The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  With his sword gripped in both hands, Conan hewed at the thing’s neck just behind the jaws as the side of its head came momentarily above the surface. He plowed a deep gouge and blood gushed forth, but the incredibly tough hide and the back edge of the jawbone saved it from a potentially fatal wound.

  Even so, the unexpected impact jarred it from its intended path, and the terrible jaws snapped shut on

  water instead of on Achilea’s thigh.

  The Amazon queen hewed with all her strength at her only target: the thing’s back. The impact jarred her to her spine and succeeded only in malting a shallow furrow in the thick, scaly hide. The crocodile might not have felt the blow. A twisting wrench of its supple body knocked her over as it sought to bring its formidable natural weaponry to bear against the Cimmerian.

  She came up, sputtering water, just in time to see Conan hacking at it. It had twisted around with unbelievable speed and was coming for him as straight as a war-galley on a ramming course. Not giving it time to dive and turn, the Cimmerian lurched forward and brought his edge straight down upon the target most exposed to him; the stretch of skull between the bulbous, staring eyes. Its minute brain was in there somewhere, and he hoped to cleave through its shield of bone and split it asunder The blade failed to bite all the way through me bone, but the shock momentarily paralyzed the creature and prevented its jaws from opening. Instead, the blunt snout caught Conan in the belly and drove him against the wall of the arena just below the podium. The breath went out of him and he went under, dropping his sword. The scaly muzzle pinned him to the bottom, grinding from side to side. Then he felt the jaws begin to open as the beast’s paralysis waned. Desperately, Conan wrapped his long, powerful arms around the huge muzzle, holding the toothy mouth shut.

  With a surge of coiled muscle, the great reptile whipped upward, lifting Conan entirely free of the surface. He took advantage of the respite to draw in a great lungful of air. The stubby forelegs began to scrabble at him, their six-inch claws able to gut him at a stroke if he permitted it. With desperate haste, he wrapped his own legs around its body just behind the forelegs, so that the appendages could only scrape weakly at his flanks. He wondered where Achilea was. For all he knew, she was unconscious and drowning.

  In truth, she was striving with all her might to find a vulnerable target on the thrashing beast, while at the same time, avoiding the flailing tail: a dozen feet of armored, saw-edged muscle that could snap a human spine and cut the body half in twain as easily as a man swatting a fly. She had learned well the futility of hewing at its back, but she could see that the Cimmerian was in the most perilous of straits, wrapped around the thing’s head and immobilizing its terrible jaws.

  The muscles that close a crocodile’s jaws are tremendously powerful; those that open them are far weaker. Thus Conan found that he could hold the animal’s jaws shut with one arm, while with the hand thus freed, he could snatch forth his dagger. This he did and drove the blade at the glaring, split-pupiled eye, but the monster’s thrashing deflected his aim and his point dug instead into the shelf of bone below the amber orb. There it wedged so tightly that the Cimmerian had to tug mightily, striving to free it Once again the crocodile plunged beneath the water. Seeking to dislodge its unwelcome rider, it began to twist sinously, rolling over and over like a huge, scaly log. Conan knew that this had to end soon. He never surfaced long enough for a decent breath, and should the beast go deep enough to strike the bottom, or brush against the wall of the pit, it would scrape him off or crush him.

  Achilea hacked at the crocodile wherever she saw an opportunity. She remembered what Conan had said about its belly, and when the monster began to roil, she tried to work her way close enough to get her sword into it. But the creature’s movements were so rapid that she saw only the pale undersurface flash by too swiftly for a cut. Then it seemed to tire and slow fractionally, and she prepared herself for a single, perfectly precise blow, knowing there would be no chance for another. With her hilt gripped in both hands, she raised the weapon overhead like a giant dagger.

  Once again the pale belly of the crocodile came up. Achilea’s point plunged down as she lunged forward with her whole weight behind the blow. The blade sank in just below Conan’s encircling leg and went in deep. Then she was dragged over by the creature’s overwhelming momentum, but she did not relinquish her weapon as she was pulled along. She wrapped her own legs around the scaly body for purchase and began to drag the keen blade along the length of the corrugated belly, opening a tremendous gash. Blood and viscera began to choke her along with the water she was unable to avoid inhaling.

  Finally, Conan got his dagger-point free. He felt the beast’s motion begin to change, but he could not see the cause of it, nor had he the leisure to look. The next time he came to the surface, his arm reached far back, its fist tipped with steel. Then it shot down with the force of a meteor. The diamond point drove into the soft eye, through the bone behind and deep into the skull, piercing the primitive, savage brain.

  The crocodile convulsed and reared, its full length thrashing through the water, shaking off its unwanted riders in its frantic death throes. Conan hit the surface with a mighty splash and immediately dove to the bottom to retrieve his lost sword. Achilea had kept her grip firm to her hilt even in UK

  wildest of the dying monster’s exertions, and moments later, the two stood side by side with their weapons firmly gripped, watching as the reptile’s stubborn life-force slowly and reluctantly left its massive body. Its jaws gnashed, its legs thrashed and its body twisted, ever more slowly, entrails pouring from its rent belly long after it was dead. Finally, it was still, the only remainder of its departed life the lazy, back-and-forth motion of its tail.

  Conan and Achilea grinned at one another in triumph. To his great surprise, she took a hand off her sword long enough to throw an arm around his neck and kiss him soundly on the lips. Then she drew back and was on guard once more.

  “That was for a splendid feat,” she told him.

  “By Crom, woman!” he said. “I am glad that not all women’s favors cost as dear as yours!”

  She laughed almost gaily. “I am not like other women. What next, do you think?”

  “Just so it is not those things I met in the sandstorm,” he said fervently. Amazingly, the two of them had suffered no worse than a few bad scrapes and gouges from the crocodile’s claws and the sharp scales of its back. “One thing I know well, though: That thing did not walk here across the desert. There is an underground river somewhere near, and I intend to find it.”

  “First things first,” she reminded him. “We are still in the pit-Conan looked up to the podium and to his surprise, he saw Omia and Abbadas conversing amicably. From what he could see of their faces beneath their masks, they were smiling broadly, flashing teeth with every word they exchanged. The man broke off and went to the cage, where he began to look Achilea’s women over with the air of a livestock buyer.

  “Have we provided you with entertainment?” Conan demanded.

  “Oh, yes!” Omia said. “You are both even better than we had hoped!”

  “Then who or what do we fight next?” he asked. “Now I am wanned up and ready for a real combat!” Achilea laughed and tossed her wet hair defiantly.

  “Oh, no!” Omia said. “We’ll not risk you again. We have far better use for such specimens as you.

  And for these three as well.” She gestured to the wild women. Abbadas was still speaking with them, and their eyes held a terror that was not the fear of death or of pain.

  “What do you mean, damn you?” Conan demanded. There was another rushing sound and the water level began to lower. The dead crocodile was drifting toward the gate with the flow of the outrushing water,

  “All in good time,” she said. “Guards! When the arena is drained, disarm them, bind diem and return them to their cells. But take them by the baths first. They are both in bad need of a washing.” She laughed merrily, stood and went to join her colleague at the
cage, where she, too, examined the three women.

  Minutes later, the water was gone from the pit and the guards filed in. Quickly they encircled the tired combatants with leveled spears. Lacking any viable choice, the warriors, Cimmerian and Amazon, let their weapons drop to the arena floor.

  Twelve

  This time, there had been a physician attending mem at the baths. The man, who had worn a long gown and a featureless, ghostlike mask, had directed two slaves to treat their minor wounds expertly.

  Then they had been led to long tables where they were massaged and rubbed with scented oil. Even in this process, their wrists and ankles had been secured to rings set into the comers of the tables.

  Now they sat in their cell, awaiting their disposition.

  “They have taken especial care of us this time,” Achilea said, noting with distrust the thin pallets that had been added to their accommodations.

  “Somehow I do not think it is because they have come to love us,” said the Cimmerian, rattling his chains. “But I’ve no complaint about their healing ointment.” Already the claw-gouges on his flanks were fading and the sting of them was wholly gone. He worked his arms and shoulders and felt no trace of lingering soreness. “These people are heaters beyond compare.”

  “That may be the only reason such degenerate weaklings can live at all,” she said with a curl of her lip. From nearby came a noise of sobbing wails.

  “Your women are not usually so sensitive,” Conan noted. “What ails them?”

  “Payna! Ekun! Lombi!” Achilea called. “What is the matter?”

  “My queen!” Payna wailed. “Did the ant-people not tell you what they intend for us?”

  “Do they intend to eat us?” Conan demanded. “I can well imagine that they’d fancy a charge of diet after all these mushrooms.”

  “My queen!” said Lombi, ignoring him. “They intend to breed with us! That man, Abbadas, told us that he intends to father our first batch of whelps personally! We only expected torture!”

  “And they want you to be the prize mare!” Ekun added. “The big Cimmerian will be put out to stud!”

  “It makes sense,” said Conan, unperturbed. “We’ve all seen how degenerate they’ve grown down here underground for untold generations. Prize breeding stock such as we cannot have come their way often.”

  “You can be calm about it!” Achilea barked. “Such activity is probably just what you indulge in between wars, anyway! It is different for us! We come from a nation of women.”

  “Do not speak foolishly,” Conan chided. “Your tribe propagates itself like any other, not by means of sorcery. Else it would have died out long ago.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but only once each year, with the proper ceremonies and only with men of our own choosing.”

  “It sounds like a dull existence, to my way of thinking.”

  “You would think so, you half-animal …”

  They were spared further argument when guards appeared at the entrance to their cell. Someone ducked through the low doorway.

  “Greetings, my splendid prizes.” It was Abbadas, his eyes burning inside the holes in his mask as his look devoured Achilea.

  “You’ll not breed your spawn with me, insect!” she spat. “I can kill you with one hand!”

  He stroked her cheek gently. “Do not speak hastily. You know that we are very adept with chains and shackles. I can easily keep you tractable and harmless.” A horrified look came over her face, and Conan was measuring the distance for a mighty kick when Abbadas amended, “But you must wait For now, ray queen wishes to interview this one.” He gestured toward the Cimmerian.

  “The day you touch me is the day of your death,” Achilea said, ignoring the fact that he had just touched her. Her meaning was clear enough.

  Abbadas only laughed and called in the guards. “T ake the man. You know enough by now to use all precautions with him.” After issuing this order, he ducked back through the doorway.

  Once again the Cimmerian was thoroughly trussed and led away. Achilea glared at him wordlessly and he smiled back at her, but he was not as lighthearted as he pretended. He, too, detested being treated like a prize ox, or even more fittingly, as a prize bull. A free warrior chose his own pleasures. On the other hand, there was no denying that he was not free. And was it his fault that this accursed woman had such excellent taste in men?

  The guards escorted him by a route thai was partly familiar to him and partly new. Gradually he was

  building up a knowledge of the strange, underground city’s plan. He felt sure that he could make his way through it tolerably well now. What he needed desperately to know was: Where was me river?

  In Omia’s chambers, he was taken to a room with a tentlike ceiling of silk, its walls lined with silk hangings elaborately embroidered in the artistic designs that were everywhere to be seen in the dual city, both below and above ground. The floor was covered with silken carpets and cushions.

  Omia entered, masked and wearing a silken wrap, “Leave him,” she ordered the guards. “First, remove his bonds.”

  “But, Majesty―” the guard captain began to protest.

  “He’ll not harm me,” she assured them. “His friends are still under lock, he does not know the city, only the desert awaits above. I think he knows better man to attempt anything rash.”

  Reluctantly, the guards unfettered their hulking prisoner. That task accomplished, they bowed and departed.

  “You are mad,” Conan remarked, rubbing his wrists. “What makes you think the others are so precious to me that I value them above my freedom?”

  “The way you all behave together,” she said, perfectly at ease. “The three smaller women are clearly attached to the big one, and in the arena today, the two of your were guarding each other as if you shared the same heart”

  “That is the way warriors stand by one another,” he insisted.

  “No,” she said, smiling lazily. “That is how the dwarf and the taller man fought With you and the woman, it was different” She clapped her hands and a slave girl came in bearing a tray. On it stood two goblets beaded with condensation. Omia took both and the girl withdrew. “Drink with me,” she said,

  handing Conan a goblet

  He took it and drank without hesitation. Over its rim, he studied her. Her mask was made of a sheer material, more like a veil. Through it he could see that her face was fine-boned and beautiful. Her wrap was made of a similar material, concealing little. The wine was tartly sweet, and he was sure that it never came from a mushroom.

  She went to a large cushion and sank upon it, reclining on her side, supported by an elbow.

  Nodding to another cushion next to her, she said, “Join me.”

  The Cimmerian took his ease as bidden, eager to gain knowledge from her. At another time, he would have been attracted to her delectable body, but just now he was interested in only one woman.

  “Doubtless you are curious about fabled Janagar,” she said as if reading his mind “Aye, that is so,” be agreed. “We were brought hither by folk who had only the gleanings of ancient, musty books to guide them. As we drew nearer, we heard some vague tales handed down through many generations of storytellers. These hinted of a city of great wealth, and of even greater evil, that was struck down and abandoned. Our employers thought to find the city still intact, with its treasures in place.” At this point, he saw no reason why he should not be perfectly honest with her. Any lingering loyalty he might have felt toward the twins had vanished, along with the twins themselves on the night of the sandstorm.

  “How did they happen to bring along such ,.. unusual warriors?” Omia inquired.

  “The workings of chance. We all met in a wretched mountain village where the rogues of three or four nations waited out hard times. The twins gave us a bit of the tale, suggesting that there might be great riches for us in the adventure. They said there were others looking for the city and therefore they needed protection. As you have seen with your own eyes, they hir
ed the best”

  At this she laughed. “You are not modest”

  He shrugged. “Where is the need for modesty?”

  “To be sure. Very well, that is how you came to cross the trackless desert hither. How did you happen to lose your employers?”

  He frowned, “That you must know well. They arrived in the great temple above before we did.”

  “Of course I know!” she snapped, over-hastily. “I only wished to see whether you would prevaricate, but you seem to be an honest warrior as well as a large and handsome one. What else did you hear of Janagar’?” The change of subject was awkward, betraying her uneasiness. She was steering him away from the subject of the twins. Why?

  “An old man of the desert spun me an ancient lay of the sinful city that angered the gods and was therefore laid under their curse. He said that Janagar had been sited in the midst of fertile lands, but those green hills and valleys were blasted to sandy desert by the vengeful gods.”

  “And did he say what was the nature of Janagar’s offense?” she asked “The one it seems to me lies always at the heart of such tales: The folk of Janagar sought to raise themselves to the level of the gods by seizing the secret of immortality, wherefore the gods grew jealous.”

  At this she smiled “So you are skeptical of old tales? I would not have thought you so sophisticated”

  “I believe the legends of my own people,” he said “I see no reason to lend undue credence to the stories of others.”

  “Very wise. Well, foreigner, this is the true tale of Janagar, and it is not a catch-all of vague stories handed down, mouth to mouth, by generations of illiterate tale-spinners. This is a true history, carved in stone by the people who lived through the events and further elaborated by their descendants, of whom I am one. The history is unbroken from the days of glory to this, so you may believe my words.”