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

shrugged. “If you deem it necessary. We have work to do before they return. We must tear off the heads, so that the spirits of their dead will not haunt this place.” Nodding, Jukona gestured toward a few of the Ganak warriors. “I will tend to the stranger. There will be a great feast when we return! By Muhingo, we have driven them away! They will not dare to return for many moons. We may never again see the shores of bone!”
    “I hope you are right, old one,” said Ngomba. “But there were so many of them left, more than in the tales of my grandfather. You are a stone, Jukona, if tonight you can sink in the waters of sleep. I shall drift with open eyes, floating on waves of doubt.”
    A frown flickered across Jukona’s lips, but he did not reply to the younger Ganak.
    Five Ganaks joined the two at the water’s edge, silently awaiting Jukona’s instructions. Nasty gashes, tom flesh, and bleeding scalps were the only injuries visible among them. The Kezatis had borne away the more seriously hurt warriors. Jukona and Ngomba seemed least affected by the gruelling battle that raged from midday to sunset. The others shuffled along with flat expressions; losing so many of their kin had robbed the joy from their victory.
    Following Jukona’s orders, they placed Conan in the centre of a palm boat. “I shall row in front,” he told them. “Pomja, you must hold him in place. Bunoab, you will row behind Pomja.”
    Ngomba stared at the ground, where Conan’s sword lay. He bent, reaching for its stained hilt.
    “Ngomba, no!” Jukona shouted, leaping toward the young Ganak.
    “Why?” Ngomba asked, pausing. His fingers hovered near the weapon, but he did not grasp it.
    “Only Kulunga or his chosen one may touch the atnalga. Will you bring the anger of Muhingo upon us? Leave it, I say!”
    Ngomba shook his head, seizing the sword’s grip with fingers so large and powerful they could have fit a hilt twice its girth. Jukona flinched, raising a hand to his ashen face. The eyes of five Ganaks widened. Gibbering, the men flung themselves to the sand. Ngomba clumsily held the sword, shifting it in his hand. “What did you say, Jukona?” he snorted. “Only Kulunga or his chosen one?” Jukona stared incredulously.
    Raising the stained blade high above his head, Ngomba pointed it away from the vanishing sun. “To the boats! I, Kulunga’s chosen one, shall lead you home.” His tone was mocking, but brooked no defiance.
    The Ganaks rose and made ready their vessels. “What of him?” pleaded Jukona, nodding toward Conan’s slumped form.
    Before answering, Ngomba pressed his thick lips together in contemplation. His dark eyes glowered at the Cimmerian. “He remains here. Take him out! Kulunga will save him... if he is worthy. Let him lie.”
    Jukona clenched his teeth tightly, but he made no objection. Lifting Conan out of the boat, the Ganak lugged him to a nearby palm tree and set him against its trunk. When Ngomba was looking elsewhere, he scratched something in the sand beside the Cimmerian. Then he rose and joined the other warriors.
    There were more boats than there were able-bodied oarsmen. One vessel was dragged into the brush and spare oars were piled next to it. “We shall return to retrieve it and the boat sticks,” Ngomba said unnecessarily, as if he enjoyed hearing himself give a command.
    Each Ganak pushed a boat into the tide, paddling in the direction opposite the setting sun. Ngomba led, followed by Jukona, Bunoab, Pomja, and the others. When the water was deep enough to row, they each straddled their boat’s central trunk, which served as the rower’s bench. Rowing slowly, they began putting distance between themselves and the bloody beach of skulls. As the last rays of sunlight sparkled on the crimson sand, the Ganaks vanished into the darkening eastern horizon.

    VIII
     
    Into the Jungle
     
    When Conan’s eyes opened, he wondered if the battle with the Kezati had been a strange dream. But in the