The Hour of the Dragon | Page 8

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