“Jehnna!”
She jumped in her saddle, and stared. He had never shouted at her before. Never.
Breathing hard, he rode with one fist on his hip. staring straight ahead. Finally he said, “This Conan is a thief, child. Only a thief, and no more. The Princess Taramis had her own reasons for sending him with us. It is not for me to question them, nor for you.”
Jehnna chewed at her lip as she mulled over what she had just learned. When Taramis told her the day for her journey had come, she had been overjoyed. It meant the fullfilling of her destiny. She would find the Horn of Dagoth and return it to her aunt, and great honor would be bestowed on her. But if Conan was a thief, and Taramis had sent him with them … .
“Bombatta, are we going to steal the Horn of Dagoth?”
He made a chopping motion with his hand, and looked quickly toward Conan. The blue-eyed young giant still rode before them, too far ahead to hear words that were not shouted. From the stiffness of his back Jehnna thought he was deliberately ignoring Bombatta and her. For some reason she did not quite understand, it annoyed her that he might ignore her. And on purpose.
“Child,” Bombatta said quietly, “Taramis told you not to mention that name in the hearing of anyone but her or me. You know that. It is our secret.”
“He cannot hear us,” she protested. “And are we going to—”
“No!” His tone became overly patient, the way it did when she had pushed him to a limit. “No, Jehnna, we do not steal. No one save you can touch the key. No one save you can touch the Horn. No one in the entire world. Is that not proof that your destiny is true? You cannot doubt your aunt, or me.”
“Of course not, Bombatta. It is just … oh, I’m sorry. I did not mean to make a bother.” The scar-faced warrior muttered something angrily under his breath; she stared at him. “What, Bombatta?”
Instead of answering, he galloped ahead of her, toward Conan.
She stared after him, and abruptly realized someone had ridden over a hill to the north of them and was fast approaching, leading another horse behind him on a rope. He was an ugly little man, she saw as he came closer, short and wiry, in a leather jerkin and dirty breeches. Suddenly her mind puzzled out what it was that Bombatta had muttered. Malak, he had said.
Conan permitted himself a grin when Malak appeared, riding across the hilltop, a saddled horse behind him on a lead rope. He shifted the smooth pebble he was using to bring moisture to his mouth from under his tongue to his cheek. “Ho, Malak!” he called.
“Ho, Conan!” A broad grin split the wiry thief’s face. “I had a hard time finding you, Cimmerian. I am no tracker, you know. I am a man of the cities, a civilized—”
Bombatta cut between the two of them, reining in with a spray of dust and rocks. He ignored Conan to glare at the small man, whose smile faded slowly under that murderous gaze.
“The Princess Taramis gave you your life,” Bombatta snarled. “You should have lost yourself in a pigsty while you had the chance.”
“I asked him to come,” Conan said.
Bombatta pulled his horse around, his scars livid lines across his face. “You asked him! What made you think you could decide who came on this journey, thief? The Princess Taramis—”
“Taramis wants me to accompany Jehnna,” Conan cut him off, “and I want Malak.”
“And I say no!”
Conan took a deep breath. He would remain calm. He would not kill this fool. “Then continue the quest without me,” he said with more coolness than he felt.
It was Bombatta’s turn to take a deep breath. His teeth grated, though, as he failed in showing the same outward equilibrium as the Cimmerian. “There are reasons, thief, that you cannot know. You and I and the Lady Jehnna must go on alone.”
“Taramis said the numbers were vague,” Conan said, and was pleased to see the other’s face go slack with surprise.
“She told you that?”
Conan nodded. “Taramis does not want us to fail. She told me everything.”
“Of course,” Bombatta said slowly, but there was that about his tone that suddenly made Conan doubt his own words. Yet surely she would not have kept anything back if that would hinder their chances for success.
“Well?” Conan said. “Does Malak ride with us, or do he and I go our own way?”
Bombatta’s hand tightened on his sword hilt until his knuckles paled. “Keep the little wretch, then,” he breathed hoarsely. “But make no mistake, thief. If we fail because of him, I’ll slice both of you for dog meat. And keep a proper respect about you for the Princess Taramis and the Lady Jehnna!” Sawing at his reins, he galloped back to Jehnna, who sat her horse watching worriedly.
“I do not think that man likes me,” Malak laughed weakly.
“You have survived other men who did not like you,” Conan replied. “You will survive Bombatta. A sorry beast,” he added, then gestured to Malak’s spare horse when the small man raised a questioning eyebrow.