Conan and the Shaman's Curse (17 page)

“As spirit-leader, I have knowledge that no other Ganaks possess. Every Y’Taba is entrusted with secrets. Tonight I tell you a tale left untold, unknown even to our elders. In the hope of saving our people, it falls to me to break a vow of secrecy I made long ago, to the Y’Taba before me. He revealed the true nature and origin of the Deadlands but swore me to secrecy.

“But in that dark place lies what may be our only hope of salvation. But what lurks there may be worse than the threat of the Kezati. With your help, Conan of Cimmeria, we may retrieve that which was lost long ago... that which has the power to rid us of our enemy—forever.”

Conan hunched forward on the bench, his mind awhirl. The Ganak spirit-leader’s voice had an entrancing quality to it, compelling him to listen. The eyes of the elders gleamed expectantly under the darkening sky, and Jukona sat motionless, his kuomo apparently forgotten. The Cimmerian exhaled, trying to loosen the fingers of the tension that gripped him.

Y’Taba stepped back, fingering his necklace of shells. “Long ago, before the time of our first ancestors, a tribe of giants inhabited Ganaku. Their customs and language were unlike our own. In fact, even their name for our land was different. They called it Rahama. At the centre of Rahama was a great pool, enchanted by the gods so that its water spouted upward in a spray that was cool and clear. They called it the fountain of the gods, and all those who drank from it never sickened or grew old.

“In gratitude, the Rahamans built a wall of stone around this fountain. Upon the stones they carved praises and prayers. This pleased the gods, who blessed the Rahamans with many generations of fertility. The Rahamans spread peacefully across the land, provided for by their gods, living without fear of hunger, disease, or enemy. The Kezati never troubled them, and the Deadlands did not exist... not yet.

“The Rahamans were masters of stone. They built an outer wall to protect their village from storms that were hurled at Rahama by jealous gods. Soon after the wall’s completion, three boats were seen approaching Rahama. Huge they were, many times the size of our log-boats, their construction as strange as the people they conveyed across the sea. These people were small in stature, shorter than even Conan, their skin as pale as kuomo. Their leader was called Jhaora, a woman from a land whose name we do not know. The Rahamans welcomed her, and she soon learned the powers of their fountain. Its waters preserved her youth and beauty, which pleased her. But she was not content to share the fountain with the Rahamans.

“On one night of treachery, Jhaora and her people attacked. The sleeping Rahamans were massacred. Only a few dozen escaped; they fled and found shelter in what is now our village. They were joined by some of Jhaora’s people, those who refused to take part in the murder of the Rahamans.”

Y’Taba paused to sip his kuomo. His audience was rapt. Sajara and some of her hunters had gathered behind the elders and were listening intently. Y’Taba raised his voice. “The children of these people were our first ancestors.”

A startled murmur rippled along the row of elders. “By Asusa!” and other cries were uttered until the crowd again fell silent.

Y’Taba continued. “Without the fountain, the Rahamans became sick with age and began to die. To worsen matters, Jhaora had turned the wall of praises into a wall of blasphemies. Her people carved the image of their cruel goddess upon the outer wall and blocked all but one of its openings.

“The Rahamans beseeched Jhaora for pity, but she slew any who came within the walls. The Rahamans prayed to their gods, but the only power their gods held was power over the fountain. So they fouled its waters. All who drank from it were transformed into creatures of evil, beasts of hideous aspect who fought among themselves for food or for the joy of killing.

“The water of the fountain seeped into the ground and spread; soon nothing living could grow within the walls, and the evil creatures were forced to dwell in the jungle. The Rahaman gods then tried to restore the fountain. But Jhaora, who was last to transform into a beast, had cried to her goddess of evil for vengeance before she lost forever her womanly form. The goddess fought with the Rahaman gods, a terrible battle joined by the jealous storm gods. In that clash, Jhaora’s goddess and the Rahaman gods were destroyed. The fountain ran dry. What became of the twisted creature of evil that was once Jhaora, I do not know.”

Conan leaned forward, intrigued. The origin of that immense castle was now clear. But from where had Jhaora come? Which of the seafaring Hyborian races were short and pale-skinned? The answer, he felt, was within his reach, if he could hear but one more clue.

“The Rahamans never returned to their village within the walls. Beasts infested the jungle, and the hardships of survival occupied the Rahamans and their children. They began to call themselves ‘Ganak,’ which means ‘born of stone.’ But they no longer worked stone as they had, for the people of Jhaora were too small and lacked the craft. It was a time of trials, worsened by the appearance of the Kezati. When they first attacked, their numbers were few. But they returned again and again, their forces growing. The Ganaks prayed to their gods for help. But they lacked hope, for they knew that the Rahaman gods were no more.

“Most of Jhaora’s people worshipped a god whom they called Azhura. Their god was neither good nor evil. But Jhaora had forced some of their people to pledge their souls to Khatar, a goddess of death.” He pointed to an elder whose body was painted with yellow triangles. “Their descendants—many of you—bear marks of warding to protect your spirits from Khatar. She does not hear prayers unless they are accompanied by the screams of victims who are offered in sacrifice. As for Azhura, he hears only the voices of his priests, none of whom had come to Ganaku. Our ancestors would have perished, were it not for Muhingo War God.”

Conan nearly choked on his kuomo. Azhura... could it be Asura, a god of Vendhya? Khatar, though the spirit-leader pronounced it strangely, was surely Katar, an evil goddess of Vendhya. Conan had spent little time in that land. It lay many leagues to the east of Iranistan. Although it extended far into the Southern Ocean, Vendhya lacked abundant seaports. Its ways and peoples were strange. Yet it seemed likely that Jhaora had been Vendhyan. Perhaps Ganaku was one of the Misty Isles, a cluster of small islands off the western coast of Vendhya. If so, Conan reckoned, he had drifted more than five hundred leagues after the sinking of the Mistress. He focused his attention back on Y’Taba, hoping to hear more clues.

“He appeared in a dream of a first ancestor who was also the first Y’Taba. Muhingo said that the Kezati were the spawn of his brother, Ezat. He told Y’Taba about Ataba the All-Father and Asusa Sun God, who were strong and good. These gods were sorry that their son, who was evil, had brought harm to the Ganaks. He was forbidden by Ataba to slay any Kezati, but he gave Y’Taba the kabukruh.” Y’Taba lifted his black shell necklace briefly, letting it fall back onto his chest with a clatter.

“He then said to Y’Taba: ‘I name you Y’Taba Spirit-Leader. You must guide your people in the ways of Asusa. In return, I shall make you master of the shell-spirits who dwell within the kabukruh. Choose one among your people to become warrior-leader. Command the shell-spirits to protect him. Then send him and his warriors to a place of battle which I shall reveal to you. There your warriors will triumph and the children of Ezat will not come to your village. The shell-spirits have other powers; you may command them to heal the sick and the dying. They will obey you for as long as your people remain true to Asusa, but if..” He paused, stopping himself to clear his throat. “‘If you ever beget a child, your mastery of the spirits will wane and the kabukruh will become dust. If you stray from the path of Asusa, the spirits will not obey you.’” “Have we lost our way then, Y’Taba?” Jukona asked, his forehead wrinkling.

“Perhaps we have. It has happened before—long ago, when the first warrior-leader aged and passed into the lands of grey. Then our warriors fought among themselves until only Kulunga remained, and again Muhingo came to our aid. Since then, the Kezati have never come to Ganaku. It may be that we suffer for the misdeeds of Ngomba.”

A wizened Ganak spoke, his voice softened by advanced age. “What of Kulunga and the atnalga? Can a chosen one rise again?”

Others nodded in agreement. They looked expectantly at Y’Taba.

“That is why we need the help of Conan,” he said solemnly. “When I told you that Muhingo took up Kulunga and the atnalga, I repeated a falsehood that every Y’Taba has told. Glad am I to speak the truth, though in doing so I break my vow to the Y’Taba before me.” He drew in a deep breath. “Kulunga was not taken up. After driving back the Kezati, he journeyed in secret to the Deadlands. Only the Y’Taba knew, and he forbade Kulunga to go. But the chosen one would not obey. He sought the fountain of the gods and spoke of reclaiming the village built by his ancestors. His mother and father were Rahamans, and they instilled in Kulunga a desire to see the walled village. He hoped that with the atnalga, he could defeat the creatures of evil that lie in the dark heart of the Deadlands. So Kulunga entered the outer wall... and never returned to his people.”

“Why was this truth hidden?” A thin-faced elder demanded, his voice shrill and angry.

Y’Taba shook his head. “I know not. But the Y’Taba’s people had endured much. He may have deemed it wise to give them hope, knowing that the shell-spirits would again obey him.”

Whispers buzzed among the elders, dying down quickly when Conan spoke. “I have heard enough, by Crom! Ask what you would have me do and you will have my answer.” “You have seen the outer wall already,” Y’Taba answered coolly. “None here save you and Jukona know where it stands. He is our last warrior, and he must stay here to protect the village if the Kezati strike again. If the shell-spirits still obey me, they will protect him as they have before.”

“Then why should I not go?” Jukona jumped up. “Send me! Let Conan guard the village.”

Y’Taba shook his head. “Only the chosen one may wield the atnalga. It is death for any other warrior who lays a hand upon it. I believe that Muhingo has sent Conan to us. Kulunga’s chosen one is Conan of Cimmeria.” Conan emptied his shell of kuomo and tossed it aside, rising from the bench. “So you want me to hack my way through the beast-infested Deadlands, enter the devil-haunted walled village, and bring back this atnalga. Crom, man, why didn’t you just say so! I’ll go—but first you must swear by your gods that you will use these shell-spirits to banish the beast that you saw within me.” Y’Taba fingered his necklace of shells. Would this summons please Muhingo? Would the spirits obey him one more time? He did not know, but he knew that he must not waver. He had no choice but to do as Conan demanded. Y’Taba’s dark, round eyes met the smouldering blue eyes of the Cimmerian. “I swear by Asusa Sun God and Ataba the All-Father that I shall command the shell-spirits to banish the beast from within you.”

“You need not go alone,” Sajara said, stepping forward. “I and three of mine will accompany you.”

“We may need you,” Y’Taba said sternly.

“And if Conan fails, we all may perish,” she replied, crossing her arms. “As Ranioba, the decision is mine to make, and I have spoken.”

Y’Taba sighed. “So be it.”

“We leave at dawn,” Conan grinned, slapping the hilt of his sword. He eyed Sajara as she gathered her hunters and left. Her size gave her natural beauty an exotic flair that he found more intoxicating than the kuomo. And she seemed as strong as she was supple, qualities he admired in a woman. He knew she would prove her worth in the jungle if the accursed spider-beasts or other jungle denizens attacked.

Conan had decided to enter the walled village, with or without the spirit-leader’s promise. He reasoned that within the walls he might find Jhaora’s ships’ logs or charts. With these, he could find his way to the mainland. And the rubies in that wall, if he could devise a scheme to pry them loose, would fetch a handsome price when he returned to civilization. Each of those beauties was easily worth a room full of gold.

Smiling, he walked alongside Jukona and the others to turn in for the night. There was little doubt that his luck was about to change.

XIV

The Vugunda

In the rising sun, the dense jungle leaves glinted and winked like emeralds, a swaying and shimmering wall of green at the edge of the Ganak village. Conan inhaled the humid, sea-scented air, invigorated after a night of dreamless sleep and a meal of raw, flavourful fish called panga. His head suffered none of effects he would have expected from a night of excessive kuomo consumption. Aside from a negligible twinge where the spider-beast’s mandibles had nearly halved him, Conan felt like a new man.

Y’Taba stood with the elders near the place of gathering. His eyes had a dark, swollen look to them. He apparently had not slept as well as Conan—if indeed he had slept at all.

“This atnalga is made of stone?” Conan asked sceptically. “Yet it resembles my blade.” He shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword, the polished steel flashing in the bright sun.

“No Ganak among us has actually seen the atnalga, of course,” Jukona said, approaching Conan and joining the conversation.

Y’Taba rubbed his eyes, blinking to clear them. “Jukona speaks truly, but you should have no difficulty in recognizing the atnalga. Our legends describe it in detail. It is said to be the length of a man’s arm, the shape of a serpent’s fang, and the colour. of the sea on a day without wind. The stone from which Muhingo moulded the atnalga was said to have come from afar... from a place beyond even the lands of grey, where only gods may dwell. And though it be moulded from stone, the atnalga’s edges were said to be sharper than the shell-blades and shell-sticks fashioned by our huntresses.”

Conan tried to visualize such a weapon, shaking his head in puzzlement. Never had he seen or heard of such a thing, and he was beginning to question its existence. Storytellers were prone to enhance tales with every new telling. Even sages and learned historians had a way of gilding worthless lore, knowing that history’s truth lay silent, buried forever in dusty tombs with the men who had made it. Conan cared not if the atnalga was forged from the shin bone of Mitra, so long as he could find it.