The conan compendium, p.502
The Conan Compendium, page 502
At a stall managed by a blind Shemite, he found a curious weapon. It was crafted entirely from steel, with a slim shaft terminating in a head wrought in the semblance of a human fist clutching a dagger.
The blade of the dagger was slightly downcurved and was actually a thick spike rather than a true blade.
Clearly, it was intended to pierce mail.
“An interesting weapon, is it not?” The speaker was a man in Turanian garb, his jacket of gray silk decorated with fine gold threads. His trousers of black silk were tucked into the tops of boots made of
soft red leather.
“Too specialized,” Conan said. “It can pierce mail, but if it goes through a helmet or plate armor, the point may become wedged”
The man stroked his small chin-beard. “Few men have the strength to drive such a weapon through plate.”
“I can do it,” Conan said, tossing the spike-mace back on the table. “I prefer a weapon with a variety of uses.”
“Such as this northern brand you bear?” the man asked, eyeing the sword that hung at the Cimmerian’s side.
“Aye. It is heavy enough to cleave armor and keen enough to slice flesh. Its balance and point make it a decent thrusting weapon, and the pommel is good for bashing skulls when the quarters are close.”
The man smiled, displaying feral, pointed teeth. “You sound like a man who knows weapons. I’ve not seen you here before. Are you a recent arrival?”
“I rode in but an hour ago,” Conan affirmed “Alone?”
“Why do you ask?” Instantly, the Cimmerian was suspicious. The questioner was armed with sword and dagger, but in this part of the world, every grown man went armed. He had the look of a fighting-man and Conan feared no man, but he was wary of the stranger’s interest “I have a small merchant caravan under my authority and am looking for competent guardsmen.” He touched his breast and inclined his head slightly. “I am Vladig, from Akit, in Turan.”
“I am Conan of Cimmeria, and as it happens, I am already employed guarding a party bound for the southern desert.”
“Ah, that is unfortunate. You appear to be a prime prospect. The southern desert, you say? May I inquire which district?”
“North of me great bend of the Styx, between Zamboula and Kutchernes, south of Khauran.”
“The Dead Man’s Journey! That is a forbidding place, my friend. I would caution you to take another route to wherever it is you are going.”
Conan was about to say that the district was not the route but the destination, but then decided that it would be telling this stranger too much. Instead, he shrugged.
“It is not my decision. I was hired to ride guard, nothing more.”
“Ah, the vagaries of owners can be difficult to live with,” the man said commiseratingly. He gestured to an open doorway nearby. “Would you care to take some wine with me? I have recently skirted that district and may be able to inform you of some hazards best avoided.”
Conan was amenable to this. He was always ready to drink another man’s wine if that man was not an enemy, and he dearly wanted to know about recent conditions to the south, Minutes later, they were seated inside the little tavern, at a table beneath a window through which the sun of late afternoon shone in colored stripes through the awning outside. At the stranger’s order, a serving woman brought them a pitcher of wine and a pair of cups. Pitcher and cups were of blue-glazed pottery, a specialty of the district.
The two men pledged each other’s good health. The wine was tart, flavored with local spices and a tawny gold in color,
“Does your caravan go forth to sell, or to buy, or bom?” Vladig asked.
“It shall be as the owners decide,” Conan said. “We travel light.”
“Ah,” Vladig said, nodding. “When a caravan travels without goods to trade, it means that it goes slaving. A few-score yards of chain and shackles packs down nicely in saddlebags. Yes, the Dead Man’s Journey is the shortest way between here and the black lands of Punt and Zembabwei. Of course, you must choose a better way back. Not a single captive would survive that route traveling on his own feet.”
“Are the water holes low?” Conan asked.
“Even lower than usual, you mean? Aye, the oasis of Amun, once open to all, is now so diminished
that the Omri tribesmen guard it solely for their own use, driving away all other tribesmen and demanding a steep toll of passing caravans-Of a score of watering places along the Great Desert route between Turan and Stygia, less than twelve are now reliable.”
“What of the Lesser Passage from Zamboula to the bend of the Styx?” the Cimmerian inquired.
“Better as far as water goes, but the predatory tribes are greedier than ever. It is the same all over To be safe from raiders, you must travel in strong bands, heavily guarded. But such caravans require that much more water and forage. All in all, the longer route, skirting the periphery of the desert, is safer. The passage may take twice as long and you pay taxes to many local chiefs, but your chances of making it through alive are better.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Conan said, keeping his thoughts to himself. “I shall speak to my employers about this.”
“That would be wise,” said Vladig.
They finished the pitcher of wine, talking of the vagaries of desert life. Then they parted, Conan wondered at the man’s helpfulness. It was not uncommon for travelers to exchange such information, but the man had shown little interest in Conan’s origins, or in his travels or the lands they had crossed to reach Zardas, and that seemed passing strange.
Vladig made his way through the narrow alleys of Zardas as the light dimmed overhead. At last he came to a high, blank wall and took a key from his belt pouch, with which he unlocked a heavy gate. He passed through the gate into a courtyard where fragrant bushes grew in planters set amid polished flagstones. Beyond the courtyard was a fine house with whitewashed walls. He ascended an exterior stairway that led to a flat roof. After the fashion of the finer houses of the district, the roof supported a garden, and in its midst was a small penthouse. He passed beneath an arbor covered with climbing vines and knocked upon the door of the penthouse.
“Enter.” The voice was deep and mellifluous. Vladig opened the door and went in. He bowed with fingertips spread upon his breast.
“I have done as you wished, my master.”
The man thus addressed sat behind a table spread with tomes and curious instruments. Before him lay a heap of tiny crystals, some rounded, some elongated, others like needles. He was a tall man, lean and saturnine of feature, with a pointed, graying beard and long mustaches. He wore a robe of deep purple and a close-fitting turban of the same hue.
“Report, then,” said the man in the purple robe, revealing small, pointed teem. His hands rested upon the table before him, their fingers seeming unnaturally long. From time to time, the fingers flexed as if of their own volition, tracing intricate patterns with their tips.
“I spoke with one of their guards, a hulking great northerner with black hair. I also had a look at me party before I approached the man. It is an odd a lot as I have ever seen: Hyrkanian bowmen, a dwarf, the Northerner, even some armed women.”
“Women?” said the seated man.
“Aye, four of them. Three are savage, half-animal creatures led by a big, strapping, yellow-haired wench who looks as dangerous as any bandit I ever ran across.”
The other stared broodingly into the pile of crystals, which began to glow a lambent violet. “The twins have a flair for attracting oddities.” His fingers began to move in more intricate patterns, and the crystals started to shift.
Vladig did not like to look at his master’s hands. In repose, the fingers possessed the proper number of joints, but in morion, they were more like jointless tentacles. Also, when they moved, there seemed to be more than ten of them, although 10 swiftly did they writhe that they were impossible to count.
“The guard confirms your belief dial they are headed into the deep desert. He claims that he knows not their business there, but I do not believe him. He claims to be a simple guardsman, but he has the manner of a leader of men. His simplicity is a pose. In consequence, I dared not pry too closely. He was
suspicious enough as it was.”
“Did you mislead him?”
“It was not necessary. The truth was sufficient. Like any experienced desert traveler, he wanted to know about water and grass and raiding tribes. I exaggerated somewhat the danger of raiders on the Lesser Passage, but so small is their caravan that the danger is great enough. In truth, then-choices are few. If they wish to go to the place you believe, they must take the most direct route. It is the last leg of the journey that will probably be their death.”
“Some creatures do not die so easily,” said the other. “Give me your conversation in detail.” As Vladig reported, his master, whose name was Arsaces, brooded over his crystals. They shifted according to his gestures, gathering together in one place, extending into tendrils in another, always glowing brighter.
In time, they raised into the vague semblance of man-form, the violet light pulsing as if to the beating of a
crystalline heart
“This Northerner,” Arsaces said when Vladig was finished. “What sort of savage is he?”
“He says he is a man of Cimmeria, although I never before met one of that breed. The land is somewhere north of Aquilonia, I believe.”
“So it is. The folk there are known to be among the fiercest in the world, although few of them ever leave their homeland.”
“Like most Northerners, he is clearly a swordsman, and he wears a long brand at his belt. He has the bearing of a warrior and the gaze of an eagle.”
“A formidable man. But then, the world is full of brawny warriors with admit swords and loud boasts. Such things are vain and foolish. Only great sorcery has lasting value.”
“As you say, my master,” Vladig intoned.
“Very well. What you have said pleases me. Tell me when they make ready to leave mis town and we shall follow.”
“If you will indulge me. Master, why should we not leave ahead of them? They must journey hence by the southern route. We can find a favorable place for an ambush and await them there. Their defenses are negligible and they will fall into our hands like ripe fruit.”
The eyes of Arsaces glared at his henchman from within deep, dark sockets. “I said we shall follow, I shall decide when it is time to attack, and you are not to assume that their defenses are negligible. I have just told you that the swords of warriors are trifling things.”
Vladig fumed, but he bowed once more. “As my master commands.” Once again he bowed, then withdrew from the room.
Alone, Arsaces continued to manipulate his crystalline homunculus, causing it to walk about the table, imitate the movements of a warrior fighting, then those of a woman dancing. Tiring of this exercise, the wizard rippled his fingertips in a final flutter and the assembled crystals collapsed into a disorganized heap. Their violet glow faded and died.
The wizard brooded, running his fingers idly through the mass of crystals. At length he swept it from the table, into a coffer of ivory-decorated wood with a bronze lid.
When he located the inn, the Cimmerian went inside and joined the others. Over a meal of spicy lamb, bread and local fruits, he reported his conversation with the man who called himself Vladig.
“Do you think his information is to be trusted?” Yolanthe asked. The twins sat with the rest, but as usual, they ate nothing and their cups sat untouched before them.
“There is nothing unreasonable in what he said.” Conan answered, “but I will confer with other caravan masters ere we leave this place. What strikes me as odd is that he asked so little of me.
Ordinarily, if you drink another man’s wine, you answer his questions, not the other way about.”
“Aye, I do not like that,” Achilea said.
“It seems to me,” Kye-Dee said, “that if this fellow had ill intentions, he would have pumped Conan for information. Perhaps he is a holy man under a vow to be helpful to strangers.”
“No,” said Conan, “he is a fighting-man, I am sure of it.”
“This is much bother over nothing,” Kye-Dee said. He rolled a morsel of Iamb in a piece of bread, dipped it in a bowl of sauce and popped it into his mouth. Around the mouthful, he said, “Tell me what he looks like and I will go kill him. Then we need not bother ourselves further.”
“Nay,” said Monandas, chuckling. “Our difficulties are not so simply solved. Conan, did it seem to you that this man spoke on his own behalf?”
“This is a question I considered even as we conversed. He seemed forthright, but there was something about his manner that suggested he was someone else’s dog. Since he only gave helpful information about the routes ahead of us, I suspect that he has orders to herd us whither his master desires.”
“That is shrewd,” Yolanthe said, but whether she meant the man’s perfidy or Conan’s assessment of it was unclear.
“Then we must not proceed as he wishes,” Achilea said.
Conan shook his head. “Our choices are few. The desert presents us with a bare handful of usable routes. Even traveling those, survival is a difficult and chancy thing. Off them, we have no chance at all.”
“I do not like being so restricted,” Achilea grumbled.
“Yet we go to the desert,” Monandas said mildly, “not to the steppe or the hill country you know so well. In the desert, we must abide by the desert’s rules. But this is not necessarily to our disadvantage, for so must these others.”
“Who are these others?” Kye-Dee inquired.
“There are always those who would snap up undefended prey,” Yolanthe told him. “Doubtless these make it their business to find out who is going where and to lay their traps accordingly.”
“No worry then,” Kye-Dee said, taking a long swig from his wine cup. “Our arrows, and the blades of our companions, will keep you safe.” Kye-Dee and his friends were not of a reflective nature. As long as food and wine were plentiful, they had little thought for the morrow and considered all forms of apprehension to be unmanly. Danger was the constant reality of life.
Five
Khauran was behind them. They had passed through the small kingdom almost unnoticed. As their journey continued ever southward, the land became drier. There were fewer cloudy days, and the rain was sparse and infrequent. They were now in land unclaimed by any kingdom, for the sparse grass and even sparser watering places would not support an army of any size, and no king could truly lay claim to land he could not occupy and garrison.
The terrain now consisted largely of low, rolling hills scarcely high enough to be dignified by such a title, cut frequently by deep ravines whose bottoms were dry through most of the year. The animals were smaller and did not run in large herds as they did farther north. Most numerous were graceful gazelle and impala, swift creatures that needed little forage or water and were adept at avoiding the large-eared desert cats that prowled at night.
Already the travelers had shed their heavy cloaks, skins and padded clothing, at least for daytime travel. At Conan’s direction, they had purchased the loose, flowing, lightweight robes of the southern drylands. These afforded protection from the fierce sun while giving adequate ventilation.
“We will need our warm cloaks as we penetrate the deep desert,” Conan warned, “so do not discard them.”
“I thought it grew hotter the farther south you travel,” Achilea said.
“So it does,” said Conan. “The sun beats down, and then the stone and sand of the true desert reflects it back in your face like a great mirror, making it doubly ferocious. But for some reason, stone and sand do not hold the heat of day as do soil and grass and trees. As soon as the sun is below the horizon, the land cools quickly. By midnight, it is almost cold enough to freeze water.”
“That does not seem natural,” the dwarf protested. “A hot land should be hot at night as well.”
Conan’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Throw away your cloak, then. But do not ask to borrow mine some frosty night upon the sands.”
From time to time, the Cimmerian would leave the main body and ride far back along their trail.
From a convenient rise of land, he scanned to their rear, looking for pursuers. Upon occasion he saw other caravans, and twice he saw armed tribesmen mounted upon wiry desert ponies, but these were nothing out of the ordinary and represented little threat to his small but skilled and heavily armed band.
He was still troubled by the man who had questioned him. His suspicions were aroused, and the secretive twins with their strange quest did not improve matters.
On the third day of the trek into the desert, they spied a great cloud of vultures and other carrion birds hovering and circling over a spot a mile ahead of them.
“Something is dead up there,” Kye-Dee noted.
“More than just a man or a camel,” said Achilea, “to attract so many birds.”
“Ride cautiously,” Conan advised, “but I do not expect trouble. If there were any live men over there, the birds would not circle so low. See, even now some of them descend.”
They rode onward at a cautious pace, and soon the wind brought them a terrible stench. Then they saw shapeless heaps upon the ground and among these heaps prowled dainty jackals and burly, brindled hyenas. The constant snarling of the beasts and the screeching of the birds made a hideous din, Their horses shied at the sights, sounds and smells. The tall camels seemed unaffected. The party urged their mounts closer until they could see that the animals were fighting over the remains of men and camels. So mutilated and dismembered were the corpses that it was difficult to count how many humans there had been. The much bigger carcasses of the camels were still largely intact, and it was over these that the hyenas snarled and fought, while the jackals sought to snatch bits of man-flesh from each other’s mouths. The grotesque vultures flapped in and tore loose what shreds they could, squawking indignantly when the greater creatures drove them off.
