Read Conan and the Spider God Online
Authors: Lyon Sprague de Camp
Conan and the Spider God (4 page)
With a yell of revulsion, Conan hurled the serpent from him and threw himself sideways, out of the path of the tiger’s hurtling body. His hand sought his dagger. Knowing how puny was the strength of even the strongest man compared to that of a giant cat, he was sure that death, which he had narrowly foiled so often, had at last caught up with him … .
He found himself lying among the shrubs of Kushad’s garden. Grumbling, he staggered to his feet.
“See you what I mean?” said the blind seer, smiling thinly. “I must be more circumspect with my illusions; you nearly took my head off when you threw your sword. Happen I had you at a disadvantage, for you are fatigued from your recent journey. Go; you will find a bed prepared. Tomorrow we shall begin our lessons.”
“A
re you ready?” said Kushad, as sunbeams played among the trellises of the garden. “Remember your numbers, and clutch the mental picture of this courtyard firmly in your mind. Now look!”
re you ready?” said Kushad, as sunbeams played among the trellises of the garden. “Remember your numbers, and clutch the mental picture of this courtyard firmly in your mind. Now look!”
Kushad waved a hand and muttered. The small court faded away. Conan stood on the edge of a boundless swamp, lit by the eery crimson light of a setting sun. Yellowed patches of swamp grass and dried reeds alternated with pools and meres of still waters, lying jet-black beneath the bloody reflection of the scarlet eye of heaven. Strange flying creatures, like gigantic bats with lizard heads, soared overhead.
Directly in front of Conan, a huge reptilian head, as large as that of the bull aurochs whose neck Conan had broken as a stripling in Cimmeria, parted the surface of the slimy, stagnant water. As the gigantic head reared up against the red disk of the sun, there seemed to be no end of the serpentine neck supporting it. Up—up—up it went … .
At first sight of the creature, Conan’s hand instinctively flew to his sword. But then he recalled that his weapon was within the house; Kushad had insisted that he face his trial unarmed.
Still the head rose on its colossal neck, until it towered upward thrice the height of a man. Frantically searching the shards of his memory to piece together the seer’s teachings, Conan concentrated on the picture of Kushad’s garden, with the small, white-bearded seer sitting placidly on a cushion laid beside the path. Little by little, the image solidified and merged with that of the actual courtyard. Conan muttered to himself, “Four threes are twelve; four fours are sixteen; four fives …”
Slowly the swamp and its reptilian denizens faded from view, and Conan found himself back in Kushad’s garden. He drew his sleeve across his sweat-beaded forehead, saying: “I feel as if I had been fighting a battle for an hour.”
“Labor of the mind can be as strenuous as that of the body,” said Kushad gently. “You are learning, my son, but you were slow to bring your mental forces to bear. We must try again.”
“Not just yet, pray,” said Conan. “I am fordone, as if I had run ten leagues.”
“You may rest for the nonce. What will you call yourself henceforth?”
“Call myself?” snorted Conan. “What’s the matter with Conan of Cimmeria?”
“Be not wroth. If there be not a price on your head now, there soon will be. A client full of bazaar gossip reports that you are accounted Jamilah’s abductor, since you and she both vanished on the selfsame night.”
“Going under a false name is cowardly; and besides, I’m sure to forget to answer to it.”
“One gets used to an assumed name sooner than one thinks. Anyway, you needs must take another identity, at least until you reach a land where your repute has not preceded you. What name would you choose—something not incongruous with your aspect?”
Conan, scowling, pondered. At last he said: “My father was Nial the smith. He was a good man.”
“Excellent! You shall be Nial, at least for the nonce. Tahmina! I sense that our guest hungers again. Fetch him wherewith to stay his pangs.”
“You must think I eat enough for three,” said Conan, sinking large white teeth into the loaf the girl proffered. “I am still making up for my dinnerless detour through the Marshes of Mehar. Thank you, Tahmina.” He took a gulp of ale.
“Captain Conan,” said the girl, “I—I had a dream last night, which perchance concerns you.”
“What’s this, my young seeress?” asked Kushad. “Why did you not inform us sooner?”
“’Tis the first chance I have had, with you two locked in talk and saying you would fain not be disturbed.”
“What of your dream, girl?” said Conan. “I scoff not at such portents; too many prophetic dreams have visited my kin.”
“I dreamt I saw you running down a tunnel, deep inside the earth. Some creature did pursue you. It was too dark to see aright, but the thing was big—as large as an ox. As you ran, it gained upon you.”
“Tell me more, my little one,” persisted Conan. “Describe it in detail.”
“I—I cannot, save that it had glowing eyes. There were eight such eyes, gleaming like great fiery jewels.”
“Perhaps a pack of famished wolves?” suggested Conan.
“Nay, it was a single creature. But it did not move the way a large animal normally moves. It—I know not how to say it—it seemed to scurry along like a walking nightmare. And it came closer and closer, and I knew that in an instant it would catch you … .”
“Well?” barked Conan. “What then?”
“Then I awoke. That is all.”
Kushad questioned his daughter, but elicited no further information. He said: “So, young Nial, meseems the dream is a symbol of something; but of what? Dreams can be interpreted in many ways, and any way may be right. Mayhap you had better avoid subterranean tunnels, in case this were a premonition of some real, material menace. Now, if you have eaten, we shall begin another trial of your powers of psychical resistance.”
S
everal days later, Conan, wearing Kushad’s hooded cloak, led his new horse to the seer’s portal. The beast was a shaggy, stocky, Hyrkanian pony, shorter in the leg than the stolen Egil. Conan knew that, while the animal could easily be outdistanced by the slender-legged western breeds, it offset this shortcoming by endurance and an ability to thrive on coarse and scanty fare.
everal days later, Conan, wearing Kushad’s hooded cloak, led his new horse to the seer’s portal. The beast was a shaggy, stocky, Hyrkanian pony, shorter in the leg than the stolen Egil. Conan knew that, while the animal could easily be outdistanced by the slender-legged western breeds, it offset this shortcoming by endurance and an ability to thrive on coarse and scanty fare.
He bade Kushad and his daughter a brisk but affectionate farewell. Tahmina smiled bravely and wiped away a trembling tear. In a way, Conan was glad to leave. The young girl, whose form had just begun to fill out, had been casting sheep’s eyes at him; and from a remark by Kushad, the Cimmerian gathered that the old man would welcome him as a son-in-law, if Conan ever gave up his wild, headstrong ways, got on the right side of the law, and settled down in Sultanapur to wait for the child to reach a marriageable age.
But Conan had no intention of settling down, or of tying himself to any woman. Neither did his sense of honor permit him to take advantage of Tahmina’s girlish infatuation. So it was with a small sigh of relief that he strapped his gear to Ymir, his new horse, embraced his mentor and his youthful hostess, tightened the girth, and trotted smartly off.
THE GOLDEN DRAGON
W
estward Conan wended his way at the steady pace of the seasoned rider: walk, trot, canter, trot, walk, over and over. Every third day he paused long enough to give his steed several solid hours of grazing. Failure to do this, he knew, would wear the animal out and perhaps even kill it before he arrived at his destination.
estward Conan wended his way at the steady pace of the seasoned rider: walk, trot, canter, trot, walk, over and over. Every third day he paused long enough to give his steed several solid hours of grazing. Failure to do this, he knew, would wear the animal out and perhaps even kill it before he arrived at his destination.
He had reached the short-grass country of western Turan, where the plain glowed with clumps of wildflowers of scarlet and gold and blue, while the air above the greensward quivered with the flutter of countless iridescent butterflies. Here the land stretched for leagues with only slight rolls and undulations. The traveler in these parts came upon few signs of human life, save an occasional neatherd with his cattle or a shepherd with his flock. Once or twice a day, Conan encountered a caravan of camels sounding the silvery tinkle of bells, and the creaking leather and jingling mail of hired horse guards. More rarely, a lone trader jogged along on his ass, leading another piled with his gear and stock of goods.
Soon, Conan knew, he would reach the border. There King Yildiz’s blockhouses and patrols warded the kingdom against the nomads and outlaws who roamed the unclaimed prairie to the west. The protection they afforded the kingdom was far from perfect. One of Conan’s first assignments after promotion to a regular army unit had been to chase marauders back into this sparsely-settled west country. Sometimes the troop caught the raiders and rode proudly back to their fort with severed heads on their lances. More often the pillagers gave them the slip; and they returned on lathered steeds, with glum looks on their faces and grim jokes on their lips.
The border guards, Conan was well aware, had other duties, too. They questioned all travelers who sought to enter or leave the kingdom and apprehended felons and persons wanted by the authorities. The road that Conan followed had dwindled to a sandy track; and for a mounted man there was scant choice between this track and the boundless virgin prairie. After some deliberation Conan decided not to try to bluff his way past the border guard, but to detour around the blockhouse. So he angled northwest and soon lost sight of the beaten way.
The following afternoon, a black speck atop a nearby rise attracted his attention. Approaching, he discovered a pile of rocks, which betimes the kings of Turan ordered erected to define the bounds of the kingdom. But so vague was the site of the border that the cairn might be a dozen leagues beyond, or half a dozen short, of the line that appeared on the maps in Aghrapur.
Conan continued westward, and that evening staked out his horse to graze and stretched himself upon his blanket, assured that he was now beyond the bourn of Turan.
A stealthy footstep awakened him; but, before he could spring to his feet, something clinging fell upon him. When he struggled up, it tripped and hampered him. It was a game net, such as the Hyrkanians used in their periodic mass hunts. Before he could fight his way out of the entanglement, a club smashed down upon his head, bringing a shower of shooting stars followed by blackness.
W
hen Conan regained consciousness, he found that his wrists were firmly lashed behind him. Looking up, he saw a circle of men in the King’s uniforms, some mounted and some afoot, surrounding him in the starlight. One, bearing the insignia of a Turanian officer, commanded, “On your feet, vagabond!”
hen Conan regained consciousness, he found that his wrists were firmly lashed behind him. Looking up, he saw a circle of men in the King’s uniforms, some mounted and some afoot, surrounding him in the starlight. One, bearing the insignia of a Turanian officer, commanded, “On your feet, vagabond!”
Grunting, Conan rolled over and tried to rise. He discovered that, when a man is lying down with his hands tied behind him, it is difficult or even impossible for him to arise without assistance. After several tries, he sank back on the grass.
“Someone will have to boost me up,” he growled.
“Help him, Arslan,” said the officer. “Aidin, stand ready with your club in case he tries to bite or run.”
On his feet at last, Conan roared: “What is the meaning of this? It’s an outrage on a harmless traveler!”
“We shall see about that,” said the officer. “Honest travelers stop for questioning at the border post, which you obviously avoided. Luckily, we had word from a shepherd who saw you straying from the road, and the night was clear enough to track you down. Now come along, and we shall learn just how harmless you are.”
A trooper slipped a Hyrkanian lasso—a pole with a running noose on the end—over Conan’s head and tightened it around the Cimmerian’s neck. The troopers mounted and set out across the steppe, one leading Ymir while Conan stumbled along on foot.
A
t the blockhouse, the soldiers pushed Conan into a small, crowded room. Six men with ready weapons watched him, while their commanding officer settled himself at a rough trestle table.
t the blockhouse, the soldiers pushed Conan into a small, crowded room. Six men with ready weapons watched him, while their commanding officer settled himself at a rough trestle table.
“Here’s the blackguard, Captain,” said the lieutenant who had brought Conan in.
“Did he put up a fight?” asked the captain.
“Nay; we caught him sleeping. But I do not think—”
“Never mind what you do or do not think,” snapped the captain. “You, fellow!”
“Yes?” snarled Conan, staring at the officer through narrowed lids.
“Who are you?”
“Nial, a soldier of Turan.”
“You are no Hyrkanian; that is plain from your aspect and barbarous accent. Whence came you?”
“I am a native of the Border Kingdom,” said Conan, who had rehearsed his lies on the trek back to the blockhouse.
“What land is that?”
“A country far to the northwest, near Hyperborea.”
“In what unit of the army do you serve?”
“Captain Shendin’s cuirassiers, stationed at Khawarizm.” This was a real unit and one with which Conan was familiar. Conan was thankful now that he had, however unwillingly, followed Kushad’s advice and left most of his handsome uniform at the seer’s house in Sultanapur. Had it been packed with the rest of his belongings and had the troopers found it, his imposture would have been shattered in an instant.
“Why are you departing from Turan? A deserter, eh?”
“Nay, I applied for leave because I learned that my aged mother is sick at home. I am returning thither and shall be back at my duties within three months. Send to ask Captain Shendin if you believe me not.”
“Then why did you avoid the border post?”
“So as not to waste time answering foolish questions,” grated Conan.
The captain reddened with quick anger. As he paused before replying, the lieutenant spoke again: “I do not think this man can be the renegade Conan, Captain, even though he somewhat answers the description. First, he does not have the King’s lady with him. Second, he does not try to flatter or conciliate us, as would a guilty fugitive. And finally, this Conan is said to have such keen senses and mighty strength that we could not so easily have taken him alive.”
The captain pondered for a moment, then said: “Very well; you seem to have the right of it. But I am still minded to have him flogged for insolence and for putting us to needless trouble.”
“Pray, sir, the men are weary. Besides, if he be truly a soldier on leave—which he may well be—such a course might cause us trouble with the commander of his unit.”
The captain sighed. “Release his bonds. Next time, Master Nial, do not try such tricks upon us, and count yourself lucky to get off without at least a beating. You may go.”
Growling a surly word of thanks, Conan recovered his sword from the soldier who held it and started for the door. He was crowding past the troopers when another lieutenant appeared in the hallway before him. This man’s eyes widened.
“Why, Conan!” cried the newcomer. “What do you here? Don’t you remember Khusro, your old—”
Conan reacted instantly. Lowering his head in a bull-like rush, he lunged at the lieutenant, giving him so violent a push in the chest with his open hand that the man, hurled back, crashed against the wall and fell supine. Leaping over the sprawling body, Conan dashed out into the night.
Ymir was tied to a hitching post in front of the blockhouse. Without taking time to draw sword or dagger, Conan snapped the stout leather reins with a terrific jerk, vaulted into the saddle, and savagely pounded his heels against the horse’s ribs.
By the time the shouting troopers had boiled out of the blockhouse, run to the paddock, saddled their mounts, and set out in pursuit, Conan was a distant speck in the starlight. As soon as a roll in the landscape hid him from view, he galloped off at right angles to the narrow road. Before the sun had thrust its ruddy limb above the level eastern horizon, he had shaken off his pursuers.
I
n the Zamorian language, the word
maul
denoted the most shabby, disreputable part of a city. Each of the two principal cities of Zamora, Shadizar and Arenjun, had its maul; and even some of the smaller towns boasted such unwholesome districts. The maul was an area of bitter poverty; a slum of tumbledown old houses ripe for razing; a section of starving folk defeated by life and sinking into oblivion; a quarter for new arrivals, fresh from the village and desperately struggling for a foothold in the life of the community; a haunt of thieves and outlaws who preyed alike on the rich outside the maul and on the poor within; and the repository of ill-gotten wealth.
n the Zamorian language, the word
maul
denoted the most shabby, disreputable part of a city. Each of the two principal cities of Zamora, Shadizar and Arenjun, had its maul; and even some of the smaller towns boasted such unwholesome districts. The maul was an area of bitter poverty; a slum of tumbledown old houses ripe for razing; a section of starving folk defeated by life and sinking into oblivion; a quarter for new arrivals, fresh from the village and desperately struggling for a foothold in the life of the community; a haunt of thieves and outlaws who preyed alike on the rich outside the maul and on the poor within; and the repository of ill-gotten wealth.
The stench of the winding alleys of the maul of Shadizar brought Conan vivid memories of his days as a thief in Zamora. Although he had adapted himself to a soldier’s life during the past two years, the smell of the maul in his nostrils roused the lawless devil in his blood. He felt a nostalgic yearning for the days when he owed no master and yielded to no discipline, save as his vestigial conscience and barbaric sense of honor dictated. Impatient of all restraint, he had often thought, during his employment as a mercenary, that the perfect freedom he dreamed of was worth the periods of starvation he had suffered as a thief.
Following directions received at Eriakes’s Inn, Conan strode through the forbidding alleys, lit feebly by cressets and lamps set into the walls at distant, irregular intervals. His boots squidged in mud and refuse as he brushed aside beggars and pimps. A couple of knots of bravos eyed him with hostile or predatory stares. When he scowled at them, they turned away; his towering size and the stout scimitar at his side dissuaded them from their felonious intentions.
He reached a doorway over which, illumined by a pair of smoking cressets, hung a dark board on which a yellow dragon was crudely depicted. The sign identified the Golden Dragon, a wineshop and alehouse. Shouldering his way in, Conan swept the common room with his wary glance.
Suspended from the low, soot-blackened ceiling, a pair of brass lamps, burning liquid bitumen, cast a cheerful glow. At the tables and benches sat the usual raffish crowd: a pair of drunken soldiers, loudly boasting of herculean feats of venery; a trio of desert Zuagirs in kaffiyyas, who revealed by nervous sidelong glances that they were strange to cities; a poor mad creature talking to himself in an endless mumbling monotone; a well-dressed man who, Conan guessed, was the head of a local syndicate of thieves; a dedicated astrologer working celestial calculations on a sheet of papyrus … .
Conan headed for the counter, behind which stood a brawny middle-aged woman. “Is Tigranes in?” he asked.
“He just stepped out. He’ll be back soon. What will you have?”
“Wine. The ordinary.”
The woman uncovered a tub, dipped up a scoop, and filled a leather drinking jack, which she pushed toward Conan. The Cimmerian put down a coin, took his change, and surveyed the room. Only one seat was vacant, at a small table for two. The other occupant was a young Zamorian, slight and dark, who stared unseeingly over his mug of ale. Conan walked to the table and sat down. When the young man frowned at him, he growled: “Mind?”
The youth shook an unwilling head. “Nay; you are welcome.”
Conan drank, wiped his mouth, and asked: “What’s news in Shadizar these days?”
“I know not. I have just come from the North.”
“Oh? Tell me, then, what news from the North?”
The young man grunted. “I was in the temple guard at Yezud, but the god-rotted priests have dismissed all the native guardsmen. They say Feridun will hire only foreigners, curse him.” With a glance at Conan, the Zamorian added, “Excuse me, I see you are a foreigner. Naught personal.”
“It matters not. Who is Feridun?”
“The High Priest of Zath.”
Conan searched his memory. “Is not Zath the spider-god of Yezud?”
“Aye.”
“But why should the priesthood prefer to be guarded by foreigners?”
The Zamorian shrugged. “They say they want men of larger stature, but I suspect some power maneuver in the ceaseless war of the priesthoods.”
“So they’re knifing one another in the back as usual?”
“Aye, verily! For the moment, the priests of Urud have the ear of the King, and the priests of Zath are fain to oust them and usurp their place.”
“In a confrontation between the Zathites and the King,” mused Conan, “perchance the Zathites think they would find foreign mercenaries more trustworthy than native Zamorians. What do you now?”
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