Conan and the Shaman's Curse by Sean A. Moore Read Free Book Online Page B

blood!”
    Khertet ignored the Vendhyan helmsman, lifting his gaze from the deck only to glance at the barricaded door.
    He had not spoken since the pounding on the door had ceased.
    Groaning, Jhatil rubbed the back of his neck and scratched his wispy grey beard. “Aye,” he said, nodding to Chadim. “Truly it is a demon, but worse than any issue from Sebeq’s vile wombs. You were right, Chadim, we should never have set a course through these waters. Nehebku’s Noose has snared us!”
    “Silence, old fool,” Khertet snapped. “You city-bred Vendhyans have never seen the jungle apes of Zembabwei I have, though never have I seen one so vicious. That ape is no minion of Nehebku’s—it is some deviltry of Conan’s. I should have slit the Cimmerian pig’s throat when I had the chance.”
    Chadim’s eyes flashed as Khertet spoke. “You are unwise to discount Nehebku, Stygian. When she last fed, Jhatil’s grandfather was but a stripling. Our lore-masters say that she awakens every three generations, preying upon creatures of the deep and even rising to the surface to seize unwary vessels. She has taken many forms in her long and terrible reign of this region’s waters. This shaggy man-beast is surely another of her incarnations.”
    “And the blood,” Jhatil added, nodding. “That ‘ape’ has strewn a fresh trail of meat that the most sluggish of sea beasts would find impossible to resist.”
    Chadim chewed his lower lip. “Did you see the full moon tonight? It marks the beginning of the Month of the Fish, midway through the Year of the Serpent. Yama’s star is in the House of Abwharim—”
    Khertet interrupted, rolling his eyes upward. “Pah! Only fools or madmen let the night skies decide their fate. I know not how, but the Cimmerian has once again slain my crew and stolen my vessel. By the fangs of Set, I would wish that your Nehebku were real, if she would come and slay the barbarian. Doubtless he stands above us, laughing from the tiller, steering the Mistress to some pirate cove.” The three men lapsed into glum silence, staring dejectedly at the walls of their self-made prison. Then Khertet’s brow furrowed, and Chadim tilted his head sideways, as if straining to hear a distant sound.
    Jhatil, balancing atop a barrel, pressed his ear to the top of the hatch.
    WHUMP!
    The Mistress lurched violently, as if slapped by a giant hand. Jhatil’s arms whirled in the air, then he lost his balance and fell to the deck, narrowly rolling away from a toppling barrel.
    Khertet, whose sea legs were not so easily upset, stood gaping incredulously as the Mistress shuddered, listing and reeling as if rammed full bore by a Turanian war galley. The Stygian’s dusky face paled.
    “Nehebku,” Chadim whispered, his eyes wide, mouth agape. He flung himself to the deck, covering his head with his arms and sobbing in sheer terror.
    A thunderous crash jolted Conan from his deep repose. Rising slowly to his feet, he shook an unusual fog of slumber from his brain. He was instantly aware that something was wrong, for he seldom slept so heavily. Even the faint light of the coming dawn had failed to awaken him.
    He braced himself against the mast. As his vision cleared, the carnage surrounding him came into focus. He stared at the blood-soaked deck and the shredded heaps of entrails and bones, almost gagging at the putrid, nose-shrivelling reek that wafted up his nostrils. And although the haze of sleep lingered in his mind, his body tingled with energy, more vitality than he had felt in days.
    But how had he escaped from the cargo hold?
    He lifted his hands to the sides of his head, and an icy finger brushed his spine. Where there had been ghastly cuts, his fingers traced nearly healed skin. It was as if the slashes had been made days ago. Conan’s flesh crawled in suspicion of this miracle; he wondered if he were dreaming. He accepted the boon with hesitant cheer, for he had an instinctive dread of events that were stained