Free The Hours of the Dragon by Robert E. Howard Page B

otherwise follow. I mistrust this undead Pythonian. Of late I have begun to fear him.
    “I followed him, some hours after he had departed eastward. I wished to learn what he intended doing with Conan. I found that he had imprisoned him in the pits. I intended to see that the barbarian died, in spite of Xaltotun. And I accomplished—”
    A cautious knock sounded at the door.
    “That’s Arideus,” grunted Tarascus. “Let him in.”
    The saturnine squire entered, his eyes blazing with suppressed excitement.
    “How, Arideus?” exclaimed Tarascus. “Have you found the man who attacked me?”
    “You did not see him, my lord?” asked Arideus, as one who would assure himself of a fact he already knows to exist. “You did not recognize him?”
    “No. It happened so quick, and the candle was out—all I could think of was that it was some devil loosed on me by Xaltotun’s magic—”
    “The Pythonian sleeps in his barred and bolted room. But I have been in the pits.” Arideus twitched his lean shoulders excitedly.
    “Well, speak, man!” exclaimed Tarascus impatiently. “What did you find there?”
    “An empty dungeon,” whispered the squire. “The corpse of the great ape!”
    “What?” Tarascus started upright, and blood gushed from his opened wound.
    “Aye! The man-eater is dead—stabbed through the heart—and Conan is gone!”
    Tarascus was gray of face as he mechanically allowed Orastes to force him prostrate again and the priest renewed work upon his mangled flesh.
    “Conan!” he repeated. “Not a crushed corpse— escaped! Mitra! He is no man, but a devil himself! I thought Xaltotun was behind this wound. I see now. Gods and devils! It was Conan who stabbed me! Arideus!”
    “Aye, your Majesty!”
    “Search every nook in the palace. He may be skulking through the dark corridors now like a hungry tiger. Let no niche escape your scrutiny, and beware. It is not a civilized man you hunt, but a blood-mad barbarian whose strength and ferocity are those of a wild beast. Scour the palace grounds and the city. Throw a cordon about the walls. If you find he has escaped from the city, as he may well do, take a troop of horsemen and follow him. Once past the walls it will be like hunting a wolf through the hills. But haste, and you may yet catch him.”
    “This is a matter which requires more than ordinary human wits,” said Orastes. “Perhaps we should seek Xaltotun’s advice.”
    “No!” exclaimed Tarascus violently. “Let the troopers pursue Conan and slay him. Xaltotun can hold no grudge against us if we kill a prisoner to prevent his escape.”
    “Well,” said Orastes, “I am no Acheronian, but I am versed in some of the arts, and the control of certain spirits which have cloaked themselves in material substance. Perhaps I can aid you in this matter.”
    * * * *
    THE FOUNTAIN OF THRALLOS stood in a clustered ring of oaks beside the road a mile from the walls of the city. Its musical tinkle reached Conan’s ears through the silence of the starlight. He drank deep of its icy stream, and then hurried southward toward a small, dense thicket he saw there. Rounding it, he saw a great white horse tied among the bushes. Heaving a deep gusty sigh he reached it with one stride—a mocking laugh brought him about, glaring.
    A dully glinting, mail-clad figure moved out of the shadows into the starlight. This was no plumed and burnished palace guardsman. It was a tall man in morion and gray chain-mail—one of the Adventurers, a class of warriors peculiar to Nemedia; men who had not attained to the wealth and position of knighthood, or had fallen from that estate; hard-bitten fighters, dedicating their lives to war and adventure. They constituted a class of their own, sometimes commanding troops, but themselves accountable to no man but the king. Conan knew that he could have been discovered by no more dangerous a foeman.
    A quick glance among the shadows convinced him that the man was alone, and he expanded