Conan and the Shaman's Curse (21 page)

In the moist earth beneath it, no worms or beetles wriggled. Crom, the lowliest bugs shunned this ruin! Conan did not doubt that the vile visage of the she-devil, engraved into the brick outside, discouraged all forms of living things from entering. He was already rethinking his plan to pluck the rubies from her eye sockets.

Brushing clumps of loam from the stone’s underside, he stared at its surface in fascination.

The Ganak women—save Sajara—took a step backward.

Etched in the rock was a long string of elaborate symbols, spiralling outward from the centre of the slab to its elliptical edge. Some of them represented familiar objects: the sun was depicted in the spiral’s centre; trees appeared at intervals in the string of glyphs; a crescent moon, half-moon, and full moon each appeared once; men and women, depicted as stick-like figures, were easily distinguished from the myriad of mysterious shapes that linked them together.

The style was completely foreign to Conan. It bore no likeness to the cuneiform characters he had seen arranged in neat vertical rows on Khitan scrolls. Nor did it resemble the hieroglyphs of Stygia, the runic inscriptions of past or present Aquilonia, or the crude cave-paintings of the Bear and Wolf Pict clans.

He let the stone drop back into place. Whatever meaning those runes held was submerged in a sea of time.

“Those were praises to the gods of the Rahamans, of which Y’Taba spoke,” Sajara concluded.

Conan, recalling the spirit-leader’s words, supposed that her assumption was near the mark. Doubtless Jhaora’s people had overturned these to hide them. Possibly they had tried to desecrate the works of the Rahaman people. As enigmatic as the etchings were the means by which they had been inscribed. Without metal, which Conan had yet to find here, what methods had the Rahamans employed?

It was a riddle which he had neither the time nor the inclination to solve. Their quest lay before them, not beneath them. Ahead, the desolate patches of dirt gave way to diverse buildings. These appeared to have been fashioned from solid masses of rock, as if immense white or grey boulders had been chiselled and shaped by means as cunning as they were mystifying. Conan had observed earlier that the outer wall was dark-hued, composed of brick, and clearly lacked the resilience of the structures within. This fit Y’Taba’s explanation of the village’s history.

Makiela pointed to the nearest building, a cylinder of speckled white-grey stone with a domed roof. It lay between them and the tower. “Kulunga may have met his doom inside one of these things. If you wish it, Sajara, we can begin our search there.”

“We must start somewhere.” A trace of discouragement was evident in Sajara’s tone. “There are so many of them... may Asusa guide us to what we seek. If he does not, we may pass more than one night within these walls. Had I known what we would encounter, I would have told Y’Taba to wait four or five nights for our return.”

They followed the path for a while, stepping off its gradually widening stones only when they neared their destination. When they drew close to the building, Conan saw that its sides had been crudely chipped. More of Jhaora’s work, it seemed. The spiral script may once have adorned that cylindrical wall.

Circling, Conan looked for a door but found no way at all to enter. Other than a few coconut-sized chunks of stone that had crumbled away from the roof, the stonework looked quite solid. Lifting the largest rock he could find, Conan pounded on the wall. It gave off a hollow-sounding thud, confirming that this was not simply a monument of some kind. He pressed hard against various sections, hoping to find a secret door of some kind, but his efforts were fruitless.

“Set take these stonemasons,” he growled. “If I find a boulder of adequate bulk, I’ll make my own doorway!” His voice echoed through the ruins as they moved on, approaching a similar edifice. A series of them rose from the path, their height and diameter varying but the shape remaining fairly consistent. Many of the roofs sloped asymmetrically, as he had noted the night before. Every surface had been defaced in what must have been exhausting efforts of vandalism. Only the topmost decorative embellishments remained intact.

They moved methodically among the odd constructs, eventually reaching the halfway point between the wall and the tall tower. Conan’s temper was hotter than the midday sun. Sajara and the others wore expressions of helpless frustration, but they continued to comb the area.

Presently the Cimmerian came across a rock twice the size of his head. “Ha!” he grunted with satisfaction, hefting it. Taking aim on a spot near that from which the stone had fallen, he hurled it, his pent-up fury lending him force that would have rivalled a siege engine’s.

The boulder struck with an ear-splitting crack, splintering into fist-sized stones. To his red-faced dismay, only a few slivers fell from the sturdy wall. “Crom, Hanuman, and Ishtar!” he bellowed, adding other expressions to a string of curses that would have shrivelled the ears of a jaded sailor. The stones rang with names of a dozen pantheons before his tirade trailed off. Sajara and the others merely stared at the shattered rock.

“We have wasted half the day on these thrice-cursed pillars,” he muttered. “Methinks your Kulunga would have made straight for the tower, anyway.”

“I would have led us there long ago,” Makiela snorted, giving Sajara an accusatory look. “But you decided that the stranger should lead, so I have held my tongue.” “And it wags falsely now, wench!” Conan said hotly. “It was at your suggestion that we start our search among these wretched buildings, not mine. Crom!” he shook his head, his teeth grinding in irritation.

Makiela backhanded him with a blow that would have knocked a pit-fighter on his arse.

Conan, however, possessed considerably more stamina and far better balance than any pit-fighter. He took an awkward step backward, recovering his balance and rubbing at his stinging cheek. He clenched a fist, blue eyes blazing with fury. Conan would have pummelled a man for striking him thusly, but he stayed his hand. Though a barbarian to the core, it was not in Conan to strike a woman.

Of course, Sajara had no way of knowing this. Stepping between them, she shoved Makiela away with a display of incredible strength and speed, sending the taller woman sprawling to the hard pathway. In the same motion, she swung around to face Conan in case he showed the inclination to brawl. “Enough, by Asusa! Are you warrior and huntress, or are you brats whose backsides need a switching? Makiela, we shall never finish our task if you cannot respect Conan. And you,” she turned to the Cimmerian, her eyes now sparkling with some amusement, “you must do likewise.”

Releasing the air from his lungs, Conan nodded, extending a hand toward Makiela. She looked at it reluctantly, then grabbed it, hoisting herself up. Conan flexed his fingers when she released them, grudgingly impressed by the raw power in her fingers and hands. She could win a king’s ransom arm-wrestling challengers in taverns. Women were never favoured in such contests, but then no ordinary wench—not even the Amazons of the southern jungles—could match the prowess of these Ganak women.

Kanitra and Avrana whispered to each other, chuckling in amusement until Sajara threw them a withering look. With the tension among them easing, the band continued along the path, heading straight for the tower. Sajara walked beside Conan; Makiela trailed a step or two behind, followed in turn by the two spear-bearers.

“You swear by many strange gods, Conan of Cimmeria,” Sajara commented.

“Aye, and none of them listen—at least not to me,” he said gruffly. “Of course, in truth I would not want their attention. The gods will do as the gods wish. Only priests and fools believe otherwise, and I do not always distinguish between those two.” He smiled thinly at his own jest.

“Who, then, is this Crom? Often do you name this god.” “He is the god of my people. Crom lives in a great, icy mountain of grey stone, Ben Morgh. When a Cimmerian is born, Crom breathes into him the strength to strive and to slay. We ask naught else from him or any other god, and Crom would not hear our prayers anyway.”

Sajara shivered. “He sounds like a god whose heart is ice and stone, like his mountain. Asusa is a kind god who has done much for our people.”

“He seems content enough to watch you die.” Conan observed rather brusquely.

“We do not blame him for what has come to pass. Asusa cannot help us if we do not heed his wisdom. And the spirits of Ganaks who die—save our warriors—are taken up into an island beyond the skies to be united with the spirits of our ancestors. It is a place of joy, the elders say. Of course,” she added hastily, “I have no wish to go there yet.”

“What becomes of your warriors, then?”

“Muhingo welcomes their spirits into his lands of grey, where they can keep our spirits safe from those of our enemies.”

“The lands of grey,” he repeated. “Your Muhingo is perhaps not so different from our Crom. When death claims a Cimmerian, his soul roams a realm of grey mist, where icy winds blow and clouds forever darken the sky. There we wander for all eternity. It is a wonder that with a cheerless afterlife awaiting them, more of my people do not take to adventuring. I would see what life has to offer before my soul is condemned to such a bleak fate.”

“You are a man with courage, Conan of Cimmeria. To know that such a fate awaits you is a burden to your spirit. Its weight would crush a man without bravery. You make light of it, I think.”

Their conversation lulled as they neared the tower. All the while, the vines became increasingly evident. At first, Conan had merely seen the occasional stalk growing along the ground near the domed buildings or perhaps working its way up their cylindrical sides. But gradually the dark green growths seemed to be everywhere, nearly covering some of the smaller structures.

By Conan’s way of thinking, they had an unwholesome look. He imagined them as thin, leafy serpents who slept amid the ruins.

“These stems have a scent of evil,” Makiela said, looking at them suspiciously. “I do not think that we should touch them.”

“Aye.” Conan’s gaze flickered ahead. The vines thickened, infringing on the stone pathway. “It were prudent to stay in the middle of this path.” He could not shake the sense of dread that had suddenly come over him. He slowed, eyes searching the jumble of vegetation for any signs of movement. Shrugging his brawny shoulders, he continued.

Barefoot, they moved as silently as a wisp of smoke. Had their steps not been so stealthy, Conan would not have heard the faint rustling behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, he halted in mid-step, breath whistling between clenched teeth. In a smooth, sweeping motion he drew his sword, eyes widening in dread at what he saw.

Sajara spun about, as did Makiela, both drawing their shell-spikes and gasping in shock. “Avrana, Kanitra—no!” Sajara whispered.

Swiftly as striking cobras, the vines nearest the path lunged at the two, coiling worm-like tendrils around the unsuspecting Ganak women. Leafy bonds encircled their faces, closing over their mouths and nostrils, twining about their necks to choke off their screams. So tightly did the vines grip them that blood welled up everywhere from furrows in their skin. Their spears had been snatched from them; Conan saw those shell-tipped sticks being dragged away by a few of the waving weeds. They struggled violently, tearing some of the things, but others quickly shot out to replace them. Before they could move, Kanitra and Avrana were ensnared in a wriggling web.

Two leafless stalks the thickness of a man’s thumb pushed out from among the small leafy branches. These squirming, serpent-like horrors were a sickly pale green. Clusters of lidless yellow eyes sprouted like leaves from the stalks, bobbing or dangling on slender connective fibres. But that was not what made Conan, Sajara, and Makiela cry out in revulsion.

At the tip of each stalk, puckering pink mouths opened, each extending a milky green tongue covered with noxious red lesions. These arm-length appendages lapped greedily at the blood that oozed from the Ganak women’s vine-gashes. In a smooth, slow motion, the speckled tongues slid under the flesh into the wounds, eliciting muffled screams of agony from Avrana and Kanitra.

Faster than a pouncing lion, Conan sprang toward the sickening stalks, raising his sword in mid-jump. Makiela seized one stalk, wrenching it away while Sajara reached for the other. The stalks writhed defiantly, tongues flailing; mewling hisses issued from their blood-smeared mouths. At the sound, vines that had lain quietly near the path leaped into motion, encroaching upon their victims.

In the blink of an eye, more vines were looping themselves around ankles, calves, legs and arms. Conan was instantly enmeshed in a mass of constricting coils. His sword-stroke, aimed at one of the leech-stalks, instead sheared through a dozen of the grabbing, groping vines that surrounded him.

Sajara and Makiela were faring no better than he, though Sajara had managed to keep her arms free. Makiela, thrown off-balance by a bundle of the things that wrenched at her ankle, went tumbling into a writhing mass of virescent loom. Her defiant screams were cut short as a score of rustling vines smothered her upper body.

Tearing himself free, Conan laid about with his blade, hewing like a demented harvester in a field of hell-'.pawned wheat. Five more of the thick, putrescent stalks were crawling toward him and the others, pink lips parted, slimy tongues sliding out hungrily. Strands swarmed from between buildings and lashed at the struggling defenders from all directions, binding whatever limbs they reached.

Swathed in vines, Conan hacked furiously to keep his legs and arms free. When severed, the tendrils relaxed their grip and ceased their tugging. Panting, he stood unmolested for an instant, realizing that he and the others would be overwhelmed unless they fled. But where to go? Between them and the outer wall, the stone pathway was blocked by a waist-high hedge of wriggling death, and before them lay a crawling carpet of leafy doom. The Cimmerian wondered how far these things could reach; he had yet to see their roots. From what garden of Hell had they sprouted?