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

great figure stood framed in it, like a black shadow from the

underworld.

Albiona voiced a low, involuntary cry at the sight of that grim shape,

and the others stared silently for a moment, perhaps themselves

daunted with superstitious awe at the silent, hooded figure. Through

the coif the eyes blazed like coals of blue fire, and as these eyes

rested on each man in turn, he felt a curious chill travel down his

spine.

Then the tall Aquilonian roughly seized the girl and dragged her to

the block. She screamed uncontrollably and fought hopelessly against

him, frantic with terror, but he ruthlessly forced her to her knees,

and bent her yellow head down to the bloody block.

“Why do you delay, headsman?” he exclaimed angrily. “Perform your

task!”

He was answered by a short, gusty boom of laughter that was

indescribably menacing. All in the dungeon froze in their places,

staring at the hooded shape-the two cloaked figures, the masked man

bending over the girl, the girl herself on her knees, twisting her

imprisoned head to look upward.

“What means this unseemly mirth, dog?” demanded the Aquilonian

uneasily.

The man in the black garb tore his hood from his head and flung it to

the ground; he set his back to the closed door and lifted the

headsman’s ax.

“Do you know me, dogs?” he rumbled. “Do you know me?”

The breathless silence was broken by a scream.

“The king!” shrieked Albiona, wrenching herself free from the

slackened grasp of her captor. “Oh, Mitra, the king!”

The three men stood like statues, and then the Aquilonian started and

spoke, like a man Who doubts his own senses.

“Conan!” he ejaculated. “It is the king, or his ghost! What devil’s

work is this?”

“Devil’s work to match devils!” mocked Conan, his lips laughing but

hell flaming in his eyes. “Come, fall to, my gentlemen. You have your

swords, and I this cleaver. Nay, I think this butcher’s tool fits the

work at hand, my fair lords!”

“At him!” muttered the Aquilonian, drawing his sword. “It is Conan and

we must kill or be killed!”

And like men waking from a trance, the Nemedians drew their blades and

rushed on the king.

The headsman’s ax was not made for such work, but the king wielded the

heavy, clumsy weapon as lightly as a hatchet, and his quickness of

foot, as he constantly shifted his position, defeated their purpose of

engaging him all three at once.

He caught the sword of the first man on his ax-head and crushed in the

wielder’s breast with a murderous counterstroke before he could step

back or parry. The remaining Nemedian, missing a savage swipe, had his

brains dashed out before he could recover his balance, and an instant

later the Aquilonian was backed into a comer, desperately parrying the

crashing strokes that rained about him, lacking opportunity even to

scream for help.

Suddenly Conan’s long left arm shot out and ripped the mask from the

man’s head, disclosing the pallid features.

“Dog!” grated the king. “I thought I knew you. Traitor! Damned

renegade! Even this base steel is too honorable for your foul head.

Nay, die as thieves die!”

The ax fell in a devastating arc, and the Aquilonian cried out and

went to his knees, grasping the severed stump of his right arm from

Which blood spouted. It had been shorn away at the elbow, and the ax,

unchecked in its descent, had gashed deeply into his side, so that his

entrails bulged out.

“Lie there and bleed to death,” grunted Conan, casting the ax away

disgustedly. “Come, Countess!”

Stooping, he slashed the cords that bound her wrists and lifting her

as if she had been a child, strode from the dungeon. She was sobbing

hysterically, with her arms thrown about his corded neck in a frenzied

embrace.

“Easy all,” he muttered. “We’re not out of this yet. If we can reach

the dungeon where the secret door opens on stairs that lead to the

tunnel-devil take it, they’ve heard that noise, even through these

walls.”

Down the corridor arms clanged and the tramp and shouting of men

echoed under the vaulted roof. A bent figure came hobbling swiftly

along, lantern held high, and its light shone full on Conan and the

girl. With a curse the Cimmerian sprang toward him, but the old

watchman, abandoning both lantern and pike, scuttled away down the

corridor, screeching for help at the top of his cracked voice. Deeper

shouts answered him.

Conan turned swiftly and ran the other way. He was cut off from the

dungeon with the secret lock and the hidden door through which he had

entered the Tower, and by which he had hoped to leave, but he knew

this grim building well. Before he was king he had been imprisoned in

it.

He turned off into a side passage and quickly emerged into another,

broader corridor, which ran parallel to the one down which he had

come, and which was at the moment deserted. He followed this only a

few yards, when he again turned back, down another side passage. This

brought him back into the corridor he had left, but at a strategic

point. A few feet farther up the corridor there was a heavy bolted

door, and before it stood a bearded Nemedian in corselet and helmet

his back to Conan as he peered up the corridor in the direction of the

growing tumult and wildly waving lanterns.

Conan did not hesitate. Slipping the girl to the ground, he ran at the

guard swiftly and silently, sword in hand. The man turned just as the

king reached him, bawled in surprize and fright and lifted bis pike;

but before he could bring the clumsy weapon into play, Conan brought

down his sword on the fellow’s helmet with a force that would have

felled an ox. Helmet and skull gave way together and the guard

crumpled to the floor.

In an instant Conan had drawn the massive bolt that barred the door-too heavy for one ordinary man to have manipulated-and called hastily

to Albiona, who ran staggering to him. Catching her up unceremoniously

with one arm, he bore her through the door and into the outer

darkness.

They had come into a narrow alley, black as pitch, walled by the side

of the Tower on one hand, and the sheer stone back of a row of

buildings on the other. Conan, hurrying through the darkness as

swiftly as he dared, felt the latter Wall for doors or windows, but

found none.

The great door clanged open behind them, and men poured out, with

torches gleaming on breastplates and naked swords. They glared about,

bellowing, unable to penetrate the darkness which their torches served

to illuminate for only a few feet in any direction, and then rushed

down the alley at random-heading in the direction opposite to that

taken by Conan and Albiona.

“They’ll learn their mistake quick enough,” he muttered, increasing

his pace. “If we ever find a crack in this infernal wall—damn! The

street watch!”

Ahead of them a faint glow became apparent, where the alley opened

into a narrow street, and he saw dim figures looming against it with a

glimmer of steel. It was indeed the street watch, investigating the

noise they had heard echoing down the alley.

“Who goes here?” they shouted, and Conan grit his teeth at the hated

Nemedian accent.

“Keep behind me,” he ordered the girl. “We’ve got to cut our way

through before the prison guards come back and pin us between them.”

And grasping his sword, he ran straight at the oncoming figures.

The advantage of surprize was his. He could see them, limned against

the distant glow, and they could not see him coming at them out of the

black depths of the alley. He was among them before they knew it,

smiting with the silent fury of a wounded lion.

His one chance lay in hacking through before they could gather their

wits. But there were half a score of them, in full mail, hardbitten

veterans of the border wars, in whom the instinct for battle could

take the place of bemused wits. Three of them were down before they

realized that it was only one man who was attacking them, but even so

their reaction was instantaneous. The clangor of steel rose

deafeningly, and sparks flew as Conan’s sword crashed on basinet and

hauberk. He could see better than they, and in the dim light his

swiftly moving figure was an uncertain mark. Flailing swords cut empty

air or glanced from his blade, and when he struck, it was with the

fury and certainty of a hurricane.

But behind him sounded the shouts of the prison guards, returning up

the alley at a run, and still the mailed figures before him barred his

way with a bristling wall of steel. In an instant the guards would be

on his back-in desperation he redoubled his strokes, flailing like a

smith on an anvil, and then was suddenly aware of a diversion. Out of

nowhere behind the watchmen rose a score of black figures and there

was a sound of blows, murderously driven. Steel glinted in the gloom,

and men cried out, struck mortally from behind. In an instant the

alley was littered with writhing forms. A dark, cloaked shape sprang

toward Conan, who heaved up his sword, catching a gleam of steel in

the right hand. But the other was extended to him empty and a voice

hissed urgently: “This way, your Majesty! Quickly!”

With a muttered oath of surprize, Conan caught up Albiona in one

massive arm, and followed his unknown befriender. He was not inclined

to hesitate, with thirty prison guardsmen closing in behind him.

Surrounded by mysterious figures he hurried down the alley, carrying

the countess as if she had been a child. He could tell nothing of his

rescuers except that they wore dark cloaks and hoods. Doubt and

suspicion crossed his mind, but at least they had struck down his

enemies, and he saw no better course than to follow them.

As if sensing his doubt, the leader touched his arm lightly and said:

“Fear not, King Conan; we are your loyal subjects.” The voice was not

familiar, but the accent was Aquilonian of the central provinces.

Behind them the guards were yelling as they stumbled over the shambles

in the mud, and they came pelting vengefully down the alley, seeing

the vague dark mass moving between them and the light of the distant

street. But the hooded men turned suddenly toward the seemingly blank

wall, and Conan saw a door gape there. He muttered a curse. He had

traversed that alley by day, in times past, and had never noticed a

door there. But through it they went, and the door closed behind them

with the click of a lock. The sound was not reassuring, but his guides

were hurrying him on, moving with the precision of familiarity,

guiding Conan with a hand at either elbow. It was like traversing a

tunnel, and Conan felt Albiona’s lithe limbs trembling in his arms.

Then somewhere ahead of them an opening was faintly visible, merely a

somewhat less black arch in the blackness, and through this they

filed.

After that there was a bewildering succession of dim courts and

shadowy alleys and winding corridors, all traversed in utter silence,

until at last they emerged into a broad lighted chamber, the location

of which Conan could not even guess, for their devious route had

confused even his primitive sense of direction.