Julia ran to clasp Machaon’s arm, and, with Narus, they started down the mountain.
“After that fool wench’s display,” Karela muttered, “I need a drink, or I’ll be sick to my stomach.”
Conan eyed her thoughtfully. “Events hie me to Argos, for ’tis said Free-Companies are being hired there. Come with me, Karela. Together, in a year, we’ll rule the country.”
The red-haired beauty stared at him, stricken. “Do you not understand why I cannot, Cimmerian? By the Teats of Derketo, man, you wake in me longings to be like that simpering wench, Julia! You make me embrace weakness, make me want to let you protect me. Think you I’m a woman to fold your blankets and cook your meals?”
“I’ve never asked such of you,” he protested, but she ignored him.
“One day I would find myself walking a pace behind you, silent lest I should miss your words, and I’d plant a dagger in your back for it. Then I would likely weep myself to madness for the doing of what you brought on yourself. I will not have it, Conan. I will not!”
A sense of loss filled him, but pride would not allow it to touch his face. “At least you have gained one thing. This time I flee, and you remain in Ophir.”
“No, Conan. The vermin that formed my band are not worth the effort of gathering them again. I go to the east.” Her head came up, and her eyes glowed like emeralds. “The plains of Zamora shall know the Red Hawk again.”
He fumbled in his pouch and drew out half the gems he had taken from the scepter of Ophir. “Here,” he said gruffly. Karela did not move. “Can you not take a parting gift from a friend?” Hesitantly a slender hand came to his; he let the gems pour into it.
“You are a better man that you know, Cimmerian,” she whispered, “and I am a fool.” Her lips brushed his, and she was gone, running with the cloak a scarlet banner behind her.
Conan watched until she passed out of sight below.
“Even the gods cannot understand the brain of a woman,” Boros crackled. “Men, on the other hand, rarely think with their brains at all.”
Conan glared at the bearded man. He had forgotten Boros was still there. “Now you can return to the taverns and your drinking,” he said sourly.
“Not in Ophir,” Boros said. He tugged at his beard and glanced nervously toward the ruined mountaintop. “A god cannot be killed as if it were an ordinary demon. Al’Kiir still lives—some—where. Suppose his body is buried yet up there? Suppose another of those images exists? I will not be in this country if someone else attempts to raise him. Argos, I think. The sea air will be good for my lungs, and I can take ship for distant lands if I hear evil word from Ophir.”
“Not in my company,” Conan growled. “I travel alone.”
“I can work magicks to make the journey easier,” Boros protested, but the Cimmerian was already making his way down the mountain. Chattering continuously the gray-bearded man scrambled after Conan, who refused to respond to his importunings.
Once more he was on his own, Conan thought, with only his sword and his wits, but he had been so often before. There were the gems in his pouch, of course. They would fetch something. And Argos lay ahead, Argos and thoughts he had never entertained before. If chance could bring a fool like Valentius to a throne, why could he not find a path? Why indeed? Smiling, he quickened his pace.
Tor Books by Robert Jordan
Note: Within series, books are best read in listed order.
—–
THE WHEEL OF TIME®
The preeminent fantasy epic of our era, created by Robert Jordan and completed by Brandon Sanderson.
The Eye of the World
The Great Hunt
The Dragon Reborn
The Shadow Rising
The Fires of Heaven
Lord of Chaos
A Crown of Swords
The Path of Daggers