Conan the Invincible (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 1) - Page 17

Hordo looked uncertainly at Karela, but she stood listening as if the talk had no connection to her. The one-eyed man muttered under his breath, then went on. “Where do we seek these hooded men? The country is wide. What direction do we ride? Conan himself has said he has no idea. He followed the Red Hawk thinking she’d lead him to them.”

“I saw them,” Aberius said, and stared about him defiantly as everyone turned to look at him. “I, and Hepekiah, and Alvar. Two days gone, riding to the east. A score of hooded men, and five bound women on camels. Speak, Alvar.”

The thickset man with the scarred nose nodded heavily. “Aye, we saw them.”

“They were too many for the three of us,” Aberius went on hurriedly, “and when we came here to the meeting place, the Red Hawk had not yet come, so we didn’t speak of it. You never let us make a move without her, Hordo.” A mutter of angry assent rose.

Hordo glared, but there was satisfaction in his voice when he said, “Two days gone? They could be in Vendhya for all the good it does us.”

The mutter grew in intensity, and Aberius took a step toward the huge, bearded man. “Why say you so? All here know I can track a lizard over stone, or a bird through the air. A two days’ trail is a beaten path for me.”

“And what of Hepekiah?” Hordo growled. “Have you forgotten the Cimmerian’s blade in your friend’s ribs?”

The weasel-faced man shrugged. “Gold buys new friends.”

Hordo threw up his hands and turned to Karela. “You must speak. What are we to do? Does this Conan die, or not?”

The auburn-haired woman looked fully at Conan for the first time, her tilted green eyes cool and expressionless. “He’s a good fighting man, and we may have need of such when we overtake these hooded men. Strike camp, and bring his horse.”

Shouting excitedly and laughing, the bandits scattered. Hordo glared at the Cimmerian, then shook his head and stalked away. In an instant the camp was a stirred anthill, the pavilion going down, horses being saddled and blankets rolled. Conan stood looking at Karela, for she had not moved an inch, nor taken her eyes from his face.

“Who is this woman?” she said suddenly. Her voice was flat and expressionless. “The one you say is yours.”

“A slave girl,” he replied, “as I said.”

Her face remained calm, but she sheathed her sword as if slamming it into his heart. “You trouble me, Conan of Cimmeria. See you do not come to trouble me too much.” Spinning on her heel she marched toward the horses.

Conan sighed and looked to the east, where the red sun was just broaching the horizon. The night’s dew had cleared the dust from the air, and it seemed he could see forever.

All he had to do now was find the hooded men, free Velita and take the pendants, all the while watching his back for a knife from some brigand who decided they had no need of him after all, and keeping an eye on Karela’s mercurial temper. Then, of course, there was the matter of relieving the bandits of the pendants in turn, not to mention finding a new purchaser, for in Conan’s eyes Crato’s attack had finished his agreement with Ankar, or Imhep-Aton, or whatever his real name was. It was just his luck the man seemed to be a magician. But he had a tidy enough bundle without adding that worry to it. All he needed now, he thought, was the Zamoran army. He went in search of his cloak. And a water skin.

X

Puffs of dust lifted beneath the hooves of the column of Zamoran cavalry, a company strong, as they crossed rolling hills sparsely covered with low scrub. Their lance points and chain mail were blackened against reflecting the sun. They rode in a double line, round shields hanging ready to hand beside their saddles, with Haranides at their head, hard men, hand-picked by the captain, veterans of campaigning on the borders.

Haranides unconsciously shifted his buttocks on the hard leather of his saddle as he turned his head continually from side to side, watching, hoping, for a flash of light. With naught to go on but a direction, he had had to take a chance. Half his command was scattered in a line abreast on either side of him, and then only when both topped a hill. Every one of them had a metal mirror, and if any sign of a trail was found … .

He grimaced as his second in command, Aheranates, galloped up beside him from his place immediately before the column. A slender youth with smooth-shaven fine-featured face and big dark eyes more suited to flirting with a palace wench than looking on death, Aheranates had been foisted on him at the last minute. Ten years younger than Haranides, in two he would outrank him. His father, much in favor with the king, wanted his son to gain a touch of seasoning, and incidentally to share in the glory of bringing the Red Hawk before the king bound in chains.

“What do you want?” Haranides growled. If he succeeded on this mission, he would not need the good opinion of the youth’s father. If he failed, the man could not save him from the king’s threat.

“I’ve been wondering why we’re not pursuing the Red Hawk,” Aheranates said. Haranides looked at him, and he added, “Sir. Those were our orders, were they not? Sir?”

Haranides restrained his temper with no little effort. “And where would you pursue, lieutenant? In what direction? Or is it just that this isn’t dashing enough for someone used to the glitter of parades in the capital?”

“Not the way I was taught to handle cavalry. Sir.”

“And where in Sheol were you taught … .” A flash of light to the east caught his words in his throat. Once. Twice. Thrice. “Signal recall, lieutenant. By mirror,” he added as the other pulled his horse around. “No need to let every running dog know we’re out. And bring the company around.”

“As you command. Sir.”

For once Haranides did not notice the sarcasm. This had to be what he sought. By Mitra, it had to be. He could barely restrain himself from galloping ahead of his troop, but he forced himself to keep the march to a walk. The horses must be conserved if there was a pursuit close at hand, and he prayed there would be.

The men strung out to the east waited once they had passed on the signal, each man falling in behind the column as it reached him. Those beyond the man who first flashed his sighting would be riding west to join them. If this was a false alarm, Haranides thought … .

Then they topped another hill, and before them was a small knot of his men. As he rode closer another rider rejoined from the east. Haranides finally allowed himself to kick his mount into a gallop. One of the soldiers rode forward, touching his forehead respectfully.

“Sir, it looks to have been a camp, but there’s … .”

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