[Transcriber's Note: This etext was first published in Weird Tales
December 1935, January, February, March and April 1936. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this
publication was renewed.]
THE HOUR OF THE DRAGON
By Robert E. Howard
1
O Sleeper, Awake!
The long tapers flickered, sending the black shadows wavering along the
walls, and the velvet tapestries rippled. Yet there was no wind in the
chamber. Four men stood about the ebony table on which lay the green
sarcophagus that gleamed like carven jade. In the upraised right hand of
each man a curious black candle burned with a weird greenish light.
Outside was night and a lost wind moaning among the black trees.
Inside the chamber was tense silence, and the wavering of the shadows,
while four pairs of eyes, burning with intensity, were fixed on the long
green case across which cryptic hieroglyphics writhed, as if lent life
and movement by the unsteady light. The man at the foot of the
sarcophagus leaned over it and moved his candle as if he were writing
with a pen, inscribing a mystic symbol in the air. Then he set down the
candle in its black gold stick at the foot of the case, and, mumbling
some formula unintelligible to his companions, he thrust a broad white
hand into his fur-trimmed robe. When he brought it forth again it was as
if he cupped in his palm a ball of living fire.
The other three drew in their breath sharply, and the dark, powerful man
who stood at the head of the sarcophagus whispered: 'The Heart of
Ahriman!' The other lifted a quick hand for silence. Somewhere a dog
began howling dolefully, and a stealthy step padded outside the barred
and bolted door. But none looked aside from the mummy-case over which
the man in the ermine-trimmed robe was now moving the great flaming
jewel while he muttered an incantation that was old when Atlantis sank.
The glare of the gem dazzled their eyes, so that they could not be sure
of what they saw; but with a splintering crash, the carven lid of the
sarcophagus burst outward as if from some irresistible pressure applied
from within, and the four men, bending eagerly forward, saw the
occupant—a huddled, withered, wizened shape, with dried brown limbs
like dead wood showing through moldering bandages.
'Bring that thing back?' muttered the small dark man who stood on the
right, with a short sardonic laugh. 'It is ready to crumble at a touch.
We are fools—'
'Shhh!' It was an urgent hiss of command from the large man who held the
jewel. Perspiration stood upon his broad white forehead and his eyes
were dilated. He leaned forward, and, without touching the thing with
his hand, laid on the breast of the mummy the blazing jewel. Then he
drew back and watched with fierce intensity, his lips moving in
soundless invocation.
It was as if a globe of living fire flickered and burned on the dead,
withered bosom. And breath sucked in, hissing, through the clenched
teeth of the watchers. For as they watched, an awful transmutation
became apparent. The withered shape in the sarcophagus was expanding,
was growing, lengthening. The bandages burst and fell into brown dust.
The shriveled limbs swelled, straightened. Their dusky hue began to
fade.
'By Mitra!' whispered the tall, yellow-haired man on the left. 'He was
not a Stygian. That part at least was true.'
Again a trembling finger warned for silence. The hound outside was no
longer howling. He whimpered, as with an evil dream, and then that
sound, too, died away in silence, in which the yellow-haired man plainly
heard the straining of the heavy door, as if something outside pushed
powerfully upon it. He half turned, his hand at his sword, but the man
in the ermine robe hissed an urgent warning: 'Stay! Do not break the
chain! And on your life do not go to the door!'
The yellow-haired man shrugged and turned back, and then he stopped
short, staring. In the jade sarcophagus lay a living man: a tall, lusty
man, naked, white of skin, and dark of hair and beard. He lay
motionless, his eyes wide open, and blank and unknowing as a newborn
babe's. On his breast the great jewel smoldered and sparkled.
The man in ermine reeled as if from some let-down of extreme tension.
'Ishtar!' he gasped. 'It is Xaltotun!—and he lives! Valerius!
Tarascus! Amalric! Do you see? Do you see? You doubted me—but I have
not failed! We have been close to the open gates of hell this night, and
the shapes of darkness have gathered close about us—aye, they followed
him to the very door—but we have brought the great magician back to
life.'
'And damned our souls to purgatories everlasting, I doubt not,' muttered
the small, dark man, Tarascus.
The yellow-haired man, Valerius, laughed harshly.
'What purgatory can be worse than life itself? So we are all damned
together from birth. Besides, who would not sell his miserable soul for
a throne?'
'There is no intelligence in his stare, Orastes,' said the large man.
'He has long been dead,' answered Orastes. 'He is as one newly awakened.
His mind is empty after the long sleep—nay, he was dead, not
sleeping. We brought his spirit back over the voids and gulfs of night
and oblivion. I will speak to him.'
He bent over the foot of the sarcophagus, and fixing his gaze on the
wide dark eyes of the man within, he said, slowly: 'Awake, Xaltotun!'
The lips of the man moved mechanically. 'Xaltotun!' he repeated in a
groping whisper.
'You are Xaltotun!' exclaimed Orastes, like a hypnotist driving home
his suggestions. 'You are Xaltotun of Python, in Acheron.'
A dim flame flickered in the dark eyes.
'I was Xaltotun,' he whispered. 'I am dead.'
'You are Xaltotun!' cried Orastes. 'You are not dead! You live!'
'I am Xaltotun,' came the eery whisper. 'But I am dead. In my house in
Khemi, in Stygia, there I died.'
'And the priests who poisoned you mummified your body with their dark
arts, keeping all your organs intact!' exclaimed Orastes. 'But now you
live again! The Heart of Ahriman has restored your life, drawn your
spirit back from space and eternity.'
'The Heart of Ahriman!' The flame of remembrance grew stronger. 'The
barbarians stole it from me!'
'He remembers,' muttered Orastes. 'Lift him from the case.'
The others obeyed hesitantly, as if reluctant to touch the man they had
recreated, and they seemed not easier in their minds when they felt firm
muscular flesh, vibrant with blood and life, beneath their fingers. But
they lifted him upon the table, and Orastes clothed him in a curious
dark velvet robe, splashed with gold stars and crescent moons, and
fastened a cloth-of-gold fillet about his temples, confining the black
wavy locks that fell to his shoulders. He let them do as they would,
saying nothing, not even when they set him in a carven throne-like chair
with a high ebony back and wide silver arms, and feet like golden claws.
He sat there motionless, and slowly intelligence grew in his dark eyes
and made them deep and strange and luminous. It was as if long-sunken
witchlights floated slowly up through midnight pools of darkness.
Orastes cast a furtive glance at his companions, who stood staring in
morbid fascination at their strange guest. Their iron nerves had
withstood an ordeal that might have driven weaker men mad. He knew it
was with no weaklings that he conspired, but men whose courage was as
profound as their lawless ambitions and capacity for evil. He turned his
attention to the figure in the ebon-black chair. And this one spoke at
last.
'I remember,' he said in a strong, resonant voice, speaking Nemedian
with a curious, archaic accent. 'I am Xaltotun, who was high priest of
Set in Python, which was in Acheron. The Heart of Ahriman—I dreamed I
had found it again—where is it?'
Orastes placed it in his hand, and he drew breath deeply as he gazed
into the depths of the terrible jewel burning in his grasp.
'They stole it from me, long ago,' he said. 'The red heart of the night
it is, strong to save or to damn. It came from afar, and from long ago.
While I held it, none could stand before me. But it was stolen from me,
and Acheron fell, and I fled in exile into dark Stygia. Much I remember,
but much I have forgotten. I have been in a far land, across misty voids
and gulfs and unlit oceans. What is the year?'
Orastes answered him. 'It is the waning of the Year of the Lion, three
thousand years after the fall of Acheron.'
'Three thousand years!' murmured the other. 'So long? Who are you?'
'I am Orastes, once a priest of Mitra. This man is Amalric, baron of
Tor, in Nemedia; this other is Tarascus, younger brother of the king of
Nemedia; and this tall man is Valerius, rightful heir of the throne of
Aquilonia.'
'Why have you given me life?' demanded Xaltotun. 'What do you require of
me?'
The man was now fully alive and awake, his keen eyes reflecting the
working of an unclouded brain. There was no hesitation or uncertainty in
his manner. He came directly to the point, as one who knows that no man
gives something for nothing. Orastes met him with equal candor.
'We have opened the doors of hell this night to free your soul and
return it to your body because we need your aid. We wish to place
Tarascus on the throne of Nemedia, and to win for Valerius the crown of
Aquilonia. With your necromancy you can aid us.'
Xaltotun's mind was devious and full of unexpected slants.
'You must be deep in the arts yourself, Orastes, to have been able to
restore my life. How is it that a priest of Mitra knows of the Heart of
Ahriman, and the incantations of Skelos?'
'I am no longer a priest of Mitra,' answered Orastes. 'I was cast forth
from my order because of my delving in black magic. But for Amalric
there I might have been burned as a magician.
'But that left me free to pursue my studies. I journeyed in Zamora, in
Vendhya, in Stygia, and among the haunted jungles of Khitai. I read the
iron-bound books of Skelos, and talked with unseen creatures in deep
wells, and faceless shapes in black reeking jungles. I obtained a
glimpse of your sarcophagus in the demon-haunted crypts below the black
giant-walled temple of Set in the hinterlands of Stygia, and I learned
of the arts that would bring back life to your shriveled corpse. From
moldering manuscripts I learned of the Heart of Ahriman. Then for a year
I sought its hiding-place, and at last I found it.'
'Then why trouble to bring me back to life?' demanded Xaltotun, with his
piercing gaze fixed on the priest. 'Why did you not employ the Heart to
further your own power?'
'Because no man today knows the secrets of the Heart,' answered Orastes.
'Not even in legends live the arts by which to loose its full powers. I
knew it could restore life; of its deeper secrets I am ignorant. I
merely used it to bring you back to life. It is the use of your
knowledge we seek. As for the Heart, you alone know its awful secrets.'
Xaltotun shook his head, staring broodingly into the flaming depths.
'My necromantic knowledge is greater than the sum of all the knowledge
of other men,' he said; 'yet I do not know the full power of the jewel.
I did not invoke it in the old days; I guarded it lest it be used
against me. At last it was stolen, and in the hands of a feathered
shaman of the barbarians it defeated all my mighty sorcery. Then it
vanished, and I was poisoned by the jealous priests of Stygia before I
could learn where it was hidden.'
'It was hidden in a cavern below the temple of Mitra, in Tarantia,' said
Orastes. 'By devious ways I discovered this, after I had located your
remains in Set's subterranean temple in Stygia.
'Zamorian thieves, partly protected by spells I learned from sources
better left unmentioned, stole your mummy-case from under the very
talons of those which guarded it in the dark, and by camel-caravan and
galley and ox-wagon it came at last to this city.
'Those same thieves—or rather those of them who still lived after their
frightful quest—stole the Heart of Ahriman from its haunted cavern
below the temple of Mitra, and all the skill of men and the spells of
sorcerers nearly failed. One man of them lived long enough to reach me
and give the jewel into my hands, before he died slavering and gibbering
of what he had seen in that accursed crypt. The thieves of Zamora are
the most faithful of men to their trust. Even with my conjurements, none
but they could have stolen the Heart from where it has lain in
demon-guarded darkness since the fall of Acheron, three thousand years
ago.'
Xaltotun lifted his lion-like head and stared far off into space, as if
plumbing the lost centuries.
'Three thousand years!' he muttered. 'Set! Tell me what has chanced in
the world.'
'The barbarians who overthrew Acheron set up new kingdoms,' quoted
Orastes. 'Where the empire had stretched now rose realms called
Aquilonia, and Nemedia, and Argos, from the tribes that founded them.
The older kingdoms of Ophir, Corinthia and western Koth, which had been
subject to the kings of Acheron, regained their independence with the
fall of the empire.'
'And what of the people of Acheron?' demanded Xaltotun. 'When I fled
into Stygia, Python was in ruins, and all the great, purple-towered
cities of Acheron fouled with blood and trampled by the sandals of the
barbarians.'
'In the hills small groups of folk still boast descent from Acheron,'
answered Orastes. 'For the rest, the tide of my barbarian ancestors
rolled over them and wiped them out. They—my ancestors—had suffered
much from the kings of Acheron.'
A grim and terrible smile curled the Pythonian's lips.
'Aye! Many a barbarian, both man and woman, died screaming on the altar
under this hand. I have seen their heads piled to make a pyramid in the
great square in Python when the kings returned from the west with their
spoils and naked captives.'
'Aye. And when the day of reckoning came, the sword was not spared. So
Acheron ceased to be, and purple-towered Python became a memory of
forgotten days. But the younger kingdoms rose on the imperial ruins and
waxed great. And now we have brought you back to aid us to rule these
kingdoms, which, if less strange and wonderful than Acheron of old, are
yet rich and powerful, well worth fighting for. Look!' Orastes unrolled
before the stranger a map drawn cunningly on vellum.
Xaltotun regarded it, and then shook his head, baffled.
'The very outlines of the land are changed. It is like some familiar
thing seen in a dream, fantastically distorted.'
'Howbeit,' answered Orastes, tracing with his forefinger, 'here is
Belverus, the capital of Nemedia, in which we now are. Here run the
boundaries of the land of Nemedia. To the south and southeast are Ophir
and Corinthia, to the east Brythunia, to the west Aquilonia.'
'It is the map of a world I do not know,' said Xaltotun softly, but
Orastes did not miss the lurid fire of hate that flickered in his dark
eyes.
'It is a map you shall help us change,' answered Orastes. 'It is our
desire first to set Tarascus on the throne of Nemedia. We wish to
accomplish this without strife, and in such a way that no suspicion will
rest on Tarascus. We do not wish the land to be torn by civil wars, but
to reserve all our power for the conquest of Aquilonia.
'Should King Nimed and his sons die naturally, in a plague for instance,
Tarascus would mount the throne as the next heir, peacefully and
unopposed.'
Xaltotun nodded, without replying, and Orastes continued.
'The other task will be more difficult. We cannot set Valerius on the
Aquilonian throne without a war, and that kingdom is a formidable foe.
Its people are a hardy, war-like race, toughened by continual wars with
the Picts, Zingarians and Cimmerians. For five hundred years Aquilonia
and Nemedia have intermittently waged war, and the ultimate advantage
has always lain with the Aquilonians.
'Their present king is the most renowned warrior among the western
nations. He is an outlander, an adventurer who seized the crown by force
during a time of civil strife, strangling King Namedides with his own
hands, upon the very throne. His name is Conan, and no man can stand
before him in battle.
'Valerius is now the rightful heir of the throne. He had been driven
into exile by his royal kinsman, Namedides, and has been away from his
native realm for years, but he is of the blood of the old dynasty, and
many of the barons would secretly hail the overthrow of Conan, who is a
nobody without royal or even noble blood. But the common people are
loyal to him, and the nobility of the outlying provinces. Yet if his
forces were overthrown in the battle that must first take place, and
Conan himself slain, I think it would not be difficult to put Valerius
on the throne. Indeed, with Conan slain, the only center of the
government would be gone. He is not part of a dynasty, but only a lone
adventurer.'
'I wish that I might see this king,' mused Xaltotun, glancing toward a
silvery mirror which formed one of the panels of the wall. This mirror
cast no reflection, but Xaltotun's expression showed that he understood
its purpose, and Orastes nodded with the pride a good craftsman takes in
the recognition of his accomplishments by a master of his craft.
'I will try to show him to you,' he said. And seating himself before the
mirror, he gazed hypnotically into its depths, where presently a dim
shadow began to take shape.
It was uncanny, but those watching knew it was no more than the
reflected image of Orastes' thought, embodied in that mirror as a
wizard's thoughts are embodied in a magic crystal. It floated hazily,
then leaped into startling clarity—a tall man, mightily shouldered and
deep of chest, with a massive corded neck and heavily muscled limbs. He
was clad in silk and velvet, with the royal lions of Aquilonia worked
in gold upon his rich jupon, and the crown of Aquilonia shone on his
square-cut black mane; but the great sword at his side seemed more
natural to him than the regal accouterments. His brow was low and broad,
his eyes a volcanic blue that smoldered as if with some inner fire. His
dark, scarred, almost sinister face was that of a fighting-man, and his
velvet garments could not conceal the hard, dangerous lines of his
limbs.
'That man is no Hyborian!' exclaimed Xaltotun.
'No; he is a Cimmerian, one of those wild tribesmen who dwell in the
gray hills of the north.'
'I fought his ancestors of old,' muttered Xaltotun. 'Not even the kings
of Acheron could conquer them.'
'They still remain a terror to the nations of the south,' answered
Orastes. 'He is a true son of that savage race, and has proved himself,
thus far, unconquerable.'
Xaltotun did not reply; he sat staring down at the pool of living fire
that shimmered in his hand. Outside, the hound howled again, long and
shudderingly.
2
A Black Wind Blows
The year of the dragon had birth in war and pestilence and unrest. The
black plague stalked through the streets of Belverus, striking down the
merchant in his stall, the serf in his kennel, the knight at his banquet
board. Before it the arts of the leeches were helpless. Men said it had
been sent from hell as punishment for the sins of pride and lust. It was
swift and deadly as the stroke of an adder. The victim's body turned
purple and then black, and within a few minutes he sank down dying, and
the stench of his own putrefaction was in his nostrils even before death
wrenched his soul from his rotting body. A hot, roaring wind blew
incessantly from the south, and the crops withered in the fields, the
cattle sank and died in their tracks.
Men cried out on Mitra, and muttered against the king; for somehow,
throughout the kingdom, the word was whispered that the king was
secretly addicted to loathsome practises and foul debauches in the
seclusion of his nighted palace. And then in that palace death stalked
grinning on feet about which swirled the monstrous vapors of the plague.
In one night the king died with his three sons, and the drums that
thundered their dirge drowned the grim and ominous bells that rang from
the carts that lumbered through the streets gathering up the rotting
dead.
That night, just before dawn, the hot wind that had blown for weeks
ceased to rustle evilly through the silken window curtains. Out of the
north rose a great wind that roared among the towers, and there was
cataclysmic thunder, and blinding sheets of lightning, and driving rain.
But the dawn shone clean and green and clear; the scorched ground veiled
itself in grass, the thirsty crops sprang up anew, and the plague was
gone—its miasma swept clean out of the land by the mighty wind.
Men said the gods were satisfied because the evil king and his spawn
were slain, and when his young brother Tarascus was crowned in the great
coronation hall, the populace cheered until the towers rocked,
acclaiming the monarch on whom the gods smiled.
Such a wave of enthusiasm and rejoicing as swept the land is frequently
the signal for a war of conquest. So no one was surprised when it was
announced that King Tarascus had declared the truce made by the late
king with their western neighbors void, and was gathering his hosts to
invade Aquilonia. His reason was candid; his motives, loudly proclaimed,
gilded his actions with something of the glamor of a crusade. He
espoused the cause of Valerius, 'rightful heir to the throne'; he came,
he proclaimed, not as an enemy of Aquilonia, but as a friend, to free
the people from the tyranny of a usurper and a foreigner.
If there were cynical smiles in certain quarters, and whispers
concerning the king's good friend Amalric, whose vast personal wealth
seemed to be flowing into the rather depleted royal treasury, they were
unheeded in the general wave of fervor and zeal of Tarascus' popularity.
If any shrewd individuals suspected that Amalric was the real ruler of
Nemedia, behind the scenes, they were careful not to voice such heresy.
And the war went forward with enthusiasm.
The king and his allies moved westward at the head of fifty thousand
men—knights in shining armor with their pennons streaming above their
helmets, pikemen in steel caps and brigandines, cross-bowmen in leather
jerkins. They crossed the border, took a frontier castle and burned
three mountain villages, and then, in the valley of the Valkia, ten
miles west of the boundary line, they met the hosts of Conan, king of
Aquilonia—forty-five thousand knights, archers and men-at-arms, the
flower of Aquilonian strength and chivalry. Only the knights of Poitain,
under Prospero, had not yet arrived, for they had far to ride up from
the southwestern corner of the kingdom. Tarascus had struck without
warning. His invasion had come on the heels of his proclamation, without
formal declaration of war.
The two hosts confronted each other across a wide, shallow valley, with
rugged cliffs, and a shallow stream winding through masses of reeds and
willows down the middle of the vale. The camp-followers of both hosts
came down to this stream for water, and shouted insults and hurled
stones across at one another. The last glints of the sun shone on the
golden banner of Nemedia with the scarlet dragon, unfurled in the breeze
above the pavilion of King Tarascus on an eminence near the eastern
cliffs. But the shadow of the western cliffs fell like a vast purple
pall across the tents and the army of Aquilonia, and upon the black
banner with its golden lion that floated above King Conan's pavilion.
All night the fires flared the length of the valley, and the wind
brought the call of trumpets, the clangor of arms, and the sharp
challenges of the sentries who paced their horses along either edge of
the willow-grown stream.
It was in the darkness before dawn that King Conan stirred on his couch,
which was no more than a pile of silks and furs thrown on a dais, and
awakened. He started up, crying out sharply and clutching at his sword.
Pallantides, his commander, rushing in at the cry, saw his king sitting
upright, his hand on his hilt, and perspiration dripping from his
strangely pale face.
'Your Majesty!' exclaimed Pallantides. 'Is aught amiss?'
'What of the camp?' demanded Conan. 'Are the guards out?'
'Five hundred horsemen patrol the stream, your Majesty,' answered the
general. 'The Nemedians have not offered to move against us in the
night. They wait for dawn, even as we.'
'By Crom,' muttered Conan. 'I awoke with a feeling that doom was
creeping on me in the night.'
He stared up at the great golden lamp which shed a soft glow over the
velvet hangings and carpets of the great tent. They were alone; not even
a slave or a page slept on the carpeted floor; but Conan's eyes blazed
as they were wont to blaze in the teeth of great peril, and the sword
quivered in his hand. Pallantides watched him uneasily. Conan seemed to
be listening.
'Listen!' hissed the king. 'Did you hear it? A furtive step!'
'Seven knights guard your tent, your Majesty,' said Pallantides. 'None
could approach it unchallenged.'
'Not outside,' growled Conan. 'It seemed to sound inside the tent.'
Pallantides cast a swift, startled look around. The velvet hangings
merged with shadows in the corners, but if there had been anyone in the
pavilion besides themselves, the general would have seen him. Again he
shook his head.
'There is no one here, sire. You sleep in the midst of your host.'
'I have seen death strike a king in the midst of thousands,' muttered
Conan. 'Something that walks on invisible feet and is not seen—'
'Perhaps you were dreaming, your Majesty,' said Pallantides, somewhat
perturbed.
'So I was,' grunted Conan. 'A devilish dream it was, too. I trod again
all the long, weary roads I traveled on my way to the kingship.'
He fell silent, and Pallantides stared at him unspeaking. The king was
an enigma to the general, as to most of his civilized subjects.
Pallantides knew that Conan had walked many strange roads in his wild,
eventful life, and had been many things before a twist of Fate set him
on the throne of Aquilonia.
'I saw again the battlefield whereon I was born,' said Conan, resting
his chin moodily on a massive fist. 'I saw myself in a pantherskin
loin-cloth, throwing my spear at the mountain beasts. I was a mercenary
swordsman again, a hetman of the kozaki who dwell along the Zaporoska
River, a corsair looting the coasts of Kush, a pirate of the Barachan
Isles, a chief of the Himelian hillmen. All these things I've been, and
of all these things I dreamed; all the shapes that have been I passed
like an endless procession, and their feet beat out a dirge in the
sounding dust.
'But throughout my dreams moved strange, veiled figures and ghostly
shadows, and a faraway voice mocked me. And toward the last I seemed to
see myself lying on this dais in my tent, and a shape bent over me,
robed and hooded. I lay unable to move, and then the hood fell away and
a moldering skull grinned down at me. Then it was that I awoke.'
'This is an evil dream, your Majesty,' said Pallantides, suppressing a
shudder. 'But no more.'
Conan shook his head, more in doubt than in denial. He came of a
barbaric race, and the superstitions and instincts of his heritage
lurked close beneath the surface of his consciousness.
'I've dreamed many evil dreams,' he said, 'and most of them were
meaningless. But by Crom, this was not like most dreams! I wish this
battle were fought and won, for I've had a grisly premonition ever since
King Nimed died in the black plague. Why did it cease when he died?'
'Men say he sinned—'
'Men are fools, as always,' grunted Conan. 'If the plague struck all who
sinned, then by Crom there wouldn't be enough left to count the living!
Why should the gods—who the priests tell me are just—slay five hundred
peasants and merchants and nobles before they slew the king, if the
whole pestilence were aimed at him? Were the gods smiting blindly, like
swordsmen in a fog? By Mitra, if I aimed my strokes no straighter,
Aquilonia would have had a new king long ago.
'No! The black plague's no common pestilence. It lurks in Stygian
tombs, and is called forth into being only by wizards. I was a swordsman
in Prince Almuric's army that invaded Stygia, and of his thirty
thousand, fifteen thousand perished by Stygian arrows, and the rest by
the black plague that rolled on us like a wind out of the south. I was
the only man who lived.'
'Yet only five hundred died in Nemedia,' argued Pallantides.
'Whoever called it into being knew how to cut it short at will,'
answered Conan. 'So I know there was something planned and diabolical
about it. Someone called it forth, someone banished it when the work was
completed—when Tarascus was safe on the throne and being hailed as the
deliverer of the people from the wrath of the gods. By Crom, I sense a
black, subtle brain behind all this. What of this stranger who men say
gives counsel to Tarascus?'
'He wears a veil,' answered Pallantides; 'they say he is a foreigner; a
stranger from Stygia.'
'A stranger from Stygia!' repeated Conan scowling. 'A stranger from
hell, more like!—Ha! What is that?'
'The trumpets of the Nemedians!' exclaimed Pallantides. 'And hark, how
our own blare upon their heels! Dawn is breaking, and the captains are
marshaling the hosts for the onset! Mitra be with them, for many will
not see the sun go down behind the crags.'
'Send my squires to me!' exclaimed Conan, rising with alacrity and
casting off his velvet night-garment; he seemed to have forgotten his
forebodings at the prospect of action. 'Go to the captains and see that
all is in readiness. I will be with you as soon as I don my armor.'
Many of Conan's ways were inexplicable to the civilized people he ruled,
and one of them was his insistence on sleeping alone in his chamber or
tent. Pallantides hastened from the pavilion, clanking in the armor he
had donned at midnight after a few hours' sleep. He cast a swift glance
over the camp, which was beginning to swarm with activity, mail clinking
and men moving about dimly in the uncertain light, among the long lines
of tents. Stars still glimmered palely in the western sky, but long pink
streamers stretched along the eastern horizon, and against them the
dragon banner of Nemedia flung out its billowing silken folds.
Pallantides turned toward a smaller tent near by, where slept the royal
squires. These were tumbling out already, roused by the trumpets. And as
Pallantides called to them to hasten, he was frozen speechless by a deep
fierce shout and the impact of a heavy blow inside the king's tent,
followed by the heart-stopping crash of a falling body. There sounded a
low laugh that turned the general's blood to ice.
Echoing the cry, Pallantides wheeled and rushed back into the pavilion.
He cried out again as he saw Conan's powerful frame stretched out on
the carpet. The king's great two-handed sword lay near his hand, and a
shattered tent-pole seemed to show where his stroke had fallen.
Pallantides' sword was out, and he glared about the tent, but nothing
met his gaze. Save for the king and himself it was empty, as it had been
when he left it.
'Your Majesty!' Pallantides threw himself on his knee beside the fallen
giant.
Conan's eyes were open; they blazed up at him with full intelligence and
recognition. His lips writhed, but no sound came forth. He seemed unable
to move.
Voices sounded without. Pallantides rose swiftly and stepped to the
door. The royal squires and one of the knights who guarded the tent
stood there.
'We heard a sound within,' said the knight apologetically. 'Is all well
with the king?'
Pallantides regarded him searchingly.
'None has entered or left the pavilion this night?'
'None save yourself, my lord,' answered the knight, and Pallantides
could not doubt his honesty.
'The king stumbled and dropped his sword,' said Pallantides briefly.
'Return to your post.'
As the knight turned away, the general covertly motioned to the five
royal squires, and when they had followed him in, he drew the flap
closely. They turned pale at the sight of the king stretched upon the
carpet, but Pallantides' quick gesture checked their exclamations.
The general bent over him again, and again Conan made an effort to
speak. The veins in his temples and the cords in his neck swelled with
his efforts, and he lifted his head clear of the ground. Voice came at
last, mumbling and half intelligible.
'The thing—the thing in the corner!'
Pallantides lifted his head and looked fearfully about him. He saw the
pale faces of the squires in the lamplight, the velvet shadows that
lurked along the walls of the pavilion. That was all.
'There is nothing here, your Majesty,' he said.
'It was there, in the corner,' muttered the king, tossing his lion-maned
head from side to side in his efforts to rise. 'A man—at least he
looked like a man—wrapped in rags like a mummy's bandages, with a
moldering cloak drawn about him, and a hood. All I could see was his
eyes, as he crouched there in the shadows. I thought he was a shadow
himself, until I saw his eyes. They were like black jewels.
'I made at him and swung my sword, but I missed him clean—how, Crom
knows—and splintered that pole instead. He caught my wrist as I
staggered off balance, and his fingers burned like hot iron. All the
strength went out of me, and the floor rose and struck me like a club.
Then he was gone, and I was down, and—curse him!—I can't move! I'm
paralysed!'
Pallantides lifted the giant's hand, and his flesh crawled. On the
king's wrist showed the blue marks of long, lean fingers. What hand
could grip so hard as to leave its print on that thick wrist?
Pallantides remembered that low laugh he had heard as he rushed into the
tent, and cold perspiration beaded his skin. It had not been Conan who
laughed.
'This is a thing diabolical!' whispered a trembling squire. 'Men say the
children of darkness war for Tarascus!'
'Be silent!' ordered Pallantides sternly.
Outside, the dawn was dimming the stars. A light wind sprang up from the
peaks, and brought the fanfare of a thousand trumpets. At the sound a
convulsive shudder ran through the king's mighty form. Again the veins
in his temples knotted as he strove to break the invisible shackles
which crushed him down.
'Put my harness on me and tie me into my saddle,' he whispered. 'I'll
lead the charge yet!'
Pallantides shook his head, and a squire plucked his skirt.
'My lord, we are lost if the host learns the king has been smitten! Only
he could have led us to victory this day.'
'Help me lift him on the dais,' answered the general.
They obeyed, and laid the helpless giant on the furs, and spread a
silken cloak over him. Pallantides turned to the five squires and
searched their pale faces long before he spoke.
'Our lips must be sealed for ever as to what happens in this tent,' he
said at last. 'The kingdom of Aquilonia depends upon it. One of you go
and fetch me the officer Valannus, who is a captain of the Pellian
spearmen.'
The squire indicated bowed and hastened from the tent, and Pallantides
stood staring down at the stricken king, while outside trumpets blared,
drums thundered, and the roar of the multitudes rose in the growing
dawn. Presently the squire returned with the officer Pallantides had
named—a tall man, broad and powerful, built much like the king. Like
him, also, he had thick black hair. But his eyes were gray and he did
not resemble Conan in his features.
'The king is stricken by a strange malady,' said Pallantides briefly. 'A
great honor is yours; you are to wear his armor and ride at the head of
the host today. None must know that it is not the king who rides.'
'It is an honor for which a man might gladly give up his life,'
stammered the captain, overcome by the suggestion. 'Mitra grant that I
do not fail of this mighty trust!'
And while the fallen king stared with burning eyes that reflected the
bitter rage and humiliation that ate his heart, the squires stripped
Valannus of mail shirt, burganet and leg-pieces, and clad him in Conan's
armor of black plate-mail, with the vizored salade, and the dark plumes
nodding over the wyvern crest. Over all they put the silken surcoat with
the royal lion worked in gold upon the breast, and they girt him with a
broad gold-buckled belt which supported a jewel-hilted broadsword in a
cloth-of-gold scabbard. While they worked, trumpets clamored outside,
arms clanged, and across the river rose a deep-throated roar as squadron
after squadron swung into place.
Full-armed, Valannus dropped to his knee and bent his plumes before the
figure that lay on the dais.
'Lord king, Mitra grant that I do not dishonor the harness I wear this
day!'
'Bring me Tarascus' head and I'll make you a baron!' In the stress of
his anguish Conan's veneer of civilization had fallen from him. His eyes
flamed, he ground his teeth in fury and blood-lust, as barbaric as any
tribesmen in the Cimmerian hills.
3
The Cliffs Reel
The Aquilonian host was drawn up, long serried lines of pikemen and
horsemen in gleaming steel, when a giant figure in black armor emerged
from the royal pavilion, and as he swung up into the saddle of the black
stallion held by four squires, a roar that shook the mountains went up
from the host. They shook their blades and thundered forth their acclaim
of their warrior king—knights in gold-chased armor, pikemen in mail
coats and basinets, archers in their leather jerkins, with their
longbows in their left hand.
The host on the opposite side of the valley was in motion, trotting down
the long gentle slope toward the river; their steel shone through the
mists of morning that swirled about their horses' feet.
The Aquilonian host moved leisurely to meet them. The measured tramp of
the armored horses made the ground tremble. Banners flung out long
silken folds in the morning wind; lances swayed like a bristling forest,
dipped and sank, their pennons fluttering about them.
Ten men-at-arms, grim, taciturn veterans who could hold their tongues,
guarded the royal pavilion. One squire stood in the tent, peering out
through a slit in the doorway. But for the handful in the secret, no one
else in the vast host knew that it was not Conan who rode on the great
stallion at the head of the army.
The Aquilonian host had assumed the customary formation: the strongest
part was the center, composed entirely of heavily armed knights; the
wings were made up of smaller bodies of horsemen, mounted men-at-arms,
mostly, supported by pikemen and archers. The latter were Bossonians
from the western marches, strongly built men of medium stature, in
leathern jackets and iron head-pieces.
The Nemedian army came on in similar formation, and the two hosts moved
toward the river, the wings in advance of the centers. In the center of
the Aquilonian host the great lion banner streamed its billowing black
folds over the steel-clad figure on the black stallion.
But on his dais in the royal pavilion Conan groaned in anguish of
spirit, and cursed with strange heathen oaths.
'The hosts move together,' quoth the squire, watching from the door.
'Hear the trumpets peal! Ha! The rising sun strikes fire from
lance-heads and helmets until I am dazzled. It turns the river
crimson—aye, it will be truly crimson before this day is done!
'The foe have reached the river. Now arrows fly between the hosts like
stinging clouds that hide the sun. Ha! Well loosed, bowmen! The
Bossonians have the better of it! Hark to them shout!'
Faintly in the ears of the king, above the din of trumpets and clanging
steel, came the deep fierce shout of the Bossonians as they drew and
loosed in perfect unison.
'Their archers seek to hold ours in play while their knights ride into
the river,' said the squire. 'The banks are not steep; they slope to the
water's edge. The knights come on, they crash through the willows. By
Mitra, the clothyard shafts find every crevice of their harness! Horses
and men go down, struggling and thrashing in the water. It is not deep,
nor is the current swift, but men are drowning there, dragged under by
their armor, and trampled by the frantic horses. Now the knights of
Aquilonia advance. They ride into the water and engage the knights of
Nemedia. The water swirls about their horses' bellies and the clang of
sword against sword is deafening.'
'Crom!' burst in agony from Conan's lips. Life was coursing sluggishly
back into his veins, but still he could not lift his mighty frame from
the dais.
'The wings close in,' said the squire. 'Pikemen and swordsmen fight hand
to hand in the stream, and behind them the bowmen ply their shafts.
'By Mitra, the Nemedian arbalesters are sorely harried, and the
Bossonians arch their arrows to drop amid the rear ranks. Their center
gains not a foot, and their wings are pushed back up from the stream
again.'
'Crom, Ymir, and Mitra!' raged Conan. 'Gods and devils, could I but
reach the fighting, if but to die at the first blow!'
Outside through the long hot day the battle stormed and thundered. The
valley shook to charge and counter-charge, to the whistling of shafts,
and the crash of rending shields and splintering lances. But the hosts
of Aquilonia held fast. Once they were forced back from the bank, but a
counter-charge, with the black banner flowing over the black stallion,
regained the lost ground. And like an iron rampart they held the right
bank of the stream, and at last the squire gave Conan the news that the
Nemedians were falling back from the river.
'Their wings are in confusion!' he cried. 'Their knights reel back from
the sword-play. But what is this? Your banner is in motion—the center
sweeps into the stream! By Mitra, Valannus is leading the host across
the river!'
'Fool!' groaned Conan. 'It may be a trick. He should hold his position;
by dawn Prospero will be here with the Poitanian levies.'
'The knights ride into a hail of arrows!' cried the squire. 'But they do
not falter! They sweep on—they have crossed! They charge up the slope!
Pallantides has hurled the wings across the river to their support! It
is all he can do. The lion banner dips and staggers above the m�l�e.
'The knights of Nemedia make a stand. They are broken! They fall back!
Their left wing is in full flight, and our pikemen cut them down as they
run! I see Valannus, riding and smiting like a madman. He is carried
beyond himself by the fighting-lust. Men no longer look to Pallantides.
They follow Valannus, deeming him Conan as he rides with closed vizor.
'But look! There is method in his madness! He swings wide of the
Nemedian front, with five thousand knights, the pick of the army. The
main host of the Nemedians is in confusion—and look! Their flank is
protected by the cliffs, but there is a defile left unguarded! It is
like a great cleft in the wall that opens again behind the Nemedian
lines. By Mitra, Valannus sees and seizes the opportunity! He has driven
their wing before him, and he leads his knights toward that defile. They
swing wide of the main battle; they cut through a line of spearmen, they
charge into the defile!'
'An ambush!' cried Conan, striving to struggle upright.
'No!' shouted the squire exultantly. 'The whole Nemedian host is in
full sight! They have forgotten the defile! They never expected to be
pushed back that far. Oh, fool, fool, Tarascus, to make such a blunder!
Ah, I see lances and pennons pouring from the farther mouth of the
defile, beyond the Nemedian lines. They will smite those ranks from the
rear and crumple them. Mitra, what is this?'
He staggered as the walls of the tent swayed drunkenly. Afar over the
thunder of the fight rose a deep bellowing roar, indescribably ominous.
'The cliffs reel!' shrieked the squire. 'Ah, gods, what is this? The
river foams out of its channel, and the peaks are crumbling! The ground
shakes and horses and riders in armor are overthrown! The cliffs! The
cliffs are falling!'
With his words there came a grinding rumble and a thunderous concussion,
and the ground trembled. Over the roar of the battle sounded screams of
mad terror.
'The cliffs have crumbled!' cried the livid squire. 'They have thundered
down into the defile and crushed every living creature in it! I saw the
lion banner wave an instant amid the dust and falling stones, and then
it vanished! Ha, the Nemedians shout with triumph! Well may they shout,
for the fall of the cliffs has wiped out five thousand of our bravest
knights—Hark!'
To Conan's ears came a vast torrent of sound, rising and rising in
frenzy: 'The king is dead! The king is dead! Flee! Flee! The king is
dead!'
'Liars!' panted Conan. 'Dogs! Knaves! Cowards! Oh, Crom, if I could but
stand—but crawl to the river with my sword in my teeth! How, boy, do
they flee?'
'Aye!' sobbed the squire. 'They spur for the river; they are broken,
hurled on like spume before a storm. I see Pallantides striving to stem
the torrent—he is down, and the horses trample him! They rush into the
river, knights, bowmen, pikemen, all mixed and mingled in one mad
torrent of destruction. The Nemedians are on their heels, cutting them
down like corn.'
'But they will make a stand on this side of the river!' cried the king.
With an effort that brought the sweat dripping from his temples, he
heaved himself up on his elbows.
'Nay!' cried the squire. 'They cannot! They are broken! Routed! Oh gods,
that I should live to see this day!'
Then he remembered his duty and shouted to the men-at-arms who stood
stolidly watching the flight of their comrades. 'Get a horse, swiftly,
and help me lift the king upon it. We dare not bide here.'
But before they could do his bidding, the first drift of the storm was
upon them. Knights and spearmen and archers fled among the tents,
stumbling over ropes and baggage, and mingled with them were Nemedian
riders, who smote right and left at all alien figures. Tent-ropes were
cut, fire sprang up in a hundred places, and the plundering had already
begun. The grim guardsmen about Conan's tent died where they stood,
smiting and thrusting, and over their mangled corpses beat the hoofs of
the conquerors.
But the squire had drawn the flap close, and in the confused madness of
the slaughter none realized that the pavilion held an occupant. So the
flight and the pursuit swept past, and roared away up the valley, and
the squire looked out presently to see a cluster of men approaching the
royal tent with evident purpose.
'Here comes the king of Nemedia with four companions and his squire,'
quoth he. 'He will accept your surrender, my fair lord—'
'Surrender the devil's heart!' gritted the king.
He had forced himself up to a sitting posture. He swung his legs
painfully off the dais, and staggered upright, reeling drunkenly. The
squire ran to assist him, but Conan pushed him away.
'Give me that bow!' he gritted, indicating a longbow and quiver that
hung from a tent-pole.
'But your Majesty!' cried the squire in great perturbation. 'The battle
is lost! It were the part of majesty to yield with the dignity becoming
one of royal blood!'
'I have no royal blood,' ground Conan. 'I am a barbarian and the son of
a blacksmith.'
Wrenching away the bow and an arrow he staggered toward the opening of
the pavilion. So formidable was his appearance, naked but for short
leather breeks and sleeveless shirt, open to reveal his great, hairy
chest, with his huge limbs and his blue eyes blazing under his tangled
black mane, that the squire shrank back, more afraid of his king than of
the whole Nemedian host.
Reeling on wide-braced legs Conan drunkenly tore the door-flap open and
staggered out under the canopy. The king of Nemedia and his companions
had dismounted, and they halted short, staring in wonder at the
apparition confronting them.
'Here I am, you jackals!' roared the Cimmerian. 'I am the king! Death to
you, dog-brothers!'
He jerked the arrow to its head and loosed, and the shaft feathered
itself in the breast of the knight who stood beside Tarascus. Conan
hurled the bow at the king of Nemedia.
'Curse my shaky hand! Come in and take me if you dare!'
Reeling backward on unsteady legs, he fell with his shoulders against a
tent-pole, and propped upright, he lifted his great sword with both
hands.
'By Mitra, it is the king!' swore Tarascus. He cast a swift look about
him, and laughed. 'That other was a jackal in his harness! In, dogs, and
take his head!'
The three soldiers—men-at-arms wearing the emblem of the royal
guards—rushed at the king, and one felled the squire with a blow of a
mace. The other two fared less well. As the first rushed in, lifting his
sword, Conan met him with a sweeping stroke that severed mail-links like
cloth, and sheared the Nemedian's arm and shoulder clean from his body.
His corpse, pitching backward, fell across his companion's legs. The man
stumbled, and before he could recover, the great sword was through him.
Conan wrenched out his steel with a racking gasp, and staggered back
against the tent-pole. His great limbs trembled, his chest heaved, and
sweat poured down his face and neck. But his eyes flamed with exultant
savagery and he panted: 'Why do you stand afar off, dog of Belverus? I
can't reach you; come in and die!'
Tarascus hesitated, glanced at the remaining man-at-arms, and his
squire, a gaunt, saturnine man in black mail, and took a step forward.
He was far inferior in size and strength to the giant Cimmerian, but he
was in full armor, and was famed in all the western nations as a
swordsman. But his squire caught his arm.
'Nay, your Majesty, do not throw away your life. I will summon archers
to shoot this barbarian, as we shoot lions.'
Neither of them had noticed that a chariot had approached while the
fight was going on, and now came to a halt before them. But Conan saw,
looking over their shoulders, and a queer chill sensation crawled along
his spine. There was something vaguely unnatural about the appearance of
the black horses that drew the vehicle, but it was the occupant of the
chariot that arrested the king's attention.
He was a tall man, superbly built, clad in a long unadorned silk robe.
He wore a Shemitish head-dress, and its lower folds hid his features,
except for the dark, magnetic eyes. The hands that grasped the reins,
pulling the rearing horses back on their haunches, were white but
strong. Conan glared at the stranger, all his primitive instincts
roused. He sensed an aura of menace and power that exuded from this
veiled figure, a menace as definite as the windless waving of tall grass
that marks the path of the serpent.
'Hail, Xaltotun!' exclaimed Tarascus. 'Here is the king of Aquilonia! He
did not die in the landslide as we thought.'
'I know,' answered the other, without bothering to say how he knew.
'What is your present intention?'
'I will summon the archers to slay him,' answered the Nemedian. 'As long
as he lives he will be dangerous to us.'
'Yet even a dog has uses,' answered Xaltotun. 'Take him alive.'
Conan laughed raspingly. 'Come in and try!' he challenged. 'But for my
treacherous legs I'd hew you out of that chariot like a woodman hewing a
tree. But you'll never take me alive, damn you!'
'He speaks the truth, I fear,' said Tarascus. 'The man is a barbarian,
with the senseless ferocity of a wounded tiger. Let me summon the
archers.'
'Watch me and learn wisdom,' advised Xaltotun.
His hand dipped into his robe and came out with something shining—a
glistening sphere. This he threw suddenly at Conan. The Cimmerian
contemptuously struck it aside with his sword—at the instant of contact
there was a sharp explosion, a flare of white, blinding flame, and Conan
pitched senseless to the ground.
'He is dead?' Tarascus' tone was more assertion than inquiry.
'No. He is but senseless. He will recover his senses in a few hours. Bid
your men bind his arms and legs and lift him into my chariot.'
With a gesture Tarascus did so, and they heaved the senseless king into
the chariot, grunting with their burden. Xaltotun threw a velvet cloak
over his body, completely covering him from any who might peer in. He
gathered the reins in his hands.
'I'm for Belverus,' he said. 'Tell Amalric that I will be with him if he
needs me. But with Conan out of the way, and his army broken, lance and
sword should suffice for the rest of the conquest. Prospero cannot be
bringing more than ten thousand men to the field, and will doubtless
fall back to Tarantia when he hears the news of the battle. Say nothing
to Amalric or Valerius or anyone about our capture. Let them think Conan
died in the fall of the cliffs.'
He looked at the man-at-arms for a long space, until the guardsman moved
restlessly, nervous under the scrutiny.
'What is that about your waist?' Xaltotun demanded.
'Why, my girdle, may it please you, my lord!' stuttered the amazed
guardsman.
'You lie!' Xaltotun's laugh was merciless as a sword-edge. 'It is a
poisonous serpent! What a fool you are, to wear a reptile about your
waist!'
With distended eyes the man looked down; and to his utter horror he saw
the buckle of his girdle rear up at him. It was a snake's head! He saw
the evil eyes and the dripping fangs, heard the hiss and felt the
loathsome contact of the thing about his body. He screamed hideously and
struck at it with his naked hand, felt its fangs flesh themselves in
that hand—and then he stiffened and fell heavily. Tarascus looked down
at him without expression. He saw only the leathern girdle and the
buckle, the pointed tongue of which was stuck in the guardsman's palm.
Xaltotun turned his hypnotic gaze on Tarascus' squire, and the man
turned ashen and began to tremble, but the king interposed: 'Nay, we can
trust him.'
The sorcerer tautened the reins and swung the horses around.
'See that this piece of work remains secret. If I am needed, let Altaro,
Orastes' servant, summon me as I have taught him. I will be in your
palace at Belverus.'
Tarascus lifted his hand in salutation, but his expression was not
pleasant to see as he looked after the departing mesmerist.
'Why should he spare the Cimmerian?' whispered the frightened squire.
'That I am wondering myself,' grunted Tarascus.
Behind the rumbling chariot the dull roar of battle and pursuit faded in
the distance; the setting sun rimmed the cliffs with scarlet flame, and
the chariot moved into the vast blue shadows floating up out of the
east.
4
'From What Hell Have You Crawled?'
Of that long ride in the chariot of Xaltotun, Conan knew nothing. He lay
like a dead man while the bronze wheels clashed over the stones of
mountain roads and swished through the deep grass of fertile valleys,
and finally dropping down from the rugged heights, rumbled rhythmically
along the broad white road that winds through the rich meadowlands to
the walls of Belverus.
Just before dawn some faint reviving of life touched him. He heard a
mumble of voices, the groan of ponderous hinges. Through a slit in the
cloak that covered him he saw, faintly in the lurid glare of torches,
the great black arch of a gateway, and the bearded faces of men-at-arms,
the torches striking fire from their spearheads and helmets.
'How went the battle, my fair lord?' spoke an eager voice, in the
Nemedian tongue.
'Well indeed,' was the curt reply. 'The king of Aquilonia lies slain and
his host is broken.'
A babble of excited voices rose, drowned the next instant by the
whirling wheels of the chariot on the flags. Sparks flashed from under
the revolving rims as Xaltotun lashed his steeds through the arch. But
Conan heard one of the guardsmen mutter: 'From beyond the border to
Belverus between sunset and dawn! And the horses scarcely sweating! By
Mitra, they—' Then silence drank the voices, and there was only the
clatter of hoofs and wheels along the shadowy street.
What he had heard registered itself on Conan's brain but suggested
nothing to him. He was like a mindless automaton that hears and sees,
but does not understand. Sights and sounds flowed meaninglessly about
him. He lapsed again into a deep lethargy, and was only dimly aware
when the chariot halted in a deep, high-walled court, and he was lifted
from it by many hands and borne up a winding stone stair, and down a
long dim corridor. Whispers, stealthy footsteps, unrelated sounds surged
or rustled about him, irrelevant and far away.
Yet his ultimate awakening was abrupt and crystal-clear. He possessed
full knowledge of the battle in the mountains and its sequences, and he
had a good idea of where he was.
He lay on a velvet couch, clad as he was the day before, but with his
limbs loaded with chains not even he could break. The room in which he
lay was furnished with somber magnificence, the walls covered with black
velvet tapestries, the floor with heavy purple carpets. There was no
sign of door or window, and one curiously carven gold lamp, swinging
from the fretted ceiling, shed a lurid light over all.
In that light the figure seated in a silver, throne-like chair before
him seemed unreal and fantastic, with an illusiveness of outline that
was heightened by a filmy silken robe. But the features were
distinct—unnaturally so in that uncertain light. It was almost as if a
weird nimbus played about the man's head, casting the bearded face into
bold relief, so that it was the only definite and distinct reality in
that mystic, ghostly chamber.
It was a magnificent face, with strongly chiseled features of classical
beauty. There was, indeed, something disquieting about the calm
tranquility of its aspect, a suggestion of more than human knowledge, of
a profound certitude beyond human assurance. Also an uneasy sensation of
familiarity twitched at the back of Conan's consciousness. He had never
seen this man's face before, he well knew; yet those features reminded
him of something or someone. It was like encountering in the flesh some
dream-image that had haunted one in nightmares.
'Who are you?' demanded the king belligerently, struggling to a sitting
position in spite of his chains.
'Men call me Xaltotun,' was the reply, in a strong, golden voice.
'What place is this?' the Cimmerian next demanded.
'A chamber in the palace of King Tarascus, in Belverus.'
Conan was not surprised. Belverus, the capital, was at the same time the
largest Nemedian city so near the border.
'And where's Tarascus?'
'With the army.'
'Well,' growled Conan, 'if you mean to murder me, why don't you do it
and get it over with?'
'I did not save you from the king's archers to murder you in Belverus,'
answered Xaltotun.
'What the devil did you do to me?' demanded Conan.
'I blasted your consciousness,' answered Xaltotun. 'How, you would not
understand. Call it black magic, if you will.'
Conan had already reached that conclusion, and was mulling over
something else.
'I think I understand why you spared my life,' he rumbled. 'Amalric
wants to keep me as a check on Valerius, in case the impossible happens
and he becomes king of Aquilonia. It's well known that the baron of Tor
is behind this move to seat Valerius on my throne. And if I know
Amalric, he doesn't intend that Valerius shall be anything more than a
figurehead, as Tarascus is now.'
'Amalric knows nothing of your capture,' answered Xaltotun. 'Neither
does Valerius. Both think you died at Valkia.'
Conan's eyes narrowed as he stared at the man in silence.
'I sensed a brain behind all this,' he muttered, 'but I thought it was
Amalric's. Are Amalric, Tarascus and Valerius all but puppets dancing on
your string? Who are you?'
'What does it matter? If I told you, you would not believe me. What if I
told you I might set you back on the throne of Aquilonia?'
Conan's eyes burned on him like a wolf.
'What's your price?'
'Obedience to me.'
'Go to hell with your offer!' snarled Conan. 'I'm no figurehead. I won
my crown with my sword. Besides, it's beyond your power to buy and sell
the throne of Aquilonia at your will. The kingdom's not conquered; one
battle doesn't decide a war.'
'You war against more than swords,' answered Xaltotun. 'Was it a
mortal's sword that felled you in your tent before the fight? Nay, it
was a child of the dark, a waif of outer space, whose fingers were afire
with the frozen coldness of the black gulfs, which froze the blood in
your veins and the marrow of your thews. Coldness so cold it burned your
flesh like white-hot iron!
'Was it chance that led the man who wore your harness to lead his
knights into the defile?—chance that brought the cliffs crashing down
upon them?'
Conan glared at him unspeaking, feeling a chill along his spine. Wizards
and sorcerers abounded in his barbaric mythology, and any fool could
tell that this was no common man. Conan sensed an inexplicable something
about him that set him apart—an alien aura of Time and Space, a sense
of tremendous and sinister antiquity. But his stubborn spirit refused to
flinch.
'The fall of the cliffs was chance,' he muttered truculently. 'The
charge into the defile was what any man would have done.'
'Not so. You would not have led a charge into it. You would have
suspected a trap. You would never have crossed the river in the first
place, until you were sure the Nemedian rout was real. Hypnotic
suggestions would not have invaded your mind, even in the madness of
battle, to make you mad, and rush blindly into the trap laid for you, as
it did the lesser man who masqueraded as you.'
'Then if this was all planned,' Conan grunted skeptically, 'all a plot
to trap my host, why did not the "child of darkness" kill me in my
tent?'
'Because I wished to take you alive. It took no wizardry to predict that
Pallantides would send another man out in your harness. I wanted you
alive and unhurt. You may fit into my scheme of things. There is a vital
power about you greater than the craft and cunning of my allies. You are
a bad enemy, but might make a fine vassal.'
Conan spat savagely at the word, and Xaltotun, ignoring his fury, took a
crystal globe from a near-by table and placed it before him. He did not
support it in any way, nor place it on anything, but it hung motionless
in midair, as solidly as if it rested on an iron pedestal. Conan snorted
at this bit of necromancy, but he was nevertheless impressed.
'Would you know of what goes on in Aquilonia?' he asked.
Conan did not reply, but the sudden rigidity of his form betrayed his
interest.
Xaltotun stared into the cloudy depths, and spoke: 'It is now the
evening of the day after the battle of Valkia. Last night the main body
of the army camped by Valkia, while squadrons of knights harried the
fleeing Aquilonians. At dawn the host broke camp and pushed westward
through the mountains. Prospero, with ten thousand Poitanians, was miles
from the battlefield when he met the fleeing survivors in the early
dawn. He had pushed on all night, hoping to reach the field before the
battle joined. Unable to rally the remnants of the broken host, he fell
back toward Tarantia. Riding hard, replacing his wearied horses with
steeds seized from the countryside, he approaches Tarantia.
'I see his weary knights, their armor gray with dust, their pennons
drooping as they push their tired horses through the plain. I see, also,
the streets of Tarantia. The city is in turmoil. Somehow word has
reached the people of the defeat and the death of King Conan. The mob is
mad with fear, crying out that the king is dead, and there is none to
lead them against the Nemedians. Giant shadows rush on Aquilonia from
the east, and the sky is black with vultures.'
Conan cursed deeply.
'What are these but words? The raggedest beggar in the street might
prophesy as much. If you say you saw all that in the glass ball, then
you're a liar as well as a knave, of which last there's no doubt!
Prospero will hold Tarantia, and the barons will rally to him. Count
Trocero of Poitain commands the kingdom in my absence, and he'll drive
these Nemedian dogs howling back to their kennels. What are fifty
thousand Nemedians? Aquilonia will swallow them up. They'll never see
Belverus again. It's not Aquilonia which was conquered at Valkia; it was
only Conan.'
'Aquilonia is doomed,' answered Xaltotun, unmoved. 'Lance and ax and
torch shall conquer her; or if they fail, powers from the dark of ages
shall march against her. As the cliffs fell at Valkia, so shall walled
cities and mountains fall, if the need arise, and rivers roar from their
channels to drown whole provinces.
'Better if steel and bowstring prevail without further aid from the
arts, for the constant use of mighty spells sometimes sets forces in
motion that might rock the universe.'
'From what hell have you crawled, you nighted dog?' muttered Conan,
staring at the man. The Cimmerian involuntarily shivered; he sensed
something incredibly ancient, incredibly evil.
Xaltotun lifted his head, as if listening to whispers across the void.
He seemed to have forgotten his prisoner. Then he shook his head
impatiently, and glanced impersonally at Conan.
'What? Why, if I told you, you would not believe me. But I am wearied of
conversation with you; it is less fatiguing to destroy a walled city
than it is to frame my thoughts in words a brainless barbarian can
understand.'
'If my hands were free,' opined Conan, 'I'd soon make a brainless corpse
out of you.'
'I do not doubt it, if I were fool enough to give you the opportunity,'
answered Xaltotun, clapping his hands.
His manner had changed; there was impatience in his tone, and a certain
nervousness in his manner, though Conan did not think this attitude was
in any way connected with himself.
'Consider what I have told you, barbarian,' said Xaltotun. 'You will
have plenty of leisure. I have not yet decided what I shall do with you.
It depends on circumstances yet unborn. But let this be impressed upon
you: that if I decide to use you in my game, it will be better to submit
without resistance than to suffer my wrath.'
Conan spat a curse at him, just as hangings that masked a door swung
apart and four giant negroes entered. Each was clad only in a silken
breech-cloth supported by a girdle, from which hung a great key.
Xaltotun gestured impatiently toward the king and turned away, as if
dismissing the matter entirely from his mind. His fingers twitched
queerly. From a carven green jade box he took a handful of shimmering
black dust, and placed it in a brazier which stood on a golden tripod at
his elbow. The crystal globe, which he seemed to have forgotten, fell
suddenly to the floor, as if its invisible support had been removed.
Then the blacks had lifted Conan—for so loaded with chains was he that
he could not walk—and carried him from the chamber. A glance back,
before the heavy, gold-bound teak door was closed, showed him Xaltotun
leaning back in his throne-like chair, his arms folded, while a thin
wisp of smoke curled up from the brazier. Conan's scalp prickled. In
Stygia, that ancient and evil kingdom that lay far to the south, he had
seen such black dust before. It was the pollen of the black lotus, which
creates death-like sleep and monstrous dreams; and he knew that only the
grisly wizards of the Black Ring, which is the nadir of evil,
voluntarily seek the scarlet nightmares of the black lotus, to revive
their necromantic powers.
The Black Ring was a fable and a lie to most folk of the western world,
but Conan knew of its ghastly reality, and its grim votaries who
practise their abominable sorceries amid the black vaults of Stygia and
the nighted domes of accursed Sabatea.
He glanced back at the cryptic, gold-bound door, shuddering at what it
hid.
Whether it was day or night the king could not tell. The palace of King
Tarascus seemed a shadowy, nighted place, that shunned natural
illumination. The spirit of darkness and shadow hovered over it, and
that spirit, Conan felt, was embodied in the stranger Xaltotun. The
negroes carried the king along a winding corridor so dimly lighted that
they moved through it like black ghosts bearing a dead man, and down a
stone stair that wound endlessly. A torch in the hand of one cast the
great deformed shadows streaming along the wall; it was like the descent
into hell of a corpse borne by dusky demons.
At last they reached the foot of the stair, and then they traversed a
long straight corridor, with a blank wall on one hand pierced by an
occasional arched doorway with a stair leading up behind it, and on the
other hand another wall showing heavy barred doors at regular intervals
of a few feet.
Halting before one of these doors, one of the blacks produced the key
that hung at his girdle, and turned it in the lock. Then, pushing open
the grille, they entered with their captive. They were in a small
dungeon with heavy stone walls, floor and ceiling, and in the opposite
wall there was another grilled door. What lay beyond that door Conan
could not tell, but he did not believe it was another corridor. The
glimmering light of the torch, flickering through the bars, hinted at
shadowy spaciousness and echoing depths.
In one corner of the dungeon, near the door through which they had
entered, a cluster of rusty chains hung from a great iron ring set in
the stone. In these chains a skeleton dangled. Conan glared at it with
some curiosity, noticing the state of the bare bones, most of which
were splintered and broken; the skull which had fallen from the
vertebrae, was crushed as if by some savage blow of tremendous force.
Stolidly one of the blacks, not the one who had opened the door, removed
the chains from the ring, using his key on the massive lock, and dragged
the mass of rusty metal and shattered bones over to one side. Then they
fastened Conan's chains to that ring, and the third black turned his key
in the lock of the farther door, grunting when he had assured himself
that it was properly fastened.
Then they regarded Conan cryptically, slit-eyed ebony giants, the torch
striking highlights from their glossy skin.
He who held the key to the nearer door was moved to remark, gutturally:
'This your palace now, white dog-king! None but master and we know. All
palace sleep. We keep secret. You live and die here, maybe. Like him!'
He contemptuously kicked the shattered skull and sent it clattering
across the stone floor.
Conan did not deign to reply to the taunt, and the black, galled perhaps
by his prisoner's silence, muttered a curse, stooped and spat full in
the king's face. It was an unfortunate move for the black. Conan was
seated on the floor, the chains about his waist; ankles and wrists
locked to the ring in the wall. He could neither rise, nor move more
than a yard out from the wall. But there was considerable slack in the
chains that shackled his wrists, and before the bullet-shaped head could
be withdrawn out of reach, the king gathered this slack in his mighty
hand and smote the black on the head. The man fell like a butchered ox,
and his comrades stared to see him lying with his scalp laid open, and
blood oozing from his nose and ears.
But they attempted no reprisal, nor did they accept Conan's urgent
invitation to approach within reach of the bloody chain in his hand.
Presently, grunting in their ape-like speech, they lifted the senseless
black and bore him out like a sack of wheat, arms and legs dangling.
They used his key to lock the door behind them, but did not remove it
from the gold chain that fastened it to his girdle. They took the torch
with them, and as they moved up the corridor the darkness slunk behind
them like an animate thing. Their soft padding footsteps died away, with
the glimmer of their torch, and darkness and silence remained
unchallenged.
5
The Haunter of the Pits
Conan lay still, enduring the weight of his chains and the despair of
his position with the stoicism of the wilds that had bred him. He did
not move, because the jangle of his chains, when he shifted his body,
sounded startlingly loud in the darkness and stillness, and it was his
instinct, born of a thousand wilderness-bred ancestors, not to betray
his position in his helplessness. This did not result from a logical
reasoning process; he did not lie quiet because he reasoned that the
darkness hid lurking dangers that might discover him in his
helplessness. Xaltotun had assured him that he was not to be harmed, and
Conan believed that it was in the man's interest to preserve him, at
least for the time being. But the instincts of the wild were there, that
had caused him in his childhood to lie hidden and silent while wild
beasts prowled about his covert.
Even his keen eyes could not pierce the solid darkness. Yet after a
while, after a period of time he had no way of estimating, a faint glow
became apparent, a sort of slanting gray beam, by which Conan could see,
vaguely, the bars of the door at his elbow, and even make out the
skeleton of the other grille. This puzzled him, until at last he
realized the explanation. He was far below ground, in the pits below the
palace; yet for some reason a shaft had been constructed from somewhere
above. Outside, the moon had risen to a point where its light slanted
dimly down the shaft. He reflected that in this manner he could tell the
passing of the days and nights. Perhaps the sun, too, would shine down
that shaft, though on the other hand it might be closed by day. Perhaps
it was a subtle method of torture, allowing a prisoner but a glimpse of
daylight or moonlight.
His gaze fell on the broken bones in the farther corner, glimmering
dimly. He did not tax his brain with futile speculation as to who the
wretch had been and for what reason he had been doomed, but he wondered
at the shattered condition of the bones. They had not been broken on a
rack. Then, as he looked, another unsavory detail made itself evident.
The shin-bones were split lengthwise, and there was but one explanation;
they had been broken in that manner in order to obtain the marrow. Yet
what creature but man breaks bones for their marrow? Perhaps those
remnants were mute evidence of a horrible, cannibalistic feast, of some
wretch driven to madness by starvation. Conan wondered if his own bones
would be found at some future date, hanging in their rusty chains. He
fought down the unreasoning panic of a trapped wolf.
The Cimmerian did not curse, scream, weep or rave as a civilized man
might have done. But the pain and turmoil in his bosom were none the
less fierce. His great limbs quivered with the intensity of his
emotions. Somewhere, far to the westward, the Nemedian host was slashing
and burning its way through the heart of his kingdom. The small host of
the Poitanians could not stand before them. Prospero might be able to
hold Tarantia for weeks, or months; but eventually, if not relieved, he
must surrender to greater numbers. Surely the barons would rally to him
against the invaders. But in the meanwhile he, Conan, must lie helpless
in a darkened cell, while others led his spears and fought for his
kingdom. The king ground his powerful teeth in red rage.
Then he stiffened as outside the farther door he heard a stealthy step.
Straining his eyes he made out a bent, indistinct figure outside the
grille. There was a rasp of metal against metal, and he heard the clink
of tumblers, as if a key had been turned in the lock. Then the figure
moved silently out of his range of vision. Some guard, he supposed,
trying the lock. After a while he heard the sound repeated faintly
somewhere farther on, and that was followed by the soft opening of a
door, and then a swift scurry of softly shod feet retreated in the
distance. Then silence fell again.
Conan listened for what seemed a long time, but which could not have
been, for the moon still shone down the hidden shaft, but he heard no
further sound. He shifted his position at last, and his chains clanked.
Then he heard another, lighter footfall—a soft step outside the nearer
door, the door through which he had entered the cell. An instant later a
slender figure was etched dimly in the gray light.
'King Conan!' a soft voice intoned urgently. 'Oh, my lord, are you
there?'
'Where else?' he answered guardedly, twisting his head about to stare at
the apparition.
It was a girl who stood grasping the bars with her slender fingers. The
dim glow behind her outlined her supple figure through the wisp of silk
twisted about her loins, and shone vaguely on jeweled breast-plates. Her
dark eyes gleamed in the shadows, her white limbs glistened softly, like
alabaster. Her hair was a mass of dark foam, at the burnished luster of
which the dim light only hinted.
'The keys to your shackles and to the farther door!' she whispered, and
a slim white hand came through the bars and dropped three objects with a
clink to the flags beside him.
'What game is this?' he demanded. 'You speak in the Nemedian tongue, and
I have no friends in Nemedia. What deviltry is your master up to now?
Has he sent you here to mock me?'
'It is no mockery!' The girl was trembling violently. Her bracelets and
breast-plates clinked against the bars she grasped. 'I swear by Mitra! I
stole the keys from the black jailers. They are the keepers of the pits,
and each bears a key which will open only one set of locks. I made them
drunk. The one whose head you broke was carried away to a leech, and I
could not get his key. But the others I stole. Oh, please do not
loiter! Beyond these dungeons lie the pits which are the doors to hell.'
Somewhat impressed, Conan tried the keys dubiously, expecting to meet
only failure and a burst of mocking laughter. But he was galvanized to
discover that one, indeed, loosed him of his shackles, fitting not only
the lock that held them to the ring, but the locks on his limbs as well.
A few seconds later he stood upright, exulting fiercely in his
comparative freedom. A quick stride carried him to the grille, and his
fingers closed about a bar and the slender wrist that was pressed
against it, imprisoning the owner, who lifted her face bravely to his
fierce gaze.
'Who are you, girl?' he demanded. 'Why do you do this?'
'I am only Zenobia,' she murmured, with a catch of breathlessness, as if
in fright; 'only a girl of the king's seraglio.'
'Unless this is some cursed trick,' muttered Conan, 'I cannot see why
you bring me these keys.'
She bowed her dark head, and then lifted it and looked full into his
suspicious eyes. Tears sparkled like jewels on her long dark lashes.
'I am only a girl of the king's seraglio,' she said, with a certain
proud humility. 'He has never glanced at me, and probably never will. I
am less than one of the dogs that gnaw the bones in his banquet hall.
'But I am no painted toy; I am of flesh and blood. I breathe, hate,
fear, rejoice and love. And I have loved you, King Conan, ever since I
saw you riding at the head of your knights along the streets of Belverus
when you visited King Nimed, years ago. My heart tugged at its strings
to leap from my bosom and fall in the dust of the street under your
horse's hoofs.'
Color flooded her countenance as she spoke, but her dark eyes did not
waver. Conan did not at once reply; wild and passionate and untamed he
was, yet any but the most brutish of men must be touched with a certain
awe or wonder at the baring of a woman's naked soul.
She bent her head then, and pressed her red lips to the fingers that
imprisoned her slim wrist. Then she flung up her head as if in sudden
recollection of their position, and terror flared in her dark eyes.
'Haste!' she whispered urgently. 'It is past midnight. You must be
gone.'
'But won't they skin you alive for stealing these keys?'
'They'll never know. If the black men remember in the morning who gave
them the wine, they will not dare admit the keys were stolen from them
while they were drunk. The key that I could not obtain is the one that
unlocks this door. You must make your way to freedom through the pits.
What awful perils lurk beyond that door I cannot even guess. But greater
danger lurks for you if you remain in this cell.
'King Tarascus has returned—'
'What? Tarascus?'
'Aye! He has returned, in great secrecy, and not long ago he descended
into the pits and then came out again, pale and shaking, like a man who
had dared a great hazard. I heard him whisper to his squire, Arideus,
that despite Xaltotun you should die.'
'What of Xaltotun?' murmured Conan.
He felt her shudder.
'Do not speak of him!' she whispered. 'Demons are often summoned by the
sound of their names. The slaves say that he lies in his chamber, behind
a bolted door, dreaming the dreams of the black lotus. I believe that
even Tarascus secretly fears him, or he would slay you openly. But he
has been in the pits tonight, and what he did there, only Mitra knows.'
'I wonder if that could have been Tarascus who fumbled at my cell door
awhile ago?' muttered Conan.
'Here is a dagger!' she whispered, pressing something through the bars.
His eager fingers closed on an object familiar to their touch. 'Go
quickly through yonder door, turn to the left and make your way along
the cells until you come to a stone stair. On your life do not stray
from the line of the cells! Climb the stair and open the door at the
top; one of the keys will fit it. If it be the will of Mitra, I will
await you there.' Then she was gone, with a patter of light slippered
feet.
Conan shrugged his shoulders, and turned toward the farther grille. This
might be some diabolical trap planned by Tarascus, but plunging headlong
into a snare was less abhorrent to Conan's temperament than sitting
meekly to await his doom. He inspected the weapon the girl had given
him, and smiled grimly. Whatever else she might be, she was proven by
that dagger to be a person of practical intelligence. It was no slender
stiletto, selected because of a jeweled hilt or gold guard, fitted only
for dainty murder in milady's boudoir; it was a forthright poniard, a
warrior's weapon, broad-bladed, fifteen inches in length, tapering to a
diamond-sharp point.
He grunted with satisfaction. The feel of the hilt cheered him and gave
him a glow of confidence. Whatever webs of conspiracy were drawn about
him, whatever trickery and treachery ensnared him, this knife was real.
The great muscles of his right arm swelled in anticipation of murderous
blows.
He tried the farther door, fumbling with the keys as he did so. It was
not locked. Yet he remembered the black man locking it. That furtive,
bent figure, then, had been no jailer seeing that the bolts were in
place. He had unlocked the door, instead. There was a sinister
suggestion about that unlocked door. But Conan did not hesitate. He
pushed upon the grille and stepped from the dungeon into the outer
darkness.
As he had thought, the door did not open into another corridor. The
flagged floor stretched away under his feet, and the line of cells ran
away to the right and left behind him, but he could not make out the
other limits of the place into which he had come. He could see neither
the roof nor any other wall. The moonlight filtered into that vastness
only through the grilles of the cells, and was almost lost in the
darkness. Less keen eyes than his could scarcely have discerned the dim
gray patches that floated before each cell door.
Turning to the left, he moved swiftly and noiselessly along the line of
dungeons, his bare feet making no sound on the flags. He glanced briefly
into each dungeon as he passed it. They were all empty, but locked. In
some he caught the glimmer of naked white bones. These pits were a relic
of a grimmer age, constructed long ago when Belverus was a fortress
rather than a city. But evidently their more recent use had been more
extensive than the world guessed.
Ahead of him, presently, he saw the dim outline of a stair sloping
sharply upward, and knew it must be the stair he sought. Then he whirled
suddenly, crouching in the deep shadows at its foot.
Somewhere behind him something was moving—something bulky and stealthy
that padded on feet which were not human feet. He was looking down the
long row of cells, before each one of which lay a square of dim gray
light that was little more than a patch of less dense darkness. But he
saw something moving along these squares. What it was he could not tell,
but it was heavy and huge, and yet it moved with more than human ease
and swiftness. He glimpsed it as it moved across the squares of gray,
then lost it as it merged in the expanses of shadow between. It was
uncanny, in its stealthy advance, appearing and disappearing like a blur
of the vision.
He heard the bars rattle as it tried each door in turn. Now it had
reached the cell he had so recently quitted, and the door swung open as
it tugged. He saw a great bulky shape limned faintly and briefly in the
gray doorway, and then the thing had vanished into the dungeon. Sweat
beaded Conan's face and hands. Now he knew why Tarascus had come so
subtly to his door, and later had fled so swiftly. The king had unlocked
his door, and, somewhere in these hellish pits, had opened a cell or
cage that held some grim monstrosity.
Now the thing was emerging from the cell and was again advancing up the
corridor, its misshapen head close to the ground. It paid no more heed
to the locked doors. It was smelling out his trail. He saw it more
plainly now; the gray light limned a giant anthropomorphic body, but
vaster of bulk and girth than any man. It went on two legs, though it
stooped forward, and it was grayish and shaggy, its thick coat shot with
silver. Its head was a grisly travesty of the human, its long arms hung
nearly to the ground.
Conan knew it at last—understood the meaning of those crushed and
broken bones in the dungeon, and recognized the haunter of the pits. It
was a gray ape, one of the grisly man-eaters from the forests that wave
on the mountainous eastern shores of the Sea of Vilayet. Half mythical
and altogether horrible, these apes were the goblins of Hyborian
legendry, and were in reality ogres of the natural world, cannibals and
murderers of the nighted forests.
He knew it scented his presence, for it was coming swiftly now, rolling
its barrel-like body rapidly along on its short, mighty bowed legs. He
cast a quick glance up the long stair, but knew that the thing would be
on his back before he could mount to the distant door. He chose to meet
it face to face.
Conan stepped out into the nearest square of moonlight, so as to have
all the advantage of illumination that he could; for the beast, he knew,
could see better than himself in the dark. Instantly the brute saw him;
its great yellow tusks gleamed in the shadows, but it made no sound.
Creatures of night and the silence, the gray apes of Vilayet were
voiceless. But in its dim, hideous features, which were a bestial
travesty of a human face, showed ghastly exultation.
Conan stood poised, watching the oncoming monster without a quiver. He
knew he must stake his life on one thrust; there would be no chance for
another; nor would there be time to strike and spring away. The first
blow must kill, and kill instantly, if he hoped to survive that awful
grapple. He swept his gaze over the short, squat throat, the hairy
swagbelly, and the mighty breast, swelling in giant arches like twin
shields. It must be the heart; better to risk the blade being deflected
by the heavy ribs than to strike in where a stroke was not instantly
fatal. With full realization of the odds, Conan matched his speed of eye
and hand and his muscular power against the brute might and ferocity of
the man-eater. He must meet the brute breast to breast, strike a
death-blow, and then trust to the ruggedness of his frame to survive the
instant of manhandling that was certain to be his.
As the ape came rolling in on him, swinging wide its terrible arms, he
plunged in between them and struck with all his desperate power. He felt
the blade sink to the hilt in the hairy breast, and instantly, releasing
it, he ducked his head and bunched his whole body into one compact mass
of knotted muscles, and as he did so he grasped the closing arms and
drove his knee fiercely into the monster's belly, bracing himself
against that crushing grapple.
For one dizzy instant he felt as if he were being dismembered in the
grip of an earthquake; then suddenly he was free, sprawling on the
floor, and the monster was gasping out its life beneath him, its red
eyes turned upward, the hilt of the poniard quivering in its breast. His
desperate stab had gone home.
Conan was panting as if after long conflict, trembling in every limb.
Some of his joints felt as if they had been dislocated, and blood
dripped from scratches on his skin where the monster's talons had
ripped; his muscles and tendons had been savagely wrenched and twisted.
If the beast had lived a second longer, it would surely have dismembered
him. But the Cimmerian's mighty strength had resisted, for the fleeting
instant it had endured, the dying convulsion of the ape that would have
torn a lesser man limb from limb.
6
The Thrust of a Knife
Conan stooped and tore the knife from the monster's breast. Then he went
swiftly up the stair. What other shapes of fear the darkness held he
could not guess, but he had no desire to encounter any more. This
touch-and-go sort of battling was too strenuous even for the giant
Cimmerian. The moonlight was fading from the floor, the darkness closing
in, and something like panic pursued him up the stair. He breathed a
gusty sigh of relief when he reached the head, and felt the third key
turn in the lock. He opened the door slightly, and craned his neck to
peer through, half expecting an attack from some human or bestial enemy.
He looked into a bare stone corridor, dimly lighted, and a slender,
supple figure stood before the door.
'Your Majesty!' It was a low, vibrant cry, half in relief and half in
fear. The girl sprang to his side, then hesitated as if abashed.
'You bleed,' she said. 'You have been hurt!'
He brushed aside the implication with an impatient hand.
'Scratches that wouldn't hurt a baby. Your skewer came in handy, though.
But for it Tarascus' monkey would be cracking my shin-bones for the
marrow right now. But what now?'
'Follow me,' she whispered. 'I will lead you outside the city wall. I
have a horse concealed there.'
She turned to lead the way down the corridor, but he laid a heavy hand
on her naked shoulder.
'Walk beside me,' he instructed her softly, passing his massive arm
about her lithe waist. 'You've played me fair so far, and I'm inclined
to believe in you; but I've lived this long only because I've trusted no
one too far, man or woman. So! Now if you play me false you won't live
to enjoy the jest.'
She did not flinch at sight of the reddened poniard or the contact of
his hard muscles about her supple body.
'Cut me down without mercy if I play you false,' she answered. 'The very
feel of your arm about me, even in menace, is as the fulfillment of a
dream.'
The vaulted corridor ended at a door, which she opened. Outside lay
another black man, a giant in turban and silk loin-cloth, with a curved
sword lying on the flags near his hand. He did not move.
'I drugged his wine,' she whispered, swerving to avoid the recumbent
figure. 'He is the last, and outer, guard of the pits. None ever escaped
from them before, and none has ever wished to seek them; so only these
black men guard them. Only these of all the servants knew it was King
Conan that Xaltotun brought a prisoner in his chariot. I was watching,
sleepless, from an upper casement that opened into the court, while the
other girls slept; for I knew that a battle was being fought, or had
been fought, in the west, and I feared for you....
'I saw the blacks carry you up the stair, and I recognized you in the
torchlight. I slipped into this wing of the palace tonight, in time to
see them carry you to the pits. I had not dared come here before
nightfall. You must have lain in drugged senselessness all day in
Xaltotun's chamber.
'Oh, let us be wary! Strange things are afoot in the palace tonight. The
slaves said that Xaltotun slept as he often sleeps, drugged by the lotus
of Stygia, but Tarascus is in the palace. He entered secretly, through
the postern, wrapped in his cloak which was dusty as with long travel,
and attended only by his squire, the lean silent Arideus. I cannot
understand, but I am afraid.'
They came out at the foot of a narrow, winding stair, and mounting it,
passed through a narrow panel which she slid aside. When they had passed
through, she slipped it back in place, and it became merely a portion of
the ornate wall. They were in a more spacious corridor, carpeted and
tapestried, over which hanging lamps shed a golden glow.
Conan listened intently, but he heard no sound throughout the palace. He
did not know in what part of the palace he was, or in which direction
lay the chamber of Xaltotun. The girl was trembling as she drew him
along the corridor, to halt presently beside an alcove masked with satin
tapestry. Drawing this aside, she motioned for him to step into the
niche, and whispered: 'Wait here! Beyond that door at the end of the
corridor we are likely to meet slaves or eunuchs at any time of the day
or night. I will go and see if the way is clear, before we essay it.'
Instantly his hair-trigger suspicions were aroused.
'Are you leading me into a trap?'
Tears sprang into her dark eyes. She sank to her knees and seized his
muscular hand.
'Oh, my king, do not mistrust me now!' Her voice shook with desperate
urgency. 'If you doubt and hesitate, we are lost! Why should I bring you
up out of the pits to betray you now?'
'All right,' he muttered. 'I'll trust you; though, by Crom, the habits
of a lifetime are not easily put aside. Yet I wouldn't harm you now, if
you brought all the swordsmen in Nemedia upon me. But for you Tarascus'
cursed ape would have come upon me in chains and unarmed. Do as you
wish, girl.'
Kissing his hands, she sprang lithely up and ran down the corridor, to
vanish through a heavy double door.
He glanced after her, wondering if he was a fool to trust her; then he
shrugged his mighty shoulders and pulled the satin hangings together,
masking his refuge. It was not strange that a passionate young beauty
should be risking her life to aid him; such things had happened often
enough in his life. Many women had looked on him with favor, in the days
of his wanderings, and in the time of his kingship.
Yet he did not remain motionless in the alcove, waiting for her return.
Following his instincts, he explored the niche for another exit, and
presently found one—the opening of a narrow passage, masked by the
tapestries, that ran to an ornately carved door, barely visible in the
dim light that filtered in from the outer corridor. And as he stared
into it, somewhere beyond that carven door he heard the sound of another
door opening and shutting, and then a low mumble of voices. The familiar
sound of one of those voices caused a sinister expression to cross his
dark face. Without hesitation he glided down the passage, and crouched
like a stalking panther beside the door. It was not locked, and
manipulating it delicately, he pushed it open a crack, with a reckless
disregard for possible consequences that only he could have explained or
defended.
It was masked on the other side by tapestries, but through a thin slit
in the velvet he looked into a chamber lit by a candle on an ebony
table. There were two men in that chamber. One was a scarred,
sinister-looking ruffian in leather breeks and ragged cloak; the other
was Tarascus, king of Nemedia.
Tarascus seemed ill at ease. He was slightly pale, and he kept starting
and glancing about him, as if expecting and fearing to hear some sound
or footstep.
'Go swiftly and at once,' he was saying. 'He is deep in drugged slumber,
but I know not when he may awaken.'
'Strange to hear words of fear issuing from the lips of Tarascus,'
rumbled the other in a harsh, deep voice.
The king frowned.
'I fear no common man, as you well know. But when I saw the cliffs fall
at Valkia I knew that this devil we had resurrected was no charlatan. I
fear his powers, because I do not know the full extent of them. But I
know that somehow they are connected with this accursed thing which I
have stolen from him. It brought him back to life; so it must be the
source of his sorcery.
'He had it hidden well; but following my secret order a slave spied on
him and saw him place it in a golden chest, and saw where he hid the
chest. Even so, I would not have dared steal it had Xaltotun himself not
been sunk in lotus slumber.
'I believe it is the secret of his power. With it Orastes brought him
back to life. With it he will make us all slaves, if we are not wary. So
take it and cast it into the sea as I have bidden you. And be sure you
are so far from land that neither tide nor storm can wash it up on the
beach. You have been paid.'
'So I have,' grunted the ruffian. 'And I owe more than gold to you,
king; I owe you a debt of gratitude. Even thieves can be grateful.'
'Whatever debt you may feel you owe me,' answered Tarascus, 'will be
paid when you have hurled this thing into the sea.'
'I'll ride for Zingara and take ship from Kordava,' promised the other.
'I dare not show my head in Argos, because of the matter of a murder or
so—'
'I care not, so it is done. Here it is; a horse awaits you in the court.
Go, and go swiftly!'
Something passed between them, something that flamed like living fire.
Conan had only a brief glimpse of it; and then the ruffian pulled a
slouch hat over his eyes, drew his cloak about his shoulder, and hurried
from the chamber. And as the door closed behind him, Conan moved with
the devastating fury of unchained blood-lust. He had held himself in
check so long as he could. The sight of his enemy so near him set his
wild blood seething and swept away all caution and restraint.
Tarascus was turning toward an inner door when Conan tore aside the
hangings and leaped like a blood-mad panther into the room. Tarascus
wheeled, but even before he could recognize his attacker, Conan's
poniard ripped into him.
But the blow was not mortal, as Conan knew the instant he struck. His
foot had caught in a fold of the curtains and tripped him as he leaped.
The point fleshed itself in Tarascus' shoulder and plowed down along his
ribs, and the king of Nemedia screamed.
The impact of the blow and Conan's lunging body hurled him back against
the table and it toppled and the candle went out. They were both carried
to the floor by the violence of Conan's rush, and the foot of the
tapestry hampered them both in its folds. Conan was stabbing blindly in
the dark, Tarascus screaming in a frenzy of panicky terror. As if fear
lent him superhuman energy, Tarascus tore free and blundered away in the
darkness, shrieking: 'Help! Guards! Arideus! Orastes! Orastes!'
Conan rose, kicking himself free of the tangling tapestries and the
broken table, cursing with the bitterness of his blood-thirsty
disappointment. He was confused, and ignorant of the plan of the palace.
The yells of Tarascus were still resounding in the distance, and a wild
outcry was bursting forth in answer. The Nemedian had escaped him in the
darkness, and Conan did not know which way he had gone. The Cimmerian's
rash stroke for vengeance had failed, and there remained only the task
of saving his own hide if he could.
Swearing luridly, Conan ran back down the passage and into the alcove,
glaring out into the lighted corridor, just as Zenobia came running up
it, her dark eyes dilated with terror.
'Oh, what has happened?' she cried. 'The palace is roused! I swear I
have not betrayed you—'
'No, it was I who stirred up this hornet's nest,' he grunted. 'I tried
to pay off a score. What's the shortest way out of this?'
She caught his wrist and ran fleetly down the corridor. But before they
reached the heavy door at the other end, muffled shouts arose from
behind it and the portals began to shake under an assault from the other
side. Zenobia wrung her hands and whimpered.
'We are cut off! I locked that door as I returned through it. But they
will burst it in a moment. The way to the postern gate lies through it.'
Conan wheeled. Up the corridor, though still out of sight, he heard a
rising clamor that told him his foes were behind as well as before him.
'Quick! Into this door!' the girl cried desperately, running across the
corridor and throwing open the door of a chamber.
Conan followed her through, and then threw the gold catch behind them.
They stood in an ornately furnished chamber, empty but for themselves,
and she drew him to a gold-barred window, through which he saw trees and
shrubbery.
'You are strong,' she panted. 'If you can tear these bars away, you may
yet escape. The garden is full of guards, but the shrubs are thick, and
you may avoid them. The southern wall is also the outer wall of the
city. Once over that, you have a chance to get away. A horse is hidden
for you in a thicket beside the road that runs westward, a few hundred
paces to the south of the fountain of Thrallos. You know where it is?'
'Aye! But what of you? I had meant to take you with me.'
A flood of joy lighted her beautiful face.
'Then my cup of happiness is brimming! But I will not hamper your
escape. Burdened with me you would fail. Nay, do not fear for me. They
will never suspect that I aided you willingly. Go! What you have just
said will glorify my life throughout the long years.'
He caught her up in his iron arms, crushed her slim, vibrant figure to
him and kissed her fiercely on eyes, cheeks, throat and lips, until she
lay panting in his embrace; gusty and tempestuous as a storm-wind, even
his love-making was violent.
'I'll go,' he muttered. 'But by Crom, I'll come for you some day!'
Wheeling, he gripped the gold bars and tore them from their sockets with
one tremendous wrench; threw a leg over the sill and went down swiftly,
clinging to the ornaments on the wall. He hit the ground running and
melted like a shadow into the maze of towering rose-bushes and spreading
trees. The one look he cast back over his shoulder showed him Zenobia
leaning over the window-sill, her arms stretched after him in mute
farewell and renunciation.
Guards were running through the garden, all converging toward the
palace, where the clamor momentarily grew louder—tall men in burnished
cuirasses and crested helmets of polished bronze. The starlight struck
glints from their gleaming armor, among the trees, betraying their every
movement; but the sound of their coming ran far before them. To Conan,
wilderness-bred, their rush through the shrubbery was like the
blundering stampede of cattle. Some of them passed within a few feet of
where he lay flat in a thick cluster of bushes, and never guessed his
presence. With the palace as their goal, they were oblivious to all else
about them. When they had gone shouting on, he rose and fled through the
garden with no more noise than a panther would have made.
So quickly he came to the southern wall, and mounted the steps that led
to the parapet. The wall was made to keep people out, not in. No sentry
patrolling the battlements was in sight. Crouching by an embrasure he
glanced back at the great palace rearing above the cypresses behind him.
Lights blazed from every window, and he could see figures flitting back
and forth across them like puppets on invisible strings. He grinned
hardly, shook his fist in a gesture of farewell and menace, and let
himself over the outer rim of the parapet.
A low tree, a few yards below the parapet, received Conan's weight, as
he dropped noiselessly into the branches. An instant later he was racing
through the shadows with the swinging hillman's stride that eats up long
miles.
Gardens and pleasure villas surrounded the walls of Belverus. Drowsy
slaves, sleeping by their watchman's pikes, did not see the swift and
furtive figure that scaled walls, crossed alleys made by the arching
branches of trees, and threaded a noiseless way through orchards and
vineyards. Watchdogs woke and lifted their deep-booming clamor at a
gliding shadow, half scented, half sensed, and then it was gone.
In a chamber of the palace Tarascus writhed and cursed on a
blood-spattered couch, under the deft, quick fingers of Orastes. The
palace was thronged with wide-eyed, trembling servitors, but the chamber
where the king lay was empty save for himself and the renegade priest.
'Are you sure he still sleeps?' Tarascus demanded again, setting his
teeth against the bite of the herb juices with which Orastes was
bandaging the long, ragged gash in his shoulder and ribs. 'Ishtar, Mitra
and Set! That burns like molten pitch of hell!'
'Which you would be experiencing even now, but for your good fortune,'
remarked Orastes. 'Whoever wielded that knife struck to kill. Yes, I
have told you that Xaltotun still sleeps. Why are you so urgent upon
that point? What has he to do with this?'
'You know nothing of what has passed in the palace tonight?' Tarascus
searched the priest's countenance with burning intensity.
'Nothing. As you know, I have been employed in translating manuscripts
for Xaltotun, for some months now, transcribing esoteric volumes written
in the younger languages into script he can read. He was well versed in
all the tongues and scripts of his day, but he has not yet learned all
the newer languages, and to save time he has me translate these works
for him, to learn if any new knowledge has been discovered since his
time. I did not know that he had returned last night until he sent for
me and told me of the battle. Then I returned to my studies, nor did I
know that you had returned until the clamor in the palace brought me out
of my cell.'
'Then you do not know that Xaltotun brought the king of Aquilonia a
captive to this palace?'
Orastes shook his head, without particular surprise.
'Xaltotun merely said that Conan would oppose us no more. I supposed
that he had fallen, but did not ask the details.'
'Xaltotun saved his life when I would have slain him,' snarled Tarascus.
'I saw his purpose instantly. He would hold Conan captive to use as a
club against us—against Amalric, against Valerius, and against myself.
So long as Conan lives he is a threat, a unifying factor for Aquilonia,
that might be used to compel us into courses we would not otherwise
follow. I mistrust this undead Pythonian. Of late I have begun to fear
him.
'I followed him, some hours after he had departed eastward. I wished to
learn what he intended doing with Conan. I found that he had imprisoned
him in the pits. I intended to see that the barbarian died, in spite of
Xaltotun. And I accomplished——'
A cautious knock sounded at the door.
'That's Arideus,' grunted Tarascus. 'Let him in.'
The saturnine squire entered, his eyes blazing with suppressed
excitement.
'How, Arideus?' exclaimed Tarascus. 'Have you found the man who attacked
me?'
'You did not see him, my lord?' asked Arideus, as one who would assure
himself of a fact he already knows to exist. 'You did not recognize
him?'
'No. It happened so quick, and the candle was out—all I could think of
was that it was some devil loosed on me by Xaltotun's magic——'
'The Pythonian sleeps in his barred and bolted room. But I have been in
the pits.' Arideus twitched his lean shoulders excitedly.
'Well, speak, man!' exclaimed Tarascus impatiently. 'What did you find
there?'
'An empty dungeon,' whispered the squire. 'The corpse of the great ape!'
'What?' Tarascus started upright, and blood gushed from his opened
wound.
'Aye! The man-eater is dead—stabbed through the heart—and Conan is
gone!'
Tarascus was gray of face as he mechanically allowed Orastes to force
him prostrate again and the priest renewed work upon his mangled flesh.
'Conan!' he repeated. 'Not a crushed corpse—escaped! Mitra! He is no
man; but a devil himself! I thought Xaltotun was behind this wound. I
see now. Gods and devils! It was Conan who stabbed me! Arideus!'
'Aye, your Majesty!'
'Search every nook in the palace. He may be skulking through the dark
corridors now like a hungry tiger. Let no niche escape your scrutiny,
and beware. It is not a civilized man you hunt, but a blood-mad
barbarian whose strength and ferocity are those of a wild beast. Scour
the palace-grounds and the city. Throw a cordon about the walls. If you
find he has escaped from the city, as he may well do, take a troop of
horsemen and follow him. Once past the walls it will be like hunting a
wolf through the hills. But haste, and you may yet catch him.'
'This is a matter which requires more than ordinary human wits,' said
Orastes. 'Perhaps we should seek Xaltotun's advice.'
'No!' exclaimed Tarascus violently. 'Let the troopers pursue Conan and
slay him. Xaltotun can hold no grudge against us if we kill a prisoner
to prevent his escape.'
'Well,' said Orastes, 'I am no Acheronian, but I am versed in some of
the arts, and the control of certain spirits which have cloaked
themselves in material substance. Perhaps I can aid you in this matter.'
The fountain of Thrallos stood in a clustered ring of oaks beside the
road a mile from the walls of the city. Its musical tinkle reached
Conan's ears through the silence of the starlight. He drank deep of its
icy stream, and then hurried southward toward a small, dense thicket he
saw there. Rounding it, he saw a great white horse tied among the
bushes. Heaving a deep gusty sigh he reached it with one stride—a
mocking laugh brought him about, glaring.
A dully glinting, mail-clad figure moved out of the shadows into the
starlight. This was no plumed and burnished palace guardsman. It was a
tall man in morion and gray chain-mail—one of the Adventurers, a class
of warriors peculiar to Nemedia; men who had not attained to the wealth
and position of knighthood, or had fallen from that estate; hard-bitten
fighters, dedicating their lives to war and adventure. They constituted
a class of their own, sometimes commanding troops, but themselves
accountable to no man but the king. Conan knew that he could have been
discovered by no more dangerous a foeman.
A quick glance among the shadows convinced him that the man was alone,
and he expanded his great chest slightly, digging his toes into the
turf, as his thews coiled tensely.
'I was riding for Belverus on Amalric's business,' said the Adventurer,
advancing warily. The starlight was a long sheen on the great two-handed
sword he bore naked in his hand. 'A horse whinnied to mine from the
thicket. I investigated and thought it strange a steed should be
tethered here. I waited—and lo, I have caught a rare prize!'
The Adventurers lived by their swords.
'I know you,' muttered the Nemedian. 'You are Conan, king of Aquilonia.
I thought I saw you die in the valley of the Valkia, but——'
Conan sprang as a dying tiger springs. Practised fighter though the
Adventurer was, he did not realize the desperate quickness that lurks in
barbaric sinews. He was caught off guard, his heavy sword half lifted.
Before he could either strike or parry, the king's poniard sheathed
itself in his throat, above the gorget, slanting downward into his
heart. With a choked gurgle he reeled and went down, and Conan
ruthlessly tore his blade free as his victim fell. The white horse
snorted violently and shied at the sight and scent of blood on the
sword.
Glaring down at his lifeless enemy, dripping poniard in hand, sweat
glistening on his broad breast, Conan poised like a statue, listening
intently. In the woods about there was no sound, save for the sleepy
cheep of awakened birds. But in the city, a mile away, he heard the
strident blare of a trumpet.
Hastily he bent over the fallen man. A few seconds' search convinced him
that whatever message the man might have borne was intended to be
conveyed by word of mouth. But he did not pause in his task. It was not
many hours until dawn. A few minutes later the white horse was galloping
westward along the white road, and the rider wore the gray mail of a
Nemedian Adventurer.
7
The Rending of the Veil
Conan knew his only chance of escape lay in speed. He did not even
consider hiding somewhere near Belverus until the chase passed on; he
was certain that the uncanny ally of Tarascus would be able to ferret
him out. Besides, he was not one to skulk and hide; an open fight or an
open chase, either suited his temperament better. He had a long start,
he knew. He would lead them a grinding race for the border.
Zenobia had chosen well in selecting the white horse. His speed,
toughness and endurance were obvious. The girl knew weapons and horses,
and, Conan reflected with some satisfaction, she knew men. He rode
westward at a gait that ate up the miles.
It was a sleeping land through which he rode, past grove-sheltered
villages and white-walled villas amid spacious fields and orchards that
grew sparser as he fared westward. As the villages thinned, the land
grew more rugged, and the keeps that frowned from eminences told of
centuries of border war. But none rode down from those castles to
challenge or halt him. The lords of the keeps were following the banner
of Amalric; the pennons that were wont to wave over these towers were
now floating over the Aquilonian plains.
When the last huddled village fell behind him, Conan left the road,
which was beginning to bend toward the northwest, toward the distant
passes. To keep to the road would mean to pass by border towers, still
garrisoned with armed men who would not allow him to pass unquestioned.
He knew there would be no patrols riding the border marches on either
side, as in ordinary times, but there were those towers, and with dawn
there would probably be cavalcades of returning soldiers with wounded
men in ox-carts.
This road from Belverus was the only road that crossed the border for
fifty miles from north to south. It followed a series of passes through
the hills, and on either hand lay a wide expanse of wild, sparsely
inhabited mountains. He maintained his due westerly direction, intending
to cross the border deep in the wilds of the hills that lay to the south
of the passes. It was a shorter route, more arduous, but safer for a
hunted fugitive. One man on a horse could traverse country an army would
find impassable.
But at dawn he had not reached the hills; they were a long, low, blue
rampart stretching along the horizon ahead of him. Here there were
neither farms nor villages, no white-walled villas looming among
clustering trees. The dawn wind stirred the tall stiff grass, and there
was nothing but the long rolling swells of brown earth, covered with dry
grass, and in the distance the gaunt walls of a stronghold on a low
hill. Too many Aquilonian raiders had crossed the mountains in not too
distant days for the countryside to be thickly settled as it was farther
to the east.
Dawn ran like a prairie fire across the grasslands, and high overhead
sounded a weird crying as a straggling wedge of wild geese winged
swiftly southward. In a grassy swale Conan halted and unsaddled his
mount. Its sides were heaving, its coat plastered with sweat. He had
pushed it unmercifully through the hours before dawn.
While it munched the brittle grass and rolled, he lay at the crest of
the low slope, staring eastward. Far away to the northward he could see
the road he had left, streaming like a white ribbon over a distant rise.
No black dots moved along that glistening ribbon. There was no sign
about the castle in the distance to indicate that the keepers had
noticed the lone wayfarer.
An hour later the land still stretched bare. The only sign of life was a
glint of steel on the far-off battlements, a raven in the sky that
wheeled backward and forth, dipping and rising as if seeking something.
Conan saddled and rode westward at a more leisurely gait.
As he topped the farther crest of the slope, a raucous screaming burst
out over his head, and looking up, he saw the raven flapping high above
him, cawing incessantly. As he rode on, it followed him, maintaining its
position and making the morning hideous with its strident cries,
heedless of his efforts to drive it away.
This kept up for hours, until Conan's teeth were on edge, and he felt
that he would give half his kingdom to be allowed to wring that black
neck.
'Devils of hell!' he roared in futile rage, shaking his mailed fist at
the frantic bird. 'Why do you harry me with your squawking? Begone, you
black spawn of perdition, and peck for wheat in the farmer's fields!'
He was ascending the first pitch of the hills, and he seemed to hear an
echo of the bird's clamor far behind him. Turning in his saddle, he
presently made out another black dot hanging in the blue. Beyond that
again he caught the glint of the afternoon sun on steel. That could mean
only one thing: armed men. And they were not riding along the beaten
road, which was out of his sight beyond the horizon. They were following
him.
His face grew grim and he shivered slightly as he stared at the raven
that wheeled high above him.
'So it is more than the whim of a brainless beast?' he muttered. 'Those
riders cannot see you, spawn of hell; but the other bird can see you,
and they can see him. You follow me, he follows you, and they follow
him. Are you only a craftily trained feathered creature, or some devil
in the form of a bird? Did Xaltotun set you on my trail? Are you
Xaltotun?'
Only a strident screech answered him, a screech vibrating with harsh
mockery.
Conan wasted no more breath on his dusky betrayer. Grimly he settled to
the long grind of the hills. He dared not push the horse too hard; the
rest he had allowed it had not been enough to freshen it. He was still
far ahead of his pursuers, but they would cut down that lead steadily.
It was almost a certainty that their horses were fresher than his, for
they had undoubtedly changed mounts at that castle he had passed.
The going grew rougher, the scenery more rugged, steep grassy slopes
pitching up to densely timbered mountainsides. Here, he knew, he might
elude his hunters, but for that hellish bird that squalled incessantly
above him. He could no longer see them in this broken country, but he
was certain that they still followed him, guided unerringly by their
feathered allies. That black shape became like a demoniac incubus,
hounding him through measureless hells. The stones he hurled with a
curse went wide or fell harmless, though in his youth he had felled
hawks on the wing.
The horse was tiring fast. Conan recognized the grim finality of his
position. He sensed an inexorable driving fate behind all this. He could
not escape. He was as much a captive as he had been in the pits of
Belverus. But he was no son of the Orient to yield passively to what
seemed inevitable. If he could not escape, he would at least take some
of his foes into eternity with him. He turned into a wide thicket of
larches that masked a slope, looking for a place to turn at bay.
Then ahead of him there rang a strange, shrill scream, human yet weirdly
timbred. An instant later he had pushed through a screen of branches,
and saw the source of that eldritch cry. In a small glade below him four
soldiers in Nemedian chain-mail were binding a noose about the neck of a
gaunt old woman in peasant garb. A heap of fagots, bound with cord on
the ground near by, showed what her occupation had been when surprised
by these stragglers.
Conan felt slow fury swell his heart as he looked silently down and saw
the ruffians dragging her toward a tree whose low-spreading branches
were obviously intended to act as a gibbet. He had crossed the frontier
an hour ago. He was standing on his own soil, watching the murder of one
of his own subjects. The old woman was struggling with surprising
strength and energy, and as he watched, she lifted her head and voiced
again the strange, weird, far-carrying call he had heard before. It was
echoed as if in mockery by the raven flapping above the trees. The
soldiers laughed roughly, and one struck her in the mouth.
Conan swung from his weary steed and dropped down the face of the rocks,
landing with a clang of mail on the grass. The four men wheeled at the
sound and drew their swords, gaping at the mailed giant who faced them,
sword in hand.
Conan laughed harshly. His eyes were bleak as flint.
'Dogs!' he said without passion and without mercy. 'Do Nemedian jackals
set themselves up as executioners and hang my subjects at will? First
you must take the head of their king. Here I stand, awaiting your lordly
pleasure!'
The soldiers stared at him uncertainly as he strode toward them.
'Who is this madman?' growled a bearded ruffian. 'He wears Nemedian
mail, but speaks with an Aquilonian accent.'
'No matter,' quoth another. 'Cut him down, and then we'll hang the old
hag.'
And so saying he ran at Conan, lifting his sword. But before he could
strike, the king's great blade lashed down, splitting helmet and skull.
The man fell before him, but the others were hardy rogues. They gave
tongue like wolves and surged about the lone figure in the gray mail,
and the clamor and din of steel drowned the cries of the circling raven.
Conan did not shout. His eyes coals of blue fire and his lips smiling
bleakly, he lashed right and left with his two-handed sword. For all his
size he was quick as a cat on his feet, and he was constantly in motion,
presenting a moving target so that thrusts and swings cut empty air
oftener than not. Yet when he struck he was perfectly balanced, and his
blows fell with devastating power. Three of the four were down, dying in
their own blood, and the fourth was bleeding from half a dozen wounds,
stumbling in headlong retreat as he parried frantically, when Conan's
spur caught in the surcoat of one of the fallen men.
The king stumbled, and before he could catch himself the Nemedian, with
the frenzy of desperation, rushed him so savagely that Conan staggered
and fell sprawling over the corpse. The Nemedian croaked in triumph and
sprang forward, lifting his great sword with both hands over his right
shoulder, as he braced his legs wide for the stroke—and then, over the
prostrate king, something huge and hairy shot like a thunderbolt full on
the soldier's breast, and his yelp of triumph changed to a shriek of
death.
Conan, scrambling up, saw the man lying dead with his throat torn out,
and a great gray wolf stood over him, head sunk as it smelled the blood
that formed a pool on the grass.
The king turned as the old woman spoke to him. She stood straight and
tall before him, and in spite of her ragged garb, her features,
clear-cut and aquiline, and her keen black eyes, were not those of a
common peasant woman. She called to the wolf and it trotted to her side
like a great dog and rubbed its giant shoulder against her knee, while
it gazed at Conan with great green lambent eyes. Absently she laid her
hand upon its mighty neck, and so the two stood regarding the king of
Aquilonia. He found their steady gaze disquieting, though there was no
hostility in it.
'Men say King Conan died beneath the stones and dirt when the cliffs
crumbled by Valkia,' she said in a deep, strong, resonant voice.
'So they say,' he growled. He was in no mood for controversy, and he
thought of those armored riders who were pushing nearer every moment.
The raven above him cawed stridently, and he cast an involuntary glare
upward, grinding his teeth in a spasm of nervous irritation.
Up on the ledge the white horse stood with drooping head. The old woman
looked at it, and then at the raven; and then she lifted a strange weird
cry as she had before. As if recognizing the call, the raven wheeled,
suddenly mute, and raced eastward. But before it had got out of sight,
the shadow of mighty wings fell across it. An eagle soared up from the
tangle of trees, and rising above it, swooped and struck the black
messenger to the earth. The strident voice of betrayal was stilled for
ever.
'Crom!' muttered Conan, staring at the old woman. 'Are you a magician,
too?'
'I am Zelata,' she said. 'The people of the valleys call me a witch. Was
that child of the night guiding armed men on your trail?'
'Aye.' She did not seem to think the answer fantastic. 'They cannot be
far behind me.'
'Lead your horse and follow me, King Conan,' she said briefly.
Without comment he mounted the rocks and brought his horse down to the
glade by a circuitous path. As he came he saw the eagle reappear,
dropping lazily down from the sky, and rest an instant on Zelata's
shoulder, spreading its great wings lightly so as not to crush her with
its weight.
Without a word she led the way, the great wolf trotting at her side, the
eagle soaring above her. Through deep thickets and along tortuous ledges
poised over deep ravines she led him, and finally along a narrow
precipice-edged path to a curious dwelling of stone, half hut, half
cavern, beneath a cliff hidden among the gorges and crags. The eagle
flew to the pinnacle of this cliff, and perched there like a motionless
sentinel.
Still silent, Zelata stabled the horse in a near-by cave, with leaves
and grass piled high for provender, and a tiny spring bubbling in the
dim recesses.
In the hut she seated the king on a rude, hide-covered bench, and she
herself sat upon a low stool before the tiny fireplace, while she made a
fire of tamarisk chunks and prepared a frugal meal. The great wolf
drowsed beside her, facing the fire, his huge head sunk on his paws, his
ears twitching in his dreams.
'You do not fear to sit in the hut of a witch?' she asked, breaking her
silence at last.
An impatient shrug of his gray-mailed shoulders was her guest's only
reply. She gave into his hands a wooden dish heaped with dried fruits,
cheese and barley bread, and a great pot of the heady upland beer,
brewed from barley grown in the high valleys.
'I have found the brooding silence of the glens more pleasing than the
babble of city streets,' she said. 'The children of the wild are kinder
than the children of men.' Her hand briefly stroked the ruff of the
sleeping wolf. 'My children were afar from me today, or I had not needed
your sword, my king. They were coming at my call.'
'What grudge had those Nemedian dogs against you?' Conan demanded.
'Skulkers from the invading army straggle all over the countryside, from
the frontier to Tarantia,' she answered. 'The foolish villagers in the
valleys told them that I had a store of gold hidden away, so as to
divert their attentions from their villages. They demanded treasure from
me, and my answers angered them. But neither skulkers nor the men who
pursue you, nor any raven will find you here.'
He shook his head, eating ravenously.
'I'm for Tarantia.'
She shook her head.
'You thrust your head into the dragon's jaws. Best seek refuge abroad.
The heart is gone from your kingdom.'
'What do you mean?' he demanded. 'Battles have been lost before, yet
wars won. A kingdom is not lost by a single defeat.'
'And you will go to Tarantia?'
'Aye. Prospero will be holding it against Amalric.'
'Are you sure?'
'Hell's devils, woman!' he exclaimed wrathfully. 'What else?'
She shook her head. 'I feel that it is otherwise. Let us see. Not
lightly is the veil rent; yet I will rend it a little, and show you your
capital city.'
Conan did not see what she cast upon the fire, but the wolf whimpered in
his dreams, and a green smoke gathered and billowed up into the hut. And
as he watched, the walls and ceiling of the hut seemed to widen, to grow
remote and vanish, merging with infinite immensities; the smoke rolled
about him, blotting out everything. And in it forms moved and faded, and
stood out in startling clarity.
He stared at the familiar towers and streets of Tarantia, where a mob
seethed and screamed, and at the same time he was somehow able to see
the banners of Nemedia moving inexorably westward through the smoke and
flame of a pillaged land. In the great square of Tarantia the frantic
throng milled and yammered, screaming that the king was dead, that the
barons were girding themselves to divide the land between them, and that
the rule of a king, even of Valerius, was better than anarchy. Prospero,
shining in his armor, rode among them, trying to pacify them, bidding
them trust Count Trocero, urging them to man the wall and aid his
knights in defending the city. They turned on him, shrieking with fear
and unreasoning rage, howling that he was Trocero's butcher, a more evil
foe than Amalric himself. Offal and stones were hurled at his knights.
A slight blurring of the picture, that might have denoted a passing of
time, and then Conan saw Prospero and his knights filing out of the
gates and spurring southward. Behind him the city was in an uproar.
'Fools!' muttered Conan thickly. 'Fools! Why could they not trust
Prospero? Zelata, if you are making game of me, with some trickery——'
'This has passed,' answered Zelata imperturbably, though somberly. 'It
was the evening of the day that has passed when Prospero rode out of
Tarantia, with the hosts of Amalric almost within sight. From the walls
men saw the flame of their pillaging. So I read it in the smoke. At
sunset the Nemedians rode into Tarantia, unopposed. Look! Even now, in
the royal hall of Tarantia——'
Abruptly Conan was looking into the great coronation hall. Valerius
stood on the regal dais, clad in ermine robes, and Amalric, still in his
dusty, blood-stained armor, placed a rich and gleaming circlet on his
yellow locks—the crown of Aquilonia! The people cheered; long lines of
steel-clad Nemedian warriors looked grimly on, and nobles long in
disfavor at Conan's court strutted and swaggered with the emblem of
Valerius on their sleeves.
'Crom!' It was an explosive imprecation from Conan's lips as he started
up, his great fists clenched into hammers, his veins on his temples
knotting, his features convulsed. 'A Nemedian placing the crown of
Aquilonia on that renegade—in the royal hall of Tarantia!'
As if dispelled by his violence, the smoke faded, and he saw Zelata's
black eyes gleaming at him through the mist.
'You have seen—the people of your capital have forfeited the freedom
you won for them by sweat and blood; they have sold themselves to the
slavers and the butchers. They have shown that they do not trust their
destiny. Can you rely upon them for the winning back of your kingdom?'
'They thought I was dead,' he grunted, recovering some of his poise. 'I
have no son. Men can't be governed by a memory. What if the Nemedians
have taken Tarantia? There still remain the provinces, the barons, and
the people of the countrysides. Valerius has won an empty glory.'
'You are stubborn, as befits a fighter. I cannot show you the future, I
cannot show you all the past. Nay, I show you nothing. I merely make
you see windows opened in the veil by powers unguessed. Would you look
into the past for a clue of the present?'
'Aye.' He seated himself abruptly.
Again the green smoke rose and billowed. Again images unfolded before
him, this time alien and seemingly irrelevant. He saw great towering
black walls, pedestals half hidden in the shadows upholding images of
hideous, half-bestial gods. Men moved in the shadows, dark, wiry men,
clad in red, silken loincloths. They were bearing a green jade
sarcophagus along a gigantic black corridor. But before he could tell
much about what he saw, the scene shifted. He saw a cavern, dim, shadowy
and haunted with a strange intangible horror. On an altar of black stone
stood a curious golden vessel, shaped like the shell of a scallop. Into
this cavern came some of the same dark, wiry men who had borne the
mummy-case. They seized the golden vessel, and then the shadows swirled
around them and what happened he could not say. But he saw a glimmer in
a whorl of darkness, like a ball of living fire. Then the smoke was only
smoke, drifting up from the fire of tamarisk chunks, thinning and
fading.
'But what does this portend?' he demanded, bewildered. 'What I saw in
Tarantia I can understand. But what means this glimpse of Zamorian
thieves sneaking through a subterranean temple of Set, in Stygia? And
that cavern—I've never seen or heard of anything like it, in all my
wanderings. If you can show me that much, these shreds of vision which
mean nothing, disjointed, why can you not show me all that is to occur?'
Zelata stirred the fire without replying.
'These things are governed by immutable laws,' she said at last. 'I can
not make you understand; I do not altogether understand myself, though I
have sought wisdom in the silences of the high places for more years
than I can remember. I cannot save you, though I would if I might. Man
must, at last, work out his own salvation. Yet perhaps wisdom may come
to me in dreams, and in the morn I may be able to give you the clue to
the enigma.'
'What enigma?' he demanded.
'The mystery that confronts you, whereby you have lost a kingdom,' she
answered. And then she spread a sheepskin upon the floor before the
hearth. 'Sleep,' she said briefly.
Without a word he stretched himself upon it, and sank into restless but
deep sleep through which phantoms moved silently and monstrous shapeless
shadows crept. Once, limned against a purple sunless horizon, he saw the
mighty walls and towers of a great city such as rose nowhere on the
waking earth he knew. Its colossal pylons and purple minarets lifted
toward the stars, and over it, floating like a giant mirage, hovered the
bearded countenance of the man Xaltotun.
Conan woke in the chill whiteness of early dawn, to see Zelata crouched
beside the tiny fire. He had not awakened once in the night, and the
sound of the great wolf leaving or entering should have roused him. Yet
the wolf was there, beside the hearth, with its shaggy coat wet with
dew, and with more than dew. Blood glistened wetly amid the thick fell,
and there was a cut upon his shoulder.
Zelata nodded, without looking around, as if reading the thoughts of her
royal guest.
'He has hunted before dawn, and red was the hunting. I think the man who
hunted a king will hunt no more, neither man nor beast.'
Conan stared at the great beast with strange fascination as he moved to
take the food Zelata offered him.
'When I come to my throne again I won't forget,' he said briefly.
'You've befriended me—by Crom, I can't remember when I've lain down and
slept at the mercy of man or woman as I did last night. But what of the
riddle you would read me this morn?'
A long silence ensued, in which the crackle of the tamarisks was loud on
the hearth.
'Find the heart of your kingdom,' she said at last. 'There lies your
defeat and your power. You fight more than mortal man. You will not
press the throne again unless you find the heart of your kingdom.'
'Do you mean the city of Tarantia?'
She shook her head. 'I am but an oracle, through whose lips the gods
speak. My lips are sealed by them lest I speak too much. You must find
the heart of your kingdom. I can say no more. My lips are opened and
sealed by the gods.'
Dawn was still white on the peaks when Conan rode westward. A glance
back showed him Zelata standing in the door of her hut, inscrutable as
ever, the great wolf beside her.
A gray sky arched overhead, and a moaning wind was chill with a promise
of winter. Brown leaves fluttered slowly down from the bare branches,
sifting upon his mailed shoulders.
All day he pushed through the hills, avoiding roads and villages. Toward
nightfall he began to drop down from the heights, tier by tier, and saw
the broad plains of Aquilonia spread out beneath him.
Villages and farms lay close to the foot of the hills on the western
side of the mountains, for, for half a century, most of the raiding
across the frontier had been done by the Aquilonians. But now only
embers and ashes showed where farm huts and villas had stood.
In the gathering darkness Conan rode slowly on. There was little fear of
discovery, which he dreaded from friend as well as from foe. The
Nemedians had remembered old scores on their westward drive, and
Valerius had made no attempt to restrain his allies. He did not count on
winning the love of the common people. A vast swath of desolation had
been cut through the country from the foothills westward. Conan cursed
as he rode over blackened expanses that had been rich fields, and saw
the gaunt gable-ends of burned houses jutting against the sky. He moved
through an empty and deserted land, like a ghost out of a forgotten and
outworn past.
The speed with which the army had traversed the land showed what little
resistance it had encountered. Yet had Conan been leading his
Aquilonians the invading army would have been forced to buy every foot
they gained with their blood. The bitter realization permeated his soul;
he was not the representative of a dynasty. He was only a lone
adventurer. Even the drop of dynastic blood Valerius boasted had more
hold on the minds of men than the memory of Conan and the freedom and
power he had given the kingdom.
No pursuers followed him down out of the hills. He watched for wandering
or returning Nemedian troops, but met none. Skulkers gave him a wide
path, supposing him to be one of the conquerors, what of his harness.
Groves and rivers were far more plentiful on the western side of the
mountains, and coverts for concealment were not lacking.
So he moved across the pillaged land, halting only to rest his horse,
eating frugally of the food Zelata had given him, until, on a dawn when
he lay hidden on a river bank where willows and oaks grew thickly, he
glimpsed, afar, across the rolling plains dotted with rich groves, the
blue and golden towers of Tarantia.
He was no longer in a deserted land, but one teeming with varied life.
His progress thenceforth was slow and cautious, through thick woods and
unfrequented byways. It was dusk when he reached the plantation of
Servius Galannus.
8
Dying Embers
The countryside about Tarantia had escaped the fearful ravaging of the
more easterly provinces. There were evidences of the march of a
conquering army in broken hedges, plundered fields and looted granaries,
but torch and steel had not been loosed wholesale.
There was but one grim splotch on the landscape—a charred expanse of
ashes and blackened stone, where, Conan knew, had once stood the stately
villa of one of his staunchest supporters.
The king dared not openly approach the Galannus farm, which lay only a
few miles from the city. In the twilight he rode through an extensive
woodland, until he sighted a keeper's lodge through the trees.
Dismounting and tying his horse, he approached the thick, arched door
with the intention of sending the keeper after Servius. He did not know
what enemies the manor house might be sheltering. He had seen no troops,
but they might be quartered all over the countryside. But as he drew
near, he saw the door open and a compact figure in silk hose and richly
embroidered doublet stride forth and turn up a path that wound away
through the woods.
'Servius!'
At the low call the master of the plantation wheeled with a startled
exclamation. His hand flew to the short hunting-sword at his hip, and he
recoiled from the tall gray steel figure standing in the dusk before
him.
'Who are you?' he demanded. 'What is your—Mitra!'
His breath hissed inward and his ruddy face paled. 'Avaunt!' he
ejaculated. 'Why have you come back from the gray lands of death to
terrify me? I was always your true liegeman in your lifetime——'
'As I still expect you to be,' answered Conan. 'Stop trembling, man; I'm
flesh and blood.'
Sweating with uncertainty Servius approached and stared into the face of
the mail-clad giant, and then, convinced of the reality of what he saw,
he dropped to one knee and doffed his plumed cap.
'Your Majesty! Truly, this is a miracle passing belief! The great bell
in the citadel has tolled your dirge, days agone. Men said you died at
Valkia, crushed under a million tons of earth and broken granite.'
'It was another in my harness,' grunted Conan. 'But let us talk later.
If there is such a thing as a joint of beef on your board——'
'Forgive me, my lord!' cried Servius, springing to his feet. 'The dust
of travel is gray on your mail, and I keep you standing here without
rest or sup! Mitra! I see well enough now that you are alive, but I
swear, when I turned and saw you standing all gray and dim in the
twilight, the marrow of my knees turned to water. It is an ill thing to
meet a man you thought dead in the woodland at dusk.'
'Bid the keeper see to my steed which is tied behind yonder oak,'
requested Conan, and Servius nodded, drawing the king up the path. The
patrician, recovering from his supernatural fright, had become extremely
nervous.
'I will send a servant from the manor,' he said. 'The keeper is in his
lodge—but I dare not trust even my servants in these days. It is better
that only I know of your presence.'
Approaching the great house that glimmered dimly through the trees, he
turned aside into a little-used path that ran between close-set oaks
whose intertwining branches formed a vault overhead, shutting out the
dim light of the gathering dusk. Servius hurried on through the darkness
without speaking, and with something resembling panic in his manner, and
presently led Conan through a small side-door into a narrow, dimly
illuminated corridor. They traversed this in haste and silence, and
Servius brought the king into a spacious chamber with a high, oak-beamed
ceiling and richly paneled walls. Logs flamed in the wide fireplace, for
there was a frosty edge to the air, and a great meat pasty in a stone
platter stood smoking on a broad mahogany board. Servius locked the
massive door and extinguished the candles that stood in a silver
candlestick on the table, leaving the chamber illuminated only by the
fire on the hearth.
'Your pardon, your Majesty,' he apologized. 'These are perilous times;
spies lurk everywhere. It were better that none be able to peer through
the windows and recognize you. This pasty, however, is just from the
oven, as I intended supping on my return from talk with my keeper. If
your Majesty would deign——'
'The light is sufficient,' grunted Conan, seating himself with scant
ceremony, and drawing his poniard.
He dug ravenously into the luscious dish, and washed it down with great
gulps of wine from grapes grown in Servius' vineyards. He seemed
oblivious to any sense of peril, but Servius shifted uneasily on his
settle by the fire, nervously fingering the heavy gold chain about his
neck. He glanced continually at the diamond-panes of the casement,
gleaming dimly in the firelight, and cocked his ear toward the door, as
if half expecting to hear the pad of furtive feet in the corridor
without.
Finishing his meal, Conan rose and seated himself on another settle
before the fire.
'I won't jeopardize you long by my presence, Servius,' he said abruptly.
'Dawn will find me far from your plantation.'
'My lord——' Servius lifted his hands in expostulation, but Conan waved
his protests aside.
'I know your loyalty and your courage. Both are above reproach. But if
Valerius has usurped my throne, it would be death for you to shelter me,
if you were discovered.'
'I am not strong enough to defy him openly,' admitted Servius. 'The
fifty men-at-arms I could lead to battle would be but a handful of
straws. You saw the ruins of Emilius Scavonus' plantation?'
Conan nodded, frowning darkly.
'He was the strongest patrician in this province, as you know. He
refused to give his allegiance to Valerius. The Nemedians burned him in
the ruins of his own villa. After that the rest of us saw the futility
of resistance, especially as the people of Tarantia refused to fight. We
submitted and Valerius spared our lives, though he levied a tax upon us
that will ruin many. But what could we do? We thought you were dead.
Many of the barons had been slain, others taken prisoner. The army was
shattered and scattered. You have no heir to take the crown. There was
no one to lead us——'
'Was there not Count Trocero of Poitain?' demanded Conan harshly.
Servius spread his hands helplessly.
'It is true that his general Prospero was in the field with a small
army. Retreating before Amalric, he urged men to rally to his banner.
But with your Majesty dead, men remembered old wars and civil brawls,
and how Trocero and his Poitanians once rode through these provinces
even as Amalric was riding now, with torch and sword. The barons were
jealous of Trocero. Some men—spies of Valerius perhaps—shouted that
the Count of Poitain intended seizing the crown for himself. Old
sectional hates flared up again. If we had had one man with dynastic
blood in his veins we would have crowned and followed him against
Nemedia. But we had none.
'The barons who followed you loyally would not follow one of their own
number, each holding himself as good as his neighbor, each fearing the
ambitions of the others. You were the cord that held the fagots
together. When the cord was cut, the fagots fell apart. If you had had
a son, the barons would have rallied loyally to him. But there was no
point for their patriotism to focus upon.
'The merchants and commoners, dreading anarchy and a return of feudal
days when each baron was his own law, cried out that any king was better
than none, even Valerius, who was at least of the blood of the old
dynasty. There was no one to oppose him when he rode up at the head of
his steel-clad hosts, with the scarlet dragon of Nemedia floating over
him, and rang his lance against the gates of Tarantia.
'Nay, the people threw open the gates and knelt in the dust before him.
They had refused to aid Prospero in holding the city. They said they had
rather be ruled by Valerius than by Trocero. They said—truthfully—that
the barons would not rally to Trocero, but that many would accept
Valerius. They said that by yielding to Valerius they would escape the
devastation of civil war, and the fury of the Nemedians. Prospero rode
southward with his ten thousand knights, and the horsemen of the
Nemedians entered the city a few hours later. They did not follow him.
They remained to see that Valerius was crowned in Tarantia.'
'Then the old witch's smoke showed the truth,' muttered Conan, feeling a
queer chill along his spine. 'Amalric crowned Valerius?'
'Aye, in the coronation hall, with the blood of slaughter scarcely dried
on his hands.'
'And do the people thrive under his benevolent rule?' asked Conan with
angry irony.
'He lives like a foreign prince in the midst of a conquered land,'
answered Servius bitterly. 'His court is filled with Nemedians, the
palace troops are of the same breed, and a large garrison of them occupy
the citadel. Aye, the hour of the Dragon has come at last.
'Nemedians swagger like lords through the streets. Women are outraged
and merchants plundered daily, and Valerius either can, or will, make no
attempt to curb them. Nay, he is but their puppet, their figurehead. Men
of sense knew he would be, and the people are beginning to find it out.
'Amalric has ridden forth with a strong army to reduce the outlying
provinces where some of the barons have defied him. But there is no
unity among them. Their jealousy of each other is stronger than their
fear of Amalric. He will crush them one by one. Many castles and cities,
realizing that, have sent in their submission. Those who resist fare
miserably. The Nemedians are glutting their long hatred. And their ranks
are swelled by Aquilonians whom fear, gold, or necessity of occupation
are forcing into their armies. It is a natural consequence.'
Conan nodded somberly, staring at the red reflections of the firelight
on the richly carved oaken panels.
'Aquilonia has a king instead of the anarchy they feared,' said Servius
at last. 'Valerius does not protect his subjects against his allies.
Hundreds who could not pay the ransom imposed upon them have been sold
to the Kothic slave-traders.'
Conan's head jerked up and a lethal flame lit his blue eyes. He swore
gustily, his mighty hands knotting into iron hammers.
'Aye, white men sell white men and white women, as it was in the feudal
days. In the palaces of Shem and of Turan they will live out the lives
of slaves. Valerius is king, but the unity for which the people looked,
even though of the sword, is not complete.
'Gunderland in the north and Poitain in the south are yet unconquered,
and there are unsubdued provinces in the west, where the border barons
have the backing of the Bossonian bowmen. Yet these outlying provinces
are no real menace to Valerius. They must remain on the defensive, and
will be lucky if they are able to keep their independence. Here Valerius
and his foreign knights are supreme.'
'Let him make the best of it then,' said Conan grimly. 'His time is
short. The people will rise when they learn that I'm alive. We'll take
Tarantia back before Amalric can return with his army. Then we'll sweep
these dogs from the kingdom.'
Servius was silent. The crackle of the fire was loud in the stillness.
'Well,' exclaimed Conan impatiently, 'why do you sit with your head
bent, staring at the hearth? Do you doubt what I have said?'
Servius avoided the king's eye.
'What mortal man can do, you will do, your Majesty,' he answered. 'I
have ridden behind you in battle, and I know that no mortal being can
stand before your sword.'
'What, then?'
Servius drew his fur-trimmed jupon closer about him, and shivered in
spite of the flame.
'Men say your fall was occasioned by sorcery,' he said presently.
'What then?'
'What mortal can fight against sorcery? Who is this veiled man who
communes at midnight with Valerius and his allies, as men say, who
appears and disappears so mysteriously? Men say in whispers that he is a
great magician who died thousands of years ago, but has returned from
death's gray lands to overthrow the king of Aquilonia and restore the
dynasty of which Valerius is heir.'
'What matter?' exclaimed Conan angrily. 'I escaped from the
devil-haunted pits of Belverus, and from diabolism in the mountains. If
the people rise——'
Servius shook his head.
'Your staunchest supporters in the eastern and central provinces are
dead, fled or imprisoned. Gunderland is far to the north, Poitain far
to the south. The Bossonians have retired to their marches far to the
west. It would take weeks to gather and concentrate these forces, and
before that could be done, each levy would be attacked separately by
Amalric and destroyed.'
'But an uprising in the central provinces would tip the scales for us!'
exclaimed Conan. 'We could seize Tarantia and hold it against Amalric
until the Gundermen and Poitanians could get here.'
Servius hesitated, and his voice sank to a whisper.
'Men say you died accursed. Men say this veiled stranger cast a spell
upon you to slay you and break your army. The great bell has tolled your
dirge. Men believe you to be dead. And the central provinces would not
rise, even if they knew you lived. They would not dare. Sorcery defeated
you at Valkia. Sorcery brought the news to Tarantia, for that very night
men were shouting of it in the streets.
'A Nemedian priest loosed black magic again in the streets of Tarantia
to slay men who still were loyal to your memory. I myself saw it. Armed
men dropped like flies and died in the streets in a manner no man could
understand. And the lean priest laughed and said: 'I am only Altaro,
only an acolyte of Orastes, who is but an acolyte of him who wears the
veil; not mine is the power; the power but works through me.'
'Well,' said Conan harshly, 'is it not better to die honorably than to
live in infamy? Is death worse than oppression, slavery and ultimate
destruction?'
'When the fear of sorcery is in, reason is out,' replied Servius. 'The
fear of the central provinces is too great to allow them to rise for
you. The outlying provinces would fight for you—but the same sorcery
that smote your army at Valkia would smite you again. The Nemedians hold
the broadest, richest and most thickly populated sections of Aquilonia,
and they cannot be defeated by the forces which might still be at your
command. You would be sacrificing your loyal subjects uselessly. In
sorrow I say it, but it is true: King Conan, you are a king without a
kingdom.'
Conan stared into the fire without replying. A smoldering log crashed
down among the flames without a bursting shower of sparks. It might have
been the crashing ruin of his kingdom.
Again Conan felt the presence of a grim reality behind the veil of
material illusion. He sensed again the inexorable drive of a ruthless
fate. A feeling of furious panic tugged at his soul, a sense of being
trapped, and a red rage that burned to destroy and kill.
'Where are the officials of my court?' he demanded at last.
'Pallantides was sorely wounded at Valkia, was ransomed by his family,
and now lies in his castle in Attalus. He will be fortunate if he ever
rides again. Publius, the chancellor, has fled the kingdom in disguise,
no man knows whither. The council has been disbanded. Some were
imprisoned, some banished. Many of your loyal subjects have been put to
death. Tonight, for instance, the Countess Albiona dies under the
headsman's ax.'
Conan started and stared at Servius with such anger smoldering in his
blue eyes that the patrician shrank back.
'Why?'
'Because she would not become the mistress of Valerius. Her lands are
forfeit, her henchmen sold into slavery, and at midnight, in the Iron
Tower, her head must fall. Be advised, my king—to me you will ever be
my king—and flee before you are discovered. In these days none is safe.
Spies and informers creep among us, betraying the slightest deed or word
of discontent as treason and rebellion. If you make yourself known to
your subjects it will only end in your capture and death.
'My horses and all the men that I can trust are at your disposal. Before
dawn we can be far from Tarantia, and well on our way toward the border.
If I cannot aid you to recover your kingdom, I can at least follow you
into exile.'
Conan shook his head. Servius glanced uneasily at him as he sat staring
into the fire, his chin propped on his mighty fist. The firelight
gleamed redly on his steel mail, on his baleful eyes. They burned in the
firelight like the eyes of a wolf. Servius was again aware, as in the
past, and now more strongly than ever, of something alien about the
king. That great frame under the mail mesh was too hard and supple for a
civilized man; the elemental fire of the primitive burned in those
smoldering eyes. Now the barbaric suggestion about the king was more
pronounced, as if in his extremity the outward aspects of civilization
were stripped away, to reveal the primordial core. Conan was reverting
to his pristine type. He did not act as a civilized man would act under
the same conditions, nor did his thoughts run in the same channels. He
was unpredictable. It was only a stride from the king of Aquilonia to
the skin-clad slayer of the Cimmerian hills.
'I'll ride to Poitain, if it may be,' Conan said at last. 'But I'll ride
alone. And I have one last duty to perform as king of Aquilonia.'
'What do you mean, your Majesty?' asked Servius, shaken by a
premonition.
'I'm going into Tarantia after Albiona tonight,' answered the king.
'I've failed all my other loyal subjects, it seems—if they take her
head, they can have mine too.'
'This is madness!' cried Servius, staggering up and clutching his
throat, as if he already felt the noose closing about it.
'There are secrets to the Tower which few know,' said Conan. 'Anyway,
I'd be a dog to leave Albiona to die because of her loyalty to me. I may
be a king without a kingdom, but I'm not a man without honor.'
'It will ruin us all!' whispered Servius.
'It will ruin no one but me if I fail. You've risked enough. I ride
alone tonight. This is all I want you to do: procure me a patch for my
eye, a staff for my hand, and garments such as travelers wear.'
9
'It is the King or His Ghost!'
Many men passed through the great arched gates of Tarantia between
sunset and midnight—belated travelers, merchants from afar with heavily
laden mules, free workmen from the surrounding farms and vineyards. Now
that Valerius was supreme in the central provinces, there was no rigid
scrutiny of the folk who flowed in a steady stream through the wide
gates. Discipline had been relaxed. The Nemedian soldiers who stood on
guard were half drunk, and much too busy watching for handsome peasant
girls and rich merchants who could be bullied to notice workmen or dusty
travelers, even one tall wayfarer whose worn cloak could not conceal the
hard lines of his powerful frame.
This man carried himself with an erect, aggressive bearing that was too
natural for him to realize it himself, much less dissemble it. A great
patch covered one eye, and his leather coif, drawn low over his brows,
shadowed his features. With a long thick staff in his muscular brown
hand, he strode leisurely through the arch where the torches flared and
guttered, and, ignored by the tipsy guardsmen, emerged upon the wide
streets of Tarantia.
Upon these well-lighted thoroughfares the usual throngs went about their
business, and shops and stalls stood open, with their wares displayed.
One thread ran a constant theme through the pattern. Nemedian soldiers,
singly or in clumps, swaggered through the throngs, shouldering their
way with studied arrogance. Women scurried from their path, and men
stepped aside with darkened brows and clenched fists. The Aquilonians
were a proud race, and these were their hereditary enemies.
The knuckles of the tall traveler knotted on his staff, but, like the
others, he stepped aside to let the men in armor have the way. Among the
motley and varied crowd he did not attract much attention in his drab,
dusty garments. But once, as he passed a sword-seller's stall and the
light that streamed from its wide door fell full upon him, he thought
he felt an intense stare upon him, and turning quickly, saw a man in the
brown jerkin of a free workman regarding him fixedly. This man turned
away with undue haste, and vanished in the shifting throng. But Conan
turned into a narrow by-street and quickened his pace. It might have
been mere idle curiosity; but he could take no chances.
The grim Iron Tower stood apart from the citadel, amid a maze of narrow
streets and crowding houses where the meaner structures, appropriating a
space from which the more fastidious shrank, had invaded a portion of
the city ordinarily alien to them. The Tower was in reality a castle, an
ancient, formidable pile of heavy stone and black iron, which had itself
served as the citadel in an earlier, ruder century.
Not a long distance from it, lost in a tangle of partly deserted
tenements and warehouses, stood an ancient watchtower, so old and
forgotten that it did not appear on the maps of the city for a hundred
years back. Its original purpose had been forgotten, and nobody, of such
as saw it at all, noticed that the apparently ancient lock which kept it
from being appropriated as sleeping-quarters by beggars and thieves, was
in reality comparatively new and extremely powerful, cunningly disguised
into an appearance of rusty antiquity. Not half a dozen men in the
kingdom had ever known the secret of that tower.
No keyhole showed in the massive, green-crusted lock. But Conan's
practised fingers, stealing over it, pressed here and there knobs
invisible to the casual eye. The door silently opened inward and he
entered solid blackness, pushing the door shut behind him. A light would
have showed the tower empty, a bare, cylindrical shaft of massive stone.
Groping in a corner with the sureness of familiarity, he found the
projections for which he was feeling on a slab of the stone that
composed the floor. Quickly he lifted it, and without hesitation lowered
himself into the aperture beneath. His feet felt stone steps leading
downward into what he knew was a narrow tunnel that ran straight toward
the foundations of the Iron Tower, three streets away.
The bell on the citadel, which tolled only at the midnight hour or for
the death of a king, boomed suddenly. In a dimly lighted chamber in the
Iron Tower a door opened and a form emerged into a corridor. The
interior of the Tower was as forbidding as its external appearance. Its
massive stone walls were rough, unadorned. The flags of the floor were
worn deep by generations of faltering feet, and the vault of the ceiling
was gloomy in the dim light of torches set in niches.
The man who trudged down that grim corridor was in appearance in keeping
with his surroundings. He was a tall, powerfully built man, clad in
close-fitting black silk. Over his head was drawn a black hood which
fell about his shoulders, having two holes for his eyes. From his
shoulders hung a loose black cloak, and over one shoulder he bore a
heavy ax, the shape of which was that of neither tool nor weapon.
As he went down the corridor, a figure came hobbling up it, a bent,
surly old man, stooping under the weight of his pike and a lantern he
bore in one hand.
'You are not as prompt as your predecessor, master headsman,' he
grumbled. 'Midnight has just struck, and masked men have gone to
milady's cell. They await you.'
'The tones of the bell still echo among the towers,' answered the
executioner. 'If I am not so quick to leap and run at the beck of
Aquilonians as was the dog who held this office before me, they shall
find my arm no less ready. Get you to your duties, old watchman, and
leave me to mine. I think mine is the sweeter trade, by Mitra, for you
tramp cold corridors and peer at rusty dungeon doors, while I lop off
the fairest head in Tarantia this night.'
The watchman limped on down the corridor, still grumbling, and the
headsman resumed his leisurely way. A few strides carried him around a
turn in the corridor, and he absently noted that at his left a door
stood partly open. If he had thought, he would have known that that door
had been opened since the watchman passed; but thinking was not his
trade. He was passing the unlocked door before he realized that aught
was amiss, and then it was too late.
A soft tigerish step and the rustle of a cloak warned him, but before he
could turn, a heavy arm hooked about his throat from behind, crushing
the cry before it could reach his lips. In the brief instant that was
allowed him he realized with a surge of panic the strength of his
attacker, against which his own brawny thews were helpless. He sensed
without seeing the poised dagger.
'Nemedian dog!' muttered a voice thick with passion in his ear. 'You've
cut off your last Aquilonian head!'
And that was the last thing he ever heard.
In a dank dungeon, lighted only by a guttering torch, three men stood
about a young woman who knelt on the rush-strewn flags staring wildly up
at them. She was clad only in a scanty shift; her golden hair fell in
lustrous ripples about her white shoulders, and her wrists were bound
behind her. Even in the uncertain torchlight, and in spite of her
disheveled condition and pallor of fear, her beauty was striking. She
knelt mutely, staring with wide eyes up at her tormenters. The men were
closely masked and cloaked. Such a deed as this needed masks, even in a
conquered land. She knew them all nevertheless; but what she knew would
harm no one—after that night.
'Our merciful sovereign offers you one more chance, Countess,' said the
tallest of the three, and he spoke Aquilonian without an accent. 'He
bids me say that if you soften your proud, rebellious spirit, he will
still open his arms to you. If not—' he gestured toward a grim wooden
block in the center of the cell. It was blackly stained, and showed many
deep nicks as if a keen edge, cutting through some yielding substance,
had sunk into the wood.
Albiona shuddered and turned pale, shrinking back. Every fiber in her
vigorous young body quivered with the urge of life. Valerius was young,
too, and handsome. Many women loved him, she told herself, fighting with
herself for life. But she could not speak the word that would ransom her
soft young body from the block and the dripping ax. She could not reason
the matter. She only knew that when she thought of the clasp of
Valerius' arms, her flesh crawled with an abhorrence greater than the
fear of death. She shook her head helplessly, compelled by an impulsion
more irresistible than the instinct to live.
'Then there is no more to be said!' exclaimed one of the others
impatiently, and he spoke with a Nemedian accent. 'Where is the
headsman?'
As if summoned by the word, the dungeon door opened silently, and a
great figure stood framed in it, like a black shadow from the
underworld.
Albiona voiced a low, involuntary cry at the sight of that grim shape,
and the others stared silently for a moment, perhaps themselves daunted
with superstitious awe at the silent, hooded figure. Through the coif
the eyes blazed like coals of blue fire, and as these eyes rested on
each man in turn, he felt a curious chill travel down his spine.
Then the tall Aquilonian roughly seized the girl and dragged her to the
block. She screamed uncontrollably and fought hopelessly against him,
frantic with terror, but he ruthlessly forced her to her knees, and bent
her yellow head down to the bloody block.
'Why do you delay, headsman?' he exclaimed angrily. 'Perform your task!'
He was answered by a short, gusty boom of laughter that was
indescribably menacing. All in the dungeon froze in their places,
staring at the hooded shape—the two cloaked figures, the masked man
bending over the girl, the girl herself on her knees, twisting her
imprisoned head to look upward.
'What means this unseemly mirth, dog?' demanded the Aquilonian uneasily.
The man in the black garb tore his hood from his head and flung it to
the ground; he set his back to the closed door and lifted the headsman's
ax.
'Do you know me, dogs?' he rumbled. 'Do you know me?'
The breathless silence was broken by a scream.
'The king!' shrieked Albiona, wrenching herself free from the slackened
grasp of her captor. 'Oh, Mitra, the king!'
The three men stood like statues, and then the Aquilonian started and
spoke, like a man who doubts his own senses.
'Conan!' he ejaculated. 'It is the king, or his ghost! What devil's work
is this?'
'Devil's work to match devils!' mocked Conan, his lips laughing but hell
flaming in his eyes. 'Come, fall to, my gentlemen. You have your swords,
and I this cleaver. Nay, I think this butcher's tool fits the work at
hand, my fair lords!'
'At him!' muttered the Aquilonian, drawing his sword. 'It is Conan and
we must kill or be killed!'
And like men waking from a trance, the Nemedians drew their blades and
rushed on the king.
The headsman's ax was not made for such work, but the king wielded the
heavy, clumsy weapon as lightly as a hatchet, and his quickness of foot,
as he constantly shifted his position, defeated their purpose of
engaging him all three at once.
He caught the sword of the first man on his ax-head and crushed in the
wielder's breast with a murderous counterstroke before he could step
back or parry. The remaining Nemedian, missing a savage swipe, had his
brains dashed out before he could recover his balance, and an instant
later the Aquilonian was backed into a corner, desperately parrying the
crashing strokes that rained about him, lacking opportunity even to
scream for help.
Suddenly Conan's long left arm shot out and ripped the mask from the
man's head, disclosing the pallid features.
'Dog!' grated the king. 'I thought I knew you. Traitor! Damned renegade!
Even this base steel is too honorable for your foul head. Nay, die as
thieves die!'
The ax fell in a devastating arch, and the Aquilonian cried out and went
to his knees, grasping the severed stump of his right arm from which
blood spouted. It had been shorn away at the elbow, and the ax,
unchecked in its descent, had gashed deeply into his side, so that his
entrails bulged out.
'Lie there and bleed to death,' grunted Conan, casting the ax away
disgustedly. 'Come, Countess!'
Stooping, he slashed the cords that bound her wrists and lifting her as
if she had been a child, strode from the dungeon. She was sobbing
hysterically, with her arms thrown about his corded neck in a frenzied
embrace.
'Easy all,' he muttered. 'We're not out of this yet. If we can reach
the dungeon where the secret door opens on stairs that lead to the
tunnel—devil take it, they've heard that noise, even through these
walls.'
Down the corridor arms clanged and the tramp and shouting of men echoed
under the vaulted roof. A bent figure came hobbling swiftly along,
lantern held high, and its light shone full on Conan and the girl. With
a curse the Cimmerian sprang toward him, but the old watchman,
abandoning both lantern and pike, scuttled away down the corridor,
screeching for help at the top of his cracked voice. Deeper shouts
answered him.
Conan turned swiftly and ran the other way. He was cut off from the
dungeon with the secret lock and the hidden door through which he had
entered the Tower, and by which he had hoped to leave, but he knew this
grim building well. Before he was king he had been imprisoned in it.
He turned off into a side passage and quickly emerged into another,
broader corridor, which ran parallel to the one down which he had come,
and which was at the moment deserted. He followed this only a few yards,
when he again turned back, down another side passage. This brought him
back into the corridor he had left, but at a strategic point. A few feet
farther up the corridor there was a heavy bolted door, and before it
stood a bearded Nemedian in corselet and helmet, his back to Conan as he
peered up the corridor in the direction of the growing tumult and wildly
waving lanterns.
Conan did not hesitate. Slipping the girl to the ground, he ran at the
guard swiftly and silently, sword in hand. The man turned just as the
king reached him, bawled in surprise and fright and lifted his pike; but
before he could bring the clumsy weapon into play, Conan brought down
his sword on the fellow's helmet with a force that would have felled an
ox. Helmet and skull gave way together and the guard crumpled to the
floor.
In an instant Conan had drawn the massive bolt that barred the door—too
heavy for one ordinary man to have manipulated—and called hastily to
Albiona, who ran staggering to him. Catching her up unceremoniously with
one arm, he bore her through the door and into the outer darkness.
They had come into a narrow alley, black as pitch, walled by the side of
the Tower on one hand, and the sheer stone back of a row of buildings on
the other. Conan, hurrying through the darkness as swiftly as he dared,
felt the latter wall for doors or windows, but found none.
The great door clanged open behind them, and men poured out, with
torches gleaming on breast-plates and naked swords. They glared about,
bellowing, unable to penetrate the darkness which their torches served
to illuminate for only a few feet in any direction, and then rushed
down the alley at random—heading in the direction opposite to that
taken by Conan and Albiona.
'They'll learn their mistake quick enough,' he muttered, increasing his
pace. 'If we ever find a crack in this infernal wall—damn! The street
watch!'
Ahead of them a faint glow became apparent, where the alley opened into
a narrow street, and he saw dim figures looming against it with a
glimmer of steel. It was indeed the street watch, investigating the
noise they had heard echoing down the alley.
'Who goes there?' they shouted, and Conan grit his teeth at the hated
Nemedian accent.
'Keep behind me,' he ordered the girl. 'We've got to cut our way through
before the prison guards come back and pin us between them.'
And grasping his sword, he ran straight at the oncoming figures. The
advantage of surprise was his. He could see them, limned against the
distant glow, and they could not see him coming at them out of the black
depths of the alley. He was among them before they knew it, smiting with
the silent fury of a wounded lion.
His one chance lay in hacking through before they could gather their
wits. But there were half a score of them, in full mail, hard-bitten
veterans of the border wars, in whom the instinct for battle could take
the place of bemused wits. Three of them were down before they realized
that it was only one man who was attacking them, but even so their
reaction was instantaneous. The clangor of steel rose deafeningly, and
sparks flew as Conan's sword crashed on basinet and hauberk. He could
see better than they, and in the dim light his swiftly moving figure was
an uncertain mark. Flailing swords cut empty air or glanced from his
blade, and when he struck it was with the fury and certainty of a
hurricane.
But behind him sounded the shouts of the prison guards, returning up the
alley at a run, and still the mailed figures before him barred his way
with a bristling wall of steel. In an instant the guards would be on his
back—in desperation he redoubled his strokes, flailing like a smith on
an anvil, and then was suddenly aware of a diversion. Out of nowhere
behind the watchmen rose a score of black figures and there was a sound
of blows, murderously driven. Steel glinted in the gloom, and men cried
out, struck mortally from behind. In an instant the alley was littered
with writhing forms. A dark, cloaked shape sprang toward Conan, who
heaved up his sword, catching a gleam of steel in the right hand. But
the other was extended to him empty and a voice hissed urgently: 'This
way, your Majesty! Quickly!'
With a muttered oath of surprise, Conan caught up Albiona in one
massive arm, and followed his unknown befriender. He was not inclined to
hesitate, with thirty prison guardsmen closing in behind him.
Surrounded by mysterious figures he hurried down the alley, carrying the
countess as if she had been a child. He could tell nothing of his
rescuers except that they wore dark cloaks and hoods. Doubt and
suspicion crossed his mind, but at least they had struck down his
enemies, and he saw no better course than to follow them.
As if sensing his doubt, the leader touched his arm lightly and said:
'Fear not, King Conan; we are your loyal subjects.' The voice was not
familiar, but the accent was Aquilonian of the central provinces.
Behind them the guards were yelling as they stumbled over the shambles
in the mud, and they came pelting vengefully down the alley, seeing the
vague dark mass moving between them and the light of the distant street.
But the hooded men turned suddenly toward the seemingly blank wall, and
Conan saw a door gape there. He muttered a curse. He had traversed that
alley by day, in times past, and had never noticed a door there. But
through it they went, and the door closed behind them with the click of
a lock. The sound was not reassuring, but his guides were hurrying him
on, moving with the precision of familiarity, guiding Conan with a hand
at either elbow. It was like traversing a tunnel, and Conan felt
Albiona's lithe limbs trembling in his arms. Then somewhere ahead of
them an opening was faintly visible, merely a somewhat less black arch
in the blackness, and through this they filed.
After that there was a bewildering succession of dim courts and shadowy
alleys and winding corridors, all traversed in utter silence, until at
last they emerged into a broad lighted chamber, the location of which
Conan could not even guess, for their devious route had confused even
his primitive sense of direction.
10
A Coin from Acheron
Not all his guides entered the chamber. When the door closed, Conan saw
only one man standing before him—a slim figure, masked in a black cloak
with a hood. This the man threw back, disclosing a pale oval of a face,
with calm, delicately chiseled features.
The king set Albiona on her feet, but she still clung to him and stared
apprehensively about her. The chamber was a large one, with marble walls
partly covered with black velvet hangings and thick rich carpets on the
mosaic floor, laved in the soft golden glow of bronze lamps.
Conan instinctively laid a hand on his hilt. There was blood on his
hand, blood clotted about the mouth of his scabbard, for he had sheathed
his blade without cleansing it.
'Where are we?' he demanded.
The stranger answered with a low, profound bow in which the suspicious
king could detect no trace of irony.
'In the temple of Asura, your Majesty.'
Albiona cried out faintly and clung closer to Conan, staring fearfully
at the black, arched doors, as if expecting the entry of some grisly
shape of darkness.
'Fear not, my lady,' said their guide. 'There is nothing here to harm
you, vulgar superstition to the contrary. If your monarch was
sufficiently convinced of the innocence of our religion to protect us
from the persecution of the ignorant, then certainly one of his subjects
need have no apprehensions.'
'Who are you?' demanded Conan.
'I am Hadrathus, priest of Asura. One of my followers recognized you
when you entered the city, and brought the word to me.'
Conan grunted profanely.
'Do not fear that others discovered your identity,' Hadrathus assured
him. 'Your disguise would have deceived any but a follower of Asura,
whose cult it is to seek below the aspect of illusion. You were followed
to the watch tower, and some of my people went into the tunnel to aid
you if you returned by that route. Others, myself among them, surrounded
the tower. And now, King Conan, it is yours to command. Here in the
temple of Asura you are still king.'
'Why should you risk your lives for me?' asked the king.
'You were our friend when you sat upon your throne,' answered Hadrathus.
'You protected us when the priests of Mitra sought to scourge us out of
the land.'
Conan looked about him curiously. He had never before visited the temple
of Asura, had not certainly known that there was such a temple in
Tarantia. The priests of the religion had a habit of hiding their
temples in a remarkable fashion. The worship of Mitra was overwhelmingly
predominant in the Hyborian nations, but the cult of Asura persisted, in
spite of official ban and popular antagonism. Conan had been told dark
tales of hidden temples where intense smoke drifted up incessantly from
black altars where kidnapped humans were sacrificed before a great
coiled serpent, whose fearsome head swayed for ever in the haunted
shadows.
Persecution caused the followers of Asura to hide their temples with
cunning art, and to veil their rituals in obscurity; and this secrecy,
in turn, evoked more monstrous suspicions and tales of evil.
But Conan's was the broad tolerance of the barbarian, and he had refused
to persecute the followers of Asura or to allow the people to do so on
no better evidence than was presented against them, rumors and
accusations that could not be proven. 'If they are black magicians,' he
had said, 'how will they suffer you to harry them? If they are not,
there is no evil in them. Crom's devils! Let men worship what gods they
will.'
At a respectful invitation from Hadrathus he seated himself on an ivory
chair, and motioned Albiona to another, but she preferred to sit on a
golden stool at his feet, pressing close against his thigh, as if
seeking security in the contact. Like most orthodox followers of Mitra,
she had an intuitive horror of the followers and cult of Asura,
instilled in her infancy and childhood by wild tales of human sacrifice
and anthropomorphic gods shambling through shadowy temples.
Hadrathus stood before them, his uncovered head bowed.
'What is your wish, your Majesty?'
'Food first,' he grunted, and the priest smote a golden gong with a
silver wand.
Scarcely had the mellow notes ceased echoing when four hooded figures
came through a curtained doorway bearing a great four-legged silver
platter of smoking dishes and crystal vessels. This they set before
Conan, bowing low, and the king wiped his hands on the damask, and
smacked his lips with unconcealed relish.
'Beware, your Majesty!' whispered Albiona. 'These folk eat human flesh!'
'I'll stake my kingdom that this is nothing but honest roast beef,'
answered Conan. 'Come, lass, fall to! You must be hungry after the
prison fare.'
Thus advised, and with the example before her of one whose word was the
ultimate law to her, the countess complied, and ate ravenously though
daintily, while her liege lord tore into the meat joints and guzzled the
wine with as much gusto as if he had not already eaten once that night.
'You priests are shrewd, Hadrathus,' he said, with a great beef-bone in
his hands and his mouth full of meat. 'I'd welcome your service in my
campaign to regain my kingdom.'
Slowly Hadrathus shook his head, and Conan slammed the beef-bone down on
the table in a gust of impatient wrath.
'Crom's devils! What ails the men of Aquilonia? First Servius—now you!
Can you do nothing but wag your idiotic heads when I speak of ousting
these dogs?'
Hadrathus sighed and answered slowly: 'My lord, it is ill to say, and I
fain would say otherwise. But the freedom of Aquilonia is at an end.
Nay, the freedom of the whole world may be at an end! Age follows age in
the history of the world, and now we enter an age of horror and slavery,
as it was long ago.'
'What do you mean?' demanded the king uneasily.
Hadrathus dropped into a chair and rested his elbows on his thighs,
staring at the floor.
'It is not alone the rebellious lords of Aquilonia and the armies of
Nemedia which are arrayed against you,' answered Hadrathus. 'It is
sorcery—grisly black magic from the grim youth of the world. An awful
shape has risen out of the shades of the Past, and none can stand before
it.'
'What do you mean?' Conan repeated.
'I speak of Xaltotun of Acheron, who died three thousand years ago, yet
walks the earth today.'
Conan was silent, while in his mind floated an image—the image of a
bearded face of calm inhuman beauty. Again he was haunted by a sense of
uneasy familiarity. Acheron—the sound of the word roused instinctive
vibrations of memory and associations in his mind.
'Acheron,' he repeated. 'Xaltotun of Acheron—man, are you mad? Acheron
has been a myth for more centuries than I can remember. I've often
wondered if it ever existed at all.'
'It was a black reality,' answered Hadrathus, 'an empire of black
magicians, steeped in evil now long forgotten. It was finally overthrown
by the Hyborian tribes of the west. The wizards of Acheron practised
foul necromancy, thaumaturgy of the most evil kind, grisly magic taught
them by devils. And of all the sorcerers of that accursed kingdom, none
was so great as Xaltotun of Python.'
'Then how was he ever overthrown?' asked Conan skeptically.
'By some means a source of cosmic power which he jealously guarded was
stolen and turned against him. That source has been returned to him, and
he is invincible.'
Albiona, hugging the headsman's black cloak about her, stared from the
priest to the king, not understanding the conversation. Conan shook his
head angrily.
'You are making game of me,' he growled. 'If Xaltotun has been dead
three thousand years, how can this man be he? It's some rogue who's
taken the old one's name.'
Hadrathus leaned to an ivory table and opened a small gold chest which
stood there. From it he took something which glinted dully in the mellow
light—a broad gold coin of antique minting.
'You have seen Xaltotun unveiled? Then look upon this. It is a coin
which was stamped in ancient Acheron, before its fall. So pervaded with
sorcery was that black empire, that even this coin has its uses in
making magic.'
Conan took it and scowled down at it. There was no mistaking its great
antiquity. Conan had handled many coins in the years of his plunderings,
and had a good practical knowledge of them. The edges were worn and the
inscription almost obliterated. But the countenance stamped on one side
was still clear-cut and distinct. And Conan's breath sucked in between
his clenched teeth. It was not cool in the chamber, but he felt a
prickling of his scalp, an icy contraction of his flesh. The countenance
was that of a bearded man, inscrutable, with a calm inhuman beauty.
'By Crom! It's he!' muttered Conan. He understood, now, the sense of
familiarity that the sight of the bearded man had roused in him from the
first. He had seen a coin like this once before, long ago in a far land.
With a shake of his shoulders he growled: 'The likeness is only a
coincidence—or if he's shrewd enough to assume a forgotten wizard's
name, he's shrewd enough to assume his likeness.' But he spoke without
conviction. The sight of that coin had shaken the foundations of his
universe. He felt that reality and stability were crumbing into an abyss
of illusion and sorcery. A wizard was understandable; but this was
diabolism beyond sanity.
'We cannot doubt that it is indeed Xaltotun of Python,' said Hadrathus.
'He it was who shook down the cliffs at Valkia, by his spells that
enthrall the elementals of the earth—he it was who sent the creature of
darkness into your tent before dawn.'
Conan scowled at him. 'How did you know that?'
'The followers of Asura have secret channels of knowledge. That does not
matter. But do you realize the futility of sacrificing your subjects in
a vain attempt to regain your crown?'
Conan rested his chin on his fist, and stared grimly into nothing.
Albiona watched him anxiously, her mind groping bewildered in the mazes
of the problem that confronted him.
'Is there no wizard in the world who could make magic to fight
Xaltotun's magic?' he asked at last.
Hadrathus shook his head. 'If there were, we of Asura would know of him.
Men say our cult is a survival of the ancient Stygian serpent-worship.
That is a lie. Our ancestors came from Vendhya, beyond the Sea of
Vilayet and the blue Himelian mountains. We are sons of the East, not
the South, and we have knowledge of all the wizards of the East, who are
greater than the wizards of the West. And not one of them but would be a
straw in the wind before the black might of Xaltotun.'
'But he was conquered once,' persisted Conan.
'Aye; a cosmic source was turned against him. But now that source is
again in his hands, and he will see that it is not stolen again.'
'And what is this damnable source?' demanded Conan irritably.
'It is called the Heart of Ahriman. When Acheron was overthrown, the
primitive priest who had stolen it and turned it against Xaltotun hid it
in a haunted cavern and built a small temple over the cavern. Thrice
thereafter the temple was rebuilt, each time greater and more
elaborately than before, but always on the site of the original shrine,
though men forgot the reason therefor. Memory of the hidden symbol faded
from the minds of common men, and was preserved only in priestly books
and esoteric volumes. Whence it came no one knows. Some say it is the
veritable heart of a god, others that it is a star that fell from the
skies long ago. Until it was stolen, none had looked upon it for three
thousand years.
'When the magic of the Mitran priests failed against the magic of
Xaltotun's acolyte, Altaro, they remembered the ancient legend of the
heart, and the high priest and an acolyte went down into the dark and
terrible crypt below the temple into which no priest had descended for
three thousand years. In the ancient iron-bound volumes which speak of
the Heart in their cryptic symbolism, it is also told of a creature of
darkness left by the ancient priest to guard it.
'Far down in a square chamber with arched doorways leading off into
immeasurable blackness, the priest and his acolytes found a black stone
altar that glowed dimly with inexplicable radiance.
'On that altar lay a curious gold vessel like a double-valved sea-shell
which clung to the stone like a barnacle. But it gaped open and empty.
The Heart of Ahriman was gone. While they stared in horror, the keeper
of the crypt, the creature of darkness, came upon them and mangled the
high priest so that he died. But the acolyte fought off the being—a
mindless, soulless waif of the pits brought long ago to guard the
Heart—and escaped up the long black narrow stairs carrying the dying
priest, who before he died, gasped out the news to his followers, bade
them submit to a power they could not overcome, and commanded secrecy.
But the word has been whispered about among the priests, and we of Asura
learned of it.'
'And Xaltotun draws his power from this symbol?' asked Conan, still
skeptical.
'No. His power is drawn from the black gulf. But the Heart of Ahriman
came from some far universe of flaming light, and against it the powers
of darkness cannot stand, when it is in the hands of an adept. It is
like a sword that might smite at him, not a sword with which he can
smite. It restores life, and can destroy life. He has stolen it, not to
use against his enemies, but to keep them from using it against him.'
'A shell-shaped bowl of gold on a black altar in a deep cavern,' Conan
muttered, frowning as he sought to capture the illusive image. 'That
reminds me of something I have heard or seen. But what, in Crom's name,
is this notable Heart?'
'It is in the form of a great jewel, like a ruby, but pulsing with
blinding fire with which no ruby ever burned. It glows like living
flame—'
But Conan sprang suddenly up and smote his right fist into his left palm
like a thunderclap.
'Crom!' he roared, 'What a fool I've been! The Heart of Ahriman! The
heart of my kingdom! Find the heart of my kingdom, Zelata said. By Ymir,
it was the jewel I saw in the green smoke, the jewel which Tarascus
stole from Xaltotun while he lay in the sleep of the black lotus!'
Hadrathus was also on his feet, his calm dropped from him like a
garment.
'What are you saying? The Heart stolen from Xaltotun?'
'Aye!' Conan boomed. 'Tarascus feared Xaltotun and wanted to cripple his
power, which he thought resided in the Heart. Maybe he thought the
wizard would die if the Heart was lost. By Crom—ahhh!' With a savage
grimace of disappointment and disgust he dropped his clenched hand to
his side.
'I forgot. Tarascus gave it to a thief to throw into the sea. By this
time the fellow must be almost to Kordava. Before I can follow him he'll
take ship and consign the Heart to the bottom of the ocean.'
'The sea will not hold it!' exclaimed Hadrathus, quivering with
excitement. 'Xaltotun would himself have cast it into the ocean long
ago, had he not known that the first storm would carry it ashore. But on
what unknown beach might it not land!'
'Well,' Conan was recovering some of his resilient confidence, 'there's
no assurance that the thief will throw it away. If I know thieves—and I
should, for I was a thief in Zamora in my early youth—he won't throw it
away. He'll sell it to some rich trader. By Crom!' he strode back and
forth in his growing excitement. 'It's worth looking for! Zelata bade me
find the heart of my kingdom, and all else she showed me proved to be
truth. Can it be that the power to conquer Xaltotun lurks in that
crimson bauble?'
'Aye! My head upon it!' cried Hadrathus, his face lightened with fervor,
his eyes blazing, his fists clenched. 'With it in our hands we can dare
the powers of Xaltotun! I swear it! If we can recover it, we have an
even chance of recovering your crown and driving the invaders from our
portals. It is not the swords of Nemedia that Aquilonia fears, but the
black arts of Xaltotun.'
Conan looked at him for a space, impressed by the priest's fire.
'It's like a quest in a nightmare,' he said at last. 'Yet your words
echo the thought of Zelata, and all else she said was truth. I'll seek
for this jewel.'
'It holds the destiny of Aquilonia,' said Hadrathus with conviction. 'I
will send men with you—'
'Nay!' exclaimed the king impatiently, not caring to be hampered by
priests on his quest, however skilled in esoteric arts. 'This is a task
for a fighting man. I go alone. First to Poitain, where I'll leave
Albiona with Trocero. Then to Kordava, and to the sea beyond, if
necessary. It may be that, even if the thief intends carrying out
Tarascus' order, he'll have some difficulty finding an outbound ship at
this time of the year.'
'And if you find the Heart,' cried Hadrathus, 'I will prepare the way
for your conquest. Before you return to Aquilonia I will spread the word
through secret channels that you live and are returning with a magic
stronger than Xaltotun's. I will have men ready to rise on your return.
They will rise, if they have assurance that they will be protected from
the black arts of Xaltotun.
'And I will aid you on your journey.'
He rose and struck a gong.
'A secret tunnel leads from beneath this temple to a place outside the
city wall. You shall go to Poitain on a pilgrim's boat. None will dare
molest you.'
'As you will.' With a definite purpose in mind Conan was afire with
impatience and dynamic energy. 'Only let it be done swiftly.'
In the meantime events were moving not slowly elsewhere in the city. A
breathless messenger had burst into the palace where Valerius was
amusing himself with his dancing-girls, and throwing himself on his
knee, gasped out a garbled story of a bloody prison break and the escape
of a lovely captive. He bore also the news that Count Thespius, to whom
the execution of Albiona's sentence had been entrusted, was dying and
begging for a word with Valerius before he passed.
Hurriedly cloaking himself, Valerius accompanied the man through various
winding ways, and came to a chamber where Thespius lay. There was no
doubt that the count was dying; bloody froth bubbled from his lips at
each shuddering gasp. His severed arm had been bound to stop the flow of
blood, but even without that, the gash in his side was mortal.
Alone in the chamber with the dying man, Valerius swore softly.
'By Mitra, I had believed that only one man ever lived who could strike
such a blow.'
'Valerius!' gasped the dying man. 'He lives! Conan lives!'
'What are you saying?' ejaculated the other.
'I swear by Mitra!' gurgled Thespius, gagging on the blood that gushed
to his lips. 'It was he who carried off Albiona! He is not dead—no
phantom come back from hell to haunt us. He is flesh and blood, and more
terrible than ever. The alley behind the tower is full of dead men.
Beware, Valerius—he has come back—to slay us all—'
A strong shudder shook the blood-smeared figure, and Count Thespius went
limp.
Valerius frowned down at the dead man, cast a swift glance about the
empty chamber, and stepping swiftly to the door, cast it open suddenly.
The messenger and a group of Nemedian guardsmen stood several paces down
the corridor. Valerius muttered something that might have indicated
satisfaction.
'Have all the gates been closed?' he demanded.
'Yes, your Majesty.'
'Triple the guards at each. Let no one enter or leave the city without
strictest investigation. Set men scouring the streets and searching the
quarters. A very valuable prisoner has escaped, with the aid of an
Aquilonian rebel. Did any of you recognize the man?'
'No, your Majesty. The old watchman had a glimpse of him, but could only
say that he was a giant, clad in the black garb of the executioner,
whose naked body we found in an empty cell.'
'He is a dangerous man,' said Valerius. 'Take no chances with him. You
all know the Countess Albiona. Search for her, and if you find her, kill
her and her companion instantly. Do not try to take them alive.'
Returning to his palace chamber, Valerius summoned before him four men
of curious and alien aspect. They were tall, gaunt, of yellowish skin,
and immobile countenances. They were very similar in appearance, clad
alike in long black robes beneath which their sandaled feet were just
visible. Their features were shadowed by their hoods. They stood before
Valerius with their hands in their wide sleeves; their arms folded.
Valerius looked at them without pleasure. In his far journeyings he had
encountered many strange races.
'When I found you starving in the Khitan jungles,' he said abruptly,
'exiles from your kingdom, you swore to serve me. You have served me
well enough, in your abominable way. One more service I require, and
then I set you free of your oath.
'Conan the Cimmerian, king of Aquilonia, still lives, in spite of
Xaltotun's sorcery—or perhaps because of it. I know not. The dark mind
of that resurrected devil is too devious and subtle for a mortal man to
fathom. But while Conan lives I am not safe. The people accepted me as
the lesser of two evils, when they thought he was dead. Let him reappear
and the throne will be rocking under my feet in revolution before I can
lift my hand.
'Perhaps my allies mean to use him to replace me, if they decide I have
served my purpose. I do not know. I do know that this planet is too
small for two kings of Aquilonia. Seek the Cimmerian. Use your uncanny
talents to ferret him out wherever he hides or runs. He has many friends
in Tarantia. He had aid when he carried off Albiona. It took more than
one man, even such a man as Conan, to wreak all that slaughter in the
alley outside the tower. But no more. Take your staffs and strike his
trail. Where that trail will lead you, I know not. But find him! And
when you find him, slay him!'
The four Khitans bowed together, and still unspeaking, turned and padded
noiselessly from the chamber.
11
Swords of the South
Dawn that rose over the distant hills shone on the sails of a small
craft that dropped down the river which curves to within a mile of the
walls of Tarantia, and loops southward like a great shining serpent.
This boat differed from the ordinary craft plying the broad
Khorotas—fishermen and merchant barges loaded with rich goods. It was
long and slender, with a high, curving prow, and was black as ebony,
with white skulls painted along the gunwales. Amidships rose a small
cabin, the windows closely masked. Other craft gave the ominously
painted boat a wide berth; for it was obviously one of those 'pilgrim
boats' that carried a lifeless follower of Asura on his last mysterious
pilgrimage southward to where, far beyond the Poitanian mountains, a
river flowed at last into the blue ocean. In that cabin undoubtedly lay
the corpse of the departed worshipper. All men were familiar with the
sight of those gloomy craft; and the most fanatical votary of Mitra
would not dare touch or interfere with their somber voyages.
Where the ultimate destination lay, men did not know. Some said Stygia;
some a nameless island lying beyond the horizon; others said it was in
the glamorous and mysterious land of Vendhya where the dead came home at
last. But none knew certainly. They only knew that when a follower of
Asura died, the corpse went southward down the great river, in a black
boat rowed by a giant slave, and neither boat nor corpse nor slave was
ever seen again; unless, indeed, certain dark tales were true, and it
was always the same slave who rowed the boats southward.
The man who propelled this particular boat was as huge and brown as the
others, though closer scrutiny might have revealed the fact that the hue
was the result of carefully applied pigments. He was clad in leather
loin-cloth and sandals, and he handled the long sweep and oars with
unusual skill and power. But none approached the grim boat closely, for
it was well known that the followers of Asura were accursed, and that
these pilgrim boats were loaded with dark magic. So men swung their
boats wide and muttered an incantation as the dark craft slid past, and
they never dreamed that they were thus assisting in the flight of their
king and the Countess Albiona.
It was a strange journey, in that black, slim craft down the great river
for nearly two hundred miles to where the Khorotas swings eastward,
skirting the Poitanian mountains. Like a dream the ever-changing
panorama glided past. During the day Albiona lay patiently in the little
cabin, as quietly as the corpse she pretended to be. Only late at night,
after the pleasure boats with their fair occupants lounging on silken
cushions in the flare of torches held by slaves had left the river,
before dawn brought the hurrying fisherboats, did the girl venture out.
Then she held the long sweep, cunningly bound in place by ropes to aid
her, while Conan snatched a few hours of sleep. But the king needed
little rest. The fire of his desire drove him relentlessly; and his
powerful frame was equal to the grinding test. Without halt or pause
they drove southward.
So down the river they fled, through nights when the flowing current
mirrored the million stars, and through days of golden sunlight, leaving
winter behind them as they sped southward. They passed cities in the
night, above which throbbed and pulsed the reflection of the myriad
lights, lordly river villas and fertile groves. So at last the blue
mountains of Poitain rose above them, tier above tier, like ramparts of
the gods, and the great river, swerving from those turreted cliffs,
swept thunderously through the marching hills with many a rapid and
foaming cataract.
Conan scanned the shoreline closely, and finally swung the long sweep
and headed inshore at a point where a neck of land jutted into the
water, and fir trees grew in a curiously symmetrical ring about a gray,
strangely shaped rock.
'How these boats ride those falls we hear roaring ahead of us is more
than I can see,' he grunted. 'Hadrathus said they did—but here's where
we halt. He said a man would be waiting for us with horses, but I don't
see anyone. How word of our coming could have preceded us I don't know
anyway.'
He drove inshore and bound the prow to an arching root in the low bank,
and then, plunging into the water, washed the brown paint from his skin
and emerged dripping, and in his natural color. From the cabin he
brought forth a suit of Aquilonian ring-mail which Hadrathus had
procured for him, and his sword. These he donned while Albiona put on
garments suitable for mountain travel. And when Conan was fully armed,
and turned to look toward the shore, he started and his hand went to his
sword. For on the shore, under the trees, stood a black-cloaked figure
holding the reins of a white palfrey and a bay war-horse.
'Who are you?' demanded the king.
The other bowed low.
'A follower of Asura. A command came. I obeyed.'
'How, "came"?' inquired Conan, but the other merely bowed again.
'I have come to guide you through the mountains to the first Poitanian
stronghold.'
'I don't need a guide,' answered Conan. 'I know these hills well. I
thank you for the horses, but the countess and I will attract less
attention alone than if we were accompanied by an acolyte of Asura.'
The man bowed profoundly, and giving the reins into Conan's hands,
stepped into the boat. Casting off, he floated down the swift current,
toward the distant roar of the unseen rapids. With a baffled shake of
his head, Conan lifted the countess into the palfrey's saddle, and then
mounted the war-horse and reined toward the summits that castellated the
sky.
The rolling country at the foot of the towering mountains was now a
borderland, in a state of turmoil, where the barons reverted to feudal
practises, and bands of outlaws roamed unhindered. Poitain had not
formally declared her separation from Aquilonia, but she was now, to all
intents, a self-contained kingdom, ruled by her hereditary count,
Trocero. The rolling south country had submitted nominally to Valerius,
but he had not attempted to force the passes guarded by strongholds
where the crimson leopard banner of Poitain waved defiantly.
The king and his fair companion rode up the long blue slopes in the soft
evening. As they mounted higher, the rolling country spread out like a
vast purple mantle far beneath them, shot with the shine of rivers and
lakes, the yellow glint of broad fields, and the white gleam of distant
towers. Ahead of them and far above, they glimpsed the first of the
Poitanian holds—a strong fortress dominating a narrow pass, the crimson
banner streaming against the clear blue sky.
Before they reached it, a band of knights in burnished armor rode from
among the trees, and their leader sternly ordered the travelers to halt.
They were tall men, with the dark eyes and raven locks of the south.
'Halt, sir, and state your business, and why you ride toward Poitain.'
'Is Poitain in revolt then,' asked Conan, watching the other closely,
'that a man in Aquilonian harness is halted and questioned like a
foreigner?'
'Many rogues ride out of Aquilonia these days,' answered the other
coldly. 'As for revolt, if you mean the repudiation of a usurper, then
Poitain is in revolt. We had rather serve the memory of a dead man than
the scepter of a living dog.'
Conan swept off his helmet, and shaking back his black mane, stared full
at the speaker. The Poitanian stared violently and went livid.
'Saints of heaven!' he gasped. 'It is the king—alive!'
The others stared wildly, then a roar of wonder and joy burst from them.
They swarmed about Conan, shouting their war-cries and brandishing their
swords in their extreme emotion. The acclaim of Poitanian warriors was a
thing to terrify a timid man.
'Oh, but Trocero will weep tears of joy to see you, sire!' cried one.
'Aye, and Prospero!' shouted another. 'The general has been like one
wrapped in a mantle of melancholy, and curses himself night and day that
he did not reach the Valkia in time to die beside his king!'
'Now we will strike for empery!' yelled another, whirling his great
sword about his head. 'Hail, Conan, king of Poitain!'
The clangor of bright steel about him and the thunder of their acclaim
frightened the birds that rose in gay-hued clouds from the surrounding
trees. The hot southern blood was afire, and they desired nothing but
for their new-found sovereign to lead them to battle and pillage.
'What is your command, sire?' they cried. 'Let one of us ride ahead and
bear the news of your coming into Poitain! Banners will wave from every
tower, roses will carpet the road before your horse's feet, and all the
beauty and chivalry of the south will give you the honor due you—'
Conan shook his head.
'Who could doubt your loyalty? But winds blow over these mountains into
the countries of my enemies, and I would rather these didn't know that I
lived—yet. Take me to Trocero, and keep my identity a secret.'
So what the knights would have made a triumphal procession was more in
the nature of a secret flight. They traveled in haste, speaking to no
one, except for a whisper to the captain on duty at each pass; and Conan
rode among them with his vizor lowered.
The mountains were uninhabited save by outlaws and garrisons of soldiers
who guarded the passes. The pleasure-loving Poitanians had no need nor
desire to wrest a hard and scanty living from their stern breasts. South
of the ranges the rich and beautiful plains of Poitain stretched to the
river Alimane; but beyond the river lay the land of Zingara.
Even now, when winter was crisping the leaves beyond the mountains, the
tall rich grass waved upon the plains where grazed the horses and cattle
for which Poitain was famed. Palm trees and orange groves smiled in the
sun, and the gorgeous purple and gold and crimson towers of castles and
cities reflected the golden light. It was a land of warmth and plenty,
of beautiful men and ferocious warriors. It is not only the hard lands
that breed hard men. Poitain was surrounded by covetous neighbors and
her sons learned hardihood in incessant wars. To the north the land was
guarded by the mountains, but to the south only the Alimane separated
the plains of Poitain from the plains of Zingara, and not once but a
thousand times had that river run red. To the east lay Argos and beyond
that Ophir, proud kingdoms and avaricious. The knights of Poitain held
their lands by the weight and edge of their swords, and little of ease
and idleness they knew.
So Conan came presently to the castle of Count Trocero....
Conan sat on a silken divan in a rich chamber whose filmy curtains the
warm breeze billowed. Trocero paced the floor like a panther, a lithe,
restless man with the waist of a woman and the shoulders of a swordsman,
who carried his years lightly.
'Let us proclaim you king of Poitain!' urged the count. 'Let those
northern pigs wear the yoke to which they have bent their necks. The
south is still yours. Dwell here and rule us, amid the flowers and the
palms.'
But Conan shook his head. 'There is no nobler land on earth than
Poitain. But it cannot stand alone, bold as are its sons.'
'It did stand alone for generations,' retorted Trocero, with the quick
jealous pride of his breed. 'We were not always a part of Aquilonia.'
'I know. But conditions are not as they were then, when all kingdoms
were broken into principalities which warred with each other. The days
of dukedoms and free cities are past, the days of empires are upon us.
Rulers are dreaming imperial dreams, and only in unity is there
strength.'
'Then let us unite Zingara with Poitain,' argued Trocero. 'Half a dozen
princes strive against each other, and the country is torn asunder by
civil wars. We will conquer it, province by province, and add it to your
dominions. Then with the aid of the Zingarans we will conquer Argos and
Ophir. We will build an empire—'
Again Conan shook his head. 'Let others dream imperial dreams. I but
wish to hold what is mine. I have no desire to rule an empire welded
together by blood and fire. It's one thing to seize a throne with the
aid of its subjects and rule them with their consent. It's another to
subjugate a foreign realm and rule it by fear. I don't wish to be
another Valerius. No, Trocero, I'll rule all Aquilonia and no more, or
I'll rule nothing.'
'Then lead us over the mountains and we will smite the Nemedians.'
Conan's fierce eyes glowed with appreciation.
'No, Trocero. It would be a vain sacrifice. I've told you what I must do
to regain my kingdom. I must find the Heart of Ahriman.'
'But this is madness!' protested Trocero, 'The maunderings of a
heretical priest, the mumblings of a mad witch-woman.'
'You were not in my tent before Valkia,' answered Conan grimly,
involuntarily glancing at his right wrist, on which blue marks still
showed faintly. 'You didn't see the cliffs thunder down to crush the
flower of my army. No, Trocero, I've been convinced. Xaltotun's no
mortal man, and only with the Heart of Ahriman can I stand against him.
So I'm riding to Kordava, alone.'
'But that is dangerous,' protested Trocero.
'Life is dangerous,' rumbled the king. 'I won't go as king of Aquilonia,
or even as a knight of Poitain, but as a wandering mercenary, as I rode
in Zingara in the old days. Oh, I have enemies enough south of the
Alimane, in the lands and the waters of the south. Many who won't know
me as king of Aquilonia will remember me as Conan of the Barachan
pirates, or Amra of the black corsairs. But I have friends, too, and men
who'll aid me for their own private reasons.' A faintly reminiscent grin
touched his lips.
Trocero dropped his hands helplessly and glanced at Albiona, who sat on
a near-by divan.
'I understand your doubts, my lord,' said she. 'But I too saw the coin
in the temple of Asura, and look you, Hadrathus said it was dated five
hundred years before the fall of Acheron. If Xaltotun, then, is the
man pictured on the coin, as his Majesty swears he is, that means he was
no common wizard, even in his other life, for the years of his life were
numbered by centuries, not as the lives of other men are numbered.'
Before Trocero could reply, a respectful rap was heard on the door and a
voice called: 'My lord, we have caught a man skulking about the castle,
who says he wishes to speak with your guest. I await your orders.'
'A spy from Aquilonia!' hissed Trocero, catching at his dagger, but
Conan lifted his voice and called: 'Open the door and let me see him.'
The door was opened and a man was framed in it, grasped on either hand
by stern-looking men-at-arms. He was a slender man, clad in a dark
hooded robe.
'Are you a follower of Asura?' asked Conan.
The man nodded, and the stalwart men-at-arms looked shocked and glanced
hesitantly at Trocero.
'The word came southward,' said the man. 'Beyond the Alimane we can not
aid you, for our sect goes no farther southward, but stretches eastward
with the Khorotas. But this I have learned: the thief who took the Heart
of Ahriman from Tarascus never reached Kordava. In the mountains of
Poitain he was slain by robbers. The jewel fell into the hands of their
chief, who, not knowing its true nature, and being harried after the
destruction of his band by Poitanian knights, sold it to the Kothic
merchant Zorathus.'
'Ha!' Conan was on his feet, galvanized. 'And what of Zorathus?'
'Four days ago he crossed the Alimane, headed for Argos, with a small
band of armed servants.'
'He's a fool to cross Zingara in such times,' said Trocero.
'Aye, times are troublous across the river. But Zorathus is a bold man,
and reckless in his way. He is in great haste to reach Messantia, where
he hopes to find a buyer for the jewel. Perhaps he hopes to sell it
finally in Stygia. Perhaps he guesses at its true nature. At any rate,
instead of following the long road that winds along the borders of
Poitain and so at last comes into Argos far from Messantia, he has
struck straight across eastern Zingara, following the shorter and more
direct route.'
Conan smote the table with his clenched fist so that the great board
quivered.
'Then, by Crom, fortune has at last thrown the dice for me! A horse,
Trocero, and the harness of a Free Companion! Zorathus has a long start,
but not too long for me to overtake him, if I follow him to the end of
the world!'
12
The Fang of the Dragon
At dawn Conan waded his horse across the shallows of the Alimane and
struck the wide caravan trail which ran southeastward, and behind him,
on the farther bank, Trocero sat his horse silently at the head of his
steel-clad knights, with the crimson leopard of Poitain floating its
long folds over him in the morning breeze. Silently they sat, those
dark-haired men in shining steel, until the figure of their king had
vanished in the blue of distance that whitened toward sunrise.
Conan rode a great black stallion, the gift of Trocero. He no longer
wore the armor of Aquilonia. His harness proclaimed him a veteran of
the Free Companies, who were of all races. His headpiece was a plain
morion, dented and battered. The leather and mail-mesh of his hauberk
were worn and shiny as if by many campaigns, and the scarlet cloak
flowing carelessly from his mailed shoulders was tattered and stained.
He looked the part of the hired fighting-man, who had known all
vicissitudes of fortune, plunder and wealth one day, an empty purse and
a close-drawn belt the next.
And more than looking the part, he felt the part; the awakening of old
memories, the resurge of the wild, mad, glorious days of old before his
feet were set on the imperial path when he was a wandering mercenary,
roistering, brawling, guzzling, adventuring, with no thought for the
morrow, and no desire save sparkling ale, red lips, and a keen sword to
swing on all the battlefields of the world.
Unconsciously he reverted to the old ways; a new swagger became evident
in his bearing, in the way he sat his horse; half-forgotten oaths rose
naturally to his lips, and as he rode he hummed old songs that he had
roared in chorus with his reckless companions in many a tavern and on
many a dusty road or bloody field.
It was an unquiet land through which he rode. The companies of cavalry
which usually patrolled the river, alert for raids out of Poitain, were
nowhere in evidence. Internal strife had left the borders unguarded. The
long white road stretched bare from horizon to horizon. No laden camel
trains or rumbling wagons or lowing herds moved along it now; only
occasional groups of horsemen in leather and steel, hawk-faced,
hard-eyed men, who kept together and rode warily. These swept Conan with
their searching gaze but rode on, for the solitary rider's harness
promised no plunder, but only hard strokes.
Villages lay in ashes and deserted, the fields and meadows idle. Only
the boldest would ride the roads these days, and the native population
had been decimated in the civil wars, and by raids from across the
river. In more peaceful times the road was thronged with merchants
riding Poitain to Messantia in Argos, or back. But now these found it
wiser to follow the road that led east through Poitain, and then turned
south down across Argos. It was longer, but safer. Only an extremely
reckless man would risk his life and goods on this road through Zingara.
The southern horizon was fringed with flame by night, and in the day
straggling pillars of smoke drifted upward; in the cities and plains to
the south men were dying, thrones were toppling and castles going up in
flames. Conan felt the old tug of the professional fighting-man, to turn
his horse and plunge into the fighting, the pillaging and the looting as
in the days of old. Why should he toil to regain the rule of a people
which had already forgotten him?—why chase a will-o'-the-wisp, why
pursue a crown that was lost for ever? Why should he not seek
forgetfulness, lose himself in the red tides of war and rapine that had
engulfed him so often before? Could he not, indeed, carve out another
kingdom for himself? The world was entering an age of iron, an age of
war and imperialistic ambition; some strong man might well rise above
the ruins of nations as a supreme conqueror. Why should it not be
himself? So his familiar devil whispered in his ear, and the phantoms of
his lawless and bloody past crowded upon him. But he did not turn aside;
he rode onward, following a quest that grew dimmer and dimmer as he
advanced, until sometimes it seemed that he pursued a dream that never
was.
He pushed the black stallion as hard as he dared, but the long white
road lay bare before him, from horizon to horizon. It was a long start
Zorathus had, but Conan rode steadily on, knowing that he was traveling
faster than the burdened merchants could travel. And so he came to the
castle of Count Valbroso, perched like a vulture's eyrie on a bare hill
overlooking the road.
Valbroso rode down with his men-at-arms, a lean, dark man with
glittering eyes and a predatory beak of a nose. He wore black
plate-armor and was followed by thirty spearmen, black-mustached hawks
of the border wars, as avaricious and ruthless as himself. Of late the
toll of the caravans had been slim, and Valbroso cursed the civil wars
that stripped the roads of their fat traffic, even while he blessed them
for the free hand they allowed him with his neighbors.
He had not hoped much from the solitary rider he had glimpsed from his
tower, but all was grist that came to his mill. With a practised eye he
took in Conan's worn mail and dark, scarred face, and his conclusions
were the same as those of the riders who had passed the Cimmerian on the
road—an empty purse and a ready blade.
'Who are you, knave?' he demanded.
'A mercenary, riding for Argos,' answered Conan. 'What matter names?'
'You are riding in the wrong direction for a Free Companion,' grunted
Valbroso. 'Southward the fighting is good and also the plundering. Join
my company. You won't go hungry. The road remains bare of fat merchants
to strip, but I mean to take my rogues and fare southward to sell our
swords to whichever side seems strongest.'
Conan did not at once reply, knowing that if he refused outright, he
might be instantly attacked by Valbroso's men-at-arms. Before he could
make up his mind, the Zingaran spoke again:
'You rogues of the Free Companies always know tricks to make men talk. I
have a prisoner—the last merchant I caught, by Mitra, and the only one
I've seen for a week—and the knave is stubborn. He has an iron box,
the secret of which defies us, and I've been unable to persuade him to
open it. By Ishtar, I thought I knew all the modes of persuasion there
are, but perhaps you, as a veteran Free Companion, know some that I do
not. At any rate come with me and see what you may do.'
Valbroso's words instantly decided Conan. That sounded a great deal like
Zorathus. Conan did not know the merchant, but any man who was stubborn
enough to try to traverse the Zingaran road in times like these would
very probably be stubborn enough to defy torture.
He fell in beside Valbroso and rode up the straggling road to the top of
the hill where the gaunt castle stood. As a man-at-arms he should have
ridden behind the count, but force of habit made him careless and
Valbroso paid no heed. Years of life on the border had taught the count
that the frontier is not the royal court. He was aware of the
independence of the mercenaries, behind whose swords many a king had
trodden the throne-path.
There was a dry moat, half filled with debris in some places. They
clattered across the drawbridge and through the arch of the gate. Behind
them the portcullis fell with a sullen clang. They came into a bare
courtyard, grown with straggling grass, and with a well in the middle.
Shacks for the men-at-arms straggled about the bailey wall, and women,
slatternly or decked in gaudy finery, looked from the doors.
Fighting-men in rusty mail tossed dice on the flags under the arches. It
was more like a bandit's hold than the castle of a nobleman.
Valbroso dismounted and motioned Conan to follow him. They went
through a doorway and along a vaulted corridor, where they were
met by a scarred, hard-looking man in mail descending a stone
staircase—evidently the captain of the guard.
'How, Beloso,' quoth Valbroso; 'has he spoken?'
'He is stubborn,' muttered Beloso, shooting a glance of suspicion at
Conan.
Valbroso ripped out an oath and stamped furiously up the winding stair,
followed by Conan and the captain. As they mounted, the groans of a man
in mortal agony became audible. Valbroso's torture-room was high above
the court, instead of in a dungeon below. In that chamber, where a
gaunt, hairy beast of a man in leather breeks squatted gnawing a
beef-bone voraciously, stood the machines of torture—racks, boots,
hooks and all the implements that the human mind devises to tear flesh,
break bones and rend and rupture veins and ligaments.
On a rack a man was stretched naked, and a glance told Conan that he was
dying. The unnatural elongation of his limbs and body told of unhinged
joints and unnamable ruptures. He was a dark man, with an intelligent,
aquiline face and quick dark eyes. They were glazed and bloodshot now
with pain, and the dew of agony glistened on his face. His lips were
drawn back from blackened gums.
'There is the box.' Viciously Valbroso kicked a small but heavy iron
chest that stood on the floor near by. It was intricately carved, with
tiny skulls and writhing dragons curiously intertwined, but Conan saw no
catch or hasp that might serve to unlock the lid. The marks of fire, of
ax and sledge and chisel showed on it but as scratches.
'This is the dog's treasure box,' said Valbroso angrily. 'All men of the
south know of Zorathus and his iron chest. Mitra knows what is in it.
But he will not give up its secret.'
Zorathus! It was true, then; the man he sought lay before him. Conan's
heart beat suffocatingly as he leaned over the writhing form, though he
exhibited no evidence of his painful eagerness.
'Ease those ropes, knave!' he ordered the torturer harshly, and Valbroso
and his captain stared. In the forgetfulness of the moment Conan had
used his imperial tone, and the brute in leather instinctively obeyed
the knife-edge of command in that voice. He eased away gradually, for
else the slackening of the ropes had been as great a torment to the torn
joints as further stretching.
Catching up a vessel of wine that stood near by, Conan placed the rim to
the wretch's lips. Zorathus gulped spasmodically, the liquid slopping
over on his heaving breast.
Into the bloodshot eyes came a gleam of recognition, and the
froth-smeared lips parted. From them issued a racking whimper in the
Kothic tongue.
'Is this death, then? Is the long agony ended? For this is King Conan
who died at Valkia, and I am among the dead.'
'You're not dead,' said Conan. 'But you're dying. You'll be tortured no
more. I'll see to that. But I can't help you further. Yet before you
die, tell me how to open your iron box!'
'My iron box,' mumbled Zorathus in delirious disjointed phrases. 'The
chest forged in unholy fires among the flaming mountains of Khrosha; the
metal no chisel can cut. How many treasures has it borne, across the
width and the breadth of the world! But no such treasure as it now
holds.'
'Tell me how to open it,' urged Conan. 'It can do you no good, and it
may aid me.'
'Aye, you are Conan,' muttered the Kothian. 'I have seen you sitting on
your throne in the great public hall of Tarantia, with your crown on
your head and the scepter in your hand. But you are dead; you died at
Valkia. And so I know my own end is at hand.'
'What does the dog say?' demanded Valbroso impatiently, not
understanding Kothic. 'Will he tell us how to open the box?'
As if the voice roused a spark of life in the twisted breast Zorathus
rolled his bloodshot eyes toward the speaker.
'Only Valbroso will I tell,' he gasped in Zingaran. 'Death is upon me.
Lean close to me, Valbroso!'
The count did so, his dark face lit with avarice; behind him his
saturnine captain, Beloso, crowded closer.
'Press the seven skulls on the rim, one after another,' gasped Zorathus.
'Press then the head of the dragon that writhes across the lid. Then
press the sphere in the dragon's claws. That will release the secret
catch.'
'Quick, the box!' cried Valbroso with an oath.
Conan lifted it and set it on a dais, and Valbroso shouldered him aside.
'Let me open it!' cried Beloso, starting forward.
Valbroso cursed him back, his greed blazing in his black eyes.
'None but me shall open it!' he cried.
Conan, whose hand had instinctively gone to his hilt, glanced at
Zorathus. The man's eyes were glazed and bloodshot, but they were fixed
on Valbroso with burning intensity; and was there the shadow of a grim
twisted smile on the dying man's lips? Not until the merchant knew he
was dying had he given up the secret. Conan turned to watch Valbroso,
even as the dying man watched him.
Along the rim of the lid seven skulls were carved among intertwining
branches of strange trees. An inlaid dragon writhed its way across the
top of the lid amid ornate arabesques. Valbroso pressed the skulls in
fumbling haste, and as he jammed his thumb down on the carved head of
the dragon he swore sharply and snatched his hand away, shaking it in
irritation.
'A sharp point on the carvings,' he snarled. 'I've pricked my thumb.'
He pressed the gold ball clutched in the dragon's talons, and the lid
flew abruptly open. Their eyes were dazzled by a golden flame. It seemed
to their dazed minds that the carven box was full of glowing fire that
spilled over the rim and dripped through the air in quivering flakes.
Beloso cried out and Valbroso sucked in his breath. Conan stood
speechless, his brain snared by the blaze.
'Mitra, what a jewel!' Valbroso's hand dived into the chest, came out
with a great pulsing crimson sphere that filled the room with a lambent
glow. In its glare Valbroso looked like a corpse. And the dying man on
the loosened rack laughed wildly and suddenly.
'Fool!' he screamed. 'The jewel is yours! I give you death with it! The
scratch on your thumb—look at the dragon's head, Valbroso!'
They all wheeled, stared. Something tiny and dully gleaming stood up
from the gaping, carved mouth.
'The dragon's fang!' shrieked Zorathus. 'Steeped in the venom of the
black Stygian scorpion! Fool, fool to open the box of Zorathus with your
naked hand! Death! You are a dead man now!'
And with bloody foam on his lips he died.
Valbroso staggered, crying out. 'Ah, Mitra, I burn!' he shrieked. 'My
veins race with liquid fire! My joints are bursting asunder! Death!
Death!' And he reeled and crashed headlong. There was an instant of
awful convulsions, in which the limbs were twisted into hideous and
unnatural positions, and then in that posture the man froze, his glassy
eyes staring sightlessly upward, his lips drawn back from blackened
gums.
'Dead!' muttered Conan, stooping to pick up the jewel where it rolled on
the floor from Valbroso's rigid hand. It lay on the floor like a
quivering pool of sunset fire.
'Dead!' muttered Beloso, with madness in his eyes. And then he moved.
Conan was caught off guard, his eyes dazzled, his brain dazed by the
blaze of the great gem. He did not realize Beloso's intention until
something crashed with terrible force upon his helmet. The glow of the
jewel was splashed with redder flame, and he went to his knees under the
blow.
He heard a rush of feet, a bellow of ox-like agony. He was stunned but
not wholly senseless, and realized that Beloso had caught up the iron
box and crashed it down on his head as he stooped. Only his basinet had
saved his skull. He staggered up, drawing his sword, trying to shake the
dimness out of his eyes. The room swam to his dizzy gaze. But the door
was open and fleet footsteps were dwindling down the winding stair. On
the floor the brutish torturer was gasping out his life with a great
gash under his breast. And the Heart of Ahriman was gone.
Conan reeled out of the chamber, sword in hand, blood streaming down his
face from under his burganet. He ran drunkenly down the steps, hearing a
clang of steel in the courtyard below, shouts, then the frantic drum of
hoofs. Rushing into the bailey he saw the men-at-arms milling about
confusedly, while women screeched. The postern gate stood open and a
soldier lay across his pike with his head split. Horses, still bridled
and saddled, ran neighing about the court, Conan's black stallion among
them.
'He's mad!' howled a woman, wringing her hands as she rushed brainlessly
about. 'He came out of the castle like a mad dog, hewing right and left!
Beloso's mad! Where's Lord Valbroso?'
'Which way did he go?' roared Conan.
All turned and stared at the stranger's blood-stained face and naked
sword.
'Through the postern!' shrilled a woman, pointing eastward, and another
bawled: 'Who is this rogue?'
'Beloso has killed Valbroso!' yelled Conan, leaping and seizing the
stallion's mane, as the men-at-arms advanced uncertainly on him. A wild
outcry burst forth at his news, but their reaction was exactly as he had
anticipated. Instead of closing the gates to take him prisoner, or
pursuing the fleeing slayer to avenge their lord, they were thrown into
even greater confusion by his words. Wolves bound together only by fear
of Valbroso, they owed no allegiance to the castle or to each other.
Swords began to clash in the courtyard, and women screamed. And in the
midst of it all, none noticed Conan as he shot through the postern gate
and thundered down the hill. The wide plain spread before him, and
beyond the hill the caravan road divided: one branch ran south, the
other east. And on the eastern road he saw another rider, bending low
and spurring hard. The plain swam to Conan's gaze, the sunlight was a
thick red haze and he reeled in his saddle, grasping the flowing mane
with his hand. Blood rained on his mail, but grimly he urged the
stallion on.
Behind him smoke began to pour out of the castle on the hill where the
count's body lay forgotten and unheeded beside that of his prisoner. The
sun was setting; against a lurid red sky the two black figures fled.
The stallion was not fresh, but neither was the horse ridden by Beloso.
But the great beast responded mightily, calling on deep reservoirs of
reserve vitality. Why the Zingaran fled from one pursuer Conan did not
tax his bruised brain to guess. Perhaps unreasoning panic rode Beloso,
born of the madness that lurked in that blazing jewel. The sun was gone;
the white road was a dim glimmer through a ghostly twilight fading into
purple gloom far ahead of him.
The stallion panted, laboring hard. The country was changing, in the
gathering dusk. Bare plains gave way to clumps of oaks and alders. Low
hills mounted up in the distance. Stars began to blink out. The stallion
gasped and reeled in his course. But ahead rose a dense wood that
stretched to the hills on the horizon, and between it and himself Conan
glimpsed the dim form of the fugitive. He urged on the distressed
stallion, for he saw that he was overtaking his prey, yard by yard.
Above the pound of the hoofs a strange cry rose from the shadows, but
neither pursuer nor pursued gave heed.
As they swept in under the branches that overhung the road, they were
almost side by side. A fierce cry rose from Conan's lips as his sword
went up; a pale oval of a face was turned toward him, a sword gleamed
in a half-seen hand, and Beloso echoed the cry—and then the weary
stallion, with a lurch and a groan, missed his footing in the shadows
and went heels over head, hurling his dazed rider from the saddle.
Conan's throbbing head crashed against a stone, and the stars were
blotted out in a thicker night.
How long Conan lay senseless he never knew. His first sensation of
returning consciousness was that of being dragged by one arm over rough
and stony ground and through dense underbrush. Then he was thrown
carelessly down, and perhaps the jolt brought back his senses.
His helmet was gone, his head ached abominably, he felt a qualm of
nausea, and blood was clotted thickly among his black locks. But with
the vitality of a wild thing life and consciousness surged back into
him, and he became aware of his surroundings.
A broad red moon was shining through the trees, by which he knew that it
was long after midnight. He had lain senseless for hours, long enough to
have recovered from that terrible blow Beloso had dealt him, as well as
the fall which had rendered him senseless. His brain felt clearer than
it had felt during that mad ride after the fugitive.
He was not lying beside the white road, he noticed with a start of
surprise, as his surroundings began to record themselves on his
perceptions. The road was nowhere in sight. He lay on the grassy earth,
in a small glade hemmed in by a black wall of tree stems and tangled
branches. His face and hands were scratched and lacerated as if he had
been dragged through brambles. Shifting his body he looked about him.
And then he started violently—something was squatting over him....
At first Conan doubted his consciousness, thought it was but a figment
of delirium. Surely it could not be real, that strange, motionless gray
being that squatted on its haunches and stared down at him with
unblinking soulless eyes.
Conan lay and stared, half expecting it to vanish like a figure of a
dream, and then a chill of recollection crept along his spine.
Half-forgotten memories surged back, of grisly tales whispered of the
shapes that haunted these uninhabited forests at the foot of the hills
that mark the Zingaran-Argossean border. Ghouls, men called them, eaters
of human flesh, spawn of darkness, children of unholy matings of a lost
and forgotten race with the demons of the underworld. Somewhere in these
primitive forests were the ruins of an ancient, accursed city, men
whispered, and among its tombs slunk gray, anthropomorphic
shadows—Conan shuddered strongly.
He lay staring at the malformed head that rose dimly above him, and
cautiously he extended a hand toward the sword at his hip. With a
horrible cry that the man involuntarily echoed, the monster was at his
throat.
Conan threw up his right arm, and the dog-like jaws closed on it,
driving the mail links into the hard flesh. The misshapen yet man-like
hands clutched for his throat, but he evaded them with a heave and roll
of his whole body, at the same time drawing his dagger with his left
hand.
They tumbled over and over on the grass, smiting and tearing. The
muscles coiling under that gray corpse-like skin were stringy and hard
as steel wires, exceeding the strength of a man. But Conan's thews were
iron too, and his mail saved him from the gnashing fangs and ripping
claws long enough for him to drive home his dagger, again and again and
again. The horrible vitality of the semi-human monstrosity seemed
inexhaustible, and the king's skin crawled at the feel of that slick,
clammy flesh. He put all his loathing and savage revulsion behind the
plunging blade, and suddenly the monster heaved up convulsively beneath
him as the point found its grisly heart, and then lay still.
Conan rose, shaken with nausea. He stood in the center of the glade
uncertainly, sword in one hand and dagger in the other. He had not lost
his instinctive sense of direction, as far as the points of the compass
were concerned, but he did not know in which direction the road lay. He
had no way of knowing in which direction the ghoul had dragged him.
Conan glared at the silent, black, moon-dappled woods which ringed him,
and felt cold moisture bead his flesh. He was without a horse and lost
in these haunted woods, and that staring deformed thing at his feet was
a mute evidence of the horrors that lurked in the forest. He stood
almost holding his breath in his painful intensity, straining his ears
for some crack of twig or rustle of grass.
When a sound did come he started violently. Suddenly out on the night
air broke the scream of a terrified horse. His stallion! There were
panthers in the wood—or—ghouls ate beasts as well as men.
He broke savagely through the brush in the direction of the sound,
whistling shrilly as he ran, his fear drowned in berserk rage. If his
horse was killed, there went his last chance of following Beloso and
recovering the jewel. Again the stallion screamed with fear and fury,
somewhere nearer. There was a sound of lashing heels, and something that
was struck heavily and gave way.
Conan burst out into the wide white road without warning, and saw the
stallion plunging and rearing in the moonlight, his ears laid back, his
eyes and teeth flashing wickedly. He lashed out with his heels at a
slinking shadow that ducked and bobbed about him—and then about Conan
other shadows moved: gray, furtive shadows that closed in on all sides.
A hideous charnel-house scent reeked up in the night air.
With a curse the king hewed right and left with his broadsword, thrust
and ripped with his dagger. Dripping fangs flashed in the moonlight,
foul paws caught at him, but he hacked his way through to the stallion,
caught the rein, leaped into the saddle. His sword rose and fell, a
frosty arc in the moonlight, showering blood as it split misshapen
heads, clove shambling bodies. The stallion reared, biting and kicking.
They burst through and thundered down the road. On either hand, for a
short space, flitted gray abhorrent shadows. Then these fell behind, and
Conan, topping a wooded crest, saw a vast expanse of bare slopes
sweeping up and away before him.
13
'A Ghost Out of the Past'
Soon after sunrise Conan crossed the Argossean border. Of Beloso he had
seen no trace. Either the captain had made good his escape while the
king lay senseless, or had fallen prey to the grim man-eaters of the
Zingaran forest. But Conan had seen no signs to indicate the latter
possibility. The fact that he had lain unmolested for so long seemed to
indicate that the monsters had been engrossed in futile pursuit of the
captain. And if the man lived, Conan felt certain that he was riding
along the road somewhere ahead of him. Unless he had intended going into
Argos he would never have taken the eastward road in the first place.
The helmeted guards at the frontier did not question the Cimmerian. A
single wandering mercenary required no passport nor safe-conduct,
especially when his unadorned mail showed him to be in the service of no
lord. Through the low, grassy hills where streams murmured and oak
groves dappled the sward with lights and shadows he rode, following the
long road that rose and fell away ahead of him over dales and rises in
the blue distance. It was an old, old road, this highway from Poitain to
the sea.
Argos was at peace; laden ox-wains rumbled along the road, and men with
bare, brown, brawny arms toiled in orchards and fields that smiled away
under the branches of the roadside trees. Old men on settles before inns
under spreading oak branches called greetings to the wayfarer.
From the men that worked the fields, from the garrulous old men in the
inns where he slaked his thirst with great leathern jacks of foaming
ale, from the sharp-eyed silk-clad merchants he met upon the road, Conan
sought for news of Beloso.
Stories were conflicting, but this much Conan learned: that a lean, wiry
Zingaran with the dangerous black eyes and mustaches of the western folk
was somewhere on the road ahead of him, and apparently making for
Messantia. It was a logical destination; all the sea-ports of Argos were
cosmopolitan, in strong contrast with the inland provinces, and
Messantia was the most polyglot of all. Craft of all the maritime
nations rode in its harbor, and refugees and fugitives from many lands
gathered there. Laws were lax; for Messantia thrived on the trade of the
sea, and her citizens found it profitable to be somewhat blind on their
dealings with seamen. It was not only legitimate trade that flowed into
Messantia; smugglers and buccaneers played their part. All this Conan
knew well, for had he not, in the days of old when he was a Barachan
pirate, sailed by night into the harbor of Messantia to discharge
strange cargoes? Most of the pirates of the Barachan Isles—small
islands off the southwestern coast of Zingara—were Argossean sailors,
and as long as they confined their attentions to the shipping of other
nations, the authorities of Argos were not too strict in their
interpretation of sea-laws.
But Conan had not limited his activities to those of the Barachans. He
had also sailed with the Zingaran buccaneers, and even with those wild
black corsairs that swept up from the far south to harry the northern
coasts, and this put him beyond the pale of any law. If he were
recognized in any of the ports of Argos it would cost him his head. But
without hesitation he rode on to Messantia, halting day or night only to
rest the stallion and to snatch a few winks of sleep for himself.
He entered the city unquestioned, merging himself with the throngs that
poured continually in and out of this great commercial center. No walls
surrounded Messantia. The sea and the ships of the sea guarded the great
southern trading city.
It was evening when Conan rode leisurely through the streets that
marched down to the waterfront. At the ends of these streets he saw the
wharves and the masts and sails of ships. He smelled salt water for the
first time in years, heard the thrum of cordage and the creak of spars
in the breeze that was kicking up whitecaps out beyond the headlands.
Again the urge of far wandering tugged at his heart.
But he did not go on to the wharves. He reined aside and rode up a steep
flight of wide, worn stone steps, to a broad street where ornate white
mansions overlooked the waterfront and the harbor below. Here dwelt the
men who had grown rich from the hard-won fat of the seas—a few old
sea-captains who had found treasure afar, many traders and merchants who
never trod the naked decks nor knew the roar of tempest or sea-fight.
Conan turned in his horse at a certain gold-worked gate, and rode into a
court where a fountain tinkled and pigeons fluttered from marble coping
to marble flagging. A page in jagged silken jupon and hose came forward
inquiringly. The merchants of Messantia dealt with many strange and
rough characters but most of these smacked of the sea. It was strange
that a mercenary trooper should so freely ride into the court of a lord
of commerce.
'The merchant Publio dwells here?' It was more statement than question,
and something in the timbre of the voice caused the page to doff his
feather chaperon as he bowed and replied: 'Aye, so he does, my captain.'
Conan dismounted and the page called a servitor, who came running to
receive the stallion's rein.
'Your master is within?' Conan drew off his gauntlets and slapped the
dust of the road from cloak and mail.
'Aye, my captain. Whom shall I announce?'
'I'll announce myself,' grunted Conan. 'I know the way well enough. Bide
you here.'
And obeying that peremptory command the page stood still, staring after
Conan as the latter climbed a short flight of marble steps, and
wondering what connection his master might have with this giant
fighting-man who had the aspect of a northern barbarian.
Menials at their tasks halted and gaped open-mouthed as Conan crossed a
wide, cool balcony overlooking the court and entered a broad corridor
through which the sea-breeze swept. Halfway down this he heard a quill
scratching, and turned into a broad room whose many wide casements
overlooked the harbor.
Publio sat at a carved teakwood desk writing on rich parchment with a
golden quill. He was a short man, with a massive head and quick dark
eyes. His blue robe was of the finest watered silk, trimmed with
cloth-of-gold, and from his thick white throat hung a heavy gold chain.
As the Cimmerian entered, the merchant looked up with a gesture of
annoyance. He froze in the midst of his gesture. His mouth opened; he
stared as at a ghost out of the past. Unbelief and fear glimmered in his
wide eyes.
'Well,' said Conan, 'have you no word of greeting, Publio?'
Publio moistened his lips.
'Conan!' he whispered incredulously. 'Mitra! Conan! Amra!'
'Who else?' The Cimmerian unclasped his cloak and threw it with his
gauntlets down upon the desk. 'How man?' he exclaimed irritably. 'Can't
you at least offer me a beaker of wine? My throat's caked with the dust
of the highway.'
'Aye, wine!' echoed Publio mechanically. Instinctively his hand reached
for a gong, then recoiled as from a hot coal, and he shuddered.
While Conan watched him with a flicker of grim amusement in his eyes,
the merchant rose and hurriedly shut the door, first craning his neck up
and down the corridor to be sure that no slave was loitering about.
Then, returning, he took a gold vessel of wine from a near-by table and
was about to fill a slender goblet when Conan impatiently took the
vessel from him and lifting it with both hands, drank deep and with
gusto.
'Aye, it's Conan, right enough,' muttered Publio. 'Man, are you mad?'
'By Crom, Publio,' said Conan, lowering the vessel but retaining it in
his hands, 'you dwell in different quarters than of old. It takes an
Argossean merchant to wring wealth out of a little waterfront shop that
stank of rotten fish and cheap wine.'
'The old days are past,' muttered Publio, drawing his robe about him
with a slight involuntary shudder. 'I have put off the past like a
worn-out cloak.'
'Well,' retorted Conan, 'you can't put me off like an old cloak. It
isn't much I want of you, but that much I do want. And you can't refuse
me. We had too many dealings in the old days. Am I such a fool that I'm
not aware that this fine mansion was built on my sweat and blood? How
many cargoes from my galleys passed through your shop?'
'All merchants of Messantia have dealt with the sea-rovers at one time
or another,' mumbled Publio nervously.
'But not with the black corsairs,' answered Conan grimly.
'For Mitra's sake, be silent!' ejaculated Publio, sweat starting out on
his brow. His fingers jerked at the gilt-worked edge of his robe.
'Well, I only wished to recall it to your mind,' answered Conan. 'Don't
be so fearful. You took plenty of risks in the past, when you were
struggling for life and wealth in that lousy little shop down by the
wharves, and were hand-and-glove with every buccaneer and smuggler and
pirate from here to the Barachan Isles. Prosperity must have softened
you.'
'I am respectable,' began Publio.
'Meaning you're rich as hell,' snorted Conan. 'Why? Why did you grow
wealthy so much quicker than your competitors? Was it because you did a
big business in ivory and ostrich feathers, copper and skins and pearls
and hammered gold ornaments, and other things from the coast of Kush?
And where did you get them so cheaply, while other merchants were paying
their weight in silver to the Stygians for them? I'll tell you, in case
you've forgotten: you bought them from me, at considerably less than
their value, and I took them from the tribes of the Black Coast, and
from the ships of the Stygians—I, and the black corsairs.'
'In Mitra's name, cease!' begged Publio. 'I have not forgotten. But what
are you doing here? I am the only man in Argos who knew that the king of
Aquilonia was once Conan the buccaneer, in the old days. But word has
come southward of the overthrow of Aquilonia and the death of the king.'
'My enemies have killed me a hundred times by rumors,' grunted Conan.
'Yet here I sit and guzzle wine of Kyros.' And he suited the action to
the word.
Lowering the vessel, which was now nearly empty, he said: 'It's but a
small thing I ask of you, Publio. I know that you're aware of everything
that goes on in Messantia. I want to know if a Zingaran named Beloso, or
he might call himself anything, is in this city. He's tall and lean and
dark like all his race, and it's likely he'll seek to sell a very rare
jewel.'
Publio shook his head.
'I have not heard of such a man. But thousands come and go in Messantia.
If he is here my agents will discover him.'
'Good. Send them to look for him. And in the meantime have my horse
cared for, and have food served me here in this room.'
Publio assented volubly, and Conan emptied the wine vessel, tossed it
carelessly into a corner, and strode to a near-by casement,
involuntarily expanding his chest as he breathed deep of the salt air.
He was looking down upon the meandering waterfront streets. He swept the
ships in the harbor with an appreciative glance, then lifted his head
and stared beyond the bay, far into the blue haze of the distance where
sea met sky. And his memory sped beyond that horizon, to the golden seas
of the south, under flaming suns, where laws were not and life ran
hotly. Some vagrant scent of spice or palm woke clear-etched images of
strange coasts where mangroves grew and drums thundered, of ships locked
in battle and decks running blood, of smoke and flame and the crying of
slaughter.... Lost in his thoughts he scarcely noticed when Publio stole
from the chamber.
Gathering up his robe, the merchant hurried along the corridors until he
came to a certain chamber where a tall, gaunt man with a scar upon his
temple wrote continually upon parchment. There was something about this
man which made his clerkly occupation seem incongruous. To him Publio
spoke abruptly:
'Conan has returned!'
'Conan?' The gaunt man started up and the quill fell from his fingers.
'The corsair?'
'Aye!'
The gaunt man went livid. 'Is he mad? If he is discovered here we are
ruined! They will hang a man who shelters or trades with a corsair as
quickly as they'll hang the corsair himself! What if the governor should
learn of our past connections with him?'
'He will not learn,' answered Publio grimly. 'Send your men into the
markets and wharfside dives and learn if one Beloso, a Zingaran, is in
Messantia. Conan said he had a gem, which he will probably seek to
dispose of. The jewel merchants should know of him, if any do. And here
is another task for you: pick up a dozen or so desperate villains who
can be trusted to do away with a man and hold their tongues afterward.
You understand me?'
'I understand.' The other nodded slowly and somberly.
'I have not stolen, cheated, lied and fought my way up from the gutter
to be undone now by a ghost out of my past,' muttered Publio, and the
sinister darkness of his countenance at that moment would have surprised
the wealthy nobles and ladies who bought their silks and pearls from his
many stalls. But when he returned to Conan a short time later, bearing
in his own hands a platter of fruit and meats, he presented a placid
face to his unwelcome guest.
Conan still stood at the casement, staring down into the harbor at the
purple and crimson and vermilion and scarlet sails of galleons and
caracks and galleys and dromonds.
'There's a Stygian galley, if I'm not blind,' he remarked, pointing to a
long, low, slim black ship lying apart from the others, anchored off the
low broad sandy beach that curved round to the distant headland. 'Is
there peace, then, between Stygia and Argos?'
'The same sort that has existed before,' answered Publio, setting the
platter on the table with a sigh of relief, for it was heavily laden; he
knew his guest of old. 'Stygian ports are temporarily open to our ships,
as ours to theirs. But may no craft of mine meet their cursed galleys
out of sight of land! That galley crept into the bay last night. What
its masters wish I do not know. So far they have neither bought nor
sold. I distrust those dark-skinned devils. Treachery had its birth in
that dusky land.'
'I've made them howl,' said Conan carelessly, turning from the window.
'In my galley manned by black corsairs I crept to the very bastions of
the sea-washed castles of black-walled Khemi by night, and burned the
galleons anchored there. And speaking of treachery, mine host, suppose
you taste these viands and sip a bit of this wine, just to show me that
your heart is on the right side.'
Publio complied so readily that Conan's suspicions were lulled, and
without further hesitation he sat down and devoured enough for three
men.
And while he ate, men moved through the markets and along the
waterfront, searching for a Zingaran who had a jewel to sell or who
sought for a ship to carry him to foreign ports. And a tall gaunt man
with a scar on his temple sat with his elbows on a wine-stained table in
a squalid cellar with a brass lantern hanging from a smoke-blackened
beam overhead, and held converse with ten desperate rogues whose
sinister countenances and ragged garments proclaimed their profession.
And as the first stars blinked out, they shone on a strange band
spurring their mounts along the white road that led to Messantia from
the west. They were four men, tall, gaunt, clad in black, hooded robes,
and they did not speak. They forced their steeds mercilessly onward, and
those steeds were gaunt as themselves, and sweat-stained and weary as if
from long travel and far wandering.
14
The Black Hand of Set
Conan woke from a sound sleep as quickly and instantly as a cat. And
like a cat he was on his feet with his sword out before the man who had
touched him could so much as draw back.
'What word, Publio?' demanded Conan, recognizing his host. The gold lamp
burned low, casting a mellow glow over the thick tapestries and the rich
coverings of the couch whereon he had been reposing.
Publio, recovering from the start given him by the sudden action of his
awakening guest, replied: 'The Zingaran has been located. He arrived
yesterday, at dawn. Only a few hours ago he sought to sell a huge,
strange jewel to a Shemitish merchant, but the Shemite would have naught
to do with it. Men say he turned pale beneath his black beard at the
sight of it, and closing his stall, fled as from a thing accursed.'
'It must be Beloso,' muttered Conan, feeling the pulse in his temples
pounding with impatient eagerness. 'Where is he now?'
'He sleeps in the house of Servio.'
'I know that dive of old,' grunted Conan. 'I'd better hasten before some
of these waterfront thieves cut his throat for the jewel.'
He took up his cloak and flung it over his shoulders, then donned a
helmet Publio had procured for him.
'Have my steed saddled and ready in the court,' said he. 'I may return
in haste. I shall not forget this night's work, Publio.'
A few moments later Publio, standing at a small outer door, watched the
king's tall figure receding down the shadowy street.
'Farewell to you, corsair,' muttered the merchant. 'This must be a
notable jewel, to be sought by a man who has just lost a kingdom. I
wish I had told my knaves to let him secure it before they did their
work. But then, something might have gone awry. Let Argos forget Amra,
and let my dealings with him be lost in the dust of the past. In the
alley behind the house of Servio—that is where Conan will cease to be a
peril to me.'
Servio's house, a dingy, ill-famed den, was located close to the
wharves, facing the waterfront. It was a shambling building of stone and
heavy ship-beams, and a long narrow alley wandered up alongside it.
Conan made his way along the alley, and as he approached the house he
had an uneasy feeling that he was being spied upon. He stared hard into
the shadows of the squalid buildings, but saw nothing, though once he
caught the faint rasp of cloth or leather against flesh. But that was
nothing unusual. Thieves and beggars prowled these alleys all night, and
they were not likely to attack him, after one look at his size and
harness.
But suddenly a door opened in the wall ahead of him, and he slipped into
the shadow of an arch. A figure emerged from the open door and moved
along the alley, not furtively, but with a natural noiselessness, like
that of a jungle beast. Enough starlight filtered into the alley to
silhouette the man's profile dimly as he passed the doorway where Conan
lurked. The stranger was a Stygian. There was no mistaking that
hawk-faced, shaven head, even in the starlight, nor the mantle over the
broad shoulders. He passed on down the alley in the direction of the
beach, and once Conan thought he must be carrying a lantern among his
garments, for he caught a flash of lambent light, just as the man
vanished.
But the Cimmerian forgot the stranger as he noticed that the door
through which he had emerged still stood open. Conan had intended
entering by the main entrance and forcing Servio to show him the room
where the Zingaran slept. But if he could get into the house without
attracting anyone's attention, so much the better.
A few long strides brought him to the door, and as his hand fell on the
lock he stifled an involuntary grunt. His practised fingers, skilled
among the thieves of Zamora long ago, told him that the lock had been
forced, apparently by some terrific pressure from the outside that had
twisted and bent the heavy iron bolts, tearing the very sockets loose
from the jambs. How such damage could have been wrought so violently
without awakening everyone in the neighborhood Conan could not imagine,
but he felt sure that it had been done that night. A broken lock, if
discovered, would not go unmended in the house of Servio, in this
neighborhood of thieves and cutthroats.
Conan entered stealthily, poniard in hand, wondering how he was to find
the chamber of the Zingaran. Groping in total darkness he halted
suddenly. He sensed death in that room, as a wild beast senses it—not
as peril threatening him, but a dead thing, something freshly slain. In
the darkness his foot hit and recoiled from something heavy and
yielding. With a sudden premonition he groped along the wall until he
found the shelf that supported the brass lamp, with its flint, steel and
tinder beside it. A few seconds later a flickering, uncertain light
sprang up, and he stared narrowly about him.
A bunk built against the rough stone wall, a bare table and a bench
completed the furnishings of the squalid chamber. An inner door stood
closed and bolted. And on the hard-beaten dirt floor lay Beloso. On his
back he lay, with his head drawn back between his shoulders so that he
seemed to stare with his wide glassy eyes at the sooty beams of the
cobwebbed ceiling. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a frozen
grin of agony. His sword lay near him, still in its scabbard. His shirt
was torn open, and on his brown, muscular breast was the print of a
black hand, thumb and four fingers plainly distinct.
Conan glared in silence, feeling the short hairs bristle at the back of
his neck.
'Crom!' he muttered. 'The black hand of Set!'
He had seen that mark of old, the death-mark of the black priests of
Set, the grim cult that ruled in dark Stygia. And suddenly he remembered
that curious flash he had seen emanating from the mysterious Stygian who
had emerged from this chamber.
'The Heart, by Crom!' he muttered. 'He was carrying it under his mantle.
He stole it. He burst that door by his magic, and slew Beloso. He was a
priest of Set.'
A quick investigation confirmed at least part of his suspicions. The
jewel was not on the Zingaran's body. An uneasy feeling rose in Conan
that this had not happened by chance, or without design; a conviction
that the mysterious Stygian galley had come into the harbor of Messantia
on a definite mission. How could the priests of Set know that the Heart
had come southward? Yet the thought was no more fantastic than the
necromancy that could slay an armed man by the touch of an open, empty
hand.
A stealthy footfall outside the door brought him round like a great cat.
With one motion he extinguished the lamp and drew his sword. His ears
told him that men were out there in the darkness, were closing in on the
doorway. As his eyes became accustomed to the sudden darkness, he could
make out dim figures ringing the entrance. He could not guess their
identity, but as always he took the initiative—leaping suddenly forth
from the doorway without awaiting the attack.
His unexpected movement took the skulkers by surprise. He sensed and
heard men close about him, saw a dim masked figure in the starlight
before him; then his sword crunched home, and he was fleeting away down
the alley before the slower-thinking and slower-acting attackers could
intercept him.
As he ran he heard, somewhere ahead of him, a faint creak of oar-locks,
and he forgot the men behind him. A boat was moving out into the bay!
Gritting his teeth he increased his speed, but before he reached the
beach he heard the rasp and creak of ropes, and the grind of the great
sweep in its socket.
Thick clouds, rolling up from the sea, obscured the stars. In thick
darkness Conan came upon the strand, straining his eyes out across the
black restless water. Something was moving out there—a long, low, black
shape that receded in the darkness, gathering momentum as it went. To
his ears came the rhythmical clack of long oars. He ground his teeth in
helpless fury. It was the Stygian galley and she was racing out to sea,
bearing with her the jewel that meant to him the throne of Aquilonia.
With a savage curse he took a step toward the waves that lapped against
the sands, catching at his hauberk and intending to rip it off and swim
after the vanishing ship. Then the crunch of a heel in the sand brought
him about. He had forgotten his pursuers.
Dark figures closed in on him with a rush of feet through the sands. The
first went down beneath the Cimmerian's flailing sword, but the others
did not falter. Blades whickered dimly about him in the darkness or
rasped on his mail. Blood and entrails spilled over his hand and someone
screamed as he ripped murderously upward. A muttered voice spurred on
the attack, and that voice sounded vaguely familiar. Conan plowed
through the clinging, hacking shapes toward the voice. A faint light
gleaming momentarily through the drifting clouds showed him a tall gaunt
man with a great livid scar on his temple. Conan's sword sheared through
his skull as through a ripe melon.
Then an ax, swung blindly in the dark, crashed on the king's basinet,
filling his eyes with sparks of fire. He lurched and lunged, felt his
sword sink deep and heard a shriek of agony. Then he stumbled over a
corpse, and a bludgeon knocked the dented helmet from his head; the next
instant the club fell full on his unprotected skull.
The king of Aquilonia crumpled into the wet sands. Over him wolfish
figures panted in the gloom.
'Strike off his head,' muttered one.
'Let him lie,' grunted another. 'Help me tie up my wounds before I bleed
to death. The tide will wash him into the bay. See, he fell at the
water's edge. His skull's split; no man could live after such blows.'
'Help me strip him,' urged another. 'His harness will fetch a few
pieces of silver. And haste. Tiberio is dead, and I hear seamen singing
as they reel along the strand. Let us be gone.'
There followed hurried activity in the darkness, and then the sound of
quickly receding footsteps. The tipsy singing of the seamen grew louder.
In his chamber Publio, nervously pacing back and forth before a window
that overlooked the shadowed bay, whirled suddenly, his nerves tingling.
To the best of his knowledge the door had been bolted from within; but
now it stood open and four men filed into the chamber. At the sight of
them his flesh crawled. Many strange beings Publio had seen in his
lifetime, but none before like these. They were tall and gaunt,
black-robed, and their faces were dim yellow ovals in the shadows of
their coifs. He could not tell much about their features and was
unreasoningly glad that he could not. Each bore a long, curiously
mottled staff.
'Who are you?' he demanded, and his voice sounded brittle and hollow.
'What do you wish here?'
'Where is Conan, he who was king of Aquilonia?' demanded the tallest of
the four in a passionless monotone that made Publio shudder. It was like
the hollow tone of a Khitan temple bell.
'I do not know what you mean,' stammered the merchant, his customary
poise shaken by the uncanny aspect of his visitors. 'I know no such
man.'
'He has been here,' returned the other with no change of inflection.
'His horse is in the courtyard. Tell us where he is before we do you an
injury.'
'Gebal!' shouted Publio frantically, recoiling until he crouched against
the wall. 'Gebal!'
The four Khitans watched him without emotion or change of expression.
'If you summon your slave he will die,' warned one of them, which only
served to terrify Publio more than ever.
'Gebal!' he screamed. 'Where are you, curse you? Thieves are murdering
your master!'
Swift footsteps padded in the corridor outside, and Gebal burst into the
chamber—a Shemite, of medium height and mightily muscled build, his
curled blue-black beard bristling, and a short leaf-shaped sword in his
hand.
He stared in stupid amazement at the four invaders, unable to understand
their presence; dimly remembering that he had drowsed unexplainably on
the stair he was guarding and up which they must have come. He had never
slept on duty before. But his master was shrieking with a note of
hysteria in his voice, and the Shemite drove like a bull at the
strangers, his thickly muscled arm drawing back for the disemboweling
thrust. But the stroke was never dealt.
A black-sleeved arm shot out, extending the long staff. Its end but
touched the Shemite's brawny breast and was instantly withdrawn. The
stroke was horribly like the dart and recovery of a serpent's head.
Gebal halted short in his headlong plunge, as if he had encountered a
solid barrier. His bull head toppled forward on his breast, the sword
slipped from his fingers, and then he melted slowly to the floor. It was
as if all the bones of his frame had suddenly become flabby. Publio
turned sick.
'Do not shout again,' advised the tallest Khitan. 'Your servants sleep
soundly, but if you awaken them they will die, and you with them. Where
is Conan?'
'He is gone to the house of Servio, near the waterfront, to search for
the Zingaran Beloso,' gasped Publio, all his power of resistance gone
out of him. The merchant did not lack courage; but these uncanny
visitants turned his marrow to water. He started convulsively at a
sudden noise of footsteps hurrying up the stair outside, loud in the
ominous stillness.
'Your servant?' asked the Khitan.
Publio shook his head mutely, his tongue frozen to his palate. He could
not speak.
One of the Khitans caught up a silken cover from a couch and threw it
over the corpse. Then they melted behind the tapestry, but before the
tallest man disappeared, he murmured: 'Talk to this man who comes, and
send him away quickly. If you betray us, neither he nor you will live to
reach that door. Make no sign to show him you are not alone.' And
lifting his staff suggestively, the yellow man faded behind the
hangings.
Publio shuddered and choked down a desire to retch. It might have been a
trick of the light, but it seemed to him that occasionally those staffs
moved slightly of their own accord, as if possessed of an unspeakable
life of their own.
He pulled himself together with a mighty effort, and presented a
composed aspect to the ragged ruffian who burst into the chamber.
'We have done as you wished, my lord,' this man exclaimed. 'The
barbarian lies dead on the sands at the water's edge.'
Publio felt a movement in the arras behind him, and almost burst from
fright. The man swept heedlessly on.
'Your secretary, Tiberio, is dead. The barbarian slew him, and four of
my companions. We bore their bodies to the rendezvous. There was
nothing of value on the barbarian except a few silver coins. Are there
any further orders?'
'None!' gasped Publio, white about the lips. 'Go!'
The desperado bowed and hurried out, with a vague feeling that Publio
was both a man of weak stomach and few words.
The four Khitans came from behind the arras.
'Of whom did this man speak?' the taller demanded.
'Of a wandering stranger who did me an injury,' panted Publio.
'You lie,' said the Khitan calmly. 'He spoke of the king of Aquilonia.
I read it in your expression. Sit upon that divan and do not move or
speak. I will remain with you while my three companions go search for
the body.'
So Publio sat and shook with terror of the silent, inscrutable figure
which watched him, until the three Khitans filed back into the room,
with the news that Conan's body did not lie upon the sands. Publio did
not know whether to be glad or sorry.
'We found the spot where the fight was fought,' they said. 'Blood was on
the sand. But the king was gone.'
The fourth Khitan drew imaginary symbols upon the carpet with his staff,
which glistened scalily in the lamplight.
'Did you read naught from the sands?' he asked.
'Aye,' they answered. 'The king lives, and he has gone southward in a
ship.'
The tall Khitan lifted his head and gazed at Publio, so that the
merchant broke into a profuse sweat.
'What do you wish of me?' he stuttered.
'A ship,' answered the Khitan. 'A ship well manned for a very long
voyage.'
'For how long a voyage?' stammered Publio, never thinking of refusing.
'To the ends of the world, perhaps,' answered the Khitan, 'or to the
molten seas of hell that lie beyond the sunrise.'
15
The Return of the Corsair
Conan's first sensation of returning consciousness was that of motion;
under him was no solidity, but a ceaseless heaving and plunging. Then he
heard wind humming through cords and spars, and knew he was aboard a
ship even before his blurred sight cleared. He heard a mutter of voices
and then a dash of water deluged him, jerking him sharply into full
animation. He heaved up with a sulphurous curse, braced his legs and
glared about him, with a burst of coarse guffaws in his ears and the
reek of unwashed bodies in his nostrils.
He was standing on the poopdeck of a long galley which was running
before the wind that whipped down from the north, her striped sail
bellying against the taut sheets. The sun was just rising, in a dazzling
blaze of gold and blue and green. To the left of the shoreline was a dim
purple shadow. To the right stretched the open ocean. This much Conan
saw at a glance that likewise included the ship itself.
It was long and narrow, a typical trading-ship of the southern coasts,
high of poop and stern, with cabins at either extremity. Conan looked
down into the open waist, whence wafted that sickening abominable odor.
He knew it of old. It was the body-scent of the oarsmen, chained to
their benches. They were all negroes, forty men to each side, each
confined by a chain locked about his waist, with the other end welded to
a heavy ring set deep in the solid runway beam that ran between the
benches from stem to stern. The life of a slave aboard an Argossean
galley was a hell unfathomable. Most of these were Kushites, but some
thirty of the blacks who now rested on their idle oars and stared up at
the stranger with dull curiosity were from the far southern isles, the
homelands of the corsairs. Conan recognized them by their straighter
features and hair, their rangier, cleaner-limbed build. And he saw among
them men who had followed him of old.
But all this he saw and recognized in one swift, all-embracing glance as
he rose, before he turned his attention to the figures about him.
Reeling momentarily on braced legs, his fists clenched wrathfully, he
glared at the figures clustered about him. The sailor who had drenched
him stood grinning, the empty bucket still poised in his hand, and Conan
cursed him with venom, instinctively reaching for his hilt. Then he
discovered that he was weaponless and naked except for his short leather
breeks.
'What lousy tub is this?' he roared. 'How did I come aboard here?'
The sailors laughed jeeringly—stocky, bearded Argosseans to a man—and
one, whose richer dress and air of command proclaimed him captain,
folded his arms and said domineeringly: 'We found you lying on the
sands. Somebody had rapped you on the pate and taken your clothes.
Needing an extra man, we brought you aboard.'
'What ship is this?' Conan demanded.
'The Venturer, out of Messantia, with a cargo of mirrors, scarlet silk
cloaks, shields, gilded helmets and swords to trade to the Shemites for
copper and gold ore. I am Demetrio, captain of this vessel and your
master henceforward.'
'Then I'm headed in the direction I wanted to go, after all,' muttered
Conan, heedless of that last remark. They were racing southeastward,
following the long curve of the Argossean coast. These trading-ships
never ventured far from the shoreline. Somewhere ahead of him he knew
that low dark Stygian galley was speeding southward.
'Have you sighted a Stygian galley—' began Conan, but the beard of the
burly, brutal-faced captain bristled. He was not in the least interested
in any question his prisoner might wish to ask, and felt it high time he
reduced this independent wastrel to his proper place.
'Get for'ard!' he roared. 'I've wasted time enough with you! I've done
you the honor of having you brought to the poop to be revived, and
answered enough of your infernal questions. Get off this poop! You'll
work your way aboard this galley—'
'I'll buy your ship—' began Conan, before he remembered that he was a
penniless wanderer.
A roar of rough mirth greeted these words, and the captain turned
purple, thinking he sensed ridicule.
'You mutinous swine!' he bellowed, taking a threatening step forward,
while his hand closed on the knife at his belt. 'Get for'ard before I
have you flogged! You'll keep a civil tongue in your jaws, or by Mitra,
I'll have you chained among the blacks to tug an oar!'
Conan's volcanic temper, never long at best, burst into explosion. Not
in years, even before he was king, had a man spoken to him thus and
lived.
'Don't lift your voice to me, you tar-breeched dog!' he roared in a
voice as gusty as the sea-wind, while the sailors gaped dumfounded.
'Draw that toy and I'll feed you to the fishes!'
'Who do you think you are?' gasped the captain.
'I'll show you!' roared the maddened Cimmerian, and he wheeled and
bounded toward the rail, where weapons hung in their brackets.
The captain drew his knife and ran at him bellowing, but before he could
strike, Conan gripped his wrist with a wrench that tore the arm clean
out of the socket. The captain bellowed like an ox in agony, and then
rolled clear across the deck as he was hurled contemptuously from his
attacker. Conan ripped a heavy ax from the rail and wheeled cat-like to
meet the rush of the sailors. They ran in, giving tongue like hounds,
clumsy-footed and awkward in comparison to the pantherish Cimmerian.
Before they could reach him with their knives he sprang among them,
striking right and left too quickly for the eye to follow, and blood and
brains spattered as two corpses struck the deck.
Knives flailed the air wildly as Conan broke through the stumbling,
gasping mob and bounded to the narrow bridge that spanned the waist from
poop to forecastle, just out of reach of the slaves below. Behind him
the handful of sailors on the poop were floundering after him, daunted
by the destruction of their fellows, and the rest of the crew—some
thirty in all—came running across the bridge toward him, with weapons
in their hands.
Conan bounded out on the bridge and stood poised above the upturned
black faces, ax lifted, black mane blown in the wind.
'Who am I?' he yelled. 'Look, you dogs! Look, Ajonga, Yasunga, Laranga!
Who am I?'
And from the waist rose a shout that swelled to a mighty roar: 'Amra! It
is Amra! The Lion has returned!'
The sailors who caught and understood the burden of that awesome shout
paled and shrank back, staring in sudden fear at the wild figure on the
bridge. Was this in truth that blood-thirsty ogre of the southern seas
who had so mysteriously vanished years ago, but who still lived in gory
legends? The blacks were frothing crazy now, shaking and tearing at
their chains and shrieking the name of Amra like an invocation. Kushites
who had never seen Conan before took up the yell. The slaves in the pen
under the after-cabin began to batter at the walls, shrieking like the
damned.
Demetrio, hitching himself along the deck on one hand and his knees,
livid with the agony of his dislocated arm, screamed: 'In and kill him,
dogs, before the slaves break loose!'
Fired to desperation by that word, the most dread to all galleymen, the
sailors charged on to the bridge from both ends. But with a lion-like
bound Conan left the bridge and hit like a cat on his feet on the runway
between the benches.
'Death to the masters!' he thundered, and his ax rose and fell
crashingly full on a shackle-chain, severing it like matchwood. In an
instant a shrieking slave was free, splintering his oar for a bludgeon.
Men were racing frantically along the bridge above, and all hell and
bedlam broke loose on the Venturer. Conan's ax rose and fell without
pause, and with every stroke a frothing, screaming black giant broke
free, mad with hate and the fury of freedom and vengeance.
Sailors leaping down into the waist to grapple or smite at the naked
white giant hewing like one possessed at the shackles, found themselves
dragged down by the hands of slaves yet unfreed, while others, their
broken chains whipping and snapping about their limbs, came up out of
the waist like a blind, black torrent, screaming like fiends, smiting
with broken oars and pieces of iron, tearing and rending with talons and
teeth. In the midst of the m�l�e the slaves in the pen broke down the
walls and came surging up on the decks, and with fifty blacks freed of
their benches Conan abandoned his iron-hewing and bounded up on the
bridge to add his notched ax to the bludgeons of his partisans.
Then it was massacre. The Argosseans were strong, sturdy, fearless like
all their race, trained in the brutal school of the sea. But they could
not stand against these maddened giants, led by the tigerish barbarian.
Blows and abuse and hellish suffering were avenged in one red gust of
fury that raged like a typhoon from one end of the ship to the other,
and when it had blown itself out, but one white man lived aboard the
Venturer, and that was the blood-stained giant about whom the chanting
blacks thronged to cast themselves prostrate on the bloody deck and beat
their heads against the boards in an ecstasy of hero-worship.
Conan, his mighty chest heaving and glistening with sweat, the red ax
gripped in his blood-smeared hand, glared about him as the first chief
of men might have glared in some primordial dawn, and shook back his
black mane. In that moment he was not king of Aquilonia; he was again
lord of the black corsairs, who had hacked his way to lordship through
flame and blood.
'Amra! Amra!' chanted the delirious blacks, those who were left to
chant. 'The Lion has returned! Now will the Stygians howl like dogs in
the night, and the black dogs of Kush will howl! Now will villages burst
in flames and ships founder! Aie, there will be wailing of women and the
thunder of the spears!'
'Cease this yammering, dogs!' Conan roared in a voice that drowned the
clap of the sail in the wind. 'Ten of you go below and free the oarsmen
who are yet chained. The rest of you man the sweeps and bend to oars and
halyards. Crom's devils, don't you see we've drifted inshore during the
fight? Do you want to run aground and be retaken by the Argosseans?
Throw these carcasses overboard. Jump to it, you rogues, or I'll notch
your hides for you!'
With shouts and laughter and wild singing they leaped to do his
commands. The corpses, white and black, were hurled overboard, where
triangular fins were already cutting the water.
Conan stood on the poop, frowning down at the black men who watched him
expectantly. His heavy brown arms were folded, his black hair, grown
long in his wanderings, blew in the wind. A wilder and more barbaric
figure never trod the bridge of a ship, and in this ferocious corsair
few of the courtiers of Aquilonia would have recognized their king.
'There's food in the hold!' he roared. 'Weapons in plenty for you, for
this ship carried blades and harness to the Shemites who dwell along the
coast. There are enough of us to work ship, aye, and to fight! You rowed
in chains for the Argossean dogs: will you row as free men for Amra?'
'Aye!' they roared. 'We are thy children! Lead us where you will!'
'Then fall to and clean out that waist,' he commanded. 'Free men don't
labor in such filth. Three of you come with me and break out food from
the after-cabin. By Crom, I'll pad out your ribs before this cruise is
done.'
Another yell of approbation answered him, as the half-starved blacks
scurried to do his bidding. The sail bellied as the wind swept over the
waves with renewed force, and the white crests danced along the sweep of
the wind. Conan planted his feet to the heave of the deck, breathed deep
and spread his mighty arms. King of Aquilonia he might no longer be;
king of the blue ocean he was still.
16
Black-Walled Khemi
The Venturer swept southward like a living thing, her oars pulled now
by free and willing hands. She had been transformed from a peaceful
trader into a war-galley, insofar as the transformation was possible.
Men sat at the benches now with swords at their sides and gilded helmets
on their kinky heads. Shields were hung along the rails, and sheafs of
spears, bows and arrows adorned the mast. Even the elements seemed to
work for Conan now; the broad purple sail bellied to a stiff breeze that
held day by day, needing little aid from the oars.
But though Conan kept a man on the masthead day and night, they did not
sight a long, low, black galley fleeing southward ahead of them. Day by
day the blue waters rolled empty to their view, broken only by
fishing-craft which fled like frightened birds before them, at sight of
the shields hung along the rail. The season for trading was practically
over for the year, and they sighted no other ships.
When the lookout did sight a sail, it was to the north, not the south.
Far on the skyline behind them appeared a racing-galley, with full
spread of purple sail. The blacks urged Conan to turn and plunder it,
but he shook his head. Somewhere south of him a slim black galley was
racing toward the ports of Stygia. That night, before darkness shut
down, the lookout's last glimpse showed him the racing-galley on the
horizon, and at dawn it was still hanging on their tail, afar off, tiny
in the distance. Conan wondered if it was following him, though he could
think of no logical reason for such a supposition. But he paid little
heed.
Each day that carried him farther southward filled him with fiercer
impatience. Doubts never assailed him. As he believed in the rise and
set of the sun he believed that a priest of Set had stolen the Heart of
Ahriman. And where would a priest of Set carry it but to Stygia? The
blacks sensed his eagerness, and toiled as they had never toiled under
the lash, though ignorant of his goal. They anticipated a red career of
pillage and plunder and were content. The men of the southern isles knew
no other trade; and the Kushites of the crew joined whole-heartedly in
the prospect of looting their own people, with the callousness of their
race. Blood-ties meant little; a victorious chieftain and personal gain
everything.
Soon the character of the coastline changed. No longer they sailed past
steep cliffs with blue hills marching behind them. Now the shore was the
edge of broad meadowlands which barely rose above the water's edge and
swept away and away into the hazy distance. Here were few harbors and
fewer ports, but the green plain was dotted with the cities of the
Shemites; green sea, lapping the rim of the green plains, and the
ziggurats of the cities gleaming whitely in the sun, some small in the
distance.
Through the grazing-lands moved the herds of cattle, and squat, broad
riders with cylindrical helmets and curled blue-black beards, with bows
in their hands. This was the shore of the lands of Shem, where there was
no law save as each city-state could enforce its own. Far to the
eastward, Conan knew, the meadowlands gave way to desert, where there
were no cities and the nomadic tribes roamed unhindered.
Still as they plied southward, past the changeless panorama of
city-dotted meadowland, at last the scenery again began to alter. Clumps
of tamarind appeared, the palm groves grew denser. The shoreline became
more broken, a marching rampart of green fronds and trees, and behind
them rose bare, sandy hills. Streams poured into the sea, and along
their moist banks vegetation grew thick and of vast variety.
So at last they passed the mouth of a broad river that mingled its flow
with the ocean, and saw the great black walls and towers of Khemi rise
against the southern horizon.
The river was the Styx, the real border of Stygia. Khemi was Stygia's
greatest port, and at that time her most important city. The king dwelt
at more ancient Luxur, but in Khemi reigned the priestcraft; though men
said the center of their dark religion lay far inland, in a mysterious,
deserted city near the bank of the Styx. This river, springing from some
nameless source far in the unknown lands south of Stygia, ran northward
for a thousand miles before it turned and flowed westward for some
hundreds of miles, to empty at last into the ocean.
The Venturer, showing no lights, stole past the port in the night, and
before dawn discovered her, anchored in a small bay a few miles south of
the city. It was surrounded by marsh, a green tangle of mangroves, palms
and lianas, swarming with crocodiles and serpents. Discovery was
extremely unlikely. Conan knew the place of old; he had hidden there
before, in his corsair days.
As they slid silently past the city whose great black bastions rose on
the jutting prongs of land which locked the harbor, torches gleamed and
smoldered luridly, and to their ears came the low thunder of drums. The
port was not crowded with ships, as were the harbors of Argos. The
Stygians did not base their glory and power upon ships and fleets.
Trading-vessels and war-galleys, indeed, they had, but not in proportion
to their inland strength. Many of their craft plied up and down the
great river, rather than along the sea-coasts.
The Stygians were an ancient race, a dark, inscrutable people, powerful
and merciless. Long ago their rule had stretched far north of the Styx,
beyond the meadowlands of Shem, and into the fertile uplands now
inhabited by the peoples of Koth and Ophir and Argos. Their borders had
marched with those of ancient Acheron. But Acheron had fallen, and the
barbaric ancestors of the Hyborians had swept southward in wolfskins and
horned helmets, driving the ancient rulers of the land before them. The
Stygians had not forgotten.
All day the Venturer lay at anchor in the tiny bay, walled in with
green branches and tangled vines through which flitted gay-plumed,
harsh-voiced birds, and among which glided bright-scaled, silent
reptiles. Toward sundown a small boat crept out and down along the
shore, seeking and finding that which Conan desired—a Stygian fisherman
in his shallow, flat-prowed boat.
They brought him to the deck of the Venturer—a tall, dark, rangily
built man, ashy with fear of his captors, who were ogres of that coast.
He was naked except for his silken breeks, for, like the Hyrkanians,
even the commoners and slaves of Stygia wore silk; and in his boat was a
wide mantle such as these fishermen flung about their shoulders against
the chill of the night.
He fell to his knees before Conan, expecting torture and death.
'Stand on your legs, man, and quit trembling,' said the Cimmerian
impatiently, who found it difficult to understand abject terror. 'You
won't be harmed. Tell me but this: has a galley, a black racing-galley
returning from Argos, put into Khemi within the last few days?'
'Aye, my lord,' answered the fisherman. 'Only yesterday at dawn the
priest Thutothmes returned from a voyage far to the north. Men say he
has been to Messantia.'
'What did he bring from Messantia?'
'Alas, my lord, I know not.'
'Why did he go to Messantia?' demanded Conan.
'Nay, my lord, I am but a common man. Who am I to know the minds of the
priests of Set? I can only speak what I have seen and what I have heard
men whisper along the wharves. Men say that news of great import came
southward, though of what none knows; and it is well known that the lord
Thutothmes put off in his black galley in great haste. Now he is
returned, but what he did in Argos, or what cargo he brought back, none
knows, not even the seamen who manned his galley. Men say that he has
opposed Thoth-Amon, who is the master of all priests of Set, and dwells
in Luxur, and that Thutothmes seeks hidden power to overthrow the Great
One. But who am I to say? When priests war with one another a common man
can but lie on his belly and hope neither treads upon him.'
Conan snarled in nervous exasperation at this servile philosophy, and
turned to his men. 'I'm going alone into Khemi to find this thief
Thutothmes. Keep this man prisoner, but see that you do him no hurt.
Crom's devils, stop your yowling! Do you think we can sail into the
harbor and take the city by storm? I must go alone.'
Silencing the clamor of protests, he doffed his own garments and donned
the prisoner's silk breeches and sandals, and the band from the man's
hair, but scorned the short fisherman's knife. The common men of Stygia
were not allowed to wear swords, and the mantle was not voluminous
enough to hide the Cimmerian's long blade, but Conan buckled to his hip
a Ghanata knife, a weapon borne by the fierce desert men who dwelt to
the south of the Stygians, a broad, heavy, slightly curved blade of fine
steel, edged like a razor and long enough to dismember a man.
Then, leaving the Stygian guarded by the corsairs, Conan climbed into
the fisher's boat.
'Wait for me until dawn,' he said. 'If I haven't come then, I'll never
come, so hasten southward to your own homes.'
As he clambered over the rail, they set up a doleful wail at his going,
until he thrust his head back into sight to curse them into silence.
Then, dropping into the boat, he grasped the oars and sent the tiny
craft shooting over the waves more swiftly than its owner had ever
propelled it.
17
'He Has Slain the Sacred Son of Set!'
The harbor of Khemi lay between two great jutting points of land that
ran into the ocean. He rounded the southern point, where the great black
castles rose like a man-made hill, and entered the harbor just at dusk,
when there was still enough light for the watchers to recognize the
fisherman's boat and mantle, but not enough to permit recognition of
betraying details. Unchallenged he threaded his way among the great
black war galleys lying silent and unlighted at anchor, and drew up to a
flight of wide stone steps which mounted up from the water's edge. There
he made his boat fast to an iron ring set in the stone, as numerous
similar craft were tied. There was nothing strange in a fisherman
leaving his boat there. None but a fisherman could find a use for such a
craft, and they did not steal from one another.
No one cast him more than a casual glance as he mounted the long steps,
unobtrusively avoiding the torches that flared at intervals above the
lapping black water. He seemed but an ordinary, empty-handed fisherman,
returning after a fruitless day along the coast. If one had observed him
closely, it might have seemed that his step was somewhat too springy and
sure, his carriage somewhat too erect and confident for a lowly
fisherman. But he passed quickly, keeping in the shadows, and the
commoners of Stygia were no more given to analysis than were the
commoners of the less exotic races.
In build he was not unlike the warrior casts of the Stygians, who were a
tall, muscular race. Bronzed by the sun, he was nearly as dark as many
of them. His black hair, square-cut and confined by a copper band,
increased the resemblance. The characteristics which set him apart from
them were the subtle difference in his walk, and his alien features and
blue eyes.
But the mantle was a good disguise, and he kept as much in the shadows
as possible, turning away his head when a native passed him too closely.
But it was a desperate game, and he knew he could not long keep up the
deception. Khemi was not like the sea-ports of the Hyborians, where
types of every race swarmed. The only aliens here were negro and Shemite
slaves; and he resembled neither even as much as he resembled the
Stygians themselves. Strangers were not welcome in the cities of Stygia;
tolerated only when they came as ambassadors or licensed traders. But
even then the latter were not allowed ashore after dark. And now there
were no Hyborian ships in the harbor at all. A strange restlessness ran
through the city, a stirring of ancient ambitions, a whispering none
could define except those who whispered. This Conan felt rather than
knew, his whetted primitive instincts sensing unrest about him.
If he were discovered his fate would be ghastly. They would slay him
merely for being a stranger; if he were recognized as Amra, the corsair
chief who had swept their coasts with steel and flame—an involuntary
shudder twitched Conan's broad shoulders. Human foes he did not fear,
nor any death by steel or fire. But this was a black land of sorcery and
nameless horror. Set the Old Serpent, men said, banished long ago from
the Hyborian races, yet lurked in the shadows of the cryptic temples,
and awful and mysterious were the deeds done in the nighted shrines.
He had drawn away from the waterfront streets with their broad steps
leading down to the water, and was entering the long shadowy streets of
the main part of the city. There was no such scene as was offered by any
Hyborian city—no blaze of lamps and cressets, with gay-clad people
laughing and strolling along the pavements, and shops and stalls wide
open and displaying their wares.
Here the stalls were closed at dusk. The only lights along the streets
were torches, flaring smokily at wide intervals. People walking the
streets were comparatively few; they went hurriedly and unspeaking, and
their numbers decreased with the lateness of the hour. Conan found the
scene gloomy and unreal; the silence of the people, their furtive haste,
the great black stone walls that rose on each side of the streets. There
was a grim massiveness about Stygian architecture that was overpowering
and oppressive.
Few lights showed anywhere except in the upper parts of the buildings.
Conan knew that most of the people lay on the flat roofs, among the
palms of artificial gardens under the stars. There was a murmur of weird
music from somewhere. Occasionally a bronze chariot rumbled along the
flags, and there was a brief glimpse of a tall, hawk-faced noble, with a
silk cloak wrapped about him, and a gold band with a rearing
serpent-head emblem confining his black mane; of the ebon, naked
charioteer bracing his knotty legs against the straining of the fierce
Stygian horses.
But the people who yet traversed the streets on foot were commoners,
slaves, tradesmen, harlots, toilers, and they became fewer as he
progressed. He was making toward the temple of Set, where he knew he
would be likely to find the priest he sought. He believed he would know
Thutothmes if he saw him, though his one glance had been in the
semi-darkness of the Messantian alley. That the man he had seen there
had been the priest he was certain. Only occultists high in the mazes of
the hideous Black Ring possessed the power of the black hand that dealt
death by its touch; and only such a man would dare defy Thoth-Amon, whom
the western world knew only as a figure of terror and myth.
The street broadened, and Conan was aware that he was getting into the
part of the city dedicated to the temples. The great structures reared
their black bulks against the dim stars, grim, indescribably menacing in
the flare of the few torches. And suddenly he heard a low scream from a
woman on the other side of the street and somewhat ahead of him—a naked
courtesan wearing the tall plumed head-dress of her class. She was
shrinking back against the wall, staring across at something he could
not yet see. At her cry the few people on the street halted suddenly as
if frozen. At the same instant Conan was aware of a sinister slithering
ahead of him. Then about the dark corner of the building he was
approaching poked a hideous, wedge-shaped head, and after it flowed coil
after coil of rippling, darkly glistening trunk.
The Cimmerian recoiled, remembering tales he had heard—serpents were
sacred to Set, god of Stygia, who men said was himself a serpent.
Monsters such as this were kept in the temples of Set, and when they
hungered, were allowed to crawl forth into the streets to take what prey
they wished. Their ghastly feasts were considered a sacrifice to the
scaly god.
The Stygians within Conan's sight fell to their knees, men and women,
and passively awaited their fate. One the great serpent would select,
would lap in scaly coils, crush to a red pulp and swallow as a rat-snake
swallows a mouse. The others would live. That was the will of the gods.
But it was not Conan's will. The python glided toward him, its attention
probably attracted by the fact that he was the only human in sight still
standing erect. Gripping his great knife under his mantle, Conan hoped
the slimy brute would pass him by. But it halted before him and reared
up horrifically in the flickering torchlight, its forked tongue
flickering in and out, its cold eyes glittering with the ancient cruelty
of the serpent-folk. Its neck arched, but before it could dart, Conan
whipped his knife from under his mantle and struck like a flicker of
lightning. The broad blade split that wedge-shaped head and sheared deep
into the thick neck.
Conan wrenched his knife free and sprang clear as the great body knotted
and looped and whipped terrifically in its death throes. In the moment
that he stood staring in morbid fascination, the only sound was the thud
and swish of the snake's tail against the stones.
Then from the shocked votaries burst a terrible cry: 'Blasphemer! He has
slain the sacred son of Set! Slay him! Slay! Slay!'
Stones whizzed about him and the crazed Stygians rushed at him,
shrieking hysterically, while from all sides others emerged from their
houses and took up the cry. With a curse Conan wheeled and darted into
the black mouth of an alley. He heard the patter of bare feet on the
flags behind him as he ran more by feel than by sight, and the walls
resounded to the vengeful yells of the pursuers. Then his left hand
found a break in the wall, and he turned sharply into another, narrower
alley. On both sides rose sheer black stone walls. High above him he
could see a thin line of stars. These giant walls, he knew, were the
walls of temples. He heard, behind him, the pack sweep past the dark
mouth in full cry. Their shouts grew distant, faded away. They had
missed the smaller alley and run straight on in the blackness. He too
kept straight ahead, though the thought of encountering another of Set's
'sons' in the darkness brought a shudder from him.
Then somewhere ahead of him he caught a moving glow, like that of a
crawling glow-worm. He halted, flattened himself against the wall and
gripped his knife. He knew what it was: a man approaching with a torch.
Now it was so close he could make out the dark hand that gripped it, and
the dim oval of a dark face. A few more steps and the man would
certainly see him. He sank into a tigerish crouch—the torch halted. A
door was briefly etched in the glow, while the torch-bearer fumbled with
it. Then it opened, the tall figure vanished through it, and darkness
closed again on the alley. There was a sinister suggestion of
furtiveness about that slinking figure, entering the alley-door in
darkness; a priest, perhaps, returning from some dark errand.
But Conan groped toward the door. If one man came up that alley with a
torch, others might come at any time. To retreat the way he had come
might mean to run full into the mob from which he was fleeing. At any
moment they might return, find the narrower alley and come howling down
it. He felt hemmed in by those sheer, unscalable walls, desirous of
escape, even if escape meant invading some unknown building.
The heavy bronze door was not locked. It opened under his fingers and he
peered through the crack. He was looking into a great square chamber of
massive black stone. A torch smoldered in a niche in the wall. The
chamber was empty. He glided through the lacquered door and closed it
behind him.
His sandaled feet made no sound as he crossed the black marble floor. A
teak door stood partly open, and gliding through this, knife in hand, he
came out into a great, dim, shadowy place whose lofty ceiling was only a
hint of darkness high above him, toward which the black walls swept
upward. On all sides black-arched doorways opened into the great still
hall. It was lit by curious bronze lamps that gave a dim weird light. On
the other side of the great hall a broad black marble stairway, without
a railing, marched upward to lose itself in gloom, and above him on all
sides dim galleries hung like black stone ledges.
Conan shivered; he was in a temple of some Stygian god, if not Set
himself, then someone barely less grim. And the shrine did not lack an
occupant. In the midst of the great hall stood a black stone altar,
massive, somber, without carvings or ornament, and upon it coiled one of
the great sacred serpents, its iridescent scales shimmering in the
lamplight. It did not move, and Conan remembered stories that the
priests kept these creatures drugged part of the time. The Cimmerian
took an uncertain step out from the door, then shrank back suddenly,
not into the room he had just quitted, but into a velvet-curtained
recess. He had heard a soft step somewhere near by.
From one of the black arches emerged a tall, powerful figure in sandals
and silken loin-cloth, with a wide mantle trailing from his shoulders.
But face and head were hidden by a monstrous mask, a half-bestial,
half-human countenance, from the crest of which floated a mass of
ostrich plumes.
In certain ceremonies the Stygian priests went masked. Conan hoped the
man would not discover him, but some instinct warned the Stygian. He
turned abruptly from his destination, which apparently was the stair,
and stepped straight to the recess. As he jerked aside the velvet
hanging, a hand darted from the shadows, crushed the cry in his throat
and jerked him headlong into the alcove, and the knife impaled him.
Conan's next move was the obvious one suggested by logic. He lifted off
the grinning mask and drew it over his own head. The fisherman's mantle
he flung over the body of the priest, which he concealed behind the
hangings, and drew the priestly mantle about his own brawny shoulders.
Fate had given him a disguise. All Khemi might well be searching now for
the blasphemer who dared defend himself against a sacred snake; but who
would dream of looking for him under the mask of a priest?
He strode boldly from the alcove and headed for one of the arched
doorways at random; but he had not taken a dozen strides when he wheeled
again, all his senses edged for peril.
A band of masked figures filed down the stair, appareled exactly as he
was. He hesitated, caught in the open, and stood still, trusting to his
disguise, though cold sweat gathered on his forehead and the backs of
his hands. No word was spoken. Like phantoms they descended into the
great hall and moved past him toward a black arch. The leader carried an
ebon staff which supported a grinning white skull, and Conan knew it was
one of the ritualistic processions so inexplicable to a foreigner, but
which played a strong—and often sinister—part in the Stygian religion.
The last figure turned his head slightly toward the motionless
Cimmerian, as if expecting him to follow. Not to do what was obviously
expected of him would rouse instant suspicion. Conan fell in behind the
last man and suited his gait to their measured pace.
They traversed a long, dark, vaulted corridor in which, Conan noticed
uneasily, the skull on the staff glowed phosphorescently. He felt a
surge of unreasoning, wild animal panic that urged him to rip out his
knife and slash right and left at these uncanny figures, to flee madly
from the grim, dark temple. But he held himself in check, fighting down
the dim monstrous intuitions that rose in the back of his mind and
peopled the gloom with shadowy shapes of horror; and presently he barely
stifled a sigh of relief as they filed through a great double-valved
door which was three times higher than a man, and emerged into the
starlight.
Conan wondered if he dared fade into some dark alley; but hesitated,
uncertain, and down the long dark street they padded silently, while
such folk as they met turned their heads away and fled from them. The
procession kept far out from the walls; to turn and bolt into any of the
alleys they passed would be too conspicuous. While he mentally fumed and
cursed, they came to a low-arched gateway in the southern wall, and
through this they filed. Ahead of them and about them lay clusters of
low, flat-topped mud houses, and palm-groves, shadowy in the starlight.
Now if ever, thought Conan, was his time to escape his silent
companions.
But the moment the gate was left behind them those companions were no
longer silent. They began to mutter excitedly among themselves. The
measured, ritualistic gait was abandoned, the staff with its skull was
tucked unceremoniously under the leader's arm, and the whole group broke
ranks and hurried onward. And Conan hurried with them. For in the low
murmur of speech he had caught a word that galvanized him. The word was:
"Thutothmes!"
18
'I Am the Woman Who Never Died'
Conan stared with burning interest at his masked companions. One of them
was Thutothmes, or else the destination of the band was a rendezvous
with the man he sought. And he knew what that destination was, when
beyond the palms he glimpsed a black triangular bulk looming against the
shadowy sky.
They passed through the belt of huts and groves, and if any man saw them
he was careful not to show himself. The huts were dark. Behind them the
black towers of Khemi rose gloomily against the stars that were mirrored
in the waters of the harbor; ahead of them the desert stretched away in
dim darkness; somewhere a jackal yapped. The quick-passing sandals of
the silent neophytes made no noise in the sand. They might have been
ghosts, moving toward that colossal pyramid that rose out of the murk of
the desert. There was no sound over all the sleeping land.
Conan's heart beat quicker as he gazed at the grim black wedge that
stood etched against the stars, and his impatience to close with
Thutothmes in whatever conflict the meeting might mean was not unmixed
with a fear of the unknown. No man could approach one of those somber
piles of black stone without apprehension. The very name was a symbol of
repellent horror among the northern nations, and legends hinted that the
Stygians did not build them; that they were in the land at whatever
immeasurably ancient date the dark-skinned people came into the land of
the great river.
As they approached the pyramid he glimpsed a dim glow near the base
which presently resolved itself into a doorway, on either side of which
brooded stone lions with the heads of women, cryptic, inscrutable,
nightmares crystalized in stone. The leader of the band made straight
for the doorway, in the deep well of which Conan saw a shadowy figure.
The leader paused an instant beside this dim figure, and then vanished
into the dark interior, and one by one the others followed. As each
masked priest passed through the gloomy portal he was halted briefly by
the mysterious guardian and something passed between them, some word or
gesture Conan could not make out. Seeing this, the Cimmerian purposely
lagged behind, and stooping, pretended to be fumbling with the fastening
of his sandal. Not until the last of the masked figures had disappeared
did he straighten and approach the portal.
He was uneasily wondering if the guardian of the temple were human,
remembering some tales he had heard. But his doubts were set at rest. A
dim bronze cresset glowing just within the door lighted a long narrow
corridor that ran away into blackness, and a man standing silent in the
mouth of it, wrapped in a wide black cloak. No one else was in sight.
Obviously the masked priests had disappeared down the corridor.
Over the cloak that was drawn about his lower features, the Stygian's
piercing eyes regarded Conan sharply. With his left hand he made a
curious gesture. On a venture Conan imitated it. But evidently another
gesture was expected; the Stygian's right hand came from under his cloak
with a gleam of steel and his murderous stab would have pierced the
heart of an ordinary man.
But he was dealing with one whose thews were nerved to the quickness of
a jungle cat. Even as the dagger flashed in the dim light, Conan caught
the dusky wrist and smashed his clenched right fist against the
Stygian's jaw. The man's head went back against the stone wall with a
dull crunch that told of a fractured skull.
Standing for an instant above him, Conan listened intently. The cresset
burned low, casting vague shadows about the door. Nothing stirred in the
blackness beyond, though far away and below him, as it seemed, he caught
the faint, muffled note of a gong.
He stooped and dragged the body behind the great bronze door which stood
wide, opened inward, and then the Cimmerian went warily but swiftly down
the corridor, toward what doom he did not even try to guess.
He had not gone far when he halted, baffled. The corridor split in two
branches, and he had no way of knowing which the masked priests had
taken. At a venture he chose the left. The floor slanted slightly
downward and was worn smooth as by many feet. Here and there a dim
cresset cast a faint nightmarish twilight. Conan wondered uneasily for
what purpose these colossal piles had been reared, in what forgotten
age. This was an ancient, ancient land. No man knew how many ages the
black temples of Stygia had looked against the stars.
Narrow black arches opened occasionally to right and left, but he kept
to the main corridor, although a conviction that he had taken the wrong
branch was growing in him. Even with their start on him, he should have
overtaken the priests by this time. He was growing nervous. The silence
was like a tangible thing, and yet he had a feeling that he was not
alone. More than once, passing a nighted arch he seemed to feel the
glare of unseen eyes fixed upon him. He paused, half minded to turn back
to where the corridor had first branched. He wheeled abruptly, knife
lifted, every nerve tingling.
A girl stood at the mouth of a smaller tunnel, staring fixedly at him.
Her ivory skin showed her to be Stygian of some ancient noble family,
and like all such women she was tall, lithe, voluptuously figured, her
hair a great pile of black foam, among which gleamed a sparkling ruby.
But for her velvet sandals and broad jewel-crusted girdle about her
supple waist she was quite nude.
'What do you here?' she demanded.
To answer would betray his alien origin. He remained motionless, a grim,
somber figure in the hideous mask with the plumes floating over him. His
alert gaze sought the shadows behind her and found them empty. But there
might be hordes of fighting-men within her call.
She advanced toward him, apparently without apprehension though with
suspicion.
'You are not a priest,' she said. 'You are a fighting-man. Even with
that mask that is plain. There is as much difference between you and a
priest as there is between a man and a woman. By Set!' she exclaimed,
halting suddenly, her eyes flaring wide. 'I do not believe you are even
a Stygian!'
With a movement too quick for the eye to follow, his hand closed about
her round throat, lightly as a caress.
'Not a sound out of you!' he muttered.
Her smooth ivory flesh was cold as marble, yet there was no fear in the
wide, dark, marvelous eyes which regarded him.
'Do not fear,' she answered calmly. 'I will not betray you. But are you
mad to come, a stranger and a foreigner, to the forbidden temple of
Set?'
'I'm looking for the priest Thutothmes,' he answered. 'Is he in this
temple?'
'Why do you seek him?' she parried.
'He has something of mine which was stolen.'
'I will lead you to him,' she volunteered so promptly that his
suspicions were instantly roused.
'Don't play with me, girl,' he growled.
'I do not play with you. I have no love for Thutothmes.'
He hesitated, then made up his mind; after all, he was as much in her
power as she was in his.
'Walk beside me,' he commanded, shifting his grasp from her throat to
her wrist. 'But walk with care. If you make a suspicious move—'
She led him down the slanting corridor, down and down, until there were
no more cressets, and he groped his way in darkness, aware less by sight
than by feel and sense of the woman at his side. Once when he spoke to
her, she turned her head toward him and he was startled to see her eyes
glowing like golden fire in the dark. Dim doubts and vague monstrous
suspicions haunted his mind, but he followed her, through a labyrinthine
maze of black corridors that confused even his primitive sense of
direction. He mentally cursed himself for a fool, allowing himself to be
led into that black abode of mystery; but it was too late to turn back
now. Again he felt life and movement in the darkness about him, sensed
peril and hunger burning impatiently in the blackness. Unless his ears
deceived him he caught a faint sliding noise that ceased and receded at
a muttered command from the girl.
She led him at last into a chamber lighted by a curious seven-branched
candelabrum in which black candles burned weirdly. He knew they were far
below the earth. The chamber was square, with walls and ceiling of
polished black marble and furnished after the manner of the ancient
Stygians; there was a couch of ebony, covered with black velvet, and on
a black stone dais lay a carven mummy-case.
Conan stood waiting expectantly, staring at the various black arches
which opened into the chamber. But the girl made no move to go farther.
Stretching herself on the couch with feline suppleness, she intertwined
her fingers behind her sleek head and regarded him from under long
drooping lashes.
'Well?' he demanded impatiently. 'What are you doing? Where's
Thutothmes?'
'There is no haste,' she answered lazily. 'What is an hour—or a day, or
a year, or a century, for that matter? Take off your mask. Let me see
your features.'
With a grunt of annoyance Conan dragged off the bulky headpiece, and the
girl nodded as if in approval as she scanned his dark scarred face and
blazing eyes.
'There is strength in you—great strength; you could strangle a
bullock.'
He moved restlessly, his suspicion growing. With his hand on his hilt he
peered into the gloomy arches.
'If you've brought me into a trap,' he said, 'you won't live to enjoy
your handiwork. Are you going to get off that couch and do as you
promised, or do I have to—'
His voice trailed away. He was staring at the mummy-case, on which the
countenance of the occupant was carved in ivory with the startling
vividness of a forgotten art. There was a disquieting familiarity about
that carven mask, and with something of a shock he realized what it was;
there was a startling resemblance between it and the face of the girl
lolling on the ebon couch. She might have been the model from which it
was carved, but he knew the portrait was at least centuries old. Archaic
hieroglyphics were scrawled across the lacquered lid, and, seeking back
into his mind for tag-ends of learning, picked up here and there as
incidentals of an adventurous life, he spelled them out, and said aloud:
'Akivasha!'
'You have heard of Princess Akivasha?' inquired the girl on the couch.
'Who hasn't?' he grunted. The name of that ancient, evil, beautiful
princess still lived the world over in song and legend, though ten
thousand years had rolled their cycles since the daughter of Tuthamon
had reveled in purple feasts amid the black halls of ancient Luxur.
'Her only sin was that she loved life and all the meanings of life,'
said the Stygian girl. 'To win life she courted death. She could not
bear to think of growing old and shriveled and worn, and dying at last
as hags die. She wooed Darkness like a lover and his gift was life—life
that, not being life as mortals know it, can never grow old and fade.
She went into the shadows to cheat age and death—'
Conan glared at her with eyes that were suddenly burning slits. And he
wheeled and tore the lid from the sarcophagus. It was empty. Behind him
the girl was laughing and the sound froze the blood in his veins. He
whirled back to her, the short hairs on his neck bristling.
'You are Akivasha!' he grated.
She laughed and shook back her burnished locks, spread her arms
sensuously.
'I am Akivasha! I am the woman who never died, who never grew old! Who
fools say was lifted from the earth by the gods, in the full bloom of
her youth and beauty, to queen it for ever in some celestial clime! Nay,
it is in the shadows that mortals find immortality! Ten thousand years
ago I died to live for ever! Give me your lips, strong man!'
Rising lithely she came to him, rose on tiptoe and flung her arms about
his massive neck. Scowling down into her upturned, beautiful countenance
he was aware of a fearful fascination and an icy fear.
'Love me!' she whispered, her head thrown back, eyes closed and lips
parted. 'Give me of your blood to renew my youth and perpetuate my
everlasting life! I will make you, too, immortal! I will teach you the
wisdom of all the ages, all the secrets that have lasted out the eons in
the blackness beneath these dark temples. I will make you king of that
shadowy horde which revels among the tombs of the ancients when night
veils the desert and bats flit across the moon. I am weary of priests
and magicians, and captive girls dragged screaming through the portals
of death. I desire a man. Love me, barbarian!'
She pressed her dark head down against his mighty breast, and he felt a
sharp pang at the base of his throat. With a curse he tore her away and
flung her sprawling across the couch.
'Damned vampire!' Blood was trickling from a tiny wound in his throat.
She reared up on the couch like a serpent poised to strike, all the
golden fires of hell blazing in her wide eyes. Her lips drew back,
revealing white pointed teeth.
'Fool!' she shrieked. 'Do you think to escape me? You will live and die
in darkness! I have brought you far below the temple. You can never find
your way out alone. You can never cut your way through those which guard
the tunnels. But for my protection the sons of Set would long ago have
taken you into their bellies. Fool, I shall yet drink your blood!'
'Keep away from me or I'll slash you asunder,' he grunted, his flesh
crawling with revulsion. 'You may be immortal, but steel will dismember
you.'
As he backed toward the arch through which he had entered, the light
went out suddenly. All the candles were extinguished at once, though he
did not know how; for Akivasha had not touched them. But the vampire's
laugh rose mockingly behind him, poison-sweet as the viols of hell, and
he sweated as he groped in the darkness for the arch in a near-panic.
His fingers encountered an opening and he plunged through it. Whether it
was the arch through which he had entered he did not know, nor did he
very much care. His one thought was to get out of the haunted chamber
which had housed that beautiful, hideous, undead fiend for so many
centuries.
His wanderings through those black, winding tunnels were a sweating
nightmare. Behind him and about him he heard faint slitherings and
glidings, and once the echo of that sweet, hellish laughter he had heard
in the chamber of Akivasha. He slashed ferociously at sounds and
movements he heard or imagined he heard in the darkness near him, and
once his sword cut through some yielding tenuous substance that might
have been cobwebs. He had a desperate feeling that he was being played
with, lured deeper and deeper into ultimate night, before being set upon
by demoniac talon and fang.
And through his fear ran the sickening revulsion of his discovery. The
legend of Akivasha was so old, and among the evil tales told of her ran
a thread of beauty and idealism, of everlasting youth. To so many
dreamers and poets and lovers she was not alone the evil princess of
Stygian legend, but the symbol of eternal youth and beauty, shining for
ever in some far realm of the gods. And this was the hideous reality.
This foul perversion was the truth of that everlasting life. Through his
physical revulsion ran the sense of a shattered dream of man's idolatry,
its glittering gold proved slime and cosmic filth. A wave of futility
swept over him, a dim fear of the falseness of all men's dreams and
idolatries.
And now he knew that his ears were not playing him tricks. He was being
followed, and his pursuers were closing in on him. In the darkness
sounded shufflings and slidings that were never made by human feet; no,
nor by the feet of any normal animal. The underworld had its bestial
life too, perhaps. They were behind him. He turned to face them, though
he could see nothing, and slowly backed away. Then the sounds ceased,
even before he turned his head and saw, somewhere down the long
corridor, a glow of light.
19
In the Hall of the Dead
Conan moved cautiously in the direction of the light he had seen, his
ear cocked over his shoulder, but there was no further sound of pursuit,
though he felt the darkness pregnant with sentient life.
The glow was not stationary; it moved, bobbing grotesquely along. Then
he saw the source. The tunnel he was traversing crossed another, wider
corridor some distance ahead of him. And along this latter tunnel filed
a bizarre procession—four tall, gaunt men in black, hooded robes,
leaning on staffs. The leader held a torch above his head—a torch that
burned with a curious steady glow. Like phantoms they passed across his
limited range of vision and vanished, with only a fading glow to tell of
their passing. Their appearance was indescribably eldritch. They were
not Stygians, not like anything Conan had ever seen. He doubted if they
were even humans. They were like black ghosts, stalking ghoulishly along
the haunted tunnels.
But his position could be no more desperate than it was. Before the
inhuman feet behind him could resume their slithering advance at the
fading of the distant illumination, Conan was running down the corridor.
He plunged into the other tunnel and saw, far down it, small in the
distance, the weird procession moving in the glowing sphere. He stole
noiselessly after them, then shrank suddenly back against the wall as he
saw them halt and cluster together as if conferring on some matter. They
turned as if to retrace their steps, and he slipped into the nearest
archway. Groping in the darkness to which he had become so accustomed
that he could all but see through it, he discovered that the tunnel did
not run straight, but meandered, and he fell back beyond the first turn,
so that the light of the strangers should not fall on him as they
passed.
But as he stood there, he was aware of a low hum of sound from somewhere
behind him, like the murmur of human voices. Moving down the corridor in
that direction, he confirmed his first suspicion. Abandoning his
original intention of following the ghoulish travelers to whatever
destination might be theirs, he set out in the direction of the voices.
Presently he saw a glint of light ahead of him, and turning into the
corridor from which it issued, saw a broad arch filled with a dim glow
at the other end. On his left a narrow stone stair went upward, and
instinctive caution prompted him to turn and mount the stair. The voices
he heard were coming from beyond that flame-filled arch.
The sounds fell away beneath him as he climbed, and presently he came
out through a low arched door into a vast open space glowing with a
weird radiance.
He was standing on a shadowy gallery from which he looked down into a
broad dim-lit hall of colossal proportions. It was a hall of the dead,
which few ever see but the silent priests of Stygia. Along the black
walls rose tier above tier of carven, painted sarcophagi. Each stood in
a niche in the dusky stone, and the tiers mounted up and up to be lost
in the gloom above. Thousands of carven masks stared impassively down
upon the group in the midst of the hall, rendered futile and
insignificant by that vast array of the dead.
Of this group ten were priests, and though they had discarded their
masks Conan knew they were the priests he had accompanied to the
pyramid. They stood before a tall, hawk-faced man beside a black altar
on which lay a mummy in rotting swathings. And the altar seemed to stand
in the heart of a living fire which pulsed and shimmered, dripping
flakes of quivering golden flame on the black stones about it. This
dazzling glow emanated from a great red jewel which lay upon the altar,
and in the reflection of which the faces of the priests looked ashy and
corpse-like. As he looked, Conan felt the pressure of all the weary
leagues and the weary nights and days of his long quest, and he trembled
with the mad urge to rush among those silent priests, clear his way with
mighty blows of naked steel, and grasp the red gem with passion-taut
fingers. But he gripped himself with iron control, and crouched down in
the shadow of the stone balustrade. A glance showed him that a stair led
down into the hall from the gallery, hugging the wall and half hidden in
the shadows. He glared into the dimness of the vast place, seeking other
priests or votaries, but saw only the group about the altar.
In that great emptiness the voice of the man beside the altar sounded
hollow and ghostly:
'... And so the word came southward. The night wind whispered it, the
ravens croaked of it as they flew, and the grim bats told it to the owls
and the serpents that lurk in hoary ruins. Werewolf and vampire knew,
and the ebon-bodied demons that prowl by night. The sleeping Night of
the World stirred and shook its heavy mane, and there began a throbbing
of drums in deep darkness, and the echoes of far weird cries frightened
men who walked by dusk. For the Heart of Ahriman had come again into the
world to fulfill its cryptic destiny.
'Ask me not how I, Thutothmes of Khemi and the Night, heard the word
before Thoth-Amon who calls himself prince of all wizards. There are
secrets not meet for such ears even as yours, and Thoth-Amon is not the
only lord of the Black Ring.
'I knew, and I went to meet the Heart which came southward. It was like
a magnet which drew me, unerringly. From death to death it came, riding
on a river of human blood. Blood feeds it, blood draws it. Its power is
greatest when there is blood on the hands that grasp it, when it is
wrested by slaughter from its holder. Wherever it gleams, blood is spilt
and kingdoms totter, and the forces of nature are put in turmoil.
'And here I stand, the master of the Heart, and have summoned you to
come secretly, who are faithful to me, to share in the black kingdom
that shall be. Tonight you shall witness the breaking of Thoth-Amon's
chains which enslave us, and the birth of empire.
'Who am I, even I, Thutothmes, to know what powers lurk and dream in
those crimson deeps? It holds secrets forgotten for three thousand
years. But I shall learn. These shall tell me!'
He waved his hand toward the silent shapes that lined the hall.
'See how they sleep, staring through their carven masks! Kings, queens,
generals, priests, wizards, the dynasties and the nobility of Stygia for
ten thousand years! The touch of the heart will awaken them from their
long slumber. Long, long the Heart throbbed and pulsed in ancient
Stygia. Here was its home in the centuries before it journeyed to
Acheron. The ancients knew its full power, and they will tell me when by
its magic I restore them to life to labor for me.
'I will rouse them, will waken them, will learn their forgotten wisdom,
the knowledge locked in those withered skulls. By the lore of the dead
we shall enslave the living! Aye, kings and generals and wizards of old
shall be our helpers and our slaves. Who shall stand before us?
'Look! This dried, shriveled thing on the altar was once Thothmekri, a
high priest of Set, who died three thousand years ago. He was an adept
of the Black Ring. He knew of the Heart. He will tell us of its powers.'
Lifting the great jewel, the speaker laid it on the withered breast of
the mummy, and lifted his hand as he began an incantation. But the
incantation was never finished. With his hand lifted and his lips parted
he froze, glaring past his acolytes, and they wheeled to stare in the
direction in which he was looking.
Through the black arch of a door four gaunt, black-robed shapes had
filed into the great hall. Their faces were dim yellow ovals in the
shadow of their hoods.
'Who are you?' ejaculated Thutothmes in a voice as pregnant with danger
as the hiss of a cobra. 'Are you mad, to invade the holy shrine of Set?'
The tallest of the strangers spoke, and his voice was toneless as a
Khitan temple bell.
'We follow Conan of Aquilonia.'
'He is not here,' answered Thutothmes, shaking back his mantle from his
right hand with a curious menacing gesture, like a panther unsheathing
his talons.
'You lie. He is in this temple. We tracked him from a corpse behind the
bronze door of the outer portal through a maze of corridors. We were
following his devious trail when we became aware of this conclave. We go
now to take it up again. But first give us the Heart of Ahriman.'
'Death is the portion of madmen,' murmured Thutothmes, moving nearer the
speaker. His priests closed in on cat-like feet, but the strangers did
not appear to heed.
'Who can look upon it without desire?' said the Khitan. 'In Khitai we
have heard of it. It will give us power over the people which cast us
out. Glory and wonder dream in its crimson deeps. Give it to us, before
we slay you.'
A fierce cry rang out as a priest leaped with a flicker of steel. Before
he could strike, a scaly staff licked out and touched his breast, and he
fell as a dead man falls. In an instant the mummies were staring down on
a scene of blood and horror. Curved knives flashed and crimsoned, snaky
staffs licked in and out, and whenever they touched a man, that man
screamed and died.
At the first stroke Conan had bounded up and was racing down the stairs.
He caught only glimpses of that brief, fiendish fight—saw men swaying,
locked in battle and streaming blood; saw one Khitan, fairly hacked to
pieces, yet still on his feet and dealing death, when Thutothmes smote
him on the breast with his open empty hand, and he dropped dead, though
naked steel had not been enough to destroy his uncanny vitality.
By the time Conan's hurtling feet left the stair, the fight was all but
over. Three of the Khitans were down, slashed and cut to ribbons and
disemboweled, but of the Stygians only Thutothmes remained on his feet.
He rushed at the remaining Khitan, his empty hand lifted like a weapon,
and that hand was black as that of a negro. But before he could strike,
the staff in the tall Khitan's hand licked out, seeming to elongate
itself as the yellow man thrust. The point touched the bosom of
Thutothmes and he staggered; again and yet again the staff licked out,
and Thutothmes reeled and fell dead, his features blotted out in a rush
of blackness that made the whole of him the same hue as his enchanted
hand.
The Khitan turned toward the jewel that burned on the breast of the
mummy, but Conan was before him.
In a tense stillness the two faced each other, amid that shambles, with
the carven mummies staring down upon them.
'Far have I followed you, oh king of Aquilonia,' said the Khitan calmly.
'Down the long river, and over the mountains, across Poitain and Zingara
and through the hills of Argos and down the coast. Not easily did we
pick up your trail from Tarantia, for the priests of Asura are crafty.
We lost it in Zingara, but we found your helmet in the forest below the
border hills, where you had fought with the ghouls of the forests.
Almost we lost the trail again tonight among these labyrinths.'
Conan reflected that he had been fortunate in returning from the
vampire's chamber by another route than that by which he had been led to
it. Otherwise he would have run full into these yellow fiends instead
of sighting them from afar as they smelled out his spoor like human
bloodhounds, with whatever uncanny gift was theirs.
The Khitan shook his head slightly, as if reading his mind.
'That is meaningless; the long trail ends here.'
'Why have you hounded me?' demanded Conan, poised to move in any
direction with the celerity of a hair-trigger.
'It was a debt to pay,' answered the Khitan. 'To you who are about to
die, I will not withhold knowledge. We were vassals of the king of
Aquilonia, Valerius. Long we served him, but of that service we are free
now—my brothers by death, and I by the fulfilment of obligation. I
shall return to Aquilonia with two hearts; for myself the Heart of
Ahriman; for Valerius the heart of Conan. A kiss of the staff that was
cut from the living Tree of Death—'
The staff licked out like the dart of a viper, but the slash of Conan's
knife was quicker. The staff fell in writhing halves, there was another
flicker of the keen steel like a jet of lightning, and the head of the
Khitan rolled to the floor.
Conan wheeled and extended his hand toward the jewel—then he shrank
back, his hair bristling, his blood congealing icily.
For no longer a withered brown thing lay on the altar. The jewel
shimmered on the full, arching breast of a naked, living man who lay
among the moldering bandages. Living? Conan could not decide. The eyes
were like dark murky glass under which shone inhuman somber fires.
Slowly the man rose, taking the jewel in his hand. He towered beside the
altar, dusky, naked, with a face like a carven image. Mutely he extended
his hand toward Conan, with the jewel throbbing like a living heart
within it. Conan took it, with an eery sensation of receiving gifts from
the hand of the dead. He somehow realized that the proper incantations
had not been made—the conjurement had not been completed—life had not
been fully restored to his corpse.
'Who are you?' demanded the Cimmerian.
The answer came in a toneless monotone, like the dripping of water from
stalactites in subterranean caverns. 'I was Thothmekri; I am dead.'
'Well, lead me out of this accursed temple, will you?' Conan requested,
his flesh crawling.
With measured, mechanical steps the dead man moved toward a black arch.
Conan followed him. A glance back showed him once again the vast,
shadowy hall with its tiers of sarcophagi, the dead men sprawled about
the altar; the head of the Khitan he had slain stared sightless up at
the sweeping shadows.
The glow of the jewel illuminated the black tunnels like an ensorceled
lamp, dripping golden fire. Once Conan caught a glimpse of ivory flesh
in the shadows, believed he saw the vampire that was Akivasha shrinking
back from the glow of the jewel; and with her, other less human shapes
scuttled or shambled into the darkness.
The dead man strode straight on, looking neither to right nor left, his
pace as changeless as the tramp of doom. Cold sweat gathered thick on
Conan's flesh. Icy doubts assailed him. How could he know that this
terrible figure out of the past was leading him to freedom? But he knew
that, left to himself, he could never untangle this bewitched maze of
corridors and tunnels. He followed his awful guide through blackness
that loomed before and behind them and was filled with skulking shapes
of horror and lunacy that cringed from the blinding glow of the Heart.
Then the bronze doorway was before him, and Conan felt the night wind
blowing across the desert, and saw the stars, and the starlit desert
across which streamed the great black shadow of the pyramid. Thothmekri
pointed silently into the desert, and then turned and stalked
soundlessly back in the darkness. Conan stared after that silent figure
that receded into the blackness on soundless, inexorable feet as one
that moves to a known and inevitable doom, or returns to everlasting
sleep.
With a curse the Cimmerian leaped from the doorway and fled into the
desert as if pursued by demons. He did not look back toward the pyramid,
or toward the black towers of Khemi looming dimly across the sands. He
headed southward toward the coast, and he ran as a man runs in
ungovernable panic. The violent exertion shook his brain free of black
cobwebs; the clean desert wind blew the nightmares from his soul and his
revulsion changed to a wild tide of exultation before the desert gave
way to a tangle of swampy growth through which he saw the black water
lying before him, and the Venturer at anchor.
He plunged through the undergrowth, hip-deep in the marshes; dived
headlong into the deep water, heedless of sharks or crocodiles, and swam
to the galley and was clambering up the chain on to the deck, dripping
and exultant, before the watch saw him.
'Awake, you dogs!' roared Conan, knocking aside the spear the startled
lookout thrust at his breast. 'Heave up the anchor! Lay to the doors!
Give that fisherman a helmet full of gold and put him ashore! Dawn will
soon be breaking, and before sunrise we must be racing for the nearest
port of Zingara!'
He whirled about his head the great jewel, which threw off splashes of
light that spotted the deck with golden fire.
20
Out of the Dust Shall Acheron Arise
Winter had passed from Aquilonia. Leaves sprang out on the limbs of
trees, and the fresh grass smiled to the touch of the warm southern
breezes. But many a field lay idle and empty, many a charred heap of
ashes marked the spot where proud villas or prosperous towns had stood.
Wolves prowled openly along the grass-grown highways, and bands of
gaunt, masterless men slunk through the forests. Only in Tarantia was
feasting and wealth and pageantry.
Valerius ruled like one touched with madness. Even many of the barons
who had welcomed his return cried out at last against him. His
tax-gatherers crushed rich and poor alike; the wealth of a looted
kingdom poured into Tarantia, which became less like the capital of a
realm than the garrison of conquerors in a conquered land. Its merchants
waxed rich, but it was a precarious prosperity; for none knew when he
might be accused of treason on a trumped-up charge, and his property
confiscated, himself cast into prison or brought to the bloody block.
Valerius made no attempt to conciliate his subjects. He maintained
himself by means of the Nemedian soldiery and by desperate mercenaries.
He knew himself to be a puppet of Amalric. He knew that he ruled only on
the sufferance of the Nemedian. He knew that he could never hope to
unite Aquilonia under his rule and cast off the yoke of his masters, for
the outland provinces would resist him to the last drop of blood. And
for that matter the Nemedians would cast him from his throne if he made
any attempt to consolidate his kingdom. He was caught in his own vise.
The gall of defeated pride corroded his soul, and he threw himself into
a reign of debauchery, as one who lives from day to day, without thought
or care for tomorrow.
Yet there was subtlety in his madness, so deep that not even Amalric
guessed it. Perhaps the wild, chaotic years of wandering as an exile had
bred in him a bitterness beyond common conception. Perhaps his loathing
of his present position increased this bitterness to a kind of madness.
At any event he lived with one desire: to cause the ruin of all who
associated with him.
He knew that his rule would be over the instant he had served Amalric's
purpose; he knew, too, that so long as he continued to oppress his
native kingdom the Nemedian would suffer him to reign, for Amalric
wished to crush Aquilonia into ultimate submission, to destroy its last
shred of independence, and then at last to seize it himself, rebuild it
after his own fashion with his vast wealth, and use its men and natural
resources to wrest the crown of Nemedia from Tarascus. For the throne of
an emperor was Amalric's ultimate ambition, and Valerius knew it.
Valerius did not know whether Tarascus suspected this, but he knew that
the king of Nemedia approved of his ruthless course. Tarascus hated
Aquilonia, with a hate born of old wars. He desired only the destruction
of the western kingdom.
And Valerius intended to ruin the country so utterly that not even
Amalric's wealth could ever rebuild it. He hated the baron quite as much
as he hated the Aquilonians, and hoped only to live to see the day when
Aquilonia lay in utter ruin, and Tarascus and Amalric were locked in
hopeless civil war that would as completely destroy Nemedia.
He believed that the conquest of the still defiant provinces of
Gunderland and Poitain and the Bossonian marches would mark his end as
king. He would then have served Amalric's purpose, and could be
discarded. So he delayed the conquest of these provinces, confining his
activities to objectless raids and forays, meeting Amalric's urges for
action with all sorts of plausible objections and postponements.
His life was a series of feasts and wild debauches. He filled his palace
with the fairest girls of the kingdom, willing or unwilling. He
blasphemed the gods and sprawled drunken on the floor of the banquet
hall wearing the golden crown, and staining his royal purple robes with
the wine he spilled. In gusts of blood-lust he festooned the gallows in
the market square with dangling corpses, glutted the axes of the
headsmen and sent his Nemedian horsemen thundering through the land
pillaging and burning. Driven to madness, the land was in a constant
upheaval of frantic revolt, savagely suppressed. Valerius plundered and
raped and looted and destroyed until even Amalric protested, warning him
that he would beggar the kingdom beyond repair, not knowing that such
was his fixed determination.
But while in both Aquilonia and Nemedia men talked of the madness of the
king, in Nemedia men talked much of Xaltotun, the masked one. Yet few
saw him on the streets of Belverus. Men said he spent much time in the
hills, in curious conclaves with surviving remnants of an old race:
dark, silent folk who claimed descent from an ancient kingdom. Men
whispered of drums beating far up in the dreaming hills, of fires
glowing in the darkness, and strange chantings borne on the winds,
chantings and rituals forgotten centuries ago except as meaningless
formulas mumbled beside mountain hearths in villages whose inhabitants
differed strangely from the people of the valleys.
The reason for these conclaves none knew, unless it was Orastes, who
frequently accompanied the Pythonian, and on whose countenance a haggard
shadow was growing.
But in the full flood of spring a sudden whisper passed over the sinking
kingdom that woke the land to eager life. It came like a murmurous wind
drifting up from the south, waking men sunk in the apathy of despair.
Yet how it first came none could truly say. Some spoke of a strange,
grim old woman who came down from the mountains with her hair flowing in
the wind, and a great gray wolf following her like a dog. Others
whispered of the priests of Asura who stole like furtive phantoms from
Gunderland to the marches of Poitain, and to the forest villages of the
Bossonians.
However the word came, revolt ran like a flame along the borders.
Outlying Nemedian garrisons were stormed and put to the sword, foraging
parties were cut to pieces; the west was up in arms, and there was a
different air about the rising, a fierce resolution and inspired wrath
rather than the frantic despair that had motivated the preceding
revolts. It was not only the common people; barons were fortifying their
castles and hurling defiance at the governors of the provinces. Bands of
Bossonians were seen moving along the edges of the marches: stocky,
resolute men in brigandines and steel caps, with longbows in their
hands. From the inert stagnation of dissolution and ruin the realm was
suddenly alive, vibrant and dangerous. So Amalric sent in haste for
Tarascus, who came with an army.
In the royal palace in Tarantia the two kings and Amalric discussed the
rising. They had not sent for Xaltotun, immersed in his cryptic studies
in the Nemedian hills. Not since that bloody day in the valley of the
Valkia had they called upon him for aid of his magic, and he had drawn
apart, communing but little with them, apparently indifferent to their
intrigues.
Nor had they sent for Orastes, but he came, and he was white as spume
blown before the storm. He stood in the gold-domed chamber where the
kings held conclave and they beheld in amazement his haggard stare, the
fear they had never guessed the mind of Orastes could hold.
'You are weary, Orastes,' said Amalric. 'Sit upon this divan and I will
have a slave fetch you wine. You have ridden hard—'
Orastes waved aside the invitation.
'I have killed three horses on the road from Belverus. I cannot drink
wine, I cannot rest, until I have said what I have to say.'
He paced back and forth as if some inner fire would not let him stand
motionless, and halting before his wondering companions:
'When we employed the Heart of Ahriman to bring a dead man back to
life,' Orastes said abruptly, 'we did not weigh the consequences of
tampering in the black dust of the past. The fault is mine, and the sin.
We thought only of our ambitions, forgetting what ambitions this man
might himself have. And we have loosed a demon upon the earth, a fiend
inexplicable to common humanity. I have plumbed deep in evil, but there
is a limit to which I, or any man of my race and age, can go. My
ancestors were clean men, without any demoniacal taint; it is only I who
have sunk into the pits, and I can sin only to the extent of my personal
individuality. But behind Xaltotun lie a thousand centuries of black
magic and diabolism, an ancient tradition of evil. He is beyond our
conception not only because he is a wizard himself, but also because he
is the son of a race of wizards.
'I have seen things that have blasted my soul. In the heart of the
slumbering hills I have watched Xaltotun commune with the souls of the
damned, and invoke the ancient demons of forgotten Acheron. I have seen
the accursed descendants of that accursed empire worship him and hail
him as their arch-priest. I have seen what he plots—and I tell you it
is no less than the restoration of the ancient, black, grisly kingdom of
Acheron!'
'What do you mean?' demanded Amalric. 'Acheron is dust. There are not
enough survivals to make an empire. Not even Xaltotun can reshape the
dust of three thousand years.'
'You know little of his black powers,' answered Orastes grimly. 'I have
seen the very hills take on an alien and ancient aspect under the spell
of his incantations. I have glimpsed, like shadows behind the realities,
the dim shapes and outlines of valleys, forests, mountains and lakes
that are not as they are today, but as they were in that dim
yesterday—have even sensed, rather than glimpsed, the purple towers of
forgotten Python shimmering like figures of mist in the dusk.
'And in the last conclave to which I accompanied him, understanding of
his sorcery came to me at last, while the drums beat and the beast-like
worshippers howled with their heads in the dust. I tell you he would
restore Acheron by his magic, by the sorcery of a gigantic
blood-sacrifice such as the world has never seen. He would enslave the
world, and with a deluge of blood wash away the present and restore the
past!'
'You are mad!' exclaimed Tarascus.
'Mad?' Orastes turned a haggard stare upon him. 'Can any man see what I
have seen and remain wholly sane? Yet I speak the truth. He plots the
return of Acheron, with its towers and wizards and kings and horrors, as
it was in the long ago. The descendants of Acheron will serve him as a
nucleus upon which to build, but it is the blood and the bodies of the
people of the world today that will furnish the mortar and the stones
for the rebuilding. I cannot tell you how. My own brain reels when I try
to understand. But I have seen! Acheron will be Acheron again, and
even the hills, the forests and the rivers will resume their ancient
aspect. Why not? If I, with my tiny store of knowledge, could bring to
life a man dead three thousand years, why cannot the greatest wizard of
the world bring back to life a kingdom dead three thousand years? Out of
the dust shall Acheron arise at his bidding.'
'How can we thwart him?' asked Tarascus, impressed.
'There is but one way,' answered Orastes. 'We must steal the Heart of
Ahriman!'
'But I—' began Tarascus involuntarily, then closed his mouth quickly.
None had noticed him, and Orastes was continuing.
'It is a power that can be used against him. With it in my hands I might
defy him. But how shall we steal it? He has it hidden in some secret
place, from which not even a Zamorian thief might filch it. I cannot
learn its hiding-place. If he would only sleep again the sleep of the
black lotus—but the last time he slept thus was after the battle of the
Valkia, when he was weary because of the great magic he had performed,
and—'
The door was locked and bolted, but it swung silently open and Xaltotun
stood before them, calm, tranquil, stroking his patriarchal beard; but
the lambent lights of hell flickered in his eyes.
'I have taught you too much,' he said calmly, pointing a finger like an
index of doom at Orastes. And before any could move, he had cast a
handful of dust on the floor near the feet of the priest, who stood like
a man turned to marble. It flamed, smoldered; a blue serpentine of smoke
rose and swayed upward about Orastes in a slender spiral. And when it
had risen above his shoulders it curled about his neck with a whipping
suddenness like the stroke of a snake. Orastes' scream was choked to a
gurgle. His hands flew to his neck, his eyes were distended, his tongue
protruded. The smoke was like a blue rope about his neck; then it faded
and was gone, and Orastes slumped to the floor a dead man.
Xaltotun smote his hands together and two men entered, men often
observed accompanying him—small, repulsively dark, with red, oblique
eyes and pointed, rat-like teeth. They did not speak. Lifting the
corpse, they bore it away.
Dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand, Xaltotun seated himself
at the ivory table about which sat the pale kings.
'Why are you in conclave?' he demanded.
'The Aquilonians have risen in the west,' answered Amalric, recovering
from the grisly jolt the death of Orastes had given him. 'The fools
believe that Conan is alive, and coming at the head of a Poitanian army
to reclaim his kingdom. If he had reappeared immediately after Valkia,
or if a rumor had been circulated that he lived, the central provinces
would not have risen under him, they feared your powers so. But they
have become so desperate under Valerius' misrule that they are ready to
follow any man who can unite them against us, and prefer sudden death to
torture and continual misery.
'Of course the tale has lingered stubbornly in the land that Conan was
not really slain at Valkia, but not until recently have the masses
accepted it. But Pallantides is back from exile in Ophir, swearing that
the king was ill in his tent that day, and that a man-at-arms wore his
harness, and a squire who but recently recovered from the stroke of a
mace received at Valkia confirms his tale—or pretends to.
'An old woman with a pet wolf has wandered up and down the land,
proclaiming that King Conan yet lives, and will return some day to
reclaim the crown. And of late the cursed priests of Asura sing the same
song. They claim that word has come to them by some mysterious means
that Conan is returning to reconquer his domain. I cannot catch either
her or them. This is, of course, a trick of Trocero's. My spies tell me
there is indisputable evidence that the Poitanians are gathering to
invade Aquilonia. I believe that Trocero will bring forward some
pretender who he will claim is King Conan.'
Tarascus laughed, but there was no conviction in his laughter. He
surreptitiously felt of a scar beneath his jupon, and remembered ravens
that cawed on the trail of a fugitive; remembered the body of his
squire, Arideus, brought back from the border mountains horribly
mangled, by a great gray wolf, his terrified soldiers said. But he also
remembered a red jewel stolen from a golden chest while a wizard slept,
and he said nothing.
And Valerius remembered a dying nobleman who gasped out a tale of fear,
and he remembered four Khitans who disappeared into the mazes of the
south and never returned. But he held his tongue, for hatred and
suspicion of his allies ate at him like a worm, and he desired nothing
so much as to see both rebels and Nemedians go down locked in the death
grip.
But Amalric exclaimed: 'It is absurd to dream that Conan lives!'
For answer Xaltotun cast a roll of parchment on the table.
Amalric caught it up, glared at it. From his lips burst a furious,
incoherent cry. He read:
To Xaltotun, grand fakir of Nemedia: Dog of Acheron, I am
returning to my kingdom, and I mean to hang your hide on a
bramble.
Conan
'A forgery!' exclaimed Amalric.
Xaltotun shook his head.
'It is genuine. I have compared it with the signature on the royal
documents on record in the libraries of the court. None could imitate
that bold scrawl.'
'Then if Conan lives,' muttered Amalric, 'this uprising will not be like
the others, for he is the only man living who can unite the Aquilonians.
But,' he protested, 'this is not like Conan. Why should he put us on our
guard with his boasting? One would think that he would strike without
warning, after the fashion of the barbarians.'
'We are already warned,' pointed out Xaltotun. 'Our spies have told us
of preparations for war in Poitain. He could not cross the mountains
without our knowledge; so he sends me his defiance in characteristic
manner.'
'Why to you?' demanded Valerius. 'Why not to me, or to Tarascus?'
Xaltotun turned his inscrutable gaze upon the king.
'Conan is wiser than you,' he said at last. 'He already knows what you
kings have yet to learn—that it is not Tarascus, nor Valerius, no, nor
Amalric, but Xaltotun who is the real master of the western nations.'
They did not reply; they sat staring at him, assailed by a numbing
realization of the truth of his assertion.
'There is no road for me but the imperial highway,' said Xaltotun. 'But
first we must crush Conan. I do not know how he escaped me at Belverus,
for knowledge of what happened while I lay in the slumber of the black
lotus is denied me. But he is in the south, gathering an army. It is his
last, desperate blow, made possible only by the desperation of the
people who have suffered under Valerius. Let them rise; I hold them all
in the palm of my hand. We will wait until he moves against us, and then
we will crush him once and for all.
'Then we shall crush Poitain and Gunderland and the stupid Bossonians.
After them Ophir, Argos, Zingara, Koth—all the nations of the world we
shall weld into one vast empire. You shall rule as my satraps, and as my
captains shall be greater than kings are now. I am unconquerable, for
the Heart of Ahriman is hidden where no man can ever wield it against me
again.'
Tarascus averted his gaze, lest Xaltotun read his thoughts. He knew the
wizard had not looked into the golden chest with its carven serpents
that had seemed to sleep, since he laid the Heart therein. Strange as it
seemed, Xaltotun did not know that the heart had been stolen; the
strange jewel was beyond or outside the ring of his dark wisdom; his
uncanny talents did not warn him that the chest was empty. Tarascus did
not believe that Xaltotun knew the full extent of Orastes' revelations,
for the Pythonian had not mentioned the restoration of Acheron, but only
the building of a new, earthly empire. Tarascus did not believe that
Xaltotun was yet quite sure of his power; if they needed his aid in
their ambitions, no less he needed theirs. Magic depended, to a certain
extent after all, on sword strokes and lance thrusts. The king read
meaning in Amalric's furtive glance; let the wizard use his arts to help
them defeat their most dangerous enemy. Time enough then to turn against
him. There might yet be a way to cheat this dark power they had raised.
21
Drums of Peril
Confirmation of the war came when the army of Poitain, ten thousand
strong, marched through the southern passes with waving banners and
shimmer of steel. And at their head, the spies swore, rode a giant
figure in black armor, with the royal lion of Aquilonia worked in gold
upon the breast of his rich silken surcoat. Conan lived! The king lived!
There was no doubt of it in men's minds now, whether friend or foe.
With the news of the invasion from the south there also came word,
brought by hard-riding couriers, that a host of Gundermen was moving
southward, reinforced by the barons of the northwest and the northern
Bossonians. Tarascus marched with thirty-one thousand men to Galparan,
on the river Shirki, which the Gundermen must cross to strike at the
towns still held by the Nemedians. The Shirki was a swift, turbulent
river rushing southwestward through rocky gorges and canyons, and there
were few places where an army could cross at that time of the year, when
the stream was almost bank-full with the melting of the snows. All the
country east of the Shirki was in the hands of the Nemedians, and it was
logical to assume that the Gundermen would attempt to cross either at
Galparan, or at Tanasul, which lay to the south of Galparan.
Reinforcements were daily expected from Nemedia, until word came that
the king of Ophir was making hostile demonstrations on Nemedia's
southern border, and to spare any more troops would be to expose Nemedia
to the risk of an invasion from the south.
Amalric and Valerius moved out from Tarantia with twenty-five thousand
men, leaving as large a garrison as they dared to discourage revolts in
the cities during their absence. They wished to meet and crush Conan
before he could be joined by the rebellious forces of the kingdom.
The king and his Poitanians had crossed the mountains, but there had
been no actual clash of arms, no attack on towns or fortresses. Conan
had appeared and disappeared. Apparently he had turned westward through
the wild, thinly settled hill country, and entered the Bossonian
marches, gathering recruits as he went. Amalric and Valerius with their
host, Nemedians, Aquilonian renegades, and ferocious mercenaries, moved
through the land in baffled wrath, looking for a foe which did not
appear.
Amalric found it impossible to obtain more than vague general tidings
about Conan's movements. Scouting-parties had a way of riding out and
never returning, and it was not uncommon to find a spy crucified to an
oak. The countryside was up and striking as peasants and country-folk
strike—savagely, murderously and secretly. All that Amalric knew
certainly was that a large force of Gundermen and northern Bossonians
was somewhere to the north of him, beyond the Shirki, and that Conan
with a smaller force of Poitanians and southern Bossonians was somewhere
to the southwest of him.
He began to grow fearful that if he and Valerius advanced further into
the wild country, Conan might elude them entirely, march around them and
invade the central provinces behind them. Amalric fell back from the
Shirki valley and camped in a plain a day's ride from Tanasul. There he
waited. Tarascus maintained his position at Galparan, for he feared that
Conan's maneuvers were intended to draw him southward, and so let the
Gundermen into the kingdom at the northern crossing.
To Amalric's camp came Xaltotun in his chariot drawn by the uncanny
horses that never tired, and he entered Amalric's tent where the baron
conferred with Valerius over a map spread on an ivory camp table.
This map Xaltotun crumpled and flung aside.
'What your scouts cannot learn for you,' quoth he, 'my spies tell me,
though their information is strangely blurred and imperfect, as if
unseen forces were working against me.
'Conan is advancing along the Shirki river with ten thousand Poitanians,
three thousand southern Bossonians, and barons of the west and south
with their retainers to the number of five thousand. An army of thirty
thousand Gundermen and northern Bossonians is pushing southward to join
him. They have established contact by means of secret communications
used by the cursed priests of Asura, who seem to be opposing me, and
whom I will feed to a serpent when the battle is over—I swear it by
Set!
'Both armies are headed for the crossing at Tanasul, but I do not
believe that the Gundermen will cross the river. I believe that Conan
will cross, instead, and join them.'
'Why should Conan cross the river?'
'Because it is to his advantage to delay the battle. The longer he
waits, the stronger he will become, the more precarious our position.
The hills on the other side of the river swarm with people passionately
loyal to his cause—broken men, refugees, fugitives from Valerius'
cruelty. From all over the kingdom men are hurrying to join his army,
singly and by companies. Daily, parties from our armies are ambushed and
cut to pieces by the country-folk. Revolt grows in the central
provinces, and will soon burst into open rebellion. The garrisons we
left there are not sufficient, and we can hope for no reinforcements
from Nemedia for the time being. I see the hand of Pallantides in this
brawling on the Ophirean frontier. He has kin in Ophir.
'If we do not catch and crush Conan quickly the provinces will be in a
blaze of revolt behind us. We shall have to fall back to Tarantia to
defend what we have taken; and we may have to fight our way through a
country in rebellion, with Conan's whole force at our heels, and then
stand siege in the city itself, with enemies within as well as without.
No, we cannot wait. We must crush Conan before his army grows too great,
before the central provinces rise. With his head hanging above the gate
at Tarantia you will see how quickly the rebellion will fall apart.'
'Why do you not put a spell on his army to slay them all?' asked
Valerius, half in mockery.
Xaltotun stared at the Aquilonian as if he read the full extent of the
mocking madness that lurked in those wayward eyes.
'Do not worry,' he said at last. 'My arts shall crush Conan finally like
a lizard under the heel. But even sorcery is aided by pikes and swords.'
'If he crosses the river and takes up his position in the Goralian hills
he may be hard to dislodge,' said Amalric. 'But if we catch him in the
valley on this side of the river we can wipe him out. How far is Conan
from Tanasul?'
'At the rate he is marching he should reach the crossing sometime
tomorrow night. His men are rugged and he is pushing them hard. He
should arrive there at least a day before the Gundermen.'
'Good!' Amalric smote the table with his clenched fist. 'I can reach
Tanasul before he can. I'll send a rider to Tarascus, bidding him follow
me to Tanasul. By the time he arrives I will have cut Conan off from the
crossing and destroyed him. Then our combined force can cross the river
and deal with the Gundermen.'
Xaltotun shook his head impatiently.
'A good enough plan if you were dealing with anyone but Conan. But your
twenty-five thousand men are not enough to destroy his eighteen thousand
before the Gundermen come up. They will fight with the desperation of
wounded panthers. And suppose the Gundermen come up while the hosts are
locked in battle? You will be caught between two fires and destroyed
before Tarascus can arrive. He will reach Tanasul too late to aid you.'
'What then?' demanded Amalric.
'Move with your whole strength against Conan,' answered the man from
Acheron. 'Send a rider bidding Tarascus join us here. We will wait his
coming. Then we will march together to Tanasul.'
'But while we wait,' protested Amalric, 'Conan will cross the river and
join the Gundermen.'
'Conan will not cross the river,' answered Xaltotun.
Amalric's head jerked up and he stared into the cryptic dark eyes.
'What do you mean?'
'Suppose there were torrential rains far to the north, at the head of
the Shirki? Suppose the river came down in such flood as to render the
crossing at Tanasul impassable? Could we not then bring up our entire
force at our leisure, catch Conan on this side of the river and crush
him, and then, when the flood subsided, which I think it would do the
next day, could we not cross the river and destroy the Gundermen? Thus
we could use our full strength against each of these smaller forces in
turn.'
Valerius laughed as he always laughed at the prospect of the ruin of
either friend or foe, and drew a restless hand jerkily through his
unruly yellow locks. Amalric stared at the man from Acheron with mingled
fear and admiration.
'If we caught Conan in Shirki valley with the hill ridges to his right
and the river in flood to his left,' he admitted, 'with our whole force
we could annihilate him. Do you think—are you sure—do you believe such
rains will fall?'
'I go to my tent,' answered Xaltotun, rising. 'Necromancy is not
accomplished by the waving of a wand. Send a rider to Tarascus. And let
none approach my tent.'
That last command was unnecessary. No man in that host could have been
bribed to approach that mysterious black silken pavilion, the door-flaps
of which were always closely drawn. None but Xaltotun ever entered it,
yet voices were often heard issuing from it; its walls billowed
sometimes without a wind, and weird music came from it. Sometimes, deep
in midnight, its silken walls were lit red by flames flickering within,
limning misshapen silhouettes that passed to and fro.
Lying in his own tent that night, Amalric heard the steady rumble of a
drum in Xaltotun's tent; through the darkness it boomed steadily, and
occasionally the Nemedian could have sworn that a deep, croaking voice
mingled with the pulse of the drum. And he shuddered, for he knew that
voice was not the voice of Xaltotun. The drum rustled and muttered on
like deep thunder, heard afar off, and before dawn Amalric glancing from
his tent, caught the red flicker of lightning afar on the northern
horizon. In all other parts of the sky the great stars blazed whitely.
But the distant lightning flickered incessantly, like the crimson glint
of firelight on a tiny, turning blade.
At sunset of the next day Tarascus came up with his host, dusty and
weary from hard marching, the footmen straggling hours behind the
horsemen. They camped in the plain near Amalric's camp, and at dawn the
combined army moved westward.
Ahead of him roved a swarm of scouts, and Amalric waited impatiently for
them to return and tell of the Poitanians trapped beside a furious
flood. But when the scouts met the column it was with the news that
Conan had crossed the river!
'What?' exclaimed Amalric. 'Did he cross before the flood?'
'There was no flood,' answered the scouts, puzzled. 'Late last night he
came up to Tanasul and flung his army across.'
'No flood?' exclaimed Xaltotun, taken aback for the first time in
Amalric's knowledge. 'Impossible! There were mighty rains upon the
headwaters of the Shirki last night and the night before that!'
'That may be your lordship,' answered the scout. 'It is true the water
was muddy, and the people of Tanasul said that the river rose perhaps a
foot yesterday; but that was not enough to prevent Conan's crossing.'
Xaltotun's sorcery had failed! The thought hammered in Amalric's brain.
His horror of this strange man out of the past had grown steadily since
that night in Belverus when he had seen a brown, shriveled mummy swell
and grow into a living man. And the death of Orastes had changed lurking
horror into active fear. In his heart was a grisly conviction that the
man—or devil—was invincible. Yet now he had undeniable proof of his
failure.
Yet even the greatest of necromancers might fail occasionally, thought
the baron. At any rate, he dared not oppose the man from Acheron—yet.
Orastes was dead, writhing in Mitra only knew what nameless hell, and
Amalric knew his sword would scarcely prevail where the black wisdom of
the renegade priest had failed. What grisly abomination Xaltotun plotted
lay in the unpredictable future. Conan and his host were a present
menace against which Xaltotun's wizardry might well be needed before the
play was all played.
They came to Tanasul, a small fortified village at the spot where a reef
of rocks made a natural bridge across the river, passable always except
in times of greatest flood. Scouts brought in the news that Conan had
taken up his position in the Goralian hills, which began to rise a few
miles beyond the river. And just before sundown the Gundermen had
arrived in his camp.
Amalric looked at Xaltotun, inscrutable and alien in the light of the
flaring torches. Night had fallen.
'What now? Your magic has failed. Conan confronts us with an army nearly
as strong as our own, and he has the advantage of position. We have a
choice of two evils: to camp here and await his attack, or to fall back
toward Tarantia and await reinforcements.'
'We are ruined if we wait,' answered Xaltotun. 'Cross the river and camp
on the plain. We will attack at dawn.'
'But his position is too strong!' exclaimed Amalric.
'Fool!' A gust of passion broke the veneer of the wizard's calm. 'Have
you forgotten Valkia? Because some obscure elemental principle prevented
the flood do you deem me helpless? I had intended that your spears
should exterminate our enemies; but do not fear: it is my arts that
shall crush their host. Conan is in a trap. He will never see another
sun set. Cross the river!'
They crossed by the flare of torches. The hoofs of the horses clinked on
the rocky bridge, splashed through the shallows. The glint of the
torches on shields and breast-plates was reflected redly in the black
water. The rock bridge was broad on which they crossed, but even so it
was past midnight before the host was camped in the plain beyond. Above
them they could see fires winking redly in the distance. Conan had
turned at bay in the Goralian hills, which had more than once before
served as the last stand of an Aquilonian king.
Amalric left his pavilion and strode restlessly through the camp. A
weird glow flickered in Xaltotun's tent, and from time to time a
demoniacal cry slashed the silence, and there was a low sinister
muttering of a drum that rustled rather than rumbled.
Amalric, his instincts whetted by the night and the circumstances, felt
that Xaltotun was opposed by more than physical force. Doubts of the
wizard's power assailed him. He glanced at the fires high above him, and
his face set in grim lines. He and his army were deep in the midst of a
hostile country. Up there among those hills lurked thousands of wolfish
figures out of whose hearts and souls all emotion and hope had been
scourged except a frenzied hate for their conquerors, a mad lust for
vengeance. Defeat meant annihilation, retreat through a land swarming
with blood-mad enemies. And on the morrow he must hurl his host against
the grimmest fighter in the western nations, and his desperate horde. If
Xaltotun failed them now—
Half a dozen men-at-arms strode out of the shadows. The firelight
glinted on their breast-plates and helmet crests. Among them they half
led, half dragged a gaunt figure in tattered rags.
Saluting, they spoke: 'My lord, this man came to the outposts and said
he desired word with King Valerius. He is an Aquilonian.'
He looked more like a wolf—a wolf the traps had scarred. Old sores that
only fetters make showed on his wrists and ankles. A great brand, the
mark of hot iron, disfigured his face. His eyes glared through the
tangle of his matted hair as he half crouched before the baron.
'Who are you, you filthy dog?' demanded the Nemedian.
'Call me Tiberias,' answered the man, and his teeth clicked in an
involuntary spasm. 'I have come to tell you how to trap Conan.'
'A traitor, eh?' rumbled the baron.
'Men say you have gold,' mouthed the man, shivering under his rags.
'Give some to me! Give me gold and I will show you how to defeat the
king!' His eyes glazed widely, his outstretched, upturned hands were
spread like quivering claws.
Amalric shrugged his shoulder in distaste. But no tool was too base for
his use.
'If you speak the truth you shall have more gold than you can carry,' he
said. 'If you are a liar and a spy I will have you crucified head-down.
Bring him along.'
In the tent of Valerius, the baron pointed to the man who crouched
shivering before them, huddling his rags about him.
'He says he knows a way to aid us on the morrow. We will need aid, if
Xaltotun's plan is no better than it has proved so far. Speak on, dog.'
The man's body writhed in strange convulsions. Words came in a stumbling
rush:
'Conan camps at the head of the Valley of Lions. It is shaped like a
fan, with steep hills on either side. If you attack him tomorrow you
will have to march straight up the valley. You cannot climb the hills on
either side. But if King Valerius will deign to accept my service, I
will guide him through the hills and show him how he can come upon King
Conan from behind. But if it is to be done at all, we must start soon.
It is many hours' riding, for one must go miles to the west, then miles
to the north, then turn eastward and so come into the Valley of Lions
from behind, as the Gundermen came.'
Amalric hesitated, tugging his chin. In these chaotic times it was not
rare to find men willing to sell their souls for a few gold pieces.
'If you lead me astray you will die,' said Valerius. 'You are aware of
that, are you not?'
The man shivered, but his wide eyes did not waver.
'If I betray you, slay me!'
'Conan will not dare divide his force,' mused Amalric. 'He will need all
his men to repel our attack. He cannot spare any to lay ambushes in the
hills. Besides, this fellow knows his hide depends on his leading you as
he promised. Would a dog like him sacrifice himself? Nonsense! No,
Valerius, I believe the man is honest.'
'Or a greater thief than most, for he would sell his liberator,' laughed
Valerius. 'Very well. I will follow the dog. How many men can you spare
me?'
'Five thousand should be enough,' answered Amalric. 'A surprise attack
on their rear will throw them into confusion, and that will be enough. I
shall expect your attack about noon.'
'You will know when I strike,' answered Valerius.
As Amalric returned to his pavilion he noted with gratification that
Xaltotun was still in his tent, to judge from the blood-freezing cries
that shuddered forth into the night air from time to time. When
presently he heard the clink of steel and the jingle of bridles in the
outer darkness, he smiled grimly. Valerius had about served his purpose.
The baron knew that Conan was like a wounded lion that rends and tears
even in his death-throes. When Valerius struck from the rear, the
desperate strokes of the Cimmerian might well wipe his rival out of
existence before he himself succumbed. So much the better. Amalric felt
he could well dispense with Valerius, once he had paved the way for a
Nemedian victory.
The five thousand horsemen who accompanied Valerius were hard-bitten
Aquilonian renegades for the most part. In the still starlight they
moved out of the sleeping camp, following the westward trend of the
great black masses that rose against the stars ahead of them. Valerius
rode at their head, and beside him rode Tiberias, a leather thong about
his wrist gripped by a man-at-arms who rode on the other side of him.
Others kept close behind with drawn swords.
'Play us false and you die instantly,' Valerius pointed out. 'I do not
know every sheep-path in these hills, but I know enough about the
general configuration of the country to know the directions we must take
to come in behind the Valley of Lions. See that you do not lead us
astray.'
The man ducked his head and his teeth chattered as he volubly assured
his captor of his loyalty, staring up stupidly at the banner that
floated over him, the golden serpent of the old dynasty.
Skirting the extremities of the hills that locked the Valley of Lions,
they swung wide to the west. An hour's ride and they turned north,
forging through wild and rugged hills, following dim trails and tortuous
paths. Sunrise found them some miles northwest of Conan's position, and
here the guide turned eastward and led them through a maze of labyrinths
and crags. Valerius nodded, judging their position by various peaks
thrusting up above the others. He had kept his bearings in a general
way, and he knew they were still headed in the right direction.
But now, without warning, a gray fleecy mass came billowing down from
the north, veiling the slopes, spreading out through the valleys. It
blotted out the sun; the world became a blind gray void in which
visibility was limited to a matter of yards. Advance became a stumbling,
groping muddle. Valerius cursed. He could no longer see the peaks that
had served him as guide-posts. He must depend wholly upon the traitorous
guide. The golden serpent drooped in the windless air.
Presently Tiberias seemed himself confused; he halted, stared about
uncertainly.
'Are you lost, dog?' demanded Valerius harshly.
'Listen!'
Somewhere ahead of them a faint vibration began, the rhythmic rumble of
a drum.
'Conan's drum!' exclaimed the Aquilonian.
'If we are close enough to hear the drum,' said Valerius, 'why do we not
hear the shouts and the clang of arms? Surely battle has joined.'
'The gorges and the winds play strange tricks,' answered Tiberias, his
teeth chattering with the ague that is frequently the lot of men who
have spent much time in damp underground dungeons.
'Listen!'
Faintly to their ears came a low muffled roar.
'They are fighting down in the valley!' cried Tiberias. 'The drum is
beating on the heights. Let us hasten!'
He rode straight on toward the sound of the distant drum as one who
knows his ground at last. Valerius followed, cursing the fog. Then it
occurred to him that it would mask his advance. Conan could not see him
coming. He would be at the Cimmerian's back before the noonday sun
dispelled the mists.
Just now he could not tell what lay on either hand, whether cliffs,
thickets or gorges. The drum throbbed unceasingly, growing louder as
they advanced, but they heard no more of the battle. Valerius had no
idea toward what point of the compass they were headed. He started as he
saw gray rock walls looming through the smoky drifts on either hand, and
realized that they were riding through a narrow defile. But the guide
showed no sign of nervousness, and Valerius hove a sigh of relief when
the walls widened out and became invisible in the fog. They were through
the defile; if an ambush had been planned, it would have been made in
that pass.
But now Tiberias halted again. The drum was rumbling louder, and
Valerius could not determine from what direction the sound was coming.
Now it seemed ahead of him, now behind, now on one hand or the other.
Valerius glared about him impatiently, sitting on his war-horse with
wisps of mist curling about him and the moisture gleaming on his armor.
Behind him the long lines of steel-clad riders faded away and away like
phantoms into the mist.
'Why do you tarry, dog?' he demanded.
The man seemed to be listening to the ghostly drum. Slowly he
straightened in his saddle, turned his head and faced Valerius, and the
smile on his lips was terrible to see.
'The fog is thinning, Valerius,' he said in a new voice, pointing a bony
finger. 'Look!'
The drum was silent. The fog was fading away. First the crests of cliffs
came in sight above the gray clouds, tall and spectral. Lower and lower
crawled the mists, shrinking, fading. Valerius started up in his
stirrups with a cry that the horsemen echoed behind him. On all sides of
them the cliffs towered. They were not in a wide, open valley as he had
supposed. They were in a blind gorge walled by sheer cliffs hundreds of
feet high. The only entrance or exit was that narrow defile through
which they had ridden.
'Dog!' Valerius struck Tiberias full in the mouth with his clenched
mailed hand. 'What devil's trick is this?'
Tiberias spat out a mouthful of blood and shook with fearful laughter.
'A trick that shall rid the world of a beast! Look, dog!'
Again Valerius cried out, more in fury than in fear.
The defile was blocked by a wild and terrible band of men who stood
silent as images—ragged, shock-headed men with spears in their
hands—hundreds of them. And up on the cliffs appeared other
faces—thousands of faces—wild, gaunt, ferocious faces, marked by fire
and steel and starvation.
'A trick of Conan's!' raged Valerius.
'Conan knows nothing of it,' laughed Tiberias. 'It was the plot of
broken men, of men you ruined and turned to beasts. Amalric was right.
Conan has not divided his army. We are the rabble who followed him, the
wolves who skulked in these hills, the homeless men, the hopeless men.
This was our plan, and the priests of Asura aided us with their mist.
Look at them, Valerius! Each bears the mark of your hand, on his body or
on his heart!
'Look at me! You do not know me, do you, what of this scar your hangman
burned upon me? Once you knew me. Once I was lord of Amilius, the man
whose sons you murdered, whose daughter your mercenaries ravished and
slew. You said I would not sacrifice myself to trap you? Almighty gods,
if I had a thousand lives I would give them all to buy your doom!
'And I have bought it! Look on the men you broke, dead men who once
played the king! Their hour has come! This gorge is your tomb. Try to
climb the cliffs: they are steep, they are high. Try to fight your way
back through the defile: spears will block your path, boulders will
crush you from above! Dog! I will be waiting for you in hell!'
Throwing back his head he laughed until the rocks rang. Valerius leaned
from his saddle and slashed down with his great sword, severing
shoulder-bone and breast. Tiberias sank to the earth, still laughing
ghastily through a gurgle of gushing blood.
The drums had begun again, encircling the gorge with guttural thunder;
boulders came crashing down; above the screams of dying men shrilled the
arrows in blinding clouds from the cliffs.
22
The Road to Acheron
Dawn was just whitening the east when Amalric drew up his hosts in the
mouth of the Valley of Lions. This valley was flanked by low, rolling
but steep hills, and the floor pitched upward in a series of irregular
natural terraces. On the uppermost of these terraces Conan's army held
its position, awaiting the attack. The host that had joined him,
marching down from Gunderland, had not been composed exclusively of
spearmen. With them had come seven thousand Bossonian archers, and four
thousand barons and their retainers of the north and west, swelling the
ranks of his cavalry.
The pikemen were drawn up in a compact wedge-shaped formation at the
narrow head of the valley. There were nineteen thousand of them, mostly
Gundermen, though some four thousand were Aquilonians of other
provinces. They were flanked on either hand by five thousand Bossonian
archers. Behind the ranks of the pikemen the knights sat their steeds
motionless, lances raised: ten thousand knights of Poitain, nine
thousand Aquilonians, barons and their retainers.
It was a strong position. His flanks could not be turned, for that would
mean climbing the steep, wooded hills in the teeth of the arrows and
swords of the Bossonians. His camp lay directly behind him, in a narrow,
steep-walled valley which was indeed merely a continuation of the Valley
of Lions, pitching up at a higher level. He did not fear a surprise from
the rear, because the hills behind him were full of refugees and broken
men whose loyalty to him was beyond question.
But if his position was hard to shake, it was equally hard to escape
from. It was a trap as well as a fortress for the defenders, a desperate
last stand of men who did not expect to survive unless they were
victorious. The only line of retreat possible was through the narrow
valley at their rear.
Xaltotun mounted a hill on the left side of the valley, near the wide
mouth. This hill rose higher than the others, and was known as the
King's Altar, for a reason long forgotten. Only Xaltotun knew, and his
memory dated back three thousand years.
He was not alone. His two familiars, silent, hairy, furtive and dark,
were with him, and they bore a young Aquilonian girl, bound hand and
foot. They laid her on an ancient stone, which was curiously like an
altar, and which crowned the summit of the hill. For long centuries it
had stood there, worn by the elements until many doubted that it was
anything but a curiously shapen natural rock. But what it was, and why
it stood there, Xaltotun remembered from of old. The familiars went
away, with their bent backs like silent gnomes, and Xaltotun stood alone
beside the altar, his dark beard blown in the wind, overlooking the
valley.
He could see clear back to the winding Shirki, and up into the hills
beyond the head of the valley. He could see the gleaming wedge of steel
drawn up at the head of the terraces, the burganets of the archers
glinting among the rocks and bushes, the silent knights motionless on
their steeds, their pennons flowing above their helmets, their lances
rising in a bristling thicket.
Looking in the other direction he could see the long serried lines of
the Nemedians moving in ranks of shining steel into the mouth of the
valley. Behind them the gay pavilions of the lords and knights and the
drab tents of the common soldiers stretched back almost to the river.
Like a river of molten steel the Nemedian host flowed into the valley,
the great scarlet dragon rippling over it. First marched the bowmen, in
even ranks, arbalests half raised, bolts nocked, fingers on triggers.
After them came the pikemen, and behind them the real strength of the
army—the mounted knights, their banners unfurled to the wind, their
lances lifted, walking their great steeds forward as if they rode to a
banquet.
And higher up on the slopes the smaller Aquilonian host stood grimly
silent.
There were thirty thousand Nemedian knights, and, as in most Hyborian
nations, it was the chivalry which was the sword of the army. The
footmen were used only to clear the way for a charge of the armored
knights. There were twenty-one thousand of these, pikemen and archers.
The bowmen began loosing as they advanced, without breaking ranks,
launching their quarrels with a whir and tang. But the bolts fell short
or rattled harmlessly from the overlapping shields of the Gundermen. And
before the arbalesters could come within killing range, the arching
shafts of the Bossonians were wreaking havoc in their ranks.
A little of this, a futile attempt at exchanging fire, and the Nemedian
bowmen began falling back in disorder. Their armor was light, their
weapons no match for the Bossonian longbows. The western archers were
sheltered by bushes and rocks. Moreover, the Nemedian footmen lacked
something of the morale of the horsemen, knowing as they did that they
were being used merely to clear the way for the knights.
The cross-bowmen fell back, and between their opening lines the pikemen
advanced. These were largely mercenaries, and their masters had no
compunction about sacrificing them. They were intended to mask the
advance of the knights until the latter were within smiting distance. So
while the arbalesters plied their bolts from either flank at long range,
the pikemen marched into the teeth of the blast from above, and behind
them the knights came on.
When the pikemen began to falter beneath the savage hail of death that
whistled down the slopes among them, a trumpet blew, their companies
divided to right and left, and through them the mailed knights
thundered.
They ran full into a cloud of stinging death. The clothyard shafts found
every crevice in their armor and the housings of the steeds. Horses
scrambling up the grassy terraces reared and plunged backward, bearing
their riders with them. Steel-clad forms littered the slopes. The charge
wavered and ebbed back.
Back down in the valley Amalric reformed his ranks. Tarascus was
fighting with drawn sword under the scarlet dragon, but it was the baron
of Tor who commanded that day. Amalric swore as he glanced at the forest
of lance-tips visible above and beyond the head-pieces of the Gundermen.
He had hoped his retirement would draw the knights out in a charge down
the slopes after him, to be raked from either flank by his bowmen and
swamped by the numbers of his horsemen. But they had not moved.
Camp-servants brought skins of water from the river. Knights doffed
their helmets and drenched their sweating heads. The wounded on the
slopes screamed vainly for water. In the upper valley, springs supplied
the defenders. They did not thirst that long, hot spring day.
On the King's Altar, beside the ancient, carven stone, Xaltotun watched
the steel tide ebb and flow. On came the knights, with waving plumes and
dipping lances. Through a whistling cloud of arrows they plowed to break
like a thundering wave on the bristling wall of spears and shields. Axes
rose and fell above the plumed helmets, spears thrust upward, bringing
down horses and riders. The pride of the Gundermen was no less fierce
than that of the knights. They were not spear-fodder, to be sacrificed
for the glory of better men. They were the finest infantry in the world,
with a tradition that made their morale unshakable. The kings of
Aquilonia had long learned the worth of unbreakable infantry. They held
their formation unshaken; over their gleaming ranks flowed the great
lion banner, and at the tip of the wedge a giant figure in black armor
roared and smote like a hurricane, with a dripping ax that split steel
and bone alike.
The Nemedians fought as gallantly as their traditions of high courage
demanded. But they could not break the iron wedge, and from the wooded
knolls on either hand arrows raked their close-packed ranks mercilessly.
Their own bowmen were useless, their pikemen unable to climb the heights
and come to grips with the Bossonians. Slowly, stubbornly, sullenly, the
grim knights fell back, counting their empty saddles. Above them the
Gundermen made no outcry of triumph. They closed their ranks, locking up
the gaps made by the fallen. Sweat ran into their eyes from under their
steel caps. They gripped their spears and waited, their fierce hearts
swelling with pride that a king should fight on foot with them. Behind
them the Aquilonian knights had not moved. They sat their steeds, grimly
immobile.
A knight spurred a sweating horse up the hill called the King's Altar,
and glared at Xaltotun with bitter eyes.
'Amalric bids me say that it is time to use your magic, wizard,' he
said. 'We are dying like flies down there in the valley. We cannot break
their ranks.'
Xaltotun seemed to expand, to grow tall and awesome and terrible.
'Return to Amalric,' he said. 'Tell him to re-form his ranks for a
charge, but to await my signal. Before that signal is given he will see
a sight that he will remember until he lies dying!'
The knight saluted as if compelled against his will, and thundered down
the hill at breakneck pace.
Xaltotun stood beside the dark altar-stone and stared across the valley,
at the dead and wounded men on the terraces, at the grim, blood-stained
band at the head of the slopes, at the dusty, steel-clad ranks reforming
in the vale below. He glanced up at the sky, and he glanced down at the
slim white figure on the dark stone. And lifting a dagger inlaid with
archaic hieroglyphs, he intoned an immemorial invocation:
'Set, god of darkness, scaly lord of the shadows, by the blood of a
virgin and the sevenfold symbol I call to your sons below the black
earth! Children of the deeps, below the red earth, under the black
earth, awaken and shake your awful manes! Let the hills rock and the
stones topple upon my enemies! Let the sky grow dark above them, the
earth unstable beneath their feet! Let a wind from the deep black earth
curl up beneath their feet, and blacken and shrivel them——'
He halted short, dagger lifted. In the tense silence the roar of the
hosts rose beneath him, borne on the wind.
On the other side of the altar stood a man in a black hooded robe, whose
coif shadowed pale delicate features and dark eyes calm and meditative.
'Dog of Asura!' whispered Xaltotun, his voice was like the hiss of an
angered serpent. 'Are you mad, that you seek your doom? Ho, Baal!
Chiron!'
'Call again, dog of Acheron!' said the other, and laughed. 'Summon them
loudly. They will not hear, unless your shouts reverberate in hell.'
From a thicket on the edge of the crest came a somber old woman in
peasant garb, her hair flowing over her shoulders, a great gray wolf
following at her heels.
'Witch, priest and wolf,' muttered Xaltotun grimly, and laughed. 'Fools,
to pit your charlatan's mummery against my arts! With a wave of my hand
I brush you from my path!'
'Your arts are straws in the wind, dog of Python,' answered the Asurian.
'Have you wondered why the Shirki did not come down in flood and trap
Conan on the other bank? When I saw the lightning in the night I guessed
your plan, and my spells dispersed the clouds you had summoned before
they could empty their torrents. You did not even know that your
rain-making wizardry had failed.'
'You lie!' cried Xaltotun, but the confidence in his voice was shaken.
'I have felt the impact of a powerful sorcery against mine—but no man
on earth could undo the rain-magic, once made, unless he possessed the
very heart of sorcery.'
'But the flood you plotted did not come to pass,' answered the priest.
'Look at your allies in the valley, Pythonian! You have led them to the
slaughter! They are caught in the fangs of the trap, and you cannot aid
them. Look!'
He pointed. Out of the narrow gorge of the upper valley, behind the
Poitanians, a horseman came flying, whirling something about his head
that flashed in the sun. Recklessly he hurtled down the slopes, through
the ranks of the Gundermen, who sent up a deep-throated roar and clashed
their spears and shields like thunder in the hills. On the terraces
between the hosts the sweat-soaked horse reared and plunged, and his
wild rider yelled and brandished the thing in his hands like one
demented. It was the torn remnant of a scarlet banner, and the sun
struck dazzlingly on the golden scales of a serpent that writhed
thereon.
'Valerius is dead!' cried Hadrathus ringingly. 'A fog and a drum lured
him to his doom! I gathered that fog, dog of Python, and I dispersed it!
I, with my magic which is greater than your magic!'
'What matters it?' roared Xaltotun, a terrible sight, his eyes blazing,
his features convulsed. 'Valerius was a fool. I do not need him. I can
crush Conan without human aid!'
'Why have you delayed?' mocked Hadrathus. 'Why have you allowed so many
of your allies to fall pierced by arrows and spitted on spears?'
'Because blood aids great sorcery!' thundered Xaltotun, in a voice that
made the rocks quiver. A lurid nimbus played about his awful head.
'Because no wizard wastes his strength thoughtlessly. Because I would
conserve my powers for the great days to be, rather than employ them in
a hill-country brawl. But now, by Set, I shall loose them to the
uttermost! Watch, dog of Asura, false priest of an outworn god, and see
a sight that shall blast your reason for evermore!'
Hadrathus threw back his head and laughed, and hell was in his laughter.
'Look, black devil of Python!'
His hand came from under his robe holding something that flamed and
burned in the sun, changing the light to a pulsing golden glow in which
the flesh of Xaltotun looked like the flesh of a corpse.
Xaltotun cried out as if he had been stabbed.
'The Heart! The Heart of Ahriman!'
'Aye! The one power that is greater than your power!'
Xaltotun seemed to shrivel, to grow old. Suddenly his beard was shot
with snow, his locks flecked with gray.
'The Heart!' he mumbled. 'You stole it! Dog! Thief!'
'Not I! It has been on a long journey far to the southward. But now it
is in my hands, and your black arts cannot stand against it. As it
resurrected you, so shall it hurl you back into the night whence it drew
you. You shall go down the dark road to Acheron, which is the road of
silence and the night. The dark empire, unreborn, shall remain a legend
and a black memory. Conan shall reign again. And the Heart of Ahriman
shall go back into the cavern below the temple of Mitra, to burn as a
symbol of the power of Aquilonia for a thousand years!'
Xaltotun screamed inhumanly and rushed around the altar, dagger lifted;
but from somewhere—out of the sky, perhaps, or the great jewel that
blazed in the hand of Hadrathus—shot a jetting beam of blinding blue
light. Full against the breast of Xaltotun it flashed, and the hills
re-echoed the concussion. The wizard of Acheron went down as though
struck by a thunderbolt, and before he touched the ground he was
fearfully altered. Beside the altar-stone lay no fresh-slain corpse, but
a shriveled mummy, a brown, dry, unrecognizable carcass sprawling among
moldering swathings.
Somberly old Zelata looked down.
'He was not a living man,' she said. 'The Heart lent him a false aspect
of life, that deceived even himself. I never saw him as other than a
mummy.'
Hadrathus bent to unbind the swooning girl on the altar, when from among
the trees appeared a strange apparition—Xaltotun's chariot drawn by the
weird horses. Silently they advanced to the altar and halted, with the
chariot wheel almost touching the brown withered thing on the grass.
Hadrathus lifted the body of the wizard and placed it in the chariot.
And without hesitation the uncanny steeds turned and moved off
southward, down the hill. And Hadrathus and Zelata and the gray wolf
watched them go—down the long road to Acheron which is beyond the ken
of men.
Down in the valley Amalric had stiffened in his saddle when he saw that
wild horseman curvetting and caracoling on the slopes while he
brandished that blood-stained serpent-banner. Then some instinct jerked
his head about, toward the hill known as the King's Altar. And his lips
parted. Every man in the valley saw it—an arching shaft of dazzling
light that towered up from the summit of the hill, showering golden
fire. High above the hosts it burst in a blinding blaze that momentarily
paled the sun.
'That's not Xaltotun's signal!' roared the baron.
'No!' shouted Tarascus. 'It's a signal to the Aquilonians! Look!'
Above them the immobile ranks were moving at last, and a deep-throated
roar thundered across the vale.
'Xaltotun has failed us!' bellowed Amalric furiously. 'Valerius has
failed us! We have been led into a trap! Mitra's curse on Xaltotun who
led us here! Sound the retreat!'
'Too late!' yelled Tarascus. 'Look!'
Up on the slopes the forest of lances dipped, leveled. The ranks of the
Gundermen rolled back to right and left like a parting curtain. And with
a thunder like the rising roar of a hurricane, the knights of Aquilonia
crashed down the slopes.
The impetus of that charge was irresistible. Bolts driven by the
demoralized arbalesters glanced from their shields, their bent helmets.
Their plumes and pennons streaming out behind them, their lances
lowered, they swept over the wavering lines of pikemen and roared down
the slopes like a wave.
Amalric yelled an order to charge, and the Nemedians with desperate
courage spurred their horses at the slopes. They still outnumbered the
attackers.
But they were weary men on tired horses, charging uphill. The onrushing
knights had not struck a blow that day. Their horses were fresh. They
were coming downhill and they came like a thunderbolt. And like a
thunderbolt they smote the struggling ranks of the Nemedians—smote
them, split them apart, ripped them asunder and dashed the remnants
headlong down the slopes.
After them on foot came the Gundermen, blood-mad, and the Bossonians
were swarming down the hills, loosing as they ran at every foe that
still moved.
Down the slopes washed the tide of battle, the dazed Nemedians swept on
the crest of the wave. Their archers had thrown down their arbalests and
were fleeing. Such pikemen as had survived the blasting charge of the
knights were cut to pieces by the ruthless Gundermen.
In a wild confusion the battle swept through the wide mouth of the
valley and into the plain beyond. All over the plain swarmed the
warriors, fleeing and pursuing, broken into single combat and clumps of
smiting, hacking knights on rearing, wheeling horses. But the Nemedians
were smashed, broken, unable to re-form or make a stand. By the hundreds
they broke away, spurring for the river. Many reached it, rushed across
and rode eastward. The countryside was up behind them; the people hunted
them like wolves. Few ever reached Tarantia.
The final break did not come until the fall of Amalric. The baron,
striving in vain to rally his men, rode straight at the clump of knights
that followed the giant in black armor whose surcoat bore the royal
lion, and over whose head floated the golden lion banner with the
scarlet leopard of Poitain beside it. A tall warrior in gleaming armor
couched his lance and charged to meet the lord of Tor. They met like a
thunderclap. The Nemedian's lance, striking his foe's helmet, snapped
bolts and rivets and tore off the casque, revealing the features of
Pallantides. But the Aquilonian's lance-head crashed through shield and
breast-plate to transfix the baron's heart.
A roar went up as Amalric was hurled from his saddle, snapping the lance
that impaled him, and the Nemedians gave way as a barrier bursts under
the surging impact of a tidal wave. They rode for the river in a blind
stampede that swept the plain like a whirlwind. The hour of the Dragon
had passed.
Tarascus did not flee. Amalric was dead, the color-bearer slain, and the
royal Nemedian banner trampled in the blood and dust. Most of his
knights were fleeing and the Aquilonians were riding them down; Tarascus
knew the day was lost, but with a handful of faithful followers he raged
through the m�l�e, conscious of but one desire—to meet Conan, the
Cimmerian. And at last he met him.
Formations had been destroyed utterly, close-knit bands broken asunder
and swept apart. The crest of Trocero gleamed in one part of the plain,
those of Prospero and Pallantides in others. Conan was alone. The
house-troops of Tarascus had fallen one by one. The two kings met man to
man.
Even as they rode at each other, the horse of Tarascus sobbed and sank
under him. Conan leaped from his own steed and ran at him, as the king
of Nemedia disengaged himself and rose. Steel flashed blindingly in the
sun, clashed loudly, and blue sparks flew; then a clang of armor as
Tarascus measured his full length on the earth beneath a thunderous
stroke of Conan's broadsword.
The Cimmerian placed a mail-shod foot on his enemy's breast, and lifted
his sword. His helmet was gone; he shook back his black mane and his
blue eyes blazed with their old fire.
'Do you yield?'
'Will you give me quarter?' demanded the Nemedian.
'Aye. Better than you'd have given me, you dog. Life for you and all
your men who throw down their arms. Though I ought to split your head
for an infernal thief,' the Cimmerian added.
Tarascus twisted his neck and glared over the plain. The remnants of the
Nemedian host were flying across the stone bridge with swarms of
victorious Aquilonians at their heels, smiting with fury of glutted
vengeance. Bossonians and Gundermen were swarming through the camp of
their enemies, tearing the tents to pieces in search of plunder, seizing
prisoners, ripping open the baggage and upsetting the wagons.
Tarascus cursed fervently, and then shrugged his shoulders, as well as
he could, under the circumstances.
'Very well. I have no choice. What are your demands?'
'Surrender to me all your present holdings in Aquilonia. Order your
garrisons to march out of the castles and towns they hold, without their
arms, and get your infernal armies out of Aquilonia as quickly as
possible. In addition you shall return all Aquilonians sold as slaves,
and pay an indemnity to be designated later, when the damage your
occupation of the country has caused has been properly estimated. You
will remain as hostage until these terms have been carried out.'
'Very well,' surrendered Tarascus. 'I will surrender all the castles and
towns now held by my garrisons without resistance, and all the other
things shall be done. What ransom for my body?'
Conan laughed and removed his foot from his foe's steel-clad breast,
grasped his shoulder and heaved him to his feet. He started to speak,
then turned to see Hadrathus approaching him. The priest was as calm and
self-possessed as ever, picking his way between rows of dead men and
horses.
Conan wiped the sweat-smeared dust from his face with a blood-stained
hand. He had fought all through the day, first on foot with the pikemen,
then in the saddle, leading the charge. His surcoat was gone, his armor
splashed with blood and battered with strokes of sword, mace and ax. He
loomed gigantically against a background of blood and slaughter, like
some grim pagan hero of mythology.
'Well done, Hadrathus!' quoth he gustily. 'By Crom, I am glad to see
your signal! My knights were almost mad with impatience and eating their
hearts out to be at sword-strokes. I could not have held them much
longer. What of the wizard?'
'He has gone down the dim road to Acheron,' answered Hadrathus. 'And
I—I am for Tarantia. My work is done here, and I have a task to perform
at the temple of Mitra. All our work is done here. On this field we have
saved Aquilonia—and more than Aquilonia. Your ride to your capital will
be a triumphal procession through a kingdom mad with joy. All Aquilonia
will be cheering the return of their king. And so, until we meet again
in the great royal hall—farewell!'
Conan stood silently watching the priest as he went. From various parts
of the field knights were hurrying toward him. He saw Pallantides,
Trocero, Prospero, Servius Galannus, their armor splashed with crimson.
The thunder of battle was giving way to a roar of triumph and acclaim.
All eyes, hot with strife and shining with exultation, were turned
toward the great black figure of the king; mailed arms brandished
red-stained swords. A confused torrent of sound rose, deep and
thunderous as the sea-surf: 'Hail, Conan, king of Aquilonia!'
Tarascus spoke.
'You have not yet named my ransom.'
Conan laughed and slapped his sword home in its scabbard. He flexed his
mighty arms, and ran his blood-stained fingers through his thick black
locks, as if feeling there his re-won crown.
'There is a girl in your seraglio named Zenobia.'
'Why, yes, so there is.'
'Very well.' The king smiled as at an exceedingly pleasant memory. 'She
shall be your ransom, and naught else. I will come to Belverus for her
as I promised. She was a slave in Nemedia, but I will make her queen of
Aquilonia!'
"Good-bye for eternity!" we heard her sob.
