The Hour of the Dragon - Robert E. Howard (great reads .TXT) 📗
- Author: Robert E. Howard
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saw only one man standing before him-a slim figure, masked in a black
cloak with a hood. This the man threw back, disclosing a pale oval of
a face, with calm, delicately chiseled features.
The king set Albiona on her feet, but she still clung to him and
stared apprehensively about her. The chamber was a large one, with
marble walls partly covered with black velvet hangings and thick rich
carpets on the mosaic floor, laved in the soft golden glow of bronze
lamps.
Conan instinctively laid a hand on his hilt. There was blood on his
hand, blood clotted about the mouth of his scabbard, for he had
sheathed his blade without cleansing it.
“Where are we?” he demanded.
The stranger answered with a low, profound bow in which the suspicious
king could detect no trace of irony.
“In the temple of Asura, your Majesty.”
Albiona cried out faintly and clung closer to Conan, staring fearfully
at the black, arched doors, as if expecting the entry of some grisly
shape of darkness.
“Fear not, my lady,” said their guide. “There is nothing here to harm
you, vulgar superstition to the contrary. If your monarch was
sufficiently convinced of the innocence of our religion to protect us
from the persecution of the ignorant, then certainly one of his
subjects need have no apprehensions.”
“Who are you?” demanded Conan.
“I am Hadrathus, priest of Asura. One of my followers recognized you
when you entered the city, and brought the word to me.”
Conan grunted profanely.
“Do not fear that others discovered your identity,” Hadrathus assured
him. “Your disguise would have deceived any but a follower of Asura,
whose cult it is to seek below the aspect of illusion. You were
followed to the watch tower, and some of my people went into the
tunnel to aid you if you returned by that route. Others, myself among
them, surrounded the tower. And now, King Conan, it is yours to
command. Here in the temple of Asura you are still king.”
“Why should you risk your lives for me?” asked the king.
“You were our friend when you sat upon your throne,” answered
Hadrathus. “You protected us when the priests of Mitra sought to
scourge us out of the land.”
Conan looked about him curiously. He had never before visited the
temple of Asura, had not certainly known that there was such a temple
in Tarantia. The priests of the religion had a habit of hiding their
temples in a remarkable fashion. The worship of Mitra was
overwhelmingly predominant in the Hyborian nations, but the cult of
Asura persisted, in spite of official ban and popular antagonism.
Conan had been told dark tales of hidden temples where intense smoke
drifted up incessantly from black altars where kidnaped humans were
sacrificed before a great coiled serpent, whose fearsome head swayed
for ever in the haunted shadows.
Persecution caused the followers of Asura to hide their temples with
cunning art, and to veil they rituals in obscurity; and this secrecy,
in turn, evoked more monstrous suspicions and tales of evil.
But Conan’s was the broad tolerance of the barbarian, and he had
refused to persecute the followers of Asura or to allow the people to
do so on no better evidence than was presented against them, rumors
and accusations that could not be proven. “If they are black
magicians,” he had said, “how will they suffer you to harry them? If
they are not, there is no evil in them. Crom’s devils! Let men worship
what gods they will.”
At a respectful invitation from Hadrathus he seated himself on an
ivory chair, and motioned Albiona to another, but she preferred to sit
on a golden stool at his feet, pressing close against his thigh, as if
seeking security in the contact. Like most orthodox followers of
Mitra, she had an intuitive horror of the followers and cult of Asura,
instilled in her infancy and childhood by wild tales of human
sacrifice and anthropomorphic gods shambling through shadowy temples.
Hadrathus stood before them, his uncovered head bowed.
“What is your wish, your Majesty?”
“Food first,” he grunted, and the priest smote a golden gong with a
silver wand.
Scarcely had the mellow notes ceased echoing when four hooded figures
came through a curtained doorway bearing a great four-legged silver
platter of smoking dishes and crystal vessels.
This they set before Conan, bowing low, and the king wiped his hands
on the damask, and smacked his lips with unconcealed relish.
“Beware, your Majesty!” whispered Albiona. “These folk eat human
flesh!”
“I’ll stake my kingdom that this is nothing but honest roast beef,”
answered Conan. “Come, lass, fall to! You must be hungry after the
prison fare.”
Thus advised, and with the example before her of one whose word was
the ultimate law to her, the countess complied, and ate ravenously
though daintily, while her liege lord tore into the meat joints and
guzzled the wine with as much gusto as if he had not already eaten
once that night.
“You priests are shrewd, Hadrathus,” he said, with a great beef-bone
in his hands and his mouth full of meat. “I’d welcome your service in
my campaign to regain my kingdom.”
Slowly Hadrathus shook his head, and Conan slammed the beef-bone down
on the table in a gust of impatient wrath.
“Crom’s devils! What ails the men of Aquilonia? First Servius—now
you! Can you do nothing but wag your idiotic heads when I speak of
ousting these dogs?”
Hadrathus sighed and answered slowly: “My lord, it is ill to say, and
I fain would say otherwise. But the freedom of Aquilonia is at an end!
Nay, the freedom of the whole world may be at an end! Age follows age
in the history of the world, and now we enter an age of horror and
slavery, as it was long ago.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the king uneasily.
Hadrathus dropped into a chair and rested his elbows on his thighs,
staring at the floor.
“It is not alone the rebellious lords of Aquilonia and the armies of
Nemedia which are arrayed against you,” answered Hadrathus. “It is
sorcery-grisly black magic from the grim youth of the world. An awful
shape has risen out of the shades of the Past, and none can stand
before it.”
“What do you mean?” Conan repeated.
“I speak of Xaltotun of Acheron, who died three thousand years ago,
yet walks the earth today.”
Conan was silent, while in his mind floated an image-the image of a
bearded face of calm inhuman beauty. Again he was haunted by a sense
of uneasy familiarity. Acheron-the sound of the word roused
instinctive vibrations of memory and associations in his mind.
“Acheron,” he repeated. “Xaltotun of Acheron-man, are you mad? Acheron
has been a myth for more centuries than I can remember. I’ve often
wondered if it ever existed at all.”
“It was a black reality,” answered Hadrathus, “an empire of black
magicians, steeped in evil now long forgotten. It was finally
overthrown by the Hyborian tribes of the west. The wizards of Acheron
practised foul necromancy, thaumaturgy of the most evil kind, grisly
magic taught them by devils. And of all the sorcerers of that accursed
kingdom, none was so great as Xaltotun of Python.”
“Then how was he ever overthrown?” asked Conan skeptically.
“By some means a source of cosmic power which he jealously guarded was
stolen and turned against him. That source has been returned to him,
and he is invincible.”
Albiona, hugging the headsman’s black cloak about her, stared from the
priest to the king, not understanding the conversation. Conan shook
his head angrily.
“You are making game of me,” he growled. “If Xaltotun has been dead
three thousand years, how can this man be he? It’s some rogue who’s
taken the old one’s name.”
Hadrathus leaned to an ivory table and opened a small gold chest which
stood there. From it he took something which glinted dully in the
mellow light-a broad gold coin of antique minting.
“You have seen Xaltotun unveiled? Then look upon this. It is a coin
which was stamped in ancient Acheron, before its fall. So pervaded
with sorcery was that black empire, that even this corn has its uses
in making magic.”
Conan took it and scowled down at it. There was no mistaking its great
antiquity. Conan had handled many coins in the years of his
plunderings, and had a good practical knowledge of them. The edges
were worn and the inscription almost obliterated. But the countenance
stamped on one side was still clear-cut and distinct. And Conan’s
breath sucked in between his clenched teeth. It was not cool in the
chamber, but he felt a prickling of his scalp, an icy contraction of
his flesh. The countenance was that of a bearded man, inscrutable,
with a calm inhuman beauty.
“By Crom! It’s he!” muttered Conan. He understood, now, the sense of
familiarity that the sight of the bearded man had roused in him from
the first. He had seen a coin like this once before, long ago in a far
land.
With a shake of his shoulders he growled: “The likeness is only a
coincidence-or if he’s shrewd enough to assume a forgotten wizard’s
name, he’s shrewd enough to assume his likeness.” But he spoke
without conviction. The sight of that coin had shaken the foundations
of his universe. He felt that reality and stability were crumbling
into an abyss of illusion and sorcery. A wizard was understandable;
but this was diabolism beyond sanity.
“We cannot doubt that it is indeed Xaltotun of Python,” said
Hadrathus. “He it was who shook down the cliffs at Valkia, by his
spells that enthrall the elementals of the earth-he it was who sent
the creature of darkness into your tent before dawn.”
Conan scowled at him. “How did you know that?”
“The followers of Asura have secret channels of knowledge. That does
not matter. But do you realize the futility of sacrificing your
subjects in a vain attempt to regain your crown?”
Conan rested his chin on his fist, and stared grimly into nothing.
Albiona watched him anxiously, her mind groping bewildered in the
mazes of the problem that confronted him.
“Is there no wizard in the world who could make magic to fight
Xaltotun’s magic?” he asked at last.
Hadrathus shook his head. “If there were, we of Asura would know of
him. Men say our cult is a survival of the ancient Stygian serpent-worship. That is a lie. Our ancestors came from Vendhya, beyond the
Sea of Vilayet and the blue Himelian mountains. We are sons of the
East, not the South, and we have knowledge of all the wizards of the
East, who are greater than the wizards of the West. And not one of
them but would be a straw in the wind before the black might of
Xaltotun.”
“But he was conquered once,” persisted Conan.
“Aye; a cosmic source was turned against him. But now that source is
again in his hands, and he will see that it is not stolen again.”
“And what is this damnable source?” demanded Conan irritably.
“It is called the Heart of Ahriman. When Acheron was overthrown, the
primitive priest who had stolen it and turned it against Xaltotun hid
it in a haunted cavern and built a small temple over the cavern.
Thrice thereafter the temple was rebuilt, each time greater and more
elaborately than before, but always on the site of the original
shrine, though men forgot the
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