The wall was of smooth stones, set in an adobe mortar and covered with more of the claylike mud; in height, the wall was easily thrice Conan's own span. The tall youth grinned. Child's play, he thought, looking at the cracks in the adobe. To an ordinary man the wall might appear smooth; to a Cimmerian there might as well have been a ladder scaling the side. If Lemparius depended upon this wall for his primary protection, the man prepared himself ill for unsolicited night visitors.
It was but the work of a few moments for Conan to spider his way up the wall. At the top, shards of broken pottery had been set, along with splinters of rock. Were a climber fool enough to throw himself upon these jagged edges, certainly he could do himself injury. Conan laughed softly. Anyone adept enough to climb the wall was also likely to be adept enough to bypass the ragged points set in the top. He did so easily, undaunted by such small precautions on the part of the builder.
He worked his way down the inner wall until he reached his own height from the ground, then dropped, landing lightly for such a big man. Easy enough.
The palace stood a hundred paces away. Perhaps palace was too pretentious a word, Conan thought. Certainly, the manse was large, but it seemed less than imposing when compared to some of the structures he had seen in Shadizar. No comparison could be made with the destroyed Tower of the Elephant in Arenjun, to be certain; still, if the place held that which he sought, that would be enough.
The manse, too, was of adobe over stone, with gaps where the overlay had sloughed away to reveal the rock. Conan saw there was no moat; neither did there seem to be watch animals, dogs, or birds. He thought the last a bit strange; he had come prepared for either, with drugged meat and grain in a small sack tied to his belt.
Conan approached the house boldly, hoping to confuse any guards who might see him. If seen, he would try to get close enough to knock the guard senseless before alarm could be raised.
No guards materialized from dark recesses, however. Nor did Conan see any signs of guardhouses or posts. He shook his head, starlight gleaming from his blue eyes. This Lemparius was a gift from Bel to thieves, he thought. A wonder there stood no sign proclaiming invitation to steal.
Despite the ease of his entrance so far, he remained cautious. He was tempted to simply stride to the front entrance and enter the manse that way, but he decided against such audacity. Best not to press his luck; a window would do just as well.
From the ease of his work so far, Conan expected the window to be unlatched; he was not disappointed. The shutters swung wide easily, allowing him to clamber inside the building. Inside, he found himself in a storeroom laden with fowl hung to ripen for future meals, lit dimly by tapers in the hall beyond. He moved among the dangling carcasses gracefully, avoiding contact with the pungent flesh. He peered out into the hall.
Once again the young Cimmerian grinned widely. Empty. This was too easy. He began to relax. Such a man as owned this place deserved to be robbed; surely he must be swimming in arrogance?
He walked down the hallway, keeping to the edges of his booted feet for silence. Such a precaution was automatic, and not one apt to be relaxed simply because of one easy bit of theft.
The hall led past a large room with a steaming bath centered on it, sunk into the floor. Wisps of vapor rose to condense on the walls, and drops of moisture ran down to form small pools upon the floor. But where were the inhabitants of this place'? Could it be that everyone slept, without even a single guard? Such lunacy!
He moved past several rooms with doors ajar. He saw expensive furniture and rugs in some; paintings and statues in others; still others held mechanical devices, the purposes of which he could not immediately discern.
Finally, the Cimmerian came to a locked door. He grinned. About time.
He bent to examine the lock, and his grin increased. Such a lock would not stymie a child bent on entering the room. And Conan was no child.
He pulled his dagger and worked the point between the door's edge and the jamb. A simple twist of the blade freed the bolt from its recess; the door swung inward easily.
He took a taper from the hall and held it before him as he moved into the room. He stopped suddenly, and sucked in a quick breath. Crom!
The light from the flickering taper revealed a treasure room. There were gold statuettes, mostly of cats, set with precious stones; ivory tusks inlaid with spirals of gold and silver lay piled in a heap; plateware and soft leather bags-no doubt filled with coins-seemed scattered everywhere.
Here, then, was his goal. Conan shut the door behind him softly and held the taper high. Past thievery had taught him to take those things most easily converted to ready coin, and, since there seemed to be bags of coins among all the other richery of this room, best he should take advantage of such. Of course, were there jewels filling some of those leathern sacks, why, it would be foolish to bypass them. There was, however, no point in being greedy. A few hundred pieces of gold and a queen's ransom in precious stones should be sufficient for his needs.
He suppressed a laugh. A pity he had not brought a cart; so poor was the security, he was certain he could have loaded a wagon and driven away unseen.
The Cimmerian bent to begin examining the potential loot. Here was a bag of gold solons, hefty and fat; there, a small sack of fine emeralds, cut in rectangular fashion. He put the precious green stones into his own purse. The next bag contained perhaps sixty pieces of silver; reluctantly, he discarded these. Too heavy and not enough value, silver, compared to all this other wealth.
Using a large leather pouch, he loaded enough gold coins so that the triple-stitched leather threatened to tear with the weight. It was all the Cimmerian could do to keep from laughing. Not only would he travel to Nemedia in style, he would arrive a rich man. Why, they could hire an army to besiege the magician who held Eldia's sister. Or buy wizards of their own.
As he started to leave, Conan paused. There was a device sitting upon a pedestal of carved ivory near the door; he had missed it upon his entrance. He paused to look at this object. It was of gold, or, perhaps, brass, and resembled nothing so much as a ball within a cube.
There was, however, some kind of distortion in the construction; something he could not quite put his finger upon seemed wrong. Because of the position of the device upon the stand, he figured the construction must be quite valuable. He considered taking the object, then shrugged. No, he had enough. A good thief knew when to quit. He turned away.
"A wise choice," came a male voice. "Since you obviously do not know what the storora is or what it does. It would be wasted upon you."
Before the voice finished, Conan was already moving. He spun to face the source of the sound, pulling his sword with his right hand, even as he clutched tightly the bag of gold with his left. The taper he had held fell and was extinguished. The room filled with darkness, a tenebrous shroud in which the young Cimmerian could see nothing. Good.
If he were blind, then so would his opponent be.
The voice, when it came, was mocking. "If you think to lose me so easily, you are mistaken. I see you there, doomed thief."
Such was unlikely, Conan thought as he marked the position of the voice. He edged toward the speaker, sword leading.
"No, you shall not find me so easily, outlander." This came from a new position in the room, to Conan's left. He twisted to face it. His eyes had adjusted somewhat to the gloom; there seemed to be a slightly blacker blob against the darkness just ahead, though he could not be certain. The only light came from a crack beneath the closed doorway, and such was only a faint glimmer.
"You must certainly be an outlander," the man said, "for no resident of Mornstadinos would be so slackwitted as to try robbing the house of Lemparius." He had moved again.
Conan considered his options. Here was a man who seemed to move much better in the dark than he had any right to; more, he had managed to sneak up on him without being heard. The young Cimmerian had his loot and had marked the door by the light-bearing gap beneath it. A succe
ssful thief is one who escapes with his booty, and that was his purpose. Time to leave.
Conan sprang for the door.
Even as he moved, Conan saw something pass in front of the light, forming two dark thick lines. A man's feet, he reckoned. And, if those feet bore the owner of the voice, they belonged to a man with supernatural speed, to have moved from his former position in that short time. Even as he thought this he swung his sword, to bisect the still-invisible figure. But the feet blocking the light vanished and his blade cut only air.
"You are quick, for a fool," said the voice. "Not that such shall save you."
Conan did not waste his breath in answering. Instead, he waved his sword back and forth as he backed toward the door, whipping the steel so that it sang in the darkness. Let the hidden speaker try to pass that barrier!
Conan reached the door, felt the handle touch his back, and considered his next move. This might be tricky. He dared not turn and expose his back to the man in the blackness. Opening the door with the sack of gold weighing his hand would be difficult, but not impossible. And there was the matter of possible confederates lurking in the hallway, awaiting his exit.
He shook his head. Too much to think about. A man could die of old age worrying about possibilities! He caught the latch, jerked it up, and pulled the door open as he moved away. Then the Cimmerian turned and leaped into the hallway.
And found himself alone. Conan laughed, and began to sprint down the taper-lit hallway. He heard a noise behind him and he glanced back, but saw nothing. He had only to make another turning in the hall and he would be nearly to the storeroom where he had entered the house. Once outside, he would make for the gate; it would be faster than climbing the wall. He was all but free.
He rounded the corner of the hallway, saw what lay before him, and uttered a curse. He slid to a stop, his powerful chest working to pump more air to his lungs.
At the end of the hallway, blocking his exit, stood a dozen men armed with pikes and swords. He would not be leaving that way. He turned and ran back in the direction from which he had only just come. Better to meet the one man from the darkness than a dozen armed troops, he figured. Especially now that he had the lighted hallway on his side. As he rounded the corner again the young Cimmerian noted that the men did not follow him. For some reason this worried him more than if they had.
Standing alone, thirty paces ahead, stood a single figure. The man was tall and blond-haired, with fair skin. In his hand he held only a curved knife, no sword, and he looked too relaxed to be expecting battle.
Briefly, Conan considered running the man down, not slowing, using his sword to sweep the figure aside. Something in the man's demeanor, however, caused the Cimmerian to slow, first to a trot, then a walk.
Finally, he stopped three paces away, and stared at the man blocking his escape. There was a danger here, something unnatural, and Conan felt the hairs on his neck prickle and rise as he beheld the man.
"So, you are less stupid than you appear," the man said. "Not much, perhaps, but some. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Lemparius, senator, and master of this house you thought to rob. What say you to that, thief?"
"Stand aside," Conan said, his voice almost a growl. "I have no particular desire to slay you."
Lemparius laughed, a high giggle. "Oh, the richness of this." He twirled the fang-shaped knife he bore into the air and caught it neatly. He looked at the massive youth's sword disdainfully. "Come and pass me, outland fool. If you can, you shall live; if not, your corpse will gather flies before the morning sun breaks."
Conan moved. He leaped at Lemparius, slashing powerfully with his razor-edged broadsword. The sinews of his arms bunched as he swung the steel. Had it connected. the blade would have sheared the senator in half-had it connected. The senator moved, catlike, and Conan's strike missed cleanly. With a motion too fast for Conan to accept, Lemparius darted past and laid his curved knife across the bigger man's forearm.
It was almost a gentle touch, but it drew blood, a thin line the length of Conan's middle finger. The senator laughed as he stroked Conan with his knife.
Conan swung the weighty sack of gold hard. The move was unexpected by the senator, for the heavy coins slammed into his ribs solidly, knocking him sideways. Lemparius grunted and almost stumbled, but managed to regain his balance. Once again he blocked Conan's exit.
"A good move," Lemparius said. "You are quicker than I thought." With that, Lemparius took a deep breath and let out a piercing whistle.
The sound of sandals on the stone floor began, then increased, behind Conan, and the pikemen approached.
"If you have gods, best you make your peace with them," Lemparius said.
"And quickly."
The Cimmerian dropped the bag of gold and brought his left hand over to join his right upon the haft of the broadsword. Fast Lemparius might be, but whether he could block with his funny knife a two-handed swing with Conan's full might behind it remained to be seen. Conan lunged forward and chopped at the other man, his sword moving so fast, it was little more than a shiny blur.
Lemparius gave ground. He skittered back, and tried to counterattack once Conan's stroke missed. But Conan's own recovery was too fast, and Lemparius was driven back yet again. Conan began to think he would be able to drive the man before him quickly enough to escape the men rapidly approaching from behind. He moved as a man reaping grain, using short, rapid swings of his sword to push his opponent back.
While taking several of his scurrying steps backward, Lemparius slipped. The senator's feet shot out from under him and he sprawled suddenly, flat upon his back. The look of surprise upon his face at that moment was worth the sack of gold to Conan. He raised his blade.
At that instant his hope of escape was dealt a shattering blow. From the hallway behind Lemparius at least another dozen pike-and swordsmen appeared, running toward the Cimmerian. He was boxed!
Conan turned. The treasure room door was between him and the first group of troops. If he could get there, perhaps he could block the door from inside; perhaps there was another way out. Perhaps not, but he had little choice. If there were no other exit, then he would have more space in which to swing his blade at least. He would take as many of them with him as he could; Crom would appreciate his entry into the gray lands more were he preceded by a dozen or so of his enemies, dispatched there personally by his hand.
"Yield!" one of the pikemen yelled.
"I am Conan of Cimmeria. I yield to no man!"
In the periphery of his sight Conan saw Lemparius scramble back up to his feet. "Conan?" the senator said. The question caused the big Cimmerian to pause but an instant in wonder. That instant was enough to allow the first of the first group of pikemen to come within jabbing range. As the four-edged pike sought his face he slapped the shaft of the weapon aside with his sword and completed the circular motion in a downward slice. The pikeman screamed as the blade took him. His fellows paused enough to give Conan a chance to leap at the door. The Cimmerian gathered himself to spring.
"Conan! How wonderful!"
Puzzled, Conan halfturned to stare at Lemparius in wonder. His motion allowed him to see the senator swinging the bag of gold Conan had dropped just before that heavy bag crashed into his head. Blackness reigned.
Chapter Twelve
Conan swam up from the depths of a pulsing red mist; as the mists grew thinner, so his brain grew clearer. When he opened his eyes, the Cimmerian's awareness was full. He lay in utter blackness, surrounded by dank air and some foul stench. For a moment he could not imagine how he had come to such a place; memory returned, however, and the sight of Lemparius swinging the heavy bag of gold came to him.
He took stock. His head throbbed, but allowed him to sit up; his arm bore a small cut, nothing to worry about; his leg was still a bit sore.
Carefully, he slid from the hard bench upon which he sat to stand barefooted upon a cold floor. His sword was gone, as was most of his clothing. He wore brief underbreeks, and abo
ve that his belt and purse, nothing more. Conan opened the flap of his purse and reached inside.
Empty-no, wait, there was something . . . a stone it felt like, trapped in a fold of his pouch. He retrieved the stone and held it close to his face. There was no glimmer of light to sparkle from its contours, but from its shape Conan knew what it was: One of the emeralds must have fallen from the sack he had taken. Whoever had pent him in this Stygian pit had missed the hidden stone when he removed the contents of Conan's pouch.
He returned the emerald to its hiding place and closed the leathern flap again. If he escaped, the jewel would be useful; until then, a sword, dagger, or even a stick would be of more interest.
Exploration of the chamber in which he found himself took but a few moments. Roughly square, the room extended no more than three armspans in either direction. There stood on one end a massive wooden door, bound with strips of rusted iron, judging by touch, securely bolted from without. He found no hinges; therefore, the door opened outward.
He set his bare feet as solidly as was possible upon the damp flagstones, and put his big hands against the rough wood. Using all his strength, the powerful Cimmerian shoved.
The door might as well have been the side of a mountain for all it yielded. He backed away so that only the fingertips of one hand remained in contact with the door. He gathered his energies and jumped, slamming into the wooden barrier with his tensed shoulder, itself seeming no softer than the door when he connected. The door remained firm.
Conan took a deep breath, and his fists knotted unbidden into hammers.
He was truly captured. He wanted to rage and pound upon the door for release, but he held his temper. Such a display would be foolish, and a waste of strength.
Instead, the brawny Cimmerian walked back to the platform upon which he had but recently awakened. He moved easily now in the darkness, as the dimensions of the cell were graven upon his consciousness. He sat upon the platform and leaned back against the wall, to wait.
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