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

slope.

Before them, the shaft rose from the center of thinly convex
surface of the hilltop. The hill, thought Conan, was probably an
artificial mound, such as were sometimes piled up over the
remains of great chiefs in his own country. If the treasure were
at the bottom of such a pile, it would take more than one night's
digging to uncover it...

With a startled oath, Conan clutched at his shovel and crowbar.
Some invisible force had seized upon them and pulled them toward
the shaft. HE leaned away from the shaft, his powerful muscles
bulging under his mail shirt. Inch by inch, however, the force
dragged him toward the monolith. When he saw that he would be
drawn against the shaft willy-nilly, he let go of the tools,
which flew to the stone. They struck it with a loud double clank
and stuck fast to it.

But releasing the tools did not free Conan from the attraction of
the monument, which now pulled on his mail shirt as powerfully as
it had on the shovel and the crowbar. Staggering and cursing,
Conan was slammed against the monolith with crushing force. His
back was pinned to the shaft, as were his upper arms where the
short sleeves of the mail shirt covered them. So was his head
inside the spired Turanian helmet, and so was the scabbarded
sword at his waist.

Conan struggled to tear himself free but found that he could not.
It was as if unseen chains bound him securely to the column of
dark stone.

"What devil's trick is this, you treacherous dog?" he ground out.

Smiling and imperturbable, Feng strolled up to where Conan stood
pinned against the pillar. Seemingly impervious to the
mysterious force, the Khitan took a silken scarf from one of the
baggy sleeves of his silken coat. HE waited until Conan opened
his mouth to bellow for help, then adroitly jammed a bunch of the
silk into Conan's mouth. While Conan gagged and chewed on the
cloth, the little man knotted the scarf securely around Conan's
head. At last Conan stood, panting but silent, glaring
venomously down into the courteous smile of the little duke.

"Forgive the ruse, O noble savage!" lisped Feng. "It was needful
that this person concoct some tale to appeal to your primitive
lust for gold, in order to allure you hither alone."

Conan's eyes blazed with volcanic fury as he hurled all the might
of his powerful body against the invisible bonds that held him
against the monolith. It did no good; he was helpless. Sweat