12
The Fang of the Dragon
At dawn Conan waded his horse across the shallows of the Alimane andstruck the wide caravan trail which ran southeastward, and behind him,on the farther bank, Trocero sat his horse silently at the head of hissteel-clad knights, with the crimson leopard of Poitain floating itslong folds over him in the morning breeze. Silently they sat, thosedark-haired men in shining steel, until the figure of their king hadvanished in the blue of distance that whitened toward sunrise.
Conan rode a great black stallion, the gift of Trocero. He no longerwore the armor of Aquilonia. His harness proclaimed him a veteran ofthe Free Companies, who were of all races. His headpiece was a plainmorion, dented and battered. The leather and mail-mesh of his hauberkwere worn and shiny as if by many campaigns, and the scarlet cloakflowing carelessly from his mailed shoulders was tattered and stained.He looked the part of the hired fighting-man, who had known allvicissitudes of fortune, plunder and wealth one day, an empty purse anda close-drawn belt the next.
And more than looking the part, he felt the part; the awakening of oldmemories, the resurge of the wild, mad, glorious days of old before hisfeet were set on the imperial path when he was a wandering mercenary,roistering, brawling, guzzling, adventuring, with no thought for themorrow, and no desire save sparkling ale, red lips, and a keen sword toswing on all the battlefields of the world.
Unconsciously he reverted to the old ways; a new swagger became evidentin his bearing, in the way he sat his horse; half-forgotten oaths rosenaturally to his lips, and as he rode he hummed old songs that he hadroared in chorus with his reckless companions in many a tavern and onmany a dusty road or bloody field.
It was an unquiet land through which he rode. The companies of cavalrywhich usually patrolled the river, alert for raids out of Poitain, werenowhere in evidence. Internal strife had left the borders unguarded. Thelong white road stretched bare from horizon to horizon. No laden cameltrains or rumbling wagons or lowing herds moved along it now; onlyoccasional groups of horsemen in leather and steel, hawk-faced,hard-eyed men, who kept together and rode warily. These swept Conan withtheir searching gaze but rode on, for the solitary rider's harnesspromised no plunder, but only hard strokes.
Villages lay in ashes and deserted, the fields and meadows idle. Onlythe boldest would ride the roads these days, and the native populationhad been decimated in the civil wars, and by raids from across theriver. In more peaceful times the road was thronged with merchantsriding Poitain to Messantia in Argos, or back. But now these found itwiser to follow the road that led east through Poitain, and then turnedsouth down across Argos. It was longer, but safer. Only an extremelyreckless man would risk his life and goods on this road through Zingara.
The southern horizon was fringed with flame by night, and in the daystraggling pillars of smoke drifted upward; in the cities and plains tothe south men were dying, thrones were toppling and castles going up inflames. Conan felt the old tug of the professional fighting-man, to turnhis horse and plunge into the fighting, the pillaging and the looting asin the days of old. Why should he toil to regain the rule of a peoplewhich had already forgotten him?--why chase a will-o'-the-wisp, whypursue a crown that was lost for ever? Why should he not seekforgetfulness, lose himself in the red tides of war and rapine that hadengulfed him so often before? Could he not, indeed, carve out anotherkingdom for himself? The world was entering an age of iron, an age ofwar and imperialistic ambition; some strong man might well rise abovethe ruins of nations as a supreme conqueror. Why should it not behimself? So his familiar devil whispered in his ear, and the phantoms ofhis 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 headvanced, until sometimes it seemed that he pursued a dream that neverwas.
He pushed the black stallion as hard as he dared, but the long whiteroad lay bare before him, from horizon to horizon. It was a long startZorathus had, but Conan rode steadily on, knowing that he was travelingfaster than the burdened merchants could travel. And so he came to thecastle of Count Valbroso, perched like a vulture's eyrie on a bare hilloverlooking the road.
* * * * *
Valbroso rode down with his men-at-arms, a lean, dark man withglittering eyes and a predatory beak of a nose. He wore blackplate-armor and was followed by thirty spearmen, black-mustached hawksof the border wars, as avaricious and ruthless as himself. Of late thetoll of the caravans had been slim, and Valbroso cursed the civil warsthat stripped the roads of their fat traffic, even while he blessed themfor the free hand they allowed him with his neighbors.
He had not hoped much from the solitary rider he had glimpsed from histower, but all was grist that came to his mill. With a practised eye hetook in Conan's worn mail and dark, scarred face, and his conclusionswere the same as those of the riders who had passed the Cimmerian on theroad--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,' gruntedValbroso. 'Southward the fighting is good and also the plundering. Joinmy company. You won't go hungry. The road remains bare of fat merchantsto strip, but I mean to take my rogues and fare southward to sell ourswords to whichever side seems strongest.'
Conan did not at once reply, knowing that if he refused outright, hemight be instantly attacked by Valbroso's men-at-arms. Before he couldmake up his mind, the Zingaran spoke again:
'You rogues of the Free Companies always know tricks to make men talk. Ihave a prisoner--the last merchant I caught, by Mitra, and the only oneI'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 toopen it. By Ishtar, I thought I knew all the modes of persuasion thereare, but perhaps you, as a veteran Free Companion, know some that I donot. At any rate come with me and see what you may do.'
Valbroso's words instantly decided Conan. That sounded a great deal likeZorathus. Conan did not know the merchant, but any man who was stubbornenough to try to traverse the Zingaran road in times like these wouldvery probably be stubborn enough to defy torture.
He fell in beside Valbroso and rode up the straggling road to the top ofthe hill where the gaunt castle stood. As a man-at-arms he should haveridden behind the count, but force of habit made him careless andValbroso paid no heed. Years of life on the border had taught the countthat the frontier is not the royal court. He was aware of theindependence of the mercenaries, behind whose swords many a king hadtrodden the throne-path.
There was a dry moat, half filled with debris in some places. Theyclattered across the drawbridge and through the arch of the gate. Behindthem the portcullis fell with a sullen clang. They came into a barecourtyard, 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. Itwas more like a bandit's hold than the castle of a nobleman.
Valbroso dismounted and motioned Conan to follow him. They wentthrough a doorway and along a vaulted corridor, where they weremet by a scarred, hard-looking man in mail descending a stonestaircase--evidently the captain of the guard.
'How, Beloso,' quoth Valbroso; 'has he spoken?'
'He is stubborn,' muttered Beloso, shooting a glance of suspicion atConan.
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 manin mortal agony became audible. Valbroso's torture-room was high abovethe court, instead of in a dungeon below. In that chamber, where agaunt, hairy beast of a man in leather breeks squatted gnawing abeef-bone voraciously, stood the machines of torture--racks, boots,hooks and all the implements that the human mind devises to tear flesh,break bones and rend and rupture veins and ligaments.
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bsp; On a rack a man was stretched naked, and a glance told Conan that he wasdying. The unnatural elongation of his limbs and body told of unhingedjoints and unnamable ruptures. He was a dark man, with an intelligent,aquiline face and quick dark eyes. They were glazed and bloodshot nowwith pain, and the dew of agony glistened on his face. His lips weredrawn back from blackened gums.
'There is the box.' Viciously Valbroso kicked a small but heavy ironchest that stood on the floor near by. It was intricately carved, withtiny skulls and writhing dragons curiously intertwined, but Conan saw nocatch or hasp that might serve to unlock the lid. The marks of fire, ofax and sledge and chisel showed on it but as scratches.
'This is the dog's treasure box,' said Valbroso angrily. 'All men of thesouth know of Zorathus and his iron chest. Mitra knows what is in it.But he will not give up its secret.'
Zorathus! It was true, then; the man he sought lay before him. Conan'sheart beat suffocatingly as he leaned over the writhing form, though heexhibited no evidence of his painful eagerness.
'Ease those ropes, knave!' he ordered the torturer harshly, and Valbrosoand his captain stared. In the forgetfulness of the moment Conan hadused his imperial tone, and the brute in leather instinctively obeyedthe knife-edge of command in that voice. He eased away gradually, forelse the slackening of the ropes had been as great a torment to the tornjoints as further stretching.
Catching up a vessel of wine that stood near by, Conan placed the rim tothe wretch's lips. Zorathus gulped spasmodically, the liquid sloppingover on his heaving breast.
Into the bloodshot eyes came a gleam of recognition, and thefroth-smeared lips parted. From them issued a racking whimper in theKothic tongue.
'Is this death, then? Is the long agony ended? For this is King Conanwho died at Valkia, and I am among the dead.'
'You're not dead,' said Conan. 'But you're dying. You'll be tortured nomore. I'll see to that. But I can't help you further. Yet before youdie, tell me how to open your iron box!'
'My iron box,' mumbled Zorathus in delirious disjointed phrases. 'Thechest forged in unholy fires among the flaming mountains of Khrosha; themetal no chisel can cut. How many treasures has it borne, across thewidth and the breadth of the world! But no such treasure as it nowholds.'
'Tell me how to open it,' urged Conan. 'It can do you no good, and itmay aid me.'
'Aye, you are Conan,' muttered the Kothian. 'I have seen you sitting onyour throne in the great public hall of Tarantia, with your crown onyour head and the scepter in your hand. But you are dead; you died atValkia. And so I know my own end is at hand.'
'What does the dog say?' demanded Valbroso impatiently, notunderstanding Kothic. 'Will he tell us how to open the box?'
As if the voice roused a spark of life in the twisted breast Zorathusrolled his bloodshot eyes toward the speaker.
'Only Valbroso will I tell,' he gasped in Zingaran. 'Death is upon me.Lean close to me, Valbroso!'
The count did so, his dark face lit with avarice; behind him hissaturnine captain, Beloso, crowded closer.
'Press the seven skulls on the rim, one after another,' gasped Zorathus.'Press then the head of the dragon that writhes across the lid. Thenpress the sphere in the dragon's claws. That will release the secretcatch.'
'Quick, the box!' cried Valbroso with an oath.
Conan lifted it and set it on a dais, and Valbroso shouldered him aside.
'Let me open it!' cried Beloso, starting forward.
Valbroso cursed him back, his greed blazing in his black eyes.
'None but me shall open it!' he cried.
Conan, whose hand had instinctively gone to his hilt, glanced atZorathus. The man's eyes were glazed and bloodshot, but they were fixedon Valbroso with burning intensity; and was there the shadow of a grimtwisted smile on the dying man's lips? Not until the merchant knew hewas dying had he given up the secret. Conan turned to watch Valbroso,even as the dying man watched him.
Along the rim of the lid seven skulls were carved among intertwiningbranches of strange trees. An inlaid dragon writhed its way across thetop of the lid amid ornate arabesques. Valbroso pressed the skulls infumbling haste, and as he jammed his thumb down on the carved head ofthe dragon he swore sharply and snatched his hand away, shaking it inirritation.
'A sharp point on the carvings,' he snarled. 'I've pricked my thumb.'
He pressed the gold ball clutched in the dragon's talons, and the lidflew abruptly open. Their eyes were dazzled by a golden flame. It seemedto their dazed minds that the carven box was full of glowing fire thatspilled over the rim and dripped through the air in quivering flakes.Beloso cried out and Valbroso sucked in his breath. Conan stoodspeechless, his brain snared by the blaze.
'Mitra, what a jewel!' Valbroso's hand dived into the chest, came outwith a great pulsing crimson sphere that filled the room with a lambentglow. In its glare Valbroso looked like a corpse. And the dying man onthe loosened rack laughed wildly and suddenly.
'Fool!' he screamed. 'The jewel is yours! I give you death with it! Thescratch on your thumb--look at the dragon's head, Valbroso!'
They all wheeled, stared. Something tiny and dully gleaming stood upfrom the gaping, carved mouth.
'The dragon's fang!' shrieked Zorathus. 'Steeped in the venom of theblack Stygian scorpion! Fool, fool to open the box of Zorathus with yournaked hand! Death! You are a dead man now!'
And with bloody foam on his lips he died.
Valbroso staggered, crying out. 'Ah, Mitra, I burn!' he shrieked. 'Myveins race with liquid fire! My joints are bursting asunder! Death!Death!' And he reeled and crashed headlong. There was an instant ofawful convulsions, in which the limbs were twisted into hideous andunnatural positions, and then in that posture the man froze, his glassyeyes staring sightlessly upward, his lips drawn back from blackenedgums.
'Dead!' muttered Conan, stooping to pick up the jewel where it rolled onthe floor from Valbroso's rigid hand. It lay on the floor like aquivering pool of sunset fire.
'Dead!' muttered Beloso, with madness in his eyes. And then he moved.
Conan was caught off guard, his eyes dazzled, his brain dazed by theblaze of the great gem. He did not realize Beloso's intention untilsomething crashed with terrible force upon his helmet. The glow of thejewel was splashed with redder flame, and he went to his knees under theblow.
He heard a rush of feet, a bellow of ox-like agony. He was stunned butnot wholly senseless, and realized that Beloso had caught up the ironbox and crashed it down on his head as he stooped. Only his basinet hadsaved his skull. He staggered up, drawing his sword, trying to shake thedimness out of his eyes. The room swam to his dizzy gaze. But the doorwas open and fleet footsteps were dwindling down the winding stair. Onthe floor the brutish torturer was gasping out his life with a greatgash under his breast. And the Heart of Ahriman was gone.
Conan reeled out of the chamber, sword in hand, blood streaming down hisface from under his burganet. He ran drunkenly down the steps, hearing aclang of steel in the courtyard below, shouts, then the frantic drum ofhoofs. Rushing into the bailey he saw the men-at-arms milling aboutconfusedly, while women screeched. The postern gate stood open and asoldier lay across his pike with his head split. Horses, still bridledand saddled, ran neighing about the court, Conan's black stallion amongthem.
'He's mad!' howled a woman, wringing her hands as she rushed brainlesslyabout. 'He came out of the castle like a mad dog, hewing right and left!Beloso's mad! Where's Lord Valbroso?'
'Which way did he go?' roared Conan.
All turned and stared at the stranger's blood-stained face and nakedsword.
'Through the postern!' shrilled a woman, pointing eastward, and anotherbawled: 'Who is this rogue?'
'Beloso has killed Valbroso!' yelled Conan, leaping and seizing thestallion's mane, as the men-at-arms advanced uncertainly on him. A wildoutcry burst forth at his news, but their reaction was exactly as he hadanticipated. Instead of closing the gates to take him prisoner, orpursuing the fleeing slayer to avenge thei
r lord, they were thrown intoeven greater confusion by his words. Wolves bound together only by fearof Valbroso, they owed no allegiance to the castle or to each other.
Swords began to clash in the courtyard, and women screamed. And in themidst of it all, none noticed Conan as he shot through the postern gateand thundered down the hill. The wide plain spread before him, andbeyond the hill the caravan road divided: one branch ran south, theother east. And on the eastern road he saw another rider, bending lowand spurring hard. The plain swam to Conan's gaze, the sunlight was athick red haze and he reeled in his saddle, grasping the flowing manewith his hand. Blood rained on his mail, but grimly he urged thestallion on.
Behind him smoke began to pour out of the castle on the hill where thecount's body lay forgotten and unheeded beside that of his prisoner. Thesun was setting; against a lurid red sky the two black figures fled.
The stallion was not fresh, but neither was the horse ridden by Beloso.But the great beast responded mightily, calling on deep reservoirs ofreserve vitality. Why the Zingaran fled from one pursuer Conan did nottax his bruised brain to guess. Perhaps unreasoning panic rode Beloso,born of the madness that lurked in that blazing jewel. The sun was gone;the white road was a dim glimmer through a ghostly twilight fading intopurple gloom far ahead of him.
The stallion panted, laboring hard. The country was changing, in thegathering dusk. Bare plains gave way to clumps of oaks and alders. Lowhills mounted up in the distance. Stars began to blink out. The stalliongasped and reeled in his course. But ahead rose a dense wood thatstretched to the hills on the horizon, and between it and himself Conanglimpsed the dim form of the fugitive. He urged on the distressedstallion, for he saw that he was overtaking his prey, yard by yard.Above the pound of the hoofs a strange cry rose from the shadows, butneither pursuer nor pursued gave heed.
As they swept in under the branches that overhung the road, they werealmost side by side. A fierce cry rose from Conan's lips as his swordwent up; a pale oval of a face was turned toward him, a sword gleamedin a half-seen hand, and Beloso echoed the cry--and then the wearystallion, with a lurch and a groan, missed his footing in the shadowsand went heels over head, hurling his dazed rider from the saddle.Conan's throbbing head crashed against a stone, and the stars wereblotted out in a thicker night.
* * * * *
How long Conan lay senseless he never knew. His first sensation ofreturning consciousness was that of being dragged by one arm over roughand stony ground and through dense underbrush. Then he was throwncarelessly down, and perhaps the jolt brought back his senses.
His helmet was gone, his head ached abominably, he felt a qualm ofnausea, and blood was clotted thickly among his black locks. But withthe vitality of a wild thing life and consciousness surged back intohim, and he became aware of his surroundings.
A broad red moon was shining through the trees, by which he knew that itwas long after midnight. He had lain senseless for hours, long enough tohave recovered from that terrible blow Beloso had dealt him, as well asthe fall which had rendered him senseless. His brain felt clearer thanit had felt during that mad ride after the fugitive.
He was not lying beside the white road, he noticed with a start ofsurprise, as his surroundings began to record themselves on hisperceptions. The road was nowhere in sight. He lay on the grassy earth,in a small glade hemmed in by a black wall of tree stems and tangledbranches. His face and hands were scratched and lacerated as if he hadbeen dragged through brambles. Shifting his body he looked about him.And then he started violently--something was squatting over him....
At first Conan doubted his consciousness, thought it was but a figmentof delirium. Surely it could not be real, that strange, motionless graybeing that squatted on its haunches and stared down at him withunblinking soulless eyes.
Conan lay and stared, half expecting it to vanish like a figure of adream, and then a chill of recollection crept along his spine.Half-forgotten memories surged back, of grisly tales whispered of theshapes that haunted these uninhabited forests at the foot of the hillsthat mark the Zingaran-Argossean border. Ghouls, men called them, eatersof human flesh, spawn of darkness, children of unholy matings of a lostand forgotten race with the demons of the underworld. Somewhere in theseprimitive forests were the ruins of an ancient, accursed city, menwhispered, and among its tombs slunk gray, anthropomorphicshadows--Conan shuddered strongly.
He lay staring at the malformed head that rose dimly above him, andcautiously he extended a hand toward the sword at his hip. With ahorrible cry that the man involuntarily echoed, the monster was at histhroat.
Conan threw up his right arm, and the dog-like jaws closed on it,driving the mail links into the hard flesh. The misshapen yet man-likehands clutched for his throat, but he evaded them with a heave and rollof his whole body, at the same time drawing his dagger with his lefthand.
They tumbled over and over on the grass, smiting and tearing. Themuscles coiling under that gray corpse-like skin were stringy and hardas steel wires, exceeding the strength of a man. But Conan's thews wereiron too, and his mail saved him from the gnashing fangs and rippingclaws long enough for him to drive home his dagger, again and again andagain. The horrible vitality of the semi-human monstrosity seemedinexhaustible, and the king's skin crawled at the feel of that slick,clammy flesh. He put all his loathing and savage revulsion behind theplunging blade, and suddenly the monster heaved up convulsively beneathhim as the point found its grisly heart, and then lay still.
Conan rose, shaken with nausea. He stood in the center of the gladeuncertainly, sword in one hand and dagger in the other. He had not losthis instinctive sense of direction, as far as the points of the compasswere concerned, but he did not know in which direction the road lay. Hehad no way of knowing in which direction the ghoul had dragged him.Conan glared at the silent, black, moon-dappled woods which ringed him,and felt cold moisture bead his flesh. He was without a horse and lostin these haunted woods, and that staring deformed thing at his feet wasa mute evidence of the horrors that lurked in the forest. He stoodalmost holding his breath in his painful intensity, straining his earsfor some crack of twig or rustle of grass.
When a sound did come he started violently. Suddenly out on the nightair broke the scream of a terrified horse. His stallion! There werepanthers in the wood--or--ghouls ate beasts as well as men.
He broke savagely through the brush in the direction of the sound,whistling shrilly as he ran, his fear drowned in berserk rage. If hishorse was killed, there went his last chance of following Beloso andrecovering the jewel. Again the stallion screamed with fear and fury,somewhere nearer. There was a sound of lashing heels, and something thatwas struck heavily and gave way.
Conan burst out into the wide white road without warning, and saw thestallion plunging and rearing in the moonlight, his ears laid back, hiseyes and teeth flashing wickedly. He lashed out with his heels at aslinking shadow that ducked and bobbed about him--and then about Conanother shadows moved: gray, furtive shadows that closed in on all sides.A hideous charnel-house scent reeked up in the night air.
With a curse the king hewed right and left with his broadsword, thrustand ripped with his dagger. Dripping fangs flashed in the moonlight,foul paws caught at him, but he hacked his way through to the stallion,caught the rein, leaped into the saddle. His sword rose and fell, afrosty arc in the moonlight, showering blood as it split misshapenheads, clove shambling bodies. The stallion reared, biting and kicking.They burst through and thundered down the road. On either hand, for ashort space, flitted gray abhorrent shadows. Then these fell behind, andConan, topping a wooded crest, saw a vast expanse of bare slopessweeping up and away before him.