Conan and the Shaman's Curse (9 page)

Conan swayed, puzzled by this sight. The man’s words were a muddle to his weary brain. Blood and sweat blurred his vision, and his sword slipped from nerveless fingers as the Cimmerian toppled toward the suppliant old Ganak.

“Kulunga!” the Ganak cried in surprise, reaching out his arms to break Conan’s fall. He caught Conan under the arms and lifted him, looking into the Cimmerian’s half-lidded eyes. But the bone-weary barbarian simply hung there, not looking back. Grunting, the tall Ganak dragged Conan away from the pile of dead Kezati and laid him upon the beach, splashing water onto his face.

“You are a fool, Jukona.” The man who spoke laughed, wiping at the blood that covered his yellow triangles. He struck his oar deep into the beach of bone and walked toward the white-haired Ganak.

Jukona drew himself up to his full height and crossed his arms, gripping bulging biceps in his hands. “Mock me if you must, Ngomba. But mock him”—he gestured toward Conan—“and the Ghanuta will be fought when we return to Ganaku.” He smiled thinly, but his eyes were black glaciers of gleaming ice.

Shrugging, Ngomba returned the smile and bowed. “That is not Kulunga, old one. Kulunga is a whisper who lives on the lips and in the ears of dreamers and fools. And I am neither of these.” He sighed and wiped the blood and sweat from his face, looking at the handful of slashed, weary Ganaks limping away from the battlefield. Including Ngomba and Jukona, only seven of thirty men remained.

Jukona spoke again, but a tremor of doubt had crept into his voice. “If he is not Kulunga, then Kulunga sent him. He carried the atnalga in battle. It is strange that he is so small. But by Muhingo, never has one warrior—not even you, Ngomba—slain so many Kezati!”

Ngomba scowled. “The night is young.”

Jukona’s brow furrowed as he looked at Conan. “We cannot leave him here. The Kezati gatherers will return for their own carrion at sunrise. We must take the stranger to Ganaku.”

Ngomba shrugged. “If you deem it necessary. We have work to do before they return. We must tear off the heads, so that the spirits of their dead will not haunt this place.” Nodding, Jukona gestured toward a few of the Ganak warriors. “I will tend to the stranger. There will be a great feast when we return! By Muhingo, we have driven them away! They will not dare to return for many moons. We may never again see the shores of bone!”

“I hope you are right, old one,” said Ngomba. “But there were so many of them left, more than in the tales of my grandfather. You are a stone, Jukona, if tonight you can sink in the waters of sleep. I shall drift with open eyes, floating on waves of doubt.”

A frown flickered across Jukona’s lips, but he did not reply to the younger Ganak.

Five Ganaks joined the two at the water’s edge, silently awaiting Jukona’s instructions. Nasty gashes, tom flesh, and bleeding scalps were the only injuries visible among them. The Kezatis had borne away the more seriously hurt warriors. Jukona and Ngomba seemed least affected by the gruelling battle that raged from midday to sunset. The others shuffled along with flat expressions; losing so many of their kin had robbed the joy from their victory.

Following Jukona’s orders, they placed Conan in the centre of a palm boat. “I shall row in front,” he told them. “Pomja, you must hold him in place. Bunoab, you will row behind Pomja.”

Ngomba stared at the ground, where Conan’s sword lay. He bent, reaching for its stained hilt.

“Ngomba, no!” Jukona shouted, leaping toward the young Ganak.

“Why?” Ngomba asked, pausing. His fingers hovered near the weapon, but he did not grasp it.

“Only Kulunga or his chosen one may touch the atnalga. Will you bring the anger of Muhingo upon us? Leave it, I say!”

Ngomba shook his head, seizing the sword’s grip with fingers so large and powerful they could have fit a hilt twice its girth. Jukona flinched, raising a hand to his ashen face. The eyes of five Ganaks widened. Gibbering, the men flung themselves to the sand. Ngomba clumsily held the sword, shifting it in his hand. “What did you say, Jukona?” he snorted. “Only Kulunga or his chosen one?” Jukona stared incredulously.

Raising the stained blade high above his head, Ngomba pointed it away from the vanishing sun. “To the boats! I, Kulunga’s chosen one, shall lead you home.” His tone was mocking, but brooked no defiance.

The Ganaks rose and made ready their vessels. “What of him?” pleaded Jukona, nodding toward Conan’s slumped form.

Before answering, Ngomba pressed his thick lips together in contemplation. His dark eyes glowered at the Cimmerian. “He remains here. Take him out! Kulunga will save him... if he is worthy. Let him lie.”

Jukona clenched his teeth tightly, but he made no objection. Lifting Conan out of the boat, the Ganak lugged him to a nearby palm tree and set him against its trunk. When Ngomba was looking elsewhere, he scratched something in the sand beside the Cimmerian. Then he rose and joined the other warriors.

There were more boats than there were able-bodied oarsmen. One vessel was dragged into the brush and spare oars were piled next to it. “We shall return to retrieve it and the boat sticks,” Ngomba said unnecessarily, as if he enjoyed hearing himself give a command.

Each Ganak pushed a boat into the tide, paddling in the direction opposite the setting sun. Ngomba led, followed by Jukona, Bunoab, Pomja, and the others. When the water was deep enough to row, they each straddled their boat’s central trunk, which served as the rower’s bench. Rowing slowly, they began putting distance between themselves and the bloody beach of skulls. As the last rays of sunlight sparkled on the crimson sand, the Ganaks vanished into the darkening eastern horizon.

VIII

Into the Jungle

When Conan’s eyes opened, he wondered if the battle with the Kezati had been a strange dream. But in the dawn’s brightness, he saw scarlet proof that the melee had been no phantom spawn of his slumbering mind. He remembered collapsing in front of the old man... where were the Ganaks? They must have laid him here, beneath the tree.

A night of sleep without dreams had restored some of his vigour. The recent memory of his transformation summoned crimson ghosts that haunted him. Something was wrong with him still, for these bouts of deep sleep were unnatural. Even after an arduous battle, his repose should be as light as a panther’s. He longed to discover the nature of the blasted shaman’s curse—or more importantly, to reverse its effects. To that end, he had made little progress.

His hand reached instinctively for his sword, but the weapon was nowhere in sight. Irked, he stood and scanned the beach to see if the Ganaks lay nearby, perhaps slumbering. Eerie silence pressed upon him, and Conan’s instincts told him he was again alone on the isle. Rising, he took a step but quickly leaped backward. He had nearly planted his foot on a drawing in the sand.

Large footprints nearby told him that one of the Ganaks had hastily sketched the marks. An arrow pointed away from a lopsided crescent, obviously the island. A series of symbols, meaningless to him, followed a line from the point of the arrow to what Conan assumed to be another island, this one much larger than the crescent. Small circles spotted the perimeter of the island. Near its centre, the anonymous artist had traced the outline of his sword.

“Belial’s beard!” he swore, kicking at the sand beside the crude map and nearly erasing the marks. Those Ganaks had a fine way of showing their appreciation for his part in their battle. No doubt the curving symbols offered an explanation, but to the Cimmerian they were as enigmatic as the spell-runes of Khitan wizards. Frustrated, he studied them for a span, as if the passage of time would imbue them with meaning.

Growing restless, he gave up and walked toward the beach. The morning sun revealed tracks. Following them into the brush, he saw the stack of oars and the single boat. Perhaps they meant for him to row himself to that island... maybe they had seen others like him— Kulunga?—who came from that island. Whatever their reasons for abandoning him, his course was clear.

Climbing a nearby tree, he knocked more coconuts from it, wolfing down their meats and guzzling their milk before pulling the boat to the shore. Before leaving, he memorized the map, hoping the large island was not too distant.

The Ganak boat’s design was a model of simple efficiency, albeit suited for a larger oarsman. The Cimmerian had broken a length from the end of the oar, making it easier to wield. Rhythmic, alternating strokes carried him across the gentle waves until the beach was but a white dot in the horizon. It was then that a perturbing thought surfaced, upsetting his rowing beat. What had become of the vultures’ bodies? He could not recall seeing them, only their heads, strewn in disorderly heaps across the beach. Had the Ganaks decapitated every one and tossed the headless corpses into the sea? Conan had travelled the length and breadth of many lands, encountering all manner of outlandish and repugnant customs. From what little he knew of the Ganaks, he already considered them among the oddest.

Shaking his head and trying not to dwell upon the memory of those disembodied dead, he bent his back to the oar. Eager to be away from the isle of skulls, he rowed with fervent strokes, muscles bulging and rippling under his sun-bronzed skin.

Before the sun reached its apex, his destination loomed large before him. Grateful for the short and uneventful voyage, he eased his rowing and stretched, studying the approaching coastline. His elation at reaching land banished the fatigue from his arms and back.

This island looked more promising than the last. Dark green jungle choked most of the sloping shore, thickening to a dense, leafy wall in the island’s centre. A few quick strokes brought him closer to the bright white beach. Gulls and crabs wandered idly amid green weeds and pink shells. The murmur of the surf and the songs of sea birds mixed with the gentle splash of Conan’s rowing. This island presented a wholesome and natural aspect, more to Conan’s liking than the brooding malevolence of silent beach he had put behind him.

Certainly this place dwarfed that strange isle. At first it had not seemed so large, but as Conan came closer, its depth became more apparent. He estimated it to be six, perhaps seven times the size of the crescent island, and the jungle stretched back as far as he could see. The beach sloped slightly upward, giving way to man-high brush that in turn became increasingly thick with fronds and vine-layered trees. Many of the latter rose to impressive heights, as tall as any Conan had seen in Kush—or even along the forbidding banks of the Zarkheba River, where no humans had dwelt since Atlantis sank.

Indeed, this island had the same primordial sense that permeated the lands south of Kush. Conan doubted that any cartographer’s quill had ever sketched this shoreline.

Guiding the boat toward the exact spot indicated on the Ganak’s map, Conan watched the beach for any signs of life. Aside from long-legged birds and scuttling crabs, he saw no evidence of habitation. The jungle probably concealed creatures of all sorts, and Conan refused to give up hope that this place might provide clues to where the mainland lay. The Ganak had drawn that map for a reason, which the Cimmerian intended to know.

He poled his boat to the beach, sliding off the trunk when the water was only chest deep. He relished the feel of rock and sand beneath his feet. The placid bay teemed with tiny striped fish, darting from his intrusive approach. Casting a wary eye into the clear waters, he looked for dangers lurking nearby. When he stepped on a large rock, he felt a sudden rush of water past his legs and instantly pulled himself up, clinging to the boat.

What he had trod upon was no rock, but the shell of an enormous clam, so huge it could have easily swallowed him from the waist down. Its thick, rough jaws, blending in with the sand and rocks, had fooled even his discerning gaze. Luckily, their sudden movement had forced a current of water past his ankles, alerting him just in time. He had never seen a clam of such incredible proportions. Apparently it possessed an appetite to match its size. He quickly leapt back onto the boat, remaining there for the brief trip to the shore.

He sorely missed his sword. Bereft of blade or even garments, he was armed only with his instincts and wits. These weapons had won many battles for him in the past, and they would deliver him from his present predicament. Muttering a curse, he reminded himself to keep his senses sharp, lest this island become his tomb.

While pulling the boat ashore, he warily eyed the waving emerald jungle. Its sun-splashed fronds rustled gently in the warm sea breeze, beckoning him to enter and seek shade from the hot sun. Conan ignored their summons, leaving his boat upon the short, sloping hill of sand that led to the trees. The oar he kept. Stick-fighting was an eastern art, not one that suited him, and pole weapons were of limited use in close combat. Even so, the oar’s sharp end might prove useful.

Conan scanned the beach for any signs of recent passage. He saw none, but the jungle seemed to thin out in the spot indicated on the Ganak’s crude map. Visualizing the symbols in that drawing, he recalled one: a circle with a distinctive mark in the centre, drawn at the edge of the beach. Perhaps it meant danger, a warning about the huge clam. Frowning, Conan tried to recall the other dozen or so symbols like it that had been sprinkled throughout the map.

As the Cimmerian moved toward the place where the jungle thinned, he noted that the fine white sand became more soft and moist, and its colour. deepened from brilliant white to a yellowish ivory. Thin shoots of grass sprang up and thickened, carpeting the soggy ground. In spite of the soft breeze, a sweet odour of swamp rot tainted the air here.

A spear-cast away lay seven Ganak boats. Conan moved toward them, crossing what had become ankle-deep muck. Thick clouds of blue-black flies buzzed about the tree boats, apparently attracted by thick patches of blood that stained the wood. The Kezati had left their mark upon the Ganak survivors, it seemed.

Standing in the marsh, Conan scratched the stubble on his chin, wondering what direction the Ganaks had travelled after leaving their boats here. Farther inland, the marsh became a dense swamp of reeds and vines, melding with the jungle. The Cimmerian’s tracking skills were formidable, but not even a Pictish scout could follow a trail through that morass of sludge-spawned flora.