Conan and the Spider God

by L Sprague de Camp

• ISBN13: 9780765300713
• ISBN10: 0765300710
• Edition: 1st
• Format: Trade Book
• Copyright: 2002-02-09
• Publisher: Tor Books

Summary

Conan is back, and at the top of his form! SFWA Grand Master L. Sprague de Camp was revered in the genre of fantasy for both his fiction and nonfiction. Booklist praised his novel The Honorable Barbarian, saying: The action is brisk, and the worlds and characters are described with de Camp's deft, light touch . . . thoroughly agreeable entertainment, while Kirkus Reviews said of The Pixilated Peeress the unassuming style and verve of the telling keep the pages turning. Pure prose junk-food. But more important, L. Sprague de Camp wrote Dark Valley Destiny , the definitive biography of Conan's creator, Robert E. Howard, leaving little wonder as to why Conan and the Spider God is considered one of the finest novels in the canon of Conan. Son of a blacksmith, a former slave and thief, Conan the Cimmerian has risen to the rank of Captain of the Royal Guard. But as usual, trouble is his bedfellow. Forced to kill while defending himself, Conan must flee the vengeance of the High Priest of Erlik. Foraging through field and forest, meeting friend and foe, Conan cuts a bloody swath through assassins and bounty hunters all the way to the sinister temple of Zath, where he encounters the huge and hideous Spider God. Facing certain death, Conan becomes both the hunter . . . and the hunted. Conan and the Spider God is a thrilling adventure of the mighty barbarian, from one of the genre's most revered authors.

Author Biography

L. Sprague de Camp, winner of the World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement, was fluent in several languages and traveled the world. He was chased by a hippopotamus in Uganda and sea lions in the Galapagos Islands, he saw tigers and rhinoceroses from elephantback in India, and he was bitten by a lizard in the jungles of Guatemala. His fascinating autobiography, Time and Chance, won the 1997 Hugo Award for best non-fiction. L. Sprague de Camp passed away in May 2000.

Table of Contents

Introduction	7	(10)
Lust and Death	17	(14)
The Swamp Cat	31	(14)
The Blind Seer	45	(16)
The Golden Dragon	61	(26)
The City on the Crag	87	(18)
The Temple of the Spider	105	(22)
Wine of Kyros	127	(28)
The Eight Eyes of Zath	155	(16)
The Powder of Forgetfulness	171	(14)
The Tiger's Fang	185	(18)
The Stench of Carrion	203	(28)
The Children of Zath	231

Excerpts

Chapter 1
 
Lust And Death
 
 
 
A tall, immensely powerful man—almost a giant—stood motionless in the shadows of the courtyard. Although he could see the candle that the Turanian woman had placed in the window as a sign that the coast was clear, and to a hillman the climb was child’s play, he waited. He had no desire to be caught halfway up the wall, clinging like a beetle to the ivy that mantled the ancient edifice. While the civic guard would hesitate to arrest one of King Yildiz’s officers, word of his escapade would surely reach the ears of Narkia’s protector. And this protector was Senior Captain Orkhan, the large man’s commanding officer.
With alert blue eyes, Conan of Cimmeria, a captain in the Royal Guard, scanned the sky above, where the full moon dusted the domes and towers of Aghrapur with powdered silver. A cloud was bearing down upon the luminary; but this wind-borne galleon of the sky was inadequate for the Cimmerian’s purpose. It would dim the moonlight for only half the time required to clamber up the ivy. A much larger cloud, he observed with satisfaction, sailed in the wake of the first.
When the moon had veiled her face behind the more voluminous cloud, Conan hitched his baldric around so that the sword hung down between his shoulders. He slipped off his sandals and tucked them into his belt; then, grasping the heavy, knotted vines with fingers and toes, he mounted with catlike agility.
Across the shadowed spires and roofs lay a ghostly silence, broken but rarely by the sound of hurrying feet; while overhead the cloud, outlined in vermeil, billowed slowly past. The climber felt a thin wind stir his square-cut black mane, and a tiny shiver shook him. He remembered the words of the astrologer whom he had consulted three days before.
“Beware of launching an enterprise at the next full of the moon,” the graybeard had said. “The stellar aspects imply that you would thus set in motion wheels within wheels of cause and effect-a vast concatenation of dire changes.”
“Will the result be good or bad?” demanded Conan.
The astrologer shrugged the bony shoulders under his patched robe. “That cannot be foreseen; save that it would be something drastic. There would ensue great overturns.”
“Can’t you even tell whether I shall end up on the top of the heap or at the bottom?”
“Nay, Captain. Since I see in the stars no great benison for you, meseems the bottom were more likely.”
Grumbling at this uninspiring prediction, Conan paid up and departed. He did not disbelieve in any form of magic, sorcery, or spiritism; but he had an equal faith in the fallibility of individual occultists. Their ranks, he thought, were at least as full of fakers and blunderers as any other occupation. So, when Narkia had sent him a note inviting him to call while her protector was away, he had not let the astrologer’s warning stop him.
The candle vanished, and the window creaked open. The giant eeled through and slid to his feet. He stared hungrily at the Turanian woman who stood before him. Her black hair cascaded down her supple shoulders, while the glow of the candle, now resting on the taboret beside her, revealed her splendid body through her diaphanous gown of amethyst silk.
“Well, here I am,” rumbled Conan.
Narkia’s feline eyes sparkled with amusement as they rested on the man who towered over her in a cheap woolen tunic and patched, baggy pantaloons.
“I have awaited your coming, Conan,” she replied, moving forward with welcoming arms outstretched. “Though, in sooth, I did not expect to find you looking like a stable hand. Where are your splendid cream-and-scarlet uniform and silver-spurred boots?”
“I didn’t think it sensible to wear them tonight,” he said abruptly, lifting his baldric over his head and laying his sword carelessly on the carpet. Beneath his square-cut black mane, deep-set blue eyes under heavy black brows burned in a scarred and swarthy face. Although he was only in his early twenties, the vicissitudes of a wild, hard life had stamped him with the harsh appearance of maturity.
With the lithe motion of a tiger, Conan glided forward, gathered the wench into his brawny arms, and wheeled her toward the bed. But Narkia resisted, pushing her palms against his massive chest.
“Stay!” she breathed. “You barbarians are too impulsive. First, we needs must cultivate our acquaintance. Sit on yonder stool and have a sip of wine!”
“If I must,” grumbled Conan, speaking Hyrkanian with a barbarous accent. Unwillingly he sat and, in three gulps, drained the proffered goblet of golden fluid.
“My thanks, girl,” he muttered, setting the empty vessel down on the little table.
Narkia ducked. “Really, Captain Conan, you are a boor! A fine vintage from Iranistan should be sipped and savored slowly, but you pour it down like bitter beer. Will you never become civilized?”
“I doubt it,” grunted Conan. “What I have seen of your so-called civilization in the last few years has not filled me with any great love of it.”
“Then why stay here in Turan? You could return to your barbarous homeland—wherever that be.”
With a wry grin, Conan clasped his massive hands behind his shaggy head and leaned back against the tapestried wall. “Why do I stay?” he shrugged. “I suppose because there is more gold to be gathered here, one way or another; also more things to see and do. Life in a Cimmerian village grows dull after a while—the same old round, day after day, save for petty quarrels with the other villagers and now and then a feud with a neigh- boring clan. Now, here—what’s that?”
Booted feet tramped upon the stair, and in an instant the door burst open. In the black opening stood Senior Captain Orkhan, jaw sagging with astonishment beneath his spired, turban-wound helmet. Orkhan was a tall, hawk-featured man, less massive than Conan but strong and lithe, although the first gray hairs had begun to sprout in his dose-cut dark beard.
As he studied the tableau, and recognition replaced astonishment, Orkhan’s face reddened with rising wrath. “So!” he grated. “When the cat’s away…” His hand went to the hilt of his scimitar.
The instant the door swung open, Narkia had thrown herself back on the bed. As Orkhan spoke, she cried: “Rape! This savage burst in, threatening to kill—”
In confusion, Conan glanced from one to the other before his brain, caught up in the whirl of events, grew clear. As Orkhan’s sword sang from its sheath, the Cimmerian sprang to his feet, snatched up the stool on which he had been sitting, and hurled it at his assailant. The missile struck the Turanian in the belly, sending him staggering back. Meanwhile, Conan dove for his own sword, lying in its scabbard on the floor. By the time Orkhan had recovered, Conan was up and armed.
“Thank Erlik you’ve come, my lord!” gasped Narkia, huddling back on the bed. “He would have—”
As she spoke, Conan met a whirlwind attack by Orkhan, who bored in, striking forehand, backhand, and overhand in rapid succession. Conan grimly parried each vicious cut. The blades clashed, clanged, and ground together, striking sparks. The swordplay was all cut-and-parry, since the curved Turanian saber was ill-adapted to thrusting.
“Stop it, you fool!” roared Conan. “The woman lies! I came at her invitation, and we have done naught—”
Narkia screamed something that Conan failed to comprehend; for, as Orkhan pressed his attack, red battle rage surged up in Conan’s veins. He struck harder and faster, until Orkhan, skilled swordsman though he was, fell back breathing heavily.
Then Conan’s sword, flashing past Orkhan’s guard, sheared through the links of the Turanian’s mesh-mail vest and sliced into his side. Orkhan staggered, dropping his weapon and pressing a hand against his wound, while blood seeped out between his fingers. Conan followed the first telling blow with a slash that bit deeply into Orkhan’s neck. The Turanian fell heavily, shuddered, and lay still, while dark stains spread across the carpet on which he sprawled.
“You’ve slain him!” shrieked Narkia. “Tughril will have your head for that. Why could you not have stunned him with the fiat?”
“When you’re fighting for your life,” grunted Conan, wiping and sheathing his blade, “you cannot measure out your strokes with the nicety of an apothecary compounding a potion. It’s as much your fault as mine. Why did you accuse me of rape, girl?”
Narkia shrugged. With a trace of a mischievous smile, she said: “Because I knew not which of you would win; and had I not accused you, and he slew you, he’d have killed me for good measure.”
“That’s civilization for you!” sneered Conan. Before lifting his baldric to slide it over his head, he whirled and slapped Narkia on the haunch with the scabbarded blade, bowling her over in an untidy heap. She shrank back, eyes big with fear.
“If you were not a woman,” he growled, “it would go hard with you. I warn you to give me an hour ere you cry the alarm. If you do not…” Scowling, he drew a finger across his throat and backed to the window. An instant later he was swarming down the ivy, while Narkia’s curses floated after him on the moonlit air.
* * *
Lyco of Khorshemish, lieutenant in the King’s Light Horse, was playing a plaintive air on his flute when Conan burst into the room they shared on Maypur Alley. Muttering a hasty greeting, Conan hurriedly changed from civilian garb into his officer’s uniform. Then he spread his blanket on the floor and began placing his meager possessions upon it. He opened a locked chest and drew out a small bag of coin.
“Whither away?” asked Lyco, a stocky, dark man of about Conan’s age. “One would think you were leaving for good. Is some fiend after you?”
“I am and it is,” grunted Conan.
“What have you been up to? Raiding the King’s harem? Why in the name of the gods, when you have at last attained the easy duty you’ve been angling for?”
Conan hesitated, then said: “You might as well know, since I shall be hence ere you could betray me.”
Lyco started a hot protest, but Conan waved him to silence. “I did but jest, Lyco. I’ve just killed Orkhan.” Tersely, he gave an account of the evening’s events.
Lyco whistled. “That spills the stew-pot into the fire! The High Priest of Erlik is his sire. Old Tughril will have your heart’s blood, even if you could win the King’s forgiveness.”
“I know it,” gritted Conan, tying up his blanket roll. “That’s why I’m in a hurry.”
“Had you also slain the woman, you could have made it seem an ordinary robbery, with nobody the wiser.”
“Trust a Kothian to think of that!” snarled Conan. “I’m not yet civilized enough to kill women out of hand. If I stay long enough in these southlands, I may yet learn.”
“Well, trust a thick-headed Cimmerian to blunder into traps, one after another! I told you the omens were unfavorable tonight, and that my dream of last night boded ill.”
“Aye; you dreamed some foolishness that had naught to do with me—about a wizard seizing a priceless gem. You should have been a seer rather than a soldier, my lad.”
Lyco rose. “Do you need more coin?”
Conan shook his head. “That is good of you; but I have enough to get me to some other kingdom. Thank Erlik, I’ve saved a little from my pay. If you pull the right strings, Lyco, you might get promoted to my post.”
“I might; but I’d rather have my old comrade-in-arms about to trade insults with. What shall I tell people?”
Conan paused, frowning. “Crom, what a complicated business! Tell them I came in with some cock-and-bull story of a royal message to be carried to-to—what’s that little border kingdom southeast of Koth?”
“Khauran?”
“Aye, a message to the King of Khauran.”
“They have a queen there.”
“The queen, then. Farewell, and in a fight never forget to guard your crotch!”
They made their adieus in bluff, soldierly fashion, wringing hands, slapping backs, and punching each other’s shoulders. Then Conan was gone, in a swirl of saffron cloak.
* * *
The rotund moon, declining in the western sky, gazed placidly down upon the West Gate of Aghrapur as Conan trotted up on his big black destrier, Egil. His belongings in the blanket roll were lashed securely to his saddle, behind the cantle.
“Open up!” he called. “I’m Captain Conan of the King’s Royal Guard, on a royal commission!”
“What is your mission, Captain?” demanded the officer of the gate guard.
Conan held up a roll of parchment. “A message from His Majesty to the Queen of Khauran. I must deliver it forthwith.”
While grunting soldiers pulled on the bronze-studded oaken portal, Conan tucked the parchment into the wallet that hung from his belt. The scroll was in reality a short treatise on swordsmanship, on which Conan had been practicing his limited knowledge of written Hyrkanian, and he had counted upon the guards’ not bothering to inspect it. Even if they had, he felt sure that few, if any, of them could read the document, especially by lantern light.
At last the gate creaked open. With a wave, Conan trotted through and broke into a canter. He followed the broad highway, which some in these parts called the Road of Kings—one of several thoroughfares so named—leading westward to Zamora and the Hyborian kingdoms. He rode steadily through the dying night, past fields of young spring wheat, past luxuriant pastures where shepherds watched their flocks and neatherds tended their cattle.
Before the road reached Shadizar, the capital of Zamora, a path led up into the hills bordering Khauran. Conan, however, had no intention of going to Khauran. As soon as he was out of sight of Aghrapur, he pulled off the road at a place where scrubby trees bordered a watercourse. Out of sight of passersby he dismounted, tethered his horse, stripped off his handsome uniform, and donned the shabby civilian tunic and trews in which he had made his ill-fated visit to Narkia.
As Conan changed clothes, he cursed himself for an addlepated fool. Lyco was right; he was a fool. The woman had slipped him a note, inviting him to her apartment while her protector was away in Shahpur; and, tired of tavern wenches, Conan aspired to a courtesan of higher rank and quality. For this, and for the boyish thrill of stealing his commander’s girl out from under that officer’s nose, he had cut short a promising career. He had never imagined that Orkhan might return from Shahpur earlier than expected. The worst of it was that he had never disliked the fellow; a strick officer but a fair one.…
Sunk in melancholy gloom, Conan unwound the turban from his spired helmet and draped the cloth over his head in imitation of a Zuagir kaffiyya, tucking the ends inside his tunic. Then he repacked his belongings, mounted, and set out briskly-but not back to the Road of Kings. Instead, he headed north across country, over fields and through woods where none could track his horse’s hoofprints.
He smiled grimly when, far behind, he heard the drumming of hooves as a body of horsemen raced westward along the main road. Traveling in that direction, they would never catch him.
Half an hour later, in the violet dawn, Conan was walking his horse northward along a minor road that was little more than a track through a region of scrubby second growth. So full was his head of alternative plans and routes that for an instant he failed to mark the sound of hooves, the creak of harness, and the jingle of accouterments of approaching horesmen. Before he had time to turn his horse into the concealing scrub, the riders galloped around a bend in the track and rode straight for him. They were a squad of King Yildiz’s horse archers on foam-flecked mounts.
Cursing his inattention, Conan pulled off to the roadside, uncertain whether to fight or flee. But the soldiers clattered past with scarcely a glance in his direction. The last man in the column, an officer, pulled up long enough to shout:
“You there, fellow! Have you seen a party of travelers with a woman?”
“Why—” Conan started an angry retort before he remembered that he was no longer Captain Conan of the King’s Royal Guard. “Nay, sir, I have not,” he growled, with an unconvincing show of humility.
Cursing by his gods, the officer spurred his horse after the rest of the squad. For Conan, as he resumed his northward trot, astonishment trod on the heels of relief. Something must have happened in Aghrapur—something of more moment than his affair with Orkhan. The squad that had rushed past had not even been interested in ascertaining his identity. Could it be that the force pounding westward along the Road of Kings also pursued some quarry other than the renegade Captain Conan?
Perhaps he would unravel the tangle in Sultanapur.
 
Copyright © 1980 by Conan Properties, Inc.