experienced fighter, not easily worsted even when rendered unsteady by drink. Although Conan was taller, stronger, faster, and younger, he deemed it fortunate that the skillful mercenary was not quite sober.
Bartakes danced about the combatants in an agony of apprehension, wringing his pudgy hands and crying: “Outside, I pray, gentlemen! Do not fight within my premises! You will bring ruin upon me!”
The duellists ignored him. Then, from a dark corner of the common room, a small, shadowy figure glided toward Catigern’s back; and Conan caught the gleam of a dagger in the lamplight.
While Conan would willingly kill his adversary in a fair fight, a stab in the back of a man who faced another foe affronted his code of honor. Yet if Conan cried a warning of the danger, the Brythunian would think it merely a cunning distraction so that his antagonist could sword him with impunity.
All this flashed through Conan’s mind in less time than it took him to swing his curved sword. With the lightning speed of a leaping leopard, he bounded backward, at the same time grounding the point of his scimitar.
“Behind you!” he bellowed. “Treachery!”
Finding himself momentarily beyond Conan’s reach, Catigern whirled to glance behind him. As he whipped around, the unknown assassin threw up his dagger arm to drive a long poniard into the Brythunian’s body. With a furious curse, Catigern sent a terrific backhand slash into the assassin’s side. The blade sank in between the man’s ribs and pelvis, almost severing his spine. The impact hurled the slender man against a trestle table, to strike the floor in a welter of blood and entrails. He moaned briefly and lay still.
“A mighty stroke,” commented Conan, his point still fixed upon the floor. “Do you want to fight some more?”
“If you two great idiots—” began Bartakes, but his words were lost on the steely-eyed twain.
“Nay, nay,” replied Catigern. He wiped his blade on a corner of the dead man’s tunic and started to sheathe it, pausing only to assure himself that Conan was doing likewise. “I cannot kill a man who has just saved my life, even if he tried to slay me but a moment earlier. As to the girl—why, where the devil is the chit?”
Bartakes said: “Whilst you two were fighting, she slipped away to her chamber with another patron—one of your company, I believe, Captain.” The innkeeper turned to shout for his sons to remove the body and scrub the floorboards clean. Then, shaking his head, he muttered: “Zath save me from another such pair of young fools!”
Catigern gave a wry smile. “You are right, my friend; we were fools, sure enough, to risk our lives over a public woman.” He yawned. “As for me—”
“Wait,” growled Conan. “Let’s see who wanted to stick a knife into you. Fetch one of those lamps, innkeeper.”
Turning over the mangled body, Conan saw that the man was a typical Zamorian, small, slight, and dark. Conan asked: “Know you this man, Partakes?”
“Surely!” replied the taverner. “He rode in on a mule only today and took a bed, giving his name as Varathran of Shadizar.”
“Had you ever clapped eyes upon him ere today?”
“Never. But folk from every corner of Zamora come here to do honor to the spider-god.”
Conan ran practiced hands over the corpse. Suspended from Varathran’s belt he found a wallet, containing a handful of silver and copper coinage and a small roll of parchment. Conan unrolled the parchment and frowned over it. At last he said:
“Catigern, do you read Zamorian?”
“Not I! I can scarcely read the writing of my native land. What of you?”
“I once learned a few Zamorian characters, but I’ve forgotten what little I once knew.”
“Let me see that,” said the innkeeper. Holding the parchment close to the lamp and silently moving his lips, he pored over the spidery script. At last, with a shrug of despair, he returned the roll to Conan.
“It’s penned in Old
Bartakes danced about the combatants in an agony of apprehension, wringing his pudgy hands and crying: “Outside, I pray, gentlemen! Do not fight within my premises! You will bring ruin upon me!”
The duellists ignored him. Then, from a dark corner of the common room, a small, shadowy figure glided toward Catigern’s back; and Conan caught the gleam of a dagger in the lamplight.
While Conan would willingly kill his adversary in a fair fight, a stab in the back of a man who faced another foe affronted his code of honor. Yet if Conan cried a warning of the danger, the Brythunian would think it merely a cunning distraction so that his antagonist could sword him with impunity.
All this flashed through Conan’s mind in less time than it took him to swing his curved sword. With the lightning speed of a leaping leopard, he bounded backward, at the same time grounding the point of his scimitar.
“Behind you!” he bellowed. “Treachery!”
Finding himself momentarily beyond Conan’s reach, Catigern whirled to glance behind him. As he whipped around, the unknown assassin threw up his dagger arm to drive a long poniard into the Brythunian’s body. With a furious curse, Catigern sent a terrific backhand slash into the assassin’s side. The blade sank in between the man’s ribs and pelvis, almost severing his spine. The impact hurled the slender man against a trestle table, to strike the floor in a welter of blood and entrails. He moaned briefly and lay still.
“A mighty stroke,” commented Conan, his point still fixed upon the floor. “Do you want to fight some more?”
“If you two great idiots—” began Bartakes, but his words were lost on the steely-eyed twain.
“Nay, nay,” replied Catigern. He wiped his blade on a corner of the dead man’s tunic and started to sheathe it, pausing only to assure himself that Conan was doing likewise. “I cannot kill a man who has just saved my life, even if he tried to slay me but a moment earlier. As to the girl—why, where the devil is the chit?”
Bartakes said: “Whilst you two were fighting, she slipped away to her chamber with another patron—one of your company, I believe, Captain.” The innkeeper turned to shout for his sons to remove the body and scrub the floorboards clean. Then, shaking his head, he muttered: “Zath save me from another such pair of young fools!”
Catigern gave a wry smile. “You are right, my friend; we were fools, sure enough, to risk our lives over a public woman.” He yawned. “As for me—”
“Wait,” growled Conan. “Let’s see who wanted to stick a knife into you. Fetch one of those lamps, innkeeper.”
Turning over the mangled body, Conan saw that the man was a typical Zamorian, small, slight, and dark. Conan asked: “Know you this man, Partakes?”
“Surely!” replied the taverner. “He rode in on a mule only today and took a bed, giving his name as Varathran of Shadizar.”
“Had you ever clapped eyes upon him ere today?”
“Never. But folk from every corner of Zamora come here to do honor to the spider-god.”
Conan ran practiced hands over the corpse. Suspended from Varathran’s belt he found a wallet, containing a handful of silver and copper coinage and a small roll of parchment. Conan unrolled the parchment and frowned over it. At last he said:
“Catigern, do you read Zamorian?”
“Not I! I can scarcely read the writing of my native land. What of you?”
“I once learned a few Zamorian characters, but I’ve forgotten what little I once knew.”
“Let me see that,” said the innkeeper. Holding the parchment close to the lamp and silently moving his lips, he pored over the spidery script. At last, with a shrug of despair, he returned the roll to Conan.
“It’s penned in Old
Similar Books
