The Cimmerian ignored them. He did not hold them to account for the lies they had told against him. Few men and fewer women could hold out under the attentions of an expert torturer, and Vegentius would have found another way to imprison him, if not through them.
Before them at the end of the hall great carven doors opened, swung wide by six golden-cloaked soldiers, and Conan passed into the throne room of Nemedia.
Double rows of slender fluted columns held a domed roof of alabaster aloft. Light from golden lamps dangling from the ceiling on silver chains glittered on polished marble walls. The floor was a vast mosaic depicting the entire history of Nemedia. Here was the explanation for the empty halls, for here the nobles had gathered in all their panoply, dark-eyed lords in robes of velvet with golden chains about their necks, sleek ladies coruscating with the gems that covered their silk-draped bodies. Through the center of them ran a broad path from the tall doors to the Dragon Throne. Its golden-horned head reared above the man seated there, and jeweled wings curved down to support his shoulders. On his head was the Dragon Crown.
Conan set his own pace down that path, though the two jailors tried to hurry him. He would not stumble in his chains for the amusement of this court. Before the throne he stood defiantly and stared into Garian’s face. The men holding the pole tried to force him to his knees, but he remained erect. A murmur rose among the nobles. Rushing forward, guards beat at his back and legs with their spear butts until, despite all he could do, he was shoved to his knees.
Through it all, Garian’s face had not changed expression. Now the man on the throne rose, pulling his robe of cloth-of-gold about him.
“This barbarian,” he announced loudly, “we did take into our Palace, honoring him with our attention. But we found that we nursed treachery at our bosom. Most foully our trust was betrayed, and … .”
He droned on, but Conan’s attention was caught by the man standing slightly behind the Dragon Throne, one hand resting on it possessively while he nodded at the King’s words like a teacher approving a pupil. The Seal of Nemedia hung on a golden chain about his neck, which marked him as the High Councilor of Nemedia, Lord Albanus. But Conan knew that cruel face, seen in the dark meeting with Taras and Vegentius. Did madness reign in Nemedia, the Cimmerian wondered.
“ … So we pronounce the ancient penalty for his crime,” the King intoned funereally.
That brought Conan’s mind quickly back. There was on Garian’s face none of the sadness he had shown when Conan was taken, only flat calm.
“When next the sun has dawned and risen to its zenith let this would-be regicide be hurled to the wolves. Let the beast be torn by beasts.”
As soon as the last word was spoken, Conan was pulled to his feet and hurried from the throne room. Not even the round-faced jailor spoke as the Cimmerian was returned to the dungeons, this time to a small cell, its stone floor strewn with filthy straw. The pole and the gag were removed, but not his chains. Another was added, linking that between his ankles to a ring set in the wall.
As soon as the two jailors were gone Conan began to explore his new prison. Lying full length on his belly, he could have reached the heavy wooden door were his hands not linked behind him, but there was nothing on which to get a grip even if his hands had been free. Nor did he truly believe he could break the stout iron hinges. The walls were rough stone, close set but with aged mortar crumbling. A man with tools might remove enough of them to escape. In a year or two. The rotting straw held nothing but a half-gnawed rat carcass. The Cimmerian could not help wondering whether the gnawing had been done by its fellows or by the last prisoner. Kicking it into a far corner, he hoped he would not long have to endure the smell.
No sooner had Conan settled himself with his back against the wall than a key rattled in the large iron lock, and the cell door creaked open. To his surprise Albanus entered, holding his black velvet robes carefully clear of the foul straw. Behind him the cloth-of-gold-clad form of the King stopped in the doorway. Garian’s face turned this way and that, eyes curiously taking in the straw and the stone walls. He looked at Conan once, as if the big Cimmerian were just another fixture of the cell.
It was Albanus who spoke. “You know me, don’t you?”
“You are Lord Albanus,” Conan replied warily.
“You know me,” the hawk-faced man said, as if confirming a suspicion. “I feared as much. ‘Tis well I acted when I did.”
Conan tensed. “You?” His eyes went to Garian’s face. Why would this man make such an admission before the King?
“Expect no help from him,” Albanus laughed. “For a time, barbar, you were a worry to me, but it seems in the end you are no weapon of the gods after all. The wolves will put an end to you, and the only real damage you have done me is being repaired by the girl you sent seeking the sculptor. No, in the sum of it, you are naught but a minor nuisance.”
“Ariane,” Conan said sharply. “What have you done with her?”
The obsidian-eyed lord laughed cruelly. “Come, King Garian. Let us leave this place.”
“What have you done to Ariane?” Conan shouted as Albanus left. The King paused to look at him; he stared into Garian’s face with as close to pleading as he could come. “Tell me what he has done … .”
The words died on his lips even as the other turned to go. The door creaked shut. Stunned, Conan leaned back against the stone wall.
Since that first entrance into the throne room, he had felt some oddity in Garian but put it down to himself. No man sees things aright while hearing his own death sentence. But now he had noticed a small thing. There was no bruise on Garian’s cheek. Garian was no man to cover such things with powder like a woman, and he had no court sorcerer to take away such blemishes with a quick spell and a burning candle. Nor had it had time to fade naturally. A small thing, yet it meant that he who had sat on the Dragon Throne and passed sentence on Conan was not Garian.
Mind whirling, the Cimmerian tried to make some sense of it. Albanus plotted rebellion, yet now was councilor to a King who was not Garian. But it had been Garian in Vegentius’ apartments only the night before. Of that Conan was certain. He smelled the stench of sorcery as clearly as he did the rotting straw on which he sat.
Patience, he reminded himself. He could do nothing chained in a cell. Much would depend on whether he was freed of those bonds before he was thrown to the wolves. Even among wolves a great deal could be done by a man with hands free and will unfettered. This, Conan resolved, Albanus would learn to his regret.
Sularia lay face down on a toweled bench while the skilled hands of a slave woman worked fragrant oils into her back. Lady Sularia, she thought, stretching luxuriantly. So wonderful it had been standing among the lords and ladies in the throne room, rather than being crowded with the other lemans along the back wall. If her acceptance had been from fear, the smiles and greetings given her sickly and shamefaced, it only added to the pleasure, for those who spoke respectfully now had oft spoken as if she were a slave. And this did not have to be the end. If she could move from the mistresses’ wall to stand with the nobles, why not from there to stand beside Albanus? Queen Sularia.
Smiling at the thought, she turned her head on her folded arms and regarded her maid, a plump gray-haired woman who was the only one in the Palace Sularia trusted. Or rather, the one she distrusted least.
“Does she still wait, Latona?” Sularia asked.
The gray-haired maid nodded briskly. “For two turns of the glass now, mistress. No one would dare disobey your summon’s.”
The blonde nodded self-satisfied agreement without lifting her head. “Bring her in, Latona. Then busy yourself with my hair.”
“Yes. mistress,” Latona cackled, and hurried out. When she returned she escorted the Lady Jelanna.
The willowy noblewoman looked askance at Latona as the serving woman began to labor over her mistress’ hair, while Sularia smiled like a cat at a dish of cream. Only when receiving an inferior would servants be retaine
d so. Some of the arrogance had gone from Jelanna with her wait.
Enough remained, however, for her to demand at last, “Why have you summoned me here, Sularia?” Sularia raised a questioning eyebrow. After a moment Jelanna amended, “Lady Sularia.” Her mouth was twisted as if at a foul taste.
“You grew from a child in this Palace, did you not?” the blonde began in a pleasant tone.
Jelanna’s reply was curt. “I did.”
“Playing hide and seek through the corridors. Gamboling in the courtyards, splashing in the fountains. Your every wish met as soon as it was made.”
“Did you ask me here to speak of childhood?” Jelanna asked.
“I did not,” Sularia said sharply. “I summoned. Know you Enaro Ostorian?”
If the imperiously beautiful woman was surprised by the question, she did not show it. “That repulsive little toad?” she sniffed. “I know of merchants, but I do not know them.”
Sularia’s feline smile returned. “He seeks a wife.”
“Does he?”
“A young wife, of the nobility.” Sularia saw the dart go home, and pressed to drive it deeper. “He thinks to marry the title he has not been able to buy. And of course he wants sons. Many sons. Garian,” she added to the lie, “has asked me to suggest a suitable bride.”
Jelanna licked her full lips uncertainly. “I wish, Lady Sularia,” she said, a tremor in her voice, “to apologize if I have in any way offended you.”
“Do you know the man Dario?” Sularia demanded. “The keeper of Garian’s kennels?”
“No, my lady,” Jelanna faltered.
“A foul man, I’m told, both in stenches and habits. The slave girls of the Palace hide from him, for his way with a woman is rough to the point of pain.” Sularia paused, watching the horror grow on the imperious woman’s face. “Think you, Jelanna, that one night with Dario is preferable to a lifetime with Ostorian?”
“You are mad,” the slender woman managed. “I’ll listen to no more. I go to my estates in the country, and if you were queeri you could still choose which of Zandru’s—”
“Four soldiers await without for you,” Sularia said, riding over the other woman’s words. “They will escort you to Dario, or to your wedding bed, and no place else.”
The last shreds of haughtiness were washed from Jelanna’s face by despair. “Please,” she whispered. “I will grovel, an you wish it. Before the entire court on my knees will I beg your forgive—”
“Make your choice,” Sularia purred, “else I will make it for you. Those soldiers can deliver you to Ostorian this day. With a note to let him know you think him a repulsive toad.” her voice and face hardened. “Choose!”
Jelanna swayed as if she would fall. “I … I will go to Dario,” she wept.
For a moment Sularia savored the words she had waited for, counting hours. Then she spoke them. “Go. bitch, to your kennel!” As Jelanna ran from the room, peals of Sularia’s laughter rang against the walls. How wonderful was power.
XXII
When next the door of his cell opened, Conan at first thought that Albanus had decided to have him slain where he lay chained. Two men with drawn crossbows slipped through the open door and took positions covering him, one to either side of the cell.
As the Cimmerian gathered himself to make what fight of it he could, the round-faced jailor appeared in the door and spoke.
“The sun stands high, barbarian. ’Tis time to take you to the wolf pit. An you try to fight when Struto and I remove your chains, these two will put quarrels in your legs, and you’ll be dragged to the pit. Well?”
Conan made an effort to appear sullen and reluctant. “Take the chains,” he growled, glowering at the crossbowmen.
In spite of his words the two jailors kept clear of the crossbowmen’s line of fire as they broke open his manacles with repeated blows of hammer on chisel. Did they think him a fool, he wondered. He might well be able to take both jailors and bowmen despite the way they were placed, yet he could hear measured steps approaching the cell, the sound of a middling body of men. Dying was not hard, but only a fool chose to die for naught.
Rubbing his wrists, Conan rose smoothly to his feet and let himself be herded from the cell. In the hall waited a full score of the Golden Leopards.
“Don’t need so many,” Struto said abruptly.
Conan blinked. He had thought the man without a tongue.
Struto’s fellow jailor seemed only slightly less surprised at hearing him speak. The round-faced man stared before saying, “He near escaped from as many the night he was taken. You know I don’t like prisoners escaping. I asked for twice as many. Move on, now. The King waits.”
Half the soldiers went before him, and half behind, the jailors walking on either side. The crossbowmen brought up the rear, where they could get a shot at him did he run, in whatever direction. So they made their way up into the Palace and through corridors once more bare of nobles.
Conan strode in their midst as if they were an honor guard and he on his way to his coronation. There was no glimmer of escape in his mind. At the wolf pit would most certainly be the imposter Garian and Albanus. Under the circumstances, a man could do worse than die killing those two.
Their way led through the parts of the Palace familiar to the Cimmerian, and beyond. Polished marble and alabaster gave way to plain dressed granite, then to stone as rough as that of the dungeons. Lamps of gold and silver were replaced by torches in iron sconces.
The wolf pit was an ancient penalty indeed, and had, in fact, not been imposed since the time of Bragorus, nine centuries earlier. Nor had any come to this portion of the Palace at all in several centuries, to judge by its appearance. The halls showed signs of hasty cleaning, here a torn cobweb hanging from the ceiling, there dust left heaped against the wall. Conan wondered why Albanus had gone to all this trouble after replacing Garian with the imposter. And then they entered the circular chamber of the pit.
Though of the same rough stone, it was yet as marvelously wrought as any of the great alabaster rooms in the Palace. Like half of a sphere, its walls rose to a towering height unsupported by column or buttress. Below, a broad walk spotted with huge tripod lamps twice as tall as a man was crowded with the nobility of Nemedia, laughing gaily as men and women at a circus, pressing close about the waist-high stone wall that encircled the great pit.
A path to that wall cleared at their entrance, and the soldiers escorted Conan to it. Not waiting to be told, the Cimmerian leaped to the top of the wall and stood surveying those who had assembled to watch him die. Beneath his icy blue gaze they slowly fell silent, as they sensed that here was a man contemptuous of their titles and lineages. They were peacocks; he was an eagle.
Directly across the stone-floored pit from him stood the imposter King, Albanus to one side in robes of midnight blue, to the other Vegentius, his face still showing bruises beneath his red-crested helmet. Sularia was there as well, in scarlet silk and rubies, and Conan wondered why he had thought she would not attend.
Below the imposter was the man-high gate through which the wolves would be let into the pit. Conan saw no eager muzzles pressed between the bars of the gate, heard no hungry whines and growls. A complicated system of iron chains served to draw the gate aside. Perhaps he need not die.
Albanus touched the arm of the man wearing the Dragon Crown, and he began to speak. “We have gathered you—”
Conan’s wild war cry rang from the rocky dome; shouts and screams ran through the nobles as, massive arms raised above his head, the Cimmerian hurled himself into the pit. Soldiers forced their way through the nobles to the wall; the crossbowmen took aim. About the straw-strewn pit Conan strode with all the cocky arrogance of youth that had never met defeat in equal combat, and in few unequal. Albanus motioned, and the guards moved back.
“Fools!” Conan taunted the assemblage. “You who have not a man among you have come to see a man die. Well, must I be talked to death by that buffoon in the crown? Get on wi
th it, unless your livers have shriveled and you have no stomach for killing.” Angry cries answered him.
Albanus whispered to the imposter, who in turn said, “As he is so eager to die, loose the wolves.”
“Loose the wolves,” someone else shouted, relaying the command. “Hurry!” The gate slid smoothly back.
Conan did not wait for the first wolf to emerge. Before the astonished eyes of the court the Cimmerian ran into the tunnel, roaring his battle cry. Behind, in the pit, yelling nobles dropped over the wall to seize and slay the escaping barbarian who had denied their manhood.
In the dark of the tunnel Conan found himself suddenly in the midst of the snarling wolfpack. Razor teeth ripped at him. He matched them snarl for snarl, his fists hammers that broke bones and knocked beasts the size of a man sprawling. Seizing a growling throat in his hands he dashed the wolf’s brains out against the low stone roof.
In the hellish cauldron of that tunnel, the wolves knew the kindred ferocity of the young giant who faced them. As Conan fought his way deeper into their pack, they began to slip past toward the pit, seeking easier meat. The noble lords’ angry yells turned to screams as bloody wolves raced among them to slay.
Ahead of him Conan saw a light.
“Accursed wolves,” a voice snarled from that direction. “You’re to kill some fool barbar, not each—”
The man who spoke faltered as he saw Conan coming toward him. He stood with the iron-barred gate at his end of the tunnel half open, a spear in his hand. Instead of stepping back and slamming the gate shut, he thrust at the Cimmerian.
Conan grasped the spear with both hands and easily wretched it from the other’s grasp. Before the man could do more than gape the butt of his own spear smashed into his chest, hurling him back through the gate, Conan following close behind. The wolf-keeper scrambled to his feet, a curved blade the length of his forearm protruding from his fist, and lunged.
The spear reversed smoothly in the Cimmerian’s big hands. He had not so much to thrust as to let the man run onto the point, spitting himself so that the whole blade of the spear stood out from his back. A cry of both pain and horrified disbelief wrenched from the wolf-keeper’s throat.
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