The Hour of the Dragon | Page 9

nodding over the wivern crest. Over all they put the silken
surcoat with the royal lion worked in gold upon the breast, and they girt
him with a broad gold-buckled belt which supported a jewel- hilted
broad-sword in a cloth-of-gold scabbard. While they worked, trumpets
clamored outside, arms clanged, and across the river rose a
deep-throated roar as squadron after squadron swung into place.
Full-armed, Vallanus dropped to his knee and bent his plumes before
the figure that lay on the dais.
"Lord king, Mitra grant that I do not dishonor the harness I wear this
day!"
"Bring me Tarascus's head and I'll make you a baron!" In the stress of
his anguish Conan's veneer of civilization had fallen from him. His
eyes flamed, he ground his teeth in fury and blood-lust, as barbaric as
any tribesmen in the Crimmerian hills.
Chapter 3

: The Cliffs Reel
THE AQUILONIAN HOST was drawn up, long serried lines of
pikemen and horsemen in gleaming steel, when a giant figure in black
armor emerged from the royal pavilion, and as he swung up into the
saddle of the black stallion held by four squires, a roar that shook the
mountains went up from the host. They shook their blades and
thundered forth their acclaim of their warrior king--knights in
gold-chased armor, pikemen in mail coats and basinets, archers in their
leather jerkins, with their longbows in their left hand.
The host on the opposite side of the valley was in motion, trotting down
the long gentle slope toward the river; their steel shone through the
mists of morning that swirled about their horses' feet.
The Aquilonian host moved leisurely to meet them. The measured
tramp of the armored horses made the ground tremble. Banners flung
out long silken folds in the morning wind; lances swayed like a
bristling forest, dipped and sank, their pennons fluttering about them.
Ten men-at-arms, grim, taciturn veterans who could hold their tongues,
guarded the royal pavilion. One squire stood in the tent, peering out
through a slit in the doorway. But for the handful in the secret, no one
else in the vast host knew that it was not Conan who rode on the great
stallion at the head of the army.
The Aquilonian host had assumed the customary formation:
The strongest part was the center, composed entirely of heavily armed
knights; the wings were made up of smaller bodies of horsemen,
mounted men-at-arms, mostly, supported by pikemen and archers. The
latter were Bossonians from the western marches, strongly built men of
medium stature, in leathern jackets and iron head-pieces.
The Nemedian army came on in similar formation and the two hosts
moved toward the river, the wings, in advance of the centers. In the
center of the Aquilonian host the great lion banner streamed its
billowing black folds over the steel-clad figure on the black stallion.

But on his dais in the royal pavilion Conan groaned in anguish of spirit,
and cursed with strange heathen oaths.
"The hosts move together," quoth the squire, watching from the door.
"Hear the trumpets peal! Ha! The rising sun strikes fire from lance-
heads and helmets until I am dazzled. It turns the river crimson--aye, it
will be truly crimson before this day is done!
"The foe have reached the river. Now arrows fly between the hosts like
stinging clouds that hide the sun. Ha! Well loosed, bowman! The
Bossonians have the better of it! Hark to them shout!"
Faintly in the ears of the king, above the din of trumpets and clanging
steel, came the deep fierce shout of the Bossonians as they drew and
loosed in perfect unison.
"Their archers seek to hold ours in play while their knights ride into the
river," said the squire. "The banks are not steep; they slope to the
water's edge. The knights come on, they crash through the willows. By
Mitra, the clothyard shafts find every crevice of their harness! Horses
and men go down, struggling and thrashing in the water. It is not deep,
nor is the current swift, but men are drowning there, dragged under by
their armor, and trampled by the frantic horses. Now the knights of
Aquilonia advance. They ride into the water and engage the knights of
Nemedia. The water swirls about their horses' bellies and the clang of
sword against sword is deafening."
"Crom!" burst in agony from Conan's lip. Life was coursing sluggishly
back into his veins, but still he could not lift his mighty frame from the
dais.
"The wings close in," said the squire. "Pikemen and swordsmen fight
hand to hand in the stream, and behind them the bowmen ply their
shafts.
"By Mitra, the Nemedian arbalesters are sorely harried, and the
Bossonians arch their arrows to drop amid the rear ranks. Their center
gains