“You have been attainted, 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.
XII
A mid 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 shaven-headed 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, marked 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 waist-high 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-hiked 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 hut 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 came 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 half-breed 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-hiked 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’ 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 …”
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