"Howard, Robert E - Conan 22 - The Phoenix On The Sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Howard Robert E)

'Wits and swords are as straws againt the wisdom of the Darkness,' growled the Stygian, his dark eyes flickering with menacing lights and shadows. 'Had I not lost the Ring, our positions might be reversed.'

'Nevertheless,' answered the outlaw impatiently, 'you wear the stripes of my whip on your back, and are likely to continue to wear them.'

'Be not so sure!' the fiendish hatred of the Stygian glittered for an instant redly in his eyes. 'Some day, somehow, I will find the Ring again, and when I do, by the serpent-fangs of Set, you shall pay-'

The hot-tempered Aquilonian started up and struck him heavily across the mouth. Thoth reeled back, blood starting from his lips.

'You grow over-bold, dog,' growled the outlaw. 'Have a care; I am still your master who knows your dark secret. Go upon the housetops and shout that Ascalante is in the city plotting against the king - if you dare.'

'I dare not,' muttered the Stygian, wiping the blood from his lips.

'No, you do not dare,' Ascalante grinned bleakly. 'For if I die by your stealth or treachery, a hermit priest in the southern desert will know of it, and will break the seal of a manuscript I left in his hands. And having read, a word will be whispered in Stygia, and a wind will creep up from the south by midnight. And where will you hide your head, Thoth-Amon?'

The slave shuddered and his dusky face went ashen.

'Enough!' Ascalante changed his tone peremptorily. 'I have work for you. I do not trust Dion. I bade him ride to his country estate and remain there until the work tonight is done. The fat fool could never conceal his nervousness before the king today. Ride after him, and if you do not overtake him on the road, proceed to his estate and remain with him until we send for him. Don't let him out of your sight. He is mazed with fear, and might bolt - might even rush to Conan in a panic, and reveal the whole plot, hoping thus to save his own hide. Go!'

The slave bowed, hiding the hate in his eyes, and did as he was bidden. Ascalante turned again to his wine. Over the jeweled spires was rising a dawn crimson as blood.



2

When I was a fighting-man, the kettle-drums they beat; The people scattered gold-dust before my horse's feet; But now I am a great king, the people hound my track With poison in my wine-cup, and daggers at my back.

The Road of Kings

The room was large and ornate, with rich tapestries on the polished panelled walls, deep rugs on the ivory floor, and with the lofty ceiling adorned with intricate carvings and silver scrollwork. Behind an ivory, gold-inlaid writing-table sat a man whose broad shoulders and sun-browned skin seemed out of place among those luxuriant surroundings. He seemed more a part of the sun and winds and high places of the outlands. His slightest movement spoke of steelspring muscles knit to a keen brain with the co-ordination of a born fighting-man. There was nothing deliberate or measured about his actions. Either he was perfectly at rest - still as a bronze statue - or else he was in motion, not with the jerky quickness of over-tense nerves, but with a catlike speed that blurred the sight which tried to follow him.

His garments were of rich fabric, but simply made. He wore no ring or ornaments, and his square-cut black mane was confined merely by a cloth-of-silver band about his head.

Now he laid down the golden stylus with which he had been laboriously scrawling on waxed papyrus, rested his chin on his fist, and fixed his smoldering blue eyes enviously on the man who stood before him. This person was occupied in his own affairs at the moment, for he was taking up the laces of his goldchased armor, and abstractedly whistling -a rather unconventional performance, considering that he was in the presence of a king.

'Prospero,' said the man at the table, 'these matters of statecraft weary me as all the fighting I have done never did.'

'All part of the game, Conan,' answered the dark-eyed Poitanian. 'You are king -- you must play the part.'

'I wish I might ride with you to Nemedia,' said Conan enviously. 'It seems ages since I had a horse between my knees - but Publius says that affairs in the city require my presence. Curse him!

''When I overthrew the old dynasty,' he continued, speaking with the easy familiarity which existed only between the Poitanian and himself, 'it was easy enough, though it seemed bitter hard at the time. Looking back now over the wild path I followed, all those days of toil, intrigue, slaughter and tribulation seem like a dream.

'I did not dream far enough, Prospero. When King Namedides lay dead at my feet and I tore the crown from his gory head and set it on my own, I had reached the ultimate border of my dreams. I had prepared myself to take the crown, not to hold it. In the old free days all I wanted was a sharp sword and a straight path to my enemies. Now no paths are straight and my sword is useless.

'When I overthrew Namedides, then I was the Liberator now they spit at my shadow. They have put a statue of that swine in the temple of Mitra, and people go and wail before it, hailing it as the holy effigy of a saintly monarch who was done to death by a red-handed barbarian. When I led her armies to victory as a mercenary, Aquilonia overlooked the fact that I was a foreigner, but now she can not forgive me.

'Now in Mitra's temple there come to burn incense to

Namedides' memory, men whom his hangmen maimed and blinded, men whose sons died in his dungeons, whose wives and daughters were dragged into his seraglio. The fickle fools!'