Grumbling, he eased himself off the creaking settle to fetch more wine from his secret hoard. His armor rustled and clanked.
He reached the niche in the wall where he had secreted his bottles and stretched his hand towards it …and that was his last conscious act. Ten steely fingers fastened on his windpipe, crushing his throat, until black unconsciousness swamped his brain, and he sank down in a heap.
Conan surveyed his handiwork with a grim smile. It was good to slay foes again! The old barbarian instincts boiled in his blood, and his lips writhed in the snarl of the hunting beast.
His kill had been so swift and silent that none of the sleeping occupants of the cells had stirred. Conan stooped and tore the bunch of keys from the dead jailor’s belt. He tried several of them in the lock of the nearest cell.
At the soft metallic sound, a prisoner turned, shook his head, and opened his eyes. The imprecation on his lips was stifled as he beheld the strange figure at the grille. His astonishment grew as the bars swung inward. In a bound, he was on his feet. He checked his rush, for the light from the wall cresset glinted faintly on the blade in the stranger’s right hand. A gesture from the giant cautioned him to silence, and another beckoned him to follow.
In the clear light, the eyes of the prisoner widened in surprise. Conan frowned, searching his memory. At last he said: “Lyco of Khorshemish! Is it you?”
“Aye.” Their brawny hands met in a firm grip. The prisoner continued: “By the breasts of Ishtar, Conan, I am struck to the core with astonishment! Are you here with an Aquilonian host to deal with the evil sorcerer, or have you flown on the back of an eagle?”
“Neither, Lyco,” came the rumbling reply. “I am here to mete out justice to the yellow cur, true, but I counted on finding my army here. I think I have done so. When we fought as mercenaries, yours was always among the readiest blades.”
“Most of the prisoners here are true men and fighters,” said the other. “We long only to flesh our steel in those Khitan bravos.”
“You will have your chance. Here are the keys to the dungeons; take them and free your men. The armory lies down this corridor; equip your followers with blades and strike! Strike to avenge your own suffering and to free the queen of Aquilonia!” He smiled grimly at Lyco’s astounded expression. “Now you know why I’m here. You will find Khitan allies among the throng in the courtyard. Go swiftly.”
He was gone again like a haunting phantom. Lyco began to waken his comrades, sending some to open the armory while others busied themselves at the locks of other cell doors.
“By Mitra,” murmured Lyco, “the barbarian is a mad one! Traveling across the world to rescue a woman!” But admiration glowed in his eyes as he looked into the dark mouth of the corridor.
CHAPTER 10: The Lair of the Sorcerer
A vast, high-ceilinged hall opened at the end of the dank stone corridor. Its square flagstones were covered with dust undisturbed by human feet but its aura of silence brooded menacingly. Its upper part was lost in darkness.
Conan stalked warily over the vast floor toward the opening of another corridor, as if he expected any one of the flagstones to drop out from under him.
A noise like a thunderclap rang with booming crashes between the echoing walls, and a shrill wailing cry made Conan’s blood run cold.
With a swish of mighty wings, an unearthly being swooped from the upper darkness. Like a stooping hawk it plummeted down towards Conan.
The barbarian flung himself aside barely in time to avoid the razor-sharp claws in the monster’s paws. Then his sword swept in a glittering arc. The winged horror flopped away, howling. One arm, severed at the elbow, gushed dark, ill-smelling blood. With a horrible scream it again sprang towards the Cimmerian.
Conan stood his ground. He knew that his only chance lay in a sure thrust through the creature’s vitals. Even partly dismembered, it had the strength to tear him, to pieces. It was, he was sure, the same thing that had borne off Zenobia long months before.
The monster spread its wings to soar as it sprang. At the last moment, Conan ducked the claws of the remaining hand and put all his strength into a ripping thrust. His blade tore into the black body, as the searching talons ripped the shirt from his back.
With a choking gasp, the monster fell. Conan braced his feet to drag his blade free, dripping with the creature’s dark juices.
His hair was sweaty and tangled and his back was bloody from the clawing he had received. But a terrible fire burned unquenched in his eyes as he reached the mouth of the other corridor. Behind him, on the floor of the hall, the monster lay in a pool of brown, staring with sightless yellow eyes toward the darkness from which it had come.
The corridor into which Conan stepped was short and straight. In the distance he saw a door of stone. Cryptic signs of Khitan origin covered its surface. This must be the Tunnel of Death that led to Yah Chieng’s private chambers. Beyond that door he would find his foe. Conan’s eyes glowed ferally in the darkness, and his hand gripped his hilt with vengeful force.
Suddenly the darkness changed to bright illumination. Red licking flames arose from the floor in a hellish wall.
Their writhing tongues reached up to the ceiling, and they burst toward Conan in hungry spouts of burning death.
He could feel their terrible heat on his face and arms, and his clothes began to smolder. Sweat ran down his face.
As he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a piece of metal rasped his skin.
The ring of Rakhamon again! He had forgotten it in his single-minded determination. Would it prove potent against the strength of the yellow wizard?
He swept his hand through the licking flames. A crash, like the beating of a thousand cymbals, reverberated in the corridor. The flames fell tinkling to the floor, like shards of glass. The remainder of the fire was immobile as a frozen image of Hell.
The Cimmerian transposed of a powerful leap the wall of fire, and then advanced toward the door of stone. He felt armed of an overwhelming force. He knew that in his hand carried a ring with which all was possible.
The cold stone-altar chilled the tepid meat of the body of Zenobia. She twisted her hands vainly, for her arms and legs were chained to a ring anchored to the floor. Her splendid body was laid out on the stone. Close by her tormentor was preoccupied in front of a dark and long table, packed with strange objects as flasks, boxes and rolls of dusty parchments. Under the hood of the cloak appeared the beard of the sorcerer.
The ceiling of the extensive room was so high that Zenobia could not see it. The woman was full of desperation, only the self-control she had shown in those months of captivity permitted her to control her emotions.
Thinking about Conan, her husband, Zenobia’s heart seemed that was going to explode of grief and nostalgia.
Yah Chieng had told her that Conan had left alone in his search. Zenobia did not know by what arts the sorcerer knew that, but right now her beloved Conan could lay down dead in the Turanian steppes, or he could have been captured and killed by the himellian hillmen tribes. They were many powerful men of East that hated him.
That same noon, the henchmen of the yellow sorcerer had removed Zenobia of the cell and carried her to that room, where they chained her on the frightening altar. Since then she had remained alone with the khitanian sorcerer. Nevertheless, he seemed to ignore her and was limited to manipulate his apparatuses, while murmuring enchantments that he read in his old books.