“We met such a band,” Karela said.
Conan looked at the red-haired bandit sharply, but he could not tell whether she believed the man, or whether she attempted some deeper game.
“Praise be to all the gods that you survived,” Amanar said piously. “Let me offer you the shelter of my keep. Your retainers may camp outside the walls and feel safe. Pray say you will be my guests. I have few visitors, and there is something I would speak to you of, which I think you will find to your advantage.”
Conan looked at the S’tarra arrayed on the slopes above and wondered wryly how many refused Amanar’s invitations.
Karela did not hesitate. “I accept gratefully,” she said.
Amanar smiled—once more it did not touch his eyes—bowed slightly to her, and clapped his hands. The eight S‘tarra bearing his ivory throne turned carefully and started up the trail. Karela rode after him, and Conan and Hordo quickly followed her. On the slopes of the narrow valley the S’tarra kept alongside the bandits, moving over the slanted ground with lizardlike agility. Honor guard, Conan wondered, or simply guard?
“How much of what he says do you believe?” Hordo said softly.
Conan glanced at the throned man leading them—he had experience of the acuity of wizards’ hearing. Amanar seemed to be ignoring them. “Not a word,” he replied. “That—S’tarra, did he call it?—was headed here.”
The one-eyed man frowned. “If we turn suddenly, we could be free of his minions before they had ought but a crossbow shot or two at us.”
“Why?” Conan laughed softly. “We came for the pendants, and what else we might find. He takes us into his very keep, right to them.”
“I never thought of that,” Hordo said, joining Conan’s quiet laughter.
Karela looked over her shoulder, her tilted green eyes unreadable. “Leave the thinking to me, old one,” she said flatly. “That beard leeches your brain.” An uncomfortable silence fell over them.
XIX
As the narrow, twisting gorge they had followed so long debouched into a broader valley, they saw the Keep of Amanar. Ebon towers reared into the sky, their rounded sides seeming to absorb the afternoon sun. Black ramparts, crenellated and sprouting bartizans, grew from the stone of the mountain. A ramp led to the barbican, topped by troughs for pouring boiling oil on those who approached unwarily. Not even a thornbush grew in the stony soil surrounding it all.
Amanar gestured to the wide expanse of the valley below the fortress. “Camp your men where you will. Then come you inside, and I will speak with you.” His bier was carried swiftly up the ramp, leaving the bandits milling at its foot.
“Find a spot for my hounds, Hordo,” Karela said, dismounting and handing him her reins. Conan climbed down as well. Her green eyes sparkled dangerously. “What do you think you’re doing, Cimmerian?”
“I’m not one of your hounds,” he replied levelly. He started up the ramp, noting the guard positions on the walls. It would not be an easy place for a thief to enter.
The Cimmerian tensed as running boots pounded up behind him. Karela eased her pace to a walk beside him, her heavy breathing coming more from anger, he suspected, than exertion. “Conan, you don’t know what you’re doing here. You’re out of your depth.”
“I need to see what’s inside, Karela. These walls could hold off an army. I may yet have to scale them in the night if we’re to gain the pendants. Unless Amanar and his scaly henchmen have frightened you out of it.”
“I haven’t said that, have I? And I won’t have you accusing me of cowardice!”
They stopped before the lowered portcullis. From behind the heavy iron bars, a S’tarra peered at them with red eyes that seemed to glow slightly in the shadows of the gateway. Two more stepped from the arched doorway of the barbican, pikes in hand.
“We are expected by Amanar,” Conan said.
“I am expected,” Karela said.
The S’tarra made a lifting gesture, and with a clanking of chain the grating began to rise. “Yes,” it hissed. “The master said the two of you would come. Follow me.” Turning on its heel, it trotted into the dark recesses of the fortress.
“How did he know we’d both come?” Karela said as they followed.
“I’m not the one out of my depth,” Conan replied. Behind them the portcullis creaked shut. The muscular Cimmerian found himself hoping it would be as easy to get out as it had been to get in.
The granite-paved baileys of the fortress, the sable stone barracks and casemates, were as bleak as the exterior, but then the S’tarra led them through great iron-bound doors into the donjon, a massive obsidian cube topped by the tallest tower of the keep.
Conan found himself in a marble-walled hall with a floor mosaicked in rainbow arabesques. Silver sconces held golden dragon lamps, filling even the vaulted ceiling, carved with hippogriffs and unicorns, with lambent radiance. He nodded to himself with satisfaction. If Amanar lit his entry hall with such, he had wealth enough and more for Conan’s needs. There was still the matter of Velita, though, and his oath to free her.
The S’tarra halted before tall doors of burnished brass, and knocked. The creature bent as if to listen, then, though Conan heard nothing, swung one weighty door open. The music of flutes and harps drifted out as the creature bowed, making a gesture for them to enter.
Conan strode in, Ka