The Hour of the Dragon
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