The Hour of the Dragon, Robert E. Howard [best ebook reader for laptop txt] 📗
- Author: Robert E. Howard
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mumble of voices, the groan of ponderous hinges. Through a slit in the
cloak that covered him he saw, faintly in the lurid glare of torches,
the great black arch of a gateway, and the bearded faces of men-at-arms, the torches striking fire from their spearheads and helmets.
“How went the battle, my fair lord?” spoke an eager voice, in the
Nemedian tongue.
“Well indeed,” was the curt reply. “The king of Aquilonia lies slain
and his host is broken.”
A babble of excited voices rose, drowned the next instant by the
whirling wheels of the chariot on the flags. Sparks flashed from under
the revolving rims as Xaltotun lashed his steeds through the arch. But
Conan heard one of the guardsmen mutter: “From beyond the border to
Belverus between sunset and dawn! And the horses scarcely sweating! By
Mitra, they—” Then silence drank the voices, and there was only the
clatter of hoofs and wheels along the shadowy street.
What he had heard registered itself on Conan’s brain but suggested
nothing to him. He was like a mindless automaton that hears and sees,
but does not understand. Sights and sounds flowed meaninglessly about
him. He lapsed again into a deep lethargy, and was only dimly aware
when the chariot halted in a deep, high-walled court, and he was
lifted from it by many hands and borne up a winding stone stair, and
down a long dim corridor. Whispers, stealthy footsteps, unrelated
sounds surged or rustled about him, irrelevant and far away.
Yet his ultimate awakening was abrupt and crystal-clear. He possessed
full knowledge of the battle in the mountains and its sequences, and
he had a good idea of where he was.
He lay on a velvet couch, clad as he was the day before, but With his
limbs loaded with chains not even he could break. The room in which he
lay was furnished with somber magnificence, the walls covered with
black velvet tapestries, the floor with heavy purple carpets. There
was no sign of door or window, and one curiously carven gold lamp,
swinging from the fretted ceiling, shed a lurid light over all.
In that light the figure seated in a silver, throne-like chair before
him seemed unreal and fantastic, with an illusiveness of outline that
was heightened by a filmy silken robe. But the features were distinct-unnaturally so in that uncertain light. It was almost as if a weird
nimbus played about the man’s head, casting the bearded face into bold
relief, so that it was the only definite and distinct reality in that
mystic, ghostly chamber.
It was a magnificent face, with strongly chiseled features of
classical beauty. There was, indeed, something disquieting about the
calm tranquility of its aspect, a suggestion of more than human
knowledge, of a profound certitude beyond human assurance. Also an
uneasy sensation of familiarity twitched at the back of Oman’s
consciousness. He had never seen this man’s face before, he well knew;
yet those features reminded him of something or someone. It was like
encountering in the flesh some dream-image that had haunted one in
nightmares.
“Who are you?” demanded the king belligerently, struggling to a
sitting position in spite of his chains.
“Men call me Xaltotun,” was the reply, in a strong, golden voice.
“What place is this?” the Cimmerian next demanded.
“A chamber in the palace of King Tarascus, in Belverus.”
Conan was not surprized. Belverus, the capital, was at the same time
the largest Nemedian city so near the border.
“And where’s Tarascus?”
“With the army.”
“Well,” growled Conan, “if you mean to murder me, why don’t you do it
and get it over with?”
“I did not save you from the king’s archers to murder you in
Belverus,” answered Xaltotun.
“What the devil did you do to me?” demanded Conan.
“I blasted your consciousness,” answered Xaltotun. “How, you would not
understand. Call it black magic, if you will.”
Conan had already reached that conclusion, and was mulling over
something else.
“I think I understand why you spared my life,” he rumbled. “Amalric
wants to keep me as a check on Valerius, in case the impossible
happens and he becomes king of Aquilonia. It’s well known that the
baron of Tor is behind this move to seat Valerius on my throne. And if
I know Amalric, he doesn’t intend that Valerius shall be anything more
than a figurehead, as Tarascus is now.”
“Amalric knows nothing of your capture,” answered Xaltotun. “Neither
does Valerius. Both think you died at Valkia.”
Conan’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the man in silence.
“I sensed a brain behind all this,” he muttered, “but I thought it was
Amalric’s. Are Amalric, Tarascus and Valerius all but puppets dancing
on your string? Who are you?”
“What does it matter? If I told you, you would not believe me. What if
I told you I might set you back on the throne of Aquilonia?”
Conan’s eyes burned on him like a wolf.
“What’s your price?”
“Obedience to me.”
“Go to hell with your offer!” snarled Conan. “I’m no figurehead. I won
my crown with my sword. Besides, it’s beyond your power to buy and
sell the throne of Aquilonia at your will. The kingdom’s not
conquered; one battle doesn’t decide a war.”
“You war against more than swords,” answered Xaltotun. “Was it a
mortal’s sword that felled you in your tent before the fight? Nay, it
was a child of the dark, a waif of outer space, whose fingers were
afire with the frozen coldness of the black gulfs, which froze the
blood in your veins and the marrow of your thews. Coldness so cold it
burned your flesh like white-hot iron!”
“Was it chance that led the man who wore your harness to lead his
knights into the defile?-chance that brought the cliffs crashing down
upon them?”
Conan glared at him unspeaking, feeling a chill along his spine.
Wizards and sorcerers abounded in his barbaric mythology, and any fool
could tell that this was no common man. Conan sensed an inexplicable
something about him that set him apart-an alien aura of Time and
Space, a sense of tremendous and sinister antiquity. But his stubborn
spirit refused to flinch.
“The fall of the cliffs was chance,” he muttered truculently. “The
charge into the defile was what any man would have done.”
“Not so. You would not have led a charge into it. You would have
suspected a trap. You would never have crossed the river in the first
place, until you were sure the Nemedian rout was real. Hypnotic
suggestions would not have invaded your mind, even in the madness of
battle, to make you mad, and rush blindly into the trap laid for you,
as it did the lesser man who masqueraded as you.”
“Then if this was all planned,” Conan grunted skeptically, “all a plot
to trap my host, why did not the ‘child of darkness’ kill me in my
tent?”
“Because I wished to take you alive. It took no wizardry to predict
that Pallantides would send another man out in your harness. I wanted
you alive and unhurt. You may fit into my scheme of things. There is a
vital power about you greater than the craft and cunning of my allies.
You are a bad enemy, but might make a fine vassal.”
Conan spat savagely at the word, and Xaltotun, ignoring his fury, took
a crystal globe from a near-by table and placed it before him. He did
not support it in any way, nor place it on anything, but it hung
motionless in midair, as solidly as if it rested on an iron pedestal.
Conan snorted at this bit of necromancy, but he was nevertheless
impressed.
“Would you know of what goes on in Aquilonia?” he asked.
Conan did not reply, but the sudden rigidity of his form betrayed his
interest.
Xaltotun stared into the cloudy depths, and spoke: “It is now the
evening of the day after the battle of Vallda. Last night the main
body of the army camped by Valkia, while squadrons of knights harried
the fleeing Aquilonians. At dawn the host broke camp and pushed
westward through the mountains. Prospero, with ten thousand
Poitanians, was miles from the battlefield when he met the fleeing
survivors in the early dawn. He had pushed on all night, hoping to
reach the field before the battle joined. Unable to rally the remnants
of the broken host, he fell back toward Tarantia. Riding hard,
replacing his wearied horses with steeds seized from the countryside,
he approaches Tarantia.
“I see his weary knights, their armor gray with dust, their pennons
drooping as they push their tired horses through the plain. I see,
also, the streets of Tarantia. The city is in turmoil. Somehow word
has reached the people of the defeat and the death of King Conan. The
mob is mad with fear, crying out that the king is dead, and there is
none to lead them against the Nemedians. Giant shadows rush on
Aquilonia from the east, and the sky is black with vultures.”
Conan cursed deeply.
“What are these but words? The raggedest beggar in the street might
prophesy as much. If you say you saw all that in the glass ball, then
you’re a liar as well as a knave, of which last there’s no doubt!
Prospero will hold Tarantia, and the barons will rally to him. Count
Trocero of Poitain commands the kingdom in my absence, and he’ll drive
these Nemedian dogs howling back to their kennels. What are fifty
thousand Nemedians? Aquilonia will swallow them up. They’ll never see
Belverus again. It’s not Aquilonia which was conquered at Valkia; it
was only Conan.”
“Aquilonia is doomed,” answered Xaltotun, unmoved. “Lance and ax and
torch shall conquer her; or if they fail, powers from the dark of ages
shall march against her. As the cliffs fell at Valkia, so shall walled
cities and mountains fall, if the need arise, and rivers roar from
their channels to drown whole provinces.
“Better if steel and bowstring prevail without further aid from the
arts, for the constant use of mighty spells sometimes sets forces in
motion that might rock the universe.”
“From what hell have you crawled, you nighted dog?” muttered Conan,
staring at the man. The Cimmerian involuntarily shivered; he sensed
something incredibly ancient, incredibly evil.
Xaltotun lifted his head, as if listening to whispers across the void.
He seemed to have forgotten his prisoner. Then he shook his head
impatiently, and glanced impersonally at Conan.
“What? Why, if I told you, you would not believe me. But I am wearied
of conversation with you; it is less fatiguing to destroy a walled
city than it is to frame my thoughts in words a brainless barbarian
can understand.”
“If my hands were free,” opined Conan, “I’d soon make a brainless
corpse out of you.”
“I do not doubt it, if I were fool enough to give you the
opportunity,” answered Xaltotun, clapping his hands. ‘,’ His manner
had changed; there was impatience in his tone, and a certain
nervousness in his manner, though Conan did not think this attitude
was in any way connected with himself.
“Consider what I have told you, barbarian,” said Xaltotun.
“You will have plenty of leisure. I have not yet decided what I shall
do with you. It depends on circumstances yet unborn. But let this be
impressed upon you: that if I decide to use you in my game, it will be
better to submit without resistance than to suffer my wrath.” Conan
spat a curse at him, just as hangings that masked a
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