Conan The Valiant

by Roland Green

  "Come in, come in. Put the charcoal by the north wall."

  Bora nearly stumbled over the dyed fleeces on the floor as he entered. Crimson, indigo, a rich green horribly like the emerald fire of the Jewels, they dazzled the eye but laid traps for unwary feet.

  At least he needed no guidance to the north wall. It was piled high with sacks of charcoal and salt, pots of spices and herbs, and stacks of brass bowls. He dropped the charcoal on top of the nearest pile and straightened up, stretching to untwist his muscles.

  "How much Powder do they plan to make? This looks like enough to baffle every spell from here to the Iranistani frontier!"

  Maryam smiled. "Mistress Illyana keeps her tongue between her teeth, as well she should. Certainly no one will have an easy time, sending magic against Fort Zheman."

  She knelt to open a small chest. As she did, her robe dropped away, to expose yet more skin, halfway down the ripe curves of her breasts. Bora twisted again, to look away.

  When he looked back, Maryam was holding out two cups of wine. "Shall we drink a toast, to your victory?"

  "Best make it to my safe return."

  She embraced him, clumsily because she was still holding the wine cups. Her lips nuzzled the side of his neck and caressed his throat.

  "So they have the sense to take you with them? The gods be praised!"

  "I never thought they were fools, Maryam. That big Cimmerian above all. I'm the best guide they could find, without using magic."

  They drank. It seemed to Bora that Maryam was using a trifle of magic of her own, for a single cup seemed to make his head lighter than usual. He noted that she only sipped her wine, and had yet to finish her first cup when he was nearly done with his second.

  He would have drunk a third, but she put a hand over the mouth of his cup. "No more, Bora. No more. Young as you are, wine can still do you harm."

  She set down her own cup and put her other hand over Bora's mouth. She drew her fingers along his lips and across his cheek, then thrust a hand into the open throat of his shirt.

  "Maryam. This is not proper."

  At least those were the words that formed themselves in Bora's mind. They seemed to stick in his throat, so that only a croak came out. Then he gasped as if he had run miles as Maryam undid the sash of her robe.

  As she stood, she shrugged herself out of it. Bora had never imagined that a woman's breasts could be so splendid. Breasts, and all the rest of the dark lushness now revealed.

  "Bora," she said, and the word itself was a caress. "Bora, you have never lain with a woman, have you?"

  He had no words, but his eyes seemed to speak clearly. Maryam moved to him and pressed herself against him, from shoulder to knee.

  "Then you must have a chance, before you ride into the mountains." She continued to press herself against him, while her hands went deftly to work on his clothes.

  Presently he had the wits to help her with that work, and at last to follow her to the bed.

  Raihna rolled over in the bed as Conan entered. Bare shoulders alone showed above the blankets. He sat on the bed and ran his hand along the curves under the blankets. He knew that Raihna usually slept naked.

  His hand ran back up to the edge of the blankets and started to dive under them. Raihna rolled on her back, letting the blankets slide down to her waist. Before Conan could touch what this movement exposed, she caught his hands and held them against her breasts.

  "You're all but healed, from that gash at the Red Falcon," Conan said.

  "I heal quickly, Conan. I wish the same could be said of Massouf."

  "His wound is elsewhere. Has he been whining again?"

  "I would not call it that, Conan. He wants to come with us, into the mountains."

  "He does?"

  "He spoke to both me and Illyana."

  "Supposing that he did, what will I hear that you said to him?"

  "We will let him come."

  "Crom! Where's the Powder?" Conan started to rise.

  Raihna shifted her grip, so that he could not do so without some discomfort. She looked at his discomfited expression and laughed.

  "Raihna, this is a poor jest. Massouf wants to kill himself."

  "So we surmised. Since Dessa jumped lightly into Khezal's bed, he has known she is not for him."

  "Then why, by Erlik's yard, can't he find another woman? That little trull isn't the only bedmate in the whole world for a lad like Massouf. He's a fool. It's like my pining away because I can't bed Illyana!"

  Something passed over Raihna's face at those words. Jealousy? No, something different, more complicated, and likely to be revealed only in Raihna's own good time. Conan gently disengaged himself from Raihna's grasp and sat down at the foot of the bed.

  "You don't love Illyana," Raihna said at last. "Massouf—well, he would not believe what you just said. He loves Dessa too much."

  "Conan, Illyana and I—we have never been allowed love. It is our fate. How could we spit in Massouf's face? How, I ask you?" She turned her face to the pillow and wept softly.

  Conan cursed under his breath. He could not imagine a world without women, and he would hardly want to live in it anyway. Certainly, though, such a world might be a trifle simpler!

  All the sympathy in the world didn't make a man who seemed determined to die a good companion on a dangerous journey. Conan vowed he would do everything in his power to send Massouf back with the soldiers, when they left.

  He also vowed that he would do everything in his power to make Raihna remember this night. Gripping her by the shoulders, he turned her over. Her tear-filled eyes widened, but when his lips came down on hers her arms rose. Strong, sword-calloused hands locked behind his neck and drew him to her.

  Nineteen

  THE MOUNTAIN STREAM plunged from the little cliff, splashed on a flat rock, then flowed into a deep still pool. Where it went after that Conan neither knew nor cared. He knelt by the pool and lifted a cupped hand to his lips.

  "Good and clean. Drink up, people, and refill your waterskins too."

  "If it is so clean, I think we should bathe as well," Illyana said. She sat down, pulled off her boots, and flexed her long toes with a look of bliss.

  "We had no chance to bathe while we marched with the soldiers. Nor will we have any between here and the valley, I fear."

  Conan looked beyond the little valley, toward the peaks of the Ibars Mountains. Well to the fore, the Lord of the Winds rose silver-helmeted, its snowcap blazing in the noonday sun.

  The Cimmerian sensed no danger lurking close by, but knew that it could not be far away. Precious little they could do about it, either. These mountains could hide enough enemies to overcome them had they still been guarded by a thousand soldiers instead of ten. The sergeant commanding their escort had swiftly realized this, and made no protest against his dismissal two days before. He had made none against their leaving their horses, either. Hill-born himself, he knew a horse in such country gave neither speed nor stealth.

  Speed, stealth (all were masters of it save Massouf, and he was learning), the mountains, and Illyana's magic—together these gave them a chance of reaching Eremius and defeating him.

  How good that chance was, Conan would not have cared to wager.

  "Well enough. Women first, then Bora and Massouf, then me."

  The two young men hurried to posts at opposite ends of the pool. Raihna was the first to strip and plunge in. She vanished completely, then rose spluttering and cursing like a drillmaster.

  "Gods, this is cold!"

  Illyana laughed. "Have you forgotten our Bossonian streams? They were not quite Vanir bathhouses, as I remember."

  Raihna ducked under again. This time when she came up, she was in reach of Illyana's bare legs. A mighty splash, and water cascaded over Illyana. She yelped and jumped up.

  "You—!"

  "I had not forgotten, mistress. But I thought you had, so I would remind you."

  Illyana uttered what Conan suspected was an impolite descripti
on of Raihna in an unknown tongue. Then she stood up and drew off her tunic, her last garment. Clad only in sunlight and the Jewel-ring, she started to bind up her hair with her neck ribbon.

  Conan sat sword across his lap, contemplating both women with pleasure but without desire. Apart from being younger, Raihna was definitely the comelier. Yet had Illyana not been obliged to remain a maiden, she would not have had to sleep alone more often than she wished.

  Certainly she could have had Massouf for snapping her fingers. He was trying so hard not to stare that it was more evident than if he had been doing so openly. Bora was finding it easier to be a gentleman, or at least an alert sentry. Conan would have wagered a month's pay that the toothsome Maryam had something to do with this.

  Illyana finished binding up her hair and started to pull off the Jewel-ring. Conan reached for it, to put it in his belt pouch. Illyana looked down at his left hand and drew back.

  "No, Conan. Your other hand. You've cut this one."

  "So I have," the Cimmerian said. He held up the bleeding hand. From the look of the cut, it must have been an edged stone, so sharp that he had not felt it. "I'll wash it out and bind it up. I've cut myself worse shaving. It will be healing before we reach the mountains."

  "That is not so important. Even were it far deeper, I could heal it with little use of the Jewel. No, the danger is letting blood fall on the Jewel."

  "Does it get drunk if that happens, or what?" Conan's light tone hid fear crawling through him. Illyana had spoken in a deadly sober tone.

  "One might call it getting drunk. It is certain that when blood falls on it, a Jewel becomes much harder to control. It is said that if a blood-smeared Jewel then falls into water, it cannot be controlled at all."

  Conan shrugged and reached for the ring with his right hand, then stuffed it into his pouch. It was in his mind to ask how Illyana proposed to keep the Jewel free of blood while they were battling the Transformed or whatever else Eremius might send against them.

  The words never reached his lips. Illyana sat on the edge of the pool, thrusting her long legs over the edge until her feet dabbled in the water. She raised her arms to the sun and threw her head back. Her breasts and belly rose and tautened, as fine and fair as a young girl's.

  She held the pose and Conan held desire for a long moment. Then she slipped into the pool, to bob up on the far side, next to Raihna.

  Conan rose and began to stride back and forth along the edge of the pool. Another such display by Illyana, and he was going to find it a burden to be a gentleman!

  As desire left Conan's mind, an idle thought entered it. Suppose the Jewels were indeed living beings, with their own wills? And suppose they offered Illyana magic and bedmates, in return for her obedience?

  Never mind the Jewels. Suppose Master Eremius had the wits to offer such a bargain?

  Conan's thoughts ceased to be idle, and the mountains about him ceased to look peaceful. Uneasily and suspiciously, he pondered whether he had just guessed Illyana's price.

  "Now follow me. Run!" Yakoub shouted.

  The twelve men obeyed more swiftly than they would have even two days ago. Once more Yakoub knew that until now Eremius's captains had been the one-eyed leading the blind. By himself, he could do only so much to change this.

  But if he taught twelve men everything he knew, then each of them taught it to six more and they to six beyond that—well, inside of two months all of Eremius's men would be decent soldiers. Not the equals of the Golden Spears or other crack units of foot, but as good as most irregulars.

  If only he could train them with the bow! But Eremius had passed judgment on that idea.

  Yakoub writhed within as he remembered Eremius's words. The sorcerer had been surprised to see Yakoub appearing and offering to train his men. He had even allowed his pleasure to show, when the training started to bear fruit.

  Gratitude was beyond him, however. So was what Yakoub considered military wisdom.

  "In these mountains, Master, an archer is worth three men without a bow."

  "We shall not be in the mountains much longer."

  "Even in the plains, an archer has value against horsemen."

  "No horsemen will dare close with the Transformed."

  "Perhaps. But if you have to retreat, a rearguard of archers—"

  "There shall be no retreats when we march again."

  "You are—you have high hopes, Master."

  "As indeed I should. You have brought me your own skills, which are considerable. You have also brought me news which is still better. The Jewels of Kurag are about to be reunited."

  Eremius turned his back, in a manner that told Yakoub the matter was settled. Not wishing to provoke the sorcerer into using magic to frighten him, Yakoub departed.

  He had wondered then and he wondered now what afflicted Eremius. Was it as simple as not wishing to give his human fighters a weapon that could strike down the Transformed from a distance? If so, what did that say about Eremius's trust in the humans, even when he had made them nearly witlings to keep them from rebelling?

  Or had Eremius given over thinking like a captain of human soldiers, and become entirely a sorcerer who might soon have the Jewels of Kurag in his power? If half of the tales about the Jewels Eremius told were true, it was no surprise that Eremius had fallen into this trap.

  A trap it was, however, and one that Yakoub son of Khadjar must dig him out of!

  Yakoub looked back at the running men. Most were pacing themselves as he had taught, rather than exhausting themselves in a swift frenzy. He increased his own pace, to put himself well out in front.

  When he had done this, he suddenly whirled, staff raised. Without waiting for him to single out a man, the nearest five all raised their staves to meet him. He darted in, striking shoulders, thighs, and shins in rapid succession.

  Doggedly, the men fought back. Yakoub took a thrust to his knee and another close to his groin.

  I would do well to wear some padding the next time. These men are indeed learning.

  Then a staff cracked him across the shoulders. He whirled and leaped. The other runners had come up behind him.

  For a moment fear and rage twisted his face. Those fools could have killed him by accident!

  Then he realized that the men who had come up behind were smiling.

  "We did as we would have done with a real enemy," one of them said. "We came up behind him while others fought him in front. Is that not what is to be done?"

  "Indeed it is." Not just padding, but a helmet as well. He clapped the man who had spoken on the shoulder. "You have done well. Now let us finish our run."

  Yakoub waited for all the men to pass before he began to run again. For today at least, he would be happier without any of them behind him!

  For the days to come, though, he saw much pleasure. He had often heard his father speak of how the gods gave men no greater joy than teaching the arts of the soldier. He had not understood how true this was, until today.

  "Conan, will Dessa come to any harm—as she is now?" Massouf still could not bring himself to say "as a tavern girl."

  Conan shrugged. The truth would depend on what she was made of. He did not suppose Massouf would enjoy hearing it. The young man had not given up Dessa so completely that he refused to worry about her.

  Even for a man not careless of his life, being worried about someone else was a good way to get killed. As he was, Massouf was less than ever someone Conan cared to have at his side in a fight.

  "If she lived as well as she did at Achmai's Hold, I doubt that anywhere in Turan will hold many terrors for her." A thought came to him. "I have a friend in Aghrapur by the name of Pyla. She is also a friend to Captain Khezal. If we both urge her to help Dessa find her feet in her new life, I am sure that help will come."

  It might need a trifle of silver, because Pyla did little even for friends without asking payment. Besides, launching Dessa properly would not be cheap.

  Worth it, though. If Dessa began he
r career known as a friend of Pyla, she would have few enemies. The rest could be left, as he had said several times, to the girl's natural talents.

  Remembering those talents made Conan's blood race. He muttered a polite farewell to Massouf and returned to the pool. The stone where he had been sitting was wet and dark. There was no sign of either woman.

  Either they were playing ill-timed jests, or—

  Conan was standing on the edge of the pool when Illyana burst from the water. She rose half her height out of it, like a water sprite seeking to fly. Her arms wrapped around Conan's knees and she flung herself backward.

  She might as well have tried to upset the Lord of the Winds. When she realized her mistake, Conan had already gripped her by the shoulders. He lifted and she rose, until her long legs were twined around Conan's waist. She lay back in his arms and smiled invitingly. His lips crushed hers.

  For a long moment nothing existed for the Cimmerian, save Illyana in his arms, naked, wet, and beginning to writhe in pleasure. Pleasure was not a sufficient word for what he felt. Madness would have been closer.

  Even when Illyana untwined her legs and stood, she pressed against Conan. His hands ran down her back, pressing her tighter. He felt her breasts against his chest, as delightfully firm as they had seemed—

  "No," Illyana said, or rather gasped. Her voice was husky with desire. She stepped back, forgetting that they were on the edge of the pool. With a splash and a shriek she plunged into the water again, to come up coughing.

  Conan helped her out of the pool, careful to grip only her hands. Illyana herself kept a pace away from him as she began to dry herself with her clothes.

  "That is not a no for all time, the Jewels—the gods willing. It is only for now, that we cannot—" Her voice was still unsteady, and her eyes seemed glazed. The desire was leaving Conan, but he still judged it wise to turn his back until Illyana was dressed.

  It was not until Conan had finished his own bathing that he had a chance for words alone with Raihna.