Part 18 (1/2)

The corridor branched. One stairway led up, the other down, hardly discernible in the all-pervading darkness. Conan chose the one leading downward. The plan of the castle was well-learned and locked in his brain.

Yo La-gu, one of Yah Chieng's Two Hundred, lolled on his bench in the dungeon beneath the citadel of Paikang. His temper was ruffled. Why should he of all men sit here, guarding these milksop western prisoners, while outside the feast was in progress and wine and love were to be had for the asking? A stupid idea of the wizard to keep people prisoner for years, preparing to use them up in some magical stunt, when a single raid on the countryside would' fetch as many Khitans in a week! Grumbling, he eased himself off the creaking settle to fetch more wine from his secret h.o.a.rd. His armor rustled and clanked.

He reached the niche in the wall where he had secreted his bottles and stretched his hand towards it -and that was his last conscious act. Ten steely fingers fastened on his windpipe, crus.h.i.+ng his throat, until black unconsciousness swamped his brain, and he sank down in a heap.

Conan surveyed his handiwork with a grim smile. It was good to slay foes again! The old barbarian instincts boiled in his blood, and his lips writhed in the snarl of the hunting beast.

His kill had been so swift and silent that none of the sleeping occupants of the cells had stirred. Conan stooped and tore the bunch of keys from the dead jailor's belt. He tried several of them in the lock of the nearest cell.

At the soft metallic sound, a prisoner turned, shook his head, and opened his eyes. The imprecation on his lips was stifled as he beheld the strange figure at the grille. His astonishment grew as the bars swung inward. In a bound, he was on his feet. He checked his rush, for the light from the wall cresset glinted faintly on die blade in the stranger's right hand. A gesture from the giant cautioned him to silence, and another beckoned him to follow.

In the clear light, the eyes of the prisoner widened in surprise. Conan frowned, searching his memory. At last he said: ”Lyco of Khorshemis.h.!.+

Is it you?”

”Aye.” Their brawny hands met in a firm grip. The prisoner continued: ”By the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of Ishtar, Conan, I am struck to the core with astonishment! Are you here with an Aquilonian host to deal with the evil sorcerer, or have you flown on the back of an eagle?”

”Neither, Lyco,” came the rumbling reply. ”I am here to mete out justice to the yellow cur, true, but I counted on finding my army here.

I think I have done so. When we fought as mercenaries, yours was always among the readiest blades.”

”Most of the prisoners here are true men and fighters,” said the other.

”We long only to flesh our steel in those Khitan bravos.”

”You will have your chance. Here are the keys to the dungeons; take them and free your men. The armory lies down this corridor; equip your followers with blades and strike! Strike to avenge your own suffering and to free the queen of Aquilonia!” He smiled grimly at Lyco's astounded expression. ”Now you know why I'm here. You will find Khitan allies among the throng in the courtyard. Go swiftly.”

He was gone again like a haunting phantom. Lyco began to waken his comrades, sending some to open the armory while others busied themselves at the locks of other cell doors.

”By Mitra,” murmured Lyco, ”the barbarian is a mad one! Traveling across the world to rescue a woman!” But admiration glowed in his eyes as he looked into the dark mouth of the corridor.

10. The Lair of the Sorcerer ----------------------------.

A vast, high-ceilinged hall opened at the end of the dank stone corridor. Its square flagstones were covered with dust undisturbed by human feet but its aura of silence brooded menacingly. Its upper part was lost in darkness. Conan stalked warily over the vast floor toward the opening of another corridor, as if he expected any one of the flagstones to drop out from under him.

A noise like a thunderclap rang with booming crashes between the echoing walls, and a shrill wailing cry made Oman's blood run cold.

With a swish of mighty wings, an unearthly being swooped from the upper darkness. Like a stooping hawk it plummeted down towards Conan.

The barbarian flung himself aside barely in time to avoid the razor-sharp claws in the monster's paws. Then his sword swept in a glittering arc. The winged horror flopped away, howling. One arm, severed at the elbow, gushed dark, ill-smelling blood. With a horrible scream it again sprang towards the Cimmerian.

Conan stood his ground. He knew that his only chance lay in a sure thrust through the creature's vitals. Even partly dismembered, it had the strength to tear him, to pieces. It was, he was sure, the same thing that had borne off Zen.o.bia long months before.

The monster spread its wings to soar as it sprang. At the last moment, Conan ducked the claws of the remaining hand and put all his strength into a ripping thrust. His blade tore into the black body, as the searching talons ripped the s.h.i.+rt from his back.

With a choking gasp, the monster fell. Oman braced his feet to drag his blade free, dripping with the creature's dark juices.

His hair was sweaty and tangled and his back was b.l.o.o.d.y from the clawing he had received. But a terrible fire burned unquenched in his eyes as he reached the mouth of the other corridor. Behind him, on the floor of the hall, the monster lay in a pool of brown, staring with sightless yellow eyes toward the darkness from which it had come.

The corridor into which Conan stepped was short and straight. In the distance he saw a door of stone. Cryptic signs of Khitan origin covered its surface. This must be the Tunnel of Death that led to Yah Chieng's private chambers. Beyond that door he would find his foe. Conan's eyes glowed ferally in the darkness, and his hand gripped his hilt with vengeful force.

Suddenly the darkness changed to bright illumination. Red licking flames arose from the floor in a h.e.l.lish wall. Their writhing tongues reached up to the ceiling, and they burst toward Conan in hungry spouts of burning death. He could feel their terrible heat on his face and arms, and his clothes began to smolder. Sweat ran down his face. As he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a piece of metal rasped his skin.