Conan and the Shaman's Curse (2 page)

Conan placed the corpse on the mound of bodies, now numbering almost two hundred. The barbarian’s shoulders had begun to throb, and the day’s heat and humidity beat at him like invisible fists. Yawning, he trudged back to the Zariri camp that lay a half-league away, where the Mountains of Gold touched the shore by the vast Southern Ocean. There he would slake his thirst with a skin of wine, take the Zariri sheikh’s horse, and gather wood from the nearby forested hills.

He had seen Jaral slip away the night before the battle, lugging a wooden chest into those hills. Curiosity had prompted him to follow the crafty sheikh, who buried the chest near a short, distinctively gnarled tree. The Cimmerian guessed that the chest contained the balance of the gold due to Conan’s free company, so he had marked the spot well to ensure payment if a dispute arose later.

Conan passed through the camp, riding to the tree. He retrieved the heavy pay chest and strapped it to his mount, then gathered the kindling he needed for the pyre. The wood he had collected was green, but he cared not. He would be far away before smoke began pouring from the bonfire. He had already decided where to ride.

With his chest of Iranistani gold, he could spend a few months in the nearby port city of Denizkenar. A month of strong wine and soft women would clear the bitter taint of this battle from his mind, leaving him refreshed. He had been away from the pleasures of civilization for too long, living the oft-cheerless life of a mercenary.

Returning to the burial mound, he ignited the kindling and watched briefly as the wood caught fire, pungent smoke curling into the sapphire sky. But when he straddled his horse, he saw riders approaching—hundreds of men on horseback, their mounts galloping at breakneck speed.

“Crom!” Conan cursed, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks and spurring the beast away at full gallop. Those riders wore the distinctively striped keffiyehs of the Bajkaris—eastern allies of the Kaklanis, doubtless summoned by a messenger.

These allies had come too late, but Conan knew that they would seek vengeance. Sand sprayed from their horses’ pounding hooves, which bore them toward the smoke-wreathed pyre. The foremost ranks slapped the sweaty rumps of their mounts, spurring the horses forward. They swept menacing tulwars from their belts and waved them in the air.

Conan rode west toward the Mountains of Gold, hoping to hide in their rock-shadowed recesses and discourage pursuit. The wind tore at the Cimmerian’s yellow-banded kaffiyya, which marked him as a friend of the Zariri. He had not bothered to doff the incriminating headgear, doubting that it would make a difference.

His labouring horse slowed, overburdened by the combined weight of its rider and the gold-filled chest. The Cimmerian looked over his shoulder at the enraged Bajkaris, who were gaining ground. As Conan rode between two stone-covered hillocks, he saw a group of Bajkari bowmen lying in wait—arrows nocked, ready to fire. Others raised crossbows, drawing a bead on him. “Crom and Badb!” he swore, jerking the reins and turning his horse southward an instant before the archers loosed their storm of shafts.

Arrows and quarrels hissed through the air like wooden serpents, clattering from rocks around him. A few shafts fleshed his horse; others rebounded from the back of his mail shirt. Panicking, his steed bolted while Conan clung to its mane as it galloped southward, down the gentle eastern slope of the Mountains of Gold. He guided his horse toward the narrow strip of stone-covered beach at Iranistan's farthest south-western shore.

The Bajkari horsemen spread out, cutting off any hope of escape. Conan considered his few options: make a stand while they ran him down, ride into their midst and try to break through, or swim to safety. From his free-booting years with Bêlit, Conan knew that Vendhyan merchants made frequent voyages along this Southern Ocean route. They traded wares with coastal tribes of Zembabwei and the Gwadiri people on the Islands of Pearl.

Scanning the southern horizon, his sharp eyes picked out the shape of a vessel. It was distant, a long swim, but the calm sea provided a better chance for escape than he would have here.

He leapt from the back of his snorting horse, still holding its reins. Tearing off his ragged shirt of mail, he flung it aside and doffed his kaffiyya. Turning the headdress into a cloth sack with deft moves, he filled it with what little gold he dared to carry. After a moment’s consideration, the Cimmerian sheathed his sword in its scabbard and tied the sack to his thick leather belt. Drawing a deep breath, he dove into the warm blue water.

The shouts of the Bajkari filled his ears as he struggled against the tide, swimming in powerful strokes and fighting the temptation to drop the small sack of gold that might secure him passage aboard the ship... if he reached that faraway haven. Behind him, the howling avengers were shedding their heavy gear and plunging into the water, curved daggers clamped between their teeth.

The bowmen—left behind when Conan’s horse had bolted—now reached the shoreline and began shooting. The Cimmerian thanked the fates that the Iranistani were among the poorer of arbalesters, or they would have speared him like a fish ere he swam beyond their range.

“Zariri swine!” they cried, hurling oaths at the escaping barbarian. “May the sea-beasts gnaw your accursed bones!”

Conan would have laughed, but he saved his breath for the swim. He had escaped the archers, but dozens of Bajkari warriors still relentlessly pursued him. Weighted by his sack of gold and heavy sword, he felt his pace slacken. The Bajkaris swam within a stone’s throw, closing in with every stroke.

III

“Welcome aboard the Mistress...”

Conan quickened his pace, drawing deeply from his well of reserve vitality. The burden of a heavy broadsword and a gold-filled sack would have dragged a lesser man to the ocean’s floor, but the Cimmerian’s muscular frame and powerful thews carried him through the placid ocean waters with a swiftness that would have shamed many a sea creature.

Exhaling and inhaling rhythmically, Conan pumped his arms and legs for every measure of speed that he could muster. When his destination loomed ahead, he lifted his head, tossing his hair back in a spray of salt-water as he looked over his shoulder.

Many Bajkari, more accustomed to their saddles than the sea, had begun to flag. A few had stopped and were simply treading water, too exhausted to swim back. The bowmen on the beach looked like mere insects. “Dogs!” Conan yelled.

This epithet left him short of breath, and he paused before renewing his efforts to reach the ship. He was close enough to study her in detail. She was a high-stemed, broad-waisted craft, a design similar to many Vendhyan coastal vessels. She accommodated ten rowers on each side, but her captain may have crewed her sparingly, for Conan saw only ten oarsmen at work. Perhaps the ship master had counted more on trade winds than on bowed backs. Her single sail was bundled against the yard by its brails, and she bore no standard that indicated her origin.

To Conan’s practised eye, she had the look of a cargo-laden Vendhyan merchant. Sniffing the air, he also judged that she was not a slaver. Such vessels carried an unmistakable stench that fouled the air around them. A ship rowed by free men might welcome the Cimmerian, who knew his way around an oar. Better to pay for his passage with labour than part with any of his loot.

He knew that a strong rower and skilled swordsman would be welcome aboard—captains of small merchant ships lived in constant fear of pirate attacks. Years ago, Conan and Bêlit—the beautiful but deadly piratess—had preyed upon many such vessels. Bêlit's Tigress, with her eighty oarsmen and steel-beaked ram, would have made short work of this seagoing morsel.

As he swam on, exhaustion led Conan into sadly but fondly remembering the Shemite lover with whom he had spent many happy years. The two of them had terrorized countless Stygian vessels—their raiding, plundering, and slaying had made them infamous among those who dwelled along the southern coasts of the Western Ocean.

He had never before—or since—known a woman like Bêlit. She had revelled in her life of roaming, fighting, and plundering, as Conan did. And of the many women Conan had bedded, none had matched her raw, insatiable passion for lovemaking. Bloody battles fuelled the fires of her lust as much as they fuelled Conan’s. In his arms, she was as wild and untamed as a jungle cat. After every conquest, the two would quench their thirst for each other—often from sunset to sunrise.

Bêlit's hunger for pleasure of the flesh had been exceeded only by her appetite for loot. It was the latter, and a vile legacy of tainted treasure, that had long ago taken her from him.

Conan missed his pirate queen, and he realized that he had—perhaps deliberately—avoided the sea since the Queen of the Black Coast’s untimely death. Without her, the seafaring life had lost its lustre.

His face hardened like a mask chiselled from stone. Now was not the time for reminiscing. Conan pushed aside the haunting memories, focusing on his goal. A few Bajkari doggedly swam after him, and the Cimmerian did not yet wish to join Bêlit in Hell.

Glancing back toward the beach, he saw that only three men had stayed in the race. As they closed the distance, he saw water streaming from their reddened faces. Sunlight flashed wickedly from daggers clenched between their teeth.

The Cimmerian considered facing them. His sword, however, would be unwieldy in a free-floating fight, and he had no mail to turn their blades. To worsen matters, his heavy sack of loot hindered him. He knew that he should cut it loose, but after hauling it this far, he was loathe to drop it.

A furtive movement caught Conan’s eye, and he spun his head toward it. Rippling under the water’s surface just a few feet from his side, he saw a long, silvery shape darting toward him. Back-pedalling with his legs, he drew his broadsword. It just cleared its sheath before the gigantic barracuda was upon him. Sharpened teeth brushed the flesh of his calf as he desperately thrust his blade toward the vicious beast.

The point struck home, spearing the barracuda, sinking deep into its vitals and lodging in bone. Thrashing in agony, the wounded fish tried to dislodge the blade, but the sword was stuck fast. Conan clung to the hilt, vainly tugging at the blade. The maddened barracuda lunged toward him, forcing back his arms and clamping his belt between its jaws.

Conan’s sword had not weakened the fish. With a violent tug the beast pulled him under. He sucked in a lungful of air before sinking, placing his feet against the slippery scales of the impaled predator and wrenching at the trapped blade.

Man and beast waged a tense tug-of-war. Conan hung on to his sword-hilt while the dying barracuda pulled its stubborn passenger through the water. Conan ached to expel stale air, and pounding blood sent waves of dizziness through his head. He held the air in, knowing that a watery grave awaited him if he exhaled. His only chance was to free his sword and skewer the thing again.

He could not will his arms to move.

Shadowy fog engulfed his vision. He was only dimly aware of the barracuda’s final spasm. Chest heaving, he broke the paralysis that had seized him and ripped his broadsword from the fish’s guts. The dead creature relinquished its grip, drifting away in a red ruin. Resisting his body’s involuntary urge to open his mouth wide and take in what would be a drowning breath, the Cimmerian kicked his legs frantically, swimming toward the light. He knew that the blood and thrashing might attract even worse creatures—great striped sharks who were said to infest these waters.

After several moments of nearly unbearable agony, Conan’s head cleared the surface. Gasping, he gulped the sweet, life-giving air, expelling several lungfuls before his eyesight returned. He gazed with astonishment at the faraway beach, and almost smiled. The barracuda had towed him away from the Bajkari, closer to the safety of the Vendhyan ship.

His hunters had apparently abandoned the chase. They receded to tiny specks as Conan forced his aching limbs to swim the remainder of his harrowing escape route. No tell-tale fins broke the surface; perhaps the sea predators lurked elsewhere today.

A bored-looking Argossean leaned against the ship’s taffrail, straightening with a jerk when he sighted the approaching Cimmerian. His shouts roused a few other sailors, and they tossed a knotted rope overboard, which Conan seized. He pulled himself up the rope and over the rail, thumping wetly to the starboard thwart between two cursing, sweating rowers. They and the other rowers stopped, raising their twenty-foot oars and gaping at the drenched barbarian.

The tall, bearded Argossean strolled amid the thwarts toward Conan, keeping a beefy hand upon the brass hilt of an enormous tulwar thrust through his wide belt. The other sailors—olive-skinned Vendhyans, stout Argosseans, and a few shifty-eyed Zingarans—fingered the hilts of their keen-edged scimitars. The tall Argossean barked a greeting in his native tongue. “Bel’s beard! A blue-eyed giant—a northerner, by yer looks. Welcome aboard Zarkhan’s Mistress. I’m Tosco, her first mate. What be yer name, and how in Hell come ye drifting’ to us?” Anticipation lingered in his voice—and in the fingers that flexed around his brass hilt.

Fatigue had not completely robbed Conan of his wits. He made a show of rising to his feet to take a good look at his surroundings. In particular, he studied the ship’s helmsman, who stood on the poop deck behind Tosco, manning the till. The helmsman’s dusky-hued skin marked him as a Stygian; his leather jerkin and slender dagger bore symbols of Set, the dread serpent god.

Conan groaned inwardly while drawing himself up to his full height. The helmsman might recognize the name Conan—one of Stygia’s most infamous pirates. “I am Vraal,” he rumbled in rough Argossean. “I am a son of the Border Kingdom—though I know well the code of the sea,” he added.

“Vraal, eh? Are ye deserter or slave, then, running’ from them?” He gestured toward the remote shore, to which many of the Bajkari were swimming.

“Nay, friend Tosco. They ambushed me as I rode through the Mountains of Gold, on my way to sell my sword in Anshan or Aghrapur, wherever it would fetch the highest price. I would as soon pay for my passage by sweat. You seem short of rowers, and if we are waylaid by corsairs, my blade is at your service.”