"Camp & Lin Carter - Conan Of Cimmeria - 01 - The Curse Of The Monolith" - читать интересную книгу автора (Camp L. Sprague de)

His upper arm was still clamped against the stone by the sleeve
of his mail shirt, but his forearm and hand were free. Could he
bend his arm far enough to clasp the haft of the dagger?

He strained, inching his hand along the stone. The mail of his
arm scraped slowly over the surface; sweat trickled into his
eyes. Bit by bit, his straining arm moved toward the handle of
the dagger. The taunting tune of Feng's flute sang maddeningly
in his ears, while the ungodly stench of the slime-thing filled
his nostrils.

His hand touched the dagger, and in an instant he held the hilt
fast. But, as he strained it away from the shaft, the rust-eaten
blade broke with a sharp ping. Rolling his eyes downward, he saw
that about two thirds of the blade, from the tapering point back,
had broken off and lay flat against the stone. The remaining
third still projected from the hilt. Since there was now less
iron in the dagger for the shaft to attract, Conan was able, by a
muscle-bulging effort, to tear the stump of the weapon away from
the shaft.

A glance showed him that, although most of the blade was lost to
him, the stump still had a couple of apparently sharp edges.
With his muscles quivering from the effort of holding the
implement away from the stone, he brought one of these edges up
against the leathern thong that bound the two halves of the mail
shirt together. Carefully, he began to saw the tough rawhide
with the rusty blade.

Every movement was agony. The torment of suspense grew
unbearable. His hand, bent into an uncomfortable, twisted
position, ached and grew numb. The ancient blade was notched,
thin, and brittle; a hasty motion might break it, leaving him
helpless. Stroke after stroke he sawed up and down, with
exquisite caution. The stench of the creature grew stronger and
the sucking sounds of its progress, louder.

The Conan felt the thong snap. The next instant, he hurled his
full strength against the magnetic force that imprisoned him.
The thong unraveled through the loopholes in the mail shirt,
until one whole side of the shirt was open. His shoulder and
half an arm came out through the opening.

The he felt a light blow on the head. The stench became
overpowering, and his unseen assailant from above pushed this way
and that against his helmet. Conan knew that a jellylike tendril
had reached his helmet and was groping over its surface, seeking
flesh. Any instant, the corrosive stuff would seep down over his
face...