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

class="calibre2">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 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 surprize 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 hardbitten

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!”

 

“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 could 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 the 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 man 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

ghastlily through a gurgle of gushing blood.

 

The drums had begun again, encircling the gorge with guttural thunder;

boulders came crushing down; above the screams of dying men shrilled

the arrows in blinding clouds from the cliffs.