The Hour of the Dragon - Robert E. Howard (great reads .TXT) 📗
- Author: Robert E. Howard
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night. What its masters wish I do not know. So far they have neither
bought nor sold. I distrust those dark-skinned devils. Treachery had
its birth in that dusky land.”
“I’ve made them howl,” said Conan carelessly, turning from the window.
“In my galley manned by black corsairs I crept to the very bastions of
the sea-washed castles of black-walled Khemi by night, and burned the
galleons anchored there. And speaking of treachery, mine host, suppose
you taste these viands and sip a bit of this wine, just to show me
that your heart is on the right side.”
Public complied so readily that Conan’s suspicions were lulled, and
without further hesitation he sat down and devoured enough for three
men.
And while he ate, men moved through the markets and along the
waterfront, searching for a Zmgaran who had a jewel to sell or—who
sought for a ship to carry him to foreign ports. And a tall gaunt man
with a scar on his temple sat with his elbows on a wine-stained table
in a squalid cellar with a brass lantern hanging from a smoke-blackened beam overhead, and held converse with the desperate rogues
whose sinister countenances and ragged garments proclaimed their
profession.
And as the first stars blinked out, they shone on a strange band
spurring their mounts along the white road that led to Messantia from
the west. They were four men, tall, gaunt, dad in black, hooded robes,
and they did not speak. They forced their steeds mercilessly onward,
and those steeds were gaunt as themselves, and sweat-stained and weary
as if from long travel and far wandering.
Chapter 14: The Black Hand of Set
CONAN WOKE FROM a sound sleep as quickly and instantly as a cat. And
like a cat he was on his feet with his sword out before the man who
had touched him could so much as draw back.
“What word. Publio?” demanded Conan, recognizing his host. The gold
lamp burned low, casting a mellow glow over the thick tapestries and
the rich coverings of the couch whereon he had been reposing.
Publio, recovering from the start given him by the sudden action of
his awakening guest, replied: “The Zingaran has been located. He
arrived yesterday, at dawn. Only a few hours ago he sought to sell a
huge, strange jewel to a Shemitish merchant, but the Shemite would
have naught to do with it. Men say he turned pale beneath his black
beard at the sight of it, and closing his stall, fled as from a thing
accursed.”
“It must be Beloso,” muttered Conan, feeling the pulse in his temples
pounding with impatient eagerness. “Where is he now?”
“He sleeps in the house of Servio.”
“I know that dive of old,” grunted Conan. “I’d better hasten before
some of these waterfront thieves cut his throat for the jewel.”
He took up his cloak and flung it over his shoulders, then donned a
helmet Public had procured for him.
“Have my steed saddled and ready in the court,” said he. “I may return
in haste. I shall not forget this night’s work. Publio.”
A few moments later Publio, standing at a small outer door, watched
the king’s tall figure receding down the shadowy street.
“Farewell to you, corsair,” muttered the merchant. “This must be a
notable jewel, to be sought by a man who has just lost a kingdom. I
wish I had told my knaves to let him secure it before they did their
work. But then, something might have gone awry. Let Argos forget Amra,
and let my dealings with him be lost in the dust of the past. In the
alley behind the house of Servio-that is where Conan will cease to be
a peril to me.”
Servio’s house, a dingy, ill-famed den, was located close to the
wharves, facing the waterfront. It was a shambling building of stone
and heavy ship-beams, and a long narrow alley wandered up alongside
it. Conan made his way along the alley, and as he reached the house he
had an uneasy feeling that he was being spied upon. He stared hard
into the shadows of the squalid buildings, but saw nothing, though
once he caught the faint rasp of cloth or leather against flesh. But
that was nothing unusual. Thieves and beggars prowled these alleys all
night, and they were not likely to attack him, after one look at his
size and harness.
But suddenly a door opened in the wall ahead of him, and he slipped
into the shadow of an arch. A figure emerged from the open door and
moved along the alley, not furtively, but with a natural
noiselessness, like that of a jungle beast. Enough starlight filtered
into the alley to silhouette the man’s profile dimly as he passed the
doorway where Conan lurked. The stranger was a Stygian. There was no
mistaking that hawk-faced, shaven head, even in the starlight, nor the
mantle over the broad shoulders. He passed on down the alley in the
direction of the beach, and once Conan thought he must be carrying a
lantern among his garments, for he caught a flash of lambent light,
just as the man vanished.
But the Cimmerian forgot the stranger as he noticed that the door
through which he had emerged still stood open. Conan had intended
entering by the main entrance and forcing Servio to show him the room
where the Zingaran slept. But if he could get into the house without
attracting anyone’s attention, so much the better.
A few long strides brought him to the door, and as his hands fell on
the lock he stifled an involuntary grunt. His practised fingers,
skilled among the thieves of Zamora long ago, told him that the lock
had been forced, apparently by some terrific pressure from the outside
that had twisted and bent the heavy iron bolts, tearing the very
sockets loose from the jambs. How such damage could have been wrought
so violently without awakening everyone in the neighborhood Conan
could not imagine, but he felt sure that it had been done that night.
A broken lock, if discovered, would not go unmended in the house of
Servio, in this neighborhood of thieves and cutthroats.
Conan entered stealthily, poniard in hand, wondering how he was to
find the chamber of the Zingaran. Groping in total darkness he halted
suddenly. He sensed death in that room, as a wild beast senses it-not
as peril threatening him, but a dead thing, something freshly slain.
In the darkness his foot hit and recoiled from something heavy and
yielding. With a sudden premonition he groped along the wall until he
found the shelf that supported the brass lamp, with its flint, steel
and tinder beside it. A few seconds later a flickering, uncertain
light sprang up, and he stared narrowly about him.
A bunk built against the rough stone wall, a bare table and a bench
completed the furnishings of the squalid chamber. An inner door stood
closed and bolted. And on the hard-beaten dirt floor lay Beloso. On
his back he lay, with his head drawn back between his shoulders so
that he seemed to stare with his wide glassy eyes at the sooty beams
of the cobwebbed ceiling. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a
frozen grin of agony. His sword lay near him, still in its scabbard.
His shirt was torn open, and on his brown, muscular breast was the
print of a black hand, thumb and four fingers plainly distinct.
Conan glared in silence, feeling the short hairs bristle at the back
of his neck.
“Crom!” he muttered. “The black hand of Set!”
He had seen that mark of old, the death-mark of the black priests of
Set, the grim cult that ruled in dark Stygia. And suddenly he
remembered that curious flash he had seen emanating from the
mysterious Stygian who had emerged from this chamber.
“The Heart, by Crom!” he muttered. “He was carrying it under his
mantle. He stole it. He burst that door by his magic, and slew Beloso.
He was a priest of Set.”
A quick investigation confirmed at least part of his suspicions. The
jewel was not on the Zingaran’s body. An uneasy feeling rose in Conan
that this had not happened by chance, or without design; a conviction
that the mysterious Stygian galley had come into the harbor of
Messantia on a definite mission. How could the priests of Set know
that the Heart had come southward? Yet the thought was no more
fantastic than the necromancy that could slay an armed man by the
touch of an open, empty hand.
A stealthy footfall outside the door brought him round like a great
cat. With one motion he extinguished the lamp and drew his sword. His
ears told him that men were out there in the darkness, were closing in
on the doorway. As his eyes became accustomed to the sudden darkness,
he could make out dim figures ringing the entrance. He could not guess
their identity, but as always he took the initiative-leaping suddenly
forth from the doorway without awaiting the attack.
His unexpected movement took the skulkers by surprise. He sensed and
heard men close about him, saw a dim masked figure in the starlight
before him; then his sword crunched home, and he was fleeting away
down the alley before the slower-thinking and slower-acting attackers
could intercept him.
As he ran he heard, somewhere ahead of him, a faint creak of oar-locks, and he forgot the men behind him. A boat was moving out into
the bay! Gritting his teeth he increased his speed, but before he
reached the beach he heard the rasp and creak of ropes, and the grind
of the great sweep in its socket.
Thick clouds, rolling up from the sea, obscured the stars. In thick
darkness Conan came upon the strand, straining his eyes out across the
black restless water. Something was moving out there—a long, low,
black shape that receded in the darkness, gathering momentum as it
went. To his ears came the rhythmical clack of long oars. He ground
his teeth in helpless fury. It was the Stygian galley and she was
racing out to sea, bearing with her the jewel that meant to him the
throne of Aquilonia.
With a savage curse he took a step toward the waves that lapped
against the sands, catching at his hauberk and intending to rip it off
and swim after the vanishing ship. Then the crunch of a heel in the
sand brought him about. He had forgotten his pursuers.
Dark figures closed in on him with a rush of feet through the sands.
The first went down beneath the Cunmerian’s flailing sword, but the
others did not falter. Blades whickered dimly about him in the
darkness or rasped on his mail. Blood and entrails spilled over his
hand and someone screamed as he ripped murderously upward. A muttered
voice spurred on the attack, and that voice sounded vaguely familiar.
Conan plowed through the clinging, hacking shapes toward the voice. A
faint light gleaming momentarily through the drifting clouds showed
him a tall gaunt man with a great livid scar on his temple. Conan’s
sword sheared through his skull as through a ripe melon.
Then an ax, swung blindly in the dark, crashed on the king’s basinet,
filling his eyes with sparks of fire. He lurched and lunged, felt his
sword sink deep and heard a shriek of agony. Then he stumbled over a
corpse, and a bludgeon knocked the dented helmet from his head; the
next instant the club fell full on his unprotected skull.
The king of Aquilonia crumpled into the wet
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