Dark eyes widening with sudden fear, Tamira shook her head. “None. They … they could not all be dead?”
“Of course not,” Conan said. He would be very surprised ever to see another of them alive, but there was no point in terrifying the wench more than she already was. Better to find work to occupy her mind. “See to her,” he told Tamira. “She never stopped crying for a hundred paces together all the way back here.”
“And no wonder,” Tamira replied hotly, “with no better care than you’ve taken of her.” She bundled the unresisting noblewoman off to her tent, leaving Conan standing open-mouthed.
He would never understand women, he decided. Never. Then he became aware of the remaining hunters gathered around him, looking at him worriedly. Looking to him for commands, he realized with some surprise. Firmly he put all thoughts of women from his mind.
“At dawn,” he told them, “we leave for Shadizar. But first we must survive until then. No man sleeps tonight, unless he wants to risk waking with his throat cut. And no fires. Break open the supply packs.”
With as much haste as Conan could manage, the hunters prepared themselves. All of the arrows were shared out, three quivers per man, and each man had an extra spear, as well as a waterbag and a pouch of dried meat. A coward or two might flee, with the means at hand, but he would not condemn the others to death if flight was required.
An assault from hillmen might come at any time, from any quarter save the cliff that backed Jondra’s tent. Even if the first thrust were beaten off, they could not afford to be there when daylight came, pinned like bugs beneath a butcher bird’s claws. They would attempt to retreat after an attack, or during, if it could not be driven back. And if they were on the point of being overwhelmed, every man would have to see to his own survival as best he could.
Worst of all would be an attack by the beast. As he moved through the darkening twilight from man to man, Conan left each with same final words. “Do not try to fight the beast. If it comes, run, and hope your gods feel kindly toward you.”
Not far from Jondra’s tent Conan settled into a flat-footed squat. Did the worst come, the others had only themselves to think of. He would need to be close to the women if he was to get them away.
A crunch of stone underfoot announced Tamira’s approach, and he shifted his pair of spears to make a space for her.
“She’s asleep,” the slender woman sighed as she dropped to the ground beside him. “She wore herself out with tears. And who’s to question it, after what she saw?”
“It happened by her command,” Conan said quietly, “and for her pride. That Brythunian told her of the beast, and I told her what I had discovered of it.”
“You are a hard man, Cimmerian. As hard as these mountains.”
“I am a man,” he told her simply.
For a time Tamira was silent. Finally she said, “Jondra says you are returning to Shadizar with her.”
Conan gave a sour grunt. “It seems she talked a lot for a woman on the point of exhaustion.”
“She plans to have apartments constructed for you in her palace.”
“Ridiculous.”
“She intends to dress you all in silk, with wristlets and armbands of gold to show off your muscles.”
“What?” He thought he heard a giggle beside him in the deepening dark, and glared at her. “Enjoy your jokes, girl,” he growled. “I, myself, do not find them funny.”
“You were her first man, too, Conan. You cannot know what that means to a woman, but I do. She cares for you. Or perhaps it is for the image of you that she cares. She asked me if there were other men like you. She even compared you with Eldran, that Brythunian. She pretended not to remember his name, but she did.”
Something in her voice struck him. “Mitra blind me if you don’t pity her.” His tone was incredulous.
“She knows less of men than I,” the slender thief replied defensively. “It is a hard thing to be a woman in a world with men.”
“It would be harder in a world without them,” he said drily, and she fisted him in the ribs.
“I don’t find your jokes,” she began, but his hand closed over her mouth.
Intently he listened for the sound he was sure he had heard before. There. The scrape of a hoof—an unshod hoof—on stone.
‘‘Go to the tent,” he whispered, giving her a push in the right direction.”Rouse her, and be ready to flee. Hurry!”
At that instant a cry broke the night. “By the will of the true gods!” And hordes of hillmen swarmed through the camp on shaggy mountain horses, curved tulwar blades gleaming in the pale moonlight as they rose and fell.
Conan hefted a spear and threw at the nearest target. A turbanned rider, transfixed, screamed and toppled from his galloping horse. Another hillman, calling loudly on his gods, closed with raised steel. There was no chance for the Cimmerian to throw his second spear. He dropped flat and swung it like a club at the legs of the charging animal. With a sharp crack the haft of the spear struck; horse and rider somersaulted. Before the hillman could rise, Conan put a forearm’s length of spear through his chest.
All about the Cimmerian steel clanged against steel. Men shouted battle cries, shouted death rattles. In that deadly, bloody tempest an ingrained barbarian sense gave Conan warning. Pulling the spear free, he whirled in time to block a slashing tulwar. Deftly he rotated his spear point against the curved blade, thrust over it into his bearded attacker’s throat. Dying, the hillman clutched the weapon that killed him with both hands. His horse ran out from under him, and as he fell he wrenched the spear from Conan’s grip.