Into the canyon came a monstrous creature, huge, on massive legs. Multi-hued scales glittered in the sinking sun, broken only by dark, leathery-appearing bulges on its back. Adamantine claws gouged the stone beneath them. The broad head was thrown back, the widespread maw revealing jagged teeth like splinters of stone, and that piercing cry struck men to their souls.
The hunters were men who had faced death many times, and if it had never before confronted them in such form, still death was no stranger to them. As that malevolent howl ended they forced themselves into movement, fighting horses half-mad with terror to spread and surround the gargantuan form. The man nearest the beast leveled his spear like a lance and charged. With a clang as of steel against stone the spear struck, and the rider was shivered from his saddle. The great head lowered, and flame roared from that gaping mouth. Man and horse shrieked as one, a shrillness that never seemed to end, as they were roasted alive.
A gasp rose from the other hunters, but they were already launching their attack, men charging in from from either flank. Even had they wished to turn aside, the beast gave them no chance. More swiftly than any leopard it moved, claws sweeping bloody rags that had once been men to the ground, jaws crushing men and horses alike. Spears splintered like straws against the iridescent scales, and the cries of the dying drowned out all save thought, and fear became the only thought in the hunter’s minds.
Through that howling maelstrom of certain death Conan galloped, swinging low out of his saddle to snatch an unbroken spear from the bloody ground. Those great golden eyes, he thought. The eyes had to be vulnerable, or the long, dark protuberances on its back. He forced his mount to turn—it struggled to run on, away from the horror—and the sight that met his eyes sent a quiver through him as not even the beast’s hunting cry had.
Jondra stood not ten paces from the creature’s head. Even as he saw her, an arrow left her bow. Squarely on one malevolent golden eye the shaft struck. And ricocheted away. The beast lunged, claws streaking toward her. Frantically she leaped back, but the tip of one claw snagged in the laces of her red leather jerkin, and she was jerked into the air to dangle before the creature’s eyes. Ignoring the carnage around it, the shouting, screaming men, the beast seemed to study her.
A thrill of horror coursed through Conan. There was a light of intelligence in those auric globes. But if the brain behind them could reason, it was a form of reasoning too inhuman for the mind of man to know it. It did not see the beautiful woman as other than prey. The spike-toothed mouth opened, and Jondra was drawn closer.
Conan’s spear came up. “Crom!” he bellowed, and his heels thudded his fear-ridden mount into a charge. His spearpoint held steady on one leathery bulge. He clamped his knees tightly on the animal against the shock he had seen throw others to the ground, but even so the force of the blow rocked through him, staggering his horse to its knees.
With sinuous grace and blinding speed the glittering beast twisted, smashing Conan with the leg from which Jondra dangled. Breath rushed from the big Cimmerian as he was lifted and hurled through the air. Stony ground rushed up to slam what little air remained from his chest. Desperately he fought to breathe, forced numbed muscles to move, rolled to hands and knees, staggered to his feet. Jondra lay on her back near him, writhing, bare breasts heaving as she struggled for air.
The beast turned its attention to the Cimmerian, Jondra’s jerkin still tangled in its claws. What remained of his horse lay quivering beneath the creature; gobbets of flesh fell from its fanged jaws.
In what he knew was a futile gesture Conan drew his ancient broadsword. Steel made no mark on those infrangile scales. He could not move quickly enough to escape the creature’s attack unburdened, much less carrying Jondra, and he could not leave her behind. Yet he would not die without fighting.
“Ho, Conan!” Swaying in his saddle, Telades rode toward the beast from behind. The mail over his chest was rent, and blood drenched him, but he gripped his spear firmly. ‘‘Get her away, northlander!” Pounding his boots into his horse’s flanks, he forced it forward.
Iridescent scales flashed as the creature spun.
“No!” Conan shouted.
Flame engulfed the shaven-headed hunter, and the beast leaped to tear at smouldering flesh.
The Cimmerian would not waste Telades’ sacrifice. Sheathing his blade, he scooped Jondra from the ground and darted into a narrow cleft, pursued by the sounds of crunching bone.
As the terrible grinding faded behind him, Jondra stirred in his arms. “I did not mean for them to die,” she whispered. Her eyes were horror-laden pools.
“You wanted to hunt the beast,” he said, not slowing his steady stride. Under other circumstances he would have searched for survivors. Now he thought only of getting Jondra far from that charnel scene, back to the relative safety of the camp.
Jondra pressed herself more firmly against his broad chest as if sheltering from storm winds in the safety of a huge boulder. “Telades gave his life for me,” she murmured, shivering. “Truly, I did not wish it to be. Oh, Conan, what can I do?”
Conan stopped dead, and she huddled in his arms as though hiding from his icy blue gaze. “Leave these mountains,” he said harshly. ‘‘Go back to Shadizar. Forget this beast, and always remember the men who died for your foolishness and pride.”
Anger and arrogance flared across her face. Her fist rose, then abruptly fell limp. Tears leaked down her cheeks. “I will,” she wept. “Before all the gods, I swear it.”
“It will not repay Telades’ sacrifice,” he said, “but it will at least mean that you value what he did.”
Gently she touched Conan’s cheek. “Never have I wanted a man to guide me, but you almost make me … .” Small white teeth bit her full underlip, and she dropped her eyes. “Will you come back to Shadizar with me?” she said softly, shifting in his grasp again so that her full, round breasts were exposed to his gaze.
“Perhaps,” he replied gruffly, and began walking once more, with his full concentration on the twists of the cleft and the stony ground beneath his feet. Only a fool would refuse a woman like the one he held. And only a fool would disregard the advice he had given. But Telades had become a friend, and the man had died for him as well as for her.
A part of the Cimmerian’s code demanded that Telades’ death, offered in place of his own, should be repaid, just as another part of that code demanded that he see Jondra and Tamira to safety. At the moment the second seemed much more easily accomplished than the first! How, he thought, could he slay a beast that steel could not harm? If he took no notice of the charms Jondra displayed in his arms, it was no wonder.
Chapter 17
Tamira was the first person Conan saw when he strode into the camp with his arms full of half-naked noblewoman and the sun a bloody ball balanced
on jagged peaks. The slender young thief regarded him with fists on hips and a jaundiced eye for the way Jondra clung to him. Then Jondra looked around dazedly, revealing her tear-stained face. Tamira’s jaw dropped, and she dashed into the red-walled tent to return with a cloak.
As Conan stood Jondra upright, the smaller woman enfolded her in soft blue wool. When he released his hold on her, the noblewoman sank to her knees. Tamira knelt beside her, drawing Jondra’s head to her shoulder and glaring up at the big Cimmerian.
“What happened?” she demanded hotly.
“We found the beast she hunts. Hunted. Have any of the others returned?”