Conan had thereafter kept the boy near him, against all advice from his sagest councilors, who argued that the future of the dynasty should not be thus endangered. Conan felt that little was to be gained by pampering and protecting the future King of Aquilonia, except to make a weakling out of him. A future king, he firmly believed, should have the taste of battle in his guts before the heavy weight of crown responsibilities robbed him of the carefree pleasures of manslaying. Better for the next king of Aquilonia to learn of warfare in the field itself, than from dusty books and scholarly historians.
Their repast completed, the two Cimmerians were ready for rest. First, however, Conan meant to tour the camp. He would sleep better if he knew that all was secure. He did not bother to dress. Instead, he cast off his cloak and slipped a freshly-oiled mailshirt on over his half-naked torso. He donned a leathern baldric and hauled on boots, freshly cleaned and polished by his pages. As he thrust aside the tent flap and, followed by Conn, strode out into the twilight, a sudden uproar arose.
Trumpets roared; horses screamed; feet thudded. Over all sounded a strange booming sound which Conan could not identify. It reminded him, more than anything, of the boom of sails as they filled with a gusty wind—a sound familiar to him from his piratical days with the Barachan freebooters and the Zingaran buccaneers.
Just above the horizon, half obscured by damp mists, hung the pallid crescent of a sickle moon. The first stars had appeared overhead—but beneath the stars, circling and swooping to strike at running men, was a swarm of black-winged horrors. In the gathering dark they looked like a horde of monstrous, flame-eyed bats!
THREE: From Time’s Dawn
About Conan, where for a few heartbeats he stood in slackjawed amazement, a cordon of archers was posted with shafts nocked. Straight for them hurtled a black monstrosity, as big in the body as a lion, with a long, curved neck and a serpentlike head. Its elongated jaws opened to show rows of needle-sharp fangs, and its eyes burned like coals from hell.
The batlike wings of the flying demon blotted out the sky. Straight for them swooped the monster, extending clawed, birdlike feet to grasp. As one man, the Bossonian archers drew and loosed. Arrows whistled through the night air and thudded into their target. Some sank into its broad, scaly breast where heavy wing-muscles bulged with each downstroke of the vast pinions.
The monster voiced a hoarse screech and veered aside. As it did so, a human figure toppled from its back to thud on the earth almost at Conan’s feet. The figure was that of a tall, muscular black in a plumed headdress, with a necklace of claws, a loincloth of monkey fur, and a leopard-skin cloak slung about his shoulders. The feathered butts of two Bossonian arrows, protruding from his rib cage, showed how he had died.
“Crom’s blood, the things are tame!” roared Conan. “Shoot the riders off their backs!”
More of the dragon shapes swooped toward them, claws extended; and each carried a plumed black rider. Some of the riders hurled javelins down among the Aquilonians. A horse, disemboweled by a slash of monster claws, screamed in its death throes; a dragon, bristling with shafts, flapped heavily away from the camp, losing altitude.
Pallantides bellowed commands. Archers took up formations. Men ran to calm the terrified horses and camels.
Conan stared at the sky. He had heard of the monstrous winged reptiles in his travels. Dim legends came drifting down from the dawn of time, of an age of reptiles that had long preceded the rise of man from the beast. Elder myths and moldering tablets in age-lost cities told of such monstrosities, survivors from that forgotten age: wyverns, they were called.
Another black-winged wyvern swooped toward them, its deadly claws spread wide. Conan roared his terrible Cimmerian war cry. Catching Conn by the shoulder, with a sudden thrust he hurled the boy flat. Then, setting both hands on the hilt of his great sword, he whirled it so that its blade bit into the monster’s neck, half severing it. Blood spurted, black in the moonlight; a rank reptilian stench filled the air.
The wyvern flapped its huge wings, one of which knocked Conan down. The flying reptile staggered through the air across the camp to crash into one of the campfires, scattering live coals in a shower of sparks. Its dying struggles knocked men over like tenpins. The rider on its back leaped off at the moment of impact but then went down under a shower of weapons wielded by vengeful Aquilonians.
Scrambling to his feet, Conan watched the fall of the wyvern and the death of its rider. His eyes narrowed to a slitted glare. So this was the source of the legend of the flying men of Zembabwei! Terrified travelers had hinted of a monstrous horror of elder witchcraft. They spoke of topless towers with neither door nor window. Thence came the belief that the men of the forbidden city were winged like birds.
The truth, however, was just as appalling—that the Zembabwans bred and trained these survivors of a forgotten age as their steeds. By what art the black warriors effected this marvel, Conan could not guess; but it must make them almost invincible. How could any earthbound army combat winged monsters striking from the sky?
Down from the night sky hurtled the winged monstrosities, to rip asunder man or beast and rise again on beating wings before others could rally to the rescue. The darkness baffled the skill even of the Bossonian archers. As the moon set, they could not see to aim at their foes until the latter loomed suddenly close in the ruby light of the fires.
Growling a bloody oath to his primeval Cimmerian god, the kink of Aquilonia rallied his men against these forces of darkness. Even as he bellowed commands, a booming of wings behind him and a rush of displaced air warned him of another attack. But before he could even turn, a tremendous blow caught him in the back. The extended claws of the wyvern closed upon him and snatched him from the surface of the ground.
As Conan gathered his wits and the wind tore past him, he realized with a silent curse that the force of the impact had knocked the sword from his hand. He clawed desperately at his girdle for the long poniard he usually wore at his waist, but found nothing. Alas that in his haste to check the camp’s security before turning in, he had neglected to clasp about his body the broad leathern girdle—which now reposed on a folding camp stool in his tent!
Then, as he glanced at the dark ground sinking away below him, he realized that not even the dagger would have done him any good. Even if he had been able to twist his body far enough in the grip of the dragon’s claws to stab the creature mortally, he was already a hundred feet above the camp. If he slew the wyvern, he would fall to his death from such a height. He thanked Crom, at least, for his shirt of ring mail, which protected his hide from the huge claws of the dragon.
From the camp, dropping beneath him, came a hoarse bellow in the voice of Amric, captain of the royal guard: “Archers, hold your shafts!”
A cry from behind him caused Conan to crane his neck to see. At the sight, he cursed again. A second wyvern was flying in tandem with the first. In its talons, like a doll borne by an eagle, was the body of Prince Conn.
“The King!” came a despairing wail from many throats below.
As the ground sank further and was lost in midst and darkness, the second wyvern drew up abreast of its fellow, affording Conan a clearer view of his son. On its back the other beast bore a black warrior, plumed and befurred, grasping the reins in one hand and a feather-tufted spear in the other.