Conan and the Spider God Read Online Free PDF Page A

shamefaced grin. “I am no musician. I can shoe a horse, scale a cliff, or split a skull; but I’ve no skill at singing.”
    The others persisted in urging him until at last Conan took the instrument and plucked the strings. “Forsooth,” he said, “this thing is not unlike the harps of my native land.” In a deep bass, he launched into a song:

    “We’re born with sword and axe in hand,
For men of the North are we … .”
     

    When Conan finished, Harpagus asked: “In what language did you sing? I know it not.”
    “The tongue of the Æsir,” said Conan.
    “Who are they?”
    “A nation of northern barbarians, far from here.”
    “Are you one of that tribe?”
    “Nay, but I have dwelt amongst them.” Conan handed the instrument back and yawned elaborately to cut off further questions. “It’s time I were abed.”
    As if inspired by Conan’s example, the Zamorians, yawning in their turn, composed themselves for sleep—all but the one told off for sentry duty. Conan wrapped himself in his blanket, lay down with his head pillowed on his saddle, and closed his eyes.
    When the gibbous moon had risen well above the eastern horizon and the four Zamorians were snoring lustily, Conan cautiously raised his head. The sentry paced slowly around the encampment with spear on shoulder. Conan noted that, on the northern side of the rise, for a considerable time during every round of the camp, the sentry passed out of sight.
    The next time the sentry disappeared, Conan slid to his feet and, stalking in a crouch, approached the tent, moving as silently as a shadow. The fire had burned down to a bed of coals.
    “You find it difficult to sleep?” purred a Zamorian voice behind him. Conan whirled, to find Harpagus standing in the light of the rising moon. Even Conan’s keen barbarian senses had not heard the man’s approach.
    “Yes—I—it is a mere call of nature,” growled Conan.
    Harpagus clucked sympathetically. “Sleeplessness can be a grave affliction. I will see to it that you sleep soundly the rest of the night.”
    “No potions!” exclaimed Conan sharply. He had a vision of being drugged or poisoned.
    “Fear not, good sir; I had no such thing in mind,” said Harpagus gently. “Do but look closely at me.”
    Conan’s eyes met those of the Zamorian. Something in the man’s gaze riveted the Cimmerian’s attention and held it captive. Harpagus’s eyes seemed to grow strangely large and luminous. Conan felt as if he were suspended in a black, starless space, with nothing visible saved those huge, glowing eyes.
    Harpagus slowly passed the prismatic gem in his ring back and forth in front of Conan’s face. In a hypnotic monotone the Zamorian murmured: “You shall go back to sleep. You shall sleep soundly for many hours. When you awaken, you shall have forgotten all about the Zamorian merchants you encamped with. You shall go back to sleep … .”
    C onan awoke with a start to find the sun high in the heavens. He rolled to his feet, glaring wildly, and shook the air with his curses. Not only were the Zamorians and their animals gone, but his horse had vanished also. His saddle and saddle bags still lay on the ground where he had made his rude bed, but the little leather bag of gold pieces was missing from his wallet.
    The worst of it was that he could not remember whom he had companied with the previous night. He recalled the journey from Aghrapur and the fight with the swamp cat. The remains of the campfire and the traces of riding animals proved that he had shared the high ground with several other persons, but he had no memory of who they were or what they had looked like. He had a fleeting recollection of singing a song, accompanied by a borrowed stringed instrument; but the people whom he had serenaded were less than insubstantial shadows in his memory. There had been such folk, of that he was certain; but he recalled no detail of their clothing or countenances.
    He remembered that he was on his way