“She makes her choice.” He would not admit even to himself that this flirting with Zathanides sat ill with him.”She’s not the first woman to choose a man for wealth and titles.”
“But she is no ordinary woman. I have served her since she was a child, and I tell you that you were the first man to come to her bed.”
“I know,” Conan said through gritted teeth. He was unused to women casting him aside; he liked neither the fact of it nor the discussing of it.
A woman’s scream came from the tent, and the Cimmerian threw another stone. The tightness of his jaw eased, and a slight smile touched his lips. Arvaneus took a single step toward the scarlet pavilion, then froze in indecision. From where she knelt by the tent flap, Tamira cast an agonized glance at Conan. All the rest of the camp seemed stunned to immobility. Another shriek rent the air.
Telades leaped to his feet, but Conan caught the hunter’s arm. “I will see if she requires aid,” he said calmly, tossing aside his handful of stones. Despite his tone the Cimmerian’s first steps were quick, and by the time he reached the tent he was running.
As he ducked through the tent-flap, the story was plain. Jondra struggled among the cushions, her scarlet robe rucked up above her rounded hips, long legs kicking in the air, while Zathanides lay half atop her, fumbling with his breeches and raining kisses on her face. Her small fists pounded futilely at his back and sides.
With a snarl Conan grasped the man by the neck of his gilded mail shirt and the seat of his breeches, lifting him straight into the air. Zathanides gave a shout, then began cursing and struggling, clawing at his sword, but the huge Cimmerian easily carried him to the entrance and threw him from the tent to land like a sack.
Conan took a bare instant to assure himself that Jondra was unharmed. Her jewelry was discarded on the cushions, and her robe was torn to expose one smooth shoulder, but she seemed more angry than hurt as she scrambled to her feet, pushing her silk down over her sleek nudity. Then he followed Zathanides outside. The general had risen to one knee, his mouth twisted with rage, and his sword came out as Conan appeared. The Cimmerian’s foot lashed out. The jeweled sword went flying; Zathanides yelped and clutched his wrist. The shout of outraged pain faded as Conan’s blade point touched the general’s throat.
“Stop!” Jondra cried. “Conan, put up your sword!”
Conan lowered his steel slowly, though he did not sheath it. It had been she who was assaulted, and by his thinking Zathanides’ life was hers to dispose of as she saw fit, or even to spare. But he would not disarm himself until the man was dead or gone.
“I’ll have your head, barbarian,” Zathanides snarled as he got painfully to his feet. “You’ll discover the penalty for attacking a Lord of Zamora.”
“Then you will discover the penalty for … for manhandling a Lady of Zamora,” Jondra said coldly. “Tread warily, Zathanides, for your head and Conan’s will share the same fate, and the choice is yours.”
Zathanides’ dark eyes bulged, and spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth. “Make what charges you will, you half-breed Brythunian trull. Do you think there is anyone in Zamora who has not heard the stories of you? That you bed a man before you take him in service as a hunter? Who will believe that one such as I would touch such a slut, such a piece of—”
He cut off and took a step back as Conan’s sword lifted again, but Jondra grabbed the Cimmerian’s massive arm, though both her hands could not come near encircling it. “Hold, Conan,” she said unsteadily. “Make your choice, Zathanides.”
The dark-faced general scrubbed at the spittle on his chin with the back of his hand, then nodded jerkily. “’Tis you who has made a choice, Jondra. Keep your savage lover. Enter the mountains if you will, and find a hillman.” Stamping to where his jewel-hilted blade lay, he snatched it from the ground and slammed it home in the sheath at his side. “For all I care, you can go straight to Zandru’s Ninth Hell!”
Satisfaction glimmered beneath Conan’s anger as he watched the general’s stiff-backed march to his horse. Zathanides might wish to abandon Jondra to her fate, but too many of his own soldiers knew that he had found her. The attempted rape might well be covered up—especially if other nobles felt about Jondra as the general did—but failing in his attempt to turn a woman back from the mountains would place his manhood in an unfavorable light indeed. At least, that was the way the Cimmerian believed a man of Zathanides’ ilk would look at the matter. Conan felt he could safely wager that the next day would see the appearance of a force under orders to escort the hunting party to Shadizar, without regard for what Jondra had to say.
As Zathanides and his standard bearer galloped down the hill, Arvaneus approached the crimson-walled tent, his manner at once arrogant and hesitant. “My lady,” he said hoarsely, “if you command it, I will take men and see that Lord Zathanides does not survive the night.”
“If I command it,” Jondra replied in an icy tone, “you will sneak in the night and murder Zathanides. Conan did not await my command. He faced Zathanides openly, without fear of consequences.”
“My lady, I … I would die for you. I live only for you.”
Jondra turned her back on the impassioned huntsman. Her eyes fastened on Conan’s broad chest as if afraid to meet his gaze. “You begin to make a habit of saving me,” she said softly. “I see no reason for us to continue to sleep apart.” Arvaneus’s teeth ground audibly.
Conan said nothing. If his thoughts concerning Zathanides were correct, then he should be gone from the camp before the night ended, for the general’s instructions would certainly include the death of one large northlander. Too, there was his plan of departing with Tamira. Leaving from Jondra’s bed would necessitate explanations he did not want to make.
The tall noblewoman drew a shuddering breath. “I am no tavern wench to be toyed with. I will have an answer now.”
“I did not leave your bed for wanting to,” he said carefully, and cursed his lack of diplomatic skill when her chin went up and her eyes flared. “Let us not argue,” he added quickly. “It will be days before the wounded have their strength back. They should be days of rest and enjoyment.” Days spent in her return to Shadizar, he thought, but his satisfaction vanished at her scornful laugh.
“Can you be so foolish? Zathanides will brood on his manhood and the pride he lost here, then convince himself that he can escape any charges I might bring. Tomorrow will see more soldiers, Conan, no doubt with orders to take me back in chains if I’ll go no other way. But they will need to seek me in the mountains.” Abruptly her face stilled, and her voice hardened. “You are not so foolish as that. You know as well as I the soldiers will return. You would have waited and seen me carried back to Shadizar like a bundle. Well, go, if you fear the mountains. Go! I care not!” As abruptly as she had turned her back on Arvaneus, she turned to face the huntsman again. “I intend to press on at first light,” she told the hawkfaced man, “and to move quickly. All baggage must be discarded except what can be carried on pack animals. The wounded and all men who cannot be mounted will turn back with the ox-carts. Perhaps their trail will confuse Zathanides for a time … .”
As her list of instructions went on, Arvaneus shot a look over her shoulder at Conan, smug satisfaction mingled with a promise of violence. There would be more trouble from that quarter. Or rather, the Cimmerian reminded himself, there would be if he continued with the hunters, which he had no intention of doing. And since such was his plan, it was time for him to be making preparations for his leave-taking.
Slowly Conan moved away from the noblewoman’s flow of commands. With studied casualness he drifted beyond the cookfires. The fat cook, frowning over a delicate dish for Jondra’s table, never looked up as the Cimmerian rooted among the supplies. When Conan walked on, he carried two fat leather pouches of dried meat in the crook of his arm.
Taking one quick look to make certain he was unobserved, he cached the meat beneath a thornbush on the edge of the encampment. Soon he had added four waterbags, and blankets of blue-striped wool. He was inured to sleeping with naught but his cloak for protection from the cold, or even without it, but he could not think a city woman like Tamira was so hardy.
The horses had to wait until the point of leaving—they certainly could not be saddled now without drawing unwanted attention—but he walked to the picket line anyway. It was easier to choose out a good mount when there was light to see. The big black he had been riding would do for him; Tamira needed a horse with good endurance as well, though. He had intended to move down the line of animals without stopping, so as to give no hint of his interest, but as he came to a long-legged bay mare—just the sort he would choose for Tamira—his feet halted of their own accord. On the ground at the mare’s head rested a high-pommeled saddle, a bulging waterbag, and a tightly tied leather sack.
“In the night, Tamira?” he said softly. “Or while I sit waiting for darkness to come?” The picture of the rubies lying on the cushions of Jondra’s tent was suddenly bright in his mind.
With a calm he did not feel, Conan strode through the camp, his eyes seeking Tamira. Once more the encampment was an anthill, hunters scurrying at Jondra’s commands. For an instant the noblewoman paused, gazing at Conan as if she wished to speak, or waited for him to speak, but when he did not slow she turned angrily back to supervising the preparations for the next morning. Nowhere did Conan see Tamira. But that, he thought grimly, might mean he was not too late.