The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  At first they had to fight a way. Then the Transformed realized that their foes would attack only those in their path. To leave the path of humans who seemed invincible was a simple matter, a few steps, then a few steps more, each step taken more swiftly.

  Not all of the Transformed fled like dead leaves before a gale, but few enough fought. The Cimmerian and the Bossonian came down the hill like avenging gods.

  Eremius tore the ring from his arm. He still would not dare the spells that offered the last chance with the Jewel so close to his flesh. He cast it to the

  ground. The gold rang on the stones, and the ringing seemed to go on, filling his ears like the tones of. a mighty gong.

  The sorcerer clapped his hands to his ears. Shutting out the sound, he tried to array his thoughts once more, for the last spells.

  If he succeeded, no more would be needed.

  If he failed, no more would be possible.

  Conan had never run so fast in his life, at least after a long battle. Hillman though he was, he feared his legs would betray him. To stumble now would be worse than fatal, it would be humiliating.

  At last he felt level ground under his feet. Ahead he saw Eremius, Jewel-ring at his feet and hands clasped over his ears. What the sorcerer heard that Conan did not, the Cimmerian neither knew nor cared.

  He only knew that in another score of paces, he could snatch up the Jewel-ring.

  Conan had covered half the distance when the Jewel-ring leaped into the air. It did not glow, not with the dazzling emerald fire of before. It did something far worse.

  It sang.

  It sang with a sad, plaintive note in a voice that uttered no words but somehow held enormous power to paint pictures in Conan's mind. Conan saw a deep-bosomed Cimmerian wench and himself grappled in love before a blazing fire. He saw a snug hut, with children playing before that same fire. He saw dark-haired boys, their features stamped with his own, learning the art of the hunt and the blade

  from their father. He saw himself with grizzled hair, passing judgments in village disputes.

  All that he had turned his back on, the Jewel seemed to say, could be his. He need only turn his back on Eremius.

  Conan slowed his pace. He had turned his back on Cimmeria with open eyes, but now those eyes were threatening to blur with sorrow for what he had lost. He knew this was no natural sorrow, but the power of it was sweeping away the last of his knowledge.

  Another presence hammered its way into Conan's mind. Illyana's Jewel was crying out a song of triumph.

  Equally dazzling pictures entered his mind―riding at the head of an army through a city of towering buildings with gilded roofs, under a sky of northern blue.

  White clouds shone, flowers showered down upon him, clinging to the mane of his steed, the cheers and chants of the crowd drowned out the babble of the Cimmerian village meeting.

  As if slamming a door in the face of intruders, Conan willed both Jewels out of his mind. It did not matter which offered what rewards. Both alike seemed to think that he could be bought. Both were wrong, and their masters with them.

  Conan needed no urging to overthrow the creator of the Transformed. What he might see fit to do with Illyana could be left until later.

  Conan's sword lunged. Its point darted through the ring. The sharp blade leaped toward the sky, where the mist was gathering again. The ring and its Jewel slid down the blade to the hilt.

  "Run, people!"

  The last thing Conan saw as he himself turned to run, was Eremius slumping to the ground, his face in his hands.

  Twenty-two THEY WERE HALFWAY out of the valley when Illyana stumbled and fell, to all appearances senseless. Conan laid an ear next to her lips and felt her breathing. Then he handed the Jewel-ring to Raihna, who slipped it on her left arm. Sheathing his sword, the Cimmerian lifted the sorceress and continued the climb.

  "Let me go on ahead and find an easier path, Captain," Bora said. "You are hillborn like me, but I have not fought hand to hand with the Transformed this night."

  "Not yet," Raihna said. "We may well have heard the last of Eremius. About his creations―"

  From the swirling mist in the valley came wild cries, inhuman in their quality but clearly from a human throat. Rage, terror, and pain blended horribly in the cries.

  Then the howls of the Transformed rose in a nightmare chorus, swallowing the human cries.

  "What in Mitra's name was that?" Bora gasped.

  "As Raihna said, we've heard the last of Master Eremius," Conan said. "I'd wager that was him, making a light supper for some of his Transformed."

  Bora shuddered. "Keep your sling loaded and ready," Conan added. "It's the only weapon we have left for striking from a distance."

  "It's also the only weapon we have that Illyana didn't ensorcel," Raihna said, almost meditatively. Conan stared at her in dawning surprise.

  "That matters to you?"

  "After what I've seen these past few days―even Illyana's magic smells other than it once did. And anything flowing from the Jewels…" She shook her head. "I will think on it, when I have wits to spare."

  They scrambled out of the valley in silence. They also moved in darkness, for which Conan was grateful. Darkness and the resurgent mist hid them from the Transformed, and the Jewels slept. They might have been as exhausted as their rescuers, or even their new mistress.

  They left the mist behind in the Valley of the Demons. By the time Bora saw the Lord of the Winds towering against the stars, Illyana could walk again. She was also shivering, naked against the night wind.

  Bora realized that whatever her magic had done to keep her warm was passing. He stripped off his shirt and handed it to her. She donned it eagerly, then inclined her head as graciously as a queen.

  "We are grateful," she said. Conan frowned and seemed about to speak, then seemed to think better of it. Once again they moved on in silence.

  The endurance of his companions surprised Bora.

  The Cimmerian and Raihna had to be close to the end of their strength. Illyana had battled Eremius, no less formidable an opponent than the Transformed, and could hardly be accustomed to walking barefoot across mountainsides.

  At dawn, they were almost in sight of where they left their baggage. They emptied their waterskins, slung them again, and turned on to the last slope.

  All at once Conan held up a warning hand.

  "Stop. Everyone hide. I'm going on alone." He spoke softly, as if hostile ears might be close.

  "We wish to know―" Illyana began.

  Again Conan frowned. Then he said with elaborate courtesy, "You shall know the moment I do. Until then, I ask your good will."

  Raihna and Conan exchanged glances. Then Raihna put her hand to the small of Illyana's back and gently pushed her toward a stand of scrubby bushes. As Bora followed the women, Conan was already scrambling down the slope by a route that hid him from below. Once more Bora was amazed at how silently so large a man could move.

  Bora had barely time to become impatient before Conan returned as silently as he went. The first knowledge Bora had of his return was a soft bird whistle. Then the black-maned head thrust into the bushes.

  "Six of those half-witted humans Eremius used as scouts. They're sitting around our baggage. Swords and spears, no bows. They look a bit more alert than most, but no match for us."

  "Must we slay more of the Master's servants?" asked Illyana. She sounded almost petulant.

  Conan shrugged. "I suppose we could leave them to the army, like the Transformed. But do you want to walk all the way back to Fort Zheman clothed as you are?"

  "That might not be necessary."

  "By Erlik's beard! How―?"

  "Do not blaspheme."

  If Illyana had spoken in Stygian, Conan could not have looked blanker. This time it was Raihna who frowned, then spoke.

  "Forgive us, mistress. We think only of your comfort."

  "That is honorable. Very well. We give our consent." Illyana waved a languid hand do
wnhill. "Do your duty."

  Once again Bora had the notion he was listening to a queen. A queen―or at least a ruler, consisting of a woman and one of the Jewels.

  Not both Jewels. Please, gods, not both.

  Bora cudgeled his thoughts into order and began seeking slingstones under the bushes.

  A Cimmerian battle cry seemed to stun half the men. The rest leaped up. That made them the first to die, as their attackers struck. Conan hewed down two, and Raihna the third.

  One of the sitting men fell over, ribs crushed and heart stopped by a

  slingstone. His comrades now rose, one to run, the other to thrust at Conan with his spear. The Cimmerian had to give ground for a moment, then hacked through the spearshaft with his sword.

  The man had enough of the shaft left to raise it like a fighting staff. He caught Conan's first slash, then tried to kick the Cimmerian in the knee.

  This display of skill and courage neither altered nor greatly delayed the man's fate. Raihna slipped under the guard of his improvised staff with her dagger. He reeled back, thigh pouring blood, and did not look up as Conan's sword descended.

  Bora looked for the man who had fled, and saw him already far enough to make a kill chancy. Then he looked around him. Conan would doubtless have noted any sentries, who indeed could not have been very alert. A second pair of eyes never harmed the chances of victory, as Conan's Captain Khadjar said.

  Had Bora seen Master Eremius walking up the hill, he could hardly have been more surprised.

  "Yakoub!"

  The Cimmerian whirled. Bora pointed. The Cimmerian's sword leaped up.

  "Good morning, Captain Conan," Yakoub said. He sounded as calm as if they were meeting to visit a tavern. Then he looked at the bodies of his men. For a moment the calm broke and his face showed naked grief.

  "I did not teach them enough," was all Yakoub said. Then he drew his own sword.

  "I can still avenge them."

  "Small chance of that," Conan said. After a moment he sheathed his own sword.

  "Yakoub, I'd rather not face your father with your blood on my hands. I have no more quarrel with you."

  "If you meant that, you wouldn't have killed my men."

  "Your men?" the Cimmerian snorted. "Master Eremius's tame dogs? What do you owe them?"

  "My death or yours," Yakoub said.

  "That dung-spawned―" Bora began. He reached for his sling. A moment later he knew that speaking had been a mistake. A muscular Bossonian arm took him across the throat from behind. Raihna's free hand snatched the sling from his grip.

  Freed suddenly, he whirled to face the swordswoman. "You―! Whose side are you on?"

  "I'm against your dishonoring Conan. Yakoub―"

  "Yakoub dishonored my sister! He dishonored my family!"

  "Are you willing to fight him hand to hand?"

  Bora measured Yakoub's suppleness, the grace of movement, the easy grip on the sword. "No. He'd cut me to pieces."

  "Then stand back and let Conan settle matters. Yakoub is the bastard son of High Captain Khadjar. His being out here may mean that Conan's commander is a traitor. Conan's honor is caught up in this too. If Yakoub won't run, he has to be killed in a fair fight."

  "And if Conan is killed―?"

  "Then I'll face Yakoub. Either swear to keep your sling on your belt, or I'll slice it apart with my dagger now."

  Bora would have cursed, if he'd known words adequate for his rage. At last he spat. "Keep it, you Bossonian trull―!"

  The slap aimed at Bora never landed. Conan and Yakoub sprang toward each other, and the dawn light blazed from their uplifted swords.

  Afterward Bora confessed that he had thought of using his sling to save Conan, as well as avenging his own family's honor. He could not believe that the Cimmerian would be fit to meet a strong opponent blade to blade, not after the night's fighting.

  He did not realize that Conan also knew the limits of his strength. The Cimmerian's leap into sword's reach was his last. For the rest of the fight, he moved as little as possible, weaving an invisible armor of darting steel around himself. Yakoub was fresher and just as swift if lacking the Cimmerian's reach.

  He might have won, had he been allowed a clear line of attack for a single moment.

  The deadly dance of Conan's blade denied him that moment.

  At some time in the fight, Illyana came down to watch. After a few moments, she turned away, yawning as if she found this battle to the death no more interesting than swine-mating.

  Sitting down, she opened the bags and garbed herself. Bora knew a moment's regret at seeing that fair body at last concealed. Raihna was still next to naked, but her face made Bora doubt whom she thought the enemy, Yakoub or himself.

  Bora was as surprised as Yakoub by the ending of the fight. He had expected Conan to stand until Yakoub wearied himself. Instead Conan suddenly left an opening that even Bora could recognize, for Yakoub to launch a deadly stroke.

  Neither Bora nor Yakoub recognized Conan's intent. The first either knew of it was when Conan dropped under Yakoub's blade. It still came close to splitting his head; hanks of blood-stiffened black hair flew.

  Now Conan was inside Yakoub's guard. Knee rammed into groin, head butted chin, and hand gripped swordarm. Yakoub flew backward, to land disarmed and half-stunned. He rolled, trying to draw a dagger. Conan brought a Toot down on his wrist and lowered his sword until its point rested against the other's throat.

  "Yakoub, I know you owed a debt to your men. I owe one to your father. Go back to him and urge him to go where he need not pretend you are dead."

  "That will mean giving up his Captaincy," Yakoub said. "You ask much of both of us."

  "Why not?" Conan asked. Sweat ran down him, in spite of the morning chill. For the first time, Bora noticed that the Cimmerian's left shoulder bore a fresh wound.

  Yakoub seemed to be pondering the question. What he would have answered was never to be known. As Conan stepped back, green fire of a familiar hue surrounded Yakoub. His body convulsed, arching into a bow. His mouth opened in a soundless scream and his hands scrabbled in the dirt.

  Then he fell back, as limp as if every bone in his body had been crushed to

  powder. Blood trickled briefly from his gaping mouth, then ceased.

  Bora turned, not knowing what he would see but certain it would be something fearful.

  Instead he saw Illyana sitting on a blanket, as regally as if it had been a throne. One arm was raised, and the Jewel-ring on it glowed softly.

  Conan knew that Illyana had declared war. Illyana and the Jewels, rather.

  Whatever she did, it was no longer wholly as her own mistress.

  He was surprised to feel this much charity toward a sorceress. But a sorceress who was also a battle comrade was something new.

  "Raihna, give me the other Jewel," Illyana said, holding out her hand. "It is time to let them unite."

  Raihna looked down at her Jewel-ring as if seeing it for the first time. Slowly she drew it off and dangled it from her right hand.

  Conan willed his body and his mind to avoid any movement or even thought that might betray him.

  What powers the Jewels had given Illyana or themselves, he did not know. He was certain that he would have only one slender chance of defeating the Jewels.

  Unless Raihna was ready to turn her back on ten years of loyalty to Illyana, and Conan would rather wager on King Yildiz's abdicating the throne to become a priest of Mitra―Raihna's right arm flashed up, as swiftly as if it were thrusting a dagger into a mortal enemy. The ring flew into the air.

  Conan barely contrived to catch it before it struck the ground. Rolling, he rubbed the Jewel across his bleeding shoulder. Then he sprang to his feet and flung the Jewel-ring with all his strength toward the spring.

  Neither a sorceress nor the power of the Jewels were as swift as the Cimmerian's arm. The Jewel-ring plummeted into the spring and vanished.

  Conan drew his sword. He did not suppose it would b
e much use against whatever the Jewels might be about to unleash. Somewhere in his thoughts was the notion of dying with it in hand, like a warrior.

  Somewhere, also, lay the notion of giving Illyana a cleaner death than the twisted power of the Jewels might intend.

  Conan had barely drawn when he suddenly felt as if he had been plunged into frozen honey. Every limb seemed constrained, nearly paralyzed. Cold gnawed at every bit of skin and seemed to pierce through the skin into his vitals. From somewhere near he heard Raihna's strangled cry, as if the honey was flowing into her mouth and nose, cutting off her breath.

  It would be so easy to stand here or even lie down. So easy to let Raihna the traitoress perish, and live on, satisfying Illyana's desire and his every night and sometimes every day. Satisfying a queen and leading her armies was enough for any man.

  Was it not so?

  "I know you," Conan growled. "Whatever you are, I know you. You don't know me."

  He twisted desperately. One after another, his limbs came free. The cold remained, but now he could move his feet. As if through a frozen marsh, he

  lurched toward Raihna.

  She could move only her eyes, but now they turned toward him. She tried to lift an arm. As her hand came above her waist, her face contorted in pain.

  The Jewels might have nothing left but vengeance, but they would have that. Or was it Illyana?

  "Bora!" Conan shouted. Or tried to shout. It was as if one of the Transformed was gripping him by the throat. He tore at the air in front of his face, but the grip was stronger than he was after a night's fighting.

  Conan felt his neck beginning to twist and strain. He fought harder, and the twisting stopped. He even sucked in one deep treath before the grip tightened further.

  How long Conan stood grappling with the invisible, he never knew. He knew only that in one moment he was on the brink of having his windpipe crushed. In the next moment the spring began bubbling and seething, spewing foul steam―and the death grip eased.

  Conan still felt as if he was wading through a deep stream against a swift current. Compared with what had gone before, it was easy to overcome it, easier still to reach Raihna. The pain still racked her, but she let herself be drawn after him, one torturous step at a time.