‘Perhaps you were dreaming, Your Majesty,’ said Pallantides, somewhat perturbed.
‘So I was,’ grunted Conan. ‘A devilish dream it was, too. I trod again all the long, weary roads I traveled on my way to the kingship.’
He fell silent, and Pallantides stared at him unspeaking. The king was an enigma to the general, as to most of his civilized subjects. Pallantides knew that Conan had walked many strange roads in his wild, eventful life, and had been many things before a twist of Fate set him on the throne of Aquilonia.
‘I saw again the battlefield whereon I was born,’ said Conan, resting his chin moodily on a massive fist. ‘I saw myself in a pantherskin loin-clout, throwing my spear at the mountain beasts. I was a mercenary swordsman again, a hetman of the kozaki who dwell along the Zaporoska River, a corsair looting the coasts of Kush, a pirate of the Barachan Isles, a chief of the Himelian hillmen. All these things I’ve been, and of all these things I dreamed; all the shapes that have been I passed like an endless procession, and their feet beat out a dirge in the sounding dust.
‘But throughout my dreams moved strange, veiled figures and ghostly shadows, and a faraway voice mocked me. And toward the last I seemed to see myself lying on this dais in my tent, and a shape bent over me, robed and hooded. I lay unable to move, and then the hood fell away and a moldering skull grinned down at me. Then it was that I awoke.’
‘This is an evil dream, Your Majesty,’ said Pallantides, suppressing a shudder. ‘But no more.’
Conan shook his head, more in doubt than in denial. He came of a barbaric race, and the superstitions and instincts of his heritage lurked close beneath the surface of his consciousness.
‘I’ve dreamed many evil dreams,’ he said, ‘and most of them were meaningless. But by Crom, this was not like most dreams! I wish this battle were fought and won, for I’ve had a grisly premonition ever since King Nimed died in the black plague. Why did it cease when he died?’
‘Men say he sinned-‘
‘Men are fools, as always,’ grunted Conan. ‘If the plague struck all who sinned, then by Crom there wouldn’t be enough left to count the living! Why should the gods – who the priests tell me are just – slay five hundred peasants and merchants and nobles before they slew the king, if the whole pestilence were aimed at him? Were the gods smiting blindly, like swordsmen in a fog? By Mitra, if I aimed my strokes no straighter, Aquilonia would have had a new king long ago.
‘No! The black plague’s no common pestilence. It lurks in Stygian tombs, and is called forth into being only by wizards. I was a swordsman in Prince AJmuric’s army that invaded Stygia, and of his thirty thousand, fifteen thousand perished by Sty gian arrows, and the rest by the black plague that rolled on us like a wind out of the south. I was the only man who lived.’
‘Yet only five hundred died in Nemedia,’ argued Pallantides.
‘Whoever called it into being knew how to cut it short at will,’ answered Conan. ‘So I know there was something planned and diabolical about it. Someone called it forth, someone banished it when the work was completed – when Tarascus was safe on the throne and being hailed as the deliverer of the people from the wrath of the gods. By Crom, I sense a black, subtle brain behind all this. What of this stranger who men say gives counsel to Tarascus?’
‘He wears a veil,’ answered Pallantides; ‘they say he is a foreigner; a stranger from St9y
‘A stranger from Stygia!’ repeated Conan scowling. ‘A stranger from hell, more like! – Ha! What is that?’
‘The trumpets of the Nemedians!’ exclaimed Pallantides. ‘And hark, how our own blare upon their heels! Dawn is breaking, and the captains are marshaling the hosts for the onset! Mitra be with them, for many will not see the sun go down behind the crags.’
‘Send my squires to me!’ exclaimed Conan, rising with alacrity and casting off his velvet night-garment; he seemed to have forgotten his forebodings at the prospect of action. ‘Go to the captains and see that all is in readiness. I will be with you as soon as I don my armor.’
Many of Conan’s ways were inexplicable to the civilized people he ruled, and one of them was his insistence on sleeping alone in his chamber or tent. Pallantides hastened from the pavilion, clanking in the armor he had donned at midnight after a few hours’ sleep. He cast a swift glance over the camp, which was beginning to swarm with activity, mail clinking and men moving about dimly in the uncertain light, among the long lines of tents. Stars still glimmered palely in the western sky, but long pink streamers stretched along the eastern horizon, and against them the dragon banner of Nemedia flung out its billowing silken folds.
Pallantides turned toward a smaller tent near by, where slept the royal squires. These were tumbling out already, roused by the trumpets. And as Pallantides called to them to hasten, he was frozen speechless by a deep fierce shout and the impact of a heavy blow inside the king’s tent, followed by the heartstopping crash of a falling body. There sounded a low laugh that turned the general’s blood to ice.
Echoing the cry, Pallantides wheeled and rushed back into the pavilion. He cried out again as he saw Conan’s powerful frame stretched out on the carpet. The king’s great two-handed sword lay near his hand, and a shattered tentpole seemed to show where his stroke had fallen. Pallantides’ sword was out, and he glared about the tent, but nothing met his gaze. Save for the king and himself it was empty, as it had been when he left it.
‘Your Majesty!’ Pallantides threw himself on his knee beside the fallen giant.
Conan’s eyes were open; they blazed up at him with full intelligence and recognition. His lips -writhed, but no sound came forth. He seemed unable to move.
Voices sounded without. Pallantides rose swiftly and stepped to the door. The royal squires and one of the knights who guarded the tent stood there.
‘We heard a sound within,’ said the knight apologetically. ‘Is all well with the king?’
Pallantides regarded him searchingly.
‘None has entered or left the pavilion this night?’
‘None save yourself, my lord,’ answered the knight, and Pallantides could not doubt his honesty.
‘The king stumbled and dropped his sword,’ said Pallantides briefly. ‘Return to your post.’
As the knight turned away, the general covertly motioned to the five royal squires, and when they had followed him in, he drew the flap closely. They turned pale at the sight of the king stretched upon the carpet, but Pallantides’ quick gesture checked their exclamations.
The general bent over him again, and again Conan made an effort to speak. The veins in his temples and the cords in his neck swelled with his efforts, and he lifted his head clear of the ground. Voice came at last, mumbling and half intelligible.
‘The thing – the thing in the corner!’
Pallantides lifted his head and looked fearfully about him. He saw the pale faces of the squires in the lamplight, the velvet shadows that lurked along the walls of the pavilion. That was all.
‘There is nothing here, Your Majesty,’ he said.
‘It was there, in the corner,’ muttered the king, tossing his lion-maned head from side to side in his efforts to rise. ‘A man – at least he looked like a man – wrapped in rags like a mummy’s bandages, with a moldering cloak drawn about him, and a hood. All I could see was his eyes, as he crouched there in the shadows. I thought he was a shadow himself, until I saw his eyes. They were like black jewels.
‘I made at him and swung my sword, but I missed him clean – how, Crom knows – and splintered that pole instead. He caught my wrist as I staggered off balance, and his fingers burned like hot iron. All the strength went out of me, and the floor rose and struck me like a club. Then he was gone, and I was down, and – curse him! – I can’t move! I’m paralysed!’
Pallantides lifted the giant’s hand, and his flesh crawled. On the king’s wrist showed the blue marks of long, lean fingers. What hand could grip so hard as to leave its print on that thick wrist? Pallantides remembered that low laugh he had heard as he rushed into the tent, and cold perspiration beaded his skin. It had not been Conan who laughed.
‘This is a thing diabolical!’ whispered a trembling squire. ‘Men say the children of darkness war for Tarascus!’