The Conan Compendium Page 28

  Numb with superstitious terror, Conan retreated step by step. The firelight painted the mummy's black, monstrous shadow on the wall behind it. The shadow rippled over the rough stone. Save for the crackle of the flames as they bit into the pieces of ancient furniture with which Conan had fed the fire, the rustle and creak of the cadaver's leathery muscles as they propelled it step by faltering step across the crypt, and the panting breath of the youth as he struggled for air in the grip of terror―save for these sounds, the tomb was silent.

  Now the dead thing had Conan backed against a wall. One brown claw stretched jerkily out. The boy's reaction was automatic; instinctively, he struck out. The blade whistled and smote the outstretched arm, which cracked like a broken stick. Still clutching at empty air, the severed hand fell with a dry clack to the floor; no blood spurted from the dry stump of the forearm.

  The terrible wound, which would have stopped any living warrior, did not even slow the walking corpse. It merely withdrew the stump of the maimed arm and extended the other.

  Wildly, Conan burst from the wall, swinging his blade in great, smashing strokes. One blow caught the mummy in the side. Ribs snapped like twigs under the impact, and the cadaver was hurled off its feet with a clatter. Conan stood panting in the center of the room clutching the worn hilt in a sweaty palm. With widened eyes he watched as slowly, creakily, the mummy dragged itself to its feet again and began mechanically shuffling toward him, its remaining claw extended.

  5. Duel With the Dead

  Around and around they went, circling slowly. Conan swung lustily but retreated step by step before the unstoppable advance of the dead thing that came on and on.

  A blow at its remaining arm missed as the mummy jerked the member out of the path of the sword; the impetus swung Conan half around and, before he could recover, it was almost upon him. Its claw-hand snatched at him, caught a fold of his tunic, and ripped the rotten cloth from his body, leaving him naked except for sandals and loincloth.

  Conan danced back and swung at the monster's head. The mummy ducked, and again Conan had to scramble to keep out of its grip. At last he caught it a terrific blow on the side of the head, shearing off one horn of the helm. Another blow sent the helmet itself clanging into a corner. Another bit into the dry, brown skull. The blade stuck for an instant―an instant that almost undid the boy, whose skin was scraped by ancient black nails as he frantically tugged his weapon loose.

  The sword caught the mummy in the ribs again, lodged for a nearly fatal second in the spine, and then was jerked loose once more. Nothing, it seemed, could stop it. Dead, it could not be hurt. Always it staggered and shuffled toward him, untiring and unfaltering, even though its body bore wounds that would have laid a dozen stout warriors moaning in the dirt.

  How can you kill a thing that is already dead? The question echoed madly in Conan's brain. It went round and round until he thought he would go mad with the repetition of it. His lungs labored; his heart pounded as if it were about to burst. Slash and strike as he would, nothing could even slow the dead thing that shuffled after him.

  Now he struck with greater cunning. Reasoning that if it could not walk it could not pursue him, he drove a fierce, back-handed slash against the mummy's knee. A bone cracked, and the mummy collapsed, groveling in the dust of the cavern floor. But still the unnatural life burned within the mummy's withered breast. It staggered to its feet again and lurched after the boy, dragging its crippled leg behind it.

  Again Conan struck, and the dead thing's lower face was shorn away; the jawbone went rattling off into the shadows. But the cadaver never stopped. With its lower face a mere expanse of broken white bone beneath the uncanny glow in its eye sockets, it still shambled after its antagonist in tireless, mechanical pursuit. Conan began to wish he had stayed outside with the wolves rather than sought shelter in this cursed crypt, where things that should have died a thousand years ago still stalked and slew.

  Then something caught his ankle. Off balance, he fell full-length to the rough stone floor, kicking wildly to free his leg from that bony grip. He stared down and felt his blood freeze when he saw the severed hand of the corpse clutching his foot. Its bony claws bit into his flesh.

  Then a grisly shape of nightmare horror and lunacy loomed over him. The broken, mangled face of the corpse leered down into his, and one claw-hand darted towards his throat.

  Conan reacted by instinct. With all his might, he brought both sandaled feet up against the shrunken belly of the dead thing stooping over him.

  Hurled into the air, it fell with a crash behind him, right in the fire.

  Then Conan snatched at the severed hand, which still gripped his ankle.

  He tore it loose, rolled to his feet, and hurled the member into the fire after the rest of the mummy. He stopped to snatch up his sword and whirled back toward the fire―to find the battle over.

  Desiccated by the passage of countless centuries, the mummy burned with the fury of dry brushwood. The unnatural life within it still flickered as it struggled erect, while flames ran up its withered form, leaping from limb to limb and converting it into a living torch. It had almost clambered out of the fire when its crippled leg gave way, and it collapsed in a mass of roaring flame. One blazing arm dropped off like a twitching stick. The skull rolled through the coals. Within minutes the mummy was utterly consumed, but for a few glowing coals of blackened bone.

  6. The Sword of Conan

  Conan let out his breath with a long sigh and breathed deeply once again. The tension drained out of him, leaving him weary in every limb.

  He wiped the cold sweat of terror from his face and combed back the tangle of his black hair with his fingers. The dead warrior's mummy was at last truly dead, and the great sword was his. He hefted it again, relishing its weight and power.

  For an instant he thought of spending the night in the tomb. He was deathly tired. Outside, the wolves and the cold waited to bring him down, and not even his wilderness-bred sense of direction could keep him on his chosen course on a starless night in a strange land.

  But then revulsion seized him. The smoke-filled chamber stank, now, not only of the dust of ages but also of the burning of long-dead human flesh―a strange odor, like nothing Conan's keen nostrils had ever detected before, and altogether revolting. The empty throne seemed to leer at him. That sense of presence that had struck him when he first entered the inner chamber still lingered in his mind. His scalp crawled and his skin prickled when he thought of sleeping in this haunted chamber.

  Besides, with his new sword, he was filled with confidence. His chest expanded, and he swung the blade in whistling circles.

  Moments later, wrapped in an old fur cloak from one of the chests and holding a torch in one hand and the sword in the other, he emerged from the cave. There was no sign of the wolves. A glance upward showed that the sky was clearing. Conan studied the stars that glimmered between patches of cloud, then once more set his footsteps to southward.

  Conan the Defiant

  Prologue

  Neg the Malefic walked in the chambers of the dead.

  It was only fitting that he travel such musty and dank places, for he was a necromancer, and his power oozed like dark syrup from those no longer among the living. More than a worker of simple death-spells, Neg kept captives in the cold chambers beneath the malignant temple peopled by the Men With No Eyes. Men called Neg's ensorcelled the dead-not-dead, or called them zombies, and made signs to ward off evil when they spoke of such things. The necromancer laughed at the thought. Men were sheep, and Neg was a shepherd. Someday, he would rule the living as he now ruled his undead.

  Shadows danced on the soot-stained walls, flickering patterns cast by the black tapers guttering in their tarnished green brass holders. Smoke fled from the small flames to further paint darkness upon the walls and ceiling, to stir the spiders in their webs. No living man ventured here by choice; even the Men With No Eyes came only to tend the candles, and that only at Neg's command. They had no n
eed of light, and the zombies at Neg's beck no longer cared to see one another. The undead were held in thrall, and wished nothing more than to slip the magical tether holding them from the Gray Lands.

  Neg laughed, and the sound echoed along the deserted corridor, bouncing from the rock walls and back upon itself. No doubt his undead wished to leave his hospitable embrace. Alas, he could not allow that, for they had too much to give to depart with it. They had traveled across the River of Death, and been forced to return. They knew things normal living men did not know. And through them, Neg also learned these secrets. Such knowledge was power in the hands of one so skilled as he had become over the years.

  An umber rat chittered at him as the magician passed, disturbed in its meal upon what appeared to be a human finger bone. Neg fixed the rodent with his baleful stare, and the rat fell silent, struck by the power of the killing gaze. The rat shivered, emitted one final squeak, and collapsed. Its naked pink tail twitched nervously as it died.

  Neg smiled.

  He passed from the dank hallway into a massive chamber. Thick black mold graced the walls in mottled patches, and the flickering light did little to keep the darkness at bay. The reek of death was stronger here, holding sway in the musk-laden air. The click of Neg's boots against the grimy flagstones echoed hollowly in the vast room.

  Neg strode to the center of the room, unaffected by the dark, a man certain of his path. He took a deep breath, drinking in the odor of decay as an ordinary mortal might inhale the aroma of a fine perfume. His realm. His.

  "Come," he commanded. His voice danced against the distant walls and bounced back at him, hollow, as had been his footsteps.

  The darkness stirred. There came the creak of sinew, the rustle of tomb-dried clothing, the shuffle of rotten leather against stone. The hard chill that wrapped Neg seemed to increase, driving icy talons deeper into his body, into his very essence. That, too, was a part of his strength. A slight breeze arose, stirring Neg's long hair. Once, his hair had been black, so black it had seemed blue; but gray had long since taken command of the magician's locks. It had been five hundred years since he had seen the visage of a young man in his glass. But no matter; he had also long since ceased to age as did ordinary men.

  The unseen things in the chamber drew closer, forming a circle around Neg with their sounds. Closer, yet closer-

  "Hold!"

  All sound ceased. No breath save Neg's own disturbed the stillness of the room.

  "Who am I?" Neg called.

  Thirty voices spoke as one. "Master," they said. But the sound was hushed, the intonation flat, the spirit dull.

  "Aye, Master I am and shall remain, until I deem it otherwise. Never forget it." He paused, to enjoy his control. Silence surrounded him as might a blanket of dark wool. He spoke again. "Who knows of the Source of Light?"

  "I know," came a deep male voice.

  "Come closer."

  The shuffle of feet on stone sounded.

  Neg snapped his fingers, the click sounding like the breaking of a dry stick, or, perhaps, a dried bone. A small flame erupted from the blackened nail of his thumb, and yellow light fought the gloom, penetrating but a small distance. It was enough of a lamp to reveal the gray and expressionless features of a dead man.

  "Hold. Speak. Why has it not been delivered to me?"

  The man's lips moved, but he stared straight ahead, as if looking into some far land. "Vultures pick at the corpses of your agents in the shadow of the Great Wall of Koth."

  "By Set's Black Hand! What happened? Speak quickly!"

  The dull voice droned on. "Your men slew the Khauranian tribesman and obtained the talisman as you ordered. But they sought to increase the weight of their purses by selling the stolen fetish to a mage in the Kothian city of Khalis. Instead of gold, the mage would have paid them with the poisonous essence of black lotus. A struggle ensued. Your men died."

  "Fools! I shall call them back from Gehanna and make them beg for death for a thousand years!" Neg spat upon the flagstones, his rage riding high, tightening his thin shoulders. Those men would suffer, indeed, but-what of the talisman? He voiced his question.

  "In the struggle, the magician was also slain," the zombie said. "The Source of Light fell into the grasp of a priest. The device even travels toward the Temple of the Suddah Oblates."

  "No."

  "Yes." What seemed a faint smile flitted across the face of the dead man.

  Neg snatched at his purse, digging out a handful of coarse translucent-white crystals. He flung this at the zombie, and the shower of material followed the path of the whuffing flame surrounding the magician's thumb. The zombie emitted a low moan as the crystals touched his face. From each contact with the crystals came a sizzling sound, as fat dropped into a cookfire sputters, and smoke boiled forth from the burning flesh. The zombie collapsed in a boneless fashion, released from the life-giving spell by the magicked salt Neg threw at him.

  The necromancer glared down at the corpse. "Nay, you shall not escape that easily. Enjoy your brief moment in the Gray Lands, my thrall, for I shall snatch you back to serve me again soon enough!"

  The small fire on his hand vanished as Neg glared at it, and the magician spun and started for the chamber's exit. "Out of my way! Go back to your slumber and its nightmares!"

  As the mage stalked angrily from the chamber, the enthralled zombies began their tired shambling back to the edges of their prison. Upon the floor, the magicked salt hissed and evaporated in a greasy yellow cloud, filling the air with the taint of burned sulphur and brimstone. The zombies looked longingly at the vanishing salt. It had carried release for one of their number; all of them knew that the touch of Neg's magic was the only hope for their own freedom. But the salt was gone, and with it, their hope.

  In the darkness, unmoving, stood a woman known as Tuanne. She had been beautiful in life, and in death had kept her beauty, due to the whim of Neg the Malefic. She alone stood unmoving, disobeying the necromancer's command. A single crystal of the magical salt had flown past its intended target to land upon her full and shapely breast. The thin silk of her dress was unaffected, but the salt had burned that tender breast, as a hot needle would burn. The pain was intense, but she did not cry out.

  For, along with the pain, Tuanne realized that the spell holding her enthralled was no longer in force.

  The others reached their destination and fell once again into nightmarish slumber, but Tuanne stood fixed, full of questions. Was this some cruel trick of Neg's? If she tried to leave the chamber, would he be waiting? How could this have happened? The touch of enspelled brack had always returned the zombies to death before. Could it be that such a small amount merely destroyed part of the spell? Was she truly free?

  No, Tuanne decided, she was not free. Whatever else might be, she was still a zombie, not dead and not really alive. She had been held in this state by the evil wizard for a hundred years. All those she had known in life now walked the Gray Lands. She had been denied her rightful place among them, and she wished for nothing as much as that rightful place, as did all the other zombies Neg held.

  Well. If it were not a trick, if she truly had slipped the noose by which she had been tethered, what could she do now? Neg held the key to her death, and he would have but to look at her to restore his control again. There must be something she could do, however, to break completely free of this ensorcelled state. And there must be some way to help the others Neg held captive.

  Tuanne searched her memories, both in life and in her brief walks across the Gray Lands. After a moment, the answer swam up through the depths of her mind, a clear and shining light in the murk: that was the solution. Light. The Source of Light which Neg sought to increase his powers. That talisman held her release, along with the release of the others in this hellish chamber. She must find the fetish and use it to free herself and the others. Yes. That was what she would do.

  The beautiful zombie slowly walked to the exit, smiling for the first time in a hundred years. S
he would do whatever she must to obtain the Source of Light.

  Whatever she had to do ....

  Chapter One

  The young man came from the north, through the mountains, the cold and jagged teeth that separate Hyperborea from Brythunia. His name was Conan, and he was well-muscled and tall beneath the crusty furs he wore. He carried a heavy broadsword of ancient blued iron, still sharp but notched from battles long past. He had taken the blade from across the thigh bones of a corpse, and very nearly died for his trouble. He shivered at the memory. It had been unnatural, that moldering corpse, and he had no love for such dark magics. A man who trucked with such things could lose his soul.

  An icy wind ruffled Conan's black mane, but the cold fire of his blue eyes was untroubled by the weather. In Cimmeria, the land of his birth, such winds were a part of life, to be accepted as one of Crom's small tests.

  He had been walking for several days, living on roots and late-season berries, and a few snared rabbits. It was a hard trek, but better than the time before. Anything was better than slavery, even the wolves who had pursued him for two days after his escape. The wolves were gone, and should they return, he now had the sword.

  Conan's keen gaze searched the rocks along his path. He had been looking for a particular kind, and finally, he saw it. A whetstone to repair the notches in his blade. It was a lesson he had learned well from his father: Always keep your steel sharp and smooth; a rough edge lends itself to weakness and breakage.

  An hour with the stone gave the sword a new sheen and sharpness, and even the deepest nicks were reduced to smooth steel. He swung the weapon back and forth and grinned. As the son of a smith, he had a practical familiarity with bronze and iron, and this blade was superb, in balance and in temper.