The Hour of the Dragon
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 mêlée, 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.'