Read Online Conan The Destroyer by Robert Jordan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Jordan
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muttered, “Black Erlik’s Bowels and Bladder!”
Below them was indeed Akiro’s camp, a crude hut of clay and stone built into the side of a hill. The plump, yellow-skinned wizard, however, was bound hand and foot to a thick, upright post set in the ground before the hut, and about his feet piled branches were just leaping into flame. Three men, their backs to those on the hill, stood in front of the growing fire with heads thrown back to chant at the sky and arms outstretched so that their long, white robes hung beneath them like wings. More than a score of others, their filthy, tattered rags contrasting sharply with the triad’s pristine garments, watched, howling and shaking their spears in approbation.
“I never liked Akiro all that much,” Malak said weakly.
“We need him,” Conan replied. He looked at Bombatta, not asking the question, but the Zamoran saw it in his eyes.
“No, barbar. If this is the man you’ve brought us all this way to find, then he is your affair.”
“Why are you all talking,” Jehnna demanded angrily, “instead of helping that poor man down there? Bombatta?”
“My duty is to guard you, child. Would you have me take you among those savages below, or leave you here alone when there might be others about?”
“There is still time to ride for Arenjun,” Malak suggested.
“Go straight for Akiro, Malak.” Conan’s broadsword came easily into his hand, the setting sun lighting its length with premonitory crimson. “He cannot stand those flames much longer.” With that he kicked his horse into a gallop down the hill.
“Donar help me,” Malak hissed at the Cimmerian’s back, “think you of the kind of men who can tie up a wizard!” Muttering quick prayers to half a score of gods, the small thief loosed the horse he had brought for Akiro and followed.
Silently Conan charged, the clash of shod hooves on stone drowned beneath the yells and chants of the spearmen before him. His horse burst into a knot of them, throwing suddenly screaming men to either side like a ship breasting a wave. Others scrambled toward him, spears dropping to the ready, but he ignored them for the moment. The whiteclad trio had not ceased their chanting, nor looked away from Akiro. Wizardry of some kind it surely was, and the Cimmerian was just as sure it must be halted if Akiro was to be saved.
The center of the three went down beneath the hooves of Conan’s horse with a startled scream and the crunch of bone. The big youth had no compunction about riding him down from behind. This was no sport, but rather war in miniature. These men meant to kill a friend of his, and he would stop them how he could.
The long-robed man to his right snarled at him, produced a dagger from his voluminous sleeve. The Cimmerian could not help staring in horror even as his sword went up. That snarling mouth held teeth filed to points, and below it hung a necklace of shriveled human hands. Small hands. Children’s hands.
Conan made his first sound then since leaving the hilltop, a roar of rage as his steel slashed into that foul, sharp-toothed gap. With a gurgling scream the man jerked himself off the blade. Clawed hands rose to clutch at a ruined face; blood poured between quivering fingers, and spreading scarlet stained the pale robe.
Then Conan had no more time to think of the wizard, if such he was, or of the last of the three, who seemed to have disappeared. Shock had frozen the trio’s followers at first. Now they came at a rush.
The first spear to thrust at him Conan grabbed just behind the head, ripping it from the grasp of a man whose throat was torn out by the Cimmerian’s broadsword an instant later. With the haft of that spear he beat aside another thrust while his blade was slicing yet another shaft in two. Desperately he shifted his hold on the spear and sank its long point into the face of one of his attackers. His steel clove a skull to the eyes.
Three were dead in as many heartbeats, and the rest
Below them was indeed Akiro’s camp, a crude hut of clay and stone built into the side of a hill. The plump, yellow-skinned wizard, however, was bound hand and foot to a thick, upright post set in the ground before the hut, and about his feet piled branches were just leaping into flame. Three men, their backs to those on the hill, stood in front of the growing fire with heads thrown back to chant at the sky and arms outstretched so that their long, white robes hung beneath them like wings. More than a score of others, their filthy, tattered rags contrasting sharply with the triad’s pristine garments, watched, howling and shaking their spears in approbation.
“I never liked Akiro all that much,” Malak said weakly.
“We need him,” Conan replied. He looked at Bombatta, not asking the question, but the Zamoran saw it in his eyes.
“No, barbar. If this is the man you’ve brought us all this way to find, then he is your affair.”
“Why are you all talking,” Jehnna demanded angrily, “instead of helping that poor man down there? Bombatta?”
“My duty is to guard you, child. Would you have me take you among those savages below, or leave you here alone when there might be others about?”
“There is still time to ride for Arenjun,” Malak suggested.
“Go straight for Akiro, Malak.” Conan’s broadsword came easily into his hand, the setting sun lighting its length with premonitory crimson. “He cannot stand those flames much longer.” With that he kicked his horse into a gallop down the hill.
“Donar help me,” Malak hissed at the Cimmerian’s back, “think you of the kind of men who can tie up a wizard!” Muttering quick prayers to half a score of gods, the small thief loosed the horse he had brought for Akiro and followed.
Silently Conan charged, the clash of shod hooves on stone drowned beneath the yells and chants of the spearmen before him. His horse burst into a knot of them, throwing suddenly screaming men to either side like a ship breasting a wave. Others scrambled toward him, spears dropping to the ready, but he ignored them for the moment. The whiteclad trio had not ceased their chanting, nor looked away from Akiro. Wizardry of some kind it surely was, and the Cimmerian was just as sure it must be halted if Akiro was to be saved.
The center of the three went down beneath the hooves of Conan’s horse with a startled scream and the crunch of bone. The big youth had no compunction about riding him down from behind. This was no sport, but rather war in miniature. These men meant to kill a friend of his, and he would stop them how he could.
The long-robed man to his right snarled at him, produced a dagger from his voluminous sleeve. The Cimmerian could not help staring in horror even as his sword went up. That snarling mouth held teeth filed to points, and below it hung a necklace of shriveled human hands. Small hands. Children’s hands.
Conan made his first sound then since leaving the hilltop, a roar of rage as his steel slashed into that foul, sharp-toothed gap. With a gurgling scream the man jerked himself off the blade. Clawed hands rose to clutch at a ruined face; blood poured between quivering fingers, and spreading scarlet stained the pale robe.
Then Conan had no more time to think of the wizard, if such he was, or of the last of the three, who seemed to have disappeared. Shock had frozen the trio’s followers at first. Now they came at a rush.
The first spear to thrust at him Conan grabbed just behind the head, ripping it from the grasp of a man whose throat was torn out by the Cimmerian’s broadsword an instant later. With the haft of that spear he beat aside another thrust while his blade was slicing yet another shaft in two. Desperately he shifted his hold on the spear and sank its long point into the face of one of his attackers. His steel clove a skull to the eyes.
Three were dead in as many heartbeats, and the rest
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