The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  "I saw Keraspa sneaking off!" snarled Zyras. "He'll make for his village and get the whole tribe on our trail. Let us make a race of it: get the idol and drag it out of the mountains before he catches us.

  There's enough treasure for all."

  "True," growled Conan. "But give me back my map before we start."

  Zyras opened his mouth to speak, and then saw that Sassan had picked up one of the Zamorians' bows and had drawn an arrow on him. "Do as Conan tells you," said the Iranistani.

  Zyras shrugged and handed over a crumpled parchment "Curse you, I still deserve a third of the treasure!"

  Conan glanced at the map and thrust it into his girdle. "All right; I'll not hold a grudge. You're a swine, but if you play fair with us we'll do the same, eh, Sassan?"

  Sassan nodded and gathered up a quiverful of arrows.

  The horses of Zyras' party were tied in the pass behind the wall. The three men mounted the best beasts and led the three others, up the canyon behind the pass. Night fell, but with Keraspa behind them they pushed recklessly on.

  Conan watched his companions like a hawk. The most dangerous time would come when they had secured the golden statue and no longer needed each other's help. Then Zyras and Sassan might conspire to murder Conan, or one of them might approach him with a plan to slay the third man. Tough and ruthless though the Cimmerian was, his barbaric code of honor would not let him be the first to try treachery.

  He also wondered what it was that the maker of the map had tried to tell him just before he died. Death had come upon Ostorio in the midst of a description of the temple, with a gush of blood from his mouth.

  The Nemedian had been about to warn him of something, he thought―but of what?

  Dawn broke as they came out of a narrow gorge into a steep-walled valley. The defile through which they had entered was the only way in.

  It came out upon a ledge thirty paces wide, with the cliff rising a bowshot above it on one side and falling away to an unmeasurable depth below. There seemed no way down into the mist-veiled depths of the valley far below. The men wasted few glances in this direction, for the sight ahead drove hunger and fatigue from their minds.

  There on the ledge stood the temple, gleaming in the rising sun. It was carved out of the sheer rock of the cliff, its great portico facing them. The ledge led to its great bronzen door, green with age.

  What race or culture it represented Conan did not try to guess. He unfolded the map and glanced at the notes on the margin, trying to discover a method of opening the door.

  But Sassan slipped from his saddle and ran ahead of them, crying out in his greed.

  "Fool!" grunted Zyras, swinging down from his horse. "Ostorio left a warning on the margin of the map; something about the god's taking his toll."

  Sassan was pulling at the various ornaments and projections on the portal. They heard him cry out in triumph as it moved under his hands.

  Then his cry changed to a scream as the door, a ton of bronze, swayed outward and fell crashing, squashing the Iranistani like an insect. He was completely hidden by the great metal slab, from beneath which oozed streams of crimson.

  Zyras shrugged. "I said he was a fool. Ostorio must have found some way to swing the door without releasing it from its hinges."

  One less knife in the back to watch for, thought Conan. "Those hinges are false," he said, examining the mechanism at close range. "Ho! The door is rising back up again!"

  The hinges were, as Conan had said, fakes. The door was actually mounted on a pair of swivels at the lower corners so that it could fall outward like a drawbridge. From each upper corner of the door a chain ran diagonally up, to disappear into a hole near the upper corner of the door-frame. Now, with a distant grinding sound, the chains had tautened and had started to pull the door back up into its former position.

  Conan snatched up the lance that Sassan had dropped. Placing the butt in a hollow in the carvings of the inner surface of the door, he wedged the point into the corner of the door frame. The grinding sound ceased and the door stopped moving in a nine-tenths open position.

  "That was clever, Conan," said Zyras. "As the god has now had his toll, the way should be open."

  He stepped up on to the inner surface of the door and strode into the temple. Conan followed. They paused on the threshold and peered into the shadowy interior as they might have peered into a serpent's lair.

  Silence held the ancient temple, broken only by the soft scuff of their boots.

  They entered cautiously, blinking in the half-gloom. In the dimness, a blaze of crimson like the glow of a sunset smote their eyes. They saw the god, a thing of gold crusted with flaming gems.

  The statue, a little bigger than life size, was in the form of a dwarfish man standing upright on great splay feet on a block of basalt.

  The statue faced the entrance, and on each side of it stood a great carven chair of dense black wood, inlaid with gems and mother-of-pearl in a style unlike that of any living nation.

  To the left of the statue, a few feet from the base of the pedestal, the floor of the temple was cleft from wall to wall by a chasm some fifteen feet wide. At some time, probably before the temple had been built, an earthquake had split the rock. Into that black abyss, ages ago, screaming victims had doubtless been hurled by hideous priests as sacrifices to the god. The walls were lofty and fantastically carved, the roof dim and shadowy above.

  But the attention of the men was fixed on the idol. Though a brutish and repellant monstrosity, it represented wealth that made Conan's brain swim.

  "Crom and Ymir!" breathed Conan. "One could buy a kingdom with those rubies!"

  "Too much to share with a lout of a barbarian," panted Zyras.

  These words, spoken half-unconsciously between the Corinthian's clenched teeth, warned Conan. He ducked just as Zyras' sword whistled towards his neck; the blade sliced a fold from his headdress. Cursing his own carelessness, Conan leaped back and drew his scimitar.

  Zyras came on in a rush and Conan met him. Back and forth they fought before the leering idol, feet scuffing on the rock, blades rasping and ringing. Conan was larger than the Corinthian, but Zyras was strong, agile, and experienced, full of deadly tricks. Again and again Conan dodged death by a hair's breadth.

  Then Conan's foot slipped on the smooth floor and his blade wavered.

  Zyras threw all his strength and speed into a lunge that would have driven his saber through Conan. But the Cimmerian was not so off balance as he looked. With the suppleness of a panther, he twisted his powerful body aside so that the long blade passed under his right armpit, plowing through his loose khilat. For an instant, the blade caught in the cloth. Zyras stabbed with the dagger in his left hand.

  The blade sank into Conan's right arm, and at the same time the knife in Conan's left drove through Zyras' mail shirt, snapping the links, and plunged between Zyras' ribs. Zyras screamed, gurgled, reeled back, and fell limply.

  Conan dropped his weapons and knelt, ripping a strip of cloth from his robe for a bandage, to add to those he already wore. He bound up the wound, tying knots with fingers and teeth, and glanced at the bloodstained god leering down at him. Its gargoyle face seemed to gloat. Conan shivered as the superstitious fears of the barbarian ran down his spine.

  Then he braced himself. The red god was his, but the problem was, how to get the thing away? If it were solid it would be much too heavy to move, but a tap of the butt of his knife assured him that it was hollow. He was pacing about, his head full of schemes for knocking one of the carven thrones apart to make a sledge, levering the god off its base, and hauling it out of the temple by means of the extra horses and the chains that worked the falling front door, when a voice made him whirl.

  "Stand where you are!" It was a shout of triumph in the Kezankian dialect of Zamoria.

  Conan saw two men in the doorway, each aiming at him a heavy double-curved bow of the Hyrkanian type. One was tall, lean, and red-bearded.

  "Keraspa!" said Conan, r
eaching for the sword and the knife he had dropped.

  The other man was a powerful fellow who seemed familiar.

  "Stand back!" said the Kezankian chief. "You thought I had run away to my village, did you not? Well, I followed you all night, with the only one of my men not wounded." His glance appraised the idol. "Had I known the temple contained such treasure I should have looted it long ago, despite the superstitions of my people. Rustum, pick up his sword and dagger."

  The man stared at the brazen hawk's head that formed the pommel of Conan's scimitar.

  "Wait!" he cried. "This is he who saved me from torture in Arenjun! I know this blade!"

  "Be silent!" snarled the chief. "The thief dies!"

  "Nay! He saved my life! What have I ever had from you but hard tasks and scanty pay? I renounce my allegiance, you dog!"

  Rustum stepped forward, raising Conan's sword, but then Keraspa turned and released his arrow. The missile thudded into Rustum's body. The tribesman shrieked and staggered back under the impact, across the floor of the temple, and over the edge of the chasm. His screams came up, fainter and fainter, until they could no longer be heard.

  Quick as a striking snake, before the unarmed Conan could spring upon him, Keraspa whipped another arrow from his quiver and nocked it. Conan had taken one step in a tigerish rush that would have thrown him upon the chief anyway when, without the slightest warning, the ruby-crusted god stepped down from its pedestal with a heavy metallic sound and took one long stride towards Keraspa.

  With a frightful scream, the chief released his arrow at the animated statue. The arrow struck the god's shoulder and bounced high, turning over and over, and the idol's long arms shot out and caught the chief by an arm and a leg.

  Scream after scream came from the foaming lips of Keraspa as the god turned and moved ponderously towards the chasm. The sight had frozen Conan with horror, and now the idol blocked his way to the exit; either to the right or the left his path would take him within reach of one of those ape-long arms. And the god, for all its mass, moved as quickly as a man.

  The red god neared the chasm and raised Keraspa high over its head to hurl him into the depths. Conan saw Keraspa's mouth open in the midst of his foam-dabbled beard, shrieking madly. When Keraspa had been disposed of, no doubt the statue would take care of him. The ancient priests did not have to throw the god's victims into the gulf; the image took care of that detail himself.

  As the god swayed back on its golden heels to throw the chief, Conan, groping behind him, felt the wood of one of the thrones. These had no doubt been occupied by the high priests or other functionaries of the cult in the ancient days. Conan turned, grasped the massive chair by its back, and lifted it. With muscles cracking under the strain, he whirled the throne over his head and struck the god's golden back between the shoulders, just as Keraspa's body, still screaming, was cast into the abyss.

  The wood of the throne splintered under the impact with a rending crash. The blow caught the deity moving forward with the impulse that it had given Keraspa and overbalanced it. For the fraction of a second the monstrosity tottered on the edge of the chasm, long golden arms lashing the air; and then it, too, toppled into the gulf.

  Conan dropped the remains of the throne to peer over the edge of the abyss. Keraspa's screams had ceased. Conan fancied that he heard a distant sound such as the idol might have made in striking the side of the cliff and bouncing off, far below, but he could not be sure. There was no final crash or thump; only silence.

  Conan drew his muscular forearm across his forehead and grinned wryly.

  The curse of the bloodstained god was ended, and the god with it. For all the wealth that had gone into the chasm with the idol, the Cimmerian was not sorry to have bought his life at that price. And there were other treasures.

  He gathered up his sword and Rustum's bow, and went out into the morning sunshine to pick a horse.

  Conan the Valorous

  One

  In the City of the Plain

  Through the narrow window, with its pointed apex and ornate plaster molding, could be heard the sound of the huge drum that hung from poles of bronze above the Great Gate of Khorshemish. The deep reverberations were taken up by other, lesser drums above the city's eleven smaller gates, serving notice to all that the massive oaken doors were about to shut for the night. Any now outside who did not scurry within ere the gates closed must remain through the dark hours upon the grassy plain, and not seek to enter the city upon pain of death.

  The woman who sat behind the massive table looked up from the fine parchment upon which she was writing in the tortuous hieroglyphs of Stygia. The last red rays of sunlight streaming through the lancet window glittered upon the serpent bracelets circling her bare arms and on the cobra-headed band of gold that rested above her straight black brows. At a slight beckoning of her hand a tall man strode from the corner of the room in which he had been standing. His dress was that of a desert man from east of Shem.

  "Moulay," the woman said, "it is time. Go and find this man of whom

  we have been told, and bring him here. As you go, tell our host to send up more lamps. I would see the man when he arrives."

  The man called Moulay bowed with hand to breast. "As you command, my lady."

  He descended the broad stairway to the tessellated floor of the small courtyard, which surrounded a marble pool. After delivering the order for lamps, he walked out through the pointed archway, which gave onto the narrow street.

  At this time of evening the street was devoid of all except foot traffic.

  The animals of farmers and caravaneers were banished to pens and stables without the city walls during the night hours, and the small merchants of the marketplaces were folding up their mats and awnings.

  Stopping occasionally to ask directions of local residents, Moulay made his way into the oldest part of the city, where the streets were even narrower, the buildings shabbier, and the noise much louder. If the rest of the city were shutting down for the night, this district was just beginning to open up. Heavily painted women in revealing dress called to him as he passed. Moulay ignored them, his carriage and stride bespeaking his heritage as a proud desert man, his swarthy, scarred face and fierce gaze discouraging any thoughts of violence from the minds of lurking footpads.

  The inn he sought was a dilapidated place; great chunks of whitewashed plaster had fallen away from its walls, exposing the ugly brown mud brick beneath. Moulay stooped low as he passed through the doorway into the dim, smoky interior of the common room. A short fat man came up to him, wiping his hands upon his soiled apron.

  "Welcome, sir," the innkeeper said above the sound of a few musicians'

  tuneless, wailing music. "Would you have food? Wine? Lodging? All is to be had at this house."

  Moulay held up a silver coin and said a few words to the man, whose face took on a look of wonderment.

  "The Cimmerian? Yes, he is here, but what use have you for that rogue?"

  "My business with him is none of your concern. Just lead me to him."

  Moulay looked about the room for a man who answered the description his mistress had given him.

  "These Cimmerians breed to type," she had said. "He will be tall, and dark-haired. His eyes will probably be blue. His skin will be pale or dark, depending upon how much he has been in the sun of late. He will almost certainly be stronger and quicker than most men. Like all northern barbarians, the Cimmerians are known for uncertain moods and quick tempers. Take care with him."

  Moulay saw no man in this room who answered that description. A few tables held small parties of townsmen or foreigners, most of them caravaneers. The slow rattle of the dice bespoke the earliness of the hour.

  Later, after the wine had flowed freely, things might well get raucous, culminating in a brawl broken up by the city watch.

  Seeing the direction of Moulay's gaze, the innkeeper said: "No, he is not here, although he has been making this room a living hell all month. Come with me."


  Moulay strode across the common room and up a flight of rickety wooden stairs. The loft above had been divided by thin partitions into a multitude of tiny, dark cubicles. The innkeeper took a lantern from a wall hook, and going to the last and smallest room, held the lamp high. The doorway had not so much as a curtain, and Moulay looked inside.

  The desert man's thin lips curved into a contemptuous smile. " This is the great Cimmerian warrior?" he demanded.

  The occupant of the room, half-sitting, his back against the wall, was snoring faintly, his massive arms folded across his breast. The man's shaggy head was sunk upon his chest, and his only clothing was a ragged white loincloth. On his feet were sandals with holes worn in their soles.

  The room's only furnishing was a thin carpet.

  "He calls himself Conan, and he arrived here a month ago looking like a Turanian general at the very least," the innkeeper explained. "He had a fine horse and saddle, a sword, armor, bow―everything. He had money, too, and he spent it freely. Every night he drank and gambled with his friends and bought them wine. When his money was gone he wagered his weapons and horse and his other belongings. What he has left is what you see now. I tried to throw him out this morning, but he threatened to break

  my neck. I was waiting for the watch to make their first rounds for the night to have them take him away."

  "Then he is just a thief," Moulay said, "and a stupid one. He must have stolen those things he came here with. This can be no warrior. Well, I must bring him nevertheless. You may go, but leave the lantern." With an expressive shrug the innkeeper did as he was bidden.

  Moulay hung the lantern on a peg, squatted by the sleeping Cimmerian, and reached out to shake his shoulder. The instant Moulay's fingers touched the bronzed skin a massive hand shot out and gripped him by the neck. Moulay reached for his dagger, but his fingers found a big-knuckled hand gripping its haft. The eyes that glared at him were bright and unclouded. An ordinary man woke slowly, bleary-eyed and befuddled. Yet Moulay knew that the man had not been shamming sleep.