The Hour of the Dragon. Robert E. Howard

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      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 a heart-stopping 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 tent-pole seemed to show where his sword 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 agan, 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 off 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 comer,” 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 paralyzed!”

      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!”

      “Be silent!” ordered Pallantides sternly.

      Outside, the dawn was dimming the stars. A light wind sprang up from the peaks, and brought the fanfare of a thousand trumpets. At the sound a convulsive shudder ran through the king’s mighty form. Again the veins in his temples knotted as he strove to break the invisible shackles which crushed him down.

      “Put my harness on me and tie me into my saddle,” he whispered. “I’ll lead the charge yet!”

      Pallantides shook his head, and a squire plucked his skirt.

      “My lord, we are lost if the host learns the king has been smitten! Only he could have led us to victory this day.”

      “Help me lift him on the dais,” answered the general.

      They obeyed, and laid the helpless giant on the furs, and spread a silken cloak over him. Pallantides turned to the five squires and searched their pale faces long before he spoke.

      “Our lips must be sealed for ever as to what happens in this tent,” he said at last. “The kingdom of Aquilonia depends upon it. One of you go and fetch me the officer Valannus, who is a captain of the Pellian spearmen.”

      The squire indicated bowed and hastened from the tent, and Pallantides stood staring down at the stricken king, while outside trumpets blared, drums thundered, and the roar of the multitudes rose in the growing dawn. Presently the squire returned with the officer Pallantides had named—a tall man, broad and powerful, built much like the king. Like him, also, he had thick black hair. But his eyes were gray and he did not resemble Conan in his features.

      “The king is stricken by a strange malady,” said Pallantides briefly. “A great honor is yours; you are to wear his armor and ride at the head of the host today. None must know that it is not the king who rides.”

      “It is an honor for which a man might gladly give up his life,” stammered the captain, overcome by the suggestion. “Mitra grant that I do not fail of this mighty trust!”

      And while the fallen king stared with burning eyes that reflected the bitter rage and humiliation that ate his heart, the squires stripped Valannus of mail shirt, burganet and leg-pieces, and clad him in Conan’s armor of black plate-mail, with the vizored salade, and the dark plumes nodding over the wyvern crest. Over all they put the silken surcoat with the royal lion worked in gold upon the breast, and they girt him with a broad gold-buckled belt which supported a jewel-hilted broad-sword in a cloth-of-gold scabbard. While they worked, trumpets clamored outside, arms clanged, and across the river rose a deep-throated roar as squadron after squadron swung into place.

      Full-armed, Vallanus dropped to his knee and bent his plumes before the figure that lay on the dais.

      “Lord king, Mitra grant that I do not dishonor the harness I wear this day!”

      “Bring me Tarascus’s head and I’ll make you a baron!” In the stress of his anguish Conan’s veneer of civilization had fallen from him. His eyes flamed, he ground his teeth in fury and blood-lust, as barbaric as any tribesmen in the Cimmerian hills.

      The Cliffs Reel

      THE AQUILONIAN HOST was drawn up, long serried lines of pikemen and horsemen in gleaming steel, when a giant figure in black armor emerged from the royal pavilion, and as he swung up into the saddle of the black stallion held by four squires, a roar that shook the mountains went up from the host. They shook their blades and thundered forth their acclaim of their warrior king- knights in gold-chased armor, pikemen in mail coats and basinets, archers in their leather jerkins, with their longbows in their left hand.

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