rh.conanthewarrior-第25章

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t　that　spot。　He　set　the　chest；　still　smeared　with　Gorulga's　blood　and　clotted　with　his　brains；　on　the　ledge；　and　was　about　to　remove　his　girdle　in　order　to　tie　the　box　to　his　back；　when　he　was　galvanized　by　a　sound　behind　him；　a　sound　sinister　and　unmistakable。
　　〃Stay　here！〃　he　snapped　at　the　bewildered　Corinthian　girl。　〃Don't　move！〃　And　drawing　his　sword；　he　glided　into　the　tunnel；　glaring　back　into　the　cavern。
　　Half…way　across　the　upper　span　he　saw　a　gray　deformed　shape。　One　of　the　servants　of　Bit…Yakin　was　on　his　trail。　There　was　no　doubt　that　the　brute　had　seen　them　and　was　following　them。　Conan　did　not　hesitate。　It　might　be　easier　to　defend　the　mouth　of　the　tunnel…but　this　fight　must　be　finished　quickly；　before　the　other　servants　could　return。
　　He　ran　out　on　the　span；　straight　toward　the　oning　monster。　It　was　no　ape；　neither　was　it　a　man。　It　was　some　shambling　horror　spawned　in　the　mysterious；　nameless　jungles　of　the　south；　where　strange　life　teemed　in　the　reeking　rot　without　the　dominance　of　man；　and　drums　thundered　in　temples　that　had　never　known　the　tread　of　a　human　foot。　How　the　ancient　Pelishti　had　gained　lordship　over　them…and　with　it　eternal　exile　from　humanity…was　a　foul　riddle　about　which　Conan　did　not　care　to　speculate；　even　if　he　had　had　opportunity。
　　Man　and　monster；　they　met　at　the　highest　arch　of　the　span；　where；　a　hundred　feet　below；　rushed　the　furious　black　water。　As　the　monstrous　shape　with　it　leprous　gray　body　and　the　features　of　a　carven；　unhuman　idol　loomed　over　him；　Conan　struck　as　a　wounded　tiger　strikes；　with　every　ounce　of　thew　and　fury　behind　the　blow。　That　stroke　would　have　sheared　a　human　body　asunder；　but　the　bones　of　the　servant　of　Bit…Yakin　were　like　tempered　steel。　Yet　even　tempered　steel　could　not　wholly　have　withstood　that　furious　stroke。　Ribs　and　shoulder…bone　parted　and　blood　spouted　from　the　great　gash。
　　There　was　no　time　for　a　second　stroke。　Before　the　Cimmerian　could　lift　his　blade　again　or　spring　clear；　the　sweep　of　a　giant　arm　knocked　him　from　the　span　as　a　fly　is　flicked　from　a　wall。　As　he　plunged　downward　the　rush　of　the　river　was　like　a　knell　in　his　ears；　but　his　twisting　body　fell　half…way　across　the　lower　arch。　He　wavered　there　precariously　for　one　blood…chilling　instant；　then　his　clutching　fingers　hooked　over　the　farther　edge；　and　he　scrambled　to　safety；　his　sword　still　in　his　other　hand。
　　As　he　sprang　up；　he　saw　the　monster；　spurting　blood　hideously；　rush　toward　the　cliff…end　of　the　bridge；　obviously　intending　to　descend　the　stair　that　connected　the　arches　and　renew　the　feud。　At　the　very　ledge　the　brute　paused　in　mid…flight…and　Conan　saw　it　too…Muriela；　with　the　jewel　chest　under　her　arm；　stood　staring　wilding　in　the　mouth　of　the　tunnel。
　　With　a　triumphant　bellow　the　monster　scooped　her　up　under　one　arm；　snatched　the　jewel　chest　with　the　other　hand　as　she　dropped　it；　and　turning；　lumbered　back　across　the　bridge。　Conan　cursed　with　passion　and　ran　for　the　other　side　also。　He　doubted　if　he　could　climb　the　stair　to　the　higher　arch　in　time　to　catch　the　brute　before　it　could　plunge　into　the　labyrinths　of　tunnels　on　the　other　side。
　　But　the　monster　was　slowing；　like　clockwork　running　down。　Blood　gushed　from　that　terrible　gash　in　his　breast；　and　he　lurched　drunkenly　from　side　to　side。　Suddenly　he　stumbled；　reeled　and　toppled　sidewise…pitched　headlong　from　the　arch　and　hurtled　downward。　Girl　and　jewel　chest　fell　from　his　nerveless　hands　and　Muriela's　scream　rang　terribly　above　the　snarl　of　the　water　below。
　　Conan　was　almost　under　the　spot　from　which　the　creature　had　fallen。　The　monster　struck　the　lower　arch　glancingly　and　shot　off；　but　the　writhing　figure　of　the　girl　struck　and　clung；　and　the　chest　hit　the　edge　of　the　span　near　her。　One　falling　object　struck　on　one　side　of　Conan　and　one　on　the　other。　Either　was　within　arm's　length；　for　the　fraction　of　a　split　second　the　chest　teetered　ont　he　edge　of　the　bridge；　and　Muriela　clung　by　one　arm；　her　face　turned　desperately　toward　Conan；　her　eyes　dilated　with　the　fear　of　death　and　her　lips　parted　in　a　haunting　cry　of　despair。
　　Conan　did　not　hesitate；　nor　did　he　even　glance　toward　the　chest　that　held　the　wealth　of　an　epoch。　With　a　quickness　that　would　have　shamed　the　spring　of　a　hungry　jaguar；　he　swooped；　grasped　the　girl's　arm　just　as　her　fingers　slipped　from　the　smooth　stone；　and　snatched　her　up　on　the　span　with　one　explosive　heave。　The　chest　toppled　on　over　and　struck　the　water　ninety　feet　below；　where　the　body　of　the　servant　of　Bit…Yakin　had　already　vanished。　A　splash；　a　jetting　flash　of　foam　marked　where　the　Teeth　of　Gwahlur　disappeared　for　ever　from　the　sight　of　man。
　　Conan　scarcely　wasted　a　downward　glance。　He　darted　across　the　span　and　ran　up　the　cliff　stair　like　a　cat；　carrying　the　limp　girl　as　if　she　had　been　an　infant。　A　hideous　ululation　caused　him　to　glance　over　his　shoulder　as　he　reached　the　higher　arch；　to　see　the　other　servants　streaming　back　into　the　cavern　below；　blood　dripping　from　their　bared　fangs。　They　raced　up　the　stair　that　wound　up　from　tier　to　tier；　roaring　vengefully；　but　he　slung　the　girl　unceremoniously　over　his　shoulder；　dashed　through　the　tunnel　and　went　down　the　cliffs　like　an　ape　himself；　dropping　and　springing　from　hold　to　hold　with　breakneck　recklessness。　When　the　fierce　countenances　looked　over　the　ledge　of　the　aperture；　it　was　to　see　the　Cimmerian　and　the　girl　disappearing　into　the　forest　that　surrounded　the　cliffs。
　　〃Well；〃　said　Conan；　setting　the　girl　on　her　feet　within　the　sheltering　screen　of　branches；　〃we　can　take　our　time　now。　I　don't　think　those　brutes　will　follow　us　outside　the　valley。　Anyway；　I've　got　a　horse　tied　at　a　water…hole　close　by；　if　the　lions　haven't　eaten　him。　Crom's　devils！　What　are　you　crying　about　now？〃
　　She　covered　her　tear…stained　face　with　her　hands；　and　her　slim　shoulders　shook　with　sobs。
　　〃I　lost　the　jewels　for　you；〃　she　wailed　miserably。　〃It　was　my　fault。　If　I'd　obeyed　you　and　stayed　out　on　the　ledge；　that　brute　would　never　have　seen　me。　You　should　have　caught　the　gems　and　let　me　drown！〃
　　〃Yes；　I　suppose　I　should；〃　he　agreed。　〃But　forget　it。　Never　worry　about　what's　past。　And　stop　crying；　will　you？　That's　better。　e　on。〃
　　〃You　mean　you're　going　to　keep　me？　Take　me　with　you？〃　she　asked　hopefully。
　　〃What　else　do　you　suppose　I'd　do　with　you？〃　He　ran　an　approving　glance　over　her　figure　and　grinned　at　the　torn　skirt　which　revealed　a　generous　expanse　of　tempting　ivory…tinted　curves。　〃I　can　use　an　actress　like　you。　There's　no　use　going　back　to　Keshia。　There's　nothing　in　Keshan　now　that　I　want。　We'll　go　to　Punt。　The　people　of　Punt　worship　an　ivory　woman；　and　they　wash　gold　out　of　the　rivers　in　wicker　baskets。　I'll　tell　them　that　Keshan　is　intriguing　with　Thutmekri　to　enslave　them…which　is　true…and　that　the　gods　have　sent　me　to　protect　them…for　about　a　houseful　of　gold。　If　I　can　manage　to　smuggle　you　into　their　temple　to　exchange　places　with　their　ivory　goddess；　we'll　skin　them　out　of　their　jaw　teeth　before　we　get　through　with　them！〃
　　
　　
　　
　　　BEYOND　THE　BLACK　RIVER
　　
　　
　　Heading　for　Punt　with　Muriela；　Conan　carries　out　his　scheme　for　relieving　those　worshippers　of　an　ivory　goddess　of　some　of　their　abundant　gold。　He　then　continues　to　Zembabwei。　In　the　city　of　the　twin　kings　he　joins　a　trading　caravan；　which　he　squires　northward　along　the　desert　borders…borders　patrolled　by　his　one…time　Zuagir　marauders…bringing　it　safely　into　Shem。　He　continues　northwards　across　the　Hyborian　kingdoms　to　his　bleak　homeland。　Conan　is　now　around　forty；　with　few　signs　of　his　years　save　a　more　deliberate　approach　to　wenching　and　the　pursuit　of　trouble。　Back　in　Cimmeria；　he　finds　the　sons　of　his　contemporaries　raising　families　in　their　turn　and　tempering　their　northern　hardihood　with　little　luxuries；　which　filter　up　from　the　softer　Hyborian　lands。　Even　so；　no　Hyborian　colonist　has　crossed　the　Cimmerian　borders　since　the　destruction　of　Venarium；　more　than　two　decades　before。　Now；　however；　the　Aquilonians　are　spreading　westward；　through　the　Bossonian　Marches　into　the　fringes　of　the　Pictish　wilderness。　So　thither；　seeking　work　for　his　sword；　goes　Conan。　He　enrolls　as　a　scout　at　Fort　Tuscelan；　the　last　Aquilonian　outpost　on　the　east　bank　of　the　Black　River；　deep　in　Pictish　territory。　Here　a　fierce　tribal　war　with　the　Picts　is　in　progress。
　　
　　
　　　1。　　Conan　Loses　His　Ax
　　
　　The　stillness　of　the　forest　trail　was　so　primeval　that　the　tread　of　a　soft…booted　foot　was　a　startling　disturbance。　At　least　it　seemed　so　to　the　ears　of　the　wayfarer；　though　he　was　moving　along　the　path　with　the　caution　that　must　be　practised　by　any　man　who　ventures　beyond　Thunder　River。　He　was　a　young　man　of　medium　height；　with　an　open　countenance　and　a　mop　of　tousled　tawny　hair　unconfined　by　cap　or　helmet。　His　garb　was　mon　enough　for　that　country…a　coarse　tunic；　belted　at　the　waist；　short　leather　breeches　beneath；　and　soft　buckskin　boots　that　came　short　of　the　knee。　A　knife…hilt　jutted　from　one　boot…top。　The　broad　leather　belt　supported　a　short；　heavy　sword　and　a　buckskin　pouch。　There　was　no　perturbation　in　the　wide　eyes　that　scanned　the　green　walls　which　fringed　the　trail。　Though　not　tall；　he　was　well　built；　and　the　arms　that　the　short　wide　sleeves　of　the　tunic　left　bare　were　thick　with　corded　muscle。
　　He　tramped　imperturbably　along；　although　the　last　settler's　cabin　lay　miles　behind　him；　and　each　step　was　carrying　him　nearer　the　grim　peril　that　hung　like　a　brooding　shadow　over　the　ancient　forest。
　　He　was　not　making　as　much　noise　as　it　seemed　to　him；　though　he　well　knew　that　the　faint　tread　of　his　booted　feet　would　be　like　a　tocsin　of　alarm　to　the　fierce　ears　that　might　be　lurking　in　the　treacherous　green　fastness。　His　careless　attitude　was　not　genuine；　his　eyes　and　ears　were　keenly　alert；　especially　his　ears；　for　no　gaze　could　penetrate　the　leafy　tangle　for　more　than　a　few　feet　in　either　direction。
　　But　it　was　instinct　more　than　any　warning　by　the　external　senses　which　brought　him　up　suddenly；　his　hand　on　his　hilt。　He　stood　stock…still　in　the　middle　of　the　trail；　unconsciously　holding　his　breath；　wondering　what　he　had　heard；　and　wondering　if　indeed　he　had　heard　anything。　The　silence　seemed　absolute。　Not　a　squirrel　chattered　or　bird　chirped。　Then　his　gaze　fixed　itself　on　a　mass　of　bushes　beside　the　trail　a　few　yards　ahead　of　him。　There　was　no　breeze；　yet　he　had　seen　a　branch　quiver。　The　short　hairs　on　his　scalp　prickled；　and　he　stood　for　an　instant　undecided；　certain　that　a　move　in　either　direction　would　bring　death　streaking　at　him　from　the　bushes。
　　A　heavy　chopping　crunch　sounded　behind　the　leaves。　The　bushes　were　shaken　violently；　and　simultaneously　with　the　sound；　an　arrow　arched　erratically　from　among　them　and　vanished　among　the　trees　along　the　trail。　The　wayfarer　glimpsed　its　flight　as　he　sprang　frantically　to　cover。
　　Crouching　behind　a　thick　stem；　his　sword　quivering　in　his　fingers；　he　saw　the　bushes　part；　and　a　tall　figure　stepped　leisurely　into　the　trail。　The　traveller　stared　in　surprise。　The　stranger　was　clad　like　himself　in　regard　to　boots　and　breeks；　though　the　latter　were　of　silk　instead　of　leather。　But　he　wore　a　sleeveless　hauberk　of　dark　mesh…mail　in　place　of　a　tunic；　and　a　helmet　perched　on　his　black　mane。　That　helmet　hel