The year of the dragon had birth in war and pestilence and unrest. The
black plague stalked through the streets of Belverus, striking down the
merchant in his stall, the serf in his kennel, the knight at his banquet
board. Before it the arts of the leeches were helpless. Men said it had
been sent from hell as punishment for the sins of pride and lust. It was
swift and deadly as the stroke of an adder. The victim's body turned
purple and then black, and within a few minutes he sank down dying, and
the stench of his own putrefaction was in his nostrils even before death
wrenched his soul from his rotting body. A hot, roaring wind blew
incessantly from the south, and the crops withered in the fields, the
cattle sank and died in their tracks.
Men cried out on Mitra, and muttered against the king; for somehow,
throughout the kingdom, the word was whispered that the king was
secretly addicted to loathsome practises and foul debauches in the
seclusion of his nighted palace. And then in that palace death stalked
grinning on feet about which swirled the monstrous vapors of the plague.
In one night the king died with his three sons, and the drums that
thundered their dirge drowned the grim and ominous bells that rang from
the carts that lumbered through the streets gathering up the rotting
dead.
That night, just before dawn, the hot wind that had blown for weeks
ceased to rustle evilly through the silken window curtains. Out of the
north rose a great wind that roared among the towers, and there was
cataclysmic thunder, and blinding sheets of lightning, and driving rain.
But the dawn shone clean and green and clear; the scorched ground veiled
itself in grass, the thirsty crops sprang up anew, and the plague was
gone--its miasma swept clean out of the land by the mighty wind.
Men said the gods were satisfied because the evil king and his spawn
were slain, and when his young brother Tarascus was crowned in the great
coronation hall, the populace cheered until the towers rocked,
acclaiming the monarch on whom the gods smiled.
Such a wave of enthusiasm and rejoicing as swept the land is frequently
the signal for a war of conquest. So no one was surprised when it was
announced that King Tarascus had declared the truce made by the late
king with their western neighbors void, and was gathering his hosts to
invade Aquilonia. His reason was candid; his motives, loudly proclaimed,
gilded his actions with something of the glamor of a crusade. He
espoused the cause of Valerius, 'rightful heir to the throne'; he came,
he proclaimed, not as an enemy of Aquilonia, but as a friend, to free
the people from the tyranny of a usurper and a foreigner.
If there were cynical smiles in certain quarters, and whispers
concerning the king's good friend Amalric, whose vast personal wealth
seemed to be flowing into the rather depleted royal treasury, they were
unheeded in the general wave of fervor and zeal of Tarascus' popularity.
If any shrewd individuals suspected that Amalric was the real ruler of
Nemedia, behind the scenes, they were careful not to voice such heresy.
And the war went forward with enthusiasm.
The king and his allies moved westward at the head of fifty thousand
men--knights in shining armor with their pennons streaming above their
helmets, pikemen in steel caps and brigandines, cross-bowmen in leather
jerkins. They crossed the border, took a frontier castle and burned
three mountain villages, and then, in the valley of the Valkia, ten
miles west of the boundary line, they met the hosts of Conan, king of
Aquilonia--forty-five thousand knights, archers and men-at-arms, the
flower of Aquilonian strength and chivalry. Only the knights of Poitain,
under Prospero, had not yet arrived, for they had far to ride up from
the southwestern corner of the kingdom. Tarascus had struck without
warning. His invasion had come on the heels of his proclamation, without
formal declaration of war.
The two hosts confronted each other across a wide, shallow valley, with
rugged cliffs, and a shallow stream winding through masses of reeds and
willows down the middle of the vale. The camp-followers of both hosts
came down to this stream for water, and shouted insults and hurled
stones across at one another. The last glints of the sun shone on the
golden banner of Nemedia with the scarlet dragon, unfurled in the breeze
above the pavilion of King Tarascus on an eminence near the eastern
cliffs. But the shadow of the western cliffs fell like a vast purple
pall across the tents and the army of Aquilonia, and upon the black
banner with its golden lion that floated above King Conan's pavilion.
All night the fires flared the length of the valley, and the wind
brought the call of trumpets, the clangor of arms, and the sharp
challenges of the sentries who paced their horses along either edge of
the willow-grown stream.
* * * * *
It was in the darkness before dawn that King Conan stirred on his couch,
which was no more than a pile of silks and furs thrown on a dais, and
awakened. He started up, crying out sharply and clutching at his sword.
Pallantides, his commander, rushing in at the cry, saw his king sitting
upright, his hand on his hilt, and perspiration dripping from his
strangely pale face.
'Your Majesty!' exclaimed Pallantides. 'Is aught amiss?'
'What of the camp?' demanded Conan. 'Are the guards out?'
'Five hundred horsemen patrol the stream, your Majesty,' answered the
general. 'The Nemedians have not offered to move against us in the
night. They wait for dawn, even as we.'
'By Crom,' muttered Conan. 'I awoke with a feeling that doom was
creeping on me in the night.'
He stared up at the great golden lamp which shed a soft glow over the
velvet hangings and carpets of the great tent. They were alone; not even
a slave or a page slept on the carpeted floor; but Conan's eyes blazed
as they were wont to blaze in the teeth of great peril, and the sword
quivered in his hand. Pallantides watched him uneasily. Conan seemed to
be listening.
'Listen!' hissed the king. 'Did you hear it? A furtive step!'
'Seven knights guard your tent, your Majesty,' said Pallantides. 'None
could approach it unchallenged.'
'Not outside,' growled Conan. 'It seemed to sound inside the tent.'
Pallantides cast a swift, startled look around. The velvet hangings
merged with shadows in the corners, but if there had been anyone in the
pavilion besides themselves, the general would have seen him. Again he
shook his head.
'There is no one here, sire. You sleep in the midst of your host.'
'I have seen death strike a king in the midst of thousands,' muttered
Conan. 'Something that walks on invisible feet and is not seen--'
'Perhaps you were dreaming, your Majesty,' said Pallantides, somewhat
perturbed.
'So I was,' grunted Conan. 'A devilish dream it was, too. I trod again
all the long, weary roads I traveled on my way to the kingship.'
He fell silent, and Pallantides stared at him unspeaking. The king was
an enigma to the general, as to most of his civilized subjects.
Pallantides knew that Conan had walked many strange roads in his wild,
eventful life, and had been many things before a twist of Fate set him
on the throne of Aquilonia.
'I saw again the battlefield whereon I was born,' said Conan, resting
his chin moodily on a massive fist. 'I saw myself in a pantherskin
loin-cloth, throwing my spear at the mountain beasts. I was a mercenary
swordsman again, a hetman of the _kozaki_ who dwell along the Zaporoska
River, a corsair looting the coasts of Kush, a pirate of the Barachan
Isles, a chief of the Himelian hillmen. All these things I've been, and
of all these things I dreamed; all the shapes that have been I passed
like an endless procession, and their feet beat out a dirge in the
sounding dust.
'But throughout my dreams moved strange, veiled figures and ghostly
shadows, and a faraway voice mocked me. And toward the last I seemed to
see myself lying on this dais in my tent, and a shape bent over me,
robed and hooded. I lay unable to move, and then the hood fell away and
a moldering skull grinned down at me. Then it was that I awoke.'
'This is an evil dream, your Majesty,' said Pallantides, suppressing a
shudder. 'But no more.'
Conan shook his head, more in doubt than in denial. He came of a
barbaric race, and the superstitions and instincts of his heritage
lurked close beneath the surface of his consciousness.
'I've dreamed many evil dreams,' he said, 'and most of them were
meaningless. But by Crom, this was not like most dreams! I wish this
battle were fought and won, for I've had a grisly premonition ever since
King Nimed died in the black plague. Why did it cease when he died?'
'Men say he sinned--'
'Men are fools, as always,' grunted Conan. 'If the plague struck all who
sinned, then by Crom there wouldn't be enough left to count the living!
Why should the gods--who the priests tell me are just--slay five hundred
peasants and merchants and nobles before they slew the king, if the
whole pestilence were aimed at him? Were the gods smiting blindly, like
swordsmen in a fog? By Mitra, if I aimed my strokes no straighter,
Aquilonia would have had a new king long ago.
'No! The black plague's no common pestilence. It lurks in Stygian
tombs, and is called forth into being only by wizards. I was a swordsman
in Prince Almuric's army that invaded Stygia, and of his thirty
thousand, fifteen thousand perished by Stygian arrows, and the rest by
the black plague that rolled on us like a wind out of the south. I was
the only man who lived.'
'Yet only five hundred died in Nemedia,' argued Pallantides.
'Whoever called it into being knew how to cut it short at will,'
answered Conan. 'So I know there was something planned and diabolical
about it. Someone called it forth, someone banished it when the work was
completed--when Tarascus was safe on the throne and being hailed as the
deliverer of the people from the wrath of the gods. By Crom, I sense a
black, subtle brain behind all this. What of this stranger who men say
gives counsel to Tarascus?'
'He wears a veil,' answered Pallantides; 'they say he is a foreigner; a
stranger from Stygia.'
'A stranger from Stygia!' repeated Conan scowling. 'A stranger from
hell, more like!--Ha! What is that?'
'The trumpets of the Nemedians!' exclaimed Pallantides. 'And hark, how
our own blare upon their heels! Dawn is breaking, and the captains are
marshaling the hosts for the onset! Mitra be with them, for many will
not see the sun go down behind the crags.'
'Send my squires to me!' exclaimed Conan, rising with alacrity and
casting off his velvet night-garment; he seemed to have forgotten his
forebodings at the prospect of action. 'Go to the captains and see that
all is in readiness. I will be with you as soon as I don my armor.'
Many of Conan's ways were inexplicable to the civilized people he ruled,
and one of them was his insistence on sleeping alone in his chamber or
tent. Pallantides hastened from the pavilion, clanking in the armor he
had donned at midnight after a few hours' sleep. He cast a swift glance
over the camp, which was beginning to swarm with activity, mail clinking
and men moving about dimly in the uncertain light, among the long lines
of tents. Stars still glimmered palely in the western sky, but long pink
streamers stretched along the eastern horizon, and against them the
dragon banner of Nemedia flung out its billowing silken folds.
Pallantides turned toward a smaller tent near by, where slept the royal
squires. These were tumbling out already, roused by the trumpets. And as
Pallantides called to them to hasten, he was frozen speechless by a deep
fierce shout and the impact of a heavy blow inside the king's tent,
followed by the heart-stopping crash of a falling body. There sounded a
low laugh that turned the general's blood to ice.
Echoing the cry, Pallantides wheeled and rushed back into the pavilion.
He cried out again as he saw Conan's powerful frame stretched out on
the carpet. The king's great two-handed sword lay near his hand, and a
shattered tent-pole seemed to show where his stroke had fallen.
Pallantides' sword was out, and he glared about the tent, but nothing
met his gaze. Save for the king and himself it was empty, as it had been
when he left it.
'Your Majesty!' Pallantides threw himself on his knee beside the fallen
giant.
Conan's eyes were open; they blazed up at him with full intelligence and
recognition. His lips writhed, but no sound came forth. He seemed unable
to move.
Voices sounded without. Pallantides rose swiftly and stepped to the
door. The royal squires and one of the knights who guarded the tent
stood there.
'We heard a sound within,' said the knight apologetically. 'Is all well
with the king?'
Pallantides regarded him searchingly.
'None has entered or left the pavilion this night?'
'None save yourself, my lord,' answered the knight, and Pallantides
could not doubt his honesty.
'The king stumbled and dropped his sword,' said Pallantides briefly.
'Return to your post.'
As the knight turned away, the general covertly motioned to the five
royal squires, and when they had followed him in, he drew the flap
closely. They turned pale at the sight of the king stretched upon the
carpet, but Pallantides' quick gesture checked their exclamations.
The general bent over him again, and again Conan made an effort to
speak. The veins in his temples and the cords in his neck swelled with
his efforts, and he lifted his head clear of the ground. Voice came at
last, mumbling and half intelligible.
'_The thing--the thing in the corner!_'
Pallantides lifted his head and looked fearfully about him. He saw the
pale faces of the squires in the lamplight, the velvet shadows that
lurked along the walls of the pavilion. That was all.
'There is nothing here, your Majesty,' he said.
'It was there, in the corner,' muttered the king, tossing his lion-maned
head from side to side in his efforts to rise. 'A man--at least he
looked like a man--wrapped in rags like a mummy's bandages, with a
moldering cloak drawn about him, and a hood. All I could see was his
eyes, as he crouched there in the shadows. I thought he was a shadow
himself, until I saw his eyes. They were like black jewels.
'I made at him and swung my sword, but I missed him clean--how, Crom
knows--and splintered that pole instead. He caught my wrist as I
staggered off balance, and his fingers burned like hot iron. All the
strength went out of me, and the floor rose and struck me like a club.
Then he was gone, and I was down, and--curse him!--I can't move! I'm
paralysed!'
Pallantides lifted the giant's hand, and his flesh crawled. On the
king's wrist showed the blue marks of long, lean fingers. What hand
could grip so hard as to leave its print on that thick wrist?
Pallantides remembered that low laugh he had heard as he rushed into the
tent, and cold perspiration beaded his skin. It had not been Conan who
laughed.
'This is a thing diabolical!' whispered a trembling squire. 'Men say the
children of darkness war for Tarascus!'
'Be silent!' ordered Pallantides sternly.
Outside, the dawn was dimming the stars. A light wind sprang up from the
peaks, and brought the fanfare of a thousand trumpets. At the sound a
convulsive shudder ran through the king's mighty form. Again the veins
in his temples knotted as he strove to break the invisible shackles
which crushed him down.
'Put my harness on me and tie me into my saddle,' he whispered. 'I'll
lead the charge yet!'
Pallantides shook his head, and a squire plucked his skirt.
'My lord, we are lost if the host learns the king has been smitten! Only
he could have led us to victory this day.'
'Help me lift him on the dais,' answered the general.
They obeyed, and laid the helpless giant on the furs, and spread a
silken cloak over him. Pallantides turned to the five squires and
searched their pale faces long before he spoke.
'Our lips must be sealed for ever as to what happens in this tent,' he
said at last. 'The kingdom of Aquilonia depends upon it. One of you go
and fetch me the officer Valannus, who is a captain of the Pellian
spearmen.'
The squire indicated bowed and hastened from the tent, and Pallantides
stood staring down at the stricken king, while outside trumpets blared,
drums thundered, and the roar of the multitudes rose in the growing
dawn. Presently the squire returned with the officer Pallantides had
named--a tall man, broad and powerful, built much like the king. Like
him, also, he had thick black hair. But his eyes were gray and he did
not resemble Conan in his features.
'The king is stricken by a strange malady,' said Pallantides briefly. 'A
great honor is yours; you are to wear his armor and ride at the head of
the host today. None must know that it is not the king who rides.'
'It is an honor for which a man might gladly give up his life,'
stammered the captain, overcome by the suggestion. 'Mitra grant that I
do not fail of this mighty trust!'
And while the fallen king stared with burning eyes that reflected the
bitter rage and humiliation that ate his heart, the squires stripped
Valannus of mail shirt, burganet and leg-pieces, and clad him in Conan's
armor of black plate-mail, with the vizored salade, and the dark plumes
nodding over the wyvern crest. Over all they put the silken surcoat with
the royal lion worked in gold upon the breast, and they girt him with a
broad gold-buckled belt which supported a jewel-hilted broadsword in a
cloth-of-gold scabbard. While they worked, trumpets clamored outside,
arms clanged, and across the river rose a deep-throated roar as squadron
after squadron swung into place.
Full-armed, Valannus dropped to his knee and bent his plumes before the
figure that lay on the dais.
'Lord king, Mitra grant that I do not dishonor the harness I wear this
day!'
'Bring me Tarascus' head and I'll make you a baron!' In the stress of
his anguish Conan's veneer of civilization had fallen from him. His eyes
flamed, he ground his teeth in fury and blood-lust, as barbaric as any
tribesmen in the Cimmerian hills.
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