“Leave us, Scipio,” she said unsteadily.
Conan was unaware of the slave leaving, closing the door behind him. His breath was thick in his throat; his nails dug into calloused palms. Never had he taken a woman who did not want him, yet he knew he was at the brink. One gesture from her, one word that he might take as invitation; it would be enough. Battle raged within the giant Cimmerian, ravening lust warring with his will. And for the first time in his life he felt his will begin to bend.
“I called you here, barbarian,” she began, then swallowed and began again. “I summoned you to me … .”
Her words faded away as he covered the floor between them. His hands took her shoulders gently; how great the struggle not to rip that transparently mocking garment from her. As he gazed down at her upturned face, he read fear there, and longing. Her melting eyes were bottomless pools into which he could fall forever; his were azure flames.
“Do not fear me,” he said hoarsely. “I will never harm you.”
She pressed her cheek to his chest, crushing her full breasts against him. Unseen by him a small smile curved her lips, softening, though not supplanting, the fear in her eyes. “You are mine,” she whispered.
“When first I kissed you,” Conan panted, “you wanted me. As I want you. I knew I had not imagined it.”
“Come,” she said, taking his hand as she backed from him. “My bed lies beyond that archway. I will have wine brought, and fruits packed in snow from the mountains.”
“No,” he growled. “I can wait no longer.” His hand closed on sheer silk; the robe shredded from her ripe nakedness. Careless of her protests of servants who might enter, he pulled her to the floor. Soon she protested no more.
12
The sun was rising toward its height once more as Conan left Synelle’s house, and he wondered wearily at the passing of unnoticed hours. But she had so occupied him with herself that there had been no room for time. Had she not been gone from her bed at his waking, he might not be leaving yet. For all of a day and a night together, and little sleeping in it, a knot of desire still burned in his belly, flaring whenever he thought of her. Only the need to see to his Free-Company, and her absence, had stirred him to dress and go.
Bemused he strode through the crowded streets as if they were empty of all but him, seeing only the woman who still held his mind in thrall with her body. Merchants in voluminous hooded robes and tarts in little save gilded bangles scurried from his way lest they be trampled; satin-clad nobles and long-bearded scholars abandoned dignity to leap aside when they incredulously saw he would not alter his path. He heard the curses that followed him, but the stream of abuse from scores of throats did not register. It was so much meaningless babble that had naught to do with him.
Suddenly a man who had not stepped aside bounced off Conan’s chest, and the Cimmerian found himself staring into an indignant face as the memory of Synelle’s silken thighs dimmed, but did not fade. The man was young, no older than he himself, but his tunic of blue brocade slashed with yellow, the golden chain across his chest, his small, fashionable beard, the pomander clutched in his hand, all named him nobly born.
“You there, thief,” the youthful lord sneered. “I have you now.”
“Get out of my way, fool,” Conan growled. “I’ve no time or desire to play lordlings’ games.” The man wore a sword strapped around his waist, the Cimmerian noted, unusual with the garb he wore.
Conan tried to step around the brocaded youth, but another young noble, with thin mustachios in addition to his beard, stepped in front of him with a swagger. Jeweled rings bedecked all his fingers, and he, too, wore a sword. “This outlander,” he said loudly, “has robbed my friend.”
Conan wondered for whose benefit he was speaking so; no one in the teeming street paid the three any mind. In fact, a large space had opened about them as passersby studiously avoided their vicinity. Whatever sport these two sought, he wanted none of it. He wished only to see that all was well with his company and return as quickly as possible to Synelle. Synelle of the alabaster skin as soft as satin.
“Leave be,” he said, doubling a massive fist, “or I’ll set your ears to ringing. I’ve stolen nothing.”
“He attacks,” the mustachioed lordling cried, and his sword swept from its sheath as his fellow flung his rose-scented pomander at Conan’s face.
Even with his brain fogged by a woman’s memory the big Cimmerian had survived far too many battles to be taken so easily by surprise. The blade that was meant to take his head from his shoulders passed through empty air as he leaped aside. Anger washed his mind clean of all but battle rage. The sport these fops sought was his death, a killing for which, with the times as they were and the fact that he was an outlander, they would not be brought to book. But they had chosen no easy meat. Even as Conan’s own steel was coming into his fist, he booted the first young noble who had accosted him squarely in the crotch; the youth shrieked like a girl and crumpled, clutching himself.
Whirling, Conan beat aside the thrust the mustachioed lordling had meant for his back. “Crom!” he bellowed. “Crom and steel!” And he waded ferociously into the combat, his sword a flashing engine of destruction.
Step by step his opponent was forced back, splashes of blood appearing on his tunic as his desperate defenses failed to turn aside the Cimmerian’s blade quickly enough. Disbelief grew on his face, as if he could not understand that he faced a man better with the sword than he. Recklessly he attempted to go over to attack. Only once more did Conan’s steel strike, but this time it split the lordling’s skull to his black mustachios.
As the body fell the grate of the boot on pavement gave Conan warning, and he turned to block the first noble’s slash. Chest to straining chest they stood, blades locked.
“I am better than ever Demetrios was,” his youthful attacker sneered. “In this hour you will meet your gods, barbar.”
With a heave of his mighty shoulders Conan sent the other staggering back. “Run to your mother’s breast, youngling,” he told him, “and live to do your boasting to women. If you know their use.”
With a cry of fury the man rushed at Conan, a blur of steel before him. Eight times their blades met, striking sparks with the force of the blows, filling the street with a ringing as of a blacksmith’s hammer and anvil. Then the
Cimmerian’s broadsword was slicing through ribs and flesh to the heart beneath.
Once more, for a moment, Conan stared into those dark eyes. “You were better,” he said, “but not by enough.”
The young lord opened his mouth, but blood spilled out instead of words, and death dulled his eyes.
Hastily Conan freed his blade and cleaned it on the tunic of blue brocade. The space about them still was clear, and as if an invisible wall separated him and the two dead from those hurrying by, no one so much as glanced toward them. Given the mood of the city, it was more likely than not that no one of them would admit to what he had seen, short of being put to the question by the King’s torturers, but there was no point in standing there until a score of Iskandrian’s warriors appeared. Sheathing his sword, Conan melded into the crowd. Within a few paces they had closed around him, cloaking him in their number.