20
Out of the Dust Shall Acheron Arise
Winter had passed from Aquilonia. Leaves sprang out on the limbs oftrees, and the fresh grass smiled to the touch of the warm southernbreezes. But many a field lay idle and empty, many a charred heap ofashes marked the spot where proud villas or prosperous towns had stood.Wolves prowled openly along the grass-grown highways, and bands ofgaunt, masterless men slunk through the forests. Only in Tarantia wasfeasting and wealth and pageantry.
Valerius ruled like one touched with madness. Even many of the baronswho had welcomed his return cried out at last against him. Histax-gatherers crushed rich and poor alike; the wealth of a lootedkingdom poured into Tarantia, which became less like the capital of arealm than the garrison of conquerors in a conquered land. Its merchantswaxed rich, but it was a precarious prosperity; for none knew when hemight be accused of treason on a trumped-up charge, and his propertyconfiscated, himself cast into prison or brought to the bloody block.
Valerius made no attempt to conciliate his subjects. He maintainedhimself by means of the Nemedian soldiery and by desperate mercenaries.He knew himself to be a puppet of Amalric. He knew that he ruled only onthe sufferance of the Nemedian. He knew that he could never hope tounite Aquilonia under his rule and cast off the yoke of his masters, forthe outland provinces would resist him to the last drop of blood. Andfor that matter the Nemedians would cast him from his throne if he madeany attempt to consolidate his kingdom. He was caught in his own vise.The gall of defeated pride corroded his soul, and he threw himself intoa reign of debauchery, as one who lives from day to day, without thoughtor care for tomorrow.
Yet there was subtlety in his madness, so deep that not even Amalricguessed it. Perhaps the wild, chaotic years of wandering as an exile hadbred in him a bitterness beyond common conception. Perhaps his loathingof his present position increased this bitterness to a kind of madness.At any event he lived with one desire: to cause the ruin of all whoassociated with him.
He knew that his rule would be over the instant he had served Amalric'spurpose; he knew, too, that so long as he continued to oppress hisnative kingdom the Nemedian would suffer him to reign, for Amalricwished to crush Aquilonia into ultimate submission, to destroy its lastshred of independence, and then at last to seize it himself, rebuild itafter his own fashion with his vast wealth, and use its men and naturalresources to wrest the crown of Nemedia from Tarascus. For the throne ofan emperor was Amalric's ultimate ambition, and Valerius knew it.Valerius did not know whether Tarascus suspected this, but he knew thatthe king of Nemedia approved of his ruthless course. Tarascus hatedAquilonia, with a hate born of old wars. He desired only the destructionof the western kingdom.
And Valerius intended to ruin the country so utterly that not evenAmalric's wealth could ever rebuild it. He hated the baron quite as muchas he hated the Aquilonians, and hoped only to live to see the day whenAquilonia lay in utter ruin, and Tarascus and Amalric were locked inhopeless civil war that would as completely destroy Nemedia.
He believed that the conquest of the still defiant provinces ofGunderland and Poitain and the Bossonian marches would mark his end asking. He would then have served Amalric's purpose, and could bediscarded. So he delayed the conquest of these provinces, confining hisactivities to objectless raids and forays, meeting Amalric's urges foraction with all sorts of plausible objections and postponements.
His life was a series of feasts and wild debauches. He filled his palacewith the fairest girls of the kingdom, willing or unwilling. Heblasphemed the gods and sprawled drunken on the floor of the banquethall wearing the golden crown, and staining his royal purple robes withthe wine he spilled. In gusts of blood-lust he festooned the gallows inthe market square with dangling corpses, glutted the axes of theheadsmen and sent his Nemedian horsemen thundering through the landpillaging and burning. Driven to madness, the land was in a constantupheaval of frantic revolt, savagely suppressed. Valerius plundered andraped and looted and destroyed until even Amalric protested, warning himthat he would beggar the kingdom beyond repair, not knowing that suchwas his fixed determination.
But while in both Aquilonia and Nemedia men talked of the madness of theking, in Nemedia men talked much of Xaltotun, the masked one. Yet fewsaw him on the streets of Belverus. Men said he spent much time in thehills, in curious conclaves with surviving remnants of an old race:dark, silent folk who claimed descent from an ancient kingdom. Menwhispered of drums beating far up in the dreaming hills, of firesglowing in the darkness, and strange chantings borne on the winds,chantings and rituals forgotten centuries ago except as meaninglessformulas mumbled beside mountain hearths in villages whose inhabitantsdiffered strangely from the people of the valleys.
The reason for these conclaves none knew, unless it was Orastes, whofrequently accompanied the Pythonian, and on whose countenance a haggardshadow was growing.
But in the full flood of spring a sudden whisper passed over the sinkingkingdom that woke the land to eager life. It came like a murmurous winddrifting up from the south, waking men sunk in the apathy of despair.Yet how it first came none could truly say. Some spoke of a strange,grim old woman who came down from the mountains with her hair flowing inthe wind, and a great gray wolf following her like a dog. Otherswhispered of the priests of Asura who stole like furtive phantoms fromGunderland to the marches of Poitain, and to the forest villages of theBossonians.
However the word came, revolt ran like a flame along the borders.Outlying Nemedian garrisons were stormed and put to the sword, foragingparties were cut to pieces; the west was up in arms, and there was adifferent air about the rising, a fierce resolution and inspired wrathrather than the frantic despair that had motivated the precedingrevolts. It was not only the common people; barons were fortifying theircastles and hurling defiance at the governors of the provinces. Bands ofBossonians were seen moving along the edges of the marches: stocky,resolute men in brigandines and steel caps, with longbows in theirhands. From the inert stagnation of dissolution and ruin the realm wassuddenly alive, vibrant and dangerous. So Amalric sent in haste forTarascus, who came with an army.
* * * * *
In the royal palace in Tarantia the two kings and Amalric discussed therising. They had not sent for Xaltotun, immersed in his cryptic studiesin the Nemedian hills. Not since that bloody day in the valley of theValkia had they called upon him for aid of his magic, and he had drawnapart, communing but little with them, apparently indifferent to theirintrigues.
Nor had they sent for Orastes, but he came, and he was white as spumeblown before the storm. He stood in the gold-domed chamber where thekings held conclave and they beheld in amazement his haggard stare, thefear they had never guessed the mind of Orastes could hold.
'You are weary, Orastes,' said Amalric. 'Sit upon this divan and I willhave a slave fetch you wine. You have ridden hard--'
Orastes waved aside the invitation.
'I have killed three horses on the road from Belverus. I cannot drinkwine, I cannot rest, until I have said what I have to say.'
He paced back and forth as if some inner fire would not let him standmotionless, and halting before his wondering companions:
'When we employed the Heart of Ahriman to bring a dead man back tolife,' Orastes said abruptly, 'we did not weigh the consequences oftampering in the black dust of the past. The fault is mine, and the sin.We thought only of our ambitions, forgetting what ambitions this manmight himself have. And we have loosed a demon upon the earth, a fiendinexplicable to common humanity. I have plumbed deep in evil, but thereis a limit to which I, or any man of my race and age, can go. Myancestors were clean men, without any demoniacal taint; it is only I whohave sunk into the pits, and I can sin only to the extent of my personalindividuality. But behind Xaltotun lie a thousand centuries of blackmagic and diabolism, an ancient tradition of evil. He is beyond ourconception not only because he is a wizard himself, but also because heis the son of a race of wizards.
'I have
seen things that have blasted my soul. In the heart of theslumbering hills I have watched Xaltotun commune with the souls of thedamned, and invoke the ancient demons of forgotten Acheron. I have seenthe accursed descendants of that accursed empire worship him and hailhim as their arch-priest. I have seen what he plots--and I tell you itis no less than the restoration of the ancient, black, grisly kingdom ofAcheron!'
'What do you mean?' demanded Amalric. 'Acheron is dust. There are notenough survivals to make an empire. Not even Xaltotun can reshape thedust of three thousand years.'
'You know little of his black powers,' answered Orastes grimly. 'I haveseen the very hills take on an alien and ancient aspect under the spellof his incantations. I have glimpsed, like shadows behind the realities,the dim shapes and outlines of valleys, forests, mountains and lakesthat are not as they are today, but as they were in that dimyesterday--have even sensed, rather than glimpsed, the purple towers offorgotten Python shimmering like figures of mist in the dusk.
'And in the last conclave to which I accompanied him, understanding ofhis sorcery came to me at last, while the drums beat and the beast-likeworshippers howled with their heads in the dust. I tell you he wouldrestore Acheron by his magic, by the sorcery of a giganticblood-sacrifice such as the world has never seen. He would enslave theworld, and with a deluge of blood _wash away the present and restore thepast_!'
'You are mad!' exclaimed Tarascus.
'Mad?' Orastes turned a haggard stare upon him. 'Can any man see what Ihave seen and remain wholly sane? Yet I speak the truth. He plots thereturn of Acheron, with its towers and wizards and kings and horrors, asit was in the long ago. The descendants of Acheron will serve him as anucleus upon which to build, but it is the blood and the bodies of thepeople of the world today that will furnish the mortar and the stonesfor the rebuilding. I cannot tell you how. My own brain reels when I tryto understand. _But I have seen!_ Acheron will be Acheron again, andeven the hills, the forests and the rivers will resume their ancientaspect. Why not? If I, with my tiny store of knowledge, could bring tolife a man dead three thousand years, why cannot the greatest wizard ofthe world bring back to life a kingdom dead three thousand years? Out ofthe dust shall Acheron arise at his bidding.'
'How can we thwart him?' asked Tarascus, impressed.
'There is but one way,' answered Orastes. 'We must steal the Heart ofAhriman!'
'But I--' began Tarascus involuntarily, then closed his mouth quickly.
None had noticed him, and Orastes was continuing.
'It is a power that can be used against him. With it in my hands I mightdefy him. But how shall we steal it? He has it hidden in some secretplace, from which not even a Zamorian thief might filch it. I cannotlearn its hiding-place. If he would only sleep again the sleep of theblack lotus--but the last time he slept thus was after the battle of theValkia, when he was weary because of the great magic he had performed,and--'
The door was locked and bolted, but it swung silently open and Xaltotunstood before them, calm, tranquil, stroking his patriarchal beard; butthe lambent lights of hell flickered in his eyes.
'I have taught you too much,' he said calmly, pointing a finger like anindex of doom at Orastes. And before any could move, he had cast ahandful of dust on the floor near the feet of the priest, who stood likea man turned to marble. It flamed, smoldered; a blue serpentine of smokerose and swayed upward about Orastes in a slender spiral. And when ithad risen above his shoulders it curled about his neck with a whippingsuddenness like the stroke of a snake. Orastes' scream was choked to agurgle. His hands flew to his neck, his eyes were distended, his tongueprotruded. The smoke was like a blue rope about his neck; then it fadedand was gone, and Orastes slumped to the floor a dead man.
Xaltotun smote his hands together and two men entered, men oftenobserved accompanying him--small, repulsively dark, with red, obliqueeyes and pointed, rat-like teeth. They did not speak. Lifting thecorpse, they bore it away.
Dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand, Xaltotun seated himselfat the ivory table about which sat the pale kings.
'Why are you in conclave?' he demanded.
'The Aquilonians have risen in the west,' answered Amalric, recoveringfrom the grisly jolt the death of Orastes had given him. 'The foolsbelieve that Conan is alive, and coming at the head of a Poitanian armyto reclaim his kingdom. If he had reappeared immediately after Valkia,or if a rumor had been circulated that he lived, the central provinceswould not have risen under him, they feared your powers so. But theyhave become so desperate under Valerius' misrule that they are ready tofollow any man who can unite them against us, and prefer sudden death totorture and continual misery.
'Of course the tale has lingered stubbornly in the land that Conan wasnot really slain at Valkia, but not until recently have the massesaccepted it. But Pallantides is back from exile in Ophir, swearing thatthe king was ill in his tent that day, and that a man-at-arms wore hisharness, and a squire who but recently recovered from the stroke of amace received at Valkia confirms his tale--or pretends to.
'An old woman with a pet wolf has wandered up and down the land,proclaiming that King Conan yet lives, and will return some day toreclaim the crown. And of late the cursed priests of Asura sing the samesong. They claim that word has come to them by some mysterious meansthat Conan is returning to reconquer his domain. I cannot catch eitherher or them. This is, of course, a trick of Trocero's. My spies tell methere is indisputable evidence that the Poitanians are gathering toinvade Aquilonia. I believe that Trocero will bring forward somepretender who he will claim is King Conan.'
Tarascus laughed, but there was no conviction in his laughter. Hesurreptitiously felt of a scar beneath his jupon, and remembered ravensthat cawed on the trail of a fugitive; remembered the body of hissquire, Arideus, brought back from the border mountains horriblymangled, by a great gray wolf, his terrified soldiers said. But he alsoremembered a red jewel stolen from a golden chest while a wizard slept,and he said nothing.
And Valerius remembered a dying nobleman who gasped out a tale of fear,and he remembered four Khitans who disappeared into the mazes of thesouth and never returned. But he held his tongue, for hatred andsuspicion of his allies ate at him like a worm, and he desired nothingso much as to see both rebels and Nemedians go down locked in the deathgrip.
But Amalric exclaimed: 'It is absurd to dream that Conan lives!'
For answer Xaltotun cast a roll of parchment on the table.
Amalric caught it up, glared at it. From his lips burst a furious,incoherent cry. He read:
_To Xaltotun, grand fakir of Nemedia: Dog of Acheron, I am returning to my kingdom, and I mean to hang your hide on a bramble._
Conan
'A forgery!' exclaimed Amalric.
Xaltotun shook his head.
'It is genuine. I have compared it with the signature on the royaldocuments on record in the libraries of the court. None could imitatethat bold scrawl.'
'Then if Conan lives,' muttered Amalric, 'this uprising will not be likethe others, for he is the only man living who can unite the Aquilonians.But,' he protested, 'this is not like Conan. Why should he put us on ourguard with his boasting? One would think that he would strike withoutwarning, after the fashion of the barbarians.'
'We are already warned,' pointed out Xaltotun. 'Our spies have told usof preparations for war in Poitain. He could not cross the mountainswithout our knowledge; so he sends me his defiance in characteristicmanner.'
'Why to you?' demanded Valerius. 'Why not to me, or to Tarascus?'
Xaltotun turned his inscrutable gaze upon the king.
'Conan is wiser than you,' he said at last. 'He already knows what youkings have yet to learn--that it is not Tarascus, nor Valerius, no, norAmalric, but Xaltotun who is the real master of the western nations.'
They did not reply; they sat staring at him, assailed by a numbingrealization of the truth of his assertion.
'There is no road for me but the imperial highway,' said Xaltot
un. 'Butfirst we must crush Conan. I do not know how he escaped me at Belverus,for knowledge of what happened while I lay in the slumber of the blacklotus is denied me. But he is in the south, gathering an army. It is hislast, desperate blow, made possible only by the desperation of thepeople who have suffered under Valerius. Let them rise; I hold them allin the palm of my hand. We will wait until he moves against us, and thenwe will crush him once and for all.
'Then we shall crush Poitain and Gunderland and the stupid Bossonians.After them Ophir, Argos, Zingara, Koth--all the nations of the world weshall weld into one vast empire. You shall rule as my satraps, and as mycaptains shall be greater than kings are now. I am unconquerable, forthe Heart of Ahriman is hidden where no man can ever wield it against meagain.'
Tarascus averted his gaze, lest Xaltotun read his thoughts. He knew thewizard had not looked into the golden chest with its carven serpentsthat had seemed to sleep, since he laid the Heart therein. Strange as itseemed, Xaltotun did not know that the heart had been stolen; thestrange jewel was beyond or outside the ring of his dark wisdom; hisuncanny talents did not warn him that the chest was empty. Tarascus didnot believe that Xaltotun knew the full extent of Orastes' revelations,for the Pythonian had not mentioned the restoration of Acheron, but onlythe building of a new, earthly empire. Tarascus did not believe thatXaltotun was yet quite sure of his power; if they needed his aid intheir ambitions, no less he needed theirs. Magic depended, to a certainextent after all, on sword strokes and lance thrusts. The king readmeaning in Amalric's furtive glance; let the wizard use his arts to helpthem defeat their most dangerous enemy. Time enough then to turn againsthim. There might yet be a way to cheat this dark power they had raised.