“They are stirring,” Eldran said.
Conan nodded, but did not take his eyes from the two-story stone structure below. From all the camps hillmen were moving, thick lines of them filing toward the stone columns that peeked through the gap between mountains. In the village five score turbanned men stood before the stone building. A red-robed man with a forked beard and multi-hued turban stepped out, and a muffled roar rose from the waiting hillmen, the words of it lost with the distance.
The Cimmerian stiffened as Jondra appeared, naked, arms bound behind her, a guard to either side with drawn tulwar. And behind her came Tamira, tied and bare as well.
“They are together,” Eldran said excitedly. “And unharmed, so far as I can see. Alive, at least, praise Wiccana.”
“So far,” Conan said.
The skin between the Cimmerian’s shoulderblades prickled. There was much about the scene below that did not please him, much beside the way the women were being treated. Where were they being taken, and why? Why?
The hundred hillmen formed a rough, hollow circle about the red-robed man and the two women. The procession joined the streams flowing toward the distant columns.
“This feels ill,” Conan said. Unconsciously he eased his ancient broadsword in its worn shagreen sheath. “I do not think we can wait longer.”
“Just a little longer,” Haral pleaded. “Fyrdan will bring the soldiers soon. He will not fail.”
“Not soon enough, it seems,” Conan said. He got to his feet and dusted his hands together. “I think I will take a stroll among the hillmen.”
With a grin, Eldran straightened. “I feel the need of stretching my legs as well, Cimmerian.”
“You young fools!” Haral spluttered. “You’ll get your heads split. You’ll … you’ll … .” With a growl he stood up beside them. “We’ll need turbans, if we’re to pass for hillmen long enough to keep our heads.” The others were on their feet now, too.
“There is a camp just down the mountain,” Conan said, “and none in it save women and children, that I can see.”
“Then let us be about our walk,” Eldran said.
“These old bones aren’t up to this any more,” Haral complained.
The small file of men started down the mountain.
“ … For the time of our glory has come,” Basrakan cried to the throngs of turbanned men jammed shoulder to shoulder on the mountainsides about the amphitheater. Their answering roar washed over him. “The time of the old gods’ triumph is upon us!” he called. “The sign of the true gods is with us!”
He spread his arms, and the flow of power through his bones made him think he might fly. Loudly he began to chant, the words echoing from the slopes. Never had so many seen the rite, he thought as the invocation rang out. After this day there would be no doubters.
His dark eyes flickered to the two naked women dangling from their wrists against the iron posts in the center of the circle of crude stone pillars. It was fitting, he thought, that those who brought him the Eyes of Fire should be the sacrifice now, when the new power that was in him was made manifest to his people. They struggled in the bonds, and one of them cried a name, but he did not hear. The glory of the old gods filled him.
The last syllable hung in the air, and vibration in the stone beneath his feet told Basrakan of the coming. He drew breath to announce the arrival of the sign of the true gods’ favor.
From the masses on the slopes shouts and cries drifted, becoming louder. Basrakan’s face became like granite. He would have those who dared disturb this moment flayed alive over a slow fire. He would … . There were men within the circle! Abruptly the words penetrated his mind.
“Soldiers!” was the cry. “We are attacked!”
Walking hunched to disguise his height, with his cloak drawn tightly around him, Conan pushed through the pack of hillmen quickly, giving no man more than an instant to see his face. Grumbles and curses followed him. A roughly wound turban topped his black mane, and his face was smeared with soot and grease from a cooking pot, but he was grateful that men saw what they thought they should see, no matter what their eyes told them. The wide circle of crude stone columns was only a few paces away. Conan kept his head down, but his eyes were locked on the two women. A few moments more, he thought.
A murmur ran through the crowd, growing louder. Far down the mountain someone shouted, and other voices took up the cry. It had been more than the big Cimmerian expected to go undetected so long. Best to move before the alarm became general. Grasping his sword hilt firmly, Conan tore off the turban and leaped for the circle of columns.
As he passed between two of the roughly hewn pillars he realized what words were being shouted. “Soldiers! We are attacked! Soldiers!” Over and over from a thousand throats. Fyrdan, he thought, laughing. They might live through this yet.
Then he was running across the uneven granite blocks, blade bared. The red-robed man, forked beard shaking with fury, shouted at him from atop a tunnel built of stone that seemed to reach back into the mountain, but Conan did not hear. Straight to the blackened iron posts he ran. Tears sprang into Tamira’s eyes when she saw him.
“I knew you would come,” she laughed and cried at the same time. “I knew you would come.”
Swiftly Conan sawed apart the leather cords on her wrists. As she dropped, he caught her with an arm around her slim waist, and she tried to twine her arms about his neck.
“Not now, woman,” he growled. In a trice he had her slender nudity bundled in his cloak. From the corner of his eye he saw that Eldran had treated Jondra the same. “Now to get out,” he said.
Haral and the other Brythunians were within the columned circle, all facing outwards with swords in hand. From outside, bearded faces stared at them, some with disbelief, some with anger. And some, Conan saw in amazement, some with fear. Tulwar hilts were fingered, but none moved to cross the low granite wall atop which the columns stood.