Read Online Conan and the Spider God by Lyon Sprague de Camp - Free Book Online
Authors: Lyon Sprague de Camp
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which leads uphill to my hiding place. Though I know not if your horse can bear the both of us up so steep a slope.”
“Can he walk if I lead him?”
“Aye, sir; of that I am sure. But hurry! I do hear the dogs barking behind us.”
A distant baying wafted to Conan’s ears. Keen though his senses were, those of the old woman had earlier identified the sound.
“Your hearing is good for one of your years,” he remarked.
“I have ways of reinforcing my mortal senses.”
“If they have set dogs after us, what’s to stop them from following us to your hideaway?”
“Let me but once reach the place, and I have means to lead them astray.”
As they came out upon the main road, the sounds of pursuit grew louder, for Ymir was slowed by the weight of his double burden. Another quarter-hour, and Nyssa indicated the track to her refuge.
For a while, Ymir trotted up the steep path, which rose and dipped and wound through broken country. The baying increased apace, and Conan more and more disliked the situation. On the flat, with room to maneuver, he did not fear a villageful of yokels armed with improvised weapons. But on this uncertain footing, if the pursuers were brave enough to close in even after he had slain the foremost, they could swarm around him, hamstring his mount, and cut him to pieces.
“Those fellows must have horses,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
“Aye, sir; the village breeds them and has a score of the beasts. And the lads are spry afoot; they beat the other villages in foot races at every fair. I used to be proud of my village.”
Conan knew that, if he abandoned Nyssa, he could escape his pursuers even if they tried to run him to earth after they had recaptured the aged witch. But having committed himself to the crone’s rescue, he gave no thought to any other course. In such matters he could be obstinate indeed.
The track thrust upward, ever steeper and more rugged. Conan pulled up and swung off the weary horse, saying: “I’ll walk; you ride. How much farther goes this path?”
“A quarter of a league. Near the end, I needs must also walk.”
On they plodded, Conan leading Ymir by the reins, while behind them the baying waxed louder as men and dogs gained on their quarry. Conan expected to sight their pursuers at any time.
“Here I must dismount,” quavered Nyssa. “Kindly help me down, good sir.”
When the witch had regained her uncertain footing, she pointed up a trackless slope and started up it vigorously, although each breath she drew was inhaled as a painful gasp.
Glancing back across the waste of tumbled rock and scanty vegetation, Conan caught the ominous blink of sun on steel. He gritted: “We must move faster. Let me carry you, grandmother!”
When she protested, he swept her frail form into his strong arms and hurried up the slope. Sweat rolled down his face, and his own breath came harder.
“Through yonder notch,” murmured the witch, pointing.
Still carrying the old woman and leading Ymir, Conan found himself in a narrow canyon or gully, the sides of which supported a few scrubby pines. The bottom of the gulch was a jumble of stream-rounded stones of all sizes, among which gurgled and murmured a shrunken creek. Conan had to leap from boulder to boulder, while Ymir staggered and stumbled along behind him.
“H-here!” whispered Nyssa.
Around a slight bend in the gorge, Conan sighted the mouth of a cave, all but hidden by shrubs and overhanging vines. As the woman sank down, gasping, Conan said:
“Cast your spell quickly, grandmother; for the villagers are close upon our heels.”
“Help me to start a fire,” she wheezed.
Conan gathered some dry leaves and small sticks and started a little blaze with flint and steel. Then he turned to speak to Nyssa, but she had disappeared into the cave.
Soon she tottered out to the fire again, carrying a leathern bag in one bony fist. This she opened and, from one of its many internal compartments, extracted a
“Can he walk if I lead him?”
“Aye, sir; of that I am sure. But hurry! I do hear the dogs barking behind us.”
A distant baying wafted to Conan’s ears. Keen though his senses were, those of the old woman had earlier identified the sound.
“Your hearing is good for one of your years,” he remarked.
“I have ways of reinforcing my mortal senses.”
“If they have set dogs after us, what’s to stop them from following us to your hideaway?”
“Let me but once reach the place, and I have means to lead them astray.”
As they came out upon the main road, the sounds of pursuit grew louder, for Ymir was slowed by the weight of his double burden. Another quarter-hour, and Nyssa indicated the track to her refuge.
For a while, Ymir trotted up the steep path, which rose and dipped and wound through broken country. The baying increased apace, and Conan more and more disliked the situation. On the flat, with room to maneuver, he did not fear a villageful of yokels armed with improvised weapons. But on this uncertain footing, if the pursuers were brave enough to close in even after he had slain the foremost, they could swarm around him, hamstring his mount, and cut him to pieces.
“Those fellows must have horses,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
“Aye, sir; the village breeds them and has a score of the beasts. And the lads are spry afoot; they beat the other villages in foot races at every fair. I used to be proud of my village.”
Conan knew that, if he abandoned Nyssa, he could escape his pursuers even if they tried to run him to earth after they had recaptured the aged witch. But having committed himself to the crone’s rescue, he gave no thought to any other course. In such matters he could be obstinate indeed.
The track thrust upward, ever steeper and more rugged. Conan pulled up and swung off the weary horse, saying: “I’ll walk; you ride. How much farther goes this path?”
“A quarter of a league. Near the end, I needs must also walk.”
On they plodded, Conan leading Ymir by the reins, while behind them the baying waxed louder as men and dogs gained on their quarry. Conan expected to sight their pursuers at any time.
“Here I must dismount,” quavered Nyssa. “Kindly help me down, good sir.”
When the witch had regained her uncertain footing, she pointed up a trackless slope and started up it vigorously, although each breath she drew was inhaled as a painful gasp.
Glancing back across the waste of tumbled rock and scanty vegetation, Conan caught the ominous blink of sun on steel. He gritted: “We must move faster. Let me carry you, grandmother!”
When she protested, he swept her frail form into his strong arms and hurried up the slope. Sweat rolled down his face, and his own breath came harder.
“Through yonder notch,” murmured the witch, pointing.
Still carrying the old woman and leading Ymir, Conan found himself in a narrow canyon or gully, the sides of which supported a few scrubby pines. The bottom of the gulch was a jumble of stream-rounded stones of all sizes, among which gurgled and murmured a shrunken creek. Conan had to leap from boulder to boulder, while Ymir staggered and stumbled along behind him.
“H-here!” whispered Nyssa.
Around a slight bend in the gorge, Conan sighted the mouth of a cave, all but hidden by shrubs and overhanging vines. As the woman sank down, gasping, Conan said:
“Cast your spell quickly, grandmother; for the villagers are close upon our heels.”
“Help me to start a fire,” she wheezed.
Conan gathered some dry leaves and small sticks and started a little blaze with flint and steel. Then he turned to speak to Nyssa, but she had disappeared into the cave.
Soon she tottered out to the fire again, carrying a leathern bag in one bony fist. This she opened and, from one of its many internal compartments, extracted a
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