Suddenly there was a cry from inside the stone gatehouse, cut abruptly short. One of those who had stood at the gate appeared in the door with a bloody blade in his fist. “There was one who would not say it.” he said.
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One by one those others who had been on guard slipped out, sword in hand. Each paused long enough to say to the King, “Death to Albanus and Vegentius,” then trotted into the Palace.
“You see,” Garian told Conan as they led the Free-Company through the gate. “It will be easy.”
As the portcullis rattled down behind them, shouts rang out from the direction of the Golden Leopards’ quarters, and the clash of swords. An alarm gong began to ring, then stopped with a suddenness that spoke of the death of him who had sounded it. The sounds of fighting spread.
“I want to find Albanus,” Garian said. “And Vegentius.”
Conan only nodded. He, too, wanted Albanus. Vegentius he would take if he came across him. He hurried on, the Free-Company deployed behind him. First he would try the throne room.
Abruptly two score golden-cloaked soldiers appeared ahead.
“For Garian!” Conan called, not slowing. “Death to Albanus and Vegentius!”
“Kill them!” came the reply. “For Vegentius!”
The two groups ran together roaring, swords swinging.
Conan ripped the throat from the first man he faced without even crossing swords, and then he was like a machine, blade rising and falling and rising again bloodier than before. The way was forward. He hacked his way through, like a peasant through a field of wheat, chopping and moving forward, leaving bloody human stubble behind.
And then he was clear of the melee. He did not pause to see how his companions fared against those who had survived his blade. The numbers were on the Free-Company’s side, now, and he yet had to find Ariane. Of Garian he cared not one way or the other.
Straight to the throne room he ran. The guards that normally stood at the great carven doors were gone, drawn into the fighting that sounded now in every corridor. The door that usually was opened by three men, Conan pushed open unaided.
The great columned chamber stood empty, the Dragon Throne guarding it with a malignant glare.
The King’s apartments, Conan thought. He set out still at a run, and those who faced him died. He no longer waited to call out the challenge. Any who wore the golden cloak and did not flee were the enemy. Few fled, and he regretted killing them only for the delay it caused him. Ariane. They slowed him finding Ariane.
Karela stalked the Palace halls like a panther. She was alone, now. After the first fight she had searched among the bodies for Conan, uncertain whether she wanted to find him or not. There had not been long to look, for other soldiers loyal to Vegentius had appeared, and the fighting that followed had carried all who still stood away from that spot. She had seen Garian laying about him, and Hordo desperately trying to fight his way to her side. The one-eyed man had been like death incarnate, yet she was glad he had not been able to follow. There was that she had to do of which her faithful hound would not approve.
Suddenly there was a man before her, blood from a scalp wound trickling down his too-handsome face. The sword in his hand was stained as well, and from the way he moved he knew how to use it.
“A wench with a sword,” he laughed. “Best you throw it down and run, else I might think you intend to use it.”
She recognized him then. “You run, Demetrio. I have no wish to soil my blade with your blood.” She had no quarrel with him, but he stood between her and where she wanted to go.
His laugh turned into a snarl. “Bitch!” He lunged, expecting an easy kill.
With ease she beat aside his overconfident attack and slashed him across the chest with her riposte. Shaken, he leaped back. She followed, never allowing him to set himself for the attack again. Their blades flashed intricate silver patterns in the air between them, ringing almost continually. He was good, she admitted, but she was better. He died with a look of incredulous horror on his face.
Stepping over his body she hurried on, until at last she came to the chambers she sought. Carefully she pushed the door open with her blade.
Sularia, in the blue velvet robes of a noblewoman, faced her, frowning. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Some lord’s leman? Don’t you know enough not to enter my apartments without permission? Well, as you’re here, what word of the fighting?” Her eye fell on the bloody sword in Karela’s hand, and she gasped.
“You sent a friend of mine to the lowest of Zandru’s Hells,” Karela said quietly. With measured paces she stepped into the room. The blonde backed away before her.
“Who are you? I know none who are friends of your sort. Leave my chambers immediately, or I’ll have you flogged.”
Karela laughed grimly. “Jelanna would not know your sort, either, but you know of her. As for me, I do not expect you to recognize the Lady Tiana without her veils.”
“You’re mad!” Sularia said, a quaver in her voice. Her back was almost to the wall.
Karela let her sword drop as she continued her advance. “I need no sword for you,” she said softly. “A sword is for an equal.”
From beneath her robes Sularia drew a dagger, its blade as wide as a man’s finger and no more than twice as long. “Fool,” she laughed. “If you truly are Tiana, I’ll give you reason to wear your veils.” And she lunged for Karela’s eyes.