Part 20 (1/2)
Orastes was dead, writhing in Mitra only knew what nameless h.e.l.l, and Amalric knew his sword would scarcely prevail where the black wisdom of the renegade priest had failed. What grisly abomination Xaltotun plotted lay in the unpredictable future. Conan and his host were a present menace against which Xaltotun's wizardry might well be needed before the play was all played.
They came to Tanasul, a small fortified village at the spot where a reef of rocks made a natural bridge across the river, pa.s.sable always except in times of greatest flood. Scouts brought in the news that Conan had taken up his position in the Goralian hills, which began to rise a few miles beyond the river. And just before sundown the Gundermen had arrived in his camp.
Amalric looked at Xaltotun, inscrutable and alien in the light of the flaring torches. Night had fallen.
”What now? Your magic has failed. Conan confronts us with an army nearly as strong as our own, and he has the advantage of position. We have a choice of two evils: to camp here and await his attack, or to fall back toward Tarantia and await reinforcements.”
”We are ruined if we wait,” answered Xaltotun. ”Cross the river and camp on the plain. We will attack at dawn.”
”But his position is too strong!” exclaimed Amalric.
”Fool!” A gust of pa.s.sion broke the veneer of the wizard's calm. ”Have you forgotten Valkia? Because some obscure elemental principle prevented the flood do you deem me helpless? I had intended that your spears should exterminate our enemies; but do not fear: it is my arts shall crush their host. Conan is in a trap. He will never see another sun set. Cross the river!”
They crossed by the flare of torches. The hoofs of the horses clinked on the rocky bridge, splashed through the shallows. The glint of the torches on s.h.i.+elds and breastplates was reflected redly in the black water. The rock bridge was broad on which they crossed, but even so it was past midnight before the host was camped in the plain beyond. Above them they could see fires winking redly in the distance. Conan had turned at bay in the Goralian hills, which had more than once before served as the last stand of an Aquilonian king.
Amalric left his pavilion and strode restlessly through the camp. A weird glow flickered in Xaltotun's tent, and from time to time a demoniacal cry slashed the silence, and there was a low sinister muttering of a drum that rustled rather than rumbled.
Amalric, his instincts whetted by the night and the circ.u.mstances, felt that Xaltotun was opposed by core than physical force. Doubts of the wizard's power a.s.sailed him. He glanced at the fires high above him, and his face set in grim lines. He and his army were deep in the midst of a hostile country. Up there among those hills lurked thousands of wolfish figures out of whose hearts and souls all emotion and hope had been scourged except a frenzied hate for their conquerors, a mad l.u.s.t for vengeance. Defeat meant annihilation, retreat through a land swarming with blood-mad enemies. And on the morrow he must hurl his host against the grimmest fighter in the western nations, and his desperate horde. If Xaltotun failed them now---
Half a dozen men-at-arms strode out of the shadows. The firelight glinted on their breastplates and helmet crests. Among them they half led, half dragged a gaunt figure in tattered rags.
Saluting, they spoke: ”My lord, this man came to the outposts and said he desired word with King Valerius. He is an Aquilonian.”
He looked more like a wolf-a wolf the traps had scarred. Old sores that only fetters make showed on his wrists and ankles. A great brand, the mark of hot iron, disfigured his face. His eyes glared through the tangle of his matted hair as he half crouched before the baron.
”Who are you, you filthy dog?” demanded the Nemedian.
”Call me Tiberias,” answered the man, and his teeth clicked in an involuntary spasm. ”I have come to tell you how to trap Conan.”
”A traitor, eh?” rumbled the baron.
”Men say you have gold,” mouthed the man, s.h.i.+vering under his rags.
”Give some to me! Give me gold and I will show you how to defeat the king!” His eyes glazed widely, his outstretched, upturned hands were spread like quivering claws.
Amalric shrugged his shoulders in distaste. But no tool was too base for his use.
”If you speak the truth you shall have more gold than you can carry,”
he said. ”If you are a liar and a spy I will have you crucified head-down. Bring him along.”
In the tent of Valerius, the baron pointed to the man who crouched s.h.i.+vering before them, huddling his rags about him.
”He says he knows a way to aid us on the morrow. We will need aid, if Xaltotun's plan is no better than it has proved so far. Speak on, dog.”
The man's body writhed in his strange convulsions. Words came in a stumbling rush:
”Conan camps at the head of the Valley of Lions. It is shaped like a fan, with steep hills on either side. If you attack him tomorrow you will have to march straight up the valley. You cannot climb the hills on either side. But if King Valerius will deign to accept my service, I will guide him through the hills and show him how he can come upon King Conan from behind. But if it is to be done at all, we must start soon.
Il is many hours' riding, for one must go miles to the west, then miles to the north, then turn eastward and so come into the Valley of Lions from behind, as the Gundermen came.”
Amalric hesitated, tugging his chin. In these chaotic times it was not rare to find men willing to sell their souls for a few gold pieces.
”If yon lead me astray you will die,” said Valerius. ”You are aware of that, are you not?”