“Not likely from the south,” Conan said. “Still, it couldn’t hurt to let the rest of the camp know. Quietly.”
“When I need your advice,” Arvaneus snarled, but he did not finish it. Instead he turned to Telades. “Go among the men. Tell them to be ready.” His face twitched, and he added a muttered, ‘‘Quietly.”
Unasked, the Cimmerian added his efforts to those of Telades, moving from man to man, murmuring a word of warning. Mardak, a grizzled, squint-eyed man with long, thin mustaches also was passing the word. The hunters took it calmly. Here and there a man fingered the hilt of his tulwar or pulled a lacquered quiver of arrows closer, but all went on with what they were doing, though with eyes continually flickering to the south.
By the time Conan returned to the center of the camp, ten horsemen had topped the crest of the next hill and were walking their horses toward the camp.
Arvaneus grunted. “We could slay all of them before they knew we were here. What are they, anyway? Not hillmen.”
“Brythunians,” Telades replied. “Is there really cause to kill them, Arvaneus?”
“Barbarian scum,” the hawk-faced hunter sneered. “They don’t even see us.”
“They see us,” Conan said, “or they’d never have crossed that crest. And what makes you think we see all of them?”
The two Zamorans exchanged surprised looks, but Conan concentrated on the oncoming men. All wore fur leggings and fur-edged capes, with broadswords at their waists and round shields hung behind their saddles. Nine of them carried spears. One, who led them, carried a long, recurved bow.
The Brythunian horsemen picked their way up the hill and drew rein short of the camp. The man with the bow raised it above his head. “I am called Eldran,” he said. “Are we welcome here?”
A sour look on his face, Arvaneus stood silent.
Conan raised his right hand above his head. “I am called Conan,” he said. “I welcome you, so long as you mean harm to none here. Dismount and share our fires.”
Eldran climbed from his horse with a smile. He was almost as tall as
Conan, though not so heavily muscled. “We cannot remain long. We seek information, then we must move on.”
“I seek information as well,” Jondra said as she strode between the men. Her hair, light brown sun-streaked with blonde, was tousled, and her tight riding breeches and tunic of emerald silk had an air of having been hastily donned. “Tell me … .” Her words died as her eyes met those of Eldran, as gray as her own. Her head was tilted back to look up at him, and her mouth remained open. Finally she said unsteadily, ‘‘From … from what country are you?”
“They’re Brythunians,” Arvaneus spoke up. “Savages.”
“Be silent!” Jondra’s enraged scream caught the men by surprise. Conan and Eldran stared at her wonderingly. Arvaneus’s face paled. “I did not speak to you,” she went on in a voice that shook. “You will be silent till spoken to! Do you understand me, huntsman?” Not waiting for his answer, she turned back to Eldran. The color in her cheeks was high, her voice thin but cool. “You are hunters, then? It is doubly dangerous for you to hunt here. The Zamoran army is in the field, and there are always the hillmen.”
“The Zamoran army does not seem to find us,” the Brythunian answered. His still-mounted men laughed. “As for the hillmen … .” There was an easiness to his voice, but grim light flashed in his eyes.”I have given my name, woman, but have not heard yours.”
She drew herself up to her greatest height, still no taller than his shoulder. “It is the Lady Jondra of the House Perashanid of Shadizar, to whom you speak, Brythunian.”
“An honorable lineage, Zamoran.”
His tone was neutral, but Jondra flinched as if he had sneered. Strangely, it seemed to steady her in some fashion. Her voice firmed. “If you are a hunter, perhaps you have seen the beast I hunt, or its sign. I am told its body is that of a huge serpent, covered with scales in many colors. Its track—”
“The beast of fire,” one of the mounted Brythunians murmured, and others made a curving sign in the air before them as if it were a charm.
Eldran’s face was tight. “We seek the beast as well, Jondra. Our people know it of old. Perhaps we can join forces.”
“I need no more hunters,” Jondra said quickly.
‘‘The creature is more difficult to slay than you can imagine,” the tall Brythunian said urgently. His hand gripped tightly at the hilt of his sword, a weapon of ancient pattern with quillons ending in claws like an eagle’s.”It’s breath is fire. Without us you can but die in the seeking of it.”
“So say you,” she said mockingly, “with your children’s tales. I say I will slay the beast, and without your aid. I also say that I had better not find you attempting to poach my kill. This trophy is mine, Brythunian. Do you understand me?”
“Your eyes are like the mists of dawn,” he said, smiling.
Jondra quivered. “If I see you again, I’ll put arrows in both of your eyes. I’ll—”
Suddenly she grabbed a bow from one of her archers. Brythunian spears were lowered, and their horses pranced nervously. Hunters reached for their tulwars. In one smooth motion Jondra drew and released, into the air. Far above the camp a raven gave a shrill cry and began to flutter erratically, dropping toward a far hill.
“See that,” Jondra exclaimed, “and fear my shafts.”