Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Hour of the Dragon by Robert E. Howard (types of ebook readers txt) 📖
- Author: Robert E. Howard
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Book online «The Hour of the Dragon by Robert E. Howard (types of ebook readers txt) 📖». Author Robert E. Howard
“There is nothing here. Your Majesty,” he said.
“It was there, in the comer,” muttered the king, tossing his lion-maned head from side to side in his efforts to rise. “A man-at least
he looked like a man-wrapped in rags like a mummy’s bandages, with a
moldering cloak drawn about him, and a hood. All I could see was his
eyes, as he crouched there in the shadows. I thought he was a shadow
himself, until I saw his eyes. They were like black jewels.
“I made at him and swung my sword, but I missed him clean—how, Crom
knows—and splintered that pole instead. He caught my wrist as I
staggered off balance, and his fingers burned like hot iron. All the
strength went out of me, and the floor rose and struck me like a club.
Then he was gone, and I was down, and—curse him!—I can’t move! I’m
paralyzed!”
Pallantides lifted the giant’s hand, and his flesh crawled. On the
king’s wrist showed the blue marks of long, lean fingers. What hand
could grip so hard as to leave its print on that thick wrist?
Pallantides remembered that low laugh he had heard as he rushed into
the tent, and cold perspiration beaded his skin. It had not been Conan
who laughed.
“This is a thing diabolical!” whispered a trembling squire. “Men say
the children of darkness war for Tarascus!”
“Be silent!” ordered Pallantides sternly.
Outside, the dawn was dimming the stars. A light wind sprang up from
the peaks, and brought the fanfare of a thousand trumpets. At the
sound a convulsive shudder ran through the king’s mighty form. Again
the veins in his temples knotted as he strove to break the invisible
shackles which crushed him down.
“Put my harness on me and tie me into my saddle,” he whispered. “I’ll
lead the charge yet!”
Pallantides shook his head, and a squire plucked his skirt.
“My lord, we are lost if the host learns the king has been smitten!
Only he could have led us to victory this day.”
“Help me lift him on the dais,” answered the general.
They obeyed, and laid the helpless giant on the furs, and spread a
silken cloak over him. Pallantides turned to the five squires and
searched their pale faces long before he spoke.
“Our lips must be sealed for ever as to what happens in this tent,” he
said at last. “The kingdom of Aquilonia depends upon it. One of you go
and fetch me the officer Valannus, who is a captain of the Pellian
spearmen.”
The squire indicated bowed and hastened from the tent, and Pallantides
stood staring down at the stricken king, while outside trumpets
blared, drums thundered, and the roar of the multitudes rose in the
growing dawn. Presently the squire returned with the officer
Pallantides had named-a tall man, broad and powerful, built much like
the king. Like him, also, he had thick black hair. But his eyes were
gray and he did not resemble Conan in his features.
“The king is stricken by a strange malady,” said Pallantides briefly.
“A great honor is yours; you are to wear his armor and ride at the
head of the host today. None must know that it is not the king who
rides.”
“It is an honor for which a man might gladly give up his life,”
stammered the captain, overcome by the suggestion. “Mitra grant that I
do not fail of this mighty trust!”
And while the fallen king stared with burning eyes that reflected the
bitter rage and humiliation that ate his heart, the squires stripped
Valannus of mail shirt, burganet and leg-pieces, and clad him in
Conan’s armor of black plate-mail, with the vizored salade, and the
dark plumes nodding over the wivern crest. Over all they put the
silken surcoat with the royal lion worked in gold upon the breast, and
they girt him with a broad gold-buckled belt which supported a jewel-hilted broadsword in a cloth-of-gold scabbard. While they worked,
trumpets clamored outside, arms clanged, and across the river rose a
deep-throated roar as squadron after squadron swung into place.
Full-armed, Vallanus dropped to his knee and bent his plumes before
the figure that lay on the dais.
“Lord king, Mitra grant that I do not dishonor the harness I wear this
day!”
“Bring me Tarascus’s head and I’ll make you a baron!” In the stress of
his anguish Conan’s veneer of civilization had fallen from him. His
eyes flamed, he ground his teeth in fury and blood-lust, as barbaric
as any tribesmen in the Crimmerian hills.
THE AQUILONIAN HOST was drawn up, long serried lines of pikemen and
horsemen in gleaming steel, when a giant figure in black armor emerged
from the royal pavilion, and as he swung up into the saddle of the
black stallion held by four squires, a roar that shook the mountains
went up from the host. They shook their blades and thundered forth
their acclaim of their warrior king—knights in gold-chased armor,
pikemen in mail coats and basinets, archers in their leather jerkins,
with their longbows in their left hand.
The host on the opposite side of the valley was in motion, trotting
down the long gentle slope toward the river; their steel shone through
the mists of morning that swirled about their horses’ feet.
The Aquilonian host moved leisurely to meet them. The measured tramp
of the armored horses made the ground tremble. Banners flung out long
silken folds in the morning wind; lances swayed like a bristling
forest, dipped and sank, their pennons fluttering about them.
Ten men-at-arms, grim, taciturn veterans who could hold their tongues,
guarded the royal pavilion. One squire stood in the tent, peering out
through a slit in the doorway. But for the handful in the secret, no
one else in the vast host knew that it was not Conan who rode on the
great stallion at the head of the army.
The Aquilonian host had assumed the customary formation:
The strongest part was the center, composed entirely of heavily armed
knights; the wings were made up of smaller bodies of horsemen, mounted
men-at-arms, mostly, supported by pikemen and archers. The latter were
Bossonians from the western marches, strongly built men of medium
stature, in leathern jackets and iron headpieces.
The Nemedian army came on in similar formation and the two hosts moved
toward the river, the wings, in advance of the centers. In the center
of the Aquilonian host the great lion banner streamed its billowing
black folds over the steel-clad figure on the black stallion.
But on his dais in the royal pavilion Conan groaned in anguish of
spirit, and cursed with strange heathen oaths.
“The hosts move together,” quoth the squire, watching from the door.
“Hear the trumpets peal! Ha! The rising sun strikes fire from lance-heads and helmets until I am dazzled. It turns the river crimson—aye,
it will be truly crimson before this day is done!
“The foe have reached the river. Now arrows fly between the hosts like
stinging clouds that hide the sun. Ha! Well loosed, bowman! The
Bossonians have the better of it! Hark to them shout!”
Faintly in the ears of the king, above the din of trumpets and
clanging steel, came the deep fierce shout of the Bossonians as they
drew and loosed in perfect unison.
“Their archers seek to hold ours in play while their knights ride into
the river,” said the squire. “The banks are not steep; they slope to
the water’s edge. The knights come on, they crash through the willows.
By Mitra, the clothyard shafts find every crevice of their harness!
Horses and men go down, struggling and thrashing in the water. It is
not deep, nor is the current swift, but men are drowning there,
dragged under by their armor, and trampled by the frantic horses. Now
the knights of Aquilonia advance. They ride into the water and engage
the knights of Nemedia. The water swirls about their horses’ bellies
and the clang of sword against sword is deafening.”
“Crom!” burst in agony from Conan’s lip. Life was coursing sluggishly
back into his veins, but still he could not lift his mighty frame from
the dais.
“The wings close in,” said the squire. “Pikemen and swordsmen fight
hand to hand in the stream, and behind them the bowmen ply their
shafts.
“By Mitra, the Nemedian arbalesters are sorely harried, and the
Bossonians arch their arrows to drop amid the rear ranks. Their center
gains not a foot, and their wings are pushed back up from the stream
again.”
“Crom, Ymir, and Mitra!” raged Conan. “Gods and devils, could I but
reach the fighting, if but to die at the first blow!”
Outside through the long hot day the battle stormed and thundered. The
valley shook to charge and counter-charge, to the whistling of shafts,
and the crash of rending shields and splintering lances. But the hosts
of Aquilonia held fast. Once they were forced back from the bank, but
a counter-charge, with the black banner flowing over the black
stallion, regained the lost ground. And like an iron rampart they held
the right bank of the stream, and at last the squire gave Conan the
news that the Nemedians were falling back from the river.
“Their wings are in confusion!” he cried. “Their knights reel back
from the sword-play. But what is this? Your banner is in motion-the
center sweeps into the stream! By Mitra, Valannus is leading the host
across the river!”
“Fool!” groaned Conan. “It may be a trick. He should hold his
position; by dawn Prospero will be here with the Poitanian levies.”
“The knights ride into a hail of arrows!” cried the squire. “But they
do not falter! They sweep on-they have crossed! They charge up the
slope! Pallantides has hurled the wings across the river to their
support! It is all he can do. The lion banner dips and staggers above
the melee.
“The knights of Nemedia make a stand. They are broken! They fall back!
Their left wing is in full flight, and our pikemen cut them down as
they run! I see Valannus, riding and smiting like a madman. He is
carried beyond himself by the fighting-lust. Men no longer look to
Pallantides. They follow Valannus, deeming him Conan, as he rides with
closed vizor.
“But look! There is method in his madness! He swings wide of the
Nemedian front, with five thousand knights, the pick of the army. The
main host of the Nemedians is in confusion-and look! Their flank is
protected by the cliffs, but there is a defile left unguarded! It is
like a great cleft in the wall that opens again behind the Nemedian
lines. By Mitra, Valannus sees and seizes the opportunity! He has
driven their wing before him, and he leads his knights toward that
defile. They swing wide of the main battle; they cut through a line of
spearmen, they charge into the defile!”
“An ambush!” cried Conan, striving to struggle upright.
“No!” shouted the squire exultantly. “The whole Nemedian host is in
full sight! They have forgotten the defile! They never expected to be
pushed back that far. Oh, fool, fool, Tarascus, to make such a
blunder! Ah, I see lances and pennons pouring from the farther mouth
of the defile, beyond the Nemedian lines. They will smite those ranks
from the rear and crumple them. Mitra, what is this?”
He staggered as the walls of the tent swayed drunkenly. Afar over the
thunder of the fight rose a deep bellowing roar, indescribably
ominous.
“The cliffs reel!” shrieked the squire. “Ah, gods, what is this? The
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