The Return of Conan

EPILOGUE

Two riders stopped their horses in the endless and dry steppe. One was a giant covered with coat of mail and helmet, and armed with a great straight sword that hung of its side. The other was a slender woman, dressed with the attire of horseback riding of the oriental nomadic women. In the right hand he seized a double curved khitanian arch. On the ground, beforet them, two inert figures lay down , around which crimson puddles of blood grew. They wore tiped helmets and dusty turbans. Toward the east a cloud of dust indicated the route their scared horses fled riderless.

“Beaters of a Turanian troop, Zenobia” said the giant in the mail-coat “Our bad fortune we should cross paths with them when our horses are tired, and still we should travel many miles to be safe. Even worse luck that one of them escaped.”

“Then we shouldn’t tarry” said the woman’s harmonious voice “We should ride so far toward the west as possible. Who knows? Perhaps we can escape still.

Conan shrank his shoulders and made his horse turn around. The short rest had revived the animals, that initiated the gallop toward the western horizon, where the mountains were barely visible, in spite of the clear air and the brilliant sun.

“Your unfamiliarity with the Hyrkanians shows” growled Conan “They are like a pack of wild dogs. Never will they give up prey, unless you kill the whole pack.”

“Perhaps the main contingent is still far away. We could reach the forests before they catch us.”

“I doubt it. The Turanian beaters are never too far of the main column. I learned their customs while serving in their rows. They ride in single-column by the steppe; they form a line when they approach their prey and, after charging with their sturdier horses, the wings advance and, after surrounding them they capture their victims.

Damned luck! We’ve been traveling without incident up till now, and they are going to overtake us on the verge of reaching freedom!”

Their horses began to breathe laboriously. Conan pulled on the reins to maintain high the head of his steed.

After a while he pulled the reins again until the animal arrested to a halt, and looked to the east protecting his eyes with a hand.

A great cloud of dust covered the horizon. In the middle an occasional metallic shine could be seen, and the land echoed with a distant rumor under the helmets of the horses. Conan, his sword whistling in the air gritted his teeth. A grim smile curving his lips, Zenobia looked at him with loving devotion. “If this should be my last battle” Conan thought “then so be it” He would fight until more than one heroic demigod felt ashamed. His blue eyes shone with anticipation of the battle, and his mighty fingers grasped the hilt of his sword.

The extensive cloud of dust approached them more and more. Now they could see the long line of riders extending right and left. In the center rode a man of gaudy red and gold attire, next to him a smaller figure dressed in silk. Seeing this, Conan shuddered lightly and sharpened his eagle-like eyes. Then he cursed mightily between his teeth.

Zenobia, an arrow noked in her arch, watched the Cimmerian with questioning eyes.

“That infernal Thanara!” Exclaimed the king of Aquilonia “Our bat-winged friend saved her from the zhurazi, and now she returns to capture me again!”

The riders were now so close that their prolonged war cries could be heard. The tips of the spears were already low, as a shining wave; the floor trembled under the thundering helmets of their horses. Conan, his muscles tense, was ready to face his assailants with a somber air.

Suddenly their enemies slowed down. Some horses turned around and the order of the line of attack was broken.

Conan raised himself in his mount to see what had caused the sudden change.

The sun shone blindingly on the polished armors, the helmets, the sharp spears and the swords of a strong contingent fort that appeared on the opposite side. In an irresistible charge, some four thousand Aquilonian riders, their flag waving in the wind, rushed the Turanians.

The hyborean rows parted around Conan and his queen, leaving them in the middle, then with the blinding speed of a ray they attacked the Turanians. Conan, inflamed of combative anxiety, launched himself to the battle. His sword broke on the helmet of a corpulent Turanian lancer making him fell of his mount. The Aquilonian king quickly dismounted from his exhausted horse, and mounted in the Turanian’s steed. Then he advanced directly toward the center of the enemy force, cutting a bloody road ahead of him.

Later Conan launched a powerful blow on the side of an archer that aimed almost point-blank at him, and sent the man to the floor as if the man was a broken doll. Then he faced the leader of the hostile troops, who was none other than Ardashir.

“We meet again, barbaric dog! Exclaimed the tall man in red and gold “Your head will rot on the walls of the castle of lady Thanara!”

“I see you have lost your mind” the Cimmerian roared, exchanging blows with the controlled ferocity of the natural-born fighter “Surely because you have become the henchman of that treacherous bitch. It wont be I, but you who dies. You will rot in hell!”

His brilliant sword redoubled the force and speed of the attacks. The defensive movements of Ardashir failed in the end, and the implacable leaf cut chain-mail, meat and bone. The Turanian officer fell dead to the floor.

Conan paused and looked at around him. The floor was sown with corpses of sharp helmets and wide pants. The Aquilonians had suffered few casualties, but most of the five thousand Turanians lay down lifeless on the steppe.

The brilliant lines of the western knights converged toward where the fight still raged on. Then asking for quarter the remainder of the Turanians threw down their weapons. A few fled for the horizon, pursued by the winners.

Conan smiled somberly, and looked all around him, seeking Zenobia.

Only the extraordinary reflexes of the barbarian saved him from a whistling arrow. A second before he glimpsed in the corner of his eye the threatening movements of an archer, and bent down in time. Some thirty feet away was, Thanara, she was the archer the Cimmerian had seen, his face contorted with rage he noked an arrow in his arch. He tensed the cord, and in that instant an arrow pierced Thanara’s chest. The woman collapsed to the sandy floor. Next to Conan, Zenobia contemplated from her horse the fruits of her skill in archery.

“No man has had better wife, and no king a better queen!” Exclaimed the barbarian, raising Zenobia off her horse and placing her on his.

“Próspero! Trocero!” The Cimmerian shouted, and a cloud of dust raised when Conan’s fist struck lovingly the shoulders of his faithful followers “Had you not arrived at the just moment, like you did it, those dogs would have killed us. How have you come here? I can barely believe it!”

Prosperous, slender, straightened up and lively responded:

“Pelias guided us. Since you went, I visited him oft. Through his hidden arts he guessed the success of your business and your return. Prior that you would be attacked here, in the border, and he put us on the way to avoid it. Nevertheless, we lost us in the Corinthian mountains and by sheer luck we were in time to save you.”

“What of our kingdom, Trocero?”

“The people longs for your return my Lord. As we rode away from Tarantia, they directed us as many blessings as few Poitainians would dream of. We are in peace, and nobody has dared to attack us. The crops bear fruit, and never has the country been so prosperous. Only the presence of our beloved king and of his queen lacked us so that the cup of our happiness and fortune be brimmed.”

“Well said, friend” Conan said with a satisfied air “But, who comes there? I’ll be damned if its not Pelias!”

And yes it was the sorcerer. Tall, thin and gray, he arrived with his extensive gowns rippling to the wind and a smile in the lips.

“Welcome, king Conan” he said honestly “Many moons have passed since we meet in my tower. You have freed the world of an insatiable monster, and before us a promising future is presented.”

“Its I who should thank you, Pelias, so much for the opportune aid as for giving me the talisman that I now return to you.”

So said the Cimmerian extracting from his purse the ring of Rakhamon.

“You should keep it” he added “It served me well a couple of times, but I hope to never need it again by similar motives.”

Conan looked a last time over the bloody battlefield. Then spurring his horse directed it to the west, to the head of his knights. Then in a low voice he said to Prosperous, who rode by his side: “By Crom, after all this chat my throat is drier than the Stygian deserts. Do you not bring a flagon of wine in your chair?”

The end.