Gates of Imagination presents: "The Scarlet
Citadel" by Robert E. Howard. Read by Josh Greenwood. Chapter 1. They trapped the Lion on Shamu's plain;
They weighted his limbs with an iron chain; They cried aloud in the trumpet-blast,
They cried, 'The Lion is caged at last.' Woe to the cities of river and plain
If ever the Lion stalks again! —Old Ballad The roar of battle had died away; the shout
of victory mingled with the cries of the dying. Like gay-hued leaves after an autumn storm,
the fallen
littered the plain; the sinking sun shimmered on burnished helmets, gilt-worked
mail, silver breastplates, broken swords and the heavy regal folds of silken standards,
overthrown in pools of curdling crimson. In silent heaps lay war- horses and their
steel-clad riders, flowing manes and blowing plumes stained alike in the red tide. About them and among them, like the drift
of a storm, were strewn slashed and trampled bodies in steel caps and leather jerkins—archers
and pikemen. The oliphants sou
nded a fanfare of triumph
all over the plain, and the hoofs of the victors crunched in the breasts of the vanquished
as all the straggling, shining lines converged inward like the spokes of a glittering wheel,
to the spot where the last survivor still waged unequal strife. That day Conan, king of Aquilonia, had seen
the pick of his chivalry cut to pieces, smashed and hammered to bits, and swept into eternity. With five thousand knights he had crossed
the south-eastern border of Aquilonia and rid
den into the grassy meadowlands of Ophir,
to find his former ally, King Amalrus of Ophir, drawn up against him with the hosts of Strabonus,
king of Koth. Too late he had seen the trap. All that a man might do he had done with his
five thousand cavalrymen against the thirty thousand knights, archers and spearmen of
the conspirators. Without bowmen or infantry, he had hurled
his armored horsemen against the oncoming host, had seen the knights of his foes in
their shining mail go down before his la
nces, had torn the opposing center to bits, driving
the riven ranks headlong before him, only to find himself caught in a vise as the untouched
wings closed in. Strabonus' Shemitish bowmen had wrought havoc
among his knights, feathering them with shafts that found every crevice in their armor, shooting
down the horses, the Kothian pikemen rushing in to spear the fallen riders. The mailed lancers of the routed center had
re-formed, reinforced by the riders from the wings, and had charged again an
d again, sweeping
the field by sheer weight of numbers. The Aquilonians had not fled; they had died
on the field, and of the five thousand knights who had followed Conan southward, not one
left the field alive. And now the king himself stood at bay among
the slashed bodies of his house-troops, his back against a heap of dead horses and men. Ophirean knights in gilded mail leaped their
horses over mounds of corpses to slash at the solitary figure; squat Shemites with blue-black
beards, and dark-
faced Kothian knights ringed him on foot. The clangor of steel rose deafeningly; the
black-mailed figure of the western king loomed among his swarming foes, dealing blows like
a butcher wielding a great cleaver. Riderless horses raced down the field; about
his iron-clad feet grew a ring of mangled corpses. His attackers drew back from his desperate
savagery, panting and livid. Now through the yelling, cursing lines rode
the lords of the conquerors—Strabonus, with his broad dark face and crafty e
yes; Amalrus,
slender, fastidious, treacherous, dangerous as a cobra; and the lean vulture Tsotha-lanti,
clad only in silken robes, his great black eyes glittering from a face that was like
that of a bird of prey. Of this Kothian wizard dark tales were told;
tousle-headed women in northern and western villages frightened children with his name,
and rebellious slaves were brought to abased submission quicker than by the lash, with
threat of being sold to him. Men said that he had a whole library
of dark
works bound in skin flayed from living human victims, and that in nameless pits below the
hill whereon his palace sat, he trafficked with the powers of darkness, trading screaming
girl slaves for unholy secrets. He was the real ruler of Koth. Now he grinned bleakly as the kings reined
back a safe distance from the grim iron-clad figure looming among the dead. Before the savage blue eyes blazing murderously
from beneath the crested, dented helmet, the boldest shrank. Conan's dark scarred
face was darker yet with
passion; his black armor was hacked to tatters and splashed with blood; his great sword red
to the cross- piece. In this stress all the veneer of civilization
had faded; it was a barbarian who faced his conquerors. Conan was a Cimmerian by birth, one of those
fierce moody hillmen who dwelt in their gloomy, cloudy land in the north. His saga, which had led him to the throne
of Aquilonia, was the basis of a whole cycle of hero-tales. So now the kings kept their distance, a
nd
Strabonus called on his Shemitish archers to loose their arrows at his foe from a distance;
his captains had fallen like ripe grain before the Cimmerian's broadsword, and Strabonus,
penurious of his knights as of his coins, was frothing with fury. But Tsotha shook his head. "Take him alive." "Easy to say!" snarled Strabonus, uneasy lest in some way
the black- mailed giant might hew a path to them through the spears. "Who can take a man- eating tiger alive? By Ishtar, his heel is on the necks
of my
finest swordsmen! It took seven years and stacks of gold to
train each, and there they lie, so much kite's meat. Arrows, I say!" "Again, nay!" snapped Tsotha, swinging down from his horse. He laughed coldly. "Have you not learned by this time that my
brain is mightier than any sword?" He passed through the lines of the pikemen,
and the giants in their steel caps and mail brigandines shrank back fearfully, lest they
so much as touch the skirts of his robe. Nor were the plumed knights slower
in making
room for him. He stepped over the corpses and came face
to face with the grim king. The hosts watched in tense silence, holding
their breath. The black-armored figure loomed in terrible
menace over the lean, silk-robed shape, the notched, dripping sword hovering on high. "I offer you life, Conan," said Tsotha, a
cruel mirth bubbling at the back of his voice. "I give you death, wizard," snarled the king,
and backed by iron muscles and ferocious hate the great sword swung in a stroke me
ant to
shear Tsotha's lean torso in half. But even as the hosts cried out, the wizard
stepped in, too quick for the eye to follow, and apparently merely laid an open hand on
Conan's left forearm, from the ridged muscles of which the mail had been hacked away. The whistling blade veered from its arc and
the mailed giant crashed heavily to earth, to lie motionless. Tsotha laughed silently. "Take him up and fear not; the lion's fangs
are drawn." The kings reined in and gazed in awe at the
fallen li
on. Conan lay stiffly, like a dead man, but his
eyes glared up at them, wide open, and blazing with helpless fury. "What have you done to him?" asked Amalrus
uneasily. Tsotha displayed a broad ring of curious design
on his finger. He pressed his fingers together and on the
inner side of the ring a tiny steel fang darted out like a snake's tongue. "It is steeped in the juice of the purple
lotus which grows in the ghost- haunted swamps of southern Stygia," said the magician. "Its touch produces te
mporary paralysis. Put him in chains and lay him in a chariot. The sun sets and it is time we were on the
road for Khorshemish." Strabonus turned to his general Arbanus. "We return to Khorshemish with the wounded. Only a troop of the royal cavalry will accompany
us. Your orders are to march at dawn to the Aquilonian
border, and invest the city of Shamar. The Ophireans will supply you with food along
the march. We will rejoin you as soon as possible, with
reinforcements." So the host, with its st
eel-sheathed knights,
its pikemen and archers and camp-servants, went into camp in the meadowlands near the
battlefield. And through the starry night the two kings
and the sorcerer who was greater than any king rode to the capital of Strabonus, in
the midst of the glittering palace troop, and accompanied by a long line of chariots,
loaded with the wounded. In one of these chariots lay Conan, king of
Aquilonia, weighted with chains, the tang of defeat in his mouth, the blind fury of
a trapped tig
er in his soul. The poison which had frozen his mighty limbs
to helplessness had not paralyzed his brain. As the chariot in which he lay rumbled over
the meadowlands, his mind revolved maddeningly about his defeat. Amalrus had sent an emissary imploring aid
against Strabonus, who, he said, was ravaging his western domain, which lay like a tapering
wedge between the border of Aquilonia and the vast southern kingdom of Koth. He asked only a thousand horsemen and the
presence of Conan, to hearten h
is demoralized subjects. Conan now mentally blasphemed. In his generosity he had come with five times
the number the treacherous monarch had asked. In good faith he had ridden into Ophir, and
had been confronted by the supposed rivals allied against him. It spoke significantly of his prowess that
they had brought up a whole host to trap him and his five thousand. A red cloud veiled his vision; his veins swelled
with fury and in his temples a pulse throbbed maddeningly. In all his life he had nev
er known greater
and more helpless wrath. In swift-moving scenes the pageant of his
life passed fleetingly before his mental eye—a panorama wherein moved shadowy figures which
were himself, in many guises and conditions—a skin-clad barbarian; a mercenary swordsman
in horned helmet and scale-mail corselet; a corsair in a dragon-prowed galley that trailed
a crimson wake of blood and pillage along southern coasts; a captain of hosts in burnished
steel, on a rearing black charger; a king on a golden
throne with the lion banner flowing
above, and throngs of gay-hued courtiers and ladies on their knees. But always the jouncing and rumbling of the
chariot brought his thoughts back to revolve with maddening monotony about the treachery
of Amalrus and the sorcery of Tsotha. The veins nearly burst in his temples and
cries of the wounded in the chariots filled him with ferocious satisfaction. Before midnight they crossed the Ophirean
border and at dawn the spires of Khorshemish stood up gleaming
and rose-tinted on the south-eastern
horizon, the slim towers overawed by the grim scarlet citadel that at a distance was like
a splash of bright blood in the sky. That was the castle of Tsotha. Only one narrow street, paved with marble
and guarded by heavy iron gates, led up to it, where it crowned the hill dominating the
city. The sides of that hill were too sheer to be
climbed elsewhere. From the walls of the citadel one could look
down on the broad white streets of the city, on minaretted mo
sques, shops, temples, mansions,
and markets. One could look down, too, on the palaces of
the king, set in broad gardens, high-walled, luxurious riots of fruit trees and blossoms,
through which artificial streams murmured, and silvery fountains rippled incessantly. Over all brooded the citadel, like a condor
stooping above its prey, intent on its own dark meditations. The mighty gates between the huge towers of
the outer wall clanged open, and the king rode into his capital between lines of glit
tering
spearmen, while fifty trumpets pealed salute. But no throngs swarmed the white-paved streets
to fling roses before the conqueror's hoofs. Strabonus had raced ahead of news of the battle,
and the people, just rousing to the occupations of the day, gaped to see their king returning
with a small retinue, and were in doubt as to whether it portended victory or defeat. Conan, life sluggishly moving in his veins
again, craned his neck from the chariot floor to view the wonders of this city whic
h men
called the Queen of the South. He had thought to ride some day through these
golden-chased gates at the head of his steel-clad squadrons, with the great lion banner flowing
over his helmeted head. Instead he entered in chains, stripped of
his armor, and thrown like a captive slave on the bronze floor of his conqueror's chariot. A wayward devilish mirth of mockery rose above
his fury, but to the nervous soldiers who drove the chariot his laughter sounded like
the muttering of a rousing lion
. Chapter 2. Gleaming shell of an outworn lie; fable of
Right divine— You gained your crowns by heritage, but Blood
was the price of mine. The throne that I won by blood and sweat,
by Crom, I will not sell For promise of valleys filled with gold, or
threat of the Halls of Hell! -The Road Of Kings In the Citadel, in a chamber with a domed
ceiling of carven jet, and the fretted arches of doorways glimmering with strange dark jewels,
a strange conclave came to pass. Conan of Aquilonia, blood from u
nbandaged
wounds caking his huge limbs, faced his captors. On either side of him stood a dozen black
giants, grasping their long-shafted axes. In front of him stood Tsotha, and on divans
lounged Strabonus and Amalrus in their silks and gold, gleaming with jewels, naked slave-boys
beside them pouring wine into cups carved of a single sapphire. In strong contrast stood Conan, grim, blood-stained,
naked but for a loin-cloth, shackles on his mighty limbs, his blue eyes blazing beneath
the tangled bl
ack mane which fell over his low broad forehead. He dominated the scene, turning to tinsel
the pomp of the conquerors by the sheer vitality of his elemental personality, and the kings
in their pride and splendor were aware of it each in his secret heart, and were not
at ease. Only Tsotha was not disturbed. "Our desires are quickly spoken, king of Aquilonia,"
said Tsotha. "It is our wish to extend our empire." "And so you want to swine my kingdom," rasped
Conan. "What are you but an adventurer, s
eizing a
crown to which you had no more claim than any other wandering barbarian?" parried Amalrus. "We are prepared to offer you suitable compensation—" "Compensation!" It was a gust of deep laughter from Conan's
mighty chest. "The price of infamy and treachery! I am a barbarian, so I shall sell my kingdom
and its people for life and your filthy gold? Ha! How did you come to your crown, you and that
black-faced pig beside you? Your fathers did the fighting and the suffering,
and handed their cr
owns to you on golden platters. What you inherited without lifting a finger—except
to poison a few brothers—I fought for. "You sit on satin and guzzle wine the people
sweat for, and talk of divine rights of sovereignty—bah! I climbed out of the abyss of naked barbarism
to the throne and in that climb I spilt my blood as freely as I spilt that of others. If either of us has the right to rule men,
by Crom, it is I! How have you proved yourselves my superiors? "I found Aquilonia in the grip of a pi
g like
you—one who traced his genealogy for a thousand years. The land was torn with the wars of the barons,
and the people cried out under oppression and taxation. Today no Aquilonian noble dares maltreat the
humblest of my subjects, and the taxes of the people are lighter than anywhere else
in the world. "What of you? Your brother, Amalrus, holds the eastern half
of your kingdom, and defies you. And you, Strabonus, your soldiers are even
now besieging castles of a dozen or more rebellious baro
ns. The people of both your kingdoms are crushed
into the earth by tyrannous taxes and levies. And you would loot mine—ha! Free my hands and I'll varnish this floor
with your brains!" Tsotha grinned bleakly to see the rage of
his kingly companions. "All this, truthful though it be, is beside
the point. Our plans are no concern of yours. Your responsibility is at an end when you
sign this parchment, which is an abdication in favor of Prince Arpello of Pellia. We will give you arms and horse, and
five
thousand golden lunas, and escort you to the eastern frontier." "Setting me adrift where I was when I rode
into Aquilonia to take service in her armies, except with the added burden of a traitor's
name!" Conan's laugh was like the deep short bark
of a timber wolf. "Arpello, eh? I've had suspicions of that butcher of Pellia. Can you not even steal and pillage frankly
and honestly, but you must have an excuse, however thin? Arpello claims a trace of royal blood; so
you use him as an excuse fo
r theft, and a satrap to rule through. I'll see you in hell first." "You're a fool!" exclaimed Amalrus. "You are in our hands, and we can take both
crown and life at our pleasure!" Conan's answer was neither kingly nor dignified,
but characteristically instinctive in the man, whose barbaric nature had never been
submerged in his adopted culture. He spat full in Amalrus' eyes. The king of Ophir leaped up with a scream
of outraged fury, groping for his slender sword. Drawing it, he rushed at the C
immerian, but
Tsotha intervened. "Wait, your majesty; this man is my prisoner." "Aside, wizard!" shrieked Amalrus, maddened by the glare in
the Cimmerian's blue eyes. "Back, I say!" roared Tsotha, roused to awesome wrath. His lean hand came from his wide sleeve and
cast a shower of dust into the Ophirean's contorted face. Amalrus cried out and staggered back, clutching
at his eyes, the sword falling from his hand. He dropped limply on the divan, while the
Kothian guards looked on stolidly and Ki
ng Strabonus hurriedly gulped another goblet
of wine, holding it with hands that trembled. Amalrus lowered his hands and shook his head
violently, intelligence slowly sifting back into his grey eyes. "I went blind," he growled. "What did you do to me, wizard?" "Merely a gesture to convince you who was
the real master," snapped Tsotha, the mask of his formal pretense dropped, revealing
the naked evil personality of the man. "Strabonus has learned his lesson—let you
learn yours. It was but a dust
I found in a Stygian tomb
which I flung into your eyes—if I brush out their sight again, I will leave you to
grope in darkness for the rest of your life." Amalrus shrugged his shoulders, smiled whimsically
and reached for a goblet, dissembling his fear and fury. A polished diplomat, he was quick to regain
his poise. Tsotha turned to Conan, who had stood imperturbably
during the episode. At the wizard's gesture, the blacks laid hold
of their prisoner and marched him behind Tsotha, who led the way
out of the chamber through
an arched doorway into a winding corridor, whose floor was of many-hued mosaics, whose
walls were inlaid with gold tissue and silver chasing, and from whose fretted arched ceiling
swung golden censers, filling the corridor with dreamy perfumed clouds. They turned down a smaller corridor, done
in jet and black jade, gloomy and awful, which ended at a brass door, over whose arch a human
skull grinned horrifically. At this door stood a fat repellent figure,
dangling a bu
nch of keys—Tsotha's chief eunuch, Shukeli, of whom grisly tales were
whispered—a man with whom a bestial lust for torture took the place of normal human
passions. The brass door let onto a narrow stair that
seemed to wind down into the very bowels of the hill on which the citadel stood. Down these stairs went the band, to halt at
last at an iron door, the strength of which seemed unnecessary. Evidently it did not open on outer air, yet
it was built as if to withstand the battering of mangonels
and rams. Shukeli opened it, and as he swung back the
ponderous portal, Conan noted the evident uneasiness among the black giants who guarded
him; nor did Shukeli seem altogether devoid of nervousness as he peered into the darkness
beyond. Inside the great door there was a second barrier,
composed of heavy steel bars. It was fastened by an ingenious bolt which
had no lock and could be worked only from the outside; this bolt shot back, the grille
slid into the wall. They passed through, into a br
oad corridor,
the floor, walls and arched ceiling of which seemed to be cut out of solid stone. Conan knew he was far underground, even below
the hill itself. The darkness pressed in on the guardsmen's
torches like a sentient, animate thing. They made the king fast to a ring in the stone
wall. Above his head in a niche in the wall they
placed a torch, so that he stood in a dim semicircle of light. The blacks were anxious to be gone; they muttered
among themselves, and cast fearful glances at the
darkness. Tsotha motioned them out, and they filed through
the door in stumbling haste, as if fearing that the darkness might take tangible form
and spring upon their backs. Tsotha turned toward Conan, and the king noticed
uneasily that the wizard's eyes shone in the semi-darkness, and that his teeth much resembled
the fangs of a wolf, gleaming whitely in the shadows. "And so, farewell, barbarian," mocked the
sorcerer. "I must ride to Shamar, and the siege. In ten days I will be in your palace
in Tamar,
with my warriors. What word from you shall I say to your women,
before I flay their dainty skins for scrolls whereon to chronicle the triumphs of Tsotha-lanti?" Conan answered with a searing Cimmerian curse
that would have burst the eardrums of an ordinary man, and Tsotha laughed thinly and withdrew. Conan had a glimpse of his vulture-like figure
through the thick-set bars, as he slid home the grate; then the heavy outer door clanged,
and silence fell like a pall. Chapter 3. The Lion s
trode through the halls of Hell;
Across his path grim shadows fell Of many a moving, nameless shape—
Monsters with dripping jaws agape. The darkness shuddered with scream and yell
When the Lion stalked through the halls of Hell. — Old Ballad King Conan tested the ring in the wall and
the chain that bound him. His limbs were free, but he knew that his
shackles were beyond even his iron strength. The links of the chain were as thick as his
thumb and were fastened to a band of steel about his waist
, a band broad as his hand
and half an inch thick. The sheer weight of his shackles would have
slain a lesser man with exhaustion. The locks that held band and chain were massive
affairs that a sledge-hammer could hardly have dinted. As for the ring, evidently it went clear through
the wall and was clinched on the other side. Conan cursed and panic surged through him
as he glared into the darkness that pressed against the half-circle of light. All the superstitious dread of the barbarian
slept i
n his soul, untouched by civilized logic. His primitive imagination peopled the subterranean
darkness with grisly shapes. Besides, his reason told him that he had not
been placed there merely for confinement. His captors had no reason to spare him. He had been placed in these pits for a definite
doom. He cursed himself for his refusal of their
offer, even while his stubborn manhood revolted at the thought, and he knew that were he taken
forth and given another chance, his reply would be the same
. He would not sell his subjects to the butcher. And yet it had been with no thought of anyone's
gain but his own that he had seized the kingdom originally. Thus subtly does the instinct of sovereign
responsibility enter even a red-handed plunderer sometimes. Conan thought of Tsotha's last abominable
threat, and groaned in sick fury, knowing it was no idle boast. Men and women were to the wizard no more than
the writhing insect is to the scientist. Soft white hands that had caressed him, red
lip
s that had been pressed to his, dainty white bosoms that had quivered to his hot
fierce kisses, to be stripped of their delicate skin, white as ivory and pink as young petals—from
Conan's lips burst a yell so frightful and inhuman in its mad fury that a listener would
have stared in horror to know that it came from a human throat. The shuddering echoes made him start and brought
back his own situation vividly to the king. He glared fearsomely at the outer gloom, and
thought of the grisly tales h
e had heard of Tsotha's necromantic cruelty, and it was with
an icy sensation down his spine that he realized that these must be the very Halls of Horror
named in shuddering legendry, the tunnels and dungeons wherein Tsotha performed horrible
experiments with beings human, bestial, and, it was whispered, demoniac, tampering blasphemously
with the naked basic elements of life itself. Rumor said that the mad poet Rinaldo had visited
these pits, and been shown horrors by the wizard, and that the na
meless monstrosities
of which he hinted in his awful poem, The Song of the Pit, were no mere fantasies of
a disordered brain. That brain had crashed to dust beneath Conan's
battle- axe on the night the king had fought for his life with the assassins the mad rhymer
had led into the betrayed palace, but the shuddersome words of that grisly song still
rang in the king's ears as he stood there in his chains. Even with the thought the Cimmerian was frozen
by a soft rustling sound, blood-freezing in i
ts implication. He tensed in an attitude of listening, painful
in its intensity. An icy hand stroked his spine. It was the unmistakable sound of pliant scales
slithering softly over stone. Cold sweat beaded his skin, as beyond the
ring of dim light he saw a vague and colossal form, awful even in its indistinctness. It reared upright, swaying slightly, and yellow
eyes burned icily on him from the shadows. Slowly a huge, hideous, wedge-shaped head
took form before his dilated eyes, and from the da
rkness oozed, in flowing scaly coils,
the ultimate horror of reptilian development. It was a snake that dwarfed all Conan's previous
ideas of snakes. Eighty feet it stretched from its pointed
tail to its triangular head, which was bigger than that of a horse. In the dim light its scales glistened coldly,
white as hoar-frost. Surely this reptile was one born and grown
in darkness, yet its eyes were full of evil and sure sight. It looped its titan coils in front of the
captive, and the great head
on the arching neck swayed a matter of inches from his face. Its forked tongue almost brushed his lips
as it darted in and out, and its fetid odor made his senses reel with nausea. The great yellow eyes burned into his, and
Conan gave back the glare of a trapped wolf. He fought against the mad impulse to grasp
the great arching neck in his tearing hands. Strong beyond the comprehension of civilized
man, he had broken the neck of a python in a fiendish battle on the Stygian coast, in
his corsair
days. But this reptile was venomous; he saw the
great fangs, a foot long, curved like scimitars. From them dripped a colorless liquid that
he instinctively knew was death. He might conceivably crush that wedge-shaped
skull with a desperate clenched fist, but he knew that at his first hint of movement,
the monster would strike like lightning. It was not because of any logical reasoning
process that Conan remained motionless, since reason might have told him—since he was
doomed anyway—to goad the
snake into striking and get it over with; it was the blind black
instinct of self-preservation that held him rigid as a statue blasted out of iron. Now the great barrel reared up and the head
was poised high above his own, as the monster investigated the torch. A drop of venom fell on his naked thigh, and
the feel of it was like a white-hot dagger driven into his flesh. Red jets of agony shot through Conan's brain,
yet he held himself immovable; not by the twitching of a muscle or the flicker of
an
eyelash did he betray the pain of the hurt that left a scar he bore to the day of his
death. The serpent swayed above him, as if seeking
to ascertain whether there were in truth life in this figure which stood so death-like still. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, the outer door,
all but invisible in the shadows, clanged stridently. The serpent, suspicious as all its kind, whipped
about with a quickness incredible for its bulk, and vanished with a long-drawn slithering
down the corridor. The door
swung open and remained open. The grille was withdrawn and a huge dark figure
was framed in the glow of torches outside. The figure glided in, pulling the grille partly
to behind it, leaving the bolt poised. As it moved into the light of the torch over
Conan's head, the king saw that it was a gigantic black man, stark naked, bearing in one hand
a huge sword and in the other a bunch of keys. The black spoke in a sea-coast dialect, and
Conan replied; he had learned the jargon while a corsair on t
he coasts of Kush. "Long have I wished to meet you, Amra," the
black gave Conan the name—Amra, the Lion—by which the Cimmerian had been known to the
Kushites in his piratical days. The slave's woolly skull split in an animal-
like grin, showing white tusks, but his eyes glinted redly in the torchlight. "I have dared much for this meeting! Look! The keys to your chains! I stole them from Shukeli. What will you give me for them?" He dangled the keys in front of Conan's eyes. "Ten thousand golden l
unas," answered the
king quickly, new hope surging fiercely in his breast. "Not enough!" cried the black, a ferocious exultation shining
on his ebon countenance. "Not enough for the risks I take. Tsotha's pets might come out of the dark and
eat me, and if Shukeli finds out I stole his keys, he'll hang me up by my—well, what
will you give me?" "Fifteen thousand lunas and a palace in Poitain,"
offered the king. The black yelled and stamped in a frenzy of
barbaric gratification. "More!" he cried. "
Offer me more! What will you give me?" "You black dog!" A red mist of fury swept across Conan's eyes. "Were I free I'd give you a broken back! Did Shukeli send you here to mock me?" "Shukeli knows nothing of my coming, white
man," answered the black, craning his thick neck to peer into Conan's savage eyes. "I know you from of old, since the days when
I was a chief among a free people, before the Stygians took me and sold me into the
north. Do you not remember the sack of Abombi, when
your sea-wo
lves swarmed in? Before the palace of King Ajaga you slew a
chief and a chief fled from you. It was my brother who died; it was I who fled. I demand of you a blood-price, Amra!" "Free me and I'll pay you your weight in gold
pieces," growled Conan. The red eyes glittered, the white teeth flashed
wolfishly in the torchlight. "Aye, you white dog, you are like all your
race; but to a black man gold can never pay for blood. The price I ask is—your head!" The last word was a maniacal shriek that sent
the echoes shivering. Conan tensed, unconsciously straining against
his shackles in his abhorrence of dying like a sheep; then he was frozen by a greater horror. Over the black's shoulder he saw a vague horrific
form swaying in the darkness. "Tsotha will never know!" laughed the black fiendishly, too engrossed
in his gloating triumph to take heed of anything else, too drunk with hate to know that Death
swayed behind his shoulder. "He will not come into the vaults until the
demons have torn your
bones from their chains. I will have your head, Amra!" He braced his knotted legs like ebon columns
and swung up the massive sword in both hands, his great black muscles rolling and cracking
in the torchlight. And at that instant the titanic shadow behind
him darted down and out, and the wedge-shaped head smote with an impact that re-echoed down
the tunnels. Not a sound came from the thick blubbery lips
that flew wide in fleeting agony. With the thud of the stroke, Conan saw the
life go out of t
he wide black eyes with the suddenness of a candle blown out. The blow knocked the great black body clear
across the corridor and horribly the gigantic sinuous shape whipped around it in glistening
coils that hid it from view, and the snap and splintering of bones came plainly to Conan's
ears. Then something made his heart leap madly. The sword and the keys had flown from the
black's hands to crash and jangle on the stone—and the keys lay almost at the king's feet. He tried to bend to them, but
the chain was
too short; almost suffocated by the mad pounding of his heart, he slipped one foot from its
sandal, and gripped them with his toes; drawing his foot up, he grasped them fiercely, barely
stifling the yell of ferocious exultation that rose instinctively to his lips. An instant's fumbling with the huge locks
and he was free. He caught up the fallen sword and glared about. Only empty darkness met his eyes, into which
the serpent had dragged a mangled, tattered object that only faintly
resembled a human
body. Conan turned to the open door. A few quick strides brought him to the threshold—a
squeal of high-pitched laughter shrilled through the vaults, and the grille shot home under
his very fingers, the bolt crashed down. Through the bars peered a face like a fiendishly
mocking carven gargoyle—Shukeli the eunuch, who had followed his stolen keys. Surely he did not, in his gloating, see the
sword in the prisoner's hand. With a terrible curse Conan struck as a cobra
strikes; the g
reat blade hissed between the bars and Shukeli's laughter broke in a death-scream. The fat eunuch bent at the middle, as if bowing
to his killer, and crumpled like tallow, his pudgy hands clutching vainly at his spilling
entrails. Conan snarled in savage satisfaction; but
he was still a prisoner. His keys were futile against the bolt which
could be worked only from the outside. His experienced touch told him the bars were
hard as the sword; an attempt to hew his way to freedom would only splinte
r his one weapon. Yet he found dents on those adamantine bars,
like the marks of incredible fangs, and wondered with an involuntary shudder what nameless
monsters had so terribly assailed the barriers. Regardless, there was but one thing for him
to do, and that was to seek some other outlet. Taking the torch from the niche, he set off
down the corridor, sword in hand. He saw no sign of the serpent or its victim,
only a great smear of blood on the stone floor. Darkness stalked on noiseless feet a
bout him,
scarcely driven back by his flickering torch. On either hand he saw dark openings, but he
kept to the main corridor, watching the floor ahead of him carefully, lest he fall into
some pit. And suddenly he heard the sound of a woman,
weeping piteously. Another of Tsotha's victims, he thought, cursing
the wizard anew, and turning aside, followed the sound down a smaller tunnel, dank and
damp. The weeping grew nearer as he advanced, and
lifting his torch he made out a vague shape in the sh
adows. Stepping closer, he halted in sudden horror
at the amorphic bulk which sprawled before him. Its unstable outlines somewhat suggested an
octopus, but its malformed tentacles were too short for its size, and its substance
was a quaking, jelly-like stuff which made him physically sick to look at. From among this loathsome gelid mass reared
up a frog-like head, and he was frozen with nauseated horror to realize that the sound
of weeping was coming from those obscene blubbery lips. The noise c
hanged to an abominable high-pitched
tittering as the great unstable eyes of the monstrosity rested on him, and it hitched
its quaking bulk toward him. He backed away and fled up the tunnel, not
trusting his sword. The creature might be composed of terrestrial
matter, but it shook his very soul to look upon it, and he doubted the power of man-made
weapons to harm it. For a short distance he heard it flopping
and floundering after him, screaming with horrible laughter. The unmistakably human note
in its mirth almost
staggered his reason. It was exactly such laughter as he had heard
bubble obscenely from the fat lips of the salacious women of Shadizar, City of Wickedness,
when captive girls were stripped naked on the public auction block. By what hellish arts had Tsotha brought this
unnatural being into life? Conan felt vaguely that he had looked on blasphemy
against the eternal laws of nature. He ran toward the main corridor, but before
he reached it he crossed a sort of small square ch
amber, where two tunnels crossed. As he reached this chamber, he was flashingly
aware of some small squat bulk on the floor ahead of him; then before he could check his
flight or swerve aside, his foot struck something yielding that squalled shrilly, and he was
precipitated headlong, the torch flying from his hand and being extinguished as it struck
the stone floor. Half stunned by his fall, Conan rose and groped
in the darkness. His sense of direction was confused, and he
was unable to decide i
n which direction lay the main corridor. He did not look for the torch, as he had no
means of rekindling it. His groping hands found the openings of the
tunnels, and he chose one at random. How long he traversed it in utter darkness,
he never knew, but suddenly his barbarian's instinct of near peril halted him short. He had the same feeling he had had when standing
on the brink of great precipices in the darkness. Dropping to all fours, he edged forward, and
presently his outflung hand encounter
ed the edge of a well, into which the tunnel floor
dropped abruptly. As far down as he could reach the sides fell
away sheerly, dank and slimy to his touch. He stretched out an arm in the darkness and
could barely touch the opposite edge with the point of his sword. He could leap across it, then, but there was
no point in that. He had taken the wrong tunnel and the main
corridor lay somewhere behind him. Even as he thought this, he felt a faint movement
of air; a shadowy wind, rising from the we
ll, stirred his black mane. Conan's skin crawled. He tried to tell himself that this well connected
somehow with the outer world, but his instincts told him it was a thing unnatural. He was not merely inside the hill; he was
below it, far below the level of the city streets. How then could an outer wind find its way
into the pits and blow up from below? A faint throbbing pulsed on that ghostly wind,
like drums beating, far, far below. A strong shudder shook the king of Aquilonia. He rose to his
feet and backed away, and as
he did something floated up out of the well. What it was, Conan did not know. He could see nothing in the darkness, but
he distinctly felt a presence—an invisible, intangible intelligence which hovered malignly
near him. Turning, he fled the way he had come. Far ahead he saw a tiny red spark. He headed for it, and long before he thought
to have reached it, he caromed headlong into a solid wall, and saw the spark at his feet. It was his torch, the flame extinguished,
but the end a glowing coal. Carefully he took it up and blew upon it,
fanning it into flame again. He gave a sigh as the tiny blaze leaped up. He was back in the chamber where the tunnels
crossed, and his sense of direction came back. He located the tunnel by which he had left
the main corridor, and even as he started toward it, his torch flame flickered wildly
as if blown upon by unseen lips. Again he felt a presence, and he lifted his
torch, glaring about. He saw nothing; yet he sensed, someho
w, an
invisible, bodiless thing that hovered in the air, dripping slimily and mouthing obscenities
that he could not hear but was in some instinctive way aware of. He swung viciously with his sword and it felt
as if he were cleaving cobwebs. A cold horror shook him then, and he fled
down the tunnel, feeling a foul burning breath on his naked back as he ran. But when he came out into the broad corridor,
he was no longer aware of any presence, visible or invisible. Down it he went, momentarily exp
ecting fanged
and taloned fiends to leap at him from the darkness. The tunnels were not silent. From the bowels of the earth in all directions
came sounds that did not belong in a sane world. There were titterings, squeals of demoniac
mirth, long shuddering howls, and once the unmistakable squalling laughter of a hyena
ended awfully in human words of shrieking blasphemy. He heard the pad of stealthy feet, and in
the mouths of the tunnels caught glimpses of shadowy forms, monstrous and abnormal i
n
outline. It was as if he had wandered into hell—a
hell of Tsotha-lanti's making. But the shadowy things did not come into the
great corridor, though he distinctly heard the greedy sucking-in of slavering lips, and
felt the burning glare of hungry eyes. And presently he knew why. A slithering sound behind him electrified
him, and he leaped to the darkness of a near-by tunnel, shaking out his torch. Down the corridor he heard the great serpent
crawling, sluggish from its recent grisly meal. From
his very side something whimpered in
fear and slunk away in the darkness. Evidently the main corridor was the great
snake's hunting-ground and the other monsters gave it room. To Conan the serpent was the least horror
of them; he almost felt a kinship with it when he remembered the weeping, tittering
obscenity, and the dripping, mouthing thing that came out of the well. At least it was of earthly matter; it was
a crawling death, but it threatened only physical extinction, whereas these other ho
rrors menaced
mind and soul as well. After it had passed on down the corridor he
followed, at what he hoped was a safe distance, blowing his torch into flame again. He had not gone far when he heard a low moan
that seemed to emanate from the black entrance of a tunnel near by. Caution warned him on, but curiosity drove
him to the tunnel, holding high the torch that was now little more than a stump. He was braced for the sight of anything, yet
what he saw was what he had least expected. He was lo
oking into a broad cell, and a space
of this was caged off with closely set bars extending from floor to ceiling, set firmly
in the stone. Within these bars lay a figure, which, as
he approached, he saw was either a man, or the exact likeness of a man, twined and bound
about with the tendrils of a thick vine which seemed to grow through the solid stone of
the floor. It was covered with strangely pointed leaves
and crimson blossoms—not the satiny red of natural petals, but a livid, unnatural
crim
son, like a perversity of flower- life. Its clinging, pliant branches wound about
the man's naked body and limbs, seeming to caress his shrinking flesh with lustful avid
kisses. One great blossom hovered exactly over his
mouth. A low bestial moaning drooled from the loose
lips; the head rolled as if in unbearable agony, and the eyes looked full at Conan. But there was no light of intelligence in
them; they were blank, glassy, the eyes of an idiot. Now the great crimson blossom dipped and pressed
its petals over the writhing lips. The limbs of the wretch twisted in anguish;
the tendrils of the plant quivered as if in ecstasy, vibrating their full snaky lengths. Waves of changing hues surged over them; their
color grew deeper, more venomous. Conan did not understand what he saw, but
he knew that he looked on Horror of some kind. Man or demon, the suffering of the captive
touched Conan's wayward and impulsive heart. He sought for entrance and found a grille-like
door in the bars, fastened
with a heavy lock, for which he found a key among the keys he
carried, and entered. Instantly the petals of the livid blossoms
spread like the hood of a cobra, the tendrils reared menacingly and the whole plant shook
and swayed toward him. Here was no blind growth of natural vegetation. Conan sensed a malignant intelligence; the
plant could see him, and he felt its hate emanate from it in almost tangible waves. Stepping warily nearer, he marked the root-stem,
a repulsively supple stalk thicker
than his thigh, and even as the long tendrils arched
toward him with a rattle of leaves and hiss, he swung his sword and cut through the stem
with a single stroke. Instantly the wretch in its clutches was thrown
violently aside as the great vine lashed and knotted like a beheaded serpent, rolling into
a huge irregular ball. The tendrils thrashed and writhed, the leaves
shook and rattled like castanets, and the petals opened and closed convulsively; then
the whole length straightened out limply,
the vivid colors paled and dimmed, a reeking
white liquid oozed from the severed stump. Conan stared, spellbound; then a sound brought
him round, sword lifted. The freed man was on his feet, surveying him. Conan gaped in wonder. No longer were the eyes in the worn face expressionless. Dark and meditative, they were alive with
intelligence, and the expression of imbecility had dropped from the face like a mask. The head was narrow and well-formed, with
a high splendid forehead. The whole build of
the man was aristocratic,
evident no less in his tall slender frame than in his small trim feet and hands. His first words were strange and startling. "What year is this?" he asked, speaking Kothic. "Today is the tenth day of the month Yuluk,
of the year of the Gazelle," answered Conan. "Yagkoolan Ishtar!" murmured the stranger. "Ten years!" He drew a hand across his brow, shaking his
head as if to clear his brain of cobwebs. "All is dim yet. After a ten-year emptiness, the mind can not
be expe
cted to begin functioning clearly at once. Who are you?" "Conan, once of Cimmeria. Now king of Aquilonia." The other's eyes showed surprize. "Indeed? And Namedides?" "I strangled him on his throne the night I
took the royal city," answered Conan. A certain naivete in the king's reply twitched
the stranger's lips. "Pardon, your majesty. I should have thanked you for the service
you have done me. I am like a man woken suddenly from sleep
deeper than death and shot with nightmares of agony more fie
rce than hell, but I understand
that you delivered me. Tell me—why did you cut the stem of the
plant Yothga instead of tearing it up by the roots?" "Because I learned long ago to avoid touching
with my flesh that which I do not understand," answered the Cimmerian. "Well for you," said the stranger. "Had you been able to tear it up, you might
have found things clinging to the roots against which not even your sword would prevail. Yothga's roots are set in hell." "But who are you?" demanded Conan.
"Men called me Pelias." "What!" cried the king. "Pelias the sorcerer, Tsotha-lanti's rival,
who vanished from the earth ten years ago?" "Not entirely from the earth," answered Pelias
with a wry smile. "Tsotha preferred to keep me alive, in shackles
more grim than rusted iron. He pent me in here with this devil-flower
whose seeds drifted down through the black cosmos from Yag the Accursed, and found fertile
field only in the maggot- writhing corruption that seethes on the floors of hell. "I coul
d not remember my sorcery and the words
and symbols of my power, with that cursed thing gripping me and drinking my soul with
its loathsome caresses. It sucked the contents of my mind day and
night, leaving my brain as empty as a broken wine-jug. Ten years! Ishtar preserve us!" Conan found no reply, but stood holding the
stump of the torch, and trailing his great sword. Surely the man was mad—yet there was no
madness in the dark eyes that rested so calmly on him. "Tell me, is the black wizard in
Khorshemish? But no—you need not reply. My powers begin to wake, and I sense in your
mind a great battle and a king trapped by treachery. And I see Tsotha-lanti riding hard for the
Tybor with Strabonus and the king of Ophir. So much the better. My art is too frail from the long slumber
to face Tsotha yet. I need time to recruit my strength, to assemble
my powers. Let us go forth from these pits." Conan jangled his keys discouragedly. "The grille to the outer door is made fast
by a bolt which ca
n be worked only from the outside. Is there no other exit from these tunnels?" "Only one, which neither of us would care
to use, seeing that it goes down and not up," laughed Pelias. "But no matter. Let us see to the grille." He moved toward the corridor with uncertain
steps, as of long-unused limbs, which gradually became more sure. As he followed Conan remarked uneasily, "There
is a cursed big snake creeping about this tunnel. Let us be wary lest we step into his mouth." "I remember him of old
," answered Pelias grimly,
"the more as I was forced to watch while ten of my acolytes were fed to him. He is Satha, the Old One, chiefest of Tsotha's
pets." "Did Tsotha dig these pits for no other reason
than to house his cursed monstrosities?" asked Conan. "He did not dig them. When the city was founded three thousand years
ago there were ruins of an earlier city on and about this hill. King Khossus V, the founder, built his palace
on the hill, and digging cellars beneath it, came upon a walle
d-up doorway, which he broke
into and discovered the pits, which were about as we see them now. But his grand vizier came to such a grisly
end in them that Khossus in a fright walled up the entrance again. He said the vizier fell into a well—but
he had the cellars filled in, and later abandoned the palace itself, and built himself another
in the suburbs, from which he fled in a panic on discovering some black mold scattered on
the marble floor of his palace one morning. "He then departed with hi
s whole court to
the eastern corner of the kingdom and built a new city. The palace on the hill was not used and fell
into ruins. When Akkutho I revived the lost glories of
Khorshemish, he built a fortress there. It remained for Tsotha-lanti to rear the scarlet
citadel and open the way to the pits again. Whatever fate overtook the grand vizier of
Khossus, Tsotha avoided it. He fell into no well, though he did descend
into a well he found, and came out with a strange expression which has not sinc
e left
his eyes. "I have seen that well, but I do not care
to seek in it for wisdom. I am a sorcerer, and older than men reckon,
but I am human. As for Tsotha—men say that a dancing-girl
of Shadizar slept too near the pre-human ruins on Dagoth Hill and woke in the grip of a black
demon; from that unholy union was spawned an accursed hybrid men call Tsotha-lanti—" Conan cried out sharply and recoiled, thrusting
his companion back. Before them rose the great shimmering white
form of Satha, an agel
ess hate in its eyes. Conan tensed himself for one mad berserker
onslaught—to thrust the glowing fagot into that fiendish countenance and throw his life
into the ripping sword-stroke. But the snake was not looking at him. It was glaring over his shoulder at the man
called Pelias, who stood with his arms folded, smiling. And in the great cold yellow eyes slowly the
hate died out in a glitter of pure fear—the only time Conan ever saw such an expression
in a reptile's eyes. With a swirling rush lik
e the sweep of a strong
wind, the great snake was gone. "What did he see to frighten him?" asked Conan,
eyeing his companion uneasily. "The scaled people see what escapes the mortal
eye," answered Pelias, cryptically. "You see my fleshly guise; he saw my naked
soul." An icy trickle disturbed Conan's spine, and
he wondered if, after all, Pelias were a man, or merely another demon of the pits in a mask
of humanity. He contemplated the advisability of driving
his sword through his companion's back
without further hesitation. But while he pondered, they came to the steel
grille, etched blackly in the torches beyond, and the body of Shukeli, still slumped against
the bars in a curdled welter of crimson. Pelias laughed, and his laugh was not pleasant
to hear. "By the ivory hips of Ishtar, who is our doorman? Lo, it is no less than the noble Shukeli,
who hanged my young men by their feet and skinned them with squeals of laughter! Do you sleep, Shukeli? Why do you lie so stiffly, with your fat
belly
sunk in like a dressed pig's?" "He is dead," muttered Conan, ill at ease
to hear these wild words. "Dead or alive," laughed Pelias, "he shall
open the door for us." He clapped his hands sharply and cried, "Rise,
Shukeli! Rise from hell and rise from the bloody floor
and open the door for your masters! Rise, I say!" An awful groan reverberated through the vaults. Conan's hair stood on end and he felt clammy
sweat bead his hide. For the body of Shukeli stirred and moved,
with infantile grop
ings of the fat hands. The laughter of Pelias was merciless as a
flint hatchet, as the form of the eunuch reeled upright, clutching at the bars of the grille. Conan, glaring at him, felt his blood turn
to ice, and the marrow of his bones to water; for Shukeli's wide-open eyes were glassy and
empty, and from the great gash in his belly his entrails hung limply to the floor. The eunuch's feet stumbled among his entrails
as he worked the bolt, moving like a brainless automaton. When he had first st
irred, Conan had thought
that by some incredible chance the eunuch was alive; but the man was dead—had been
dead for hours. Pelias sauntered through the opened grille,
and Conan crowded through behind him, sweat pouring from his body, shrinking away from
the awful shape that slumped on sagging legs against the grate it held open. Pelias passed on without a backward glance,
and Conan followed him, in the grip of nightmare and nausea. He had not taken half a dozen strides when
a sodden thud brough
t him round. Shukeli's corpse lay limply at the foot of
the grille. "His task is done, and hell gapes for him
again," remarked Pelias pleasantly; politely affecting not to notice the strong shudder
which shook Conan's mighty frame. He led the way up the long stairs, and through
the brass skull-crowned door at the top. Conan gripped his sword, expecting a rush
of slaves, but silence gripped the citadel. They passed through the black corridor and
came into that in which the censers swung, billowin
g forth their everlasting incense. Still they saw no one. "The slaves and soldiers are quartered in
another part of the citadel," remarked Pelias. "Tonight, their master being away, they doubtless
lie drunk on wine or lotus-juice." Conan glanced through an arched, golden-silled
window that let out upon a broad balcony, and swore in surprize to see the dark-blue
star-flecked sky. It had been shortly after sunrise when he
was thrown into the pits. Now it was past midnight. He could scarcely realiz
e he had been so long
underground. He was suddenly aware of thirst and a ravenous
appetite. Pelias led the way into a gold-domed chamber,
floored with silver, its lapis-lazuli walls pierced by the fretted arches of many doors. With a sigh Pelias sank onto a silken divan. "Gold and silks again," he sighed. "Tsotha affects to be above the pleasures
of the flesh, but he is half devil. I am human, despite my black arts. I love ease and good cheer—that's how Tsotha
trapped me. He caught me helpless w
ith drink. Wine is a curse—by the ivory bosom of Ishtar,
even as I speak of it, the traitor is here! Friend, please pour me a goblet—hold! I forgot that you are a king. I will pour." "The devil with that," growled Conan, filling
a crystal goblet and proffering it to Pelias. Then, lifting the jug, he drank deeply from
the mouth, echoing Pelias' sigh of satisfaction. "The dog knows good wine," said Conan, wiping
his mouth with the back of his hand. "But by Crom, Pelias, are we to sit here until
hi
s soldiers awake and cut our throats?" "No fear," answered Pelias. "Would you like to see how fortune holds with
Strabonus?" Blue fire burned in Conan's eyes, and he gripped
his sword until his knuckles showed blue. "Oh, to be at sword-points with him!" he rumbled. Pelias lifted a great shimmering globe from
an ebony table. "Tsotha's crystal. A childish toy, but useful when there is lack
of time for higher science. Look in, your majesty." He laid it on the table before Conan's eyes. The king loo
ked into cloudy depths which deepened
and expanded. Slowly images crystallized out of mist and
shadows. He was looking on a familiar landscape. Broad plains ran to a wide winding river,
beyond which the level lands ran up quickly into a maze of low hills. On the northern bank of the river stood a
walled town, guarded by a moat connected at each end with the river. "By Crom!" ejaculated Conan. "It's Shamar! The dogs besiege it!" The invaders had crossed the river; their
pavilions stood in the nar
row plain between the city and the hills. Their warriors swarmed about the walls, their
mail gleaming palely under the moon. Arrows and stones rained on them from the
towers and they staggered back, but came on again. Even as Conan cursed, the scene changed. Tall spires and gleaming domes stood up in
the mist, and he looked on his own capital of Tamar, where all was confusion. He saw the steel-clad knights of Poitain,
his staunchest supporters, riding out of the gate, hooted and hissed by the mu
ltitude which
swarmed the streets. He saw looting and rioting, and men-at-arms
whose shields bore the insignia of Pellia, manning the towers and swaggering through
the markets. Over all, like a fantasmal mirage, he saw
the dark, triumphant face of Prince Arpello of Pellia. The images faded. "So!" raved Conan. "My people turn on me the moment my back is
turned—" "Not entirely," broke in Pelias. "They have heard that you are dead. There is no one to protect them from outer
enemies and civil war, t
hey think. Naturally, they turn to the strongest noble,
to avoid the horrors of anarchy. They do not trust the Poitanians, remembering
former wars. But Arpello is on hand, and the strongest
prince of the central provinces." "When I come to Aquilonia again he will be
but a headless corpse rotting on Traitor's Common," Conan ground his teeth. "Yet before you can reach your capital," reminded
Pelias, "Strabonus may be before you. At least his riders will be ravaging your
kingdom." "True!" Conan pac
ed the chamber like a caged lion. "With the fastest horse I could not reach
Shamar before midday. Even there I could do no good except to die
with the people, when the town falls—as fall it will in a few days at most. From Shamar to Tamar is five days' ride, even
if you kill your horses on the road. Before I could reach my capital and raise
an army, Strabonus would be hammering at the gates; because raising an army is going to
be hell—all my damnable nobles will have scattered to their own curse
d fiefs at the
word of my death. And since the people have driven out Trocero
of Poitain, there's none to keep Arpello's greedy hands off the crown—and the crown-treasure. He'll hand the country over to Strabonus,
in return for a mock-throne—and as soon as Strabonus' back is turned, he'll stir up
revolt. But the nobles won't support him, and it will
only give Strabonus excuse for annexing the kingdom openly. Oh Crom, Ymir, and Set! If I but had wings to fly like lightning to
Tamar!" Pelias, who
sat tapping the jade table-top
with his finger-nails, halted suddenly, and rose as with a definite purpose, beckoning
Conan to follow. The king complied, sunk in moody thoughts,
and Pelias led the way out of the chamber and up a flight of marble, gold-worked stairs
that let out on the pinnacle of the citadel, the roof of the tallest tower. It was night, and a strong wind was blowing
through the star-filled skies, stirring Conan's black mane. Far below them twinkled the lights of Khorshemish,
see
mingly farther away than the stars above them. Pelias seemed withdrawn and aloof here, one
in cold unhuman greatness with the company of the stars. "There are creatures," said Pelias, "not alone
of earth and sea, but of air and the far reaches of the skies as well, dwelling apart, unguessed
of men. Yet to him who holds the Master-words and
Signs and the Knowledge underlying all, they are not malignant nor inaccessible. Watch, and fear not." He lifted his hands to the skies and sounded
a long wei
rd call that seemed to shudder endlessly out into space, dwindling and fading, yet
never dying out, only receding farther and farther into some unreckoned cosmos. In the silence that followed, Conan heard
a sudden beat of wings in the stars, and recoiled as a huge bat-like creature alighted beside
him. He saw its great calm eyes regarding him in
the starlight; he saw the forty-foot spread of its giant wings. And he saw it was neither bat nor bird. "Mount and ride," said Pelias. "By dawn it will
bring you to Tamar." "By Crom!" muttered Conan. "Is this all a nightmare from which I shall
presently awaken in my palace at Tamar? What of you? I would not leave you alone among your enemies." "Be at ease regarding me," answered Pelias. "At dawn the people of Khorshemish will know
they have a new master. Doubt not what the gods have sent you. I will meet you in the plain by Shamar." Doubtfully Conan clambered upon the ridged
back, gripping the arched neck, still convinced that he was in the gra
sp of a fantastic nightmare. With a great rush and thunder of titan wings,
the creature took the air, and the king grew dizzy as he saw the lights of the city dwindle
far below him. Chapter 4. "The sword that slays the king cuts the cords
of the empire." —Aquilonian Proverb The Streets Of Tamar swarmed with howling
mobs, shaking fists and rusty pikes. It was the hour before dawn of the second
day after the battle of Shamu, and events had occurred so swiftly as to daze the mind. By means known on
ly to Tsotha-lanti, word
had reached Tamar of the king's death, within half a dozen hours after the battle. Chaos had resulted. The barons had deserted the royal capital,
galloping away to secure their castles against marauding neighbors. The well-knit kingdom Conan had built up seemed
tottering on the edge of dissolution, and commoners and merchants trembled at the imminence
of a return of the feudalistic regime. The people howled for a king to protect them
against their own aristocracy no less
than foreign foes. Count Trocero, left by Conan in charge of
the city, tried to reassure them, but in their unreasoning terror they remembered old civil
wars, and how this same count had besieged Tamar fifteen years before. It was shouted in the streets that Trocero
had betrayed the king; that he planned to plunder the city. The mercenaries began looting the quarters,
dragging forth screaming merchants and terrified women. Trocero swept down on the looters, littered
the streets with their corps
es, drove them back into their quarter in confusion, and
arrested their leaders. Still the people rushed wildly about, with
brainless squawks, screaming that the count had incited the riot for his own purposes. Prince Arpello came before the distracted
council and announced himself ready to take over the government of the city until a new
king could be decided upon, Conan having no son. While they debated, his agents stole subtly
among the people, who snatched at a shred of royalty. The council
heard the storm outside the palace
windows, where the multitude roared for Arpello the Rescuer. The council surrendered. Trocero at first refused the order to give
up his baton of authority, but the people swarmed about him, hissing and howling, hurling
stones and offal at his knights. Seeing the futility of a pitched battle in
the streets with Arpello's retainers, under such conditions, Trocero hurled the baton
in his rival's face, hanged the leaders of the mercenaries in the market-square as h
is
last official act, and rode out of the southern gate at the head of his fifteen hundred steel-clad
knights. The gates slammed behind him and Arpello's
suave mask fell away to reveal the grim visage of the hungry wolf. With the mercenaries cut to pieces or hiding
in their barracks, his were the only soldiers in Tamar. Sitting his war-horse in the great square,
Arpello proclaimed himself king of Aquilonia, amid the clamor of the deluded multitude. Publius the Chancellor, who opposed this move,
was thrown into prison. The merchants, who had greeted the proclamation
of a king with relief, now found with consternation that the new monarch's first act was to levy
a staggering tax on them. Six rich merchants, sent as a delegation of
protest, were seized and their heads slashed off without ceremony. A shocked and stunned silence followed this
execution. The merchants, confronted by a power they
could not control with money, fell on their fat bellies and licked their oppressor's boots. The c
ommon people were not perturbed at the
fate of the merchants, but they began to murmur when they found that the swaggering Pellian
soldiery, pretending to maintain order, were as bad as Turanian bandits. Complaints of extortion, murder and rape poured
in to Arpello, who had taken up his quarters in Publius' palace, because the desperate
councillors, doomed by his order, were holding the royal palace against his soldiers. He had taken possession of the pleasure-palace,
however, and Conan's girls
were dragged to his quarters. The people muttered at the sight of the royal
beauties writhing in the brutal hands of the iron-clad retainers—dark-eyed damsels of
Poitain, slim black-haired wenches from Zamora, Zingara and Hyrkania, Brythunian girls with
tousled yellow heads, all weeping with fright and shame, unused to brutality. Night fell on a city of bewilderment and turmoil,
and before midnight word spread mysteriously in the street that the Kothians had followed
up their victory and were ha
mmering at the walls of Shamar. Somebody in Tsotha's mysterious secret-service
had babbled. Fear shook the people like an earthquake,
and they did not even pause to wonder at the witchcraft by which the news had been so swiftly
transmitted. They stormed at Arpello's doors, demanding
that he march southward and drive the enemy back over the Tybor. He might have subtly pointed out that his
force was not sufficient, and that he could not raise an army until the barons recognized
his claim to the cr
own. But he was drunk with power, and laughed in
their faces. A young student, Athemides, mounted a column
in the market, and with burning words accused Arpello of being a cats-paw for Strabonus,
painting a vivid picture of existence under Kothian rule, with Arpello as satrap. Before he finished, the multitude was screaming
with fear and howling with rage. Arpello sent his soldiers to arrest the youth,
but the people caught him up and fled with him, deluging the pursuing retainers with
stones an
d dead cats. A volley of crossbow quarrels routed the mob,
and a charge of horsemen littered the market with bodies, but Athemides was smuggled out
of the city to plead with Trocero to retake Tamar, and march to aid Shamar. Athemides found Trocero breaking his camp
outside the walls, ready to march to Poitain, in the far southwestern corner of the kingdom. To the youth's urgent pleas he answered that
he had neither the force necessary to storm Tamar, even with the aid of the mob inside,
nor to f
ace Strabonus. Besides, avaricious nobles would plunder Poitain
behind his back, while he was fighting the Kothians. With the king dead, each man must protect
his own. He was riding to Poitain, there to defend
it as best he might against Arpello and his foreign allies. While Athemides pleaded with Trocero, the
mob still raved in the city with helpless fury. Under the great tower beside the royal palace
the people swirled and milled, screaming their hate at Arpello, who stood on the turrets
and l
aughed down at them while his archers ranged the parapets, bolts drawn and fingers
on the triggers of their arbalests. The prince of Pellia was a broad-built man
of medium height, with a dark stern face. He was an intriguer, but he was also a fighter. Under his silken jupon with its gilt-braided
skirts and jagged sleeves, glimmered burnished steel. His long black hair was curled and scented,
and bound back with a cloth- of-silver band, but at his hip hung a broadsword the jeweled
hilt of which w
as worn with battles and campaigns. "Fools! Howl as you will! Conan is dead and Arpello is king!" What if all Aquilonia were leagued against
him? He had men enough to hold the mighty walls
until Strabonus came up. But Aquilonia was divided against itself. Already the barons were girding themselves
each to seize his neighbor's treasure. Arpello had only the helpless mob to deal
with. Strabonus would carve through the loose lines
of the warring barons as a galley-ram through foam, and until his co
ming, Arpello had only
to hold the royal capital. "Fools! Arpello is king!" The sun was rising over the eastern towers. Out of the crimson dawn came a flying speck
that grew to a bat, then to an eagle. Then all who saw screamed in amazement, for
over the walls of Tamar swooped a shape such as men knew only in half-forgotten legends,
and from between its titan-wings sprang a human form as it roared over the great tower. Then with a deafening thunder of wings it
was gone, and the folk blinked, won
dering if they dreamed. But on the turret stood a wild barbaric figure,
half naked, blood-stained, brandishing a great sword. And from the multitude rose a roar that rocked
the towers, "The king! It is the king!" Arpello stood transfixed; then with a cry
he drew and leaped at Conan. With a lion-like roar the Cimmerian parried
the whistling blade, then dropping his own sword, gripped the prince and heaved him high
above his head by crotch and neck. "Take your plots to hell with you!" he roared,
a
nd like a sack of salt, he hurled the prince of Pellia far out, to fall through empty space
for a hundred and fifty feet. The people gave back as the body came hurtling
down, to smash on the marble pave, spattering blood and brains, and lie crushed in its splintered
armor, like a mangled beetle. The archers on the tower shrank back, their
nerve broken. They fled, and the beleaguered councilmen
sallied from the palace and hewed into them with joyous abandon. Pellian knights and men-at-arms sought
safety
in the streets, and the crowd tore them to pieces. In the streets the fighting milled and eddied,
plumed helmets and steel caps tossed among the tousled heads and then vanished; swords
hacked madly in a heaving forest of pikes, and over all rose the roar of the mob, shouts
of acclaim mingling with screams of blood-lust and howls of agony. And high above all, the naked figure of the
king rocked and swayed on the dizzy battlements, mighty arms brandished, roaring with gargantuan
laughter t
hat mocked all mobs and princes, even himself. Chapter 5. A long bow and a strong bow, and let the sky
grow dark! The cord to the nock, shaft to the ear, the
king of Koth for a mark! —Song of the Bossonian Archers The midafternoon sun glinted on the placid
waters of the Tybor, washing the southern bastions of Shamar. The haggard defenders knew that few of them
would see that sun rise again. The pavilions of the besiegers dotted the
plain. The people of Shamar had not been able successfully
to di
spute the crossing of the river, outnumbered as they were. Barges, chained together, made a bridge over
which the invader poured his hordes. Strabonus had not dared march on into Aquilonia
with Shamar, unsubdued, at his back. He had sent his light riders, his spahis,
inland to ravage the country, and had reared up his siege engines in the plain. He had anchored a flotilla of boats, furnished
him by Amalrus, in the middle of the stream, over against the river-wall. Some of these boats had been su
nk by stones
from the city's ballistas, which crashed through their decks and ripped out their planking,
but the rest held their places and from their bows and mast-heads, protected by mandets,
archers raked the riverward turrets. These were Shemites, born with bows in their
hands, not to be matched by Aquilonian archers. On the landward side mangonels rained boulders
and tree-trunks among the defenders, shattering through roofs and crushing humans like beetles;
rams pounded incessantly at the s
tones; sappers burrowed like moles in the earth, sinking
their mines beneath the towers. The moat had been dammed at the upper end,
and emptied of its water, had been filled up with boulders, earth and dead horses and
men. Under the walls the mailed figures swarmed,
battering at the gates, rearing up scaling-ladders, pushing storming-towers, thronged with spearmen,
against the turrets. Hope had been abandoned in the city, where
a bare fifteen hundred men resisted forty thousand warriors. No word
had come from the kingdom whose outpost
the city was. Conan was dead, so the invaders shouted exultantly. Only the strong walls and the desperate courage
of the defenders had kept them so long at bay, and that could not suffice for ever. The western wall was a mass of rubbish on
which the defenders stumbled in hand-to-hand conflict with the invaders. The other walls were buckling from the mines
beneath them, the towers leaning drunkenly. Now the attackers were massing for a storm. The oliphants
sounded, the steel-clad ranks
drew up on the plain. The storming-towers, covered with raw bull-hides,
rumbled forward. The people of Shamar saw the banners of Koth
and Ophir, flying side by side, in the center, and made out, among their gleaming knights,
the slim lethal figure of the golden-mailed Amalrus, and the squat black-armored form
of Strabonus. And between them was a shape that made the
bravest blench with horror—a lean vulture figure in a filmy robe. The pikemen moved forward, flowing
over the
ground like the glinting waves of a river of molten steel; the knights cantered forward,
lances lifted, guidons streaming. The warriors on the walls drew a long breath,
consigned their souls to Mitra, and gripped their notched and red-stained weapons. Then without warning, a bugle-call cut the
din. A drum of hoofs rose above the rumble of the
approaching host. North of the plain across which the army moved,
rose ranges of low hills, mounting northward and westward like giant stair-steps
. Now down out of these hills, like spume blown
before a storm, shot the spahis who had been laying waste the countryside, riding low and
spurring hard, and behind them sun shimmered on moving ranks of steel. They moved into full view, out of the defiles—mailed
horsemen, the great lion banner of Aquilonia floating over them. From the electrified watchers on the towers
a great shout rent the skies. In ecstasy warriors clashed their notched
swords on their riven shields, and the people of the town
, ragged beggars and rich merchants,
harlots in red kirtles and dames in silks and satins, fell to their knees and cried
out for joy to Mitra, tears of gratitude streaming down their faces. Strabonus, frantically shouting orders, with
Arbanus, that would wheel around the ponderous lines to meet this unexpected menace, grunted,
"We still outnumber them, unless they have reserves hidden in the hills. The men on the battle-towers can mask any
sorties from the city. These are Poitanians—we might hav
e guessed
Trocero would try some such mad gallantry." Amalrus cried out in unbelief. "I see Trocero and his captain Prospero—but
who rides between them?" "Ishtar preserve us!" shrieked Strabonus, paling. "It is King Conan!" "You are mad!" squalled Tsotha, starting convulsively. "Conan has been in Satha's belly for days!" He stopped short, glaring wildly at the host
which was dropping down, file by file, into the plain. He could not mistake the giant figure in black,
gilt-worked armor on the grea
t black stallion, riding beneath the billowing silken folds
of the great banner. A scream of feline fury burst from Tsotha's
lips, flecking his beard with foam. For the first time in his life, Strabonus
saw the wizard completely upset, and shrank from the sight. "Here is sorcery!" screamed Tsotha, clawing madly at his beard. "How could he have escaped and reached his
kingdom in time to return with an army so quickly? This is the work of Pelias, curse him! I feel his hand in this! May I be cursed
for not killing him when I
had the power!" The kings gaped at the mention of a man they
believed ten years dead, and panic, emanating from the leaders, shook the host. All recognized the rider on the black stallion. Tsotha felt the superstitious dread of his
men, and fury made a hellish mask of his face. "Strike home!" he screamed, brandishing his
lean arms madly. "We are still the stronger! Charge and crush these dogs! We shall yet feast in the ruins of Shamar
tonight! Oh, Set!" he lifted his
hands and invoked
the serpent- god to even Strabonus' horror, "grant us victory and I swear I will offer
up to thee five hundred virgins of Shamar, writhing in their blood!" Meanwhile the opposing host had debouched
onto the plain. With the knights came what seemed a second,
irregular army on tough swift ponies. These dismounted and formed their ranks on
foot—stolid Bossonian archers, and keen pikemen from Gunderland, their tawny locks
blowing from under their steel caps. It was a motley army Co
nan had assembled,
in the wild hours following his return to his capital. He had beaten the frothing mob away from the
Pellian soldiers who held the outer walls of Tamar, and impressed them into his service. He had sent a swift rider after Trocero to
bring him back. With these as a nucleus of an army he had
raced southward, sweeping the countryside for recruits and for mounts. Nobles of Tamar and the surrounding countryside
had augmented his forces, and he had levied recruits from every village
and castle along
his road. Yet it was but a paltry force he had gathered
to dash against the invading hosts, though of the quality of tempered steel. Nineteen hundred armored horsemen followed
him, the main bulk of which consisted of the Poitanian knights. The remnants of the mercenaries and professional
soldiers in the trains of loyal noblemen made up his infantry—five thousand archers and
four thousand pikemen. This host now came on in good order—first
the archers, then the pikemen, behind the
m the knights, moving at a walk. Over against them Arbanus ordered his lines,
and the allied army moved forward like a shimmering ocean of steel. The watchers on the city walls shook to see
that vast host, which overshadowed the powers of the rescuers. First marched the Shemitish archers, then
the Kothian spearmen, then the mailed knights of Strabonus and Amalrus. Arbanus' intent was obvious—to employ his
footmen to sweep away the infantry of Conan, and open the way for an overpowering charge
of
his heavy cavalry. The Shemites opened fire at five hundred yards,
and arrows flew like hail between the hosts, darkening the sun. The western archers, trained by a thousand
years of merciless warfare with the Pictish savages, came stolidly on, closing their ranks
as their comrades fell. They were far outnumbered, and the Shemitish
bow had the longer range, but in accuracy the Bossonians were equal to their foes, and
they balanced sheer skill in archery by superiority in morale, and in excellen
cy of armor. Within good range they loosed, and the Shemites
went down by whole ranks. The blue-bearded warriors in their light mail
shirts could not endure punishment as could the heavier-armored Bossonians. They broke, throwing away their bows, and
their flight disordered the ranks of the Kothian spearmen behind them. Without the support of the archers, these
men-at-arms fell by the hundreds before the shafts of the Bossonians, and charging madly
in to close quarters, they were met by the spea
rs of the pikemen. No infantry was a match for the wild Gundermen,
whose homeland, the northern-most province of Aquilonia, was but a day's ride across
the Bossonian marches from the borders of Cimmeria, and who, born and bred to battle,
were the purest blood of all the Hyborian peoples. The Kothian spearmen, dazed by their losses
from arrows, were cut to pieces and fell back in disorder. Strabonus roared in fury as he saw his infantry
repulsed, and shouted for a general charge. Arbanus demurred
, pointing out the Bossonians
re-forming in good order before the Aquilonian knights, who had sat their steeds motionless
during the melee. The general advised a temporary retirement,
to draw the western knights out of the cover of the bows, but Strabonus was mad with rage. He looked at the long shimmering ranks of
his knights, he glared at the handful of mailed figures over against him, and he commanded
Arbanus to give the order to charge. The general commended his soul to Ishtar and
sounded th
e golden oliphant. With a thunderous roar the forest of lances
dipped, and the great host rolled across the plain, gaining momentum as it came. The whole plain shook to the rumbling avalanche
of hoofs, and the shimmer of gold and steel dazzled the watchers on the towers of Shamar. The squadrons clave the loose ranks of the
spearmen, riding down friend and foe alike, and rushed into the teeth of a blast of arrows
from the Bossonians. Across the plain they thundered, grimly riding
the storm that s
cattered their way with gleaming knights like autumn leaves. Another hundred paces and they would ride
among the Bossonians and cut them down like corn; but flesh and blood could not endure
the rain of death that now ripped and howled among them. Shoulder to shoulder, feet braced wide, stood
the archers, drawing shaft to ear and loosing as one man, with deep, short shouts. The whole front rank of the knights melted
away, and over the pin- cushioned corpses of horses and riders, their comrades st
umbled
and fell headlong. Arbanus was down, an arrow through his throat,
his skull smashed by the hoofs of his dying war-horse, and confusion ran through the disordered
host. Strabonus was screaming an order, Amalrus
another, and through all ran the superstitious dread the sight of Conan had awakened. And while the gleaming ranks milled in confusion,
the trumpets of Conan sounded, and through the opening ranks of the archers crashed the
terrible charge of the Aquilonian knights. The hosts met wi
th a shock like that of an
earthquake, that shook the tottering towers of Shamar. The disorganized squadrons of the invaders
could not withstand the solid steel wedge, bristling with spears, that rushed like a
thunderbolt against them. The long lances of the attackers ripped their
ranks to pieces, and into the heart of their host rode the knights of Poitain, swinging
their terrible two-handed swords. The clash and clangor of steel was as that
of a million sledges on as many anvils. The watchers
on the walls were stunned and
deafened by the thunder as they gripped the battlements and watched the steel maelstrom
swirl and eddy, where plumes tossed high among the flashing swords, and standards dipped
and reeled. Amalrus went down, dying beneath the trampling
hoofs, his shoulder-bone hewn in twain by Prospero's two-handed sword. The invaders' numbers had engulfed the nineteen
hundred knights of Conan, but about this compact wedge, which hewed deeper and deeper into
the looser formation of
their foes, the knights of Koth and Ophir swirled and smote in vain. They could not break the wedge. Archers and pikemen, having disposed of the
Kothian infantry which was strewn in flight across the plain, came to the edges of the
fight, loosing their arrows point-blank, running in to slash at girths and horses' bellies
with their knives, thrusting upward to spit the riders on their long pikes. At the tip of the steel wedge Conan roared
his heathen battle-cry and swung his great sword in glitte
ring arcs that made naught
of steel burgonet or mail habergeon. Straight through a thundering waste of foes
he rode, and the knights of Koth closed in behind him, cutting him off from his warriors. As a thunderbolt strikes, Conan struck, hurtling
through the ranks by sheer power and velocity, until he came to Strabonus, livid among his
palace troops. Now here the battle hung in balance, for with
his superior numbers, Strabonus still had opportunity to pluck victory from the knees
of the gods. Bu
t he screamed when he saw his arch-foe within
arm's length at last, and lashed out wildly with his axe. It clanged on Conan's helmet, striking fire,
and the Cimmerian reeled and struck back. The five-foot blade crushed Strabonus' casque
and skull, and the king's charger reared screaming, hurling a limp and sprawling corpse from the
saddle. A great cry went up from the host, which faltered
and gave back. Trocero and his house troops, hewing desperately,
cut their way to Conan's side, and the grea
t banner of Koth went down. Then behind the dazed and stricken invaders
went up a mighty clamor and the blaze of a huge conflagration. The defenders of Shamar had made a desperate
sortie, cut down the men masking the gates, and were raging among the tents of the besiegers,
cutting down the camp followers, burning the pavilions, and destroying the siege engines. It was the last straw. The gleaming army melted away in flight, and
the furious conquerors cut them down as they ran. The fugitives race
d for the river, but the
men on the flotilla, harried sorely by the stones and shafts of the revived citizens,
cast loose and pulled for the southern shore, leaving their comrades to their fate. Of these many gained the shore, racing across
the barges that served as a bridge, until the men of Shamar cut these adrift and severed
them from the shore. Then the fight became a slaughter. Driven into the river to drown in their armor,
or hacked down along the bank, the invaders perished by the thousan
ds. No quarter they had promised; no quarter they
got. From the foot of the low hills to the shores
of the Tybor, the plain was littered with corpses, and the river whose tide ran red,
floated thick with the dead. Of the nineteen hundred knights who had ridden
south with Conan, scarcely five hundred lived to boast of their scars, and the slaughter
among the archers and pikemen was ghastly. But the great and shining host of Strabonus
and Amalrus was hacked out of existence, and those that fled we
re less than those that
died. While the slaughter yet went on along the
river, the final act of a grim drama was being played out in the meadowland beyond. Among those who had crossed the barge-bridge
before it was destroyed was Tsotha, riding like the wind on a gaunt weird-looking steed
whose stride no natural horse could match. Ruthlessly riding down friend and foe, he
gained the southern bank, and then a glance backward showed him a grim figure on a great
black stallion in pursuit. The lashin
gs had already been cut, and the
barges were drifting apart, but Conan came recklessly on, leaping his steed from boat
to boat as a man might leap from one cake of floating ice to another. Tsotha screamed a curse, but the great stallion
took the last leap with a straining groan, and gained the southern bank. Then the wizard fled away into the empty meadowland,
and on his trail came the king, riding hard, swinging the great sword that spattered his
trail with crimson drops. On they fled, the hunt
ed and the hunter, and
not a foot could the black stallion gain, though he strained each nerve and thew. Through a sunset land of dim and illusive
shadows they fled, till sight and sound of the slaughter died out behind them. Then in the sky appeared a dot, that grew
into a huge eagle as it approached. Swooping down from the sky, it drove at the
head of Tsotha's steed, which screamed and reared, throwing its rider. Old Tsotha rose and faced his pursuer, his
eyes those of a maddened serpent, his
face an inhuman mask. In each hand he held something that shimmered,
and Conan knew he held death there. The king dismounted and strode toward his
foe, his armor clanking, his great sword gripped high. "Again we meet, wizard!" he grinned savagely. "Keep off!" screamed Tsotha like a blood-mad jackal. "I'll blast the flesh from your bones! You can not conquer me—if you hack me in
pieces, the bits of flesh and bone will reunite and haunt you to your doom! I see the hand of Pelias in this, but I def
y
ye both! I am Tsotha, son of—" Conan rushed, sword gleaming, eyes slits of
wariness. Tsotha's right hand came back and forward,
and the king ducked quickly. Something passed by his helmeted head and
exploded behind him, searing the very sands with a flash of hellish fire. Before Tsotha could toss the globe in his
left hand, Conan's sword sheared through his lean neck. The wizard's head shot from his shoulders
on an arching fount of blood, and the robed figure staggered and crumpled drunkenly.
Yet the mad black eyes glared up at Conan
with no dimming of their feral light, the lips writhed awfully, and the hands groped,
as if searching for the severed head. Then with a swift rush of wings, something
swooped from the sky—the eagle which had attacked Tsotha's horse. In its mighty talons it snatched up the dripping
head and soared skyward, and Conan stood struck dumb, for from the eagle's throat boomed human
laughter, in the voice of Pelias the sorcerer. Then a hideous thing came to pass,
for the
headless body reared up from the sand, and staggered away in awful flight on stiffening
legs, hands blindly outstretched toward the dot speeding and dwindling in the dusky sky. Conan stood like one turned to stone, watching
until the swift reeling figure faded in the dusk that purpled the meadows. "Crom!" his mighty shoulders twitched. "A murrain on these wizardly feuds! Pelias has dealt well with me, but I care
not if I see him no more. Give me a clean sword and a clean foe to flesh
it
in. Damnation! What would I not give for a flagon of wine!" Thank you for listening. If you like our recordings consider liking
this video and subscribing to our channel, so you don't miss any more audiobooks.
Comments