Conan and the Shaman's Curse (31 page)
Read Conan and the Shaman's Curse Online
Authors: Sean A. Moore
Conan maintained his tenuous hold on Sajara’s foot by sheer strength and willpower, hooking his own feet under the edge of the opening to prevent the queen from rising further. His other hand was still wrapped around his hilt.
Unable to either ascend or to shake loose the clinging woman, the enraged Kezati bent forward, her beak stabbing downward toward Sajara’s exposed head.
Conan howled savagely. Releasing his toe-hold on the aperture below, he swung himself up to meet the queen’s attack. His flashing blade struck the queen’s lunging neck, slicing through leathery flesh and cleaving bone.
The beak stopped a handspan from Sajara’s face, as the queen’s severed head bounced off the rock to splash into the sea far below.
Conan’s hand slipped from Sajara’s ankle. He landed on his feet, swaying at the edge of the cliff before recovering his balance. The Kezati’s final shuddering convulsion dislodged Sajara. Talons slashed across Conan’s chest, ripping loose the necklace he had tied there... sending Y’Taba’s string of shells flying outward in a wide arc toward the sea.
The moment froze before Conan’s eyes.
Sajara’s arms flailed, missing the cliff’s edge as she fell in the direction of the Kezati queen’s headless body— away from that of the plummeting necklace.
Without hesitation, Conan threw himself after Sajara, his powerful hands closing around her slender wrist and pulling her to safety. He heard a faint splash below, but put all thought of it from his mind. Leaning down into the pit, he called to Y’Taba, hoping that the spirit-leader was still breathing.
He climbed down carefully, dropping to the floor. Sajara followed, still numb with shock. Conan stomped every egg in the chamber. Sajara managed to revive Y’Taba, although the old Ganak’s shoulders were a shredded ruin. He was weakened from the loss of the blood and barely able to stand, so Sajara and the Cimmerian supported him on their shoulders, winding through the tunnel to the opening in the rocky wall.
Nyona and Dawakuba waited below on the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff. The stalker clutched a huge, half-eaten carcass in its forelegs—one that Conan recognized at once. He deemed it appropriate that the last Kezati would itself wind up in the belly of another beast.
“Dawakuba will yet bear us home,” Nyona said, breaking the silence. “She needed food.”
Y’Taba coughed, clutching at his neck. “Conan of Cimmeria, I shall fail to keep my vow. All that I have is yours, but I cannot cure you of the curse. The spirit-shells must have fallen from me as I was borne by that—”
“Do you mean these, Y’Taba?” Nyona lifted the string of black shells from her lap.
Conan’s heart leapt into his throat. “Ha! So the gods do have a sense of humour!”
“I saw them fall as we watched from below.” Nyona smiled.
“And this time, warrior of Cimmeria, you shall not wait,” Y’Taba vowed. His typically sombre lips were curled in an ear-to-ear grin as he took, the shells from Nyona.
XXI
Unfettered
Conan wiped his brow and peered ahead, shifting uncomfortably on the bark between him and Dawakubwa’s back. At first he thought it to be a trick of his mind, but he blinked and looked again.
Land! He grinned as Nyona blew into her shell, the stalker angling downward. Sajara’s arms were flung around his muscled waist, her eyes alight with anticipation. They had recovered completely from the day a fortnight earlier, when the last Kezati was slain.
After a brief rest, Dawakuba had borne Conan, Nyona, Y’Taba, and Sajara back to Ganaku. The elders, the Raniobas, and Jukona, had witnessed the ceremony that night in which Y’Taba had summoned the spirits in his necklace of shells. The ritual had taken little time—the spirit-leader had mumbled no arcane nonsense, nor had he gesticulated wildly, like a Pictish or Kushite shaman. Eyes closed, brow furrowed, he had clasped the shells of his necklace and concentrated until sweat dripped from his face. A loud hum droned from his fist—then a booming crack followed by utter silence.
Conan shivered at the memory of the spirits summoned forth—watery spectres that had swirled around him. Before he could move, those dewy ghosts had flown through him, driving out a red mist that had quickly dissipated into the air. Then the spirits had vanished. Awestruck, the Ganaks and Conan turned to face Y’Taba, who stood wearily as crushed pieces of shells fell from his palm. Conan had felt a brief flash of pain, then a tingling in his head that quickly abated. That night, though the moon had shone brightly, he had been visited by no malefic dreams.
A few weeks of resting at Ganaku under the tender care of Sajara had healed his body and given him time to study the aged books from the tower. Among them he had found log books and with some difficulty had divined Ganaku’s position: due south of the Islands of Pearl, which in turn lay to the west of Vendhya.
Ngomba had recovered from the battle a changed man. Either his brush with death or the voices of the spirits in the atnalga had transformed him. Gone had been his impetuousness and pride. In their place emerged a personality that had reminded Conan of the spirit-leader, which indeed made sense, if the Cimmerian’s feeling about Y’Taba and Nyona was founded in truth. At any rate those two had taken the young Ganak under their wing.
Sajara, overcoming only mild objections from Y’Taba, had decided to accompany Conan on his journey. By mutual agreement, Nyona would come back for her at the next full moon.
Conan had managed a grin when hearing of the appointed time. He was relieved to be free of the curse and felt a new man: unfettered by enchantments, snakeskin sack bulging with loot from the tower at Rahamji, sword hanging ready at his hip, and a beautiful, spirited girl at his side. What more could a man ask for?
No sooner had Dawakuba set them down on the beach than the locals approached. Their garments bore a look familiar to Conan, and he laughed boomingly. As he had hoped, they had landed upon the isle occupied by the Gwadiri, a friendly tribe of pearl fishers. He had chosen this destination for its proximity to Ganaku, doubting that Dawakuba had the endurance to fly them all the way to Vendhya.
Conan had other reasons, too. Not long ago, back in Iranistan, he had saved the Gwadiri chief’s daughter from a horrible fate.
The heavyset, deeply tanned chief approached, spear in hand but its point raised skyward. “Conan of Cimmeria?” his deep voice asked incredulously.
“Aurauk!” the Cimmerian replied heartily. “How is Nanaia?”
“Fine, fine, already she has married a chieftain of the Bajris. We can speak of that later, eh?” The big man’s eyes lit up excitedly. “First you must tell me who these lovely women are, and what manner of beast is that?”
“It is a long tale,” Conan said. “Better told over a gourd of wine.”
“Wine we shall have, and a feast fit for kings! How glad I am to see you. I owe you more than that for the rescue of my daughter. And you could not have come at a better time.”
“Only a rogue would have—” Conan began.
Aurauk waved aside Conan’s protest. “Anyway, I was going to tell you that the Bajris are now our friends. But the three tribes of Udwunga threaten to attack—a territorial dispute in which I must offer my aid. What say you, Conan? Lead us to victory, and I’ll give you all the pearls that your winged monster can carry!”
“What more could a man ask for?” mused Conan. “Why, with such a haul of loot, I could buy myself a kingdom. And after battling beasts that fly and crawl, I relish the prospect of pitting myself against men of flesh and blood. Aye, by Crom,” he rumbled. “Ready your men, chieftain, and hasten—we have Udwunga blood to spill ere the sun sets!”
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