Conan the Raider by Leonard Carpenter

Author:Leonard Carpenter
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2013-05-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Beneath the Tombs

Morning was a new change of the guards, a rekindling of the lamps, and a groggy, sore-limbed awakening. After swallowing portions of cold gruel with goat's milk and figs, the men resumed their work under Mardak's fastidious eye.

They labored more deliberately this time, but also more efficiently; in several hours the last of the stone blocks was levered into place and the door was mounted. The timing mechanism, a sand-clock that would begin flowing once the portal closed, was fitted into its niche and primed. Mardak went to report the completion of the job, while Esfahan was left to supervise Conan and the others in dismantling the now-needless timber props.

By the time they were finished, the entry to the Royal Chamber had become a deceptively plain-looking hallway. The laborers turned to the task of cleaning up the vestibule and bundling the discarded packing-timbers.

But Conan noted a disconcerting change outside; there were now a half-dozen armed tomb police loitering at the foot of the central corridor, one for each of Mardak' s crew. And looming among the rearmost of them was an eerily familiar figure—the chancellor's tall, unbending lieutenant Nephren, who was conferring with a guard-captain while eyeing the workers.

Conan elbowed his way over, to Esfahan and muttered to him, darting his eyes aside to direct the older man's gaze. "It appears the time is here, Uncle. The guards are gathering. We'd best make our move."

The other did not follow Conan's glance. "And what are you proposing to do, northerner?"

Conan stifled his impatience and answered lowly, not wishing to attract notice. "Why, fight, of course. Escape, or else die like men! Look, I have a dagger." He eased the short parcel out of his crotch-wrap and unwound the green silk, screening the action from general view with his body. "Tell your Shemites to arm themselves with clubs."

The senior man shook his head stubbornly, refusing to meet Conan's eye. "There is no escape from here, foreigner! The most you can do is prolong your death—if you are not a spy. Better to use that knife on yourself!"

Conan snorted in disgust and turned away. He walked among the scattered laborers toward the guarded passageway, holding the dagger below waist level and flashing it in the air to draw their attention. He hoped that none would raise an outcry; as he went he scanned their faces, looking for companions. A couple of the younger ones trailed along behind him, but with no great look of determination.

The guards maintained their pose of idleness, content to let the doomed ones complete their labors. They had fanned out inside the vestibule and were talking together in pairs or lounging against the side walls. Conan strolled toward them, his knife-hand now screened behind his body. One or two of the guards looked up at him with annoyance. But they were too lax; so smoothly did his pace accelerate to a run that he was past them before they could react.

He headed for the side of

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