The Hour of the Dragon
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.