Conan the Liberator

THE KEY TO THE CITY

The Army of Liberation tramped unopposed through the smiling land, where Poitain’s herds of fine horses and cattle grazed on luxuriant grass, and castles reared their crenelated towers of crimson and purple and gold. The rebel army serpentined its way through pillow-rounded mountains, lush with vegetation, and at last approached the border between Poitain and the central provinces of Aquilonia.

But as Conan sat his charger on an embankment to watch his soldiers pass before him, his gaze was somber. For, although Numitors Frontiersmen had scattered like leaves in an autumn gale, a new foe, against which he had no defense, now assailed his army. This was sickness. A malady, which caused men to break out in scarlet spots and prostrated them with chills and fever, raced through his ranks, an invisible demon, felling more soldiers than a hard-fought battle. Many men were left abed in villages along the way; many, fearing the dread disease, deserted; many died.

“What do we number now?^ Conan asked Publius of an evening, as the army neared the border village of Elymia.

The former chancellor studied his reports. “About eight thousand, counting the walking sick, who number nigh a thousand.”

“Crom! We were ten thousand when we left the Alimane, and hundreds more have joined since then. What has become of them?"

Trocero said: “Some come to us in a roseate glow, like a bridegroom to his bride, but think better of their bargain when they have sweated and slogged a few leagues from their native heath. They fret about their families and getting home to harvest."

“And this spotted sickness has claimed thousands,” added Dexitheus. "I, and the physicians under me, have tried every herb and purge to no avail. It seems magic is at work. Else an evil destiny doth shape our ends.”

Conan bit back scornful words of incredulity. After the earthquake he dared not underestimate the potent magic of his enemy or the wanton cruelty of the gods.

"Could we have persuaded the satyrs to march with us, bringing their pipes,” said Prospero, “our paltry numbers would be of little moment.”

“But they would not leave their homes in the Brocellian Forest,” said Conan.

Prospero rephed: "You could have seized their old Zudik as a hostage, to compel them.”

“That’s not my way,” growled Conan. “Zudik proved a friend in need. I would not use him ill.”

Trocero smiled gently. “And are you not the man who scorned Prince Numitor for his high-flown ideals of chivalry?”

Conan grunted. “With savages, the chief has little power; I have dwelt amongst them, and I know. Besides, I doubt if even great love for their chieftain’s weal would overcome the little people’s fear of open country. But let us face the future and not raise ghosts from the dead past Have the scouts reported signs of Ulric’s army?”

“No reports,” said Trocero, “save that today they glimpsed a few riders from afar, who quickly galloped out of sight. We know not who they are; but I would wager that the northern barons delay Count Ulric still.”

“Tomorrow,” said Conan, "I shall take Gyrto’s troop to scout the border of Poitain, whilst the rest march for Elymia.”

“General,” objected Prospero. “You should not use yourself so recklessly. A commander should stay behind the lines, where he can control his units, and not risk his life like a landless adventurer.”

Conan frowned. “If I am commander here, I must command as I think best!” Seeing Prosperous stricken face, he added with a smile: “Fear not; I’ll do naught foolish. But even a general must betimes share the dangers of his men. Besides, am I not myself a landless adventurer?"

“Methinks,” grumbled Prospero, “you merely indulge your barbarian lust for combat hand-to-hand.” Conan’s grin widened wolfishly, but he ignored the comment

The road was a golden ribbon before them, as Conan’s troop trotted through the misty morning. At the column’s head rode Conan, clad in chain mail like the others, and Captain Gyrto rode at his side. With lance fixed into a stirrup boot, each cavalryman rode proudly through the rolling countryside. A few detached outriders cantered in wide circles across the fallow fields but skirted the simple farmsteads and the stands of ripening grain.

Rustics at work on furrow or vine paused in their labors to lean on rake or hoe and stare, as the armed men rode past. One or two raised a cautious cheer, but most remained stolidly noncommittal and silent Now and then Conan caught a flash of red or yellow petticoat, as a woman rushed to hide herself from the passing soldiery.

"They wait to see who wins,” said Gyrto.

“And well they might," said Conan, “for, if we lose, all who aided us will suffer for it."

Beyond the next rise, Elymia squatted in a shallow vale. A small stream meandered sluggishly past the mud-brick houses, wending its way eastward toward the Khorotas, while willows contemplated their reflections in the dark, slow-moving water.

The village, which sheltered less than two hundred souls, lacked protection; for decades of peace had so beguiled the villagers that they allowed the old wall of sun-dried brick to crumble utterly. Inhabitants—if any there were who labored in the hamlet—were nowhere to be seen.

"It's too quiet for me," muttered Conan. "People should be up and about on a fair day like this."

“Perchance they are sleeping off their midday meal," suggested Gyrto. “Or all but the babes and ancient crones are working in the fields."

“Too late for that," growled Conan. “I like it not."

“Or perchance they are in hiding, fearing robbery or murder.”

Conan said: “Send two scouts through the village; we'll wait here.”

Two troopers hastened down the gentle slope and disappeared into the maw of the narrow, winding street. Soon the street disgorged them; and galloping toward their fellows, they signaled that all was quiet.

“Let's take a look ourselves," growled Conan. And Gyrto waved his hundred lancers forward at a brisk trot.

The sun was a gigantic orange disk as it slipped to the western horizon; and the houses of Elymia stood black and sinister against its fiery glow. The rebels glanced about them with a touch of apprehension; for still there was no sign of human habitation in the squalid street or behind the shuttered doorways. “Perhaps,” suggested Gyrto, “the people heard of two approaching armies and fled, fearing to be caught betwixt hammer and anvil.”

Conan shrugged, loosening his sword in its scabbard. On each side of the roadway rose low cottages, their roofs thick-thatched. The front of one house was open, with a counter set before it. A painted mug above the humble door proclaimed it the village ale shop, the town being too small to boast an inn. Down the short street a barnlike building thrust itself back from the road. Scattered iron bars, a pincers, and a brazier proved it a smithy; but no clang of metal issued from it. Something—he knew not what—raised the hairs on Conan’s nape.

Conan twisted in the saddle to look back, as the last of his double column trotted into the deserted street The pairs of horses pressed close against the walls of crowding houses, so meager was the way.

"A mean place for an attack,” said Conan. “Signal the men to hurry through.”

Gyrto waved an order to his trumpeter, when another trumpet blared, close at hand. Instantly the doors of all the cottages burst open, and royalist soldiers boiled out, rending the dusk hideous with battle cries. They struck at Conan's troop from either side, their swords and pikes thirsty for blood.

Ahead three ranks of pikemen sprang into position, blocking the road with a wall of pointed steel. Slowly they moved forward, with battle lust in their eyes and spearheads glowing a dull crimson in the rays of the setting sun.

"Crom and Ishtar!” yelled Conan, sweeping out his sword, “we’re in Death’s pocket! Gyrto, turn the men around!”

The din of battle rose—the shouts of angry men, the neighs of plunging steeds, the grind of steel on steel, the clash of swords on riven shields, and the dull thud of fallen bodies. Attacked from three sides by superior numbers, Conan’s troopers were at a disadvantage. The confined space prevented them from bunching into a compact formation or working up speed for a charge. A lance in the hand of a charging horseman is more formidable than in the hand of that same horseman forced to halt.

The rebel troopers, spurred by fear and fmy, set their lances and jabbed at their assailants. Some dropped their lances and, drawing swords, slashed downward at their attackers, raining well-aimed blows. Men swore loud oaths to their assorted gods. Injured horses reared and screamed like fiends in hell. One, disemboweled, fell kicking, pinning its rider; and the royalists swarmed upon the man, slashing and battering, until he lay iucamadined with gore.

Another rider, caught by an upflung spearhead, was lofted out of his saddle and tossed beneath the steel-shod hooves of a plunging steed. Still another was unhorsed, but he set his back to the wall of a house and stood off his attackers with the darting tongue of his sweeping blade.

Some of Count Ulric's soldiers went down beneath the rebels’ lancepoints and swinging swords. Blood laid the dust on the earthern road, as wounded men shrieked in agony, the death rattle in their throats.

Roaring like a lion, Conan beat his way back along the column, squeezing between his milling men and the enclosing walls. His great sword swung upward and descended; with nearly every blow, a royalist crumpled or fell dead. Thrice his down-directed cuts sheared arms from shoulders, and thrice blood spilled bubbling from the ghastly wounds. As Conan hewed, he shouted lustily.

“Out! Out! To the rear, march! Out of the village! Rally on the road!"

Powerful as was his voice, his words were drowned in a torrent of cacophony. But little by little his men wrenched their horses’ heads around and pushed southward. Behind Conan, Captain Gyrto and two veteran lancers fought a desperate rear-guard action against the massed pikemen who pressed forward behind their bristling steel. Lances at the ready, they spurred their terror-stricken beasts against the wall of steel; but as one spearman fell, another leaped in to take his place. And so, despite their grim intent to win or die, they could not overwhelm the relentless surge of steel-clad men. And there one lancer died.

Conan's steed stumbled over a supine body. He jerked up on the bridle to prevent the animal’s inadvertent fall. He swung a back-hand blow at a royalist swordsman, who caught the vicious stroke on his shield; but the sheer force of the blow hurled the soldier to his knees in a battered doorway, and kneeling, he cradled a broken arm, tears streaming down his face.

Finally, Conan glimpsed the last remnant of his troopers fighting free of their attackers and galloping up the slope beyond the scene of the debacle. Between him and the retreating men, the narrow street was filled with royalists afoot, slipping on the bloodstained entrails of men and horses, swaying with fatigue, but like human bloodhounds, smelling out their prey, coming closer, ever closer to the three horsemen caught in the cruel jaws of the clever trap. Glancing to the right, Conan perceived between two cottages a narrow alley, a mere footpath among the weeds.

“Gyrto!” bellowed Conan. “This way! Follow me!"

Abruptly turning his horse into that meager alley, Conan paused only long enough to make sure the others followed closely. The lengthening shadows of a cottage enshrouded the fleeing men in darkness, and for a moment there was no yapping at their heels.

In the momentary respite, Conan reined in his exhausted mount and allowed the beast to pick its way among the crumpled vegetation. Suddenly, despite the gloaming, he descried a pigsty, its entrance barred by a battered panel, rope-bound to the adjacent fencing. With his bloodstained blade he severed the heavy rope, and the crude door swung open.

Gyrto and his companion stood aghast, wondering whether the heat of battle or a heavy blow had unseated their leaders reason. Then with an upraised finger pointing forward, Conan spurred his horse and, followed closely by his loyal troopers, sped down the narrow passageway.

A wave of racing royalist foot soldiers, interspersed with mounted men-at-arms, swirled round the comer of the cottage and crested in the slender channel of the alley.

Gyrto yelled to Conan: “Ride, man, ride! They’re hot upon our trail.”

Conan bent low above his horse’s neck, face buried in the creature’s flowing mane. And then, at the alley’s end, a tall fence, scarce visible in the gathering gloom, barred the way to safety.

Conan’s horse, gathering its mighty haunches, rose magnificently and cleared the obstruction, with Gyrto’s partner Sardus close upon its flying tail. But Gyrto was less lucky. His animal, too weary to take the jump, slammed into the barrier, and screamed with the agony of a broken neck.

Gyrto, thrown clear, leaped to his feet and drew his sword, prepared to sell his life dearly. Suddenly, the pursuing riders drew rein and swore at their rearing, dancing mounts, which in their panic pressed swordsmen against the cottage walls or struck them wicked blows from flailing hooves.

Gyrto marvelled at the hiatus in his almost sure destruction. “Magic again?” he muttered between clenched teeth.

Then he spied the cause of his salvation. A sow and twenty piglets had ambled from their pen and, coated with evil-smelling muck, ran squealing through the weeds, rooting for edibles.

He heard Conan call: “Climb the fence, man, quickly!” And, hesitating no longer, he flung himself at the rough barricade, dragged himself up, and scrambled over, just as the royalists reached the other side.

“Catch my stirrup!” roared Conan. “Don’t try to mount!”

Gyrto seized Conan’s stirrup strap and bounded along with giant strides as the spurred beast gathered speed. At an easy canter they crossed the darkling fields, leaving the royalists behind.

When the village grew small in the distance, Conan pulled up. Peering about the fading landscape, he said, “We shall catch up with the column presently. First I want a look at the enemy base. That hillock yonder may give a view of it.”

From the hilltop Conan stared across the intervening swells and hollows of the earth; and north of the village, he discovered a field encampment. It had been hidden from the village by a low rise; but seen from this height, its large expanse was evident. Scores of cooking fires twinkled in the twilight, and thin blue plumes of smoke wavered in the gentle breeze.

“There’s Count Ulricas army,” said Conan. "How many would you judge there be, Gyrto?”

The captain thought the matter over. “From the number of fires and the size of the camp, General, I should say a dozen regiments. What say you, Sardus?”

"At least twenty thousand men, sir,” said the veteran cavalryman. “What standard’s that, flapping atop a flagstaff over to the right?”

Conan squinted, forcing his catlike eyes to see despite the gathering dark. Then he exclaimed: “Damn me for a Stygian, if that is not the standard of the Black Dragons!”

“Not the king’s household guard. General?” exclaimed Gyrto. “That cannot be, unless Numedides himself is marching with Count Ulric.”

“I do not see the royal standard, so I doubt it," rumbled Conan. “Time we rejoined our comrades. It’s a long road back to camp."

Sardus mounted behind his footsore captain, and the trio began a cautious sweep around the village, wherein lay so many of their dead. Reaching the road at length, they hastened toward a stand of trees beneath which the survivors of the battle waited. At least a third of the sixty men were missing. Many wearing bandages helped to bind up their comrades’ wounds.

As Conan, Gyrto, and Sardus trotted up, the dispirited troopers raised a faint hurrah. Conan growled:

"I thank you all, but save your cheers for victory. I should have searched the houses ere leading you into a tyro’s trap. Still, lads, you gave them better than you got. Now let’s be on our way and hope to find our army camp by dawn.”

Next morning Conan told the tale of his adventures. Prospero whistled. “Twenty thousand men! In a pitched battle they’d eat us alive.”

After swallowing a huge mouthful from a joint of beef, Conan said: “Breathe not such thoughts, lest the prophecy invite its own fulfillment. Rout the men out—all save the scouts who fought at Elymia—and set them to fortifying the camp. With such numbers, Count Ulric might risk a night attack. Without ditch or stockade to detain him, he could crush us like insects beneath a wagon wheel.”

“But the Black DragonsI” cried Trocero. “It is a thing incredible that Numedides should send his household troops to strengthen Ulric, leaving his person unprotected!”

Conan shrugged. “I am sure of what I saw. No other unit carries for its symbol a winged monster on a field of black.”

Pallantides said: "Sending the Black Dragons hither may leave Numedides vulnerable to attack, but it does naught to lessen our present problem.”

“If anything, their coming aggravates it,” added Trocero.

“Then be on your way, friends, and start the fortifications,” said Conan, “We have no time to lose.”

A gentle morning breeze fanned a hastily erected palisade and cooled the bloodshot eyes and aching bodies of its builders. When the camp followers— sutlers, water boys, women, and children—sought to carry water from a nearby stream, a company of royalist cavalry appeared over a rise, galloped down upon them, and sent them flying for their lives. One old man and one young child, slow to move, were slain.

A rebel scouting party was overtaken and forced to flee. When they regained the camp, their pursuers galloped past it, shouting taunts and hurling javelins into the stockade. Conan’s archers, summoned hastily, brought down two of the enemy’s horses, but comrades snatched their riders up and carried them away. Thus, although no real attack was launched against the rebels, Conan’s weary men were worn down by tensions and alarms.

At the evening conference Publius said: "While I am not a military man, General, I think we ought to slip away during the night, ere Ulric brings us down or starves us out. He has the force to do his will, since sickness, like a gray ghost, stalks amongst us.”

“I say,” said Trocero, banging the table with his fist, “hold our position while my Poitanians raise the countryside. If Ulric surrounds us then, the countryfolk can throw a bigger ring around him."

“With harvest time approaching,” Publius retorted, ”you'll find it difficult to raise a thousand. And farmers armed with naught but axe and pitchfork cannot withstand a charge of Ulric’s armored regulars. Would we were back in the Brocellian Forest, where our satyr friends could help us once again!"

Prospero put in: “Aye, till the royalists learn to plug their ears—not longer. I say to launch a surprise attack this night on Ulric's camp."

PaUantides shook his head. “Naught more easily falls into confusion, with friend striking down friend, than a night attack with half-trained men Hke ours."

The argument went round and round with no conclusion, while Conan sat somberly, frowning but saying little. Then a sentry announced:

“A royalist officer and some fifty men have come in under a flag of truce. General. The officer asks to speak to you."

“Disarm him and send him in,” said Conan, straightening in his chair.

The tent flap gaped, and in stalked a man in armor. The black heraldic eagle of Aquilonia was spread upon the breast of his white surcoat, while from his helmet rose the brazen wyvern of the Black Dragons. The officer saluted stiffly.

“General Conan? I am Captain Silvanus of the Black Dragons. I have come to join you with most of my troop, if you will have us.”

Conan looked the captain up and down through narrowed lids. He saw a tall, well-built, blond man, rather young for his captain's rating.

“Welcome, Captain Silvanus," he said at last. “I thank you for the offer. But before I accept it, I must know more of you.”

“Certainly, General. Do but ask.”

"First, what brings you to change sides at this juncture? You must know that our position is precarious, that Ulric outnumbers us, and that he is a competent commander. So wherefore turn your coat today?”

“It is simple. General Conan. My men and I have chosen a risk of death in the rebel cause over a safe life under that madman—if any life under the king’s standard can be called safe."

”But why at this particular time?”

“This is our first opportunity. The Dragons reached Elymia yestereve, before the skirmish twixt Ulric’s men and yours. Had we set out from Tarantia to join you, forces loyal to the king would have barred our way and destroyed us.”

Conan asked: “Has Numedides sent the whole of the Black Dragon regiment hither?”

“Aye, save for a few young lads in training.”

"Why does that dog denude himself of his personal guardians?”

“Numedides has proclaimed himself a god. He thinks himself immortal; and being invulnerable, has no need of bodyguards. Besides, he is determined to crush your rebellion and throws all contingents into Count Ulric’s army. More march hither from the eastern frontiers."

“What of Thulandra Thuu, the king’s magician?”

Silvanus’ face grew pale. “Demons are sometimes summoned by mention of their names. General Conan. During the madness of Numedides, the sorcerer rules the kingdom; and if less foolish than the king, he is as heartless and rapacious. His sacrifice of virgins for his unsavory experiments is known to all." Fumbling in his wallet, he brought out a miniature painted on alabaster and hung on a golden chain. The painting showed a girl of perhaps ten years of age.

“My daughter. She’s dead,” said Silvanus. “He took her. If the gods vouchsafe me a single chance, I will tear his throat out with my very teeth.” The captain’s voice shook, and his hands trembled with the intensity of his emotion.

A savage gleam of blue balefire shone in Conan’s eyes. His officers stirred uneasily, knowing that mistreatment of women roused the ruthless Cimmerian’s furious indignation. He showed the miniature around and returned it to Silvanus, saying:

“We want more information on Count Ulric’s army. How many are they?”

“Nearly twenty-five thousand, I believe.”

“Whence did Ulric get so many? The Army of the North had no such strength when I left the mad king’s service.”

“Many of Prince Numitor’s Frontiersmen, when they recovered from their panic, rallied and joined Count Ulric. And the regiment of the Black Dragons was ordered from Tarantia.”

“What befell Numitor after the rout?

“He slew himself in despair over his failure.”

“Are you certain?” asked Conan, “Amulius Procas was said to have killed himself, but I know that he was murdered.”

“There is no doubt of it, sir. Prince Numitor stabbed himself before witnesses.”

“A pity,” said Trocero. “He was the most decent of the lot, if too simple-hearted for a bloody civil war.”

Conan rumbled: “This calls for discussion. Pallantides, find sleeping quarters for Captain Silvanus and his men; then rejoin us here. Good-night, Captain.”

Publius, who had said little, now spoke up: “A moment, if you please, Captain Silvanus. Who was your father?”

The officer, at the tent flap, turned. “Silvius Macro, sir. Why do you ask?”

“I knew him when I served the king as treasurer. Good-night”

When the captain had departed, Conan said: "Well, what think you? At least, it’s good to have men deserting to us—not from us—for a change.”

“I think,” said Prospero, “that Thulandra Thuu seeks to plant a new assassin in our midst. He’ll but await to chance to slide a knife between your ribs, then ride like a fiend from hell.”

Trocero said: “I disagree. He looked to me like a straightforward young officer, not like one of Numedides’ fellow-debauchees or Thulandra’s ensorcered minions.”

“You cannot trust appearances," rejoined Prospero. "An apple may look never so rosy and still be filled with worms.”

“If you will permit me,” interrupted Publius, “I knew the young man’s father. He was a fine, upstanding citizen—and still is, if he lives.”

“Like father not always is like son,” grumbled Prospero.

“Prospero,” said Conan, “your concern for my safety does me honor. But a man must take his chances, especially in war. However much you guard me against a secret dagger, Ulric is like to kill us one and all, unless by some sudden stroke we can reverse our fortunes.”

For an instant there was silence as Conan sat brooding, his deep-set blue eyes focused on the ground before him. At last he said:

“I have a plan—a perilous plan, yet fraught with no more danger than our present situation. Tarantia is defenseless, stripped of her soldiery, whilst mad Numedides plays immortal god upon his throne. A band of desperate men, disguised as Dragons of the Household Guard, might reach the palace and— “

“Conan!” shouted Trocero. “An inspiration from the gods! I'll lead the foray."

”You are too important to Poitain, my lord," said Prospero. “It is I who— "

“Neither of you goes," said Conan firmly, “Poitanians are not greatly loved in the central provinces, whose people have not forgotten your invasion of their land during the war with King Vilerus.”

“Who then?" asked Trocero. “Pallantides?"

Conan shook his full black mane, and his face glowed with the lust of battle. “I shall perform this task as best I may, or die in the trying. I'll choose a squad of seasoned veterans, and we’ll borrow surcoats and helmets from Captain Silvanus’ men. Silvanus—I'll bring him, also, to identify us at the gates. Aye, he is the key to the city.”

Publius held up a cautionary hand. “A moment, gentlemen. Conan’s plan might well succeed in ordinary warfare. But in Tarantia you deal not merely with a demented king but also with a malevolent sorcerer, whose mystic passes and words of magic can move mountains and call demons from the earth or sea or sky.”

“Wizards don’t terrify me,” said Conan. "Years ago, in Khoraja, I faced one of the deadliest and slew him despite his flutterings and mutterings."

“How did you that?” asked Trocero.

"I threw my sword at him.”

"Do not count on such a feat again,” said Publius. "Your strength is great and your senses keener than those of common men; but fortune is not always kind, even to heroes.”

"When my time comes, it comes,” growled Conan.

“But your time may well be our time, too,” said Prospero. “Let me send for Dexitheus. A Mitrian priest knows more of the world beyond than we ordinary mortals do.”

Conan gave in, albeit with ill grace.

Dexitheus listened with folded hands to Conan’s plan. At length he spoke gravely; “Publius is right, Conan. Do not underestimate the power of Thulandra Thuu. We of the priesthood have some notion of the dark, nameless forces beyond man's fathoming.”

“Whence comes this pestilent thaumaturge?” asked Trocero. “Men say he is a Vendhyan; others, a Stygian.”

“Neither,” replied Dexitheus. “In my priestly brotherhood we call him a Lemurian, coming—I know not how—from islands far beyond the known world, eastward, in the ocean beyond Khitai. These shrouded isles are all that remains of a once spacious land that sank beneath the waves. To outwit a sorcerer with powers such as his, our general needs more than material arms and armor.”

Trocero asked: “Are there no wizards in this camp who would accept this service?”

“Nay!” snorted Conan. “I have no use for tricksters such as those. I would not harbor one or seek his aid.”

Dexitheus’ expression became doleful. “General, though you know it not, I am much discomfited,”

“How so. Reverence?” said Conan. “I owe you much and would not distress you without cause. Speak not in riddles, good friend."

“You have no use for wizards. General, calling them charlatans and quacks; yet there is one you count among your friends. You have need of a magician; yet you refuse the help of such a one.” Dexitheus paused and Conan beckoned him to continue.

"Know, then, that in my youth I studied the black arts, albeit I advanced little beyond the lowest grades of sorcery. Later I saw the light of Mitra and forswore all dealings with demons and the forces of the occult. Had the priesthood learned of my wizardly past, I should not have been admitted to their order. Therefore, when I accompany you on this perilous mission— “

'What, you?” cried Conan, frowning. "Wizard or no, you are too old to gallop a hundred leagues! You would not survive it.”

“On the contrary, I am of tougher fiber than you think. The ascetic life lends me a vigor far beyond my years, and you will need me to cast a counter-spell or two. But when I accompany you, my secret will come out. I shall be forced to resign my holy office—a sad ending to my life’s career.”

“Meseems the use of magic for a worthy end is a forgivable sin,” said Conan.

"To you, sir; not to my order, which is most intolerant in the matter. But I have no alternative; I shall use what powers I have for Aquilonia.” His sigh was heavy with tears too deep for thought.

“After it’s over,” said Conan, “perchance I can persuade your priesthood to make exception to the rigor of their rules. Prepare, good friend, to leave within the hour.”

“This very night?”

“When better? If we wait upon the morrow, we may find the camp rounded in by royalists. Prospero, pick me a troop of your most skillful mounted fighters.

See that each man has not one horse, but two, to allow for frequent changes. But do it quietly. We must outrun the news of our departure. As for the rest of you, keep the men busy improving our defenses whilst I am gone. To all of you, farewell!"

The half-moon barely cleared the treetops when a column of horsemen, each leading a spare mount, issued stealthily from the rebel camp. In the lead rode Conan, wearing the helmet and white surcoat of the Black Dragons. With him rode Captain Silvanus, and behind them trotted Dexitheus, priest of Mitra, likewise attired. Fifty of Conan’s most trusted troopers followed, disguised in the same manner as their leaders.

Under Silvanus’ guidance, the column swing wide of the royalist encampment When they were once again on the Tarantia road, they broke into a steady trot The moon set, and black night swallowed up the line of desperate men.