Conan and the Shaman's Curse Read Online Free PDF Page A

Beads of perspiration dripped from his face, dampening his thick mane of blood-matted hair and loosening the dark clots. His blue eyes blazed with the fires of rage, and a measure of his strength returned. “Stygian jackal,” he rasped. “Your dogs will not save you when we meet in Hell—where all lackeys of Set are sent as reward for their misbegotten loyalty.”
    “Empty words, barbarian fool,” Khertet said smugly. “In four months, when we reach Luxur, you will beg for my mercy and whine for the privilege of licking bilge-water from my boots. You Cimmerians are stubborn and hardy, and you can survive the voyage with little food and water. Alive you will be when I take you before the king... alive, but broken and mewling, a feeble husk of wretchedness.” He turned his back and spoke to a white-bearded Vendhyan, who had come through the hatch and quietly watched Khertet’s cruelty. “Jhatil! Wash the dog-blood from this oaf’s head and bind his wounds. He must suffer but not die—I shall have my command back!”
    The aged Vendhyan wordlessly went about his task, pouring stinging salt water over Conan’s raw wounds. His inflamed head burned as though thrust into a brazier of coals. He suppressed a grunt of agony while the wrinkled old man knotted a filthy rag over the red furrows that had been dug in his face. The cloth’s rough, stiff edge bit into Conan’s skin but did not block his vision or gag him. He saw Khertet motioning to two oarsmen.
    “Devwir and Matara, take this piece of offal to the cargo hold and bind him to an empty crate. And be sure that you use the stoutest rope aboard; this Cimmerian is more dangerous than he seems. I have seen him in battle, bleeding from wounds but still fighting like a cornered tiger. Pour a dipperful of water down his throat once a day, but give him rations only every third day.
    “Take shifts standing watch at the door to the hold. I shall personally check once during every shift, and the head of any watchmen whom I find sleeping will decorate the bowsprit. The rest of you dogs, bend your backs and pray for the trade winds to return. If we reach Luxur in three months, each of you will be paid double as reward. Lay out!” he bellowed, swaggering back to the poop deck. He nodded to the short Vendhyan drummer and barked orders to the Stygian helmsman.
    The burly rowers heaved Conan from the blood-splashed planks and hauled him through the ship’s narrow fore hatch. A small, stout door opened into the cramped hold. Letting their burden drop to the hard deck, the oarsmen emptied a large, solid crate of its Vendhyan carpets, which they crammed into the few niches that the hold offered. The Vendhyans were muscular, but their combined strength was needed to lift and position the empty container. Jhatil had followed them through the hatch, carrying a coil of rope that was twice the girth of Conan’s thumb.
    The Vendhyans wound the heavy cord around his already-trussed body, lashing him to the crate with cunning knots that would tighten if Conan struggled. When they were done, he could barely move his fingers and toes. They had left his face directly under a narrow iron gate in the hold’s ceiling, which provided meagre light and ventilation.
    Khertet’s cruel face looked down at him through the grate. The Stygian’s mocking laughter echoed maddeningly. Weakened by loss of blood and the constant pangs from his raw, oozing wounds, the Cimmerian fell into a sleep of exhaustion.
    The full moon hung in the night sky like a giant, dull pearl, dimly illuminating dense jungle trees and casting pale light onto the damp, leaf-covered floor. Droplets from recent rainfall shimmered on the dark green foliage.
    Conan’s sense of smell, which had always been keen, seemed particularly sharp tonight, and his nostrils twitched at musty odours, seeking traces of animal scents.
    He moved silently through the trees. There was no path through this primitive landscape, but Conan somehow knew