Roland Green - Conan and the Mists of Doom

VIP免费

2024-12-20 0 0 2MB 235 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Prologue

The valley slashed into the flank of the Kezankian Mountains like a sword cut.

The entrance deceived the casual eye, being but a narrow cleft in a spur of

Mount Goadel. The mist often swirling about the heights aided the deception,

giving the cleft the air of a place uncanny and unwholesome, where things a sane

man would shun might lurk in wait.

Often the wind rose, driving away the mist, but raising a howling as of demons

and lost souls as it whipped around the rocks. The wind-cry likewise kept

travelers from being too curious about the valley.

It had been many years since travelers had allowed themselves to be curious

about the valley, or anything else in this part of the Kezankian range. It was

far from any place that concerned civilized folk, and too plainly a good home

for bandits, outlaws, and still more debased forms of humanity. There were even

tales of tribes of ape-men, kin to those of the Himelian peaks in Vendhya,

dwelling above the snow line.

The man who led the column of soldiers up the slope toward the cleft knew more

than most of the truth about the valley. It had indeed been home to bandits and

outlaws. Some of these now followed him, won to obedience—if not loyalty—by gold

in one hand and a whip in the other. Others, he and his company had slain with

their own hands. Still others had fled, to become bleaching bones when the

vultures were done with them.

About ape-men, Captain Muhbaras knew little and cared less. If they did not

trouble him, he would leave them in whatever peace their lofty homes might

afford them. He personally doubted that any creature dwelling among eternal snow

and ice could have the wits of a louse, but then he had grown to manhood among

the gurgling wells and trees sagging with ripe fruit of a Khorajan nobleman's

estate.

Long-legged and unburdened save for a shirt of fine Vendhyan mail and an

open-faced helm of Nemedian style, Muhbaras had reached the cleft well ahead of

his column. Now he turned back to watch it mount the slope, and to count heads

for straggling or desertion. Small fear of the latter, when all went in fear of

the Lady of the Mists, who could see to the edge of the world, but there were

always fools in any company.

One could hardly tell bandits from Khorajans or nomads; all wore the same robes

and headdress, sand-hued or dirty white, with boots and belts of camel's hide

and a curved sword and dagger thrust into the belts. Some among each folk

carried bows and quivers, but a keen-eyed man would have quickly seen that the

bows were unstrung and the quivers bound tightly shut with leather thongs.

No man approached the entrance to the Valley of the Mists with ready arrows or

strung bow. Not without the Lady's consent, and thus far that consent had not

been forthcoming.

What had been forthcoming were harsh punishments for those who flouted the

Lady's will. Punishments so dire, indeed, that those who had suffered them might

have gladly changed places with the captives in the middle of the column. Their

death would have been no less unclean, under the Lady's magic, but it would have

been swifter and far less painful.

There were ten of the captives, bound into a single file by stout thongs about

their waists. Their hands and feet were free, which meant vigilance by their

guards, as the Lady misliked pursuing escapers with her spells, lest this

endanger her secrets. There was hardly any choice, however, as no man with hands

bound could mount the slopes here. Nor could a band of this size carry many

helpless burdens over the rocks and along the ravines.

Escapes were few enough in truth, thanks to the potion the Lady's apothecary

doled out to each band of raiders. If one could get enough of it down a

captive's gullet, the man, woman, or child would be as docile as a sheep for up

to three days. Muhbaras had scented some familiar herbs in the potion, and

others he could not name; he suspected that the real secret of the potion was

not knowable by common men.

The captives were seven men, if you counted one youth barely old enough to show

a beard, and three women. Two with grave wounds and one who had fought to the

last against swallowing the potion were vultures' fodder, as well as a warning

to anyone who would pursue the raiders.

Muhbaras counted the captives twice, although there was no escape this far into

the mountains for anyone who could neither fly like a bird nor sink into solid

rock like a spirit. He made a gesture of aversion at that last thought; some of

the tribes hereabouts commanded potent magic. It would not be well done to

capture one of their shamans or the man's kin.

Then he turned toward the cleft in the rock, drew his sword (Nemedian work like

his helm), and raised it hilt-first. He saw no one and heard nothing save the

whisper of the wind on distant slopes, but he knew that keen eyes watched for

still keener minds.

Crimson light darted from the cleft, striking a jewel in the sword's hilt. The

jewel glowed like an oil lamp, but no oil lamp ever gave out such hues, not only

a half-score different shades of crimson but hints of azure, emerald, amber—

"We have returned," the captain said. "We have ten. In the service of the Lady,

we ask blessing."

The light darted out again. This time the crimson glow danced along the ground

until it drew a complete circle around the column. Muhbaras tried not to think

how much it resembled a noose, ready to be drawn tight. He told himself that he

and his men had survived this rite a score of times without so much as a singed

hair.

Reason and memory were of small use against the dark fear of old magic, coiling

through a man's guts and gnawing at his will like a rat at a corpse. The captain

felt a cold sweat creep across his skin under the mail and padding.

"In the service of the Lady, the blessing is given," the voice said. The captain

tried for the tenth time to find something in the voice by which he might

recognize the speaker. It would be of little value if he did, save for proving

that not all the Lady's secrets were impenetrable.

The men behind him were looking at him, and he remembered that the next part of

the rite was his.

"In the service of the Lady, we beg entrance to the Valley of the Mists."

The captain wondered, not quite idly, what might happen if he used some word

less abject than "beg." So far he had lacked the courage to find out—as much for

the sake of those who had followed him from Khoraja as for his own sake. He

wondered if those who survived would receive their promised gold and estates,

but doubting the word of Khoraja's rulers did not make him ready to throw away

the lives of his men. He had held his duty as a captain near to his heart, long

before he heard of the Lady of the Mists or laid eyes on the Kezankian

Mountains.

"In the service of the Lady, entrance to the Valley of the Mists is granted."

He heard light footsteps, quickly lost in the grind and growl of stones

shifting, which always sounded to him like the bowels of the mountains

themselves rumbling. The stone-noise ended, the light of torches glowed from the

cleft, and two figures stepped swiftly into view.

One was tall and dark, the other shorter and fair, and both were women. They

wore silvered helmets, displaying on either side a golden ornament in the form

of a scorpion's tail, brown leather corselets reinforced with iron plates, loose

breeches in the Turanian style, of heavy silk in a green so dark it was almost

black, and boots whose style the captain did not recognize.

Each had a sword and dagger, and each carried a Turanian recurved bow and quiver

of well-made arrows. Their faces under the helmets and bodies under the armor

were good to look at. The sure grace of their movements and the stillness in

their eyes made it clear no man but a fool would hope for more, and fools would

meet weapons the women knew well how to use.

Northern folk had tales of shield-maidens, daughters of the gods, who roamed the

earth seeking the souls of dead warriors, or so the captain had heard. He had

thought them barbarians' fancies once; now he was not so sure. All of the Lady's

Maidens had the same look, of being able to see into a man's soul and judge him.

It was that look, as much as their weapons and armor, that had kept the Maidens

untouched. That, and knowing that what the Lady had done to disobedient archers

would be as a child's tantrum to what she would do in defense of her Maidens.

"Any children?" the dark Maiden said.

"None."

"As well. Strong spirits are needed to feed the Mist."

"The strongest spirit, we freed back near the village. We could not force the

potion down him without risking hurt to our people, and pursuit seemed closer

than usual."

Why was he explaining himself to this madwoman, servant of a greater madwoman?

Perhaps because he had seen her on guard more often than any other, and she

looked less grim than most. The fair one, now—a man's hand would freeze on

touching her, long before his manhood was anywhere near her.

'This is not well."

"It did not seem my decision, to sacrifice the Lady's servants."

"That is wisdom."

They continued to speak as the raiders filed past. Some of the prisoners had

enough awareness to open their eyes and look about them, but the point of a

sword in the back was enough to discourage laggards. At last the tail of the

column vanished among the rocks, and Muhbaras was alone on the mountainside with

the Maidens.

"You are well, I trust?" the fair one said. Not for the first time, she made a

question about the captain's health sound like a death sentence.

"I am well, and fit to come within," he replied, returning to ritual phrases.

Which I would not do if I did not think your mistress needed my men more than

they need her!

One

The desert lay north of Zamboula, south of Khauran, west of the mighty realm of

Turan, now burgeoning in its strength under the lash of its bold new King

Yezdigerd. It belonged to none of these.

Indeed, the land belonged to no one. Even names on it were few, and those mostly

oases. The nomads were divided among a score of tribes, seldom at peace with one

another; each tribe had its own names for the wadis, the depressions, the dunes.

The harsh sky and its blazing sun might have leached all the color from the

land. The sand lay pale ochre and umber, the rocks seemed baked white as bones,

and even the sparse vegetation was pallid and dusty.

Well off to the north, dust trails crept above the horizon. Still farther,

barely visible, rose patches of deeper green. Together they told of caravan

routes and cultivated lands. Only in the crystalline air of the desert would

they have been visible at all, for they were a good day's ride on a stout horse.

Nearer at hand, a man standing on a well-placed dune might have seen another

dust cloud rising to the sky. Before long, he would have seen the dark shapes of

more than a dozen riders at the base of the cloud, growing even as he watched.

Remaining beyond bowshot, he would have taken them for a band of nomad warriors.

Their garb was certainly that of the nomads, or of any man who braves a

forge-hot desert journey—loose, flowing robes from crown to toe. All were well

armed, mostly with long, curved swords or bows.

Closer up, a man who knew the tribes of the East might have doubted that these

men were native to the desert. One saw silver on the hilts of some weapons,

tattoos on bronzed cheeks, and subtle differences in the tooled leather of the

saddles and bridles. Yet most of the men and their mounts could have ridden into

a nomad camp without drawing a second glance.

All except one, the leader. Few deserts ever spawned a man so gigantic, who

needed a horse larger than any nomad ever bestrode to carry him even at a trot.

Nor did those ice-blue eyes first open under any desert sun, and the blade that

rode at the man's hip was as straight as his broad back.

Conan of Cimmeria was riding for Koth, with fourteen loyal Afghulis sworn to see

him safely to that destination. Perhaps also they had hopes of plucking loot

from the war in Koth.

The man on the dune might have stood watching until not only Conan but the

rearmost of the riders was out of sight. Had he done so, however, he would

shortly have seen a new dust cloud sprout on the horizon, moving swiftly on the

trail of Conan's band. The Cimmerian and his Afghulis were not alone in the

desert.

In the forefront of the band, Conan was not the first to see the riders behind.

That modest honor went to a rider named Farad, of the Batari tribe. He spurred

his mount up beside the Cimmerian's and shouted into the northerner's ear.

"We are followed. Many more than we are, from the dust they make."

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：

PrologueThevalleyslashedintotheflankoftheKezankianMountainslikeaswordcut.Theentrancedeceivedthecasualeye,beingbutanarrowcleftinaspurofMountGoadel.Themistoftenswirlingabouttheheightsaidedthedeception,givingtheclefttheairofaplaceuncannyandunwholesome,wherethingsasanemanwouldshunmightlurkinwait.Oftenth...

展开>> 收起<<

Roland Green - Conan and the Mists of Doom.pdf

共235页,预览47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！

Roland Green - Conan and the Mists of Doom

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: