The Hour of the Dragon
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 mêlée.
'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.