Conan and the Shaman's Curse

I

Red Mist

Carrion birds circled above a small stretch of rocky beach, squawking in anticipation. The stench of blood mingled with the pungent reek of carnage that rose from below, luring more vultures and fouling the humid air.

Thousands of human corpses choked the beach, spreading over it like a grisly carpet of death. Many of them still clutched weapons in their stiff fingers; others lay twisted beneath the bodies of foemen, snarls frozen upon their lifeless faces. The slashed, bloodied robes and crimson-soaked keffiyehs were those of Iranistani tribesmen. The scattering of broken weapons, hacked bodies, and severed limbs told a silent tale of a savage war.

But not all were slain, though the cawing carrion birds swooped closer. A band of fourteen warriors had survived the battle. They wore yellow robes striped with red in the fashion of southern Iranistan’s Kaklani tribe. Behind them limped an old man with a long white beard, leaning heavily upon a short wooden stick. Snarling and panting, the band moved through the sprawled cadavers to surround a lone man.

The man stood his ground. Shoulder-length black hair streamed from a battered iron cap perched crookedly upon his head. His chest swelled powerfully beneath his leather-lined shirt of mail. Corded muscles bulged along his arms, and in his scarred right fist he gripped a massive broadsword that glinted in the waning afternoon sun. Blood from countless Kaklanis smeared him from head to toe and dripped from the edge of his blade. Blue eyes blazing, he bared his teeth in a savage grimace.

His name was Conan, a barbarian from Cimmeria—a land of frozen plains lying so far north that here, on Hyboria’s southern coast, its very name was little-known. The people of Cimmeria, tempered by hard living, were as grim and ferocious as their homeland. Cimmerians never sold their lives cheaply in battle, and Conan was no exception. At his feet lay the heaped bodies of Kaklanis. But deeper were the piled corpses of Zariris, the men who had fought side-by-side with Conan.

The Zariris, bitter ancestral foes of the Kaklanis, had hired Conan and his free company of warriors to join them in the ill-fated assault upon the Kaklanis. The bloody fight raged at the foot of the Mountains of Gold. The tide of battle had swept both forces toward the beach, where the last Zariri perished with the last man of Conan’s free company.

Conan unsheathed his sword at sunrise, leading his men into battle. Throughout the day, the fighting had been thickest around him. The sun was now sinking toward the western horizon, but Conan showed no signs of fatigue. He held high his unwavering sword, ready to meet the advancing Kaklanis.

These weary warriors, sensing that victory was close at hand, moved as one, eager to strike. Fourteen faces contorted into menacing masks of fury. Fourteen curved knives drew closer and closer, like steel teeth ready to snap shut around the red-eyed Cimmerian. “Foreign jackal,” the foremost of them snarled, rushing forward. He spat at Conan’s feet. “The fighting is done. I sheath my blade in your foul heat!” He lunged with the speed of a striking viper, thrusting his blade at the Cimmerian’s breast.

But Conan parried, his ferocious riposte knocking the blade from the Kaklani’s hand, lopping off his sword-arm and smashing through his ribs. The clang of steel and the stricken warrior’s shriek mingled with Conan’s savage war-cry. The Kaklani collapsed onto the carrion heap at Conan’s feet.

Conan tore his dripping sword free, charging toward the nearest Kaklani. The Cimmerian’s mighty downward stroke shattered his foeman’s blade and split his skull to the jawbone in a spray of blood, brains, and teeth. Before the other warriors could strike, Conan was through their circle. He could have fled, but he was sworn to avenge his men: loyal companions who had died at the Kaklanis’ hands. He turned to face the twelve enraged tribesmen.

They rushed toward him, like a wave of slashing steel—a wave that broke upon the indomitable Cimmerian. With his every sword-stroke, a screaming Kaklani went down with a cloven skull, a hewn torso, or a severed neck. Their murderous blows rained upon the frenzied Cimmerian, but the links of his mail shirt turned aside their blades. A few of their thrusts nicked the barbarian, but all suffered who strayed within reach of Conan’s whirling web of steel.

Battle lust seized the Cimmerian, pumping through his veins and filling his head with fire. He fought with relentless fury until the last Kaklani dropped to the ground, clutching the dangling coils of his shredded entrails. Conan lifted his sword, seeking another foe. Panting from exertion, his heart pounding like a Pictish war drum, he carefully watched the bodies of his enemies for signs of feigned death.

Only one of the Kaklanis even twitched—the old, white-haired man. Coughing, he leaned on his ornately carved wooden stick and rose from the crimson ground. Blood dribbled from his wounded side, and he dragged a nearly severed leg behind him. A mosaic of colourful tattoos covered his bald head and scrawny torso. Crusted blood caked one side of his wrinkled face. Conan, who knew something of Iranistani tribes, guessed rightly that he faced a Kaklani shaman.

Although the Cimmerian feared that this shaman might invoke some deadly spell, he was too exhausted to strike down the unarmed man—his fiery berserker blood had cooled. Besides, the old man’s injuries would soon send him to whatever hell awaited these Kaklanis. “Peace, old man,” Conan rumbled in rough Iranistani. “I shall not harm you.”

The shaman swayed on his good leg, raising his stick as if to smite the Cimmerian. Conan stepped back, and the shaman overbalanced and fell to one knee. Looking up at Conan, the old man gripped the ends of the stick in both hands, bowing it in the middle until it snapped. He gibbered in a tongue unfamiliar to the Cimmerian, and ribbons of luminous red vapours issued from the stick’s halves. They floated aimlessly through the air, coalescing in a mist that swirled around Conan’s head. The shaman shrieked, his voice loud and harsh. Billowing, the crimson mist sparkled in the sunset. Then the shaman ceased his chant and died before his body slumped to the blood-slimed ground.

Conan waved his arms about, trying to ward off the red cloud burning his eyes. Painful flashes filled his head, like needles piercing his skull and lodging in his brain. He gasped for air but inhaled only the chokingly sweet fog. Wheezing, he put a hand to his throat and toppled onto the shaman’s stiffening corpse.

II

Beach of Blood

Conan raced through the dense, sweltering jungle, panting from the long chase. He had forgotten what he was pursuing, but his quarry was swift and nimble. The Cimmerian was naked and carried no sword, but this did not bother him. Glancing upward as he dashed into a clearing, he noticed the full moon filling the night sky, staring down like a glowing, malevolent eye. It somehow maddened him, spurring him to run faster.

The smell of his prey filled his nostrils. Salivating, he raced toward the four-legged beast, sensing its fear. Red mist swam before his eyes and blood boiled in his veins. Crashing through leafy vegetation, he reached out, startled by the sight of coarse, white hair sprouting from his arms. Sharp, black talons grew from his thick, misshapen fingertips.

Leaping forward, he seized the squealing beast with those talons, rending and shredding its flesh...

Conan awoke, yelling. He jumped to his feet, shaking droplets of sweat from his face and hair. He blinked at the painful glare of the Iranistani sunrise and reached for his sword instinctively before realizing that he had been dreaming.

Lifting his foot from the shaman’s stiff corpse, he stepped back in disgust, nearly tripping over a severed leg. All around him lolled the bodies of the slain. He walked to a patch of bare ground, letting his eyes adjust to the light and feeling his heartbeat slow to its normal rhythm. The tide was coming in, lapping at the carcasses scattered along the beach’s edge.

On the morning after battle, most men would have moved sluggishly, feeling every nick and ache. Not so Conan; his endurance was that of a wolf, his strength that of a lion. He had fought in campaigns where battles were waged from dawn to dusk, for days on end, by soldiers fed on meagre victuals and rationed water. This war had lasted but one bloody day.

Conan rubbed his aching skull and shook off the memory of the strange dream. No nightmare could match the hellish scene of the battlefield around him. The gruesome sights on the beach would have turned the stomachs of many seasoned soldiers, but Conan was no stranger to the aftermath of battle. He had been born on a battlefield in Cimmeria nearly thirty years ago. By his eighteenth birthday, he had fought in more wars than many men saw in their lifetimes.

His eyes and nose registered the familiar details of the savage tribal feud. Conan deemed it unmanly to hew at the body of a slain foe. But the Iranistani tribes seemed to delight in this practice, by the look of atrocities committed upon the bodies that littered the sand. The beach was a vast tapestry of death, woven from grisly human threads.

The rising sun lifted the morning chill, but did little to warm Conan’s spirits. He bitterly cursed the circumstances of his involvement in this catastrophic battle. A week ago, he and his free company had been on their way to the Turanian steppes to join the army of Arshak, Iranistan’s new king.

Conan’s men had been seasoned Hyrkanians, hungry for gold and glory. When passing through Zariri lands on their way to the steppes, they had been invited into the tent of Jaral, sheikh of the Zariris.

Jaral had heard of Conan’s legendary battle prowess. He told the Cimmerian about outrageous acts of Kaklani barbarity. So graphic were Jaral’s accounts of these acts that the obdurate Cimmerian had grunted while listening. Jaral pleaded for Conan’s aid, appealing to the Cimmerian’s barbaric yet curiously chivalrous code of honour.

At first Conan had declined, eager to reach the steppes and fill his purse with gold from Arshak’s treasury. But as the evening wore on, Jaral filled Conan’s wine goblet again and again, while filling Conan’s ears with promises of rich rewards. Scantily clad, sultry-eyed wenches served delicious spiced meats, quelling the rumbling in Conan’s belly. Jaral offered the Cimmerian his choice of the voluptuous Zariri dancing girls. When Conan put each of his burly arms around a soft-skinned, ebony-haired girl, the sheikh had made the Cimmerian a generous final offer: half of the Kaklani tribe’s treasure, to be divided among the free company. He told Conan of the Zariri tribal jewels, stolen by the Kaklanis. He even promised Conan a personal share when the Kaklanis were defeated.

Conan accepted—an ill decision that he now regretted. The Kaklanis outnumbered their attackers by at least two to one, turning the invasion into a massacre. The Cimmerian was forced to fight or die. He had considered fleeing, but his own men had been penned in, and he was responsible for them. They had died bravely in the last stand, dragging many Kaklanis to Hell with them. To the last man, they had stayed at his side.

To the last man, they had perished.

Cursing, Conan shoved the memory aside. He watched bold carrion fowl rip chunks of meat from putrefying corpses. The gentle slosh of the surf was accompanied by the flap of wings, the shrill cries of feasting birds, and the rude tearing of ravening beaks.

Conan pondered his options, looking away from the battlefield to the sparkling water. Thin ribbons of cloud hovered in the sky, unmoving. In the distance, he saw a cross-shaped speck that might have been a ship, its mast and furled sail drifting slowly. He heard the gentle whisper of the ocean beckon him, but he refused to heed its call. His prospects were better here, with his feet planted on firm ground.

Besides, he had work to do yet. He yawned, returning his eyes to the grim sights around him. He felt unrested, although he had slept all night. He rubbed at the base of his aching skull, unable to recall having been struck. Of course, when the fever of battle seized him, he often failed to notice such injuries until his bruised body reminded him later. Perhaps his nightmare had been the residue of a nasty knock. Drawing in a breath of pungent sea air, he set himself to the unpleasant task at hand.

Conan began to gather the bodies of his men. He piled them and their weapons atop a mound of sticks and lit a pyre, as befitted their custom. For their loyalty and bravery, they deserved better than the belly of a bird.

For hours, Conan bent his back to the disheartening task of retrieving his dead. He shed no tears for the fallen and shouldered no further guilt for their fate. They had accompanied him of their own free will and died bravely. He had avenged them. The Cimmerian dragged the last few from the water’s edge, noting that the lips of one of his men— Ari, his second-in-command and a worthy rogue—were slowly moving.

Ari’s eyes were closed. Conan bent down to revive him and offer him a waterskin, before jerking it back with a grunt of surprise. The movement he had seen came from a small crab inside Ari’s mouth, feasting upon the tender meat inside. The Cimmerian brushed off this scavenger as it emerged from the dead man’s mouth. Skewering the thing with his sword, he pulled a raw, pink chunk from the crab’s claw. It was all that remained of Ari’s tongue.