Read Online Conan the Barbarian by L. Sprague de Camp, Lin Carter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: L. Sprague de Camp, Lin Carter
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his curious contemplation.
“There is warmth in fire.” The voice was soft and inviting.
Conan raised his eyes to see a woman’s figure silhouetted against the firelight from her hearth. Her curvaceous body, pressed against the portal of her home, radiated a sinister but inviting mystery; her languid, smiling eyes ran down the strong body of the Cimmerian youth, exuding an eroticism as strong as a caress.
“Do you not wish to warm yourself by my fire?” Her lace, framed by her long black hair, was past the bloom of youth, but there was a compelling beauty in it that was as old as time.
Conan, restrained by his premonition of evil, hesitated for a heartbeat, while the woman, with a secret smile, turned from the doorway to stoke her fire of tamarisk chips. Drawn by her easy manner and the glow of her oval face in the firelight, Conan ducked under the low lintel and entered the hut.
The fire leaped up, and by its roseate glow, Conan studied the room. The stone walls were enhanced by hangings of animal hides; the floor was covered by skins of luxuriant softness but of beasts unfamiliar to the Cimmerian. Strange skulls were suspended from the twin posts that supported the sod roof—bears with great teeth, sabre-fanged cats, and one horned beasts of indescribable immensity.
Before the fire the woman spread a low table with a wooden platter of barley bread and goat cheese, a bowl of dried fruit, and a mug of fresh milk. Then she beckoned to him, and gratefully he settled down to enjoy the repast. Sated, he looked up to find the woman leaning against the nearer centre post, studying him. An expression of amusement curled her full-lipped mouth.
“From the north, that is whence you come,” she said in her throaty voice.
Suddenly aware that the woman has been staring at him, Conan looked down, uneasy. His hand dropped to the sword now lying by his side.
“I am a Cimmerian,” he said.
The woman, noting the youth’s ardent glance and evident embarrassment, laughed harshly. “You are a slave! Do you not think that I can see a slave by his eyes? Barbarian slave!”
There was an uneasy silence. Then, with a sinuous movement, the woman tossed back her long hair and prowled about the room with unsettling, erotic grace. Something about her shadow, not quite where it should be, disturbed the barbarian youth.
“Where do you go, Cimmerian?” she demanded.
Conan shrugged. “To the south.”
“Why?” she persisted, smiling, a touch of cruelty in her expression.
Conan threw her a brief glance. “They say it is warmer there, and they ask few questions of strangers. Besides, there is gold to be earned by a man who can use a sword.”
The woman bent over the fire and threw a powder into the hot coals. Suddenly the flames roared up, then fell away. She studied the surge of flame, her lips curling, then said:
“Gold, women, thievery—that’s civilization! What would a savage like you know of civilized life? But it matters not. In a short time your spine will be nailed to a tree.”
The woman poured the barbarian a cup of wine, then stood staring at him with rising sexual interest. Under her soft robe, her voluptuous breasts rose and fell, as her breathing quickened. A strange light shone in the depths of her dark eyes, and the firelight glistened on her firm, oiled limbs as she rubbed her hands against her thighs with rising excitement.
Acutely aware of the woman’s desires, Conan looked into his wine cup. The surface of the liquid gleamed like polished silver. Then, as Conan drank deeply of the dark wine, his manhood responded to the lust she radiated. Still, he distrusted her. He could not have told why, save that there were strange things about her and about the place in which she lived. He noted the smile, which suddenly became a frozen mask, drained of all entrancing warmth. And the eyes, which lost, for a moment only, all humanity.
“They said you would come.. She spoke in a sibilant whisper, while her eyes,
“There is warmth in fire.” The voice was soft and inviting.
Conan raised his eyes to see a woman’s figure silhouetted against the firelight from her hearth. Her curvaceous body, pressed against the portal of her home, radiated a sinister but inviting mystery; her languid, smiling eyes ran down the strong body of the Cimmerian youth, exuding an eroticism as strong as a caress.
“Do you not wish to warm yourself by my fire?” Her lace, framed by her long black hair, was past the bloom of youth, but there was a compelling beauty in it that was as old as time.
Conan, restrained by his premonition of evil, hesitated for a heartbeat, while the woman, with a secret smile, turned from the doorway to stoke her fire of tamarisk chips. Drawn by her easy manner and the glow of her oval face in the firelight, Conan ducked under the low lintel and entered the hut.
The fire leaped up, and by its roseate glow, Conan studied the room. The stone walls were enhanced by hangings of animal hides; the floor was covered by skins of luxuriant softness but of beasts unfamiliar to the Cimmerian. Strange skulls were suspended from the twin posts that supported the sod roof—bears with great teeth, sabre-fanged cats, and one horned beasts of indescribable immensity.
Before the fire the woman spread a low table with a wooden platter of barley bread and goat cheese, a bowl of dried fruit, and a mug of fresh milk. Then she beckoned to him, and gratefully he settled down to enjoy the repast. Sated, he looked up to find the woman leaning against the nearer centre post, studying him. An expression of amusement curled her full-lipped mouth.
“From the north, that is whence you come,” she said in her throaty voice.
Suddenly aware that the woman has been staring at him, Conan looked down, uneasy. His hand dropped to the sword now lying by his side.
“I am a Cimmerian,” he said.
The woman, noting the youth’s ardent glance and evident embarrassment, laughed harshly. “You are a slave! Do you not think that I can see a slave by his eyes? Barbarian slave!”
There was an uneasy silence. Then, with a sinuous movement, the woman tossed back her long hair and prowled about the room with unsettling, erotic grace. Something about her shadow, not quite where it should be, disturbed the barbarian youth.
“Where do you go, Cimmerian?” she demanded.
Conan shrugged. “To the south.”
“Why?” she persisted, smiling, a touch of cruelty in her expression.
Conan threw her a brief glance. “They say it is warmer there, and they ask few questions of strangers. Besides, there is gold to be earned by a man who can use a sword.”
The woman bent over the fire and threw a powder into the hot coals. Suddenly the flames roared up, then fell away. She studied the surge of flame, her lips curling, then said:
“Gold, women, thievery—that’s civilization! What would a savage like you know of civilized life? But it matters not. In a short time your spine will be nailed to a tree.”
The woman poured the barbarian a cup of wine, then stood staring at him with rising sexual interest. Under her soft robe, her voluptuous breasts rose and fell, as her breathing quickened. A strange light shone in the depths of her dark eyes, and the firelight glistened on her firm, oiled limbs as she rubbed her hands against her thighs with rising excitement.
Acutely aware of the woman’s desires, Conan looked into his wine cup. The surface of the liquid gleamed like polished silver. Then, as Conan drank deeply of the dark wine, his manhood responded to the lust she radiated. Still, he distrusted her. He could not have told why, save that there were strange things about her and about the place in which she lived. He noted the smile, which suddenly became a frozen mask, drained of all entrancing warmth. And the eyes, which lost, for a moment only, all humanity.
“They said you would come.. She spoke in a sibilant whisper, while her eyes,
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