Conan and the Shaman's Curse (14 page)

Jukona stood between him and the malefic effigy.

Conan took a clumsy step backward. “Crom,” he gasped, eyeing the huge Ganak warrior with suspicion, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that was not there.

The tall Ganak dropped a round object onto the ground. Palms facing up, he spread out his arms. “Peace, stranger, I, Jukona, am the Ganak warrior-leader. I would be your friend.”

Conan’s brow furrowed in concentration, but the Ganak language was not difficult for him to manage. He rasped a surly response. “Conan of Cimmeria. And I would not befriend a man who takes my sword and turns his back upon me after I aid him in battle!”

Sighing heavily, Jukona hung his head. “I did not wish to go without you. Ngomba demanded that you be left behind. He claimed your atnalga... if that is what you mean by ‘sword’? I believed he was Kulunga’s chosen one, whose words must be obeyed. But he did not forbid me to show you the way to Ganaku. Before we rowed away from the shore of bones, I marked path-symbols upon the ground beside you. When the seekers brought news of your arrival at Ganaku, I came here in search of you. Ngomba attacked me with your weapon, near the path of the net-beasts, and left me for dead.”

“Net-beasts?”

“The elders call them anansi” Jukona offered, rubbing at the lump on his head.

“Had you not found me when you did..Conan shuddered, thinking again of the ruby orbs that had held him in thrall. He noticed that Jukona stood interposed between himself and the hideous stone image. He pointed to it. “Who in Zandru’s Nine Hells is that she-devil?”

Jukona blinked, his face blank with confusion. “I have never seen it before, but I sense its presence of evil. The Deadlands teem with dangers to the body and the soul. I am glad that your cry for help awakened me from my stupor.” He rubbed at the back of his head, wincing.

Conan frowned. “I remember no such cry for help.”

“I believe that your spirit was being drawn from your body. Perhaps you could not hear your own voice. You resisted for a while, long enough for me to follow your trail and climb between those trees over there. As I ran to you, I saw your spirit, floating up to those eyes in the wall, rising from your body...” He paused, shuddering, as if reluctant to say more.

“How did you find me?”

“I lay on the ground over there.” He pointed far away to the other side of the clearing. “Past the trees. Your howl stirred me. You made the same sound on the shore of bones when we fought the Kezati. I saw the dead net-beast caught between the trees and guessed that you had ventured into the dark heart of the Deadlands.”

“Aptly named,” Conan said, shuddering at the vivid memory of his narrow escape. His eyes narrowed. “Yet these blasted spiders did not attack you.”

“‘Spiders’? It is a strange word. But no, the elders say that net-beasts will not strike one who bears an egg, a sack of their unborn spawn.” Crouching, he picked up the dull, leathery object as he spoke. “We are safe from them for awhile. It is said that the sun god’s face bums their eyes, but when he sleeps, they will come again. And they will hunt any time if they hunger. We must go to the village now, for the net-beasts are the least of the perils lurking in the Deadlands. The elders whisper all manner of dark tales about Deadlands, but never have I heard of this wall that devours souls.”

Conan grimaced. “Gladly will I depart from this thrice-accursed jungle. Look not into the eyes of the she-devil, whatever you do. When we leave, I would as soon seek Ngomba and show him the error of crossing a Cimmerian! And with my sword in hand, we would not need to fear the denizens of this hell-jungle.”

“‘Sword.’” Jukona shook his head and stared at Conan’s long mane of hair. “Conan of Cimmeria. Your words and ways are strange. And yet... at heart I believe you to be a warrior like me and a man of honour. Did the gods send you to us?”

Conan broke into a laugh that pained his bruised ribs. “If so, they were gods who wished to make a cruel jest at my expense! Nay, Jukona, my poor judgement and ill luck brought me here, naught else. I came from a land far north of here, across the southern sea and farther north yet. No Cimmerian has ever journeyed so far from the dreary valleys and dark woods that my kin call home.”

“A land... across the sea? The elders say that the sea is without end. The gods created only three lands: Ganaku and Zati, and between them, Arawu, where we fight the Kezati.”

“Those giant vultures? By Crom, never have I seen such creatures, not in all my years of wandering.” He turned, averting his eyes from the insidious image, and began walking to the trees at the edge of the clearing. “There are dozens of known lands in the world, and more are thought to exist, as yet undiscovered. I have roamed from the Pictish coast to the Hyrkanian steppes and beyond. I have encountered people of all races, but none quite like you or your enemies. But the world teems with so many men and monsters that no one man may know of them all.” He raised an eyebrow, struck again by Jukona’s height. Conan was taller than most men. It was a peculiar feeling, having to look up to see another man’s face. “You seem as strange to me as I must seem to you.”

Jukona followed Conan, stopping at the foot of the two gore-smeared trees. The Ganak handed the egg sack to Conan and hauled himself up the trunks, bending them apart with what seemed to be minimal effort. Jukona’s arms looked like bundles of rope, as thick as the Cimmerian’s muscular calves. While Conan climbed through the gap, avoiding the crushed spider’s oozing, he realized that subduing Ngomba would be no easy task. In hand-to-hand combat, the Ganak would tear him apart. Conan hoped that Ngomba would rely on his stolen blade. These people seemed ignorant of swords. Steel was a powerful servant only when wielded by one who possessed the skill to master it.

Holding apart the trees, Jukona lifted his legs, leaping feet-first through the opening. Thick branches snapped together behind him.

When they reached the ground, Jukona plunged into a dense thicket, following a trail of trampled and bent leaves that led to where he had been waylaid. “I do not have the skill of a seeker or gatherer, but if the gods favour. us with a few signs, we can find Ngomba.”

Conan immediately saw a deep footprint, pointing toward the broad trail that he had followed into the jungle. “There,” he said, pointing.

“We must be careful,” Jukona said, lowering his voice. “Of my warriors, Ngomba is the strongest and most stealthy.”

“He even looks different. Does he come from another tribe?”

A look of pity crept into Jukona’s eyes. “At birth, his mother’s life was taken by the gods. We call such children Mkundo, our elders raise them, and they must wear the paint that honours the sacrifice made by their mother. Ngomba obeys this tradition, but I think he has never accepted the death of his mother. When he was a boy, he asked many questions about her. It may be that he blames our gods for her death. He does not respect the Y’Taba, and he argues with me and the elders.”

“What about his sire? Cimmerians do not tolerate such behaviour from their brats. A few belt-lashings on my backside and a buffet or two on the ears taught me to respect my elders.”

“His father could not raise him,” Jukona said, his voice heavy.

Conan sullenly eyed the wide path, slowly retracing Ngomba’s steps. “Then it falls to us to give him a lesson long overdue. But enough! We waste time with this prattle while he gets away.”

They fell silent, intent on pursuit. While following the trail, they moved as silently as possible so that Ngomba would not hear them approaching.

At first, they had no problems following Ngomba’s route. But eventually Conan needed his tracking skills; the huge spiders had smudged and nearly obliterated all signs of the Ganak’s passage. For several hundred paces, he moved on intuition alone, gratified when he again saw a heel mark, then a complete footprint. By noting the depth of the impressions that remained and the distance between them, Conan speculated that Ngomba had been running hard and fast.

What surprised Jukona was the direction of Ngomba’s flight. “He ran toward the village,” Jukona said slowly, pinching his lip between his teeth. “But Y’Taba banished him; it is impossible for him to return!”

“He may turn from this course, ere he reaches your village. Let us follow and see. We must not let him leave this island.”

Jukona muttered a reply which Conan could not quite translate.

They hastened their pace as much as possible. The sun crept across the sky, heating up the jungle. In spite of the thick humidity, Conan’s tongue felt as dry as the hide of a Zamoran desert-lizard. He would gladly have paid a purseful of gold for a jack of ale. But the nearest cask was probably a two-week sea voyage from here... wherever here was. That was one of many problems he would have to face later.

He trudged on, keeping one eye on the ground and the other on Jukona. Although the huge warrior had saved him from the soul-stealing she-devil, he had decided not to trust these Ganaks. They had abandoned him once and might do so again. They seemed a superstitious lot, and Conan had never quite understood those who blindly entrusted their fate to the gods. In Conan’s experience, the gods helped only those who helped themselves.

He tried to think of where or when he had seen that she-devil’s—or goddess’s—likeness. It had been crudely chiselled into a stone block, smaller, less detailed, he was sure... the shadowy ghost of that face and ten-armed body rose into his mind. But try as he might, he could not illuminate that dark comer of his memory.

Frustrated, he turned his thoughts again to the trail. The trees were farther apart, smaller in height and girth. When Conan noted that the footsteps veered sharply off the path, he halted instantly, listening.

A half step behind him, Jukona froze in mid-stride. He bent down, whispering into Conan’s ear and pointing in the direction of the footsteps. ‘The village lies that way.” Smiling grimly, the warrior-leader straightened, peering through the trees. Their trunks were spaced farther apart, but the foliage off the path rose to Conan’s waist— mid-thigh on Jukona. Conan could not easily examine the turf, but he had no need to do so. Ngomba had bolted through the tangle of leafy growth, leaving trampled stalks in his wake.

Conan grudgingly credited the fleeing Ganak for his endurance. They had been trailing Ngomba since dawn, and the sun had nearly reached its midday mark. There had been no evidence that the rebellious warrior had let his pace slacken. He had run as if chased by every slavering devil from Hell. Conan began to discount the possibility of an ambush. Where could Ngomba have fled, if not to the village?

The jungle eventually thinned and the trees lessened in height and breadth, until the terrain consisted mainly of marshland. Tall reeds rose up to Conan’s forehead, but Jukona could see over their yellowish-green tops.

“We are near,” Jukona panted. “I see the hill, but—oh, Muhingo, it cannot be! Follow me!” He broke into a run, down the sludgy road of bent and broken reeds. Conan followed, ignoring the complaints of his weary limbs. Swampy muck sucked at their feet as they splashed through the insect-infested bog. Reeds whipped Conan’s sunburned flesh, raising dozens of stinging welts.

Although he could not be certain, Conan thought he heard the distant murmur of voices, mingled with what might have been weeping. Perhaps it was just the wind in the reeds. But Jukona also seemed to hear it, for he lifted his head and quickened his stride. Crossing the tall mass of stalks with a burst of speed, they encountered a long, narrow patch of red, sandy mud. Conan slid to a halt, nearly stumbling into a sluggish, meandering stream that blocked their way.

The Ganak village was a few hundred paces beyond the ribbon of murky water. From its centre rose a small hill, upon which lay the shredded bodies of several Ganaks. Scattered around the hill were dozens of slain Kezatis.

XII

Village of Mystery

“No!” Jukona howled like a victim on a torturer’s rack, his cry echoing across the village. Fists clenched, the warrior-leader forded the water while Conan stared. He had seen the gloomy aftermath of battle far too often in these past few weeks.

Survivors milled nearby, their faces turned his way. Jukona reached the other side of the water, beckoning impatiently for Conan to follow. As Conan waded through, two Ganaks detached themselves from the group near the mound, hastening toward Jukona and Conan.

“Y’Taba!” Jukona shouted to the approaching Ganaks, then lowered his head to murmur into Conan’s ear. “He is called Y’Taba, our spirit-leader. Do not let his age deceive you; his strength matches his wisdom. By your words and deeds he will judge you. Say nothing to offend him or our people.”

Conan nodded. “Who is the girl?”

“She is called Sajara, Ranioba of our huntresses and seekers... and my daughter.” Though subdued, his voice radiated with a father’s pride.

Conan barely took notice of Y’Taba, glancing only once at the immense Ganak’s skirt of gleaming black shells. His gaze had been captured by the woman Sajara. She was as tall as he, olive-skinned like the other Ganaks, her hair shorn to but a single braid. His mouth went dry at the sight of her compactly muscled body, covered only by a tattered snakeskin girdle. Brightly painted spirals adorned her naked torso. She moved with supple, long-legged strides, her full breasts swaying gently as she walked.

Conan had not so much as seen a woman since the night in Jaral’s tent... some two weeks ago. It seemed like years had passed. He stared at Sajara, his eyes burning fiercely with unabashed appreciation. When she drew closer, he saw that her face was as stunning as her body. Conan could not recall any woman endowed with such exotic beauty. Kings had warred with each other for women less alluring.

Regaining a measure of his composure, Conan realized that he had stopped, letting Jukona get far ahead of him. He hurried across and caught up with the others. When Y’Taba stood before him, he could see the cuts, bruises, and smeared patches of blood upon the old man’s body. Red furrows marked his beefy arms and broad chest. Blood had seeped from an ugly slash in his forehead, matting his silvery-white eyebrows with dark stains.