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Conan the Magnificent
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By Robert Jordan


Prologue

Icy air hung deathly still among the crags of the Kezankian mountains,
deep in the heart of that arm of those mountains which stretched south
and west along the border between Zamora and Brythunia. No bird sang,
and the cloudless azure sky was empty, for even the ever-present
vultures could find no current on which to soar.

In that eerie quiesence a thousand fierce, turbanned Kezankian hillmen
crowded steep brown slopes that formed a natural amphitheater. They
waited and merged with the silence of the mountains. No sheathed tulwar
clattered against stone. No booted foot shifted with the impatience
that was plain on lean, bearded faces. They hardly seemed to breathe.
Black eyes stared down unblinkingly at a space two hundred paces
across, floored with great granite blocks and encircled by a waisthigh
wall as wide as a man was tall. Granite columns, thick and crudely
hewn, lined the top of the wall like teeth in a sun-dried skull. In the
center of that circle three men, pale-skinned Brythunians, were bound
to tall stakes of black iron, arms stretched above their heads, leather
cords digging cruelly into their wrists. But they were not the object
of the watcher's attention. That was on the tall, scarlet-robed man
with a forked beard who stood atop a tunnel of massive stone blocks
that pierced the low wall and led back into the mountain behind him.

Basrakan Imalla, dark face thin and stern beneath a turban of red,
green and gold, threw back his head and cried, "All glory be to the
true gods!"

A sigh of exaltation passed through the watchers, and their response
rumbled against the mountainsides. "All glory be to the true gods!"

Had Basrakan's nature been different, he might have smiled in
satisfaction. Hillmen did not gather in large numbers, for every clan
warred against every other clan, and the tribes were riddled by blood
feuds. But he had gathered these and more. Nearly ten times their
number camped amid the jagged mountains around the amphitheater, and
scores of others joined them every day. With the power the true gods
had given him, with the sign of their favor they had granted him, he
had done what no other could. And he would do more! The ancient gods of
the Kezankians had chosen him out.

"Men of the cities," he made the word sound obscene, "worship false
gods! They know nothing of the true gods, the spirits of earth, of air,
of water. And of fire!"

A wordless roar broke from a thousand throats, approbation for Basrakan
and hatred for the men of the cities melting together till even the men
who shouted could not tell where one ended and the other began.

Basrakan's black eyes burned with fervor. Hundreds of Imallas wandered
the mountains, carrying the word of the ancient gods from clan to clan,
kept safe from feud and battle by the word they carried. But it had
been given to him to bring about the old gods' triumph.

"The people of the cities are an iniquity in the sight of the true
gods!" His voice rang like a deep bell, and he could feel his words
resonate in the minds of his listeners. "Kings and lords who murder
true believers in the names of the foul demons they call gods! Fat
merchants who pile up more gold in their vaults than any clan of the
mountains possesses! Princesses who flaunt their half-naked bodies and
offer themselves to men like trulls! Trulls who drench themselves in
perfumes and bedeck themselves in gold like princesses! Men with less
pride than animals, begging in the streets! The filth of their lives
stains the world, but we will wash it away in their blood!"

The scream that answered him, shaking the gray granite beneath his
feet, barely touched his thoughts. Deep into the warren of caverns
beneath this very mountain he had gone, through stygian passages lit
only by the torch he carried, seeking to be closer to the spirits of
the earth when he offered them prayers. There the true gods led him to
the subterranean pool where eyeless, albescent fish swam around the
clutch of huge eggs, as hard as the finest armor, left there countless
centuries past.

For years he had feared the true gods would turn their faces from him
for his study of the thaumaturgical arts, but only those studies had
enabled him to transport the slick black spheres back to his hut.
Without the knowledge from those studies he could never have succeeded
in hatching one of the nine, could never have bound the creature that
came from it to him, even as imperfectly as he had. If only he had the
Eyes of Fire . . . no, when he had them all, bonds, so tenuous now,
would become as iron.

"We will kill the unbelievers and the defilers!" Basrakan intoned as
the tumult faded. "We will tear down their cities and sow the ground
whereon they stood with salt! Their women, who are vessels of lust,
shall be scourged of their vileness! No trace of their blood shall
remain! Not even a memory!" The hook-nosed Imalla threw his arms wide.
"The sign of the true gods is with us!"

In a loud, clear voice he began to chant, each word echoing sharply
from the mountains. The thousand watching warriors held their
collective breath. He knew there were those listening who sought only
gold looted from the cities rather than the purification of the world.
Now they would learn to believe.

The last syllable of the incantation rang in the air like struck
crystal. Basrakan ran his eyes over the Brythunian captives, survivors
of a party of hunters who had entered the mountains from the west. One
was no more than sixteen, his gray eyes twisted with fear, but the
Imalla did not see the Brythunians as human. They were not of the
tribes. They were outsiders. They were the sacrifice.

Basrakan felt the coming, a slow vibration of the stone beneath his
feet, before he heard the rough scraping of claws longer than a man's
hand.

"The sign of the true gods is with us!" he shouted again, and the
creature's great head emerged from the tunnel.

A thousand throats answered the Imalla as the rest of the thick,
tubular body came into view, more than fifteen paces in length and
supported on four wide-set, massive legs. "The sign of the true gods is
with us!" Awe and fear warred in that thunderous roar.

Blackened plates lined its short muzzle, overlapped by thick, irregular
teeth designed for ripping flesh. The rest of that monstrous head and
body were covered by scales of green and gold and scarlet, glittering
in the pale sun, harder than the finest armor the hand of man could
produce. On its back those scales had of late been displaced by two
long, leathery boils. Drake, the ancient tomes called it, and if those
volumes were correct about the hard, dull bulges, the sign of the true
gods' favor would soon be complete.

The creature turned its head to stare with paralyzing intensity
directly at Basrakan. The Imalla remained outwardly calm, but a core of
ice formed in his stomach, and that coldness spread, freezing his
breath and the words in his throat. That golden-eyed gaze always seemed
to him filled with hatred. It could not be hatred of him, of course. He
was blessed by the true gods. Yet the malevolence was there. Perhaps it
was the contempt of a creature of the true gods for mere mortal men. In
any case, the wards he had set between the crudely hewn granite columns
would keep the drake within the circle, and the tunnel exited only
there. Or did it? Though he had often descended into the caverns
beneath the mountain-at least, in the days before he found the black
drake eggs-he had not explored the tenth part of them. There could be a
score of exits from that tangle of passages he had never found.

Those awesome eyes turned away, and Basrakan found himself drawing a
deep breath. He was pleased to note there was no shudder in it. The
favor of the old gods was truly with him.

With a speed that seemed too great for its bulk, the glittering
creature moved to within ten paces of the bound men. Suddenly the
great, scaled head went back, and from its gaping maw came a shrill
ululation that froze men's marrow and turned their bones to water. Awed
silence fell among the watchers, but one of the prisoners screamed, a
high, thin sound with the reek of madness in it. The boy fought his
cords silently; blood began to trickle down his arms.

The fiery-eyed Imalla brought his hands forward, palms up, as if
offering the drake to the assemblage. "From the depths of the earth it
comes!" he cried. "The spirits of earth are with us!"

Mouth still open, the drake's head lowered until those chill golden
eyes regarded the captives. From those gaping jaws a gout of rubescent
flame swept across the captives.

"Fire is its breath!" Basrakan shouted. "The spirits of fire are with
us!"

Two of the prisoners were sagging torches, tunic and hair aflame. The
youth, wracked with the pain of his burns, shrieked, "Mitra help me!
Eldran, I-"

The iridescent creature took two quick paces forward, and a shorter
burst of fire silenced the boy. Darting forward, the drake ripped a
burning body in half. The crunching of bones sounded loudly, and
gobbets of charred flesh dropped to the stone.

"The true gods are with us!" Basrakan declaimed. "On a day soon, the
sign of the gods' favor will fly! The spirits of air are with us!" The
old tomes had to be right, he thought. Those leathery bulges would
burst, and wings would grow. They would! "On that day we will ride
forth, invincible in the favor of the old gods, and purge the world
with fire and steel! All praise be to the true gods!"

"All praise be to the true gods!" his followers answered.

"All glory to the true gods!"

"All glory to the true gods!"

"Death to the unbelievers!"

The roar was deafening. "DEATH TO THE UNBELIEVERS!"

The thousand would stay to watch the feeding, for they were chosen by
lot from the ever-growing number encamped in the surrounding mountains,
and many had never seen it before. Basrakan had more important matters
to tend to. The drake would return to its caverns of its own accord
when the bodies were consumed. The Imalla started up a path, well worn
now in the brown stone by many journeys, that led from the amphitheater
around the mountainside.

A man almost as tall as Basrakan and even leaner, his face burning with
ascetic fanaticism above a plaited beard, met him and bowed deeply,
"The blessings of the true gods be on you, Basrakan Imalla," the
newcomer said. His turban of scarlet, green and gold marked him as
Basrakan's acolyte, though his robe was of plain black. "The man
Akkadan has come. I have had him taken to your dwelling."

No glimmer of Basrakan's excitement touched his stern face. The Eyes of
Fire! He inclined his head slightly. "The blessings of the true gods be
on you, Jbeil Imalla. I will see him now."

Jbeil bowed again; Basrakan went on, seemingly unhurried, but without
even the inclination of his head this time.

The path led around the slope of the mountain to the village of stone
houses, a score in number, that had grown up where once stood the hut
in which Basrakan had lived. His followers had spoken of building a
fortress for him, but he had no need of such. In time, though, he had
allowed the construction of a dwelling for himself, of two stories and
larger than all the rest of the village placed together. It was not a
matter of pride, he often reminded himself, for he denied all pride
save that of the old gods. The structure was for their glory.

Turbanned and bearded men in stained leather vests and voluminous
trousers, the original color of which was a mystery lost in age and
dirt, cowed as he passed, as did women covered from head to foot in
black cloth, with only a slit for their eyes. He ignored them, as he
did the two guards before his door, for he was openly hurrying now.

Within, another acolyte in multi-hued turban bent himself and gestured
with a bony hand. "The blessings of the true gods be on you, Basrakan
Imalla. The man Akkadan-"

"Yes, Ruhallah." Basrakan wasted not even moments on honorifics. "Leave
me!" Without waiting to be obeyed, the tall Imalla swept through the
door Ruhallah had indicated, into a room sparsely furnished with
black-lacquered tables and stools. A hanging on one wall was a woven
map of the nations from the Vilayet Sea west to Nemedia and Ophir.

Basrakan's face darkened at the sight of the man who waited there.
Turban and forked beard proclaimed him hillman, but his fingers bore
jeweled rings, his cloak was of purple silk and there was a plumpness
about him that bespoke feasting and wine.

"You have spent too much time among the men of the cities, Akkadan,"
Basrakan said grimly. "No doubt you have partaken of their vices!
Consorted with their women!"

The plump man's face paled beneath its swarthiness, and he quickly hid
his beringed hands behind him as he bowed. "No, Basrakan Imalla, I have
not. I swear!" His words tumbled over each other in his haste. Sweat
gleamed on his forehead. "I am a true-"

"Enough!" Basrakan spat. "You had best have what I sent you for,
Akkadan. I commanded you not to return without the information."

"I have it, Basrakan Imalla. I have found them. And I have made plans
of the palace and maps-"

Basrakan's shout cut him short. "Truly I am favored above all other men
by the true gods!"

Turning his back on Akkadan, he strode to the wall hanging, clenched
fists raised in triumph toward the nations represented there. Soon the
Eyes of Fire would be his, and the drake would be bound to him as if
part of his flesh and will. And with the sign of the true gods' favor
flying before his followers, no army of mortal men would long stand
against them.

"All glory to the true gods," Basrakan whispered fiercely. "Death to
all unbelievers!"


Chapter I

Night caressed Shadizar, that city known as 'the Wicked,' and veiled
the happenings which justified that name a thousand times over. The
darkness that brought respite to other cities drew out the worst in
Shadizar of the Alabaster Towers, Shadizar of the Golden Domes, city of
venality and debauchery.

In a score of marble chambers silk-clad nobles coerced wives not theirs
to their beds, and many-chinned merchants licked fat lips over the
abductions of competitors' nubile daughters. Perfumed wives, fanned by
slaves wielding snowy ostrich plumes, plotted the cuckolding of
husbands, sometimes their own, while hot-eyed young women of wealth or
noble birth or both schemed at circumventing the guards placed on their
supposed chastity. Nine women and thirty-one men, one a beggar and one
a lord, died by murder. The gold of ten wealthy men was taken from iron
vaults by thieves, and fifty others increased their wealth at the
expense of the poor. In three brothels perversions never before
contemplated by humankind were created. Doxies beyond numbering plied
their ancient trade from the shadows, and twisted, ragged beggars
preyed on the trulls' wine-soaked patrons. No man walked the streets
unarmed, but even in the best quarters of the city arms were often not
enough to save one's silver from cutpurses and footpads. Night in
Shadizar was in full cry.

Wisps of cloud, stirred by a warm breeze, dappled the moon sitting high
in the sky. Vagrant shadows fled over the rooftops, yet they were
enough for the massively muscled young man, swordbelt slung across his
broad chest so that the worn hilt of his broadsword projected above his
right shoulder, who raced with theta from chimney to chimney. With a
skill born in the savage wastes of his native Cimmerian mountains he
blended with the drifting shades, and was invisible to the eyes of the
city-born.

The roof the muscular youth traveled came to an end, and he peered down
into the blackness hiding the paving stones of the street, four stories
below. His eyes were frozen sapphires, and his face, a square-cut
lion's mane of black held back from it by a leather cord, showed
several ordinary lifetimes' experience despite its youth. He eyed the
next building, an alabaster cube with a freize of scrollwork running
all the way around it an arm's length below the roof. From deep in his
throat came a soft growl. A good six paces wide, the street was,
although it was the narrowest of the four that surrounded the nearly
palatial structure. What he had not noticed when he chose this
approach-eying the distances from the ground-was that the far roof was
sloped. Steeply! Erlik take Baratses, he thought. And his gold!

This was no theft of his own choosing, but rather was at the behest of
the merchant Baratses, a purveyor of spices from the most distant
realms of the world. Ten pieces of gold the spice dealer had offered
for the most prized possession of Samarides, a wealthy importer of
gems: a goblet carved from a single huge emerald. Ten pieces of gold
was the hundredth part of the goblet's worth, one tenth of what the
fences in the Desert would pay, but a run of bad luck with the dice had
put the Cimmerian in urgent need of coin. He had agreed to theft and
price, and taken two gold pieces in advance, before he even knew what
was to be stolen. Still, a bargain sworn to must be kept. At least, he
thought grimly, there was no guard atop the other building, as there
were on so many other merchants' roofs.

"Crom!" he muttered with a last look at Samarides' roof, and moved back
from the edge, well back into the shadows among the chimneys. Breathing
deeply to charge his lungs, he crouched. His eyes strained toward the
distant rooftop. Suddenly, like a hunting leopard, he sprang forward;
in two strides he was sprinting at full speed. His lead foot touched
the edge of the roof, and he leaped, hurling himself into the air with
arms outstretched, fingers curled to grab.

With a crash he landed at full length on the sloping roof. And
immediately began to slide. Desperately he spread his arms and legs to
slow himself; his eyes searched for a projection to grasp, for the
smallest nub that might stop his fall. Inexorably he moved toward the
drop to the pavement.

No wonder there was no watchman on the roof, he thought, furious at
himself for not questioning that lack earlier. The rooftiles were
glazed to a surface like oiled porcelain. In the space of a breath his
feet were over the edge, then his legs. Abruptly his left hand slid
into a gap where a tile was missing. Tiles shattered as his weight
smashed his vainly gripping hand through them; fragments showered past
him into the gloom beneath. Wood slapped his palm; convulsively he
clutched. With a jerk that wrenched at the heavy muscles of his
shoulder he was brought up short to swing over the shadowed four-story
drop.

For the first time since his leap he made a sound, a long, slow
exhalation between his teeth. "Ten gold pieces," he said in a flat
voice, "are not enough."

Suddenly the wooden roof-frame he was grasping gave with a sharp snap,
and he was falling again. Twisting as he dropped, he stretched, caught
the finger-joint-wide ledge at the bottom of the frieze by his
fingertips, and slammed flat against the alabaster wall.

"Not nearly enough," he panted when he had regained his breath. "I've
half a mind to take the accursed thing to Zeno after this." But even as
he said it he knew he would not go to the Nemedian fence. He had given
his word.

At the moment, he realized, his problem lay not in how to dispose of
the emerald goblet, but in how to leave his present position with a
whole skin. The only openings piercing the alabaster wall at this
height were ventilation holes the size of his fist, for the top floor
and the attic were given over to storage and quarters for servants and
slaves. Such needed no windows, to the mind of Samarides, and if they
had them would only lean out and spoil the appearance of his fine
house. No other ledges or friezes broke the smoothness of the walls,
nor were there balconies overlooking the street. The roof he had first
leaped from might as well have been in Sultanapur, the roof above as
well have been beyond the clouds. That, the dangling youth reluctantly
concluded, left only the windows of the third floor, their arched tops
a good armspan lower than his feet.

It was not his way to dally when his course was decided. Slowly,
hanging by his fingertips, he worked his way along the narrow ledge.
The first two arched windows to pass beneath his feet glowed with
light. He could not risk meeting people. The third, however, was dark.

Taking a deep breath, he let go his hold and dropped, his body brushing
lightly against the wall. If he touched the wall too much, it would
push him out and away to fall helplessly. As he felt his legs come in
front of the window, he moved his feet inward, toward the window sill.
Stone smashed against his soles, his palms slapped hard against the
sides of the window, and he hung precariously, leaning outward. The
thickness of the wall, the depth of the window, denied even a
fingernail's hold. Only the outward pressure of his hands kept him from
hurtling to the street.

Muscles knotted with the strain, he drew himself forward until he could
step within Samarides' dwelling. As his foot touched the carpet-strewn
floor, his hand went to the worn leather of his sword hilt. The room
was dark, yet his night-accustomed eyes could make out the dim shapes
of cushioned chairs. Tapestries, their colors reduced to shadings of
gray, hung on the walls, and a dimly patterned carpet covered the
marble floor. With a sigh he relaxed, a trifle, at least. This was no
sleeping chamber, with someone to awaken and scream an alarm. It was
about time something went right on this night of continuous
near-disaster.

There were still problems, though. He was unsure whether the worst of
these was how to get out of the dwelling-or how to get to his goal.
Samarides' house was arranged around a central garden, where the gem
merchant spent a great deal of his time among the fountains. The only
door of the room in which he displayed his treasures opened onto the
ground-floor colonnade around that garden.

It would have been easy to climb down from the roof to the garden, and
Baratses had told him exactly the location of the door to the treasure
room. Now he must make his way through the corridors, and risk coming
on servants or guards.

Opening the door a crack, he peered into the hall, lit by gilded brass
oil lamps hung on chains from bronze wall sconces. Tables inlaid with
mother-of-pearl stood at intervals along walls mosaicked in intricate
patterns with thousands of tiny, multihued tiles. No one trod the
polished marble floor. Silently he slipped into the corridor.

For a heartbeat he stood, picturing the plan of the house in his mind.
The treasure room was in that direction. Ears straining for the
slightest hint of another's footstep, he hurried through the halls with
a tread as light as a cat. Back stairs led downward, then others took
him down again. Their location and the fact that their dark red tiles
were dull and worn marked them as servant's stairs. Twice the scuff of
sandals from a crossing corridor gave warning, and he pressed his back
to a wall, barely breathing, while unseeing servants in pale blue
tunics scurried by, too intent on their labors to so much as glance
down the branching way.

Then he was into the central garden, the high, shadowed walls of the
house making it a small canyon. Splash and burble echoed softly from
half-a-score fountains, scattered among fig tree and flowering plants
and alabaster statuary. The treasure room lay directly opposite him
across the garden.

He took a step, and froze. A dim shape hurried toward him down one of
the garden paths. Silently he moved further to the side, away from the
light spilling from the doorway. The approaching figure plowed. Had he
been seen, he wondered. Whoever was coming moved very slowly, now,
seeming almost to creep, and made no sound at all. Abruptly the figure
left the slated walk and moved toward him again. His jaw tightened; no
other muscle of him moved, not so much as an eyelid blinking. Closer.
Ten paces. Five. Two.

Suddenly the strangely still-dim figure froze, gasped. The big youth
sprang. One hand cut off sound by covering the mouth that uttered it.
His other arm pinned the figure's arms. Teeth dug into his calloused
palm, and his captive flung about wildly, kicks thudding against his
legs.

"Erlik take you!" he hissed. "You fight like a woman! Stop that, and
I'll not hurt-"

It penetrated his mind that the body he held was rounded, if firm. He
side-stepped to the edge of the light from the doorway, and found
himself studying large, brown eyes that were suddenly frowning above
his hand. It was a woman, and a pretty one, with satiny, olive skin and
her hair braided tightly about her small head. The biting stopped, and
he loosed his grip on her jaw. He opened his mouth to say he would not
harm her if she gave no outcry, but she cut him off.

"I am a sorcereress," she whispered hoarsely, "and I know you, Conan,
far-traveler from Samaria, or Cymria, or some such place. You think you
are a thief. Release me!"

The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. How could she know? He
seemed to have a talent for running afoul of sorcerers, a talent he
would just as soon lose. His grip was loosening when he became aware of
the amused gleam in her big eyes, and the way her small, white teeth
were biting a full lower lip. For the first time he took in her garb,
snug, dull black from neck to toes. Even her feet were covered in ebon
cloth, with the big toe separated like the thumb on a mitten.

Holding her out from him by her upper arms, he was unable to suppress a
smile. Slender, she was, and short, but the close fit of her odd
garments left no doubts as to her womanhood. She kicked at him, and he
caught it on his thigh.

"Sorcereress?" he growled softly. "Then why do I think you'll change
your story should I take a switch to your rump?"

"Why do I think that at the first blow I'll howl loudly enough to bring
half the city?" she whispered back. "But truly I don't wish to. My name
is Lyana, and I've heard of you, Conan. I've seen you in the streets.
And admired you. I just wanted to sound mysterious, so I could compete
with your other women." She shifted in his grasp, and her round
breasts, large on her diminutive slimness, seemed even more prominent.
Her tongue wet her lips, and she smiled invitingly. "Could you please
put me down? You're so strong, and you're hurting me."

He hesitated, then lowered her feet to the ground.

"What is this garb you wear, Lyana?"

"Forget that," she breathed, swaying closer. "Kiss me."

Despite himself his hands came up to clasp her face. Before his fingers
touched her cheeks, she dropped to her knees and threw herself into a
forward tumble past him. Stunned, he still managed to whirl after her.
One tiny foot flashing from the middle of her roll caught him under the
ribs, bringing a grunt, slowing him enough for her to come to her feet
facing the wall . . . and she seemed to go up it like a spider.

With an oath Conan leaped forward. Something struck his arm, and he
grabbed a soft, black-dye rope, hanging from above.

"Mitra blast me for a fool!" he grated. "A thief!"

Soft laughter floated down from close enough over his head to make him
peer sharply upwards. "You are a fool." The girl's soft tones brimmed
with mirth. "And I am indeed a thief, which you'll never be. Perhaps,
with those shoulders, you could be a carter. Or a cart horse."

Snarling, Conan took hold of the rope to climb. A flicker caught the
corner of his eye, and he felt more than heard something strike the
ground by his foot. Instinctively, he jumped back, losing his grip on
the rope. His grab to regain it brushed only the free end as it was
drawn up.

"It would have struck you," the girl's low voice came again, "had I
intended it so. Were I you, I'd leave here. Now. Fare you well, Conan."

"Lyana?" he whispered roughly.

"Lyana?" Mocking silence answered him.

Muttering under his breath, he searched the ground around his feet, and
tugged a flat, black throwing knife from the dirt. He tucked it behind
his swordbelt, then stiffened as if stabbed.

The girl was a thief, and she had come from the direction of the
treasure room. Cursing under his breath he ran, heedless of the rare
shrubs and plants he passed.

An arched door led into the chamber where Samarides kept his most
valuable possessions, and that door stood open. Conan paused a moment
to study the heavy iron lock. That the girl had opened it he had no
doubt, but if she had been within, then any traps must have been
disabled, or else be easily avoided.

The Cimmerian hesitated a moment longer, then started across the
chamber, floored in diamond-shaped tiles of alternating red and white.
The emerald goblet, he had been told, stood at the far end of the room
on a pedestal carved of serpentine. At his second step a diamond tile
sank beneath his foot. Thinking of cross-bows mounted on the wall-he
had encountered such before-he threw himself flat on the floor. And
felt another tile sink beneath his hand. From the wall came a rattling
clink and clatter he had been a thief long enough to recognize. The
sinking tiles had each released a weight which was pulling a chain from
a wheel. And that in turn would activate . . . what?

As he leaped to his feet a bell began to toll, then another. Cursing,
he ran the length of the room. Twice more tiles sank beneath him, and
by the time he reached the dull green mottled pedestal, four bells
clanged the alarm. The pedestal was bare.

"Erlik take the wench!" he snarled.

Spinning, he dashed from the chamber. And ran head-on into two
spear-carrying guards. As the three fell to the floor it flashed into
Conan's head that it was just as well he had not dallied to choose
something to make up for the loss of the goblet. His fist smashed into
the face of one guard, nose and teeth cracking in a spray of red. The
man jerked and sagged, unconscious. The other scrambled to his feet,
spear ready to thrust. Had he delayed, Conan thought, they could likely
have held him in the chamber long enough for others to arrive. His
sword flickered from its sheath, caught the spear just behind the head,
and the second guard found himself holding a long stick. With a shout
the man threw the pole at Conan and fled.

Conan ran, too. In the opposite direction. At the first doorway of the
house he ducked inside, bursting into the midst of servants nervously
chattering about the still ringing bells. For an instant they stared at
him, eyes going wider and wider, then he waved his sword in the air and
roared at the top of his lungs. Shrieking men and women scattered like
a covey of Kothian quail.

Confusion, the Cimmerian thought. If he spread enough confusion he
might get out of there yet. Through the house he sped, and every
servant he met was sent flying by fierce roars and waving blade, till
cries of "Help!" and "Murder!" and even "Fire!" rang down every
corridor. More than once the young Cimmerian had to duck down a side
hall as guards clattered by, chasing after screams and yelling
themselves, until he began to wonder how many men Samarides had.
Cacophony run riot tilled the house.

At last he reached the entry hall, surrounded on three sides by a
balcony with balustrades of smoke-stone, beneath a vaulted ceiling
worked in alabaster arabesques. Twin broad stairs of black marble
curved down from that second-floor balcony to a floor mosaicked in a
map of the world, as Zamorans knew it, with each country marked by
representations of the gems imported from it.

All of this Conan ignored, his eyes locked on the tall, iron-studded
doors leading to the street. A bar, heavy enough to need three men for
the lifting, held them shut, and the bar was in turn fastened in place
by iron chains and massive locks.

"Crom!" he growled. "Shut up like a fortress!"

Once, twice, thrice his broadsword clashed against a lock, with him
wincing at the damage the blows were doing to his edge. The lock broke
open, and he quickly pulled the chain through the iron loops holding it
against the bar. As he turned to the next chain, a quarrel as thick as
two of his fingers slammed into the bar where he had been standing. He
changed his turn into a dive to the floor, eyes searching for the next
shot.

Instantly he saw his lone opponent. Atop one flight of stairs stood a
man of immense girth, whose skin yet hung in folds as if he had once
been twice so big. Lank, thinning hair surrounded his puffy face, and
he wore a shapeless sleeping garment of dark blue silk. Samarides. One
of the gem merchant's feet was in the stirrup of a heavy crossbow, and
he laboriously worked the handles of a windlass to crank back the
bowstring, a rope of drool running from one corner of his narrow mouth.

Quickly judging how long it would be before Samarides could place
another quarrel in the crossbow, Conan bounded to his feet. A single
furious blow that struck sparks sent the second lock clattering to the
floor. Sheathing his sword, the Cimmerian tugged the chain free and set
his hands to the massive bar.

"Guards!" Samarides screamed. "To me! Guards!"

Muscles corded and knotted in calves and thighs, back, shoulders and
arms, as Conan strained against the huge wooden bar. By the thickness
of a fingernail it lifted. Sweat popped out on his forehead. The
thickness of a finger. The width of a hand. And then the massive bar
was clear of the support irons.

Three slow, staggering steps backwards Conan took, until he could turn
and heave the bar aside. Mosaic tiles shattered as it landed with a
crash that shook the floor.

"Guards!" Samarides shrieked, and pounding feet answered him.

Conan dashed to the thick, iron-studded doors and heaved one open to
crash against a wall. As he darted through, another quarrel slashed
past his head to gouge a furrow in the marble of Samarides' portico.
Tumult rose behind him as guards rushed into the entry hall, shouting
to Samarides for instructions, and Samarides screamed incoherently back
at them. Conan did not look back. He ran. Mind filled with anger at a
young woman thief with a too-witty tongue, he ran until the night of
Shadizar swallowed him.


Chapter II

That quarter of Shadizar called the Desert was a warren of crooked
steets reeking of offal and despair. The debaucheries that took place
behind closed doors in the rest of the city were performed openly in
the Desert, and made to pay a profit. Its denizens, more often in rags
than not, lived as if death could come with the next breath, as it
quite often did. Men and women were scavengers, predators or prey, and
some who thought themselves in one class discovered, frequently too
late, that they were in another.

The tavern of Abuletes was one of the Desert's best, as such was
accounted there. Few footpads and fewer cutpurses were numbered among
its patrons. Graverobbers were unwelcome, though more for the smells
that hung about them than for how they earned their coin. For the rest,
all who had the price of a drink were welcome.

When Conan slapped open the tavern door, the effluvia of the street
fought momentarily with the smell of half-burned meat and sour wine in
the big common room where two musicians playing zithers for a naked
dancing girl competed unsuccessfully with the babble of the tavern's
custom. A mustachioed Nemedian coiner at the bar fondled a giggling
doxy in a tall, red-dyed wig and strips of green silk that did little
to cover her generously rounded breasts and buttocks. A plump Ophirean
procurer, jeweled rings glittering on his fingers, held court at a
corner table; among those laughing at his jokes-so long as his gold
held out, at least-were three kidnappers, swarthy, narrow-faced
Iranistanis, hoping he would throw a little business their way. A pair
of doxies, dark-eyed twins, hawked their wares among the tables, their
girdies of coins clinking as their hips swayed in unison.

Before the Cimmerian had taken a full step, a voluptuous, oliveskinned
woman threw her arms around his neck. Gilded brass breastplates barely
contained her heavy breasts, and a narrow girdle of gilded chain, set
low on her well-rounded hips, supported a length of diaphanous blue
silk, no more than a handspan in width, that hung to her braceleted
ankles before and behind.

"Ah, Conan," she murmured thoatily, "what a pity you did not return
earlier."

"Have some wine with me, Semiramis," he replied, eying her swelling
chest, "and tell me why I should have come back sooner. Then we can go
upstairs-" He cut off with a frown as she shook her head.

"I ply my trade this night, Cimmerian." At his frown, she sighed. "Even
I must have a little silver to live."

"I have silver," he growled.

"And I cannot take coin from you. I will not."

He muttered an oath under his breath. "You always say that. Why not? I
don't understand."

"Because you're not a woman." She laughed softly and traced a finger
along his jaw. "A thing for which I am continually grateful."

Conan's face tightened. First Lyana had made a fool of him this night,
and now Semiramis attempted the same. "Women never say their minds
straight out. Very well. If you've no use for me tonight, then I'm done
with you as well." He left her standing with her fists on her hips and
her mouth twisted in exasperation.

At the bar he dug into his purse and tossed coppers onto the cracked
wooden surface. As he had known it would, the sound of coins penetrated
the wall of noise in the room and drew Abuletes, wiping his fat fingers
on the filthy apron he wore over a faded yellow tunic. The tavernkeeper
made the coins disappear with a deft motion.

"I want wine for that," Conan said. Abuletes nodded. "And some
information."

" 'Tis enough for the wine," the tavernkeeper replied drily. He set a
wooden tankard, from which rose the sour smell of cheap wine, before
the big youth. "Information costs more."

Conan rubbed his thumb over a gouge in the edge of the bar, made by a
sword stroke, drawing the fat man's piggish eyes to the mark. "There
were six of them, as I recall," he said absently. "One with his knife
pricking your ribs, and ready to probe your guts if you opened your
mouth without his leave. What was it they intended? Taking you into the
kitchen, wasn't it? Didn't one of them speak of putting your feet in
the cookfire till you told where your gold is cached?"

"I have no gold," Abuletes muttered unconvincingly. He could spot a
clipped coin at ten paces, and was reliably rumored to have the first
copper he had ever stolen buried somewhere in the tavern.

"Of course not," Conan agreed smoothly. "Still, it was Hannuman's own
luck for you I saw what was happening, when none else did. 'Twould have
been . . . uncomfortable for you, with your feet in the coals and
naught to tell them."

"Aye, you saw." The fat man's tone was as sour as his wine. "And laid
about you with that accursed sword, splintering half my tables. Do you
know what they cost to replace? The doxies were hysterical for all the
blood you splattered around, and half my night's custom disappeared for
fear you'd cut them down as well."

Conan laughed and drank deeply from the tankard, saying no more. Never
a night passed without blood shed on the sawdust-strewn floor, and it
was no rare sight to see a corpse being dragged out back for disposal
in an alley.

Abuletes' face twisted, and his chin sank until his chins doubled in
number. "This makes it clear between us. Right?"

The Cimmerian nodded, but cautioned, "If you tell me what I want to
hear. I look for a woman." Abuletes snorted and gestured to the doxies
scattered through the common room. Conan went on patiently. "She's a
thief, about so tall," he marked with one big hand at the height of his
chest, "and well rounded for her size. Tonight she wore black leggings
and a short tunic, both as tight as her skin. And she carried this." He
laid the thowing knife on the bar. "She calls herself Lyana."

Abuletes prodded the black blade with a grimy-knuckled finger. "I know
of no woman thief, called Lyana or aught else. There was a man, though,
who used knives like this. Jamal, he was named."

"A woman, Abuletes."

The fat tapster shrugged. "He had a daughter. What was her name? Let me
see." He rubbed at a suety cheek. "Jamal was shortened a head by the
City Guard, it must be ten years back. His brothers took the girl in.
Gayan and Hafid. They were thieves, too. Haven't heard of them in
years, though. Too old for the life now, I suppose. Age gets us all, in
the end. Tamira. That was her name. Tamira."

The muscular youth stared expressionless at Abuletes until the fat
tavernkeeper fell silent. "I ask about a girl called Lyana, and you
spin me a tale of this Tamira. And her entire Mitra-accursed family.
Would you care to tell me about her mother? Her grandfather? I've a
mind to put your feet in the fire myself."

Abuletes eyed Conan warily. The man with the strange blue eyes was
known in the Desert for his sudden temper, and for his
unpredictability. The tavernkeeper spread his hands. "How hard is it to
give a name not your own? And didn't I say? Jamal and his brothers wore
the black garments you spoke of. Claimed it made them all but invisible
in the dark. Had all sorts of tricks, they did. Ropes of raw silk dyed
black, and I don't know what all. No, Tamira's your female thief, all
right, whatever she calls herself now."

Black ropes, Conan thought, and suppressed a smile. Despite his youth
he had had enough years as a thief to learn discretion. "Perhaps," was
all he said.

"Perhaps," the tapster grumbled. "You mark me on it. She's the one.
This makes us even, Cimmerian."

Conan finished his wine in three long gulps and set the empty tankard
down with a click. "If she is the woman I seek. The question now is
where to find her and make certain."

Abuletes threw up his pudgy hands. "Do you think I keep track of every
woman in the Desert? I can't even keep track of the trulls in my own
tavern!"

Conan turned his back on the tavernkeeper's grinding teeth. Tamira and
Lyana, he was sure, were one and the same woman. Luck must be with him,
for he had expected days of asking to find a trace of her. Denizens of
the Desert left as few tracks as the animals of that district's
namesake. Surely discovering so much so quickly was an omen. No doubt
he would leave the tavern in the morning and find her walking past in
the street. Then they would see who would make a fool of whom.

At that moment his eye fell on Semiramis, seated at a table with three
Kothian smugglers. One, with his mustache curled like horns and big
gilded hoops in his ears, kneaded her bare thigh as he spoke to her
urgently. Nodding in sudden decision, Conan strode to the table where
the four sat.

The Kothians looked up, and Semiramis frowned. "Conan," she began,
reaching toward him cautioningly.

The big Cimmerian grasped her wrist, bent and, before anyone could
move, hoisted her over his shoulder. Stools crashed over as the
Kothians leaped to their feet, hands going to sword hilts.

"You northland oaf!" Semiramis howled, wriggling furiously. Her fist
pounded futilely at his back. "Unhand me, you misbegotten spawn of a
camel! Mitra blast your eyes, Conan!"

Her tirade went on, getting more inventive, and Conan paused to listen
admiringly. The Kothians hesitated with swords half drawn, disconcerted
at being ignored. After a moment Conan turned his attention to them,
putting a pleasant smile on his face. That seemed to unsettle the three
even more.

"My sister," he said mildly. "She and I must speak of family matters."

"Erlik flay your hide and stake your carcass in the sun!" the
struggling woman yelled. "Derketo shrivel your stones!"

Calmly Conan met each man's gaze in turn, and each man shivered, for
his smile did not extend to those glacial blue orbs. The Kothians
measured the breadth of his shoulders, calculated how encumbered he
would be by the woman, and tossed the dice in the privacy of their
minds.

"I wouldn't interfere between brother and sister," the one with hoops
in his ears muttered, his eyes sliding away. Suddenly all three were
engrossed in setting their stools upright.

Semiramis' shouts redoubled in fury as Conan started for the rickety
stairs that led to the second floor. He smacked a rounded buttock with
his open palm. "Your sweet poetry leads me to believe you love me," he
said, "but your dulcet tones would deafen an ox. Be quiet."

Her body quivered. It took him a moment to realize she was laughing.
"Will you at least let me walk, you untutored beast?" she asked.

"No," he replied with a grin.

"Barbarian!" she murmured, and snuggled her cheek against his back.

Laughing, he took the stairs two at a time. Luck was indeed with him.


Chapter III

The Katara Bazaar was a kaleidoscope of colors and a cacophony of
voices, a large, flagstone-paved square near the Desert where sleek
lordlings, perfumed pomanders at their nostrils, rubbed shoulders with
unwashed apprentices who apologized with mocking grins when they
jostled the well-born. Silk-clad ladies, trailed by attentive slaves to
carry their purchases, browsed unmindful of the ragged urchins
scurrying about their feet. Some vendors displayed their goods on
flimsy tables sheltered by faded lengths of cloth on poles. Others had
no more than a blanket spread beneath the hot sun. Hawkers of plums
send ribbons, oranges and pins, cried their wares shrilly as they
strolled through the throng. Rainbow bolts of cloth, carved ivories
from Vendhya, brass bowls from Shadizar's own metalworkers, lustrous
pearls from the Western Sea and paste "gems" guaranteed to be genuine,
all changed hands in the space of a heartbeat. Some were stolen, some
smuggled. A rare few had even had the King's tax paid on them.

On the morning after his attempt at Samarides' goblet-the thought made
him wince-Conan made his way around the perimeter of the bazaar,
searching without seeming to among the beggars. Mendicants were not
allowed within the confines of the great square, but they lined its
edges, their thin, supplicating cries entreating passersby for a coin.
There was a space between each ragged man and the next, and unlike
beggars elsewhere in Shadizar these cooperated to the extent of
maintaining that distance. Too many too close together would reduce
each man's take.

Exchanging a copper with a fruitmonger for two oranges, the big
Cimmerian squatted near a beggar in filthy rags, a man with one leg
twisted grotesquely at the knee. A grimy strip of cloth covered his
eyes, and a wooden bowl with a single copper in the bottom sat on the
flagstones before him.

"Pity the blind," the beggar whined loudly. "A coin for the blind,
gentle people. Pity the blind."

Conan tossed one orange into the bowl and began stripping the peel from
the other. "Ever think of going back to being a thief, Peor?" he said
quietly.

The "blind" man turned his head slightly to make sure no one else was
close by and said, "Never, Cimmerian." His cheerful voice was pitched
to reach Conan's ear and no further. He made the orange disappear
beneath his tunic of patches. "For later. No, I pay my tithe to the
City Guard, and I sleep easy at night knowing my head will never go up
on a pike over the West Gate. You should consider becoming a beggar.
'Tis a solid trade. Not like thieving. Mitra-accursed mountain slime!"

Conan paused with a segment of orange half-lifted to his mouth. "What?"

Barely moving his head, Peor motioned to a knot of six Kezankian
hillmen, turbanned and bearded, their dark eyes wide with ill-concealed
amazement at the city around them. They wandered through the bazaar in
a daze, fingering goods but never buying. From the scowls that followed
them, the peddlers were glad to see their backs, sale or no. "That's
the third lot of those filthy jackals I've seen today, and a good two
turns of the glass till the sun is high. They should be running for the
rocks they crawled out from under, what with the news that's about this
morning."

The beggar got little chance between sunrise and sunset to say anything
beyond his pleading cry, and the occasional fawning thanks. It could
not hurt to let him talk, Conan thought, and said, "What news?"

Peor snorted. "If it was about a new method of winning at dice,
Cimmerian, you'd have known of it yesterday. Do you think of anything
but women and gambling?"

"The news, Peor?"

"They say someone is uniting the Kezankian tribes. They say the hillmen
are sharpening their tulwars. They say it could mean war. If 'tis so,
the Desert will feel the first blow, as always."

Conan tossed the last of the orange aside and wiped his hands on his
thighs. "The Kezankians are far distant, Peor." His grin revealed
strong white teeth. "Or do you think the tribesmen will leave their
mountains to sack the Desert? It is not the place I would chose, were I
they, but you are older than I and no doubt know better."

"Laugh, Cimmerian," Peor said bitterly. "But when war is announced the
mob will hunt for hillman throats to slit, and when they cannot find
enough to sate their bloodlust, they'll turn their attentions to the
Desert. And the army will be there-'to preserve order.' Which means to
put to the sword any poor sod from the Desert who thinks of actually
resisting the mob. It has happened before, and will again."

A shadow fell across them, cast by a woman whose soft robes of emerald
silk clung to the curves of breasts and belly and thighs like a caress.
A belt woven of golden ciuords was about her waist. Ropes of pearls
encircled her wrists and neck, and two more, as large as a man's
thumbnail, were at her ears. Behind her a tall Shemite, the iron collar
of a slave on his neck and a bored expression on his face, stood laden
with packages from the Bazaar. She dropped a silver coin in Peor's
bowl, but her sultry gaze was all for Conan.

The muscular youth enjoyed the looks women gave him, as a normal
matter, but this one examined him as if he were a horse in the auction
barns. And to make matters worse a scowl grew on the Shemite's face as
though he recognized a rival. Conan's face grew hot with anger. He
opened his mouth, but she spoke first.

"My husband would never approve the purchase," she smiled, and walked
away with undulating hips. The Shemite hurried after her, casting a
self-satisfied glance over his shoulder at Conan as he went.

Peor's bony fingers fished the coin from the bowl. With a cackle that
showed he had regained at least some of his humor, he tucked it into
his pouch. "And she'd pay a hundred times so much for a single night
with you, Cimmerian. Two hundred. A more pleasant way to earn your coin
than scrambling over rooftops, eh?"

"Would you like that leg broken in truth?" Conan growled.

The beggar's cackles grew until they took him into a fit of coughing.
When he could breathe normally again, he wiped the back of his hand
across his thin-lipped mouth. "No doubt I would earn even more in my
bowl. My knee hurts of a night for leaving it so all day, but that fall
was the best thing that ever happened to me."

Conan shivered at the thought, but pressed on while the other held his
good mood. "I did not come today just to give you an orange, Peor. I
look for a woman called Lyana, or perhaps Tamira."

Peor nodded as the Cimmerian described the girl and gave a carefully
edited account of their meeting, then said, "Tamira. I've heard that
name, and seen the girl. She looks as you say."

"Where can I find her?" Conan asked eagerly, but the beggar shook his
head.

"I said I've seen her, and more than once, but as to where she might
be..." He shrugged.

Conan put a hand to the leather purse at his belt. "Peor, I could
manage, a pair of silver pieces for the man who tells me how to find
her."

"I wish I knew," Peor said ruefully, then went on quickly. "But I'll
pass the word among the Brotherhood of the Bowl. If a beggar sees her,
you'll hear of it. After all, friendship counts for something, does it
not?"

The Cimmerian cleared his throat to hide a grin. Friendship, indeed!
The message would come to him through Peor, and the beggar who sent it
would be lucky to get as much as one of the silver pieces. "That it
does," he agreed.

"But, Conan? I don't hold with killing women. You don't intend to hurt
her, do you?"

"Only her pride," Conan said, getting to his feet. With the beggars'
eyes as his, he would have her before the day was out. "Only her
pride."

Two days later Conan threaded his way through the thronging crowds with
a sour expression on his face. Not only the beggars of Shadizar had
become his eyes. More than one doxy had smiled at the ruggedly handsome
young Cimmerian, shivered in her depths at the blue of his eyes, and
promised to watch for the woman he sought, though never without a pout
of sultry jealousy. The street urchins, unimpressed by broad shoulders
or azure eyes, had been more difficult. Some men called them the Dust,
those homeless, ragged children, countless in number and helpless
before the winds of fate, but the streets of Shadizar were a hard
school, and the urchins gave trust grudgingly and demanded a reward in
silver. But from all those eyes he had learned only where Tamira had
been, and never a word of where she was.

Conan's eyes searched among the passersby, seeking to pierce the veils
of those women who wore them. At least, the veils of those who were
slender and no taller than his chest. What he would do when he found
her was not yet clear in his mind beyond the matter of seeking
restitution for his youthful pride, but find her he would if he had to
stare into the face of every woman in Shadizar.

So intent was he on his thoughts that the drum that cleared others from
the street, even driving sedan chairs to the edge of the pavement, did
not register on his mind until it suddenly came to him that he stood
alone in the middle of the street. Turning to see where the steady
thump came from, he found a procession bearing down on him.

At its head were two spearmen as tall as he, ebon-eyed men with capes
of leopard skin, the clawed paws hanging across their broad, bare
chests. Behind came the drummer, his instrument slung by his side to
give free swing to the mallets with which he beat a cadence. A score of
men in spiked helms and short, sleeveless mail followed the drummer.
Half bore spears and half bows, with quivers on their backs, and all
wore wide, white trousers and high, red boots.

Conan's eyes went no further down the cortege than the horsemen who
came next, or rather the woman who led them, mounted on a prancing
black gelding a hand taller than any her followers rode. Tall she was,
and well rounded, a delight both callimastian and callipygean. Her garb
of tight tunic and tighter breeches, both of tawny silk, with a scarlet
cloak thrown well back across her horse's rump, did naught to hide her
curves. Light brown hair, sun-streaked with gold, curled about her
shoulders and surrounded a prideful face set with clear gray eyes.

She was a woman worth looking at, Conan thought. And besides, he knew
of her, as did every thief in Shadizar. The Lady Jondra was known for
many things, her arrogance, her hunting, her racing of horses, but
among thieves she was known as the possessor of a necklace and tiara
that had set more than one man's mouth watering. Each was set with a
flawless ruby, larger than the last joint of a big man's thumb,
surrounded by sapphires and black opals. In the Desert men taunted each
other with the stealing of them, for of all those who had tried, the
only one not taken by the spears of her guards had died with Jondra's
own arrows in his eyes. It was said she had been more furious that the
thief entered her chambers while she was bathing than at his bungled
attempt at theft.

Conan prepared to step from the procession's path, when the spearmen,
not five paces from him now, dropped their spears to the ready. They
did not slow their pace, but came on as if the threat should send him
scurrying for cover.

The big Cimmerian's face tightened. Did they think him a dog, then, to
beat from their way? A young man's pride, dented as much as he could
stand in recent days, hardened. He straightened, and his hand went to
the worn, leather-wrapped hilt of his broadsword. Dead silence fell
among the crowd lining the sides of the street.

The spearmen's eyes widened at the sight of the young giant standing
his ground. The streets always cleared before their mistress, the drum
usually sufficing, and never more than the gleam of a spearpoint in the
sunlight required at most. It came to each in the same instant that
this was no apprentice to be chivvied aside. As one man they stopped
and dropped into a crouch with spears presented.

The drummer, marching obliviously, continued his pounding until he was
between the two spearmen. There his mallets froze, one raised and one
against the drumhead, and his eyes darted for a way out. The three men
made a barricade across the street that perforce brought the rest of
Lady Jondra's cortege to a halt, first the mailed hunters, then the
horsemen, and so back down the line, till all stood stopped.

The ludicrousness of it struck Conan, and he felt mirth rising despite
himself. How did he get himself into these predicaments, he wondered.

"You there!" a husky woman's voice called. "You, big fellow with the
sword!" Conan looked up to find the Lady Jondra staring at him over the
heads of her spearmen and archers. "If you can stop Zurat and Tamal in
their tracks, perhaps you can face a lion as well. I always need men,
and there are few who deserve the name in Shadizar. I will take you
into my service." A tall, hawk-faced man riding next to her opened his
mouth angrily, but she cut him off with a gesture. "What say you? You
have the shoulders for a spearman."

The laughter broke through, and Conan let it roar, though he was
careful not to take his eyes from the spearmen or his hand from his
sword. Jondra's face slowly froze in amazement. "I am already in
service," he managed, "to myself. But, my lady, I wish you good day and
will no longer block your passage." He made a sweeping bow-not deep
enough to lose sight of the spear points-and strode to the side of the
street.

For an instant there was stunned silence, then the Lady Jondra was
shouting. "Zurat! Tamal! March on! Junio! The beat!"

The spearmen straightened, and the drummer stiffly took up his cadence
again. In moments the procession was moving. Jondra rode past stiffly,
her eyes drifting to the big Cimmerian as if she did not realize what
she did. The hawk-faced man rode beside her, arguing volubly, but she
seemed not to hear.

A knot of barefooted street urchins, all color long faded from their
tattered tunics, suddenly appeared near Conan. Their leader was a girl,
though at an age when her scrawniness could pass for either sex. Half a
head taller than her followers, she swaggered to the muscular youth's
side and studied the array of hunters. The lion dogs passed, heavy,
snarling brutes with spiked collars, pulling hard on the leashes held
by their handlers.

"Dog like that could take your leg off," the girl said. "Big man, you
get a spear in your belly, and who's going to pay us?"

"You get paid when you've found her, Laeta," Conan replied. The
trophies of the hunt were borne by skins of leopards and lions, great
scimitar antelope horns, the skull of a huge wild ox with horns as
thick and long as a man's arm, all held aloft for the view of the
onlookers.

She cast a scornful glance at him. "Did I not say as much? We found the
wench, and I want those two pieces of silver."

Conan grunted. "When I am sure it's her."

This was not the first report of Tamira he had had. One had been a
woman more than twice his age, another a potter's apprentice with only
one eye. The last of Jondra's procession passed, pack animals and
highwheeled ox-carts, and the throng that had stood aside flowed
together behind like water behind a boat.

"Take me to her," Conan said.

Laeta grumbled, but trotted away down the street, her coterie of
hard-eyed urchins surrounding her like a bodyguard. Under every ragged
tunic, the Cimmerian knew, was a knife, or more than one. The children
of the street preferred to run, but when cornered they were as
dangerous as a pack of rats.

To Conan's surprise they moved no closer to the Desert, but rather
farther away, into a district peopled by craftsmen. The din of
brass-smiths' hammers beat at them, then the stench of the dyers' vats.
Smoke from kiln fires rose on all sides. Finally the girl stopped and
pointed to a stone building where a sign hanging from chains showed the
image of a lion, half-heartedly daubed not too long past with fresh
carmine.

"In there?" Conan asked suspiciously. Taverns attracted likes, and a
thief would not likely be welcome amid potters and dyers.

"In there," Laeta agreed. She chewed her lip, then sighed. "We will
wait out here, big man. For the silver."

Conan nodded impatiently and pushed open the tavern door.

Inside, the Red Lion was arranged differently from the usual tavern. At
some time in the past a fire had gutted the building. The ground floor,
which had collapsed into the cellar, had never been replaced. Instead,
a balcony had been built running around the inside of the building at
street level, and the common room was now in what had been the cellar.
Even when the sun was high on the hottest day, the common room of the
Red Lion remained cool.

From a place by the balcony rail just in front of the door, Conan ran
his gaze over the interior of the tavern, searching for a slender
female form. A few men stood on the balcony, some lounging against the
railing with tankard in hand, most bargaining quietly with doxies for
time in the rooms abovestairs. A steady stream of serving girls trotted
up and down stairs at the rear of the common room with trays of food
and drink, for the kitchen was still on the ground level. Tables
scattered across the stone floor below held potters whose arms were
flecked with dried clay and leatheraproned metal workers and
apprentices with tunics stained by rainbow splashes.

The ever-present trulls, their wisps of silk covering no more here than
they did in the Desert, strolled the floor, but as he had expected
Conan could see no other women among the tables. Satisfied that Laeta
was mistaken or lying, he started to turn for the door. From the corner
of his eye he saw a burly potter, with a round-breasted doxy running
her fingers through his hair, look away from her bounty to glance
curiously at a spot below where the big Cimmerian stood. Another man,
his leather apron lying across the table before him and a squealing
jade on his knees, paused in his pawing of her to do the same. And yet
another man.

Conan leaned to look over the railing, and there Tamira sat beneath
him, demurely clothed in pale blue robes, face scrubbed to virginal
freshness . . . and a wooden mug upended at her mouth. With a sigh she
set the mug on the table upside-down, a signal to the serving girls
that she wanted it refilled.

Smiling, Conan slipped the flat throwing knife from his belt. A flicker
of his hand, and the black blade quivered in the upturned bottom of her
mug. Tamira started, then was still except for the fingers of her left
hand drumming on the tabletop. The Cimmerian's smile faded. With a
muttered oath he stalked to the stairs and down.

When he reached the table the throwing knife had disappeared. He
ignored the wide-eyed looks of men at nearby tables and sat across from
her.

"You cost me eight pieces of gold," were his first words.

The corners of Tamira's mouth twitched upward. "So little? I received
forty from the Lady Zayella."

Conan's hand gripped the edge of the table till the wood creaked in
protest. Forty! "Zarath the Kothian would give a hundred," he muttered,
then went on quickly before she could ask why he was then only to
receive eight. "I want a word with you, wench."

"And I with you," she said. "I didn't come to a place like this, and
let you find me, just to-"

"Let me find you!" he roared. A man at a nearby table hurriedly got up
and moved away.

"Of course, I did." Her face and voice were calm, but her fingers began
to tap on the table again. "How could I fail to know that every beggar
in Shadizar, and a fair number of the trulls, were asking after my
whereabouts?"

"Did you think I would forget you?" he asked sarcastically.

She went on as if he had not spoken. "Well, I will not have it. You'll
get in my-my uncles' attention. They'll not take kindly to a stranger
seeking after me. I led you here, well away from the Desert, in the
hopes they'll not hear of our meeting. You'll find yourself with a
blade in your throat, Cimmerian. And for some reason I don't quite
understand, I would not like that."

Conan looked at her silently, until under his gaze her large, dark eyes
began blinking nervously. Her finger-drumming quickened. "So you do
know my country of birth."

"You fool, I am trying to save your life."

"Your uncles look after you?" he said abruptly. "Watch over you?
Protect you?"

"You will find out how carefully if you do not leave me alone. And
what's that smug grin for?"

"It's just that now I know I'll be your first man." His tone was
complacent, but his every muscle tensed.

Tamira's mouth worked in silent incredulity, and scarlet suffused her
cheeks. Suddenly a shriek burst from her lips, and the throwing knife
was in her hand. Conan threw himself from his bench as her arm whipped
forward. Beyond him an apprentice yelped and stared disbelieving at the
tip of his nose, from which a steady drip of red fell to put new
blotches on his dye-stained tunic.

Warily Conan got to his feet. Tamira shook her small fists at him in
incoherent fury. At least, he thought, she did not have another of
those knives. It would be out, otherwise. "But you must ask me," he
said as if there had been no interruption. "That will make up for the
eight gold pieces you stole from me, when you ask me."

"Erlik take you!" she gasped. "Mitra blast your soul! To think I
worried . . . to think I . . . You're nothing but an oaf after all! I
hope my uncles do catch you! I hope the City Guard puts your head on a
pike! I hope-I hope-oh!" From head to toe she shook with rage.

"I eagerly await our first kiss," Conan said, and dodged her mug, aimed
at his head.

Calmly turning his back on her wordless shouts, he strolled up the
stairs and out of the tavern. As soon as the door closed behind him,
his casual manner disappeared. Urgently he looked for Laeta, and smiled
when she appeared with her palm out.

Before she could ask he tossed her two silver coins. "There's more," he
said. "I want to know everywhere she goes, and everyone she sees. A
silver piece every tenday for you, and the same for your followers."
Baratses' gold was disappearing fast, he thought, but with luck it
should last just long enough.

Laeta, with her mouth open to bargain, could only nod wordlessly.

Conan smiled in satisfaction. He had Tamira now. After his performance
she thought he was a buffoon intent on seduction to salve his pride. He
doubted if she even remembered her slip of the tongue. Almost she had
said he would get in her way. She planned a theft, and wanted no
encumbrance. But this time he would get there first, and she would find
the empty pedestal.


Chapter IV

Much of the Zamoran nobility, the Lady Jondra thought as she strolled
through her palace garden, deplored that the last of the Perashanids
was a woman. Carefully drawing back the vermilion silk sleeve of her
robe, she dabbled her fingers in the sparkling waters of a fountain
rimmed with gray-veined marble. From the corner of her eye she watched
the man who stood next to her. His handsome, dark-eyed face radiated
self-assurance. A heavy gold chain, each link worked with the seal of
his family, hung across the crisp pleats of his citrine tunic. Lord
Amaranides did not deplore her femininity at all. It meant that all the
wealth of the Perashanids went with her hand. If he could manage to
secure that hand.

"Let us walk on, Ama," she said, and smiled at his attempt to hide a
grimace for the pet name she had given him. He would think the smile
was for him, she knew. It was not in him to imagine otherwise.

"The garden is lovely," he said. "But not so lovely as you."

Instead of taking his proffered arm she moved ahead down the
slate-tiled walk, forcing him to hurry to catch up to her.

Eventually she would have to wed. The thought brought a sigh of regret,
but duty would do what legions of suitors had been unable to. She could
not allow the Perashanid line to end with her. Another sigh passed her
full lips.

"Why so melancholy, my sweetling?" Amaranides murmured in her ear. "Let
me but taste your honey kiss, and I will sweep your moodiness away."

Deftly she avoided his lips, but made no further discouraging move.

Unlike most nobly born Zamoran women, she allowed few men so much as a
kiss, and none more. But even if she could not bring herself to stop
her occasional tweaking of his well-stuffed pomposity, Amaranides must
not be put off entirely.

At least he was tall enough, she thought. She never allowed herself to
contemplate the reason why she was taller than most Zamoran men, but
she had long since decided that her husband must be taller than she.
Amaranides was a head taller, but his build was slender. With an idle
corner of her mind she sketched the man she wanted. Of noble lineage,
certainly. An excellent horseman, archer and hunter, of course.
Physically? Taller than Amaranides by nearly a head. Much broader of
shoulders, with a deep, powerful chest. Handsome, but more ruggedly so
than her companion. His eyes . . .

Abruptly she gasped as she recognized the man she had drawn in her
mind. She had dressed him as a Zamoran nobleman, but it was the
sky-eyed street-ruffian who had disrupted her return from the hunt. Her
face flooded with scarlet. Blue eyes! A barbarian! Like smoky gray
fires her own eyes blazed. That she could consider allowing such a one
to touch her, even without realizing it! Mitra! It was worse done
without realizing it!

". . . And on my last hunt," Amaranides was saying, "I killed a truly
magnificent leopard. Finer than any you've taken, I fancy. It will be a
pleasure for me to teach you the finer points of hunting, my little
sweetmeat. I . . ."

Jondra ground her teeth as he rattled blithely on. Still, he was a
hunter, not to mention nobly born. If he was a fool-and of that there
was little doubt in her mind-then he would be all the more easily
managed.

"I know why you've come, Ama," she said.

". . . Claws as big as. . ." The nobleman's voice trailed off, and he
blinked uncertainly. "You know?"

She could not keep impatience from her voice. "You want me for your
wife. Is that not it? Come." Briskly she set out through the garden
toward the fletcher's mound.

Amaranides hesitated, then ran after her. "You don't know how happy
you've made me, sweetling. Sweetling? Jondra? Where are you . . . ah!"

Jondra fended off the arms he tried to throw around her with a recurved
bow she had taken from a gilded rack standing on a grassy sward. Calmly
she slipped a leather bracer onto her left arm for protection from the
bowstring. Another bow, a second bracer, and two quivers, clustered
fletchings rising above their black-lacquered sides, hung on the rack.

"You must . . . equal me," she said, gesturing toward a small round
target of thickly woven straw hanging at the top of a wide wooden
frame, which was three times the height of a man, a hundred paces
distant. She had intended to say 'best,' but at the last could not
bring herself to it. In truth, she did not believe any man could best
her, either with a bow or on horseback. "I can marry no man who is not
my equal as an archer."

Amaranides eyed the target, then took the second bow with a smug smile.
"Why so high? No matter. I wager I'll beat you at it." He laughed then,
a shocking bray at odds with his handsome features. "I've won many a
purse with a bow, but you will be my finest prize."

Jondra's mouth tightened. Shaking back the hanging sleeves of her
robes, she nocked an arrow and called, "Mineus!"

A balding man, in the short white tunic of a servant, came from the
bushes near the frame and tugged at a rope attached near the target.
Immediately the target, no bigger than a man's head, began to slide
down a diagonal, and as it slid it swung from side to side on a long
wooden arm. Clearly it would take a zig-zag path, at increasing speed,
all the way to the ground.

Jondra did not raise her bow until the target had traversed half the
first diagonal. Then, in one motion, she raised, drew and released.
With a solid thwack her shaft struck, not slowing the target's descent.
Before that arrow had gone home her second was loosed, and a third
followed on its heels. As the straw target struck the ground, she
lowered her bow with an arrow nocked but unreleased. It was her
seventh. Six feathered shafts decorated the target. "The robes hamper
me somewhat," she said ruefully. "With your tunic, you may well get
more than my six. Let me clothe myself in hunting garb-are you ill,
Ama?"

Amaranides' bow hung from a limp hand. He stared, pale of face, at the
target. As he turned to her, high color replaced the pallor of his
cheeks. His mouth twisted around his words. "I have heard that you
delight in besting men, but I had not thought you would claim yourself
ready to wed just to lure me to . . . this!" He spat the last word,
hurling the bow at the riddled target. "What Brythunian witch-work did
you use to magic your arrows?"

Her hands shook with rage as she raised her bow and drew the nocked
arrow back to her cheek, but she forced them to be steady. "Remove
yourself!" she said grimly.

Mouth falling open, the dark-faced nobleman stared at the arrow pointed
at his face. Abruptly he spun about and ran, dodging from side to side,
shoulders hunched, as if simultaneously attempting to avoid her arrow
and steel himself against its strike.

She followed every skip and leap, keeping the arrow centered on him
until he had disappeared among the shrubs. Then she released the breath
in her tight lungs and the tension on her bowstring together. Thoughts
she had disciplined from her mind came flooding back.

Lord Karentides, her father, had been a general of the Zamoran Army, as
well as the last scion of an ancient house. Campaigning on the
Brythunian border he chose a woman from among the prisoners, Camardica,
tall and gray-eyed, who claimed to be a priestess. In the normal course
of events there would have been nothing strange in this, for Zamoran
soldiers often enjoyed themselves with captive Brythunian women, and
the Brythunian slaves in Zamora were beyond counting. But Karentides
married his captive. Married her and accepted the ostracism that became
his.

Jondra remembered his body-his and . . . that woman's-lying in state
after the fever that slew so many in the city, sparing neither noble
nor beggar. She had been raised, educated, protected as what she was,
heiress to vast wealth, to blood of ancient nobility. The marks were on
her, though-the height and the accursed eyes of gray-and she had heard
the whispers. Half-breed. Savage. Brythunian. She had heard them until
her skill with a bow, her ready temper and her disregard of
consequences silenced even whispers in her hearing. She was the Lady
Jondra of the House Perashanid, daughter of General Lord Karentides
last of a lineage to rival that of King Tiridates himself, and ware to
anyone who mentioned aught else.

"He would not have hit it once, my lady," a quiet voice said at her
elbow.

Jondra glanced at the balding servant, at the concern on his wrinkled
face. "It is not your place to speak so, Mineus," she said, but there
was no rebuke in her voice.

Mineus' expression folded into deference. "As you say, my lady. If my
lady pleases, the girl sent by the Lady Roxana is here. I put her in
the second waiting room, but I can send her away if that is still your
wish."

"If I am not to wed," she said, replacing her bow carefully on the
rack, "I shall have need of her after all."

The second waiting room was floored with a mosaic of arabesques in
green and gold, in the middle of which stood a short, slender girl in a
short tunic of dark blue, the color Lady Roxana put on her serving
maids. Her dark hair was worked in a simple plait that fell to the
small of her back. She kept her eyes on the tiles beneath her small
feet as Jondra entered the room.

An ebony table inlaid with ivory held two wax tablets fastened
face-to-face with silken cords. Jondra examined the seals on the cords
carefully. Few outside the nobility or the merchant classes could
write, but servants had been known to try altering their
recommendations. There were no signs of tampering here. She cut the
cords and read.

"Why do you wish to leave the Lady Roxana's service?" she asked
abruptly. "Lyana? That's your name?"

"Yes, my lady," the girl answered without raising her head. "I want to
become a lady's maid, my lady. I worked in the Lady Roxana's kitchens,
but her handmaidens trained me. The Lady Roxana had no place for
another handmaiden, but she said that you sought one."

Jondra frowned. Did the chit not even have enough spirit to meet her
eyes? She abhorred a lack of spirit, whether in dogs or horses or
servants. "I need a girl to tend my needs on the hunt. The last two
found the rigors too great. Do you think your desire to be a lady's
maid will survive heat and flies and sand?"

"Oh, yes, my lady."

Slowly Jondra walked around the girl studying her from every angle. She
certainly looked sturdy enough to withstand a hunting camp. With
fingertips she raised the girl's chin. "Lovely," she said, and thought
she saw a spark in those large, dark eyes. Perhaps there was some
spirit here after all. "I'll not have my hunts disrupted by spearmen
panting after a pretty face, girl. See you cast no eyes at my hunters."
Jondra smiled. There had definitely been a flash of anger that time.

"I am a maiden, my lady," the girl said with the faintest trace of
tightness in her voice.

"Of course," Jondra said noncommittally. Few serving girls were, though
all seemed to think the condition made them more acceptable to their
mistresses. "I'm surprised the Lady Roxana allowed you to leave her,
considering the praises she heaps on your head." She tapped the wax
tablet with a fingernail. "In time I will discover if you deserve them.
In any case, know that I will allow no hint of disobedience, lying,
stealing or laziness. I do not beat my servants as often as some, but
transgression in these areas will earn you stripes." She watched the
sparks in the girl's eyes replaced with eagerness as the meaning of her
words broke through.

"My lady, I swear that I will serve you as such a great lady deserves
to be served."

Jondra nodded. "Mineus, show her to the servants' quarters. And summon
Arvaneus."

"It shall be done, my lady."

She dismissed the matter from her mind then, the sounds of Mineus
leading the girl from the room seeming to fade to insignificance.
Replacing the tablets on the ebony table, she crossed the room to a
tall, narrow cabinet of profusely carved rosewood. The doors opened to
reveal shelves piled with scrolls of parchment, each bound with a
ribbon. Hastily she pawed through the pale cylinders.

The incident with Amaranides had crystallized a decision. That the
whispers about her parentage were still being bruited about was reason
enough to end her consideration of marriage. Instead . . .

Amaranides had said she liked to best men. Could she help it that men,
with their foolish pride, could not accept the fact that she was better
than they, whether with bow or horse or on the hunt? Well, now she
would best them properly. She would do what none of them had either the
skill or the courage to do.

She untied the ribbon about a scroll and searched down the parchment
until she found what she sought.

The beast, my lady, is said to be scaled like a serpent, but to move on
legs. Winnowing out obvious exaggerations caused by fear, I can
reliably report that it has slain and eaten both men and cattle. Its
habitat, my lady, seems, however, to be the Kezankian Mountains near
the border between Zamora and Brythunia. With the current unrest of the
hill tribes, I cannot suggest.

The parchment crumpled in her hands. She would bring this strange
beast's hide back as her trophy. Let one of Amaranides' ilk suggest he
could do as much. Let him just dare.

Tamira scurried down palace corridors in Mineus' wake, barely hearing
when the balding old man told her of her duties, or when he spoke to
other servants. Until the very last moment she had not been certain her
plan would work, even after so much planning and labor.

Forty gold pieces she had obtained from Zayella, and all had gone in
preparation for this. Most went to Roxana's chamberlain, who provided
the use of the Lady's private seal. There would be no checking though,
to trip her up, for the Lady Roxana had departed the city a day past.

Tamira allowed herself a smile. In a day or two she would have Jondra's
fabulous necklace and tiara.

"Give attention, girl," Mineus said impatiently. "You must know this to
help prepare for the Lady Jondra's hunt."

Tamira blinked. "Hunt? But she just returned from a hunt."

"You saw me speak to Arvaneus, the chief huntsman. No doubt you will
depart as soon as supplies are gathered."

Panic flashed through her. It had been none of her intention to
actually go on one Jondra's forays. There was no point to her sweating
in a tent while the jewels remained in Shadizar. Of course, they would
be there when she returned. But so might the Lady Roxana. "I-I have to
see . . . about my belongings," she stammered. "I left clothing at the
Lady Roxana's palace. And my favorite pin. I must fetch-"

Mineus cut her short. "When you've had instructions as to your duties
in preparing for the hunt. Not only must you see that my lady's
clothing and jewels are packed, but you must see to her perfumes, the
soaps and oils for her bathing, and-"

"She-my lady takes her jewels hunting?"

"Yes, girl. Now pay attention. My lady's rouges and powders-"

"You mean a few bracelets and brooches," Tamira insisted.

The old man rubbed his bald spot and sighed. "I mean nothing of the
sort, girl. Of an evening my lady often adorns herself to dine in her
finest. Now, since you seem distracted for some reason, I will see you
through your tasks."

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon Tamira was prodded
and pushed from one labor to the next, always under Mineus' watchful
eye. She folded Jondra's garments of silks and laces-three times she
folded them before reaching Mineus' satisfaction-and packed them in
wicker panniers. Rare perfumes from Vendhya and powders from far
Khitai, rouges from Sultanapur, costly oils and unguents from the
corners of the world, all she wrapped in soft cloths and packed, with
the halding old man hovering close to remind her that every vial and
jar must be handled as gently as a swaddling child. Then, staggering
under the weighty panniers, she and another serving-woman carried them
down to the stableyard, where the pack-animals would be loaded on the
morrow.

On each trip through Jondra's chambers, the chests for transporting the
noblewoman's jewelry, thick sided boxes of iron, made her mouth water.
They sat so tantalizingly against a tapestry-hung wall. But they were
empty iron now, for they would not be filled until the last instant.
Still, the gems would be going with her. She could not help smiling.

Aching from the unaccustomed labor, Tamira found that Mineus had led
her to a side door of the palace. "Fetch your belongings, girl," he
said, "and return quickly. There will be more work."

Before she could speak she had been thrust outside, and the door closed
in her face. For a long moment she stared wonderingly at the
red-painted wood. She had forgotten her panic-induced invention of
possessions. Her original plan called for remaining inside Jondra's
palace until the necklace and tiara were in her hands. In that way
Conan would never discover what she was up to. The huge barbarian
seemed intent on...

It dawned on her that she was outside the palace, and she spun around
to study the narrow street. A turbanned Kezankain hillman squatted
disconsolately against a wall across the street, and a few ragged
urchins played tag on the rough paving stones. She heaved a sigh of
relief. There was neither a beggar nor a doxy in sight. Her uncles
could provide a bundle to satisfy Mineus. Keeping a careful watch for
Conan's many eyes, she hurried down the street.

Unseen by her, three of the urchins broke off their play and trailed
after her.

The hillman watched her go with lustful eyes, then reluctantly returned
to his surveillance of the palace.


Chapter V

At a corner table in Abuletes' common room, Conan glowered into a lea
them jack half-filled with cheap Kothian wine. Semiramis, in a girdle
of coins and two strips of thin scarlet silk, was seated in the lap of
a Turanian coiner across the crowded room, but for once that was not
the reason for the Cimmerian's dour face. What remained of Baratses'
two gold pieces had been lessened at dice the previous night. With all
of his mind on Tamira, he had given no thought to how to get more. And
worst, he had had no word from Laeta. It was only a day since he had
set the urchin to watch Tamira, but he was certain-as certain as if he
had been told by the dark-eyed thief herself-that she moved already on
the theft she planned. The theft he had vowed to beat her to. And he
had no word!

Grimacing, he raised his wine and gulped the remainder of it down. When
he lowered the jack a tall, bony man stood across the table from him. A
fine black Khauranian cloak, edged with cloth of gold, was pulled
tightly around him as if to hide his identity.

"What do you want, Baratses?" Conan grumbled. "I keep the two gold
pieces for the attempt, and you should be thankful to have it made so
cheaply."

"Do you have a room in this . . . establishment?" The spice merchant's
black eyes darted about the raucous tavern as if he expected to be
attacked at any moment. "I would talk with you in privacy."

Conan shook his head in disbelief. The fool had obviously dressed
himself in what he considered plain fashion, but just as obviously he
was no denizen of the Desert. His passage had certainly been noted, and
footpads no doubt awaited nine deep in the street for his departure,
but here, where he was safe from such, he feared robbery.

"Come," Conan said, and led the way up the rickety wooden stairs at the
back of the common room.

His own room was a simple box of rough wooden planks, with a narrow
window shuttered in a vain attempt to keep out the stench of the alley
behind the tavern. A wide, low bed, a table with one short leg, and a
lone stool were all the furnishings. The Cimmerian's few
possessions-aside from the ancient broadsword he always wore-hung on
pegs in one wall.

Baratses glanced around the room disdainfully, and Conan bristled. "I
cannot afford a palace. Yet. Now, why are you here? Something more to
be stolen? You'll give a fair price this time, or find someone else."

"You've not yet fulfilled your last commission, Cimmerian." Though the
door was closed, the merchant kept his cloak clutched about him. "I
have the rest of your gold here, but where is my goblet? I know
Samarides no longer possesses it."

"Nor do I," Conan replied ruefully. "Another was there before me." He
hesitated, but could not rid himself of the belief that the man
deserved at least some information for his two gold pieces. "I have
heard the Lady Zayella has the goblet now."

"So she offered you more than I," Baratses murmured. "I had heard you
had some odd concept of honor, but I see I was wrong."

The Cimmerian's eyes grew icy. "Do not call me liar, merchant. Another
took the goblet."

"The room is close," Baratses said. "I am hot." He twitched the cloak
from his shoulders, swirling it before him.

Instinct flared a warning in Conan. As the cloak moved aside his big
hand slapped down to grasp Baratses' wrist, stopping a black-bladed
Karpashian dagger a handspan from his middle. "Fool!" he said.

Blood and teeth sprayed from the merchant's face beneath Conan's fist.
The dagger dropped from nerveless fingers and struck the floor no more
than an instant before Baratses himself.

The big Cimmerian frowned at the man lying unconscious before him. A
sheath on Baratses' forearm had held the black blade. Conan bent to
remove that, and tossed it and the dagger atop the cloak. "An attempt
on my life," he muttered finally, "surely earns me the gold you
brought."

Unfastening the merchant's purse from his belt, Conan emptied it onto
his palm. There was no gold, only silver and copper. He counted it and
grimaced. Three coppers more than a single gold piece. It seemed his
death had been intended whether he had the goblet or not. Pouring the
coins back into the purse, he added it to the dagger and sheath.

On the floor Baratses stirred and moaned.

Knotting his fist in the bony man's tunic, Conan lifted him erect and
shook him till his eyes fluttered open. Baratses let out a gurgling
groan as his tongue explored splintered teeth.

"I do not have the goblet," the Cimmerian said grimly. Easily he
hoisted the merchant's feet clear of the floor. "I have never had the
goblet." He took a step and smashed Baratses against the shutter, which
burst open. The bloody-faced man dangled above the alley at arm's
length from the window. "And if I ever see you again, I'll break the
rest of your teeth." Conan opened his hand.

Baratses' wail cut off as he landed with a squelch in equal parts of
mud, offal and the emptyings of chamber pots. A scrawny dog, disturbed
at its rootings, began to bark at him furiously. Scrambling shakily to
his feet, Baratses stared wildly about him, then broke into a slipping,
sliding run. "Murder!" he screamed. "Murder!"

Conan sighed as he watched the merchant disappear down the alley. His
cries would bring no aid in the Desert, but once he was beyond those
cramped streets the City Guard would come quickly enough. And listen
attentively to a respectable merchant's tale. Perhaps it would have
been better had he slit the man's throat, yet murder had never been his
way. He would have to leave the city for a time, until the furor died
down. The fist that had broken Baratses' teeth pounded the window
frame. And by the time he returned Tamira would have accomplished her
theft. He might never even know what it was, much less in time to get
there first.

Hastily he made his preparations. The contents of Baratses' purse were
added to his own. The dagger in its sheath he fastened to his left
forearm, then settled the black cloak about his broad shoulders. It fit
a trifle snugly, but was ten times better than what he had.

He frowned at a lump over his chest, and felt inside the cloak. A small
pouch of cloth was sewn there. From it he drew a small silver box, its
lid set with blue gems. Inferior sapphires, his experienced eye told
him. He flipped it open; his lip curled contemptuously at the sickly
verduous powder within. Pollen from the green lotus of Vendhya. It
seemed Baratses liked his dreams to come when he desired them. The
small quantity in his hand would bring ten gold pieces. Upending the
silver box, he tapped it against the heel of his hand to make sure all
of the pollen fell to the floor. He did not deal in such things.

Quickly he ran an eye over the rest of his possessions. There was
nothing there worth the bother of bundling. Near two years of thievery,
and this was all he had to show for it. A fool like Baratses could
throw away on stolen dreams as much as he could earn in a night of
risking his life. Pushing open the door, he slapped the worn leather
hilt of his broadsword with a mirthless laugh. "This is all I need
anyway," he told himself.

At the bar Abuletes came slowly in response to the big Cimmerian's
beckoning gesture. "I need a horse," Conan said when the fat innkeeper
was finally before him. "A good horse. Not one ready for the boneyard."

Abuletes' black eyes, deepset in wells of suet, went from the cloak on
Conan's shoulders to the stairs. "You need to leave Shadizar quickly,
Cimmerian?"

"There's no body to be found," Conan reassured him. "Just a
disagreement with a man who can get the ear of the City Guard."

"Too bad," Abuletes grunted. "'Tis cheaper to dispose of a body than to
purchase a horse. But I know a man-" Suddenly he glared past Conan's
shoulder. "You! Out! I'll have none of you filthy little thieves in my
place!"

Conan glanced over his shoulder. Laeta stood just inside the door,
glaring fiercely back at the tavernkeeper. "She has come to see me,"
the Cimmerian said.

"She?" Abuletes said incredulously, but he was speaking to Conan's
back.

"You have news of Tamira?" Conan asked when he reached the girl. It was
like his luck of late, he thought, that the news would come when he
could not use it.

Laeta nodded, but did not speak. Conan dug two silver pieces from his
purse, but when she stretched out a hand for them he lifted them out of
her reach and looked at her questioningly.

"All right, big man," she sighed. "But I had better get my coin.
Yestermorn your wench went to the palace of the Lady Jondra."

"Jondra!" So she was after the necklace and tiara. And he had to leave
the city. Grinding his teeth, he tossed the coins to Laeta. "Why didn't
you tell me then?"

She tucked the silver under her torn tunic. "Because she left again.
And," she added reluctantly, "we lost her trail in the Katara Bazaar.
But this morning I set Urias to watch Jondra's palace, and he saw her
again. This time she left dressed like a serving girl and riding a
supply cart in Jondra's hunting party. The lot of them departed the
city by the Lion Gate. A good six turns of the glass ago, it was. Urias
took his time telling me, and I'm docking him his share of this silver
for it."

Conan studied the girl, wondering if she had spun this tale. It seemed
too fantastic. Unless . . . unless Tamira had discovered Jondra was
taking the fabled necklace and tiara with her. But on a hunt? No
matter. He had to leave Shadizar anyway. As well ride north and see for
himself what Tamira was up to.

He started to turn away, then stopped, looking at Laeta's dirtsmudged
face and big, wary eyes, truly seeing her for the first time. "Wait
here," he told her. She eyed him quizzically, but stood there as he
walked away.

He found Semiramis leaning against the wall at the back of the common
room, one foot laid across her knee so she could rub it. Quickly he
separated out half the coin in his purse and pressed it into her hand.

"Conan," she protested, "you know I'll not take money from-"

"It's for her," he said, jerking his head toward Laeta, who was
watching him suspiciously. Semiramis arched a questioning eyebrow. "In
another year she'll not be able to pass as a boy any longer," he
explained. "Already she's putting dirt on her face to hide how pretty
she is. I thought, maybe, that you..." He shrugged awkwardly, unsure of
what he did mean.

Semiramis raised herself on tiptoes and brushed her lips against his
cheek.

"That's no kiss," he laughed. "If you want to say goodbye-"

She laid her fingers against his lips. "You are a better man than you
try to pretend, Cimmerian." With that she slipped by him.

Wondering if women were made by the same gods as men, he watched her
approach Laeta. The two spoke quietly, looked at him, then moved toward
an empty table together. As they sat, he suddenly recalled his own
needs. He strode back to the bar and caught the tavernkeeper's arm as
the fat man passed.

"About this horse, Abuletes . . ."


Chapter VI

Dark hung silently over Shadizar, at least in the quarter where lay the
Perashanid palace. A hatchet-faced man in a filthy turban and stained
leather jerkin, his beard divided into three braids, moved from the
shadows, freezing when the barking of a dog rent the night. Then quiet
came again.

"Farouz," the bearded man called softly. "Jhal. Tirjas."

The three men named appeared from the dark, each followed by half a
score other turbanned Kezankian hillmen.

"The true gods guide our blades, Djinar," one man murmured as he passed
hatchet-face.

Booted feet thudding on the paving stones, each small column hurried
toward its appointed goal. Farouz would take his men over the garden's
west wall, Jhal over the north. Tirjas was to watch the front of the
palace and assure that no one left . . . alive.

"Come," Djinar commanded, and ten grim hillmen hurried after him to the
east wall of the palace garden.

At the base of the wall two of his men bent to present cupped hands for
his booted feet. Boosted thus, Djinar caught the top of the wall and
scrambled over to drop inside. Moonlight put a silver glow on the trees
and flowers of the garden. He wondered briefly at the labor involved.
So much sweat, and for plants. Truly the men of the cities were mad.

Soft thuds announced the arrival of his companions. Swords were drawn
with the susurration of steel on leather, and from one man came a
fierce mutter. "Death to the unbelievers!"

Djinar hissed for silence, unwilling to speak lest his feelings at
being within a city became plain in his voice. So many people gathered
in one place. So many buildings. So many walls, closing him in. He
motioned the hillmen to follow.

Silently the stony-eyed column slipped through the garden. No doors
barred their entrance to the palace. It was going well, Djinar thought.
The others would be entering the palace at other places. No alarm had
been given. The blessings of the old gods must be on them, as Basrakan
Imalla had said.

Abruptly a man in the white tunic of a servant appeared before him,
mouth opening to shout. Djinar's tulwar moved before he could think,
the tip of the curved blade slicing open the other man's throat.

As the corpse twitched in a pool of crimson, spreading across the
marble floor, Djinar found his nervousness gone. "Spread out," he
commanded. "None must live to give an alarm. Go!"

Growling deep in their throats, his men scattered with ready blades.
Djinar ran as well, seeking the chamber that had been described to him
by a sweating Akkadan beneath the iron gaze of Basrakan Imalla. Three
more servants, roused by pounding boots, fell beneath his bloody steel.
All were unarmed, one was a woman, but all were unbelievers, and he
gave them no chance to cry out.

Then he was at his goal, and it was as the plump man had said. Large
square tiles of red, black and gold covered the floor in geometric
patterns. The walls were red and black brick to the height of a man's
waist. Furnishings he did not notice. That lamps were lit so that he
could see them was all that was important.

Still gripping his sanguine sword, Djinar hurried to the nearest corner
and pushed against a black brick four down from the top row and four
out from the corner. He gave a satisfied grunt when it sank beneath his
pressure. Quickly he moved to the other three corners in turn; three
more black bricks sank into the wall.

A clatter of boots in the corridor brought him to his feet, tulwar
raised. Farouz and other hillmen burst into the room.

"We must hurry," Farouz snarled. "A bald-headed old man broke Karim's
skull with a vase and escaped into the garden. We'll never find him
before he raises an alarm."

Djinar bit back an oath. Hurriedly he positioned four men on their
knees, forming the corners of a square beside widely separated golden
tiles. "Press all together," he ordered. "Together, mind you. Now!"

With sharp clicks the four tiles were depressed as one. A grinding
noise rose from beneath their feet. Slowly, two thick sections of the
floor swung up to reveal stairs leading down.

Djinar darted down those stairs, and found himself in a small chamber
carved from the stone beneath the palace. Dim light filtered from
above, revealing casket-laden shelves lining the walls. In haste he
opened a casket, then another. Emeralds and sapphires on golden chains.
Opals and pearls mounted in silver brooches. Carved ivories and amber.
But not what he sought. Careless of the treasures he handled, the
hillman spilled the contents of caskets on the floor. Gems and precious
metals poured to the marble. His feet kicked wealth enough for a king,
but he gave it not a second glance. With a curse he threw aside the
last empty casket and ran back up the stairs.

More hillmen had come, crowding the room. Now some pushed past him to
the chamber below. Squabbling, they stuffed their tunics with gems and
gold.

"The Eyes of Fire are not here," Djinar announced. The men below,
panting with greed, paid no mind, but those in the chamber with him
grew long faces.

"Perhaps the woman took them with her," suggested a man with a scar
where his left ear had been.

Farouz spat loudly. "It was you, Djinar, who said wait. The strumpet
goes to hunt, you said. She will take her guards, and we shall have an
easier time of it."

Djinar's thin lips curled back from his teeth. "And you, Farouz," he
snarled. "Did you cry for us to press on? Did you spend no time in the
places where women barter their flesh for coin?" He clamped his teeth
on his rage. The feeling of walls trapping him returned. What was to be
done? To return to Basrakan Imalla empty-handed after being commanded
to bring the Eyes of Fire . . . He shuddered at the thought. If the
Zamoran jade had the Eyes of Fire, then she must be found. "Does none
of these vermin still live?"

Mutters of negation filled the room, but Farouz said, "Jhal keeps a
wench alive till his pleasure is spent. Do you now abandon the Imalla's
quest to join him?"

Djinar's dagger was suddenly in his hand. He tested the edge on a
well-calloused thumb. "I go to ask questions," he said, and strode from
the room.

Behind him the hubbub of argument over the looting rose higher.


Chapter VII

Conan let his reins fall on the neck of his horse, moving at a slow
walk, and took a long pull on his water-skin. His expression did not
change at the stale taste of the tepid fluid. He had drunk worse at
times when the sun did not beat down so strongly from a cloudless sky
as it did now, though it had risen not three handspans above the
horizon. His cloak was rolled and bound behind his saddle pad, and a
piece of his tunic was held on his head like a kaffiyeh by a leather
cord. Rolling hills, with here and there an outcrop of rock or a huge,
half-buried boulder, stretched as far as the eye could discern, with
never a tree, nor any growth save sparse patches of rough grass.

Twice since leaving Shadizar he had crossed the tracks of very large
bodies of men, and once he had seen Zamoran infantry in the distance,
marching north. He kept himself from their sight. It did not seem
likely that Baratses had influence enough to set the army on his trail,
but a man in Conan's profession quickly learned to avoid chance
encounters with large numbers of soldiers. Life was more peaceful, less
complicated without soldiers. Of the Lady Jondra's hunting party he had
seen no sign.

Plugging the spout of the skin, he slung it from his shoulder and
returned to a study of the tracks he followed now. A single horse,
lightly laden. Perhaps a woman rider.

He booted the roan into a trot, its quickest pace. He intended to have
a word with Abuletes when he returned to Shadizar, a quiet converse
about messages sent to horse traders. The tavernkeeper's friend had
denied having another animal beside this gelding on its last legs, and
bargained as if he knew the big youth had reason to leave Shadizar
quickly. Conan dug in his heels again, but the animal would move no
faster.

Snarls, growing louder as he rode, drifted to him over the next rise.
Topping the swell of ground, he took in the scene below in one glance.
Half a score of wolves quarreled over the carcass of a horse. Some eyed
him warily without ceasing their feast. Twenty paces away the Lady
Jondra crouched precariously atop a boulder, her bow clutched in one
hand. Five more of the massive gray beasts waited below, their eyes
intent on her.

Suddenly one of them took a quick step forward and leaped for the girl
on the rock. Desperately she drew her feet up and swung the bow like a
club. The wolf twisted in mid-air; powerful jaws closed on the bow,
ripping it from her grasp. The force of it pulled her forward, slipping
down the side of the boulder. She gave a half-scream, grabbed
frantically at the stone, and hung there, closer now to the creatures
below. She pulled her legs up, but the next leaper would reach them
easily.

"Crom," Conan muttered. There was no time for planning, or even for
conscious decisions. His heels thudded into the roan's ribs, goading it
into a sliding charge down the hillside. "Crom!" he bellowed, and his
broadsword whispered from its worn shagreen scabbard.

The wolfpack gained its feet as one, gray forms crouching to await him.
Jondra stared at him in wild disbelief. The roan, eyes wide and
whinnying in terror, suddenly broke into a gallop. Two of the wolves
darted for the horse's head, and two more dashed in behind to snap at
its hamstrings. A forehoof shattered a broad gray-furred head. Conan's
blade whistled down to split the skull of a second wolf. The roan
kicked back with both hind legs, splintering the ribs of a third, but
the fourth sank gleaming fangs deep into one of those legs. Screaming,
the horse stumbled and fell.

Conan stepped from his saddle pad as the animal went down, just in time
to meet leaping gray death with a slashing blade. Half cut in two the
great wolf dropped. Behind him Conan heard the roan scramble to its
feet, whinnying frantically, and the solid thuds of hooves striking
home. There was no opportunity to so much as glance at his mount,
though, or even to look at Jondra, for the rest of the pack swarmed
around him.

Desperately the big Cimmerian cut and hacked at deadly shapes that
darted and slashed like gray demons. Blood splashed cinereous fur, and
not all of it was theirs, for their teeth were like razors, and he
could not keep them all from him. With cold certainty he knew he could
not afford to go down, even for an instant. Let him once get off his
feet, and he was meat for the eating. Somehow he managed to get the
Karpashian dagger into his left hand, and laid about him with two
blades. All thought left him save battle; he fought with as pure a fury
as the wolves themselves, asking no quarter and giving none. To fight
was all he knew. To fight, and let the losers go to the ravens.

As suddenly as the combat had begun it was ended. One instant steel
battled slashing fangs, the next massive gray forms were loping away
over the hills, one limping on three legs. Conan looked around him,
half wondering that he still lived. Nine wolves lay as heaps of
bloodsoaked fur. The roan was down again, and this time it would not
rise again. A gaping wound in its throat dripped blood into a dark pool
that was already soaking into the rocky soil.

A scrabbling sound drew Conan's eyes. Jondra slid from the boulder and
took her bow from the ground. Snug tunic and riding breeches of russet
silk delineated every curve of her full-breasted form. Lips pursed, she
examined the gouges in the bow's glued layers of bone and wood. Her
hands shook.

"Why did you not put arrows into a few?" Conan demanded. "You might
have saved yourself before I came."

"My quiver..." Her voice trailed off at the sight of her half-eaten
horse, but she visibly steeled herself and went to the carcass. From
under the bloody mass she tugged a quiver. A crack ran down one side of
the black lacquerwork. Checking the arrows, she discarded three that
were broken, then slung the quiver on her back. "I had no chance to
reach this," she said, adjusting the cords that held the lacquered box
on her back. "The first wolf hamstrung my gelding before I even saw it.
It was Hannuman's own luck I made it to that rock."

"This is no country for a woman to ride alone," Conan grumbled as he
retrieved the rolled cloak and wiped his bloody blade on his saddle
pad. He knew he should take a different course with this woman. He had,
after all, ridden halfway across Zamora for the express purpose of
getting close enough to steal her gems. But there he stood with his
horse dead, a dozen gashes that, if not serious still burned and bled,
and no mind to walk easily with anyone.

"Guard your tongue!" Jondra snapped. "I've ridden-" Suddenly she seemed
to see him fully for the first time. Taking a step back, she raised the
bow before her as if it were a shield. "You!" Her voice was a
breathless whisper. "What do you do here?"

"What I do is walk, since my horse is slain in the saving of your life.
For which, I mind me, I've heard no word of thanks, nor an offer to
bind my wounds in your camp."

Mouth dropping open, Jondra stared at him, astonishment warring with
anger on her face. Drawing a deep breath, she shook herself as if
waking from a dream. "You saved my life..." she began, then trailed
off. "I do not even know your name."

"I am called Conan. Conan of Cimmeria."

Jondra made a small bow, and her smile trembled only a little. "Conan
of Cimmeria, I offer you my heartfelt thanks for my life. As well, I
offer the use of my camp for as long as you choose to stay." She looked
at the wolf carcasses and shuddered. "I have taken many trophies," she
said unsteadily, "but I never thought to be one. The skins are yours,
of course."

The Cimmerian shook his head, though it pained him to abandon useful
pelts. And valuable ones, too, could they be gotten back to Shadizar.
He hefted his waterskin, showing a long rent made by slashing jaws. A
last few drops of water dripped to the ground.

"Without water, we can waste no time with skinning in this heat." He
shaded his eyes with a broad palm and measured how far the sun had yet
to rise to reach its zenith. "It will get hotter before it cools. How
far is it to your camp?"

"On horses we could be there by the time the sun is high, or shortly
after. On foot. . ." She shrugged, making her heavy breasts move under
the tight silk of her tunic. "I walk little, and so am no judge."

Conan made an effort to keep his mind on the matter at hand. "Then we
must start now. You will have to keep up, for if we stop in this heat
we shall likely never move again. Now, which way?"

Jondra hesitated, clearly as unused to taking commands as to walking.
Haughty gray eyes dueled with cool sapphire blue; it was gray that
fell. Without another word, but with an irritated expression painted on
her features, the tall noblewoman fitted a shaft to her bow and began
walking, headed south of the rising sun.

Conan stared after her before following, and not for the pleasant
rolling motion of her rump. The fool woman had not wanted him behind
her. Did she fear he would take her by force? And why had she seemed
shaken by fear when she recognized him? Slowly, however, his questions
were submerged in the pleasure of watching her make her way over the
rolling hills. The silk riding breeches fit her buttocks like skin, and
the view as she toiled upslope ahead of him was enough to make any man
forget himself.

The sun climbed on, a ball of luteous fire baking the air dry. Shimmers
rose from the rocky ground, and boot soles burned as if they rested on
coals. Every breath sucked moisture from the lungs, dried the throat.
Across the sky marched the sun, to its zenith and beyond, roasting the
flesh, baking the brain.

The sun, Conan realized as he labored uphill in Jondra's wake, had
replaced the woman as the center of his thoughts. He tried to calculate
the time he had left to find water, the time before the strength of his
thews began to fail. The effort of wetting his cracking lips was
wasted, for the dampness did not last beyond the doing. He saw no use
in offering up prayers. Crom, the Lord of the Mound, the god of his
harsh native land, listened to no prayers, accepted no votive
offerings. Crom gave a man but two gifts, life and will, and never
another. Will would carry him till dark, he decided. Then, having
survived a day, he would set about surviving the night, and then the
next day, and the next night.

Of the girl he was not so sure. Already she had begun to stagger,
tripping over stones she would easily have stepped over when they left
the horses. Abruptly a rock smaller than her fist turned under her
boot, and she fell heavily. To hands and knees she rose, but no
further. Her head hung weakly, and her sides heaved with the effort of
drawing a decent breath from the bone-dry air.

Scrambling up beside her, Conan pulled her to her feet. She hung limply
from his hands. "Is this the right direction, girl? Is it?"

"How-dare-you," she managed through cracked lips.

Fiercely he shook her; her head lolled on her neck. "The direction,
girl! Tell me!"

Unsteadily she looked around them. "Yes," she said finally. "I-think."

With a sigh, Conan lifted her over his shoulder.

"Not-dignified," she panted. "Put-me-down."

"There's no one to see," he told her. And perhaps never would be, he
told himself. A well-honed instinct for direction would keep him moving
on the path Jondra had set as long as he was able to move; an instinct
for survival and an indomitable will would keep him moving long after
the limits of ordinary human endurance had been breeched. He would find
her camp. If she actually followed the true path. If he had not waited
too late to question her. If...

Putting his doubts and Jondra's weak struggles alike from his mind,
Conan set out slightly to the south of the line the sun had followed in
rising. Constantly his eyes searched for signs of water, but in vain.
It was too much to hope for palm fronds waving above a spring. Now,
however, he could not find even the plants that would show him where to
dig for a seep hole. No trace of green met his eyes save the short,
wiry grass that could grow where a lizard would die of thirst. The sun
blazed its way westward.

Conan's gaze swept toward the horizon. No smoke marked a campsite, no
track disturbed the stony flanks of the hills before him. A steady,
ground-eating pace he kept, tirelessly at first, then, as shadows
lengthened before him, with an iron determination that denied the
possibility of surrender. With water the coming night would have been a
haven. Without it, there would be no stopping, for if they stopped they
might well never take another step.

Darkness swooped, with no twilight. The stretching shadows seemed to
merge and permeate the air in moments. The searing heat dissipated
quickly. Stars blinked into being, like flecks of crystal on black
velvet, and with them came a chill that struck to the bone as fiercely
as had the sun. Jondra stirred on his shoulder and murmured faintly.
Conan could not make out what she said, nor waste the energy to wonder
what it had been.

He began to stumble, and he knew it was not only the dark. His throat
was as dry as the rocks that turned under his feet, and the cold gave
little relief to the sun-cracked skin of his face. All he could see
were the unwinking stars. Locking his eyes on the horizon, a thin line
where sable merged into ebon, he trudged on. Abruptly he realized that
three of those stars did seem to shimmer. And they lay below the
horizon. Fires.

Forcing his feet to move faster, Conan half-ran toward the camp, for
such it must be, whether Jondra's or another. Whoever's camp it was,
they must go in, for they had to have water. With his free hand he
loosened his sword in its scabbard. They needed water, and he meant to
have it.

The "stars" clearly became fires built high, surrounded by two-wheeled
carts and round tents, with picket lines of animals beyond. Conan
stumbled into the firelight; men in short mail tunics and baggy white
trousers leaped to their feet. Hands reached for spears and tulwars.

The Cimmerian let Jondra fall and put a hand to his sword hilt.
"Water," he croaked. The one word was all he could manage.

"What have you done?" a tall hawk-faced man demanded. Conan worked for
the moisture to ask what the man meant, but the other did not wait.
"Kill him!" he snarled.

Conan's broadsword slid smoothly free, and it was not the only steel
bared to gleam in the light of the fires. Some men raised their spears
to throw.

"No!" The faint command came in a thirst-hoarsened voice. "No, I say!"

Conan risked a glance from the corner of his eye. One of the
mail-shirted men held a water-skin solicitously to Jondra's lips, and
her shoulder, were supported by Tamira, in the short, white tunic of a
servant.

Not lowering his sword-for few of the others had lowered theirs-Conan
began to laugh, a dry, rasping sound of relief. It hurt his throat, but
he did not care.

"But, my lady," the hawk-faced man protested. Conan remembered him,
now, at Jondra's shoulder that day in Shadizar.

"Be silent, Arvaneus," Jondra barked. She took two more thirsty gulps
from the waterskin, then pushed it aside and held out an imperious
hand, demanding to be helped to her feet. The man with the waterskin
hastened to comply. She stood unsteadily, but pushed him aside when he
tried to support her. "This man saved me from wolves, Arvaneus, and
carried me when I could not walk. While you huddled by the fires, he
saved my life. Give him water. Tend his hurts, and see to his comfort."

Hesitantly, eying Conan's bare blade, the man with the waterskin handed
it to the big Cimmerian.

Arvaneus spread his hands in supplication. "We searched, my lady. When
you did not return, we searched until dark, then built the fires high
that you might see them and be guided to the camp. At first light we
would have-"

"At first light I would have been dead!" Jondra snapped. "I will retire
to my tent now, Arvaneus, and give thanks to Mitra that my survival was
not left to you. Attend me, Lyana." Her rigid-backed departure was
spoiled slightly by a stumble, and she muttered a curse as she ducked
into her scarlet-walled pavillion.

Conan cast an eye about the encampment-the tulwars and spears were no
longer in evidence-and sheathed his own blade. As he was raising the
waterskin, he met Arvaneus' gaze. The huntsman's black eyes were filled
with a hatred rooted in his marrow. And he was not the only one staring
at the Cimmerian. Tamira's glare was one of frustration.

"Lyana!" Jondra called from her tent. "Attend me, girl, or. . ." The
threat was implicit in her tone.

For the barest moment Tamira hesitated, giving Conan a well-honed look,
then she darted for the tent.

Arvaneus' face was still a mask of malignity, but Conan neither knew
the reason nor cared. All that mattered was that he would now surely
reach the necklace and tiara before the young woman thief. That and
nothing more. With a rasping chuckle he tilted up the waterskin and
drank deeply.


Chapter VIII

The tall, gray-eyed young man kicked his horse into a trot as the lay
of the country told him he neared his village. The last wisps of
morning fog lingered among the towering forest oaks, as it often did in
this part of Brythunia, not far from the Kezankian Mountains. Then the
village itself came in view. A few low, thatch-roofed houses of stone,
those of the village's wealthiest men, were dotted among the wattle
structures that clustered around two dirt streets that lay at right
angles to each other.

People crowded the street as he rode into the village. "Eldran!" they
shouted, and dogs ran beside his horse, adding their barking to the
uproar. "You have come! Boudanecea said you would!" The men were
dressed as he, their tunics embroidered at the neck, with
cross-gaitered fur leggings that rose to the knee. The women's dresses
were longer versions of the tunics, but in a profusion of scarlets and
yellows and blues where the men's were brown and gray, and embroidered
at hem and at the ends of the sleeves as well.

"Of course I've come," he said as he dismounted. "Why should I not?"
They gathered about him, each trying to get close. He noticed that
every man wore a sword, though few did in the normal course of days,
and many leaned on spears and carried their round shields of linden
wood rimmed with iron. "What has happened here? What has the priestess
to do with this?" A tumult answered him, voices tumbling over each
other like brook water over stones.

". . . Burned the farmsteads . . ."

". . . Men dead, women dead, animals dead..."

". . . Some eaten. . ."

". . . Devil beast. . ."

". . . Went to hunt it. . ."

". . . Ellandune . . ."

". . . All dead save Godtan . . ."

"Hold!" Eldran cried. "I cannot hear you all. Who spoke of Ellandune?
Is my brother well?"

Silence fell, save for the shuffling of feet. No one would meet his
eyes. A murmur spread from the rear of the crowd, and they parted for
the passage of a tall woman with a face serene and ageless. Her hair,
the black streaked with gray, hung to her ankles and was bound loosely
back with a white linen band. Her dress was of pristine linen as well,
and the embroideries were of the leaves and berries of the mistletoe. A
small golden sickle hung at her belt. She could walk anywhere in
Brythunia and the poorest man in the land would not touch that sickle,
nor the most violent raise a finger against her.

Eldran's clear gray eyes were troubled as they met hers of dark brown.
"Will you tell me, Boudanecea? What has happened to Ellandune?"

"Come with me, Eldran." The priestess took his arm in a strong grasp.
"Walk with me, and I will tell you what I can."

He let her lead him away, and none of the rest followed other than with
sympathetic eyes that made fear rise in him. In silence they walked
slowly down the dusty street. He kept a rein on his impatience, for he
knew of old she would not be rushed.

Before the gray stone house where she lived, Boudanecea drew him to a
halt. "Go in, Eldran. See Godtan. Speak with him. Then I will tell
you."

Eldran hesitated, then pushed open the door of pale polished wood, A
short, slight woman met him inside, dressed like Boudanecea, but with
her dark, shiny hair braided in tight spirals about her head as a sign
that she was still an acolyte.

"Godtan," was all he could say. What of Ellandune, he wanted to shout,
but he had begun to fear the answer.

The acolyte silently drew aside a red woolen door-hanging and motioned
him to enter the room. A stomach-wrenching melding of smells drifted
out. Medicinal herbs and poultices. Burned meat. Rotting meat. He
swallowed and ducked through. She let the hanging fall behind him.

It was a simple room, with a well-swept floor of smooth wooden planks
and a single window, its curtains pulled back to admit light. A table
with a glazed pottery basin and pitcher stood beside the bed on which
lay the naked shape of a man. Or what had once been a man. The right
side of his face was burned away, a fringe of gray hair bordering what
remained. From the shoulder to the knee his right side was a mass of
charred flesh, crimson showing through cracks in the black. There were
no fingers on the twisted stick that had once been his right arm.
Eldran remembered that right arm well, for it had taught him the sword.

"Godtan." The name caught in his throat. "Godtan, it is I, Eldran."

The horribly burned man's remaining eye flickered weakly open, swiveled
toward him. Eldran groaned at the madness in it.

"We followed," Godtan said, his voice a gurgling croak. "Into-the
mountains. Kill it. We were-going to-. We didn't-know. The colors-of
it. Beau-tiful. Beautiful-like death. Scales-turned-our arrows-like
straws. Spears wouldn't-. Its breath-is fire!"

That mad eye bulged frantically, and Eldran said, "Rest, Godtan. Rest,
and I'll-"

"No!" The word came from that twisted mouth with insistence. "No rest!
We-fled it. Had to. Hillmen-found us. Took Aelric. Took-Ellandune.
Thought-I was-dead. Fooled them." Godtan gave a rasping bark; Eldran
realized with a shiver that it was meant to be laughter. "One-of us-had
to-bring word-what happened. I-had to." His one eye swiveled to
Eldran's face, and for a moment the madness was replaced by
bewilderment and pain. "Forgive-me. I-did not-mean-to leave him.
Forgive-Eldran."

"I forgive you," Eldran said softly. "And I thank you for returning
with word of what happened. You are still the best man of us all."

A grateful smile curved the half of Godtan's mouth that was left, and
his eye drifted shut as if the effort of keeping it open were too
great.

Grinding his teeth, Eldran stalked from the building, slapping the door
open so that it banged against the wallstones. His eyes were the gray
of forged iron, hard and cold from the quenching, and when he
confronted Boudanecea his fists were clenched till the nails dug into
his palms in an effort to control his anger.

"Will you tell me now?" he grated.

"The beast of fire," she began, but he cut her off.

"A tale for children! Tell me what happened!"

She shook a fist under his nose, and her fury blazed back at him as
strongly as his own. "How think you Godtan took his burns? Think, man!
A tale for children, you call it. Ha! For all the breadth of your
shoulders I've always had trouble thinking of you as a man grown, for I
helped your mother birth you, and wrapped your first swaddling cloths
about you with these hands. Now you bring my doubts home again. I know
you have the fierce heart of a man. Have you the brain as well?"

Despite his chill rage Eldran was taken aback. He had known Boudanecea
since his childhood, and never had he seen her lose her temper. "But,
Godtan . . . I thought . . . he's mad."

"Aye, he's mad, and as well he is. All the way from the Kezankians he
came, like that, seeking to tell us the fate of his companions, seeking
the help of his people. Seeking my help. But none of my spells or
potions can help him. The greenrot had set in too deeply by the time I
saw him. Only a necromancer could help him now." She touched the golden
sickle at her belt to ward off the evil of the thought, and he made the
sign of the sickle.

"So the . . . the devil beast came," Eldran said.

Her long hair swayed as she nodded. "While you were in the west. First
one farmstead was burned, all of the building, and only gnawed
fragments of people or cattle left. Men made up stories to settle their
minds, of a fire that killed the family and the animals, of wolves
getting at the remains when the fire burned down. But then a second
farmstead was destroyed, and a third, and a fourth, and . . ." She took
a long breath. "Twenty-three, in all, and all at night. Seven on the
last night alone. After that the hotheads took matters into their own
hands. Aelfric. Godtan. Your brother. A score of others. They talked
like you when I spoke of the beast of fire after the first farmstead. A
tale for children. Then they found spoor, tracks. But they still would
not believe me when I said no weapon forged by the hands of ordinary
men could harm the creature. They made their plans in secret, and
sneaked from the village before dawn to avoid my eye."

"If no weapon forged by man..." Eldran's hands worked futilely.
"Boudanecea, I will not let it rest. The hillmen must pay for my
brother, and the beast must be slain. Wiccana aid me, it must! Not only
for revenge, but to stop it coming again."

"Aye." The priestess breathed the word. "Wait here." In what would have
been hurry for one without her stately dignity, she disappeared into
her house. When she returned she was followed by a plump acolyte with
merry brown eyes. The acolyte carried a flat, red-lacquered chest atop
which were neatly folded white cloths and a pitcher of whiteglazed
pottery. "From this moment," Boudanecea told him, "you must do exactly
as you are told, and no more. For your life, Eldran, and your sanity,
heed. Now, come."

They formed a procession then, the priestess leading and the acolyte
following behind Eldran. The women marched with a measured tread, and
he found himself falling into it as if an invisible drum beat the
steps.

The hair of the back of his neck stirred as he realized where they were
taking him. The Sacred Grove of Wiccana, eldest of the sacred groves of
Brythunia, where the boles of the youngest oaks were as thick and as
tall as the largest elsewhere in the forest. Only the priestesses and
acolytes went to the sacred groves now, though once, countless
centuries in the past, men had made that journey. As sacrifices to the
goddess. The thought did not comfort Eldran.

Limbs as thick as a man's body wove a canopy above their heads, and the
decaying leaves of the past season rustled beneath their feet. Abruptly
a clearing appeared before them, where a broad, low grassy mound lay
bare to the sky. A rough slab of granite, as long and as wide as the
height of a man, lay partially buried in the side of the mound before
them.

"Attempt to move the stone," Boudanecea commanded.

Eldran stared at her. He was head and shoulders taller than most men of
the village, well muscled and with broad shoulders, but he knew the
weight was beyond him. Then, remembering her first instructions, he
obeyed. Squatting beside the great stone, he tried to dig down with his
hands to find the lower edge. The first handfuls moved easily, but
abruptly the dirt took on the consistency of rock. It looked no
different than before, yet his nails could not scratch it. Giving up on
that, he threw his weight against the side of the slab, attempting to
lever it over. Every sinew of him strained, and sweat ran in rivulets
down his face and body, but the granite seemed a fixed part of the
mound. It did not stir.

"Enough," Boudanecea said. "Come and kneel here." She indicated a spot
before the slab.

The acolyte had laid open the top of the chest, revealing stoppered
vials and bowls of a glaze that seemed the exact green of mistletoe.
Boudanecea firmly turned Eldran's back to the plump woman and made him
kneel. From the white pitcher she poured clear water over his hands,
and wiped them with soft white cloths. Other cloths were dampened and
used to wipe sweat from his face.

As she cleansed his face and hands the graying priestess spoke. "No man
or woman can move that stone, nor enter that mound save with Wiccana's
aid. With her aid..."

The acolyte appeared at her side, holding a small green bowl. With her
golden sickle Boudanecea cut a lock of Eldran's hair. He shivered as
she dropped it into the bowl. Taking each of his hands in turn, she
pricked the balls of his thumbs with the point of the sickle and
squeezed a few drops of his blood on top of the hair. The acolyte and
bowl hurried from his view again.

Boudanecea's eyes held his. He could hear the plump woman clinking
vials, murmuring incantations, but he could not look away from the
priestess' face. Then the acolyte was back, and Boudanecea took from
her the bowl and a long sprig of mistletoe, which she dipped into the
bowl.

Head back, the priestess began to chant. The words she spoke were no
words Eldran had ever heard before, but the power of them chilled him
to the bone. The air about him became icy and still. A thrill of terror
went through him as he held out his hands, palms up, without
instruction. It was as if he suddenly had known that he must do it.
Mistletoe slapped his hands, and terror was replaced by a feeling of
wholeness and well-being greater than any he had ever known before.
Boudanecea chanted on, her paean rising in tone. The dampened sprig of
mistletoe struck one cheek, then the other. Abruptly his body seemed to
have no weight; he felt as if he might drift on the lightest breeze.

Boudanecea's voice stilled. Eldran wavered, then staggered to his feet.
The peculiar sense of lightness remained with him.

"Go to the stone." Boudanecea's voice hung like chimes in the
crystallized air. "Move the stone aside."

Silently Eldran moved to the slab. It had not changed that he could
see, and rather than feeling stronger, he seemed to have no strength at
all. Still the compulsion of her words was on him. Bending beside the
stone, he fitted his hands to it, heaved . . . and his mouth fell open
as the stone rose like a feather, pivoted on its further edge, and fell
soundlessly. He stared at the stone, at his hands, at the sloping
passage revealed in the side of the mound, at Boudanecea.

"Go down," she told him. Tension froze her face, and insistence made
her words ring more loudly. "Go down, and bring back what you find."

Taking a deep breath, Eldran stumbled down the slanting, dirt-floored
passage. No dust rose beneath his feet. Broad, long slabs of stone had
been carefully laid for walls and roof to the passage, their crude work
showing their age. Quickly the passage widened into a round chamber,
some ten paces across, walled and roofed in the same gray stone as the
way down. There were no lamps, but a soft light permeated the room. Nor
were there the cobwebs and dust he had expected. A smell of freshly
grown green things hung in the air, a smell of spring.

There could be no doubt as to what he was to bring up, for the chamber
was bare save for a simple pedestal of pale stone, atop which rested a
sword of ancient design. Its broad blade gleamed brightly, as if it had
just come, newly made and freshly oiled, from the smith's hand. The
bronze hilt was wrapped with leather that could have have been tanned
that season. Its quillons ended in claws that seemed designed to hold
something, but they were empty now.

A sense of urgency came on him as he stared at the sword. Seizing it,
he half-ran back to the sunlight above.

As he took his first step onto the ground of the clearing he heaved a
sigh of relief. And suddenly he felt as he had before coming there. All
the strange sensations were gone. Almost against his will he looked
over his shoulder. The great stone rested where it had originally lain,
with no sign that it had ever been disturbed. Even the place where he
had dug beside it was no longer there.

A shudder ran down his bones. Only the weight of the sword in his
hand-an ordinary seeming, if ancient, blade-remained to convince him
something had actually happened. He clung hard to sanity, and did not
wonder about what that something had been.

"Flame Slayer," Boudanecea said softly. Her hand stretched toward the
sword, but did not touch it. "Symbol of our people, sword of our
people's heroes. It was forged by great wizards nearly three thousand
years ago, as a weapon against the beasts of fire, for the evil of
Acheron had launched a plague of them, creations of their vile
sorceries, upon the world. Once those claws held two great rubies, the
Eyes of Fire, and the sword could control the beasts as well as slay
them. For it can slay the beast."

"Why didn't you tell me of it?" Eldran demanded. "Why did you bring me
here unknowing, like a sheep to ...." His voice trailed off, for he did
not like the thoughts that image brought back.

"It is part of the geas laid on the sword," the priestess replied, "and
on we who keep it. Without the aid of a priestess, no one can reach the
sword. But no priestess may speak of the sword to any who does not hold
it. Great care must be taken in choosing to bring a man to the blade,
for as well as its uses against the beasts of fire it can be a locus of
great power to one who knows the ways of such things."

He hefted the sword curiously. "Power? Of what kind?"

"Do you seek power, Eldran?" she asked gravely. "Or do you seek to slay
the beast?"

"The beast," he growled, and she nodded approval.

"Good. I chose you when first I knew what the beast was. You are
acknowledged the finest man in Brythunia with sword or horse or bow. It
is said that you move through the forest, and the trees are unaware of
your passage, that you can track the wind itself. Such a man will be
needed to hunt down the beast of fire. And this you must remember. Do
not allow the sword to leave your possession, even while you sleep, or
you will never regain its hilt. Instead the sword will, Wiccana alone
knows how, return to its place beneath the stone. Many times it has
been lost, but always, when it is needed and the stone is lifted aside,
the sword is there. That will not help you should you lose it, though,
for the sword may be given to any man but once in his life."

"I will not lose it," Eldran said grimly. "It will do its work, and I
will return it here myself. But now I must take it from here." He began
to move toward the trees, out of the sacred grove; his first
nervousness was returning, as if this was not a place for men to remain
long. "There is no time to waste, so I must choose the rest of my party
quickly."

"Rest?" Boudanecea exclaimed, halting him at the edge of the trees. "I
intended you to go alone, one swift hunter to slay the-"

"No. There must be blood price for Aelric and Ellandune, and for any
others who fell to the hillmen. You know it must be so."

"I know," she sighed. "Your mother was like my own sister. I had hoped
to hold her grandson one day, hoped for it many a day before this. Now
I fear I never shall."

"I will come back," he said, and laughed suddenly, shocking himself.
"You will get to see me wed yet, Boudanecea."

She raised the mistletoe in benediction, and he bowed his head to
accept it. But even as he did he was listing in his mind the men he
would take into the mountains with him.


Chapter IX

Easing himself in his high-pommeled Zamoran saddle, Conan studied the
country toward which the hunting party traveled. The flat, rolling
hills through which they rode had changed little in the three days
since his rescue of Jondra, except that the short grass was more
abundant here and a brown tangle of thornbushes occasionally covered a
stony slope. Ahead, though, the hills rose quickly higher, piling up on
one another till they melded into the jagged, towering peaks of the
Kezankians.

These were an arm of that range that stretched south and west along the
border between Zamora and Brythunia. Conan knew of no game in them that
would attract a hunter like Jondra save for the great spiral-horned
sheep that lived amid the sheer cliffs in the heart of the range. In
the heart of the mountain tribes, as well. He could not believe she
meant to venture there.

The hunting party was a vile-tempered snake twisting its way among the
low hills, avoiding the crests. Spearmen muttered oaths as their
sandaled feet slipped on stony slopes, exchanging insults with mounted
archers. Pack animals brayed and muleteers cursed. Ox drivers shouted
and cracked their long whips as the oxen strained to pull the
highwheeled supply carts. The string of spare horses, raising an even
taller plume of dust than all the rest of the party, was the only part
of the column not adding to the tumult. Jondra rode before it all with
Arvaneus and half a score other mounted hunters, oblivious of the noise
behind them. It was no way to enter the country of the hill tribes.
Conan was only thankful the dogs had been left behind in Shadizar.

Tamira, perched precariously atop lashed bundles of tenting on a
lurching cart, waved to him, and Conan moved his horse up beside the
cart. "You surprise me," he said. "You have avoided me these three days
past."

"The Lady Jondra finds many labors for me," she replied. Eying the
carter, walking beside his oxen, she edged more to the rear of the
high-wheeled vehicle. "Why did you follow me?" she whispered fiercely.

Conan smiled lazily. "Followed you? Perhaps I seek the country air.
Invigorating rides are good for the lungs, I'm told."

"Invigorating-" She spluttered indignantly. "Tell me the truth,
Cimmerian! If you think to cut me out-"

"Already I have told you my plans for you," he broke in.

"You . . . you are serious?" she said, a rising note of incredulity in
her voice. As if fearing he might seize her on the instant, she wiggled
to the far side of the cart and peered at him over the top of the
rolled tenting. "The Lady Jondra requires that her handmaidens be
chaste, Cimmerian. You may think that saving her life will gain you
license, but she is a noble, and will forget her gratitude in a moment
if you transgress her rules."

"Then I will have to be careful, won't I?" Conan said, letting his
horse fall behind. She peered after him anxiously as the cart trundled
on. Conan wore a satisfied smile.

He was sure she did not believe that he had no interest in Jondra's
jewels-she was no fool, or she could not have thieved as long as she
had in Shadizar-but she would at least think his mind was divided
between the gems and her. Most women, he had found, would believe that
a man lusted after them on the slightest provocation. And if Tamira
believed that, she would be nervously looking over her shoulder when
she should be getting her hands on the gems.

A blackened hillside caught the big Cimmerian's eye, off from the line
of march, and he turned his horse aside from curiosity. Nothing was
left of the thornbushes that had once covered the slope save charred
stumps and ashes. It did not have the look of lightning strike, he
thought, for the bolt would have struck the hilltop, not its side.

Abruptly his mount stopped, nostrils flaring, and gave a low, fearful
whicker. Conan tried to urge the animal closer, but it refused, even
taking a step back. He frowned, unable to see anything ominous. What
would frighten a horse he had been told was trained for the hunting of
lions?

Dismounting, he dropped his reins, then watched to be sure the animal
would stand. Its flanks shivered, but training held it. Satisfied,
Conan approached the burn. And loosened his sword, just in case.

At first his booted feet stirred only ashes over blackened soil and
rock. Then his toe struck something different. He picked up a broken
wild ox horn with a fragment of skull attached. The horn was charred,
as were the shreds of flesh adhering to the bone, but the piece of
skull itself was not. Slowly he searched through the entire burn. There
were no other bones to be found, not even such cracked bits as hyenas
would leave after scavenging a lion's kill. He extended his search to
the area around the char.

With a clatter of hooves Arvaneus galloped up, working his reins to
make his horse dance as he stared down at Conan. "If you fall behind,
barbar," the hawk-faced man said contemptuously, "you may not be so
lucky as to find others to take you in."

Conan's hands tightened on the horn. The gems, he reminded himself
firmly. "I found this in the ashes, and-"

"An old ox horn," the huntsman snorted, "and a lightning strike. No
doubt it signifies some portent to one such as you, but we have no time
for wasting."

Taking a deep breath, Conan went on. "There are tracks-"

"I have trackers, barbar. I have no need of you. Better you do fall
behind. Leave us, barbar, while you can." Wheeling his mount in a spray
of rocks and dirt, Arvaneus galloped after the fast-disappearing
column.

There was a sharp crack, and Conan discovered that the ox horn had
broken in his grip. "Zandru's Nine Hells!" he muttered.

Tossing the shattered remnants of horn aside, he knelt to examine the
track he had found. It was only part of an animal's print, for the
stony soil did not take tracks well. At least, he thought it was an
animal's print. Two toes ending in long claws, and scuffings that might
have indicated the rest of the foot. He laid a forefinger beside one of
the claw marks. The claw had been easily twice as large as his finger.

He had never heard of a beast that made tracks as large as these. At
least, he thought, Jondra did not hunt this. Nor did he think he would
warn her of it. What he knew of her suggested she would leap at the
chance to hunt an unknown creature, especially if it was dangerous.
Still, he would keep his own eyes open. Swinging into the saddle, he
galloped after the hunting party.

Sooner than Conan expected, he caught up with them. The column was
halted. Men held the horses' heads to keep them silent, and the carters
held the oxen's nose-rings so they would not low. Tamira paused in
beating dust from her short white tunic to grimace at Conan as he
walked his horse past the cart of tenting. From somewhere ahead came a
faint, steady pounding of drums.

At the front of the line Jondra and a handful of her hunters lay on
their bellies near the crest of a hill. Leaving his horse at the foot
of the slope, Conan made his way up to them, dropping flat before his
head overtopped the hill. The drumbeat was louder here.

"Go, barbar," Arvaneus snarled. "You are not needed here."

"Be silent, Arvaneus," Jondra said softly, but there was iron in her
tone.

Conan ignored them both. A third of a league distant another column
marched, this one following a knife-edge fine, caring not whether it
topped hills or no. A column of the Zamoran Army. Ten score horsemen in
spiked helms rode in four files behind a leopard-head standard. Behind
came twenty drummers, mallets rising and falling in unison, and behind
them . . . The Cimmerian made a rough estimate of the numbers of sloped
spears, rank on rank on rank. Five thousand Zamoran infantry made a
drum of the ground with their measured tread.

Conan turned his head to gaze at Jondra. Color came into her cheeks
beneath his eyes. "Why do you avoid the army?" he asked.

"We will camp," Jondra said. "Find a site, Arvaneus." She began moving
backwards down the slope, and the huntsman slithered after her.

Conan watched them go with a frown, then turned back to peer after the
soldiers until they had marched out of sight beyond the hills to the
north.

The camp was set up when Conan finally left the hill, conical tents
dotting a broad, flat space between two hills. Jondra's large tent of
bright scarlet stood in the center of the area. The oxen had been
hobbled, and the horses tied along a picket line beyond the carts. No
fires were lit, he noted, and the cooks were handing out dried meat and
fruit.

"You, barbar," Arvaneus said around a strip of jerky. "I see you waited
until the work was done before coming in."

"Why does Jondra avoid the army?" Conan demanded.

The hawk-faced man spit out a wad of half-chewed meat. "The Lady
Jondra," he snapped. "Show a proper respect toward her, barbar, or
I'll.. ." His hand clutched the hilt of his tulwar.

A slow smile appeared on Conan's face, a smile that did not extend to
suddenly steely eyes. There were dead men who could have told Arvaneus
about that smile. "What, huntsman? Try what is in your mind, if you
think you are man enough." In an instant the black-eyed man's curved
blade was bare, and, though Conan's hand had not been near his sword
hilt, his broadsword was out in the same breath.

Arvaneus blinked, taken aback at the big Cimmerian's quickness. "Do you
know who I am, barbar?" There was a shakiness to his voice, and his
face tightened at it. "Huntsman, you call me, but I am the son of Lord
Andanezeus, and if she who bore me had not been a concubine I would be
a lord of Zamora. Noble blood flows in my veins, barbar, blood fit for
the Lady Jondra herself, while yours is-"

"Arvaneus!" Jondra's voice cracked like a whip over the camp. Pale
faced, the noblewoman came to within a pace of the two men. Her
closefitting leather jerkin was laced tightly up the front, and red
leather boots rose to her knees. Arvaneus watched her with a tortured
expression on his face. Her troubled gray eyes touched Conan's face,
then jerked away. "You overstep yourself, Arvaneus," she said
unsteadily. "Put up your sword." Her eyes flickered to Conan. "Both of
you."

Arvaneus' face was a mosaic of emotion, rage and shame, desire and
frustration. With a wordless shout he slammed his blade back into its
scabbard as if into the tall Cimmerian's ribs.

Conan waited until the other's sword was covered before sheathing his
own, then said grimly, "I still want to know why you hide from your own
army."

Jondra looked at him, hesitating, but Arvaneus spoke up quickly,
urgently. "My lady, this man should not be among us. He is no hunter,
no archer or spearman. He does not serve you as . . . as I do."

With a deep chuckle, Conan shook his black-maned head. "It is true I am
my own man, but I am as good a hunter as you, Zamoran. And as for the
spear, will you match me at it? For coin?" He knew he must best the man
at something, or else contend with him as long as he remained with the
hunters. And he carefully had not mentioned the bow, of which he knew
little beyond the holding of it.

"Done!" the huntsman cried. "Done! Bring the butts! Quickly! I will
show this barbarian oaf the way of the spear!"

Jondra opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again as the
camp erupted in a bustle of men, some scurrying to clear a space for
the throwing, others rushing to the carts to wrestle with a heavy
practice butt. The thick bundle woven of straw was a weighty burden to
carry on a hunting expedition, but it did not break arrows or spear
points, as did casting and shooting at trees or at targets on a
hillside.

A shaven-headed man with a long nose leaped on an upturned keg. "I'll
cover all wagers! I give one to twenty on Arvaneus, twenty to one on
the barbarian. Don't crowd." A few men wandered over to him, but most
seemed to take the outcome as foregone.

Conan noticed Tamira among those about the keg. When she left, she
strolled by him. "Throw your best," she said, "and I'll win a silver
piece . . . ." She waited until his chest began to expand with pride,
then finished with a laugh, ". . . Since I wagered on the other."

"It will be a pleasure to help you lose your coppers," he told her
dryly.

"Stop flirting, Lyana," Jondra called sharply. "There's work for you to
be doing."

Tamira made a face the tall woman could not see, bringing a smile to
Conan's face despite himself, then scurried away.

"Will you throw, barbar?" Arvaneus asked tauntingly. The tall huntsman
held a spear in his hand and was stripped to the waist, revealing hard
ropes of muscle. "Or would you rather stay with the serving girl?"

"The girl is certainly more pleasing to look on than your face," Conan
replied.

Arvaneus' face darkened at the ripple of laughter that greeted the
Cimmerian's words. With the blade of his spear the Zamoran scratched a
line on the ground. "No part of your foot may pass this line, or you
lose no matter how well you throw. Though I doubt I must worry about
that."

Doffing his tunic, Conan took a spear handed to him by another of the
hunters and moved to the line. He eyed the butt, thirty paces away. "It
does not look a great distance."

"But see the target, barbar." The swarthy huntsman smiled, pointing. A
lanky spearman was just finishing attaching a circle of black cloth, no
bigger than a man's palm, to the straw.

Conan made his eyes go wide. "Aaah," he breathed, and the hawkfaced
man's smile deepened.

"To be fair," Arvaneus announced loudly, "I will give you odds. One
hundred to one." A murmur rose among the watchers, and all in the camp
were there. "You did mention coin, barbar. Unless you wish to
acknowledge me the better man now."

"They seem fair odds," Conan said, "considering the reputation you have
with yourself." The murmur of astonishment at the odds offered became a
roar of laughter. He considered the weight of his purse. "I have five
silver pieces at those odds." The laughter cut off in stunned silence.
Few there thought the hawk-faced man might lose, but the sheer
magnitude of his unlikely loss astounded them.

Arvaneus seemed unmoved. "Done," was all he said. He moved back from
the line, took two quick steps forward, and hurled. His spear streaked
to the center of the black cloth, pinning it more firmly to the butt.
Half a score of the hunters raised a cheer, and some began trying to
collect their bets now. "Done," he said again, and laughed mockingly.

Conan hefted his spear as he stood at the line. The haft was as thick
as his two thumbs, tipped with an iron blade as long as his forearm.
Suddenly he leaned back, then whipped forward, arm and body moving as
one. With a thud that shoved the butt back his spear buried its head
not a finger's width from the other already there. "Mayhap if it were
further back," he mused. Arvaneus ground his teeth.

There was silence in the camp till the man on the keg broke it. "Even
odds! I'll give even odds on Arvaneus or-what's his name? Conan?-or on
Conan! Even odds!"

"Shut your teeth, Telades!" Arvaneus shouted, but men crowded around
the shaven-headed man. Angrily the huntsman gestured toward the butt.
"Back! Move it back!" Two men rushed out to drag it a further ten
paces, then returned quickly with the spears.

Glaring at Conan, Arvaneus took his place back from the line again, ran
forward and threw. Again his spear struck through the cloth. Conan
stepped back a single pace, and again his throw was one single
continuous motion. His spear brushed against Arvaneus's, striking
through the black cloth even more closely than the first time.
Scattered shouts of delighted surprise rose among the hunters. The
Cimmerian was surprised to see a smile on Jondra's face, and even more
surprised to see another on Tamira's.

Arvaneus's face writhed with fury. "Further!" he shouted when the
spears were returned once more. "Further! Still further!"

An expectant hush settled as the butt was pulled to sixty paces
distant. It was a fair throw for the mark, Conan conceded to himself.
Perhaps more than a fair throw.

Muttering under his breath, the huntsman set himself, then launched his
spear with a grunt. It smacked home solidly in the butt.

"A miss!" Telades called. "It touched the cloth, but a miss! One to
five on Conan!"

Arm cocked, Conan hurtled toward the line. For the third time his shaft
streaked a dark line to the cloth. A tumultuous cry went up, and men
pounded their spears on the ground in approbation.

Telades leaped from his keg and capered laughing through the crowd to
clasp Conan's hand. "You've cost me coin this day, northerner, but
'twas worth every copper to see it done."

Eyes bulging in his head, Arvaneus gave a strangled cry. "No!" Suddenly
he was running toward the butt, pushing men from his path. He began
wrestling the heavy mass of straw further away. "Hit this, barbar dog!"
he shouted, fighting his weighty burden still. "Erlik take you and your
accursed cheating tricks! Hit this!"

"Why, 'tis a hundred paces," Telades exclaimed, shaking his head. "No
man could-" He cut off with a gasp as Conan took a spear from the hand
of a nearby hunter. Like antelope scattering before a lion, men ran to
get from between the Cimmerian and the distant target.

Arvaneus voice drifted back to them, filled with hysterical laughter.
"Hit this, barbar! Try!"

Weighing the spear in his hand, Conan suddenly moved. Powerful legs
drove him forward, his arm went back, and the spear arched high into
the air. The hawk-faced huntsman stared open-mouthed at the spear
arcing toward him, then screamed and hurled himself aside. Dust lifted
from the butt as the spear slashed into the straw beside the two
already there.

Telades ran forward, peering in disbelief, then whirled to throw his
arms high. "By all the gods, he hit cloth! You who call yourselves
spearmen, acknowledge your master! At a hundred paces he hit the
cloth!"

A throng of hunters crowded around Conan, shouting their approval of
his feat, striving to clasp his hand.

Abruptly the shouts faded as Jondra strode up. The hunters parted
before her, waiting expectantly for what she would say. For a moment,
though, she stood, strangely diffident, before speaking.

"You asked me a question, Cimmerian," she said at last, looking over
his shoulder rather than at him. "I do not give reasons for what I do,
but you did save my life, and your cast was magnificent, so I will tell
you alone. But in private. Come." Back rigid and looking neither to
left nor right, she turned and walked to her scarlet tent.

Conan followed more slowly. When he ducked through the tent flap, the
well-curved noblewoman stood with her back to the entrance, toying with
the laces of her leather jerkin. Fine Iranistani carpets, dotted with
silken pillows, made a floor, and golden lamps stood on low, brass
tables.

"Why, then?" he said.

She started, but did not turn around. "If the army is out in such
force," she said distractedly, "they must expect trouble of some sort.
They would surely try to turn back a hunting party, and I do not want
the trouble of convincing some general that I will not be ordered about
by the army."

"And you keep this secret?" Conan said, frowning. "Do you think your
hunters have not reasoned some of this out themselves?"

"Is Lyana as you said?" she asked. "Pleasing to look on? More pleasing
than I?"

"She is lovely." Conan smiled at the stiffening of her back, and added
judiciously, "But not so lovely as you." He was young, but he knew
enough of women to take care in speaking of one woman's beauty to
another.

"I will pay Arvaneus's wager," Jondra said abruptly. "He does not have
five hundred pieces of silver."

The tall Cimmerian blinked, taken aback by her sudden shift. "I will
not take it from you. The wager was with him."

Her head bowed, and she muttered, seemingly unaware that she spoke
aloud. "Why is he always the same in my mind? Why must he be a
barbarian?" Suddenly she turned, and Conan gasped. She had worked the
laces from her jerkin, and the supple leather gaped open to bare heavy,
round breasts and erect, pink nipples. "Did you think I brought you to
my tent merely to answer your questions?" she cried. "I've allowed no
man to touch me, but you will not even stretch out a hand. Will you
make me be as shameless as-"

The young noblewoman's words cut off as Conan pulled her to him. His
big hands slid beneath her jerkin, fingers spreading on the smooth skin
of her back, to press her full breasts against him. "I stretch out both
hands," he said, working the leather from her shoulders to fall to the
carpets.

Clutching at him, she laid her head against his broad chest. "My
hunters will know . . . they will guess what I . . . what you . . ."
She shivered and held to him harder.

Gently he tipped her head back and peered into her eyes, as gray as the
clouds of a mountain morning. "If you fear what they think," he said,
"then why?"

The tip of her small pink tongue wet her lips. "I could never have made
that spear cast," she murmured, and pulled him down to the silken
cushions.


Chapter X

Conan tossed aside the fur coverlet and got to his feet with an
appreciative look at Jondra's nude form. She sighed in her sleep, and
threw her arms over her head, tightening the domes of her breasts in
such a way as to make him consider not dressing after all. Chuckling,
he reached for his tunic instead. The locked iron chests containing her
gems got not a wit of his attention.

Three days since the spear casting, he reflected, and for all her fears
of what her hunters might think, it would take a man both blind and
deaf to be still unaware of what occurred between Jondra and him. She
had not let him leave her tent that first night, not even to eat, and
the past two had been the same. Each morning, seemingly oblivious of
the hunters' smiles and Arvaneus's glares, she insisted that Conan
"guide" her while she hunted, a hunt that lasted only until she found a
spot well away from the line of march where there was shade and a level
surface large enough for two. The chaste, noble Lady Jondra had found
that she liked lying with a man, and she was making up for lost
opportunities.

Not that her absorption in the flesh was total. That first day she had
been unsatisfied on their return with how far the column had traveled.
Up and down the line she galloped, scoring men with her tongue till
they were as shaken as if she had used her quirt. Arvaneus she took
aside, and what she said to him no one heard, but when he galloped back
his lips were a tight, pale line, and his black eyes smouldered. There
had not been another day when the progress of the column failed to
satisfy her.

Settling his black Khauranian cloak around his shoulders, Conan stepped
out into the cool morning. He was pleased to see that the cookfires had
at last been made with dried ox dung, as he had suggested. No smoke
rose to draw eyes to them, and that was more important than ever, now.
A day to the north of where they camped, at most two days amid the now
steep-sloped hills, lay the towering ranges of the Kezankian, dark and
jagged against the horizon.

The camp itself squatted atop a hill amidst trees twisted and stunted
by arid, rocky soil. Every man wore his mail shirt and spiked helm at
all times, now, and none went so far as the privy trenches without
spear or bow.

A sweating Tamira, dodging from fire to fire under the watchful eye of
the fat cook, gave Conan a grimace as she twisted a meat-laden spit
half a turn. Arvaneus, sitting cross-legged near the fires, sullenly
buried his face in a mug of wine when he saw the Cimmerian.

Conan ignored them both. His ears strained for the sound he thought he
had heard. There. He grabbed Tamira's arm. "Go wake J . . . your
mistress," he told her. Hands on hips, Tamira stared at him wryly.
"Go," he growled. "There are horsemen coming from the south." A look of
startlement passed over her face, then she darted for the big scarlet
tent.

"What offal do you spout now?" Arvaneus demanded. "I see nothing."

Telades came running across the camp to the hawk-faced man's side.
"Mardak claims he hears horses to the south, Arvaneus."

With an oath the huntsman tossed his mug to the ground and scrambled to
his feet. A worried frown creased his face. "Hillmen?" he asked
Telades, and the shaven-headed man shrugged.

"Not likely from the south," Conan said. "Still, it couldn't hurt to
let the rest of the camp know. Quietly."

"When I need your advice," Arvaneus snarled, but he did not finish it.
Instead he turned to Telades. "Go among the men. Tell them to be
ready." His face twitched, and he added a muttered, "Quietly."

Unasked, the Cimmerian added his efforts to those of Telades, moving
from man to man, murmuring a word of warning. Mardak, a grizzled,
squint-eyed man with long, thin mustaches also was passing the word.
The hunters took it calmly. Here and there a man fingered the hilt of
his tulwar or pulled a lacquered quiver of arrows closer, but all went
on with what they were doing, though with eyes continually flickering
to the south.

By the time Conan returned to the center of the camp, ten horsemen had
topped the crest of the next hill and were walking their horses toward
the camp.

Arvaneus grunted. "We could slay all of them before they knew we were
here. What are they, anyway? Not hillmen."

"Brythunians," Telades replied. "Is there really cause to kill them,
Arvaneus?"

"Barbarian scum," the hawk-faced hunter sneered. "They don't even see
us."

"They see us," Conan said, "or they'd never have crossed that crest.
And what makes you think we see all of them?"

The two Zamorans exchanged surprised looks, but Conan concentrated on
the oncoming men. All wore fur leggings and fur-edged capes, with
broadswords at their waists and round shields hung behind their
saddles. Nine of them carried spears. One, who led them, carried a
long, recurved bow.

The Brythunian horsemen picked their way up the hill and drew rein
short of the camp. The man with the bow raised it above his head. "I am
called Eldran," he said. "Are we welcome here?"

A sour look on his face, Arvaneus stood silent.

Conan raised his right hand above his head. "I am called Conan," he
said. "I welcome you, so long as you mean harm to none here. Dismount
and share our fires."

Eldran climbed from his horse with a smile. He was almost as tall to
Conan, though not so heavily muscled. "We cannot remain long. We seek
information, then we must move on."

"I seek information as well," Jondra said as she strode between the
men. Her hair, light brown sun-streaked with blonde, was tousled, and
her tight riding breeches and tunic of emerald silk had an air of
having been hastily donned. "Tell me. . . ." Her words died as her eyes
met those of Eldran, as gray as her own. Her head was tilted back to
look up at him, and her mouth remained open. Finally she said
unsteadily, "From . . . from what country are you?"

"They're Brythunians," Arvaneus spoke up. "Savages."

"Be silent!" Jondra's enraged scream caught the men by surprise. Conan
and Eldran stared at her wonderingly. Arvaneus's face paled. "I did not
speak to you," she went on in a voice that shook. "You will be silent
till spoken to! Do you understand me, huntsman?" Not waiting for his
answer, she turned back to Eldran. The color in her cheeks was high,
her voice thin but cool. "You are hunters, then? It is doubly dangerous
for you to hunt here. The Zamoran army is in the field, and there are
always the hillmen."

"The Zamoran army does not seem to find us," the Brythunian answered.
His still-mounted men laughed. "As for the hillmen. . ." There was an
easiness to his voice, but grim light flashed in his eyes. "I have
given my name, woman, but have not heard yours."

She drew herself up to her greatest height, still no taller than his
shoulder. "It is the Lady Jondra of the House Perashanid of Shadizar,
to whom you speak, Brythunian."

"An honorable lineage, Zamoran."

His tone was neutral, but Jondra flinched as if he had sneered.
Strangely, it seemed to steady her in some fashion. Her voice firmed.
"If you are a hunter, perhaps you have seen the beast I hunt, or its
sign. I am told its body is that of a huge serpent, covered with scales
in many colors. Its track-"

"The beast of fire," one of the mounted Brythunians murmured, and
others made a curving sign in the air before them as if it were a
charm.

Eldran's face was tight. "We seek the beast as well, Jondra. Our people
know it of old. Perhaps we can join forces."

"I need no more hunters," Jondra said quickly.

"The creature is more difficult to slay than you can imagine," the tall
Brythunian said urgently. His hand gripped tightly at the hilt of his
sword, a weapon of ancient pattern with quillons ending in claws like
an eagle's. "It's breath is fire. Without us you can but die in the
seeking of it."

"So say you," she said mockingly, "with your children's tales. I say I
will slay the beast, and without your aid. I also say that I had better
not find you attempting to poach my kill. This trophy is mine,
Brythunian. Do you understand me?"

"Your eyes are like the mists of dawn," he said, smiling.

Jondra quivered. "If I see you again, I'll put arrows in both of your
eyes. I'll-"

Suddenly she grabbed a bow from one of her archers. Brythunian spears
were lowered, and their horses pranced nervously. Hunters reached for
their tulwars. In one smooth motion Jondra drew and released, into the
air. Far above the camp a raven gave a shrill cry and began to flutter
erratically, dropping toward a far hill.

"See that," Jondra exclaimed, "and fear my shafts."

Before the words were out of her mouth the distant raven jerked
downward, turning over as it plummeted to reveal a second arrow
transfixing its feathered corpse.

"You are a fine shot," Eldran said as he lowered his bow. Smoothly he
swung into his saddle. "I would stay to shoot with you, but I have
hunting to do." Without a backward glance he wheeled his horse and rode
down the hill, his men following as if unaware that their backs were
bare to the camp's archers.

That thought occurred quickly to Arvaneus. "Archers," he began, when
Jondra whirled on him, glaring. She said no word, nor needed to. The
huntsman backed away from her, eyes down, muttering, "Your forgiveness,
my lady."

Next she turned her attentions to Conan. "You," she breathed. "He spoke
to me like that, and you did nothing. Nothing!"

The big Cimmerian eyed her impassively. "Perhaps he is right. I found
signs of a beast that may kill with fire. And if he is right about
that, perhaps he is right about the difficulty of killing it. Perhaps
you should return to Shadizar."

"Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps!" She spat each word. "Why was I not told of
these signs? Arvaneus, what do you know of this?"

The huntsman darted a malice-filled gaze at Conan. "A fire begun by
lightning," he said sullenly, "and a few old bones. This one is
frightened by his own shadow. Or by the shadow of the mountains."

"That is not true, is it?" Jondra's eyes were doubtful on Conan's face.
"You do not make invention for fear of dying at the hillmen's hands, do
you?"

"I do not fear death," Conan said flatly. "The dark will come when it
comes. But none save a fool seeks it out needlessly."

The noblewoman tossed her head haughtily. "So," she said, and again,
"So." Without another look at Conan, she stalked away, calling loudly,
"Lyana! Prepare my morning bath, girl!"

Arvaneus grinned at Conan malevolently, but the Cimmerian youth did not
see him. Matters had become complex far beyond his simple plans on
leaving Shadizar, Conan thought. What was he to do now? There was one
way he knew to concentrate his mind for the solution of a problem.
Producing a small whetstone from his pouch, he drew his sword and
settled cross-legged to touch up the edge on the ancient blade and
think.

Basrakan Imalla glared at the raven lying dead on his chamber floor and
tugged at the forks of his beard in frustration. The watch-ravens were
not easily come by. Nestlings must be secured, and only one pair in
twenty survived the incantations that linked them so that one of the
two saw and experienced what the other did. Time to secure the birds,
time to work the spells. He had no time for replacing the accursed
bird. Likely the other had fallen to a hawk. And he had so few of them.

With a grunt he kicked the dead bird, smashing it into the bare stone
wall. "Filthy creature," he snarled.

Tugging his crimson robes straight, he turned to the six tall perches
that stood in the center of the floor. On five of the perches ravens
sat, tilting their heads to watch him with eyes like shiny black beads.
Their wings, clipped so they could not fly, drooped listlessly. There
were few furnishings in the room other than those perches. A table
inlaid with mother-of-pearl bore a brass lamp and a scattering of
implements for the dark arts. A shelf along one wall held the volumes
of necromantic lore that he had gathered in a lifetime. No one entered
that room, or the others reserved to his great work, save him, and none
save his acolytes knew what occurred there.

Lighting a splinter of wood at the lamp, Basrakan began to trace an
intricate figure in the air before the first bird. The tiny eyes
followed the flame, which was mirrored in their black surfaces. As he
traced, Basrakan chanted words from a tome copied on vellum made of
human skin rather than sheepskin, words that floated in the air till
the walls seemed to shimmer. With each word the tracing grew more
solid, till an unholy symbol in fire hung between himself and the
raven.

The raven's beak opened with painful slowness, and creaking words,
barely recognizable, emerged. "Hills. Sky. Trees. Clouds. Many many
clouds."

The sorcerer clapped his hands; the fiery image vanished, and the words
ceased to come. It was often thus with the creatures. By the spells
that held them they would speak of men before all else, but if there
were no men they would mutter about whatever they happened to see, go
on forever if he did not silence them.

The same ritual before the next bird gained him the same reply, with
only the terrain changed, as did the next and the next. By the time he
reached the last raven he was hurrying. An important matter awaited his
attention in the next room, and he was certain by now what the creature
would report. Chanting, he traced the symbol in fire, preparing even as
it came into being to clap his hands.

"Soldiers," the raven croaked. "Many many. Many many."

Barakan's breath caught in his throat. Never more than now had he
regretted the inability of the ravens to transmit numbers. "Where?" he
demanded.

"South. South of mountains."

Thoughtfully the stern-faced Imalla stroked his beard. If they came
from the south, they must be Zamorans. But how to deal with them? The
bird that had actually seen the soldiers could be made to return and
guide his warriors back to them. The men would see it as a further sign
of the favor of the old gods, for birds were creatures of the spirits
of the air. And it would the first victory, the first of many against
the unbelievers.

"Return!" Basrakan commanded.

"Return," the raven croaked agreement, and he broke the link.

How many soldiers, he wondered as he strode from the chamber, and how
many warriors of the true gods to send against them?

As he passed through the next chamber, he paused to ponder the girl who
cowered against a wall paneled in polished oak, as rare and costly in
these mountains as pearls. Her dark eyes streamed tears, and her full
mouth quivered uncontrollably. Her skin was smooth and supple, and his
view of it was not hampered by garments.

Basrakan grimaced in disgust and wiped his hands on the front of his
scarlet robes. Only eighteen, and already she was a vessel of lust,
attempting to ensnare the minds of men. As did all women. None were
truly pure. None were worthy of the ancient gods.

Shaking himself from his dark reverie, the holy man hurried on. He had
no fear for the girl's wandering. The geas he had put on her would not
allow her to leave that chamber until he gave her permission, until he
found her worthy.

In the corridor he found Jbeil Imalla just entering his abode. The lean
man bowed, his black robes rustling stiffly. "The blessings of the true
gods be on you, Basrakan Imalla. I come with ill tidings."

"Ill tidings?" Basrakan said, ignoring the greeting. "Speak, man!"

"Many warriors have joined our number, but most of them have never seen
the sign of the true gods' favor." Jbeil's dark eyes burned with the
fervor of the true believer above his plaited beard, and his mouth
twisted with contempt. for those less full of faith than himself. "Many
are the voices crying out to witness a sacrifice. Even some who have
seen now whisper that the creature sent by the ancient gods has
abandoned us, since it has not been seen in so many days. A few, among
the newcomers, say that there is no sign, that it is all a lie. These
last speak now in private places, among themselves, but they will not
forever, and I fear the hearts of the doubters may be easily swayed."

Basrakan's teeth ground in frustration. He had had the same fears of
abandonment himself, and scourged himself at night, alone, for his lack
of belief. He had tried to summon the beast of fire, tried and failed.
But it was still there, he told himself. Still beneath the mountain,
waiting to come forth once more. Waiting for-his breath caught in his
throat-a sign of their faith.

"How many warriors are gathered?" he demanded.

"More than forty thousand, Imalla, and more come every day. It is a
great strain to feed so many, though they are, of course, the
faithful."

Basrakan pulled himself to his full height. Renewed belief shone on his
dark narrow face. "Let the warriors know that their lack of faith is
not secret." He intoned the words, letting them flow from him,
convinced they were inspired by the true gods. "Let them know that an
act of faith is demanded of them if they would have the sight they
crave. A bird will come, a raven, a sign from the spirits of the air.
Half of those gathered are to follow it, and it will guide them to
unbelievers, soldiers of Zamora. These they must slay, letting none
escape. Not one. If this is done as it is commanded, the sight of the
true gods' favor will be granted to them."

"A bird," Jbeil breathed. "A sign from the spirits of the air. Truly
are the ancient gods mighty, and truly is Basraken Imalla mighty in
their sight."

Basrakan waved away the compliment with a negligent hand. "I am but a
man," he said. "Now, go! See that it is done as I have commanded."

The black-robed man bowed himself from the sorcerer's presence, and
Basrakan began to rub at his temples as soon as he was gone. So many
pressures on him. They made his head hurt. But there was the girl.
Showing her the evil within her, saving her from it, would ease the
pain. He would chastise the lust from her. His face shining with the
ascetic look of one who suffered for his duty, Basrakan retraced his
steps.


Chapter XI

Djinar lay on his belly in the night and studied the hunter's camp,
lying still and quiet on the next hill. His dark robes blended with the
shadows of his own stony hilltop. Only smouldering beds of ashes
remained of the cook fires, leaving the camp in darkness, its tents and
carts but dim mounds, save for the soft glow of lamps within a large
tent of scarlet. The moon rode high over the jagged peaks to the north,
but dense dark clouds let its pale light through only an occasional
brief rent. A perfect night for attack. He tugged at the triple braids
of his beard. Perhaps the ancient gods were with them.

It had certainly seemed so during the days when the trail of the
hunting party led north like an arrow aimed at the encampment of
Basraken Imalla. Could it be that the Eyes of Fire were drawn in some
fashion to the Imalla, that the true gods stirred themselves among men,
even through the Zamoran slut? A chill like the trickle of an icy
mountain stream ran down Djinar's spine, and the hairs on the back of
his neck rose. It seemed to him that the ancient gods walked the earth
within sight of his eyes. Rocks grated behind him; Djinar gasped, and
almost fouled himself.

Farouz dropped down beside him on the stony ground.

"Sentries?" Djinar asked finally. He was pleased at the steadiness of
his voice.

The other man snorted in contempt. "Ten of them, but all more asleep
than awake. They will die easily."

"So many? The soldiers set guards in such numbers, but not hunters."

"I tell you, Djinar, they all but snore. Their eyes are closed."

"A score of eyes," Djinar sighed. "All it takes is one pair to be
alert. If the camp is awakened, and we must ride uphill at them . . ."

"Bah! We should have attacked when first we found them, while they were
yet on the march. Or do you still fear the Brythunian dogs? They are
gone long since."

Djinar did not answer. Only because Sharmal had gone off alone to
answer a call of nature had the Brythunians been seen, ghosting along
the trail of the hunters from Shadizar. There was no great love lost
between Brythunian and Zamoran, it was true, but either would turn
aside from slaying the other to wet his blade with the blood of a
hillman. Farouz would have placed them between their two enemies-at
least two score of the Brythunians; half again so many Zamorans-without
a thought save how many he could kill.

"If your . . . caution brings us to failure," Farouz muttered, "do not
think to shield yourself from Basrakan Imalla's wrath by casting blame
on others. The truth will be known."

Farouz, Djinar decided, would not survive to return to the Imalla's
encampment of the faithful. The old gods themselves would see the
justice of it.

Again boots scrabbled on the rocks behind him, but this time Djinar
merely looked over his shoulder. Sharmal, a slender young man with his
wispy beard worked into many thin braids, squatted near the two men.
"The Brythunian unbelievers ride yet to the east," the young man said.

"They did not stop at dark?" Djinar demanded, frowning. He did not like
behavior out of the ordinary, and men did not travel by night without
pressing reason, not in sight of the Kezankians.

"When I turned back at sundown," Sharmal answered, "they still rode
east. I . . . I did not wish to miss the fighting."

"If there is to be any," Farouz sneered.

Djinar's teeth ground loudly. "Mount your horses," he commanded.
"Surround the camp and advance slowly. Strike no blow until I call,
unless the alarm be given. Well, Farouz? You speak eager words. Can
your arm match them?"

With a snarl Farouz leaped to his feet and dashed down the hill to
where their shaggy, mountain-bred horses waited.

Djinar followed with a grim smile and climbed into the high-pommeled
saddle. Carefully he walked his mount around the side of the hill,
toward the camp atop the next stony rise. The rattle of unshod hooves
on rock did not disturb him, not now. He guided his horse upslope. To
the core of him he was convinced the Zamorans would not rouse. The
ancient gods were with him. He and the others were one with the dark.
He could make out a sentry, leaning on his spear, unseeing, unaware of
one more shadow that drifted closer. Djinar loosed his tulwar from its
scabbard. The true gods might walk the camp before him, but there was
another presence as well. Death. He could smell it. Death for many men.
Death for Farouz.

Smiling, Djinar dug in his heels; his mount sprang forward. The sentry
had time to widen his eyes in shock; then the curved blade with the
strength of Djinar's arm and the weight of the charging horse behind it
took the man's head from his shoulders. Djinar's cry rent the darkness.
"By the will of the true gods, slay them! No quarter!" Screaming
hillmen slashed out of the night with thirsty steel.

Conan's eyes slitted open, where he lay wrapped in his cloak and the
night beneath the sky. After her behavior he had chosen not to go to
Jondra's tent, despite the lamps that remained invitingly lit even now.
It had not been thoughts of the silken body that had wakened him,
though, but a sound out of place. He could hear the breathing of the
sentry nearest him, a breathing too deeply regular for a man alert. The
fools would not hear his advice, he thought. They listened, but would
not hear. There were other things they did not hear, as well. The
sentry's half-snore was overlaid by another sound; stones slid and
clicked on the hillside. On all sides of the hill.

"Crom!" he muttered. In a continuous motion he threw aside hit black
cloak, rose to his feet and drew steel. His mouth opened to shout the
alarm, and in that instant there was need no longer.

On the heels of the hollow 'thunk' of a blade striking flesh came, "By
the will of the true gods, slay them! No quarter!"

Chaos clawed its way out of the dark, hillmen appearing on every side
screaming for the blood of unbelievers, hunters scrambling from their
tents crying prayers to their gods for another dawn.

The big Cimmerian ran toward the sentry he had listened to. Shocked to
wakefulness the hunter tried to lower his long-pointed spear, but a
slashing stroke across the face from a tulwar spun him shrieking to the
ground.

"Crom!" Conan roared.

The hillman jerked at his reins, spun his shaggy mount above the downed
sentry toward the huge man who loomed out of the night. "The true gods
will it!" he yelled. Waving his bloody blade above his turban, he
booted his shaggy mount into a charge.

For the space of a heartbeat Conan halted, planted his feet as if
preparing to take the charge. Suddenly he sprang forward, ducking under
the whistling crescent of steel, his own blade lancing into the
hillman's middle. The shock of the blow rocked the Cimmerian to his
heels as the hillman seemed to leap backwards over his horse's rump to
crash to earth.

Placing his foot on the chest of the corpse, Conan pulled his sword
free. Warned by a primitive sense, by a pricking between his
shoulderblades, he whirled to find another mounted foe, and a tulwar
streaking for his head. But his steel was rising as he turned, its
razor edge slicing through the descending wrist. Tulwar and hand flew,
and the keening hillman galloped into the night with the fountaining
stump of his wrist held high, as if he could thus keep the blood from
pouring out of him.

Already two high-wheeled carts were towering bonfires, and flames
swiftly ate five of the round tents. Over all hung the din of battle,
the clang of steel on steel, the screams of the wounded, the moans of
the dying. Another cart burst afire. The burnings cast back the night
from struggling pairs of men who danced with sanguine blades among the
bodies that littered the hilltop. Of those who lay still, more wore the
mail shirts and spiked helms of Zamorans than wore turbans.

All this Conan took in in an instant, but one sight among all the
others drew his eyes. Jondra, drawn from her sleeping furs and naked
save for a quiver slung over her shoulder, stood before her crimson
walled tent, nocking arrows and firing as calmly as if she shot her bow
at straw targets. And where her shafts went hillmen died.

Another had become aware of her, the Cimmerian saw. A hillman at the
far end of the camp suddenly gave an ululating cry and kicked his mount
into a gallop for the bare-skinned archer.

"Jondra!" Conan shouted, but even as he did he knew she could not hear
above the tumult. Nor would all his speed take him to her side in time.

Tossing his sword to his left hand, he flung himself in two bounds back
to the sentry who lay with his face a ruined mask staring at the sable
sky. Ruthlessly he put a foot on the man's outstretched arm, ripped
free the heavy hunting spear from the death-grip that held it. With
desperate quickness he straightened, turned and threw, freezing as the
spear left his hand. No will or thought was left for motion, for all
rode with that thick shaft. The hillman's mount was but two strides
from Jondra, his blade heartbeats from her back, but still she neither
heard nor turned. And the hillman convulsed as a forearm-long blade
transfixed his chest. His horse galloped on, and he slowly toppled
backwards, falling like a sack before the woman he meant to slay.
Jondra started as the body hit the ground almost at her feet, but for a
moment continued to fumble at her empty quiver in search of another
arrow. Abruptly she tossed aside her bow and snatched the tulwar from
the dead man's hand.

Conan found he could breathe again. He took a step toward her . . . and
something sliced a line of fire across his back. The big youth threw
himself into a forward roll and came to his feet searching for his
attacker.

There were men behind him, both hillmen and hunters, but all save
Arvaneus and Telades were killing or being killed, and even as he
looked they engaged turbanned foes. He had no time to seek out
particular enemies, Conan thought. There were enough for all. The dark
blood-rage rose in him, cold enough to burn.

When he turned back Jondra was gone, but thoughts of her were buried
deep now in the battle-black of his mind. Some men are said to be born
for battle; Conan had been born on the field of battle. The scent drawn
in with his first breath had been the coppery smell of fresh-spilled
blood. The first sound to greet his ears had been the clash of steel.
The first sight his eye beheld had been ravens circling in the sky,
waiting till living men departed and they ruled what remained.

With the battle fury that had been his birthright he strode through the
flames and screams of the encampment, and death rode on his steel. He
sought the turbanned men, the bearded men, and those he found went
before Erlik's Black Throne with eyes of azure fire their last memory
of the world of men. His ancient broadsword flashed banefully in the
light of burning tents, flashed till its encrimsoned length could flash
no more, but seemed rather to eat light as it ate life. Men faced him,
men fell before him, and at last men fled him.

The time came when he stood alone, and no turbans could his questing
eye find but those on dead men. There were standing men, he realized as
the haze of battle-rage thinned and cleared his eyes, Zamoran hunters
gathered in a loose circle about him, staring in wonder tinged with
fear. He turned to face each man in turn, and each fell back a step at
his gaze. Even Arvaneus could not hold his ground, though his face
flushed with anger when he realized what he had done.

"The hillmen?" Conan demanded hoarsely. He stripped the rough woolen
cloak from a hillman's corpse and wiped his blade clean.

"Gone," Telades said in a high voice. He paused to clear his throat.
"Some few fled, I think, but most.. ." His gesture took in the entire
hilltop, strewn with bodies and burned-out tents, illumined by flaming
carts. "It was your work that saved us, Cimmerian."

"Hannuman's Stones!" Arvaneus roared. "Are you all women? It was your
own arms saved you, swords in your own hands! If the barbar slew one or
two, it was his skin he sought to save."

"Do not speak the fool," Telades retorted. "You of all men should not
speak against him. Conan fought like a demon while the rest of us
struggled to realize that we were awake, that it was not a nightmare we
faced." A murmur of agreement came from the circle of men.

Face twisted darkly, Arvaneus opened his mouth, but Conan cut him off.
"If some of them escaped, they may return with others. We should be
gone from this place, and quickly."

"There stands your hero," Arvaneus sneered. "Ready to run. Few hillman
bands are larger than the number which attacked us, and most of them
now wait for the worms. Who else will come against us? I, for one,
think we slew all of the mountain dogs."

"Some did flee," Telades protested, but Arvaneus spoke on over him.

"I saw none escaping. If I had, they wouldn't have lived to escape. If
we run like rabbits, then like rabbits we run from shadows."

"Your insults begin to disturb me, huntsman," Conan said, hefting his
sword. "In the past I have forborne killing you for one reason or
another. Now, it is time for you to still your tongue, or I will still
it for you."

Arvaneus stared stiffly back at him, his tulwar twitching in his hand,
but he did not speak. The other hunters moved back to give room.

Into the silence Jondra stepped, a robe of brocaded sky-blue silk
covering her to the ankles and held tightly at her neck with both
hands. She studied the two men confronting each other before speaking.
"Conan, why do you think the hillmen will return?"

She was attempting to ignore the tension, the Cimmerian knew, and so
disarm it, but he thought the answer to her question was more important
than killing Arvaneus. "It is true that bands of hillmen are usually
small, but in Shadizar it is said the Kezankian tribes are gathering.
The soldiers we saw marching north bear this out, for it is also said
the army is being sent to deal with them. To go risks nothing; to stay
risks that the few who fled may bring back a thousand more."

"A thousand!" the hawk-faced man snorted. "My lady, it is well known
how the hill tribes war constantly with one another. A thousand hillmen
in one place would kill each other in the space of a day. And if, by
some miracle, so many were gathered together, their attention would
surely be on the soldiers. In any case, I cannot believe in this
bizarre rumor of a gathering of the tribes. It goes against all that I
know of the hillmen."

Jondra nodded thoughtfully, then asked, "And our injured? How many are
they, and how badly hurt?"

"Many nicks and cuts, my lady," Arvaneus told her, "but only fourteen
hurt badly enough to be accounted as wounded, and but two of those
seriously." He hesitated. "Eleven are dead, my lady."

"Eleven," she sighed, and her eyes closed.

" 'Twould have been more, my lady, save for Conan," Telades said, and
Arvaneus rounded on him.

"Cease your chatter of the barbar, man!"

"Enough!" Jondra barked. Her voice stilled the hunters on the instant.
"I will reach a decision on what is to be done tomorrow. For now the
wounded must be tended, and the fires put out. Arvaneus, you will see
to it." She paused to take a deep breath, looking at no one. "Conan,
come to my tent. Please?" The last word was forced, and as she said it
she turned away quickly, her robe flaring to give a glimpse of bare
thighs, and hurried from the circle of men.

Conan's visits to Jondra's tent and sleeping furs had been an open
secret, but an unacknowledged one. Studiously the men all avoided
looking at Conan, or at each other, for that matter. Arvaneus seemed
stunned. Tamira alone met his eyes, and she glared daggers.

With a shake of his head for the vagaries of women, the big Cimmerian
sheathed his sword and followed Jondra.

She was waiting for him in her scarlet tent. As he ducked through the
tent-flap, she slipped the silk robe from her shoulders, and he found
his arms full of sleek bare skin. Full breasts bored into his ribs as
she clutched at him, burying her head against his broad chest.

"I . . . I should not have spoken as I did earlier," she murmured. "I
do not doubt what you saw, and I do not want you to stay away from my
bed."

"It is well you believe me," he said, smoothing her hair, "for I saw as
I said. But now is no time to speak of that." She sighed and snuggled
closer, if that was possible. "It is time to speak of turning back.
Your hunters have taken grievous hurt from the hillmen, and you are yet
a day from the mountains. Do you enter the mountains with carts and
oxen, you'll not escape further attention from the tribes. Your men
will be slain, and you will find yourself the slave of an unwashed
tribesman whose wives will beat you constantly for your beauty. At
least, they will until the harsh life and the labor leaches your youth
as it does theirs."

Word by word she had stiffened in his arms. Now she pushed herself from
him, staring up at him incredulously. "It has been long years," she
said in breathless fury, "since I apologized to any man, and never have
I . . . asked one to my bed before you. Whatever I expected for doing
so, it was not to be lectured."

"It must be spoken of." He found it hard to ignore the heavy, round
breasts that confronted him, the tiny waist that flared into generous
hips and long legs, but he forced himself to speak as if she were
draped in layers of thick wool. "The hillmen are roused. Ants might
escape their notice, but not men. And should you find this beast you
hunt, remember that it is a hunter as well, and one that kills with
fire. How many men will you see roasted alive to put a trophy on your
wall?"

"A folk tale," she scoffed. "If hillmen cannot frighten me off, do you
think I will run before a myth?"

"Eldran," he began with a patience he no longer felt, but her screach
cut him off.

"No! I will not hear of that . . . that Brythunian!" Panting, she
struggled to gain control of herself. At last she drew herself up
imperiously. "I did not summon you here for argument. You will come to
my bed and speak only of what we do, or you will leave me."

Conan's anger coiled to within a hair's breadth of erupting, but he
managed to keep his reply to a mocking, "As my lady wishes." And he
turned his back on her nudity.

Her furious cries followed him into the fading night, echoing across
the camp. "Conan! Come back here, Mitra blast you! You cannot leave me
like this! I command you to return, Erlik curse you forever!"

No man looked up from his labor, but it was clear from the intensity
with which they minded their work that none was deaf. Those prodding
burning bundles from the carts with spears abruptly redoubled their
efforts to save what had not already caught fire. The newly set
sentries suddenly peered at the failing shadows as if each hid a
hillman.

Tamira was passing among the wounded, lying in a row on blankets in the
middle of the camp, holding a waterskin to each man's mouth. She looked
up with a bright smile as he passed. "So you'll sleep alone again
tonight, Cimmerian," she said sweetly. "A pity." Conan did not look at
her, but a scowl darkened his face.

One of the carts had been abandoned to burn, and flaming bundles lay
scattered about the others. The fat cook capered among the men, waving
a pewter tray over his head and complaining loudly at their use of his
implements for shoveling dirt onto the fires. Conan took the tray from
the rotund man's hands and bent beside Telades to dig at the rocky
soil.

The shaven-headed hunter eyed him sideways for a time, then said
carefully, "There are few men would walk out on her without reason."

Instead of answering the unasked question, Conan snarled, "I've half a
mind to tie her to her horse so you can lead her back to Shadizar."

"You've half a mind if you think that you could," Telades said,
throwing a potful of dirt and small stones on a fiery bale, "or that we
would. The Lady Jondra decides where to go, and we follow."

"Into the Kezankians?" Conan said incredulously. "With the tribes
stirring? The army didn't come north for the weather."

"I've served the House Perashanid," the other man said slowly, "since I
was a boy, and my father before me, and his before him. The Lady Jondra
is the house, now, for she is the last. I cannot desert her. But you
could, I suppose. In fact, perhaps you should."

"And why would I do that?" Conan asked drily.

Telades answered as though the question had been serious. "Not all
spears are thrown by the enemies you expect, northlander. If you do
stay, watch your back."

Conan paused in the act of stooping for more dirt. So the spear that
grazed his back had not been cast by a hillman's hand. Arvaneus, no
doubt. Or perhaps some other, long in the Perashanid's service, who did
not like the last daughter of the house bedding a landless warrior.
That was all he needed. An enemy behind him-at least one-and the
hillmen surrounding. Tomorrow, he decided, he would make one last try
at convincing Jondra to turn back. And Tamira, as well. There were gems
aplenty in Shadizar for her to steal. And if they would not, he would
leave them and go back alone. Furiously he scooped dirt onto the tray
and hurled it at the flames. He would! Erlik take him if he did not.

In the gray dawn Djinar stared at the pitiful following that remained
to him. Five men with shocked eyes and no horses.

"It was the giant," Sharmal muttered. His turban was gone, and his face
was streaked with dirt, and dried blood from a scalp wound. His eye
focused on something none of the rest could see. "The giant slew who he
would. None could face him." No one tried to quiet him, for the mad
were touched by the old gods, and under their protection.

"Does any man think we can yet take the Eyes of Fire from the Zamoran
woman?" Djinar asked tiredly. Blank stares answered him.

"He cut off Farouz's hand," Sharmal said. "The blood spurted from
Farouz's arm as he rode into the night to die."

Djinar ignored the youth. "And does any man doubt the price we will pay
for failing Basrakan Imalla's command?" Again the four who retained
their senses kept silent, but again the answer was in their dark eyes,
colored now by a tinge of horror.

Sharmal began to weep. "The giant was a spirit of the earth. We have
displeased the true gods, and they sent him to punish us."

"It is decided, then." Djinar shook his head. He would leave much
behind, including his favorite saddle and two young wives, but such
could be more easily replaced than blood from a man's veins. "In the
south the tribes have not yet heeded Basrakan's call. They care only
for raiding the caravans to Sultanapur and Aghrapur. We will go there.
Better the risk no one will take us in than the certainty of Basrakan's
anger."

He did not see Sharmal move, but suddenly the young man's fist thudded
against his chest. He looked down, perplexed that his breath seemed
short. The blow had not been that hard. Then he saw the hilt of a
dagger in the fist. When he raised his eyes again, the other four were
gone, unwilling to meddle in the affairs of a madman.

"You have been attained, Djinar," Sharmal said in a tone suitable for
instructing a child. "Better this than that you should flee the will of
the true gods. Surely you see that. We must return to Basrakan Imalla,
who is a holy man, and tell him of the giant."

He had been right, Djinar thought. Death had been in that camp. He
could smell it still. He opened his mouth to laugh, and blood poured
out.


Chapter XII

Amid the lengthening shadows of mid-afternoon, some semblance of
normality had returned to the hunter's camp. The fires were out, and
those carts that could not be salvaged had been pushed to the bottom of
the hill, along with supplies too badly burned for use. Most of the
wounded were on their feet, if not ready for another battle, and the
rest soon would be. The dead-including now the two most seriously
wounded-had been buried in a row on the hillside, with cairns of stones
laid atop their graves to keep the wolves from them. Zamoran dead, at
least, had been treated so. Vultures and ravens squawked and contended
beyond the next hill, where the corpses of hillmen had been dragged.

Sentries were set now not only about the hilltop camp itself, but on
the hills surrounding. Those distant watchers, mounted so they could
bring an alarm in time to be useful, had been Conan's idea. When he put
the notion forward Jondra ignored it, and Arvaneus scorned it, but the
sentries were placed, if without acknowledgement to the Cimmerian.

It was not for pique, however, that Conan stalked through the camp with
a face like a thunderhead. He cared nothing who got credit for the
sentries, so long as they were placed. But all day Jondra had avoided
him. She had hurried about checking the wounded, checking the meals the
cook prepared, meddling in a score of tasks she would normally have
dismissed once she ordered them done. All in the camp save Conan she
had kept at the run. And every particle of it, he knew, was to keep
from talk with him.

Tamira trotted by in her short white tunic, intently balancing a flagon
of wine and a goblet on a tray, and Conan caught her arm. "I can't stop
now," she said distractedly. "She wants this right away, and the way
she's been today I have no wish to be slow." Suddenly the slender thief
chuckled. "Perhaps it would have been better for us all if you hadn't
slept alone last night."

"Never mind that," Conan growled. "It's time for leaving, Tamira.
Tomorrow will see us in the mountains."

"Is that what you said to Jondra to anger her so?" Her face tightened.
"Did you ask her to go back with you, too?"

"Fool girl, will you listen? A hunting trophy is no reason to risk
death at the hands of hillmen, nor are those gems."

"What of Jondra?" she said suspiciously. "She won't turn back."

"If I can't talk her into it, I will go without her. Will you come?"

Tamira bit her full under-lip and studied his face from beneath her
lashes. Finally, she nodded. "I will. It must be in the night, though,
while she sleeps. She'll not let me leave her service, if she knows of
it. What would she do without a handmaiden to shout at? But what of
your own interest in the rubies, Cimmerian?"

"I no longer have any interest," he replied.

"No longer have," Tamira began, then broke off with a disbelieving
shake of her head. "Oh, you must think I am a fine fool to believe
that, Cimmerian. Or else you're one. Mitra, but I do keep forgetting
that men will act like men."

"And what does that mean?" Conan demanded.

"That she's had you to her bed, and now you will not steal from her.
And you call yourself a thief?"

"My reasons are no concerns of yours," he told her with more patience
than he felt. "No more than the rubies should be. You leave with me
tonight, remember?"

"I remember," she said slowly. As her large brown eyes looked up at
him, he thought for a moment that she wanted to say something more.

"Lyana!" Jondra's voice cracked in the air like a whip. "Where is my
wine?"

"Where is my wine?" Tamira muttered mockingly, but she broke into a
run, dodging around Telades, who labored under one end of a weighty
brass-bound chest.

"Mayhap you shouldn't have angered her, Cimmerian," the shavenheaded
hunter panted. "Mayhap you could apologize." The man at the other end
of the chest nodded weary agreement.

"Crom!" Conan growled. "Is everyone in the camp worrying about whether
I . . ." His words trailed off as one of the sentries galloped his
horse up the hill. Unknowingly, easing his broadsword in its scabbard,
he strode to where the man was dismounting before Jondra. The hunters
left off their tasks to gather around.

"Soldiers, my lady," the sentry said, breathing heavily. "Cavalry. Two,
perhaps three hundred of them, coming hard."

Jondra pounded a fist on a rounded thigh. Her salmon silk tunic and
riding breeches were dusty and sweat-stained from her day's labors.
"Erlik take all soldiers," she said tightly, then took a deep breath
that made her heavy breasts stir beneath the taut silk of her tunic.
"Very well. If they come, I'll receive their commander. Arvaneus! See
that any man who's bandaged is out of sight. If the soldiers arrive
before I return, be courteous, but tell them nothing. Nothing,
understand me! Lyana! Attend me, girl!" Before she finished speaking
she was pushing through the assembled hunters, not waiting for them to
move from her path.

The hawk-faced huntsman began shouting commands, and hunters and
carters scattered in all directions, hastening to prepare the camp for
visitors. Moving the wounded inside tents was the least of it, for most
of them could walk without assistance, but Jondra's industriousness had
left bales and bundles, piles of cooking gear and stacks of spears
scattered among the remaining tents till the camp seemed struck by a
whirlwind.

Ignoring the bustle behind him, Conan settled into a flat-footed crouch
at the edge of the camp, his eyes intent on the direction from which
the sentry had come. More than once his hand strayed unconsciously to
the worn hilt of his ancient broadsword. He did not doubt that the
sentry had seen Zamoran soldiers and not hillmen, but he had as little
regard for one as for the other. Relations between the army and a thief
were seldom easy.

A ringing clatter of shod hooves on loose stone heralded the soldiers'
approach well before the mounted column came into sight. In ranks of
four, with well-aligned lance-points glittering in the afternoon sun,
they wended their way along the small valleys between the hills. A
banner led them, such as Zamoran generals were wont to have, of green
silk fringed with gold, its surface embroidered in ornate gold script
recounting victories. Conan snorted contemptuously at the sight of the
honor standard. At that distance he could not read the script, but he
could count the number of battles listed. Considering the number of
true battles fought by Zamoran arms in the twenty years past, that
banner gave honor to many a border skirmish and brawl with brigands.

At the foot of the hill the column drew up, two files wheeling to face
the camp, the other two turning their mounts the other way. The
standard bearer and the general, mocked by the plume of scarlet
horsehair on his golden helmet and the gilding of his mail, picked
their way up the hill through the few stunted trees and scattered
clumps of waisthigh scrub.

At Arvaneus' impatient signal two of the hunters ran forward, one to
hold the general's bridle, the other his stirrup, as he dismounted. He
was a tall man of darkly handsome face, his upper lip adorned by thin
mustaches. His arrogant eye ran over the camp, pausing at Conan for a
raised brow of surprise and a sniff of dismissal before going on. The
Cimmerian wondered idly if the man had ever actually had to use the
jewel-hilted sword at his side.

"Well," the general said suddenly, "where is your mistress?"

Arvaneus darted forward, his face set for effusive apologies, but
Jondra's voice brought him to a skidding halt. "Here I am, Zathanides.
And what does Zamora's most illustrious general do so far from the
palaces of Shadizar?"

She came before the general with a feline stride, and her garb brought
gasps even from her hunters. Shimmering scarlet silk, belted with
thickly woven gold and pearls, moulded every curve of breasts and belly
and thighs, rounded and firm enough to make a eunuch's mouth water.

It was not the raiment that drew Conan's attention, however. On her
head rested a diadem of sapphires and black opals, with one great ruby
larger than the last joint of a big man's thumb lying above her brows.
Between her generous breasts nestled that ruby's twin, depending from a
necklace likewise encrusted with brilliant azure sapphires and opals of
deepest ebon. The Cimmerian's gaze sought out Tamira. The young woman
thief was demurely presenting to Zathanides a tray bearing a golden
goblet and a crystal flagon of wine, with damp, folded cloths beside.
She seemed unaware of the gems she had meant to steal.

"You are as lovely as ever, Jondra," the general said as he wiped his
hands and tossed the cloths back onto the tray. "But that loveliness
might have ended gracing some hillman's but if I hadn't found this
fellow Eldran."

Jondra stiffened visibly. "Eldran?"

"Yes. A Brythunian. Hunter, he said." He took the goblet Tamira filled
for him, gracing her with a momentary smile that touched only his lips.
"I wouldn't have believed his tale of a Zamoran noblewoman in this
Mitra-forsaken place if it had not been for his description. A woman as
tall as most men, ravingly beautiful of face and figure, a fair shot
with a bow. And your gray eyes, of course. I knew then it could be none
but you." He tilted back his head to drink.

"He dared describe me so? A fair shot?" She hissed the words, but it
had been "ravingly beautiful" that made her face color, and the mention
of her eyes that had clenched her fists. "I hope you have this Eldran
well chained. And his followers. I . . . I have reason to believe they
are brigands."

Conan grinned openly. She was not a woman to take kindly to being
bested.

"I fear not," Zathanides said, tossing the empty goblet back to Tamira.
"He seemed what he called himself, and he was alone, so I sent him on
his way. In any case, you should be thankful to him for saving your
life, Jondra. The hillmen are giving trouble, and this is no place for
one of your little jaunts. I'll send a few men with you to see that you
get back to Shadizar safely."

"I am no child to be commanded," Jondra said hotly.

The general's heavy-lidded eyes caressed her form, and his reply cams
slowly. "You are certainly no child, Jondra. No, indeed. But go you
must."

Jondra's eyes flickered to Conan. Abruptly her posture softened, and
her voice became languorous. "No, I am not a child, Zathanides. Perhaps
we can discuss my future plans. In the privacy of my tent?"

Startlement passed over Zathanides' face to be replaced by pleasure.
"Certainly," he said with an unctuous smile. "Let us . . . discuss your
future."

Arvaneus' swarthy face was a blend of despair and rage as he watched
the pair disappear into the scarlet tent. Conan merely scooped up a
handful of rocks and began tossing them down the hill one by one.
Telades squatted next to him.

"More trouble, Cimmerian," the shaven-headed man said, "and I begin to
wonder if you are worth it."

"What have I to do with anything?" Conan asked coldly.

"She does this because of you, you fool northlander."

"She makes her choice." He would not admit even to himself that this
flirting with Zathanides sat ill with him. "She's not the first woman
to choose a man for wealth and titles."

"But she is no ordinary woman. I have served her since she was a child,
and I tell you that you were the first man to come to her bed."

"I know," Conan said through gritted teeth. He was unused to women
casting him aside; he liked neither the fact of it nor the discussing
of it.

A woman's scream came from the tent, and the Cimmerian threw another
stone. The tightness of his jaw eased, and a slight smile touched his
lips. Arvaneus took a single step toward the scarlet pavilion, then
froze in indecision. From where she knelt by the tent flap, Tamira cast
an agonized glance at Conan. All the rest of the camp seemed stunned to
immobility. Another shriek rent the air.

Telades leaped to his feet, but Conan caught the hunter's arm. "I will
see if she requires aid," he said calmly, tossing aside his handful of
stones. Despite his tone the Cimmerian's first steps were quick, and by
the time he reached the tent he was running.

As he ducked through the tent-flap, the story was plain. Jondra
struggled among the cushions, her scarlet robe rucked up above her
rounded hips, long legs kicking in the air, while Zathanides lay half
atop her fumbling with his breeches and raining kisses on her face. Her
small fists pounded futilely at his back and sides.

With a snarl Conan grasped the man by the neck of his gilded mail shirt
and the seat of his breeches, lifting him straight into the air.
Zathanides gave a shout, then began cursing and struggling, clawing at
his sword, but the huge Cimmerian easily carried him to the entrance
and threw him from the tent to land like a sack.

Conan took a bare instant to assure himself that Jondra was unharmed.
Her jewelry was discarded on the cushions, and her robe was torn to
expose one smooth shoulder, but she seemed more angry than hurt as she
scrambled to her feet, pushing her silk down over her sleek nudity.
Then he followed Zathanides outside. The general had risen to one knee,
his mouth twisted with rage, and his sword came out as Conan appeared.
The Cimmerian's foot lashed out. The jeweled sword went flying;
Zathanides yelped and clutched his wrist. The shout of outraged pain
faded as Conan's blade point touched the general's throat.

"Stop!" Jondra cried. "Conan, put up your sword!"

Conan lowered his steel slowly, though he did not sheath it. It had
been she who was assaulted, and by his thinking Zathanides' life was
hers to dispose of as she saw fit, or even to spare. But he would not
disarm himself until the man was dead or gone.

"I'll have your head, barbarian," Zathanides snarled as he got
painfully to his feet. "You'll discover the penalty for attacking a
Lord of Zamora."

"Then you will discover the penalty for . . . for manhandling a Lady of
Zamora," Jondra said coldly. "Tread warily, Zathanides, for your head
and Conan's will share the same fate, and the choice is yours."

Zathanides' dark eyes bulged, and spittle dripped from the corner of
his mouth. "Make what charges you will, you halfbreed Brythunian trull.
Do you think there is anyone in Zamora who has not heard the stories of
you? That you bed a man before you take him in service as a hunter? Who
will believe that one such as I would touch such a slut, such a piece
of-"

He cut off and took a step back as Conan's sword lifted again, but
Jondra grabbed the Cimmerian's massive arm, though both her hands could
not come near encircling it. "Hold, Conan," she said unsteadily. "Make
your choice, Zathanides."

The dark-faced general scrubbed at the spittle on his chin with the
back of his hand, then nodded jerkily. "'Tis you who has made a choice,
Jondra. Keep your savage lover. Enter the mountains if you will, and
find a hillman." Stamping to where his jewel-hilted blade lay, he
snatched it from the ground and slammed it home in the sheath at his
side. "For all I care, you can go straight to Zandru's Ninth Hell!"

Satisfaction glimmered beneath Conan's anger as he watched the
general's stiff-backed march to his horse. Zathanides might wish to
abandon Jondra to her fate, but too many of his own soldiers knew that
he had found her. The attempted rape might well be covered
up-especially if other nobles felt about Jondra as the general did-but
failing in his attempt to turn a woman back from the mountains would
place his manhood in an unfavorable light indeed. At least, that was
the way the Cimmerian believed a man of Zathanides' ilk would look at
the matter. Conan felt he could safely wager that the next day would
see the appearance of a force under orders to escort the hunting party
to Shadizar, without regard for what Jondra had to say.

As Zathanides and his standard bearer galloped down the hill, Arvaneus
approached the crimson-walled tent, his manner at once arrogant and
hesitant. "My lady," he said hoarsely, "if you command it, I will take
men and see that Lord Zathanides does not survive the night."

"If I command it," Jondra replied in an icy tone, "you will sneak in
the night and murder Zathanides. Conan did not await my command. He
faced Zathanides openly, without fear of consequences."

"My lady, I . . . I would die for you. I live only for you."

Jondra turned her back on the impassioned huntsman. Her eyes fastened
on Conan's broad chest as if afraid to meet his gaze. "You begin to
make a habit of saving me," she said softly. "I see no reason for us to
continue to sleep apart." Arvaneus's teeth ground audibly.

Conan said nothing. If his thoughts concerning Zathanides were correct,
then he should be gone from the camp before the night ended, for the
general's instructions would certainly include the death of one large
northlander. Too, there was his plan of departing with Tamira. Leaving
from Jondra's bed would necessitate explanations he did not want to
make.

The tall noblewoman drew a shuddering breath. "I am no tavern wench to
be toyed with. I will have an answer now."

"I did not leave your bed for wanting to," he said carefully, and
cursed his lack of diplomatic skill when her chin went up and her eyes
flared. "Let us not argue," he added quickly. "It will be days before
the wounded have their strength back. They should be days of rest and
enjoyment." Days spent in her return to Shadizar, he thought, but his
satisfaction vanished at her scornful laugh.

"Can you be so foolish? Zathanides will brood on his manhood and the
pride he lost here, then convince himself that he can escape any
charges I might bring. Tomorrow will see more soldiers, Conan, no doubt
with orders to take me back in chains if I'll go no other way. But they
will need to seek me in the mountains." Abruptly her face stilled, and
her voice hardened. "You are not so foolish as that. You know as well
as I the soldiers will return. You would have waited and seen me
carried back to Shadizar like a bundle. Well, go, if you fear the
mountains. Go! I care not!" As abruptly as she had turned her back on
Arvaneus, she turned to face the huntsman again. "I intend to press on
at first light," she told the hawk-faced man, "and to move quickly. All
baggage must be discarded except what can be carried on pack animals.
The wounded and all men who cannot be mounted will turn back with the
ox-carts. Perhaps their trail will confuse Zathanides for a time . . .
."

As her list of instructions went on, Arvaneus shot a look over her
shoulder at Conan, smug satisfaction mingled with a promise of
violence. There would be more trouble from that quarter. Or rather, the
Cimmerian reminded himself, there would be if he continued with the
hunters, which he had no intention of doing. And since such was his
plan, it was time for him to be making preparations for his
leave-taking.

Slowly Conan moved away from the noblewoman's flow of commands. With
studied casualness he drifted beyond the cookfires. The fat cook,
frowning over a delicate dish for Jondra's table, never looked up as
the Cimmerian rooted among the supplies. When Conan walked on, he
carried two fat leather pouches of dried meat in the crook of his arm.
Taking one quick look to make certain he was unobserved, he cached the
meat beneath a thornbush on the edge of the encampment. Soon he had
added four waterbags, and blankets of blue-striped wool. He was inured
to sleeping with naught but his cloak for protection from the cold, or
even without it, but he could not think a city woman like Tamira was so
hardy.

The horses had to wait until the point of leaving-they certainly could
not be saddled now without drawing unwanted attention-but he walked to
the picket line anyway. It was easier to choose out a good mount when
there was light to see. The big black he had been riding would do for
him; Tamira needed a horse with good endurance as well, though. He had
intended to move down the line of animals without stopping, so as to
give no hint of his interest, but as he came to a longlegged bay
mare-just the sort he would choose for Tamira-his feet halted of their
own accord. On the ground at the mare's head rested a high-pommeled
saddle, a bulging waterbag, and a tightly tied leather sack.

"In the night, Tamira?" he said softly. "Or while I sit waiting for
darkness to come?" The picture of the rubies lying on the cushions of
Jondra's tent was suddenly bright in his mind.

With a calm he did not feel, Conan strode through the camp, his eyes
seeking Tamira. Once more the encampment was an anthill, hunters
scurrying at Jondra's commands. For an instant the noblewoman paused,
gazing at Conan as if she wished to speak, but when he did not slow she
turned angrily back to supervising the preparations for the next
morning. Nowhere did Conan see Tamira. But that, he thought grimly,
might mean he was not too late.

Conan knew how he would have entered the scarlet tent, had he chosen to
steal the rubies with the camp aroused. A glance told him no one was
watching, and he quickly slipped behind Jondra's pavilion Down the back
of the tent a long slit had been made. Parting it a fingerwidth, he
peered in. Tamira knelt within, rooting among the cushions. With a
muffled laugh she drew out the sparkling length of the necklace. The
tiara was gripped in her other hand.

Soundlessly Conan slipped through the slit. The first announcement of
his presence Tamira received was his hand closing over her mouth. His
free arm encircled her, pinning her arms and lifting her before she had
time to do more than gasp into his palm. She had dropped the gems, he
saw; but that was the end of his moment of peace. Tamira exploded into
a wriggling, kicking, biting bundle. And footsteps were approaching the
front of the tent.

With a muttered oath the Cimmerian ducked back through the slit with
his struggling burden. Behind the tent was no place to stop, however,
not if someone was going to enter the tent, not with Tamira as likely
as not to scream that he had been thieving. Cursing under his breath,
he scrambled down the stony slope until he found a clump of scrub brush
that hid them from the camp. There he tried to set her down, but she
kicked him fiercely on the ankle, rocks slid beneath his foot, and he
found himself on the ground with Tamira beneath him, her eyes starting
from her head from the force of the fall.

"You great oaf?" she wheezed after a moment. "Do you try to break my
ribs?"

"I did not kick myself," he growled. "I thought we agreed to leave in
the night. What were you doing in Jondra's tent?"

"Nothing was said about the rubies," she retorted. "I haven't changed
my plans for them, even if you have. Perhaps," she finished angrily,
"you find what Jondra gives you more valuable than rubies, but as I am
not a man I have a different view of the matter."

"Leave Jondra out of this," he snapped. "And do not try to change the
subject. You have a horse waiting this very instant."

Tamira shifted uneasily beneath him, and her eyes slid away from his.
"I wanted to be ready," she muttered. "For the night."

"Do you think I'm a fool," he said, "that I take you for a fool? The
saddle cannot escape discovery till nightfall. But if someone planned
to steal the rubies and leave the camp within the turn of a glass . . .
You could not have been planning such a thing, could you?"

"They would not have held you to blame." Her tone was sullenly
excusatory. "Jondra would not blame you if she found you with the
rubies in your pouch. And if she did, it would be less than you
deserve."

"Jondra," he breathed. "Always Jondra. What is it to you whose bed I
share? You and I are not lovers."

Tamira's large brown eyes grew even wider. Scarlet suffused her cheeks,
and her mouth worked for a long moment before sound finally came out.
"We most certainly are not!" she gasped. "How dare you suggest such a
thing? Let me up! Get off me, you great ox! Let me up, I say!" Her
small fists punctuated her words, pounding at his shoulders, but
suddenly her fingers had tangled in his hair, and she was pressing her
lips to his.

Conan blinked once in surprise, then returned her kiss with as much
fervor as she was putting into it. "Don't think this will convince me
to stay," he said when they broke apart for air. "I'm not such a fool."

"If you stop," she moaned, "then you are a fool."

With one last silent reminder that he would not be a fool, Conan gave
up talk and thought alike for pleasures at once simpler and more
complex.


Chapter XIII

He was not a fool, Conan told himself once more as he guided his horse
along a trail halfway up a nameless peak on the fringe of the
Kezankians. If he kept saying it, he thought he might convince himself
in time. Before and behind him stretched the hunting party, all mounted
and many leading pack animals, wending their way deeper into the
hillman domains. The sun stood barely above the horizon. They had left
the camp in the hills before the first glimmer of dawn. The ox-carts
with the wounded would be on their way back to Shadizar.

Lost in his own thoughts, Conan was surprised to find that Jondra had
reined aside to await him. He had not spoken to her since she turned
her back on him, but he noted that at least she was smiling now.

She drew her horse in beside his. The trail was wide enough for the
animals to walk abreast. "The day is fine, is it not?" she said
brightly.

Conan merely looked at her.

"I hoped you would come to me in the night. No, I promised myself I
would not say that." Shyly she peered at him through lowered lashes. "I
knew you could not leave me. That is . . . I thought . . . you did stay
because of me, did you not?"

"I did," he said glumly, but she appeared not to notice his tone.

"I knew it," she said, her smile even more radiant than before.
"Tonight we will put the past behind us once and for all." With that
she galloped up the line of mounted men to resume her place at their
head.

Conan growled deep in his throat.

"What did she want?" Tamira demanded, guiding her mount up beside his.
It was the same bay snare she had chosen cut for her flight. She glared
jealously after the noblewoman.

"Nothing of consequence," Conan replied.

The young woman thief grunted contemptuously.

"'Tis likely she thinks you are still here because of the over-generous
charms she displays so freely. But you came because of me. Didn't you?"

"I came for you," Conan told her. "But unless you want to see how
strongly Jondra wields a switch, you had best not let her see us
talking too often."

"Let her but try."

"Then you intend to explain to her that you are not Lyana the
handmaiden, but Tamira the thief?"

"If she faced me in a fair fight," the slender woman began with a toss
of her head, then broke off in a laugh. "But it is not talk I want from
you. She can have that. Till tonight, Conan."

The big Cimmerian sighed heavily as she let her horse fall behind his.
It was no easy task he had ahead of him, and all because he could not
allow a woman who had shared his bed-much less two of them-to enter the
Kezankians while he rode back to Shadizar. He supposed those men who
called themselves civilized and him barbarian could have managed it
easily. It was beyond him, though, and his pride was enough to make him
believe he could bring both safely out of the mountains. Of course, he
knew, soon or late each woman would find out about the other. At that
point, he was sure, he would rather face all the hillmen of the
Kezankians than those two females.

The thought of hillmen brought him back to his surroundings. If he did
not keep watch, they might not even make it fully into the mountains,
much less out. His eyes scanned the steep brown mountain slopes around
him, dotted with tress bizarrely sculpted by wind and harsh clime. He
searched the jagged peaks ahead. No signs of life did he discern, but
the breeze brought a sound to him, faint yet disturbing. It came from
behind.

He reined his horse around to look back, and felt the hair stir on the
back of his neck. Far below and far distant among the foothills a
battle raged. He could make out little save dust rising as smoke from
the hills and the small forms of men swarming like ants, yet for an
instant he saw what he could swear was a Zamoran honor standard atop a
hill. Then it was ridden down, and the men who rode over it wore
turbans. Most of the other shapes he could make out were turbanned as
well.

"What is the matter?" Jondra shouted, galloping down the trail. She had
to force her way through a knot of hunters gathered behind Conan. "Why
are you halted?"

"'Tis a battle, my lady," Telades said, shading his eyes with one hand
to peer down at the hills. "I cannot say who fights."

"Hillmen," Conan said. "From the look of it hillmen are killing some
part of the Zamoran army."

"Nonsense!" Arvaneus snapped. "The army would sweep any hillman rabble
aside. Besides, the tribes never gather in such numbers, and . . .
and.. ." The force of his words weakened as he spoke, and he finished
lamely with, "It is impossible to make out details at this distance.
That could be anyone fighting. Perhaps it is not a battle at all."

"Perhaps it is a folk dance," Conan said dryly.

Jondra touched his arm. "Is there aught we can do to aid them?"

"Not even if we had wings," the big Cimmerian replied.

Relief was writ plain on the faces of the hunters at his reply, but it
was relief tinged with fear. It was all very well to talk of entering
the Kezankians and risking the wrath of the hill tribes. To actually
see that wrath, even at a distance, was something else, and most
especially when it seemed to be dealt out by more hillmen than a man
might expect to see in a lifetime of roaming the mountains.

Jondra looked from face to face, then put on a smile. "If so many
hillmen are down there, then we shall have the mountains to ourselves."
Her words had little effect on the hunters' expressions. A raven
appeared, flying around the side of the mountain. "There," Jondra said,
drawing her bow from its lacquered case behind her saddle. "Should
there be a hillman or two left in the mountains, we'll deal with them
as easily as this." Her bowstring slapped against her forearm leather;
the raven's wings folded, and the bird dropped like a stone. Conan
thought he heard her mutter something about "Brythunian" as she recased
her bow. "Now let us ride," she commanded, and galloped back up the
trail.

Slowly the column of hunters formed again behind the noblewoman. As
Tamira passed Conan, she gave him an anxious, wide-eyed look. Perhaps
he was a fool, he thought, but he could be no other than what he was.
With a reassuring smile for the young woman thief, he joined the file
of horsemen picking its way up the mountain.

Eldran ran a judicious eye over the two score men following him through
a field of boulders deeper into the mountains, and said, "We stop for a
rest."

"About time," said a round-cheeked man with gray streaking the long
hair that was held back from his face by a leather cord. "We've ridden
since before first light, and I'm not so young as I once was."

"If you tell me about your old bones one more time, Haral," Eldran
laughed, and the others joined in, though their laughter was strained.
Haral's age and plumpness were belied by the scars on his face, and the
wolf whose fur trimmed his cloak had been slain with his bare hands. "A
short stop only," Eldran went on. "These mountains feel ill, and I
would be done with what we came for and out of them quickly."

That cooled their mirth, as he had intended it should. The laugh had
been good for easing the disquiet, and perhaps more than disquiet, that
had fallen over them all since they entered the mountains, but they
must be ever mindful of what they were about and where they were if
they were to leave with their lives.

As the others sat or lay or even walked a bit to stretch their legs,
Eldran reclined with his reins wrapped loosely about one hand. He had
had his own difficulties in keeping his mind cleanly on his purpose in
the Kezankians. Even through the unease that hung about him like a
miasma, a tall Zamoran beauty with arrogance enough for a score of
kings had a way of intruding on his thoughts when he was not careful.
But was she truly Zamoran, he wondered. Her manner, acting as if she
ruled whatever ground she stood on, said yes. But those eyes. Like the
mists of morning clinging to the oaks of the forest. No Zamoran ever
had such eyes, as gray as his own.

Angrily he reminded himself of his purpose, to avenge his brother and
those who went with him into the Kezankians, never to return. And to
avenge as well those who had died attempting to defend their farmholds
against the beast of fire. To make certain that more deaths did not
come from the beast. If he and every man with him died, it would be
small price for success. They had all agreed to that before ever they
left Brythunia.

A raven circled high above him. Like the bird he and Jondra had shot,
he thought. Angrily he leaped to his feet. Could nothing put the woman
from his mind? Well, he would not be reminded of her longer by that
accursed bird. He pulled his bow from its wolf-hide case behind his
saddle.

"Eldran!" From a space clear of boulders higher on the mountain, a bony
man with a pointed nose waved to him frantically. "Come quickly,
Eldran!"

"What is it, Fyrdan?" Eldran called back, but he was scrambling up the
slope as he spoke. Fyrdan was not one to become excited over nothing.
Others of the band followed.

"There," the bony man said, flinging out an arm to point as Eldran
joined him.

Eldran cupped his hands beside his eyes to improve his seeing, but
there was little to make out save boiling dust and the tiny figures of
struggling men on the hills far below. "Hillmen," he said finally.

"And Zamorans," Fyrdan added. "I saw the banner their general carried
go down."

Slowly Eldran's hands dropped to his sides. "Forgive me, Jondra," he
said softly.

"Perhaps the soldiers had not fetched her yet," Haral said. "Perhaps
these are the other soldiers we saw."

Eldran shook his head. "The others were further west. And I watched
their camp until their general left to find her."

"A Zamoran wench," Fyrdan said scornfully. "There are plenty of good
Brythunian women eager for a tumble with. . ." His words trailed off
under Eldran's glare.

"We will speak no more of the woman," the gray-eyed man said. "We will
talk of other things, things that must be said. We have tracked the
beast here to its home ground, and its spoor is on the mountains
themselves. The very rocks are baneful, and the air reeks of
maleficence. Let no man say he has not felt it as I have."

"Next you will be claiming second sight," Haral grumbled, then added
with a chuckle, "Unless you've changed greatly since last we swam
together, you cannot qualify to become a priestess." No one echoed his
jollity; grave eyes watched Eldran, who went on in grim tones.

"I have no need of second sight to scent death. Who follows me from
here must resign himself that his bones will go unanointed. I will not
think ill of any man who turns back, but let him do it now."

"Do you turn back?" Haral asked gently. Eldran shook his head. "Then,"
the plump man said, "I will not either. I am old enough to choose the
place of my dying, an it comes to that."

"My brother rode with yours, Eldran," Fyrdan said. "My blood burns as
hot for vengeance as yours." One by one the others made it known that
they, too, would go on, and Eldran nodded.

"Very well," he said simply. "What will come, will come. Let us ride."

The raven was gone, he saw as he made his way back down to the trail.
Birds of ill omen, they were, yet he could not find gladness in him for
its absence. It had reminded him of Jondra, and whether she lived or no
he could not think he would ever see her again. But then, he thought
bleakly, there would be ravens beyond counting deeper in the
Kezankians, and bones aplenty for them to pick.


Chapter XIV

Basrakan Imalla stalked the floor of his oaken-paneled chamber with
head bowed as if his multi-hued turban were too heavy. His blood-red
robes swirled with the agitation of his pacing.

So many worries weighing on his shoulders, he thought. The path of
holiness was not an easy one. There was the matter of another dead
raven in the next chamber. Men, it had said before dying. But how many,
and where? And to have two of the birds slain in only a few days. Did
someone know of the ravens' function? Someone inimical to him? Another
had reported men as well. Not soldiers; the birds could distinguish
them. But the inability to count meant there could be ten or a hundred.
It might even be the same party seen by the dead raven. He would have
to increase his patrols and find these interlopers, however many groups
of them there were.

At least the bird that accompanied the men he had sent against the
soldiers had reported victory. No, not merely victory. Annihilation.
But even with that came burdens. The warriors he had sent forth camped
now, so said the raven. Squabbling among themselves over the looting of
the dead, no doubt. But they would return. They had to. He had given
them a victory, a sign from the old gods.

Unbidden the true source of his worries rushed back to mock him, though
he tried as he had so often in days past to force it from him. A sign
from the old gods. The sign of the ancient gods' favor. Seven times,
now, he had tried to summon the drake, each attempt carefully hidden
from the eyes even of his own acolytes, and seven times he had failed.
Unrest grew in the camps for the led of the showing. And those he had
sent after the Eyes of Fire had not returned. Could the old gods have
withdrawn their grace from him?

Wrapping his arms around him, he rocked back and forth on his heels.
"Am I worthy, O gods of my forefathers?" he moaned. "Am I truly
worthy?"

"Our question exactly, Imalla," a voice growled.

Basrakan spun, and blinked to find three hillmen confronting him. He
struggled to recover his equilibrium. As he drew himself up, two of the
bearded men shrank back. "You dare disturb me?" he rasped. "How did you
pass my guards?"

The man who had stood his ground, his mustaches curled like the horns
of a bull, spoke. "Even among your guards there are doubts, Imalla."

"You are called Walid," Basrakan said, and a flicker of fear appeared
in the other's black eyes.

There were no sorceries involved, though. This Walid had been reported
to him as one of the troublemakers, the questioners. It had taken him a
moment to remember the man's description. He had not thought the
troublemaking had gone so far as this, however. But he had prepared for
every eventuality.

With false calmness he tucked his hands into the long sleeves of his
crimson robe. "What doubts do you have, Walid?"

The man's thick mustache twitched at the repetition of his name, and he
half turned his head as if looking for support from his companions.
They remained well behind him, meeting neither his eyes nor Basrakan's.
Walid drew a deep breath. "We came here, many of us, because we heard
the old gods favored you. Those who came before us speak of a fabulous
beast, a sign of that favor, but I have seen no such creature. What I
have seen is thousands of hillmen sent to battle Zamoran soldiers, who
have ever before slaughtered us when we fought them in numbers. And I
have seen none of those warriors return."

"That is all?" Basrakan asked.

His suddenly mild tone seemed to startle Walid. "Is it not enough?" the
mustached man demanded.

"More than enough," Basrakan replied. Within his sleeves his hands
clasped small pouches he had prepared only a day past, when the unrest
among the gathered tribes first truly began to worry him. Now he
praised his foresight. "Much more than enough, Walid."

Basrakan's hands came out of his sleeves, and in a continuous motion he
scattered the powder from one pouch across Walid. As the powder struck,
the Imalla's right hand made arcane gestures, and he chanted in a
tongue dead a thousand years.

Walid stared down at his chest in horror for a moment as the chilling
incantation went on, then, with a shout of rage and fear, he grabbed
for his tulwar. Even as his hand touched the hilt, though, fire spurted
from his every pore. Flame surrounded him as clothes and hair turned to
ash. His roar of anger became a shrill shriek of agony, then the hiss
of boiling grease. A plume of oily black smoke rose from the collapsing
sack that had been a man.

The other two men had stood, eyes bulging with terror, but now one
burst for the door, and the other fell to his knees crying,
"Forgiveness, Imalla! Forgiveness!"

In two quick strides Basrakan was on them, throwing the powder at the
fleeing man and the kneeling one alike. His long-fingered gestured, and
the chant rose once more. The running man made it to the door before
fire engulfed him. The other fell on his face, wriggling toward
Basrakan, then he, too, was a living pyre. Their screams lasted only
moments, blending into a shrill whistle as flame consumed their bones.

At last even the black smoke guttered out. Only small heaps of dark,
oily ash were left on the floor, and sooty smudges on the ceiling. The
fierce-eyed Imalla viewed the residues of his accusers with
satisfaction, but it faded quickly to grim anger. These men would have
brothers, cousins, and nephews, scores of male relatives who, while
they might fear to confront Basrakan openly, would most certainly now
be a source of further dissention. Some might even go beyond words. The
tribesmen lived and died by the blood feud, and nothing could turn them
from it save death.

"So be it," he pronounced intently.

Dark face as cold and calm as if he had a lifetime for the task,
Basrakan gathered a sampling from each pile of ash, scraping them into
folded scraps of parchment with a bone knife four times blessed in
rites before the ancient gods of the Kezankians. Ash from each dead man
went into a thick-walled mortar of plain, unworked gold. The sorcerer's
movements quickened as he added further ingredients, for speed now was
essential. Powdered virgin's eye and ground firefly. Salamanders'
hearts and the dried blood of infants. Potions and powders, the
ingredients of which he dared not even think of. With the thigh bone of
a woman strangled by her own daughter he ground the mixture, twelve
times widdershins, intoning the hidden names of the ancient gods, names
that chilled the marrow and made vapors of frost hang in the air.
Twelve times the other way. Then it was done, this first step, leaving
the golden vessel filled almost to the brim with black powder that
seemed to swirl like smoke in its depths.

Gingerly, for the blending was deadly to the touch now, Basrakan
carried the mortar to a cleared space on the pale stone floor. There,
dipping a brush tipped with virgins' eyelashes into the moist mixture,
he carefully scribed a precise pattern on the smooth stone. It was a
cross, its arms of equal length exactly aligned to north and south,
east and west. Tipping each arm was a circle, within which he drew the
four idiograms of the ancient gods, the secret signs of earth, air,
water, and fire. Next a triangle, its apex at the meeting of the arms
of the cross, enclosed the symbol for the spirits of fire, and that
same character was placed on each point of the triangle.

Basrakan paused, staring at what he had wrought, and his breath came
fast. He would not admit to fear despite a tightening in his bowels,
but this was more dangerous than anything he had yet attempted. An
error in any phase, one completed or one to come, and the rite would
rebound on him. Yet he knew there was no turning back.

Deftly he tipped the last of the powder into a silver censer on the end
of a silver chain. Ordinary flint and steel provided the spark and set
it smouldering. Aligning his feet carefully on the broad base of the
triangle, he swung the censer in an intricate pattern. Wisps of smoke
wafted upward from the silver ball, and Basrakan's incantation rose
with the odoriferous vapors. With each swing of the censer one
crystalline word rang in the air, words that even the fiery-eyed Imalla
could not hear, for they were not meant for human ears, and the human
mind could not comprehend them.

Around him the very air seemed to glisten darkly. Smoke from the censer
thickened and fell to the stone floor, aligning itself unnaturally with
the pattern drawn there. Basrakan's chant came faster, and more loudly.
The words pealed hollowly, like funereal tolling from the depths of a
cavern. Within the ropes of smoke now covering the configuration came a
glow, ever fiercer and hotter, till it seemed as if all the fires of
the earth's bowels were bound in those roiling thongs of black. Sweat
rolled down Basrakan's thin cheeks from the heat. The glow became
blinding, and his words rose higher and higher, the walls shivering
under their impact.

Suddenly Basrakan ceased his cry. Silence came, and in that instant,
glow and smoke and drawn pattern all vanished. Even the smoke from the
censer failed.

Done, Basrakan thought. Weariness tilled him. Even his bones felt weak.
But what had had to be done, had been done.

A tremor shook him as his eye fell on the remains of his accusers. On
each pile of ash, from which all that could be burned had been burned,
danced pale flames. Even as he watched they licked into extinction. He
drew a deep breath. This was no cause for fear, but rather for
exaltation.

Jbeil burst into the chamber, panting, with one hand pressed hard to
his side. "The bless . . . the bless . . . the blessings . . ."

"An Imalla must be dignified," Basrakan snapped. Returning confidence,
returning faith, washed away the dregs of his fear. "An Imalla does not
run."

"But the camps, Imalla," Jbeil managed past gulps of air. "Fire. Men
are burning. Burning, Imalla! Warriors, old men, boys. Even babes
unweaned, Imalla! They simply burst into flame, and not water or dirt
can extinguish them. Hundreds upon hundreds of them!"

"Not so many, I think," Basrakan replied coolly. "A hundred, perhaps,
or even two, but not so many as you say."

"But, Imalla, there is panic."

"I will speak to the people, Jbeil, and calm them. Those who died were
of tainted blood. Did the means of their dying tell you nothing?"

"The fire, Imalla?" Jbeil said uncertainly. "They offended the spirits
of fire?"

Basrakan smiled as if at a pupil who had learned his lesson well. "More
than offended, Jbeil. Much more. And all males of their blood shared
their atonement." A thought struck him, a memory of words that seemed
to have been spoken days in the past. "My guards, Jbeil. Did you see
them as you came in?"

"Yes, Imalla. As I came to you. The two who were at your door
accompanied Ruhallah Imalla on some errand." His eyes took on a sly
cast. "They ran, Imalla. Ruhallah knows little of dignity. Only the
urgency of my message brought me to such haste."

"Ruhallah had his own urgency," Basrakan said so softly he might have
been speaking to himself. He fixed the other man with an eye like a
dagger. "Ruhallah is to blame for the fiery deaths this day. He and
those false guards who flee with him. Ruhallah led those men of the
blood that perished this day into false beliefs and tainted ways." It
could be so, he thought. It must be so. Assuredly, it was so. "Ruhallah
and the guards who flee with him must be brought back to face payment
for what they have done." Few things amused Basrakan, but the next
thought to visit him brought a smile to his thin lips. "They are to be
given to the women of the men who died by fire this day. Let those who
lost kith and kin exact their vengeance."

"As you command, Imalla, so will it be." Jbeil froze in a half-bow, and
his eyes went wide. "Aaiee! Imalla, it had been driven from my mind by
the burnings and . . ." Basrakan glared at him, and he swallowed and
went on. "Sharmal has returned, Imalla. One of those you sent after the
Eyes of Fire, Imalla," he added when the tall holy man raised a
questioning eyebrow.

"They have returned?" Basrakan said, excitement rising in his voice.
"The Eyes of Fire are mine! All praise to the old gods!" Abruptly he
was coldly calm, only an intensity of tone remaining of the emotion
that had filled his speech. "Bring the gems to me. Immediately, fool!
Nothing should have kept you from that. Nothing! And bring the men, as
well. They will not find their rewards small."

"Imalla," Jbeil said hesitantly, "Sharmal is alone, and empty handed.
He babbles that the rest are dead, and other things, as well. But there
is little of sense in any of it. He . . . he is mad, Imalla."

Basrakan ground his teeth, and tugged at his forked beard as if he
wanted to pull it out by the roots. "Empty handed," he breathed at
last, hoarse and icy. He could not be cheated of his desires now. He
would not be. "What occurred, Jbeil? Where are the Eyes of Fire? I will
know these things. Put this Sharmal to the question. Strip him of his
skin. Sear him to the bone. I will have answers!"

"But, Imalla," Jbeil whispered, "the man is mad. The protection of the
old gods is on him."

"Do as I command!" Basrakan roared, and his acolyte flinched.

"As . . . as you command, Imalla, so will it be." Jbeil bowed deeply,
and moved backwards toward the door.

So much had happened, Basrakan thought, in such a short time. There was
something he was forgetting. Something... "Jbeil!" The other man jerked
to a halt. "There are strangers in the mountains, Jbeil. They are to be
found, and any survivors brought to me for offering to the true gods.
Let it be done!" He gestured, and Jbeil nearly ran from the room.


Chapter XV

"We will make camp now." Jondra announced while the sun still rose.
Arvaneus' voice rose, echoing her command, and obediently her hunters
dismounted and began seeing to the pack animals and their own mounts.

Conan caught her eye questioningly, and she favored him with a smile.
"When hunting a rare animal," she said, "care must be taken not to
bypass its feeding grounds. We will spend days in each camp,
searching."

"Let us hope this animal is not also searching," Conan replied. The
noblewoman frowned, but before she could speak Arvaneus came to stand
at her stirrup.

"Do you wish the trackers out now, my lady?" he asked.

Jondra nodded, and a shiver of excitement produced effects to draw male
eyes. "It would be wonderful to get a shot at my quarry on the first
day. Yes, Arvaneus. Put out your best trackers."

She looked expectantly at Conan, but he pretended not to notice. His
tracking skill was the equal of any of the hunters', but he had no
interest in finding the creature Jondra sought. He wanted only to see
the two women returned to the safety of Shadizar, and he could offer
them no protection if he was out tracking.

Jondra's face fell when Conan did not speak, but the dark-eyed huntsman
smiled maliciously. "It takes a great special skill to be a tracker,"
he said to no one in particular. "My lady." He made an elegant bow to
Jondra, then backed away, calling as he straightened. "Trackers out!
Telades! Zurat! Abu!" His list ran on, and soon he and nine others were
trotting out of the camp in ten different directions. They went afoot,
for the slight spoor that a tracker must read as a scribe read words on
parchment could be missed entirely from the back of a horse.

With the trackers gone, the beauteous noblewoman began ordering the
placement of the camp, and Conan found a place to settle with a honing
stone, a bit of rag and a vial of olive oil. A sword must be tended to,
especially if it would soon find use, and Conan was sure his blade
would not be idle long. The mountains seemed to overhang them with a
sense of foreboding, and something permeated the very stones that made
him uneasy. The honing stone slid along his blade with quiet
sussuration. Morning grew into afternoon.

The camp, Conan decided after a time, was placed as well as it could be
under the circumstances. The stunted trees that were scattered so
sparsely through the Kezankians were in this spot gathered into what
might pass for a grove, though an exceedingly thin one. At least they
added some modicum to the hiding of the camp.

Jondra's scarlet tent, which she had never considered leaving behind,
stood between two massive granite boulders and was screened from behind
by the brown rock of a sheer cliff. No other tents had been brought-for
which small favor the Cimmerian was grateful-and the hunters' blankets
were scattered in twos and threes in a score of wellhidden depressions.
The horses were picketed in a long, narrow hollow that could be missed
even by a man looking for it. To one unfamiliar with the land the
encampment would be all but invisible. The trouble, he thought sourly,
was that the hillmen were more than familiar with their mountains.
There would be trouble.

As though his thought of trouble had been a signal, a sound sliced
through the cool mountain air, and Conan's hand stopped in the act of
oiling his sword blade. Through the jagged peaks echoed a shrill,
ululating cry, piercing to the bone and the heart. He had never heard
the like of that sound, not from the throat of any man or any creature.

The big Cimmerian was not alone in being disturbed by the hunting
call-for such he was sure it was. Hunters sat up in their blankets,
exchanging worried glances. Some rose to walk a few paces, eyes
searching the steep, encircling slopes. Jondra came to the flap of her
tent, head tilted questioningly, listening. She wore leather now,
jerkin and breeches, as always fitting her curves like a second skin,
but plain brown, suitable for the hunt. When the sound was not repeated
she retreated inside once more.

"What in Mitra's thrice-blessed name was that?" Tamira said, dropping
into a crouch near Conan. She adjusted her short white robe to provide
a modicum of decency, and wrapped slim arms about her knees. "Can it be
the creature Jondra hunts?"

"I would not be surprised if it was," Conan said. He returned to the
oiling of his blade. "Little good those rubies will do you if you end
in the belly of that beast."

"You try to talk me into fleeing," she retorted, "leaving you with a
clear path to the gems."

"I have told you," he began, but she cut him off.

"A clear path to Jondra's sleeping furs, then."

Conan sighed and slid his broadsword into his sheath. "You were in my
arms this night past, and she not for two days. And I said that I came
into these thrice-accursed mountains for you. Do you now call me liar?"

Her eyes slid away from his, to the rugged spires of granite
surrounding them. "Do you think the trackers will find it? This beast,
I mean? Perhaps, if they do not, we will leave these mountains. I would
as well steal the rubies while returning to Shadizar."

"I would as soon they found naught but sore feet," Conan said. He
remembered the half-charred fragment of skull and horn. "This beast
will not be so easy to slay as Jondra believes, I fear. And you will
not steal the rubies."

"So you do mean to take them yourself."

"I do not."

"Then you intend to save them for your paramour. For Jondra."

"Hannuman's Stones, woman! Will you give over?"

Tamira eyed him sharply. "I do not know whether I want you to be lying
or not."

"What do you mean by that?" he asked in puzzlement.

"I intend to steal the rubies, you understand, no matter what you say
or do." Her voice tightened. "But if you did not come for the rubles,
then you came for me. Or for Jondra. I am uncertain whether I wouldn't
rather have the sure knowledge that all you wanted was the gems."

Conan leaned back against the boulder behind him and laughed until he
wheezed. "So you don't believe me?" he asked finally.

"I've known enough men to doubt anything any of you says."

"You have?" he exclaimed in feigned surprise. "I would have sworn I was
the very first man you'd known."

Color flooded her cheeks, and she leaped to her feet. "Just you wait
until-"

Whatever her threat was to be, Conan did not hear its finish, for
Telades hurried into the camp, half out of breath and using his spear
as a walking staff. Men hastened to surround him, and the Cimmerian was
first among them.

A hail of words came from the hunters.

"Did you find tracks?"

"We heard a great cry."

"What did you see?"

"It must have been the thing we hunt."

"Did you see the beast?"

Telades tugged off his spiked helm and shook his shaved head. "I heard
the cry, but I saw neither animal nor tracks."

"Give your report to me," Jondra snapped. The hunters parted to let her
through. Her eagerness was betrayed by the bow in her hand. "Or am I to
wait until you've told everyone else?"

"No, my lady," Telades replied abashedly. "I ask forgiveness. What I
saw was the army, my lady. Soldiers."

Again a torrent of questions broke over the man.

"Are you sure?"

"From the lot we saw fighting?"

"How could they get into the mountains ahead of us?"

Jondra's cool gray eyes swept across the assembled hunters, and the
torrent died as though she had cracked a whip.

"Where are those soldiers, Telades?" Conan asked. Jondra looked at him
sharply, but closed her mouth and said nothing.

"Not two leagues to the north and east of us," Telades replied. "Their
general is Lord Tenerses. I got close enough to see him, though they
did not see me."

"Tenerses," Conan mused. "I have heard of him."

"They say he hunts glory," the shaven-headed hunter said, "but it seems
he thinks well enough to know when danger is about. His camp is so well
hidden, in a canyon with but one entrance, that I found it only by
merest chance. And I could not see how many men he has with him."

"Not one fewer than Zathanides," Conan said, "if what I have heard of
him is true. He is a man with a sense of his own importance, this
Tenerses."

Jondra broke in in flat tones. "If you two are quite finished
discussing the army, I would like to hear the results I sent this man
for in the first place. Did you find tracks, Telades, or did you not?"

"Uh, no, my lady. No tracks."

"There are still nine others," the noblewoman said half to herself. "As
for these soldiers," she went on in a more normal tone, "they have
naught to do with us, and we naught to do with them. I see no reason
why they should be a subject of further discussion, nor why they should
even become aware of our existence. Am I understood?"

Her gaze was commanding as it met each man's eyes in turn, and each man
mumbled assent and grew intent in his study of the ground beneath his
feet, until she came to Conan. Eyes of chilling azure looked back at
her in unblinking calmness, and it was smoky gray orbs that dropped to
break the mesmerizing contact.

When she looked at him again, it was through long eyelashes. "I must
talk with you, Conan," she murmured. "In my tent. I . . . would have
your advice on the hunt."

Over Jondra's shoulder Conan saw Tamira watching him intently, hands on
hips. "Perhaps later," he said. When the noblewoman blinked and stared,
he added quickly, "The mountains are dangerous. We cannot spare even
one watcher." Before she could say more-and he could see from the
sparks in her eyes that she intended to say much more-he retreated
across the camp to his place by the boulder.

As he settled once more with his back to the stone, he noticed that
both women were looking at him. And both were glaring. The old saying
was certainly proving true, he thought. He who has two women oft finds
himself in possession of none. And not one thing could he think to do
about it. With a sigh he set back to tending his steel. Some men
claimed their blades had the personalities of women, but he had never
known a sword to suffer jealousy.

The other trackers began returning at decreasing intervals. Jondra
allowed these no time to become involved in extraneous-to her-matters
with the other hunters. She met each man as he entered the camp, and
her sharp gaze kept the rest back until she finished her questioning
and gave the tracker leave to go.

One by one the trackers returned, and one by one they reported . . .
nothing of interest to Jondra. One, who had searched near Telades, had
found the cheek-piece of a soldier's helmet. Another had seen a great
mountain ram with curling horns as long as a man's arm. Jondra angrily
turned her back on him before he finished telling of it. Several saw
hillmen, and in numbers enough to make a prudent man wary, but none had
found the spoor of the beast, or anything that might remotely be taken
as a sign of its presence or passage. The gray-eyed noblewoman heard
each man out, and strode away from each impatiently tapping her bow
against her thigh.

The last to return was Arvaneus, trotting into the camp to lean on his
spear with an arrogant smile.

"Well?" Jondra demanded as she stalked up to him. "I suppose you have
seen nothing either?"

The hawkfaced huntsman seemed taken aback at her tone, but he recovered
quickly and swept a bow before her. "My lady, what you seek, I give to
you." He shot a challenging look at Conan as he straightened. "I,
Arvaneus, son of Lord Andanezeus, give it to you."

"You have found it?" Excitement brightened her face. "Where, Arvaneus?"

"A bare league to the east, my lady. I found the marks of great claws
as long as a man's hand, and followed them for some distance. The
tracks were made this day, and there cannot be another creature in
these mountains to leave such spoor as human eyes have never before
seen."

The entire camp stared in amazement as Jondra leaped spinning into the
air, then danced three steps of a jig. "It must be. It must. I will
give you gold to make you wealthy for this, Arvaneus. Find this beast
for me, and I will give you an estate."

"I want no gold." Arvaneus said huskily, his black eyes suddenly hot.
"Nor estates."

Jondra froze, staring at him, then turned unsteadily away. "Prepare
horses," she commanded. "I would see these tracks."

The huntsman looked worriedly at the sky. The sun, giving little warmth
in these mountains, lay halfway to the western horizon from its zenith.
"It is late to begin a hunt. In the morning, at first light-"

"Do you question my commands?" she snapped. "I am no fool to start a
hunt for a dangerous beast with night approaching, but I will see those
tracks. Now! Twenty men. The rest will remain in camp and prepare for
the hunt tomorrow."

"As you command, my lady," Arvaneus muttered. He glared malevolently at
Conan as Jondra turned to the big Cimmerian and spoke in a soft voice.

"Will you ride with me, Conan? I . . . I would feel much safer." The
awkwardness of her words and the coloring of her cheeks gave her the
lie. With obvious difficulty, she added, "Please?"

Wordlessly Conan rose and walked to the picket line. Arvaneus barked
orders, and others joined the Cimmerian. As Conan was fastening his
saddle girth, he became aware of Tamira, making a great show of idly
petting the nose of a roan next to his tall black.

"Will you ride with me, Conan?" she mimicked softly. "I will feel so
much safer." She twisted up her face as if to spit.

Conan let out a long breath. "I'd not like to see either of you dead,
or a hillman's slave. You will be safer here than will she out there,
so I go with her."

He stepped up into the high-pommeled Zamoran saddle. Tamira trotted
alongside as he rode from the hollow where the horses were picketed.
"You will be out there," she told him, "and so will she. You could
return to find me gone, Conan. And the rubies. What is to keep me
here?"

"Why, you'll be waiting for me," he laughed, booting his mount to a
trot. A hurled rock bounced off his shoulder, but he did not look back.


Chapter XVI

The party of Zamoran hunters made their way in single file along the
gullies and clefts that lined the mountains like wrinkles of ancient
age on the face of the earth. Arvaneus led, since he knew the way, and
Jondra rode close behind him. Conan, in turn, kept close to the tall
noblewoman. There would be little time to spare when protection was
needed. The mountains seemed to press in on them malignly, even when
their way opened enough for a score of men or more to ride abreast.

The big Cimmerian's eyes searched the jagged crags and steep slopes
around them constantly, and with instincts long buried in civilized men
he probed for his enemies. No sign of hillmen did he see, no hint of
them came to his senses, but menace still oozed from the stones.
Outwardly he seemed at ease, but he was dry tinder waiting for a spark.

Abruptly Arvaneus drew rein where the walls of rock were steep and
close. "There, my lady," the huntsman said, pointing to the ground.
"Here is the first track I found."

Jondra scrambled from her saddle to kneel by a small patch of clay. The
deep marks of two massive claws and part of a third were impressed
there. "It is larger than I thought," she murmured, running two slender
fingers into one impression.

"We have seen the tracks," Conan said. The oppressive air seemed
thicker to him. "Let us return to the camp."

Arvaneus' lip curled in a sneer. "Are you afraid, barbar? My lady,
there are more tracks further on. Some are complete."

"I must see that," Jondra exclaimed. Swinging into her saddle she
galloped ahead, and Arvaneus spurred after her.

Conan exchanged a look with Telades-by the shaven-headed hunter's sour
face he liked this as little as the Cimmerian-then they and the rest of
the column of horsemen followed.

As it had often before, the narrow passage opened out. This time it led
into a small canyon, perhaps a hundred paces wide, with five narrow
draws cutting its steep brown walls. Conan eyed those openings
suspiciously. Any enemy hidden in those would be on them before they
had time to react. The hillmen's favorite tactic was the ambush.

On the floor of the canyon the spoor of the beast was plentiful. Tracks
leading both in and out showed that the beast had explored the narrow
cuts. Unease permeated the column; hunters shifted their spears
nervously, or reached back to touch the cased bows behind their saddle,
and horses danced and shied. Jondra uncased her bow as she dismounted
at the track Arvaneus pointed out, and nocked an arrow before kneeling
to examine it. The hawk-faced huntsman frowned at the ground around
him, attempting with only partial success to control his mount's quick
sidesteps.

Conan found himself wondering about that frown. Arvaneus had seen this
canyon and the tracks that filled it only a short time before. What was
there for him to frown about? The big Cimmerian's breath caught in his
throat. Unless there were more tracks than he had seen before. If that
was true they must leave immediately.

Conan opened his mouth, and a shrill ululation split the air, chilling
the blood, making the horses buck and scream. Jondra's mount tore the
reins from her hands and bolted, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling
wildly, leaving the noblewoman standing like a statue of ice. With
difficulty the Cimmerian pulled his big black around. "Crom," he
breathed into the din filling the stone walls.

Into the canyon came a monstrous creature, huge, on massive legs.
Multi-hued scales glittered in the sinking sun, broken only by dark,
leathery-appearing bulges on its back. Adamantine claws gouged the
stone beneath them. The broad head was thrown back, the widespread maw
revealing jagged teeth like splinters of stone, and that piercing cry
struck men to their souls.

The hunters were men who had faced death many times, and if it had
never before confronted them in such form, still death was no stranger
to them. As that malevolent howl ended they forced themselves into
movement, fighting horses half-mad with terror to spread and surround
the gargantuan form. The man nearest the beast leveled his spear like a
lance and charged. With a clang as of steel against stone the spear
struck, and the rider was shivered from his saddle. The great head
lowered, and flame roared from that gaping mouth. Man and horse
shrieked as one, a shrillness that never seemed to end, as they were
roasted alive.

A gasp rose from the other hunters, but they were already launching
their attack, men charging in from either flank. Even had they wished
to turn aside, the beast gave them no chance. More swiftly than any
leopard it moved, claws sweeping bloody rags that had once been men to
the ground, jaws crushing men and horses alike. Spears splintered like
straws against the iridescent scales, and the cries of the dying
drowned out all save thought, and fear became the only thought in the
hunter's minds.

Through that howling maelstrom of certain death Conan galloped,
swinging low out of his saddle to snatch an unbroken spear from the
bloody ground. Those great golden eyes, he thought. The eyes had to be
vulnerable, or the long, dark protuberances on its back. He forced his
mount to turn-it struggled to run on, away from the horror-and the
sight that met his eyes sent a quiver through him as not even the
beast's hunting cry had.

Jondra stood not ten paces from the creature's head. Even as he saw
her, an arrow left her bow. Squarely on one malevolent golden eye the
shaft struck. And ricocheted away. The beast lunged, claws streaking
toward her. Frantically she leaped back, but the tip of one claw
snagged in the laces of her red leather jerkin, and she was jerked into
the air to dangle before the creature's eyes. Ignoring the carnage
around it, the shouting, screaming men, the beast seemed to study her.

A thrill of horror coursed through Conan. There was a light of
intelligence in those auric globes. But if the brain behind them could
reason, it was a form of reasoning too inhuman for the mind of man to
know it. It did not see the beautiful woman as other than prey. The
spike-toothed mouth opened, and Jondra was drawn closer.

Conan's spear came up. "Crom!" he bellowed, and his heels thudded his
fear-ridden mount into a charge. His spearpoint held steady on one
leathery bulge. He clamped his knees tightly on the animal against the
shock he had seen throw others to the ground, but even so the force of
the blow rocked through him, staggering his horse to its knees.

With sinuous grace and blinding speed the glittering beast twisted,
smashing Conan with the leg from which Jondra dangled. Breath rushed
from the big Cimmerian as he was lifted and hurled through the air.
Stony ground rushed up to slam what little air remained from his chest.
Desperately he fought to breathe, forced numbed muscles to move, rolled
to hands and knees, staggered to his feet. Jondra lay on her back near
him, writhing, bare breasts heaving as she struggled for air.

The beast turned its attention to the Cimmerian, Jondra's jerkin still
tangled in its claws. What remained of his horse lay quivering beneath
the creature; gobbets of flesh fell from its fanged jaws.

In what he knew was a futile gesture Conan drew his ancient broadsword.
Steel made no mark on those infrangile scales. He could not move
quickly enough to escape the creature's attack unburdened, much less
carrying Jondra, and he could not leave her behind. Yet he would not
die without fighting.

"Ho, Conan!" Swaying in his saddle, Telades rode toward the beast from
behind. The mail over his chest was rent, and blood drenched him, but
he gripped his spear firmly. "Get her away, northlander!" Pounding his
boots into his horse's flanks, he forced it forward.

Iridescent scales flashed as the creature spun.

"No!" Conan shouted.

Flame engulfed the shaven-headed hunter, and the beast leaped to tear
at smouldering flesh.

The Cimmerian would not waste Telades' sacrifice. Sheathing his blade,
he scooped Jondra from the ground and darted into a narrow cleft,
pursued by the sounds of crunching bone.

As the terrible grinding faded behind him, Jondra stirred in his arms.
"I did not mean for them to die," she whispered. Her eyes were
horror-laden pools.

"You wanted to hunt the beast," he said, not slowing his steady stride.
Under other circumstances he would have searched for survivors. Now he
thought only of getting Jondra far from that charnel scene, back to the
relative safety of the camp.

Jondra pressed herself more firmly against his broad chest as if
sheltering from storm winds in the safety of a huge boulder. "Telades
gave his life for me," she murmured, shivering. "Truly, I did not wish
it to be. Oh, Conan, what can I do?"

Conan stopped dead, and she huddled in his arms as though hiding from
his icy blue gaze. "Leave these mountains," he said harshly. "Go back
to Shadizar. Forget this beast, and always remember the men who died
for your foolishness and pride."

Anger and arrogance flared across her face. Her fist rose, then
abruptly fell limp. Tears leaked down her cheeks. "I will," she wept.
"Before all the gods, I swear it."

"It will not repay Telades' sacrifice," he said, "but it will at least
mean that you value what he did."

Gently she touched Conan's cheek. "Never have I wanted a man to guide
me, but you almost make me. . ." Small white teeth bit her full
underlip, and she dropped her eyes. "Will you come back to Shadizar
with me?" she said softly, shifting in his grasp again so that her
full, round breasts were exposed to his gaze.

"Perhaps," he replied gruffly, and began walking once more, with his
full concentration on the twists of the cleft and the stony ground
beneath his feet. Only a fool would refuse a woman like the one he
held. And only a fool would disregard the advice he had given. But
Telades had become a friend, and the man had died for him as well as
for her.

A part of the Cimmerian's code demanded that Telades' death, offered in
place of his own, should be repaid, just as another part of that code
demanded that he see Jondra and Tamira to safety. At the moment the
second seemed much more easily accomplished than the first! How, he
thought, could he slay a beast that steel could not harm? If he took no
notice of the charms Jondra displayed in his arms, it was no wonder.


Chapter XVII

Tamira was the first person Conan saw when he strode into the camp with
his arms full of half-naked noblewoman and the sun a bloody ball
balanced on jagged peaks. The slender young thief regarded him with
fists on hips and a jaundiced eye for the way Jondra clung to him. Then
Jondra looked around dazedly, revealing her tear-stained face. Tamira's
jaw dropped, and she dashed into the redwalled tent to return with a
cloak.

As Conan stood Jondra upright, the smaller woman enfolded her in soft
blue wool. When he released his hold on her, the noblewoman sank to her
knees. Tamira knelt beside her, drawing Jondra's head to her shoulder
and glaring up at the big Cimmerian.

"What happened?" she demanded hotly.

"We found the beast she hunts. Hunted. Have any of the others
returned?"

Dark eyes widening with sudden fear, Tamira shook her head. "None. They
. . . they could not all be dead?"

"Of course not," Conan said. He would be very surprised ever to see
another of them alive, but there was no point in terrifying the wench
more than she already was. Better to find work to occupy her mind. "See
to her," he told Tamira. "She never stopped crying for a hundred paces
together all the way back here."

"And no wonder," Tamira replied hotly, "with no better care than you've
taken of her." She bundled the unresisting noblewoman off to her tent,
leaving Conan standing open-mouthed.

He would never understand women, he decided. Never. Then he became
aware of the remaining hunters gathered around him, looking at him
worriedly. Looking to him for commands, he realized with some surprise.
Firmly he put all thoughts of women from his mind.

"At dawn," he told them, "we leave for Shadizar. But first we must
survive until then. No man sleeps tonight, unless he wants to risk
waking with his throat cut. And no fires. Break open the supply packs."

With as much haste as Conan could manage, the hunters prepared
themselves. All of the arrows were shared out, three quivers per man,
and each man had an extra spear, as well as a waterbag and a pouch of
dried meat. A coward or two might flee, with the means at hand, but he
would not condemn the others to death if flight was required.

An assault from hillmen might come at any time, from any quarter save
the cliff that backed Jondra's tent. Even if the first thrust were
beaten off, they could not afford to be there when daylight came,
pinned like bugs beneath a butcher bird's claws. They would attempt to
retreat after an attack, or during, if it could not be driven back. And
if they were on the point of being overwhelmed, every man would have to
see to his own survival as best he could.

Worst of all would be an attack by the beast. As he moved through the
darkening twilight from man to man, Conan left each with same final
words. "Do not try to fight the beast. If it comes, run, and hope your
gods feel kindly toward you."

Not far from Jondra's tent Conan settled into a flat-footed squat. Did
the worst come, the others had only themselves to think of. He would
need to be close to the women if he was to get them away.

A crunch of stone underfoot announced Tamira's approach, and he shifted
his pair of spears to make a space for her.

"She's asleep," the slender woman sighed as she dropped to the ground
beside him. "She wore herself out with tears. And who's to question it,
after what she saw?"

"It happened by her command," Conan said quietly, "and for her pride.
That Brythunian told her of the beast, and I told her what I had
discovered of it."

"You are a hard man, Cimmerian. As hard as these mountains."

"I am a man," he told her simply.

For a time Tamira was silent. Finally she said, "Jondra says you are
returning to Shadizar with her."

Conan gave a sour grunt. "It seems she talked a lot for a woman on the
point of exhaustion."

"She plans to have apartments constructed for you in her palace."

"Ridiculous."

"She intends to dress you all in silk, with wristlets and armbands of
gold to show off your muscles."

"What?" He thought he heard a giggle beside him in the deepening dark,
and glared at her. "Enjoy your jokes, girl," he growled. "I, myself, do
not find them funny."

"You were her first man, too, Conan. You cannot know what that means to
a woman, but I do. She cares for you. Or perhaps it is for the image of
you that she cares. She asked me if there were other men like you. She
even compared you with Eldran, that Brythunian. She pretended not to
remember his name, but she did."

Something in her voice struck him. "Mitra blind me if you don't pity
her." His tone was incredulous.

"She knows less of men than I," the slender thief replied defensively.
"It is a hard thing to be a woman in a world with men."

"It would be harder in a world without them," he said drily, and she
fisted him in the ribs.

"I don't find your jokes," she began, but his hand closed over her
mouth.

Intently he listened for the sound he was sure he had heard before.
There. The scrape of a hoof-an unshod hoof-on stone.

"Go to the tent," he whispered, giving her a push in the right
direction. "Rouse her, and be ready to flee. Hurry!"

At that instant a cry broke the night. "By the will of the true gods!"
And hordes of hillmen swarmed through the camp on shaggy mountain
horses, curved tulwar blades gleaming in the pale moonlight as they
rose and fell.

Conan hefted a spear and threw at the nearest target. A turbanned
rider, transfixed, screamed and toppled from his galloping horse.
Another hillman, calling loudly on his gods, closed with raised steel.
There was no chance for the Cimmerian to throw his second spear. He
dropped flat and swung it like a club at the legs of the charging
animal. With a sharp crack the haft of the spear struck; horse and
rider somersaulted. Before the hillman could rise, Conan put a
forearm's length of spear through his chest.

All about the Cimmerian steel clanged against steel. Men shouted battle
cries, shouted death rattles. In that deadly, bloody tempest an
ingrained barbarian sense gave Conan warning. Pulling the spear free,
he whirled in time to block a slashing tulwar. Deftly he rotated his
spear point against the curved blade, thrust over it into his bearded
attacker's throat. Dying, the hillman clutched the weapon that killed
him with both hands. His horse ran out from under him, and as he fell
he wrenched the spear from Conan's grip.

"Conan!" Tamira's shriek cut through the din to the Cimmerian's ears.
"Conan!"

Desperately the Cimmerian's eyes sought for the slender woman . . . and
found her, lifted to a hillman's saddle by a fist in her hair. Grinning
broadly through his beard, the tribesman tauntingly lowered his blade
toward her throat. With one hand she frantically attempted to fend off
the razor edge, while the other clutched at his robes.

Conan's broadsword came into his hand. Two bounds took him to Tamira's
side; the hillman's head went back, and his mouth fell open as the
Cimmerian's steel slid smoothly between his ribs. Lifeless fingers
loosened in Tamira's hair, and Conan caught her as she fell. Trembling
arms snaked round his neck; she sobbed limply against his chest.

With a corpse on its back the horse galloped on, and in the space of a
breath Conan had taken in the situation in the camp. The fight went
badly. Had gone badly, for there was little of it left. Few of the
turbanned warriors remained in the camp, and they were occupied with
mutilating the dead. Murderous cries from the dark told of hillmen
spreading in pursuit of hunters. Jondra's tent was in flames.

A chill went through the big Cimmerian. As he watched, the last of the
tent collapsed, sending a shower of sparks into the night. If Jondra
was in that, there was no hope for her. He hoped that she had gotten
out, but he could not help her now. He had a woman to care for, and no
time to spare for another.

Bending to catch Tamira behind the knees, he heaved her onto his
shoulder like a sack. A half-formed protest came through her weeping,
but the flow of tears did not slow. None of the tribesmen slashing at
corpses noticed the muscular youth or his well-curved burden as he
faded into the night.

Like a spirit Conan moved from shadow to shadow. Darkness alone,
however, was no shield, he knew. From the clouded velvet sky a nacreous
moon shed little light, but enough to make movement plain to a
discerning eye, and Tamira's short, white robe made matters no better.
The night-clad rocks were filled with the clatter of galloping hooves
on stone, the shouts of hunting hillmen. They hunted, and, given time,
they would find.

The Cimmerian kept moving, always away from the noise of the hillmen,
and his eyes searched for a hiding place. A line of deeper blackness
within the dark caught his gave. He made his way to it and found a
horizontal fracture in the face of a cliff. It was wide enough to hold
Tamira, deep enough for her to remain hidden from all but someone
sticking an arm into it.

Lowering the girl from his shoulder, he thrust her into the crack.
"Stay quiet," he told her in low tones, "and do not move. I'll be back
as quickly as I can. Listen to me, woman!"

"He . . . he was going to kill me," she sobbed. "He was l-laughing."
She clutched at him, but he gently removed her hands from his
shoulders.

" 'Tis over, now. You are safe, Tamira."

"Don't leave me."

"I must find Jondra. Remain here till I return, and I will get the
three of us out of these mountains." He had thought his voice full of
confidence-certainly more confidence than he felt, at the moment-but
she drew back from him into the crack in the cliff.

"Go then," she said sullenly. He could not see her, but her tears
seemed to dry up suddenly. "Well? Go, if you want to."

He hesitated, but Jondra was still to be found, and whether alive or
dead he did not know. Tamira would be safe here until he could return.
"I will come back quickly," he said, and slipped away into the night.

Tamira peered from the crevice, but though her night vision was like
that of a cat, she could see nothing. Conan had disappeared. She
settled back sulkily.

She had nearly been killed, had been taunted with her own death, and he
went after her when it should have been clear even to a blind man that
she needed the comfort of his arms. But then, were not all men blind?
It was not fair that he could affect her so much, while he cared so
little. Once she had been able to think calmly and logically about any
man. Once-it seemed a hundred years ago-before she allowed the young
Cimmerian giant to . . . Even alone in the dark she blushed at the
thought.

She would not think of him any more, she decided. Drawing herself to
the front of the crack, she tried once more to pierce the darkness. It
was futile, like attempting to peer through a raven's wing. A chill
wind whined through the mountains, and she pulled her knees up,
huddling, painfully aware of how little warmth was to be had from her
short tunic.

Where had he gone? To look for Jondra, he claimed, but how did he
intend to find her in the night? Was the noblewoman even alive? The
tent had been aflame, Tamira remembered. Nothing could have survived in
that. Except . . . the iron chests containing Jondra's jewels.

Tamira's eyes gleamed with delight, and she bit her lip to suppress a
giggle. "Let him search for Jondra," she whispered. "He'll return to
find me gone. Gone from the mountains, and the rubies with me."

With the suppleness of a cat she rolled from the crevice, came to her
feet in the night. The cold breeze ruffled her white tunic about her
thighs. For an instant she considered the problem of that garment's
paleness.

"Well, I cannot go naked," she said finally, then clamped her teeth
shut. She could not afford to make a sound, now.

Silently she glided into the dark, moving with all the stealthy skill
she possessed. No matter what was said in Shadizar, in the taverns of
the Desert, concerning Conan, she was the best thief in the city.

A sound halted her, a grating as of boots on rock, and she wished she
had her daggers. Whoever it was, she thought contemptuously, he was
clumsy. Noiselessly she moved away from he-who-stepped-on-rocks . . .
and was buried beneath a rush of smelly robes and unwashed flesh.

She kicked at the cursing men who swarmed over her, struck at them
until her wrists were caught in a grip like a vise. Hands fumbled at
her body. She saw a bearded face, merciless and hard, and a curved
dagger raised high. A scream choked in her throat. So many men to kill
one woman. It was unfair, she thought dully. Her tunic was grasped at
the neck and ripped open to the waist.

"See!" a voice said hoarsely. "It is as I said. A woman, and young."

The hard face did not change. "A lowland woman! A vessel of lust and
corruption!"

"Even so," a third man said, "remember the Imalla's commands. And
remember Walid's fate before you think to disobey." The hard-faced man
blinked at that, and frowned.

"Take me to the Imalla," Tamira gasped. She knew that Imallas were holy
men among the hill tribes. Surely a holy man would protect her.

The hard face split in an evil grin. "Let it be as the wench wishes.
Mayhap she will come to regret not choosing my blade." And he began to
laugh.


Chapter XVIII

In the canescent pre-dawn light Conan flattened himself on a narrow
granite ledge as a file of hillmen rode by on a narrow path below,
between steep walls. Their numbers had thinned as the night waned, but
there were still too many of the bearded men to suit him. As the last
of the horsemen disappeared up the twisting track, the big Cimmerian
scrambled from fingerhold to fingerhold, down from the ledge, and set
off at a trot in the opposite direction, toward the campsite that had
become a bloody shambles so short a time before, toward Tamira's hiding
place.

Two hundred paces down the trail he passed the remains of one of the
Zamoran hunters. He could not tell which. The headless body, covered
with blackened blood and bright green flies, lay with limbs twisted at
unnatural angles. Conan gave the corpse not a glance as he went by. He
had found too many others during the night, some worse than this, and
at each one he had only been grateful it was not Jondra. Now worry for
Tamira filled his mind. He was sure she was safe-even in daylight that
crack would not be easily noticed-but she had been alone for the entire
night, a night filled with hillmen and the memories of murder.

Along the slope of a mountain he trotted, eyes ever watchful. Dropping
to his belly, he crawled to the top of a rough stone outcropping. Below
him lay the camp, blackened ground and ash where Jondra's tent had
stood against the cliff. Half a score bodies, many in more than one
piece, were scattered among the stunted trees-Zamoran bodies only, for
the hillmen had carried their own dead away. There was no sound but the
somber droning of flies.

Conan took a deep breath and went over the ridgetop, half sliding down
the other side on loose rocks and shale. The dead he let lie, for he
had no time to waste on burials or funeral rites. Instead he
concentrated on what might be of use to the living. A spear, whole and
overlooked by the hillmen. A waterbag unslashed and bulging damply. A
pouch of dried meat.

The tribesmen had been thorough in their looting, however, and there
was little to find. Broken spearpoints, the cook's pots, even the rope
used for picketing horses had been taken, and the ashes of Jondra's
tent had been sifted for anything not consumed by the flames. He did
find his black Khauranian cloak, tucked where he had left it beneath
the edge of a boulder. He added it to the pitiful pile.

"So you are a thief, a looter!"

At the hoarse words Conan grabbed up the spear and whirled. Arvaneus
shuffled toward him, black eyes glittering, knuckles white on his spear
haft. The huntsman's head was bare; dust covered him, and his baggy
white breeches were torn.

"It is good to see another of Jondra's party alive," Conan said. "All
thought you were slain by the beast."

The huntsman's eyes slid off to the side, skipped from body to body.
"The beast," he whispered. "Mortal men could not face it. Any fool
could see that. That cry. . ." He shivered. "They should have fled," he
went on plaintively. "That was the only thing to do. To try to fight
it, to stay even a moment..." His gaze fell on the pile Conan had made,
and he tilted his head to look sidelong at the big Cimmerian. "So you
are a thief, stealing from the Lady Jondra."

Hair stirred on the back of Conan's neck. Madness was not something he
had encountered frequently, especially in one he had known when sane.
"These supplies may save Jondra's life," he said, "when I find her. She
is lost, Arvaneus. I must find her quickly if she is to get out of
these mountains alive."

"So pretty," Arvaneus said softly, "with her long legs, and those round
breasts meant to pillow a man's head. So pretty, my Lady Jondra."

"I am going now," Conan said, stretching out one hand to pick up his
cloak. He was careful not to take his eyes from Arvaneus, for the other
man still gripped his spear as if ready to use it.

"I watched her," the swarthy huntsman went on. The mad light in his
eyes deepened. "Watched her run from the camp. Watched her hide from
the hillmen. She did not see me. No. But I will go to her, and she will
be grateful. She will know me for the man I am, not just as her chief
huntsman."

Conan froze when he realized what Arvaneus was saying. The Cimmerian
let out a long breath, and chose his words carefully. "Let us go to
Jondra together. We can take her back to Shadizar, Arvaneus. She will
be very grateful to you."

"You lie!" The huntsman's face twisted as if he was on the point of
tears; his hands flexed on his spear haft. "You want her for yourself!
You are not good enough to lick her sandals!"

"Arvaneus, I-"

Conan cut his words short as the huntsman thrust at him. Whipping his
cloak up, the Cimmerian entangled the other man's spear point, but
Arvaneus ripped his weapon free, and Conan was forced to leap back as
gleaming steel lanced toward him once more. Warily, the two men
circled, weapons at the ready.

"Arvaneus," Conan said, "there is no need for this." He did not want to
kill the man. He needed to know where Jondra was.

"There is need for you to die," the hawkfaced man panted. Their
spearpoints clattered as he felt for weakness and Conan deflected his
probes.

"We have enemies enough around us," Conan told him. "We should not do
their killing for them."

"Die!" Arvaneus screamed, rushing forward, spear outthrust.

Conan parried the thrust, but the huntsman did not draw back. He came
on, straight onto the Cimmerian's spearpoint. Arvaneus' weapon dropped
to the ground, but he took yet another step forward, clawed hands
reached for Conan, impaling himself further. Surprise flooded his face;
jerkily he looked down at the thick wooden shaft standing out from his
chest.

The big Cimmerian caught Arvaneus as he collapsed, eased him to the
stony ground. "Where is she?" Conan demanded. "Erlik blast you, where
is Jondra?"

Laughter wracked the huntsman. "Die, barbar," he rasped. "Die." Blood
welled up in his mouth, and he sagged, eyes glazing.

With a muttered curse Conan got to his feet. At least she was alive, he
thought. If it was not all a fantasy constructed by a mad mind.
Gathering up his supplies, he set out for Tamira's hiding place.

From the shaded shelter of huge stone slabs, split from the cliff
behind her by an earthquake centuries gone, Jondra stared longingly at
the tiny pool of water far below and licked her lips. Had she known it
was there while dark still covered the Kezankians, she would not have
thought twice before assuaging her thirst. But now . . . She peered to
the east, to a sun still half-hidden by the jagged peaks. It was full
enough light to expose her clearly to the eyes of any watchers.

And expose, the voluptuous noblewoman thought wryly, was exactly the
right word. Save for the dust of flight on her legs, she was quite
naked.

"Not the proper dress for a noble Zamoran woman while hunting," she
whispered to herself. But then, Zamoran nobles were seldom roused from
their slumber by murderous hillmen or tents burning around them. Nor
did they take part in the hunt as the prey.

She turned once more to study the pool, and licked lips that were dry
again in moments. To reach it she would have to traverse a steep, rocky
slope with not so much as a blade of grass for cover. At the bottom of
the slope was a drop; she could not be sure how far from this angle,
but it did not look enough to cause difficulty. The pool itself
beckoned her enticingly. A patch of water she could doubtless wade in
three strides without sinking to her knees, with three stunted trees on
its edge, and at that moment it seemed more inviting than her palace
gardens.

"I will not remain here until my tongue swells," she announced to the
air. As if the sound of her own voice had spurred her to action, she
crawled from the shelter of the stone slabs and started down the slope.

At first she moved carefully, picking her way over the loose stone.
With every step, however, she became more aware of her nudity, of the
way her breasts swayed with every movement, of how her skin flashed
palely in the sunlight. First night and then the stone slabs had
provided some illusion of being less naked. She had often lain naked in
her garden, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun, but here sunlight
stripped the illusion as bare as she. Here she could not know who
watched her. Reason told her if there was a watcher, she had greater
problems than nudity, but reason prevailed nothing against her
feelings. Curling one arm over her breasts helped little, and she found
herself crouching more and more, hurrying faster, taking less care of
where she put her feet.

Abruptly the stones beneath her turned, and she was on her back,
sliding amid a cloud of dust. Desperately she clawed for a hold, but
each stone she grasped merely set others sliding. Just as she was ready
to moan that matters could not get worse, she found herself falling.
Only for long enough to be aware of the fall did she drop, then a jolt
pulled her up short. The slide of rocks and dirt she had begun did not
cease, however. A torrent of rubble showered down on her. Covering her
face with her arms, spitting to clear dust from her mouth, she
reflected that she would be a mass of bruises from shoulders to ankles
after this day.

The rain of dirt and stones slowed and halted, and Jondra examined her
position with a sinking feeling. The first shock was that she hung
upside down, against the face of the drop she had been sure would
present no difficulty. A twisted tree stump no thicker than her wrist
held her ankle firmly in the V it formed with the face of the drop.
Beneath her a pile of rubble from her fall reached just high enough for
her to touch the stones with her fingertips.

Deliberately she closed her eyes and took three deep breaths to calm
herself. There had to be a way out. She always found a way to get what
she wanted, and she did not want to die hanging like a side of mutton.
She would, she decided, just have to get hold of the stump and lift her
ankle free.

At her first attempt to bend double a jolt of pain shot from her ankle,
and she fell back gasping. The ankle was not broken, she decided. She
would not accept that it was. Steeling herself against the pain, she
tried again. Her fingers brushed the stump. Once more, she thought.

A rustle drew her eyes toward the pool, and terror chilled her blood. A
bearded hillman stood there in filthy yellow tunic and stained, baggy
trousers. He licked his lips slowly, and his staring black eyes burned
with lust. He started toward her, already loosening his garments.
Suddenly there was a noise like a sharp slap, and the hillman stopped,
sank to his knees. Jondra blinked, then saw the arrow standing out from
his neck.

Frantically she searched for the shaft's source. A movement on a
mountain caught her eye, a moment's view of something that could have
been a bow. Three hundred paces, the archer in her measured calmly,
while the rest of her nearly wept for relief. Whichever of her hunters
it was, she thought, she would gift him with as much gold as he could
carry.

But she was not about to let anyone, least of all a man in her service,
find her in such a helpless position. Redoubling her efforts, she split
several splinters of wood from the stump and chipped her fingernails,
but got no closer to freeing herself.

Suddenly she gasped in renewed horror at the sight of the man who
appeared walking slowly toward her. This was no hillman, this tall form
with fur leggings and clean-shaven face and gray eyes. She knew that
face and the name that went with it, though she would have given much
to deny it. Eldran. Vainly she tried to protect her modesty with her
hands.

"You!" she spat. "Go away, and leave me alone!"

He continued his slow advance toward her, one hand resting lightly on
the hilt of his broadsword, his fur-lined cloak slung back from his
shoulders. No bow or quiver was in evidence. His eyes were fixed on
her, and his face was grim.

"Stop staring at me!" Jondra demanded. "Go away, I tell you. I neither
need nor want your help."

She flinched as three hillmen burst silently from the rocks behind the
Brythunian, rushing at him with raised tulwars. Her mouth opened to
scream . . . and Eldran whirled, the broadsword with its clawed
quillons seeming to flow into his hand. In movements almost too fast
for her to follow the four danced of death. Blood wetted steel. A
bearded head rolled in the dust. And then all three hillmen were down,
and Eldran was calmly wiping his blade on the cloak of one.

Sheathing the steel, he stepped closer to her. "Perhaps you do not want
my help," he said quietly, "but you do need it."

Jondra realized her mouth was still open and snapped it shut. Then she
decided silence would not do, but before she could speak the big
Brythunian had stepped onto the pile of rubble, taken hold of her
calves and lifted her clear of the stump that had held her. One arm
went behind her knees, and she was swung up into his arms. He cradled
her there as easily as did Conan, she thought. He was as tall as the
Cimmerian, too, though not so broad across the shoulders. For the first
time since the attack she felt safe. Color abruptly flooded her face as
the nature of her thoughts became clear to her.

"Put me down," she told him. "I said, put me down!"

Silent, he carried her to the pool and lowered her gently by its edge.
"You are down," he said. She winced as he felt her ankle. "A bad
bruise, but it should heal in a few days."

There was dried blood on his forehead, she saw. "How came you by that?
Have you met other hillmen?"

"I must get my bow," he said curtly, and stalked away.

As well if he did not return, she thought angrily, but the thought
brought a twinge of anxiety. Suppose he did not return. Suppose he
decided to abandon her, naked and alone in this wilderness. When he
reappeared she gave a small sigh of relief, and then was angry with
herself for that.

He set his bow and a hide quiver of arrows down, then turned to her
with a bleak face. "We met other hillmen, yes. Two score men followed
me into these accursed mountains, and I failed to keep them safe until
we accomplished our purpose. Hillmen, hundreds of them, found our camp.
I do not know if any of my companions still live." He sighed heavily.
"I surmise the same fate befell you. I wish I could promise to see you
to safety, but there is a task I have yet to accomplish, and it must
take precedence even over you. I will do what I can for you, though. I
must regret that I cannot take days to sit here and just look at you."

It came to her that he was looking at her, looking as if he intended to
commit what he saw to memory. It also came to her that she was naked.
Quickly she scrambled to her knees, crouching with her arms over her
breasts. "A civilized man would turn his back," she snapped.

"Then the men you call civilized do not appreciate beauty in a woman."

"Give me your cloak," she commanded. "I am no tavern wench to be stared
at. Give it to me, I say!"

Eldran shook his head. "Alone in the heart of the Kezankians, naked as
a slave girl on the auction block, and still you demand and give
orders. Take garments from the hillmen, if you wish, but do so quickly,
for we must leave this place. There are others of their sort about. If
you do not wish me to watch, I will not." Taking up his bow again, he
nocked an arrow, and his eyes scanned the mountain slopes. "Hurry,
girl."

Face flushed with anger and some other emotion she did not quite
understand, Jondra refused even to look at the corpses. "Their garments
are filthy and bloodstained," she said, biting off each word. "You must
provide me decent garb. Such as your cloak!"

"Wiccana has cursed me," the Brythunian said as if she had not spoken,
"that she made your eyes touch my soul. There are many women in my
native land, but I must come to here, and see you. I look into your
eyes, and I feel your eyes touch me, and there are no other women. It
is you I want to bear my children. A petulant, pampered woman whose
very blood is arrogance. Why should I so want a woman such as you? Yet
my heart soars at the sight of you."

Jondra's mouth worked in soundless fury. Petulant! Bear his children!
And he went on, saying unbearable things, things she did not want to
hear. Her hand found a fist-sized rock by the water, and, with no more
thought than white-hot rage, she hurled it. She gave a shocked gasp
when Eldran crumpled bonelessly. A thin line of blood trickled down his
temple.

"Eldran?" she whispered.

Frantically she crawled to his unmoving form, held a hand before his
mouth. He still breathed. Relief filled her, stronger than she would
have believed possible. She hesitated over touching the bloody gash
where the stone had struck, then instead gently smoothed back his
curling brown hair.

Suddenly her hand jerked back as if burned. What was she doing? She had
to be gone before he regained consciousness. At best he would start his
ranting again, about her bearing his children and the like. At worst .
. . She remembered the ease with which he had carried her-and firmly
pushed away the memory of feeling protected while he did so. He was
strong. Strong enough to force his will with her. She must go quickly.

The first of her needs was water, and she dropped down beside the pool
to drink until she felt she would burst at one more swallow. The cool
water invigorated her. Limping, she walked back to Eldran. He must be
the source of what she needed. Truly she could not bring herself to
touch the hillmen's garments, but things of his were another matter.

His bow she snatched up with an excited murmur, and raised it to test
the pull. In astonishment she stared from the bow to the man on the
ground. She had never met the man who could pull a stronger bow than
she, but this bow she could not draw a handspan. Reluctantly she laid
it on the ground beside him.

The sword she did not touch, for she had no skill with the weapon.
Instead she slipped the tall Brythunian's dagger from his belt. Once
she made slits in his fur-lined cape for her head and arms, it made a
passable tunic, when belted with one of the rawhide thongs that had
tied his fur leggings. The leggings themselves she cut to wrap around
her feet, then tied with pieces of the other thong.

And then she was ready to go. For long moments she knelt by Eldran's
side, hesitating. Some men never awoke from head injuries. What if he
needed care?

"Jondra?" he murmured. Though his eyes remained closed, his hands
reached out as if searching for her. She started back from it as from a
snake. He must care for himself, she decided.

At the start she kept her pace slow, for the mountainous terrain was
rough at best. Her ankle would give no trouble if she did not overtax
it, she thought. But after a time her thoughts drifted to Eldran, too.
He had been near to waking when she left. He would be dazed, at first,
but not too dazed to know she was gone, nor to remember what she had
done. He was a hunter. Her hunters could track. There was no reason to
suppose the Brythunian could not. And Eldran had two good legs on which
to walk.

Almost without realizing it she began to press for speed. The ache in
her ankle grew, but she ignored it. Eldran would be following her. She
had to keep ahead of him. Her breath came, in gulps. Her mouth was dry
as if she had never drunk, and her throat as well. She was a hunter,
too, she told herself. She knew how to watch for prey; she could also
watch for a pursuer. Constantly she studied her backtrail, till she
spent nearly as much time looking over her shoulder as looking ahead.

Rounding a thick, stone spire, she had taken three staggering, limping
strides before she saw the half-score hillmen, sitting their horses and
staring at her in amazement.

"A gift from the old gods!" one of them shouted, and booted his horse
forward.

Jondra was too tired to struggle as he tangled a hand in her hair and
pulled her belly-down across his mount before his saddle pad. Weeping
in exhausted despair, she sagged unresisting as the hillman flipped up
the tail of Eldran's cloak and fondled her bare buttocks.

"He will save me," she sobbed softly into the shaggy fur beneath her
face. "He will save me." And a part of her mind wondered why the
countenance she conjured was that of the Brythunian.


Chapter XIX

Conan's teeth ground as he stared into the crevice where he had hidden
Tamira. Staring, he knew, would do no good. She was not likely to
appear from the mere force of his looking.

Forgetting the crack in the stone, he examined the ground and frowned.
There was little that was enlightening. The ground was too stony to
take footprints, but he had learned to track in the mountains of
Cimmeria, and the ground in one set of mountains was not too unlike
that in another. Here a rock was scraped. There another had its dark
bottom turned up to the light. The story he found was perplexing.
Tamira had left. That, and nothing more. He could find no sign that
hillmen or anyone else had come to take her. She had simply gone. Nor
had she waited long after his own departure to do so, for he could see
remnants of the night's dew on some of the overturned stones.

"Fool wench," he growled. "Now I have two of you to find." And when he
found the thief, he vowed, he would wear out a switch.

Carrying his spear at the trail, Conan set out at a lope, easily
following the scattered sign. As he did he felt like cursing. It was
clear where she had headed. The camp. The rubies. Perhaps she finally
had them, for he remembered the iron chests had not been in the ashes
of Jondra's tent.

Suddenly he stopped, frowning at the rocky ground. There had been a
struggle here, among several people. He picked up a torn scrap of white
cloth. It was a piece of a servant's tunic, like the one Tamira had
been wearing. He crumpled it in his fist.

"Fool wench," he said again, but softly.

Warily, now, he went on, eyes searching as much for hillmen as for
signs of passage. After a time he became aware that he was following
three tracks. Two were of men on horseback, one the set he followed,
one much fresher. Newest of all were the tracks of several men afoot.
Hillmen did not travel far without their shaggy horses, and there were
not enough of them to be soldiers. He could think of no other group at
large in the mountains, for if any of the Zamoran hunters remained
alive they were certainly seeking the lowlands as fast as they could.

Suspicions roused, he looked even more carefully for likely ambush
sites. The Kezankians had a wealth of such places, which did not make
his task easier. Sharp bends around precipitous slopes and narrow
passages between sheer walls were common. Yet it was a small valley
bordered by gentle slopes that first halted him.

From the end of a deep ravine that opened into the valley, he studied
it. Motionless, he stood close against the rock wall. It was motion
which drew the eye more than anything else. Stunted trees dotted the
slopes, but in numbers too small to provide cover. From the valley
floor to the peaks there were few boulders or depressions to hide
attackers, and those lay half-way to the summit on both sides. Hillmen
liked to be close for their ambushes, to allow their prey little time
to react. Everything his eyes could see told him the valley was safe,
but instinct prickled in the back of his skull. Instinct, which had
saved him more than once, won out.

Swiftly he retreated down the ravine. At a place where the wall had
collapsed in a fan of rock, nearly blocking the way, he climbed up and
out. Patient as a hunting cat he moved from boulder to boulder, twisted
tree to twisted tree, following every fold and dip in the land.

Finally he found himself on the slope above the valley. Below him,
crouched behind a jagged boulder with bow in hand, was a man. Conan
grunted softly in surprise. Though he lacked fur leggings, the
embroidered tunic marked the ambusher as a Brythunian. In fact, Conan
knew him for the leader of those who had come to Jondra's camp in the
hills. Frowning, he eased silently down the incline. Just above the
watcher he stopped, settled his cloak about his shoulders and sat with
his spear leaning against his shoulder.

"Whom do you wait for, Eldran of Brythunia?" he asked conversationally.

The Brythunian did not start. Instead he looked calmly over shoulder.
"You, Conan of Cimmeria," he said. "Though I will admit I did not know
it was you who followed us."

"Not you," Conan said. "Hillmen. And you can tell the rest of your men
to come out. Unless you think they really have need to watch my back."

Grinning, Eldran sat up. "So we both know what we are about." He waved
his arm, and one by one seven men in furleggings and embroidered tunics
appeared on the slope, trotting to join them. "Do you, too, seek to
rescue Jondra, then, Cimmerian?"

Conan drew a long breath. "So she is in the hands of the hillmen. Yes,
I seek her, though it was another woman, also a captive, I first set
out to find. But you speak as if you also wish to rescue Jondra. This
puzzles me, considering the warmth of your last meeting with her."

"We have met since, she and I," Eldran said ruefully, "and there was
even less warmth on her part. Some time after, I found where she had
fallen captive to hillmen." He fingered his rough gray woolen cloak,
dirty and torn; it was a hillman's cloak, Conan saw, stained and dirty.
"There are matters I must discuss sharply with that woman."

One of the other Brythunians, a bony man with a pointed nose, spat. "I
still say forget the woman. We came to slay the beast of fire, and we
must do it if we all die. We have no time for foreign women."

Eldran did not reply, though his face tightened. Another of them
murmured, "Peace, Frydan," and the bony man subsided, albeit with an
ill grace.

"So you hunt the beast as Jondra did," Conan said. "She learned better
after twenty of her hunters died, torn apart or burned alive. Only she,
myself and one other survived that enounter, and we barely. I would see
the thing dead, too, Brythunian, but there are easier ways to kill
yourself."

"The Zamoran wench finds the beast," Frydan muttered disgustedly,
"while we find only tracks. Mayhap we do need her."

Again Eldran ignored him. "Jondra hunted for a trophy," he said. "We
hunt to avenge dead kin, and to prevent more deaths. Your steel could
not prevail against the beast of fire, Conan, nor any mortalwrought
metal. But this," he laid a hand on the hilt of his broadsword, "was
forged by mages for that very purpose."

The big Cimmerian eyed the weapon with sudden interest. Objects of
sorcery were not beyond his experience. Betimes he could feel the aura
of their power in his hands. If this weapon was indeed as Eldran said,
then his debt to Telades could yet be repaid. "I would heft the weapon
that could slay that creature," he said, but the gray-eyed Brythunian
shook his head.

"Once it leaves my possession, Cimmerian, it will journey, Wiccana
alone knows how, back to the place where it was given me, and I shall
never regain it in this life. Such is the way of its ensorcelment."

"I understand," Conan said. Perhaps it was as the Brythunian said, and
perhaps not, but did Eldran fall, he vowed, he would see that wherever
the blade journeyed, it came first to his hand. One way or another, if
he lived, the debt to Telades would be paid. "But before the beast, the
women. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Eldran replied. "As our trails have converged, perhaps we
will find both women together. Haral continued after the hillmen who
have Jondra, and he will mark the way so we may follow quickly."

Conan got to his feet. "Then let us tarry no longer if we would save
them before they are harmed." Yet as they filed down the slope his
heart was grim. Women captives did not receive kind treatment from
hillmen. Let them only have courage, he thought. Let them only survive
till he could find them.

For the twentieth time Tamira examined her bonds, and for the twentieth
time knew the futility of such study. Leather cuffs about her wrists
and ankles were attached to stout chains fastened in the ceiling and
floor of the windowless, stone-walled chamber, holding her rigidly
spreadeagled in mid-air. The slender thief's sweat-slick nudity
glistened in the light from bronze lamps. The air was chill; the sweat
came from fear, fear more of something half-sensed in the room than of
her captivity.

Jondra hung suspended as she was, facing her, and Tamira exchanged
glances with the noblewoman. The taller woman's body also gleamed,
every curve of breast and hip and thigh highlighted. Tamira hoped she
also shared the other woman's calmness of face, though it was slightly
spoiled by Jondra's constant wetting of her lips.

"I am the Lady Jondra of the House Perashanid of Zamora," Jondra said,
her voice quaking. "A generous ransom will be paid for my safe return,
and that of my serving woman. But we must be clothed and well-treated.
Did you hear me? I will give our weight in gold!"

The crimson-robed man who labored at their feet, drawing a strange
pattern on the floor with powders poured from small clay bowls, did not
glance up. He gave no sign at all that he had heard, as he had given no
sign since they were brought to him. He murmured constantly as he drew,
words that Tamira could barely hear, and could not understand at all.

Tamira tried not to listen, but the steady drone bored into her ears.
She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. Basrakan Imalla,
the men who had thrown her at his feet had called him. She would have
wept for her belief that a holy man would protect her, but she feared
that if she began she might never stop.

"I am the Lady Jondra of the House . . . ." Jondra licked her lips
nervously. Her head tossed as she attempted to jerk at her bonds; a
quiver ran down the length of her, but no more. "I will give you twice
our weight in gold." Her voice was fringed with panic, and the tone of
panic grew with every word. "Three times! Four! Any amount you wish!
Anything! But whatever you intend, do not do it! Do not! Oh, Mitra
protect, me, do not!"

The beautiful noble sobbed and struggled wildly, and her fear sparked
Tamira's own to flame. The thief knew now what she sensed in the
chamber, what she had not allowed herself to even think of. Sorcery.
The very walls reeked of sorcery. And something else, now that she let
herself feel it. A malevolent hatred of women. Sobs wracked her, and
tears streamed from beneath eyelids squeezed shut as if she could hide
behind them.

"You are vessels of iniquity" The harsh voice cut through Tamira's
weeping. Unwillingly she looked. Basrakan stood stroking his forked
beard, and his black eyes glittered despite at them. "All women of the
cities are unclean vessels of lust. The old gods themselves will prove
it on your bodies. Then I will chastise you of your vileness, that you
may go to the ancient gods of these mountains in purity."

Shuddering, Tamira tore her eyes from him, and found herself looking
down at the design he had drawn, an elongated diamond with concave
sides. A short, black candle on one of the points flickered beneath
her, another beneath Jondra. The configuration of lines within the
diamond pulled at her gaze, drew it hypnotically. Her thoughts
fragmented, became a maze, and unrecognizable images came into her
mind, images that brought terror. Shrieking in the depths of her mind
she tried to flee, to find a refuge, but all was chaos and horror.

Suddenly the maze itself shattered. Gasping, she found that she could
look away from the diamond. The stern-faced Imalla had seated himself
cross-legged at one end of the unholy pattern. He struck a small gong
of burnished brass that stood by his side, and she realized it had been
that sound which had released her from the maze. Again the gong
sounded, and he began a new chant. Once more the gong chimed. And
again. Again.

She told herself that she would not listen; but her bones seemed to
vibrate with his words, with the reverberations of the brass. The air
within the chamber grew chill; it thickened and stirred. Its caress on
her body was palpable, like the feathery stroking of soft hands that
touched her everywhere at once. And the heat, rising.

In disbelief she stared down at the candle beneath her. The flame stood
firm, untroubled by the breezes she felt stirring, yet it could not
possibly be the source of the waves of heat that seemed to rise from
it. But the heat came, from somewhere, licking through her limbs,
making her belly roll and heave, changing. She tried to shake her head,
tried to deny the desire that curled and coiled within her. Dimly she
heard a groan of negation from Jondra. Vaguely she saw the noblewoman,
head thrown back, hips jerking uncontrollably, and she knew that she
writhed as well.

Her lips parted; a moan was wrenched from her. "Conan!" With the
tattered shreds of reason left to her, she recognized an answering cry
from Jondra. "Eldran!" It would not stop. Her blood boiled.

With a crash the doors of the chamber flew open. Tamira gasped as if
plunged into icy water; all sensation of desire fled from her in an
instant. Weeping replaced it, tears for the uncleanness that seemed to
cover her.

Basrakan leaped to his feet. "Do you desire death, Jbeil?" he snarled.
"Do you desire to join Sharmal?"

The gaunt man in the door bowed deeply. "Forgiveness, Basrakan Imalla,"
he said hastily, "but it is the Eyes of the Fire."

Basrakan pulled him erect by fistfuls of black robe. "Speak, fool! What
of the Eyes?"

"Sharmal claims that a woman brings the Eyes into the mountains. And he
describes her." Jbeil flung a hand, pointing to Jondra.

Through her tears Tamira met the noblewoman's eyes, and got a confused
stare and a shake of the head in return.

Basrakan's blood-red robes swirled as he spun. Tamira would have
flinched from his gaze if she could. Before it had been malign. Now she
could read in them skin being flayed, flesh stripped from bone. Her
skin. Her flesh.

"Two camps of outsiders were destroyed this night past." The Imalla's
voice was quiet, like the first brush of a knife against a throat.
"'this woman came from one of them, Jbeil. Find every scrap that was
taken from that camp. Find the Eyes of Fire. Find them, Jbeil."

Jbeil ran from the chamber as if his own throat had felt that blade's
caress.

Basrakan's eyes, like ebon stones, were locked on Jondra, but Tamira
could not break her own gaze from them. As she stared helplessly, she
found herself praying to every god she knew that whatever Basrakan
sought was brought to him. Quickly.


Chapter XX

From the scant shelter of a sparse clump of twisted trees above the
hillman village, Conan frowned at a two-story stone structure in its
center. Armed men swarmed in hundreds about the score of crude stone
huts, but it was the slate-roofed building that held his eyes. Around
him lay the Brythunians, and they, too, watched.

"I have never heard of a dwelling like that among hillmen," Eldran said
quietly. "For the Kezankians, it is a palace."

"I have never heard of so many hillmen in one place," Frydan said
nervously. His eyes were not on the village, but on the surrounding
mountains. Half a score camps were visible from where they lay, one
close enough for the breeze to bring the sour smell of cooking and the
shouts of men searching through the low tents. They had seen more
clusters of the low, earth-colored tents in reaching their present
vantage. "How many are there, Haral?"

"A score of thousands, perhaps." The plump Brythunian's voice was a
study in casualness. "Perhaps more. Enough to go around, in any case."
Frydan stared at him, then closed his eyes wearily.

Through a gap between mountains Conan caught sight of crude stone
columns. "What is that?" he asked, pointing.

Haral shook his head. "I have done little looking about, Cimmerian. I
saw the woman, Jondra, taken into that building below, and since I have
watched and waited for Eldran."

"Rescuing her will not be easy," Conan sighed. "Are you sure you did
not see another captive?" Once more Haral shook his head, and the
Cimmerian resumed his study of what lay below.

"It would take an army to go down there," Frydan protested. "Eldran, we
did not come to die attempting to rescue a Zamoran wench. We seek the
beast of fire, or do you forget? Let us be about it." Some of the other
Brythunians murmured agreement.

"I will have her out of there," Eldran replied quietly, "or die in
the-"

An awkward silence hung over them for a moment, then Haral abruptly
said, "There is an army in these mountains."

Frydan's mouth twisted sarcastically. "The Zamorans? I am sure they
would come to help us if we only asked."

"Perhaps they would," Conan said with a smile, "if they were asked
properly." The others looked at him doubtfully, obviously wondering if
he made a joke, so he went on. "Their general is one Tenerses, I
understand, a lover of glory and easy victories. He has been sent into
the mountains to put down a gathering of the hill tribes. Well, here it
is."

Even Haral was skeptical. "Unless this Tenerses is a fool, Cimmerian,
he'll not attack here. Why, he'd be outnumbered four to one at the very
least."

"That is true," Conan agreed. "But if he thought there were but a
thousand or so hillmen, and they on the point of leaving before he
could gain his victory. . ." He grinned at the others, and slowly, as
the idea caught hold, they grinned back. All save Fyrdan.

"The tribesmen would all rush to meet his attack," Eldran said, "giving
us as good as a clear path to Jondra's prison. Perhaps your
woman-Tamira?-is there as well. Both sets of tracks came to this
village."

Conan's smile faded. He had stopped counting hillman camps when he
reached twenty, but Tamira could be in any one of ten thousand dingy
tents. He could do nothing save rescue Jondra and hope to find the
slender thief after. It was a faint hope at the moment, but he had no
more. "Who will go to lure Tenerses?" he said grimly.

"Fyrdan has a silver tongue," Eldran said, "when he wishes to use it
so."

"We should be about our charge. It is what we came for," the bony man
said stiffly.

Eldran put a hand on his shoulder. "I cannot leave this woman," he said
quietly.

Frydan lay still for a moment, then sighed and sat up. "If I can steal
one of the sheep these hill scum call a horse, I will reach the
Zamorans in half a turn of the glass. A moment to snare this general
with my tale and get his block-footed soldiers marching." He squinted
at the sun, approaching its zenith. "The earliest I could get them here
is midafternoon, Eldran. With luck."

"Wiccana will give you her luck, and guide your words," Eldran said.

Conan turned from the leavetaking among the Brythunians to resume his
study of the stone building. "I will get you out," he vowed under his
breath. "Both of you."

Pain had long since come and gone in Tamira's shoulders, wracked by her
suspension. Even the numbness that replaced pain had faded into the
background, leaving only fear. She did not have to look at Jondra to
know the noblewoman's eyes were directed, as were hers, at Basrakan,
the man who held their fate on the tip of his tongue. She could as soon
have grown wings as taken her eyes from his dark presence.

The Imalla sat, now, on a low stool. Idly he stroked his forked beard
and watched the two bound women with eyes as black as bottomless pits.
For the first turn of the glass he had stalked the room, muttering dire
threats and imprecations at those who moved slowly to obey him, to obey
the will of the true gods, muttering about the Eyes of Fire. Twice so
long he had sat quietly, and Tamira wished he would pace again, rant,
anything but look at her. His eyes no longer glittered; they seemed
devoid of life or even the barest shreds of humanity. In their depths
she read tortures that did not even have names. That which called
itself Tamira cowered in the furthest recesses of her mind in a vain
attempt to escape that diabolic ebon gaze, but she could not look away.

At the doors came a scratching. It was like the slash of a knife in the
dead silence. Tamira shuddered; Jondra whimpered and began to sob
softly.

Basrakan's scarlet robes rippled as he rose fluidly. His voice was
filled with preternatural calmness. "Bring the Eyes to me."

One door opened a crack, and Jbeil entered diffidently. "I have not
your knowledge, Basrakan Imalla," the gaunt man said as if he dared not
breathe, "but these fit the description my poor ears heard." The gems
he extended in his hands gleamed in the lamp light.

Tamira's eyes widened. The black-robed man held Jondra's necklace and
tiara.

Basrakan put out a hand; the jewelry was laid in his palm. From beneath
his blood-red robes he produced a dagger. Almost delicately he picked
at the settings around the two great rubies. Gold, sapphires and black
opals he threw aside like trash. Slowly his hands rose before his face,
each cupping one sanguine gem.

"They are mine at last," he said as if to himself.

"All power is mine." His head swiveled-no other muscle moved-to regard
the two naked women suspended in chains. "Before this sun sets the
doubters will have their proof. Confine these women, Jbeil. This day
they will be given to the old gods."

Tamira shivered, and for an instant she teetered on the brink of
unconsciousness. Given to the old gods. Sacrificed-it could mean no
other. She wanted to cry out, to plead, but her tongue clove to the
roof of her mouth. Wildly she stared at the swarthy, turbanned men who
appeared to take her from her bonds. Her limbs would not work; she
could not stand unaided. As she was carried from the room, her eyes
sought desperately for Basrakan, the man who had the power of life and
death here, the man who could, who must change his edict. The
sternfaced Imalla stood before a table on which rested the rubies, his
long fingers busy among vials and flasks.

The door closed, shutting off Tamira's view, and a wordless wail of
despair rose in her throat. She tried to find moisture in her mouth so
that she might beg the cold-eyed men who bore her unheeding of her
nudity. To them she might as well not be a woman. Sacrificial meat, she
shrieked in her mind.

Inexorably, she was carried on, down winding stone steps into musty
corridors. A thick iron-bound door opened, and she was thrown to land
heavily on hard-packed earth. With a hollow boom the door slammed.

Escape, she thought. She was a thief, a skilled thief, used to getting
into places designed to keep her out. Surely she could get out of one
meant to keep her in. Awkwardly, for the stiffness of her arms and
legs, she pushed up to her knees and surveyed her prison. The dirt
floor, rough stone walls, the obdurate door. There was nothing else.
Dim light filtered down from two narrow slits near the ceiling, twice
the height of a tall man above her head. Her momentary burst of hope
faded away.

A whimper reminded her that she was not alone. Jondra lay huddled on
the dirt, her head in her arms. "He will never find me," the noblewoman
wept bitterly.

"He will find us," Tamira said stoutly, "and save us." To her shock she
realized that, though all her other hopes were gone, one still
remained. She had never asked favor or aid from any man, but she knew
with unshakeable certainty that Conan would find her. She clung to an
image of him breaking down the heavy, iron-bound door and bearing her
away, clutched at it the way a drowning man would clutch a raft.

Jondra did not stop her slow, inconsolable sobbing. "He does not know
where I am. I hit him with a rock, and . . . I do not want to die."

Tamira crawled to the taller woman and shook her by a shoulder. "If you
give up, then you are dead already. Do you think I did not know terror
to my soul in that chamber above?" She made a disgusted sound deep in
her throat. "I've seen virgin girls on the slave block with more
courage than you. All of that vaunted pride was camouflage for a
sniveling worm ready to crawl on her belly."

Jondra glared up at her with some spark of her old spirit, but there
was still a plaintive note in her voice. "I do not want to die."

"Nor do I," Tamira replied, and abruptly the two women were clinging to
each other, trembling with their fear yet drawing strength each from
the other. "You must say it," Tamira whispered fiercely. "Say it, and
believe it. He will save us. "

"He will save us," Jondra said hoarsely.

"He will save us."

"He will save us."

Basrakan intoned the last word, and his eyes opened wide with awe at
the rush of strength through his veins. He felt as if a single bound
would take him the length of the room. He drew a deep breath and
thought he could detect each separate odor in the room, sharp and
distinct. So this was what it was to be bonded with the drake.

On the table the glow faded from the rubies, from the lines of power
drawn there in virgins' blood and powdered bone and substances too
dreadful for mortal men to speak their names. But the glow that
permeated Basrakan's very marrow did not fade. Triumph painted his
face.

"We are one," he announced to the chamber, to the dangling chains where
the women had hung. "Our fates are one. It will obey my summons now."

Tamira started as the door opened, crashing back against the stone
wall. She felt Jondra tense as Basrakan appeared in the opening.

"It is time," the Imalla said.

"He will save us," Tamira whispered, and Jondra echoed, "He will save
us."

"They are stirring," Eldran said.

Conan nodded, but did not take his eyes from the two-story stone
structure below. From all the camps hillmen were moving, thick lines of
them filing toward the stone columns that pecked through the gap
between mountains. In the village five score turbanned men stood before
the stone building. A red robed man with a forked beard and multihued
turban stepped out, and a muffled roar rose from the waiting hillmen,
the words of it lost with the distance.

The Cimmerian stiffened as Jondra appeared, naked, arms bound behind
her, a guard to either side with drawn tulwar. And behind her came
Tamira, tied and bare as well.

"They are together," Eldran said excitedly. "And unharmed, so far as I
can see. Alive, at least, praise Wiccana."

"So far," Conan said.

The skin between the Cimmerian's shoulderblades prickled. There was
much about the scene below that did not please him, much beside the way
the women were being treated. Where were they being taken, and why?
Why?

The hundred hillmen formed a rough, hollow circle about the redrobed
man and the two women. The procession joined the streams flowing toward
the distant columns.

"This feels ill," Conan said. Unconsciously he eased his ancient
broadsword in its worn shagreen sheath. "I do not think we can wait
longer."

"Just a little longer," Haral pleaded. "Fyrdan will bring the soldiers
soon. He will not fail."

"Not soon enough, it seems," Conan said. He got to his feet and dusted
his hands together. "I think I will take a stroll among the hillmen."

With a grin, Eldran straightened. "I feel the need of stretching my
legs as well, Cimmerian."

"You young fools!" Haral spluttered. "You'll get your heads split.
You'll . . . you'll . . ." With a growl he stood up beside them. "We'll
need turbans, if we're to pass for hillmen long enough to keep our
heads." The others were on their feet now, too.

"There is a camp just down the mountain," Conan said, "and none in it
save women and children, that I can see."

"Then let us be about our walk," Eldran said.

"These old bones aren't up to this any more," Haral complained.

The small file of men started down the mountain.

". . . For the time of our glory has come," Basrakan cried to the
throngs of turbanned men jammed shoulder to shoulder on the
mountainsides about the amphitheater. Their answering roar washed over
him. "The time of the old gods' triumph is upon us!" he called. "The
sign of the true gods is with us!"

He spread his arms, and the flow of power through his bones made him
think he might fly. Loudly he began to chant, the words echoing from
the slopes. Never had so many seen the rite, he thought as the
invocation rang out. After this day there would be no doubters.

His dark eyes flickered to the two naked women dangling from their
wrists against the iron posts in the center of the circle of crude
stone pillars. It was fitting, he thought, that those who brought him
the Eyes of Fire should be the sacrifice now, when the new power that
was in him was made manifest to his people. They struggled in the
bonds, and one of them cried a name, but he did not hear. The glory of
the old gods filled him.

The last syllable hung in the air, and vibration in the stone beneath
his feet told Basrakan of the coming. He drew breath to announce the
arrival of the sign of the true gods' favor.

From the masses on the slopes shouts and cries drifted, becoming
louder. Basrakan's face became like granite. He would have those who
dared disturb this moment flayed alive over a slow fire. He would . . .
There were men within the circle! Abruptly the words penetrated his
mind.

"Soldiers!" was the cry. "We are attacked!"

Walking hunched to disguise his height, with his cloak drawn tightly
around him, Conan pushed through the pack of hillmen quickly, giving no
man more than an instant to see his face. Grumbles and curses followed
him. A roughly wound turban topped his black mane, and his face was
smeared with soot and grease from a cooking pot, but he was grateful
that men saw what they thought they should see, no matter what their
eyes told them. The wide circle of crude stone columns was only a few
paces away. Conan kept his head down, but his eyes were locked on the
two women. A few moments more, he thought.

A murmur ran through the crowd, growing louder. Far down the mountain
someone shouted, and other voices took up the cry. It had been more
than the big Cimmerian expected to go undetected so long. Best to move
before the alarm became general. Grasping his sword hilt firmly, Conan
tore off the turban and leaped for the circle of columns.

As he passed between two of the roughly hewn pillars he realized what
words were being said. "Soldiers! We are attacked! Soldiers!" Over and
over from a thousand throats. Zamorans, he thought, laughing. They
might live through this yet.

Then he was running across the uneven granite blocks, blade bared. The
red-robed man, forked beard shaking with fury, shouted at him from atop
a tunnel built of stone that seemed to reach back into the mountain,
but Conan did not hear. Straight to the blackened iron posts he ran.
Tears sprang into Tamira's eyes when she saw him.

"I knew you would come," she laughed and cried at the same time. "I
knew you would come."

Swiftly Conan sawed apart the leather cords on her wrists. As she
dropped, he caught her with an arm around her slim waist, and she tried
to twine her arms about his neck.

"Not now, woman," he growled. In a trice he had her slender nudity
bundled in his cloak. From the corner of his eye he saw that Eldran had
treated Jondra the same. "Now to get out," he said.

Haral and the other Brythunians were within the columned circle, all
facing outwards with swords in hand. From outside, bearded faces stared
at them, some with disbelief, some with anger. And some, Conan saw, in
amazement, some with fear. Tulwar hilts were fingered, but none; moved
to cross the low granite wall atop which the columns stood.

From afar came the sounds of Zamoran drums beating furiously. The clash
of steel drifted faintly in the air, and the shouts of fighting men.
Mayhap we can just stay here till the soldiers come," Haral said
unsteadily.

A ripple ran through the hillmen pressed against the circle's
perimeter.

"Stay back!" the red-robed man cried. "The unbelievers will be dealt
with by-"

Screaming at the top of their lungs, a score of turbanned warriors
leaped into the circle with steel flashing against the Brythunians. By
ones and twos, others joined them. Conan wished he knew what held the
rest back, but there was suddenly no time for thought.

The Cimmerian blocked a tulwar slash aimed at his head, booted another
attacker full in the belly. The second man fell beneath the feet of a
third. The Cimmerian's steel pivoted around his first opponent's curved
blade to drive through a leather-vested chest. He wanted to spare a
glance for Tamira, but more hillmen were pressing on him. A mighty
swing of his ancient broadsword sent a turbanned head rolling on the
granite blocks, then continued on to rip out a bearded throat in a
spray of blood.

Battle rage rose in him, the fiery blood that drowned reason. Hillmen
rushed against him, and fell before a whirlwind of murderous steel. His
eyes burned like azure flames, and all who looked into them knew they
saw their own death. In some small corner of his mind sanity remained,
enough to see Eldran, facing three hillmen and pushed almost to the low
stone wall, fighting with broadsword in one hand and tulwar in the
other. Haral and another Brythunian stood back to back, and a barricade
of corpses slowed others who tried to reach them.

Abruptly the hillman who faced Conan backed away, dark eyes going wide
with horror as he stared past the Cimmerian's shoulder. The tribes men
outside the circle were silent, pressing back from the stone columns.
Conan risked a backward glance, and clamped his teeth on an oath.

Slowly the iridescent form of the beast of fire moved from the stone
tunnel, its great golden eyes coldly surveying the arena filled with
men who slowed and ceased their struggles as they became aware of it.
One of the leathery bulges on its back had split; the edge of what
appeared to be a wing, like that of a great bat, protruded. And almost
beneath its feet crouched Tamira and Jondra.

"Behold!" the red-robed mage cried, flinging wide his arms. "The sign
of the true gods is with us!"

For an instant there was silence save for the dimly heard sounds of
distant battle. Then Eldran shouted. "Cimmerian!" The Brythunian's arm
drew back; the ancient broadsword with its strange, clawed quillons
arcked spinning through the air.

Conan shifted his own sword to his left hand, and his right went up to
catch the hilt of the thrown blade.

As if his movement, or perhaps the sword, had drawn its eyes, the
brightly scaled beast stepped toward the Cimmerian. Memory of their
last encounter was strong in Conan, and as the spike-toothed maw opened
he threw himself into a rolling tumble. Flame roared. The hillman he
had faced screamed as beard, hair and filthy robes blazed.

Conan knew well the quickness of the beast. He came to his feet only to
dive in a different direction, one that took him closer. Fire scorched
the stone where he had stood. The glittering creature moved with the
speed of a leopard, Conan like a hunting lion. With a mutter of hope
that Eldran spoke truly about the weapon, the big Cimmerian struck. A
shock, as of sparks traveling along his bones, went through him. And
the blade sliced through one golden eye, opening a gaping wound down
the side of the huge scaled head, a wound that dripped black ichor.

Atop the stone tunnel the red-robed man screamed shrilly and threw his
hands to his face. The beast reared back its head and echoed the
scream, the two sounds merging, ringing through the mountains.

Conan felt his marrow freezing as the cry lanced into him, turning his
muscles to water. Anger flared in him. He would not wait so to die.
Fury lent him strength. "Crom!" he roared. Rushing forward, he plunged
the ensorceled weapon into the creature's chest.

With a jerk, the beast's movement tore the hilt from his hand. Onto its
hind legs it rose, towering above them all. If its cry had been one of
pain before, now it was a shriek of agony, a scream that made the very
stones of the mountains shiver.

The red-robed man was down on his knees, one hand to his face, the
other clutching his chest. His black eyes on the scaled form were pools
of horror. "No!" he howled. "No!"

Slowly the monstrous shape toppled. The stones of the tunnel cracked at
its fall. A damp, leathery wing emerged from the broken bulge on its
back, quivered once and was still. From beneath the beast extended a
corner of scarlet robe, rivulets of crimson blood and black ichor
falling from it.

From the hillmen on the slopes a keening went up, an eery wail of
despair. Suddenly the thousands of them broke into fear-ridden flight.
Even now they tried to avoid the circle of columns, but their numbers
were too great, their panic too strong. Those close to the low stone
wall were forced over it, screaming denial, by the press of human
flesh. The circle became a maelstrom, hundreds trampling each other in
their eagerness to flee.

Like a rock Conan breasted the flood, his eyes searching desperately
for Tamira and Jondra. The men streaming around him had no thought left
but escape, no desire but to claw through the pack, grinding underfoot
anyone who slowed them. No man raised a hand against the Cimmerian
except to try to pull him from their path. None touched a weapon, or
even seemed to see him with their terrified eyes. They would not stop
to harm the women deliberately, but if either woman went down beneath
those trampling feet . . .

Eldran's height made him stand out as he waded through the shorter
hillmen with Jondra in his arms. The Brythunian scrambled over the low
stone wall and disappeared in the wash of dirty turbans.

Then Conan caught sight of the gold-edged black cloak, well beyond the
circle, being borne around the mountain by the tide of flight. "Fool
woman," he growled.

The clash of steel was closer, driving fear deeper into the hearts of
men still trying to flee. There was no room to draw or swing a sword,
but here and there daggers were out now, and hillman spilled hillman's
blood to carve a way through to safety. With hammering fists and
swordhilt, Conan hewed his own path through the mob, ruthless in his
need to reach Tamira. Screaming men went down before his blows, and
those who fell beneath the feet of that frenzied horde did not rise
again.

The hillman village came into sight. Around the two-story stone
building swarmed a hell of panting, desperate men dragging screaming
black-swathed women with squalling babes in their arms and children
clutching their long skirts. Here knots of men could break off from the
seething mass to seek their camps. Others paused in flight to grab what
they could from the stone huts. Bright steel flashed and reddened, and
possessions changed hands thrice in the space of a breath.

Conan's sword and the breadth of his shoulders kept a space clear about
him, but he barely even saw the men who slunk away from him like curs.
He could no longer find Tamira among the now spreading streams of
hillmen.

Abruptly the slender woman thief dashed from the stone structure that
towered over the others in the village. She gasped and snugged the
gold-edged black cloak tightly about her as Conan grabbed her arm.

"What in Mitra's name are you doing?" the Cimmerian demanded fiercely.

"My clothes," she began, and shrieked when he raised his sword.

Deftly Conan brought his blade over her head to run through a
blackrobed man who ran from the building with a dagger in his hand and
murder in his eye. The hillman's multi-hued turban rolled from his head
as he fell.

"I was just," Tamira began again, holding the cloak even more tightly,
but she cut off with a squeal as Conan swung her over his shoulder.

"Fool, fool woman," he muttered, and with a wary eye for other hillmen
with more than flight on their minds, he headed for the mountain
heights.

Behind him, clangor rose as the Zamoran army topped the rise
overlooking the village.


Epilogue

Leaning back against a boulder, Conan allowed himself a real smile for
the first time in days. They were at the edge of the mountains, and in
their journey they had seen no hillman who was not fleeing. Certainly
there had been none interested in attacking outsiders.

". . . And when Tenerses realized how many hillmen he faced," Fyrdan
was saying, "he began shouting for me and his torturer all in one
breath."

"There was little fun where we were, either," Haral told him. "These
old bones cannot take this adventuring any more."

Jondra and Tamira, still swathed in their borrowed cloaks, huddled
close to a small fire with their heads together. They showed more
interest in their own talk than that of the men.

"It was hard enough with the Zamorans," the bony man laughed. "I
thought I would have my hide stripped off on the instant. Then that . .
. that sound came." He shivered and pulled his cloak closer about him.
"It turned men's bowels to water. The hillmen stood for only a moment
after that, then broke."

"That was Conan," Eldran said from where he examined the two shaggy
horses they had found wandering, saddled but riderless, in the
mountains. There had been others that they could not catch. "He slew
the beast of fire, and it . . . screamed."

"And the Zamoran gained his victory," Haral said, "and his glory. It
will be years before the hill tribes so much as think of uniting again.
He will be acclaimed a hero in Shadizar, while the Cimmerian gets
nothing."

"Let Tenerses have his glory," Conan said. "We have our lives, and the
beast is dead. What more can we ask?"

Eldran turned suddenly from the horses. "One more thing," he said
sharply. "A matter of debt. Jondra!"

Jondra stiffened and looked over her shoulder at the tall Brythunian.
Tamira rose swiftly, carefully holding the black cloak closed, and
moved to Conan's side.

"I know of no debt I owe you." The gray-eyed noblewoman's voice was
tight. "But I would speak with you about garments. How long am I to be
forced to wear no more than this cloak? Surely you can find me
something more."

"Garments are a part of your debt," Eldran told her. He ticked off
items on his fingers. "One cloak lined with badger fur. One pair of
wolf fur leggings. And a good Nemedian dagger. I will not speak of a
crack on the head. Since I see no chance of having them returned, I
will have payment."

Jondra sniffed. "I will have their weight in gold sent to you from
Shadizar."

"Shadizar?" Eldran laughed. "I am a Brythunian. What do I care of gold
in Shadizar?" Abruptly he leaped, bearing the tall noblewoman to the
ground. From his belt he produced long leather thongs like those used
to tie leggings. "If you cannot pay me," he said into her disbelieving
face, "then I will have you in payment."

Conan rose to his feet, one hand going to his sword hilt, but Tamira
laid both of her small hands atop his. "Do nothing," she said softly.

The big Cimmerian frowned down at her. "Do you hate her so?"

Tamira shook her head, smiling. "You would have to be a woman to
understand. Her choice is to return to being a wealthy outcast, scorned
for her blood, or to be the captive of a man who loves her. And whom
she loves, though she cannot bring herself to admit it. It is a choice
any woman could make in an instant."

Conan admitted to himself that Jondra did not seem to be struggling as
hard as she might, though she almost made up for it with her tirade.
"You Brythunian oaf! Erlik blast your soul! Unhand me! I'll have your
head for this! Derketo shrivel your manhood! I will see you flayed
alive! Ouch! My ransom will be more wealth than you've ever seen if I
am unharmed, Mitra curse you!"

Eldran straightened from her with a grin. She was a neat bundle in the
cloak, now, snugly tied from shoulders to ankles with the leather
thongs. "I would not take all the wealth of Zamora for you," he said.
"Besides, a slave in Brythunia can have no interest in gold in
Shadizar." He turned his back on her indignant gasp. "You understand,
Cimmerian?"

Conan exchanged a glance with Tamira; she nodded. "I have had it
explained to me," he answered. "But now it is time to take my leave."

"Wiccana watch over you, Cimmerian," Eldran said. Frydan and Haral
echoed the farewell.

Conan swung into the saddle of one of the two horses. "Tamira?" he
said, reaching down both hands. As he lifted her up behind him, her
cloak became disarrayed, exposing soft curves and satin skin, and she
had to press herself to his back to preserve her modesty.

"Be more careful," she complained.

The big Cimmerian only smiled, and spoke to the others. "Fare you well,
and take a pull at the hellhorn for me if you get there before me."

As their shaggy mount carried them away from the small camp, Tamira
said, "Truly you do not have to worry for her, Conan. I'll wager by the
end of the year she has not only managed to make him free her, but that
they are wed as well."

Conan only grunted, and watched for the first appearance of the
lowlands through the gap ahead.

"It is a pity we must go back to Shadizar empty handed, is it not?"

Still Conan did not reply.

"No doubt some hillman has the rubies, now," Tamira sighed heavily.
"You must understand, I do not hold it against you. I would like to see
you once we return to Shadizar. Perhaps we could meet at the Red Lion."

"Perhaps we could." Delving into the pouch at his belt Conan drew out
the two great rubies from Jondra's regalia. They seemed to glow with a
crimson light on his calloused palm. "Perhaps I might spend some of
what I receive for these on you." Tamira gasped; he felt her rumaging
within the cloak, and smiled. "Did you think I would not know of the
pouch sewn inside my own cloak?" he asked. "I may not have been raised
as a thief, but I have some skill with my fingers."

A small fist pounded at his shoulder. "You said you would not steal
from her," the slender thief yelped.

"And so I did not," he answered smoothly. "I stole them from you."

"But you would not steal from her because you slept with her, and you .
. . I . . . we..."

"But did you not say that should not trouble a thief?" he chuckled.

"Do not go to sleep," Tamira said direly. "Do not even close your eyes.
Do you hear me, Cimmerian? You had better heed my words. Do you think
I'll allow. . ."

Conan tucked the rubies back into his pouch, then thoughtfully moved
the pouch around on his belt where it would be harder for her to reach.
He might not receive the triumphal parade that Tenerses would get, but
his would not be a bad return to Shadizar. Laughing, he booted his
horse into a gallop.
