‘Zamorian thieves, partly protected by spells I learned from sources
better left unmentioned, stole your mummy-case from under the very
talons of those which guarded it in the dark, and by camel-caravan and
galley and ox-wagon it came at last to this city.

‘Those same thieves–or rather those of them who still lived after their
frightful quest–stole the Heart of Ahriman from its haunted cavern
below the temple of Mitra, and all the skill of men and the spells of
sorcerers nearly failed. One man of them lived long enough to reach me
and give the jewel into my hands, before he died slavering and gibbering
of what he had seen in that accursed crypt. The thieves of Zamora are
the most faithful of men to their trust. Even with my conjurements, none
but they could have stolen the Heart from where it has lain in
demon-guarded darkness since the fall of Acheron, three thousand years
ago.’

Xaltotun lifted his lion-like head and stared far off into space, as if
plumbing the lost centuries.

‘Three thousand years!’ he muttered. ‘Set! Tell me what has chanced in
the world.’

‘The barbarians who overthrew Acheron set up new kingdoms,’ quoted
Orastes. ‘Where the empire had stretched now rose realms called
Aquilonia, and Nemedia, and Argos, from the tribes that founded them.
The older kingdoms of Ophir, Corinthia and western Koth, which had been
subject to the kings of Acheron, regained their independence with the
fall of the empire.’

‘And what of the people of Acheron?’ demanded Xaltotun. ‘When I fled
into Stygia, Python was in ruins, and all the great, purple-towered
cities of Acheron fouled with blood and trampled by the sandals of the
barbarians.’

‘In the hills small groups of folk still boast descent from Acheron,’
answered Orastes. ‘For the rest, the tide of my barbarian ancestors
rolled over them and wiped them out. They–my ancestors–had suffered
much from the kings of Acheron.’

A grim and terrible smile curled the Pythonian’s lips.

‘Aye! Many a barbarian, both man and woman, died screaming on the altar
under this hand. I have seen their heads piled to make a pyramid in the
great square in Python when the kings returned from the west with their
spoils and naked captives.’

‘Aye. And when the day of reckoning came, the sword was not spared. So
Acheron ceased to be, and purple-towered Python became a memory of
forgotten days. But the younger kingdoms rose on the imperial ruins and
waxed great. And now we have brought you back to aid us to rule these
kingdoms, which, if less strange and wonderful than Acheron of old, are
yet rich and powerful, well worth fighting for. Look!’ Orastes unrolled
before the stranger a map drawn cunningly on vellum.

Xaltotun regarded it, and then shook his head, baffled.

‘The very outlines of the land are changed. It is like some familiar
thing seen in a dream, fantastically distorted.’

‘Howbeit,’ answered Orastes, tracing with his forefinger, ‘here is
Belverus, the capital of Nemedia, in which we now are. Here run the
boundaries of the land of Nemedia. To the south and southeast are Ophir
and Corinthia, to the east Brythunia, to the west Aquilonia.’

‘It is the map of a world I do not know,’ said Xaltotun softly, but
Orastes did not miss the lurid fire of hate that flickered in his dark
eyes.

‘It is a map you shall help us change,’ answered Orastes. ‘It is our
desire first to set Tarascus on the throne of Nemedia. We wish to
accomplish this without strife, and in such a way that no suspicion will
rest on Tarascus. We do not wish the land to be torn by civil wars, but
to reserve all our power for the conquest of Aquilonia.

‘Should King Nimed and his sons die naturally, in a plague for instance,
Tarascus would mount the throne as the next heir, peacefully and
unopposed.’

Xaltotun nodded, without replying, and Orastes continued.

‘The other task will be more difficult. We cannot set Valerius on the
Aquilonian throne without a war, and that kingdom is a formidable foe.
Its people are a hardy, war-like race, toughened by continual wars with
the Picts, Zingarians and Cimmerians. For five hundred years Aquilonia
and Nemedia have intermittently waged war, and the ultimate advantage
has always lain with the Aquilonians.

‘Their present king is the most renowned warrior among the western
nations. He is an outlander, an adventurer who seized the crown by force
during a time of civil strife, strangling King Namedides with his own
hands, upon the very throne. His name is Conan, and no man can stand
before him in battle.

‘Valerius is now the rightful heir of the throne. He had been driven
into exile by his royal kinsman, Namedides, and has been away from his
native realm for years, but he is of the blood of the old dynasty, and
many of the barons would secretly hail the overthrow of Conan, who is a
nobody without royal or even noble blood. But the common people are
loyal to him, and the nobility of the outlying provinces. Yet if his
forces were overthrown in the battle that must first take place, and
Conan himself slain, I think it would not be difficult to put Valerius
on the throne. Indeed, with Conan slain, the only center of the
government would be gone. He is not part of a dynasty, but only a lone
adventurer.’

‘I wish that I might see this king,’ mused Xaltotun, glancing toward a
silvery mirror which formed one of the panels of the wall. This mirror
cast no reflection, but Xaltotun’s expression showed that he understood
its purpose, and Orastes nodded with the pride a good craftsman takes in
the recognition of his accomplishments by a master of his craft.

‘I will try to show him to you,’ he said. And seating himself before the
mirror, he gazed hypnotically into its depths, where presently a dim
shadow began to take shape.