The Conquering Sword of Conan by Robert E. Howard Read Free Book Online Page B

and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining.
    But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it.
    While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman’s strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle, in the crystal light.
    The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside – but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally.
    “Traitress!” Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. “What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I’ll twist off your false head – but first I’ll –”
    A widening of his captive’s lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan’s sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backwards to the marble floor where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp.
    Conan started toward him to finish the job – for he knew that the black’s sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat – but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him.
    “I’ve done as you ordered!” she gasped hysterically. “Take me away! Oh, please take me away!”
    “We can’t go yet,” he grunted. “I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where’s that gem you wore in your hair?”
    “It must have fallen out on the dais,” she stammered, feeling for it. “I was so frightened – when the priests left I ran out to find you and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me –”
    “Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,” he commanded. “Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.”
    She hesitated, as if loath to return to that cryptic chamber, then, as he grasped Gwarunga’s girdle and dragged him into the alcove, she turned and entered the oracle room. Conan dumped the senseless black on the floor, and lifted his sword. The Cimmerian had lived too long in the wild places of the world to have any illusions about mercy. The only safe enemy was a headless enemy. But before he could strike, a startling scream checked the lifted blade. It came from the oracle chamber.
    “Conan! Conan!
She’s come back
!
” The shriek ended in a gurgle and a scraping shuffle.
    With an oath Conan dashed out of the alcove, across the throne dais and into the oracle-chamber, almost before the sound had ceased. There he halted, glaring bewilderedly. To all appearances Muriela lay placidly on the dais, eyes closed as if in slumber.
    “What in the hell are you doing?” he demanded acidly. “Is this any time to be playing jokes –”
    His voice trailed away. His gaze ran along the ivory thigh molded in the close-fitting silk skirt. That skirt should gape from girdle to hem. He knew, because it had been his own hand that tore it, as he ruthlessly stripped the garment from the dancer’s writhing body.