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

trickled down his brow and soaked the cotton haqueton beneath his
mail. He tried to shout, but only grunts and gurgles came forth.

"Since, my dear captain, your life approaches its predestined
end," continued Feng, "it would be impolite of me not to explain
my actions, so that your lowly spirit may journey to whatever
hell the gods of the barbarians have prepared for it in full
knowledge of the causes of your downfall. Know that the court of
his amiable but foolish highness, the king of Kusan, is divided
between two parties. One of these, that of the White Peacock,
welcomes contact with the barbarians of the West. The other,
that of the Golden Pheasant, abominates all association with
those animals; and I, of course, am one of the selfless patriots
of the Golden Pheasant. Willingly would I give my life to bring
your so-called embassy to destruction, lest contact with your
barbarous masters contaminate our pure culture and upset our
divinely ordained social system.

"Happily, such an extreme measure seems unnecessary. For I have
you, the leaser of his band of foreign devils, and there around
your neck hangs the treaty the Son of Heaven signed with your
uncouth heathen king."

The little duke pulled out from under Conan's mail shirt the
ivory tube containing the documents. HE unclasped the chain that
secured it around Conan's neck and tucked it into one of his
voluminous sleeves, adding with a malicious smile, "As for the
force that holds you prisoner, I will not attempt to explain its
subtle nature to your childish wits. Suffice it to explain that
the substance whereof this monolith was hewn has the curious
property of attracting iron and steel with irresistible force.
So fear not; it is no unholy magic that holds you captive."

Conan was little heartened by this news. He had once seen a
conjuror in Aghrapur pick up nails with a piece of dark-red stone
and supposed that the force that held him was of the same sort.
But, since he had never heard of magnetism, it was all equally
magic as far as he was concerned.

"Lest you entertain false hopes of rescue by your men," Feng went
on, "I have thought of that, also. In these hills dwell the
Jagas, a primitive headhunting tribe. Attracted by your
campfire, they will assemble at the ends of the valley and rush
your camp at dawn. It is their invariable procedure.

"By that time I shall, I hope, be far away. If they capture me,
too well, a man must die some time, and I trust I shall do so
with the dignity and decorum befitting one of my rank and
culture. My head would make a delightful ornament in a Jaga hut,
I am sure.