The Hour of the Dragon - Robert E. Howard (great reads .TXT) 📗

reason therefor. Memory of the hidden

symbol faded from the minds of common men, and was preserved only in

priestly books and esoteric volumes. Whence it came no one knows. Some

say it is the veritable heart of a god, others that it is a star that

fell from the skies long ago. Until it was stolen, none had looked

upon it for three thousand years.

 

“When the magic of the Mitran priests failed against the magic of

Xaltotun’s acolyte, Altaro, they remembered the ancient legend of the

Heart, and the high priest and an acolyte went down into the dark and

terrible crypt below the temple into which no priest had descended for

three thousand years. In the ancient ironbound volumes which speak of

the Heart in their cryptic symbolism, it is also told of a creature of

darkness left by the ancient priest to guard it.”

 

“Far down in a square chamber with arched doorways leading off into

immeasurable blackness, the priest and his acolytes found a black

stone altar that glowed dimly with inexplicable radiance.

 

“On that altar lay a curious gold vessel like a double-valved sea-shell which clung to the stone like a barnacle. But it gaped open and

empty. The Heart of Ahriman was gone. While they stared in horror, the

keeper of the crypt, the creature of darkness, came upon them and

mangled the high priest so that he died. But the acolyte fought off

the being-a mindless, soulless waif of the pits brought long ago to

guard the Heart-and escaped up the long black narrow stairs carrying

the dying priest, who before he died, gasped out the news to his

followers, bade them submit to a power they could not overcome, and

commanded secrecy. But the word has been whispered about among the

priests, and we of Asura learned of it.”

 

“And Xaltotun draws his power from this symbol?” asked Conan, still

skeptical.

 

“No. His power is drawn from the black gulf. But the Heart of Ahriman

came from some far universe of flaming light, and against it the

powers of darkness cannot stand, when it is in the hands of an adept.

It is like a sword that might smite at him, not a sword with which he

can smite. It restores life, and can destroy life. He has stolen it,

not to use it against his enemies, but to keep them from using it

against him.”

 

“A shell-shaped bowl of gold on a black altar in a deep cavern,” Conan

muttered, frowning as he sought to capture the illusive image. “That

reminds me of something I have heard or seen. But what, in Crom’s

name, is this notable Heart?”

 

“It is in the form of a great jewel, like a ruby, but pulsing with

blinding fire with which no ruby ever burned. It glows like living

flame—”

 

But Conan sprang suddenly up and smote his right fist into his left

palm like a thunderclap.

 

“Crom!” he roared. “What a fool I’ve been! The Heart of Ahriman! The

heart of my kingdom! Find the heart of my kingdom, Zeiata said. By

Ymir, it was the jewel I saw in the green Smoke, the jewel which

Tarascus stole from Xaltotun while he lay in the sleep of the black

lotus!”

 

Hadrathus was also on his feet, his calm dropped from him like a

garment.

 

“What are you saying? The Heart stolen from Xaltotun?”

 

“Aye!” Conan boomed. “Tarascus feared Xaltotun and wanted to cripple

his power, which he thought resided in the Heart. Maybe he thought the

wizard would die if the Heart was lost. By Crom-ahhh!” With a savage

grimace of disappointment and disgust he dropped his clenched hand to

his side.

 

“I forgot. Tarascus gave it to a thief to throw into the sea. By this

time the fellow must be almost to Kordava. Before I can follow him

he’ll take ship and consign the Heart to the bottom of the ocean.”

 

“The sea will not hold it!” exclaimed Hadrathus, quivering with

excitement. “Xaltotun would himself have cast it into the ocean long

ago, had he not known that the first storm would carry it ashore. But

on what unknown beach might it not land!”

 

“Well,” Conan was recovering some of his resilient confidence,

“there’s no assurance that the thief will throw it away. If I know

thieves-and I should, for I was a thief in Zamora in my early youth-he

won’t throw it away. He’ll sell it to some rich trader. By Crom!” He

strode back and forth in his growing excitement. “It’s worth looking

for! Zelata bade me find the heart of my kingdom, and all else she

showed me proved to be truth. Can it be that the power to conquer

Xaltotun lurks in that crimson bauble?”

 

“Aye! My head upon it!” cried Hadrathus, his face lightened with

fervor, his eyes blazing, his fists clenched. “With it in our hands we

can dare the powers of Xaltotun! I swear it! If we can recover it, we

have an even chance of recovering your crown and; driving the invaders

from our portals. It is not the swords of Nemedia that Aquilonia

fears, but the black arts of Xaltotun.”

 

Conan looked at him for a space, impressed by the priest’s fire.

 

“It’s like a quest in a nightmare,” he said at last. “Yet your words

echo the thought of Zeiata, and all else she said was truth. I’ll seek

for this jewel.”

 

“It holds the destiny of Aquilonia,” said Hadrathus with conviction.

“I will send men with you—”

 

“Nay!” exclaimed the king impatiently, not caring to be hampered by

priests on his quest, however skilled in esoteric arts. “This is a

task for a fighting-man. I go alone. First to Poitain, where I’ll

leave Albiona with Trocero. Then to Kordava, and to the sea beyond, if

necessary. It may be that, even if the thief intends carrying out

Tarascus’s order, he’ll have some difficulty finding an outbound ship

at this time of the year.”

 

“And if you find the Heart,” cried Hadrathus, “I will prepare the way

for your conquest. Before you return to Aquilonia I will spread the

word through secret channels that you live and are returning with a

magic stronger than Xaltotun’s. I will have men ready to rise on your

return. They will rise, if they have assurance that they will be

protected from the black arts of Xaltotun.

 

“And I will aid you on your journey.”

 

He rose and struck the gong.

 

“A secret tunnel leads from beneath this temple to a place outside the

city wall. You shall go to Poitain on a pilgrim’s boat. None will dare

molest you.”

 

“As you will.” With a definite purpose in mind Conan was afire with

impatience and dynamic energy. “Only let it be done swiftly.”

 

In the meantime events were moving not slowly elsewhere in the city. A

breathless messenger had burst into the palace where Valerius was

amusing himself with his dancing-girls, and throwing himself on his

knee, gasped out a garbled story of a bloody prison break and the

escape of a lovely captive. He bore also the news that Count Thespius,

to whom the execution of Albiona’s sentence had been entrusted, was

dying and begging for a word with Valerius before he passed. Hurriedly

cloaking himself, Valerius accompanied the man through various winding

ways, and came to a chamber where Thespius lay. There was no doubt

that the count was dying; bloody froth bubbled from his lips at each

shuddering gasp. His severed arm had been bound to stop the flow of

blood, but even without that, the gash in his side was mortal.

 

Alone in the chamber with the dying man, Valerius swore softly.

 

“By Mitra, I had believed that only one man ever lived who could

strike such a blow.”

 

“Valerius!” gasped the dying man. “He lives! Conan lives!”

 

“What are you saying?” ejaculated the other.

 

“I swear by Mitra!” gurgled Thespius, gagging on the blood that gushed

to his lips. “It was he who carried off Albiona! He is not dead-no

phantom come back from hell to haunt us. He is flesh and blood, and

more terrible than ever. The alley behind the tower is full of dead

men. Beware, Valerius—he has come back—to slay us all—”

 

A strong shudder shook the blood-smeared figure, and Count Thespius

went limp.

 

Valerius frowned down at the dead man, cast a swift glance about the

empty chamber, and stepping swiftly to the door, cast it open

suddenly. The messenger and a group of Nemedian guardsmen stood

several paces down the corridor. Valerius muttered something that

might have indicated satisfaction.

 

“Have all the gates been closed?” he demanded.

 

“Yes, your Majesty.”

 

“Triple the guards at each. Let no one enter or leave the city without

strictest investigation. Set men scouring the streets and searching

the quarters. A very valuable prisoner has escaped, with the aid of an

Aquilonian rebel. Did any of you recognize the man?”

 

“No, your Majesty. The old watchman had a glimpse of him, but could

only say that he was a giant, clad in the black garb of the

executioner, whose naked body we found in an empty cell.”

 

“He is a dangerous man,” said Valerius. “Take no chances with him. You

all know the Countess Albiona. Search for her, and if you find her,

kill her and her companion instantly. Do not try to take them alive.”

 

Returning to his palace chamber, Valerius summoned before him four men

of curious and alien aspect. They were tall, gaunt, of yellowish skin,

and immobile countenances. They were very similar in appearance, clad

alike in long black robes beneath which their sandaled feet were just

visible. Their features were shadowed by their hoods. They stood

before Valerius with their hands in their wide sleeves; their arms

folded. Valerius looked at them without pleasure. In his far

joumeyings he had encountered many strange races.

 

“When I found you starving in the Khitan jungles,” he said abruptly,

“exiles from your kingdom, you swore to serve me. You have served me

well enough, in your abominable way. One more service I require, and

then I set you free of your oath.”

 

“Conan the Cimmerian, king of Aquilonia, still lives, in spite of

Xaltotun’s sorcery-or perhaps because of it. I know not. The dark mind

of that resurrected devil is too devious and subtle for a mortal man

to fathom. But while Conan lives I am not safe. The people accepted me

as the lesser of two evils, when they thought he was dead. Let him

reappear and the throne will be rocking under my feet in revolution

before I can lift my hand.

 

“Perhaps my allies mean to use him to replace me, if they decide I

have served my purpose. I do not know. I do know that this planet is

too small for two kings of Aquilonia. Seek the Cimmerian. Use your

uncanny talents to ferret him out wherever he hides or runs. He has

many friends in Tarantia. He had aid when he carried off Albiona. It

took more than one man, even such a man as Conan, to wreak all that

slaughter in the alley outside the tower. But no more. Take your

staffs and strike his trail. Where that trail will lead you, I know

not. But find him! And when you find him, slay him!”

 

The four Khitans bowed together, and still unspeaking, turned and

padded noiselessly from the chamber.