Conan the Magnificent (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 5) - Page 27

Telades answered as though the question had been serious. “Not all spears are thrown by the enemies you expect, northlander. If you do stay, watch your back.”

Conan paused in the act of stooping for more dirt. So the spear that grazed his back had not been cast by a hillman’s hand. Arvaneus, no doubt. Or perhaps some other, long in the Perashanid’s service, who did not like the last daughter of the house bedding a landless warrior. That was all he needed. An enemy behind him—at least one—and the hillmen surrounding. Tomorrow, he decided, he would make one last try at convincing Jondra to turn back. And Tamira, as well. There were gems aplenty in Shadizar for her to steal. And if they would not, he would leave them and go back alone. Furiously he scooped dirt onto the tray and hurled it at the flames. He would! Erlik take him if he did not.

In the gray dawn Djinar stared at the pitiful following that remained to him. Five men with shocked eyes and no horses.

“It was the giant,” Sharmal muttered. His turban was gone, and his face was streaked with dirt, and dried blood from a scalp wound. His eye focused on something none of the rest could see. “The giant slew who he would. None could face him.” No one tried to quiet him, for the mad were touched by the old gods, and under their protection.

“Does any man think we can yet take the Eyes of Fire from the Zamoran woman?” Djinar asked tiredly. Blank stares answered him.

“He cut off Farouz’s hand,” Sharmal said. “The blood spurted from Farouz’s arm as he rode into the night to die.”

Djinar ignored the youth. “And does any man doubt the price we will pay for failing Basrakan Imalla’s command?” Again the four who retained their senses kept silent, but again the answer was in their dark eyes, colored now by a tinge of horror.

Sharmal began to weep. “The giant was a spirit of the earth. We have displeased the true gods, and they sent him to punish us.”

“It is decided, then.” Djinar shook his head. He would leave much behind, including his favorite saddle and two young wives, but such could be more easily replaced than blood from a man’s veins. “In the south the tribes have not yet heeded Basrakan’s call. They care only for raiding the caravans to Sultanapur and Aghrapur. We will go there. Better the risk no one will take us in than the certainty of Basrakan’s anger.”

He did not see Sharmal move, but suddenly the young man’s fist thudded against his chest. He looked down, perplexed that his breath seemed short. The blow had not been that hard. Then he saw the hilt of a dagger in the fist. When he raised his eyes again, the other four were gone, unwilling to meddle in the affairs of a madman.

“You have been attainted, Djinar,” Sharmal said in a tone suitable for instructing a child.”Better this than that you should flee the will of the true gods. Surely you see that. We must return to Basrakan Imalla, who is a holy man, and tell him of the giant.”

He had been right, Djinar thought. Death had been in that camp. He could smell it still. He opened his mouth to laugh, and blood poured out.

Chapter 12

Amid the lengthening shadows of mid-afternoon, some semblance of normality had returned to the hunter’s camp. The fires were out, and those carts that could not be salvaged had been pushed to the bottom of the hill, along with supplies too badly burned for use. Most of the wounded were on their feet, if not ready for another battle, and the rest soon would be. The dead—including now the two most seriously wounded—had been buried in a row on the hillside, with cairns of stones laid atop their graves to keep the wolves from them. Zamoran dead, at least, had been treated so. Vultures and ravens squawked and contended beyond the next hill, where the corpses of hillmen had been dragged.

Sentries were set now not only about the hilltop camp itself, but on the hills surrounding. Those distant watchers, mounted so t

hey could bring an alarm in time to be useful, had been Conan’s idea. When he put the notion forward Jondra ignored it, and Arvaneus scorned it, but the sentries were placed, if without acknowledgement to the Cimmerian.

It was not for pique, however, that Conan stalked through the camp with a face like a thunderhead. He cared nothing who got credit for the sentries, so long as they were placed. But all day Jondra had avoided him. She had hurried about checking the wounded, checking the meals the cook prepared, meddling in a score of tasks she would normally have dismissed once she ordered them done. All in the camp save Conan she had kept at the run. And every particle of it, he knew, was to keep from talk with him.

Tamira trotted by in her short white tunic, intently balancing a flagon of wine and a goblet on a tray, and Conan caught her arm. “I can’t stop now,” she said distractedly. “She wants this right away, and the way she’s been today I have no wish to be slow.” Suddenly the slender thief chuckled. ‘‘Perhaps it would have been better for us all if you hadn’t slept alone last night.”

‘‘Never mind that,” Conan growled.”It’s time for leaving, Tamira. Tomorrow will see us in the mountains.”

“Is that what you said to Jondra to anger her so?” Her face tightened. “Did you ask her to go back with you, too?”

“Fool girl, will you listen? A hunting trophy is no reason to risk death at the hands of hillmen, nor are those gems.”

“What of Jondra?” she said suspiciously. “She won’t turn back.”

“If I can’t talk her into it, I will go without her. Will you come?”

Tamira bit her full under-lip and studied his face from beneath her lashes. Finally, she nodded. “I will. It must be in the night, though, while she sleeps. She’ll not let me leave her service, if she knows of it. What would she do without a handmaiden to shout at? But what of your own interest in the rubies, Cimmerian?”

“I no longer have any interest,” he replied.

“No longer have,” Tamira began, then broke off with a disbelieving shake of her head. “Oh, you must think I am a fine fool to believe that, Cimmerian. Or else you’re one. Mitra, but I do keep forgetting that men will act like men.”

“And what does that mean?” Conan demanded.

“That she’s had you to her bed, and now you will not steal from her. And you call yourself a thief!”

“My reasons are no concerns of yours,” he told her with more patience than he felt. “No more than the rubies should be. You leave with me tonight, remember?”

“I remember,” she said slowly. As her large brown eyes looked up at him, he thought for a moment that she wanted to say something more.

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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