Conan - Conan 103 by Conan the Buccaneer # L. Sprague De Camp

Author:Conan the Buccaneer # L. Sprague De Camp [ed] [Camp, Conan the Buccaneer # L. Sprague De]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven: WEB OF DOOM

Seldom was Conan of Cimmeria caught napping, but this was one of the times. The mild-tasting but heady beverage sent him into a deep slumber until, belatedly, his primitive sense of danger roused him. Slowly he came awake, foggily aware that something was wrong. For a moment he could not tell what had disturbed him.

Then he knew. A long slit had been cut in the woven reeds which composed the sides of the hut. The slit ran from man-height to the ground, and through the rent the cool night air blew across his sweating body.

Conan reached out and felt for the bundle that he had left lying at his side.

Then, with a curse, he lurched to his feet and peered into the gloom around the hut. The Cobra Crown was gone.

Red fury boiled in Conan’s heart; his bellow of rage shook the flimsy walls of the hut. Ripping out his cutlass, he charged out of the hut, cursing sulfurously.

The feast was still in progress for those few warriors still able to stand. The huge fire had burned low. Stars blazed like clustered gems above the nodding palms, and a nearly full moon showed her silver shield. Among the few who were still awake, Conan spied Juma and Sigurd. His shout brought them to their feet.

In swift words, he told what had happened. Since the crown was the only loot they had gathered during this voyage, Conan was stung to roaring rage by his loss.

All the buccaneers were accounted for, although few were conscious. A swift check of the folk of Kulalo, however, revealed that one was missing.

“Bwatu! Damballah singe his black soul!” Juma choked wrathfully, furious that one of his own people should have robbed his guest.

“You know the black dog?” roared Conan, too mad with rage to watch his tongue.

Juma merely nodded grimly, describing the culprit.

“That surly-looking ugly you knocked sprawling back on the beach?” Conan demanded.

“The same. I guess he bore us both a grudge.”

“Or spotted the gems in the bag!” Sigurd commented. “What’s to do? Any idea where the rogue might hide, King Juma? By the bowels of Ahriman and the fiery claws of Shaitan, we should be after him ere he gets more of a start!”

“He would probably make for the land of our enemies, the Matamba.” Juma pointed northeast. “Further north, Bwatu might fall into the path of the Ghanata slavers, who have been active in these parts of late. He could not, on the other hand, go very far southeast, for thither lies …”

To stand idly by while Juma calmly considered alternatives, while a fabulous fortune was borne ever farther away through the jungle night, was more than the fuming Conan could endure. Abruptly, he broke in on Juma’s ponderings.

“Jaw all night, if you will!” he growled. “Where’s the trail to the land of the Matamba?”

“The path out the East Gate forks, and the trail leads northeast …”

Without waiting to hear the rest, Conan charged off toward his hut. On the way, he paused to pick up a water pot and empty it over his head.

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