Conan and the Spider God Read Free

and ground together, striking sparks. The swordplay was all cut-and-parry, since the curved Turanian saber was ill-adapted to thrusting.
    “Stop it, you fool!” roared Conan. “The woman lies! I came at her invitation, and we have done naught—”
    Narkia screamed something that Conan failed to comprehend; for, as Orkhan pressed his attack, red battle rage surged up in Conan’s veins. He struck harder and faster, until Orkhan, skilled swordsman though he was, fell back breathing heavily.
    Then Conan’s sword, flashing past Orkhan’s guard, sheared through the links of the Turanian’s mesh-mail vest and sliced into his side. Orkhan staggered, dropping his weapon and pressing a hand against his wound, while blood seeped out between his fingers. Conan followed the first telling blow with a slash that bit deeply into Orkhan’s neck. The Turanian fell heavily, shuddered, and lay still, while dark stains spread across the carpet on which he sprawled.
    “You’ve slain him!” shrieked Narkia. “Tughril will have your head for that. Why could you not have stunned him with the flat?”
    “When you’re fighting for your life,” grunted Conan, wiping and sheathing his blade, “you cannot measure out your strokes with the nicety of an apothecary compounding a potion. It’s as much your fault as mine. Why did you accuse me of rape, girl?”
    Narkia shrugged. With a trace of a mischievous smile, she said: “Because I knew not which of you would win; and had I not accused you, and he slew you, he’d have killed me for good measure.”
    “That’s civilization for you!” sneered Conan. Before lifting his baldric to slide it over his head, he whirled and slapped Narkia on the haunch with the scabbarded blade, bowling her over in an untidy heap. She shrank back, eyes big with fear.
    “If you were not a woman,” he growled, “it would go hard with you. I warn you to give me an hour ere you cry the alarm. If you do not …” Scowling, he drew a finger across his throat and backed to the window. An instant later he was swarming down the ivy, while Narkia’s curses floated after him on the moonlit air.
    L yco of Khorshemish, lieutenant in the King’s Light Horse, was playing a plaintive air on his flute when Conan burst into the room they shared on Maypur Alley. Muttering a hasty greeting, Conan hurriedly changed from civilian garb into his officer’s uniform. Then he spread his blanket on the floor and began placing his meager possessions upon it. He opened a locked chest and drew out a small bag of coin.
    “Whither away?” asked Lyco, a stocky, dark man of about Conan’s age. “One would think you were leaving for good. Is some fiend after you?”
    “I am and it is,” grunted Conan.
    “What have you been up to? Raiding the King’s harem? Why in the name of the gods, when you have at last attained the easy duty you’ve been angling for?”
    Conan hesitated, then said: “You might as well know, since I shall be hence ere you could betray me.”
    Lyco started a hot protest, but Conan waved him to silence. “I did but jest, Lyco. I’ve just killed Orkhan.” Tersely, he gave an account of the evening’s events.
    Lyco whistled. “That spills the stew-pot into the fire! The High Priest of Erlik is his sire. Old Tughril will have your heart’s blood, even if you could win the King’s forgiveness.”
    “I know it,” gritted Conan, tying up his blanket roll. “That’s why I’m in a hurry.”
    “Had you also slain the woman, you could have made it seem an ordinary robbery, with nobody the wiser.”
    “Trust a Kothian to think of that!” snarled Conan. “I’m not yet civilized enough to kill women out of hand. If I stay long enough in these southlands, I may yet learn.”
    “Well, trust a thick-headed Cimmerian to blunder into traps, one after another! I told you the omens were unfavorable tonight, and that my dream of last night boded ill.”
    “Aye; you dreamed some foolishness that had naught to do