The Hour of the Dragon - Robert E. Howard (great reads .TXT) 📗
- Author: Robert E. Howard
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were broken into principalities which warred with each other. The days
of dukedoms and free cities are past, the days of empires are upon us.
Rulers are dreaming imperial dreams, and only in unity is there
strength.”
“Then let us unite Zingara with Poitain,” argued Trocero. “Half a
dozen princes strive against each other, and the country is torn
asunder by civil wars. We will conquer it, province by province, and
add it to your dominions. Then with the aid of the Zingarans we will
conquer Argos and Ophir. We will build an empire—”
Again Conan shook his head. “Let others dream imperial dreams. I but
wish to hold what is mine. I have no desire to rule an empire welded
together by blood and fire. It’s one thing to seize a throne with the
aid of its subjects and rule them with their consent. It’s another to
subjugate a foreign realm and rule it by fear. I don’t wish to be
another Valerius. No, Trocero, I’ll rule all Aquilonia and no more, or
I’ll rule nothing.”
“Then lead us over the mountains and we will smite the Nemedians.”
Conan’s fierce eyes glowed with appreciation. “No, Trocero. It would
be a vain sacrifice. I’ve told you what I must do to regain my
kingdom. I must find the Heart of Ahriman.”
“But this is madness!” protested Trocero. “The maunderings of a
heretical priest, the mumblings of a mad witch-woman.”
“You were not in my tent before Valkia,” answered Conan grimly,
involuntarily glancing at his right wrist, on which blue marks still
showed faintly. “You didn’t see the cliffs thunder down to crush the
flower of my army. No, Trocero, I’ve been convinced. Xaltotun’s no
mortal man, and only with the Heart of Ahriman can I stand against
him. So I’m riding to Kordava, alone.”
“But that is dangerous,” protested Trocero.
“Life is dangerous,” rumbled the king. “I won’t go as king of
Aquilonia, or even as a knight of Poitain, but as a wandering
mercenary, as I rode in Zingara in the old days. Oh, I have enemies
enough south of the Alimane, in the lands and the waters of the south.
Many who won’t know me as king of Aquilonia will remember me as Conan
of the Barachan pirates, or Amra of the black corsairs. But I have
friends, too, and men who’ll aid me for their own private reasons.” A
faint reminiscent grin touched his lips.
Trocero dropped his hands helplessly and glanced at Albiona, who sat
on a near-by divan.
“I understand your doubts, my lord,” said she. “But I too saw the coin
in the temple of Asura, and look you, Hadrathus said it was dated five
hundred years before the fall of Acheron. If Xaltotun, then, is the
man pictured on the coin, as his Majesty swears he is, that means he
was no common wizard, even in his other life, for the years of his
life were numbered by centuries, not as the lives of other men are
numbered.”
Before Trocero could reply, a respectful rap was heard on the door and
a voice called: “My lord, we have caught a man skulking about the
castle, who says he wishes to speak with your guest. I await your
orders.”
“A spy from Aquilonia!” hissed Trocero, catching at his dagger, but
Conan lifted his voice and called: “Open the door and let me see him.”
The door was opened and a man was framed in it, grasped on either hand
by stem-looking men-at-arms. He was a slender man, clad in a dark
hooded robe.
“Are you a follower of Asura?” asked Conan.
The man nodded, and the stalwart men-at-arms looked shocked and
glanced hesitantly at Trocero.
“The word came southward,” said the man. “Beyond the Alimane we can
not aid you, for our sect goes no farther southward, but stretches
eastward with the Khorotas. But this I have learned: the thief who
took the Heart of Ahriman from Tarascus never reached Kordava. In the
mountains of Poitain he was slain by robbers. The jewel fell into the
hands of their chief, who, not knowing its true nature, and being
harried after the destruction of his band by Poitanian knights, sold
it to the Kothic merchant Zorathus.”
“Ha!” Conan was on his feet, galvanized. “And what of Zorathus?”
“Four days ago he crossed the Alimane, headed for Argos, with a small
band of armed servants.
“He’s a fool to cross Zingara in such times,” said Trocero.
“Aye, times are troublous across the river. But Zorathus is a bold
man, and reckless in his way. He is in great haste to reach Messantia,
where he hopes to find a buyer for the jewel. Perhaps he hopes to sell
it finally in Stygia. Perhaps he guesses at its true nature. At any
rate, instead of following the long road that winds along the borders
of Poitain and so at last comes into Argos far from Messantia, he has
struck straight across eastern Zingara, following the shorter and more
direct route.”
Conan smote the table with his clenched fist so that the great board
quivered.
“Then, by Crom, fortune has at last thrown the dice for me! A horse,
Trocero, and the harness of a Free Companion! Zorathus has a long
start, but not too long for me to overtake him, if I follow him to the
end of the world!”
Chapter 12: The Fang of the Dragon
AT DAWN CONAN waded his horse across the shallows of the Alimane and
struck the wide caravan trail which ran southeastward, and behind him,
on the farther bank, Trocero sat his horse silently at the head of his
steel-clad knights, with the crimson leopard of Poitain floating its
long folds over him in the morning breeze. Silently they sat, those
dark-haired men in shining steel, until the figure of their king had
vanished in the blue of distance that whitened toward sunrise.
Conan rode a great black stallion, the gift of Trocero. He no longer
wore the armor of Aquilonia. His harness proclaimed him a veteran of
the Free Companies, who were of all races. His headpiece was a plain
morion, dented and battered. The leather and mail-mesh of his hauberk
were worn and shiny as if by many campaigns, and the scarlet cloak
flowing carelessly from his mailed shoulders was tattered and stained.
He looked the part of the hired fighting-man, who had known all
vicissitudes of fortune, plunder and wealth one day, an empty purse
and a close-drawn belt the next.
And more than looking the part, he felt the part; the awakening of old
memories, the resurge of the wild, mad, glorious days of old before
his feet were set on the imperial path when he was a wandering
mercenary, roistering, brawling, guzzling, adventuring, with no
thought for the morrow, and no desire save sparkling ale, red lips,
and a keen sword to swing on all the battlefields of the world.
Unconsciously he reverted to the old ways; a new swagger became
evident in his bearing, in the way he sat his horse; half-forgotten
oaths rose naturally to his lips, and as he rode he hummed old songs
that he had roared in chorus with his reckless companions in many a
tavern and on many a dusty road or bloody field.
It was an unquiet land through which he rode. The companies of cavalry
which usually patrolled the river, alert for raids out of Poitain,
were nowhere in evidence. Internal strife had left the borders
unguarded: The long white road stretched bare from horizon to horizon.
No laden camel trains or rumbling wagons or lowing herds moved along
it now; only occasional groups of horsemen in leather and steel, hawk-faced, hard-eyed men, who kept together and rode warily. These swept
Conan with their searching gaze but rode on, for the solitary rider’s
harness promised no plunder, but only hard strokes.
Villages lay in ashes and deserted, the fields and meadows idle. Only
the boldest would ride the roads these days, and the native population
had been decimated in the civil wars, and by raids from across the
river. In more peaceful times the road was thronged with merchants
riding Poitain to Messantia in Argos, or back. But now these found it
wiser to follow the road that led east through Poitain, and then
turned south down across Argos. It was longer, but safer. Only an
extremely reckless man would risk his life and goods on this road
through Zingara.
The southern horizon was fringed with flame by night, and in the day
straggling pillars of smoke drifted upward; in the cities and plains
to the south men were dying, thrones were toppling and castles going
up in flames. Conan felt the old tug of the professional fighting-man,
to turn his horse and plunge into the fighting, the pillaging and the
looting as in the days of old. Why should he toil to regain the rule
of a people which had already forgotten him?-why chase a will-o’-the-wisp, why pursue a crown that was lost for ever? Why should he not
seek forgetfulness, lose himself in the red tides of war and rapine
that had engulfed him so often before? Could he not, indeed, carve out
another kingdom for himself? The world was entering an age of iron, an
age of war and imperialistic ambition; some strong man might well rise
above the ruins of nations as a supreme conqueror. Why should it not
be himself? So his familiar devil whispered in his ear, and the
phantoms of his lawless and bloody past crowded upon him. But he did
not turn aside; he rode onward, following a quest that grew dimmer and
dimmer as he advanced, until sometimes it seemed that he pursued a
dream that never was.
He pushed the black stallion as hard as he dared, but the long white
road lay before him, from horizon to horizon. It was a long start
Zorathus had, but Conan rode steadily on, knowing that he was
traveling faster than the burdened merchants could travel. And so he
came to the castle of Count Valbroso, perched like a vulture’s eyrie
on a bare hill overlooking the road.
Valbroso rode down with his men-at-arms, a lean, dark man with
glittering eyes and a predatory beak of a nose. He wore black plate-armor and was followed by thirty spearmen, black-mustached hawks of
the border wars, as avaricious and ruthless as himself. Of late the
toll of the caravans had been slim, and Valbroso cursed the civil wars
that stripped the roads of their fat traffic, even while he blessed
them for the free hand they allowed him with his neighbors.
He had not hoped much from the solitary rider he had glimpsed from his
tower, but all was grist that came to his mill. With a practised eye
he took in Oman’s worn mail and dark, scarred face, and his
conclusions were the same as those of the riders who had passed the
Cimmerian on the road-an empty purse and a ready blade.
“Who are you, knave?” he demanded.
“A mercenary, riding for Argos,” answered Conan. “What matter names?”
“You are riding in the wrong direction for a Free Companion,” grunted
Valbroso. “Southward the fighting is good and also the plundering.
Join my company. You won’t go hungry. The road remains bare of fat
merchants to strip, but I mean to take my rogues and fare southward to
sell our swords to whichever side seems strongest.”
Conan did not at once reply, knowing that if he refused outright, he
might be instantly attacked by Valbroso’s men-at-arms. Before he could
make up his mind, the Zingaran spoke again:
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