Conan and the Shaman's Curse Read Online Free
Author: Sean A. Moore
Conan—one of Stygia’s most infamous pirates. “I am Vraal,” he rumbled in rough Argossean. “I am a son of the Border Kingdom—though I know well the code of the sea,” he added.
“Vraal, eh? Are ye deserter or slave, then, running’ from them?” He gestured toward the remote shore, to which many of the Bajkari were swimming.
“Nay, friend Tosco. They ambushed me as I rode through the Mountains of Gold, on my way to sell my sword in Anshan or Aghrapur, wherever it would fetch the highest price. I would as soon pay for my passage by sweat. You seem short of rowers, and if we are waylaid by corsairs, my blade is at your service.”
Tosco’s grey eyes narrowed to slits, and a frown clouded his sunburned face. “Ha! We be a private merchant in a Stygian priest’s hire. Yer bits of bronze and oafish sword-work together would nae be enough to secure ye as much as a place on the thwarts. And we have scant provisions, not for sharin’ with the likes o’ ye!”
Conan tensed, readying himself for an attack. But he knew that Tosco’s gibes were the time-honoured Argossean way of testing a stranger’s mettle. “Among my bits of bronze,” he said, opening his makeshift sack just enough to palm a gold piece, “is a gold dragon.” He flipped the heavy coin to Tosco, who deftly caught it. Fingering the thick golden disc, he examined its markings: a Nemedian king’s likeness on one side and a royal coat of arms on the other. Grinning, the first mate stuffed it into the pocket of his soiled brown vest. “Bend yer back at the bench. I’ll ask the captain if we need another hand. Though yer wits be as slack as yer shoulders are broad, perhaps ye can be trained to row.”
Conan suppressed the urge to fling the rude Argossean pig overboard. Scowling, he turned his back to Tosco and moved toward a vacant forward rower’s position. Tosco nodded to a short, bald Vendhyan. The little fellow picked up a wooden mallet and sat cross-legged on the poop deck, next to a weather-worn drum. The Vendhyan began pounding his drum to set a pace for the oar strokes.
Irked by Tosco’s derisive comments, Conan felt the raw energy of anger revitalizing his weary limbs. He would show this fat sea-cur how to move a boat through becalmed waters. Forgetting his fatigue, the Cimmerian gritted his teeth and sat in the foremost centre between the thwarts, gripping an oar in each hand.
Tosco seemed in no hurry to disturb the captain. He stood on the poop deck like a king on a throne, barking guttural commands to his subjects. “Lay forward! Bend yer backs, dogs—to Stygia, afore our beards turn grey!” he boomed.
He had scarcely ceased his bellowing when Conan began rowing rhythmically. At the bottom of each stroke, the enraged barbarian lowered himself to the deck, then lifted his body for the next pull. Knotted sinews rippled beneath his bronzed skin as the drummer quickened his beats, and the other rowers laboured to maintain Conan’s arduous pace.
The oars protruded fifteen feet from the sides of the vessel, their wide blades dipping smoothly into the placid sea. Conan did not bother to pace himself; he doubted that he would need to sustain this effort for too long before Tosco accepted him into the crew. And the irascible first mate had not demanded the Cimmerian’s, weapon or attacked him for the sack of Zariri gold.
Slowly, the Mistress gained speed, propelled by Conan’s vigorous rowing and the strained efforts of the men behind him. The Cimmerian timed his breathing with practised skill; he was no stranger to the hard life of an oarsman. Many times had a taskmaster’s whip laid open his heaving back while he sat seething, chained to a slaver’s thwart, and the memory stoked the coals of his fury. Faster and faster he rowed, until two of his strokes marked a drummer’s single beat.
The gasping rowers behind him were robust men, but they could only match half of Conan’s mark. As the Mistress leapt forward, a gentle
“Vraal, eh? Are ye deserter or slave, then, running’ from them?” He gestured toward the remote shore, to which many of the Bajkari were swimming.
“Nay, friend Tosco. They ambushed me as I rode through the Mountains of Gold, on my way to sell my sword in Anshan or Aghrapur, wherever it would fetch the highest price. I would as soon pay for my passage by sweat. You seem short of rowers, and if we are waylaid by corsairs, my blade is at your service.”
Tosco’s grey eyes narrowed to slits, and a frown clouded his sunburned face. “Ha! We be a private merchant in a Stygian priest’s hire. Yer bits of bronze and oafish sword-work together would nae be enough to secure ye as much as a place on the thwarts. And we have scant provisions, not for sharin’ with the likes o’ ye!”
Conan tensed, readying himself for an attack. But he knew that Tosco’s gibes were the time-honoured Argossean way of testing a stranger’s mettle. “Among my bits of bronze,” he said, opening his makeshift sack just enough to palm a gold piece, “is a gold dragon.” He flipped the heavy coin to Tosco, who deftly caught it. Fingering the thick golden disc, he examined its markings: a Nemedian king’s likeness on one side and a royal coat of arms on the other. Grinning, the first mate stuffed it into the pocket of his soiled brown vest. “Bend yer back at the bench. I’ll ask the captain if we need another hand. Though yer wits be as slack as yer shoulders are broad, perhaps ye can be trained to row.”
Conan suppressed the urge to fling the rude Argossean pig overboard. Scowling, he turned his back to Tosco and moved toward a vacant forward rower’s position. Tosco nodded to a short, bald Vendhyan. The little fellow picked up a wooden mallet and sat cross-legged on the poop deck, next to a weather-worn drum. The Vendhyan began pounding his drum to set a pace for the oar strokes.
Irked by Tosco’s derisive comments, Conan felt the raw energy of anger revitalizing his weary limbs. He would show this fat sea-cur how to move a boat through becalmed waters. Forgetting his fatigue, the Cimmerian gritted his teeth and sat in the foremost centre between the thwarts, gripping an oar in each hand.
Tosco seemed in no hurry to disturb the captain. He stood on the poop deck like a king on a throne, barking guttural commands to his subjects. “Lay forward! Bend yer backs, dogs—to Stygia, afore our beards turn grey!” he boomed.
He had scarcely ceased his bellowing when Conan began rowing rhythmically. At the bottom of each stroke, the enraged barbarian lowered himself to the deck, then lifted his body for the next pull. Knotted sinews rippled beneath his bronzed skin as the drummer quickened his beats, and the other rowers laboured to maintain Conan’s arduous pace.
The oars protruded fifteen feet from the sides of the vessel, their wide blades dipping smoothly into the placid sea. Conan did not bother to pace himself; he doubted that he would need to sustain this effort for too long before Tosco accepted him into the crew. And the irascible first mate had not demanded the Cimmerian’s, weapon or attacked him for the sack of Zariri gold.
Slowly, the Mistress gained speed, propelled by Conan’s vigorous rowing and the strained efforts of the men behind him. The Cimmerian timed his breathing with practised skill; he was no stranger to the hard life of an oarsman. Many times had a taskmaster’s whip laid open his heaving back while he sat seething, chained to a slaver’s thwart, and the memory stoked the coals of his fury. Faster and faster he rowed, until two of his strokes marked a drummer’s single beat.
The gasping rowers behind him were robust men, but they could only match half of Conan’s mark. As the Mistress leapt forward, a gentle
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