Read Online Conan and the Spider God by Lyon Sprague de Camp - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lyon Sprague de Camp
Ads: Link
the nonce. Now what of you, young man?”
Conan told Nyssa as much of his recent history as he thought expedient, adding: “What of my future?”
Her faded old eyes took on a faraway look. “Some things about you I already sense. You are a man of blood. Strife follows you and seeks you out, even when you would fain avoid it. There is great force about you. Nor am I the last old woman whom you will come upon in dire need and rescue.” After a pause, she added: “Beware to whom or what you give your heart. Many times you will believe that you have attained your heart’s desire, only to have it slip through your fingers and vanish like a puff of morning mist.
“But more of that anon. My poor old heart has been sorely strained this day, and I must needs have rest. I am not one of those who have added to their mortal span by the practice of arcane arts.
“Tomorrow I shall work a powerful conjuration for you, to try to part the veil that enshrouds the future. But meanwhile I will give you a token of my gratitude.”
“You need not, grandmother—” began Conan, but she silenced him with a gesture.
“None shall say that Nyssa fails to pay her debts,” she said. “’T is but a small thing I give you, yet it is all I have to give this night, what with the hazards and confusion of this turbulent day.”
She fumbled among her disorderly piles of belongings and turned again to Conan, holding a small pouch, which she pressed upon him. “This,” she explained, “is a spoonful of the powder of Forgetfulness. If an enemy close in upon you, thinking he has you at his mercy, throw a pinch into his face. When he breathes this dust, ’twill be as if he had never beheld you or had knowledge of you.”
“What should I do with the fellow then?” asked Conan. “If he’d wronged me, my natural wont would be to slay him; but it would seem cowardly to strike him down, and him not knowing the reason for the quarrel.”
“I would say to let him go and think no more about the matter. To slay him under such conditions were like killing a babe because you quarreled with his father. A heartless sort of revenge, indeed.”
Conan grunted a puzzled assent, although in fact he had never before thought about the rights and wrongs of the matter. Among his fellow Cimmerians, it was customary to seek revenge upon a member of another clan by slaying the offender’s kin.
Conan was tempted to refuse the proffered pouch, claiming that he had only contempt for magic and wanted nothing to do with it. But the old woman seemed so eager for him to have her gift that he accepted it with a growl of thanks rather than hurt her feelings.
When Conan awoke the next morning, he found Nyssa’s body stiff and cold. She had not cheated the omens after all.
chapter v
THE CITY ON THE CRAG
T he sun had slipped behind the humped backs of the Karpash Mountains when Conan guided Ymir into the narrow valley that led to Yezud, city of the spider-god. The deepening shadows cast a black pall over the defile. Here little vegetation clothed the rocky soil; for the central, snowcapped ridge of the Karpashes, stretching from north to south for a hundred leagues without a single pass, had wrung the moisture from the western winds before they swept on east to Zamora. Ymir’s shod hooves rang a metallic tattoo on the stones, save when the horse picked his way through slippery seepages of liquid bitumen. Below the path, a shrunken remnant of a stream gurgled as it played hide-and-seek among the boulders.
For the most part, the ever-rising path was wide enough to accommodate only a single horseman. Whenever it spread itself more generously, Conan passed knots of people waiting to resume their downward passage. One trader, delayed at such a turnout, led four asses, each laden with two bulky casks of bitumen. In the lowlands of southern Zamora, this dark mineral oil was put to sundry uses; it served as a purgative for people, a lubricant for wagon wheels, a
Conan told Nyssa as much of his recent history as he thought expedient, adding: “What of my future?”
Her faded old eyes took on a faraway look. “Some things about you I already sense. You are a man of blood. Strife follows you and seeks you out, even when you would fain avoid it. There is great force about you. Nor am I the last old woman whom you will come upon in dire need and rescue.” After a pause, she added: “Beware to whom or what you give your heart. Many times you will believe that you have attained your heart’s desire, only to have it slip through your fingers and vanish like a puff of morning mist.
“But more of that anon. My poor old heart has been sorely strained this day, and I must needs have rest. I am not one of those who have added to their mortal span by the practice of arcane arts.
“Tomorrow I shall work a powerful conjuration for you, to try to part the veil that enshrouds the future. But meanwhile I will give you a token of my gratitude.”
“You need not, grandmother—” began Conan, but she silenced him with a gesture.
“None shall say that Nyssa fails to pay her debts,” she said. “’T is but a small thing I give you, yet it is all I have to give this night, what with the hazards and confusion of this turbulent day.”
She fumbled among her disorderly piles of belongings and turned again to Conan, holding a small pouch, which she pressed upon him. “This,” she explained, “is a spoonful of the powder of Forgetfulness. If an enemy close in upon you, thinking he has you at his mercy, throw a pinch into his face. When he breathes this dust, ’twill be as if he had never beheld you or had knowledge of you.”
“What should I do with the fellow then?” asked Conan. “If he’d wronged me, my natural wont would be to slay him; but it would seem cowardly to strike him down, and him not knowing the reason for the quarrel.”
“I would say to let him go and think no more about the matter. To slay him under such conditions were like killing a babe because you quarreled with his father. A heartless sort of revenge, indeed.”
Conan grunted a puzzled assent, although in fact he had never before thought about the rights and wrongs of the matter. Among his fellow Cimmerians, it was customary to seek revenge upon a member of another clan by slaying the offender’s kin.
Conan was tempted to refuse the proffered pouch, claiming that he had only contempt for magic and wanted nothing to do with it. But the old woman seemed so eager for him to have her gift that he accepted it with a growl of thanks rather than hurt her feelings.
When Conan awoke the next morning, he found Nyssa’s body stiff and cold. She had not cheated the omens after all.
chapter v
THE CITY ON THE CRAG
T he sun had slipped behind the humped backs of the Karpash Mountains when Conan guided Ymir into the narrow valley that led to Yezud, city of the spider-god. The deepening shadows cast a black pall over the defile. Here little vegetation clothed the rocky soil; for the central, snowcapped ridge of the Karpashes, stretching from north to south for a hundred leagues without a single pass, had wrung the moisture from the western winds before they swept on east to Zamora. Ymir’s shod hooves rang a metallic tattoo on the stones, save when the horse picked his way through slippery seepages of liquid bitumen. Below the path, a shrunken remnant of a stream gurgled as it played hide-and-seek among the boulders.
For the most part, the ever-rising path was wide enough to accommodate only a single horseman. Whenever it spread itself more generously, Conan passed knots of people waiting to resume their downward passage. One trader, delayed at such a turnout, led four asses, each laden with two bulky casks of bitumen. In the lowlands of southern Zamora, this dark mineral oil was put to sundry uses; it served as a purgative for people, a lubricant for wagon wheels, a
Similar Books
