A full moon glared down upon the Plain of Pallos like the yellow eye of an angry god. A chill, uneasy wind rustled through the tall meadow grasses and plucked with ghostly fingers at the cloaks of sentries, who stood watch about the rebel camp.
In his candle-lit tent, Conan sat late over a flagon of ale, listening to his officers. Some, still downcast by their recent defeat, were reluctant to contemplate further conflicts at this time. Others, avid for revenge, urged an early assault, even with their present diminished might.
“Look you, General,” said Count Trocero. “Amulius Procas will never expect an attack so soon upon the heels of our disaster, so we shall take him by surprise. Once across the Alimane, we shall be joined by our Poitanian friends, who only await our coming to raise the province."
Conan’s savage soul incited him to heed his friend’s advice. To strike across the border now, at the very ebb of their fortunes, would wrest victory from defeat with a vengeance. He urgently needed a vigorous sally to mend the men’s morale. Already some were drifting away, deserting what they viewed as a hopeless cause. Unless he could shore up the dykes of loyalty with hopes of triumph, the leakage of the disaffected would soon become a flood, leaching his army away to nothing.
Yet the mighty Cimmerian had, dining his years of campaigning, grown wise in the ways of war. Experience cautioned him to rein in his eagerness, rather than commit his remaining strength—at least until Prospero returned with word of Baron Groder and his force. Once Conan knew he could count upon this powerful reinforcement, he could then determine whether the moment for assault was at hand.
Dismissing his commanders, Conan sought the warm arms and soft breasts of Alcina. The golden dancing girl had entranced him with her wily ways of assuaging his passions; but this night she laughingly eluded his embrace, to proffer a goblet of wine.
“Tis time, my lord, that you enjoyed a gentleman’s drink, instead of swilling bitter beer like any peasant,” she said. "I brought a flask of fine wine from Messantia for your especial pleasure."
“Crom and Mitra, girl, I've drunk enough this night! I thirst now for the wine of your lips, not for the pressings of the grape."
"It is but a gentle stimulant, lord, to augment your desires—and my enjoyment of them," she wheedled. Standing in the candle light in a length of sheer saffron silk, which did little to hide the lush lines of her body, she smiled seductively and thrust the goblet toward him, saying: "It contains spices from my homeland to rouse your senses. Will you not drink it, my lord, to please me?"
Looking eagerly upon the moon-pale oval of her face, Conan said: "I need no rousing when I smell the perfume of your hair. But give it to me; I'll drink to this night’s delights.”
He drank the wine in three great gulps, ignoring the faintly acrid taste of the spices, and slammed the goblet down. Then he reached for the delectable girl, whose wide-set eyes were fixed upon him.
But, when he sought to seize her in his arms, the tent reeled crazily about him, and a searing pain bloomed in his vitals. He snatched at the tent pole, missed, and fell heavily.
Alcina leaned over his supine body. In his blurring vision, her features melted into a mist, through which her green eyes burned like incandescent emeralds.
"Crom's blood, wench!" Conan gasped. "You've poisoned me!"
He struggled to rise, but it seemed to the Cimmerian that his body had turned to lead. Although the veins in his temples throbbed, his face purpled with effort, and his thews stood out along his limbs like ship’s cables, he could not regain his feet. He fell back, gulping air. Then his vision dimmed until he seemed to drift from the lamplit interior of the tent into a trancelike waking dream. He could neither speak nor stir.
“Conan!” the girl murmured, bending over him, but he made no reply. In a silken whisper, she said: "So much for you, barbarian pig! And soon your wretched remnant of an army will follow you back to the hells whence you and they once crawled!”
Calmly seating herself, she drew forth the amulet she bore between her breasts. A glance at the time candle on a taboret showed that half an hour must yet elapse before she could commune with her master. In sphhixlike silence she sat, unmoving, until the time approached. Then she focused her mind upon the obsidian fragment.
In far-off Tarantia, Thulandra Thuu, gazing into his magical mirror, gave a dry chuckle as he observed the quiescent form of the giant Cimmerian. Rising, he replaced the mirror in its cabinet, roused his servant, and sent him with a message to the king.
Hsiao found Numedides, unclothed, enjoying a massage by four handsome naked girls. Keeping his modest eyes fixed upon the marble floor, Hsiao bowed low and said:
"My master respectfully informs Your Majesty that the bandit rebel Conan is slain in Argos by my master's otherworldly powers."
With a grunt, Numedides sat up, pushing the girls away. “Eh? Dead, you say?"
"Aye, my lord King."
“Excellent news, excellent news." With a loud guffaw, Numedides slapped his bare thigh. "When I become a—but enough of that. What else?"
“My master asks your permission to send a message to General Amuhus Procas, informing him of this event and authorizing him to cross into Argos, to scatter the rebel remnants ere they can choose another leader.”
Numedides waved the Khitan away. “Begone, yellow dog, and tell your master to do as he thinks best. Now let us continue, girls.”
Thus, later that night, a courier set out along the far-flung road to General Procas’s headquarters on the Argossean frontier. The message, which bore the seal of King Numedides, would in less than a fortnight loose the fury of the Border Legion upon the leader-less men who followed the Lion banner.
In Conan’s tent, Alcina opened her traveling chest and dug out a page’s costume, into which she changed. Under the garments in the chest lay a small copper Alcina’s jewelry casket, which she opened by twisting the silver dragon that bestrode the lid. The casket contained a choice assortment of rings, bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and other gem-encrusted finery. Alcina burrowed into the jewelry until she found a small oblong of copper, inscribed in Argossean. This token—a forgery provided by Quesado—entitled the bearer to change horses at the royal post stations. She made a quick selection of the jewelry, tucking the better pieces into her girdle, and filled the small purse depending from her belt with coins of gold and silver.
Then she extinguished the candle and boldly left the darkened tent. Demurely she addressed the sentry: "The general sleeps; but he has asked me to bear an urgent message to the court of Argos. Will you kindly order the grooms to saddle a horse, forthwith, and fetch it hither?"
The sentry called the corporal of the guard, who sent a man to comply with Alcina's request, while the girl waited silently at the entrance to the tent. The soldiers, who were used to the comings and goings of the general’s mistress and admired her splendid figure and easy ways, hastened to do her bidding.
When the horse was brought, she mounted swiftly and followed the sentry assigned to her beyond the limits of the camp. Then, at a spanking trot, she vanished into the moonlit distance.
Four days later, Alcina arrived in Messantia. She hastened to Quesado’s hideaway, where she found the spy's replacement, Fadius the Kothian, feeding Quesado’s carrier pigeons. She asked:
'T'rayj where is Quesado?"
"Have you not heard?” replied Fadius. "He's an ambassador now, too proud to spare time for the likes of us. He’s been here but once since he arrived on his embassy."
"Well, grandee or no grandee, I must see him’ at once. I bear news of the greatest import."