Then a blinding flash of light struck Conan's eyes, and searing pain shot through his body, his every limb on fire. He gave a staggered, gasping breath, his chest heaving, as his eyes opened again - to find himself sitting upright on a cot under a makeshift tent, the bright rim of the rising sun scouring a hot blue sky in a dry, dusty landscape, littered with hundreds of scattered tents, the busy forms of the living, and the shattered remains of slain beasts and men.
Moans and cries came up from the other men on the sick-beds about him, and Conan from long years of habit - for this was not the first time he had woken up in an infirmary after a battle - did a quick check of his limbs, noting thankfully that they were all intact. His clothing from Mayapan, he noted, had been disposed of, and in its place he had been given a plain tunic and loincloth of off-white linen, the standard-issue undergarments of an Aquilonian infantrymen.
An elderly orderly shuffled into the tent, dressed in the brown tunic and pantaloons of a servant, and stopped in surprise as he stared at Conan - whose real identity, of course, was utterly unknown to him.
"What a strange sight you are, young man!" exclaimed the orderly. "We all thought you was a goner, brought in fresh from the battlefield on the King's personal command, half trampled in the tumult of battle in which you had collapsed like a stone - so we were told, though there was such chaos in the wake of whatever dark magics the Stygians unleashed on us there was little time to tell the tale. And yet hear you are, miraculously healed and whole it seems! I won't say who you reminded me of for a moment lest I sound like a fool. I suppose all Cimmerian outlanders look alike, meaning no disrespect of course to our young king, may his name be praised before Mitra! Is there anything I can get you, before I tend to the others/"
"Water," replied Conan, who realized his throat was parched. "And a joint of beef, or at least the dried variety and some bread," he continued, realizing also that he was hungry. "A sword, and armour, for I am well enough to be on my feet. And most of all, news of the battle! What has happened since last night? For it seems we had the victory, and yet I have missed the turn of the tide and our triumph over our foes."
"So you do indeed fight for us, barbarian that you are," nodded the orderly. "I wasn't aware we had any mercenaries in our army these days, but then such things are over my head and my pay rate. I'll give you your news in brief, and then your vittles, and then I must be off to tend to the others. The commissary will have to give you a sword and armour, I'm not equipped with either nor allowed to hand them out."
"Then let's have your news," said Conan, growing impatient at this loquacious greybeard - it felt strange to think of him as such, considering his own real age!
"Not sure when you got knocked out," replied the old man, "but when the Shemite cavalry retreated and for good, not one of their ruses - no one is sure why - our army retreated westward to the coast to entrench for the night with the sea to guard our backs. Then the sky grew unnaturally dark, and the sunset grew unnaturally bright. Some kind of Stygian sorcery, we all believe. Some sort of dark shape like a giant serpent slinked down from the sky amid bolts of lightning and howling winds, and then the pandemonium began - men dropping their shields and praying, or cursing and forming squares again without orders."
"Our enemies had it even worse it seems, with the Nemedian auxiliaries, that is the Brythunians, Corinthians and even those damned Zamorians, dropping everything and running for their lives. Perhaps they realized what a bad bargain they had made allying with the accursed Stygians!" He spat on the ground when mentioning the name.
"So that left the Nemedians, Stygians and Kushites still on the battlefield, numbering amongst our enemies. The Nemedians held their ground, but strangely the Stygians and Kushites dropped their weapons, but did not run away. Instead they started bowing and scraping and grovelling on the ground, as if they were in worship on a field of battle!"
"There was a sudden flash of bright light, blindingly bright, a crashing peal of thunder, and then of a sudden the crimson glare to the sky was gone, and the dark, serpent shape was gone, and the stars were clear and bright in the sky above, just as they should have been. It was as if the whole strange scene had been a dream or nightmare, save that the enemy had lost near half his strength through no deeds on our part, but by their own cowardice - or mayhap common sense, showing itself late in the day."
"King Conn ordered us to wheel about and face the enemy again, with our backs to the sea, and then launch a headlong assault against our foes."
"The Nemedians still held their ground, but the Stygians and Kushites panicked, screaming and shrieking and wailing - I've never heard the like from grown men in all my years! I imagine they were unmanned by the failure, or so it seems, of whatever sorcerous mummery they had unleashed on us. They dropped their weapons, and shields, and abandoned their chariots and beasts, and fled headlong into the marshes of the valley of the Styx. It seems they actually planned to swim all the way across that broad stream back to Stygia, and at night if you can believe that!"
"But our Bossonians cut them down with a hail of arrows like wheat falling before the scythe; and then our cavalry, eager for revenge after their humiliation earlier in the day, unleashed hell on them and trampled them into the dust, cutting down even those who sought to surrender. Not one man amongst them lived to tell the tale of their defeat, or so I have heard."
"We fought against the Nemedians under the stars, strange as that may seem, using our superior numbers to envelop them entirely. All night we cut them down and closed the noose on them, though they are were a tough nut to crack."
"Just moments before I came in here to tend to you and saw you wake up, I heard that the remnant of the Nemedians, still under the command of that treacherous cur Archivaius it seems, now offer to surrender and sue for peace! I just came here to deliver word to the wounded, to cheer them up, when I encountered you awake and well."
"And would you know," continued the orderly, "I've heard rumour this morning that the wreckage of what appears to be a Stygian fleet, and many drowned Stygian soldiers and sailors, are washing up on the shore a few miles from here! It seems our foes had planned to drive us towards the sea, with us using it as a protective wall along our backs, only to treacherously have their fleet sail up in the dead of night, conduct a maritime assault, and crush us in their vise, surrounded by enemies on all sides. Mitra himself must have intervened to smash the enemy fleet like toys in a child's bathtub!"
"Indeed he did!" replied Conan in a serious tone. "Although our King, if a humble man like myself might say so, should have thought of the possibility of an attack on our rear by sea before ordering a retreat to shore. Instead he should have ordered a retreat to the highest ground in marching distance, and then set the men to work putting up a double field entrenchment around it. He shouldn't have sought to put our troops' backs to the sea, as if it were but a broad river, when facing off against a naval power like Stygia. For that matter he should have employed our allied Zingaran and Argossean navies to engage the Stygian fleet at sea when the war began. But Aquilonia being a landlocked country, its generals think only of war on land, not war at sea as well."
"You sound like you know your business," replied the orderly. "Though I've heard some rumours about you, young man,"he continued, his face now showing some suspicion, "that you're not just a mercenary, but a Cimmerian mage or shaman! One of the Black Dragons was in here to have his wounds tended, and he said that the Shemites had been disbursed by some sorcery on your part, and that you are the King's mage."
"Rumours are rumours," replied Conan guardedly. "I thank you for your news. Fetch my water and vittles, direct me to the commissary, and I'll trouble you no more today."
The orderly nodded silently, and set to his work, while Conan stood up from his cot, stretched his legs, and prepared himself to greet his son again.
Dressed in the brown tunic, pantaloons and boots of a servant - for the sergeant in charge of the commissary, to Conan's chagrin, had refused to fit him as an outlander with armour and a sword when he was not under explicit orders to do so - Conan threaded his way through the camp as the morning progressed, until he came to the spot he was seeking; the embattled remnant of the Nemedian infantry, hoisting up white flags of surrender, and surrounded entirely by the Aquilonian infantry and their auxiliaries. Though tensions ran high, there was no more fighting for the moment, and Conan could see that Conn had chosen to accept Archivaius' offer of surrender.
There was a fanfare of trumpets as Conn with his mounted Black Dragons approached, and Conan forced his way through the ranks of the infantry to draw as close as possible to the enfolding scene. Finding a favourable vantage point, he chose not to identify himself to Conn for the time being, but rather to watch what would unfold.
Conn and his retinue stopped safely short of the range of any archers hidden in the Nemedian ranks, and then the trumpets sounded again. Higher and shriller trumpets sounded from within the Nemedian camp, and then the shield-wall of the battered fronts lines of the Nemedian infantry briefly opened a narrow gap, though which surged King Archivaius IV, resplendent in golden armour, and two score of his silver-armoured Royal Guard, one of whom bore the Red Dragon standard of Nemedia, in contrast to the White Lion standard of Aquilonia held by Conn's own standard bearer.
Conan had never seen the young Archivaius before, but being an experienced judge of character and mood he could see that the young man's normally smooth and handsome face was unnaturally pale and lined with care - as well it might be, given the circumstances in which he found himself. To say that his scheming had blown up in his face would be an understatement, and it was plain that well he knew it.
At a certain distance from the Black Dragons, the Nemedian Royal Guard came to a halt. Archivaius then rode forth alone, on a magnificent white stallion, and a short time afterward Conn rode out to meet him, his silver armour and the black stallion which he rode a sombre contrast to Archivaius' livery.
"Hail Conan II, King of Aquilonia!" exclaimed Archivaius - using Conn's full name as protocol required. "Archivaius IV, King of Nemedia greets and salutes you. The victory on the field of honour is yours. I present you my sword, and humbly beg that you accept my surrender as your royal brother, observe the funeral ceremonies for my fallen men, and allow my royal person and brave soldiers to decamp from the field of battle, and return without let or hindrance to our Nemedian homeland, never to trouble the proud and mighty folk of Aquilonia again."
Having pronounced the ritual words of a Hyborian surrender ceremony, he then unsheathed his bejewelled golden sword and offered it, hilt first, for Conn's grasp. For Conn to accept it would symbolize his acceptance of the terms of surrender.
Instead Conn stared at him silently for a few moments, his brown eyes cold and hard, before turning to his men and exclaiming in a loud, clear voice, "Do you hear that, men? Yesterday I was the usurper of the Lion Throne of Aquilonia, today I am his 'brother king'!"
A chorus of laughter and cheering rose up from the Aquilonian ranks, though the Nemedians remained as silent as the tomb. Archivaius licked his lips nervously.
"Come, sir," responded Archivaius, trying to maintain a steady voice - a King never addressed another King as "your Majesty," but only as an equal. "Come sir, honour is satisfied. I beg you to accept my sword, and let us depart the field at once. I swear before all men present, and by Mitra himself, that Nemedia shall never trouble you nor your realm again as long as I draw breath."
"So then you swear by Mitra, do you?" asked Conn bitterly. "Then before I accept your surrender, you can explain to all men present, including your own, why you aligned with the Stygian devil-worshippers of Set against your fellow Hyborians and against Mitra himself!"
Archivaius was silent, his face even paler now if possible, while his Royal Guard fingered their sword-hilts nervously, knowing they were too few in number to save their King's life or their own if Conn ordered a massacre. But Conn remained silent, fixing Archivaius with his steady gaze while the young man desperately struggled to devise a suitable reply before all assembled - including his own men.
"There is of course no answer you can give, save that your greed and folly led you to this pass," replied Conn. "I will tell you plainly I was sorely tempted to kill you and all but a handful of your men, and send those back to Nemedia to bring word of the red-handed vengance of Aquilonia and her allies of the West - Zingara, and Argos, and Ophir, and Koth - against the treachery of Nemedia and the East."
"But I deem that is not necessary," Conn continued sagely. "I need not give Nemedia further cause to seek vengeance against me or my realm. Better still, you have discredited yourself in the eyes of your own people more than I ever could have hoped for!"
Archivaius remained silent, his face now drenched in sweat - whether in fear, or under the increasingly oppressive heat of the southern Sun as it rose towards the noon hour, it was difficult to say. Conn then continued:
"I will leave it to you to go back to your capital at Belverus and explain to your people why you betrayed Mitra to aid the worshippers of Set, enemies of all Hyborian folk of East and West, and why so many Nemedian wives are now widows, children are now orphans, and mothers are now bereft of their sons because of your folly! I am half of Nemedian blood myself, as all men know, and so bear an especial grudge against the hardships you have inflicted on your people. Go then, retreat to Nemedia with your tail between your legs, and try and justify to your own folk what you have done! I will wager your own crown will not sit securely upon your head after this debacle, for ambitious nobles wait in the wings of every court to take advantage of the folly of their king. And mind, if you ever do trouble me or my kingdom, or my allies again, I shall not extend you this mercy a second time! Mitra is my witness that my vengeance will be swift, and absolute!"
And with those parting words, Conn took the proffered sword from Archivaius' hand, and held it up in his own. A mighty cheer and cries of joy came forth from the ranks of the Aquilonians and their auxiliaries, while Archivaius, white-faced, his limbs trembling beyond his control, wheeled his horse about and dashed back into the security of his Nemedian camp, his Royal Guard hot on his heels.
Trumpets and drums echoed forth from both camps, and thereafter the Aquilonians opened their ranks as the Nemedians turned about, still maintaining perfect order even after the brutal ordeal they had endured, and began their long march north and east across the grasslands of Shem towards their distant homeland.
"Hail King Conan II! Hail King Conan the Conquerer! Hail! Hail! Hail!" cheered the men, as Conn smiled broadly, waving his new trophy sword in the air.
Conan, for his part, smiled broadly as well. "Well played, my son!" he said out loud, though his voice was drowned out by the wild cheering of the soldiers about him. "But I must yet have words with you, before my work is done this day."
Sitting within his tent as the shadows began to lengthen, and the Sun began its nightly descent towards the West - though the heat and dust of the day still clung thickly in the air, as oppressively as ever - Conn sat on his campaign throne, a portable and diminutive copy in folding canvas with a silver frame of the massive Lion Throne of Tarantia.
As he sipped chilled spiced wine of Poitain from a golden cup and reflected on the events of the day, one of his Black Dragons entered into his tent, saluted, and said, "My liege, we have found the Cimmerian mage whom you had directed us to take to the infirmary when he collapsed amid the battle. As you know, he could not be found when you sent for him this morning, and it seems he had left the infirmary, healthy and whole, and drifted about the camp during the day. He is now as anxious to speak to you as you are to him."
"Thank Crom and Mitra!" exclaimed Conn, quickly curbing his enthusiasm as he noted the disapproving stare on the guardsman's face - Aquilonians were notorious for their intolerance of the worship of any god other than Mitra. "Mitra be praised!" he continued. "This Cimmerian is of more use to me than you know. Send him to my tent at once, and then leave us alone. I wish to speak to him for a time without any disturbance."
"As you wish, my liege," saluted the guardsman. "We will be close by if perchance you need our aid."
The guardsman wheeled about and left the tent, and a short time later Conan stepped through the flaps of the tent into his son's presence - dressed, Conn noted, in the brown tunic and pantaloons of a servant.
"It seems the commissary was stingy with your attire," offered Conn. "We will set that to rights quick enough. But first you and I must speak, father! Help yourself to a goblet of chilled wine, and then explain to me what happened last night! For much that has transpired is a great mystery to me."
"What did you see happen?" asked Conan, as he poured himself a large drought of wine from its silver flagon into another golden cup on a nearby table, drinking it in one huge gulp, before pouring yet another cup for himself and then pulling up a folding camp bench before his son's campaign throne.
"You saw all that happened, right up until that dark monstrous serpent shape descended from the sky amid howling winds, and bolts of lightning," Conn replied. "There was mayhem amongst all the men on both sides and then, right in front of my eyes, you and that strange crystal bauble fixed to your staff disappeared in a flash of light!"
"I thought I had gone mad entirely," continued Conn, "and perhaps had imagined you in some fevered state without your ever having been present at all. There was such chaos, I am not sure any of my men even notice your disappearance, other than me. But of a sudden, there was a blinding flash of light and a peal of thunder, the winds ceased to howl, the lightning ended, and the shadow and flame disappeared under the clean light of the stars as the dark, serpent-shaped column that had descended from the heavens dissolved, and was blown away like the smoke from a fire."
"I know the rest of the story," acknowledged Conan, "save this - how did you find me again?"
"You do not know?" asked Conn with surprise. "When I looked down after the sky had cleared, and the dark magics of the Stygians were borne away on the winds, you suddenly reappeared in front of me in the blink of an eye, as if you had never been gone - but your staff and that crystal skull affixed to it were missing, and you yourself were collapsed on the hard ground and insensate. I had thought you dead, but you still drew breath shallowly. I called up a steed, and had my guardsmen strap you to it, then ordered the leeches to tend to you and for you to be placed in the infirmary as soon as one could be established, while I had to turn my attention to directing the battle that resumed."
"You did well," nodded Conan, savouring another deep draught of the wine. "Crom this is good stuff! I haven't enjoyed the like in a dozen years."
"But what on earth did happen to you, father?" asked Conn.
"That is quite a tale in its own right," replied Conan, who then proceeded to describe as best he could the strange events of the previous evening.
"By Mitra, you must be mad!" said Conn in wonder. "I would have accepted Mitra's offer, were I in your place!"
"You are half a Hyborian and born and bred in the Royal Palace of Tarantia," replied Conan in a serious tone, "but for all the strange deeds and adventures of my long life, I am still a barbarian and the son of a blacksmith from the Cimmerian hills."
"And a true son of Crom," acknowledged Conn. "But it pains me to think I cannot tell anyone of your mighty deeds. Without question you are amongst the greatest heroes of men who have ever lived! Shall your deeds then remain unsung?"
"Most of my deeds are not unsung," smiled Conan, "the minstrels of Tarantia have seen to that. But yes, it is best for you if you breathe no word of these latest deeds of mine to living men lest the revelation shake your own grasp upon the throne - which it would whether men believed you or no."
"Then I shall record your tale in my own hand, for my own private archives, to be read by some sage in some future time unknown," replied Conn.
"A wise choice," nodded Conan. "And speaking of wisdom, would be remiss if I did not impart some more of mine to you before this day is done. You have close to thirty winters and more to your credit, and yet still you have not taken wife! You should not follow my example and wait until old age is almost upon you before choosing your Queen."
"I have heard this advice before, from my counsellors," replied Conn, rolling his eyes. "My answer to you as to them is I have not yet found the woman who with whom I would willingly share my crown."
"That is then a lack of wisdom on your part," replied Conan with a frown. "Let me put it to you plainly; you need to take a wife from amongst the noblewomen of Aquilonia whose families trace descent from the old Aquilonian royal family whom I usurped. And you need to do it soon, for only then will you legitimize your rule in the eyes of your subjects, your nobles and of rival kings. Your children will beyond question trace descent from the old royal house, and in turn you must marry them to the royal houses of Zingara, Argos, Ophir and Koth to further cement their alliances with Aquilonia, and the subordination of their crowns to your own."
"And that is the advice of my counsellors as well," replied Conn impatiently. "Why should I listed to them or to you, when you did not follow your own advice in your own case? You could have married your pick of Aquilonian noblewomen and yet my mother, who you chose to marry, was a Nemedian slave girl! And surely there could have been no better match for you than her!"
"Aye, there was no better match for me than her," replied Conan fondly. "Well I know it."
But then his mood became more stern, and he said, "But you must grasp the nature of your situation, which is not as was mine. I ruled Aquilonia in the manner of the Cimmerian chieftains, who marry whatever woman catches their fancy, and rule by the strength of their swordarm alone! And I took my crown from the head of my slain adversary, my hands still drenched in his blood, with the might of my armies and those nobles loyal to me to back up my claim."
"But you," he continued, "were born into a royal line of succession by the laws of the Hyborians - though tenuously, for neither your father nor your mother have a trace of royal blood, nor even any Aquilonian blood. Save for your friends at court, you have no base of power in the land; for my old supporters amongst the nobles without whom I could not have claimed the Lion Throne are long dead, and their sons and grandsons serve their own interests and not yours. If you have come to power by the Hyborian laws of succession, how then can you spurn those laws when deciding whom to take to wife, and whom your children shall take as wives and husbands? Your crown will not sit securely upon your head, nor your head remain securely attached to your shoulders, until you heed my words and put them into action!"
"I cannot gainsay the wisdom of your words," replied Conn regretfully, "though I have never liked the royal custom of choosing a wife for myself, and mates for my sons and daughters to be born, like a farmer breeding his prime stock for the county fair!"
"Then you can console yourself at least by making sure the ivory-skinned and rose-balmed noble maiden whom you marry is the fairest on offer amongst the descendants of the ancient royal line," replied Conan with a grin. "No need for you to marry a fat sow ready for market! You can save that fate for one of your own children if they offend you!"
"Aye, at least there's that!" replied Conn with a laugh.
But then Conn's own mood turned serious, and he said, "But how now, father? What do you intend to do, if you will not assume the throne again, nor allow me to let other men know the truth of your deeds or even your true name?"
"It's your turn to wear the crown of Aquilonia upon a troubled brow, and mine to seize the world by the throat again as a young man!" replied Conan with a smile. "Though my name remains my own and may be shared freely - it is a common enough name in the Cimmerian highlands. It is my true identity you must not share in your own lifetime."
"And yet can you not at least accompany me back to Tarantia?" asked Conn with a frown. "I could surely use your counsel, which I value above that of all other men."
"I did not regain the my long-lost youth to squander it playing the role of greybeard counsellor to the King!" replied Conan. "And it would not help your reputation with the pious worshippers of Mitra if they thought you had taken a Cimmerian shaman - for so the men of the camp seem to think I am - as one of your Royal Counsellors."
"But surely I will not abandon you entirely to your fate," Conan continued. "Give me one of the Royal Warrants you carry with you, so that I may freely entered your palace again when I deem you might have need of my aid. I will see you again soon enough, not least to see if you have followed the counsel I have given you!"
"For now," concluded Conan, "aside from your Warrant, give me some proper armour and a sword, a good steed, and enough provender for me to make my way to the nearest Shemetish city up the coast. And perhaps a fat purse or two of gold and silver coins. I deserve a good carousing, after all I have gone through!"
"Indeed you do," replied Conn with a laugh as both men stood up and embraced each other. "All shall be as you have asked!"
"Good lad!" replied Conan with a smile, clapping his son on the shoulder as they both set to work preparing him for the journey ahead.
As Conn and several of the Black Dragons looked on an hour later, Conan, now further equipped with the light steel cap, breastplate and modest round shield of a mounted scout, but the heavy broadsword of an Aquilonian knight, mounted the strapping dun-coloured steed provided for him. He checked that the saddlebags full of water, provender and coin were secured to the light leathern saddle, and then turned the steed about and faced the King.
"Farewell, your Majesty!" he exclaimed loudly, "until we meet again!" And with that he turned about and was off at a gallop, soon receding towards the west and north under the light of the setting sun in a clear azure sky, the first stars of the evening shining forth.
"Do you actually think you will see him again, your Majesty?" asked one of the Black Dragons, turning to Conn in surprise. "He is a mercenary and an outlander, after all."
"Will I see him again? Of that I have no doubt," replied Conn with a smile, as he returned to the shelter of his tent. "Only Mitra knows, but I believe he and I have at least one more adventure left to share!"
But that is another story...