Conan and the Shaman's Curse by Sean A. Moore Page A

talons demanded his full attention. Blood welled from a score of nicks and scratches on his face, arms, and shoulders, mingling with sweat that dripped from every pore of his skin. He could feel himself tiring. The energy from his coconut feast ebbed from his heaving, panting body—a little more with every drop of blood and sweat. But the Cimmerian had vitality equal to that of a wild beast. He fought on, willing his muscles to wield his blade and hew feathered necks.
    Conan changed his tactics and began backing toward the Ganak warrior. As if guessing his intent, the beasts impeded his progress every step of the way. But the Ganak had also begun moving toward Conan, and the two finally met. They fought back to back until the shimmering horizon began swallowing the sun. As the darkness of the coming night stained the azure sky, the feathered army broke off its attack. Then, spiralling upward into the deep blue-violet sky, they screeched and swooped down again.
    The brief pause drained Conan. He struggled to keep himself on his feet, bracing wearily for another exchange. His hilt felt like a huge, slippery boulder, impossible to grip. By sheer willpower, he forced his fingers around its blood-slicked surface. As the Kezati raced toward him, he drew in a deep breath.
    But the winged beasts simply snatched up the bodies of the fallen Ganaks. Veering skyward, they vanished in the direction of the setting sun. As the incessant cries of the Kezati faded in the distance, a comfortable mantle of silence settled about the beach. The only sounds were the groans of the wounded and dying and the breaths of his own labouring lungs.
    All about him lay the mangled forms of vanquished Kezati piled nine or ten deep in every direction. The tall Ganak had fought to the end, and he turned to face the Cimmerian. Lowering his right knee to the carpet of scarlet-feathered corpses, he spoke in a dry, cracked voice—a servitor kneeling before a king.
    Conan swayed, puzzled by this sight. The man’s words were a muddle to his weary brain. Blood and sweat blurred his vision, and his sword slipped from nerveless fingers as the Cimmerian toppled toward the suppliant old Ganak.
    “Kulunga!” the Ganak cried in surprise, reaching out his arms to break Conan’s fall. He caught Conan under the arms and lifted him, looking into the Cimmerian’s half-lidded eyes. But the bone-weary barbarian simply hung there, not looking back. Grunting, the tall Ganak dragged Conan away from the pile of dead Kezati and laid him upon the beach, splashing water onto his face.
    “You are a fool, Jukona.” The man who spoke laughed, wiping at the blood that covered his yellow triangles. He struck his oar deep into the beach of bone and walked toward the white-haired Ganak.
    Jukona drew himself up to his full height and crossed his arms, gripping bulging biceps in his hands. “Mock me if you must, Ngomba. But mock him”—he gestured toward Conan—“and the Ghanuta will be fought when we return to Ganaku.” He smiled thinly, but his eyes were black glaciers of gleaming ice.
    Shrugging, Ngomba returned the smile and bowed. “That is not Kulunga, old one. Kulunga is a whisper who lives on the lips and in the ears of dreamers and fools. And I am neither of these.” He sighed and wiped the blood and sweat from his face, looking at the handful of slashed, weary Ganaks limping away from the battlefield. Including Ngomba and Jukona, only seven of thirty men remained.
    Jukona spoke again, but a tremor of doubt had crept into his voice. “If he is not Kulunga, then Kulunga sent him. He carried the atnalga in battle. It is strange that he is so small. But by Muhingo, never has one warrior—not even you, Ngomba—slain so many Kezati!”
    Ngomba scowled. “The night is young.”
    Jukona’s brow furrowed as he looked at Conan. “We cannot leave him here. The Kezati gatherers will return for their own carrion at sunrise. We must take the stranger to Ganaku.”
    Ngomba