Robert Jordan - Conan The Magnificent

VIP免费

2024-12-19 0 0 271.49KB 91 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Conan The Magnificent

By Robert Jordan

PROLOGUE

Icy air hung deathly still among the crags of the Kezankian mountains, deep in

the heart of that arm of those mountains which stretched south and west along

the border between Zamora and Brythunia. No bird sang, and the cloudless azure

sky was empty, for even the ever-present vultures could find no current on

which to soar.

In that eerie quiesence a thousand fierce, turbanned Kezankian hillmen

crowded steep brown slopes that formed a natural amphitheater. They waited and

merged with the silence of the mountains. No sheathed tulwar clattered against

stone. No booted foot shifted with the impatience that was plain on lean,

bearded faces. They hardly seemed to breathe. Black eyes stared down

unblinkingly at a space two hundred paces across, floored with great granite

blocks and encircled by a waist-high wall as wide as a man was tall. Granite

columns, thick and crudely hewn, lined the top of the wall like teeth in a

sun-dried skull. In the center of that circle three men, pale-skinned

Brythunians, were bound to tall stakes of black iron, arms stretched above

their heads, leather cords digging cruelly into their wrists. But they were

not the object of the watcher's attention. That was on the tall, scarlet-robed

man with a forked beard who stood atop a tunnel of massive stone blocks that

pierced the low wall and led back into the mountain behind him.

Basrakan Imalla, dark face thin and stern beneath a turban of red, green

and gold, threw back his head and cried, "All glory be to the true gods!"

A sigh of exaltation passed through the watchers, and their response

rumbled against the mountainsides. "All glory be to the true gods!"

Had Basrakan's nature been different, he might have smiled in

satisfaction. Hillmen did not gather in large numbers, for every clan warred

against every other clan, and the tribes were riddled by blood feuds. But he

had gathered these and more. Nearly ten times their number camped amid the

jagged mountains around the amphitheater, and scores of others joined them

every day. With the power the true gods had given him, with the sign of their

favor they had granted him, he had done what no other could. And he would do

more! The ancient gods of the Kezankians had chosen him out.

"Men of the cities," he made the word sound obscene, "worship false

gods! They know nothing of the true gods, the spirits of earth, of air, of

water. And of fire!"

A wordless roar broke from a thousand throats, approbation for Basrakan

and hatred for the men of the cities melting together till even the men who

shouted could not tell where one ended and the other began.

Basrakan's black eyes burned with fervor. Hundreds of Imallas wandered

the mountains, carrying the word of the ancient gods from clan to clan, kept

safe from feud and battle by the word they carried. But it had been given to

him to bring about the old gods' triumph.

"The people of the cities are an iniquity in the sight of the true

gods!" His voice rang like a deep bell, and he could feel his words resonate

in the minds of his listeners. "Kings and lords who murder true believers in

the names of the foul demons they call gods! Fat merchants who pile up more

gold in their vaults than any clan of the mountains possesses! Princesses who

flaunt their half-naked bodies and offer themselves to men like trulls! Trulls

who drench themselves in perfumes and bedeck themselves in gold like

princesses! Men with less pride than animals, begging in the streets! The

filth of their lives stains the world, but we will wash it away in their

blood!"

The scream that answered him, shaking the gray granite beneath his feet,

barely touched his thoughts. Deep into the warren of caverns beneath this very

mountain he had gone, through stygian passages lit only by the torch he

carried, seeking to be closer to the spirits of the earth when he offered them

prayers. There the true gods led him to the subterranean pool where eyeless,

albescent fish swam around the clutch of huge eggs, as hard as the finest

armor, left there countless centuries past.

For years he had feared the true gods would turn their faces from him

for his study of the thaumaturgical arts, but only those studies had enabled

him to transport the slick black spheres back to his hut. Without the

knowledge from those studies he could never have succeeded in hatching one of

the nine, could never have bound the creature that came from it to him, even

as imperfectly as he had. If only he had the Eyes of Fire ... no, when he had

them all bonds, so tenuous now, would become as iron.

"We will kill the unbelievers and the defilers!" Basrakan intoned as the

tumult faded. "We will tear down their cities and sow the ground whereon they

stood with salt! Their women, who are vessels of lust, shall be scourged of

their vileness! No trace of their blood shall remain! Not even a memory!" The

hook-nosed Imalla threw his arms wide. "The sign of the true gods is with us!"

In a loud, clear voice he began to chant, each word echoing sharply from

the mountains. The thousand watching warriors held their collective breath. He

knew there were those listening who sought only gold looted from the cities

rather than the purification of the world. Now they would learn to believe.

The last syllable of the incantation rang in the air like struck

crystal. Basrakan ran his eyes over the Brythunian captives, survivors of a

party of hunters who had entered the mountains from the west. One was no more

than sixteen, his gray eyes twisted with fear, but the Imalla did not see the

Brythunians as human. They were not of the tribes. They were outsiders. They

were the sacrifice.

Basrakan felt the coming, a slow vibration of the stone beneath his

feet, before he heard the rough scraping of claws longer than a man's hand.

"The sign of the true gods is with us!" he shouted again, and the

creature's great head emerged from the tunnel.

A thousand throats answered the Imalla as the rest of the thick, tubular

body came into view, more than fifteen paces in length and supported on four

wide-set, massive legs. "The sign of the true gods is with us!" Awe and fear

warred in that thunderous roar.

Blackened plates lined its short muzzle, overlapped by thick, irregular

teeth designed for ripping flesh. The rest of that monstrous head and body

were covered by scales of green and gold and scarlet, glittering in the pale

sun, harder than the finest armor the hand of man could produce. On its back

those scales had of late been displaced by two long, leathery boils. Drake,

the ancient tomes called it, and if those volumes were correct about the hard,

dull bulges, the sign of the true gods' favor would soon be complete.

The creature turned its head to stare with paralyzing intensity directly

at Basrakan. The Imalla remained outwardly calm, but a core of ice formed in

his stomach, and that coldness spread, freezing his breath and the words in

his throat. That golden-eyed gaze always seemed to him filled with hatred. It

could not be hatred of him, of course. He was blessed by the true gods. Yet

the malevolence was there. Perhaps it was the contempt of a creature of the

true gods for mere mortal men. In any case, the wards he had set between the

crudely hewn granite columns would keep the drake within the circle, and the

tunnel exited only there. Or did it? Though he had often descended into the

caverns beneath the mountain-at least, in the days before he found the black

drake eggs-he had not explored the tenth part of them. There could be a score

of exits from that tangle of passages he had never found.

Those awesome eyes turned away, and Basrakan found himself drawing a

deep breath. He was pleased to note there was no shudder in it. The favor of

the old gods was truly with him.

With a speed that seemed too great for its bulk, the glittering creature

moved to within ten paces of the bound men. Suddenly the great, scaled head

went back, and from its gaping maw came a shrill ululation that froze men's

marrow and turned their bones to water. Awed silence fell among the watchers,

but one of the prisoners screamed, a high, thin sound with the reek of madness

in it. The boy fought his cords silently; blood began to trickle down his

arms. The fiery-eyed Imalla brought his hands forward, palms up, as if

offering the drake to the assemblage. "From the depths of the earth it comes!"

he cried. "The spirits of earth are with us!"

Mouth still open, the drake's head lowered until those chill golden

eyes regarded the captives. From those gaping jaws a gout of rubescent flame

swept across the captives.

"Fire is its breath!" Basrakan shouted. "The spirits of fire are with

us!" Two of the prisoners were sagging torches, tunic and hair aflame. The

youth, wracked with the pain of his burns, shrieked, "Mitra help me! Eldran,

I-" The iridescent creature took two quick paces forward, and a shorter

burst of fire silenced the boy. Darting forward, the drake ripped a burning

body in half. The crunching of bones sounded loudly, and gobbets of charred

flesh dropped to the stone.

"The true gods are with us!" Basrakan declaimed. "On a day soon, the

sign of the gods' favor will fly! The spirits of air are with us!" The old

tomes had to be right, he thought. Those leathery bulges would burst, and

wings would grow. They would! "On that day we will ride forth, invincible in

the favor of the old gods, and purge the world with fire and steel! All praise

be to the true gods!"

'''All praise be to the true gods!" his followers answered.

"All glory to the true gods!"

"Death to the unbelievers!"

The roar was deafening. "DEATH TO THE UNBELIEVERSl"

The thousand would stay to watch the feeding, for they were chosen by

lot from the ever-growing number encamped in the surrounding mountains, and

many had never seen it before. Basrakan had more important matters to tend to.

The drake would return to its caverns of its own accord when the bodies were

consumed. The Imalla started up a path, well worn now in the brown stone by

many journeys, that led from the amphitheater around the mountainside.

A man almost as tall as Basrakan and even leaner, his face burning with

ascetic fanaticism above a plaited beard, met him and bowed deeply. "The

blessings of the true gods be on you, Basrakan Imalla," the newcomer said. His

turban of scarlet, green and gold marked him as Basrakan's acolyte, though his

robe was of plain black. "The man Akkadan has come. I have had him taken to

your dwelling."

No glimmer of Basrakan's excitement touched his stern face. The Eyes of

Fire! He inclined his head slightly. "The blessings of the true gods be on

you, Jbeil Imalla. I will see him now."

Jbeil bowed again; Basrakan went on, seemingly unhurried, but without

even the inclination of his head this time.

The path led around the slope of the mountain to the village of stone

houses, a score in number, that had grown up where once stood the hut in which

Basrakan had lived. His followers had spoken of building a fortress for him,

but he had no need of such. In time, though, he had allowed the construction

of a dwelling for himself, of two stories and larger than all the rest of the

village placed together. It was not a matter of pride, he often reminded

himself, for he denied all pride save that of the old gods. The structure was

for their glory.

Turbanned and bearded men in stained leather vests and voluminous

trousers, the original color of which was a mystery lost in age and dirt,

bowed as he passed, as did women covered from head to foot in black cloth,

with only a slit for their eyes. He ignored them, as he did the two guards

before his door, for he was openly hurrying now.

Within, another acolyte in multi-hued turban bent himself and gestured

with a bony hand. "The blessings of the true gods be on you, Basrakan Imalla.

The man Akkadan-"

"Yes, Ruhallah." Basrakan wasted not even moments on honorifics. "Leave

me!" Without waiting to be obeyed, the tall Imalla swept through the door

Ruhallah had indicated, into a room sparsely furnished with black-lacquered

tables and stools. A hanging on one wall was a woven map of the nations from

the Vilayet Sea west to Nemedia and Ophir.

Basrakan's face darkened at the sight of the man who waited there.

Turban and forked beard proclaimed him hillman, but his fingers bore jeweled

rings, his cloak was of purple silk and there was a plumpness about him that

bespoke feasting and wine.

"You have spent too much time among the men of the cities, Akkadan,"

Basrakan said grimly. "No doubt you have partaken of their vices! Consorted

with their women!"

The plump man's face paled beneath its s worthiness, and he quickly hid

his beringed hands behind him as he bowed. "No, Basrakan Imalla, I have not. I

swear!" His words tumbled over each other in his haste. Sweat gleamed on his

forehead. "I am a true-"

"Enough!" Basrakan spat. "You had best have what I sent you for,

Akkadan. I commanded you not to return without the information."

"I have it, Basrakan Imalla. I have found them. And I have made plans of

the palace and maps-"

Basrakan's shout cut him short. "Truly I am favored above all other men

by the true gods!"

Turning his back on Akkadan, he strode to the wall hanging, clenched

fists raised in triumph toward the nations represented there. Soon the Eyes of

Fire would be his, and the drake would be bound to him as if part of his flesh

and will. And with the sign of the true gods' favor flying before his

followers, no army of mortal men would long stand against them.

"All glory to the true gods," Basrakan whispered fiercely. "Death to all

unbelievers!"

Chapter 1

Light caressed Shadizar, that city known as 'the Wicked,' and veiled the

happenings which justified that name a thousand times over. The darkness that

brought respite to other cities drew out the worst in Shadizar of the

Alabaster Towers, Shadizar of the Golden Domes, city of venality and

debauchery.

In a score of marble chambers silk-clad nobles coerced wives not theirs

to their beds, and many-chinned merchants licked fat lips over the abductions

of competitors' nubile daughters. Perfumed wives, fanned by slaves wielding

snowy ostrich plumes, plotted the cuckolding of husbands, sometimes their own,

while hot-eyed young women of wealth or noble birth or both schemed at

circumventing the guards placed on their supposed chastity. Nine women and

thirty-one men, one a beggar and one a lord, died by murder. The gold of ten

wealthy men was taken from iron vaults by thieves, and fifty others increased

their wealth at the expense of the poor. In three brothels perversions never

before contemplated by humankind were created. Doxies beyond numbering plied

their ancient trade from the shadows, and twisted, ragged beggars preyed on

the trulls' wine-soaked patrons. No man walked the streets unarmed, but even

in the best quarters of the city arms were often not enough to save one's

silver from cutpurses and footpads. Night in Shadizar was in full cry.

Wisps of cloud, stirred by a warm breeze, dappled the moon sitting high

in the sky. Vagrant shadows fled over the rooftops, yet they were enough for

the massively muscled young man, swordbelt slung across his broad chest so

that the worn hilt of his broadsword projected above his right shoulder, who

raced with them from chimney to chimney. With a skill born in the savage

wastes of his native Cimmerian mountains he blended with the drifting shades,

and was invisible to the eyes of the city-born.

The roof the muscular youth traveled came to an end, and he peered down

into the blackness hiding the paving stones of the street, four stories below.

His eyes were frozen sapphires, and his face, a square-cut lion's mane of

black held back from it by a leather cord, showed several ordinary lifetimes'

experience despite its youth. He eyed the next building, an alabaster cube

with a freize of scrollwork running all the way around it an arm's length

below the roof. From deep in his throat came a soft growl. A good six paces

wide, the street was, although it was the narrowest of the four that

surrounded the nearly palatial structure. What he had not noticed when he

chose this approach-eying the distances from the ground- was that the far roof

was sloped. Steeply! Erlik take Baratses, he thought. And his gold!

This was no theft of his own choosing, but rather was at the behest of

the merchant Baratses, a purveyor of spices from the most distant realms of

the world. Ten pieces of gold the spice dealer had offered for the most prized

possession of Samarides, a wealthy importer of gems: a goblet carved from a

single huge emerald. Ten pieces of gold was the hundredth part of the goblet's

worth, one tenth of what the fences in the Desert would pay, but a run of bad

luck with the dice had put the Cimmerian in urgent need of coin. He had agreed

to theft and price, and taken two gold pieces in advance, before he even knew

what was to be stolen. Still, a bargain sworn to must be kept. At least, he

thought grimly, there was no guard atop the other building, as there were on

so many other merchants' roofs.

"Crom!" he muttered with a last look at Samarides' roof, and moved back

from the edge, well back into the shadows among the chimneys. Breathing deeply

to charge his lungs, he crouched. His eyes strained toward the distant

rooftop. Suddenly, like a hunting leopard, he sprang forward; in two strides

he was sprinting at full speed. His lead foot touched the edge of the roof,

and he leaped, hurling himself into the air with arms outstretched, fingers

curled to grab.

With a crash he landed at full length on the sloping roof. And

immediately began to slide. Desperately he spread his arms and legs to slow

himself; his eyes searched for a projection to grasp, for the smallest nub

that might stop his fall. Inexorably he moved toward the drop to the pavement.

No wonder there was no watchman on the roof, he thought, furious at

himself for not questioning that lack earlier. The roof tiles were glazed to a

surface like oiled porcelain. In the space of a breath his feet were over the

edge, then his legs. Abruptly his left hand slid into a gap where a tile was

missing. Tiles shattered as his weight smashed his vainly gripping hand

through them; fragments showered past him into the gloom beneath. Wood slapped

his palm; convulsively he clutched. With a jerk that wrenched at the heavy

muscles of his shoulder he was brought up short to swing over the shadowed

four-story drop.

For the first time since his leap he made a sound, a long, slow

exhalation between his teeth. "Ten gold pieces," he said in a flat voice, "are

not enough."

Suddenly the wooden roof-frame he was grasping gave with a sharp snap,

and he was falling again. Twisting as he dropped, he stretched, caught the

finger-joint-wide ledge at the bottom of the frieze by his fingertips, and

slammed flat against the alabaster wall.

"Not nearly enough," he panted when he had regained his breath. "I've

half a mind to take the accursed thing to Zeno after this." But even as he

said it he knew he would not go to the Nemedian fence. He had given his word.

At the moment, he realized, his problem lay not in how to dispose of the

emerald goblet, but in how to leave his present position with a whole skin.

The only openings piercing the alabaster wall at this height were ventilation

holes the size of his fist, for the top floor and the attic were given over to

storage and quarters for servants and slaves. Such needed no windows, to the

mind of Samarides, and if they had them would only lean out and spoil the

appearance of his fine house. No other ledges or friezes broke the smoothness

of the walls, nor were there balconies overlooking the street. The roof he had

first leaped from might as well have been in Sultanapur, the roof above as

well have been beyond the clouds. That, the dangling youth reluctantly

concluded, left only the windows of the third floor, their arched tops a good

armspan lower than his feet.

It was not his way to dally when his course was decided. Slowly, hanging

by his fingertips, he worked his way along the narrow ledge. The first two

arched windows to pass beneath his feet glowed with light. He could not risk

meeting people. The third, however, was dark.

Taking a deep breath, he let go his hold and dropped, his body brushing

lightly against the wall. If he touched the wall too much, it would push him

out and away to fall helplessly. As he felt his legs come in front of the

window, he moved his feet inward, toward the window sill. Stone smashed

against his soles, his palms slapped hard against the sides of the window, and

he hung precariously, leaning outward. The thickness of the wall, the depth of

the window, denied even a fingernail's hold. Only the outward pressure of his

hands kept him from hurtling to the street.

Muscles knotted with the strain, he drew himself forward until he could

step within Samarides' dwelling. As his foot touched the carpet-strewn floor,

his hand went to the worn leather of his sword hilt. The room was dark, yet

his night-accustomed eyes could make out the dim shapes of cushioned chairs.

Tapestries, their colors reduced to shadings of gray, hung on the walls, and a

dimly patterned carpet covered the marble floor. With a sigh he relaxed, a

trifle, at least. This was no sleeping chamber, with someone to awaken and

scream an alarm. It was about time something went right on this night of

continuous near-disaster.

There were still problems, though. He was unsure whether the worst of

these was how to get out of the dwelling-or how to get to his goal. Samarides'

house was arranged around a central garden, where the gem merchant spent a

great deal of his time among the fountains. The only door of the room in which

he displayed his treasures opened onto the ground-floor colonnade around that

garden.

It would have been easy to climb down from the roof to the garden, and

Baratses had told him exactly the location of the door to the treasure room.

Now he must make his way through the corridors, and risk coming on servants or

guards.

Opening the door a crack, he peered into the hall, lit by gilded brass

oil lamps hung on chains from bronze wall sconces. Tables inlaid with

mother-of-pearl stood at intervals along walls mosaicked in intricate patterns

with thousands of tiny, multihued tiles. No one trod the polished marble

floor. Silently he slipped into the corridor.

For a heartbeat he stood, picturing the plan of the house in his mind.

The treasure room was in that direction. Ears straining for the slightest hint

of another's footstep, he hurried through the halls with a tread as light as a

cat. Back stairs led downward, then others took him down again. Their location

and the fact that their dark red tiles were dull and worn marked them as

servant's stairs. Twice the scuff of sandals from a crossing corridor gave

warning, and he pressed his back to a wall, barely breathing, while unseeing

servants in pale blue tunics scurried by, too intent on their labors to so

much as glance down the branching way.

Then he was into the central garden, the high, shadowed walls of the

house making it a small canyon. Splash and burble echoed softly from

half-a-score fountains, scattered among fig trees and flowering plants and

alabaster statuary. The treasure room lay directly opposite him across the

garden.

He took a step, and froze. A dim shape hurried toward him down one of

the garden paths. Silently he moved further to the side, away from the light

spilling from the doorway. The approaching figure slowed. Had he been seen, he

wondered. Whoever was coming moved very slowly, now, seeming almost to creep,

and made no sound at all. Abruptly the figure left the slated walk and moved

toward him again. His jaw tightened; no other muscle of him moved, not so much

as an eyelid blinking. Closer. Ten paces. Five. Two.

Suddenly the strangely still-dim figure froze, gasped. The big youth

sprang. One hand cut off sound by covering the mouth that uttered it. His

other arm pinned the figure's arms. Teeth dug into his calloused palm, and his

captive flung about wildly, kicks thudding against his legs.

"Erlik take you!" he hissed. "You fight like a woman! Stop that, and

I'll not hurt-"

It penetrated his mind that the body he held was rounded, if firm. He

side-stepped to the edge of the light from the doorway, and found himself

studying large, brown eyes that were suddenly frowning above his hand. It was

a woman, and a pretty one, with satiny, olive skin and her hair braided

tightly about her small head. The biting stopped, and he loosed his grip on

her jaw. He opened his mouth to say he would not harm her if she gave no

outcry, but she cut him off.

"I am a sorcereress," she whispered hoarsely, "and I know you, Conan,

far-traveler from Samaria, or Cymria, or some such place. You think you are a

thief. Release me!"

The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. How could she know? He seemed

to have a talent for running afoul of sorcerers, a talent he would just as

soon lose. His grip was loosening when he became aware of the amused gleam in

her big eyes, and the way her small, white teeth were biting a full lower lip.

For the first time he took in her garb, snug, dull black from neck to toes.

Even her feet were covered in ebon cloth, with the big toe separated like the

thumb on a mitten.

Holding her out from him by her upper arms, he was unable to suppress a

smile. Slender, she was, and short, but the close fit of her odd garments left

no doubts as to her womanhood. She kicked at him, and he caught it on his

thigh."Sorcereress?" he growled softly. "Then why do I think you'll change

your story should I take a switch to your rump?"

"Why do I think that at the first blow I'll howl loudly enough to bring

half the city?" she whispered back. "But truly I don't wish to. My name is

Lyana, and I've heard of you, Conan. I've seen you in the streets. And admired

you. I just wanted to sound mysterious, so I could compete with your other

women." She shifted in his grasp, and her round breasts, large on her

diminutive slimness, seemed even more prominent. Her tongue wet her lips, and

she smiled invitingly. "Could you please put me down? You're so strong, and

you're hurting me."

He hesitated, then lowered her feet to the ground. "What is this garb

you wear, Lyana?"

"Forget that," she breathed, swaying closer. "Kiss me."

Despite himself his hands came up to clasp her face. Before his fingers

touched her cheeks, she dropped to her knees and threw herself into a forward

tumble past him. Stunned, he still managed to whirl after her. One tiny foot

flashing from the middle of her roll caught him under the ribs, bringing a

grunt, slowing him enough for her to come to her feet facing the wall . . .

and she seemed to go up it like a spider.

With an oath Conan leaped forward. Something struck his arm, and he

grabbed a soft, black-dye rope, hanging from above.

"Mitra blast me for a fool!" he grated. "A thief!"

Soft laughter floated down from close enough over his head to make him

peer sharply upwards. "You are a fool." The girl's soft tones brimmed with

mirth. "And I am indeed a thief, which you'll never be. Perhaps, with those

shoulders, you could be a carter. Or a cart horse."

Snarling, Conan took hold of the rope to climb. A flicker caught the

corner of his eye, and he felt more than heard something strike the ground by

his foot. Instinctively, he jumped back, losing his grip on the rope. His grab

to regain it brushed only the free end as it was drawn up.

"It would have struck you," the girl's low voice came again, "had I

intended it so. Were I you, I'd leave here. Now. Fare you well, Conan."

"Lyana?" he whispered roughly. "Lyana?" Mocking silence answered him.

Muttering under his breath, he searched the ground around his feet, and

tugged a flat, black throwing knife from the dirt. He tucked it behind his

swordbelt, then stiffened as if stabbed.

The girl was a thief, and she had come from the direction of the

treasure room. Cursing under his breath he ran, heedless of the rare shrubs

and plants he passed.

An arched door led into the chamber where Samarides kept his most

valuable possessions, and that door stood open. Conan paused a moment to study

the heavy iron lock. That the girl had opened it he had no doubt, but if she

had been within, then any traps must have been disabled, or else be easily

avoided.

The Cimmerian hesitated a moment longer, then started across the

chamber, floored in diamond-shaped tiles of alternating red and white. The

emerald goblet, he had been told, stood at the far end of the room on a

pedestal carved of serpentine. At his second step a diamond tile sank beneath

his foot. Thinking of crossbows mounted on the wall-he had encountered such

before-he threw himself flat on the floor. And felt another tile sink beneath

his hand. From the wall came a rattling clink and clatter he had been a thief

long enough to recognize. The sinking tiles had each released a weight which

was pulling a chain from a wheel. And that in turn would activate . . . what?

As he leaped to his feet a bell began to toll, then another. Cursing, he

ran the length of the room. Twice more tiles sank beneath him, and by the time

he reached the dull green mottled pedestal, four bells clanged the alarm. The

pedestal was bare.

"Erlik take the wench!" he snarled.

Spinning, he dashed from the chamber. And ran head-on into two

spear-carrying guards. As the three fell to the floor it flashed into Conan's

head that it was just as well he had not dallied to choose something to make

up for the loss of the goblet. His fist smashed into the face of one guard,

nose and teeth cracking in a spray of red. The man jerked and sagged,

unconscious. The other scrambled to his feet, spear ready to thrust. Had he

delayed, Conan thought, they could likely have held him in the chamber long

enough for others to arrive. His sword flickered from its sheath, caught the

spear just behind the head, and the second guard found himself holding a long

stick. With a shout the man threw the pole at Conan and fled.

Conan ran, too. In the opposite direction. At the first doorway of the

house he ducked inside, bursting into the midst of servants nervously

chattering about the still ringing bells. For an instant they stared at him,

eyes going wider and wider, then he waved his sword in the air and roared at

the top of his lungs. Shrieking men and women scattered like a covey of

Kothian quail.

Confusion, the Cimmerian thought. If he spread enough confusion he might

get out of there yet. Through the house he sped, and every servant he met was

sent flying by fierce roars and waving blade, till cries of "Help!" and

"Murder!" and even "Fire!" rang down every corridor. More than once the young

Cimmerian had to duck down a side hall as guards clattered by, chasing after

screams and yelling themselves, until he began to wonder how many men

Samarides had. Cacophony run riot filled the house.

At last he reached the entry hall, surrounded on three sides by a

balcony with balustrades of smoke-stone, beneath a vaulted ceiling worked in

alabaster arabesques. Twin broad stairs of black marble curved down from that

second-floor balcony to a floor mosaicked in a map of the world, as Zamorans

knew it, with each country marked by representations of the gems imported from

it. All of this Conan ignored, his eyes locked on the tall, iron-studded

doors leading to the street. A bar, heavy enough to need three men for the

lifting, held them shut, and the bar was in turn fastened in place by iron

chains and massive locks.

"Crom!" he growled. "Shut up like a fortress!"

Once, twice, thrice his broadsword clashed against a lock, with him

wincing at the damage the blows were doing to his edge. The lock broke open,

and he quickly pulled the chain through the iron loops holding it against the

bar. As he turned to the next chain, a quarrel as thick as two of his fingers

slammed into the bar where he had been standing. He changed his turn into a

dive to the floor, eyes searching for the next shot.

Instantly he saw his lone opponent. Atop one flight of stairs stood a

man of immense girth, whose skin yet hung in folds as if he had once been

twice so big. Lank, thinning hair surrounded his puffy face, and he wore a

shapeless sleeping garment of dark blue silk. Samarides. One of the gem

merchant's feet was in the stirrup of a heavy crossbow, and he laboriously

worked the handles of a windlass to crank back the bowstring, a rope of drool

running from one corner of his narrow mouth.

Quickly judging how long it would be before Samarides could place

another quarrel in the crossbow, Conan bounded to his feet. A single furious

blow that struck sparks sent the second lock clattering to the floor.

Sheathing his sword, the Cimmerian tugged the chain free and set his hands to

the massive bar.

"Guards!" Samarides screamed. "To me! Guards!"

Muscles corded and knotted in calves and thighs, back, shoulders and

arms, as Conan strained against the huge wooden bar. By the thickness of a

fingernail it lifted. Sweat popped out on his forehead. The thickness of a

finger. The width of a hand. And then the massive bar was clear of the support

irons. Three slow, staggering steps backwards Conan took, until he could turn

and heave the bar aside. Mosaic tiles shattered as it landed with a crash that

shook the floor.

"Guards!" Samarides shrieked, and pounding feet answered him.

Conan dashed to the thick, iron-studded doors and heaved one open to

crash against a wall. As he darted through, another quarrel slashed past his

head to gouge a furrow in the marble of Samarides' portico. Tumult rose behind

him as guards rushed into the entry hall, shouting to Samarides for

instructions, and Samarides screamed incoherently back at them. Conan did not

look back. He ran. Mind filled with anger at a young woman thief with a

too-witty tongue, he ran until the night of Shadizar swallowed him.

Chapter 2

That quarter of Shadizar called the Desert was a warren of crooked streets

reeking of offal and despair. The debaucheries that took place behind closed

doors in the rest of the city were performed openly in the Desert, and made to

pay a profit. Its denizens, more often in rags than not, lived as if death

could come with the next breath, as it quite often did. Men and women were

scavengers, predators or prey, and some who thought themselves in one class

discovered, frequently too late, that they were in another.

The tavern of Abuletes was one of the Desert's best, as such was

accounted there. Few footpads and fewer cutpurses were numbered among its

patrons. Graverobbers were unwelcome, though more for the smells that hung

about them than for how they earned their coin. For the rest, all who had the

price of a drink were welcome.

When Conan slapped open the tavern door, the effluvia of the street

fought momentarily with the smell of half-burned meat and sour wine in the big

common room where two musicians playing zithers for a naked dancing girl

competed unsuccessfully with the babble of the tavern's custom. A mustachioed

Nemedian coiner at the bar fondled a giggling doxy in a tall, red-dyed wig and

strips of green silk that did little to cover her generously rounded breasts

and buttocks. A plump Ophirean procurer, jeweled rings glittering on his

fingers, held court at a corner table; among those laughing at his jokes-so

long as his gold held out, at least-were three kidnappers, swarthy,

narrow-faced Iranistanis, hoping he would throw a little business their way. A

pair of doxies, dark-eyed twins, hawked their wares among the tables, their

girdles of coins clinking as their hips swayed in unison.

Before the Cimmerian had taken a full step, a voluptuous, olive-skinned

woman threw her arms around his neck. Gilded brass breastplates barely

contained her heavy breasts, and a narrow girdle of gilded chain, set low on

her well-rounded hips, supported a length of diaphanous blue silk, no more

than a handspan in width, that hung to her braceleted ankles before and

behind.

"Ah, Conan," she murmured throatily, "what a pity you did not return

earlier."

"Have some wine with me, Semiramis," he replied, eying her swelling

chest, "and tell me why I should have come back sooner. Then we can go

upstairs-" He cut off with a frown as she shook her head.

"I ply my trade this night, Cimmerian." At his frown, she sighed. "Even

I must have a little silver to live."

"I have silver," he growled.

"And I cannot take coin from you. I will not."

He muttered an oath under his breath. "You always say that. Why not? I

don't understand."

"Because you're not a woman." She laughed softly and traced a finger

along his jaw. "A thing for which I am continually grateful."

Conan's face tightened. First Lyana had made a fool of him this night,

and now Semiramis attempted the same. "Women never say their minds straight

out. Very well. If you've no use for me tonight, then I'm done with you as

well." He left her standing with her fists on her hips and her mouth twisted

in exasperation.

At the bar he dug into his purse and tossed coppers onto the cracked

wooden surface. As he had known it would, the sound of coins penetrated the

wall of noise in the room and drew Abuletes, wiping his fat fingers on the

filthy apron he wore over a faded yellow tunic. The tavern keeper made the

coins disappear with a deft motion.

"I want wine for that," Conan said. Abuletes nodded. "And some

information."

" 'Tis enough for the wine," the tavern keeper replied dryly. He set a

wooden tankard, from which rose the sour smell of cheap wine, before the big

youth. "Information costs more."

Conan rubbed his thumb over a gouge in the edge of the bar, made by a

sword stroke, drawing the fat man's piggish eyes to the mark. "There were six

of them, as I recall," he said absently. "One with his knife pricking your

ribs, and ready to probe your guts if you opened your mouth without his leave.

What was it they intended? Taking you into the kitchen, wasn't it? Didn't one

of them speak of putting your feet in the cookfire till you told where your

gold is cached?"

"I have no gold," Abuletes muttered unconvincingly. He could spot a

clipped coin at ten paces, and was reliably rumored to have the first copper

he had ever stolen buried somewhere in the tavern.

"Of course not," Conan agreed smoothly. "Still, it was Hannuman's own

luck for you I saw what was happening, when none else did. 'Twould have been .

. . uncomfortable for you, with your feet in the coals and naught to tell

them.""Aye, you saw." The fat man's tone was as sour as his wine. "And laid

about you with that accursed sword, splintering half my tables. Do you know

what they cost to replace? The doxies were hysterical for all the blood you

splattered around, and half my night's custom disappeared for fear you'd cut

them down as well."

Conan laughed and drank deeply from the tankard, saying no more. Never a

night passed without blood shed on the sawdust-strewn floor, and it was no

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

ConanTheMagnificentByRobertJordanCopyright1984PROLOGUEIcyairhungdeathlystillamongthecragsoftheKezankianmountains,deepintheheartofthatarmofthosemountainswhichstretchedsouthandwestalongtheborderbetweenZamoraandBrythunia.Nobirdsang,andthecloudlessazureskywasempty,foreventheever-presentvulturescouldfind...

展开>> 收起<<

Robert Jordan - Conan The Magnificent.pdf

共91页,预览19页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Robert Jordan - Conan The Magnificent

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: