21
Drums of Peril
Confirmation of the war came when the army of Poitain, ten thousandstrong, marched through the southern passes with waving banners andshimmer of steel. And at their head, the spies swore, rode a giantfigure in black armor, with the royal lion of Aquilonia worked in goldupon the breast of his rich silken surcoat. Conan lived! The king lived!There was no doubt of it in men's minds now, whether friend or foe.
With the news of the invasion from the south there also came word,brought by hard-riding couriers, that a host of Gundermen was movingsouthward, reinforced by the barons of the northwest and the northernBossonians. Tarascus marched with thirty-one thousand men to Galparan,on the river Shirki, which the Gundermen must cross to strike at thetowns still held by the Nemedians. The Shirki was a swift, turbulentriver rushing southwestward through rocky gorges and canyons, and therewere few places where an army could cross at that time of the year, whenthe stream was almost bank-full with the melting of the snows. All thecountry east of the Shirki was in the hands of the Nemedians, and it waslogical to assume that the Gundermen would attempt to cross either atGalparan, or at Tanasul, which lay to the south of Galparan.Reinforcements were daily expected from Nemedia, until word came thatthe king of Ophir was making hostile demonstrations on Nemedia'ssouthern border, and to spare any more troops would be to expose Nemediato the risk of an invasion from the south.
Amalric and Valerius moved out from Tarantia with twenty-five thousandmen, leaving as large a garrison as they dared to discourage revolts inthe cities during their absence. They wished to meet and crush Conanbefore he could be joined by the rebellious forces of the kingdom.
The king and his Poitanians had crossed the mountains, but there hadbeen no actual clash of arms, no attack on towns or fortresses. Conanhad appeared and disappeared. Apparently he had turned westward throughthe wild, thinly settled hill country, and entered the Bossonianmarches, gathering recruits as he went. Amalric and Valerius with theirhost, Nemedians, Aquilonian renegades, and ferocious mercenaries, movedthrough the land in baffled wrath, looking for a foe which did notappear.
Amalric found it impossible to obtain more than vague general tidingsabout Conan's movements. Scouting-parties had a way of riding out andnever returning, and it was not uncommon to find a spy crucified to anoak. The countryside was up and striking as peasants and country-folkstrike--savagely, murderously and secretly. All that Amalric knewcertainly was that a large force of Gundermen and northern Bossonianswas somewhere to the north of him, beyond the Shirki, and that Conanwith a smaller force of Poitanians and southern Bossonians was somewhereto the southwest of him.
He began to grow fearful that if he and Valerius advanced further intothe wild country, Conan might elude them entirely, march around them andinvade the central provinces behind them. Amalric fell back from theShirki valley and camped in a plain a day's ride from Tanasul. There hewaited. Tarascus maintained his position at Galparan, for he feared thatConan's maneuvers were intended to draw him southward, and so let theGundermen into the kingdom at the northern crossing.
* * * * *
To Amalric's camp came Xaltotun in his chariot drawn by the uncannyhorses that never tired, and he entered Amalric's tent where the baronconferred with Valerius over a map spread on an ivory camp table.
This map Xaltotun crumpled and flung aside.
'What your scouts cannot learn for you,' quoth he, 'my spies tell me,though their information is strangely blurred and imperfect, as ifunseen forces were working against me.
'Conan is advancing along the Shirki river with ten thousand Poitanians,three thousand southern Bossonians, and barons of the west and southwith their retainers to the number of five thousand. An army of thirtythousand Gundermen and northern Bossonians is pushing southward to joinhim. They have established contact by means of secret communicationsused by the cursed priests of Asura, who seem to be opposing me, andwhom I will feed to a serpent when the battle is over--I swear it bySet!
'Both armies are headed for the crossing at Tanasul, but I do notbelieve that the Gundermen will cross the river. I believe that Conanwill cross, instead, and join them.'
'Why should Conan cross the river?'
'Because it is to his advantage to delay the battle. The longer hewaits, the stronger he will become, the more precarious our position.The hills on the other side of the river swarm with people passionatelyloyal to his cause--broken men, refugees, fugitives from Valerius'cruelty. From all over the kingdom men are hurrying to join his army,singly and by companies. Daily, parties from our armies are ambushed andcut to pieces by the country-folk. Revolt grows in the centralprovinces, and will soon burst into open rebellion. The garrisons weleft there are not sufficient, and we can hope for no reinforcementsfrom Nemedia for the time being. I see the hand of Pallantides in thisbrawling on the Ophirean frontier. He has kin in Ophir.
'If we do not catch and crush Conan quickly the provinces will be in ablaze of revolt behind us. We shall have to fall back to Tarantia todefend what we have taken; and we may have to fight our way through acountry in rebellion, with Conan's whole force at our heels, and thenstand siege in the city itself, with enemies within as well as without.No, we cannot wait. We must crush Conan before his army grows too great,before the central provinces rise. With his head hanging above the gateat Tarantia you will see how quickly the rebellion will fall apart.'
'Why do you not put a spell on his army to slay them all?' askedValerius, half in mockery.
Xaltotun stared at the Aquilonian as if he read the full extent of themocking madness that lurked in those wayward eyes.
'Do not worry,' he said at last. 'My arts shall crush Conan finally likea lizard under the heel. But even sorcery is aided by pikes and swords.'
'If he crosses the river and takes up his position in the Goralian hillshe may be hard to dislodge,' said Amalric. 'But if we catch him in thevalley on this side of the river we can wipe him out. How far is Conanfrom Tanasul?'
'At the rate he is marching he should reach the crossing sometimetomorrow night. His men are rugged and he is pushing them hard. Heshould arrive there at least a day before the Gundermen.'
'Good!' Amalric smote the table with his clenched fist. 'I can reachTanasul before he can. I'll send a rider to Tarascus, bidding him followme to Tanasul. By the time he arrives I will have cut Conan off from thecrossing and destroyed him. Then our combined force can cross the riverand deal with the Gundermen.'
Xaltotun shook his head impatiently.
'A good enough plan if you were dealing with anyone but Conan. But yourtwenty-five thousand men are not enough to destroy his eighteen thousandbefore the Gundermen come up. They will fight with the desperation ofwounded panthers. And suppose the Gundermen come up while the hosts arelocked in battle? You will be caught between two fires and destroyedbefore Tarascus can arrive. He will reach Tanasul too late to aid you.'
'What then?' demanded Amalric.
'Move with your whole strength against Conan,' answered the man fromAcheron. 'Send a rider bidding Tarascus join us here. We will wait hiscoming. Then we will march together to Tanasul.'
'But while we wait,' protested Amalric, 'Conan will cross the river andjoin the Gundermen.'
'Conan will not cross the river,' answered Xaltotun.
Amalric's head jerked up and he stared into the cryptic dark eyes.
'What do you mean?'
'Suppose there were torrential rains far to the north, at the head ofthe Shirki? Suppose the river came down in such flood as to render thecrossing at Tanasul impassable? Could we not then bring up our entireforce at our leisure, catch Conan on this side of the river and crushhim, and then, when the flood subsided, which I think it would do thenext day, could we not cross the river and destroy the Gundermen? Thuswe could use our full strength against each of these smaller forces inturn.'
Valerius laughed as he always laughed at the prospect of the ruin ofeither friend or foe, and drew a restless hand
jerkily through hisunruly yellow locks. Amalric stared at the man from Acheron with mingledfear and admiration.
'If we caught Conan in Shirki valley with the hill ridges to his rightand the river in flood to his left,' he admitted, 'with our whole forcewe could annihilate him. Do you think--are you sure--do you believe suchrains will fall?'
'I go to my tent,' answered Xaltotun, rising. 'Necromancy is notaccomplished by the waving of a wand. Send a rider to Tarascus. And letnone approach my tent.'
That last command was unnecessary. No man in that host could have beenbribed to approach that mysterious black silken pavilion, the door-flapsof which were always closely drawn. None but Xaltotun ever entered it,yet voices were often heard issuing from it; its walls billowedsometimes without a wind, and weird music came from it. Sometimes, deepin midnight, its silken walls were lit red by flames flickering within,limning misshapen silhouettes that passed to and fro.
Lying in his own tent that night, Amalric heard the steady rumble of adrum in Xaltotun's tent; through the darkness it boomed steadily, andoccasionally the Nemedian could have sworn that a deep, croaking voicemingled with the pulse of the drum. And he shuddered, for he knew thatvoice was not the voice of Xaltotun. The drum rustled and muttered onlike deep thunder, heard afar off, and before dawn Amalric glancing fromhis tent, caught the red flicker of lightning afar on the northernhorizon. In all other parts of the sky the great stars blazed whitely.But the distant lightning flickered incessantly, like the crimson glintof firelight on a tiny, turning blade.
* * * * *
At sunset of the next day Tarascus came up with his host, dusty andweary from hard marching, the footmen straggling hours behind thehorsemen. They camped in the plain near Amalric's camp, and at dawn thecombined army moved westward.
Ahead of him roved a swarm of scouts, and Amalric waited impatiently forthem to return and tell of the Poitanians trapped beside a furiousflood. But when the scouts met the column it was with the news thatConan had crossed the river!
'What?' exclaimed Amalric. 'Did he cross before the flood?'
'There was no flood,' answered the scouts, puzzled. 'Late last night hecame up to Tanasul and flung his army across.'
'No flood?' exclaimed Xaltotun, taken aback for the first time inAmalric's knowledge. 'Impossible! There were mighty rains upon theheadwaters of the Shirki last night and the night before that!'
'That may be your lordship,' answered the scout. 'It is true the waterwas muddy, and the people of Tanasul said that the river rose perhaps afoot yesterday; but that was not enough to prevent Conan's crossing.'
Xaltotun's sorcery had failed! The thought hammered in Amalric's brain.His horror of this strange man out of the past had grown steadily sincethat night in Belverus when he had seen a brown, shriveled mummy swelland grow into a living man. And the death of Orastes had changed lurkinghorror into active fear. In his heart was a grisly conviction that theman--or devil--was invincible. Yet now he had undeniable proof of hisfailure.
Yet even the greatest of necromancers might fail occasionally, thoughtthe baron. At any rate, he dared not oppose the man from Acheron--yet.Orastes was dead, writhing in Mitra only knew what nameless hell, andAmalric knew his sword would scarcely prevail where the black wisdom ofthe renegade priest had failed. What grisly abomination Xaltotun plottedlay in the unpredictable future. Conan and his host were a presentmenace against which Xaltotun's wizardry might well be needed before theplay was all played.
* * * * *
They came to Tanasul, a small fortified village at the spot where a reefof rocks made a natural bridge across the river, passable always exceptin times of greatest flood. Scouts brought in the news that Conan hadtaken up his position in the Goralian hills, which began to rise a fewmiles beyond the river. And just before sundown the Gundermen hadarrived in his camp.
Amalric looked at Xaltotun, inscrutable and alien in the light of theflaring torches. Night had fallen.
'What now? Your magic has failed. Conan confronts us with an army nearlyas strong as our own, and he has the advantage of position. We have achoice of two evils: to camp here and await his attack, or to fall backtoward Tarantia and await reinforcements.'
'We are ruined if we wait,' answered Xaltotun. 'Cross the river and campon the plain. We will attack at dawn.'
'But his position is too strong!' exclaimed Amalric.
'Fool!' A gust of passion broke the veneer of the wizard's calm. 'Haveyou forgotten Valkia? Because some obscure elemental principle preventedthe flood do you deem me helpless? I had intended that your spearsshould exterminate our enemies; but do not fear: it is my arts thatshall crush their host. Conan is in a trap. He will never see anothersun set. Cross the river!'
They crossed by the flare of torches. The hoofs of the horses clinked onthe rocky bridge, splashed through the shallows. The glint of thetorches on shields and breast-plates was reflected redly in the blackwater. The rock bridge was broad on which they crossed, but even so itwas past midnight before the host was camped in the plain beyond. Abovethem they could see fires winking redly in the distance. Conan hadturned at bay in the Goralian hills, which had more than once beforeserved as the last stand of an Aquilonian king.
Amalric left his pavilion and strode restlessly through the camp. Aweird glow flickered in Xaltotun's tent, and from time to time ademoniacal cry slashed the silence, and there was a low sinistermuttering of a drum that rustled rather than rumbled.
Amalric, his instincts whetted by the night and the circumstances, feltthat Xaltotun was opposed by more than physical force. Doubts of thewizard's power assailed him. He glanced at the fires high above him, andhis face set in grim lines. He and his army were deep in the midst of ahostile country. Up there among those hills lurked thousands of wolfishfigures out of whose hearts and souls all emotion and hope had beenscourged except a frenzied hate for their conquerors, a mad lust forvengeance. Defeat meant annihilation, retreat through a land swarmingwith blood-mad enemies. And on the morrow he must hurl his host againstthe grimmest fighter in the western nations, and his desperate horde. IfXaltotun failed them now--
Half a dozen men-at-arms strode out of the shadows. The firelightglinted on their breast-plates and helmet crests. Among them they halfled, half dragged a gaunt figure in tattered rags.
Saluting, they spoke: 'My lord, this man came to the outposts and saidhe desired word with King Valerius. He is an Aquilonian.'
He looked more like a wolf--a wolf the traps had scarred. Old sores thatonly fetters make showed on his wrists and ankles. A great brand, themark of hot iron, disfigured his face. His eyes glared through thetangle of his matted hair as he half crouched before the baron.
'Who are you, you filthy dog?' demanded the Nemedian.
'Call me Tiberias,' answered the man, and his teeth clicked in aninvoluntary spasm. 'I have come to tell you how to trap Conan.'
'A traitor, eh?' rumbled the baron.
'Men say you have gold,' mouthed the man, shivering under his rags.'Give some to me! Give me gold and I will show you how to defeat theking!' His eyes glazed widely, his outstretched, upturned hands werespread like quivering claws.
Amalric shrugged his shoulder in distaste. But no tool was too base forhis use.
'If you speak the truth you shall have more gold than you can carry,' hesaid. 'If you are a liar and a spy I will have you crucified head-down.Bring him along.'
In the tent of Valerius, the baron pointed to the man who crouchedshivering before them, huddling his rags about him.
'He says he knows a way to aid us on the morrow. We will need aid, ifXaltotun's plan is no better than it has proved so far. Speak on, dog.'
The man's body writhed in strange convulsions. Words came in a stumblingrush:
'Conan camps at the head of the Valley of Lions. It is shaped like afan, with steep hills on either side. If you attack him tomorrow youwill have to march straight up the valley. You cannot climb the hills oneither side
. But if King Valerius will deign to accept my service, Iwill guide him through the hills and show him how he can come upon KingConan from behind. But if it is to be done at all, we must start soon.It is many hours' riding, for one must go miles to the west, then milesto the north, then turn eastward and so come into the Valley of Lionsfrom behind, as the Gundermen came.'
Amalric hesitated, tugging his chin. In these chaotic times it was notrare to find men willing to sell their souls for a few gold pieces.
'If you lead me astray you will die,' said Valerius. 'You are aware ofthat, are you not?'
The man shivered, but his wide eyes did not waver.
'If I betray you, slay me!'
'Conan will not dare divide his force,' mused Amalric. 'He will need allhis men to repel our attack. He cannot spare any to lay ambushes in thehills. Besides, this fellow knows his hide depends on his leading you ashe promised. Would a dog like him sacrifice himself? Nonsense! No,Valerius, I believe the man is honest.'
'Or a greater thief than most, for he would sell his liberator,' laughedValerius. 'Very well. I will follow the dog. How many men can you spareme?'
'Five thousand should be enough,' answered Amalric. 'A surprise attackon their rear will throw them into confusion, and that will be enough. Ishall expect your attack about noon.'
'You will know when I strike,' answered Valerius.
As Amalric returned to his pavilion he noted with gratification thatXaltotun was still in his tent, to judge from the blood-freezing criesthat shuddered forth into the night air from time to time. Whenpresently he heard the clink of steel and the jingle of bridles in theouter darkness, he smiled grimly. Valerius had about served his purpose.The baron knew that Conan was like a wounded lion that rends and tearseven in his death-throes. When Valerius struck from the rear, thedesperate strokes of the Cimmerian might well wipe his rival out ofexistence before he himself succumbed. So much the better. Amalric felthe could well dispense with Valerius, once he had paved the way for aNemedian victory.
* * * * *
The five thousand horsemen who accompanied Valerius were hard-bittenAquilonian renegades for the most part. In the still starlight theymoved out of the sleeping camp, following the westward trend of thegreat black masses that rose against the stars ahead of them. Valeriusrode at their head, and beside him rode Tiberias, a leather thong abouthis wrist gripped by a man-at-arms who rode on the other side of him.Others kept close behind with drawn swords.
'Play us false and you die instantly,' Valerius pointed out. 'I do notknow every sheep-path in these hills, but I know enough about thegeneral configuration of the country to know the directions we must taketo come in behind the Valley of Lions. See that you do not lead usastray.'
The man ducked his head and his teeth chattered as he volubly assuredhis captor of his loyalty, staring up stupidly at the banner thatfloated over him, the golden serpent of the old dynasty.
Skirting the extremities of the hills that locked the Valley of Lions,they swung wide to the west. An hour's ride and they turned north,forging through wild and rugged hills, following dim trails and tortuouspaths. Sunrise found them some miles northwest of Conan's position, andhere the guide turned eastward and led them through a maze of labyrinthsand crags. Valerius nodded, judging their position by various peaksthrusting up above the others. He had kept his bearings in a generalway, and he knew they were still headed in the right direction.
But now, without warning, a gray fleecy mass came billowing down fromthe north, veiling the slopes, spreading out through the valleys. Itblotted out the sun; the world became a blind gray void in whichvisibility was limited to a matter of yards. Advance became a stumbling,groping muddle. Valerius cursed. He could no longer see the peaks thathad served him as guide-posts. He must depend wholly upon the traitorousguide. The golden serpent drooped in the windless air.
Presently Tiberias seemed himself confused; he halted, stared aboutuncertainly.
'Are you lost, dog?' demanded Valerius harshly.
'Listen!'
Somewhere ahead of them a faint vibration began, the rhythmic rumble ofa drum.
'Conan's drum!' exclaimed the Aquilonian.
'If we are close enough to hear the drum,' said Valerius, 'why do we nothear the shouts and the clang of arms? Surely battle has joined.'
'The gorges and the winds play strange tricks,' answered Tiberias, histeeth chattering with the ague that is frequently the lot of men whohave spent much time in damp underground dungeons.
'Listen!'
Faintly to their ears came a low muffled roar.
'They are fighting down in the valley!' cried Tiberias. 'The drum isbeating on the heights. Let us hasten!'
He rode straight on toward the sound of the distant drum as one whoknows his ground at last. Valerius followed, cursing the fog. Then itoccurred to him that it would mask his advance. Conan could not see himcoming. He would be at the Cimmerian's back before the noonday sundispelled the mists.
Just now he could not tell what lay on either hand, whether cliffs,thickets or gorges. The drum throbbed unceasingly, growing louder asthey advanced, but they heard no more of the battle. Valerius had noidea toward what point of the compass they were headed. He started as hesaw gray rock walls looming through the smoky drifts on either hand, andrealized that they were riding through a narrow defile. But the guideshowed no sign of nervousness, and Valerius hove a sigh of relief whenthe walls widened out and became invisible in the fog. They were throughthe defile; if an ambush had been planned, it would have been made inthat pass.
But now Tiberias halted again. The drum was rumbling louder, andValerius could not determine from what direction the sound was coming.Now it seemed ahead of him, now behind, now on one hand or the other.Valerius glared about him impatiently, sitting on his war-horse withwisps of mist curling about him and the moisture gleaming on his armor.Behind him the long lines of steel-clad riders faded away and away likephantoms into the mist.
'Why do you tarry, dog?' he demanded.
The man seemed to be listening to the ghostly drum. Slowly hestraightened in his saddle, turned his head and faced Valerius, and thesmile on his lips was terrible to see.
'The fog is thinning, Valerius,' he said in a new voice, pointing a bonyfinger. 'Look!'
The drum was silent. The fog was fading away. First the crests of cliffscame in sight above the gray clouds, tall and spectral. Lower and lowercrawled the mists, shrinking, fading. Valerius started up in hisstirrups with a cry that the horsemen echoed behind him. On all sides ofthem the cliffs towered. They were not in a wide, open valley as he hadsupposed. They were in a blind gorge walled by sheer cliffs hundreds offeet high. The only entrance or exit was that narrow defile throughwhich they had ridden.
'Dog!' Valerius struck Tiberias full in the mouth with his clenchedmailed hand. 'What devil's trick is this?'
Tiberias spat out a mouthful of blood and shook with fearful laughter.
'A trick that shall rid the world of a beast! Look, dog!'
Again Valerius cried out, more in fury than in fear.
The defile was blocked by a wild and terrible band of men who stoodsilent as images--ragged, shock-headed men with spears in theirhands--hundreds of them. And up on the cliffs appeared otherfaces--thousands of faces--wild, gaunt, ferocious faces, marked by fireand steel and starvation.
'A trick of Conan's!' raged Valerius.
'Conan knows nothing of it,' laughed Tiberias. 'It was the plot ofbroken men, of men you ruined and turned to beasts. Amalric was right.Conan has not divided his army. We are the rabble who followed him, thewolves who skulked in these hills, the homeless men, the hopeless men.This was our plan, and the priests of Asura aided us with their mist.Look at them, Valerius! Each bears the mark of your hand, on his body oron his heart!
'Look at me! You do not know me, do you, what of this scar your hangmanburned upon me? Once you knew me. Once I was lord of Amilius, the manwhose sons you murdered, whose daughter your merc
enaries ravished andslew. You said I would not sacrifice myself to trap you? Almighty gods,if I had a thousand lives I would give them all to buy your doom!
'And I have bought it! Look on the men you broke, dead men who onceplayed the king! Their hour has come! This gorge is your tomb. Try toclimb the cliffs: they are steep, they are high. Try to fight your wayback through the defile: spears will block your path, boulders willcrush you from above! Dog! I will be waiting for you in hell!'
Throwing back his head he laughed until the rocks rang. Valerius leanedfrom his saddle and slashed down with his great sword, severingshoulder-bone and breast. Tiberias sank to the earth, still laughingghastily through a gurgle of gushing blood.
The drums had begun again, encircling the gorge with guttural thunder;boulders came crashing down; above the screams of dying men shrilled thearrows in blinding clouds from the cliffs.
22
The Road to Acheron
Dawn was just whitening the east when Amalric drew up his hosts in themouth of the Valley of Lions. This valley was flanked by low, rollingbut steep hills, and the floor pitched upward in a series of irregularnatural terraces. On the uppermost of these terraces Conan's army heldits position, awaiting the attack. The host that had joined him,marching down from Gunderland, had not been composed exclusively ofspearmen. With them had come seven thousand Bossonian archers, and fourthousand barons and their retainers of the north and west, swelling theranks of his cavalry.
The pikemen were drawn up in a compact wedge-shaped formation at thenarrow head of the valley. There were nineteen thousand of them, mostlyGundermen, though some four thousand were Aquilonians of otherprovinces. They were flanked on either hand by five thousand Bossonianarchers. Behind the ranks of the pikemen the knights sat their steedsmotionless, lances raised: ten thousand knights of Poitain, ninethousand Aquilonians, barons and their retainers.
It was a strong position. His flanks could not be turned, for that wouldmean climbing the steep, wooded hills in the teeth of the arrows andswords of the Bossonians. His camp lay directly behind him, in a narrow,steep-walled valley which was indeed merely a continuation of the Valleyof Lions, pitching up at a higher level. He did not fear a surprise fromthe rear, because the hills behind him were full of refugees and brokenmen whose loyalty to him was beyond question.
But if his position was hard to shake, it was equally hard to escapefrom. It was a trap as well as a fortress for the defenders, a desperatelast stand of men who did not expect to survive unless they werevictorious. The only line of retreat possible was through the narrowvalley at their rear.
* * * * *
Xaltotun mounted a hill on the left side of the valley, near the widemouth. This hill rose higher than the others, and was known as theKing's Altar, for a reason long forgotten. Only Xaltotun knew, and hismemory dated back three thousand years.
He was not alone. His two familiars, silent, hairy, furtive and dark,were with him, and they bore a young Aquilonian girl, bound hand andfoot. They laid her on an ancient stone, which was curiously like analtar, and which crowned the summit of the hill. For long centuries ithad stood there, worn by the elements until many doubted that it wasanything but a curiously shapen natural rock. But what it was, and whyit stood there, Xaltotun remembered from of old. The familiars wentaway, with their bent backs like silent gnomes, and Xaltotun stood alonebeside the altar, his dark beard blown in the wind, overlooking thevalley.
He could see clear back to the winding Shirki, and up into the hillsbeyond the head of the valley. He could see the gleaming wedge of steeldrawn up at the head of the terraces, the burganets of the archersglinting among the rocks and bushes, the silent knights motionless ontheir steeds, their pennons flowing above their helmets, their lancesrising in a bristling thicket.
Looking in the other direction he could see the long serried lines ofthe Nemedians moving in ranks of shining steel into the mouth of thevalley. Behind them the gay pavilions of the lords and knights and thedrab tents of the common soldiers stretched back almost to the river.
Like a river of molten steel the Nemedian host flowed into the valley,the great scarlet dragon rippling over it. First marched the bowmen, ineven ranks, arbalests half raised, bolts nocked, fingers on triggers.After them came the pikemen, and behind them the real strength of thearmy--the mounted knights, their banners unfurled to the wind, theirlances lifted, walking their great steeds forward as if they rode to abanquet.
And higher up on the slopes the smaller Aquilonian host stood grimlysilent.
There were thirty thousand Nemedian knights, and, as in most Hyboriannations, it was the chivalry which was the sword of the army. Thefootmen were used only to clear the way for a charge of the armoredknights. There were twenty-one thousand of these, pikemen and archers.
The bowmen began loosing as they advanced, without breaking ranks,launching their quarrels with a whir and tang. But the bolts fell shortor rattled harmlessly from the overlapping shields of the Gundermen. Andbefore the arbalesters could come within killing range, the archingshafts of the Bossonians were wreaking havoc in their ranks.
A little of this, a futile attempt at exchanging fire, and the Nemedianbowmen began falling back in disorder. Their armor was light, theirweapons no match for the Bossonian longbows. The western archers weresheltered by bushes and rocks. Moreover, the Nemedian footmen lackedsomething of the morale of the horsemen, knowing as they did that theywere being used merely to clear the way for the knights.
The cross-bowmen fell back, and between their opening lines the pikemenadvanced. These were largely mercenaries, and their masters had nocompunction about sacrificing them. They were intended to mask theadvance of the knights until the latter were within smiting distance. Sowhile the arbalesters plied their bolts from either flank at long range,the pikemen marched into the teeth of the blast from above, and behindthem the knights came on.
When the pikemen began to falter beneath the savage hail of death thatwhistled down the slopes among them, a trumpet blew, their companiesdivided to right and left, and through them the mailed knightsthundered.
They ran full into a cloud of stinging death. The clothyard shafts foundevery crevice in their armor and the housings of the steeds. Horsesscrambling up the grassy terraces reared and plunged backward, bearingtheir riders with them. Steel-clad forms littered the slopes. The chargewavered and ebbed back.
Back down in the valley Amalric reformed his ranks. Tarascus wasfighting with drawn sword under the scarlet dragon, but it was the baronof Tor who commanded that day. Amalric swore as he glanced at the forestof lance-tips visible above and beyond the head-pieces of the Gundermen.He had hoped his retirement would draw the knights out in a charge downthe slopes after him, to be raked from either flank by his bowmen andswamped by the numbers of his horsemen. But they had not moved.Camp-servants brought skins of water from the river. Knights doffedtheir helmets and drenched their sweating heads. The wounded on theslopes screamed vainly for water. In the upper valley, springs suppliedthe defenders. They did not thirst that long, hot spring day.
On the King's Altar, beside the ancient, carven stone, Xaltotun watchedthe steel tide ebb and flow. On came the knights, with waving plumes anddipping lances. Through a whistling cloud of arrows they plowed to breaklike a thundering wave on the bristling wall of spears and shields. Axesrose and fell above the plumed helmets, spears thrust upward, bringingdown horses and riders. The pride of the Gundermen was no less fiercethan that of the knights. They were not spear-fodder, to be sacrificedfor the glory of better men. They were the finest infantry in the world,with a tradition that made their morale unshakable. The kings ofAquilonia had long learned the worth of unbreakable infantry. They heldtheir formation unshaken; over their gleaming ranks flowed the greatlion banner, and at the tip of the wedge a giant figure in black armorroared and smote like a hurricane, with a dripping ax that split steeland bone alike.
The Nemedians fought as gallantly as their traditions of high couraged
emanded. But they could not break the iron wedge, and from the woodedknolls on either hand arrows raked their close-packed ranks mercilessly.Their own bowmen were useless, their pikemen unable to climb the heightsand come to grips with the Bossonians. Slowly, stubbornly, sullenly, thegrim knights fell back, counting their empty saddles. Above them theGundermen made no outcry of triumph. They closed their ranks, locking upthe gaps made by the fallen. Sweat ran into their eyes from under theirsteel caps. They gripped their spears and waited, their fierce heartsswelling with pride that a king should fight on foot with them. Behindthem the Aquilonian knights had not moved. They sat their steeds, grimlyimmobile.
A knight spurred a sweating horse up the hill called the King's Altar,and glared at Xaltotun with bitter eyes.
'Amalric bids me say that it is time to use your magic, wizard,' hesaid. 'We are dying like flies down there in the valley. We cannot breaktheir ranks.'
Xaltotun seemed to expand, to grow tall and awesome and terrible.
'Return to Amalric,' he said. 'Tell him to re-form his ranks for acharge, but to await my signal. Before that signal is given he will seea sight that he will remember until he lies dying!'
The knight saluted as if compelled against his will, and thundered downthe hill at breakneck pace.
Xaltotun stood beside the dark altar-stone and stared across the valley,at the dead and wounded men on the terraces, at the grim, blood-stainedband at the head of the slopes, at the dusty, steel-clad ranks reformingin the vale below. He glanced up at the sky, and he glanced down at theslim white figure on the dark stone. And lifting a dagger inlaid witharchaic hieroglyphs, he intoned an immemorial invocation:
'Set, god of darkness, scaly lord of the shadows, by the blood of avirgin and the sevenfold symbol I call to your sons below the blackearth! Children of the deeps, below the red earth, under the blackearth, awaken and shake your awful manes! Let the hills rock and thestones topple upon my enemies! Let the sky grow dark above them, theearth unstable beneath their feet! Let a wind from the deep black earthcurl up beneath their feet, and blacken and shrivel them----'
He halted short, dagger lifted. In the tense silence the roar of thehosts rose beneath him, borne on the wind.
On the other side of the altar stood a man in a black hooded robe, whosecoif shadowed pale delicate features and dark eyes calm and meditative.
'Dog of Asura!' whispered Xaltotun, his voice was like the hiss of anangered serpent. 'Are you mad, that you seek your doom? Ho, Baal!Chiron!'
'Call again, dog of Acheron!' said the other, and laughed. 'Summon themloudly. They will not hear, unless your shouts reverberate in hell.'
From a thicket on the edge of the crest came a somber old woman inpeasant garb, her hair flowing over her shoulders, a great gray wolffollowing at her heels.
'Witch, priest and wolf,' muttered Xaltotun grimly, and laughed. 'Fools,to pit your charlatan's mummery against my arts! With a wave of my handI brush you from my path!'
'Your arts are straws in the wind, dog of Python,' answered the Asurian.'Have you wondered why the Shirki did not come down in flood and trapConan on the other bank? When I saw the lightning in the night I guessedyour plan, and my spells dispersed the clouds you had summoned beforethey could empty their torrents. You did not even know that yourrain-making wizardry had failed.'
'You lie!' cried Xaltotun, but the confidence in his voice was shaken.'I have felt the impact of a powerful sorcery against mine--but no manon earth could undo the rain-magic, once made, unless he possessed thevery heart of sorcery.'
'But the flood you plotted did not come to pass,' answered the priest.'Look at your allies in the valley, Pythonian! You have led them to theslaughter! They are caught in the fangs of the trap, and you cannot aidthem. Look!'
He pointed. Out of the narrow gorge of the upper valley, behind thePoitanians, a horseman came flying, whirling something about his headthat flashed in the sun. Recklessly he hurtled down the slopes, throughthe ranks of the Gundermen, who sent up a deep-throated roar and clashedtheir spears and shields like thunder in the hills. On the terracesbetween the hosts the sweat-soaked horse reared and plunged, and hiswild rider yelled and brandished the thing in his hands like onedemented. It was the torn remnant of a scarlet banner, and the sunstruck dazzlingly on the golden scales of a serpent that writhedthereon.
'Valerius is dead!' cried Hadrathus ringingly. 'A fog and a drum luredhim to his doom! I gathered that fog, dog of Python, and I dispersed it!I, with my magic which is greater than your magic!'
'What matters it?' roared Xaltotun, a terrible sight, his eyes blazing,his features convulsed. 'Valerius was a fool. I do not need him. I cancrush Conan without human aid!'
'Why have you delayed?' mocked Hadrathus. 'Why have you allowed so manyof your allies to fall pierced by arrows and spitted on spears?'
'Because blood aids great sorcery!' thundered Xaltotun, in a voice thatmade the rocks quiver. A lurid nimbus played about his awful head.'Because no wizard wastes his strength thoughtlessly. Because I wouldconserve my powers for the great days to be, rather than employ them ina hill-country brawl. But now, by Set, I shall loose them to theuttermost! Watch, dog of Asura, false priest of an outworn god, and seea 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 andburned in the sun, changing the light to a pulsing golden glow in whichthe 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 shotwith 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 itis in my hands, and your black arts cannot stand against it. As itresurrected you, so shall it hurl you back into the night whence it drewyou. You shall go down the dark road to Acheron, which is the road ofsilence and the night. The dark empire, unreborn, shall remain a legendand a black memory. Conan shall reign again. And the Heart of Ahrimanshall go back into the cavern below the temple of Mitra, to burn as asymbol 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 thatblazed in the hand of Hadrathus--shot a jetting beam of blinding bluelight. Full against the breast of Xaltotun it flashed, and the hillsre-echoed the concussion. The wizard of Acheron went down as thoughstruck by a thunderbolt, and before he touched the ground he wasfearfully altered. Beside the altar-stone lay no fresh-slain corpse, buta shriveled mummy, a brown, dry, unrecognizable carcass sprawling amongmoldering swathings.
Somberly old Zelata looked down.
'He was not a living man,' she said. 'The Heart lent him a false aspectof life, that deceived even himself. I never saw him as other than amummy.'
Hadrathus bent to unbind the swooning girl on the altar, when from amongthe trees appeared a strange apparition--Xaltotun's chariot drawn by theweird horses. Silently they advanced to the altar and halted, with thechariot 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 offsouthward, down the hill. And Hadrathus and Zelata and the gray wolfwatched them go--down the long road to Acheron which is beyond the kenof men.
* * * * *
Down in the valley Amalric had stiffened in his saddle when he saw thatwild horseman curvetting and caracoling on the slopes while hebrandished that blood-stained serpent-banner. Then some instinct jerkedhis head about, toward the hill known as the King's Altar. And his lipsparted. Every man in the valley saw it--an arch
ing shaft of dazzlinglight that towered up from the summit of the hill, showering goldenfire. High above the hosts it burst in a blinding blaze that momentarilypaled 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-throatedroar thundered across the vale.
'Xaltotun has failed us!' bellowed Amalric furiously. 'Valerius hasfailed us! We have been led into a trap! Mitra's curse on Xaltotun wholed us here! Sound the retreat!'
'_Too late!_' yelled Tarascus. '_Look!_'
Up on the slopes the forest of lances dipped, leveled. The ranks of theGundermen rolled back to right and left like a parting curtain. And witha thunder like the rising roar of a hurricane, the knights of Aquiloniacrashed down the slopes.
The impetus of that charge was irresistible. Bolts driven by thedemoralized arbalesters glanced from their shields, their bent helmets.Their plumes and pennons streaming out behind them, their lanceslowered, they swept over the wavering lines of pikemen and roared downthe slopes like a wave.
Amalric yelled an order to charge, and the Nemedians with desperatecourage spurred their horses at the slopes. They still outnumbered theattackers.
But they were weary men on tired horses, charging uphill. The onrushingknights had not struck a blow that day. Their horses were fresh. Theywere coming downhill and they came like a thunderbolt. And like athunderbolt they smote the struggling ranks of the Nemedians--smotethem, split them apart, ripped them asunder and dashed the remnantsheadlong down the slopes.
After them on foot came the Gundermen, blood-mad, and the Bossonianswere swarming down the hills, loosing as they ran at every foe thatstill moved.
Down the slopes washed the tide of battle, the dazed Nemedians swept onthe crest of the wave. Their archers had thrown down their arbalests andwere fleeing. Such pikemen as had survived the blasting charge of theknights were cut to pieces by the ruthless Gundermen.
In a wild confusion the battle swept through the wide mouth of thevalley and into the plain beyond. All over the plain swarmed thewarriors, fleeing and pursuing, broken into single combat and clumps ofsmiting, hacking knights on rearing, wheeling horses. But the Nemedianswere smashed, broken, unable to re-form or make a stand. By the hundredsthey broke away, spurring for the river. Many reached it, rushed acrossand rode eastward. The countryside was up behind them; the people huntedthem 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 knightsthat followed the giant in black armor whose surcoat bore the royallion, and over whose head floated the golden lion banner with thescarlet leopard of Poitain beside it. A tall warrior in gleaming armorcouched his lance and charged to meet the lord of Tor. They met like athunderclap. The Nemedian's lance, striking his foe's helmet, snappedbolts and rivets and tore off the casque, revealing the features ofPallantides. But the Aquilonian's lance-head crashed through shield andbreast-plate to transfix the baron's heart.
A roar went up as Amalric was hurled from his saddle, snapping the lancethat impaled him, and the Nemedians gave way as a barrier bursts underthe surging impact of a tidal wave. They rode for the river in a blindstampede that swept the plain like a whirlwind. The hour of the Dragonhad passed.
Tarascus did not flee. Amalric was dead, the color-bearer slain, and theroyal Nemedian banner trampled in the blood and dust. Most of hisknights were fleeing and the Aquilonians were riding them down; Tarascusknew the day was lost, but with a handful of faithful followers he ragedthrough the melee, conscious of but one desire--to meet Conan, theCimmerian. And at last he met him.
Formations had been destroyed utterly, close-knit bands broken asunderand swept apart. The crest of Trocero gleamed in one part of the plain,those of Prospero and Pallantides in others. Conan was alone. Thehouse-troops of Tarascus had fallen one by one. The two kings met man toman.
Even as they rode at each other, the horse of Tarascus sobbed and sankunder him. Conan leaped from his own steed and ran at him, as the kingof Nemedia disengaged himself and rose. Steel flashed blindingly in thesun, clashed loudly, and blue sparks flew; then a clang of armor asTarascus measured his full length on the earth beneath a thunderousstroke of Conan's broadsword.
The Cimmerian placed a mail-shod foot on his enemy's breast, and liftedhis sword. His helmet was gone; he shook back his black mane and hisblue 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 allyour men who throw down their arms. Though I ought to split your headfor an infernal thief,' the Cimmerian added.
Tarascus twisted his neck and glared over the plain. The remnants of theNemedian host were flying across the stone bridge with swarms ofvictorious Aquilonians at their heels, smiting with fury of gluttedvengeance. Bossonians and Gundermen were swarming through the camp oftheir enemies, tearing the tents to pieces in search of plunder, seizingprisoners, ripping open the baggage and upsetting the wagons.
Tarascus cursed fervently, and then shrugged his shoulders, as well ashe could, under the circumstances.
'Very well. I have no choice. What are your demands?'
'Surrender to me all your present holdings in Aquilonia. Order yourgarrisons to march out of the castles and towns they hold, without theirarms, and get your infernal armies out of Aquilonia as quickly aspossible. In addition you shall return all Aquilonians sold as slaves,and pay an indemnity to be designated later, when the damage youroccupation of the country has caused has been properly estimated. Youwill remain as hostage until these terms have been carried out.'
'Very well,' surrendered Tarascus. 'I will surrender all the castles andtowns now held by my garrisons without resistance, and all the otherthings 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 andself-possessed as ever, picking his way between rows of dead men andhorses.
Conan wiped the sweat-smeared dust from his face with a blood-stainedhand. 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 armorsplashed with blood and battered with strokes of sword, mace and ax. Heloomed gigantically against a background of blood and slaughter, likesome grim pagan hero of mythology.
'Well done, Hadrathus!' quoth he gustily. 'By Crom, I am glad to seeyour signal! My knights were almost mad with impatience and eating theirhearts out to be at sword-strokes. I could not have held them muchlonger. What of the wizard?'
'He has gone down the dim road to Acheron,' answered Hadrathus. 'AndI--I am for Tarantia. My work is done here, and I have a task to performat the temple of Mitra. All our work is done here. On this field we havesaved Aquilonia--and more than Aquilonia. Your ride to your capital willbe a triumphal procession through a kingdom mad with joy. All Aquiloniawill be cheering the return of their king. And so, until we meet againin the great royal hall--farewell!'
Conan stood silently watching the priest as he went. From various partsof 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 turnedtoward the great black figure of the king; mailed arms brandishedred-stained swords. A confused torrent of sound rose, deep andthunderous as the sea-surf: '_Hail, Conan, king of Aquilonia!_'
Tarascus spoke.
'You have not yet named my ransom.'
Conan laughed and slapped his sword home in its scabbard. He flexed hismighty arms, and ran his blood-stained fingers through his thick blacklocks, as if fee
ling there his re-won crown.
'There is a girl in your seraglio named Zenobia.'
'Why, yes, so there is.'
'Very well.' The king smiled as at an exceedingly pleasant memory. 'Sheshall be your ransom, and naught else. I will come to Belverus for heras I promised. She was a slave in Nemedia, but I will make her queen ofAquilonia!'
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