Conan and the Spider God by Lyon Sprague de Camp Read Free Book Online Page A

Turan.
    A stealthy footstep awakened him; but, before he could spring to his feet, something clinging fell upon him. When he struggled up, it tripped and hampered him. It was a game net, such as the Hyrkanians used in their periodic mass hunts. Before he could fight his way out of the entanglement, a club smashed down upon his head, bringing a shower of shooting stars followed by blackness.
    W hen Conan regained consciousness, he found that his wrists were firmly lashed behind him. Looking up, he saw a circle of men in the King’s uniforms, some mounted and some afoot, surrounding him in the starlight. One, bearing the insignia of a Turanian officer, commanded, “On your feet, vagabond!”
    Grunting, Conan rolled over and tried to rise. He discovered that, when a man is lying down with his hands tied behind him, it is difficult or even impossible for him to arise without assistance. After several tries, he sank back on the grass.
    “Someone will have to boost me up,” he growled.
    “Help him, Arslan,” said the officer. “Aidin, stand ready with your club in case he tries to bite or run.”
    On his feet at last, Conan roared: “What is the meaning of this? It’s an outrage on a harmless traveler!”
    “We shall see about that,” said the officer. “Honest travelers stop for questioning at the border post, which you obviously avoided. Luckily, we had word from a shepherd who saw you straying from the road, and the night was clear enough to track you down. Now come along, and we shall learn just how harmless you are.”
    A trooper slipped a Hyrkanian lasso—a pole with a running noose on the end—over Conan’s head and tightened it around the Cimmerian’s neck. The troopers mounted and set out across the steppe, one leading Ymir while Conan stumbled along on foot.
    A t the blockhouse, the soldiers pushed Conan into a small, crowded room. Six men with ready weapons watched him, while their commanding officer settled himself at a rough trestle table.
    “Here’s the blackguard, Captain,” said the lieutenant who had brought Conan in.
    “Did he put up a fight?” asked the captain.
    “Nay; we caught him sleeping. But I do not think—”
    “Never mind what you do or do not think,” snapped the captain. “You, fellow!”
    “Yes?” snarled Conan, staring at the officer through narrowed lids.
    “Who are you?”
    “Nial, a soldier of Turan.”
    “You are no Hyrkanian; that is plain from your aspect and barbarous accent. Whence came you?”
    “I am a native of the Border Kingdom,” said Conan, who had rehearsed his lies on the trek back to the blockhouse.
    “What land is that?”
    “A country far to the northwest, near Hyperborea.”
    “In what unit of the army do you serve?”
    “Captain Shendin’s cuirassiers, stationed at Khawarizm.” This was a real unit and one with which Conan was familiar. Conan was thankful now that he had, however unwillingly, followed Kushad’s advice and left most of his handsome uniform at the seer’s house in Sultanapur. Had it been packed with the rest of his belongings and had the troopers found it, his imposture would have been shattered in an instant.
    “Why are you departing from Turan? A deserter, eh?”
    “Nay, I applied for leave because I learned that my aged mother is sick at home. I am returning thither and shall be back at my duties within three months. Send to ask Captain Shendin if you believe me not.”
    “Then why did you avoid the border post?”
    “So as not to waste time answering foolish questions,” grated Conan.
    The captain reddened with quick anger. As he paused before replying, the lieutenant spoke again: “I do not think this man can be the renegade Conan, Captain, even though he somewhat answers the description. First, he does not have the King’s lady with him. Second, he does not try to flatter or conciliate us, as would a guilty fugitive. And finally, this Conan is said to have such keen senses and mighty strength that we could not