'Why should he spare the Cimmerian?' whispered the frightened squire.
'That I am wondering myself,' grunted Tarascus.
Behind the rumbling chariot the dull roar of battle and pursuit faded in the distance; the setting sun rimmed the cliffs with scarlet flame, and the chariot moved into the vast blue shadows floating up out of the east.
4
'From What Hell Have You Crawled?'
Of that long ride in the chariot of Xaltotun, Conan knew nothing. He lay like a dead man while the bronze wheels clashed over the stones of mountain roads and swished through the deep grass of fertile valleys, and finally dropping down from the rugged heights, rumbled rhythmically along the broad white road that winds through the rich meadowlands to the walls of Belverus.
Just before dawn some faint reviving of life touched him. He heard a mumble of voices, the groan of ponderous hinges. Through a slit in the cloak that covered him he saw, faintly in the lurid glare of torches, the great black arch of a gateway, and the bearded faces of men-at-arms, the torches striking fire from their spearheads and helmets.
'How went the battle, my fair lord?' spoke an eager voice, in the Nemedian tongue.
'Well indeed,' was the curt reply. 'The king of Aquilonia lies slain and his host is broken.'