by R. E Howard
He glared through a crack that had been started in the steel of the portal. The landing was empty. He drew the warped bolts and cautiously pulled aside the sagging door. Khosatral was not on the stair, but far below he heard the clang of a metal door. He did not know whether the giant was plotting new deviltries or had been summoned away by that muttering voice, but he wasted no time in conjectures.
He called to Octavia, and the new note in his voice brought her up to her feet and to his side almost without her conscious volition.
“What is it?” she gasped.
“Don’t stop to talk!” He caught her wrist. “Come on!” The chance for action had transformed him; his eyes blazed, his voice crackled. “The knife!” he muttered, while almost dragging the girl down the stair in his fierce haste. “The magic Yuetshi blade! He left it in the dome! I –” his voice died suddenly as a clear mental picture sprang up before him. That dome adjoined the great room where stood the copper throne – sweat started out on his body. The only way to that dome was through that room with its copper throne and the foul thing that slumbered in it.
But he did not hesitate. Swiftly they descended the stair, crossed the chamber, descended the next stair, and came into the great dim hall with its mysterious hangings. They had seen no sign of the colossus. Halting before the great bronze-valved door, Conan caught Octavia by her shoulders and shook her in his intensity.
“Listen!” he snapped. “I’m going into that room and fasten the door. Stand here and listen; if Khosatral comes, call to me. If you hear me cry out for you to go, run as though the devil were on your heels – which he probably will be. Make for that door at the other end of the hall, because I’ll be past helping you. I’m going for the Yuetshi knife!”
Before she could voice the protest her lips were framing, he had slid through the valves and shut them behind him. He lowered the bolt cautiously, not noticing that it could be worked from the outside. In the dim twilight his gaze sought that grim copper throne; yes, the scaly brute was still there, filling the throne with its loathsome coils. He saw a door behind the throne and knew that it led into the dome. But to reach it he must mount the dais, a few feet from the throne itself.
A wind blowing across the green floor would have made more noise than Conan’s slinking feet. Eyes glued on the sleeping reptile he reached the dais and mounted the glass steps. The snake had not moved. He was reaching for the door….
The bolt on the bronze portal clanged and Conan stifled an awful oath as he saw Octavia come into the room. She stared about, uncertain in the deeper gloom, and he stood frozen, not daring to shout a warning. Then she saw his shadowy figure and ran toward the dais, crying: “I want to go with you! I’m afraid to stay alone – oh!” She threw up her hands with a terrible scream as for the first time she saw the occupant of the throne. The wedge-shaped head had lifted from its coils and thrust out toward her on a yard of shining neck.
Then with a smooth flowing motion it began to ooze from the throne, coil by coil, its ugly head bobbing in the direction of the paralyzed girl.
Conan cleared the space between him and the throne with a desperate bound, his simitar swinging with all his power. And with such blinding speed did the serpent move that it whipped about and met him in full midair, lapping his limbs and body with half a dozen coils. His half-checked stroke fell futilely as he crashed down on the dais, gashing the scaly trunk but not severing it.
Then he was writhing on the glass steps with fold after slimy fold knotting about him, twisting, crushing, killing him. His right arm was still free, but he could get no purchase to strike a killing blow, and he knew one blow must suffice. With a groaning convulsion of muscular expansion that bulged his veins almost to bursting on his temples and tied his muscles in quivering, tortured knots, he heaved up on his feet, lifting almost the full weight of that forty-foot devil.
An instant he reeled on wide-braced legs, feeling his ribs caving in on his vitals and his sight growing dark, while his simitar gleamed above his head. Then it fell, shearing through the scales and flesh and vertebrae. And where there had been one huge writhing cable, now there were horribly two, lashing and flopping in the death throes. Conan staggered away from their blind strokes. He was sick and dizzy, and blood oozed from his nose. Groping in a dark mist he clutched Octavia and shook her until she gasped for breath.
“Next time I tell you to stay somewhere,” he gasped, “you stay!”
He was too dizzy even to know whether she replied. Taking her wrist like a truant schoolgirl, he led her around the hideous stumps that still looped and knotted on the floor. Somewhere, in the distance, he thought he heard men yelling, but his ears were still roaring so that he could not be sure.
The door gave to his efforts. If Khosatral had placed the snake there to guard the thing he feared, evidently he considered it ample precaution. Conan half expected some other monstrosity to leap at him with the opening of the door, but in the dimmer light he saw only the vague sweep of the arch above, a dully gleaming block of gold, and a half-moon glimmer on the stone.
With a gasp of gratification he scooped it up, and did not linger for further exploration. He turned and fled across the room and down the great hall toward the distant door that he felt led to the outer air. He was correct. A few minutes later he emerged into the silent streets, half carrying, half guiding his companion. There was no one to be seen, but beyond the western wall there sounded cries and moaning wails that made Octavia tremble. He led her to the southwestern wall, and without difficulty found a stone stair that mounted the rampart. He had appropriated a thick tapestry rope in the great hall, and now, having reached the parapet, he looped the soft strong cord about the girl’s hips and lowered her to the earth. Then, making one end fast to a merlon, he slid down after her. There was but one way of escape from the island – the stair on the western cliffs. In that direction he hurried, swinging wide around the spot from which had come the cries and the sound of terrible blows.
Octavia sensed that grim peril lurked in those leafy fastnesses. Her breath came pantingly and she pressed close to her protector. But the forest was silent now, and they saw no shape of menace until they emerged from the trees and glimpsed a figure standing on the edge of the cliffs.
Jehungir Agha had escaped the doom that had overtaken his warriors when an iron giant sallied suddenly from the gate and battered and crushed them into bits of shredded flesh and splintered bone. When he saw the swords of his archers break on that man-like juggernaut, he had known it was no human foe they faced, and he had fled, hiding in the deep woods until the sounds of slaughter ceased. Then he crept back to the stair, but his boatmen were not waiting for him.
They had heard the screams, and presently, waiting nervously, had seen, on the cliff above them, a blood-smeared monster waving gigantic arms in awful triumph. They had waited for no more. When Jehungir came upon the cliffs they were just vanishing among the reeds beyond ear-shot. Khosatral was gone – had either returned to the city or was prowling the forest in search of the man who had escaped him outside the walls.
Jehungir was just preparing to descend the stairs and depart in Conan’s boat, when he saw the hetman and the girl emerge from the trees. The experience which had congealed his blood and almost blasted his reason had not altered Jehungir’s intentions toward the kozak chief. The sight of the man he had come to kill filled him with gratification. He was astonished to see the girl he had given to Jelal Khan, but he wasted no time on her. Lifting his bow he drew the shaft to its head and loosed. Conan crouched and the arrow splintered on a tree, and Conan laughed.
“Dog!” he taunted. “You can’t hit me! I was not born to die on Hyrkanian steel! Try again, pig of Turan!”
Jehungir did not try again. That was his last arrow. He drew his simitar and advanced, confident in his spired helmet and close-meshed mail. Conan met him half-way in a blinding whirl of swords. The curved blades ground together, sprang apart, circled in glittering arcs that blurred the sight which t
ried to follow them. Octavia, watching, did not see the stroke, but she heard its chopping impact, and saw Jehungir fall, blood spurting from his side where the Cimmerian’s steel had sundered his mail and bitten to his spine.
But Octavia’s scream was not caused by the death of her former master. With a crash of bending boughs Khosatral Khel was upon them. The girl could not flee; a moaning cry escaped her as her knees gave way and pitched her grovelling to the sward.
Conan, stooping above the body of the Agha, made no move to escape. Shifting his reddened simitar to his left hand, he drew the great half-blade of the Yuetshi. Khosatral Khel was towering above him, his arms lifted like mauls, but as the blade caught the sheen of the sun, the giant gave back suddenly.
But Conan’s blood was up. He rushed in, slashing with the crescent blade. And it did not splinter. Under its edge the dusky metal of Khosatral’s body gave way like common flesh beneath a cleaver. From the deep gash flowed a strange ichor, and Khosatral cried out like the dirging of a great bell. His terrible arms flailed down, but Conan, quicker than the archers who had died beneath those awful flails, avoided their strokes and struck again and yet again. Khosatral reeled and tottered; his cries were awful to hear, as if metal were given a tongue of pain, as if iron shrieked and bellowed under torment.
Then wheeling away he staggered into the forest; he reeled in his gait, crashed through bushes and caromed off trees. Yet though Conan followed him with the speed of hot passion, the walls and towers of Dagon loomed through the trees before the man came within dagger-reach of the giant.
Then Khosatral turned again, flailing the air with desperate blows, but Conan, fired to berserk fury, was not to be denied. As a panther strikes down a bull moose at bay, so he plunged under the bludgeoning arms and drove the crescent blade to the hilt under the spot where a human’s heart would be.
Khosatral reeled and fell. In the shape of a man he reeled, but it was not the shape of a man that struck the loam. Where there had been the likeness of a human face, there was no face at all, and the metal limbs melted and changed…. Conan, who had not shrunk from Khosatral living, recoiled blenching from Khosatral dead, for he had witnessed an awful transmutation; in his dying throes Khosatral Khel had become again the thing that had crawled up from the Abyss millenniums gone. Gagging with intolerable repugnance, Conan turned to flee the sight; and he was suddenly aware that the pinnacles of Dagon no longer glimmered through the trees. They had faded like smoke – the battlements, the crenellated towers, the great bronze gates, the velvets, the gold, the ivory, and the dark-haired women, and the men with their shaven skulls. With the passing of the inhuman intellect which had given them rebirth, they had faded back into the dust which they had been for ages uncounted. Only the stumps of broken columns rose above crumbling walls and broken paves and shattered dome. Conan again looked upon the ruins of Xapur as he remembered them.
The wild hetman stood like a statue for a space, dimly grasping something of the cosmic tragedy of the fitful ephemera called mankind and the hooded shapes of darkness which prey upon it. Then as he heard his name called in accents of fear, he started, as one awaking from a dream, glanced again at the thing on the ground, shuddered and turned away toward the cliffs and the girl that waited there.
She was peering fearfully under the trees, and she greeted him with a half-stifled cry of relief. He had shaken off the dim monstrous visions which had momentarily haunted him, and was his exuberant self again.
“Where is he?” she shuddered.
“Gone back to hell whence he crawled,” he replied cheerfully. “Why didn’t you climb the stair and make your escape in my boat?”
“I wouldn’t desert –” she began, then changed her mind, and amended rather sulkily, “I have nowhere to go. The Hyrkanians would enslave me again, and the pirates would –”
“What of thekozaks ?” he suggested.
“Are they better than the pirates?” she asked scornfully. Conan’s admiration increased to see how well she had recovered her poise after having endured such frantic terror. Her arrogance amused him.
“You seemed to think so in the camp by Ghori,” he answered. “You were free enough with your smiles then.”
Her red lip curled in disdain. “Do you think I was enamored of you? Do you dream that I would have shamed myself before an ale-guzzling, meat-gorging barbarian unless I had to? My master – whose body lies there – forced me to do as I did.”
“Oh!” Conan seemed rather crestfallen. Then he laughed with undiminished zest. “No matter. You belong to me now. Give me a kiss.”
“You dare ask –” she began angrily, when she felt herself snatched off her feet and crushed to the hetman ’s muscular breast. She fought him fiercely, with all the supple strength of her magnificent youth, but he only laughed exuberantly, drunk with the possession of this splendid creature writhing in his arms.
He crushed her struggles easily, drinking the nectar of her lips with all the unrestrained passion that was his, until the arms that strained against him melted and twined convulsively about his massive neck. Then he laughed down into the clear eyes, and said: “Why should not a chief of the Free People be preferable to a city-bred dog of Turan?”
She shook back her tawny locks, still tingling in every nerve from the fire of his kisses. She did not loosen her arms from his neck. “Do you deem yourself an Agha’s equal?” she challenged.
He laughed and strode with her in his arms toward the stair. “You shall judge,” he boasted. “I’ll burn Khawarizm for a torch to light your way to my tent.”
Miscellanea
The Phoenix on the Sword
(First submitted draft)
The Phoenix on the Sword
(First submitted draft)
CHAPTER 1
“My songs are torches for a king’s pyre!”
“At midnight the king dies!”
The speaker was tall, dark and lean; a scar near his mouth added to his already sinister aspect. His hearers nodded, their eyes grim. One of these was a short, fat, richly dressed man, with a weak petulant mouth and shifty eyes. Another was a sombre giant in gold-chased mail. The third was a tall wiry man in the garb of a jester, whose unruly yellow hair fell wildly above flaming blue eyes. The last was a dwarf with a cruel aristocratic face, whose abnormally broad shoulders and long arms contrasted strangely with his stunted figure.
The first speaker glanced unconsciously at the close-barred doors and velvet-hung windows, and smiled bleakly. “Let us take the oath of the Dagger and the Flame. I trust you of course. Still it is better that there be assurance of a sort for us all. I note tremors among some of you.”
“That is all very well for you to say, Ascalante,” broke in the fat man petulantly. “You are an outlaw, anyway, with a price on your head – you have all to gain and nothing to lose, whereas we –”
“– Have much to lose and more to gain,” answered the outlaw imperturbably. "You called me out of my desert fastnesses far to the south to aid you in overthrowing a king – well, I have made the plans, set the snare, baited the trap and stand ready to take the prey – but I must be sure that I will not be left holding the bag. Will you swear?”
“Enough of this futile talk!” cried the man in jester’s garb. “Aye, we will swear this dawn and tonight we will dance down a king! ‘Oh, the chant of the chariots, and the whir of the wings of the vultures – ’ ”
“Save your songs for another time, Rinaldo,” laughed Ascalante. “This is a time for daggers, not rhymes.”
“My songs are torches for a king’s pyre!” cried the minstrel, whipping out a long dagger. “Ho, slaves, bring hither a candle! I shall be first to swear the oath.”
A slave whose dusky skin revealed his Stygian blood, brought a long taper and Rinaldo pricked his own wrist, bringing blood. The others followed his example, then gripping hands in a sort of circle, with the lighted candle in the center, they allowed the drops of blood to trickle upon the flame. While it hissed and flickered
, they repeated:
“I, Ascalante, a landless man, swear to the deed avowed and silence covenanted, by steel and flame and blood, and the Oath unbreakable.”
“And I, Rinaldo, first minstrel of Aquilonia!” exclaimed the poet.
“And I, Volmana, count of Karaban,” said the dwarf.
“And I, Gromel, commander of the Black Legion of Aquilonia,” rumbled the giant.
“And I, Dion, baron of Attalus, rightful heir to Aquilonia’s throne,” quavered the fat man.
The candle went out, quenched by the falling blood-drops.
“So fades the life of our enemy,” quoth Ascalante, releasing his companions’ hands and regarding them with carefully veiled contempt. He had broken too many oaths himself to regard even this vow otherwise than cynically, but he knew that Dion, whom he trusted least, was superstitious. There was no reason to overlook any safe-guard, no matter how slight.
“Tomorrow,” said Ascalante abruptly, “– I mean today, for it is dawn now – Count Trocero of Poitain, seneschal of the king, rides to Nemedia with Prospero, king Conan’s righthand man, with most of the Poitanian troops and a goodly number of those Black Dragons who form the king’s bodyguard. With the exception of the few squads of this regiment now in the palace, all the rest are at present patrolling the Pictish frontier – thanks to the increasing activities of the barbarians along the western border. Once Conan is dead the people will rise and welcome the new regime, and the king’s friends, hastening to avenge him, will find the city gates locked against them and the rest of the army – particularly the Black Legion – ready to defend the new dynasty – or rather the old dynasty restored.”