L. Camp - Conan The Castle of Terror

But Conan had no chance to make such a proposal, for the experience had driven the burly Stygian mad. His eyes blazed wildly in the moonlight, and foam dripped from his lips. He rushed straight upon Conan, whirling a scimitar so that the moonlight flashed upon it and shrieking, “Back to your hell, O demon!”

The primitive survival instinct of the wilderness-bred Cimmerian flashed into action without conscious thought. By the time the man was within striking distance. Conan’s own sword had cleared its scabbard. Again and gain, steel clanged against steel, striking sparks. As the wild-eyed Stygian swung back for another slash, Conan drove his point into the madman’s throat The Stygian gurgled, swayed, and toppled.

For an instant, Conan leaned on the mare’s saddle bow, panting. The duel had been short but fierce, and the Stygian had been no mean antagonist From within the ancient pile of stone, no more cries of terror rang. There was naught but an ominous silence. Then Conan heard slow, heavy, shuffling footsteps. Had the ogreish thing slaughtered them all? Was it dragging its misshapen bulk toward the door, to emerge into the courtyard?

Conan did not wait to find out. With trembling fingers he unlaced the dead man’s hauberk and pulled the mail shirt off. He also collected the Stygian’s helmet and shield, the latter made from the hide of one of the great, thick-skinned beasts of the veldt He hastily tied these trophies to the saddle, vaulted upon the steed, wrenched at the reins, and kicked the mare’s ribs. He galloped out of the ruined courtyard into the region of withered grass. With every stride of the flying hoofs, the castle of ancient evil fen behind.

Somewhere beyond the circle of dead grass, perhaps the hungry lions still prowled. But Conan did not care. After the ghostly horrors of the black citadel, he would gladly take his chances with mere lions.