'Hail, Xaltotun!' exclaimed Tarascus. 'Here is the king of Aquilonia! He did not die in the landslide as we thought.'
'I know,' answered the other, without bothering to say how he knew. 'What is your present intention?'
'I will summon the archers to slay him,' answered the Nemedian. 'As long as he lives he will be dangerous to us.'
'Yet even a dog has uses,' answered Xaltotun. 'Take him alive.'
Conan laughed raspingly. 'Come in and try!' he challenged. 'But for my treacherous legs I'd hew you out of that chariot like a woodman hewing a tree. But you'll never take me alive, damn you!'
'He speaks the truth, I fear,' said Tarascus. 'The man is a barbarian, with the senseless ferocity of a wounded tiger. Let me summon the archers.'
'Watch me and learn wisdom,' advised Xaltotun.
His hand dipped into his robe and came out with something shining—a glistening sphere. This he threw suddenly at Conan. The Cimmerian contemptuously struck it aside with his sword—at the instant of contact there was a sharp explosion, a flare of white, blinding flame, and Conan pitched senseless to the ground.
'He is dead?' Tarascus' tone was more assertion than inquiry.
'No. He is but senseless. He will recover his senses in a few hours. Bid your men bind his arms and legs and lift him into my chariot.'