The gaunt man in the door bowed deeply. “Forgiveness, Basrakan Imalla,” he said hastily, “but it is the Eyes of the Fire.”
Basrakan pulled him erect by fistfuls of black robe. “Speak, fool! What of the Eyes?”
“Sharmal claims that a woman brings the Eyes into the mountains. And he describes her.” Jbeil flung a hand, pointing to Jondra.
Through her tears Tamira met the noblewoman’s eyes, and got a confused stare and a shake of the head in return.
Basrakan’s blood-red robes swirled as he spun. Tamira would have flinched from his gaze if she could. Before it had been malign. Now she could read in them skin being flayed, flesh stripped from bone. Her skin. Her flesh.
“Two camps of outsiders were destroyed this night past.” The Imalla’s voice was quiet, like the first brush of a knife against a throat. “This woman came from one of them, Jbeil. Find every scrap that was taken from that camp. Find the Eyes of Fire. Find them, Jbeil.”
Jbeil ran from the chamber as if his own throat had felt that blade’s caress.
Basrakan’s eyes, like ebon stones, were locked on
Jondra, but Tamira could not break her own gaze from them. As she stared helplessly, she found herself praying to every god she knew that whatever Basrakan sought was brought to him. Quickly.
Chapter 20
From the scant shelter of a sparse clump of twisted trees above the hillman village, Conan frowned at a two-story stone structure in its center. Armed men swarmed in hundreds about the score of crude stone huts, but it was the slate-roofed building that held his eyes. Around him lay the Brythunians, and they, too, watched.
“I have never heard of a dwelling like that among hillmen,” Eldran said quietly. “For the Kezankians, it is a palace.”
“I have never heard of so many hillmen in one place,” Frydan said nervously. His eyes were not on the village, but on the surrounding mountains. Half a score camps were visible from where they lay, one close enough for the breeze to bring the sour smell of cooking and the shouts of men searching through the low tents. They had seen more clusters of the low, earth-colored tents in reaching their present vantage. “How many are there, Haral?”
“A score of thousands, perhaps.” The plump Brythunian’s voice was a study in casualness. “Perhaps more. Enough to go around, in any case.” Frydan stared at him, then closed his eyes wearily.
Through a gap between mountains Conan caught sight of crude stone columns. “What is that?” he asked, pointing.
Haral shook his head. “I have done little looking about, Cimmerian. I saw the woman, Jondra, taken into that building below, and since I have watched, and waited for Eldran.”
“Rescuing her will not be easy,” Conan sighed. “Are you sure you did not see another woman captive?” Once more Haral shook his head, and the Cimmerian resumed his study of what lay below.
“It would take an army to go down there,” Frydan protested. “Eldran, we did not come to die attempting to rescue a Zamoran wench. We seek the beast of fire, or do you forget? Let us be about it.” Some of the other Brythunians murmured agreement.
“I will have her out of there,” Eldran replied quietly, “or die in the trying.”
An awkward silence hung over them for a moment, then Haral abruptly said, “There is an army in these mountains.”
Frydan’s mouth twisted sarcastically. “The Zamorans? I am sure they would come to help us if we only asked.”
“Perhaps they would,” Conan said with a smile, “if they were asked properly.” The others looked at him doubtfully, obviously wondering if he made a joke, so he went on. “Their general is one Tenerses, I understand, a lover of glory and easy victories. He has been sent into the mountains to put down a gathering of the hill tribes. Well, here it is.”
Even Haral was skeptical. “Unless this Tenerses is a fool, Cimmerian, he’ll not attack here. Why, he’d be outnumbered four to one at the very least.”
“That is true,” Conan agreed. “But if he thought there were but a thousand or so hillmen, and they on the point of leaving before he could gain his victory … .” He grinned at the others, and slowly, as the idea caught hold, they grinned back. All save Fyrdan.
“The tribesmen would all rush to meet his attack,” Eldran said, “giving us as good as a clear path to Jondra’s prison. Perhaps your woman—Tamira?—is there as well. Both sets of tracks came to this village.”
Conan’s smile faded. He had stopped counting hillman camps when he reached twenty, but Tamira could be in any one of ten thousand dingy tents. He could do nothing save rescue Jondra and hope to find the slender thief after. It was a faint hope at the moment, but he had no more. “Who will go to lure Tenerses?” he said grimly.
“Fyrdan has a silver tongue,” Eldran said, “when he wishes to use it so.”
“We should be about our charge. It is what we came for,” the bony man said stiffly.
Eldran put a hand on his shoulder. “I cannot leave this woman,” he said quietly.
Frydan lay still for a moment, then sighed and sat up. “If I can steal one of the sheep these hill scum call a horse, I will reach the Zamorans in half a turn of the glass. A moment to snare this general with my tale and get his block-footed soldiers marching.” He squinted at the sun, approaching its zenith. “The earliest I could get them here is mid-afternoon, Eldran. With luck.”