The Hour of the Dragon
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