Conan the Defender (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 2)

On reaching Albanus’ palace, Conan did not pause. “Every third man stay with the horses,” he commanded. “Everybody else over the wall. Bring your bows. Not you,” he added, as Karela maneuvered her horse close to the wall.

“You do not command me, Cimmerian,” she spat back. “I go where I please.”

“Erlik take all hardheaded women,” Conan muttered, but he said no more to her.

Standing on his saddle and taking a care where he placed his hands among the pottery shards, he hoisted himself to the top of the wall. As if they had trained for such a thing Hordo, Karela and four and twenty of the others smoothly followed. Below, half a score of men ran from the gatehouse. They had only time to gape before arrows humming like hornets cut them down.

Conan dropped to the ground inside, his eyes blue ice, and ran past the bodies. He half heard

the thuds of the others following, but he paid them no mind. Ariane filled his mind. His word had sent her to Albanus. Now his honor demanded he free her if it cost his own life.

With a single heave of his massive arm he threw back one of the tall doors of the palace. Before the crash of its striking the marble wall had finished reverberating in the columned hall, a heimeted man in the cloak of the Golden Leopards ran to face the young Cimmerian giant, sword in hand.

“Ariane,” Conan shouted as he beat aside the soldier’s attack. “Where are you, Ariane?” His blade half-severed the man’s head; he kicked the falling body aside and hurried deeper into the palace. “Ariane!”

More Golden Leopards appeared now, and Conan threw himself at them in a frenzy, his wild battle cry ringing from the arched ceiling, his blade slashing and hacking as if possessed of a demon, or wielded by one. The soldiers fell back in confusion, leaving three of their number dead or dying, unsure of how to face this wildman of the barbarian northcountry. Then Hordo and the others were on them as well. The one-eyed man’s fierce mien was matched by the ferocity of his attack. Karela danced among them, blade darting like a wasp, each time drawing back blooded.

Even as the last body fell, Conan was shouting to his men. “Spread out. Search every room, if need be. Find the girl called Ariane.”

He himself strode through the halls like an avenging god. Servants and slaves took one look at the thundercloud of his face and fled. He let them go, seeking only one person. Then he saw another that interested him. The gray-bearded chamberlain tried to run, but Conan seized a fistful of the man’s tunic and lifted him till only the other’s toes touched the floor.

Conan’s voice held the promise of death. “Where is the girl Ariane, chamberlain?”

“I … I know no girl—”

Conan’s arm knotted, lifted the other clear of the floor. “The girl,” he said softly.

Sweat beaded the chamberlain’s face. “Lord Albanus,” he gasped. “He took her to the Royal Palace.”

With a groan the Cimmerian let the gray-bearded man drop. The chamberlain darted away; Conan let him go. The Palace. How could he get to her there? Could he return through the secret passage from the Temple of Erebus? He would spend the rest of his life wandering in the ancient labyrinth without ever finding his way into the newer Palace.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned to find Hordo bearing down on him, Machaon and Karela close behind.

“Machaon found someone in the dungeons,” Hordo said quickly. “Not the girl. A man who looks like King Garian, and even claims he—”

“Show me,” Conan said. Hope took life again within him.

The dungeons beneath Albanus’ palace were much like any others, rough stone, heavy wooden doors on rusting hinges, a thick smell of stale urine and fear sweat. Still, when Conan looked into the cell to which Machaon led him, he smiled as if it were a fountained garden.

The ragged, dirty man chained to the wall stirred uncertainly. “Well, Conan,” he said, “have you joined Albanus and Vegentius?”

“Derketo,” Karela breathed. “He does look like Garian.”

“He is Garian,” Conan said. “That bruise on his cheek names him so.”

Garian’s chains clanked as he touched the bruise. He laughed shakily. “To be known by so little a thing.”

“If this be Garian,” Karela demanded, “then who sits on the Dragon Throne?”

“An imposter,” Conan replied. “He has no bruise. Fetch me hammer and chisel. Quickly.” Machaon disappeared to return in moments with the required items.

As Conan knelt to lay chisel to the first manacle at Garian’s ankle, the King said, “You will be rewarded for this, barbarian. All that Albanus possesses will be yours when I regain the throne.”

Conan did not speak. One mighty blow with the hammer split the riveted iron band open. He moved to the next.

“You must get me out of the city,” Garian went on. “Once I reach the army, all will be well. I grew up in those camps. They will know me. I’ll return at the head of ten thousand swords to tear Albanus from the Palace.”

“And to start a civil war,” Conan said. He freed the other ankle, again with a single blow. “The imposter looks much like you. Many will believe he is you, most especially since he speaks from the Dragon Throne. Perhaps even the army will not be as quick to believe as you think.”