The Conan Compendium, page 46
Conan and Elashi moved down the corridor, and left bodies piled upon the floor as they walked. Many of the undead came to embrace the Source of Light, though now the Cimmerian thought it more the Source of Death. Others still fled when they felt the power. Conan wondered if a direct touch was needed. He suspected it was not, but he had no notion of how to operate the device, and it was just as well. That kind of power could be seductive. Better a man did not tempt himself that way.
They moved down the hall, the only two living people, re-releasing to death the souls of all who wished it.
Neg stormed along the corridors, rage stirring his black heart. He would find this barbarian and he would turn his death-gaze upon the fool until the man withered into ash! The disruption in his plans did more than irritate him, it was an affront to his entire being! He had not lived all the centuries, planning and scheming to get this far to be stopped by some barbarian!
Skeer, spiders in tow, reached Neg's crystal chamber. The bodies lying sprawled were so deeply piled in places he had to climb over them, to see that the room no longer held the magical device. So. Conan and the woman had managed to beat Neg's formidable defenses. Amazing.
He began to follow the trail of corpses, some of which now were little more than dry bones. When the True Death claimed them, the preserving spell had vanished, and the corruption had been vastly accelerated. Or, perhaps, maybe just resumed where it had left off before Neg's call. That thought pleasured him not at all, especially when he contemplated his own dissolution; still, if somehow Neg lost control of him permanently, then he could adjust to living-or not living-this way. Something could be found to replace women and hemp. What, he could not say, but with enough time, something could be arranged.
The trick, then, was to see that Neg died or was rendered permanently inert somehow, without losing his own semblance of life. Might be tricky, that.
He hurried along, searching for Conan and Elashi.
The spiders crawled over the bodies, apparently without the slightest bit of interest in them.
Once-bright tapestries hung on the walls of the central meeting chamber, a room large enough to seat a hundred comfortably. The years had faded the drapes to dull tones, and layers of dust and cobwebs coated the long table down the center of the room. The skylight allowed the rays of the morning sun into the chamber, albeit filtered through iron bars thick with red rust. The nearly perpetual rain had yet to make its appearance on this morn, and the chamber held enough light to see with clarity.
Into the central room came Neg, through the south hallway.
At the same moment, Conan and Elashi entered the chamber via the north corridor.
Slightly behind Conan, Skeer and his tarantulas moved.
The four stood still for a heartbeat.
"So," Neg said. "You are the cause of my consternation!"
"Aye," Conan said, hefting his sword. "And you caused the death of my friend."
"I have caused many deaths, barbarian. I deal in death."
"My father among them," Elashi said.
Neg laughed. "And you, Skeer? Have you a complaint?"
Skeer hesitated. If Neg triumphed . . .
"No matter," Neg said. "Your treachery has earned you my ire. When these two fall, I shall attend to you."
Skeer felt his stomach roil.
Conan shifted his feet into a fighting stance, sword raised. He began to inch forward in small, carefully balanced steps.
Neg stood with his arms folded, watching.
Elashi raised her sword and also moved for Neg.
The necromancer affected a pose of disdain.
Conan saw that the man bore no weapons, at least none that were obvious. Ordinarily, he would care little for striking down an unarmed man, but Neg hardly fit into the category of ordinary. A quick, clean death was too good for him, but it was Conan's way; he would not stoop to torture.
When the Cimmerian was nearly close enough to leap and destroy the wizard, Neg raised one hand and held stiffened fingers pointing at Conan. "My eyes," he said.
Without thinking, Conan glanced up to lock gazes with the other man.
And could not look away.
Neg's eyes seemed to swirl with color, and they bored into Conan like a dagger. Suddenly, Conan felt his knees grow weak, as did his arms. The sword drooped, and he felt as if he were moving through thick mud . . . .
Elashi darted in then, her shorter blade raised to split Neg's skull. He snapped his gaze from Conan to the woman. She stopped, as if running into a rubbery wall. The sword fell from her fingers, and she sat down and covered her eyes with her hands, sobbing.
Conan felt some of his strength return, and he gathered himself to spring at the necromancer.
Neg looked away from Elashi and back at the Cimmerian, and the weakness enveloped him like a weighted blanket. Lifting the anvil at the trader's seemed easy compared to keeping his eyes open. If he could just lie down and rest for a moment, he could slay the villain later . . . .
"Do not sleep!" Skeer yelled. "It is the death-gaze! You will never awake if you stop now!"
Neg smiled at Skeer. "I have had enough of your crossings, Skeer!"
With that, Neg waved both hands in Skeer's direction, as if casting dust.
Conan managed to look at Skeer. The zombie groaned, and began to shrivel. In a few seconds, he looked like a grape left in the sun too long. The moan caught in his throat, and he fell. His skin turned to parchment, his flesh seemed to melt from under it, and after three heartbeats, a mummified skeleton lay on the chamber floor where Skeer had been.
The big spiders swarmed over the corpse, highly agitated.
"Now," Neg said, "to finish this unpleasant business."
He turned back toward Conan.
Conan struggled to take the final two steps that would allow him to reach Neg. He managed one, and then stopped, as if cast in iron. He could not move. He could hear Elashi crying softly behind him, and he regretted that she would die, but there was nothing he could do. He would not give up, but he could . . . not . . . move. . . .
Neg screamed.
Conan shook his head as the spell slackened slightly.
It was the spiders. They attacked Neg. He slapped at them, smashing and flinging them from him, but those who were not killed darted back at him, clambering up his legs and biting wherever they could reach.
With the fall of Skeer, the spiders' confusion ended. Skeer was dead, but his essence was finally seen to have been transferred to Neg. And Neg was alive. They could now fulfill their mission, the Shes, and so they did.
Conan raised the sword. It weighed as much as a boulder! He shuffled his foot forward half an inch. His feet were nailed to the floor "Die!" Neg screamed.
The spiders fell away from him, rolling onto their backs, some of them, legs fluttering in the still air.
Conan strained against a mountain in his way, shoving as though through solid rock Neg looked up from the twitching spiders at Conan.
"No!" He shot one hand up.
Conan contracted the muscles of his back and shoulders and stomach and brought the sword down with all the power he had left.
The edge of the sharped blue iron hit Neg square on the head. The chunk! of the blade opening the skull was lost in a sudden rush of what seemed a foul wind bursting forth from Neg's head. The stench gagged Conan, and he released the sword and fell to his knees.
The tapestries blew in the unnatural wind. The dust in the chamber stirred into a blinding storm. Conan rubbed at his eyes.
When it cleared, on the floor next to Conan was a pool of corruption, a greasy puddle of red and black fluid, oozing over the flagstones.
And Neg the Malefic was no more.
Chapter Twenty-three
At a village in the middle of nowhere, a great cry suddenly rent the air as the voices of many dead-undead thousands gave out a ragged cheer.
Partial freedom had been achieved.
In Neg's inner sanctum, Conan and Elashi found Tuanne, freed of the necromancer's control. The two women wept for joy, and Conan had to admit to himself that he was happy to see the zombie girl, not to mention being more than a little pleased at still being alive.
"You killed him," Tuanne said.
"Conan did," Elashi said. "With the help of Skeer's spiders, of all things." She explained the final battle with Neg.
When she had done, Tuanne smiled. "A brave man, is our Conan." Both women turned to smile at him.
"And now what?" Conan said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable somehow.
"We must use the talisman to free the walking dead," Tuanne said. "If you will help me? I cannot touch the Source directly."
"Of course," Elashi said.
The two women drew aside. Conan heard them mumbling together. He kept one portion of his mind on the women, but another part stayed alert for any of the zombies or Men With No Eyes who might still be lurking about the castle. Correction, the stinking castle: the odor that permeated the air made the smell of a charnel house seem like delicate flowers. Breathing such noxious fumes could hardly be a healthy, worthwhile endeavor.
"Best we go outside," Tuanne said.
"Aye. "
The three of them went to the lowered drawbridge and crossed the moat. Once outside, they turned back to face the castle. If anything living-or dead-stirred save themselves, Conan could not see it.
"Hold the device thusly," Tuanne said. She gestured, and Elashi took the proper grip from her example.
"Yes. Now, say the words, Quodnecesant "
Elashi repeated the words.
"-sibidamnononerit-"
"-sibidamnononerit " Elashi finished.
There came a rumble from within the castle. The sky over it suddenly seemed to brighten. No, it did grow brighter! Almost as if a new sun had appeared there.
Conan blinked against the glare.
The light flashed, then, sending out thousands of beams, like a stylized rendition of the sun done by a mad artist. As quickly as it had come, the glow died.
The Disguise Master, running tirelessly next to Brute, with whom he now had much more in common than before, saw the man next to him speared with a lance of bright light. A second later, he felt a similar spear enter his own spine.
Both died the True Death instantly.
Malo the priest rejoined his ancestors in the Gray Lands, transfixed by the fiery rod for a second before he tumbled from a high mountain pass into eternity.
All over the land, those who had been plucked from the afterlife by Neg's sorcery were returned to it. Outside the nameless village, several thousand fell at once, as if they were puppets with their strings cut by a giant razor.
Totally free now, they were.
And outside the castle Tuanne turned to Elashi. "If you would wrap the talisman in a piece of cloth or purse, please?"
Elashi dropped the Source of Light into her purse, pulled the leather bag from her belt, and passed it to Tuanne.
"Thank you. My proximity to it, oddly enough, protected me from the splash that took my fellow zombies." She hefted the bag. "I will touch it directly. There are some nice trees over there, I think I shall do it there."
Elashi started to cry. "Must you? I-we have come to care for you." She glanced at Conan, who nodded briefly.
"Come here," Tuanne said softly.
When Conan and Elashi were close enough, Tuanne put her arms around both of them, and hugged them tightly. "You have been lovers and friends to me," she said, "and I shall remember you through all eternity. But I must go. I am a hundred years past my time."
Elashi's tears continued to stream.
Conan turned his head away for a moment, to brush at something that had gotten into his eye.
Elashi said, "W-w-would you like us to . . . to-?"
"No. I would rather you remember me as I am now," Tuanne said. "It will be quick, and there will be little left, after a hundred years."
Conan rubbed at his other eye. Dust, it had to be.
"Fare thee well," Tuanne said. She turned, and walked toward a small grove of evergreen trees. Elashi watched her go, until Conan tugged gently at her arm.
"What are you doing?"
"She wants privacy," Conan said. "Let us give her that. "
Elashi turned toward Conan and pressed her face against his chest.
"Do you still wish the talisman? I could retrieve it for you, after Tuanne-"
"No. Let it rest with her bones. Better that we should both remember her as she was."
"Aye."
They walked away from the edge of the moat, and Conan felt a discomfort he could not quite define.
"What will you do now?" Conan asked.
"Return to my tribe in the desert," Elashi said. "I must report upon this to my brothers and uncles. And what of you?" Elashi asked.
Conan shrugged. "I was bound for Zamora before. I see no reason to change my destination."
"Shall we travel together until I turn south? I suddenly feel alone."
"Aye," Conan said. "Why not?"
The two of them walked away from the dead castle, and neither looked back at the small grove of evergreen trees.
Conan the Hunter
The Lurker Below
In a tunnel deep under Brythunia's capital city, Conan smelled the rotting stench of death. A sudden, wet, sucking noise and an unnatural bubbling squeal sent a chill down his spine. As he readied his sword, he made out the form of a nightmarish horror rising from the ooze.
The beast was huge; its slime-coated bulk filled the entire tunnel.
Slobbering obscenely, it splashed toward the Cimmerian, who stumbled back, trying to stay out of its reach. A dozen long tentacles, each hairy on top and covered with spongy suckers on the underside, waved around it.
Suddenly, without warning, several of the tentacles lashed out, coiling tightly around Conan's leg and waist in a viselike grip. Slowly Conan was dragged into the noisome creature's central maw, wide enough to swallow a man whole. Conan groped desperately for his sword, but it lay just beyond his fingertips.
The mighty barbarian was helpless; futilely, he thrashed about, unable to prevent the beast from hauling him into its slavering orifice.
Prologue
An eerie silence shrouded the dim chamber, like thick fog on a dark, moonless night. Flickering candles illuminated a large ebon altar, which dominated the room. On the floor before the altar, a woman knelt.
Her pale, alabaster skin contrasted sharply with her coal-black hair and deep crimson robes. Her eyes glowed red like hot embers in a brazier, but the pupils were as black and shiny as a serpent's. She cast back her hood with thin, black-nailed fingers, revealing a visage that was compelling, yet evil beyond comprehension. It was the face of a woman with exotic beauty, immense power, and cold-blooded resolve.
The sinister altar was covered with unspeakable stains, thickest at the flat, circular top and thinner near the base. One stain glistened wetly in the dim light; from it, thin rivulets had run down the sides of the altar to form fresh pools on the floor. The chamber reeked of death.
A large bronze door rasped open into the room. Beyond the door was a dark hallway fitted with deep, plush carpet. The candlelight revealed a tall, thin man standing in the doorway. He was hairless but for a wispy, almost imperceptible white beard. Wrinkles crisscrossed his pale skin. In his left hand was a ring of keys; his right hand still grasped the intricately carved wooden door handle. He let go of the handle, knelt in the doorway, and lowered his head.
He spoke in a high-pitched, lilting voice that was silkier than his flowing, pale blue robes.
"Azora, most Revered Priestess, I have come in answer to your summons."
She rose slowly from the floor and turned toward the doorway. Her eyes flickered with ill-concealed contempt as they took him in.
"Ah, Lamici. It will not be long before the final rites are complete.
You will be well rewarded, eunuch."
The last was emphasized, as if to remind him of his station. Azora's voice was rich and deep. It filled the room and echoed faintly. She gestured toward the top of the altar by tilting her head.
"You may dispose of this carrion."
"At once, Priestess."
He retreated briefly into the hallway and emerged bearing a large leather sack. Hesitating, he viewed the scene at the altar with an expression of evident distaste. Azora watched him with amusement. Weak, cowardly fool, she thought. As if he could sense this, he moved purposefully to the altar and reached up.
Hanging from the ceiling was the naked body of a once-beautiful young woman. Rusted iron manacles were clamped cruelly around both her ankles and suspended from heavy chains attached to huge metal rings set in the ceiling. Her long, golden-blonde hair hung down, almost touching the top of the blood-smeared altar. Jeweled silver bracelets gleamed on each of her slender wrists, and a bright silver chain hung from her neck. The body was unmarked, in spite of the wet puddles on the chamber floor. Her skin was a ghastly, bloodless white, and her eyes and mouth gaped unnaturally wide in an expression of extreme terror.
Lamici slid his sack around the lifeless form, carefully avoiding contact with any of the red blotches. He pulled the drawstrings tight just below the slender ankles. Gripping one ankle firmly and using his key, he unlocked the manacles. With a surprising show of strength, he slung the sack over his shoulder and lugged it out into the hallway. He paused briefly, carefully shutting the stout bronze door behind him.
Azora turned back to the altar and closed her eyes. With hands extended toward the altar, she began a slow, rhythmic chant. As her lips formed sounds and words in a language that had been old when Atlantis sank, the candles in the room flared up with scarlet fire. The blood streamed toward her in ribbons, and her outstretched hands absorbed the crimson flow. The chant ended abruptly when there was no more blood; the candles subsided to their normal flickering yellow glow.
Opening her eyes, she stepped back from the altar. She could feel the energy coursing through her whole body; no human could match her accelerated thoughts and reflexes. Soon she would have enough energy to invoke the ancient spells. With the waxing of the next moon, she would complete the final ritual to that end. Since her adolescence, she had studied primeval tomes written by high priests of the Thurian serpent-people. These grimoires, long believed lost or destroyed, told of potent sorcery that would prolong life and give complete dominion over mortal men and women.
