The Hour of the Dragon by Robert E. Howard (find a book to read .TXT) 📕

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: