9
'It is the King or His Ghost!'
Many men passed through the great arched gates of Tarantia betweensunset and midnight--belated travelers, merchants from afar with heavilyladen mules, free workmen from the surrounding farms and vineyards. Nowthat Valerius was supreme in the central provinces, there was no rigidscrutiny of the folk who flowed in a steady stream through the widegates. Discipline had been relaxed. The Nemedian soldiers who stood onguard were half drunk, and much too busy watching for handsome peasantgirls and rich merchants who could be bullied to notice workmen or dustytravelers, even one tall wayfarer whose worn cloak could not conceal thehard lines of his powerful frame.
This man carried himself with an erect, aggressive bearing that was toonatural for him to realize it himself, much less dissemble it. A greatpatch covered one eye, and his leather coif, drawn low over his brows,shadowed his features. With a long thick staff in his muscular brownhand, he strode leisurely through the arch where the torches flared andguttered, and, ignored by the tipsy guardsmen, emerged upon the widestreets of Tarantia.
Upon these well-lighted thoroughfares the usual throngs went about theirbusiness, and shops and stalls stood open, with their wares displayed.One thread ran a constant theme through the pattern. Nemedian soldiers,singly or in clumps, swaggered through the throngs, shouldering theirway with studied arrogance. Women scurried from their path, and menstepped aside with darkened brows and clenched fists. The Aquilonianswere a proud race, and these were their hereditary enemies.
The knuckles of the tall traveler knotted on his staff, but, like theothers, he stepped aside to let the men in armor have the way. Among themotley and varied crowd he did not attract much attention in his drab,dusty garments. But once, as he passed a sword-seller's stall and thelight that streamed from its wide door fell full upon him, he thoughthe felt an intense stare upon him, and turning quickly, saw a man in thebrown jerkin of a free workman regarding him fixedly. This man turnedaway with undue haste, and vanished in the shifting throng. But Conanturned into a narrow by-street and quickened his pace. It might havebeen mere idle curiosity; but he could take no chances.
The grim Iron Tower stood apart from the citadel, amid a maze of narrowstreets and crowding houses where the meaner structures, appropriating aspace from which the more fastidious shrank, had invaded a portion ofthe city ordinarily alien to them. The Tower was in reality a castle, anancient, formidable pile of heavy stone and black iron, which had itselfserved as the citadel in an earlier, ruder century.
Not a long distance from it, lost in a tangle of partly desertedtenements and warehouses, stood an ancient watchtower, so old andforgotten that it did not appear on the maps of the city for a hundredyears back. Its original purpose had been forgotten, and nobody, of suchas saw it at all, noticed that the apparently ancient lock which kept itfrom being appropriated as sleeping-quarters by beggars and thieves, wasin reality comparatively new and extremely powerful, cunningly disguisedinto an appearance of rusty antiquity. Not half a dozen men in thekingdom had ever known the secret of that tower.
No keyhole showed in the massive, green-crusted lock. But Conan'spractised fingers, stealing over it, pressed here and there knobsinvisible to the casual eye. The door silently opened inward and heentered solid blackness, pushing the door shut behind him. A light wouldhave showed the tower empty, a bare, cylindrical shaft of massive stone.
Groping in a corner with the sureness of familiarity, he found theprojections for which he was feeling on a slab of the stone thatcomposed the floor. Quickly he lifted it, and without hesitation loweredhimself into the aperture beneath. His feet felt stone steps leadingdownward into what he knew was a narrow tunnel that ran straight towardthe foundations of the Iron Tower, three streets away.
The bell on the citadel, which tolled only at the midnight hour or forthe death of a king, boomed suddenly. In a dimly lighted chamber in theIron Tower a door opened and a form emerged into a corridor. Theinterior of the Tower was as forbidding as its external appearance. Itsmassive stone walls were rough, unadorned. The flags of the floor wereworn deep by generations of faltering feet, and the vault of the ceilingwas gloomy in the dim light of torches set in niches.
The man who trudged down that grim corridor was in appearance in keepingwith his surroundings. He was a tall, powerfully built man, clad inclose-fitting black silk. Over his head was drawn a black hood whichfell about his shoulders, having two holes for his eyes. From hisshoulders hung a loose black cloak, and over one shoulder he bore aheavy ax, the shape of which was that of neither tool nor weapon.
As he went down the corridor, a figure came hobbling up it, a bent,surly old man, stooping under the weight of his pike and a lantern hebore in one hand.
'You are not as prompt as your predecessor, master headsman,' hegrumbled. 'Midnight has just struck, and masked men have gone tomilady's cell. They await you.'
'The tones of the bell still echo among the towers,' answered theexecutioner. 'If I am not so quick to leap and run at the beck ofAquilonians as was the dog who held this office before me, they shallfind my arm no less ready. Get you to your duties, old watchman, andleave me to mine. I think mine is the sweeter trade, by Mitra, for youtramp cold corridors and peer at rusty dungeon doors, while I lop offthe fairest head in Tarantia this night.'
The watchman limped on down the corridor, still grumbling, and theheadsman resumed his leisurely way. A few strides carried him around aturn in the corridor, and he absently noted that at his left a doorstood partly open. If he had thought, he would have known that that doorhad been opened since the watchman passed; but thinking was not histrade. He was passing the unlocked door before he realized that aughtwas amiss, and then it was too late.
A soft tigerish step and the rustle of a cloak warned him, but before hecould turn, a heavy arm hooked about his throat from behind, crushingthe cry before it could reach his lips. In the brief instant that wasallowed him he realized with a surge of panic the strength of hisattacker, against which his own brawny thews were helpless. He sensedwithout seeing the poised dagger.
'Nemedian dog!' muttered a voice thick with passion in his ear. 'You'vecut off your last Aquilonian head!'
And that was the last thing he ever heard.
* * * * *
In a dank dungeon, lighted only by a guttering torch, three men stoodabout a young woman who knelt on the rush-strewn flags staring wildly upat them. She was clad only in a scanty shift; her golden hair fell inlustrous ripples about her white shoulders, and her wrists were boundbehind her. Even in the uncertain torchlight, and in spite of herdisheveled condition and pallor of fear, her beauty was striking. Sheknelt mutely, staring with wide eyes up at her tormenters. The men wereclosely masked and cloaked. Such a deed as this needed masks, even in aconquered land. She knew them all nevertheless; but what she knew wouldharm no one--after that night.
'Our merciful sovereign offers you one more chance, Countess,' said thetallest of the three, and he spoke Aquilonian without an accent. 'Hebids me say that if you soften your proud, rebellious spirit, he willstill open his arms to you. If not--' he gestured toward a grim woodenblock in the center of the cell. It was blackly stained, and showed manydeep nicks as if a keen edge, cutting through some yielding substance,had sunk into the wood.
Albiona shuddered and turned pale, shrinking back. Every fiber in hervigorous young body quivered with the urge of life. Valerius was young,too, and handsome. Many women loved him, she told herself, fighting withherself for life. But she could not speak the word that would ransom hersoft young body from the block and the dripping ax. She could not reasonthe matter. She only knew that when she thought of the clasp ofValerius' arms, her flesh crawled with an abhorrence greater than thefear of death. She shook her head helplessly, compelled by an impulsionmore irresistible than the instinct to live.
'Then there is no more to be said!' exclaimed one of the othersimpatiently, and he spoke with a Nemedian accent. 'Where is theheadsman?'<
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As if summoned by the word, the dungeon door opened silently, and agreat figure stood framed in it, like a black shadow from theunderworld.
Albiona voiced a low, involuntary cry at the sight of that grim shape,and the others stared silently for a moment, perhaps themselves dauntedwith superstitious awe at the silent, hooded figure. Through the coifthe eyes blazed like coals of blue fire, and as these eyes rested oneach man in turn, he felt a curious chill travel down his spine.
Then the tall Aquilonian roughly seized the girl and dragged her to theblock. She screamed uncontrollably and fought hopelessly against him,frantic with terror, but he ruthlessly forced her to her knees, and benther yellow head down to the bloody block.
'Why do you delay, headsman?' he exclaimed angrily. 'Perform your task!'
He was answered by a short, gusty boom of laughter that wasindescribably menacing. All in the dungeon froze in their places,staring at the hooded shape--the two cloaked figures, the masked manbending over the girl, the girl herself on her knees, twisting herimprisoned head to look upward.
'What means this unseemly mirth, dog?' demanded the Aquilonian uneasily.
The man in the black garb tore his hood from his head and flung it tothe ground; he set his back to the closed door and lifted the headsman'sax.
'Do you know me, dogs?' he rumbled. 'Do you know me?'
The breathless silence was broken by a scream.
'The king!' shrieked Albiona, wrenching herself free from the slackenedgrasp of her captor. 'Oh, Mitra, the king!'
The three men stood like statues, and then the Aquilonian started andspoke, like a man who doubts his own senses.
'Conan!' he ejaculated. 'It is the king, or his ghost! What devil's workis this?'
'Devil's work to match devils!' mocked Conan, his lips laughing but hellflaming in his eyes. 'Come, fall to, my gentlemen. You have your swords,and I this cleaver. Nay, I think this butcher's tool fits the work athand, my fair lords!'
'At him!' muttered the Aquilonian, drawing his sword. 'It is Conan andwe must kill or be killed!'
And like men waking from a trance, the Nemedians drew their blades andrushed on the king.
The headsman's ax was not made for such work, but the king wielded theheavy, clumsy weapon as lightly as a hatchet, and his quickness of foot,as he constantly shifted his position, defeated their purpose ofengaging him all three at once.
He caught the sword of the first man on his ax-head and crushed in thewielder's breast with a murderous counterstroke before he could stepback or parry. The remaining Nemedian, missing a savage swipe, had hisbrains dashed out before he could recover his balance, and an instantlater the Aquilonian was backed into a corner, desperately parrying thecrashing strokes that rained about him, lacking opportunity even toscream for help.
Suddenly Conan's long left arm shot out and ripped the mask from theman's head, disclosing the pallid features.
'Dog!' grated the king. 'I thought I knew you. Traitor! Damned renegade!Even this base steel is too honorable for your foul head. Nay, die asthieves die!'
The ax fell in a devastating arch, and the Aquilonian cried out and wentto his knees, grasping the severed stump of his right arm from whichblood spouted. It had been shorn away at the elbow, and the ax,unchecked in its descent, had gashed deeply into his side, so that hisentrails bulged out.
'Lie there and bleed to death,' grunted Conan, casting the ax awaydisgustedly. 'Come, Countess!'
Stooping, he slashed the cords that bound her wrists and lifting her asif she had been a child, strode from the dungeon. She was sobbinghysterically, with her arms thrown about his corded neck in a frenziedembrace.
'Easy all,' he muttered. 'We're not out of this yet. If we can reachthe dungeon where the secret door opens on stairs that lead to thetunnel--devil take it, they've heard that noise, even through thesewalls.'
Down the corridor arms clanged and the tramp and shouting of men echoedunder the vaulted roof. A bent figure came hobbling swiftly along,lantern held high, and its light shone full on Conan and the girl. Witha curse the Cimmerian sprang toward him, but the old watchman,abandoning both lantern and pike, scuttled away down the corridor,screeching for help at the top of his cracked voice. Deeper shoutsanswered him.
Conan turned swiftly and ran the other way. He was cut off from thedungeon with the secret lock and the hidden door through which he hadentered the Tower, and by which he had hoped to leave, but he knew thisgrim building well. Before he was king he had been imprisoned in it.
He turned off into a side passage and quickly emerged into another,broader corridor, which ran parallel to the one down which he had come,and which was at the moment deserted. He followed this only a few yards,when he again turned back, down another side passage. This brought himback into the corridor he had left, but at a strategic point. A few feetfarther up the corridor there was a heavy bolted door, and before itstood a bearded Nemedian in corselet and helmet, his back to Conan as hepeered up the corridor in the direction of the growing tumult and wildlywaving lanterns.
Conan did not hesitate. Slipping the girl to the ground, he ran at theguard swiftly and silently, sword in hand. The man turned just as theking reached him, bawled in surprise and fright and lifted his pike; butbefore he could bring the clumsy weapon into play, Conan brought downhis sword on the fellow's helmet with a force that would have felled anox. Helmet and skull gave way together and the guard crumpled to thefloor.
In an instant Conan had drawn the massive bolt that barred the door--tooheavy for one ordinary man to have manipulated--and called hastily toAlbiona, who ran staggering to him. Catching her up unceremoniously withone arm, he bore her through the door and into the outer darkness.
They had come into a narrow alley, black as pitch, walled by the side ofthe Tower on one hand, and the sheer stone back of a row of buildings onthe other. Conan, hurrying through the darkness as swiftly as he dared,felt the latter wall for doors or windows, but found none.
The great door clanged open behind them, and men poured out, withtorches gleaming on breast-plates and naked swords. They glared about,bellowing, unable to penetrate the darkness which their torches servedto illuminate for only a few feet in any direction, and then rusheddown the alley at random--heading in the direction opposite to thattaken by Conan and Albiona.
'They'll learn their mistake quick enough,' he muttered, increasing hispace. 'If we ever find a crack in this infernal wall--damn! The streetwatch!'
Ahead of them a faint glow became apparent, where the alley opened intoa narrow street, and he saw dim figures looming against it with aglimmer of steel. It was indeed the street watch, investigating thenoise they had heard echoing down the alley.
'Who goes there?' they shouted, and Conan grit his teeth at the hatedNemedian accent.
'Keep behind me,' he ordered the girl. 'We've got to cut our way throughbefore the prison guards come back and pin us between them.'
And grasping his sword, he ran straight at the oncoming figures. Theadvantage of surprise was his. He could see them, limned against thedistant glow, and they could not see him coming at them out of the blackdepths of the alley. He was among them before they knew it, smiting withthe silent fury of a wounded lion.
His one chance lay in hacking through before they could gather theirwits. But there were half a score of them, in full mail, hard-bittenveterans of the border wars, in whom the instinct for battle could takethe place of bemused wits. Three of them were down before they realizedthat it was only one man who was attacking them, but even so theirreaction was instantaneous. The clangor of steel rose deafeningly, andsparks flew as Conan's sword crashed on basinet and hauberk. He couldsee better than they, and in the dim light his swiftly moving figure wasan uncertain mark. Flailing swords cut empty air or glanced from hisblade, and when he struck it was with the fury and certainty of ahurricane.
But behind him sounded the shouts of the prison guards, returning up thealley at a run, and still the mailed figures before him barred his way
with a bristling wall of steel. In an instant the guards would be on hisback--in desperation he redoubled his strokes, flailing like a smith onan anvil, and then was suddenly aware of a diversion. Out of nowherebehind the watchmen rose a score of black figures and there was a soundof blows, murderously driven. Steel glinted in the gloom, and men criedout, struck mortally from behind. In an instant the alley was litteredwith writhing forms. A dark, cloaked shape sprang toward Conan, whoheaved up his sword, catching a gleam of steel in the right hand. Butthe other was extended to him empty and a voice hissed urgently: 'Thisway, your Majesty! Quickly!'
With a muttered oath of surprise, Conan caught up Albiona in onemassive arm, and followed his unknown befriender. He was not inclined tohesitate, with thirty prison guardsmen closing in behind him.
Surrounded by mysterious figures he hurried down the alley, carrying thecountess as if she had been a child. He could tell nothing of hisrescuers except that they wore dark cloaks and hoods. Doubt andsuspicion crossed his mind, but at least they had struck down hisenemies, and he saw no better course than to follow them.
As if sensing his doubt, the leader touched his arm lightly and said:'Fear not, King Conan; we are your loyal subjects.' The voice was notfamiliar, but the accent was Aquilonian of the central provinces.
Behind them the guards were yelling as they stumbled over the shamblesin the mud, and they came pelting vengefully down the alley, seeing thevague dark mass moving between them and the light of the distant street.But the hooded men turned suddenly toward the seemingly blank wall, andConan saw a door gape there. He muttered a curse. He had traversed thatalley by day, in times past, and had never noticed a door there. Butthrough it they went, and the door closed behind them with the click ofa lock. The sound was not reassuring, but his guides were hurrying himon, moving with the precision of familiarity, guiding Conan with a handat either elbow. It was like traversing a tunnel, and Conan feltAlbiona's lithe limbs trembling in his arms. Then somewhere ahead ofthem an opening was faintly visible, merely a somewhat less black archin the blackness, and through this they filed.
After that there was a bewildering succession of dim courts and shadowyalleys and winding corridors, all traversed in utter silence, until atlast they emerged into a broad lighted chamber, the location of whichConan could not even guess, for their devious route had confused evenhis primitive sense of direction.
The Hour of the Dragon Page 9