinia's voice, a thing he had noticed more often of late. "Haven't you been listening?"

  "Certainly I've been listening. But tell me about these slaves again."

  "Four of them," she said, moving to stand straddle-legged beside him. Now he could feel sweat on his face. Sunlight surrounded her with nimbus, a woman of golden silk, glowing hot. "Well-muscled young men, of course," she went on. "Two of blackest hue, and two as pale as snow. The one pair I will dress in pearls and rubies, the other in onyx and emeralds. They will be as a frame for me. To make me more beautiful for you," she added hastily.

  "What need have you for slave boys?" he growled. "You have slaves in plenty to do your bidding. And that old hag, Renda, to whom you spend so much time whispering."

  "Why, to bear my palanquin," she laughed, tinkling musical notes. Fluidly she sank to her knees, bending till her breasts pressed against his chest. Her lips brushed the line of his jaw. "Surely my Great Lord would not deny my bearers. My Great Lord, who it is my greatest pleasure to serve. In every way."

  "I can deny you nothing," he said thickly. "You may have the slaves."

  In her eyes he caught a fleeting glimpse of greed satisfied, and the moment soured for him. She would leave him did she ever find one who could give her more. He meant to be sure there could never be such a one, but still .... He could bind her to him with the golden bowl and her heart's blood. None who saw or talked with her would ever know she did not in truth live. But he would know.

  Someone cleared his throat diffidently. Scowling, Jhandar sat up. Zephran stood on the marble path, bowing deeply over folded hands, eyes carefully averted from Davinia.

  "What is it?" Jhandar demanded angrily.

  "Suitai is returned, Great Lord," his shaven-headed myrmidion replied.

/>   Instantly Jhandar's anger was gone, along with his thoughts of Davinia. Careless of his dignity, he scrambled to his feet. "Lead," he commanded.

  Dimly he noted that Davinia followed as well, but matters not of the flesh dominated his mind once more.

  Suitai waited in Jhandar's private audience chamber, its bronze lion lamps unlit at this hour. A large sack lay on the mosaicked floor at the Khitan's feet.

  "Where is Che Fan?" Jhandar demanded as he entered.

  "Perished, Great Lord," Suitai replied, and Jhandar hesitated in his stride.

  Despite his knowledge to the contrary, Jhandar had begun to think in some corners of his mind that the two assassins were indestructible. It was difficult to imagine what could slay one of them.

  "How?" he said shortly.

  "The barbarian enlisted the aid of a Hyrkanian witch-woman, Great Lord. She, also, died."

  That smile meant that Suitai had been her killer, Jhandar thought briefly, without interest. "And the barbarian?"

  "Conan is dead as well, Great Lord."

  Jhandar nodded slowly, feeling a strange relief. This Conan had been but a straw in the wind after all, catching the eye as it flashed by, yet unimportant. Suitai's smile had faded at the mention of the barbarian, no doubt because Che Fan had actually slain the fellow. At times he thought that Suitai's thirst for blood would eventually prove a liability. Now he had no time for such petty worries.

  "The crew of the galley was disposed of as I commanded. Suitai? I wish no links between myself and Hyrkania." Not until he was able to control that region the shamans had blasted, thus containing whatever might be of danger to him within. Not until his power was secure in Turan.

  The tall Khitan hesitated. "The galley was damaged, Great Lord, and could not put to sea. I left its crew waiting for me. Without doubt the coastal tribes have attended to them by now. Instead I hired the vessel the barbarian used, and came ashore well north of the city."

  "And the crew of this ship?"

  "Dead, Great Lord. I slew them, and guided the ship to the beach myself." An unreadable expression flickered across the assassin's normally impassive face, and Jhandar eyed him sharply. Suitai shifted uneasily beneath that gaze, then went on slowly. "The captain, Great Lord, a fat man called Muktar, leaped into the sea, surely to drown. I have no doubt of it."