De Camp, L Sprague - Conan 26 - The Castle of Terror

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The Castle of Terror

Before he can bring off his plans for building a black, empire with himself at its head, Conan is thwarted

by a succession of natural catastrophes and the intrigues of his enemies among the Bamulas, many of

whom resent the rise to power in their tribe of a foreigner, forced to flee, he heads north through the

equatorial jungle and across the grassy veldt toward the semicivilized kingdom of Kush.

1. Burning Eyes

BEYOND THE trackless deserts of Stygia lay the vast grasslands of Kush. For over a hundred leagues,

there was' naught but endless stretches of thick grass. Here and there a solitary tree rose to break the

gently rolling monotony of the veldt: spiny acacias, sword-leaved dragon, trees, emerald-spired lobelias,

and thick fingered, poisonous spurges. Now and then a rare stream cut a shallow dell across the prairie,

giving rise to a narrow gallery forest along its banks. Herds of zebra, antelope, buffalo, and other

denizens of the savanna drifted athwart the veldt, grazing as they went

The grasses whispered and nodded in the wandering winds beneath skies of deep cobalt in which a fierce

tropical sun blazed blindingly. Now and then clouds boiled up; a brief thunderstorm roared and blazed

with catastrophic fury, only to die and clear as quickly as it had arisen.

Across this limitless waste, as the day died, a lone silent figure trudged. It was a young giant, strongly

built, with eliding thews that swelled under a sun-bronzed hide scored with the white traces of old

wounds. Deep of chest and broad of shoulder and long of limb was he; his scanty costume of loincloth

and sandals revealed his magnificent physique. His chest, shoulders, and back were burnt nearly as black

as the natives of this land. The tangled locks of an unkempt mane of coarse black hair framed a grim,

impassive face. Beneath scowling black brows, fierce eyes of burning blue roamed restlessly from side

to side as he marched with a limber, tireless stride across the level lands. His wary gaze pierced the

thick, shadowy grasses on either side, reddened by the angry crimson of sunset. Soon night would come

swiftly across Kush; under the gloom of its world-shadowing wings, danger and death would prowl the

waste.

Yet the lone traveler, Conan of Cimmeria, was not afraid. A barbarian of barbarians, bred on the bleak

hills of distant Cimmeria, the iron endurance and fierce vitality of the wild were his, granting him

survival where civilized men, though more learned, more courteous, and more sophisticated than he,

would miserably have perished. Although the wanderer had gone afoot for eight days, with no food save

the game he had slain with the great Bamula hunting bow slung across his back, the mighty barbarian

had nowhere nearly approached the limits of his strength.

Long had Conan been accustomed to the Spartan life of the wilderness. Although he had tasted the

languid luxuries of civilized life in half the walled, glittering cities of the world, he missed them not. He

plodded on toward the distant horizon, now obscured by a murky purple haze.

Behind him lay the dense jungles of the black lands beyond Kush, where fantastic orchids blazed amid

foliage his way for many weary leagues northward, until he reached the region where the crowding

forest thinned out and gave way to the open grasslands. Now he meant to cross Ac savanna on foot to

reach the kingdom of Kush, where his barbaric strength and the weight of his sword might find him

employment in the service of the dusky monarchs of that ancient land.

Suddenly his thoughts were snatched away from contemplation of the past by a thrill of danger. Some

primal instinct of survival alerted him to the presence of peril. He halted and stared about him through

the long shadows cast by the setting sun. As the hairs of his nape bristled with the touch of unseen

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menace, the giant barbarian searched the air with sensitive nostrils and probed the gloom with

smoldering eyes. Although he could neither see nor smell anything, the mysterious sense of danger of

the wilderness-bred told him that peril was near. He felt the feathery touch of invisible eyes and whirled

to glimpse a pair of large orbs, glowing in the gloom.

Almost in the same instant, the blazing eyes vanished. So short had been his glimpse and so utter the

disappearance that he was tempted to shrug off the sight as a product of his imagination. He turned and

went forward again, but now he was on the alert. As he continued his journey, flaming eyes opened

again amid the thick shadows of dense grasses, to follow his silent progress. Tawny, sinuous forms

glided after him on soundless feet. The lions of Kush were on his track, lusting for hot blood and fresh

flesh.

2. The Circle of Death

An hour later, night had fallen over the savanna, save for a narrow band of sunset glow along the

western horizon, against which an occasional small, gnarled tree of

the veldt stood up in black silhouette. And Conan almost reached the limits of his endurance. Thrice

lionesses had rushed upon him out of the shadows to right or to left. Thrice he had driven them off with

the flying death of his arrows. Although it was hard to shoot straight in the gathering dark, an explosive

snarl from the chasing cats had thrice told him of hits, although he had no way of knowing whether he

had slain or only wounded the deadly predators.

But now his quiver was empty, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the silent marauders

pulled him down. There were eight or ten lions on his track! Now even the grim barbarian felt a pang of

despair. Even if his mighty sword accounted for one or two of the attackers, the rest would tear him into

gory pieces before he could slash or thrust again. Conan had encountered lions before and knew their

enormous strength, which enabled them to pick up and drag a whole zebra as easily as a cat does a

mouse. Although Conan was one of the strongest men of his time, once a lion got its claws and teeth into

him that strength would be no more effective than that of a small child.

Conan ran on. He had been running now for the better part of an hour, with a long, loping stride that ate

up the leagues. At first he had run effortlessly, but now the grueling exertions of his flight through the

black jungles and his eight-day trek across the plain began to take their toll. His eyes blurred; the

muscles of his legs ached. Every beat of his bursting heart seemed to drain away the strength remaining

in his giant form.

He prayed to his savage gods for the moon to emerge from the dense, stormy clouds that veiled most of

the sky. He prayed for a hillock or a tree to break the gently rolling flatness of the plain, or even a

boulder against which he could set his back to make a last stand against the pride.

But the gods heard not The only trees in this region were dwarfish, thorny growths, which rose to a

height of six or eight feet and then spread their branches out horizontally in a mushroom shape. If he

managed to climb such a tree despite the thorns, it would be easy for the first lion to reach the base to

spring upon him from below and bear him to the ground in one leap. The only hillocks were termite

nests, some rising several feet in height but too small for purposes of defense. There was nothing to do

but run on. To lighten himself, he had cast aside the great hunting bow when he had spent his last shaft,

although it wrenched his heart to throw away the splendid weapon. Quiver and straps soon followed. He

was now stripped to a mere loincloth of leopard hide, the high-laced sandals that clad his feet, his

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goatskin water bag, and the heavy broadsword, which he now carried scabbarded in one fist. To part

with these would mean surrendering his last hope.

The lions were now almost at his heels. He could smell the strong reek of their lithe bodies and hear

their panting breath. Any moment, now, they would, close in upon him, and he would be making his last

furious fight for life before they pulled him down.

He expected his pursuers to follow their age-old tactics. The oldest male—the chief of the pride—would

follow directly behind him, with the younger males on either flank. The swifter lionesses would range

ahead on either side in a crescent formation until they were far enough ahead of him to close the circle

and trap him. Then they would all rush in upon him at once, making any effective defense impossible.

Suddenly, the land was flooded with light. The round, silver eye of the rising moon glared down upon

the broad plains, bathing the racing figure of the giant barbarian with her gaze and drawing lines of pale

silver fire along the rippling sinews of the lions as they loped at his heels, washing their short, silken fur

with her ghostly radiance.

Coan's wary eye caught the moonfire on rippling fur ahead to his left, and he knew that the encirclement

was nearly complete. As he braced himself to meet the charge, however, he was astounded to see the

same lioness veer off and halt. In two strides he was past her. As he went, he saw that the young lioness

on his right had also stopped short. She squatted motionless on the grass with tail twitching and lashing.

A curious sound, half roar and half wail, came from her fanged jaws. |

Conan dared to slow his run and glance bad. To his utter astonishment, he saw that the entire pride had

halted as if at some invisible barrier. They stood in a snarling line with fangs gleaming like silver in the

moonlight. Earth shaking roars of baffled rage came from their throats.

Conan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and his scowling brows knotted in puzzlement. What had halted

the pride at the very moment when they had made sure of their prey? What unseen force had annulled

the fury of the chase? He stood for a moment facing them, sword in hand, wondering if they would

resume their charge. But the lions stayed where they were, growling and roaring

from foam-dripping jaws.

Then Conan observed a curious thing. The place where the lions had halted seemed to mark a line of

demarcation across the plain. On the further side grew thick, long, lush grasses. At the invisible

boundary, however, the grass became thin, stubby, and ill nourished, with broad patches of bare earth.

Although Conan could not clearly distinguish colors by moonlight alone, it seemed to him that the

grasses on the hither side of the line lacked the normal green color of growing things. Instead, the

grasses around his feet seemed dry and gray, as if leached of all vitality.

To either side, in the bright moonlight, he could see the region of dead grasses curve away into the

distance, as if he stood alone in a vast circle of death.

3. The Black Citadel

Although he still ached with weariness, the brief pause had given Conan the strength to continue his

progress. Since he did not know the nature of the invisible line that had halted the lions, he could not tell

how long this mysterious influence would continue to hold them at bay. Therefore he preferred to put as

much distance between the pride and himself as possible.

Soon he saw a dark mass take form out of the dimness ahead of him. He went forward even more warily

than before, sword in hand and eyes searching the hazy immensities of this domain. The moonlight was

still brilliant, but its radiance became obscure with distance as if veiled by some thickening haze. So, at

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De Camp, L Sprague - Conan 26 - The Castle of Terror

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