But the squire had drawn the flap close, and in the confused madness of the slaughter none realized that the pavilion held an occupant. So the flight and the pursuit swept past, and roared away up the valley, and the squire looked out presently to see a cluster of men approaching the royal tent with evident purpose.
'Here comes the king of Nemedia with four companions and his squire,' quoth he. 'He will accept your surrender, my fair lord—'
'Surrender the devil's heart!' gritted the king.
He had forced himself up to a sitting posture. He swung his legs painfully off the dais, and staggered upright, reeling drunkenly. The squire ran to assist him, but Conan pushed him away.
'Give me that bow!' he gritted, indicating a longbow and quiver that hung from a tent-pole.
'But your Majesty!' cried the squire in great perturbation. 'The battle is lost! It were the part of majesty to yield with the dignity becoming one of royal blood!'
'I have no royal blood,' ground Conan. 'I am a barbarian and the son of a blacksmith.'
Wrenching away the bow and an arrow he staggered toward the opening of the pavilion. So formidable was his appearance, naked but for short leather breeks and sleeveless shirt, open to reveal his great, hairy chest, with his huge limbs and his blue eyes blazing under his tangled black mane, that the squire shrank back, more afraid of his king than of the whole Nemedian host.
Reeling on wide-braced legs Conan drunkenly tore the door-flap open and staggered out under the canopy. The king of Nemedia and his companions had dismounted, and they halted short, staring in wonder at the apparition confronting them.
'Here I am, you jackals!' roared the Cimmerian. 'I am the king! Death to you, dog-brothers!'