2. The Black Shore
Conan awoke to the sounds of the crashing surf, his face all but buried in the burning sands. The sun was hot on his back, and his head ached as if he had drunk a flagon of the cheapest Kordavan wine.
Cursing under his breath, he slowly rose to his feet, swallowing with difficulty through his parched throat as his eyes blinked rapidly in the brilliant sunlight. He found himself on a long, narrow beach of black sand, the choppy waves of the ocean crashing against its shores, and hard by a thick, dense jungle of brilliant emerald-green foliage and exotic fruits and flowers. He was utterly alone; of his ship and crew there was no sign…
Crom! A pleasure palace of Poitain seemed not such a bad thing right now! He grinned at the thought, but then turned his mind to the scene about him. It was too quiet, apart from the surf and the wind, and all his instincts told him to be wary.
Out of the corner of his eye, Conan saw it and dodged instantly; a primitive axe, stone tied to wood by sinew, thrown at his head from out of the jungle to dash out his brains! With no wasted motion, Conan sprinted like a panther into the woods – he knew not how many attackers there might be, and his only hope was to take cover in the trees, no matter that his enemies were hidden there as well.
He was only a few strides into the jungle, thick with vines and foliage and rank with heat and humidity, when he stumbled into his antagonist; a short, squat savage, ghostly white paint masking his copper-toned skin, his heavy brow belying the feeble intelligence that flickered behind his dull brown eyes. The savage snarled wordlessly and moved to jab Conan with a spear, also made of sharpened stone bound to a wooden shaft by sinew. But the Cimmerian was too quick for him; in the blink of an eye he closed the distance, grabbed the savage by the scruff of the neck, and tore out his heavy throat in a shower of gore!
The savage floundered noiselessly as he dropped to his death, drenched in a spreading plume of his own blood on the soft jungle floor. Grunting in satisfaction, Conan seized the spear before it fell to the ground. By Crom, at least he now had a weapon!
The leaves rustled behind him, the air echoing bloodcurdling shrieks of other savages who smelled the blood of their fallen kinsman. Cursing his luck – of course, there couldn't be only one lone savage after him! – Conan dashed deeper into the jungle, for his intuition was that these savages lived along the shore and he could not rest for a moment as long as he remained there. By plunging deep into the wilderness, he would soon use his woodcraft skills to shake them off. A pitched battle he sought to avoid, for he knew not how many there were, and a primitive stone-tipped spear was not his choice of weapon. His sword he had lost in the sea before washing up on shore.
It was hard going through the thick woods, though Conan had seen worse. His native instincts quickly asserted themselves as he stalked noiselessly through the jungle like a panther, leaving no footprints and breaking no branches. His senses were acutely aware of every sight, every sound, from the cawing and cackling of strange birds, to the shrieking and gibbering of the savages on his trail – farther behind, now. Conan sensed now that there were perhaps a dozen of them on his trail, and in open ground he might have turned and fought them armed only with his spear. Still, he did not know how near he was to their dwelling place or camp, and saw nothing to gain from a fight that might soon turn into a pitched battle with all their kinsmen.
His instincts proved right, for after perhaps two turns of the glass he no longer heard or smelled any sign of the savages, and it soon became clear to him they had abandoned the chase in pursuit of easier quarry; or, perhaps, he was no longer trespassing on their territory. He slowed his pace, but remained wary for any threat. He was deep in the wilderness now, the ground gradually rising under his feet as the forest became even thicker and denser than it was near the shore, dragging at his bare legs and stinging his arms with thorns. The shadows were beginning to lengthen into evening, he was thirsty, and his belly was beginning to growl with hunger. It was time to take stock of the situation and tend to his needs before deciding how next to proceed.
Later that evening, Conan squatted under the makeshift shelter of leaves and branches that he had made, for it was pitch black now and the air smelled of approaching rain. He had drunk from the refreshing waters of a small, clear stream, and feasted on strange but succulent fruits which appeared to be of the same type he had enjoyed in Antillia; otherwise, he would not have tasted their flesh for fear they might be poison. This had dulled the pangs of his hunger somewhat, but it was too late and dark to go on the hunt, and he did not wish to bother making a fire to cook any meat or fish without benefit of flint and tinder, nor did he wish to give away his position till he had his bearings and better knew the lay of the land. Tightening his belt, he lay down and fell at once into sleep, his sun-bronzed hands still clutching his primitive spear.
Conan rarely dreamed, yet tonight his dreams were strange indeed. He seemed to be standing on a mountaintop, with stars above and below him, and a full, yellow moon shining far above. A shadow came over the moon, and grew ever larger; a serpent in shape, black as pitch, leagues in length, yet with vast streamers or wings growing out from it, beating against a silent wind. The eyes were most terrible; glowing, crimson red, their black slits windows into nothing. They froze his bone to the marrow…
Conan awoke with a start, instantly alert as a tiger. It was daylight now, and his belly growled with hunger.
"Crom!" he swore. "I am too old for such nightmares."
He strode to the nearby stream, drank deeply, and splashed his face with its cool waters. The dark vision of the night soon faded from his waking mind, and yet left him feeling uneasy. Yet he sensed no danger about him; only the forest with its cacophony of birds and other animals greeting the dawn.
Standing by the stream for a time, he soon speared a slender fish, and then two. He took them back to his camp, and laboured to make a small fire, carefully watching to make sure its smoke did not rise above the forest canopy. He grilled the fish on sticks, and then devoured them greedily; the flesh was white and insipid, but at least it provided him with better nourishment than fruit. He ate still more of the fruit he had gathered notwithstanding, and then quickly doused the fire, covering its site with fresh leaves, and took apart his shelter. Soon, to the eyes of all but the most experienced woodsman, there was no sign he had ever slept or eaten there.
Conan then turned to the stream, whose course he began to follow uphill, away from the steaming lowlands by the shore. He could not see more than two-score feet in any direction through the dense jungle, and yet he felt the ground steadily rise beneath his feet; clearly, some range of hills or mountains he could not see from the shore lay not far inland.
He wished now to make for a hill or mountain top so that he could take in the lay of the land and best decide his next course. Having seen to his own needs, the fate of his ship and crew was now topmost in his mind; he had seen no wreckage on the beach, nor any sign of his men, but then he had not time for a search either. He thought it doubtful that if any of them yet lived, they had been slain or taken prisoner by the primatives of the shore; unless of course they were greatly outnumbered, which he grudgingly admitted was not impossible. Once he had the lay of the land about in his mind, and spotted the site of the village or encampment of the savages if possible, he intended to return to the shore and carefully search it for any sign of the wreckage of the ship or its crew. Not only was it his duty to Sigurd and his other shipmates to do so, but he knew his chances for succeeding at anything beyond mere survival in this new land were far higher with even a handful of men to accompany him than on his own.
After some hours, the Sun waxing ever higher in the sky, the terrain began to slope sharply uphill, and the forest began to change, become cooler and more open, with grassy or flowery meadows lying beneath tall, slender trees. Conan could walk more easily now, and advanced rapidly in the long, steady strides of the Hillman born and bred. About the noon hour, he reached the summit of the mountain. The trees thinned out further to a bare, rocky outcropping, which afforded him the view he had sought of the lands about.
To the East, he could see the jungle lowlands through which he had travelled, and beyond them the thin black line of beach, beyond which lay the dark blue sea, calm and peaceful now. His far-seeing eyes could discern no trace of wreckage, nor even of the reef upon which the ship had floundered. Crom, how far had the storm tossed him before he washed up on shore? Nor was there any trace of a village or other encampment of the hostile savages. Perhaps they were far from their own homes on a hunting or raiding party; or, more likely thought Conan, they were so primitive as to use no fire and live in no huts, but merely to live in caves or even on the forest floor and eat raw whatever meat they could catch. The thought of their diet filled his gorge with disgust, but it was not the first time in his long career he had had a close run in with cannibal tribes.
To the West, and to the South, he could see only the mountain range on whose outlying flanks he stood, its slopes rising higher and barer for mile upon mile, though none was so high in these southern climes for any trace of snow to show on its summit. The mountains were far more to his liking than the sweltering, flat jungle lands below; a mountaineer born and bred, he could master any such terrain with an ease that would shock the stolid sailors of the Barachan Isles, or even his old friend Sigurd; the lands of the Vanir were flat and boggy, for the most part. The thought of Sigurd's fate caused Conan's brows to furrow and his deep blue eyes to smoulder, but he quickly put such thoughts out of his mind to turn to the task at hand.
It was to the North that he had the broadest panorama over the land; the mountains seemed to arc to the northwest, but the coast veered steadily northward, allowing for an ever-broadening plain. It too was thick with jungle, as far as the eye could see; and yet, on the farthest horizon, Conan's keen eyes could detect the telltale signs of several wisps of smoke, here and there. He smiled at the sight, for it proved that there were Men in these lands of a higher type than the coastal savages, and he would need the service of many true Men like himself if he were to realize his wild ambition of forging a new kingdom for himself in this unknown Western land.
A screech of fury snapped Conan's mind into the present, all his senses on fire as he turned back to the East, the source of the unwelcome sound. Instantly he saw the source of the noise; one of the degraded savages of the coast, covered in white paint, accompanied by some four-score of his fellows! They were half a league distant, but they had followed even his careful trail like bloodhounds on the scent, and now their keen eyes had spotted his silhouette on the mountaintop even from this distance!
Conan clutched his spear tighter and held his ground. He had seen no evidence these beast-men had arrows or other weapons of a higher type, and so for now he did not fear to be struck down from afar; their primitive spears, of the sort he himself now carried, could be cast only a short distance. Conan had sought to avoid a useless fight with these degraded creatures in a manner that he would not have when younger; but, now that a fight was on him regardless, he laughed savagely at the thought. Armed with but a stone-tipped spear he might be, but by Crom! these fools would soon learn what it meant to face a Cimmerian Hillman in the heat of battle!
"Come to me, dogs!" he bellowed in a voice that echoed for miles along the mountainsides. "Four-score white-painted sons of whores shall feast in the Halls of Hell tonight!"
The savages did not understand his speech, but they surely knew he meant to challenge them. Howling and screeching with fury, they dashed up the slopes through the open forest at a doubled pace, their red tongues lolling out and dark eyes glinting keenly in their bloodlust and desire for man-flesh. Conan waited calmly for their approach, till they were almost at the edge of the rocky outcropping. Some cast their spears from afar, leaving themselves weaponless as the spear-tips clattered uselessly at the rocky ground about Conan's feet.
Then, with a savage snarl, Conan was upon them! Leaping like a panther, he plunged his spear straight into the heart of his closest white-painted enemy, who howled in agony as the Cimmerian tore into his naked chest. Bloody spray flew out of the open wound as Conan moved like lightening, wielding the spear also as stave and club as the tore into his enemies, whose clumsy strokes could not hope to match his tigerish speed.
The bodies of screaming savages, their hearts, lungs, guts and brains staining the barren rock, piled up higher and higher for minute after brutal minute as Conan tore through them, his volcanic blue eyes blazing with insane fury as the blood-lust took hold of him. Soon, there were but two-score of the savages left, and they began to waver as even their dim minds realized that this was no easy prey, and none of them might stand if they continued to fight this terrible giant.
Soon the survivors turned and fled pathetically, Conan hot on their heels now; for not only was the blood lust still surging through his veins, but he would not allow any of them to escape and come back to stalk him again, or bring still larger numbers of their fellows onto his trail. Intent on slaying them to the last, Conan laughed grimly as one after another shrieked his death agony at the end of the bloodied, bent spear.
Conan followed the savages back into the open forest, whose flowery floor was now stained with blood, corpses and heaps of fresh offal, hell-bent on wasting the last five survivors. To his shock, one of them dropped to the ground in front of him, a green-feathered arrow stuck into his back!
Conan instantly turned on his heels to face the source of the arrow-shot, keenly aware that he was exposed and vulnerable to any archer in this place. Even as the last few savages fell and died before a hail of green-feathered arrows, he saw the source of the volley; a group of copper-skinned men of medium height, compactly muscled, with straight black hair, dark eyes, and handsome faces, naked except for white loin-cloths and green feathers worked into their hair. Unlike the heavy-browed savages, Conan recognized them as true Men like himself; but that made him no less wary, for he was well aware that a true Man was more dangerous and deadly than any savage.
These Men, armed with wooden clubs fitted with heads of polished stone as well as with bows and arrows, likewise regarded him warily, slowly advancing towards him with arrows drawn, but the simple wooden bows pointed to the ground rather than at his chest. Briefly glancing at the reams of dead savages scattered throughout the meadow and onto the rocky outcropping beyond, they continued their slow advance towards Conan until stopping ten paces short. Then, one of them, who had a single red feather stuck into a leather band about his forehead – presumably their chief – walked slowly forward, stopped within five paces of Conan, laid down his bow and arrow on the ground, and raised both hands palms outward.
Conan, instinctively sensing a gesture of peaceful intent rather than a trap, likewise laid his bloodied spear to the ground, and held his own hands up, palms open and outward. The other man then smiled, and walking briskly toward Conan slapped his hands against Conan's own and give a high pitched yelp. His fellows immediately replied with their own high pitched yelping, released the tension from their bowstrings and stared in mixed wonder and fear at the Cimmerian, smiling or gesturing as they talking eagerly amongst themselves.
Conan was relieved to find that their language, though strange to his ear, was clearly related to that of Antillia, of whose tongue he had gained the rudiments during his time there; helped, strangely enough, by its distant kinship to the half-forgotten Cimmerrian tongue of his youth. He pointed to himself, and said, as best he could in Antillian, "I am Conan, of the Isles and Lands to the East!"
"Conan of the Isles", said the man in front of him, and the others repeated the name. Then he pointed to himself, and said, "I am Tlaloch, and my people are the Xotancali, who dwell in the mountains a day's journey west of here. We know some of our kinsmen long ago arrived in these lands from the Eastern Isles, though no living man amongst us has ever set foot there; our people know of boats, but love not the water. Yet you are dressed most strangely, from head to toe in dirty dark cloth, and you are no kinsman to us, no matter that you speak our tongue; poorly, I might add."
The Cimmerian frowned, but Tlaloch shrugged. "I have never seen a man like you before, tall as a stone giant, and eyes the blue of the waters! And what is that strange thing which hangs from your face?"
"My beard", grunted Conan, who had not shaven since sailing from Antillia some weeks before.
"Never heard of such a strange thing before," laughed Tlaloch, who to Conan's shock reached forward tugged his beard hard! Conan resisted the impulse to smash the man in his face, and said calmly, "It is attached to my face, just like my hair. I'd advise you not to pull either."
"No doubt!" laughed Tlaloch again, and the others laughed with him. "But whatever strange manner of man you are, 'tis clear you are an enemy of the Hchur-chur." He frowned and spat at the name, and all his friends likewise spat on the ground. "Ever have we been at war with these scum, lower than any animal, who even eat the flesh of Men. Our scouts said a great war party of them was on its way, though rarely do they dare set foot outside of their own jungles – they know the mountains belong to us! Yet you seem to have done our work for us."
Tlaloch glanced about the clearing and the stony hillside beyond, and whistled softly. "You have no weapons but one of their crude spears", said he, "and yet you slew them all with ease – save the few you spared for our arrows. That is a deed fit for a true warrior. And if you slay these dogs, you may be a friend to us; at the least, you are certainly welcome to come to our village, and be a guest of honour at our victory feast. And I think you should meet my father as well. He is King of the Xocantali, and no doubt would love to meet you and hear more of the strange lands from which you have come."
"That I would love indeed," smiled Conan, whose stomach began to growl again as soon as he heard the words "victory feast." He stared shrewdly at these well-formed Men, who it seemed could be friendly enough, and yet were none-the-less warriors well-equipped in use of the bow and arrow; a weapon Conan had scorned in his youth, but had long since learned the value of as a mercenary, General and King of great armies. If his own crew were lost to him, as he feared to be the case, perhaps he could mould this tribe into a tool that would be of equal use to him.
"Yes, that I would love," repeated Conan. "I would be honoured to meet your King, and tell him what he wishes to hear of my travels and adventures."
"So be it!" smiled Tlaloch, picking up his bow and arrow from the ground. He handed his own stone-tipped club to Conan, indicating he should take it for a weapon in place of the bloodied and bent spear. "Come! I shall lead the way."
