Conan The Indomitable (9 page)

Damn. Why was it that anything of consequence always seemed to require his
own hand? Did he have to do
everything
around this place?

Chuntha’s patience was ended. That slithering servant of hers was beyond her
dreamcasting range, blast him! Who knew what evil might have befallen Deek? The
man—the big, strong, handsome,
virile
man—might be escaping her clutches
even as she lay upon her bed dreading the
very
thought.

No. It would not do.

She sighed. She supposed that she should have learned by now not to send a
worm to do a witch’s job. It had seemed so simple, to merely fetch the man to her—but
no, by the Demon Sensha’s Hairy Mound, some laughing fate wished to cheat her
of her just due. Perhaps the wizard had a hand in it.
An
unpleasant thought.

Chuntha raised her naked form from the sodden bed and moved to gather a
collection of certain items of magical power.
Very well.
She had not always been a stay-at-home ruler. She would go and fetch the man
herself. And if Deek lived and was whole, he would be made to suffer for her
extra labors, too.

The blind white thing responded to the Harskeel’s questions, speaking in a
tongue that sounded like a tortured monkey’s wails. Fortunately, one of the
Harskeel’s men was familiar with a mountain dialect that was similar enough
that some sense could be made of the creature’s replies.

“I am only interested in the one called ‘Conan,’ ” the Harskeel
said
. “
Ask it about him.”

The pikeman did so.

A stream of babble came from the beast.

“M’lord, he says there was a large man and that he and his brothers
were sent to fetch him.”

“Ask it who sent it.”

More gratings upon the ear.

“He says he works for the one-eyed monster, who in turn works for the
wizard of the caves.”

The Harskeel shook its head. Treading on a wizard was bad business. There
was no help for it, though.

When they had obtained as much information as the Harskeel thought itself
apt to get from the white thing, it drew its sword and snapped a quick but
powerful cut at the creature’s neck. Razor steel met flesh, and the startled
cry died even as it was born. The severed head fell, trailing blood, and
bounced along the cave floor.

So much for that.

Leading its remaining men, the Harskeel moved off.

Using his sword and Tull’s knife, Conan hewed several shallow compartments
and numerous footsteps into the flesh of the dead fish. A pair of riblike bones,
each fastened to portions of fin with strings cut from his former cape, made
passable paddles with which to propel the once-living raft. He also cut some of
the fish’s flesh into small chunks for eating, though in truth the raw fish
held little appeal to his or Elashi’s appetite.

“Here,” Tull said.
“Watch.”

With that, the ragged man clambered down from the fish’s side—now the top of
their raft—and splashed onto the nearest shore. After a moment he returned with
a yellowish mushroom he had found at the base of the cave wall. Then he picked
up a hand-sized slab of the cut fish and squeezed the fungus over it. Juice
from the fungus fell upon the translucent fish, and as it did, the flesh became
opaque.

Conan’s keen nose noted an acidic tang to the juice, and he remarked upon
it.

“Aye,” Tull said. “The juice of this particular toadstool is
harmless, but it ‘cooks’ the fish. In a few minutes it’ll be like we roasted it
in an oven.”

Conan was somewhat dubious as to the powers of toadstool liquid, but a taste
of the fish when Tull indicated that it was “done” put an end to his
doubts. The fish was delicious! Given that it was the first meal he and Elashi
had enjoyed in some time, they ate with gluttonous relish, stuffing the fish
down in great mouthfuls.

Somewhat later, feeling sated, Conan said, “I suppose it would be too
much to ask that another of these fungi along the wall would serve as
wine?”

Tull chuckled. “Would that it
were
so, lad,
but nay. There is a kind of mushroom I’ve seen that gives visions when eaten,
but it has a nasty flavor and is just as apt to make a man puke as dream.”

“Thank you, no,” Conan said.

Elashi had climbed down the steps Conan had carved into the monster fish and
was washing her hands in the water. She finished the chore
quickly,
mindful of the kind of things Tull had spoken of as living in the lake.

“Well,” she said as she ascended the fish back to the shallow
depression where Conan and Tull sat digesting their recent meal. “Are we
ready to begin this altogether unusual voyage?”

Conan nodded, stood, and stretched. “
Aye,
and
why not?” Joints and sinews popped as he rolled his shoulders and swung
his arms back and forth to loosen them.

With that, he fetched one of the paddles. Tull took the other, and they
moved to the edges of their fishy boat to stand in the wells they had carved
out for support. The Cimmerian looked across the fish at Tull, who nodded, and
both men dug their paddles into the water.

Slowly, ponderously, the dead fish began to move.

It was not the best of all possible craft, but once moving, the fish slid
through the still water fairly easily. Currents, if there were any, did not
seem to impede their progress, and nothing from the depths rose to challenge
them.

Not long after they started, the place from whence they had begun their
voyage was lost in the darkness. The cave roof oft dipped lower and
raised
higher, and the side walls were sometimes not in
view. It might almost be a lake above ground on a moonlit night, save that the
light here was decidedly green and no breath of
wind nor
insect’s call disturbed the silence. There were only the sounds of their
paddles splashing in the water and an occasional intestinal groan from the
innards of the decomposing fish.

Conan had been in places he preferred more, but all in all, his fortunes
could have been considerably worse. He had good companions, a full belly, and
control of his movements. His blade was sharp in its sheath, and there would
certainly be no lack of food in the foreseeable future. It was true that Crom
had not favored him with a gold and gem-encrusted barge, but there was
transportation, albeit somewhat slippery, and he and his companions seemed safe
from immediate pursuit. Anyone trying to swim after them would likely be apt to
find
themselves
lining the belly of a creature like
the one beneath Conan’s feet. He found that thought pleasing. A comfortable
heat lubricated his shoulders, and the strain of rowing was pleasant, raising a
legitimate sweat upon his skin. A man could do far worse.

As to the future?
Well, he did not ponder overmuch
on that. Better to live in the moment and deal with the future when it arrived;
elsewise a man might spend his entire life fretting of things that might never
come to pass. Such worries would serve only to spend one’s alloted time, and
were foolish ways to waste it. Even paddling a dead fish over a silent lake,
lit by glowing fungus and buried under the earth, certainly bettered the
alternative he had been facing only a few hours past. He still lived, and that
was the most important fact. Everything else could be worked out as it
happened.

Smiling to himself, Conan pulled his paddle through the still water.

“S-s-stand r-r-ready,” Deek scraped softly. “H-here is th-the
e-e-entrance t-to the s-s-sea.”

Wikkell nodded, assuming that whatever passed for eyes on the giant worm
could take in the gesture. He flexed his fingers and started forward.

“B-b-be c-c-cautious,” Deek warned, “T-th-there s-seems to
b-be a d-d-drop a-a-ahead—”

Deek’s warning was unnecessary. Wikkell teetered on the brink but kept his
balance as he looked over the quiet water below. Quickly he shifted his
single-eyed gaze back and forth, taking in the beach and shoreline to the side.

“I see no sign of them.”

“I-i-im-p-possible.
L-let
m-me s-s-see.”

Deek undulated to the edge of the tunnel’s exit and waved his head back and
forth.

“Only a fool would try to swim in that,” Wikkell observed.
“Could they have a boat?”

“Un-un-unlikely,” Deek replied.

“Well, unless they jumped in and drowned, I surmise that they managed
some means of transport.

“S-‘s-so it w-w-would s-seem.
L-l-look!”

Wikkell turned his head in the general direction of where he assumed Deek
was “pointing.” He saw what appeared to be several lengths of short
bone and scraps of cloth littering the beach. He moved down the ledge, Deek
inching along behind him.

The cyclops’ examination of the litter proved his assumption correct. There
were piece of cartilaginous, flexible bone, fresh, likely from a fish, and
strands of dark, heavy cloth.

“Somehow they have constructed a boat. Out of what, I would dearly like
to know, by Set’s Black Scales!”

Deek moved from the sand and crumbled rock beach to a more solid surface
nearby so that he could address the problem.
“W-w-we
n-need t-t-transport-t-tation.”

“Indeed.” Wikkell swept his gaze over the area.
“Unfortunately, I see nothing useful for that purpose.”

“T-that t-t-tunnel, t-to y-your r-r-right.”

“Don’t tell me you have a barge hidden in there, Deek.”

“N-n-nay.
B-but s-some of
th-
the
W-w-webspin-ners l-live d-d-down th-that w-way.”

“How do you know this? And what good does that do us, in any
event?”

“I a-am g-g-gifted w-with an ex-excellent sense of
s-s-smell.
And
th-
the s-s-spinners c-can m-make
almost a-a-anything w-with th-their w-w-webbing.”

Wikkell blinked. What a clever thought. Who would have even expected such
from a worm?
“Ah, excellent, Deek!
You are
proving to be a most resourceful traveling companion.”

Had Deek a proper mouth, he would have smiled. True, Wikkell the one-eye was
one of the wizard’s minions, but the compliment sat well in any event. These
cyclopes
were apparently brighter than they appeared, to so
quickly recognize talent in others and to then voice it in such a
straightforward manner. Too bad they worked for the wizard.
Just
as it was too bad that he had to work for Chuntha.

“Let us go and see if we can bargain with the Webspinners.”

“I-i-indeed.”

Katamay Rey decided to travel light. Aside from two chests full of magical
apparatus—scrying crystals, sleezewart, anthelmintics, sleepdust, and assorted
spellbooks—he carried only enough food, clothing, and niceties to sustain a
dozen men for six weeks. His retinue—a mere score of hunchbacked
cyclopes—
spread these items of cargo amongst themselves
without question. Rey had little appreciation for the intelligence of his
thralls, feeling certain that seldom, if ever, there existed a thought in any
of their heads that was not an autochthonous one, so placed there by
himself
. “Stupid” was too kind
a
term
even for the brightest among the cyclopes, Rey figured, and when he laid his
gaze upon Wikkell, whom he had considered somewhat promising, that unworthy
soul would find himself sorry to have been born.

There was a sedan chair, borne by a pair of stalwarts, but he waved it away.
He would walk on his own for a time—a novel idea—and stretch his legs. It had
been so long since he had done any exercise, it would be refreshing.

Striding purposefully ahead of the Cyclopes, the wizard marched off to
attend to business.

Chuntha’s saddle was cinched into place on the back of one of the larger
worms, a torpid-thinking vermis called Soriusu. Behind her mount, two dozen
more of the giant worms twitched, awaiting the witch’s command to move.
Chuntha’s saddlebags, made from fresh Blind White leather, rested in front of
her spread legs. Her erotics, potions, dreaming jewels, and assorted wands lay
within, and thin bags of hallucinogenic spore powder nestled along the edge of
her saddle within easy reach. She was ready.

“Go!” Chuntha commanded.

Here at the exit to her personal chamber, the light-emitting fungus was
particularly strong, and her naked skin, warmed as always by her inner fires,
glowed viridly as she moved under the verdant glow. Chuntha smiled to herself.
This would be a great
adventure,
ending in what she
was certain would turn out to be a magnificent copulatory episode.

The delicious thought warmed her even more.

Conan, Elashi, and Tull floated along the
Sunless
Sea
for the best part of a day
without major incident. Things did sometimes swirl in the waters around them,
sending ripples or an occasional splash their way, but Conan’s keen eyes found
no source for these actions. Once something large bumped the raft fish from
underneath, rocking the three riders, but whatever it was, it troubled them
only the one time. Perhaps it had taken a mouthful of their boat and been
satisfied.

Near what Conan judged to be evening—who could tell in this land of
eternally glowing walls?—they paddled the raft into a quiet cove and wedged it
against a rocky shore. It was darker here than in many other places, the
light-fungus being rather scantly distributed along the walls of the cove’s
grotto, and if anybody or anything happened to pass by upon the water, it might
well be that they would miss seeing the trio and their make-do boat.

All three of the voyagers were covered with a sticky and smelly fish
effluvia, and none had any desire to sleep upon the dead creature could it be
avoided. A series of ledges stair-stepped its way up the wall away from the
water, and a particularly wide one was an easy two minutes’ climb. Perched
here, the three shared more of the “cooked” fish. Tull gathered some
lichen that was edible, if not deliciously so, and they also chewed on that as
they rested.