The Conan Compendium Read online

  The six zombies broke into two files of three each as they approached the bridge, saying nothing Conan could hear. Their feet hit the first planks. He waited.

  The first two were halfway across before the last two started onto the bridge. Conan waited.

  The leaders were no more than three spans away. Conan raised his sword, still waiting. Two spans, one-now!

  Using the strength of his arm and chest, Conan swung the sword. The razored blue iron bit into the support rope and sheared it cleanly. The bridge tilted abruptly, canting sharply as the support on one side let go.

  Three of the Men With No Eyes pitched off into the abyss, falling silently. The other three were quicker, and they grabbed onto the planks, saving themselves from the fall.

  In another stroke, Conan sheared the center support rope. Hemp unraveled as the rope snapped, tilting the bridge yet farther from level. Another of the zombie priests lost his grip and slid off to join his brothers.

  The remaining two began to inch their way along the precarious platform toward Conan.

  The Cimmerian's sword rose for the third time. The final cut took the final rope, and the bridge, anchored only at the far side, swung down and across the chasm, to smash into the cliff Conan had climbed down and up earlier in the day. The heavy wooden planks split and shattered from the force of the pendulum swing, and the final two passengers were knocked from their perch, to tumble to the river far below.

  Behind him, Tuanne said, "The fall will not destroy them."

  Conan turned and nodded at her. "Perhaps not. But it will surely slow them. Even a Cimmerian could not make that climb in less than a day or two. By then we shall be well on our way."

  He mounted his horse; after a moment the three of them rode away.

  Skeer awoke, feeling more refreshed than he had in months, it seemed. Nothing like a safe roof over one's head, a warm body in one's bed, and wine in one's belly to allay nagging unease.

  A breakfast warming his insides, Skeer began to ascertain the state of affairs in the village, and, more important, with his master, Neg the Malefic.

  From One-Eye the cutpurse, he heard: "Nay, 'tain't nothin' unusual about His Lordship's domain. They that don't see come and go like usual."

  From Alleta the trull, came: "I cannot speak for his desire, since it seems he has no taste for the pleasures of the flesh, but, no, nothing to indicate any strangeness other than normal have I seen."

  More informative was Piper, the store's lackey: "Sure, sure, I been inside, just like always. What? No, his worship don't seem angry, 'cept that one of his Reawakened Ones got loose, somehows. No, he didn' make that privy to me, but a man's got ears, ain't he? Other than that, no different than usual, I say."

  Skeer considered the sources, naturally, when digesting the information that he had been fed. And he did not stop with just those three, but after the greater part of the morning nosing around and asking such questions of a dozen others, including some of the less criminally minded citizens of the village, he felt that the comments he had first heard were representative. Few people actually saw Neg, only a few suppliers of goods and services, but all of them seemed to think the necromancer's state of mind differed little than usual. While Neg could hardly be termed "usual" or "normal" when compared to other men, he had emotions, and they did not seem particularly stirred.

  Good. With that assurance, Skeer felt he had dallied enough. Another day in the village without attending to his given chore would be dangerous, for certainly Neg would learn of it. And he had said most plainly to make all deliberate speed. A night of rest from an exhausting and dangerous trip could be justified. A day of dithering afterward could not.

  With his courage bolstered, Skeer squared his narrow shoulders and went to meet his master.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The village lay before Conan and his companions, and it seemed little different from a dozen other such hamlets the Cimmerian had seen before. But he reined his mount to a halt when he saw what lay beyond the sleepy-looking town. Few cities of any size were likely to sport such a castle as he now saw.

  Vast it was, and ancient; time had weathered the dark gray stone so that it seemed almost smooth from this distance, but even the years could not wash the evil that emanated from that massive edifice. Conan felt his skin crawl as the hairs stood on his arms and neck. He had an urgent desire to turn and ride as fast as the horse could run, a gut feeling that stole over him as he stared at the tall towers and high walls.

  "Neg's castle," Tuanne said unnecessarily.

  Elashi said, "I suppose it is too much to ask of the gods that Skeer has yet to gain entrance to that that fortress."

  Tuanne nodded. "It is. I can feel the pull of the talisman, and it lies beyond those walls."

  Conan uttered a short curse that he deemed inappropriate for the ears of his companions, so he spoke the expletive under his breath. Well. There was nothing to be done for it. If that was where Skeer had gone, then that was where he would go, too.

  "Do you know a way in?" he asked Tuanne.

  "I knew a way out. But I suspect that path will be blocked. Doubtless Neg has discovered it, once he learned that I had escaped his clutches."

  Conan turned back to stare at the castle. He could not see the base at this distance, but there would be a way inside, and if he looked diligently enough, he would find it.

  Tuanne seemed to read his thoughts. "I am afraid gaining entrance will be no small matter," she said. "Neg is jealous of his privacy. And I cannot offer much assistance in this. I am free of his spell only by a magical fluke. Should he see me, he could resume his ensorcellment of me easier than scratching a bothersome itch."

  "Let us find an inn, then. We have money and can book a room and eat before we decide our best path." Conan turned away from the distant castle.

  Silently, the two women followed the Cimmerian into the village.

  Despite his assurances, Skeer felt a prickle of fear as he approached the only entrance to Neg's castle. Something was in the air. He felt it, with the sense that every good thief had, a high tension, as if some giant string had been stretched to near its breaking point. Outwardly, things seemed the same as when he had last been there; but there lay beneath the normal sights another thing altogether.

  The moat seemed sluggish in the afternoon sun, but beneath those placid waters swam creatures better left unprovoked. Fish as big as a man with teeth the size of a man's fingers lurked, awaiting feeding, intentional or otherwise. And in the depths, so he had heard, monsters that fed on the killer fish made them seem like minnows.

  Once, so the story went, a curious and mostly insane soldier had determined to row a boat across the ring of infested water, with the idea of scaling the castle wall and slaying Neg, for some injury Neg had caused to himself or his family. Armed with sword and pike, the soldier had a sturdy wooden pirogue unloaded from his wagon and into the water.

  Halfway across the moat, the soldier met his fate. He sank in a bloody swirl of water and vanished forever, boat and all.

  Since, no one had been eager to attempt a crossing of the wizard's deadly ditch, as it was known locally.

  The tall drawbridge nestled against the stone when Skeer approached. When he was close to the edge of the moat, the massive bridge began to descend, the heavy chains rattling as they passed through the iron-ringed portals, despite the thick layers of grease there. He had not called out his name, but it was not necessary. Though blind, the Men With No Eyes knew Skeer; whether by smell or hearing or some other arcane manner, it did not matter.

  The drawbridge finished its descent. Skeer looked up, and a score of Neg's priests peered sightlessly down over the wall's top at him. He repressed a shudder. He had learned to tolerate Neg's other servants, but the Men With No Eyes frightened him more than even the zombie dead.

  He hesitated for a moment, then nudged his horse forward. It was much too late to turn back. Besides, he told himself, he had something that Neg wanted more than anything.
He had served the necromancer exceedingly well, and would no doubt be most welcome.

  Brute exited the inn and looked up at the Disguise Master. "Ain't here," the big and smelly man said.

  The Disguise Master nodded. "That leaves only one inn, the Smoking Cat. If they have arrived before us, likely we shall find them there."

  "Good," Brute said.

  But at the final inn boasted by the village, Conan of Cimmeria was not to be found. There were, however, the two women who had aided in humiliating the Disguise Master.

  Outside, the professional spy said, "Take the women. Surely Conan intends to return for them."

  Brute shook his head. "I'll not have anything to do with that pale one."

  "What?"

  "She carries some kind of curse, and I'll not infect myself with it."

  "I am paying you-"

  "-to kill the big man, no more."

  "We'll do it," Port said.

  The Disguise Master looked at the footpad. "You?"

  "Him and me," Port said, nodding at Starboard. The second man nodded his affirmation.

  The Disguise Master looked at Brute in disgust. The big man shrugged blandly. "No matter to me. I'll do Conan."

  "Very well. Bring the women to me. I shall wait behind the stables, there. "

  "Aye, master," Port and Starboard said in unison.

  Inside the Inn, Elashi and Tuanne rested in the room they had taken. Conan had gone to inspect the defenses of Neg's castle. He would, he had said, return before dawn.

  "I must go to the nightchamber," Elashi said.

  Tuanne said, "I shall wait here."

  "I think I envy you that, not having to attend to such needs."

  "Do not," Tuanne said. "It hardly makes up for the rest."

  "I suppose not. I shall return shortly."

  Though she carried her dagger, the attack by two small men caught Elashi unawares. Before she could defend herself, one of the attackers had his own dagger's point pressed into her throat. "Move wrongly and die!" he said.

  "What is it you wish? I have no money-"

  "Not money, bitch. Neither do we desire your favors. Our master would have a word with you."

  The other one said, "Can you handle her?"

  "Certainly I can, fool. Fetch the other one."

  The door to the room opened, and where Tuanne expected to see Elashi, she saw a strange man. At first, she thought perhaps he was one of Neg's, but his manner lacked the confidence one of the necromancer's minions would have this close to home. He held a short dagger pointed in her general direction.

  Conan had provided Tuanne with a dagger of her own upon leaving Opkothard. She snatched the blade from her belt and faced the intruder. He smiled, a wicked, gap-toothed grin, and moved slowly toward her.

  Tuanne's own smile rose, and wicked was too mild a term for it. This one carried his confidence in his blade. That could be destroyed.

  Slowly, Tuanne raised her left arm, so that the sleeve of her blouse slid back, revealing the cold ivory flesh. Just as slowly, she lifted the dagger so that the keen edge lay against the flesh of the raised arm.

  The intruder paused. She could almost hear his thoughts: Hey, what is this?

  With a quick motion that made him jump, she sliced her arm. The wound gaped, but no blood flowed. She felt the sting of the cold steel, then felt the edges of the cut begin to seal shut and heal. The process took only a few seconds.

  "Great Asura!" The man backed away, holding both hands out in front of himself, the knife he held obviously forgotten in his fear.

  Tuanne tossed her own knife underhanded toward the room's nearest wall. As luck had it, the instrument struck point first and quivered in the wood. She began to advance toward the frightened man. "Come," she said. "Let me touch you and drink your life."

  At that, the man turned and nearly slammed into the wall in his haste to escape. Before she took a second step, he was gone, more fleet than a rabbit from a hound.

  She smiled, amused by the incident, until she remembered that Elashi had not returned. The amusement vanished as Tuanne darted into the hall, seeking her companion. A quick circuit of the inn revealed that which she feared: Elashi was gone.

  Crouched in a stand of tall reeds on the edge of the necromancer's moat, Conan studied the walls of the castle. The blocks had been quarried and set without mortar, and the centuries of rain had blended the joinings into a smooth facing. An ordinary man would have little success climbing such a wall, but Conan felt certain of his ability to do so, although it would be a difficult ascent, even for him.

  Guards patrolled the top, more of the blind ones, and their number was not small. Since they did not see as such, they might well hear the scrabblings of his fingertips as he scaled the wall, and that would be bad. Clinging like a fly to a flat wall was not the best position from which to defend one's self. Even an indifferent marksman could pick him off with a crossbow from the top, should they "see" him attempting the climb. Or a pot of hot oil could do wonders for defense, were it poured upon a hapless climber.

  When the guards had passed, the young Cimmerian found a hand-sized rock among the reeds. He hefted it, then lobbed it overhead, so that it struck the moat near the center.

  The resulting agitation of the water, terminating in the leap of some monster fish nearly as big as he was, told Conan what he wished to know: swimming or rowing across that body of water would be a fool's venture.

  He slipped away from the reeds, moving quietly for all his size, until he had gained the cover of a small copse nearby. Gaining entry to the castle would be no easy matter, as Tuanne had said. Already, he had determined that the tunnel she had used to escape from the necromancer's chambers had been sealed with earth, to a depth as far as Conan's sword would reach, at least. The moat boasted those monsters, and the walls were only slightly less smooth than a baby's backside. Darkness would offer no cover, not to guards without eyes. It posed a tricky problem, fair enough.

  Conan worked his way through the thin growth to where he had tied his horse. No, it would be no easy task. Of course, he could set up camp and wait for Skeer to leave, but if Tuanne was correct, they had not the time. With the magical device Skeer would have tendered to his master, the dead would be stirring, and that thought gave the Cimmerian youth no comfort. Besides, he did not have the patience to stand idly by and wait. A man of action could grow old waiting. No, there would have to be some way. He could not see it at this point, but if one existed, he would find it.

  For now, he would return to the inn.

  "Where is Elashi?"

  "Taken," Tuanne said.

  "Taken? Where? By whom?"

  Quickly, she explained. Before she had finished, Conan was on his way outside. She followed.

  The late afternoon sun had vanished behind a thick bank of slate clouds, building to a storm in the west. A wind had begun, and the air seemed alive with energy when the Cimmerian stepped into the street. Just ahead of him, Conan saw a big man, larger even than himself, holding a thick broadsword, point down. That he awaited Conan seemed all too obvious. At the sight of Conan, the man raised his blade.

  Conan drew his own sword without question. A man pointing a blade at you needed no explanation until afterward, assuming you survived to ask about his reasons.

  But the big man offered an expository greeting.

  "Conan of Cimmeria, be you?"

  "Aye. Have I business with you?"

  "Indeed. My master, him who you made sport of in Opkothard, bids me to tell you that he hopes you enjoyed your stolen gold, for it shall cost you your life."

  "The spy."

  "He prefers the name Disguise Master."

  "Has he taken my companion, Elashi, of the desert?"

  "Aye, that he has."

  "Then he is dog and son of a dog!" Conan said.

  The big man grinned at the Cimmerian. "You'll not anger me so easy, boy. He is not family, only paymaster."

  Conan stalked forward, his sword held with the
point aimed at the other man's throat.

  "Tell me where Elashi is and live," Conan said.

  The big man facing the Cimmerian laughed. "For all your size, you are no more than a boy to me, barbarian. You shall be dead in a moment, what matters where your woman might be?"

  Conan inched closer, his boots set solidly upon the packed earth of the road, his knees bent slightly, ready to spring. He was finished talking.

  The big man lunged at Conan, swiping at him with the broadsword in a wide slash that would have taken his head from his body, had it landed. Rather than trying to block, the Cimmerian ducked under the cut and thrust with his own sword.

  The big man danced back quickly, and Conan's stab fell a foot short of its target. The Cimmerian youth did not pause, but followed the thrust with a full overhead swing, as a man swings an axe for splitting wood.

  The big man raised his blade to block, and the clang! of metal on metal produced sparks visible even in the brightness of the day. Conan felt the vibration of the blades begin in his wrists and run all the way to his shoulders. The man was strong, no denying that.

  His opponent shifted to his right, and duplicated Conan's overhead cut. Instead of blocking, Conan danced to his right and parried, slamming his blade into the flat of the big man's sword. The attacker's sword missed Conan cleanly, and such was the force of the strike that it carried the broadsword in an arc that buried the tip in the dirt of the street.

  Before Conan could follow up, however, the man wrenched his weapon free and turned to face the Cimmerian once again.

  "Not bad for a boy, and a barbarian, to boot," the big man said. "I would have you know the name of your slayer, Conan. I am called Brute."

  Conan spared Brute a choppy nod, but no words. The man stood between him and Elashi, and whatever respect he might feel for Brute as a fighter was tempered by his disdain for him as a kidnapper.

  Brute charged, swinging his blade back and forth like a fan.

  Conan backed away, his own sword raised high. One step, two, three. He caught the rhythm of Brute's powerful swings one-two, one-two, and mentally set himself.