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

it! I, with my magic which is greater than your magic!”

“What matters it?” roared Xaltotun, a terrible sight, his eyes

blazing, his features convulsed. “Valerius was a fool. I do not need

him. I can crush Conan without human aid!”

“Why have you delayed?” mocked Hadrathus. “Why have you allowed so

many of your allies to fall pierced by arrows and spitted on spears?”

“Because blood aids great sorcery!” thundered Xaltotun, in a voice

that made the rocks quiver. A lurid nimbus played about his awful

head. “Because no wizard wastes his strength thoughtlessly. Because I

would conserve my powers for the great days to be, rather than employ

them in a hill-country brawl. But now, by Set, I shall loose them to

the uttermost! Watch, dog of Asura, false priest of an outworn god,

and see a sight that shall blast your reason for evermore!”

Hadrathus threw back his head and laughed, and hell was in his

laughter.

“Look, black devil of Python!”

His hand came from under his robe holding something that flamed and

burned in the sun, changing the light to a pulsing golden glow in

which the flesh of Xaltotun looked like the flesh of a corpse.

Xaltotun cried out as if he had been stabbed.

“The Heart! The Heart of Ahriman!”

“Aye! The one power that is greater than your power!”

Xaltotun seemed to shrivel, to grow old. Suddenly his beard was shot

with snow, his locks flecked with gray.

“The Heart!” he mumbled. “You stole it! Dog! Thief!”

“Not I! It has been on a long journey far to the southward. But now it

is in my hands, and your black arts cannot stand against it. As it

resurrected you, so shall it hurl you back into the night whence it

drew you. You shall go down the dark road to Acheron, which is the

road of silence and the night. The dark empire, unreborn, shall remain

a legend and a black memory. Conan shall reign again. And the Heart of

Ahriman shall go back into the cavern below the temple of Mitra, to

burn as a symbol of the power of Aquilonia for a thousand years!”

Xaltotun screamed inhumanly and rushed around the altar, dagger

lifted; but from somewhere-out of the sky, perhaps, or the great jewel

that blazed in the hand of Hadrathus-shot a jetting beam of blinding

blue light. Full against the breast of Xaltotun it flashed, and the

hills re-echoed the concussion. The wizard of Acheron went down as

though struck by a thunderbolt, and before he touched the ground he

was fearfully altered. Beside the altarstone lay no fresh-slain

corpse, but a shriveled mummy, a brown, dry, unrecognizable carcass

sprawling among moldering swathings.

Somberly old Zeiata looked down.

“He was not a living man,” she said. “The Heart lent him a false

aspect of life, that deceived even himself. I never saw him as other

than a mummy.”

Hadrathus bent to unbind the swooning girl on the altar, when from

among the trees appeared a strange apparition-Xaltotun’s chariot drawn

by the weird horses. Silently they advanced to the altar and halted,

with the chariot wheel almost touching the brown withered thing on the

grass. Hadrathus lifted the body of the wizard and placed it in the

chariot. And without hesitation the uncanny steeds turned and moved

off southward, down the hill. And Hadrathus and Zeiata and the gray

wolf watched them go-down the long road to Acheron which is beyond the

ken of men.

Down in the valley Amalric had stiffened in his saddle when he saw

that wild horseman curvetting and caracoling on the slopes while he

brandished that bloodstained serpent-banner. Then some instinct

jerked his head about, toward the hill known as the King’s Altar. And

his lips parted. Every man in the valley saw it—an arching shaft of

dazzling light that towered up from the summit of the hill, showering

golden fire. High above the hosts it burst in a blinding blaze that

momentarily paled the sun. “That’s not Xaltotun’s signal!” roared the

baron. “No!” shouted Tarascus. “It’s a signal to the Aquilonians!

“Look!” Above them the immobile ranks were moving at last, and a deep-throated roar thundered across the vale.

“Xaltotun has failed us!” bellowed Amalric furiously. “Valerius has

failed us! We have been led into a trap! Mitra’s curse on Xaltotun who

led us here! Sound the retreat!”

“Too late!” yelled Tarascus. “Look!”

Up on the slopes the forest of lances dipped, leveled. The ranks of

the Gundermen rolled back to right and left like a parting curtain.

And with a thunder like the rising roar of a hurricane, the knights of

Aquilonia crashed down the slopes.

The impetus of that charge was irresistible. Bolts driven by the

demoralized arbalesters glanced from their shields, their bent

helmets. Their plumes and pennons streaming out behind them, their

lances lowered, they swept over the wavering lines of pikemen and

roared down the slopes like a wave.

Amalric yelled an order to charge, and the Nemedians with desperate

courage spurred their horses at the slopes. They still outnumbered the

attackers.

But they were weary men on tired horses, charging uphill. The

onrushing knights had not struck a blow that day. Their horses were

fresh. They were coming downhill and they came like a thunderbolt. And

like a thunderbolt they smote the struggling ranks of the Nemedians-smote them, split them apart, ripped them asunder and dashed the

remnants headlong down the slopes.

After them on foot came the Gundermen, blood-mad, and the Bossonians

were swarming down the hills, loosing as they ran at every foe that

still moved.

Down the slopes washed the tide of battle, the dazed Nemedians swept

on the crest of the wave. Their archers had thrown down their

arbalests and were fleeing. Such pikemen as had survived the blasting

charge of the knights were cut to pieces by the ruthless Gundermen.

In a wild confusion the battle swept through the wide mouth of the

valley and into the plain beyond. All over the plain swarmed the

warriors, fleeing and pursuing, broken into single combat and clumps

of smiting, hacking knights on rearing, wheeling horses. But the

Nemedians were smashed, broken, unable to re-form or make a stand. By

the hundreds they broke away, spurring for the river. Many reached it,

rushed across and rode eastward. The countryside was up behind them;

the people hunted them like wolves. Few ever reached Tarantia.

The final break did not come until the fall of Amalric. The baron,

striving in vain to rally his men, rode straight at the clump of

knights that followed the giant in black armor whose surcoat bore the

royal lion, and over whose head floated the golden lion banner with

the scarlet leopard of Poitain beside it. A tall warrior in gleaming

armor couched his lance and charged to meet the lord of Tor. They met

like a thunderclap. The Nemedian’s lance, striking his foe’s helmet,

snapped bolts and rivets and tore off the casque, revealing the

features of Pallantides. But the Aquilonian’s lance-head crashed

through shield and breastplate to transfix the baron’s heart.

A roar went up as Amalric was hurled from his saddle, snapping the

lance that impaled him, and the Nemedians gave way as a barrier bursts

under the surging impact of a tidal wave. They rode for the river in a

blind stampede that swept the plain like a whirlwind. The hour of the

Dragon had passed.

Tarascus did not flee. Amalric was dead, the color-bearer slain, and

the royal Nemedian banner trampled in the blood and dust. Most of his

knights were fleeing and the Aquilonians were riding them down;

Tarascus knew the day was lost, but with a handful of faithful

followers he raged through the melee, conscious of but one desire-to

meet Conan, the Cimmerian. And at last he met him.

Formations had been destroyed utterly, close-knit bands broken asunder

and swept apart. The crest of Trocero gleamed in one part of the

plain, those of Prospero and Pallantides in others. Conan was alone.

The house-troops of Tarascus had fallen one by one. The two kings met

man to man.

Even as they rode at each other, the horse of Tarascus sobbed and sank

under him. Conan leaped from his own steed and ran at him, as the king

of Nemedia disengaged himself and rose. Steel flashed blindingly in

the sun, clashed loudly, and blue sparks flew; then a clang of armor

as Tarascus measured his full length on the earth beneath a thunderous

stroke of Conan’s broadsword.

The Cimmerian paced a mail-shod foot on his enemy’s breast, and lifted

his sword. His helmet was gone; he shook back his black mane and his

blue eyes blazed with their old fire.

“Do you yield?”

“Will you give me quarter?” demanded the Nemedian.

“Aye. Better than you’d have given me, you dog. Life for you and all

your men who throw down their arms. Though I ought to split your head

for an infernal thief,” the Cimmerian added.

Tarascus twisted his neck and glared over the plain. The remnants of

the Nemedian host were flying across the stone bridge with swarms of

victorious Aquilonians at their heels, smiting with the fury of

glutted vengeance. Bossonians and Gundermen were swarming through the

camp of their enemies, tearing the tents to pieces in search of

plunder, seizing prisoners, ripping open the baggage and upsetting the

wagons.

Tarascus cursed fervently, and then shrugged his shoulders, as well as

he could, under the circumstances.

“Very well. I have no choice. What are your demands?”

“Surrender to me all your present holdings in Aquilonia. Order your

garrisons to march out of the castles and towns they hold, without

their arms, and get your infernal armies out of Aquilonia as quickly

as possible. In addition you shall return all Aquilonians sold as

slaves, and pay an indemnity to be designated later, when the damage

your occupation of the country has caused has been properly estimated.

You will remain as hostage until these terms have been carried out.”

“Very well,” surrendered Tarascus. “I will surrender all the castles

and towns now held by my garrisons without resistance, and all the

other things shall be done. What ransom for my body?”

Conan laughed and removed his foot from his foe’s steel-clad breast,

grasped his shoulder and heaved him to his feet. He started to speak,

then turned to see Hadrathus approaching him. The priest was as calm

and self-possessed as ever, picking his way between rows of dead men

and horses.

Conan wiped the sweat-smeared dust from his face with bloodstained

hand. He had fought all through the day, first on foot with the

pikemen, then in the saddle, leading the charge. His surcoat was gone,

his armor splashed with blood and battered with strokes of sword, mace

and ax. He loomed gigantically against a background of blood and

slaughter, like some grim pagan hero of mythology.

“Well done, Hadrathus!” quoth he gustily. “By Crom, I am glad to see

your signal! My knights were almost mad with impatience and eating

their hearts out to be at sword-strokes. I could not have held them

much longer. What of the wizard?”

“He has gone down the dim road to Acheron,” answered Hadrathus. “And

I-I am for Tarantia. My work is done here, and I have a task to

perform at the temple of Mitra. All our work is done here. On this

field we have saved Aquilonia-and more than Aquilonia. Your ride to

your capital will be a triumphal procession through a kingdom mad with

joy. All Aquilonia will be cheering the return of their king. And so,