"L. Sprague De Camp - Conan 26 - The Castle of Terror" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Camp L Sprague)

menace, the giant barbarian searched the air with sensitive nostrils and probed the gloom with
smoldering eyes. Although he could neither see nor smell anything, the mysterious sense of danger of
the wilderness-bred told him that peril was near. He felt the feathery touch of invisible eyes and whirled
to glimpse a pair of large orbs, glowing in the gloom.
Almost in the same instant, the blazing eyes vanished. So short had been his glimpse and so utter the
disappearance that he was tempted to shrug off the sight as a product of his imagination. He turned and
went forward again, but now he was on the alert. As he continued his journey, flaming eyes opened
again amid the thick shadows of dense grasses, to follow his silent progress. Tawny, sinuous forms
glided after him on soundless feet. The lions of Kush were on his track, lusting for hot blood and fresh
flesh.
2. The Circle of Death
An hour later, night had fallen over the savanna, save for a narrow band of sunset glow along the
western horizon, against which an occasional small, gnarled tree of

the veldt stood up in black silhouette. And Conan almost reached the limits of his endurance. Thrice
lionesses had rushed upon him out of the shadows to right or to left. Thrice he had driven them off with
the flying death of his arrows. Although it was hard to shoot straight in the gathering dark, an explosive
snarl from the chasing cats had thrice told him of hits, although he had no way of knowing whether he
had slain or only wounded the deadly predators.
But now his quiver was empty, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the silent marauders
pulled him down. There were eight or ten lions on his track! Now even the grim barbarian felt a pang of
despair. Even if his mighty sword accounted for one or two of the attackers, the rest would tear him into
gory pieces before he could slash or thrust again. Conan had encountered lions before and knew their
enormous strength, which enabled them to pick up and drag a whole zebra as easily as a cat does a
mouse. Although Conan was one of the strongest men of his time, once a lion got its claws and teeth into
him that strength would be no more effective than that of a small child.
Conan ran on. He had been running now for the better part of an hour, with a long, loping stride that ate
up the leagues. At first he had run effortlessly, but now the grueling exertions of his flight through the
black jungles and his eight-day trek across the plain began to take their toll. His eyes blurred; the
muscles of his legs ached. Every beat of his bursting heart seemed to drain away the strength remaining
in his giant form.
He prayed to his savage gods for the moon to emerge from the dense, stormy clouds that veiled most of
the sky. He prayed for a hillock or a tree to break the gently rolling flatness of the plain, or even a
boulder against which he could set his back to make a last stand against the pride.

But the gods heard not The only trees in this region were dwarfish, thorny growths, which rose to a
height of six or eight feet and then spread their branches out horizontally in a mushroom shape. If he
managed to climb such a tree despite the thorns, it would be easy for the first lion to reach the base to
spring upon him from below and bear him to the ground in one leap. The only hillocks were termite
nests, some rising several feet in height but too small for purposes of defense. There was nothing to do
but run on. To lighten himself, he had cast aside the great hunting bow when he had spent his last shaft,
although it wrenched his heart to throw away the splendid weapon. Quiver and straps soon followed. He
was now stripped to a mere loincloth of leopard hide, the high-laced sandals that clad his feet, his

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goatskin water bag, and the heavy broadsword, which he now carried scabbarded in one fist. To part
with these would mean surrendering his last hope.