The Weird Tales of Conan the Barbarian (48 page)

“Servius!”

At the low call the master of the plantation wheeled with a startled exclamation. His hand flew to the short hunting sword at his hip, and he recoiled from the tall gray steel figure standing in the dusk before him.

“
Who are you?” he demanded. “What is your—Mitra!”

His breath hissed inward and his ruddy face paled. “Avaunt!” he ejaculated. “Why have you come back from the gray lands of death to terrify me? I was always your true liegeman in your lifetime—”

“As I still expect you to be,” answered Conan. “Stop trembling, man; I’m flesh and blood.”

Sweating with uncertainty Servius approached and stared into the face of the mail-clad giant, and then, convinced of the reality of what he saw, he dropped to one knee and doffed his plumed cap.

“Your Majesty! Truly, this is a miracle passing belief! The great bell in the citadel has tolled your dirge, days agone. Men said you died at Valkia, crushed under a million tons of earth and broken granite.”

“It was another in my harness,” grunted Conan. “But let us talk later. If there is such a thing as a joint of beef on your board—”

“Forgive me, my lord!” cried Servius, springing to his feet. “The dust of travel is gray on your mail, and I keep you standing here without rest or sup! Mitra! I see well enough now that you are alive, but I swear, when I turned and saw you standing all gray and dim in the twilight, the marrow of my knees turned to water. It is an ill thing to meet a man you thought dead in the woodland at dusk.”

“Bid the keeper see to my steed which is tied behind yonder oak,” requested Conan, and Servius nodded, drawing the king up the path. The patrician, recovering from his supernatural fright, had become extremely nervous.

“I will send a servant from the manor,” he said. “The keeper is in his lodge—but I dare not trust even my servants in these days. It is better that only I know of your presence.”

Approaching the great house that glimmered dimly through the trees, he turned aside into a little-used path that ran between close-set oaks whose intertwining branches formed a vault overhead, shutting out the dim light of the gathering dusk. Servius hurried on through the darkness without speaking, and with something resembling panic in his manner, and presently led Conan through a small side door into a narrow, dimly illuminated corridor. They traversed this in haste and silence, and Servius brought the king into a spacious chamber with a high, oak-beamed ceiling and richly paneled walls. Logs flamed in the wide fireplace, for there was a frosty edge to the air, and a great meat pasty in a stone platter stood smoking on a broad mahogany board. Servius locked the massive door and extinguished the candles that stood
in
a silver candlestick on the table, leaving the chamber illuminated only by the fire on the hearth.

“Your pardon, Your Majesty,” he apologized. “These are perilous times; spies lurk everywhere. It were better that none be able to peer through the windows and recognize you. This pasty, however, is just from the oven, as I intended supping on my return from talk with my keeper. If Your Majesty would deign—”

“The light is sufficient,” grunted Conan, seating himself with scant ceremony, and drawing his poniard.

He dug ravenously into the luscious dish, and washed it down with great gulps of wine from grapes grown in Servius’s vineyards. He seemed oblivious to any sense of peril, but Servius shifted uneasily on his settle by the fire, nervously fingering the heavy gold chain about his neck. He glanced continually at the diamond panes of the casement, gleaming dimly in the firelight, and cocked his ear toward the door, as if half expecting to hear the pad of furtive feet in the corridor without.

Finishing his meal, Conan rose and seated himself on another settle before the fire.

“I won’t jeopardize you long by my presence, Servius,” he said abruptly. “Dawn will find me far from your plantation.”

“My lord—” Servius lifted his hands in expostulation, but Conan waved his protests aside.

“I know your loyalty and your courage. Both are above reproach. But if Valerius has usurped my throne, it would be death for you to shelter me, if you were discovered.”

“I am not strong enough to defy him openly,” admitted Servius. “The fifty men-at-arms I could lead to battle would be but a handful of straws. You saw the ruins of Emilius Scavonus’ plantation?”

Conan nodded, frowning darkly.

“He was the strongest patrician in this province, as you know. He refused to give his allegiance to Valerius. The Nemedians burned him in the ruins of his own villa. After that the rest of us saw the futility of resistance, especially as the people of Tarantia refused to fight. We submitted and Valerius spared our lives, though he levied a tax upon us that will ruin many. But what could we do? We thought you were dead. Many of the barons had been slain, others taken prisoner. The army was shattered and scattered. You have no heir to take the crown. There was no one to lead us—”

“
Was there not Count Trocero of Poitain?” demanded Conan harshly.

Servius spread his hands helplessly.

“It is true that his general Prospero was in the field with a small army. Retreating before Amalric, he urged men to rally to his banner. But with Your Majesty dead, men remembered old wars and civil brawls, and how Trocero and his Poitanians once rode through these provinces even as Amalric was riding now, with torch and sword. The barons were jealous of Trocero. Some men—spies of Valerius perhaps—shouted that the Count of Poitain intended seizing the crown for himself. Old sectional hates flared up again. If we had had one man with dynastic blood in his veins, we would have crowned and followed him against Nemedia. But we had none.

“The barons who followed you loyally would not follow one of their own number, each holding himself as good as his neighbor, each fearing the ambitions of the others. You were the cord that held the fagots together. When the cord was cut, the fagots fell apart. If you had had a son, the barons would have rallied loyally to him. But there was no point for their patriotism to focus upon.

“The merchants and commoners, dreading anarchy and a return of feudal days when each baron was his own law, cried out that any king was better than none, even Valerius, who was at least of the blood of the old dynasty. There was no one to oppose him when he rode up at the head of his steel-clad hosts, with the scarlet dragon of Nemedia floating over him, and rang his lance against the gates of Tarantia.

“Nay, the people threw open the gates and knelt in the dust before him. They had refused to aid Prospero in holding the city. They said they had rather be ruled by Valerius than by Trocero. They said—truthfully—that the barons would not rally to Trocero, but that many would accept Valerius. They said that by yielding to Valerius they would escape the devastation of civil war, and the fury of the Nemedians. Prospero rode southward with his ten thousand knights, and the horsemen of the Nemedians entered the city a few hours later. They did not follow him. They remained to see that Valerius was crowned in Tarantia.”

“Then the old witch’s smoke showed the truth,” muttered Conan, feeling a queer chill along his spine. “Amalric crowned Valerius?”

“Aye, in the coronation hall, with the blood of slaughter scarcely dried on his hands.”

“And do the people thrive under his benevolent rule?” asked Conan with angry irony.

“
He lives like a foreign prince in the midst of a conquered land,” answered Servius bitterly. “His court is filled with Nemedians, the palace troops are of the same breed, and a large garrison of them occupy the citadel. Aye, the hour of the Dragon has come at last.

“Nemedians swagger like lords through the streets. Women are outraged and merchants plundered daily, and Valerius either can, or will, make no attempt to curb them. Nay, he is but their puppet, their figurehead. Men of sense knew he would be, and the people are beginning to find it out.

“Amalric has ridden forth with a strong army to reduce the outlying provinces where some of the barons have defied him. But there is no unity among them. Their jealousy of each other is stronger than their fear of Amalric. He will crush them one by one. Many castles and cities, realizing that, have sent in their submission. Those who resist fare miserably. The Nemedians are glutting their long hatred. And their ranks are swelled by Aquilonians whom fear, gold, or necessity of occupation are forcing into their armies. It is a natural consequence.”

Conan nodded somberly, staring at the red reflections of the firelight on the richly carved oaken panels.

“Aquilonia has a king instead of the anarchy they feared,” said Servius at last. “Valerius does not protect his subjects against his allies. Hundreds who could not pay the ransom imposed upon them have been sold to the Kothic slave-traders.”

Conan’s head jerked up and a lethal flame lit his blue eyes. He swore gustily, his mighty hands knotting into iron hammers.

“Aye, white men sell white men and white women, as it was in the feudal days. In the palaces of Shem and of Turan, they will live out the lives of slaves. Valerius is king, but the unity for which the people looked, even though of the sword, is not complete.

“Gunderland in the north and Poitain in the south are yet unconquered, and there are unsubdued provinces in the west, where the border barons have the backing of Bossonian bowmen. Yet these outlying provinces are no real menace to Valerius. They must remain on the defensive, and will be lucky if they are able to keep their independence. Here Valerius and his foreign knights are supreme.”

“Let him make the best of it then,” said Conan grimly. “His time is short. The people will rise when they learn that I’m alive. We’ll take Tarantia back before Amalric can return with his army. Then we’ll sweep these dogs from the kingdom.”

Servius was silent. The crackle of the fire was loud in the stillness.

“
Well,” exclaimed Conan impatiently, “why do you sit with your head bent, staring at the hearth? Do you doubt what I have said?”

Servius avoided the king’s eye.

“What mortal man can do, you will do, Your Majesty,” he answered. “I have ridden behind you in battle, and I know that no mortal being can stand before your sword.”

“What, then?”

Servius drew his fur-trimmed jupon closer about him, and shivered in spite of the flame.

“Men say your fall was occasioned by sorcery,” he said presently.

“What then?”

“What mortal can fight against sorcery? Who is this veiled man who communes at midnight with Valerius and his allies, as men say, who appears and disappears so mysteriously? Men say in whispers that he is a great magician who died thousands of years ago, but has returned from death’s gray lands to overthrow the king of Aquilonia and restore the dynasty of which Valerius is heir.”

“What matter?” exclaimed Conan angrily. “I escaped from the devil-haunted pits of Belverus, and from diabolism in the mountains. If the people rise—”

Servius shook his head.

“Your staunchest supporters in the eastern and central provinces are dead, fled or imprisoned. Gunderland is far to the north, Poitain far to the south. The Bossonians have retired to their marches far to the west. It would take weeks to gather and concentrate these forces, and before that could be done, each levy would be attacked separately by Amalric and destroyed.”

“But an uprising in the central provinces would tip the scales for us!” exclaimed Conan. “We could seize Tarantia and hold it against Amalric until the Gundermen and Poitanians could get here.”

Servius hesitated, and his voice sank to a whisper.

“Men say you died accursed. Men say this veiled stranger cast a spell upon you to slay you and break your army. The great bell has tolled your dirge. Men believe you to be dead. And the central provinces would not rise, even if they knew you lived. They would not dare. Sorcery defeated you at Valkia. Sorcery brought the news to Tarantia, for that very night men were shouting of it in the streets.

“A Nemedian priest loosed black magic again in the streets of Tarantia to slay men who still were loyal to your memory. I myself saw it. Armed men dropped like flies and died in the streets in a manner
no
man could understand. And the lean priest laughed and said: ‘I am only Altaro, only an acolyte of Orastes, who is but an acolyte of him who wears the veil; not mine is the power; the power but works through me.’”

“Well,” said Conan harshly, “is it not better to die honorably than to live in infamy? Is death worse than oppression, slavery and ultimate destruction?”

“When the fear of sorcery is in, reason is out,” replied Servius. “The fear of the central provinces is too great to allow them to rise for you. The outlying provinces would fight for you—but the same sorcery that smote your army at Valkia would smite you again. The Nemedians hold the broadest, richest and most thickly populated sections of Aquilonia, and they cannot be defeated by the forces which might still be at your command. You would be sacrificing your loyal subjects uselessly. In sorrow I say it, but it is true: King Conan, you are a king without a kingdom.”

Conan stared into the fire without replying. A smoldering log crashed down among the flames without a bursting shower of sparks. It might have been the crashing ruin of his kingdom.

Again Conan felt the presence of a grim reality behind the veil of material illusion. He sensed again the inexorable drive of a ruthless fate. A feeling of furious panic tugged at his soul, a sense of being trapped, and a red rage that burned to destroy and kill.

“Where are the officials of my court?” he demanded at last.

“Pallantides was sorely wounded at Valkia, was ransomed by his family, and now lies in his castle in Attains. He will be fortunate if he ever rides again. Publius, the chancellor, has fled the kingdom in disguise, no man knows whither. The council has been disbanded. Some were imprisoned, some banished. Many of your loyal subjects have been put to death. Tonight, for instance, the Countess Albiona dies under the headsman’s ax.”

Conan started and stared at Servius with such anger smoldering in his blue eyes that the patrician shrank back.