Illustration by M.D. Jackson

It's my distinct pleasure to present the first of a series of tales by long-time sword and sorcery aficionado Bruce Durham. Bruce is the administrator over at the official Conan forum amongst other activities. And if you think THIS is a good sword-slinging piece of fiction, wait until you feast your eyes on Dalacroy's next adventure, coming in Issue 3. For now, Enjoy!

Dalacroy crouched in the reed bed while flies swarmed around his sweat-soaked body. Nauseated by the stench of decaying plants and rotting wildlife, he gnawed his hand, stifled a cough, mumbled, “I left the northlands for this?”

To his knowledge he was the lone survivor of the caravan escort. In their wisdom the caravan masters had hired a local Yakuli guide to lead the merchants through a seldom used and dangerous path.

The guide had betrayed them.

The nomads sprang their ambush, and Dalacroy had seen Captain Nacheev, the escort commander, fall with an arrow through his throat.

The encounter itself was fierce and brutal, Dalacroy spilling his share of blood in the struggle. But it wasn’t long before he’d realized the battle was lost. The mercenary had abandoned his mount and sought refuge along the riverbank, cursing the caravan masters. They had gambled on this dangerous route and lost.

Now Dalacroy hid, watching and waiting.

Fifty paces from his concealed position dozens of Yakuli raiders wandered through the scattered remains of the caravan, looting wagons laden with trade goods, rare wines, exotic silks and rich spices.

Twisted corpses of fallen guards and fat merchants lay among the black-robed bodies of their attackers in a tangle of blood-splattered armor and colored silks. Cries of despair echoed in the distance--female slaves from the caravan.

Carrion birds circled lazily in the cloudless sky under a blazing sun. Far below, the raiders worked slowly and methodically through the bodies, trading shouts, insults and good-natured banter. The banter turned cruel when they chanced upon a live merchant or mercenary. These they looted and killed slowly, in imaginative ways.

Dalacroy accepted their fate with a small measure of regret, feeling a special loss for Captain Nacheev, a man he had come to respect. Since leaving his father’s business to become a mercenary, he’d learned that making friends among fellow sell-swords was unwise. No close bonds meant no emotions clouding judgement, which improved his chances of living another day. He’d plied that knowledge for three years. Still, he cursed the fact that he had no chance to strike off the head of the deceiving Yakuli guide.

A heavy weight slithered over his foot. Looking down, Dalacroy watched a scaly hide slip into the dense reeds. He exhaled sharply.

Eventually the raiders moved away in search of more treasure. The mercenary looked left and right, gripped his scabbard and, crouched among the tall reeds, began a cautious journey along the riverbank.

The caravan was large, the raiders spread across its length. More than once Dalacroy was forced to hide while groups of Yakuli gathered along the river’s edge for water or to seek shade from the blazing sun. On each occasion he was forced to slip deep into the foliage, fighting a silent battle with persistent insects, waiting until the lure of unfound spoils drew the raiders away.

The sun was low and the sky colored salmon-red when he came to the last wagon. A final look found no one in sight. Satisfied, Dalacroy took a step… and touched flesh.

He recoiled at a choked shriek, his hand moving swiftly to the curved knife jammed in his belt. His jaw dropped in surprise.

A girl crouched before him, not more than twenty years of age; her green eyes wide with panic. They stared at each other until she turned and bolted, her lithe legs kicking as she stumbled recklessly through the reeds.

Dalacroy swore. The fool would attract attention. He watched a moment longer, and left the safety of the riverbank, striking at right angles away from her flight. He waded into the murky water.

A woman’s scream from the caravan made him pause. He turned; saw the girl had stopped to listen. He cursed again and moved toward her.

She saw his approach and ran, but the chase was short. The muddy shoreline hindered her flight until she tripped on a vine, striking the water with a heavy splash. Dalacroy reached her as someone shouted. They’d been spotted.

Grabbing her wrist, he hauled her up sputtering and coughing. He saw matted hair, full lips, a tattered garment and olive-dark skin.

The shouting grew louder, urgent. Dalacroy tore his eyes from her and looked across river. The opposite shore was close, not more than thirty paces distant.

“This way,” he hissed, striding back into the water.

The girl pulled against him. “No! Not there!”

He was surprised. She spoke one of the few tongues he’d mastered during his journeys through the southlands. It was a dialect of Meizakan, an expressive language native to the country. Her lilting voice made the speech melodic. She pointed behind him.

Two raiders crashed through the reeds and leapt into the river, scimitars raised. Swarthy, sun-darkened faces coolly appraised. Exchanging words in a guttural tongue, one of the Yakuli winked at the girl, running his tongue across thick lips.

Dalacroy released her and unsheathed his sword--a well-worn, double-edged blade. His left hand took up the long knife in his belt. The nomads spread wide, the murky water sloshing noisily about their knees. Another band gathered in the distance. Dalacroy knew there was little time.

He rushed the man to his right, his strong legs churning through the stagnant water. The surprised raider stepped back and stumbled on a slick stone. Dalacroy took the opening and swung overhand, slicing deep into a meaty thigh.

Pulling free, he spun toward the sound of frenzied splashing from his left, scarcely parrying a downward cut. Blades sparked as steel slid on steel--the metallic rasp sharp in the heavy air.

Dalacroy twisted and the nomad surged past. He reversed his blade and thrust deep into the raider’s back. The man slumped lifeless. Using his boot, Dalacroy leveraged the weapon free, leaving the Yakuli to float away in a growing pool of red, his black robes billowing in the murky liquid.

He spun about. The first man struggled to his feet, blood welling freely from his jagged wound. Dalacroy advanced, dark water dripping from his leather jerkin, twirling his sword for the killing blow.

But he stopped short as reinforcements approached, foremost among them the Yakuli guide who had betrayed the caravan. Dalacroy eyed the man coldly. That Yakuli deserved to die, but the opportunity would have to wait, if it came at all.

Scowling, Dalacroy raised his sword in mocking salute at the wounded raider, and winked. Weapons sheathed, he struck toward the opposite shore… and collided with the girl.

Dalacroy glared. She should have been across to safety. He grabbed her arm, but she resisted. Exasperated, he shouted, “I’ll leave you here!” He pointed at the raiders. “Take your chances with them, or me.”

She looked to the opposite shore, then at the raiders. Her eyes closed and she dropped her head in resignation. They continued.

The brackish liquid rose swiftly to chest-level, slowing progress. Dalacroy toed the muddy bottom, careful of the rotted vines and tangled roots littering the inky riverbed.

When they neared the shore an arrow sliced the water, inches from his shoulder. He glanced back. Half a dozen raiders stood at the water’s edge. The archer among them reached for another arrow while his companions waved scimitars and screamed insults.

Finally Dalacroy and the girl made the bank and the safety of the tall reeds. They tumbled exhausted into the dense foliage, crashing in a tangle of limbs. A second arrow sang overhead. Dalacroy grunted in relief; became conscious of the girl’s damp, barely clothed flesh. He shifted, felt the gentle curve of waist and breast and heard the quick pant of her breath close to his ear.

Rolling away, he pulled himself up the muddy slope. At the lip he turned and extended a hand. The girl took it. A few steps took them into thick undergrowth, the river lost to sight.

They stood in a thick marsh. It was deathly quiet. The air was damp, cloying, each breath feeling like an oppressive weight. The ground was spotted with moss covered mounds of blackened earth. Slime encrusted trees clustered densely, crooked with age, thick vines and spindly leaves sweeping down to brush the ground like decayed fingers. The air stank of putrefied animal flesh and decomposing undergrowth.

Dalacroy felt his neck hairs stand. He looked at the girl. The fear etched in her face mirrored his unease. He felt something malevolent here, something primordial and evil. He understood her reluctance now, realized she knew something about this place.

The mercenary considered striking back until he heard the heavy splash of water as the raiders neared. He searched for another route. And saw something. Several dozen paces to his right was a dark gash--a cave.

“Over there.” Dalacroy stepped into a deep, wide furrow. It led to the black opening. Behind him the girl groaned. He turned.

She stood frozen in the dimming light, eyes tearing and lips trembling. Again he considered leaving her. Instead, he walked over and put his arm around her slim shoulders. Half-guiding, half-pushing, he led the girl along the path, his voice quietly urgent. “Come on. If you stay you’ll die, or worse. Best we take our chances with the cave.”

The girl shuddered. “This place is evil. Can’t you feel it?”

He agreed, but said nothing. They stopped at the entrance. It was recessed--a vile maw of jagged rock. Rotting vegetation surrounded it like a foreboding door.

Looking down, his attention was drawn to the tightly curled peat along the length of the depression. He knelt and touched it, found it crushed flat. The depression itself angled back the way they had come until disappearing deep into the thickly overgrown bog.

The girl continued; voice soft. “There are stories. An ancient people once lived here. It’s said they worshipped terrible gods; did terrible things.”

Dalacroy considered her words, glanced up to study her delicate features. He was drawn to her short, unwashed, auburn hair; her almond shaped green eyes.

The shouts from the raiders were closer. The mercenary stood and stared hard into the cave-mouth. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside. He held out his hand. The girl hesitated briefly before taking it.

Several feet in they discovered man-made steps, hewn from stone, overgrown with moss and slick with age. The air turned chill and damp. Daylight receded as they descended, until it was little more than a sliver of white. Soon Dalacroy had to use the wall as a guide. Minutes later they touched bottom.

Dalacroy and the girl stood at the base of the stairway, the dim illumination from the cave entrance just in sight. With no torch and no tinder, they had little chance of finding another exit, if one existed. And if the raiders discovered the cave, he had little choice but fight.

The silence lengthened. Finally, he asked, “What’s your name?” The words echoed. The cave was huge.

Her whispered answer carried. “Moirya.”

He lowered his voice. “Slave?”

Pause. “Yes.”

“I see. Well, now you’re free, though I wouldn’t wager how long.” He was surprised when she gently gripped his arm. He asked, “What do you know of this place? You mentioned an ancient people.”

“The Qetzkol. Our elders speak of them. They are feared.”

“Elders?”

“My home is three days ride north.”

“The raiders--the Yakuli--don’t seem bothered.”

Her shoulders rose in a shrug. “They are nomads. They could be ignorant of the tales, or unbelieving. The stories are very old.”

“These steps haven’t been trod in ages.”

She shrugged again in the dim light. “Perhaps, but the evil is here.” She shivered. A moment passed. “What is your name?”

“Dalacroy.”

“Your accent…”

“I’m from the north, from Coranthe.”

“Coranthe?”

“North of Khatan.”

“I’m unfamiliar with those names. Are they cities?”

“Countries.”

“You are a long way from home, Dalacroy of Coranthe. Have you no family?”

He chuckled, felt his tension ease. “I have family. Father is a wine merchant.”

“And you had no desire to follow his trade?”

“With six older brothers the prospects weren’t good. I…”

A distant cry of triumph ended their exchange. Dalacroy peered up the stairway. A torch bobbed erratically, its handler cast in a ghostly hue. Men followed, grumbling and cursing as they struggled with the slick footing. Dalacroy drew his blades; the sound of unleashed steel echoing sharply in the immense cavern.

He whispered, “Follow the wall deep into the cave and hide. I’ll meet them at the entrance.” He felt her stiffen; added, “I’ll have surprise on my side, trust me.” Gently he pushed her into the inky black.

Dalacroy’s ears prickled at a sound from deep within the cave. It was faint, a deep rumble, like an army on the march. He strained to penetrate the darkness, to detect signs of motion. The sound increased until it felt like hundreds of feet shuffling over fine gravel. And then it went still.

The silence stretched; became unnerving. Dalacroy shifted his foot, a diminutive sound of leather on gravel. He was blasted with a gust of fetid air.

Dalacroy stifled a gag and stepped away from the passage. The sound started. He froze, sensed some thing large drawing near. Another gust and he was enveloped with the same stench.

It was at the passage now, occupying the spot where Dalacroy had just stood. The thing obscured the dim source of light. The light slowly appeared, disappeared, reappeared.

Guts twisting and palms dampened with sweat, Dalacroy saw the partial silhouette of a giant creature swaying gently from side to side. He raised his weapons and drew a breath.

It stiffened, and advanced--the shuffle of feet on the cavern floor horrifyingly urgent. It stopped again. More silence, and then Dalacroy was overcome with another rancid, foul breath. The thing was mere paces away. The mercenary raised his blades in shaking hands.

A shower of stones rained down the passage, followed by a sharp curse and muffled thud. The raiders!

Dalacroy sensed the monster rear and swing ponderously about. It receded swiftly. He had a brief glimpse of something large and segmented before it blocked the lit passage and undulated up the stairway, casting the cave into total darkness.

The raider’s curse turned to a scream. Others screamed. Dalacroy listened, his gorge rising from the sheer, unearthly horror that descended from the passage. The cries reverberated through the cavern in a series of repeating, dying echoes. He heard the wet tearing of shredded flesh, an earsplitting, guttural hooting, a human cry bordering on insanity. The cry echoed interminably before fading to silence.

Minutes passed. Soon he became aware of Moirya. She had crept up to grip his arm. Placing a hand over hers, he took a tentative step forward--and froze.

A blood-soaked raider appeared at the base of the passage, scimitar in one hand and torch in the other. It was the Yakuli guide who had betrayed them. His eyes were white with fear, chest heaving with each panic-stricken breath, head darting frantically. If he saw Dalacroy and the girl, he paid no notice.

Dalacroy pushed Moirya against the dank wall.

The Yakuli’s torchlight illuminated a portion of the cave, revealing a collapsed circle of stones surrounding a large rectangular slab of granite. The slab was darkly stained; rusted manacles dangling from each corner.

Babbling incoherently, the raider faced the passage and withdrew. He stumbled over the remains of a fallen pillar. The torch flew from his hand, landing several paces away. The raider scrambled to his feet, and, ignoring the torch, backed until blackness absorbed him.

The strange hooting started again--a sonorous cry from a mouth not remotely human. The thing cascaded down the stairway. Captured in the glowing torchlight Dalacroy saw a long, glistening creature, the length of its belly a quivering mass of stunted legs surging in segmented rhythm along its length, propelling the horror forward as it cleared the entrance.

It stopped.

The forward segments of its body rose to twice Dalacroy’s height, the eyeless head swiveled, searching. Its large maw opened, revealing rows of curved teeth dripping blood and strips of ripped flesh. The monstrous head swung toward him.

Dalacroy rushed in. He dropped low and thrust up, both blades cutting deep into rubbery flesh. He drew them sharply cross-wise, producing a vicious, jagged wound. Dark ichor flooded his hands as he wrenched the weapons free.

The creature jerked back in rage. Its segmented body reared higher, its mouth opening wide and hooting loudly--an ear-splitting cry of pain. It lowered, the eyeless head facing the poised mercenary. He raised his blades again.

A body rushed past. It was Moirya. The girl raced for the torch, her legs covering the ground in long strides. The creature sensed the motion and swung to face her. Dalacroy shouted a warning. It paused.

Moirya reached the smoldering brand, scooped it up, and threw it at the altar. Dalacroy watched it arc, turning end over end until striking the ground in a shower of sparks. The Yakuli guide was revealed in the torch’s glow, cowering next to the stone slab. He screamed and ran. The thing swung at the motion and advanced with surprising speed.

Dalacroy hurried to the entrance with Moirya close behind. They reached the dimly lit passage and scrambled up the slick stairs. The nomad’s piercing shriek ended abruptly mid-scream.

It was evening when they gained the exit. The thick marsh was close and oppressive, the absence of life-sounds adding to the twisted atmosphere of evil.

From the cavern the inhuman hooting echoed defiantly.

Dalacroy looked at Moirya and said, “That was brave.”

She shivered. “I owe you for my freedom.” She managed a weak smile. “Take me away from here.”

He nodded. They took two steps and froze. The hooting from the cavern grew louder, the stench of the monster pushed the foul air from the cave to surround them in a sickly mantle. It was coming.

Dalacroy spat. “Are a dozen meals not enough for the damned thing?”

They ran across the well-worn furrow and pushed recklessly through the ancient undergrowth until the river lay before them.

The creature followed, crashing wildly through the tangled foliage.

The mercenary tossed his sword to the wet earth. “I hope it hates water.” They jumped into the brackish liquid and swam.

The heavens filled with a thunderous, unearthly hoot of rage. Treading gently, they watched the creature rear high at the lip of the bank, the full moon casting a ghostly pallor across its hideous form. It swayed violently, but made no move to follow.

Dalacroy and Moirya exchanged looks. They continued to the opposite shore, careful to angle away from the Yakuli as the raiders gathered in awe along the river’s edge to watch the ancient horror bellow its wrath.

They reached the bank and slipped among the cover of the reeds. Dalacroy whispered, “This is where I started.” He looked hard at the girl. “I think we should try another route.”

She moved against him. “You lead. Just take me home. You’ll be well rewarded.”

Dalacroy grinned. “Done, and done! I’ve had enough of this cursed place!”

Leaving the angry raging of the marsh god behind, they continued their flight to safety.