Conan the Magnificent (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 5) - Page 40

The hard face split in an evil grin. “Let it be as the wench wishes. Mayhap she will come to regret not choosing my blade.” And he began to laugh.

Chapter 18

In the canescent pre-dawn light Conan flattened himself on a narrow granite ledge as a file of hillmen rode by on a narrow path below, between steep walls. Their numbers had thinned as the night waned, but there were still too many of the bearded men to suit him. As the last of the horsemen disappeared up the twisting track, the big Cimmerian scrambled from fingerhold to fingerhold, down from the ledge, and set off at a trot in the opposite direction, toward the campsite that had become a bloody shambles so short a time before, toward Tamira’s hiding place.

Two hundred paces down the trail he passed the remains of one of the Zamoran hunters. He could not tell which. The headless body, covered with blackened blood and bright green flies, lay with limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Conan gave the corpse not a glance as he went by. He had found too many others during the night, some worse than this, and at each one he had only been grateful it was not Jondra. Now worry for Tamira filled his mind. He was sure she was safe—even in daylight that crack would not be easily noticed—but she had been alone for the entire night, a night filled with hillmen and the memories of murder.

Along the slope of a mountain he trotted, eyes ever watchful. Dropping to his belly, he crawled to the top of a rough stone outcropping. Below him lay the camp, blackened ground and ash where Jondra’s tent had stood against the cliff. Half a score bodies, many in more than one piece, were scattered among the stunted trees—Zamoran bodies only, for the hillmen had carried their own dead away. There was no sound but the somber droning of flies.

Conan took a deep breath and went over the ridgetop, half sliding down the other side on loose rocks and shale. The dead he let lie, for he had no time to waste on burials or funeral rites. Instead he concentrated on what might be of use to the living. A spear, whole and overlooked by the hillmen. A waterbag unslashed and bulging damply. A pouch of dried meat.

The tribesmen had been thorough in their looting, however, and there was little to find. Broken spearpoints, the cook’s pots, even the rope used for picketing horses had been taken, and the ashes of Jondra’s tent had been sifted for anything not consumed by the flames. He did find his black Khauranian cloak, tucked where he had left it beneath the edge of a boulder. He added it to the pitiful pile.

“So you are a thief, a looter!”

At the hoarse words Conan grabbed up the spear and whirled. Arvaneus shuffled toward him, black eyes glittering, knuckles white on his spear haft. The huntsman’s head was bare; dust covered him, and his baggy white breeches were torn.

“It is good to see another of Jondra’s party alive,” Conan said. “All thought you were slain by the beast.”

The huntsman’s eyes slid off to the side, skipped from body to body. “The beast,” he whispered. “Mortal men could not face it. Any fool could see that. That cry … .” He shivered. “They should have fled,” he went on plaintively. “That was the only thing to do. To try to fight it, to stay even a moment … .” His gaze fell on the pile Conan had made, and he tilted his head to look sidelong at the big Cimmerian. “So you are a thief, stealing from the Lady Jondra.”

Hair stirred on the back of Conan’s neck. Madness was not something he had encountered frequently, especially in one he had known when sane. “These supplies may save Jondra’s life,” he said, “when I find her. She is lost, Arvaneus. I must find her quickly if she is to get out of these mountains alive.”

“So pretty,” Arvaneus said softly, “with her long legs, and those round breasts meant to pillow a man’s head. So pretty, my Lady Jondra.”

“I am going now,” Conan said, stretching out one hand to pick up his cloak. He was careful not to take his eyes from Arvaneus, for the other man still gripped his spear as if ready to use it.

“I watched her,” the swarthy huntsman went on. The mad light in his eyes deepened. “Watched her run from the camp. Watched her hide from the hillmen. She did not see me. No. But I will go to her, and she will be grateful. She will know me for the man I am, not just as her chief huntsman.”

Conan froze when he realized what Arvaneus was saying. The Cimmerian let out a long breath, and chose his words carefully. “Let us go to Jondra together. We can take her back to Shadizar, Arvaneus. She will be very grateful to you.”

“You lie!” The huntsman’s face twisted as if he was on the point of tears; his hands flexed on his spear haft. “You want her for yourself! You are not good enough to lick her sandals!”

“Arvaneus, I—”

Conan cut his words short as the huntsman thrust at him. Whipping his cloak up, the Cimmerian entangled the other man’s spear point, but Arvaneus ripped his weapon free, and Conan was forced to leap back as gleaming steel lanced toward him once more. Warily, the two men circled, weapons at the ready.

“Arvaneus,” Conan said, “there is no need for this.” He did not want to kill the man. He needed to know where Jondra was.

“There is need for you to die,” the hawkfaced man panted. Their spearpoints clattered as he felt for weakness and Conan deflected his probes.

“We have enemies enough around us,

” Conan told him. “We should not do their killing for them.”

“Die!” Arvaneus screamed, rushing forward, spear outthrust.

Conan parried the thrust, but the huntsman did not draw back. He came on, straight onto the Cimmerian’s spearpoint. Arvaneus’ weapon dropped to the ground, but he took yet another step forward, clawed hands reached for Conan, impaling himself further. Surprise flooded his face; jerkily he looked down at the thick wooden shaft standing out from his chest.

The big Cimmerian caught Arvaneus as he collapsed, eased him to the stony ground. ‘‘Where is she?” Conan demanded.”Erlik blast you, where is Jondra?”

Laughter wracked the huntsman. “Die, barbar,” he rasped. “Die.” Blood welled up in his mouth, and he sagged, eyes glazing.

With a muttered curse Conan got to his feet. At least she was alive, he thought. If it was not all a fantasy constructed by a man mind. Gathering up his supplies, he set out for Tamira’s hiding place.

From the shaded shelter of huge stone slabs, split from the cliff behind her by an earthquake centuries gone, Jondra stared longingly at the tiny pool of water far below and licked her lips. Had she known it was there while dark still covered the Kezankians, she would not have thought twice before assuaging her thirst. But now … . She peered to the east, to a sun still half-hidden by the jagged peaks. It was full enough light to expose her clearly to the eyes of any watchers.

And expose, the voluptuous noblewoman thought wryly, was exactly the right word. Save for the dust of flight on her legs, she was quite naked.

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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