The Hour of the Dragon by Robert E. Howard (find a book to read .TXT) 📕

against the table and it toppled and the candle went out. They were

both carried to the floor by the violence of Conan’s rush, and the

foot of the tapestry hampered them both in its folds. Conan was

stabbing blindly in the dark, Tarascus screaming in a frenzy of

panicky terror. As if fear lent him superhuman energy, Tarascus tore

free and blundered away in the darkness, shrieking:

“Help! Guards! Arideus! Orastes! Orastes!”

Conan rose, kicking himself free of the tangling tapestries and the

broken table, cursing with the bitterness of his bloodthirsty

disappointment. He was confused, and ignorant of the plan of the

palace. The yells of Tarascus were still resounding in the distance,

and a wild outcry was bursting forth in answer. The Nemedian had

escaped him in the darkness, and Conan did not know which way he had

gone. The Cimmerian’s rash stroke for vengeance had failed, and there

remained only the task of saving his own hide if he could.

Swearing luridly, Conan ran back down the passage and into the alcove,

glaring out into the lighted corridor, just as Zenobia came running up

it, her dark eyes dilated with terror.

“Oh, what has happened?” she cried. “The palace is roused! I swear I

have not betrayed you—”

“No, it was I who stirred up the hornet’s nest,” he grunted. “I tried

to pay off a score. What’s the shortest way out of this?”

She caught his wrist and ran fleetly down the corridor. But before

they reached the heavy door at the other end, muffled shouts arose

from behind it and the portals began to shake under an assault from

the other side. Zenobia wrung her hands and whimpered.

“We are cut off! I locked that door as I returned through it. But they

will burst it in in a moment. The way to the postern gate lies through

it.”

Conan wheeled. Up the corridor, though still out of sight, he heard a

rising clamor that told him his foes were behind as well as before

him-

“Quick! Into this door!” the girl cried desperately, running across

the corridor and throwing open the door of a chamber.

Conan followed her through, and then threw the gold catch behind them.

They stood in an ornately furnished chamber, empty but for themselves,

and she drew him to a gold-barred window, through which he saw trees

and shrubbery.

“You are strong,” she panted. “If you can tear these bars away, you

may yet escape. The garden is full of guards, but the shrubs are

thick, and you may avoid them. The southern wall is also the outer

wall of the city. Once over that, you have a chance to get away. A

horse is hidden for you in a thicket beside the road that runs

westward, a few hundred paces to the south of the fountain of

Thrallos. You know where it is?”

“Aye! But what of you? I had meant to take you with me,”

A flood of joy lighted her beautiful face.

“Then my cup of happiness is brimming! But I will not hamper your

escape. Burdened with me you would fail. Nay, do not fear for me. They

will never suspect that I aided you willingly. Go! What you have just

said will glorify my life throughout the long years.”

He caught her up in his iron arms, crushed her slim, vibrant figure to

him and kissed her fiercely on eyes, cheeks, throat and lips, until

she lay panting in his embrace; gusty and tempestuous as a storm-wind,

even his love-making was violent.

“I’ll go,” he muttered. “But by Crom, I’ll come for you some day!”

Wheeling, he gripped the gold bars and tore them from their sockets

with one tremendous wrench; threw a leg over the sill and went down

swiftly, clinging to the ornaments on the wall. He hit the ground

running and melted like a shadow into the maze of towering rosebushes

and spreading trees. The one look he cast back over his shoulder

showed him Zenobia leaning over the window-sill, her arms stretched

after him in mute farewell and renunciation.

Guards were running through the garden, all converging toward the

palace, where the clamor momentarily grew louder-tall men in burnished

cuirasses and crested helmets of polished bronze. The starlight struck

glints from their gleaming armor, among the trees, betraying their

every movement; but the sound of their coming ran far before them. To

Conan, wilderness-bred, their rush through the shrubbery was like the

blundering stampede of cattle. Some of them passed within a few feet

of where he lay flat in a thick cluster of bushes, and never guessed

his presence. With the palace as their goal, they were oblivious to

all else about them. When they had gone shouting on, he rose and fled

through the garden with no more noise than a panther would have made.

So quickly he came to the southern wall, and mounted the steps that

led to the parapet. The wall was made to keep people out, not in. No

sentry patrolling the battlements was in sight. Crouching by an

embrasure he glanced back at the great palace rearing above the

cypresses behind him. Lights blazed from every window, and he could

see figures flitting back and forth across them like puppets on

invisible strings. He grinned hardly, shook his fist in a gesture of

farewell and menace, and let himself over the outer rim of the

parapet.

A low tree, a few yards below the parapet, received Conan’s weight, as

he dropped noiselessly into the branches. An instant later he was

racing through the shadows with the swinging hill-man’s stride that

eats up long miles.

Gardens and pleasure villas surrounded the walls of Belverus. Drowsy

slaves, sleeping by their watchman’s pikes, did not see the swift and

furtive figure that scaled walls, crossed alleys made by the arching

branches of trees, and threaded a noiseless way through orchards and

vineyards. Watch-dogs woke and lifted their deep-booming clamor at a

gliding shadow, half scented, half sensed, and then it was gone.

In a chamber of the palace Tarascus writhed and cursed on a blood-spattered couch, under the deft, quick fingers of Orastes. The palace

was thronged with wide-eyed, trembling servitors, but the chamber

where the king lay was empty save for himself and the renegade priest.

“Are you sure he still sleeps?” Tarascus demanded again, setting his

teeth against the bite of the herb juices with which Orastes was

bandaging the long, ragged gash in his shoulder and ribs. “Ishtar,

Mitra and Set! That bums like molten pitch of hell!”

“Which you would be experiencing even now, but for your good fortune,”

remarked Orastes. “Whoever wielded that knife struck to kill. Yes, I

have told you that Xaltotun still sleeps. Why are you so urgent upon

that point? What has he to do with this?”

“You know nothing of what has passed in the palace tonight?” Tarascus

searched the priest’s countenance with burning intensity.

“Nothing. As you know, I have been employed in translating manuscripts

for Xaltotun, for some months now, transcribing esoteric volumes

written in the younger languages into script he can read. He was well

versed in all the tongues and scripts of his day, but he has not yet

learned all the newer languages, and to save time he has me translate

these works for him, to leam if any new knowledge has been discovered

since his time. I did not know that he had returned last night until

he sent for me and told me of the battle. Then I returned to my

studies, nor did I know that you had returned until the clamor in the

palace brought me out of my cell.” “Then you do not know that

Xaltotun brought the king of Aquilonia a captive to this palace?”

Orastes shook his head, without particular surprize. “Xaltotun merely

said that Conan would oppose us no more. I supposed that he had

fallen, but did not ask the details.”

“Xaltotun saved his life when I would have slain him,” snarled

Tarascus. “I saw his purpose instantly. He would hold Conan captive to

use as a club against us-against Amalric, against Valerius, and

against myself. So long as Conan lives he is a threat, a unifying

factor for Aquilonia, that might be used to compel us into courses we

would not otherwise follow. I mistrust this undead Pythonian. Of late

I have begun to fear him.

“I followed him, some hours after he had departed eastward. I wished

to leam what he intended doing with Conan. I found that he had

imprisoned him in the pits. I intended to see that the barbarian died,

in spite of Xaltotun. And I accomplished—” A cautious knock sounded

at the door. “That’s Arideus,” grunted Tarascus. “Let him in.” The

saturnine squire entered, his eyes blazing with suppressed excitement.

“How, Arideus?” exclaimed Tarascus. “Have you found the man who

attacked me?”

“You did not see him, my lord?” asked Arideus, as one who would assure

himself of a fact he already knows to exist. “You did not recognize

him?”

“No. It happened so quick, and the candle was out-all I could think of

was that it was some devil loosed on me by Xaltotun’s magic—”

“The Pythonian sleeps in his barred and bolted room. But I have been

in the pits.” Arideus twitched his lean shoulders excitedly.

“Well, speak, man!” exclaimed Tarascus impatiently. “What did you find

there?”

“An empty dungeon,” whispered the squire. “The corpse of the great

ape!”

“What?” Tarascus started upright, and blood gushed from his opened

wound.

“Aye! The man-eater is dead-stabbed through the heart-and Conan is

gone!”

Tarascus was gray of face as he mechanically allowed Orastes to force

him prostrate again and the priest renewed work upon his mangled

flesh.

“Conan!” he repeated. “Not a crushed corpse-escaped! Mitra! He is no

man; but a devil himself! I thought Xaltotun was behind this wound. I

see now. Gods and devils! It was Conan who stabbed me! Arideus!”

“Aye, your Majesty!”

“Search every nook in the palace. He may be skulking through the dark

corridors now like a hungry tiger. Let no niche escape your scrutiny,

and beware. It is not a civilized man you hunt, but a blood-mad

barbarian whose strength and ferocity are those of a wild beast. Scour

the palace-grounds and the city. Throw a cordon about the walls. If

you find he has escaped from the city, as he may well do, take a troop

of horsemen and follow him. Once past the walls it will be like

hunting a wolf through the hills. But haste, and you may yet catch

him.”

“This is a matter which requires more than ordinary human wits,” said

Orastes. “Perhaps we should seek Xaltotun’s advice.”

“No!” exclaimed Tarascus violently. “Let the troopers pursue Conan and

slay him. Xaltotun can hold no grudge against us if we kill a prisoner

to prevent his escape.”

“Well,” said Orastes, “I am no Acheronian, but I am versed in some of

the arts, and the control of certain spirits which have cloaked

themselves in material substance. Perhaps I can aid you in this

matter.”

The fountain of Thrallos stood in a clustered ring of oaks beside the

road a mile from the walls of the city. Its musical tinkle reached

Conan’s ears through the silence of the starlight. He drank deep of

its icy stream, and then hurried southward toward a small, dense

thicket he saw there. Rounding it, he saw a great white horse tied

among the bushes. Heaving a deep gusty sigh he reached it with one

stride-a