The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  The smile vanished and the fair skin flushed. Illyana dropped back to ride beside Dessa and Massouf. Conan spurred forward, to ride level with Raihna, muttering rude remarks about women who could be neither chaste nor unchaste.

  "That was an ill-spoken jest," Raihna said, when the Cimmerian fell silent.

  "Am I to learn why, or must I guess?"

  "You will learn if Illyana chooses to tell you. Not otherwise. It is not my secret to tell."

  "Not telling me all I need to know is sending me into this fight blind."

  "Ah, Conan. Surely not that. One-eyed at worst."

  "That's bad enough, against an opponent with two eyes. Or didn't Master Barathres teach you that? If he didn't, you should go back to Bossonia and get your fees back from him, at the point of a―"

  Raihna's hand leaped at his cheek so swiftly he had no time to seize it. Instead he blocked the blow, then gripped Raihna's arm just above the elbow.

  "Another ill-timed jest?"

  "Let me go, curse you!"

  "I've been cursed by a good many men and women, and I'm healthier than most of them."

  Then he saw that tears were starting from her eyes. He released her and guided his horse to a safe distance, while she reined in and sat in silence, shaking and weeping silently.

  At last she pushed her fists into her eyes, sighed, and faced Conan once more.

  "Conan, forgive me. That was a cruel jest indeed, but you could not have known how much so. I am an exile from Bossonia. I have no home save where Illyana chooses to lead me. Illyana or someone worse.

  "So I owe her silence about her secrets and perhaps a trifle more. Tell me, my Cimmerian friend. What would you say to a jest, that High Captain Khadjar was in the pay of Lord Houma?"

  Conan felt the blood rush to his face. Raihna laughed, pointing at a fist he'd raised without realizing it.

  "You see. I owe Illyana as much or more as you owe Khadjar. Let's follow an old

  Bossonian saying―'if you won't burn my haystacks, my cattle won't befoul your well.'Truce?"

  Conan guided his horse close again and put an arm around her. She nestled into it for a moment.

  "Truce."

  From the ravine, the last frantic bellowings had died. So had the last of the herd of cattle. Even Master Eremius heard only the gobbling, tearing, and cracking as the Transformed dismembered the bodies. From time to time he heard growls and squeals as they quarreled over some particularly succulent piece.

  He did not fear the quarrels would turn bloody. The Transformed were no disciplined army, but the elders among them had ways of keeping the peace. At times, Eremius suspected, those ways meant the disappearance of one or two of their number. A waste, but not a great one.

  Today nothing of that nature would happen. The Transformed had a feast under their claws. They also had foreknowledge of a greater feast tonight, with human flesh to rend and human terror to savor.

  Captain Nasro scrambled up to Eremius's perch and knelt.

  "Master, the stream at the foot of the ravine grows foul. Blood and ordure make it unfit for drinking."

  "It matters not at all to the Transformed. Or have you forgotten that?"

  "I remember, Master." He swallowed, sweat breaking out on his face. "Yet―do you―I also remember ―that our men, those not Transformed―they need clean water."

  "Then let them go upstream from the ravine and drink there!" Eremius snarled.

  The force of his anger made his staff lift from the ground and whirl toward the captain's head. Eremius let the staff come so close that the man flinched, then made it tap him lightly on the cheek.

  "Think, man. Would I have let your men go thirsty? I have left you and them alike enough wits to find food and water. Go use them, and leave me in peace!"

  Nasro flinched again, bowed again, and retreated.

  Alone save for his thoughts and the din of the Transformed feeding, Eremius sat down, staff across his knees. It was a pity he could not hope that Nasro and all his men would perish in tonight's battle among the villages. The villagers would hardly offer enough resistance.

  Besides, he still needed Nasro and the rest of his witlings. Only when both Jewels were at his command could he amuse himself by disposing of them.

  That promised to be a most agreeable day. So did another, the day he made the Transformed able to breed and breed true. Transformed and commanded by the powers of a single Jewel, they were barren. When Eremius held both Jewels, matters would be otherwise. Then he would also command a regular tribute of women to be Transformed and bear more such.

  It was said that the children of those Transformed by both Jewels reached their full growth in a single year. Eremius would most assuredly put that to the proof at the earliest moment. If it was true, he would have one more irresistible gift to offer his allies.

  Of course, with Illyana's aid or at least her Jewel he could have proved the

  matter and offered the gift ten years ago! That thought no longer ruled his mind, as the day of open battle and victory drew closer. It still lurked in his spirit, snarling like a surly watchdog and able to darken the brightest day.

  "The stream's turned all bloody!"

  "The demons have cursed it!"

  "Who brought their wrath upon us?"

  "Find him!"

  At those last words Bora broke into a run. He wanted to reach the stream before the crowd decided he was the one they should find and turned into a mob searching for him.

  The shouting swelled. Bora had never run so fast in his life, save when fleeing the mountain demons. He burst out of the village and plunged through the crowd.

  He was on the bank of the stream before anyone saw him coming.

  There he stopped, looking down into water commonly as cool and clear as his sister Caraya's eyes. Now it was turning an evil, pustulant scarlet. Bits of nameless filth floated on the surface and an evil reek smote Bora's nostrils.

  Around him the villagers were giving way. Did they fear him or was it only the stink of the stream? He laughed, then swallowed hard. He feared that if he began laughing now, he would not easily stop.

  Holding his breath, he knelt and scooped up a bit of floating filth. Then he smiled.

  "Now we know what became of Perek's cattle!" he shouted. "They must have fallen

  into some ravine upstream. Hard luck for Perek."

  "Hard luck for us, too!" someone shouted. "Can we all drink from the wells, until the stream runs clear again?"

  "What else is there to do?" Bora asked, shrugging.

  This reasonable question made some nod. Others frowned. "What if the cattle died―in a way against nature?" one of these said. None dared say the word "demons," as if their name might call them. "Will the water ever run clean again?"

  "If―anything against nature―had a hand in this, it will show in the water," Bora said. He had to take a deep breath before he knew he could say the next words in a steady voice. "I will step into the water. If I step out unharmed, we need fear no more than rotting cattle."

  This speech drew both cheers and protests. Several arguments and at least one fight broke out between the two factions. Bora ignored both and began stripping off his clothes. If he did not do this quickly, he might well lose the courage to do it at all.

  The water was chill as always, biting with sharp, angry teeth that began on his toes and ended at his chest. He would not sink his face and head in that filthy water.

  Bora stayed in the stream until numbness blunted the water's teeth. By then the crowd was silent as the mist in the demons' valley. He stayed a trifle longer, until he began to lose feeling in his toes and fingers. Then he turned toward the bank.

  He needed help to climb out, but enough villagers rushed forward to help a dozen men. Others had brought towels. They surrounded him, to chafe and rub until his skin turned from blue to pink and his teeth stopped chattering.

  Caraya came, with a steaming posset cup and a look he had seldom seen on her face. Her tongue was no more ge
ntle than usual, however. "Bora, that was a foolish thing to do! What would have become of us if the demons took you?"

  "I didn't think there were any demons. But I could hardly ask anyone to believe me, unless I proved it. If I hadn't―what would have become of you if they thought I'd brought the demons and stoned me to death!"

  "They wouldn't dare!" If her eyes had been bows, half the crowd would have dropped dead with arrows in them.

  "Caraya, men in fear will dare anything, if it lets them strike back at that fear." It was one of Ivram's pieces of wisdom. Now seemed a good time to bring it forth.

  Another charitable soul brought a bucket of hot water and a sponge. Bora sponged himself into a semblance of cleanliness, then pulled on his clothes. The crowd still surrounded him, many gaping as if he were a god come to earth.

  Anger sharpened his voice.

  "Is there no work that needs doing? If nothing else, we must bring water from Winterhome if our wells cannot give enough. Doubtless they will share if we ask.

  Not if we stand about gaping until the birds build nests in our mouths!"

  Bora half-feared that he had finally said too much. Who was he, at sixteen, to order men old enough to be his grandfather?

  Instead he saw nods, and heard men offering to walk to the other village with a message. He refused to decide who should go. He took one of the towels, dipped it into the stream, then wrung it out and tied it around his left arm.

  "I will take this to Ivram," he shouted, raising the arm. "The demons were too weak to harm me, so there is little to fear. There may be much to learn, and Ivram will know how to learn it."

  Bora hoped that was true. The priest was said to know many odd bits of arcane lore, without being truly a sorcerer. Even so, Ivram might not be able to answer the most urgent question.

  How close were the demons? To send men out to seek them would be murder. To wait and let them come at a time of their own choosing would be folly. What else could be done? Bora did not know, but Ivram could at least help him hide this ignorance.

  Also, Ivram and Maryam were the two people in the whole village to whom Bora could admit that he was frightened.

  By mid-afternoon Conan judged it safe to leave the hills and press on to the next town. He would have felt safer pressing all the way to the garrison at Fort Zheman, but that would have meant riding by night.

  Also, Dessa and Massouf were near the end of their strength.

  "They might go farther if they hadn't spent so much time quarreling," Conan told Raihna. "I won't turn that young lady over my knee, but I'll pray Massouf does and soon. For all our sakes, not just his!"

  "I much doubt he'll find it in himself to do that," Raihna said. "He sounds like a man who isn't quite sure now he wanted his dream to come true."

  "If he doesn't know what he wants, then he and Dessa will be well-matched,"

  Conan growled. "I'll even pay for their wedding, if they have no kin left.

  Anything, just so we don't have to carry those witlings into the mountains!"

  Unmoved by Conan's opinion, the reunited lovers were still quarreling when the party rode into Haruk. They fell silent while Conan found rooms at an inn with stout walls, a back door, and good wine. Then their quarreling began again, when Illyana announced thatlthey would share a room to themselves.

  "I won't!" Dessa said simply.

  "I won't touch you, Dessa," Massouf said. He sounded genuinely contrite. "Don't be afraid."

  "Afraid! Of you? A real man I'd fear, but―"

  Glares from Illyana, Raihna, and Conan silenced her, but not soon enough. An angry flush crept up into Massouf's face and his voice shook as he spoke.

  "I'm not man enough for you? What are you, Dessa? Did you find a trull's heart in―"

  The slap Dessa aimed would have floored Massouf if Conan hadn't stepped between them. He held one hand over Dessa's mouth while he opened the door of her room with the other. Then he shifted his grip, to the collar and hem of her borrowed tunic, swung her back and forth a few times, and tossed her neatly on to the bed.

  "Now, Massouf," Conan said with elaborate courtesy. "Would it be your pleasure

  to walk into the room? Or would you prefer to imitate a bird?"

  Massouf cursed but walked. Conan kicked the couple's baggage in after them, then pulled the door shut and bolted it from the outside.

  "Here," Illyana said. She held out a cup of wine. Conan emptied it without taking it from his lips.

  "Bless you," he said, wiping his mouth. He stopped short of adding that she knew well what a man might need. Such jests clearly reached some old, deep wound. If he could give her no good memories, he could at least not prod the scabs and scars.

  "I don't know if they'll have a peaceful night," Raihna said. "But I intend to."

  She put an arm around Conan's waist.

  "If it's peace you want, Raihna, you may have to wait a while for it."

  "Oh, I hope so. A long, long while." Her attempt to imitate a worshipful young girl was so ludicrous that even Illyana burst out laughing.

  "If you're that hot, woman," Conan said, "then let's see what this inn has for dinner. Man or horse, you don't ride them far on an empty stomach!"

  Eleven

  SOMEWHERE NEARBY A woman was screaming. Pleasantly entangled with Raihna, Conan

  was slow to spare the woman a single thought. Even then, his thought was that Dessa and Massouf had finally come to blows. Dessa, in Conan's opinion, could

  well take care of herself without help from people who had more important matters at hand―The screams grew louder. Raihna stiffened, but not in passion. She stared at the door.

  "Woman―!" the Cimmerian muttered.

  "No. That―it's Illyana. She is in pain or fears danger."

  Raihna flung herself out of bed and dashed to the door. She stopped only to snatch up sword and dagger. Similarly clad, Conan followed.

  In the hall, Dessa and Massouf stood before Illyana's door. Dessa was clad as Conan and Raihna, without the weapons. Massouf had a blanket wrapped around his waist. As Conan reached them, the screaming ceased.

  "Don't just stand there!" Conan snarled.

  "We tried the door," Massouf said. "It is bolted from within, or perhaps spellbound." His voice was steady, although his eyes ran up and down Raihna.

  Thank the gods the lad isn't so besotted with Dessa that he sees no other woman!

  From behind Illyana's door came the mewling of someone in pain or fear, now fighting to hide it.

  "Give me room!" Conan snapped. "And Massouf― find the innkeeper if he isn't already summoning the watch!"

  Conan drew back as far as the hall would allow. When he plunged forward, he was like an avalanche on a steep slope. The bolt was made to resist common men, not Cimmerians of Conan's size and strength. The bolt snapped like a twig and the door crashed open.

  Conan flew into the room, nearly stumbling over Illyana, who knelt at the foot of the bed. She clutched the bedclothes with both hands and had a corner of the blanket stuffed into her mouth.

  She wore only the Jewel of Khurag in its ring on her left arm. The Jewel seared Conan's eyes with emerald flame.

  "Don't touch her!" Raihna cried.

  "She needs help!"

  "You will hurt, not help, if you touch her now!"

  Conan hesitated, torn between desire to help someone clearly suffering and trust in Raihna's judgment. Illyana settled the question by slumping into a faint. As.

  she fell senseless, the flame in the Jewel died.

  Raihna knelt beside her mistress, listening for a heartbeat and breath. Conan mounted guard at the door, while Dessa pulled blankets off the bed to improvise garb for everyone.

  "You've your wits about you, girl," Raihna said grudgingly.

  "You think a witling could have lived as I have?"

  "No," Conan said, laughing harshly. If Dessa truly wanted to queen it over a tavern, best send her to Pyla. In Aghrapur, any friend of Pyla had few enemies.

&
nbsp; If that friend was a woman, she was off to a fine start in the taverns.

  At this moment Massouf returned. The innkeeper and two stout-thewed manservants either followed or pursued him. Conan showed them steel and they halted, while Massouf darted into the room.

  "What is this din?" the innkeeper bellowed. He contemplated everyone's

  improvised garments and Illyana's lack of any. "I'll have you know I keep a quiet house. If it's a woman you want―"

  "Oh, go play with your women!" growled Conan. "If you're man enough, that is. My lady mistress has been having a nightmare. She's a widow, and her husband met a hard death."

  The landlord seemed mollified. He was turning, when Illyana began to mutter, "The Transformed. No hope―stopping them―this far away. Try to―weaken ―power over

  them. Try―everyone (something wordless) doomed―"

  "Witchcraft!" one of the servants screamed. He clattered off down the stairs.

  His comrade followed. Raihna ran to her mistress's side, dropping her blanket in her haste. The innkeeper remained, his mouth agape, whether at Raihna or the witchcraft Conan didn't know.

  "The watch!" the man finally gasped. "I'll call the watch. If they won't come, I'll raise the town. There'll be no witcheries done in my house. No, not by all the gods―"

  "Go raise the town and much good may it do you!" Raihna shouted. Her sword nearly slit the innkeeper's nose. He backed away, reached the top of the stairs, and would have fallen backward down them if Conan hadn't gripped his arm.

  "Look you, my witless friend," the Cimmerian said. He would have gladly flung the man after his servants, but a small chance of peace remained. "My mistress does have some magic at her command. That's true. She can also sense others casting spells. The one she's sensed is old and evil. Leave her be, and perhaps

  she can protect you!"

  The man frowned, but some of the panic left his face. When Conan released him, he walked down the stairs, instead of running.

  "I may have won us time," Conan said. "Then again, I may not. Those fools of servants will have the town here before you can spell a pot of soup to boiling!"