Conan and the Shaman's Curse (20 page)

When Conan’s fingers closed around the thick branch he had chosen, he realized two things: the Khitan’s weight and speed were probably one-third those of his own, and the Khitan had likely practised the act a hundred times.

Conan’s arms were nearly wrenched from their sockets. Forced to release the tree limb, he spun in mid-air, desperately hoping to catch another branch with his legs. He missed one, which crashed painfully into his side, but another obligingly fitted itself behind his knees. As in the circus act, the impact forced his legs to straighten. He groped frantically, fingers closing around a branch that grew at the wrong angle.

The rest of his breakneck plunge was a leaf-whipping, branch-snapping blur. It was all he could do to protect his skull from being split open. His body was beaten unmercifully by trunk and limb. He finally fell to the ground, groaning like a wretch on a torturer’s rack. He wiped at his eyes, his hand coming away red and sticky. Rising on wobbling legs, Conan took a few drunken steps before he could again see clearly.

Sajara and Makiela were running toward him, shouting. That was something; he had somehow managed to fall on the right side of the trees, if nothing else. And his arms and legs seemed workable—nothing broken, though his bones ached in a hundred places. Rubbing at his throbbing skull, Conan grinned weakly at the Ganaks. “These stalkers aren’t so bad, by Crom! Methinks the spiders were worse.”

Sajara’s face was pale. “You Cimmerians must be made of stone!” Her relieved smile quickly turned to a worried frown. “We thought the stalker had slain you even before you fell from its back. But we must go back to the village,” Sajara said. “Your wounds need tending.” She plucked a broken twig from his cheek.

Conan waved her hand away, shaking leaves from his hair. “Nay, girl! We have no time, and it would tire me less to walk through yon portal than to trudge through the thrice-accursed Deadlands.” He staggered forward while they gaped at him. “Blasted beast,” he muttered, noticing that the snakeskin loop holding his sword had tom away— and the sword with it. Before he could ask for help finding it, he pitched forward, eyes closed before he thumped to the ground.

“Conan. Conan of Cimmeria.”

Sajara’s soft voice awakened him. Opening his eyes and stirring, he looked up. Her face was a vision of beauty framed by the moonlit sky, her long braid of hair brushing against his cheek. He wondered if she was appearing to him in a dream. But no, he reasoned, in a dream he would not feel as if a legion of Hyrkanian cavalry had trampled him underfoot. Propping himself up on his elbows, he looked around.

They had carried him inside the structure, that much was certain. His sword, another welcome sight, rested against the nearby brick wall. He resisted an impulse to wrap an arm around Sajara and kiss her. “Where are the others?”

“Asleep,” she whispered, gesturing along the wall. “After you fell from the stalker’s back, Makiela led them into the jungle to find some yagneb leaves and to pick up Kanitra’s shell-stick. They found both but were tired from the search.”

“Yagneb leaves?”

“You must eat them to regain strength. Y’Taba feeds them to us if we are sick or hurt.” She produced a handful of them. They were heart-shaped and mottled with sickly-looking white spots. “You were right when you said that we should not return to the village. We must try to find the atnalga. How do you feel?”

Conan reckoned that he had suffered through worse than the fall. He was willing to forge on at sunrise. “Some food and water would serve as well as these leaves. I am not sick. I have been sleeping since midday.”

“There is a spring not far from here. Before the sky darkened, Makiela saw a bird come from above to drink from its waters.”

“The fountain?”

“No, by Asusa! This is but a pool that is clear and cool—much like the one in our village. The yagneb leaves are bitter. Water will help you to swallow them.”

He would have preferred a few jacks of ale or a pitcher of wine, but he welcomed the prospect of drinking his fill and dunking his head. The Ganaks had no waterskins, and the day had been long and sweaty.

Picking up his sword, Conan walked with Sajara to the spring. It was not far from where he had lain. He noticed that the blood and dirt had already been washed from his face and body, though he must have somehow slept through it. His skull had probably been knocked on the way down.

Kneeling at the spring, he scooped handfuls of water to his mouth until he could hold no more. It was better than ale or wine, after all. He took a bite from one of the leaves. “Pah!” he gagged, spitting the pulpy leaf-chunk onto the ground. An alley rat’s rotting carcass would probably have been more palatable. To humour Sajara, he choked down as much as he could, gulping water to rinse the rancid taste from his mouth. Then he dipped his head into the spring and shook it dry, a process that seemed to amuse Sajara.

“Do all Cimmerians have hair like yours?” she asked, fingering her braid.

“Many, but not all. Some crop it shorter.” He made a cutting motion, then asked question he had meant to pose earlier. “How do your people shave their heads?”

She blinked, confused. “Shave? I do not understand.” He pointed to her shell-knife. “Do you not have some tool that you use on your head?”

She raised her eyebrows in bafflement, shaking her head. “Our hair grows however it will. We do nothing but twist it as you see.”

Conan pursued the matter no further, seating himself cross-legged by the pool and gulping a few more handfuls of water. Sajara lowered herself the ground beside him, and they surveyed the shadowy ruins that sprawled around them. Unblocked by trees or clouds, the moon bathed the ancient village in pale light, shadowing more than it revealed.

Much of the Rahaman stonework was intact. Y’Taba had understated that race’s mastery of stone. Rarely had the Cimmerian seen such elaborately sculpted buildings as those in the long-deserted village. The style defied comparison with any that Conan had seen in the lands he had travelled. Brickwork blended fluidly with expanses of smooth, seamless stone in rounded, asymmetrical shapes. The effect differed most from that prevalent in Aquilonia and Nemedia, where evenly spaced columns, arches, and angular features dominated most cities. And yet it was not any more like the architecture of Turan, Iranistan, or Vendhya, which for centuries had favoured rounded towers with tapering spires.

He admired the craftsmanship, but its strangeness made him feel unwelcome. He was in a crypt—the final resting place of an ancient people and their gods, who were now but a fading memory. The darkness and desolation lent the place a sinister aspect that would eventually tie his shoulder muscles into knots of tension.

He was surprised to see vines clinging to some of the buildings. A number of strands had taken a liking to the tower in the centre. Nothing green seemed to grow in the clearing outside. At first he had thought these vines to be decorative, cunning likenesses carved from the stones. But closer examination proved his assumption wrong. He would examine them more closely in the daylight, and study the buildings themselves for other clues about the Rahamans and Jhaora’s people.

Sajara seemed nervous, her eyes constantly flickering from shadow to shadow, her shoulders hunched tensely. “Do you feel it, Conan?”

Hesitating to consider his answer, Conan shifted his position, extending his bruised legs and leaning back on his elbows. “It is only the fading footprint of a past civilization. Some say that such places are haunted by the spectres of dwellers long dead, their ghosts forever roaming the ruins. Often that is true, but I have no feel of it here. What do you sense here?”

“Eyes, that hide behind shadows. They glower at us unseen but unwilling to strike, like serpents without fangs who lurk in the bushes. I shall welcome the face of Asusa when he awakens!”

Conan could sympathize with Sajara’s discomfort. He would be glad when the sun rose. Yet he was not afraid of the place, just wary. This Rahaman settlement intrigued him. On the morrow he would uncover the secrets of this place and discover what treasures it might hold. The rubies on the outer wall had whetted his appetite for loot. But the thing of most value would be the atnalga. It would buy him what a vault of gems could not: freedom from the shaman’s curse. In spite of his aches and bruises, Conan was more ready than ever to complete his part of the bargain he had struck with Y’Taba.

Sajara moved closer to him, her smooth skin brushing his arm. “Now you must eat more yagneb leaves and rest until sunrise. I do not think that I can sleep among these shadows... and if I could, my dreams would be dark and disturbing. I shall watch for anything that stirs and rouse you if there is danger.”

“We could pass the night in the clearing. I have had enough rest and can take watch.” He squinted at the tall but narrow doorway that led to the clearing outside.

She shook her head. “Another stalker could strike, and even Makiela may not see it in the dark of night. I do not like the feel of this place, but from here we can see a stalker if one should approach. They are too large to enter as we did, and they could only attack from above. The light of Anamobi Moon Goddess is feeble compared to that of Asusa, but it is enough for us to see danger from above.” She leaned against him, her body surprisingly soft considering her muscular build.

“You need not watch over me, girl,” Conan snorted. “Even if I dozed, my senses would rouse me if something were amiss. And I slumber with sword at hand, ready for anything that may come near. Besides, this yagneb of yours is powerful stuff. Already I feel invigorated.” In truth, something had begun to restore his vigour. It was either the draughts of fresh water, the leaves... or it might have been Sajara’s nearness. Her curvaceous body and stunning face were enough to bestir a greybeard from his deathbed. He longed to seize her in his arms and crush her lips to his.

Sajara’s breathing had become deep and regular, and Conan grinned. She was sleeping as soundly as a kitten, her head nestled against his shoulder.

He spent the night beside her in a half-doze, listening to her breathe softly. When the moon’s reflection faded from the mirror-like surface of the pool, Conan slipped into a light doze.

XV

Scent of Evil

Yawning, Sajara lifted her head from Conan’s shoulder. She squinted from the brightness of the sky, feeling a momentary surge of panic before realizing that she had fallen asleep beside Conan. As far as she could tell, he had not moved from where they had been sitting the night before. His eyes were half-shut, but they snapped open when she stirred as if he had not been sleeping at all. He did not blink as she had; he seemed as alert as he had been when leading them through the Deadlands.

Makiela and the others had not risen. Sajara shifted, feigning sluggishness. She wanted to enjoy this moment of peace before they began their search for the atnalga. Asusa’s face had only just risen into the sky; of this she was certain for the air still felt cool on her skin. She stretched, looking sideways at him. His eyes were strange, a blue more intense than any she had ever seen. His skin, hair... well, nearly everything about his appearance was different. But it was his eyes that captured her now, that and the powerful muscles that bulged everywhere on his body. She stood up, stretching her arms and legs.

Conan splashed water on his face, letting some drip onto his shoulders and chest. “How was the night watch?” he asked, grinning.

“I saw nothing but a beast with long hair. He sat by this very pool.”

The Cimmerian rose swiftly, lifting his sword from where it had lain. If he felt any soreness from his encounter with the stalker, he did not show it.

They joined the others, for Makiela had stirred, then jumped to her feet at the sound of their voices. They looked as alert as Conan; Kanitra and Avrana stood ready with spears in hand, and Makiela was surveying the sprawling structures around them.

“The sooner we leave, the better,” Conan said, inspecting his sword. He was annoyed to note that the stalker’s foreleg had put a notch in the otherwise unblemished blade.

Makiela seemed surprised, if not upset, to find that Conan had risen before she had. “The leaves of the yagneb have restored you, then?”

Conan made a face. “They may have helped, but I could not finish even one without choking on it.”

Avrana smiled, the first time Conan had seen her do so. “What a sight you were atop the stalker, choking it as it bore you into the air. When we found it, I could see that your hand had crushed its throat. By Asusa, the elders will be telling this tale for many generations!”

Of all the Ganaks, only Kanitra seemed withdrawn. She averted her eyes from Conan until he finally spoke directly to her. “It was all I could do to keep my grip on the blasted insect. It was your spears that kept it from getting away.”

“Mine nearly pinned you to the stalker,” Kanitra said bitterly.

Conan was wondering which of them had made the errant cast. “Do not concern yourself,” he said. “Such things happen in the heat of battle, and I bear you no grudge for it.”

Her gloomy expression mellowed somewhat. “You are kind, Conan of Cimmeria. My next cast will be true.”

He let the matter drop, turning his attention to the layout of the walled village. Its architecture seemed even stranger in the daylight than it had in the moonlight night. Near the spring were several segments of barren ground divided by a pathway fashioned from flat stones. The stone pathway extended in a perfectly straight line from the doorway in the outer wall to the tower in the centre. On either side of the pathway, the empty areas extended to the outer wall. Conan surmised that the Rahamans may have used this space to grow crops.

In fact, the soil looked dark and rich, though not a single leaf sprouted from it. He could not fathom how this could be; in these conditions, the ground should have been overrun with vegetation. The gods had indeed forsaken this place, he concluded. Out of curiosity, he pried up one of the slabs of stone that formed the path, tilting it up onto its edge.