Conan and the Shaman's Curse (23 page)

With a start, Conan realized that all of the vines in the ruins sprouted from this single abomination. The pale stalks were akin to roots, but instead of drawing sustenance from the soil, they drew it from above... from the bodies of hapless prey. For how many centuries had this abhorrent behemoth skulked beneath the ruins, spreading outward, feasting on anything that came within its reach?

So unholy was the nature of this creature that the fact of its existence sent a violent shiver of disgust through his body. The thing belonged in the nightmares of deranged demons, not in the world of the living. Conan’s mind reeled and his arms and legs refused to move; the blasphemous plant-beast gripped him in invisible bonds.

Makiela’s eyes snapped open, meeting Conan’s slack-jawed stare with an expression of mingled terror and agony. She opened her mouth, but a stalk shifted its coils from her neck to cover the lower half of her face, smothering her cry.

She’s alive... as the others may be! Appalled but galvanized by new hope, Conan clenched his Akbitanan sword tightly and sprang toward that hunkering monstrosity.

A mouth-like gap opened in the thing’s bloated base. A noxious cloud of pulpy spores belched from the maw, splattering the Cimmerian. The cold, slippery globs burned like fire, immediately turning his flesh a hue of virulent red. Had his eyes not closed instinctively, the caustic stuff would doubtless have blinded him. Its pungency alone would have knocked down most doughty warriors, but such was Conan’s rage that he ignored both the stench and the pain that stabbed at every pore of his flesh.

He was halfway to the thing, dashing madly across the vine-bedecked floor.

The mouth-slit parted again, but Conan jumped to one side, dodging its greasy discharge.

Swinging with fury that lent him the strength of ten men, he struck a mighty blow at the thing’s distended belly. The blade sliced through thick, fibrous membranes and sheathed itself in the soft vitals beneath. Another spray of spores fountained from the slimy maw, narrowly missing him. A thousand leafy tentacles writhed and thrashed, and the wounded thing squirmed. It lifted itself from the floor with a prolonged ripping sound that was followed by a loud pop.

Vines flailed at Conan, but he heeded them not, thrusting his steel into the lacerated belly with such force that blade, hilt, and arm sank into the monstrous innards. A nameless organ burst with wet flatulence, spewing clammy green sludge from the puncture. But the thing’s appendages were unrelenting. They hung from him like a living robe, constricting his limbs and spoiling his balance. Flexing mightily, Conan extended his arms and kicked outward with his feet, snapping dozens of vines and loosening others. Before they could regroup, he hacked at the bulbous creature with powerful blows that would have felled a stout tree.

Oozing from a half-score of slashes, it slumped to one side, its tendrils slackening, the crimson stalks hanging limply from its body. Like a punctured wineskin it sagged and flopped over, unmoving. The chamber was silent but for Conan’s ragged breathing and the burble of muck that still trickled from the obscene husk.

Conan took an awkward step backward, chest heaving. The vines had scrubbed the acidic spores from his skin, leaving marks that resembled rope bums but naught else. He had feared the deadly effects of poison, but the spores had apparently lacked any such danger. His whitened knuckles loosened around the hilt of his sword as he regained some of his composure. Prodding the fibrous, glistening remains, he allayed his concerns that any life remained in the green devil. He bent down and began yanking at the vines that still encircled the stricken Ganaks.

Makiela coughed and stirred, her movements feeble. Avrana and Kanitra still breathed, but the pale hue of their skin made apparent their severe loss of blood. Incredibly, Makiela struggled to her feet, hand gingerly rubbing her throat. The paint that had once covered her body was largely rubbed away, her skin indented everywhere with vine marks but deeply cut in only five or six places... where the plant’s tongues had fed.

Makiela shook off a pale, limp stalk that still clung to her leg. The eyes on it stared lifelessly at her, and she kicked it away in disgust. “Thank you, warrior of Cimmeria,” she rasped weakly.

Nodding, Conan tore the last of the stalks from the unconscious women. His brow furrowed as a new problem presented itself. He stood ankle-deep in a puddle of slick green slush. A moment ago, the same clammy muck had not even covered his toes. He laboured to breathe as if inhaling and exhaling something thicker than air. The overpowering reek was the essence of putrefaction, as if the sewage of an entire city had been pumped into the spreading puddle that lapped at the tops of his ankles.

Apparently, the malignant growth had blocked the flow of water to the fountain above it and the wells in the buildings above. Conan remembered the ripping sound and the subsequent loud pop. Without the beast stoppering the subterranean well, this room and its connecting corridors would soon fill up with the stagnant seepings from below. If it were merely water, Conan would be less concerned with the slow influx. But however clear and pure it might have been, centuries of contact with the hideous plant-monster had fouled it. The Y’Taba had spoken of a terrible curse laid upon the fountain by Jhaora’s gods...

“Can you walk?” Conan asked Makiela.

“I—I think so,” she answered groggily, steadying herself against a wall.

Conan reckoned that she would manage under her own power. The other Ganaks were another matter. Carrying two women of normal size would present only minimal difficulty for Conan, but exhausted as he was, he did not think he could bear these two giants all the way back through the tunnels. He had no choice but to try. Crouching, he lifted Avrana over one shoulder and Kanitra over the other. Straightening his bent knees, he took ponderous steps across the vine-choked floor.

The stems were no longer taut. Some of them had slid down from the walls, others were strewn in disarray at his feet. Near the edge of the room where the puddle had not yet risen, there were now gaps in the thick, leafy mass. Through them, Conan could see the ancient remnants of countless feasts. The floor was covered with myriad remains—bones from birds of small and large species mingled with those of tall humanoids, either Rahaman, Ganak, or both. There were husks and carapaces of huge insects— even the fibrous skeletons of stalkers. How many victims had been dragged into this den and sucked dry... and had Kulunga been among them?

If the atnalga lay in this corpse-pit, it would stay there. There was no time to rummage through the pile of bones, even if Conan had been so inclined. He would have to hope that Kulunga had avoided the clutches of the vines. When he and the others reached the surface, he would first see what was in the tower directly above.

Makiela followed him out of the room, glancing once over her shoulder.

Behind them, the pool spread like green blood from a slashed throat, ebbing inexorably toward the corridors that it would soon pervade. The light from the crystal basin receded as they wended their way through the tunnels. Progress was agonizingly slow. Laden with weight nearly twice his own, Conan had no choice but to pace himself. He stooped and shuffled all the way, retracing his footsteps by relying on a combination of memory and instinct. When darkness utterly engulfed them, he found it necessary to stop at intersections. They could not afford to become lost in these corridors, and finding one’s way was damnably difficult in this stone maze.

It was at an intersection that Conan stepped into a shallow puddle. Cursing, he kicked at the wall, nearly overbalancing and dropping one of the women. “We should be well ahead of this by now,” he muttered.

“In this place, even I cannot tell how far we have walked or what direction we have taken.” Makiela’s voice wavered, lacking its usual assurance despite her words. Though she carried nothing, she could scarcely maintain Conan’s pace. Loss of blood had all but robbed her of strength.

But more trying than this, or so Conan judged, was her dread of the dark corridors themselves. He could sympathize, for she had spent her whole life outside under an open sky. There were people who could simply not abide enclosed spaces, and if she was of this sort, he was sure that only sheer willpower kept her going. He, too, was weary of the tunnels and longed to feel the sun’s rays.

He had unburdened himself and tried to climb some of the vines that disappeared into ceiling-holes, but the unattached tendrils were too slack to support him.

Perturbed by the unexpected wetness, he shifted the weight he carried and plodded on. They returned to the last intersection. Makiela stumbled and fell; Conan had to help her up, his hands encountering her blood-slicked arm as he did so. “Crom, girl!” His exasperation made his voice more gruff than he had intended. “Why did you not say you were still bleeding?”

“It is not so bad,” she mumbled. “It stopped for a while, but when I fell...” she trailed off, slumping back to the wall.

“Makiela? Up, girl!” he urged, gently shaking her. She responded with a long sigh.

“Ishtar! We are so close...” He shook her again, but could not disturb her deep breathing. He knew that he could not carry all three of them. His back had begun to cramp and even his legs ached. He propped Kanitra and Avrana gently against the wall and stretched his weary muscles, wondering if he should scout ahead for their destination while Makiela rested. No, he could not leave them all here.

Moments later, he slid down the wall and dozed off, his course of action still undecided.

Soaked in cold sweat, Conan awakened. His eyes snapped open, but it made no difference; all around him was the impenetrable gloom of the tunnel. His nightmare had been bad, but he remembered no details, just waking up before he drowned...

“Crom!” the curse tore from his lips as he jumped to his feet. It was not sweat that drenched him—it was oily slime that had risen to the level of his chin. Shivering, he grabbed Makiela’s arm and hauled her up but could not revive her. Her breath was faint, too shallow for his liking.

He hated to do it, but he had no choice. Gathering what vines he could, he wrapped them loosely around her and the others to secure them in a standing position. The vines were loose, and he prayed that they would hold until he could find Sajara. He should have thought of it before— she could carry Makiela.

He sloshed doggedly through the swampy muck. The vines overhead began to thin as he had hoped, and a dim residue of light became visible.

“At last, by Crom,” he breathed in relief, his spirits lifting as he hastened toward the dim glow emanating from far ahead. “Sajara!” he shouted. When the echoes faded, he called out again, hoping that she would respond.

“Conan?” the whisper reached him, rebounding from the walls ahead. Sajara stepped into view.

“Quickly!” he shouted, gesturing for her to follow.

“Where are the others?” she asked breathlessly.

“Safe, I think. Come on!” They splashed along at a half-run. In between breaths, he gave her an abbreviated account of the harrowing battle.

“I would have sought you sooner, but the face of Asusa had sunk behind the wall. I could see nothing down there. The sky became dark, then light again. Finally I climbed down to look for you.”

Conan and the others had spent the whole night in that wretched tunnel, oblivious to the threat rising around them. Snorting in annoyance, the Cimmerian forged on. He would never forgive himself if the Ganak women died.

He had been more weary than he realized, but that was a poor excuse. And to lose even one of them after all they had been through... he clenched his fists as they hurried into the gloomy tunnel where he had left them.

But his makeshift knot of vines had held them up, and they all still breathed, albeit shallowly. He hoisted Avrana and Kanitra onto his shoulders; Sajara strained with the taller, bulkier form of Makiela and succeeded in lifting her. They proceeded back to the bunch of vines hanging from the wide opening in the ceiling. Conan gave the leafy rope a tentative tug.

“I wrapped it around a large stone and piled others on top,” Sajara said. “It should bear your weight.”

Conan carefully hauled himself up, relieved to be out of the stinking swill at last. He reminded himself to clean his sword thoroughly.

One by one they raised the unconscious women, Sajara tying them to the vines and Conan lifting. It seemed to take forever, but at last they were out of the corridors. He kicked down the barrier of stones that blocked their exit and stepped out, drinking in the sunlight like a parched man gulping water.

The lifeless vines, looking somewhat thinned but no less menacing, lay all about them. They made straight for the pool of water near the entrance, washing the greenish scum from their bodies and cleansing their wounds. Sajara had nothing that would serve to bind their cuts, but the skin had puckered around the ragged edges and closed them off anyway. She dabbed gently at the welts with some of the yagneb leaves they had left by the pool.

“We cannot leave them alone,” Conan said. “You must stay here while I explore the tower.”

Sajara shook her head. “We should not separate. Wait here with me until Makiela awakens. She is strong. Her body will heal quickly. By morning, she will be fit to watch over the others. Then you and I can face the tower together.”

“Better to face it now, even alone. We have lost too many days already, and these ruins are empty now. Can you not feel it?” He gestured toward the tower. “The guardian is slain, and nothing else dwells in these desolate walls. What if the Kezati strike your village in the morning? We an afford no further delay!”

“And if you never return from the tower, what then? I go where you go, Conan of Cimmeria. A Ranioba may not always choose her destination, but she may choose any path that leads to it—or make her own. Stay here, or venture into the tower, whatever you will.”

Conan had little doubt that this stubborn wench would leave the others behind if she had to. He fumed for a moment before throwing himself heavily onto the ground beside the pool. He could not abandon the Ganak women, and he would not waste further effort bickering with Sajara. He sat brooding, staring at the distant tower.