Conan the Victorious

Начало книги

This was the first time he had met this man whom he'd fought as war-chief of the Zuagirs and pirate admiral.

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THE SCORCHING afternoon sun cast searing rays across the desert like whiplashes of white fire. Distant groves of palm trees shimmered; flocks of vultures hung like clumps of ripe, black grapes in the foliage.

A solitary rider halted his horse in the shade of the palm fronds that fringed an oasis. Though he wore the snowy khalat of the desert-dwellers, his features belied any thought of Eastern origin. The hand that shaded his questing eyes was broad and powerful and ridged with scars. His skin was browned, not with the native duskiness of the Zuagir, but with the ruddy bronze of the sunbaked Westerner. The eyes were a volcanic blue, like twin pools of unplumbable depth. A glint at his sleeve betrayed the fact that the traveler wore a coat of mail under his flowing dress. At his side hung a long, straight sword in a plain leather scabbard.

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