The Hour of the Dragon - Robert E. Howard (great reads .TXT) 📗
- Author: Robert E. Howard
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by fear of Valbroso, they owed no allegiance to the castle or to each
other.
Swords began to clash in the courtyard, and women screamed. And in the
midst of it all, none noticed Conan as he shot through the postem gate
and thundered down the hill. The wide plain spread before him, and
beyond the hill the caravan road divided: one branch ran south, the
other east. And on the eastern road he saw another rider, bending low
and spurring hard. The plain swam to Conan’s gaze, the sunlight was a
thick red haze and he reeled in his saddle, grasping the flowing mane
with his hand. Blood rained on his mail, but grimly he urged the
stallion on.
Behind him smoke began to pour out of the castle on the hill where the
count’s body lay forgotten and unheeded beside that of his prisoner.
The sun was setting; against a lurid red sky the two black figures
fled. The stallion was not fresh, but neither was the horse ridden by
Beloso. But the great beast responded mightily, calling on deep
reservoirs of reserve vitality.
Why the Zingaran fled from one pursuer Conan did not tax his bruised
brain to guess. Perhaps unreasoning panic rode Beloso, born of the
madness that lurked in that blazing jewel. The sun was gone; the white
road was a dim glimmer through a ghostly twilight fading into purple
gloom far ahead of him. The stallion panted, laboring hard. The
country was changing, in the gathering dusk. Bare pains gave way to
clumps of oaks and alders. Low hills mounted up in the distance. Stars
began to blink out. The stallion gasped and reeled in his course. But
ahead rose a dense wood that stretched to the hills on the horizon,
and between it and himself Conan glimpsed the dim form of the
fugitive. He urged on the distressed stallion, for he saw that he was
overtaking his prey, yard by yard. Above the pound of the hoofs a
strange cry rose from the shadows, but neither pursuer nor pursued
gave heed.
As they swept in under the branches that overhung the road, they were
almost side by side. A fierce cry rose from Conan’s lips as his sword
went up; a pale oval of a face was turned toward him, a sword gleamed
in a half-seen hand, and Beloso echoed the cry-and then the weary
stallion, with a lurch and a groan, missed his footing in the shadows
and went heels over head, hurling his dazed rider from the saddle.
Conan’s throbbing head crashed against a stone, and the stars were
blotted out in a thicker night.
How long Conan lay senseless he never knew. His first sensation of
returning consciousness was that of being dragged by one arm over
rough and stony ground, and through dense underbrush. Then he was
thrown carelessly down, and perhaps the jolt brought back his senses.
His helmet was gone, his head ached abominably, he felt a qualm of
nausea, and blood was clotted thickly among his black locks. But with
the vitality of a wild thing life and consciousness surged back into
him, and he became aware of his surroundings.
A broad red moon was shining through the trees, by which he knew that
it was long after midnight. He had lain senseless for hours, long
enough to have recovered from that terrible blow Beloso had dealt him,
as well as the fall which had rendered him senseless. His brain felt
clearer than it had felt during that mad ride after the fugitive.
He was not lying beside the white road, he noticed with a start of
surprize, as his surroundings began to record themselves on his
perceptions. The road was nowhere in sight. He lay on the grassy
earth, in a small glade hemmed in by a black wall of tree stems and
tangled branches. His face and hands were scratched and lacerated as
if he had been dragged through brambles. Shifting his body he looked
about him. And then he started violently-something was squatting over
him.
At first Conan doubted his consciousness, thought it was but a figment
of delirium. Surely it could not be real, that strange, motionless
gray being that squatted on its haunches and stared down at him with
unblinking soulless eyes.
Conan lay and stared, half expecting it to vanish like a figure of a
dream, and then a chill of recollection crept along his spine. Half-forgotten memories surged back, of grisly tales whispered of the
shapes that haunted these uninhabited forests at the foot of the hills
that mark the Zingaran-Argossean border. Ghouls, man called them,
eaters of human flesh, spawn of darkness, children of unholy matings
of a lost and forgotten race with the demons of the underworld.
Somewhere in these primitive forests were the ruins of an ancient,
accursed city, men whispered, and among its tombs slunk gray,
anthropomorphic shadows-Conan shuddered strongly.
He lay staring at the malformed head that rose dimly above him, and
cautiously he extended a hand toward the sword at his hip. With a
horrible cry that the man involuntarily echoed, the monster was at his
throat.
Conan threw up his right arm, and the dog-like jaws closed on it,
driving the mail links into the hard flesh. The misshapen yet man-like
hands clutched for his throat, but he evaded them with a heave and
roll of his whole body, at the same time drawing his dagger with his
left hand.
They tumbled over and over on the grass, smiting and tearing. The
muscles coiling under that gray corpse-like skin were stringy and hard
as steel wires, exceeding the strength of a man. But Conan’s thews
were iron too, and his mail saved him from the gnashing fangs and
ripping claws long enough for him to drive home his dagger, again and
again and again. The horrible vitality of the semi-human monstrosity
seemed inexhaustible, and the king’s skin crawled at the feel of that
slick, clammy flesh. He put all his loathing and savage revulsion
behind the plunging blade, and suddenly the monster heaved up
convulsively beneath him as the point found its grisly heart, and then
lay still.
Conan rose, shaken with nausea. He stood in the center of the glade
uncertainly, sword in one hand and dagger in the other. He had not
lost his instinctive sense of direction, as far as the points of the
compass were concerned, but he did not know in which direction the
road lay. He had no way of knowing in which direction the ghoul had
dragged him. Conan glared at the silent, black, moon-dappled woods
which ringed him, and felt cold moisture bead his flesh. He was
without a horse and lost in these haunted woods, and that staring,
deformed thing at his feet was a mute evidence of the horrors that
lurked in the forest. He stood almost holding his breath in his
painful intensity, straining his ears for some crack of twig or rustle
of grass.
When a sound did come he started violently. Suddenly out on the night
air broke the scream of a terrified horse. His stallion! There were
panthers in the wood-or-ghouls ate beasts as well as men.
He broke savagely through the brush in the direction of the sound,
whistling shrilly as he ran, his fear drowned in berserk rage. If his
horse was killed, their went his last chance of following Beloso and
recovering the jewel. Again the stallion screamed with fear and fury,
somewhere nearer. There was a sound of lashing heels, and something
that was struck heavily and gave way.
Conan burst out into the wide white road without warning, and saw the
stallion plunging and rearing in the moonlight, his ears laid back,
his eyes and teeth flashing wickedly. He lashed out with his heels at
a slinking shadow that ducked and bobbed about him—and then about
Conan other shadows moved: gray, furtive shadows that closed in on all
sides. A hideous charnel-house scent reeked up in the night air.
With a curse the king hewed right and left with his broadsword, thrust
and ripped with his dagger. Dripping fangs flashed in the moonlight,
foul paws caught at him, but he hacked his way through to the
stallion, caught the rein, leaped into the saddle. His sword rose and
fell, a frosty arc in the moon, showering blood as it split misshapen
heads, clove shambling bodies. The stallion reared, biting and
kicking. They burst through and thundered down the road. On either
hand, for a short space, flitted gray abhorrent shadows. Then these
fell behind, and Conan, topping a wooded crest, saw a vast expanse of
bare slopes sweeping up and away before him.
Chapter 13: “A Ghost Out of the Past”
SOON AFTER SUNRISE Conan crossed the Argossean border. Of Beloso he
had seen no trace. Either the captain had made good his escape while
the king lay senseless, or had fallen prey to the grim man-eaters of
the Zingaran forest. But Conan had seen no signs to indicate the
latter possibility. The fact that he had lain unmolested for so long
seemed to indicate that the monsters had been engrossed in futile
pursuit of the captain. And if the man lived, Conan felt certain that
he was riding along the road somewhere ahead of him. Unless he had
intended going into Argos he would never have taken the eastward road
in the first place.
The helmeted guards at the frontier did not question the Cimmerian. A
single wandering mercenary required no passport nor safe-conduct,
especially when his unadorned mail showed him to be in the service of
no lord. Through the low, grassy hills where streams murmured and oak
groves dappled the sward with lights and shadows he rode, following
the long road that rose and fell away ahead of him over dales and
rises in the blue distance. It was an old, old road, this highway from
Poitain to the sea.
Argos was at peace; laden ox-wains rumbled along the road, and men
with bare, brown, brawny arms toiled in orchards and fields that
smiled away under the branches of the roadside trees. Old men on
settles before inns under spreading oak branches called greetings to
the wayfarer.
From the men that worked the fields, from the garrulous old men in the
inns where he slaked his thirst with great leathern jacks of foaming
ale, from the sharp-eyed silk-clad merchants he met upon the road,
Conan sought for news of Beloso.
Stories were conflicting, but this much Conan learned: that a lean,
wiry Zingaran with the dangerous black eyes and mustaches of the
western folk was somewhere on the road ahead of him, and apparently
making for Messantia. It was a logical destination; all the seaports
of Argos were cosmopolitan, in strong contrast with the inland
provinces, and Messantia was the most polyglot of all. Craft of all
the maritime nations rode in its harbor, and refugees and fugitives
from many lands gathered there. Laws were lax; for Messantia thrived
on the trade of the sea, and her citizens found it profitable to be
somewhat blind in their dealings with seamen. It was not only
legitimate trade that flowed into Messantia; smugglers and buccaneers
played their part. All this Conan knew well, for had he not, in the
days of old when he was a Barachan pirate, sailed by night into the
harbor of Messantia to discharge strange cargoes? Most of the pirates
of the Barachan Isles-small islands on the southwestern coast of
Zingara-were Argossean sailors, and as long as they confined their
attentions to the shipping of other nations, the authorities of Argos
were not too strict in their interpretation of sea-laws.
But Conan had not limited his activities to those
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