Free The Hours of the Dragon by Robert E. Howard

both carried to the floor by the violence of Conan’s rush, and the foot of the tapestry hampered them both in its folds. Conan was stabbing blindly in the dark, Tarascus screaming in a frenzy of panicky terror. As if fear lent him superhuman energy, Tarascus tore free and blundered away in the darkness, shrieking:
    “Help! Guards! Arideus! Orastes! Orastes! ”
    Conan rose, kicking himself free of the tangling tapestries and the broken table, cursing with the bitterness of his bloodthirsty disappointment. He was confused, and ignorant of the plan of the palace. The yells of Tarascus were still resounding in the distance, and a wild outcry was bursting forth in answer. The Nemedian had escaped him in the darkness, and Conan did not know which way he had gone. The Cimmerian’s rash stroke for vengeance had failed, and there remained only the task of saving his own hide if he could.
    Swearing luridly, Conan ran back down the passage and into the alcove, glaring out into the lighted corridor, just as Zenobia came running up it, her dark eyes dilated with terror.
    “Oh, what has happened?” she cried. “The palace is roused! I swear I have not betrayed you—”
    “No, it was I who stirred up the hornet’s nest,” he grunted. “I tried to pay off a score. What’s the shortest way out of this?”
    She caught his wrist and ran fleetly down the corridor. But before they reached the heavy door at the other end, muffled shouts arose from behind it and the portals began to shake under an assault from the other side. Zenobia wrung her hands and whimpered.
    “We are cut off! I locked that door as I returned through it. But they will burst it in in a moment. The way to the postern gate lies through it.”
    Conan wheeled. Up the corridor, though still out of sight, he heard a rising clamor that told him his foes were behind as well as before him.
    “Quick! Into this door!” the girl cried desperately, running across the corridor and throwing open the door of a chamber.
    Conan followed her through, and then threw the gold catch behind them. They stood in an ornately furnished chamber, empty but for themselves, and she drew him to a gold-barred window, through which he saw trees and shrubbery.
    “You are strong,” she panted. “If you can tear these bars away, you may yet escape. The garden is full of guards, but the shrubs are thick, and you may avoid them. The southern wall is also the outer wall of the city. Once over that, you have a chance to get away. A horse is hidden for you in a thicket beside the road that runs westward, a few hundred paces to the south of the fountain of Thrallos. You know where it is?”
    “Aye! But what of you? I had meant to take you with me.”
    A flood of joy lighted her beautiful face.
    “Then my cup of happiness is brimming! But I will not hamper your escape. Burdened with me you would fail. Nay, do not fear for me. They will never suspect that I aided you willingly. Go! What you have just said will glorify my life throughout the long years.”
    He caught her up in his iron arms, crushed her slim, vibrant figure to him and kissed her fiercely on eyes, cheeks, throat and lips, until she lay panting in his embrace; gusty and tempestuous as a storm-wind, even his lovemaking was violent.
    “I’ll go,” he muttered. “But by Crom, I’ll come for you someday!”
    Wheeling, he gripped the gold bars and tore them from their sockets with one tremendous wrench; threw a leg over the sill and went down swiftly, clinging to the ornaments on the wall. He hit the ground running and melted like a shadow into the maze of towering rose-bushes and spreading trees. The one look he cast back over his shoulder showed him Zenobia leaning over the windowsill, her arms stretched after him in mute farewell and renunciation.
    Guards were running through the garden, all converging toward the palace, where the clamor momentarily grew louder—tall men, in burnished cuirasses and crested helmets of polished