The Hour of the Dragon - Robert E. Howard (great reads .TXT) 📗
- Author: Robert E. Howard
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and four giant negroes entered. Each was clad only in a silken breech-clout supported by a girdle, from which hung a great key.
Xaltotun gestured impatiently toward the king and turned away, as if
dismissing the matter entirely from his mind. His fingers twitched
queeriy. From a cavern green jade box he took a handful of shimmering
black dust, and placed it in a brazier which stood on a golden tripod
at his elbow. The crystal globe, which he seemed to have forgotten,
fell suddenly to the floor, as if its invisible support had been
removed.
Then the blacks had lifted Conan-for so loaded with chains was he that
he could not walk-and carried him from the chamber. A glance back,
before the heavy, gold-bound teak door was closed, showed him Xaltotun
leaning back in his throne-like chair, his arms folded, while a thin
wisp of smoke curled up from the brazier. Oman’s scalp prickled. In
Stygia, that ancient and evil kingdom that lay far to the south, he
had seen such black dust before. It was the pollen of the black lotus,
which creates death-like sleep and monstrous dreams; and he knew that
only the grisly wizards of the Black Ring, which is the nadir of evil,
voluntarily seek the scarlet nightmares of the black lotus, to revive
their necromantic powers.
The Black Ring was a fable and a lie to most folk of the western
world, but Conan knew of its ghastly reality, and its grim votaries
who practise their abominable sorceries amid the black vaults of
Stygia and the nighted domes of accursed Sabatea. He glanced back at
the cryptic, gold-bound door, shuddering at what it hid.
Whether it was day or night the king could not tell. The palace of
King Tarascus seemed a shadowy, nighted place, that shunned natural
illumination. The spirit of darkness and shadow hovered over it, and
that spirit, Conan felt, was embodied in the stranger Xaltotun. The
negroes carried the king along a winding corridor so dimly lighted
that they moved through it like black ghosts bearing a dead man, and
down a stone stair that wound endlessly? A torch in the hand of one
cast the great deformed shadows streaming along the wall; it was like
the descent into hell of a corpse borne by dusky demons.
At last they reached the foot of the stair, and then they traversed a
long straight corridor, with a blank wall on one hand pierced by an
occasional arched doorway with a stair leading up behind it, and on
the other hand another wall showing heavy barred doors at regular
intervals of a few feet.
Halting before one of these doors, one of the blacks produced the key
that hung at his girdle, and turned it in the lock. Then, pushing open
the grille, they entered with their captive. They were in a small
dungeon with heavy stone walls, floor and ceiling, and in the opposite
wall there was another grilled door. What lay beyond that door Conan
could not tell, but he did not believe it was another corridor. The
glimmering light of the torch, flickering through the bars, hinted at
shadowy spaciousness and echoing depths.
In one corner of the dungeon, near the door through which they had
entered, a cluster of rusty chains hung from a great iron ring set in
the stone. In these chains a skeleton dangled. Conan glared at it with
some curiosity, noticing the state of the bare bones, most of which
were splintered and broken; the skull which had fallen from the
vertebrae, was crushed as if by some savage blow of tremendous force.
Stolidly one of the blacks, not the one who had opened the door,
removed the chains from the ring, using his key on the massive lock,
and dragged the mass of rusty metal and shattered bones over to one
side. Then they fastened Conan’s chains to that ring, and the third
black turned his key in the lock of the farther door, grunting when he
had assured himself that it was properly fastened.
Then they regarded Conan cryptically, slit-eyed ebony giants, the
torch striking highlights from their glossy skin.
He who held the key to the nearer door was moved to remark,
gutturally: “This your palace now, white dog-king! None but master and
we know. All palace sleep. We keep secret. You live and die here,
maybe. Like him!” He contemptuously kicked the shattered skull and
sent it clattering across the stone floor.
Conan did not deign to reply to the taunt and the black, galled
perhaps by his prisoner’s silence, muttered a curse, stooped and spat
full in the king’s face. It was an unfortunate move for the black.
Conan was seated on the floor, the chains about his waist; ankles and
wrists locked to the ring in the wall. He could neither rise, nor move
more than a yard out from the wall. But there was considerable slack
in the chains that shackled his wrists, and before the bullet-shaped
head could be withdrawn out of reach, the king gathered this slack in
his mighty hand and smote the black on the head. The man fell like a
butchered ox and his comrades stared to see him lying with his scalp
laid open, and blood oozing from his nose and ears.
But they attempted no reprisal, nor did they accept Conan’s urgent
invitation to approach within reach of the bloody chain in his hand.
Presently, grunting in their ape-like speech, they lifted the
senseless black and bore him out like a sack of wheat, arms and legs
dangling. They used his key to lock the door behind them, but did not
remove it from the gold chain that fastened it to his girdle. They
took the torch with them, and as they moved up the corridor the
darkness slunk behind them like an animate thing. Their soft padding
footsteps died away, with the glimmer of their torch, and darkness and
silence remained unchallenged.
Chapter 5: The Haunter of the Pits
CONAN LAY STILL, enduring the weight of his chains and the despair of
his position with the stoicism of the wilds that had bred him. He did
not move, because the jangle of his chains, when he shifted his body,
sounded startlingly loud in the darkness and stillness, and it was his
instinct, born of a thousand wilderness-bred ancestors, not to betray
his position in his helplessness. This did not result from a logical
reasoning process; he did not lie quiet because he reasoned that the
darkness hid lurking dangers that might discover him in his
helplessness. Xaltotun had assured him that he was not to be harmed,
and Conan believed that it was in the man’s interest to preserve him,
at least for the time being. But the instincts of the wild were there,
that had caused him in his childhood to lie hidden and silent while
wild beasts prowled about his covert.
Even his keen eyes could not pierce the solid darkness. Yet aftera
while, after a period of time he had no way of estimating, a faint
glow became apparent, a sort of slanting gray beam, by which Conan
could see, vaguely, the bars of the door at his elbow, and even make
out the skeleton of the other grille. This puzzled him, until at last
he realized the explanation. He was far below ground, in the pits
below the palace; yet for some reason a shaft had been constructed
from somewhere above. Outside, the moon had risen to a point where its
light slanted dimly down the shaft. He reflected that in this manner
he could tell the passing of the days and nights. Perhaps the sun,
too, would shine down that shaft, though on the other hand it might be
closed by day. Perhaps it was a subtle method of torture, allowing a
prisoner but a glimpse of daylight or moonlight.
His gaze fell on the broken bones in the farther comer, glimmering
dimly. He did not tax his brain with futile speculation as to who the
wretch had been and for what reason he had been doomed, but he
wondered at the shattered condition of the bones. They had not been
broken on a rack. Then, as he looked, another unsavory detail made
itself evident. The shin-bones were split lengthwise, and there was
but one explanation; they had been broken in that manner in order to
obtain the marrow. Yet what creature but man breaks bones for their
marrow? Perhaps those remnants were mute evidence of a horrible,
cannibalistic feast, of some wretch driven to madness by starvation.
Conan wondered if his own bones would be found at some future date,
hanging in their rusty chains. He fought down the unreasoning panic of
a trapped wolf.
The Cimmerian did not curse, scream, weep or rave as a civilized man
might have done. But the pain and turmoil in his bosom were none the
less fierce. His great limbs quivered with the intensity of his
emotions. Somewhere, far to the westward, the Nemedian host was
slashing and burning its way through the heart of his kingdom. The
small host of Poitanians could not stand before them. Prospero might
be able to hold Tarantia for weeks, or months; but eventually, if not
relieved, he must surrender to greater numbers. Surely the barons
would rally to him against the invaders. But in the meanwhile he,
Conan, must lie helpless in a darkened cell, while others led his
spears and fought for his kingdom. The king ground his powerful teeth
in red rage.
Then he stiffened as outside the farther door he heard a stealthy
step. Straining his eyes he made out a bent, indistinct figure outside
the grille. There was a rasp of metal against metal, and he heard the
clink of tumblers, as if a key had been turned in the lock. Then the
figure moved silently out of his range of vision. Some guard, he
supposed, trying the lock. After a while he heard the sound repeated
faintly somewhere farther on, and that was followed by the soft
opening of a door, and then a swift scurry of softly shod feet
retreated in the distance. Then silence fell again.
Conan listened for what seemed a long time, but which could not have
been, for the moon still shone down the hidden shaft, but he heard no
further sound. He shifted his position at last, and his chains
clanked. Then he heard another, lighter footfall-a soft step outside
the nearer door, the door though which he had entered the cell. An
instant later a slender figure was etched dimly in the gray light.
“King Conan!” a soft voice intoned urgently. “Oh, my lord, are you
there?”
“Where else?” he answered guardedly, twisting his head about to stare
at the apparition.
It was a girl who stood grasping the bars with her slender fingers.
The dim glow behind her outlined her supple figure through the wisp of
silk twisted about her loins, and shone vaguely on jeweled breastplates. Her dark eyes gleamed in the shadows, her white limbs
glistened softly, like alabaster. Her hair was a mass of dark foam, at
the burnished luster of which the dim light only hinted.
“The keys to your shackles and to the farther door!” she whispered,
and a slim White hand came through the bars and dropped three objects
with a clink to the flags beside him.
“What game is this?” he demanded. “You speak in the Nemedian tongue,
and I have no friends in Nemedia. What deviltry is your master up to
now? Has he sent you here to mock me?”
“It is no mockery!” The girl was trembling violently. Her bracelets
and breastplates clinked against the bars she grasped. “I
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