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

snout, ending in a broken homed bill. He slid his sword’s point into an eye socket, lifting the surprisingly light skull for closer examination. Rows of jagged teeth jutted from the insides of the thick grey bill, curving back slightly.
    The skull bespoke an unnatural breed of bird. From the cruelly sharp fangs of its beak, Conan could easily see that the creature had been no plant eater. He wondered what had become of the rest of the skeleton.
    Frowning, Conan let the bony abomination slide from his sword. Then he chopped at it to prevent the lifeless eyes from staring up at him. At first, his sword glanced from the bony ridge, but a second powerful stroke crushed through its pate, shattering the skull and ending its eerie gaze. Conan strode past it and soon reached the clearing. He drew in a breath, muttering in revulsion at what he saw ahead.
    Lying atop the sand, jumbled in piles that rose as high as Conan’s waist, were vast mounds of bleached skulls. They stretched all the way to the shoreline, like a bony grey carpet. The tide lapped at them, shifting the skulls at the edges of the piles, imbuing them with eerie movement. Most were as large as the one Conan had first discovered, but others were bigger.
    Nowhere did Conan see any rib, leg, or arm bones... only disembodied skulls.
    Morbid curiosity prompted him to sift through a pile with the point of his sword, looking for any clues to the nature of these dead creatures. At the bottoms of the mounds, the bones seemed older and more brittle. Some had begin to crumble from the slight weight of the skulls above them. Tiny shards, perhaps centuries old, formed a gruesome beach of death upon die tip of the macabre isle.
    Movement on the horizon caught Conan’s eye. Astonished, he watched as a small fleet of strange boats appeared, moving swiftly toward the island. He counted eight vessels, each bearing four men—no, the one in the rear carried only two. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered at the boats until he could see the rowers.
    They were men, but unlike any he had seen before. Bright designs covered their olive-skinned, heavyset bodies. They rowed with mighty strokes that would have satisfied the harshest pacer. In spite of their swift progress across the water, the boats looked awkward. Their rowers sat atop a thick, central beam, doubtless carved from a palm tree. Curving crosspieces, like wooden arms, held smaller trunks that paralleled the larger body and provided stability. Each boat’s four oarsmen gripped one oar and rowed a single stroke on alternating sides.
    Conan reckoned that the efficient but simple design of the craft rendered it suitable only for short voyages as it seemed to be impossible to control in rough waters. Perhaps they had come from a nearby island, or even the mainland—this crescent-shaped isle seemed too deserted to be their home. Although they appeared to carry no weapons of any kind, the Cimmerian did not consider them harmless. Primitive, cannibalistic cults who worshipped ancient gods of evil were not uncommon in the lands of the South. Slipping hastily into the dense foliage, Conan’s pulse quickened as he watched their approach.
    A few men glanced backward as they rowed. When they drew nearer to the isle, Conan saw that their eyes were actually turned skyward. Lifting his gaze, the Cimmerian uttered a startled grunt.
    Swooping from the azure sky and diving toward the frantic rowers, a flock of birds flapped into view. Yet something seemed wrong about their appearance. The afternoon sun shone directly into Conan’s eyes; perhaps the light was affecting his vision. At such a distance Conan could not be certain, but his squinting stare beheld vulture-like creatures... enormous birds larger than men.

    VII
     
    The Shore of Skulls
     
    When the swiftly moving boats neared the shoreline, the men used their oars for poles to propel their vessels toward the beach. From his hidden place among the leafy brush, Conan watched the