When the village grew small in the distance, Conan pulled up. Peering about the fading landscape, he said, “We shall catch up with the column presently. First I want a look at the enemy base. That hillock yonder may give a view of it.”
From the hilltop Conan stared across the intervening swells and hollows of the earth; and north of the village, he discovered a field encampment. It had been hidden from the village by a low rise; but seen from this height, its large expanse was evident. Scores of cooking fires twinkled in the twilight, and thin blue plumes of smoke wavered in the gentle breeze.
“There’s Count Ulricas army,” said Conan. "How many would you judge there be, Gyrto?”
The captain thought the matter over. “From the number of fires and the size of the camp, General, I should say a dozen regiments. What say you, Sardus?”
"At least twenty thousand men, sir,” said the veteran cavalryman. “What standard’s that, flapping atop a flagstaff over to the right?”
Conan squinted, forcing his catlike eyes to see despite the gathering dark. Then he exclaimed: “Damn me for a Stygian, if that is not the standard of the Black Dragons!”
“Not the king’s household guard. General?” exclaimed Gyrto. “That cannot be, unless Numedides himself is marching with Count Ulric.”
“I do not see the royal standard, so I doubt it," rumbled Conan. “Time we rejoined our comrades. It’s a long road back to camp."
Sardus mounted behind his footsore captain, and the trio began a cautious sweep around the village, wherein lay so many of their dead. Reaching the road at length, they hastened toward a stand of trees beneath which the survivors of the battle waited. At least a third of the sixty men were missing. Many wearing bandages helped to bind up their comrades’ wounds.
As Conan, Gyrto, and Sardus trotted up, the dispirited troopers raised a faint hurrah. Conan growled:
"I thank you all, but save your cheers for victory. I should have searched the houses ere leading you into a tyro’s trap. Still, lads, you gave them better than you got. Now let’s be on our way and hope to find our army camp by dawn.”
Next morning Conan told the tale of his adventures. Prospero whistled. “Twenty thousand men! In a pitched battle they’d eat us alive.”
After swallowing a huge mouthful from a joint of beef, Conan said: “Breathe not such thoughts, lest the prophecy invite its own fulfillment. Rout the men out—all save the scouts who fought at Elymia—and set them to fortifying the camp. With such numbers, Count Ulric might risk a night attack. Without ditch or stockade to detain him, he could crush us like insects beneath a wagon wheel.”
“But the Black DragonsI” cried Trocero. “It is a thing incredible that Numedides should send his household troops to strengthen Ulric, leaving his person unprotected!”
Conan shrugged. “I am sure of what I saw. No other unit carries for its symbol a winged monster on a field of black.”
Pallantides said: "Sending the Black Dragons hither may leave Numedides vulnerable to attack, but it does naught to lessen our present problem.”
“If anything, their coming aggravates it,” added Trocero.
“Then be on your way, friends, and start the fortifications,” said Conan, “We have no time to lose.”
A gentle morning breeze fanned a hastily erected palisade and cooled the bloodshot eyes and aching bodies of its builders. When the camp followers— sutlers, water boys, women, and children—sought to carry water from a nearby stream, a company of royalist cavalry appeared over a rise, galloped down upon them, and sent them flying for their lives. One old man and one young child, slow to move, were slain.
A rebel scouting party was overtaken and forced to flee. When they regained the camp, their pursuers galloped past it, shouting taunts and hurling javelins into the stockade. Conan’s archers, summoned hastily, brought down two of the enemy’s horses, but comrades snatched their riders up and carried them away. Thus, although no real attack was launched against the rebels, Conan’s weary men were worn down by tensions and alarms.
At the evening conference Publius said: "While I am not a military man, General, I think we ought to slip away during the night, ere Ulric brings us down or starves us out. He has the force to do his will, since sickness, like a gray ghost, stalks amongst us.”
“I say,” said Trocero, banging the table with his fist, “hold our position while my Poitanians raise the countryside. If Ulric surrounds us then, the countryfolk can throw a bigger ring around him."
“With harvest time approaching,” Publius retorted, ”you'll find it difficult to raise a thousand. And farmers armed with naught but axe and pitchfork cannot withstand a charge of Ulric’s armored regulars. Would we were back in the Brocellian Forest, where our satyr friends could help us once again!"
Prospero put in: “Aye, till the royalists learn to plug their ears—not longer. I say to launch a surprise attack this night on Ulric's camp."
PaUantides shook his head. “Naught more easily falls into confusion, with friend striking down friend, than a night attack with half-trained men Hke ours."
The argument went round and round with no conclusion, while Conan sat somberly, frowning but saying little. Then a sentry announced:
“A royalist officer and some fifty men have come in under a flag of truce. General. The officer asks to speak to you."
“Disarm him and send him in,” said Conan, straightening in his chair.
The tent flap gaped, and in stalked a man in armor. The black heraldic eagle of Aquilonia was spread upon the breast of his white surcoat, while from his helmet rose the brazen wyvern of the Black Dragons. The officer saluted stiffly.
“General Conan? I am Captain Silvanus of the Black Dragons. I have come to join you with most of my troop, if you will have us.”
Conan looked the captain up and down through narrowed lids. He saw a tall, well-built, blond man, rather young for his captain's rating.
“Welcome, Captain Silvanus," he said at last. “I thank you for the offer. But before I accept it, I must know more of you.”
“Certainly, General. Do but ask.”
"First, what brings you to change sides at this juncture? You must know that our position is precarious, that Ulric outnumbers us, and that he is a competent commander. So wherefore turn your coat today?”
“It is simple. General Conan. My men and I have chosen a risk of death in the rebel cause over a safe life under that madman—if any life under the king’s standard can be called safe."
”But why at this particular time?”
“This is our first opportunity. The Dragons reached Elymia yestereve, before the skirmish twixt Ulric’s men and yours. Had we set out from Tarantia to join you, forces loyal to the king would have barred our way and destroyed us.”
Conan asked: “Has Numedides sent the whole of the Black Dragon regiment hither?”
“Aye, save for a few young lads in training.”
"Why does that dog denude himself of his personal guardians?”
“Numedides has proclaimed himself a god. He thinks himself immortal; and being invulnerable, has no need of bodyguards. Besides, he is determined to crush your rebellion and throws all contingents into Count Ulric’s army. More march hither from the eastern frontiers."
“What of Thulandra Thuu, the king’s magician?”
Silvanus’ face grew pale. “Demons are sometimes summoned by mention of their names. General Conan. During the madness of Numedides, the sorcerer rules the kingdom; and if less foolish than the king, he is as heartless and rapacious. His sacrifice of virgins for his unsavory experiments is known to all." Fumbling in his wallet, he brought out a miniature painted on alabaster and hung on a golden chain. The painting showed a girl of perhaps ten years of age.