"I am old, my days are numbered, and now I begin to despair for the fate of my people."
A broad smile split Conan's face. Thumping the floor, he boomed: "Who said I'm no king, old man? King I am, and king of the mightiest kingdom of the West, fair Aquilonia. Conquered it myself, I did, and strangled its tyrant on the throne with my own hands. White I am, and my strength has won me duels with professional stranglers. Do I not fit your prophecy?"
The old man looked up, eager and incredulous at the same time:. "Is this true, Conan? You are a king? Then the part I did not tell you is also truefor my beloved wife said that this would occur within twenty years of our defeat. The gods be praised! We shall have a feast of prayer and thanksgiving tonight. Tomorrow we are at your command! Will you lead us?"
Conan's laugh was gusty. "Not so hotly, my friend! Even I, who have had my share of follies, am not so rash as to rush into the maw of this scoundrel with only a score of men. The gods help those who use their wits. We must lay our plans carefully."
Then his voice was drowned by the joyful shouts of the crowd that had gathered outside the hut, summoned by Kang Lou-dze. With sudden sobriety he accepted the humble adoration of these folk, whose sole hope of salvation he represented.
The high council of the Khitan village of outcasts was in session. The atmosphere inside the bamboo hut was rife with tension. Conan lolled on the floor mats, a beaker of wine in his hand, while his sharp blue eyes scrutinized his new allies. The air was thick with the lotus-scented smoke of water pipes.
"It will be no easy task to win entrance to the fiend's castle," said one tall, slant-eyed man, whose face was disfigured by a scar across his brow. "His cursed swordsmen guard it day and night, and there are his own unearthly powers in the bargain. The people have no arms, and a straightforward attack on the heavily-fortified citadel is out of the question with our scant force."
"You are right, Leng Chi," said the aged Kang Hsiu. "Stealth and trickery pave the road to success. And I know of only one way that might carry us there. In a week, Yah Chieng will give his annual feast in celebration of the conquest of Pailcang. The climax of this feast is always the Dance of the Lions, performed with all the ancient ceremonies. Thus Yah Chieng caters to the people's taste for spectacle and tradition. It is the only time when the great gates are opened and the public is admitted into the large courtyard. But how this can avail us I cannot fathom, for we must bring King Conan with us, and he is pale of skin and round of eye. We cannot possibly disguise him effectively, for he stands out among all men. Of course, we could carry him in a box"
Conan's rough voice broke into the conversation. "None of that, my friend. To lie unmoving in a coffin, indeed! But this Lion Dance gives me an idea. I have heard of it from travelers. Do not the dancers carry great dresses made for two men, with a lion's head? At the end of the feast, I can slip into the castle. Then I shall be on my own. The only snag is the dancing dress. You have none here, and it would take too long to make one."
"Fate is indeed looking our way," replied the old man gravely. "In Shaulun, a day's journey hence, there is a team that goes to the dance every year with their lion dress. We will make it worth their while to let us borrow it. As for the rest, you speak true. You will have many chances to slip away during the latter part of the feast, for Yah Chieng often plies the rabble with wine, and there arises such confusion and shouting that his swordsmen have to chase everybody out with naked swords. Perhaps this time we can turn the riot to our advantage.
"The swordsmen of the usurper would be surprised to meet sober men with forbidden swords in their hands. Aye, I think we could promise Yah Chieng an unusually lively feast!"
"Not yet," said Leng Chi. "How many can we muster? Yah Chieng has his Two Hundred at instant call, besides his regular troops. Some of the latter might come over to us, did they know what was afoot. But-"
"And we have but a few bits of armor," said another headman. "The troops of the usurper will be scaled and plated like the crayfish of Lake Ho."
As the meager forces that the refugees could put in the field were summed up, faces and voices fell again. Then Conan spoke:
"The other day, Lord Kang, you said something about a troop of Western mercenaries captured by Yah Chieng last year. What is this?"
The old man said: "In the Month of the Hog, a company of fifty came marching out of the west. They said they had served the king ofwhat was the name of the kingdom? Turan, that is it. But, resenting the scornful way this king's generals treated them, they had deserted and struck out eastward to seek their fortunes in Khitai."
Leng Chi took up the tale. "They passed a few leagues north of here, through the village of Shaulun. They found favor with the villagers because they destroyed a band of robbers, and they did not loot or rape. Therefore the villagers warned them against Yah Chieng. But they would not listen, and marched on to Paikang.
"There, we heard, they offered their swords to Yah Chieng. He feigned acceptance but had other plans in mind. He gave them a feast, at the height of which he had their captain's head cut off and the rest cast into his dungeon."
"Why did he do this?" said Conan.
"It seems he wanted them for sacrifices in some great rite of devilish magic!"
"What became of them?"
"At last accounts, they still awaited their doom, though that is three months since."
"How did you hear of it?"
"A woman of Paikang, who had been having a love affair with one of the Two Hundred, fled to Shaulun, and thence the tale came to us."
"Lord Kang," said Conan, "tell me about our palace. I shall need top>
find my way about it."
Kang Hsiu began drawing lines on the earthen floor of the hut. "You know that the usurper may have changed things since I dwelt therein.
But this is how they were in my day. Here stands the main gate; here rises the great hall¦"
Hours later, plans were made down to the last detail. Kang Hsiu rose and swung his goblet high, the amber liquid swirling in the smoky lamplight. He cried in a ringing voice: "To the future and honor of great Paikang, and may the head of the Snake soon be crushed under the boot of the Avenger!"
An answering shout went up, and Conan made a gesture and drank. His brain whirled with the realization that he was at last within reach of his goal.
Dust rose in choking clouds on the road that ran west from Paikang.
Hundreds of Khitans in blue and brown shuffled along it towards the city.
The sun gleamed whitely on the massive marble wall of Paikang. The waters of the moat reflected the white walls, the brown hills, and the blue sky, save where the wakes of a flock of swimming ducks disturbed its surface. Over the walls rose the pagodas of Paikang, their multiple roofs gleaming with glazed tiles of green, blue, and purple and glittering with gilded ornaments at the corners. Golden dragons and lions snarled down from the angles of the battlements surmounting the great gate.
The dusty lines of countryfolk streamed into the gate, afoot and on donkeyback. For once Yah Chieng's soldiers stood back, leaning on their bills and tridents and watching the throng without stopping each one for questioning, search, and extortion. Now and then the drab column was lightened by the brilliant costumes of the dancers. The lion dancers of Shaulun made an especially brave show. The gilded lion mask flashed in the sun, turning its bulging eyes and curling tongue this way and that. The man in the forequarters must have been of unusual stature, for the headpiece of the lion costume towered far above the heads of the Khitans.
Inside the city, the countryfolk poured along a winding avenue toward the palace. Conan, peering through the holes below the lion mask, sniffed the pungent smells of a Khitan city and pricked his ears at its sounds. At first it sounded like a meaningless din, though each horn, bell, whistle, and rattle was used by tradesmen of a particular kind to make themselves known.
Following the crowd, he came to another wall with a great gate standing open in it. The folk poured in. The colu
mn divided to flow around a jade screen of carven dragons, ten feet high and thrice as long, and joined again on the other side. They were in the courtyard of Yah Chieng's palace, formerly the seat of the Kang clan.
Pushing, shouting masses pressed against the tables where Yah Chieng's servants ladled out rice stew and rice wine. Many of the guests were already in a stimulated condition; the singsong talk of the crowd rose to a roar. Here a juggler tossed balls and hatchets; there a musician plucked a one-stringed lute and sang plaintive songs, though only those within a few feet of him could hear him.
Conan heard Leng Chi's voice in his ear: "Over this way. The dancing will soon begin. Be not so proficient as to win the prize. It would not forward our plans to have the judge demand that you doff your headpiece to receive it¦"
The long stone corridor was dark. Deathly silence reigned in its murky depths. Conan slunk stealthily forward like a jungle cat, avoiding the slightest sound, carrying his sword unsheathed. He was clad in a Khitan jacket and silken trousers, bought from a merchant in a border village.
As he had planned, so had things befallen. During the rising turmoil in the courtyard, nobody had noticed by the flickering torchlight that one of the lion dresses was now borne by only one carrier. Shadows and nooks had aided Conan's swift entry. Now he was on his way into the heart of the enemy's stronghold.
His senses were sharpened to the utmost. It was not the first time he had entered the abode of a hostile wizard. Memories of the ghastly things he had met on similar occasions thrust themselves upon his consciousness like attacking demons. All his life, the supernatural had been the one thing that could send tendrils of fear probing into his brain. But with iron self-possession, he shrugged off his atavistic fears and continued his catlike stalk.
The corridor branched. One stairway led up, the other down, hardly discernible in the all-pervading darkness. Conan chose the one leading downward. The plan of the castle was well-learned and locked in his brain.
Yo La-gu, one of Yah Chieng's Two Hundred, lolled on his bench in the dungeon beneath the citadel of Paikang. His temper was ruffled. Why should he of all men sit here, guarding these milksop western prisoners, while outside the feast was in progress and wine and love were to be had for the asking? A stupid idea of the wizard to keep people prisoner for years, preparing to use them up in some magical stunt, when a single raid on the countryside would' fetch as many Khitans in a week! Grumbling, he eased himself off the creaking settle to fetch more wine from his secret hoard. His armor rustled and clanked.
He reached the niche in the wall where he had secreted his bottles and stretched his hand towards it ”and that was his last conscious act. Ten steely fingers fastened on his windpipe, crushing his throat, until black unconsciousness swamped his brain, and he sank down in a heap.
Conan surveyed his handiwork with a grim smile. It was good to slay foes again! The old barbarian instincts boiled in his blood, and his lips writhed in the snarl of the hunting beast.
His kill had been so swift and silent that none of the sleeping occupants of the cells had stirred. Conan stooped and tore the bunch of keys from the dead jailor's belt. He tried several of them in the lock of the nearest cell.
At the soft metallic sound, a prisoner turned, shook his head, and opened his eyes. The imprecation on his lips was stifled as he beheld the strange figure at the grille. His astonishment grew as the bars swung inward. In a bound, he was on his feet. He checked his rush, for the light from the wall cresset glinted faintly on die blade in the stranger's right hand. A gesture from the giant cautioned him to silence, and another beckoned him to follow.
In the clear light, the eyes of the prisoner widened in surprise. Conan frowned, searching his memory. At last he said: "Lyco of Khorshemish!
Is it you?"
"Aye." Their brawny hands met in a firm grip. The prisoner continued: "By the breasts of Ishtar, Conan, I am struck to the core with astonishment! Are you here with an Aquilonian host to deal with the evil sorcerer, or have you flown on the back of an eagle?"
"Neither, Lyco," came the rumbling reply. "I am here to mete out justice to the yellow cur, true, but I counted on finding my army here.
I think I have done so. When we fought as mercenaries, yours was always among the readiest blades."
"Most of the prisoners here are true men and fighters," said the other.
"We long only to flesh our steel in those Khitan bravos."
"You will have your chance. Here are the keys to the dungeons; take them and free your men. The armory lies down this corridor; equip your followers with blades and strike! Strike to avenge your own suffering and to free the queen of Aquilonia!" He smiled grimly at Lyco's astounded expression. "Now you know why I'm here. You will find Khitan allies among the throng in the courtyard. Go swiftly."
He was gone again like a haunting phantom. Lyco began to waken his comrades, sending some to open the armory while others busied themselves at the locks of other cell doors.
"By Mitra," murmured Lyco, "the barbarian is a mad one! Traveling across the world to rescue a woman!" But admiration glowed in his eyes as he looked into the dark mouth of the corridor.
10. The Lair of the Sorcerer
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A vast, high-ceilinged hall opened at the end of the dank stone corridor. Its square flagstones were covered with dust undisturbed by human feet but its aura of silence brooded menacingly. Its upper part was lost in darkness. Conan stalked warily over the vast floor toward the opening of another corridor, as if he expected any one of the flagstones to drop out from under him.
A noise like a thunderclap rang with booming crashes between the echoing walls, and a shrill wailing cry made Oman's blood run cold.
With a swish of mighty wings, an unearthly being swooped from the upper darkness. Like a stooping hawk it plummeted down towards Conan.
The barbarian flung himself aside barely in time to avoid the razor-sharp claws in the monster's paws. Then his sword swept in a glittering arc. The winged horror flopped away, howling. One arm, severed at the elbow, gushed dark, ill-smelling blood. With a horrible scream it again sprang towards the Cimmerian.
Conan stood his ground. He knew that his only chance lay in a sure thrust through the creature's vitals. Even partly dismembered, it had the strength to tear him, to pieces. It was, he was sure, the same thing that had borne off Zenobia long months before.
The monster spread its wings to soar as it sprang. At the last moment, Conan ducked the claws of the remaining hand and put all his strength into a ripping thrust. His blade tore into the black body, as the searching talons ripped the shirt from his back.
With a choking gasp, the monster fell. Oman braced his feet to drag his blade free, dripping with the creature's dark juices.
His hair was sweaty and tangled and his back was bloody from the clawing he had received. But a terrible fire burned unquenched in his eyes as he reached the mouth of the other corridor. Behind him, on the floor of the hall, the monster lay in a pool of brown, staring with sightless yellow eyes toward the darkness from which it had come.
The corridor into which Conan stepped was short and straight. In the distance he saw a door of stone. Cryptic signs of Khitan origin covered its surface. This must be the Tunnel of Death that led to Yah Chieng's private chambers. Beyond that door he would find his foe. Conan's eyes glowed ferally in the darkness, and his hand gripped his hilt with vengeful force.
Suddenly the darkness changed to bright illumination. Red licking flames arose from the floor in a hellish wall. Their writhing tongues reached up to the ceiling, and they burst toward Conan in hungry spouts of burning death. He could feel their terrible heat on his face and arms, and his clothes began to smolder. Sweat ran down his face. As he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a piece of metal rasped his skin.
The ring of Rakhamon again! He had forgotten it in his single-minded determination. Would it prove potent against the strength of the yellow wizard?
He swept his hand thr
ough the licking flames. A crash, like the beating of a thousand cymbals, reverberated in the corridor. The flames fell tinkling to the floor, like shards of glass. The rest of the fire was turned to marble It flamed, smoldered; a blue serpentine of smoke rose and swayed upward about Orastes in a slender spiral. And when it had risen above his shoulders it curled about his neck with a whipping suddenness like the stroke of a snake. Orastes' scream was choked to a gurgle. His hands flew to his neck, his eyes were distended, his tongue protruded. The smoke was like a blue rope about his neck; then it faded and was gone, and Orastes slumped to the floor a dead man.
Xaltotun smote his hands together and two men entered, men often observed accompanying himsmall, repulsively dark, with red, oblique eyes and pointed, rat-like teeth. They did not speak. Lifting the corpse, they bore it away.
Dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand, Xaltotun seated himself at the ivory table about which sat the pale kings.
"Why are you in conclave?" he demanded.
"The Aquilonians have risen in the west," answered Amulric, recovering from the grisly jolt the death of Orastes had given him. "The fools believe that Conan is alive, and coming at the head of a Poitainian army to reclaim his kingdom. If he had reappeared immediately after Val-kia, or if a rumor had been circulated that he lived, the central provinces would not have risen under him, they feared your powers so.
But they have become so desperate under Valerius's misrule that they are ready to follow any man who can unite them against us, and prefer sudden death to torture and continual misery.
"Of course the tale has lingered stubbornly in the land that Conan was not really slain at Valkia, but not until recently have the masses accepted it. But Pallantides is back from exile in Ophir, swearing that the king was ill in his tent that day, and that a man-at-arms wore his harness, and a squire who but recently recovered from the stroke of a mace received at Valkia confirms his tale or pretends to.
The Conan Compendium Page 676