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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 b.l.o.o.d.y shambles so short a time before, toward Tamira's hiding place.

Two hundred paces down the trail he pa.s.sed 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 spear-points, 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 fromthe 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 hawk-faced man panted. Their spear-points 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 spear-point. 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 h was there while dark still covered the Kezankians, she would not have thought twice before a.s.suaging 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 n.o.blewoman thought wryly, was exactly the right word. Save for the dust of flight on her legs, she was quite naked.

"Not the proper dress for a n.o.ble Zamoran woman while hunting," shewhispered to herself. But then, Zamoran n.o.bles were seldom roused from their slumber by murderous hillmen or tents burning around them. Nor did they take part in the hunt as the prey.

She turned once more to study the pool, and licked lips that were dry again in moments. To reach it she would have to traverse a steep, rocky slope with not so much as a blade of gra.s.s for cover. At the bottom of the slope was a drop; she could not be sure how far from this angle, but it did not look enough to cause difficulty. The pool itself beckoned her enticingly. A patch of water she could doubtless wade in three strides without sinking to her knees, with three stunted trees on its edge, and at that moment it seemed more inviting than her palace gardens.

"I will not remain here until my tongue swells," she announced to the air. As if the sound of her own voice had spurred her to action, she crawled from the shelter of the stone slabs and started down the slope.

At first she moved carefully, picking her way over the loose stone.

With every step, however, she became more aware of her nudity, of the way her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swayed with every movement, of how her skin flashed palely in the sunlight. First night and then the stone slabs had provided some illusion of being less naked. She had often lain naked in her garden, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun, but here sunlight stripped the illusion as bare as she.

Here she could not know who watched her. Reason told her if there was a watcher, she had greater problems than nudity, but reason prevailed nothing against her feelings. Curling one arm over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s helped little, and she found herself crouching more and more, hurrying faster, taking less care of where she put her feet.

Abruptly the stones beneath her turned, and she was on her back, sliding amid a cloud of dust. Desperately she clawed for a hold, but each stone she grasped merely set others sliding. Just as she was ready to moan that matters could not get worse, she found herself falling. Only for long enough to be aware of the fall did she drop, then a jolt pulled her up short. The slide of rocks and dirt she had begun did not cease, however. A torrent of rubble showered down on her. Covering her face with her arms, spitting to clear dust from her mouth, she reflected that she would be a ma.s.s of bruises from shoulders to ankles after this day.

The rain of dirt and stones slowed and halted, and Jondra examined her position with a sinking feeling. The first shock was that she hung upside down, against the face of the drop she had been sure would present no difficulty. A twisted tree stump no thicker than her wrist held her ankle firmly in the V it formed with the face of the drop. Beneath her a pile of rubble from her fall reached just high enough for her to touch the stones with her fingertips.

Deliberately she closed her eyes and took three deep breaths to calm herself. There had to be a way out. She always found a way to get what she wanted, and she did not want to die hanging like a side of mutton. She would, she decided, just have to get hold of the stump and lift her ankle free.

At her first attempt to bend double a jolt of pain shot from her ankle, and she fell back gasping. The ankle was not broken, she decided. She would not accept that it was. Steeling herself against the pain, she tried again.

Her fingers brushed the stump. Once more, she thought.

A rustle drew her eyes toward the pool, and terror chilled her blood. A bearded hillman stood there in filthy yellow tunic and stained, baggy trousers. He licked his lips slowly, and his staring black eyes burned with l.u.s.t. He started toward her, already loosening his garments. Suddenly there was a noise like a sharp slap, and the hillman stopped, sank to his knees.

Jondra blinked, then saw the arrow standing out from his neck.

Frantically she searched for the shaft's source. A movement on a mountain caught her eye, a moment's view of something that could have been a bow. Three hundred paces, the archer in her measured calmly, while the rest of her nearly wept for relief. Whichever of her hunters it was, she thought, she would gift him with as much gold as he could carry.But she was not about to let anyone, least of all a man in her service, find her in such a helpless position. Redoubling her efforts, she split several splinters of wood from the stump and chipped her fingernails, but got no closer to freeing herself.

Suddenly she gasped in renewed horror at the sight of the man who appeared walking slowly toward her. This was no hillman, this tall form with fur leggings and clean-shaven face and gray eyes. She knew that face and the name that went with it, though she would have given much to deny it. Eldran.

Vainly she tried to protect her modesty with her hands.

"You!" she spat. "Go away, and leave me alone!"

He continued his slow advance toward her, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his broadsword, his fur-lined cloak slung back from his shoulders.

No bow or quiver was in evidence. His eyes were fixed on her, and his face was grim.

"Stop staring at me!" Jondra demanded. "Go away, I tell you. I neither need nor want your help."

She flinched as three hillmen burst silently from the rocks behind the Brythunian, rushing at him with raised tulwars. Her mouth opened to scream . .

. and Eldran whirled, the broadsword with its clawed quillons seeming to flow into his hand. In movements almost too fast for her to follow the four danced of death. Blood wetted steel. A bearded head rolled in the dust. And then all three hillmen were down, and Eldran was calmly wiping his blade on the cloak of one.

Sheathing the steel, he stepped closer to her. "Perhaps you do not want my help," he said quietly, "but you do need it."

Jondra realized her mouth was still open and snapped it shut. Then she decided silence would not do, but before she could speak the big Brythunian had stepped onto the pile of rubble, taken hold of her calves and lifted her clear of the stump that had held her. One arm went behind her knees, and she was swung up into his arms. He cradled her there as easily as did Conan, she thought. He was as tall a the Cimmerian, too, though not so broad across the shoulders. For the first time since the attack she felt safe. Color abruptly flooded her face as the nature of her thoughts became clear to her.

"Put me down," she told him. "I said, put me down!"

Silent, he carried her to the pool and lowered her gently by its edge.

"You are down," he said. She winced as he felt her ankle. "A bad bruise, but it should heal in a few days."

There was dried blood on his forehead, she saw. "How came you by that?

Have you met other hillmen?"

"I must get my bow," he said curtly, and stalked away.

As well if he did not return, she thought angrily, but the thought brought a twinge of anxiety. Suppose he did not return. Suppose he decided to abandon her, naked and alone in this wilderness. When he reappeared she gave a small sigh of relief, and then was angry with herself for that.

He set his bow and a hide quiver of arrows down, then turned to her with a bleak face. "We met other hillmen, yes. Two score men followed me into these accursed mountains, and I failed to keep them safe until we accomplished our purpose. Hillmen, hundreds of them, found our camp. I do not know if any of my companions still live." He sighed heavily. "I surmise the same fate befell, you. I wish I could promise to see you to safety, but there is a task I have yet to accomplish, and it must take precedence even over you. I will do what I can for you, though. I must regret that I cannot take days to sit here and just look at you."

It came to her that he was looking at her, looking as if he intended to commit what he saw to memory. It also came to her that she was naked. Quickly she scrambled to her knees, crouching with her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "A civilized man would turn his back," she snapped.

"Then the men you call civilized do not appreciate beauty in a woman."

"Give me your cloak," she commanded. "I am no tavern wench to be stared at. Give it to me, I say!" Eldran shook his head. "Alone in the heart of the Kezankians, naked as a slave girl on the auction block, and still you demand and give orders. Take garments from the hillmen, if you wish, but do so quickly, for we must leave this place. There are others of their sort about. If you do not wish me to watch, I will not." Taking up his bow again, he nocked an arrow, and his eyes scanned the mountain slopes. "Hurry, girl."

Face flushed with anger and some other emotion she did not quite understand, Jondra refused even to look at the corpses. "Their garments are filthy and She started back from it as from a snake. He must care for himself, she decided.

At the start she kept her pace slow, for the mountainous terrain was rough at best. Her ankle would give no trouble if she did not overtax it, she thought. But after a time her thoughts drifted to Eldran, too. He had been near to waking when she left. He would be dazed, at first, but not too dazed to know she was gone, nor to remember what she had done. He was a hunter. Her hunters could track. There was no reason to suppose the Brythunian could not.

And Eldran had two good legs on which to walk.

Almost without realizing it she began to press for speed. The ache in her ankle grew, but she ignored it. Eldran would be following her. She had to keep ahead of him. Her breath came in gulps. Her mouth was dry as if she had never drunk, and her throat as well. She was a hunter, too, she told herself.

She knew how to watch for prey; she could also watch for a pursuer. Constantly she studied her backtrail, till she spent nearly as much time looking over her shoulder as looking ahead.

Rounding a thick, stone spire, she had taken three staggering, limping strides before she saw the half-score hillmen, sitting their horses and staring at her in amazement.

"A gift from the old G.o.ds!" one of them shouted, and booted his horse forward.

Jondra was too tired to struggle as he tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her belly-down across his mount before his saddle pad. Weeping in exhausted despair, she sagged unresisting as the hillman flipped up the tail of Eldran's cloak and fondled her bare b.u.t.tocks.

"He will save me," she sobbed softly into the s.h.a.ggy fur beneath her face. "He will save me." And a part of her mind wondered why the countenance she conjured was that of the Brythunian.

Chapter 19.

Conan's teeth ground as he stared into the crevice where he had hidden Tamira.

Staring, he knew, would do no good. She was not likely to appear from the mere force of his looking.

Forgetting the crack in the stone, he examined the ground and frowned.

There was little that was enlightening. The ground was too stony to take footprints, but he had learned to track in the mountains of Cimmeria, and the ground in one set of mountains was not too unlike that in another. Here a rock was sc.r.a.ped. There another had its dark bottom turned up to the light. The story he found was perplexing. Tamira had left. That, and nothing more. He could find no sign that hillmen or anyone else had come to take her. She had simply gone. Nor had she waited long after his own departure to do so, for he could see remnants of the night's dew on some of the overturned stones.

"Fool wench," he growled. "Now I have two of you to find." And when he found the thief, he vowed, he would wear out a switch.

Carrying his spear at the trail, Conan set out at a lope, easily following the scattered sign. As he did he felt like cursing. It was clear where she had headed. The camp. The rubies. Perhaps she finally had them, for he remembered the iron chests had not been in the ashes of Jondra's tent.

Suddenly he stopped, frowning at the rocky ground. There had been a struggle here, among several people. He picked up a torn sc.r.a.p of white cloth.It was a piece of a servant's tunic, like the one Tamira had been wearing. He crumpled it in his fist.

"Fool wench," he said again, but softly.

Warily, now, he went on, eyes searching as much for hillmen as for signs of pa.s.sage. After a time he became aware that he was following three tracks.

Two were of men on horseback, one the set he followed, one much fresher.

Newest of all were the tracks of several men afoot. Hillmen did not travel far without their s.h.a.ggy horses, and there were not enough of them to be soldiers.

He could think of no other group at large in the mountains, for if any of the Zamoran hunters remained alive they were certainly seeking the lowlands as fast as they could.

Suspicions roused, he looked even more carefully for likely ambush sites. The Kezankians had a wealth of such places, which did not make his task easier. Sharp bends around precipitous slopes and narrow pa.s.sages between sheer walls were common. Yet it was a small valley bordered by gentle slopes that first halted him.

From the end of a deep ravine that opened into the valley, he studied it. Motionless, he stood close against the rock wall. It was motion which drew the eye more than anything else. Stunted trees dotted the slopes, but in numbers too small to provide cover. From the valley floor to the peaks there were few boulders or depressions to hide attackers, and those lay half-way to the summit on both sides. Hillmen liked to be close for their ambushes, to allow their prey little time to react. Everything his eyes could see told him the valley was safe, but instinct p.r.i.c.kled in the back of his skull. Instinct, which had saved him more than once, won out.