Confirmation of the war came when the army of Poitain, ten thousand
strong, marched through the southern passes with waving banners and
shimmer of steel. And at their head, the spies swore, rode a giant
figure in black armor, with the royal lion of Aquilonia worked in gold
upon the breast of his rich silken surcoat. Conan lived! The king lived!
There was no doubt of it in men's minds now, whether friend or foe.
With the news of the invasion from the south there also came word,
brought by hard-riding couriers, that a host of Gundermen was moving
southward, reinforced by the barons of the northwest and the northern
Bossonians. Tarascus marched with thirty-one thousand men to Galparan,
on the river Shirki, which the Gundermen must cross to strike at the
towns still held by the Nemedians. The Shirki was a swift, turbulent
river rushing southwestward through rocky gorges and canyons, and there
were few places where an army could cross at that time of the year, when
the stream was almost bank-full with the melting of the snows. All the
country east of the Shirki was in the hands of the Nemedians, and it was
logical to assume that the Gundermen would attempt to cross either at
Galparan, or at Tanasul, which lay to the south of Galparan.
Reinforcements were daily expected from Nemedia, until word came that
the king of Ophir was making hostile demonstrations on Nemedia's
southern border, and to spare any more troops would be to expose Nemedia
to the risk of an invasion from the south.
Amalric and Valerius moved out from Tarantia with twenty-five thousand
men, leaving as large a garrison as they dared to discourage revolts in
the cities during their absence. They wished to meet and crush Conan
before he could be joined by the rebellious forces of the kingdom.
The king and his Poitanians had crossed the mountains, but there had
been no actual clash of arms, no attack on towns or fortresses. Conan
had appeared and disappeared. Apparently he had turned westward through
the wild, thinly settled hill country, and entered the Bossonian
marches, gathering recruits as he went. Amalric and Valerius with their
host, Nemedians, Aquilonian renegades, and ferocious mercenaries, moved
through the land in baffled wrath, looking for a foe which did not
appear.
Amalric found it impossible to obtain more than vague general tidings
about Conan's movements. Scouting-parties had a way of riding out and
never returning, and it was not uncommon to find a spy crucified to an
oak. The countryside was up and striking as peasants and country-folk
strike--savagely, murderously and secretly. All that Amalric knew
certainly was that a large force of Gundermen and northern Bossonians
was somewhere to the north of him, beyond the Shirki, and that Conan
with a smaller force of Poitanians and southern Bossonians was somewhere
to the southwest of him.
He began to grow fearful that if he and Valerius advanced further into
the wild country, Conan might elude them entirely, march around them and
invade the central provinces behind them. Amalric fell back from the
Shirki valley and camped in a plain a day's ride from Tanasul. There he
waited. Tarascus maintained his position at Galparan, for he feared that
Conan's maneuvers were intended to draw him southward, and so let the
Gundermen into the kingdom at the northern crossing.
* * * * *
To Amalric's camp came Xaltotun in his chariot drawn by the uncanny
horses that never tired, and he entered Amalric's tent where the baron
conferred with Valerius over a map spread on an ivory camp table.
This map Xaltotun crumpled and flung aside.
'What your scouts cannot learn for you,' quoth he, 'my spies tell me,
though their information is strangely blurred and imperfect, as if
unseen forces were working against me.
'Conan is advancing along the Shirki river with ten thousand Poitanians,
three thousand southern Bossonians, and barons of the west and south
with their retainers to the number of five thousand. An army of thirty
thousand Gundermen and northern Bossonians is pushing southward to join
him. They have established contact by means of secret communications
used by the cursed priests of Asura, who seem to be opposing me, and
whom I will feed to a serpent when the battle is over--I swear it by
Set!
'Both armies are headed for the crossing at Tanasul, but I do not
believe that the Gundermen will cross the river. I believe that Conan
will cross, instead, and join them.'
'Why should Conan cross the river?'
'Because it is to his advantage to delay the battle. The longer he
waits, the stronger he will become, the more precarious our position.
The hills on the other side of the river swarm with people passionately
loyal to his cause--broken men, refugees, fugitives from Valerius'
cruelty. From all over the kingdom men are hurrying to join his army,
singly and by companies. Daily, parties from our armies are ambushed and
cut to pieces by the country-folk. Revolt grows in the central
provinces, and will soon burst into open rebellion. The garrisons we
left there are not sufficient, and we can hope for no reinforcements
from Nemedia for the time being. I see the hand of Pallantides in this
brawling on the Ophirean frontier. He has kin in Ophir.
'If we do not catch and crush Conan quickly the provinces will be in a
blaze of revolt behind us. We shall have to fall back to Tarantia to
defend what we have taken; and we may have to fight our way through a
country in rebellion, with Conan's whole force at our heels, and then
stand siege in the city itself, with enemies within as well as without.
No, we cannot wait. We must crush Conan before his army grows too great,
before the central provinces rise. With his head hanging above the gate
at Tarantia you will see how quickly the rebellion will fall apart.'
'Why do you not put a spell on his army to slay them all?' asked
Valerius, half in mockery.
Xaltotun stared at the Aquilonian as if he read the full extent of the
mocking madness that lurked in those wayward eyes.
'Do not worry,' he said at last. 'My arts shall crush Conan finally like
a lizard under the heel. But even sorcery is aided by pikes and swords.'
'If he crosses the river and takes up his position in the Goralian hills
he may be hard to dislodge,' said Amalric. 'But if we catch him in the
valley on this side of the river we can wipe him out. How far is Conan
from Tanasul?'
'At the rate he is marching he should reach the crossing sometime
tomorrow night. His men are rugged and he is pushing them hard. He
should arrive there at least a day before the Gundermen.'
'Good!' Amalric smote the table with his clenched fist. 'I can reach
Tanasul before he can. I'll send a rider to Tarascus, bidding him follow
me to Tanasul. By the time he arrives I will have cut Conan off from the
crossing and destroyed him. Then our combined force can cross the river
and deal with the Gundermen.'
Xaltotun shook his head impatiently.
'A good enough plan if you were dealing with anyone but Conan. But your
twenty-five thousand men are not enough to destroy his eighteen thousand
before the Gundermen come up. They will fight with the desperation of
wounded panthers. And suppose the Gundermen come up while the hosts are
locked in battle? You will be caught between two fires and destroyed
before Tarascus can arrive. He will reach Tanasul too late to aid you.'
'What then?' demanded Amalric.
'Move with your whole strength against Conan,' answered the man from
Acheron. 'Send a rider bidding Tarascus join us here. We will wait his
coming. Then we will march together to Tanasul.'
'But while we wait,' protested Amalric, 'Conan will cross the river and
join the Gundermen.'
'Conan will not cross the river,' answered Xaltotun.
Amalric's head jerked up and he stared into the cryptic dark eyes.
'What do you mean?'
'Suppose there were torrential rains far to the north, at the head of
the Shirki? Suppose the river came down in such flood as to render the
crossing at Tanasul impassable? Could we not then bring up our entire
force at our leisure, catch Conan on this side of the river and crush
him, and then, when the flood subsided, which I think it would do the
next day, could we not cross the river and destroy the Gundermen? Thus
we could use our full strength against each of these smaller forces in
turn.'
Valerius laughed as he always laughed at the prospect of the ruin of
either friend or foe, and drew a restless hand jerkily through his
unruly yellow locks. Amalric stared at the man from Acheron with mingled
fear and admiration.
'If we caught Conan in Shirki valley with the hill ridges to his right
and the river in flood to his left,' he admitted, 'with our whole force
we could annihilate him. Do you think--are you sure--do you believe such
rains will fall?'
'I go to my tent,' answered Xaltotun, rising. 'Necromancy is not
accomplished by the waving of a wand. Send a rider to Tarascus. And let
none approach my tent.'
That last command was unnecessary. No man in that host could have been
bribed to approach that mysterious black silken pavilion, the door-flaps
of which were always closely drawn. None but Xaltotun ever entered it,
yet voices were often heard issuing from it; its walls billowed
sometimes without a wind, and weird music came from it. Sometimes, deep
in midnight, its silken walls were lit red by flames flickering within,
limning misshapen silhouettes that passed to and fro.
Lying in his own tent that night, Amalric heard the steady rumble of a
drum in Xaltotun's tent; through the darkness it boomed steadily, and
occasionally the Nemedian could have sworn that a deep, croaking voice
mingled with the pulse of the drum. And he shuddered, for he knew that
voice was not the voice of Xaltotun. The drum rustled and muttered on
like deep thunder, heard afar off, and before dawn Amalric glancing from
his tent, caught the red flicker of lightning afar on the northern
horizon. In all other parts of the sky the great stars blazed whitely.
But the distant lightning flickered incessantly, like the crimson glint
of firelight on a tiny, turning blade.
* * * * *
At sunset of the next day Tarascus came up with his host, dusty and
weary from hard marching, the footmen straggling hours behind the
horsemen. They camped in the plain near Amalric's camp, and at dawn the
combined army moved westward.
Ahead of him roved a swarm of scouts, and Amalric waited impatiently for
them to return and tell of the Poitanians trapped beside a furious
flood. But when the scouts met the column it was with the news that
Conan had crossed the river!
'What?' exclaimed Amalric. 'Did he cross before the flood?'
'There was no flood,' answered the scouts, puzzled. 'Late last night he
came up to Tanasul and flung his army across.'
'No flood?' exclaimed Xaltotun, taken aback for the first time in
Amalric's knowledge. 'Impossible! There were mighty rains upon the
headwaters of the Shirki last night and the night before that!'
'That may be your lordship,' answered the scout. 'It is true the water
was muddy, and the people of Tanasul said that the river rose perhaps a
foot yesterday; but that was not enough to prevent Conan's crossing.'
Xaltotun's sorcery had failed! The thought hammered in Amalric's brain.
His horror of this strange man out of the past had grown steadily since
that night in Belverus when he had seen a brown, shriveled mummy swell
and grow into a living man. And the death of Orastes had changed lurking
horror into active fear. In his heart was a grisly conviction that the
man--or devil--was invincible. Yet now he had undeniable proof of his
failure.
Yet even the greatest of necromancers might fail occasionally, thought
the baron. At any rate, he dared not oppose the man from Acheron--yet.
Orastes was dead, writhing in Mitra only knew what nameless hell, and
Amalric knew his sword would scarcely prevail where the black wisdom of
the renegade priest had failed. What grisly abomination Xaltotun plotted
lay in the unpredictable future. Conan and his host were a present
menace against which Xaltotun's wizardry might well be needed before the
play was all played.
* * * * *
They came to Tanasul, a small fortified village at the spot where a reef
of rocks made a natural bridge across the river, passable always except
in times of greatest flood. Scouts brought in the news that Conan had
taken up his position in the Goralian hills, which began to rise a few
miles beyond the river. And just before sundown the Gundermen had
arrived in his camp.
Amalric looked at Xaltotun, inscrutable and alien in the light of the
flaring torches. Night had fallen.
'What now? Your magic has failed. Conan confronts us with an army nearly
as strong as our own, and he has the advantage of position. We have a
choice of two evils: to camp here and await his attack, or to fall back
toward Tarantia and await reinforcements.'
'We are ruined if we wait,' answered Xaltotun. 'Cross the river and camp
on the plain. We will attack at dawn.'
'But his position is too strong!' exclaimed Amalric.
'Fool!' A gust of passion broke the veneer of the wizard's calm. 'Have
you forgotten Valkia? Because some obscure elemental principle prevented
the flood do you deem me helpless? I had intended that your spears
should exterminate our enemies; but do not fear: it is my arts that
shall crush their host. Conan is in a trap. He will never see another
sun set. Cross the river!'
They crossed by the flare of torches. The hoofs of the horses clinked on
the rocky bridge, splashed through the shallows. The glint of the
torches on shields and breast-plates was reflected redly in the black
water. The rock bridge was broad on which they crossed, but even so it
was past midnight before the host was camped in the plain beyond. Above
them they could see fires winking redly in the distance. Conan had
turned at bay in the Goralian hills, which had more than once before
served as the last stand of an Aquilonian king.
Amalric left his pavilion and strode restlessly through the camp. A
weird glow flickered in Xaltotun's tent, and from time to time a
demoniacal cry slashed the silence, and there was a low sinister
muttering of a drum that rustled rather than rumbled.
Amalric, his instincts whetted by the night and the circumstances, felt
that Xaltotun was opposed by more than physical force. Doubts of the
wizard's power assailed him. He glanced at the fires high above him, and
his face set in grim lines. He and his army were deep in the midst of a
hostile country. Up there among those hills lurked thousands of wolfish
figures out of whose hearts and souls all emotion and hope had been
scourged except a frenzied hate for their conquerors, a mad lust for
vengeance. Defeat meant annihilation, retreat through a land swarming
with blood-mad enemies. And on the morrow he must hurl his host against
the grimmest fighter in the western nations, and his desperate horde. If
Xaltotun failed them now--
Half a dozen men-at-arms strode out of the shadows. The firelight
glinted on their breast-plates and helmet crests. Among them they half
led, half dragged a gaunt figure in tattered rags.
Saluting, they spoke: 'My lord, this man came to the outposts and said
he desired word with King Valerius. He is an Aquilonian.'
He looked more like a wolf--a wolf the traps had scarred. Old sores that
only fetters make showed on his wrists and ankles. A great brand, the
mark of hot iron, disfigured his face. His eyes glared through the
tangle of his matted hair as he half crouched before the baron.
'Who are you, you filthy dog?' demanded the Nemedian.
'Call me Tiberias,' answered the man, and his teeth clicked in an
involuntary spasm. 'I have come to tell you how to trap Conan.'
'A traitor, eh?' rumbled the baron.
'Men say you have gold,' mouthed the man, shivering under his rags.
'Give some to me! Give me gold and I will show you how to defeat the
king!' His eyes glazed widely, his outstretched, upturned hands were
spread like quivering claws.
Amalric shrugged his shoulder in distaste. But no tool was too base for
his use.
'If you speak the truth you shall have more gold than you can carry,' he
said. 'If you are a liar and a spy I will have you crucified head-down.
Bring him along.'
In the tent of Valerius, the baron pointed to the man who crouched
shivering before them, huddling his rags about him.
'He says he knows a way to aid us on the morrow. We will need aid, if
Xaltotun's plan is no better than it has proved so far. Speak on, dog.'
The man's body writhed in strange convulsions. Words came in a stumbling
rush:
'Conan camps at the head of the Valley of Lions. It is shaped like a
fan, with steep hills on either side. If you attack him tomorrow you
will have to march straight up the valley. You cannot climb the hills on
either side. But if King Valerius will deign to accept my service, I
will guide him through the hills and show him how he can come upon King
Conan from behind. But if it is to be done at all, we must start soon.
It is many hours' riding, for one must go miles to the west, then miles
to the north, then turn eastward and so come into the Valley of Lions
from behind, as the Gundermen came.'
Amalric hesitated, tugging his chin. In these chaotic times it was not
rare to find men willing to sell their souls for a few gold pieces.
'If you lead me astray you will die,' said Valerius. 'You are aware of
that, are you not?'
The man shivered, but his wide eyes did not waver.
'If I betray you, slay me!'
'Conan will not dare divide his force,' mused Amalric. 'He will need all
his men to repel our attack. He cannot spare any to lay ambushes in the
hills. Besides, this fellow knows his hide depends on his leading you as
he promised. Would a dog like him sacrifice himself? Nonsense! No,
Valerius, I believe the man is honest.'
'Or a greater thief than most, for he would sell his liberator,' laughed
Valerius. 'Very well. I will follow the dog. How many men can you spare
me?'
'Five thousand should be enough,' answered Amalric. 'A surprise attack
on their rear will throw them into confusion, and that will be enough. I
shall expect your attack about noon.'
'You will know when I strike,' answered Valerius.
As Amalric returned to his pavilion he noted with gratification that
Xaltotun was still in his tent, to judge from the blood-freezing cries
that shuddered forth into the night air from time to time. When
presently he heard the clink of steel and the jingle of bridles in the
outer darkness, he smiled grimly. Valerius had about served his purpose.
The baron knew that Conan was like a wounded lion that rends and tears
even in his death-throes. When Valerius struck from the rear, the
desperate strokes of the Cimmerian might well wipe his rival out of
existence before he himself succumbed. So much the better. Amalric felt
he could well dispense with Valerius, once he had paved the way for a
Nemedian victory.
* * * * *
The five thousand horsemen who accompanied Valerius were hard-bitten
Aquilonian renegades for the most part. In the still starlight they
moved out of the sleeping camp, following the westward trend of the
great black masses that rose against the stars ahead of them. Valerius
rode at their head, and beside him rode Tiberias, a leather thong about
his wrist gripped by a man-at-arms who rode on the other side of him.
Others kept close behind with drawn swords.
'Play us false and you die instantly,' Valerius pointed out. 'I do not
know every sheep-path in these hills, but I know enough about the
general configuration of the country to know the directions we must take
to come in behind the Valley of Lions. See that you do not lead us
astray.'
The man ducked his head and his teeth chattered as he volubly assured
his captor of his loyalty, staring up stupidly at the banner that
floated over him, the golden serpent of the old dynasty.
Skirting the extremities of the hills that locked the Valley of Lions,
they swung wide to the west. An hour's ride and they turned north,
forging through wild and rugged hills, following dim trails and tortuous
paths. Sunrise found them some miles northwest of Conan's position, and
here the guide turned eastward and led them through a maze of labyrinths
and crags. Valerius nodded, judging their position by various peaks
thrusting up above the others. He had kept his bearings in a general
way, and he knew they were still headed in the right direction.
But now, without warning, a gray fleecy mass came billowing down from
the north, veiling the slopes, spreading out through the valleys. It
blotted out the sun; the world became a blind gray void in which
visibility was limited to a matter of yards. Advance became a stumbling,
groping muddle. Valerius cursed. He could no longer see the peaks that
had served him as guide-posts. He must depend wholly upon the traitorous
guide. The golden serpent drooped in the windless air.
Presently Tiberias seemed himself confused; he halted, stared about
uncertainly.
'Are you lost, dog?' demanded Valerius harshly.
'Listen!'
Somewhere ahead of them a faint vibration began, the rhythmic rumble of
a drum.
'Conan's drum!' exclaimed the Aquilonian.
'If we are close enough to hear the drum,' said Valerius, 'why do we not
hear the shouts and the clang of arms? Surely battle has joined.'
'The gorges and the winds play strange tricks,' answered Tiberias, his
teeth chattering with the ague that is frequently the lot of men who
have spent much time in damp underground dungeons.
'Listen!'
Faintly to their ears came a low muffled roar.
'They are fighting down in the valley!' cried Tiberias. 'The drum is
beating on the heights. Let us hasten!'
He rode straight on toward the sound of the distant drum as one who
knows his ground at last. Valerius followed, cursing the fog. Then it
occurred to him that it would mask his advance. Conan could not see him
coming. He would be at the Cimmerian's back before the noonday sun
dispelled the mists.
Just now he could not tell what lay on either hand, whether cliffs,
thickets or gorges. The drum throbbed unceasingly, growing louder as
they advanced, but they heard no more of the battle. Valerius had no
idea toward what point of the compass they were headed. He started as he
saw gray rock walls looming through the smoky drifts on either hand, and
realized that they were riding through a narrow defile. But the guide
showed no sign of nervousness, and Valerius hove a sigh of relief when
the walls widened out and became invisible in the fog. They were through
the defile; if an ambush had been planned, it would have been made in
that pass.
But now Tiberias halted again. The drum was rumbling louder, and
Valerius could not determine from what direction the sound was coming.
Now it seemed ahead of him, now behind, now on one hand or the other.
Valerius glared about him impatiently, sitting on his war-horse with
wisps of mist curling about him and the moisture gleaming on his armor.
Behind him the long lines of steel-clad riders faded away and away like
phantoms into the mist.
'Why do you tarry, dog?' he demanded.
The man seemed to be listening to the ghostly drum. Slowly he
straightened in his saddle, turned his head and faced Valerius, and the
smile on his lips was terrible to see.
'The fog is thinning, Valerius,' he said in a new voice, pointing a bony
finger. 'Look!'
The drum was silent. The fog was fading away. First the crests of cliffs
came in sight above the gray clouds, tall and spectral. Lower and lower
crawled the mists, shrinking, fading. Valerius started up in his
stirrups with a cry that the horsemen echoed behind him. On all sides of
them the cliffs towered. They were not in a wide, open valley as he had
supposed. They were in a blind gorge walled by sheer cliffs hundreds of
feet high. The only entrance or exit was that narrow defile through
which they had ridden.
'Dog!' Valerius struck Tiberias full in the mouth with his clenched
mailed hand. 'What devil's trick is this?'
Tiberias spat out a mouthful of blood and shook with fearful laughter.
'A trick that shall rid the world of a beast! Look, dog!'
Again Valerius cried out, more in fury than in fear.
The defile was blocked by a wild and terrible band of men who stood
silent as images--ragged, shock-headed men with spears in their
hands--hundreds of them. And up on the cliffs appeared other
faces--thousands of faces--wild, gaunt, ferocious faces, marked by fire
and steel and starvation.
'A trick of Conan's!' raged Valerius.
'Conan knows nothing of it,' laughed Tiberias. 'It was the plot of
broken men, of men you ruined and turned to beasts. Amalric was right.
Conan has not divided his army. We are the rabble who followed him, the
wolves who skulked in these hills, the homeless men, the hopeless men.
This was our plan, and the priests of Asura aided us with their mist.
Look at them, Valerius! Each bears the mark of your hand, on his body or
on his heart!
'Look at me! You do not know me, do you, what of this scar your hangman
burned upon me? Once you knew me. Once I was lord of Amilius, the man
whose sons you murdered, whose daughter your mercenaries ravished and
slew. You said I would not sacrifice myself to trap you? Almighty gods,
if I had a thousand lives I would give them all to buy your doom!
'And I have bought it! Look on the men you broke, dead men who once
played the king! Their hour has come! This gorge is your tomb. Try to
climb the cliffs: they are steep, they are high. Try to fight your way
back through the defile: spears will block your path, boulders will
crush you from above! Dog! I will be waiting for you in hell!'
Throwing back his head he laughed until the rocks rang. Valerius leaned
from his saddle and slashed down with his great sword, severing
shoulder-bone and breast. Tiberias sank to the earth, still laughing
ghastily through a gurgle of gushing blood.
The drums had begun again, encircling the gorge with guttural thunder;
boulders came crashing down; above the screams of dying men shrilled the
arrows in blinding clouds from the cliffs.
22