The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  Raihna clapped her hand to her sword hilt and stepped back, nostrils flaring in mock fury. She set a boot heel into a pile of rubble, and dust flew up like smoke from a fire. She took in a good breathful, coughed, then began sneezing.

  Near the ceiling, a crack appeared in the wall to the left. It ran as swiftly as a hare fleeing a fox, down the wall to the floor. Then a slab of wall gave a mighty groan and topped outward, crumbling as it fell. Part of the ceiling followed, but only after Conan and Raihna and the workers were safely clear of the fall.

  As the dust settled, Conan looked at the pile of rubble, then spat to clear his throat. "Well, men," he said, "I've been warning you that a sneeze could bring this ruin down on our heads. Now you see that I was speaking the gods' own truth."

  Some of the men still made gestures of aversion, but most of them laughed. Since none of them were under the rubble, they could turn it to a joke.

  The men salvaged such of their food as wasn't buried or too dusty to eat and resumed their meal. Conan led Raihna aside into an empty chamber with a stone bench built into one crumbling wall. The bench creaked as they sat down on it but did not tumble them to the floor.

  "I'd best see Decius about going on with this work," the Cimmerian said. "We've already laid traps in every part of the palace that's not this ruined or worse. If we go on into the old warrens, we'll have the place down on our heads before Syzambry comes to take them!"

  "Let me speak to Decius first and see how the land lies," Raihna said.

  "He has heard enough about your notions of going into the field against our enemies. He will not be gracious if he thinks you are putting the matter forward again."

  Conan cursed”softly, out of fear of provoking another collapse. When he spoke, it was also softly, but more out of fear of listening ears.

  "Mitra bury Decius in mule dung!" he said. "There's as much sense in striking first as ever there was. And as little sense in waiting like rats in burrows for the ferrets to come down and snatch us!"

  Raihna put a hand on Conan's arm. "I think you do him an injustice, Conan."

  The Cimmerian shot Raihna a sharp look but said nothing. With another woman, he would have reasoned that Decius had begun to turn her head.

  With Raihna, he knew that he would hear what she believed to be sense, even if he did not agree with it.

  "How?"

  "The Palace Guards are not fit for the field. He would be taking his own men and them only on any such raid. That would make the Guards stronger."

  Conan nodded slowly. He had seen enough intrigues in Turan to know that Decius was not starting at his own shadow. But”

  "Does he fear the captains, me among them, or the men, or what?"

  "The men Oyzhik may have left behind and whom you might not discover in time. He trusts your sword and your honor, Conan, but he also knows that you are a stranger here."

  "Yes, and men who might have been loyal before they saw a stranger made captain can turn to treason overnight." Conan wished greatly for some wine to wash both dust and the taste of plots from his mouth. He had to content himself with spitting again.

  Then he rose. "Perhaps Decius has the right of it. But I still won't put my company at hazard from this tumbledown palace. Loyal men or not, they don't deserve to be squashed like grapes in a winepress!"

  Raihna squeezed his hand. "I'll say as much, and you'll lose nothing with Decius by his hearing it. That I can swear."

  She strode off, as graceful as ever, leaving Conan to ponder briefly how she could be so sure of Decius's goodwill. Of course, women had their ways”

  And if he gave way to jealousy over that, he'd deserve to have the next piece of ceiling drop on his head, for all the use he was making of it!

  Raihna would go where she pleased, and he could no more chain her than he could command the mysterious thunder that had now begun to roll through the hills at least once a night.

  That thunder was worth a thought or two, for it reeked of sorcery. What Raihna might do to soothe Decius had naught to do with such matters.

  Conan walked back to his men. They were already at work again, although slowly and casting doubtful looks at the walls and ceiling.

  "Good news, men. We're done for the day. Decius is thinking about putting the rest of the traps where they'll take Syzambry's men, not us!"

  "I'd work here a moon and more if it'd build a trap for the count himself!" one man shouted. Others nodded.

  "You may get that chance, but tomorrow," Conan said. He set the example by starting to bundle up pry bars and hammers.

  As the tools clinked into the baskets, it came to the Cimmerian that Decius might have another reason for not taking the field. Eloikas's handful of good men might chase the count's retainers all over the hills for many days without ever coming up against the count himself.

  If the little man with the great ambitions escaped, he could find another army. If he died, his cause was finished. And what better way to kill him than to let him come to the palace, as he must if he wished the final victory?

  Perhaps there was nothing wrong with either the captain-general's wits or his loyalty. It did not make Conan any happier to think about being immured in this crumbling palace against all of his instincts for taking the fight to the foe.

  Outside the chief's hut, thunder rolled. Aybas, peering through the chinks between the logs, saw no lightning, so he knew it was the witch-thunder again.

  Had he doubted, the sounding of horns and drums from the village would have ended his doubting.

  Count Syzambry let the thunder”and the din of the Pougoi trying to fight it”die away before speaking. He did not take his eyes off of Aybas and Oyzhik, sitting together-on the straw at his feet.

  If Aybas had not long since given over flinching at the witch-thunder, he would have nerved himself to sit still under the count's scrutiny.

  Oyzhik was clearly as uneasy as a man on hot bricks, and the chill of the mountain night did not keep the sweat from his brow. Rather than seem less brave than Oyzhik, Aybas would have climbed the dam and cast himself into the slime-dripping grip of the beast.

  "The Pougoi can be trusted?" Oyzhik asked for the third time.

  Something that had no name flickered across Syzambry's face. In the dimness, Aybas could not read the little count's countenance, nor did he really wish to try.

  "They can be trusted for all that I have asked them to do," Syzambry replied.

  Aybas had the sense not to ask Syzambry what the Pougoi were expected to do to help lift the count onto the throne. In any case, there would not have been time for an answer even had Syzambry wished to give one.

  Heavy footsteps thudded on the beaten earth outside, and the door opened with squeals and groans. Half a score of Pougoi warriors marched in, with one of the Star Brothers bringing up the rear. The warriors carried spears and stone-headed axes, the wizard a leather sack.

  "Him," Syzambry said. The warriors surrounded the seated men. The count motioned Aybas to rise and step forward. Aybas commanded his legs to uphold him and his knees not to rattle together, and obeyed.

  Oyzhik's mouth opened, but before he could cry out, four warriors were upon him. A leather gag stifled his cries, while leather thongs bound his wrists and hobbled his ankles. Then the warriors gripped the thongs and Oyzhik's travel-stained clothing and dragged him out of the hut.

  Aybas remained motionless until the heavy tread of the warriors faded into the night. Stepping back and looking nowhere and everywhere, he said quietly: "Decius would have given much to see that."

  "Pah!" Count Syzambry moved nothing except his mouth. Then he crossed his thin legs in their dyed riding leathers and shrugged. "If our lord captain-general had blood instead of milk in his veins, he would long since have taken his rights. Had he done so, I would have served him gladly."

  Aybas thought that Count Syzambry would gladly serve another man the day vultures gave over their lives to fasting and prayer.

  "Is Oyzhik to go to the beast?
" Aybas asked.

  "You presume to question my judgment?" Syzambry purred.

  "I question nothing," Aybas said, "least of all your judgment. Were it not sound, we would hardly be so close to your victory. I merely remind you that too many among the Pougoi are uneasy about the sacrifices to the beast."

  "They are cowards," Syzambry snapped.

  It could be said that with enough cowards, the best army might become a rabble. It could also be said that any man who had watched the princess's coming to the valley could be excused for wishing himself elsewhere.

  Neither could be said to the count's face by one who wished to see another sunrise. So the Aquilonian merely shrugged.

  "They will not release Oyzhik, that I can promise you," he said. "His kin played no small part in driving the Pougoi from their ancestral lands and into this valley. These folk have a long memory."

  "But the lowlanders have a short one," Syzambry said. He seemed to be almost grinning. "When they see Oyzhik go to the beast for his treasons, they will forget how I gained the throne. They will think there may be some truth in what I say, that I stormed the palace to save it from Decius and Oyzhik, that the king died and the princess needed consoling. These are matters of ill fortune, of the gods' doing and not mine."

  Aybas thought of men he had seen and heard in his long journey from his father's estate to this wretched valley. Compared to some of them.

  Count Syzambry's intrigues were those of a child cheating at a game of toss-pebble. Yet this child had the power of life or death over Aybas, and would toss him away like a pebble if he ever guessed the Aquilonian's thoughts. Aybas feigned good cheer when he next spoke.

  "May it be so, my lord. Now, how may I next serve you?"

  "I shall depart to join my men at cock crow. Is it prudent to find me a woman?"

  "None you would think pleasing, I fear," Aybas replied, praying that the gods had not granted Syzambry a glimpse of Wylla.

  "I supposed as much," the count said. "Very well. Then guard this bag with your life until I come for it. Farewell, and my thanks for good service."

  Syzambry spoke as if "my" should in truth have been the royal "Our."

  Aybas bowed and remained bowing until the door slammed, then knelt to study the bag.

  It was of plain leather, bound shut with an iron band. The runes on the band were such that Aybas did not care to look at them too closely.

  Even in the dim light of the single oil lamp, he could see that they were kin to the runes on the face of the dam. He could also feel that the bag held something heavy, as stone, but he would not even think of opening it.

  Count Syzambry was now quite without restraint in using the Pougoi wizards' magic to lift him to the throne. The Aquilonian was also sure that the count was quite without real knowledge of what he was using”or of what its real masters might ask of him as their price.

  Chapter 9

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  Conan awoke in darkness, at first not sure why he had awakened. It might be only the bed, which was stoutly built but overly generous in size. It might have been comfortable for the Cimmerian when he first left his native land. For him now, it was a minor torture, and only his ability to sleep anywhere allowed him to endure it.

  Before retiring tonight, he had sworn a solemn vow to see the palace carpenter about a new bed. He was even prepared to endure the man's witless jests about who Conan might be planning to share the bed with.

  Conan set feet to the cracked tile of the floor, drew on breeches, belted on his sword, and listened. Nothing uncommon reached his ears. A slop-pot gurgled, then banged against stone; someone cried out in a nightmare or in passion; mice or rats scurried in a corner.

  The knowledge that he had awakened for some good reason remained with Conan. All of the instincts that had kept him alive now called warnings. They would tell him no more, so it was best to seek out true knowledge of the danger.

  He drew on his shirt and thrust both daggers into their sheaths. He thought of taking his bow, but in the end, he left it with the bearskin and riding cloak piled at the foot of the bed.

  Conan knew that danger stalked the palace. Others did not. Seeing him roaming about full-armed would only raise questions he could not answer. Ignorance and fear together were the sparks to ignite a panic, which could leave the palace defenseless.

  Conan's grim thoughts went no further. Horns and drums sounded in the distance and were echoed closer at hand from within the palace. Also from within the palace, shouted messages and war cries reverberated.

  Conan heard too many screams as the weaker among the palace folk let fear master them.

  The Cimmerian had no need to wake the portion of his company lying in the next chamber. The first sergeant was already cursing, kicking, and as needs be, dragging the men off their pallets and into their war harness.

  The sergeant raised a hand as Conan appeared. "I have sent a messenger to the barracks. The men there are to rally on the palace," he said.

  "Good. But send a second man in case the first meets with ill luck. I am going to Decius. Our rallying point is the Chamber of the Red Fish."

  "So be it, Captain Conan."

  Conan thought of giving a second rallying place, outside the palace.

  But that would be admitting doubts about the outcome of the battle before it had even begun, an admission that stuck in his throat.

  In silence the Cimmerian stalked toward the Chamber of the Red Fish.

  Taking its name from the mosaic in what had once been an ornamental pool, the chamber could be defended by a handful against a stout band.

  It also had a staircase, battered by the years but still fit to let a nimble man climb to the roof and look about him.

  Conan reached the chamber to find that half of Raihna's men were already there. Leaving them to build barricades of stone and ancient furniture, Conan scrambled up the stairs.

  The horns and drums in the distance were silent now. Darkness hid whatever they had been rallying, be it men or monsters. Conan looked at the sky, where lowering clouds veiled the moon more often than not. He half-expected to hear the witch-thunder.

  Instead, he saw a pinpoint of ruby-tinted light spring to life in the darkness downhill from the palace. The pinpoint grew into a ball of fire, and its color changed from that of rubies to that of old wine.

  By that light Conan saw what seemed a mighty host drawn up before the palace. A second look showed him that it was not mighty, and indeed barely a host.

  Count Syzambry was well to the fore, mounted on his roan stallion and surrounded by some two-score riders. Many more men stood behind the horsemen, most of them archers, bearing scanty armor and few weapons save their bows. A final band of perhaps three-score had surrounded the huts and the remainder of the Palace Guard there. From the way they kept their distance from the huts, it seemed that the Guards were neither asleep nor yielding.

  That was enough for Conan. Syzambry might command sorcery, but all it had done so far was to reveal how few men he had. They were no band of beardless boys, but neither were they the predestined victors of tonight's battle.

  Now, if only the Guards in the barracks could strike into Syzambry's rear at the moment his men went forward”

  The globe of light had turned the hue of old blood. It spread so far that Conan could barely make out the count. Then the little man flung his hands wide apart and something fell smoking from the globe of light.

  A vagrant breeze brought the Cimmerian the smell of heated metal and burned grass. An angry hiss rose, along with clouds of smoke and steam, as what had fallen struck a puddle.

  Then the globe of light shrank back to barely more than a pinpoint. The smoke curled up to form a stalk swaying in the breeze, the light bobbing at the end of it like a flower.

  The earth quivered. Smoke and blood-hued light began to move toward the palace as if drawn inexorably forward by something just out of human sight.

  Not quite out of sight, either, as Conan saw in t
he next moment. What drew the fire-flower after it was also making a furrow in the earth, an arm's length wide. Smoke poured out of it, stones and earth flew to either side, and the quivering of the earth doubled and redoubled.

  Conan abandoned thoughts of rallying the Guards to surround Syzambry's men. The first task for all of the king's captains now had to be keeping their men clear of this sorcerous monstrosity rumbling toward the palace. If that meant leaving the palace so that it would not topple on their heads and bury them in the ruins”

  One of the barracks huts did collapse, the sound lost in the rumble of the ravaged earth. Dust and smoke swirled up, and Guards poured out like ants from a kicked hill. They came with their weapons in hand, though, and dragging or carrying wounded comrades.

  Conan forced himself down the stairs. For better or worse, the Guards caught in the barracks would have to make their own way tonight. His battle would be here, so far as a man could fight sorcery.

  The Cimmerian was three steps from the floor when the earth heaved fiercely. The steps cracked. So did a section of wall and several sections of roof. Conan leaped as the stairs sagged under him, leaped again to avoid falling stones, went down, caught himself on his hands, and ended kneeling at Raihna's feet.

  She had a grin for him, but he could see that she was trying to hearten herself as well as her men. He returned the grin and sprang to his feet.

  Most of the men who'd been in the chamber when Conan climbed up were there when he came down. Few had fled, and Raihna had brought the rest of her band with her. But there was more than one man who had remained because falling stone pinned him to the floor.

  Conan gripped the nearest such stone, wrapped his massive arms around it, and heaved it clear. In the last moment of silence before the fallen men began screaming, Conan heard his own breath coming hard.

  He also heard, so faint that it might have been a trick of the night wind, the distant trill of pipes.

  The pipes were indeed distant and faint. But to Count Syzambry, they might have been shrilling in his ear.

  He knew what they meant. He also knew what the Pougoi wizards had said, so many times that he had become weary of hearing even the truth.