The Hour of the Dragon
of a lifetime are not easily put aside. Yet I wouldn't harm you now, if
you brought all the swordsmen in Nemedia upon me. But for you Tarascus'
cursed ape would have come upon me in chains and unarmed. Do as you
wish, girl.'
Kissing his hands, she sprang lithely up and ran down the corridor, to
vanish through a heavy double door.
He glanced after her, wondering if he was a fool to trust her; then he
shrugged his mighty shoulders and pulled the satin hangings together,
masking his refuge. It was not strange that a passionate young beauty
should be risking her life to aid him; such things had happened often
enough in his life. Many women had looked on him with favor, in the days
of his wanderings, and in the time of his kingship.
Yet he did not remain motionless in the alcove, waiting for her return.
Following his instincts, he explored the niche for another exit, and
presently found one--the opening of a narrow passage, masked by the
tapestries, that ran to an ornately carved door, barely visible in the
dim light that filtered in from the outer corridor. And as he stared
into it, somewhere beyond that carven door he heard the sound of another
door opening and shutting, and then a low mumble of voices. The familiar
sound of one of those voices caused a sinister expression to cross his
dark face. Without hesitation he glided down the passage, and crouched
like a stalking panther beside the door. It was not locked, and
manipulating it delicately, he pushed it open a crack, with a reckless
disregard for possible consequences that only he could have explained or
defended.
It was masked on the other side by tapestries, but through a thin slit
in the velvet he looked into a chamber lit by a candle on an ebony
table. There were two men in that chamber. One was a scarred,
sinister-looking ruffian in leather breeks and ragged cloak; the other
was Tarascus, king of Nemedia.
Tarascus seemed ill at ease. He was slightly pale, and he kept starting
and glancing about him, as if expecting and fearing to hear some sound
or footstep.
'Go swiftly and at once,' he was saying. 'He is deep in drugged slumber,
but I know not when he may awaken.'
'Strange to hear words of fear issuing from the lips of Tarascus,'
rumbled the other in a harsh, deep voice.
The king frowned.
'I fear no common man, as you well know. But when I saw the cliffs fall
at Valkia I knew that this devil we had resurrected was no charlatan. I
fear his powers, because I do not know the full extent of them. But I
know that somehow they are connected with this accursed thing which I
have stolen from him. It brought him back to life; so it must be the
source of his sorcery.
'He had it hidden well; but following my secret order a slave spied on
him and saw him place it in a golden chest, and saw where he hid the
chest. Even so, I would not have dared steal it had Xaltotun himself not
been sunk in lotus slumber.
'I believe it is the secret of his power. With it Orastes brought him
back to life. With it he will make us all slaves, if we are not wary. So
take it and cast it into the sea as I have bidden you. And be sure you
are so far from land that neither tide nor storm can wash it up on the
beach. You have been paid.'
'So I have,' grunted the ruffian. 'And I owe more than gold to you,
king; I owe you a debt of gratitude. Even thieves can be grateful.'
'Whatever debt you may feel you owe me,' answered Tarascus, 'will be
paid when you have hurled this thing into the sea.'
'I'll ride for Zingara and take ship from Kordava,' promised the other.
'I dare not show my head in Argos, because of the matter of a murder or
so--'
'I care not, so it is done. Here it is; a horse awaits you in the court.
Go, and go swiftly!'
Something passed between them, something that flamed like living fire.
Conan had only a brief glimpse of it; and then the ruffian pulled a
slouch hat over his eyes, drew his cloak about his shoulder, and hurried
from the chamber. And as the door closed behind him, Conan moved with
the devastating fury of unchained blood-lust. He had held himself in
check so long as he could. The sight of his enemy so near him set his
wild blood seething and swept away all caution and restraint.
Tarascus was turning toward an inner door when Conan tore aside the
hangings and leaped like a blood-mad panther into the room. Tarascus
wheeled, but even before he could recognize his attacker, Conan's
poniard ripped into him.
But the blow was not mortal, as Conan knew the instant he struck. His
foot had caught in a fold of the curtains and tripped him as he leaped.
The point fleshed itself in Tarascus' shoulder and plowed down along his
ribs, and the king of Nemedia screamed.
The impact of the blow and Conan's lunging body hurled him back against
the table and it toppled and the candle went out. They were both carried
to the floor by the violence of Conan's rush, and the foot of the
tapestry hampered them both in its folds. Conan was stabbing blindly in
the dark, Tarascus screaming in a frenzy of panicky terror. As if fear
lent him superhuman energy, Tarascus tore free and blundered away in the
darkness, shrieking: 'Help! Guards! Arideus! Orastes! Orastes!'
Conan rose, kicking himself free of the tangling tapestries and the
broken table, cursing with the bitterness of his blood-thirsty
disappointment. He was confused, and ignorant of the plan of the palace.
The yells of Tarascus were still resounding in the distance, and a wild
outcry was bursting forth in answer. The Nemedian had escaped him in the
darkness, and Conan did not know which way he had gone. The Cimmerian's
rash stroke for vengeance had failed, and there remained only the task
of saving his own hide if he could.
Swearing luridly, Conan ran back down the passage and into the alcove,
glaring out into the lighted corridor, just as Zenobia came running up
it, her dark eyes dilated with terror.
'Oh, what has happened?' she cried. 'The palace is roused! I swear I
have not betrayed you--'
'No, it was I who stirred up this hornet's nest,' he grunted. 'I tried
to pay off a score. What's the shortest way out of this?'
She caught his wrist and ran fleetly down the corridor. But before they
reached the heavy door at the other end, muffled shouts arose from
behind it and the portals began to shake under an assault from the other
side. Zenobia wrung her hands and whimpered.
'We are cut off! I locked that door as I returned through it. But they
will burst it in a moment. The way to the postern gate lies through it.'
Conan wheeled. Up the corridor, though still out of sight, he heard a
rising clamor that told him his foes were behind as well as before him.
'Quick! Into this door!' the girl cried desperately, running across the
corridor and throwing open the door of a chamber.
Conan followed her through, and then threw the gold catch behind them.
They stood in an ornately furnished chamber, empty but for themselves,
and she drew him to a gold-barred window, through which he saw trees and
shrubbery.
'You are strong,' she panted. 'If you can tear these bars away, you may
yet escape. The garden is full of guards, but the shrubs are thick, and
you may avoid them. The southern wall is also the outer wall of the
city. Once over that, you have a chance to get away. A horse is hidden
for you in a thicket beside the road that runs westward, a few hundred
paces to the south of the fountain of Thrallos. You know where it is?'
'Aye! But what of you? I had meant to take you with me.'
A flood of joy lighted her beautiful face.
'Then my cup of happiness is brimming! But I will not hamper your
escape. Burdened with me you would fail. Nay, do not fear for me. They
will never suspect that I aided you willingly. Go! What you have just
said will glorify my life throughout the long years.'
He caught her up in his iron arms, crushed her slim, vibrant figure to
him and kissed her fiercely on eyes, cheeks, throat and lips, until she
lay panting in his embrace; gusty and tempestuous as a storm-wind, even
his love-making was violent.
'I'll go,' he muttered. 'But by Crom, I'll come for you some day!'
Wheeling, he gripped the gold bars and tore them from their sockets with
one tremendous wrench; threw a leg over the sill and went down swiftly,
clinging to the ornaments on the wall. He hit the ground running and
melted like a shadow into the maze of towering rose-bushes and spreading
trees. The one look he cast back over his shoulder showed him Zenobia
leaning over the window-sill, her arms stretched after him in mute
farewell and renunciation.
Guards were running through the garden, all converging toward the
palace, where the clamor momentarily grew louder--tall men in burnished
cuirasses and crested helmets of polished bronze. The starlight struck
glints from their gleaming armor, among the trees, betraying their every
movement; but the sound of their coming ran far before them. To Conan,
wilderness-bred, their rush through the shrubbery was like the
blundering stampede of cattle. Some of them passed within a few feet of
where he lay flat in a thick cluster of bushes, and never guessed his
presence. With the palace as their goal, they were oblivious to all else
about them. When they had gone shouting on, he rose and fled through the
garden with no more noise than a panther would have made.
So quickly he came to the southern wall, and mounted the steps that led
to the parapet. The wall was made to keep people out, not in. No sentry
patrolling the battlements was in sight. Crouching by an embrasure he
glanced back at the great palace rearing above the cypresses behind him.
Lights blazed from every window, and he could see figures flitting back
and forth across them like puppets on invisible strings. He grinned
hardly, shook his fist in a gesture of farewell and menace, and let
himself over the outer rim of the parapet.
A low tree, a few yards below the parapet, received Conan's weight, as
he dropped noiselessly into the branches. An instant later he was racing
through the shadows with the swinging hillman's stride that eats up long
miles.
Gardens and pleasure villas surrounded the walls of Belverus. Drowsy
slaves, sleeping by their watchman's pikes, did not see the swift and
furtive figure that scaled walls, crossed alleys made by the arching
branches of trees, and threaded a noiseless way through orchards and
vineyards. Watchdogs woke and lifted their deep-booming clamor at a
gliding shadow, half scented, half sensed, and then it was gone.
* * * * *
In a chamber of the palace Tarascus writhed and cursed on a
blood-spattered couch, under the deft, quick fingers of Orastes. The
palace was thronged with wide-eyed, trembling servitors, but the chamber
where the king lay was empty save for himself and the renegade priest.
'Are you sure he still sleeps?' Tarascus demanded again, setting his
teeth against the bite of the herb juices with which Orastes was
bandaging the long, ragged gash in his shoulder and ribs. 'Ishtar, Mitra
and Set! That burns like molten pitch of hell!'
'Which you would be experiencing even now, but for your good fortune,'
remarked Orastes. 'Whoever wielded that knife struck to kill. Yes, I
have told you that Xaltotun still sleeps. Why are you so urgent upon
that point? What has he to do with this?'
'You know nothing of what has passed in the palace tonight?' Tarascus
searched the priest's countenance with burning intensity.
'Nothing. As you know, I have been employed in translating manuscripts
for Xaltotun, for some months now, transcribing esoteric volumes written
in the younger languages into script he can read. He was well versed in
all the tongues and scripts of his day, but he has not yet learned all