Conan and the Shaman's Curse (10 page)

Frustrated, Conan stubbornly examined the boats and the ground for even the slightest clue to where the Ganaks had gone. There had to be a village nearby. If so, it would likely be a goodly distance from this stinking fen. His questing eyes found not one footprint marking the spongy ground. Conan noticed that where he stepped, the loamy beach rose slowly and filled with water, wiping away signs of his passage.

Swatting a bloated blood-fly that had landed upon his calf, Conan glimpsed a bright object near one of the boats. A shell, from the necklace of the old Ganak! He picked it up, marvelling at how smooth and bright it was. This bauble would fetch a pretty price in the marketplaces of landlocked cities.

He wondered if it had fallen by chance or by design. Assuming the latter, he closed his hand around the conical red piece, trudging in the direction indicated by the shell’s tapered end.

He found another shell thirty paces away, this one a shiny purple wedge, wreathed in swirls of dark red. So the old one had marked the way. A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he followed a path that straddled swamp and jungle, weaving through the thickening fronds until they obscured the sea.

The cawing of birds and the buzzing of insects filled his ears. Swarming flies and whining mosquitoes followed him, biting and stinging. Irked, he listened intently for sounds that might warn him of other, more dangerous denizens of this primal forest. He heard no chattering of monkeys, no animal squeals, no predatory growls. The absence of these noises did little to relax him. Where birds lived, predators lurked. He took care to sidestep snakes that lay in the leafy residue, and he avoided a few hanging vines with curious attributes—such as eyes and scales.

Thickets of brush rose from the damp soil in a thousand shades of green. Leaves, the colour. of emeralds on black velvet, gave way to fronds of luminous, yellowish lime. Flowers of countless shapes and colours grew everywhere, and Conan took pains to avoid their petals when possible. The Cimmerian knew that a blossom’s beauty oft veiled lethal venom. Their fragrances ranged from the lightest of perfumes to the most bitter pungency. He took pains to breathe none of them too deeply. Many bore fruit. He quelled the urge to pluck these.

Slowing to accommodate shady surroundings, Conan glanced upward. His smile slipped away, replaced by a scowl. The breeze had become a wind, and dense clouds swept across the darkening sky. Moments later, the storm thundered and howled through the trees, unleashing rain that pelted the Cimmerian’s skin with stinging force. “Crom’s teeth!” he swore upward at the offending clouds before darting under the broad, moss-covered limb of a monstrous tree.

Shielded from the squall, he watched with dismay as the shallow water rose above his ankles, stirring up mud and silt. This irksome torrent would mask the shell trail. Glumly shaking his rain-soaked head, the Cimmerian slumped against the tree’s cushioned bark. At least the downpour kept the swarming insects at bay.

Gripping a small pile of shells in one hand and the oar in the other, Conan leaned against the tree and waited for the tempest to end.

IX

The Outcast

Behold Kulunga’s chosen one!” proclaimed Ngomba, waving his sword before a throng of wide-eyed Ganaks. The proud, muscle-bound warrior stood atop a mound of sun-baked mud, upraised blade sparkling in the golden beams of the morning sun. Behind him, the jungle rose in the distance like a waving wall of green. Thickets of tall reeds surrounded a dirt mound in the centre of a clearing where the Ganaks had gathered around Ngomba. The area marked the edge of the village of Ganaku, raised many generations before by Ngomba’s ancestors.

At the foot of the mound, five proud but weary Qanak warriors faced the crowd of men, women, and children. Scores of tall, dusky-skinned Ganaks listened to Ngomba’s words, their children fidgeting at their feet. Farther back, twenty-one old men sat on long benches—simple logs that formed the triangular perimeter of a crude amphitheatre.

These old men sat without moving, as wooden as the benches beneath them. Their wizened faces were without expression; their lips neither frowned nor smiled. Dark eyes gleamed like black pearls, focused on Ngomba. Most of the elders wore skirts of white and grey shells, cunningly strung to form a heavy, flexible fabric. Tinted patterns covered their bodies in designs similar to Ngomba’s but faded from yellow to hues of orange or amber. Many of the men bore no embellishments at all. But painted or not, all the aged men had long locks of white or grey hair that brushed the damp ground behind the log bench.

Ngomba spoke again. “Jukona, will you answer my challenge? Or do you concede to the chosen one?” he asked, sneering at the older Ganak. Jukona stood outside of the triangle, hands upon his hips.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Jukona answered in a resonant voice that boomed in every listener’s ears. “You are not the chosen one. You have stolen the atnalga from Kulunga’s chosen one, and you are unfit to be warrior-leader.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Jukona waited for the whispering to subside, then folded his arms across his massive chest, gazing sternly at the challenger. “I am ready for the Ghanuta. Are you?”

The warriors at the foot of the mound whispered excitedly to one another, and the women hushed their restless children. Then all attention shifted from Jukona to a huge elder who rose from one of the log benches. "No!” he boomed, his voice even louder than Jukona’s.

Silence engulfed the crowd; even the children stopped fidgeting. The elder’s massive frame was equal in height to Jukona’s but even more bulky. His skirt of shiny black shells clacked softly as he rose, and an ebony necklace rested upon his broad chest. His braid of hair swayed in the morning breeze like a thick length of silvery rope.

“There will be no Ghanuta. Three times has Jukona proven his worth, and he has led the warriors to victory. Ngomba, you must lay down the weapon. It was not yours to take. The one who fought beside you is a Ganak friend by his deeds; you were wrong to abandon him.

“We have heard enough, Ngomba. Now you must step down. Holding the atnalga does not make you the chosen one. If you are he who will deliver us from our ancient enemy, then you would be a poor choice for warrior-leader.” Nonplussed, Ngomba lowered the sword but stayed atop the mound. Clenching his teeth, he drove the blade into the hard-packed mud, burying it so deeply that its curving quillons touched the soil. “I obey your words, Y’Taba Spirit-Leader.”

The immense Ganak moved toward the mound, and the crowd parted before him. “You are young, Ngomba, and you know little of the legend of Kulunga. Even Jukona may have forgotten much about the chosen one of Muhingo.” He pointed at the young warrior. “Ngomba, step down from the place of speaking, that I may share the tale with all here.”

Y’Taba waited until the young warrior joined the others. Then the elder slowly ascended the hillock. With the craft of an expert storyteller, he let his eyes wander all over the crowd. Casting his deep voice like a net, he captured the attention of the assembly. “In ages long past, our first ancestors fought among themselves when their warrior-leader perished. Many warriors died, for none could agree on a choice for the next warrior-leader.” Y’Taba’s eyes misted, as if he were mourning those long-dead Ganaks.

“Then Muhingo War God, who receives the slain in his land of clouds, came to Ganaku. And he cried, for brothers killed brothers and sisters killed sisters, and tears of blood fell from the eyes of Muhingo, which is why the soil of our land is red. Then he told the Y’Taba to bring all Ganaks who still lived to the place of gathering—where we stand today.

“But Y’Taba’s heart was heavy, for he found only one warrior alive, a wise man named Kulunga. Most of our people had been slain; only the very young and very old had survived that foolish war. Muhingo asked Kulunga why he had not fought with his brothers. The wise warrior answered: ‘Our winged enemies approach, Muhingo War God. I see them coming from afar, and if we fight each other, they will surely destroy us.”

“The people saw that he spoke truly, for the Kezati horde loomed near the shores of our land. The people trembled, for certain death approached, borne on the wings of the evil ones. They begged Muhingo for mercy and pleaded for his protection. And he said: ‘Muhingo cannot save you from the children of his evil brother Ezat. Your folly has doomed you... unless Kulunga can drive away these winged bringers of death. Your heart is true, Kulunga. Will you stand before them?’

“Kulunga accepted the challenge laid before him, and Muhingo was pleased. From stones possessed of strange spirits, he moulded a mighty weapon: the atnalga. And he gave it to Kulunga, who stood fast upon this ground while the Kezati attacked. On that great day, one man saved all Ganaks, for our enemies could not withstand the atnalga. Kulunga then became warrior-leader. Before he passed into the lands of grey, his wisdom gave us the Ghanuta, by which all warrior-leaders are chosen. And Muhingo himself took up Kulunga and the atnalga, telling the Y’Taba that if the Ganaks again faced the doom of the Kezati, Kulunga would choose one warrior and bequeath to him the atnalga.''

Y’Taba smiled. “That day is not today, for Jukona and our warriors have driven back the children of Ezat. And this”—he raised the blade skyward—“this is not moulded as the weapon described in our legends. It is too straight, though its colour. and composition seem similar. This is not the atnalga. We must find the njeni and return—” A sudden commotion interrupted Y’Taba. The shell-clad elder turned, staring. From the tall reeds nearby, a small band of Ganak women came running.

Though not quite as tall as the warriors, these twenty-odd Ganaks moved with the bearing of fighters. Solid muscles layered their large-boned frames, and in spite of their size, they ran with the lithe grace of gazelles. They bore crude dagger-shaped shells, thrust into their snakeskin girdles, and each carried a shell-tipped spear. Every woman had one long, black braid, curling down the left side of her head, falling past her shoulders. The sweat of exertion gleamed on their olive-hued skin and bare, firm breasts. Spiral designs, blended in subtle hues of green and yellow, adorned their smooth skin from head to toe.

One woman among them wore a necklace that resembled Jukona’s. Its string was fashioned from tightly woven strands of hair. Snake fangs dangled from it, spaced between small iridescent shells. This young woman was shorter than the others by a good measure, and her body was smaller but more muscular. All the Ganaks were dark eyed, but Sajara’s eyes sparkled like aquamarine jewels, her flawless face setting her apart from the others like an exotic orchid in a thicket of rushes.

She approached the elder, who stood on the mound with hands resting on his hips. He regarded her with a slightly troubled expression.

“Your pardon, Y’Taba Spirit-Leader,” she began, scarcely winded from the exertion of running.

“You bring urgent news, Sajara?” His steely tone promised a rebuke for an unjustified interruption.

“A stranger has come to Ganaku,” she blurted. “Not Ganak. Short and pale-skinned, with eyes as blue as the sea, and hair here and here..she patted her hands on the front, sides, and back of her bare scalp.

“A man?” Y’Taba asked.

She grinned; the other women giggled. “Yes, but without marks—he bears no colours honouring his ancestors.” The comers of her mouth turned down, changing her smile into a concerned frown. “And, Spirit-Leader—we saw him cross into the Deadlands!”

Y’Taba stiffened, his eyes widening. A gasp rippled through the Ganaks. The elders stirred from their benches, murmuring and shaking their heads. “Then he is lost. Ngomba, do you see now the evil that you have done this day? From your hands drips the blood of our friend. And Jukona, as warrior-leader, it was within your power to prevent this from coming to pass.”

Jukona hung his head. “But, Spirit-Leader, I showed the stranger the way back and dropped shells to guide him...” he stopped, mortified by Y’Taba’s steely gaze. “Spirit-Leader, I curse my folly. But he may be alive. He is mighty for one of small stature. The Deadlands may claim my life if the gods wish it to be so. I go there now, to seek out this warrior who fought alongside me upon the shore of bones.” Exhaling deeply, the huge Ganak warrior balled his hands into fists and crossed them over his burly chest. Bowing low, he began backing away from Y’Taba.

Ngomba simply scowled, clamping his lips together. Sajara stared at them in confusion, her mouth framing a question.

Y’Taba ignored her. “Jukona Warrior-Leader, your folly I can forgive, for your heart is true. May Muhingo guide you back from the Deadlands. But Ngomba,” he stared at the tight-lipped youth, who met his gaze without flinching. “Ngomba, what am I to do with you? You are the mighty tree that bears bitter fruit. We have bitten deeply of it, and now we spit it out. Go! Take a tree boat and leave Ganaku. May Ataba, who sees into the hearts of men, judge you with mercy when you meet him.”

Sighing, Y’Taba turned his back to the frowning young warrior. The elders, even those bearing triangular marks like Ngomba’s, rose from the bench and mimicked Y’Taba’s gesture. The Ganaks stared at the outcast, some coldly, others with pity. Ngomba’s face became wooden. Without retorting, he walked stiffly away from the other warriors, toward the perimeter of the gathering place.

“Ngomba...” Sajara’s sympathetic voice trailed off, but he turned slowly to face her. Their eyes met, and she bit her lip before lowering her gaze from his face.

She did not see the single tear that rolled down Ngomba’s cheek, vanishing into the damp red clay at his feet. He hissed between his teeth. “Fools! You think we drove back the Kezati? For generations we have met them on the shore of bones so that they would not trouble us here. Hundreds of Kezatis remain—too many! Soon they will come and drench the village in Ganak blood.” He shook a tightly clenched fist at Y’Taba’s back. “One day you will regret this, old fool... a day that draws nearer and nearer.”

His tone wavered, and his eyes shifted to the hilt that jutted from the mound. Running and leaping onto the hillock before anyone could react, he wrenched it from the ground and bounded away, ploughing through the crowd, scattering" women and children. He jumped over a log-bench at the perimeter of the gathering place, vaulting across a narrow stream and running toward the trees. As he reached the edge of the jungle, he muttered a parting comment, beyond earshot of the Ganaks. “/ shall seek the unwelcome stranger in the Deadlands. He is responsible for lulling my people into this deception of safety.”