The Hour of the Dragon - Robert E. Howard (great reads .TXT) 📗
- Author: Robert E. Howard
- Performer: -
Book online «The Hour of the Dragon - Robert E. Howard (great reads .TXT) 📗». Author Robert E. Howard
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
Comments (0)