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Authors: Lyon Sprague de Camp

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BOOK: Conan and the Spider God
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Before the road reached Shadizar, the capital of Zamora, a path led up into the hills bordering Khauran. Conan, however, had no intention of going to Khauran. As soon as he was out of sight of Aghrapur, he pulled off the road at a place where scrubby trees bordered a watercourse. Out of sight of passersby he dismounted, tethered his horse, stripped off his handsome uniform, and donned the shabby civilian tunic and trews in which he had made his ill-fated visit to Narkia.
As Conan changed clothes, he cursed himself for an addlepated fool. Lyco was right; he was a fool. The woman had slipped him a note, inviting him to her apartment while her protector was away in Shahpur; and, tired of tavern wenches, Conan aspired to a courtesan of higher rank and quality. For this, and for the boyish thrill of stealing his commander’s girl out from under that officer’s nose, he had cut short a promising career. He had never imagined that Orkhan might return from Shahpur earlier than expected. The worst of it was that he had never disliked the fellow; a strict officer but a fair one … .
Sunk in melancholy gloom, Conan unwound the turban from his spired helmet and draped the cloth over his head in imitation of a Zuagir kaffiyya, tucking the ends inside his tunic. Then he repacked his belongings, mounted, and set out briskly—but not back to the Road of Kings. Instead, he headed north across country, over fields and through woods where none could track his horse’s hoofprints.
He smiled grimly when, far behind, he heard the drumming of hooves as a body of horsemen raced westward along the main road. Traveling in that direction, they would never catch him.
Half an hour later, in the violet dawn, Conan was walking his horse northward along a minor road that was little more than a track through a region of scrubby second growth. So full was his head of alternative plans and routes that for an instant he failed to mark the sound of hooves, the creak of harness, and the jingle of accouterments of approaching horesmen. Before he had time to turn his horse into the concealing scrub, the riders galloped around a bend in the track and rode straight for him. They were a squad of King Yildiz’s horse archers on foam-flecked mounts.
Cursing his inattention, Conan pulled off to the roadside, uncertain whether to fight or flee. But the soldiers clattered past with scarcely a glance in his direction. The last man in the column, an officer, pulled up long enough to shout:
“You there, fellow! Have you seen a party of travelers with a woman?”
“Why—” Conan started an angry retort before he remembered that he was no longer Captain Conan of the King’s Royal Guard. “Nay, sir, I have not,” he growled, with an unconvincing show of humility.
Cursing by his gods, the officer spurred his horse after the rest of the squad. For Conan, as he resumed his northward trot, astonishment trod on the heels of relief. Something must have happened in Aghrapur—something of more moment than his affair with Orkhan. The squad that had rushed past had not even been interested in ascertaining his identity. Could it be that the force pounding westward along the Road of Kings also pursued some quarry other than the renegade Captain Conan?
Perhaps he would unravel the tangle in Sultanapur.
 
THE SWAMP CAT
 
T
raveling through the Marshes of Mehar proved no less onerous than guiding a camel across a featureless desert or conning a boat on the boundless sea. On all sides reeds, taller than Conan’s horse, stretched away to infinity. The yellowed canes of last year’s crop rattled monotonously whenever a breeze rippled across them; while below, the tender green shoots of the new growth crowded the earth and provided Egil with fodder.
A rider through the marshes was forced to set his course by sun and stars. A man afoot would find this task all but impossible, for the towering reeds would obscure all view save that of the sky directly overhead.
From the back of his stallion, Conan could look out across the tops of the reeds, which undulated gently like the waves of a placid sea. When he reached one of the rare rises of ground, he sometimes glimpsed the Vilayet Sea afar to his right. On his left he often sighted the tops of the low hills that sundered the Marshes of Mehar from the Turanian steppe.
Conan had swum his horse across the Ilbars River below Akif and headed north, keeping the sea in view. He reasoned that, to escape his pursuers’ notice, he must either lose himself in an urban crowd or seek the solitude of some uninhabited place, whence he could be forewarned of his pursuers if they picked up his trail.
Conan had never before seen the Marshes of Mehar. Rumor reported them as solitary a lieu as any place on earth. The waterlogged soil was useless for farming. Timber was limited to a few dwarfish, twisted trees, crowning occasional knobby knolls. Biting insects were alleged to swarm in such numbers that even hunters, who might otherwise have invaded the marshes in pursuit of wild swine and other game, forswore to seek their prey there.
The marshes, moreover, were said to be the abode of a dangerous predator, vaguely referred to as the “swamp cat.” Although Conan had never met anyone who claimed to have seen such a creature, all agreed that it was as deadly as a tiger.
Still, the dismal solitude of the marshes exceeded Conan’s expectations. Here no sound broke the silence save the plashing of Egil’s muddy hooves, the rustling of the reeds, and the buzz and hum of clouds of insects, which swirled up from the agitated canes. With his turban cloth securely wrapped around his head and face and his uniform gauntlets on his hands, Conan was well protected; but his miserable mount kept lashing his tail and shaking his mane to dislodge the myriad pests.
For days on end, Conan plodded through the changeless reeds. Once he started a sounder of swine of a large, rust-red species. Avid for some fresh pork to vary his dwindling supply of salted meat and hard biscuits, he reached for his bow; but by the time he had pulled the short, double-curved Hyrkanian weapon from its case, the pigs had vanished. Conan decided against the unwelcome delay of an extended hunt.
F
or three days Conan forged ahead, while the reeds before him still stretched to the horizon. Toward the close of the third day, when a hillock afforded a vista, he found that both the sea on his right and the hills on the western horizon had moved closer than before. Guessing that he was nearing the northern end of the marshes and, beyond that, the city of Sultanapur, he clucked Egil to a trot.
Then, thin in the distance, he heard a human cry; he thought he detected several voices shouting. Turning his head, he located the source of the commotion on a hillock to his left, whence a plume of blue smoke ascended lazily into the sky. Prudence told Conan to ride on, regardless of the cause of the disturbance. The fewer who saw him while he was still in Turan, the better were his chances of escaping that kingdom unscathed.
But prudence had never occupied the first rank among Conan’s counselors; and a camp implied a fresh-cooked meal, and, beyond that, the possibility of loot or legitimate employment. Besides, his curiosity was aroused. While Conan was capable of ruthless action in pursuit of his own interests, he could also, on a quixotic impulse, throw himself into some affair that was none of his business when his barbaric notions of honor required it.
On this occasion, curiosity and thoughts of food vanquished caution. Conan turned Egil’s head toward the hillock and heeled the horse into a fast trot. As he approached, he described some agitated figures rushing about on the crest of the knoll, among clumps of spring wildflowers whose scarlet, golden, and violet blooms lent a rare touch of color to the drab landscape.
As he came closer, he perceived that there were five men, moving around a small tent adjacent to their campfire. Their beasts of burden—four asses, two horses, and a camel—had been securely tethered to a gnarled, dwarfish tree; now terrified, they were bucking and straining at their tethers despite the efforts of one of the men to calm them.
“What’s the matter?” Conan roared across the rustle of the reeds.
“Beware! Swamp cat!” shouted one of the men, a lean fellow in a white turban.
“Where?” yelled Conan.
The men around the tent babbled all at once, pointing in various directions. Then a spitting snarl ripped the air on Conan’s right, and out of the reeds bounded a tawny creature whose like Conan had never beheld. The head and forequarters were those of a large member of the cat tribe, but the hindlegs were twice as long as those of a normal feline. The beast progressed by gigantic leaps, its heavy tail held stiffly out behind for balance, presenting to view a bizarre combination of a panther and a gigantic hare.
Sighting the approaching menace, the stallion whinnied in fear and leaped convulsively to one side. During his two years of service with the Turanian army, Conan had become an accomplished rider; but he still lacked the consummate skill of a Hyrkanian nomad, reared in the saddle. Caught by surprise, Conan pitched headlong off his mount, landing heavily on his shoulder in a mass of reeds. With a thunder of hooves, Egil vanished.
In a flash, Conan rolled to his feet and whipped out his scimitar. The swamp cat had alighted within a spear’s length of the Cimmerian, with its fur erect and its eyes ablaze. Bracing himself for the attack, Conan raised his weapon and uttered the fearsome battle cry of the Cimmerian tribes.
At that dreadful, inhuman scream, the cat paused, snarling. Then it leaped—but not at Conan. The beast sprang away at an angle and began to circle the knoll. On the crest of the low eminence, the five travelers rushed to intercept it, armed with spears, daggers, and a solitary sword. But the swamp cat was more interested in the travelers’ tethered animals than in human prey.
Conan dashed up the slope to the top of the rise, where the campfire crackled cheerfully. Seizing a blazing faggot, he sped on, heading straight for the swamp cat, which crouched in preparation for another of its gargantuan leaps. Conan’s quick movement caused the log to blaze up, and he thrust the blazing end into the cat’s face.
With a shriek, the creature sprang back, turned, and bounded mewling away into the reeds, leaving a faint trail of smoke from its singed hair and whiskers.
As Conan walked back up the slope, the traveler with the sword and turban stepped forward to greet him. This man, a slender fellow of early middle age, with a pointed black beard, seemed better accoutered than the others and somewhat taller, although all five were small, dark, and slender—mere pygmies compared to the giant Cimmerian.
“We are grateful, sir,” the turbaned man began. “The beast would have borne off one or more of our mounts, leaving us stranded in this devil-haunted wilderness.”
Conan nodded curtly. “It’s naught. Who will help me to catch my nag, if the swamp cat hasn’t eaten him?”
“Take my horse, sir,” said the leader. “Dinak, saddle the baggage horse and accompany our visitor.”
As the tethered animal was still skittish from its confrontation with the swamp cat, Conan had much ado to calm it. Eventually he swung into the saddle and set out after Egil, with Dinak trotting behind him. The trail through the trampled reeds was not hard to follow, and Conan turned in the saddle to say:
“You’re Zamorians, are you not?”
“Aye, sir.”
“I thought I knew that accent. Who is your leader, the man with the turban?”
“He is called Harpagus. We are merchants. And you, sir?”
“Merely an out-of-work mercenary.”
It was on the tip of Conan’s tongue to ask Dinak why the Zamorians were taking an unmarked route through this inhospitable wilderness instead of following the highway that paralleled their course beyond the westward hills. But when it occurred to him that the Zamorian might well ask the same question of him, Conan held his peace and bent his attention to the trail.
As the red ball of the sun hung above the dark line of the western hills, they caught up with Conan’s horse nibbling on reed sprouts. Before night had swallowed the twilight, Conan had led the truant Egil back to the encampment. One of the Zamorians was roasting a leg of lamb for dinner, and Conan’s nostrils quivered at the scent. He and Dinak unsaddled their mounts and tethered them within easy reach of the clumps of flower-bearing herbs that dotted the hillock.
“Join us, I pray you,” invited Harpagus.
“Gladly,” said Conan. “I haven’t tasted a cooked repast since entering this forsaken marsh. Who lies within?” He jerked a thumb toward the tent, whence a slender hand was reaching out to take a plate of provender.
Harpagus paused before answering. “A lady,” he said at last, “who does not wish to be seen by strangers.”
Conan shrugged and addressed himself to his food. He could have eaten twice the portions that the Zamorians had served him, but he stretched his meager meal with a couple of stale biscuits from his saddle bags.
One Zamorian produced a skin of wine, which the men passed around, taking gulps from the muzzle. Combing his beard with his fingers, one of which bore a huge, ornate ring, Harpagus said:
“If I may be so bold, young sir, who are you and how came you upon us so opportunely?”
Conan shrugged. “Mere happenstance. As I told Dinak here, I am only a wandering soldier.”
“Then you should be traveling toward Aghrapur instead of away from it. That is where you will find the recruiting officers for King Yildiz’s army.”
“I have other plans,” said Conan shortly, wishing he were quick-witted enough to think up plausible lies. Then, suddenly, Harpagus turned, alerted by the soft crunch of a foot on the dried stems of last year’s vegetation. Following the Zamorian’s glance, Conan saw that a slender female figure had emerged from the obscurity of the tent.
Illumined by the flickering firelight, the woman appeared to be a decade older than Conan, comely of person, and richly clad in garments more suitable for a lordly Hyrkanian’s harem than for travel in the wilderness. The firelight was reflected in the links of a golden chain about her columnar neck; and from the chain hung an enormous gem, of purplish hue, in an ornate setting. While the light was too weak for Conan to pick out details, such an ornament, he knew, bespoke the wealth of princes. As the woman slowly approached the fire, Conan perceived her curiously blank stare, like that of a sleepwalker.
“Ja—my lady!” Harpagus’s voice rose sharply. “You were bidden to remain within the tent.”
“It’s cold,” murmured the woman. “Cold in the tent.” She stretched pale hands toward the flames, glancing unseeingly at Conan and away again into the night.
Harpagus rose, grasped the woman’s shoulders, and turned her around. “Look!” he said. Before the woman’s face he waved a hand that bore a ring with a great fiery gemstone, muttering: “You shall reenter the tent. You shall speak to no one. You shall forget all that you have seen. You shall reenter the tent … .”
After several repetitions, the woman bowed her head and silently retraced her steps, dropping the tent flap behind her. Conan glanced from Harpagus to the tent and back. He urgently wished for an explanation of the scene he had witnessed. Was the woman drugged, or was she under a spell? Were the Zamorians carrying her off? If so, whither? From the few words she had spoken, Conan thought the woman must be a high-born Turanian, for her Hyrkanian speech was accent-free.
Conan was, however, sufficiently seasoned in plots and intrigues not to utter his suspicions. First, his assumptions might be wrong; the woman’s presence might be perfectly legitimate. Secondly, even if a plot were afoot, Harpagus would concoct a dozen plausible lies to explain his actions. Thirdly, while Conan had no fear of the small Zamorians, he did have scruples against picking a quarrel with men with whom he had just eaten and whose hospitality he had enjoyed.
Conan decided to wait until the others had bedded down for the night and then have a look in the tent. Although the Zamorians had been friendly, his barbarian instincts told him that something was amiss. For one thing, there was no sign of the usual stock-in-trade that such a party of merchants would normally carry with them. Also, these people were too silent and secretive for ordinary merchants, who, in Conan’s experience, would chatter about prices and boast to one another of their sharp bargainings.
Conan’s years in Zamora had given him an abiding mistrust of the folk of that nation. They were an ancient, long-settled civilized folk and, from what he had seen of them, notably given to evil. The King, Mithridates VIII, was said to be a drunkard manipulated by the various priesthoods, who struggled and competed with one another for control of the King.
BOOK: Conan and the Spider God
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