Toward dawn, an Aquilonian captain approached the general’s tent to have him sign the orders of the day. The two sentries of the night before, wearily anticipating the conclusion of their tour of duty, saluted their superior before one stepped forward to open the tent flap and usher the captain in.
But General Procas would sign no further orders, save perchance in hell. He sprawled face-down in a pool of his congealing blood, clasping in his hand the stump of the slim-bladed poniard that had stilled the voice of Aquilonia's mightiest warrior.
The two soldiers turned over the corpse and stared at it. Procas’s iron-gray hair, now dappled with dried blood, lay in diswder, partly masldng his dormant features.
'1 shall never believe our general took his own life,” whispered the captain, deeply moved. “It was not his way.”
"Nor I, sir,” said the sentry. 'What man determined to kill himself would plunge a dagger into a shirt of mail? It must have been that woman.”
“Woman? What woman?” barked the captain.
"The green-eyed one I led here late last night She said she brought a message from the king. See, there is one of her footprints.” The soldier pointed to an outline of a small, booted foot etched in dried mud upon the carpet. "We lu-ged the general to let us stay during the interview, but he ordered us out regardless.”
“What became of the woman?'’
The sentry turned up helpless hands. “Gone, I
know hot how. I assure you, sir, that she did not pass us on her way out. Sergius and I were wide awake and at our posts from the time we left the general till you came just now for orders. You can ask the watch."
“Hm," said the captain. “Only a devil can vanish from the midst of an armed and guarded camp of war."
"Then perhaps the devil is a woman, sir," muttered the sentry, biting his Hp. “Look there on the rug: a half-moon of rock-glass, black as the depths of helL"
The captain toed the bit of obsidian, then kicked it aside impatiently. “Some fribbhng amulet, such as the superstitous wear. Devil or no, we must not stand here babbling. You guard the general’s body, whilst I call up a squad to search the camp and the sinround-ing hills. Sergius, fetch me a trumpeter! If I ever catch that she-devil…"
Alone in the tent, the sentry furtively searched among the shadows on the rug and foimd ihe amulet He examined his find, tied the broken ends of chain together, and slipped it over his head. If the ornament was not much to look at, it might at least bring him good luck. Somebody must have thought so, and a soldier needs all the good fortune that the gods bestow.
Conan leaned above the rim of a great rock and studied the disposition of the royaUst troops, still encamped along tiie northern bank of the Alimane. Only the day before, something unsettling had occurred among them; for there had been much shouting and noisy confusion. But from his eyrie not even the keen-eyed Cimmerian could discern the nature of the disturbance.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the scene across the river, Conan accepted a joint of cold meat from his squire and gnawed on it with a lusty appetite. He felt full of renewed vigor, now that he had shaken off the lingering effects of the poisoned wine; and the days of harrying the Border Legion home had much ap-
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peased his rage over the lost battle amid the waters of the Alimane, where so many of his faithful followers had perished in the swirling flood.
Years had passed since the Cimmerian adventurer had last fought a guerilla war—striking from the shadows, ambushing stragglers, hoimding a stronger force from the seciuity of darkness. Then he had commanded a brigand band in the Zuagir desert Pleased he was that the skills were still with him, trammeled in his memory, razor-sharp in spite of long disuse.
Still, now that the enemy had crossed the Alimane and were encamped upon the further bank, the problems of the war he fought had changed again—and, thought the impatient Cunmerian, changed for the worse.
The hosts beneath the Lion banner could not ford the Alimane so long as the royalists stood ready to repel each assault. For such an attack to succeed in the face of vigorous resistance would require, as in scaling the wall of a fortress, overwhelming numbers; and these the rebels did not have. Nor could they rely upon guerilla tactics and the novel employment of moimted archers. Moreover, their suppHes were running low.
Conan scowled as he moodily munched the cold meat. At least, he reflected, the troops of Amulius Procas displayed no inclination to recross the river to do battle. And for the twentieth time he pondered the nature of the event that, the day before, had so disturbed the orderly calm of the enemy camp.
The Border Legion had enlarged the open space on the further side of the river, where the Culario road met the water; they had felled trees, extending the clearing up and down the stream to make room for their camp. Beyond the camp, the forest, was a wall of monotonous green, now that the springtime flowers on tree and shrub had faded. As Conan watched, a party of mounted men entered the encampment, and
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the song of trumpets foretold a visitation of some moment
Conan shaded his eyes, frowned at the distant camp, and turned to his squire. "Go fetch Melias the scout, and quickly."
The squire trotted oflF, soon to return with a lean and leathery oldster. Conan glanced up, his face warm with greeting. Melias had served with Conan years before on the Pictish frontier. His eye was keener than any hawk's, and his moccasined feet slipped through dry underbrush as silently as a serpent.
'Who is it enters yonder camp, old man?" Conan inquired, nodding toward the royalist encampment
The scout stared fixedly at the party moving down the company street At length he said: "A general officer—afield rank, at any rate, from the size of his escort And of the nobility, too, from his blazonry.”
Conan dispatched his page to fetch Dexitheus, who made a hobby of unraveling heraldic symbols. As the scout described the insignia embroidered on the newcomer s surcoat, the priest-physician rubbed his nose with a slow finger, as if to stimulate his memory.
“Methinks," he said at last, "that is the coat of arms of the Count of Thune.’'
Conan shrugged irritably. "The name is not un-famihar to me, but I am sure I have never met the man. What know you of him?"
Dexitheus pondered. 'Thune is an eastern county of Aquilonia. But I have not encountered the present holder of the title. I recall some rumor—^perhaps a year ago—of a scandal in connection with his accession; but further details I fail to recollect"
Back at the rebel camp, Conan sought out the other leaders, to query them about the new arrival. But they could tell him little more than he already knew about the Count of Thune, save that the man had served as an officer on the peaceful eastern
DEATH IN THE DARK
frontiers, with, so far as they knew, neither fabulous heroism nor crushing disgrace to his name.
By midaftemoon, MeHas reported that the troops of the Border Legion were ranked in parade formation and that, presently, the^ Count of Thune appeared and began to read aloud from documents bearing impressive seals and ribbons. Prospero and an aide slipped out of camp and, screened by foHage along the river bank, listened to the proceedings. Since a royaHst sergeant repeated every phrase of the proclamation in a stentorian voice, which carried across the water, the astounded rebels learned that their adversary had died by his own hand and that Ascalante, Count of Thune, had been appointed in his place to command the Border Legion. This startling news they relayed with all dispatch to the other rebel chiefs.
“Procas a suicide?” growled Conan, bristling. "Never, by CromI The old man, for all he was my enemy, was a soldier through and through, and the best oflBcer in all of Aquilonia. Such as Procas sell their lives dearly; they do not slough them off! I smell the stench of treachery in this; how say the rest of you?^
"As for myself,” muttered Dexitheus, fingering his prayer beads,’ m this I see the sly hand of Thulandra Thuu, who long nursed hatred for the general”
/> "Does none of you know more of this Count Ascalante?” demanded Conan. “Can he lead troops in battle? Has combat seasoned him, or is he just another perfumed hanger-on of mad Numedides?” When the others shook their heads, Conan added: “Well, send your sergeants to inqtiire among the troops, whether any man of them has served beneath the count, and what manner of officer he was.”
“Think you,” asked Prospero, “that this new commander of the Border Legion may unwittingly serve our cause?”
Conan shrugged. “Perhaps; and perhaps not We
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shall see. If Trocero’s promised diversion comes to pass . . r
Count Trocero smiled a secret smile.
The following morning, the rebel leaders, gathered on the lookout prominence, stared across the river in somber fascination. While the Border Legion stood in parade formation, a small party of mounted men moved slowly through the camp and vanished up the Culario road. In their midst a pair of black horses, driven by General Procas’s charioteer, trundled the general’s chariot along at a slow and solemn pace. Across the rear of the vehicle was lashed a large wooden box or coflSn.
Conan grunted: "That’s the last we shall ever see of old Amuhus. If he had been king of Aquilonia, things would be quite different here today.”
A few nights later, when fog lay heavy on the surface of the Alimane, the black-clad swunmer, whom Count Trocero had sent across the river several days before, returned. Again he bore a letter sewn into an envelope of well-oiled silk.
That very night the Lion Banner rose against the silver splendor of the watchful moon.
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For several months, the friends of Count Trocero had done their work, and well. In marketplace and roadside inn, in village and hamlet, in town and city, the whisper winged across the province of Poitain: "rhe Liberator comes!"
Such was the title given to Conan by Count Troceros partisans, men who remembered trembling tales of the giant Cimmerian from years gone by. They had heard how he thrust and cut amidst the silvery flood of Thunder River to break the will of the savage Picts, lest they swarm in their thousands across the border to loot and slay and ravish the Bossonian Marches. Poitanians who knew these stories now looked to the indomitable figure of Conan to wrest them from the clutches of their bloody tyrant
For weeks, archers and yeomen and men-at-arms had filtered southward, ever southward, toward the Alimane. In the villages, men muttered over mugs of ale, their shaggy heads bent close together, of the invasion to come.
Now, at last, the Liberator neared. The moment loomed to free Poitain and, in good time, aU of Aquilonia, prostrate now beneath the heavy heel of
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mad Numedides. The word so eagerly awaited had arrived in an oiled-silk envelope, stamped with the seal of their beloved count. And they were ready.
Chilled by the raw and foggy night, the sentinel, a youth from Gunderland, sneezed as he stamped his booted feet and slapped his shoulders. Sentry-go was a tedious tour of duty in the best of times, but on a damp night during a cold snap, it could be cursed uncomfortable.
If only he had not foolishly let himself be caught blowing Idsses in the ear of the captain’s mistress, thought the Gunderman gloomily, he might even now be carousing in the cheerful warmth of the sergeant’s mess with his luckier comrades. What need, after aU, to guard the main gate to the barracks of Culario on such a night as this? Did the commandant think an army was stealing upon the base from Koth, or Nemedia, or even far Vanaheim?
WistfuUy he told himself, had he enjoyed the fortune of a landed sire and birth into the gentry, he would now be an officer, swanking in satin and gilded steel at the officers’ baU. So deep was he in dreams that he failed to remark a slight scuflF of feet behind him on the cobblestones. He was aware of nothing untoward until a leathern thong settled about his plump throat, drew quickly tight, and strangled him.
The officer’s baU throbbed with merriment. ChandeHers blazed with the light of a thousand candles, which sparkled and shinmiered in the silvered pier glasses. Splendid in parade imiforms, junior officers vied for the favors of the local beUes, who fluttered prettily, giggling at the honeyed whispers of their partners, while their mothers watched benignly from rows of gilded chairs along the pilastered walls.
The party was past its peak. The royal governor, Sir Conradin, had made his requisite appearance to
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open the festivities and long since had departed in,his carriage. Senior Captain Armandius, commandant of the Culario garrison, yawned and nodded over a goblet of Poitain's choicest vintage. From his red velvet seat, he stared down sourly upon the dancers, t hinkin g that all this prancing, bowing, and circling was a pastime fit for children only. In another hour, he decided, it would not seem remiss to take his leave. His thoughts turned to his dark-eyed Zingaran mistress, who doubtless waited impatiently for him. He smiled sleepily, picturing her soft hps and other charms. And then he dozed.
A servant first smelled smoke and thrust open the front door, to see a pile of burning brush stacked high against the walls of the officers’ barracks. He bawled an alarm.
In the space of a few breaths, the king’s officers swarmed out of the burning building, like bees smoked out of their hive by honey-seeking boys. The men and their ladies, furious or bewildered, found the courtyard already full—crowded by silent, somber men with grim eyes in their work-worn faces and naked steel in their sun-browned hands.
Alas for the officers; they wore only their daggers, more ornamental than useful, and so stood Uttle chance against the well-armed rebels. Within the hour, Culario was free; and the banner of the Count of Poitain, with its crimson leopards, flew beside a strange new flag that bore the blazon of a golden lion on a sable field.
In a private room in Culario’s best-regarded inn, the royal governor sat gaming with his crony, the Aquilonian tax assessor for the southern region. Both were deep in their cups, and consistent losses had rendered the governor surly and short tempered. Still, having escaped from the officers’ ball. Sir Conradin preferred to shun his home for yet a while, knowing
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that his wife would accord him an iinpleasant welcome. The presence of the sentiy stationed in the doorway so fanned his irritation that he brusquely commanded the soldier to stand out of sight beyond the entrance to the inn.
“Give a man some privacy,” he gnmibled.
“Especially when he’s losing, eh?” teased the assessor. He guessed that the sentry would not have to brave the clammy mists for long, for Sir Conradin’s purse was nearly empty.
Continuing their game, engrossed in the dance of ivory cubes and the whimsical twists of fortune,-neither player noticed a dull thud and the sound of a falling body beyond the heavy wooden portal.
An instant later, booted feet kicked open the door of the inn; and a fierce-eyed mob of rustics, armed with clubs and rakes and scythes as well as mor6 conventional weapons, burst in to drag the gamesters from their table to the crude gallows newly set in the center of the market square.
The men of the Border Legion received their first warning that the province seethed with insurrection when an oflBcer of the guard, yawning as he strolled about the perimeter of the camp to assure himself that every sentry stood alert and at his post, discovered one such sentinel slumbering in the shadow of a baggage wain.
With an oath, the captain sent his booted toe thudding against the shirker’s ribs. When this failed to arouse the sleeper, the oflScer squatted to examine the man. A feeling of dampness on his fingers caused him to snatch away his hand; and he stared incredulously at the stain that darkened it and at the welling gash that bridged the fellow’s throat. Then he straightened bis back and filled his lungs to bellow an alarm, just in time to take an arrow through the heart
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Fog drifted across the rippling waters of the Alimane, to twist and coil around the bol
es of trees and the tents of sleeping men. Fog also swirled about the edges of the camp, where dark and somber forests stood knee deep in purple gloom. The ghostly tendrils wreathed the trunks of immemorial oaks, and through the coils there drifted a wraithlike host of crouching figures in drab clothing, with knives in their hands and strung bows draped across their shoulders. These shadowy figures breasted the ciutaining fog, going from tent to tent, entering softly, and emerging moments later with blood upon the blades of their silent knives.
As these intruders stole among the sleeping men, other dark figures struggled through the clutching waters of the Alimane. These, too, were armed.
Ascalante, Count of Thune, was roused from heavy slumber by a shapeless cry as of a man in agony. The cry was followed by a score of shouts, and then the horns of chaos blared across the camp. For a moment, the Aquilonian adventurer thought himself immersed in bloody dreams. Then there sounded through the dripping night the screams of men in mortal combat, the shrieks of the injured, the gurgle of the dying, the tramp of many feet, the hiss of arrows, and the clangor of steel.
Cursing, the count sprang half-naked from his cot, flung wide the tent flap, and stared out upon a scene of roaring carnage. Burning tents cast a lurid Ught across a phantasmagoria of indescribable confusion. Corpses lay tossed about and trampled in the slimy mud, like toys discarded by the careless hands of children. Half-clothed Aquilonian soldiers fought with the frenzy of despair against mail-suited men armed with spear, sword, and axe, and others who plied longbows at such close range that every arrow thudded home. Royalist captains and sergeants strove heroically
to force their pikemen into formation and to arm those who had issued unprepared from their shelters.
Then a terrible figure loomed up before the tent wherein the Count of Thune stood frozen with astonishment and horror. It was Gromel, the burly Bos-sonian, from whose thick lips poured a steady stream of curses. Ascalante blinked at him in amazement. The oflScer was clad in nothing but a loin cloth and a knee-length coat of mail. That mail was rent and hacked in at least a dozen places, baring Gromel’s mightily muscled torso, which seemed to the fastidious count to be incarnadined with gore.
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