Conan Chronicles 2

by Robert Jordan

  “I do not.”

  “Then you intend to save them for your paramour. For Jondra.”

  “Hannuman’s Stones, woman! Will you give over?”

  Tamira eyed him sharply. “I do not know whether I want you to be lying or not.”

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked in puzzlement.

  “I intend to steal the rubies, you understand, no matter what you say or do.” Her voice tightened. “But if you did not come for the rubies, then you came for me. Or for Jondra. I am uncertain whether I wouldn’t rather have the sure knowledge that all you wanted was the gems.”

  Conan leaned back against the boulder behind him and laughed until he wheezed. “So you don’t believe me?” he asked finally.

  “I’ve known enough men to doubt anything any of you says.”

  “You have?” he exclaimed in feigned surprise. “I would have sworn I was the very first man you’d known.”

  Color flooded her cheeks, and she leaped to her feet. “Just you wait until—”

  Whatever her threat was to be, Conan did not hear its finish, for Telades hurried into the camp, half out of breath and using his spear as a walking staff Men hastened to surround him, and the Cimmerian was first among them.

  A hail of words came from the hunters.

  “Did you find tracks?”

  “We heard a great cry.”

  “What did you see?”

  “It must have been the thing we hunt.”

  “Did you see the beast?”

  Telades tugged off his spiked helm and shook his shaved head. “I heard the cry, but I saw neither animal nor tracks.”

  “Give your report to me,” Jondra snapped. The hunters parted to let her through. Her eagerness was betrayed by the bow in her hand. “Or am I to wait until you’ve told everyone else?”

  “No, my lady,” Telades replied abashedly. “I ask forgiveness. What I saw was the army, my lady. Soldiers.”

  Again a torrent of questions broke over the man.

  “Are you sure?”

  “From the lot we saw fighting?”

  “How could they get into the mountains ahead of us?”

  Jondra’s cool gray eyes swept across the assembled hunters, and the torrent died as though she had cracked a whip.

  “Where are those soldiers, Telades?” Conan asked. Jondra looked at him sharply, but closed her mouth and said nothing.

  “Not two leagues to the north and east of us,” Telades replied. “Their general is Lord Tenerses. I got close enough to see him, though they did not see me.”

  “Tenerses,” Conan mused. “I have heard of him.”

  “They say he hunts glory,” the shaven-headed hunter said, “but it seems he thinks well enough to know when danger is about. His camp is so well hidden, in a canyon with but one entrance, that I found it only by merest chance. And I could not see how many men he has with him.”

  “Not one fewer than Zathanides,” Conan said, “if what I have heard of him is true. He is a man with a sense of his own importance, this Tenerses.”

  Jondra broke in in flat tones. “If you two are quite finished discussing the army, I would like to hear the results I sent this man for in the first place. Did you find tracks, Telades, or did you not?”

  “Uh, no, my lady. No tracks.”

  “There are still nine others,” the noblewoman said half to herself. “As for these soldiers,” she went on in a more normal tone, “they have naught to do with us, and we naught to do with them. I see no reason why they should be a subject of further discussion, nor why they should even become aware of our existence. Am I understood?”

  Her gaze was commanding as it met each man’s eyes in turn, and each man mumbled assent and grew intent in his study of the ground beneath his feet, until she came to Conan. Eyes of chilling azure looked back at her in unblinking calmness, and it was smoky gray orbs that dropped to break the mesmerizing contact.

  When she looked at him again, it was through long eyelashes. “I must talk with you, Conan,” she murmured. “In my tent I … would have your advice on the hunt.”

  Over Jondra’s shoulder Conan saw Tamira watching him intently, hands on hips. “Perhaps later,” he said. When the noblewoman blinked and stared, he added quickly, “The mountains are dangerous. We cannot spare even one watcher.” Before she could say more—and he could see from the sparks in her eyes that she intended to say much more—he retreated across the camp to his place by the boulder.

  As he settled once more with his back to the stone, he noticed that both women were looking at him. And both were glaring. The old saying was certainly proving true, he thought. He who has two women oft finds himself in possession of none. And not one thing could he think to do about it. With a sigh he set back to tending his steel. Some men claimed their blades had the personalities of women, but he had never known a sword to suffer jealousy.

  The other trackers began returning at decreasing intervals. Jondra allowed these no time to become involved in extraneous—to her—matters with the other hunters. She met each man as he entered the camp, and her sharp gaze kept the rest back until she finished her questioning and gave the tracker leave to go.

  One by one the trackers returned, and one by one they reported … nothing of interest to Jondra. One, who had searched near Telades, had found the cheekpiece of a soldier’s helmet. Another had seen a great mountain ram with curling horns as long as a man’s arm. Jondra angrily turned her back on him before he finished telling of it. Several saw hillmen, and in numbers enough to make a prudent man wary, but none had found the spoor of the beast, or anything that might remotely be taken as a sign of its presence or passage. The gray-eyed noblewoman heard each man out, and strode away from each impatiently tapping her bow against her thigh.

  The last to return was Arvaneus, trotting into the camp to lean on his spear with an arrogant smile.

  “Well?” Jondra demanded as she stalked up to him. “I suppose you have seen nothing either?”

  The hawkfaced huntsman seemed taken aback at her tone, but he recovered quickly and swept a bow before her. “My lady, what you seek, I give to you.” He shot a challenging look at Conan as he straightened. “I, Arvaneus, son of Lord Andanezeus, give it to you.”

  “You have found it?” Excitement brightened her face. “Where, Arvaneus?”

  “A bare league to the east, my lady. I found the marks of great claws as long as a man’s hand, and followed them for some distance. The tracks were made this day, and there cannot be another creature in these mountains to leave such spoor as human eyes have never before seen.”

  The entire camp stared in amazement as Jondra leaped spinning into the air, then danced three steps of a jig. “It must be. It must. I will give you gold to make you wealthy for this, Arvaneus. Find this beast for me, and I will give you an estate.”

  “I want no gold.” Arvaneus said huskily, his black eyes suddenly hot. “Nor estates.”

  Jondra froze, staring at him, then turned unsteadily away. “Prepare horses,” she commanded. “I would see these tracks.”

  The huntsman looked worriedly at the sky. The sun, giving little warmth in these mountains, lay halfway to the western horizon from its zenith. “It is late to begin a hunt. In the morning, at first light—”

  “Do you question my commands?” she snapped. “I am no fool to start a hunt for a dangerous beast with night approaching, but I will see those tracks. Now! Twenty men. The rest will remain in camp and prepare for the hunt tomorrow.”

  “As you command, my lady,” Arvaneus muttered. He glared malevolently at Conan as Jondra turned to the big Cimmerian and spoke in a soft voice.

  “Will you ride with me, Conan? I … I would feel much safer.” The awkwardness of her words and the coloring of her cheeks gave her the lie. With obvious difficulty, she added, “Please?”

  Wordlessly Conan rose and walked to the picket line. Arvaneus barked orders, and others joined the Cimmerian. As Conan was fastening his saddle girth, he became
aware of Tamira, making a great show of idly petting the nose of a roan next to his tall black.

  “Will you ride with me, Conan?” she mimicked softly. “I will feel so much safer.” She twisted up her face as if to spit.

  Conan let out a long breath. “I’d not like to see either of you dead, or a hillman’s slave. You will be safer here than will she out there, so I go with her.”

  He stepped up into the high-pommeled Zamoran saddle. Tamira trotted alongside as he rode from the hollow where the horses were picketed. “You will be out there,” she told him, “and so will she. You could return to find me gone, Conan. And the rubies. What is to keep me here?”

  “Why, you’ll be waiting for me,” he laughed, booting his mount to a trot. A hurled rock bounced off his shoulder, but he did not look back.

  XVI

  The party of Zamoran hunters made their way in single file along the gullies and clefts that lined the mountains like wrinkles of ancient age on the face of the earth. Arvaneus led, since he knew the way, and Jondra rode close behind him. Conan, in turn, kept close to the tall noblewoman. There would be little time to spare when protection was needed. The mountains seemed to press in on them malignly, even when their way opened enough for a score of men or more to ride abreast.

  The big Cimmerian’s eyes searched the jagged crags and steep slopes around them constantly, and with instincts long buried in civilized men he probed for his enemies. No sign of hillmen did he see, no hint of them came to his senses, but menace still oozed from the stones. Outwardly he seemed at ease, but he was dry tinder waiting for a spark.

  Abruptly Arvaneus drew rein where the walls of rock were steep and close. “There, my lady,” the huntsman said, pointing to the ground. “Here is the first track I found.”

  Jondra scrambled from her saddle to kneel by a small patch of clay. The deep marks of two massive claws and part of a third were impressed there. “It is larger than I thought,” she murmured, running two slender fingers into one impression.

  “We have seen the tracks,” Conan said. The oppressive air seemed thicker to him. “Let us return to the camp.”

  Arvaneus’ lip curled in a sneer. “Are you afraid, barbar? My lady, there are more tracks further on. Some are complete.”

  “I must see that,” Jondra exclaimed. Swinging into her saddle she galloped ahead, and Arvaneus spurred after her.

  Conan exchanged a look with Telades—by the shaven-headed hunter’s sour face he liked this as little as the Cimmerian—then they and the rest of the column of horsemen followed.

  As it had often before, the narrow passage opened out. This time it led into a small canyon, perhaps a hundred paces wide, with five narrow draws cutting its steep brown walls. Conan eyed those openings suspiciously. Any enemy hidden in those would be on them before they had time to react. The hillmen’s favorite tactic was the ambush.

  On the floor of the canyon the spoor of the beast was plentiful. Tracks leading both in and out showed that the beast had explored the narrow cuts. Unease permeated the column; hunters shifted their spears nervously, or reached back to touch the cased bows behind their saddles, and horses danced and shied. Jondra uncased her bow as she dismounted at the track Arvaneus pointed out, and nocked an arrow before kneeling to examine it. The hawk-faced huntsman frowned at the ground around him, attempting with only partial success to control his mount’s quick sidesteps.

  Conan found himself wondering about that frown. Arvaneus had seen this canyon and the tracks that filled it only a short time before. What was there for him to frown about? The big Cimmerian’s breath caught in his throat. Unless there were more tracks than he had seen before. If that was true they must leave immediately.

  Conan opened his mouth, and a shrill ululation split the air, chilling the blood, making the horses buck and scream. Jondra’s mount tore the reins from her hands and bolted, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling wildly, leaving the noblewoman standing like a statue of ice. With difficulty the Cimmerian pulled his big black around. “Crom,” he breathed into the din filling the stone walls.

  Into the canyon came a monstrous creature, huge, on massive legs. Multi-hued scales glittered in the sinking sun, broken only by dark, leathery-appearing bulges on its back. Adamantine claws gouged the stone beneath them. The broad head was thrown back, the widespread maw revealing jagged teeth like splinters of stone, and that piercing cry struck men to their souls.

  The hunters were men who had faced death many times, and if it had never before confronted them in such form, still death was no stranger to them. As that malevolent howl ended they forced themselves into movement, fighting horses half-mad with terror to spread and surround the gargantuan form. The man nearest the beast leveled his spear like a lance and charged. With a clang as of steel against stone the spear struck, and the rider was shivered from his saddle. The great head lowered, and flame roared from that gaping mouth. Man and horse shrieked as one, a shrillness that never seemed to end, as they were roasted alive.

  A gasp rose from the other hunters, but they were already launching their attack, men charging in from from either flank. Even had they wished to turn aside, the beast gave them no chance. More swiftly than any leopard it moved, claws sweeping bloody rags that had once been men to the ground, jaws crushing men and horses alike. Spears splintered like straws against the iridescent scales, and the cries of the dying drowned out all save thought, and fear became the only thought in the hunter’s minds.

  Through that howling maelstrom of certain death Conan galloped, swinging low out of his saddle to snatch an unbroken spear from the bloody ground. Those great golden eyes, he thought. The eyes had to be vulnerable, or the long, dark protuberances on its back. He forced his mount to turn—it struggled to run on, away from the horror—and the sight that met his eyes sent a quiver through him as not even the beast’s hunting cry had.

  Jondra stood not ten paces from the creature’s head. Even as he saw her, an arrow left her bow. Squarely on one malevolent golden eye the shaft struck. And ricocheted away. The beast lunged, claws streaking toward her. Frantically she leaped back, but the tip of one claw snagged in the laces of her red leather jerking, and she was jerked into the air to dangle before the creature’s eyes. Ignoring the carnage around it, the shouting, screaming men, the beast seemed to study her.

  A thrill of horror coursed through Conan. There was a light of intelligence in those auric globes. But if the brain behind them could reason, it was a form of reasoning too inhuman for the mind of man to know it. It did not see the beautiful woman as other than prey. The spike-toothed mouth opened, and Jondra was drawn closer.

  Conan’s spear came up. “Crom!” he bellowed, and his heels thudded his fear-ridden mount into a charge. His spearpoint held steady on one leathery bulge. He clamped his knees tightly on the animal against the shock he had seen throw others to the ground, but even so the force of the blow rocked through him, staggering his horse to its knees.

  With sinuous grace and blinding speed the glittering beast twisted, smashing Conan with the leg from which Jondra dangled. Breath rushed from the big Cimmerian as he was lifted and hurled through the air. Stony ground rushed up to slam what little air remained from his chest. Desperately he fought to breathe, forced numbed muscles to move, rolled to hands and knees, staggered to his feet. Jondra lay on her back near him, writhing, bare breasts heaving as she struggled for air.

  The beast turned its attention to the Cimmerian, Jondra’s jerkin still tangled in its claws. What remained of his horse lay quivering beneath the creature; gobbets of flesh fell from its fanged jaws.

  In what he knew was a futile gesture Conan drew his ancient broadsword. Steel made no mark on those infrangile scales. He could not move quickly enough to escape the creature’s attack unburdened, much less carrying Jondra, and he could not leave her behind. Yet he would not the without fighting.

  “Ho, Conan!” Swaying in his saddle, Telades rode toward the beast from behind. The mail over his chest was rent, and
blood drenched him, but he gripped his spear firmly. “Get her away, northlander!” Pounding his boots into his horse’s flanks, he forced it forward.

  Iridescent scales flashed as the creature spun.

  “No!” Conan shouted.

  Flame engulfed the shaven-headed hunter, and the beast leaped to tear at smouldering flesh.

  The Cimmerian would not waste Telades’ sacrifice. Sheathing his blade, he scooped Jondra from the ground and darted into a narrow cleft, pursued by the sounds of crunching bone.

  As the terrible grinding faded behind him, Jondra stirred in his arms. “I did not mean for them to die,” she whispered. Her eyes were horror-laden pools.

  “You wanted to hunt the beast,” he said, not slowing his steady stride. Under other circumstances he would have searched for survivors. Now he thought only of getting Jondra far from that charnel scene, back to the relative safety of the camp.

  Jondra pressed herself more firmly against his broad chest as if sheltering from storm winds in the safety of a huge boulder. “Telades gave his life for me,” she murmured, shivering. “Truly, I did not wish it to be. Oh, Conan, what can I do?”

  Conan stopped dead, and she huddled in his arms as though hiding from his icy blue gaze. “Leave these mountains,” he said harshly. “Go back to Shadizar. Forget this beast, and always remember the men who died for your foolishness and pride.”

  Anger and arrogance flared across her face. Her fist rose, then abruptly fell limp. Tears leaked down her cheeks. “I will,” she wept. “Before all the gods, I swear it.”

  “It will not repay Telades’ sacrifice,” he said, “but it will at least mean that you value what he did.”

  Gently she touched Conan’s cheek. “Never have I wanted a man to guide me, but you almost make me …” Small white teeth bit her full underlip, and she dropped her eyes. “Will you come back to Shadizar with me?” she said softly, shifting in his grasp again so that her full, round breasts were exposed to his gaze.

  “Perhaps,” he replied gruffly, and began walking once more, with his full concentration on the twists of the cleft and the stony ground beneath his feet. Only a fool would refuse a woman like the one he held. And only a fool would disregard the advice he had given. But. Telades had become a friend, and the man had died for him as well as for her.