One weary afternoon, white with road dust, they reached the shores of the Styx and camped behind a screen of willows. An hour’s march away lay the Ford of Bubastes. They sat for a day and a half, resting men and horses and honing and oiling weapons, while the troops from Koth and Ophir arrived to join them.
Next morning young Prince Conn, elder of Conan’s two legitimate sons, rode into camp at the head of a troop on lathered horses. At thirteen, the crown prince of Aquilonia was the spit and image of his mighty sire. Almost as tall as even the towering knights of Aquilonia, he had Conan’s broad shoulders, deep-arched chest, square-cut mane of coarse black hair, and strong, square-jawed face.
The boy had ridden across Shem in six days but looked as if he had been out for an afternoon’s canter. His fierce blue eyes sparkled with excitement, and fresh color blazed in his cheeks. He galloped into camp on a big gelding, acknowledging the roar of welcome from the troops with a grin and a flip of his hand. The youth was a favorite with the men, and the Black Dragons would have ridden into the jaws of Hell for him as readily as for his mighty sire.
The prince reined his horse to a halt before the royal tent, vaulted out of the saddle, and knelt grinning before the king. Conan kept his face grave although he was bursting with pride and affection. He acknowledged the prince’s salute, but as soon as they were inside the tent he crushed the boy in a rough bear-hug that might have snapped the ribs of a frailer lad.
“How fares your lady mother?” he demanded.
“She is well,” Conn replied—then, with a mischievous grin: “but she shrieked and wailed like a wounded buffalo to hear that you wanted me in the field. Her last words were to keep warm at night and not to get my feet wet!”
“How like a woman!” grunted Conan. “I remember my old mother, back in Cimmeria… But you should not compare your lady mother to a buffalo, boy! That’s impertinent!”
“Yes, sire,” said the youth contritely. Then, eyes sparkling, “But are we really going to cross over into Stygia, father? Do you really want me with you in battle?”
“Crom, boy, how can you learn the art of war without a little fighting? When you ascend the throne, you’ll have to hold it against war and revolution. The exercise yard is all very well, but the battlefield is the schoolyard of future kings. Just see to it that you hold the place in ranks to which I assign you; no galloping alone against the foe, trying to rout them singlehanded! Come, how are your brother and sister?”
Conn relayed reports on his younger brother, seven-year-old Taurus, and baby sister, Radegund.
“Good!” said Conan. “Did the priests come with you as commanded?”
“Aye. They bear a little box of orichalc covered with strange glyphs, and they would not tell me what was in it. Do you know, father?”
Conan nodded. “That’s what you might call our ’secret weapon.’ Now get a good repast and a good night’s sleep. Ere dawn we shall cross into Stygia!”
FOUR: Beyond Death River
The dark, gliding waters of the Styx mark the border between Shem and Stygia. Some call it the River of Death, saying that the clammy vapors that rise from the marshes are hostile; others, that the muddy waters are inimical to all forms of life, so that no fish or other creatures swim in them. This last is untrue, for at night along the banks one can hear the harsh grunt of the scaly cocodrill and the thunderous snort of the burly hippopotamus. But certain it is that the waters are hostile to human life, and he who bathes in those waters is soon stricken with a wasting and incurable disease.
Where the headwaters of the Styx rise, no man can say. It originates somewhere far to the south of the tawny sands of Stygia, in the jungled lands beyond Keshan and Punt. Some whisper that it rises in Hell itself, to flow through the lands of living men like a gliding black serpent.
Before dawn crimsoned the eastern horizon, Conan was on the move. The king, on his big black, led the way across the Ford of Bubastes to the low, reedy shore beyond. On the far side stood a half-ruined blockhouse of crumbled mud brick. Once it had guarded the crossing, but disturbances in the sinister kingdom of Stygia had led to its neglect, and it had not been repaired. The Stygians depended upon swift-moving mounted patrols along their borders to keep strangers at bay, but none of these was now to be seen.
To the right and left of the blockhouse stretched fields of yellow winter wheat, rippling in the dawn breeze. In the middle distance to the right, barely visible against the dun-colored background, a small village of mud-brick huts crouched on the edge of the river. Ahead, as the ground sloped gently up from the Styx, the palms, shrubs, and cultivation that lined the river gradually gave way to a scattering of camel-thorn and other desert plants.
Conan, flanked by Trocero and Pallantides, commander of the Black Dragons and second in command Conan, kicked his horse up the slope of a knoll. He watched gloomily as, company by company, the Aquilonian host splashed through the ford in a long double column. As each unit of infantry emerged from the water, its captain led it to a vacant spot along the marge. There the men were made to sit, pull off their boots, and dry their feet and footgear. The king had so commanded. The men muttered at this strange proceeding. But Conan, who had been in these parts before, deemed it a vital precaution against the disease that lurked in the black waters of Death River.
Meanwhile a few troops of light horse cantered up and down the river and inland to scout for possible trouble. Sitting in his saddle beside Conan, Count Trocero chewed his mustache. At last he spoke:
“Sire, isn’t it time you shared your thoughts with us?”
Conan grunted moodily and nodded. “Aye, my friend, I have kept you in the dark long enough.”
“Then why in Mitra’s name are we in accursed Stygia?” asked Pallantides.
“Because this is the land of our secret enemy, Thoth-Amon the sorcerer.”
Conn, sitting his gelding nearby, pricked up his ears. “Thoth-Amon!” he exclaimed. “The one that got the old witch of Pohiola to kidnap me last year, trying to get you into her clutches?”
“There is only one Thoth-Amon,” said Conan broodingly, “and Crom knows the earth will be cleaner without him. The White Druid bore warning of his schemes.”
“Do you mean that spindle-shanked little old winesop, Diviatix?”
“That spindle-shanked old winesop is the greatest white magician alive on earth in our age,” said Conan. Trocero gulped and shuddered, remembering the times he had snarled at the staggering old tosspot to get out of his way. Conan continued grimly:
“The oracle of the Great Grove in Pictland reveals that the Stygian wizard was behind Pantho’s crazy thrust. The sorcerer either bribed Pantho or seized command of his mind through his black arts.”
“But to what purpose?” asked Trocero. Pallantides had ridden away down the hill to get the army into formation for the next march. Conan continued:
“Merely a diversion, to get me away from Tarantia. The Stygian knew I would ride to join you against the Zingarans. He hoped that Pantho and I should play hide-and-seek in the hills for a fortnight or two, keeping me so busy I should not have time to worry about Tarantia …”
“Tarantia! Not the queen?”
“Be calm, man. Zenobia and the royal heirs are safe. But there’s something in Tarantia that Thoth-Amon desires more than anything on earth—even more than my life. He hoped to get it in my absence. He hired the world’s cleverest thieves—the High Guild of Arenjun—to steal that thing.