“Lyana!” Jondra’s voice cracked in the air like a whip. ‘‘Where is my wine?”
‘‘Where is my wine?” Tamira muttered mockingly, but she broke into a run, dodging around Telades, who labored under one end of a weighty brass-bound chest.
“Mayhap you shouldn’t have angered her, Cimmerian,” the shaven-headed hunter panted. “Mayhap you could apologize.” The man at the other end of the chest nodded weary agreement.
“Crom!” Conan growled. “Is everyone in the camp worrying about whether I … .” His words trailed off as one of the sentries galloped his horse up the hill. Unknowingly, easing his broadsword in its scabbard, he strode to where the man was dismounting before Jondra. The hunters left off their tasks to gather around.
“Soldiers, my lady,” the sentry said, breathing heavily. “Cavalry. Two, perhaps three hundred of them, coming hard.”
Jondra pounded a fist on a rounded thigh. Her salmon silk tunic and riding breeches were dusty and sweat-stained from her day’s labors. “Erlik take all soldiers,” she said tightly, then took a deep breath that made her heavy breasts stir beneath the taut silk of her tunic. “Very well. If they come, I’ll receive their commander. Arvaneus! See that any man who’s bandaged is out of sight. If the soldiers arrive before I return, be courteous, but tell them nothing. Nothing, understand me! Lyana! Attend me, girl!” Before she finished speaking she was pushing through the assembled hunters, not waiting for them to move from her path.
The hawk-faced huntsman began shouting commands, and hunters and carters scattered in all directions, hastening to prepare the camp for visitors. Moving the wounded inside tents was the least of it, for most of them could walk without assistance, but Jondra’s industriousness had left bales and bundles, piles of cooking gear and stacks of spears scattered among the remaining tents till the camp seemed struck by a whirlwind.
Ignoring the bustle behind him, Conan settled into a flat-footed crouch at the edge of the camp, his eyes intent on the direction from which the sentry had come. More than once his hand strayed unconsciously to the worn hilt of his ancient broadsword. He did not doubt that the sentry had seen Zamoran soldiers and not hillmen, but he had as little regard for one as for the other. Relations between the army and a thief were seldom easy.
A ringing clatter of shod hooves on loose stone heralded the soldiers’ approach well before the mounted column came into sight. In ranks of four, with well-aligned lance-points glittering in the afternoon sun, they wended their way along the small valleys between the hills. A banner led them, such as Zamoran generals were wont to have, of green silk fringed with gold, its surface embroidered in ornate gold script recounting victories. Conan snorted contemptuously at the sight of the honor standard. At that distance he could not read the script, but he could count the number of battles listed. Considering the number of true battles fought by Zamoran arms in the twenty years past, that banner gave honor to many a border skirmish and brawl with brigands.
At the foot of the hill the column drew up, two files wheeling to face the camp, the other two turning their mounts the other way. The standard bearer and the general, marked by the plume of scarlet horsehair on his golden helmet and the gilding of his mail, picked their way up the hill through the few stunted trees and scattered clumps of waist-high scrub.
At Arvaneus’ impatient signal two of the hunters ran forward, one to hold the general’s bridle, the other his stirrup, as he dismounted. He was a tall man of darkly handsome face, his upper lip adorned by thin mustaches. His arrogant eye ran over the camp, pausing at Conan for a raised brow of surprise and a sniff of dismissal before going on. The Cimmerian wondered idly if the man had ever actually had to use the jewel-hilted sword at his side.
“Well,” the general said suddenly, ‘‘where is your mistress?”
Arvaneus darted forward, his face set for effusive apologies, but Jondra’s voice brought him to a skidding halt. “Here I am, Zathanides. And what does Zamora’s most illustrious general do so far from the palaces of Shadizar?”
She came before the general with a feline stride, and her garb brought gasps even from her hunters. Shimmering scarlet silk, belted with thickly woven gold and pearls, moulded every curve of breasts and belly and thighs, rounded and firm enough to make a eunuch’s mouth water.
It was not the raiment that drew Conan’s attention, however. On her head rested a diadem of sapphires and black opals, with one great ruby larger than the last joint of a big man’s thumb lying above her brows. Between her generous breasts nestled that ruby’s twin, depending from a necklace likewise encrusted with brilliant azure sapphires and opals of deepest ebon. The Cimmerian’s gaze sought out Tamira. The young woman thief was demurely presenting to Zathanides a tray bearing a golden goblet and a crystal flagon of wine, with damp, folded cloths beside. She seemed unaware of the gems she had meant to steal.
“You are as lovely as ever, Jondra,” the general said as he wiped his hands and tossed the cloths back onto the tray. “But that loveliness might have ended gracing some hillman’s hut if I hadn’t found this fellow Eldran.”
Jondra stiffened visibly. “Eldran?”
“Yes. A Brythunian. Hunter, he said.” He took the goblet Tamira filled for him, gracing her with a momentary smile that touched only his lips. “I wouldn’t have believed his tale of a Zamoran noblewoman in this Mitra-forsaken place if it had not been for his description. A woman as tall as most men, ravingly beautiful of face and figure, a fair shot with a bow. And your gray eyes, of course. I knew then it could be none but you.” He tilted back his head to drink.
“He dared describe me so? A fair shot?” She hissed the words, but it had been “ravingly beautiful” that made her face color, and the mention of her eyes that had clenched her fists. “I hope you have this Eldran well chained. And his followers. I … I have reason to believe they are brigands.”
Conan grinned openly. She was not a woman to take kindly to being bested.
“I fear not,” Zathanides said, tossing the empty goblet back to Tamira. “He seemed what he called himself, and he was alone, so I sent him on his way. In any case, you should be thankful to him for saving your life, Jondra. The hillmen are giving trouble, and this is no place for one of your little jaunts. I’ll send a few men with you to see that you get back to Shadizar safely.”
“I am no child to be commanded,” Jondra said hotly.
The general’s heavy-lidded eyes caressed her form, and his reply came slowly. “You are certainly no child, Jondra. No, indeed. But go you must.”
Jondra’s eyes flickered to Conan. Abruptly her posture softened, and her voice became languorous. “No, I am not a child, Zathanides. Perhaps we can discuss my future plans. In the privacy of my tent?”
Startlement passed over Zathanides’ face to be replaced by pleasure. “Certainly,” he said with an unctuous smile. “Let us … discuss your future.”
Arvaneus’ swarthy face was a blend of despair and rage as he watched the pair disappear into the scarlet tent. Conan merely scooped up a handful of rocks and began tossing them down the hill one by one. Telades squatted next to him.
“More trouble, Cimmerian,” the shaven-headed man said, “and I begin to wonder if you are
worth it.”
“What have I to do with anything?” Conan asked coldly.
“She does this because of you, you fool north-lander.”