Conan the Barbarian Read Online Free PDF Page A

dark-complected, the newcomer represented a different breed of humanity, one the young Cimmerian had never seen before.
    The horseman appeared squat and bow-legged, as from a lifetime spent with legs clamped about the barrel of his head. His fine cloak was made of unfamiliar furs, the skins of beasts unknown to the Cimmerian; and his peculiar armour was composed of plates of lacquered, overlapping leather. His eyes were narrow and slitted, his cheekbones wide, and he wore his thick red hair and ruddy beard trimmed in a fashion that seemed foreign. A pin of blue and topaz stones winked from his velvet cap, and a heavy gold chain encircled his neck.
    Through eyes as black as chips of obsidian, the red-haired horseman studied the Cimmerian youth with the cool appraisal of a horse trader. As Conan, still pushing the wheel, watched indifferently, the man nodded in apparent satisfaction, dug one gloved hand into his girdle, and withdrew several small, flat squares of gold. These he handed to the Master of the Wheel, then kneed his mount forward to the edge of the mill works. The Master hurried down the ramp to stop the mill. Conan stood, docile and unresisting, as his manacle was unlocked, and a heavy wooden collar was fitted around his neck. He waited patiently, flexing his hard and callused fingers, while the Master locked the collar and handed the end of the chain to the mounted man.
    The foreigner licked his lips with a pointed tongue. Then, speaking Vannish in hard gutturals, he said, “I am Toghrul. I own you now. You come.”
    For emphasis, he tugged on the chain as one tugs on a dog’s leash. Conan stumbled forward. Recovering his balance, he looked up to find the man grinning down at him. Resentment flared in the Cimmerian’s sullen eyes; a growl rumbled deep in his chest. With a burst of rage, he snatched a link and jerked it back, tearing the chain from Toghrul’s grasp.
    For a moment, Conan stood free, legs apart, shoulders arched, eyes blazing, as the hot breath of freedom awoke wild memories in his barbaric heart. Surprise immobilized the others. Then sharp steel rasped against leather as the Wheel-master and Toghrul’s men-at-arms rushed to encircle the recalcitrant slave.
    Conan’s eyes glowed a volcanic blue as he glared at the ring of naked blades. Then he glanced at the Wheel of Pain, at the pole polished from its long contact with his sweaty palms, at the empty manacle that had bound his wrist in servitude. Whatever might lie ahead in the womb of time, at least he was free of the Wheel.
    The fires of wrath faded from his eyes. He took a deep breath. Then, silently, he picked up the chain and handed the end to his new master. The horseman grinned.
    “The animal has spirit!” he grunted. “He will make a rare spectacle in the Pit.”

III
     
    The Pit
     
    Followed by his bodyguard on their shaggy ponies, Toghrul trotted smartly from the town. The chain, now wound around the pommel of his saddle, clanked against the clumsy wooden collar that confined the neck of the Cimmerian slave. The muscles of Conan’s legs were strong lion years of toil at the wheel, and massive was his chest; yet his thews ached, and each indrawn breath became a strangled sob as his master quickened his pace from a trot to mi easy canter.
    Stones thrust jagged edges against Conan’s naked feet. Once, when he stumbled, he was dragged along until the pony, unsettled by the unaccustomed weight of an inert body, slowed to a walk. Then the youth regained his footing and forced his bruised and bleeding limbs to carry him forward.
    At length the group dismounted for their midday meal. A skin of sour red wine and slabs of bread and cheese were passed around. Conan, listening to the men’s rude banter while he munched his food, learned that his new owner was a pit master from Hyrkania, a land far to the east, beyond barren Hyperborea. Around Asgard and Vanaheim, sometimes together called Nordheim or Northlands, the red-bearded man