Conan the Adaptable, page 39
Conan reached for the door, but before he touched it, it burst inward. A great, threatening confusion bore down on him—something that thundered like a stampede, or roared and clanked like a host of men-at-arms. He couldn’t put a name to it; he could only give way before it.
He was driven back through the wall of flame and up the smoky stars.
The attack - —but what attacked? - came on and on, continuously squealing and gibbering. Its high-pitched wail paralysed thought; only the instinctive reaction of flight was possible.
And suddenly it became an enormous mouth in which innumerable teeth clashed and ground together. But when it overtook him, it only gnashed impalpably around him for a moment—
Then vanished!
“Yes, Conan; only an illusion,” said Morophla. “But you know that too late. The fire has already cut off your escape and you must perish with me.”
He smiled sourly. “But don’t bother to repent having rejected my offer. I should not have kept that bargain anyway. This is the only fellowship we two can have—in the Are, which has a trick of levelling all flesh. I could not have raised you to my level, although you have reduced me to yours.
Conan, no philosopher, ignored him. Before a wall of hot gases he fled up the tower stairs. He could hardly draw breath to curse the sorcerer, whose sending drifted always before him.
The projected image changed from moment to moment. Not only did it ripple and flicker as it drifted like a shadow or a flame along the walls and stair-treads, but it underwent other transformation, more painful to see as well.
“Yes, murderer, it is your work. The flames have found my body where it lies bound by the Sun Spider. Oh, you cannot imagine how painful it is. But I need not describe it; you will learn soon enough. Of course, you have the option of leaping from the roof. No option really; you will inevitably do so when the fire touches you….”
Conan could scarcely see the stairs and corridors along which he fled. But the image of Morophla’s disintegrating corpse remained with him always, sealed within his closed eyes; its voice droned in his ears.
“I hate you, murderer!” the thing screamed. “Not just for the agony I endure. Even if I had to endure it as long as I lived, I would still choose to survive. For there is much that I would yet learn in the vastness of the cosmos and the vastness of the mind, matters that you and that bitch with your little, animal minds could not conceive of. I hope you don’t die outright when you leap from the tower. Be a long time dying with the ache of mangled nerves, bone splinters piercing your guts—-”
The oozing, blackened horror shimmered and faded.
“No; I can’t follow you any more. Wanted to see you dying, but I can’t, not strong enough— any more…”
Gone: leaving only a dying curse.
Conan crawled onto the roof, gasping. Night. Those stars whose marvels the wizard regretted appraised him and found him of little worth. Already the boards were hot under his feet. From the trapdoor through which he had come, the flames leaped: a pillar of fire which, like Morophla’s spirit, clutched at the stars. While he watched, a cluster of strange instruments, gleaming copper tubes and lenses, sank through the roof, engulfed by a muttering mouth of fire.
The tower was high and its walls of closely fitted stones appeared almost smooth. Staring hopelessly down, Conan felt the clutch of the gulf at his loins. His belly crawled with its cold stroking.
Nevertheless, he had to attempt that impossible descent. Better to have his last moments absorbed in some arduous task than to sit waiting for the fire to eat through the roof.
Lowering himself over the edge, he sank almost to the length of hi arms before his foot found what purported to be a toe-hold. With one hand on the ledge, he supported himself while he fitted blunt finger into a narrow cranny. The effort was tremendous: it seemed that bone must crack, muscle or tendon tear.
He flattened himself against the wall like a vine or lichen. It was insane, he knew that already, sinews stuttered their plea for release from a task beyond their capacity. And still he persisted, relinquishing each impossible toe-hold only to seek another….
He knew that eventually he must fall—drop like a dead fly. But it would not be willingly. Never would his soul cry, enough! and order his cramped fingers to open.
It came as no surprise, however, when his bleeding fingertips slid from their precarious clutch.
He fell.
It was strange when you fell. At such a time, when your weight was most active, you felt no weight at ell. Almost you were bodiless, as in dreams when you drift like smoke across some broken landscape. The wind, like his own cry, sang in his ears.
There came a beating of leathery wings round his head. Clawed fingers sank into the muscles of his arms and bore him up. His fall was not halted, only slowed, and he dropped, struggling in the hand of his rescuers, until the earth smashed his knees up into his chest. When be could breathe a little, Conan gasped out, “I thank you for my life.”
The Afterling said, “We thank you for ours, now truly ours. In slaying our creator, our god, you set us free.”
“God-slayer…” Conan smiled. “Among my people it is the bestow vaunting titles: but never have I heard one so grandiose. You account my deed a boon?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you?”
Conan glanced skyward and did not answer.
They gave him food and drink, and would have had him remain with them, but this last he refused. “You might come to look on me as your god.”
He departed along the winding road, the road downward out of the mountains. As the stars faded and morning came, his thoughts returned to Morophla. He did not understand why he should be at such effort to prolong a life which, to Conan, seemed only a mounting confusion and horror.
He shook his head and tried to think of other things
The Purple Heart of Erlik
Robert E. Howard & J.R. Karlsson
“You'll do what I tell you, or else!” Baron Takkim smiled cruelly as he delivered his ultimatum. Across the table from him Arlinna clenched her white hands in helpless rage. Baron Takkim, world adventurer, was tall, slim, darkly mustached, handsome in a ruthless way; and many women looked on him with favor. But Arlinna hated him, with as good reason as she feared him.
But she ventured a flare of rebellion.
“I won’t do it! It’s too risky!”
“Not half as risky as defying me!” he reminded her. “I’ve got you by the seat of your pretty pants, my dear. How would you like to have me tell the city guard why you left in such a hurry? Or tell them my version of that night in the apartment ”
“Hush!” she begged. She was trembling as she glanced fearfully about the little curtained alcove in which they sat. It was well off the main floor of the Cabaret; even the music from the native orchestra came only faintly to their ears. They were alone, but the words he had just spoken were dynamite, not even safe for empty walls to hear.
“You know I didn’t kill him !”
“So you say. But who’d believe you if I swore I saw you do it?”
She bent her head in defeat. This was the price she must pay for an hour of folly. She had been indiscreet enough to visit the apartments of a certain important official. It had been only the harmless escapade of a thrill-hunting girl.
She had found more thrills than she wanted, when the official had been murdered, almost before her eyes, by his servant, who she was sure was a spy. The murderer had fled, and so had she, but not before she had been seen leaving the house by a friend of the slain official. He had kept silent. But the murderer had taken important documents with him in his flight, and there was hell to pay in diplomatic circles.
It had been an international episode, that almost set off war roaring in the East. The murder and theft remained an unsolved mystery to the world at large, a wound that still rankled in the capitals of the East.
Arlinna had fled the city in a panic, realizing she could never prove her innocence, if connected with the affair. Takkim had followed her to Arenjun and laid his cards on the table. If she did not comply with his wishes, he’d go to the guards and swear he saw her murder the man. And she knew his testimony would send her to the gallows, for various governments were eager for a scape-goat.
Terrified, Arlinna submitted to the blackmail. And now Takkim had told her the price of his silence. It was not what she had expected, though, from the look in his eyes as he devoured her trim figure from blonde hair to French heels, she felt it would come to that eventually. But here in the Bordeaux, a shady rendezvous in the shadowy borderland between the European and the native quarters, he had set her a task that made her flesh crawl.
He had commanded her to steal the famous Heart of Erlik, the purple ruby belonging to Lun-Faar, a Khitain merchant of powerful and sinister connections.
“So many men have tried,” she argued. “How can I hope to succeed? I’ll be found floating in the river with my throat cut, just as they were.”
“You’ll succeed,” he retorted. “They tried force or craft; we’ll use a woman’s strategy. I’ve learned where he keeps it had a spy working in his employ and he learned that much. He keeps it in a wall safe that looks like a dragon’s head, in the inner chamber of his antique shop, where he keeps his rarest goods, and where he never admits anybody but wealthy women collectors. He entertains them there alone, which makes it easy.”
“But how am I going to steal it, with him in there with me?”
“Easy!” he snapped. “He always serves his guests tea. You watch your chance and drop this knock-out pill in his tea.”
He pressed a tiny, faintly odorous sphere into her hand.
“He’ll go out like a candle. Then you open the safe, take the ruby and skip. It’s like taking candy from a baby. One reason I picked you for this job, you have a natural gift for unravelling Khitain puzzles. The safe doesn’t have a dial. You press the dragon’s teeth. In what combination, I don’t know. That’s for you to find out.”
“But how am I going to get into the inner chamber?” she demanded.
“That’s the cream of the scheme,” he assured her. “Did you ever hear of Lady Asqueth? Well, every antique dealer in the East knows her by sight or reputation. She’s never been to Arenjun, though, and I don’t believe Lun-Faar ever saw her. That’ll make it easy to fool him. She’s a young woman with exotic ideas and she spends her time wandering around the land collecting rare art treasures. She’s wealthy beyond measure, and she’s a free spender.
“Well, you look enough like her in a general way to fit in with any description Lun-Faar’s likely to have heard. You’re about the same height, same color of hair and eyes, same kind of figure ” his eyes lit with admiration as they dwelt on the trim curves of bosom and hips. “And you can act, too. You can put on an accent that would fool him, and act the high-born lady to a queen’s taste.
“I’ve seen Lady Asqueth’s cards, and before I left for Zamora I had one made, to match. You see I had this in mind, even then.” He passed her a curious slip of paper-thin jade, carved with scrawling Khitain characters.
“Her name, of course, in Khitain. She spends a small fortune on cards like that, alone. Now go back to your apartment and change into the duds I had sent up there scarlet silk dress, jade-green hat, slippers with ivory heels, and a jade brooch. That’s the way Lady Asqueth always dresses. Eccentric? You said it! Go to Lun-Faar’s shop and tell him you want to see the ivory Bon. He keeps it in the inner chamber. When you get in there, do your stuff, but be careful! They say Lun-Faar worships that ruby, and burns incense to it. But you’ll pull the wool over his eyes, all right. Be careful he doesn’t fall for you! Couldn’t blame him if he did.”
He was leaning toward her, and his hand was on her knee. She flinched at the feel of his questing fingers. She loathed his caresses, but she dared not repulse him. He was arrogantly possessive, and she did not doubt that when and if she returned with the coveted gem, he would demand the ultimate surrender. And she knew she would not dare refuse him. Tears of helpless misery welled to her eyes, but he ignored them. Grudgingly he withdrew his hand and rose.
“Go out by the back way. When you get the ruby, meet me at room seven, in the Alley of Rats, you know the place. Arenjun will be too hot for you, and we’ll have to get you out of town in a hurry. And remember, sweetheart,” his voice grew hard as his predatory eyes, and his arm about her waist was more a threat than a caress, “if you double-cross me, or if you flop on this job, I’ll see you stood before the gallows if it’s the last thing I do. I won’t accept any excuses, either. Understood?”
His fingers brushed her chin, trailed over the soft white curve of her throat, to her shoulder; and as he voiced his threat, he dug them in like talons, emphasizing his command with a brutality that made Arlinna bite her lip to keep from crying out with pain.
“Yes, I get you.”
“All right. Get going.” He spanked her lightly and pushed her toward a door opposite the curtained entrance beyond which the music blared.
The door opened into a long narrow alley that eventually reached the street. As Arlinna went down this alley, seething with rebellion and dismay for the task ahead of her, a man stepped from a doorway and stopped her. She eyed him suspiciously, though concealing a secret throb of admiration for a fine masculine figure.
He was big, broad-shouldered, heavy-fisted, with smoldering blue eyes and a mop of unruly black hair. And he was Conan of Cimmeria, a wandering barbarian who had fought in many lands.
“Will you get out of my way?” she demanded.
“Wait a minute, woman!” He barred her way with a heavy arm, and his eyes blazed as they ran over the smooth bland curves of her blond loveliness. “Why do you always give me the shoulder? I’ve made it a point to run into you in a dozen ports, and you always act like I had the plague.”
“You have, as far as I’m concerned,” she retorted.
“You seem to think Baron Takkim’s healthy,” he growled resentfully.
She flinched at the name of her master, but answered spiritedly: “What I see in Baron Takkim’s none of your business. Now let me pass!”
But instead he caught her arm in a grip that hurt.
“Damn your saucy little soul!” he ripped out, anger fighting with fierce desire in his eyes. “If I didn’t want you so bad, I’d smack your ears back! What the hell! I’m as good a man as Baron Takkim. I’m tired of your superior airs. I came to Arenjun just because I heard you were here. Now are you going to be nice, or do I have to get rough?”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she exclaimed. “I’ll scream ”
A big hand clapped over her mouth put a stop to that.
“Nobody interferes with anything that goes on in alleys behind dumps like Arenjun,” he growled, imprisoning her arms and lifting her off her feet, kicking and struggling. “Any woman caught here’s fair prey.”
He kicked open the door through which he had reached the alley, and carried Arlinna into a dim hallway. Traversing this with his writhing captive, he shoved open a door that opened on it. Arlinna, crushed against his broad breast, felt the tumultuous pounding of his heart, and experienced a momentary thrill of vanity that she should rouse such stormy emotion in Conan of Cimmeria, whose exploits with the women of a hundred ports were as widely celebrated as his myriad bloody battles with men.
He entered a bare, cobwebby room, and set her on her feet, placing his back against the door.
“Let me out of here, you beast!” She kicked his shins vigorously.
He ignored her attack.
“Why don’t you be nice?” he begged. “I don’t want to be rough with you. I’d be good to you better than Takkim probably is ”
For answer she bent her blonde head and bit his wrist viciously, even though discretion warned her it was probably the worst thing she could do.
“You little wench!” he swore, grabbing her. “That settles it!”
Scornful of her resistance he crushed her writhing figure against his chest, and kissed her red lips, her furious eyes, her flaming cheeks and white throat, until she lay panting and breathless, unable to repel the possessive arms that drew her closer and closer.
She squirmed and moaned with mingled emotions as he sank his head, eagerly as a thirsty man bending to drink, and pressed his burning lips to the tender hollow of her throat. One hand wandered lower, to her waist, locked her against him despite her struggles.
In a sort of daze she found herself on the dingy cot, with her skirt bunched about her hips. The gleam of her own white flesh, so generously exposed, brought her to her senses, out of the maze of surrender into which his strength was forcing her. Her agile mind worked swiftly. As she sank back, suddenly she shrieked convulsively.
“My back! Something’s stabbed me! A knife in the mattress ”
“What the hell?” He snatched her up instantly and whirled her about, but she had her hands pressed over the small of her back, and was writhing and moaning in well-simulated pain.
“I’m sorry, woman ” he began tearing the mattress to pieces, trying to find what had hurt her, and as he turned his back, she snatched a heavy pitcher from the wash-stand and smashed it over his head.
Not even young Conan of Cimmeria could stand up under a clout like that. He went down like a pole-axed ox or bull, rather and she darted through the door and down the hall. Behind her she heard a furious roar that lent wings to her small high heels. She sprang into the alley and ran up it, not stopping to arrange her garments.
As she emerged into the street, a backward glance showed her Conan reeling out into the alley, streaming blood, a raging and formidable figure. But she was on a semi-respectable street, with people strolling past and guards within call. He wouldn’t dare come out of the alley after her. She walked sedately away, arranging her dress as she went. A few loungers had seen her run from the alley, but they merely smiled in quiet amusement and made no comment. It was no novelty in that quarter to see a girl run from a back alley with her breasts exposed and her skirt pulled awry.
