“Nay, Your Majesty, do not throw away your life. I will summon archers to shoot this barbarian, as we shoot lions.”
Neither of them had noticed that a chariot had approached while the fight was going on, and now came to a halt before them. But Conan saw, looking over their shoulders, and a queer chill sensation crawled along his spine. There was something vaguely unnatural about the appearance of the black horses that drew the vehicle, but it was the occupant of the chariot that arrested the king’s attention.
He was a tall man, superbly built, clad in a long unadorned silk robe. He wore a Shemitish head-dress, and its lower folds hid his features, except for the dark, magnetic eyes. The hands that grasped the reins, pulling the rearing horses back on their haunches, were white but strong. Conan glared at the stranger, all his primitive instincts roused. He sensed an aura of menace and power that exuded from this veiled figure, a menace as definite as the windless waving of tall grass that marks the path of the serpent
“Hail, Xaltotun!” exclaimed Tarascus. “Here is the king of Aquilonia! He did not die in the landslide as we thought.”
“I know,” answered the other, without bothering to say how he knew. “What is your present intention?”
“I will summon the archers to slay him,” answered the Nemedian. “As long as he lives he will be dangerous to us.”
“Yet even a dog has uses,” answered Xaltotun. “Take him alive.”
Conan laughed raspingly. “Come in and try!” he challenged. “But for my treacherous legs I’d hew you out of that chariot like a woodman hewing a tree. But you’ll never take me alive, damn you!”
“He speaks the truth, I fear,” said Tarascus. “The man is a barbarian, with the senseless ferocity of a wounded tiger. Let me summon the archers.”
“Watch me and learn wisdom,” advised Xaltotun.
His hand dipped into his robe and came out with something shining-a glistening sphere. This he threw suddenly at Conan. The Cimmerian contemptuously struck it aside with his sword-at the instant of contact there was a sharp explosion, a flare of white, blinding flame, and Conan pitched senseless to the ground.
“He is dead?” Tarascus’s tone was more assertion than inquiry.
“No. He is but senseless. He will recover his senses in a few hours. Bid your men bind his arms and legs and lift him into my chariot.”
With a gesture Tarascus did so, and they heaved the senseless king into the chariot, grunting with their burden. Xaltotun threw a velvet cloak over his body, completely covering him from any who might peer in. He gathered the reins in his hands.
“I’m for Belverus,” he said. “Tell Amalric that I will be with him if he needs me. But with Conan out of the way, and his army broken, lance and sword should suffice for the rest of the conquest. Prospero cannot be bringing more than ten thousand men to the field, and will doubtless fall back to Tarantia when he hears the news of the battle. Say nothing to Amalric or Valerius or anyone about our capture. Let them think Conan died in the fall of the cliffs.”
He looked at the man-at-arms for a long space, until the guardsman moved restlessly, nervous under the scrutiny.
“What is that about your waist?” Xaltotun demanded.
“Why, my girdle, may it please you, my lord!” stuttered the amazed guardsman.
“You lie!” Xaltotun’s laugh was merciless as a sword-edge. “It is a poisonous serpent! What a fool you are, to wear a reptile about your waist!”
With distended eyes the man looked down; and to his utter horror he saw the buckle of his girdle rear up at him. It was a snake’s head! He saw the evil eyes and the dripping fangs, heard the hiss and felt the loathsome contact of the thing about his body. He screamed hideously and struck at it with his naked hand, felt its fangs flesh themselves in that hand-and then he stiffened and fell heavily. Tarascus looked down at him without expression. He saw only the leathern girdle and the buckle, the pointed tongue of which was stuck in the guardsman’s palm. Xaltotun turned his hypnotic gaze on Tarascus’s squire, and the man turned ashen and began to tremble, but the king interposed: “Nay, we can trust him.”
The sorcerer tautened the reins and swung the horses around. “See that this piece of work remains secret. If I am needed, let Altaro, Orastes’ servant, summon me as I have taught him. I will be in your palace at Belverus.”
Tarascus lifted his hand in salutation, but his expression was not pleasant to see as he looked after the departing mesmerist.
“Why should he spare the Cimmerian?” whispered the frightened squire.
“That I am wondering myself,” grunted Tarascus. Behind the rumbling chariot the dull roar of battle and pursuit faded in the distance; the setting sun rimmed the dins with scarlet flame, and the chariot moved into the vast blue shadows floating up out of the east.
From What Hell Have You Crawled?
OF THAT LONG ride in the chariot of Xaltotun, Conan knew nothing. He lay like a dead man while the bronze wheels clashed over the stones of mountain roads and swished through the deep grass of fertile valleys, and finally dropping down from the rugged heights, rumbled rhythmically along the broad white road that winds through the rich meadowlands to the walls of Belverus.
Just before dawn some faint reviving of life touched him. He heard a mumble of voices, the groan of ponderous hinges. Through a slit in the cloak that covered him he saw, faintly in the lurid glare of torches, the great black arch of a gateway, and the bearded faces of men-at-arms, the torches striking fire from their spearheads and helmets.
“How went the battle, my fair lord?” spoke an eager voice, in the Nemedian tongue.
“Well indeed,” was the curt reply. “The king of Aquilonia lies slain and his host is broken.”
A babble of excited voices rose, drowned the next instant by the whirling wheels of the chariot on the flags. Sparks flashed from under the revolving rims as Xaltotun lashed his steeds through the arch. But Conan heard one of the guardsmen mutter: “From beyond the border to Belverus between sunset and dawn! And the horses scarcely sweating! By Mitra, they—” Then silence drank the voices, and there was only the clatter of hoofs and wheels along the shadowy street.
What he had heard registered itself on Conan’s brain but suggested nothing to him. He was like a mindless automaton that hears and sees, but does not understand. Sights and sounds flowed meaninglessly about him. He lapsed again into a deep lethargy, and was only dimly aware when the chariot halted in a deep, high-walled court, and he was lifted from it by many hands and borne up a winding stone stair, and down a long dim corridor. Whispers, stealthy footsteps, unrelated sounds surged or rustled about him, irrelevant and far away.
Yet his ultimate awakening was abrupt and crystal-clear. He possessed full knowledge of the battle in the mountains and its sequences, and he had a good idea of where he was.
He lay on a velvet couch, clad as he was the day before, but With his limbs loaded with chains not even he could break. The room in which he lay was furnished with somber magnificence, the walls covered with black velvet tapestries, the floor with heavy purple carpets. There was no sign of door or window, and one curiously carven gold lamp, swinging from the fretted ceiling, shed a lurid light over all.
In that light the figure seated in a silver, throne-like chair before him seemed unreal and fantastic, with an illusiveness of outline that was heightened by a filmy silken robe. But