Conan and the Shaman's Curse (7 page)

Conan’s blade shattered. “Crom’s teeth!” he swore, tossing aside the broken cutlass.

Laughing, Khertet stepped toward his opponent for a killing blow. But the Mistress, continuing to sink, shifted and threw her captain off balance. Khertet stumbled forward and pitched to the deck. His sword clattered to the planks, well beyond the reach of his frantically grasping fingers. The Stygian’s laugh turned to a groan of pain as his leg twisted under him. He fumbled at his belt for his dagger.

Chadim rushed out from below decks., dagger in hand. Jhatil ran up behind him, cutlass upraised, moving so fast that he nearly stumbled into Chadim.

Conan wrenched a cutlass from the hand of a dead sailor. Balancing it carefully, he hurled it at Chadim, whose arm was drawn back to throw his own knife. The cutlass struck the Vendhyan in the breast, slipping between his ribs and passing through his body. Its bloody point jutted out between Chadim’s shoulder blades, slashing Jhatil’s neck. Chadim fell backward, his heart pierced. Pinned beneath him, Jhatil drowned in the blood that spewed from his own slit throat.

Khertet held his dagger low for a disembowelling thrust. Conan dived for the captain’s dropped sword, seizing its slippery hilt as the Stygian’s dagger-thrust grazed his side. Conan shot out his free hand, grabbing Khertet’s wrist and twisting it until he heard the snapping of bones. The dagger spun from the Stygian’s nerveless fingers, and Conan shoved Khertet toward the rail.

But the stubborn Stygian scooped up a dead rower’s cutlass. Wielding it in his good hand, he charged at the Cimmerian. “Scum!” he panted, approaching warily in an expert swordsman’s stance. “With this base blade shall I send you to Hell!” He lunged with blinding speed.

Conan swept his arms back over his right shoulder, wielding the Stygian’s blade in a two-handed grip. Twisting to avoid Khertet’s point, he swung the thin blade in a wide arc, driving the sharpened edge through skull and jawbone. Wrenching the weapon from Khertet’s cloven neck, Conan leapt to the deck of the raft while the twitching corpse fell over the rail and into the swirling sea.

The Cimmerian coiled the mooring-rope and took up an oar, hoping to escape from the whirlpool that churned around him. Although the swirling of the water had slowed somewhat since the sea-beast’s death, Conan could feel the unnatural warmth of the roiling ocean; it lapped hungrily at his raft. Rowing with deep, powerful strokes, he gradually moved away from the ship of death. He glanced over a labouring shoulder at the doomed Mistress. Her bellyful of water had dragged her down, dislodging the floating mast from its deck. The serpent’s carcass sank quietly into a briny grave.

Sweat poured down Conan’s back. The water had warmed his raft, and the sun blazed down from a cloudless sky. Conan felt precious moisture drain from his body, but he was powerless to stop it. When he had put enough distance between himself and the Mistress, he lifted his oar from the water to conserve strength. He was not yet weary, but his pulse was racing and his heart pounded more rapidly than it should from the exertion of rowing.

He did not dwell upon his lack of provisions. In his travels, he had crossed deserts on foot and endured day after day of thirst and starvation. While his raft drifted, he was struck by the similarity between the southern sea and the eastern desert. Vast wastelands they were, ruled by the same king. From his lofty throne, the baleful sun reigned supreme over these two wildernesses, demanding a tribute of sweat from those who dared enter. Even the ruthless kings of Stygia or Turan could show more compassion that the cruel sun.

Conan was concerned less about sustenance than about the mystery of his recent transformation. As much as the sun beat upon him, Conan dreaded more the coming of the moon. Would the shaman’s curse strike him again? Its effects troubled even the battle-hardened Cimmerian. He felt no pity for his dead captors. What irked him was the loss of control—no, the loss of his very identity. On the ship, Conan of Cimmeria had ceased to exist. He had become a mindless carnivore.

The thought of eating man-flesh twisted his belly into knots. Once, he had tangled with the cannibals of Darfar, in the lawless city of Zamboula. Those dark-hearted dogs were the scourge of the southern lands, and it sat ill with Conan to share anything in common with them. But the curse had helped him to escape imprisonment and avoid a grisly fate in Luxur. He had beaten the sea serpent, and he would find some way of overcoming the shaman’s hideous spell.

He wrung the sweat from his matted hair, feeling a sudden dizziness. Closing his eyes, he settled onto his raft. There was barely enough room on its hard, uneven surface to accommodate his sizeable frame. The dull ache in his forearm reminded him of the nick he had taken in the brief fight with Khertet, and he glanced at the red-rimmed wound.

The dagger’s cut was narrow, not even as wide as his thumb, but an angry purple swelling had risen from the wound’s edges. He recognized all too clearly the signs of poison—a paralysing stain with a hue characteristic of the Purple Lotus. He should have known that Khertet, in true Stygian fashion, would envenom his dagger. Cimmerians had no need to resort to such base tactics, relying upon their strength and savagery. Conan deemed poison unmanly.

At least the venom was acting slowly, not impeding his escape.

Willing himself to remain conscious, Conan forced his body to move. He dipped the blade into the sea to cleanse it, knowing that its metal was more resistant to rust than baser steel. Washed of its stains, his sword gleamed in the sun. Gritting his teeth, he made three deep slashes across his forearm, then plunged it into the water. He felt the sting of salt burning the lotus from the cuts. When the sensation abated, he drew out his arm and shook it, sucking at the wound and spitting until he no longer tasted the poison’s bitter residue.

No venom remained at the surface of the slash, but his rowing efforts had circulated the accursed stuff into the rest of his body. He fought it with fading willpower, eventually slumping back to the raft. Staring upward, he saw that clouds had begun to gather overhead, dark and brooding. Wind gusted across the raft, cooling him off.

Conan fought to concentrate, recognizing the signs of the impending storm. With ebbing strength, he tied the raft’s heavy mooring-rope around his waist, lashing himself to the craft lest he become separated from it. He worked his sword-point into the wood, sinking it as far in as he could. He knew he would be in for a rough time, but he did not despair. Tropical storms were wont to end as quickly as they began; he had weathered plenty of them on land and sea.

He struggled to stay alert but could not overcome the powerful taint of the Purple Lotus. While the sky darkened, he slipped into a torpid slumber.

Conan awakened, feeling warm sand against his skin. Bright sun made him squint. Blinking, he stared at the narrow stretch of beach separating him from the sea. His back felt stiff, and stout ropes still bound him to a thick board from his raft—the only board in sight. He surmised that while he slept, a storm had smashed his frail craft and washed him ashore.

He had slept off the numbing effects of the poison, and the arm cut was scabbed over. Aside from a parched throat and a gnawing hunger in his belly, he felt better than he had in days. He did not remember any strange dreams, and best of all, he had reached land. Even his sword, still driven into the board, had travelled to the beach with him.

The salt water had not treated its edge too kindly, but he would have time to tend it later.

He scanned the beach for landmarks, but the lay of this place kindled no flame of familiarity in his memory. Sparkling blue water melded with the finely powdered coral of the beach, stretching as far as he could see to either side. Behind him, the beach gave way to tall, leafy plants. Above these towered fan-leafed palm trees, their gently sloping trunks swaying in the pleasant midday breeze.

Of man or beast Conan saw no signs. He tugged at the cord securing his waist and legs to the sturdy timber from the raft, but the knots had tightened and would yield only to the edge of his sword. Cutting himself free, he stretched until the circulation returned to his limbs. He wanted to explore the area for clues to his whereabouts, but first he would seek food and water.

He moved toward a short palm and climbed it with ease, clinging to the trunk beneath the fronds and knocking loose a bunch of coconuts. Scanning the area from his improved vantage point, he saw that he had landed upon the tip of a thin, crescent-shaped island. The beach filled the interior of the crescent, partially shielded from the sea by the curving points that formed a bay.

The verdant island seemed devoid of settlers, but he could not be certain without exploring the other side. He could see what appeared to be a large clearing at the crescent’s far tip. It did not look like beach, for its floor was of a greyish-white colour.

Deciding to investigate this clearing, Conan slid down the tree and feasted upon the fruit from the palm. With a bellyful of sweet and chewy meats, he felt ready to survey his surroundings.

He had lost the last remnants of his garments on the night of his transformation, but he gave his appearance only a moment’s consideration. Modesty was not one of his stronger instincts. Like a naked savage from a primitive jungle tribe, he prowled the shoreline, gripping his sword and looking for any signs of inhabitants, human or otherwise. The coast bore some resemblance to Zembabwei, but the latter’s water was not so blue, its sand not so pristine. And Conan heard only the soft rustle of huge leaves and the surf’s gentle susurrations.

Where were the sea birds? The beach wore silence like a mask, as if concealing something beneath its scenic flora and rose-tinted sand. Conan tensed; the absence of any normal jungle noises set his nerves on edge.

From the sinking sun’s position, Conan judged that he travelled west, following the interior curve of the crescent. No tracks disturbed the virgin sand, and the plethora of sea creatures that clogged most shores seemed absent from this island. From his perch in the palm tree, the isle had not seemed large. In spite of this, he had reached only the halfway mark between the crescent’s curving points. Quickening his pace, he hastened toward the clearing he had marked earlier.

Gradually, the beach’s colour. dulled, its fine, pale pink sand mingling with duller granules of white and grey. When the clearing came into view, he stared at it, noting that stones of irregular sizes and shapes formed a wide, uneven mound. No palms or grass grew among the stones, and a narrow border of sand ringed the clearing.

But more interesting by far was a discernible, apparently man-made path which led to the mound. Eager to investigate, Conan ran toward the low hillock of stones.

Before he reached it, he stopped to examine a large stone, partially buried in the centre of the wide, sandy path. Brushing the grit from its round surface, he uncovered it and took an involuntary step backward. “Crom!” he gasped, his flesh crawling.

What he had uncovered was not stone, but the top of a grotesquely misshapen skull.

Its breadth was twice that of Conan’s head. A lumpy, bony ridge ran along it, and he kicked away more sand to reveal eye sockets the size of eggs staring hollowly at him. The sockets were on nearly opposite sides of the skull. Conan saw no ear holes or nostril slits, and the sloping forehead tapered into a bony snout, ending in a broken homed bill. He slid his sword’s point into an eye socket, lifting the surprisingly light skull for closer examination. Rows of jagged teeth jutted from the insides of the thick grey bill, curving back slightly.

The skull bespoke an unnatural breed of bird. From the cruelly sharp fangs of its beak, Conan could easily see that the creature had been no plant eater. He wondered what had become of the rest of the skeleton.

Frowning, Conan let the bony abomination slide from his sword. Then he chopped at it to prevent the lifeless eyes from staring up at him. At first, his sword glanced from the bony ridge, but a second powerful stroke crushed through its pate, shattering the skull and ending its eerie gaze. Conan strode past it and soon reached the clearing. He drew in a breath, muttering in revulsion at what he saw ahead.

Lying atop the sand, jumbled in piles that rose as high as Conan’s waist, were vast mounds of bleached skulls. They stretched all the way to the shoreline, like a bony grey carpet. The tide lapped at them, shifting the skulls at the edges of the piles, imbuing them with eerie movement. Most were as large as the one Conan had first discovered, but others were bigger.

Nowhere did Conan see any rib, leg, or arm bones... only disembodied skulls.

Morbid curiosity prompted him to sift through a pile with the point of his sword, looking for any clues to the nature of these dead creatures. At the bottoms of the mounds, the bones seemed older and more brittle. Some had begin to crumble from the slight weight of the skulls above them. Tiny shards, perhaps centuries old, formed a gruesome beach of death upon die tip of the macabre isle.

Movement on the horizon caught Conan’s eye. Astonished, he watched as a small fleet of strange boats appeared, moving swiftly toward the island. He counted eight vessels, each bearing four men—no, the one in the rear carried only two. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered at the boats until he could see the rowers.

They were men, but unlike any he had seen before. Bright designs covered their olive-skinned, heavyset bodies. They rowed with mighty strokes that would have satisfied the harshest pacer. In spite of their swift progress across the water, the boats looked awkward. Their rowers sat atop a thick, central beam, doubtless carved from a palm tree. Curving crosspieces, like wooden arms, held smaller trunks that paralleled the larger body and provided stability. Each boat’s four oarsmen gripped one oar and rowed a single stroke on alternating sides.

Conan reckoned that the efficient but simple design of the craft rendered it suitable only for short voyages as it seemed to be impossible to control in rough waters. Perhaps they had come from a nearby island, or even the mainland—this crescent-shaped isle seemed too deserted to be their home. Although they appeared to carry no weapons of any kind, the Cimmerian did not consider them harmless. Primitive, cannibalistic cults who worshipped ancient gods of evil were not uncommon in the lands of the South. Slipping hastily into the dense foliage, Conan’s pulse quickened as he watched their approach.