See that each man has not one horse, but two, to allow for frequent changes. But do it quietly. We must outrun the news of our departure. As for the rest of you, keep the men busy improving our defenses whilst I am gone. To all of you, farewell!"
The half-moon barely cleared the treetops when a column of horsemen, each leading a spare mount, issued stealthily from the rebel camp. In the lead rode Conan, wearing the helmet and white surcoat of the Black Dragons. With him rode Captain Silvanus, and behind them trotted Dexitheus, priest of Mitra, likewise attired. Fifty of Conan’s most trusted troopers followed, disguised in the same manner as their leaders.
Under Silvanus’ guidance, the column swing wide of the royalist encampment When they were once again on the Tarantia road, they broke into a steady trot The moon set, and black night swallowed up the line of desperate men.
DARKNESS IN THE MOONLIGHT
The sun had set, and overhead a brilliant half-moon hung suspended in a cloudless sky. At the royal palace of Tarantia, the king’s solitary supper, served on gold platters in his private dining-room, had been cleared away. Save for a taster standing behind the royal armchair, two bodyguards stationed at the silver-studded doorway, and the footmen who served the royal meats, none had attended him to join in the repast.
Thousands of lamps and candles blazed in the royal chambers—so bountiful the light that a stranger, entering, would wonder whether a coronation or a neighboring monarch’s visit occasioned this opulent display.
Yet the palace seemed curiously deserted. Instead of the chatter of lovely ladies, chivalrous youths, and high-ranking nobles of the kingdom, echoes from the past reverberated down the marble halls, empty save for a few guards, on whose silvered breastplates the multitude of candles were reflected. The guards were either adolescent boys or graybeard oldsters; for when the household guard marched south to confront the rebels, the king’s officials had hastily replaced the corps of the Black Dragons with lads in training and retired veterans.
The lamps and candles burned all night, as the long—fancying himself a sun god—deemed naught but the light of day at night worthy of his exalted station. Thus, scurrying servants hastened from lamp to lamp to assure sufficient oil in each and carried armfuls of candles from chandelier to chandelier to replace those that flickered out.
As the king’s madness waxed, the courtiers and civil servants, normally in attendance, stole away. Foremost among these was Vibius Latro, who had offices and living quarters in the palace. The chancellor had sent a message to Numedides, begging a short leave of absence. His health, the note continued, was breaking down from long hours of work, and without a brief respite at his country seat, he feared he could no longer further the interests of His Majesty.
Having just flogged one of his concubines to death, Numedides, in rare good humor, granted his request. Latro forthwith loaded his family into a traveling carriage and set out for his estates, north of Tarantia. At the first crossroads, he veered eastward and, lashing his horses, raced for the Nemedian border two hundred leagues away. Other members of the king’s official family likewise found compelling reasons for a leave of absence and speedily departed.
Numedides' throne in the Chamber of Private Audience stood upon a patterned Iranistani carpet, woven of fine wools artfully dyed to the color of rubies, jades, amethysts, and sapphires and shot through with threads of gold. The chair itself, an ornate structure, though less imposing than the Ruby Throne in the Public Throne Room, was tastelessly embellished with dragons, lions, swords, and stars. The heraldic eagle of the Numedidean dynasty soared up from the tall back, its wings and eyes studded with precious stones that sparkled in the generous candlelight.
The king’s silver scepter—the ceremonial symbol of kingship—lay across the purple-pillowed seat, while the Sword of State, a great two-handed weapon, bejeweled of hilt and scabbard, reposed on one of the chair’s broad arms.
Two persons stood in the chamber: King Numedides, wearing the slender golden circlet that was the crown of Aquilonia and a crimson robe bespotted with stains of food, wine, and vomit; and Alcina, clad in a clinging gown of sea-green silk.
From opposite sides of the gilt throne they glared at each other. Alcina hissed:
"You mangy old dog! I will die before I submit to your perversions! You cannot catch me, you old, fat, filthy heap of oflFal! Go find a bitch or a sow to vent your lusts upon! Like to like!”
"I said I would not hurt you, little spitfire!” wheezed Numedides. “But catch you I will! None can escape the desires of a king, let alone a god! Come here!”
Nimiedides suddenly moved sidewise, in a feint at which he showed himself surprisingly nimble. Caught unawares, Alcina leaped back, losing the protection of the ornate chair. Then, with outspread arms and clutching hands, the king herded her into a comer far removed from either pair of double doors, whose pilastered frames adorned the walls to left and right of the ostentatious throne.
Alcina’s fingers flew to her bodice and whipped out a slender dagger, tipped with the same poison that had slain Amulius Procas. “Keep back, I warn you!” she cried. “One prick of this, and you will die!”
Numedides gave back a step. "You little fool, know you not that I am impervious to your envenomed bodkin?”
"We shall soon see whether you are or not, if you approach me closer.”
The king retreated to his throne and caught up his scepter. Then once more he stalked the trembling girl. When Alcina raised her dagger, he struck a blow with his silver club, hitting her hand. The dagger spun away and bounced across the carpet, while Alcina, with a cry of anguish, caught her bruised hand to her breast.
“Now, you little witch,” said Nimiedides, “we shall—”
The pair of doors on the right side of the audience chamber sprang open. Thulandra Thuu, leaning on his carven staff, stood on the threshold.
“How came you here?” thundered Numedides. “The doors were locked!”
The dark-skinned sorcerer's siblant voice was the crack of a whip. “Your Majesty! I warned you not to molest my servants!"
The king scowled. "We were just playing a harmless game. And who are you to warn a god of aught? Who is the ruler here?"
Thulandra Thuu smiled a thin and bitter smile. “You reign here, but you do not rule. I do."
Numedides' jowls enpurpled with his waxing wrath. “You blasphemous old! Out of my sight, ere I blast you with my lightnings!"
“Calm yourself. Majesty. I have news— "
The king’s voice rose to a scream: “I said get out! I show you— "
Numedides’ groping hand brushed the hilt of the Sword of State. He drew the ponderous blade from its jewelled scabbard and advanced upon Thulandra Thuu, swinging the weapon with both hands. The sorcerer calmly awaited his approach.
With an incoherent shriek the king whirled the sword in a decapitating blow. At the last instant Thulandra, whose expression had not changed, brought up his staff to parry. Steel and carven wood met with a ringing crash, as if Thulandra, too, wielded a massive sword. With a dexterous twirl of his staff, the sorcerer whipped the weapon from the king’s hands and sent it flying upwards, turning over and over in the air. As it descended, the blade struck Numedides in the face, laying open a finger-long gash in the king’s cheek. Blood trickled into his rusty beard.
Numedides clapped a hand to his cheek and stared stupidly at the blood dripping from his fingers. “I bleed, just like a mortal!" he mumbled. “How can that be?”