Conan the Magnificent (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 5) - Page 24

‘‘III tidings?” Basrakan said, ignoring the greeting. “Speak, man!”

“Many warriors have joined our number, but most of them have never seen the sign of the true gods’ favor.” Jbeil’s dark eyes burned with the fervor of the true believer above his plaited beard, and his mouth twisted with contempt for those less full of faith than himself. “Many are the voices crying out to witness a sacrifice. Even some who have seen now whisper that the creature sent by the ancient gods has abandoned us, since it has not been seen in so many days. A few, among the newcomers, say that there is no sign, that it is all a lie. These last speak now in private places, among themselves, but they will not forever, and I fear the hearts of the doubters may be easily swayed.”

Basrakan’s teeth ground in frustration. He had had the same fears of abandonment himself, and scourged himself at night, alone, for his lack of belief. He had tried to summon the beast ot fire, tried and failed. But it was still there, he told himself. Still beneath the mountain, waiting to come forth once more. Waiting for—his breath caught in his throat—a sign of their faith.

“How many warriors are gathered?” he demanded.

“More than forty thousand, Imalla, and more come every day. It is a great strain to feed so many, though they are, of course, the faithful.”

Basrakan pulled himself to his full height. Renewed belief shone on his dark narrow face. “Let the warriors know that their lack of faith is not secret.” He intoned the words, letting them flow from him, convinced they were inspired by the true gods.”Let them know that an act of faith is demanded of them if they would have the sight they crave. A bird will come, a raven, a sign from the spirits of the air. Half of those gathered are to follow it, and it will guide them to unbelievers, soldiers of Zamora. These they must slay, letting none escape. Not one. If this is done as it is commanded, the sight of the true gods’ favor will be granted to them.”

“A bird,” Jbeil breathed. “A sign from the spirits of the air. Truly are the ancient gods mighty, and truly is Basraken Imalla mighty in their sight.”

Basrakan waved away the compliment with a negligent hand. “I am but a man,” he said. “Now, go! See that it is done as I have commanded.”

The black-robed man bowed himself from the sorcerer’s presence, and Basrakan began to rub at his temples as soon as he was gone. So many pressures on him. They made his head hurt. But there was the girl. Showing her the evil within her, saving her from it, would ease the pain. He would chastise the lust from her. His face shining with the ascetic look of one who suffered for his duty, Basrakan retraced his steps.

Chapter 11

Djinar lay on his belly in the night and studied the hunter’s camp, lying still and quiet on the next hill. His dark robes blended with the shadows of his own stony hilltop. Only smouldering beds of ashes remained of the cook fires, leaving the camp in darkness, its tents and carts but dim mounds, save for the soft glow of lamps within a large tent of scarlet. The moon rode high over the jagged peaks to the north, but dense dark clouds let its pale light through only an occasional brief rent. A perfect night for attack. He tugged at the triple braids of his beard. Perhaps the ancient gods were with them.

It had certainly seemed so during the days when the trail of the hunting party led north like an arrow aimed at the encampment of Basraken Imalla. Could it be that the Eyes of Fire were drawn in some fashion to the Imalla, that the true gods stirred themselves among men, even through the Zamoran slut? A chill like the trickle of an icy mountain stream ran down Djinar’s spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. It seemed to him that the ancient gods walked the earth within sight of his eyes. Rocks grated behind him; Djinar gasped, and almost fouled himself.

Farouz dropped down beside him on the stony ground.

“Sentries?” Djinar asked finally. He was pleased at the steadiness of his voice.

The other man snorted in contempt. “Ten of them, but all more asleep than awake. They will die easily.”

“So many? The soldiers set guards in such numbers, but not hunters.”

“I tell you, Djinar, they all but snore. Their eyes are closed.”

“A score of eyes,” Djinar sighed. “All it takes is one pair to be alert. If the camp is awakened, and we must ride uphill at them … .”

“Bah! We should have attacked when first we found them, while they were yet on the march. Or do you still fear the Brythunian dogs? They are gone long since.”

Djinar did not answer. Only because Sharmal had gone off alone to answer a call of nature had the Brythunians been seen, ghosting along the trail of the hunters from Shadizar. There was no great love lost between Brythunian and Zamoran, it was true, but either would turn aside from slaying the other to wet his blade with the blood of a hillman. Farouz would have placed them between their two enemies—at least two score of the Brythunians; half again so many Zamorans—without a thought save how many he could kill.

“If your … caution brings us to failure,” Farouz muttered, “do not think to shield yourself from Basrakan Imalla’s wrath by casting blame on others. The truth will be known.”

Farouz, Djinar decided, would not survive to return to the Imalla’s encampment of the faithful. The old gods themselves would see the justice of it.

Again boots scrabbled on the rocks behind him, but this time Djinar merely looked over his shoulder. Sharmal, a slender young man with his wispy beard worked into many thin braids, squatted near the two men. “The Brythunian unbelievers ride yet to the east,” the young man said.

“They did not stop at dark?” Djinar demanded, frowning. He did not like behavior out of the ordinary, and men did not travel by night without pressing reason, not in sight of the Kezankians.

“When I turned back at sundown,” Sharmal answered, “they still rode east. I … I did not wish to miss the fighting.”

“If there is to be any,” Farouz sneered.

Djinar’s teeth ground loudly. “Mount your horses,” he commanded. “Surround the camp and advance slowly. Strike no blow until I call, unless the alarm be given. Well, Farouz? You speak eager words. Can your arm match them?”

With a snarl Farouz leaped to his feet and dashed down the hill to where their shaggy, mountain-bred horses waited.

Djinar followed with a grim smile and climbed into the high-pommeled saddle. Carefully he walked his mount around the side of the hill, toward the camp atop the next stony rise. The rattle of unshod hooves on rock did not disturb him, not now. He guided his horse upslope. To the core of him he was convinced the Zamorans would not rouse. The ancient gods were with him. He and the others were one with the dark. He could make out a sentry, leaning on his spear, unseeing, unaware of one more shadow that drifted closer. Djinar loosed his tulwar from its scabbard. The true gods might walk the camp before him, but there was another presence as well. Death. He could smell it. Death for many men. Death for Farouz.

Smiling, Djinar dug in his heels; his mount sprang forward. The sentry had time to widen his eyes in shock; then the curved blade with the strength of Djinar’s arm and the weight of the charging horse behind it took the man’s head from his shoulders. Djinar’s cry rent the darkness. “By the will of the true gods, slay them! No quarter!” Screaming hillmen slashed out of the night with thirsty steel.

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