The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  "No way in here," he reported at last. "I think I know how they doing it, but we cannot use their way. We go higher up, into Crom's cave, maybe find a way there."

  Chulainn shook his head. "We go in there only for the most important ceremonies. Few but chiefs ever enter that cave. We do not want to earn the disfavor of Crom."

  Conan noted paths worn in the loose stone and soil, as if there had been a good deal of traffic between the cave and the pit.

  "With the houseguests he been getting lately," Cha assured them, "two unwashed barbarians, one Khitan wizard, he probably never notice." He led the way up the mountainside toward the gaping mouth of Crom's cave.

  Inside, the cave was foul-smelling, its floor littered with wreckage and refuse, like a site where an ill-disciplined army has camped. The Cimmerians bristled at this further desecration of their god's sanctuary, but they said nothing. Conan nudged a pile of burned wood aside with his foot and uncovered several well-gnawed human bones.

  They passed farther inside, where the weak sunlight scarcely reached.

  Ahead was an immense rock formation and the cavern expanded, its ceiling rising to disappear into the gloom overhead. Then they could see that the rock formation was actually the carved likeness of a pair of colossal feet. As their eyes adjusted to the dimness they saw that the sculpture towered out of sight overhead. It was in the form of a giant seated upon a throne, but they could see no higher than its chest. The head was lost in the obscurity.

  "This is Crom," Conan said. "Nowhere will you see another likeness of him. Who carved his image I know not, for my people do not have that art."

  "Once they did," Cha said quietly. "Your people are far more ancient than you can imagine, Conan. They were not always savages living in stony mountains."

  Chulainn stared up in reverent awe, overcome by the gloomy majesty of his god. Then he lowered his gaze and saw a great rent in the stone just before the huge feet of the statue. He pointed, calling out: "What is this?

  The chiefs never said anything of a cave at Crom's feet."

  "There was none," Conan said, striding over to look. "Mitra! They've carved stairs down to their lair!"

  Cha examined the stairs slanting down into the darkness. "No, they did not carve them down. These stairs carved up from below. Look at tool marks." The Cimmerians had no knowledge of stonecarving, but they were willing to take Cha's word for it.

  "Gather some of this wood and brush," Conan told Chulainn. "We will need torches." They found enough of the refuse to make several crude torches when bound together with withies. "They must have made the prisoners carry this up from below," Conan said, taking a flint from his pouch.

  "I light," Cha said.

  The others expected him to recite a spell to make fire. Instead, he reached into his rags and drew forth an odd mechanical contrivance of steel and stone, with a small bowl of oil-soaked tinder. Cocking a spring, he snapped it a few times, shedding sparks until the tinder burst into flame.

  "Must be careful about using magic now," he explained. "These things maybe feel our presence if I disturb the ether with spells."

  Conan stepped onto the stair and a warm breeze from below ruffled the flame of his torch. The breeze carried the taint of ancient evil and they could hear a faint sussuration, like the breathing of some vast animal.

  Each Cimmerian kept his free hand on his sword hilt as they descended, with Cha tiptoeing behind the two barbarians. The steps were not only wide but high, as if they were made for beings other than men.

  Against all expectation the cavern grew perceptibly warmer as they descended. At the bottom of the steep stair they entered a long, smooth-floored tunnel that still continued to descend, but far more gently.

  Cha called for the others to stop for a moment while he took a close look at the walls. Instead of the bare stone of the higher tunnel, these were covered with a thin, hairlike growth of moss. He shook his head. "This place very, very old. Not like stair above. Either these creatures make way to surface from ancient cavern, or else they been digging for a very long time."

  They continued the descent. Now they began to encounter smaller side tunnels meeting with the main one. "Keep to the big tunnel," Conan said.

  "That way we'll not get lost."

  "What if our people are down one of these?" Chulainn pointed to one of the side tunnels.

  "We can do only our best," Conan said. "We'll do nobody any good by getting lost."

  The cavern began to widen, and the floor became less smooth and more like that of a natural cave. The warmth of unknown origin continued to grow. In the lower spots water had collected. The fine growth of moss on the walls became rank, and larger forms of sunless growth began to appear: huge toadstools, great ledges of thick, leprous fungus, hanging growths curled like a ram's horns, many other things far less describable.

  In the distance, out of the light from their torches, they could see that some of the growths glowed with a sickly luminescence.

  "What kind of foul place is this?" asked Chulainn. The others had no answer for him. Now they could hear distinct sounds ahead of them. There was light coming from ahead too. They extinguished the burning torches and left the others beneath an especially hideous mushroom, where they could be sure of finding them again.

  Ahead was a wide-arching entrance opening onto what appeared to be a very large chamber. Stealthily, they approached it. Lurid glares flickered across the ceiling of the tunnel, as if great fires were burning somewhere below the level of the entrance.

  "Will there be sentries out?" Chulainn whispered.

  "What they be guarding against?" Cha said. Nevertheless, the Cimmerians drew their dirks. They walked swiftly, in a half-crouch, wary as hunted animals. Despite the considerable amount of metal exposed about their persons, they made not the slightest clink or rattle. This skulking about beneath the surface of the ground repelled them, but they were prepared to endure anything, even death in the dark instead of in the pure mountain air beneath the sun. All that mattered was the rescue of their kin.

  There was a great deal of noise coming from the chamber beyond,

  rumblings and croakings and screams of pain. Their tunnel ended in a ledge above a great sunken cavern, one larger perhaps than the throne room of Crom. The men lowered themselves to their bellies and crawled forward, silent as snakes. At the edge they peered over carefully onto a scene from a wizard's nightmare.

  This time there was no obscuring smoke or fog to cover the hideous activities of the creatures below. The beings were of many types, all of them engaged in frantic if incomprehensible activity: herding human prisoners at the point of cruel-looking polearms, performing strange rites before ugly shrines, committing acts of seemingly pointless torture or violence, not only on their prisoners but upon each other.

  Many of the things were of the reptilian sort that Conan and Chulainn had encountered in the Field of the Dead, but there were other types as well. There were vaguely humanoid things with jointed bodies like insects, and crawling giant slugs trailing slime. Huge, hairy spiders clung to the walls. Crouching ape-things pounded mindlessly on peculiar drums and creatures with batwings flitted silently through the cavern, apparently blind. Those were the creatures to which they could assign some degree of recognition. Others were so bizarre, with shapes so unstable and alien, that the sane and stable mind automatically rejected them. They were plainly of no world acceptable to humans.

  The human prisoners, most of them children or young women, were herded and abused in a condition of abject degradation. Many behaved with mute apathy, some were clearly mad from horror, a few were belligerent and rebellious. The rebellious ones showed the marks of scourge and worse. The bulk of the prisoners seemed to be Cimmerian, although other peoples were represented: Aesir and Vanir and Hyperborean among them, along with races unknown to Conan, who had traveled more than most.

  In an obscure corner of the immense chamber, walled off in a pen of piled stones, sat a steely-eyed group of captive yo
ungsters, most of them Cimmerians. At sight of them Chulainn started to rise, but Conan's hand on his shoulder kept the young warrior in place.

  "Bronwith?" whispered Conan.

  "It is she. In the corner, with the blue mantle."

  Conan saw her immediately―a handsome, strong-looking girl of marriageable age, with black hair and large brown eyes. The blue mantle thrown over one shoulder was the only article of clothing she retained.

  The others were in no better state. What clothing they had was so whip-shredded as to be no more than bloody rags. The girl's face was fearless, but her eyes darted about continually, not in panic but in ceaseless search for an escape. For an instant her gaze rested on the ledge where the eyes of three men peered over the rock rim, then she resumed her frantic search.

  Conan touched the other two and they crawled back into the cave among the mushrooms. "You made a good choice, lad," Conan said. "That girl is pure Cimmerian. She saw us and gave no sign. The others with her are not as panicked as the rest of the prisoners. I'll wager she's been keeping them in hand."

  "Aye," Chulainn said, pride fighting with fear in his voice. "And we must free her. The others in the pen are younger than Bronwith, and it will not be easy to get them all out of here."

  "You speak the truth," Conan agreed. "And she'll not leave them behind.

  From the look of them they're mostly Murrogh, probably her kin, taken in the same raid she was."

  "How you know the clan of naked children?" muttered Cha. The Khitan was strangely subdued.

  "No other clan has so many brown-eyed bairns among them," Conan said.

  Cha shrugged. "All look alike to me."

  "How can we get them free?" Chulainn persisted. "There is no night here. Those things down there may never sleep, and there are far too many of them."

  Conan turned to Cha. "Earn your keep, wizard. If you are such a great enchanter, use your skill and make us a way to rescue our folk. We will take care of the sword work ourselves."

  For the first time the Khitan seemed agitated, even angry.

  "You want me give myself away so you can free a few of your kin?" He swept out a skinny arm and pointed toward the hellish chamber. "You see that place? You think that is evil? That is one place, under this mountain.

  I fail here, then whole world be like that!"

  "One problem at a time, wizard," Conan said imperturbably. "First, we get our people out of here and to a place of safety. Then, we see about your task. And I must finish my mission. I'll not be forsworn."

  "Barbarians!" Cha grumbled. "Get hold of one idea, no room for anything more."

  Chulainn looked puzzled. "We value our kin and our word. What else is there?"

  Cha hissed in disgust. "So be it. I give you a chance, but you must be quick."

  "All we need is a chance," Conan said. "And we are always quick."

  "I no use sorcerer's weapons. Must save those for later. I make illusion.

  Distract demons down there. You have only moments to get your people free, up to this cave. Then you must run faster than the demons. I not able to help you then."

  "Do it," Conan said. "Just tell us when you are ready."

  Bronwith sat on the hard stone with her arms around her knees, waiting. She did not dare inform the others of what she had seen, for fear that some of the younger might give way to hope and accidentally reveal to their captors that something had changed. She drew the scant cloak closer about her shoulders, although the cavern was warm.

  She had seen the eyes of three men looking over the stone lip. Two heads bore tousled black hair, the third was mostly shiny scalp. Was one of them Chulainn? If so, who was the other Cimmerian? And who might the third man be? Of course, it might be her own kinsmen. That seemed to be more likely. Chulainn might come for her alone, braving any terror to rescue her and honor his given word, but what clansman of his would risk his neck for the sake of a Murrogh woman?

  Time enough to answer these questions later. Now she would hold

  herself in readiness to take whatever opportunity came to win freedom for herself and her young kinsmen. She was the eldest, and she felt responsible for them.

  Bronwith was a tall young woman, sturdy and little wasted from her long captivity, despite the scant fare they had been given. The others were surprisingly healthy as well. Cimmerian children were accustomed to deprivation. They were not used to captivity, however, and did not make model prisoners. All of them were heavily striped with the marks of the barbed whips carried by the reptilian guards. Bronwith bore more stripes than many of the others. She had tried as well as she could to protect her younger kin, and she had paid for it.

  As she waited she sang one of the sad songs of her race. Above the blue mantle her face was broad-boned, handsome, and intelligent. Best of all, her face was sane. Sanity had not been easy to hold on to in the last weeks.

  Or had it been months? It was difficult to keep track of days here in the caverns. They were taken to the surface sometimes to work in the pit for some incomprehensible purpose, but there was no way of knowing whether the nights when they worked were successive or widely separated.

  Her strong example had helped the others to stay sane as well, and keep them from despair.

  That had not been easy either. They had been taken from their steadings by demons from hell. Some had seen older kinsmen slain and eaten by the monsters. Knowing the dietary preferences of their captors, they had refused to eat the few scraps of meat given to them in captivity.

  Worst of all was not knowing. Why had they been brought here? What was in store for them? Until now Bronwith had thought that slavery was the worst fate that could befall her. Mere death was common and nothing to fear greatly. Like all Cimmerians old enough to make decisions, she had long since resolved to die before allowing herself to be carried off to some foreign land to be enslaved by an alien people. Awful as this was, at least captivity near home held the prospect of escape. She wondered when they would come.

  Bronwith was almost dozing when she was jerked awake by a sudden lessening of the noise in the cavern. The stilling of the pandemonium was as shocking as the noise itself had once been. Those of the creatures that had necks were craning them to stare upward, where something untoward was happening.

  Above them some new creature was materializing. As it took on form, it appeared to be roughly human, although gigantic. Its face was majestic and serene, and its body and legs were finely proportioned. It seemed to have dozens of arms, all of them in motion as it trod the measures of some intricate dance to unheard music. The whole apparition was bright blue.

  A jabber of excitement broke out as the demons expressed their disconcertion in a cacophony of croaks, hisses, and screeches. Bronwith did not connect this with the men she had seen, but she was ready to make use of it to help effect their escape. "Be ready," she said to the others in a low voice, "this may be our chance." Quietly, the others shifted, stretching cramped limbs surreptitiously lest they hinder a quick dash for freedom.

  Bronwith heard a low, warbling whistle and turned to see two men crouched to one side of the stone pen. One was Chulainn, and her heart leaped like a mountain stag in spite of her stony discipline. The other she did not know, save that he was a kinsman of Chulainn's from the look of his craggy Canach features. Chulainn beckoned and she signaled the others. Silently, all rose and moved in a limber crouch to the two men, who helped them over the wall. The sentries near the pen continued to stare stupidly at the dancing figure overhead. Luckily, it seemed that none of their adversaries were overburdened with brains.

  Skirting the side of the immense chamber, the two men led the escapees to a narrow ledge that made a tortuous way up the wall to the cave mouth where Bronwith had first seen them. Even the youngest of the children were as surefooted as mountain goats and trod the treacherous ledge with ease. When the last was on the ledge, the two men followed.

  Miraculously, it seemed as if they had not yet been noticed. Overhead, the hypnotic dance
continued.

  They gained the cave entrance without being seen. "Chulainn,"

  Bronwith said, but the older man interrupted.

  "No time," he growled. "Run! You'll find a lighted torch up ahead, and a stack of unlit ones. Take them and stay to this cave. You'll find yourself in Crom's cave. Get out and head downhill, through the Field of the Dead. If you run fast enough, you'll find friends before these demons catch you."

  "This is my cousin, Conan," Chulainn said.

  "Conan," Bronwith said. She had heard the name before.

  A tousle-headed boy of perhaps twelve spoke up. "Why should Murrogh trust a dog of the Canach?"

  Conan grinned, spun the boy around, and kicked his backside in the direction of escape. "The Bloody Spear has been sent about, boy. We can fight at some more peaceful time."

  "Forgive him," Bronwith said, "he is my brother and headstrong like all the men of my clan. What will you two be doing?"

  "We'll stay a little behind to cover your retreat," Conan told her. "That dancing Vendhyan idol is just a conjurer's trick, and the demons will catch on soon, so go."

  Bronwith gave Chulainn a quick, fierce kiss and then ran. The others went with her, except for the boy who had wanted to defy Conan. "Should a Murrogh flee and let the Canach protect him? I'll stay with the warriors." The boy thrust out his thin chest and picked up a jagged rock.

  Conan spoke solemnly, all mockery gone. "We are the rear guard, Murrogh warrior. Who knows what lies ahead of them in these tunnels?

  Do not leave them without an advance guard."

  The boy thought a moment. "Aye, you have the right of it. Good fortune, men of Canach." Clutching his rock, the boy ran toward the flickering light of the torch.

  Conan grinned again. "You're marrying into good stock, kinsman.

  Those two would do credit to any clan."

  Chulainn smiled, a man at peace. "I've come for her, as I swore. Now I can die and face Crom without shame." There was a change in the noise from the cavern behind them. "That's liable to happen soon, now. The foreigner's trick has been found out."

  "Come," Conan said.