The Cimmerian moved easily despite the bound cut upon his thigh. The wound was shallow, and it caused him little concern; he had suffered much worse and survived. The man who had inflicted the injury no longer walked in the land of the living, and the slight pain Conan felt from his limb was small enough coin to pay for that privilege. The wall was of smooth stones, set in an adobe mortar and covered with more of the claylike mud; in height, the wall was easily thrice Conan’s own span. The tall youth grinned. Child’s play, he thought, looking at the cracks in the adobe. To an ordinary man the wall might appear smooth; to a Cimmerian there might as well have been a ladder scaling the side. If Lemparius depended upon this wall for his primary protection, the man prepared himself ill for unsolicited night visitors. It was but the work of a few moments for Conan to spider his way up the wall. At the top, shards of broken pottery had been set, along with splinters of rock.
