Conan wasted no time lamenting his companion but strode briskly toward the sorcerer, his sword upraised to strike. The page, ashen-pale, scuttled behind the throne; Alcina and the king flattened themselves against opposing walls.
But Thulandra Thuu had not exhausted his resources. He gripped the two ends of his staff in his bony hands and held it at arm’s length in front of him, chanting the while in a tongue that was old when the seas swallowed Lemuria. As Conan took another step, he encountered a strange resistance that brought him to a halt.
Elastic and yielding was this invisible surface; yet it confounded Conan’s most strenuous attack. The cords in his massive neck stood out; his face darkened with his almost superhuman effort; his muscles writhed like pythons. Yet the formless barrier held. As he thrust his sword into that invisible substance, he saw Thulandra's staff bend in the middle, as if impelled by an opposing force, but it did not break. Dexitheus’ mightiest magic had no power against the staff and the protection it afforded to Thulandra Thuu.
At last the sorcerer spoke, and his voice was weary with the weight of many years. "I see yon renegade, priest of Mitra has armored you against my bolts; but I for all his puny magic, he cannot destroy me. Aquilonia is unworthy of my efforts. I shall remove to a land beyond the sunrise, where people will value my experiments and the gift of life eternal. Farewell!"
"Master! Master! Take me with you!” cried Alcina, raising her arms in humble supplication.
“Nay, girl, stay back! I have no further use for you."
Thulandra Thuu edged to the door by which he had entered the audience chamber. As he moved, the elastic barrier he maintained retreated also. Lips bared in a mirthless grin, blue eyes ablaze, Conan followed the lean sorcerer step by step. His magnificent body quivered with the controlled fury of a lion deprived of its prey.
As they reached the doorway whence the sorcerer had entered, Thulandra Thuu began to sway, then to revolve. He spin faster and faster, until his dark figure became a blur. Suddenly he vanished.
As the wizard disappeared, the unseen barrier faded. Conan sprang forward, his sword upraised for a murderous slash. With a blistering curse, he rushed into the corridor. But the hall was empty. He listened, but he could detect no footfall.
Shaking his tousled mane as if to put a dream to flight, Conan turned back to the Chamber of Private Audience. He found Dexitheus guarding the other door, Alcina pressed against the farther wall, and King Nimiedides seated on his throne, dabbing his injured face with his bloody kerchief. Conan strode quickly to the throne to confront the king.
“Stand, mortal bawled Numedides, pointing a pudgy forefinger. “Know that I am a god! I am King of Aquilonia!”
Conan shot out an arm in which the hard muscles writhed like serpents. Seizing the king’s robe, he hauled the madman to his feet. “You mean,” he snarled, “you were king. Have you aught to say before you die?"
Numedides wilted, a pool of molten tallow in a burned-out candle. Tears coursed down his flabby face to mingle with the blood that still oozed from his wound. He sank to his knees, babbling:
“Pray, do not slay me, gallant Conan! Though I have committed errors, I intended only well for Aquilonia! Send me into exile, and I shall not return. You cannot kill an aging, unarmed man!”
With a contemptuous snort, Conan hurled Numedides to the floor. He wiped his sword on the hem of the fallen monarch’s garment and sheathed it. Turning on his heel, he said:
“I do not hunt mice. Tie up this scum until we find a madhouse to confine him.”
A sudden flicker of movement seen beyond the comer of his eye and sharp intake of breath by Dexitheus warned Conan of impending danger. Numedides had found the poisoned dagger dropped by Alcina and now, weapon in hand, he rose to make one last, desperate lunge to stab the Liberator in the back.
Conan wheeled, shot out his left hand, and caught the descending wrist. His right hand seized Numedides’ flaccid throat and, straining the mighty muscles in his arm, Conan forced his attacker down upon the throne. With his free hand the king wrenched in vain at Conans obdurate wrist. His legs thrashed spasmodically.
As Conan s iron fingers dug deeper into the pudgy neck, Numedides’ eyes bulged. His mouth gaped, but no sound issued forth. Deeper and deeper sank Conan’s python grip, until the others in the room, standing with suspended breath, heard the cartilage crack. Blood trickled from the comer of the king’s mouth, to mingle with the sanguine rheimi that had besmeared his face and beard and hair.
Numedides’ face turned blue, and little by little his flailing arms went limp. The poisoned dagger thudded to the floor and spun into a comer. Conan maintained his crushing grip until all life had fled.
At last Conan released the corpse, which tumbled off the throne in a disheveled heap. The Cimmerian drew a long breath, then spun around and whipped his blade from its scabbard, as running feet and rattling armor clattered down the hall. A score of his men, who had been wandering around the palace in search of him, crowded into the doorway to the chamber. All voices stilled, all eyes were turned upon him, as he stood, legs spread and sword in hand, beside the throne of Aquilonia, a look of triumph in his blazing eyes.
What thoughts raced through Conans mind at that moment, none ever knew. But finally he sheathed his sword, bent down, and tore the bloody crown from the bedraggled head of dead Numedides. Holding the slender circlet in one hand, he unbuckled the chin strap of his helmet with the other and tugged the headpiece off. Then he raised the crown in both his hands and placed it on his head.
“Well,” he said, “how does it look?”
Dexitheus spoke up: '‘Hail, King Conan of Aquilonia!”
The others took up the cry; and at last even the page, who stared owl-eyed from his hiding place behind the throne, joined in.
Alcina, moving forward with the seductive dancer’s grace that had so excited Conan in Messantia, glided in front of him and fell prettily to her knees.
"Oh, Conanl” she cried, "it was ever you I loved. But alas, I was ensorceled and forced to do the bidding of that wicked thaumaturge. Forgive me and I will be your faithful servant forevermore!"
Frowning, Conan looked down upon her, and his voice was thunder rumbling in the hills. “When someone has sought to murder me, I'd be a fool to give that one a second chance. Were you a man, I’d slay you here and now. But I do not war on women, so begone.
“If after this night you are found within those parts that have declared for me, you'll lose your pretty head. Elatus, accompany her to the stables, saddle her a horse, and see her to the outskirts of Tarantia."
Alcina went, the black cloud of her silken hair hiding her countenance. At the door she turned back to look once more at Conan, tears glistening on her cheeks. Then she was gone.
Conan kicked the corpse of Numedides. “Stick this carrion s head on a spear and display it in the city, then carry it to Count Ulric in Elymia, to convince him and his army that a new king rules in Aquilonia.”
One of Conan's troopers shouldered his way into the crowded room. “General Conan!”
“Well?"
The man paused to catch his breath. His eyes were big as buttons. “You ordered Cadmus and me to guard the palace gates. Well, just now we heard a horse and chariot coming from the stables, but neither beast nor carriage did we see. Then Cadmus pointed to the ground, and there was a shadow on the moonlit road, like to a horse and cart. It ran along the ground, but naught there was to cast the shadow!”
“What did you?"
"Did, sir? What could we do? The shadow passed through the open gates and vanished down the street So I came arunning to tell you."