“Was he alone?” she demanded. “An you’ve led his Free-Company here, I’ll have your hides for boots!”
“Didn’t see nobody else,” Tenio muttered. “That means there weren’t nobody else.” A small, ferrety man with a narrow face and sharp nose, he spat a tooth into his palm and glared at it. “I say kill him.” Some of those nursing broken ribs and knife gashes growled assent.
Marusas, her Zamoran, produced a dagger in his long, calloused fingers. “Let us wake him, instead. He looks strong. He would scream a long time before he died.”
Instantly all of the men were shouting, arguing for one course or the other.
“Kill him now! He’s too dangerous!”
“He’s just a man. Flay him, and he’ll scream like any other.”
“You didn’t fight him out there! You don’t know!”
“He cut me to the bone with ten of us on him, and broke Agorio’s arm!”
“Silence, you dogs!” Karela roared, and the bickering ceased as they turned to stare at her. “I say who dies, and I say he doesn’t. Not yet, at least! Do any of you mangy curs care to dispute me? To your kennels!”
She put a hand to her scimitar hilt, and a dangerous light glowed in her green eyes. One by one they dropped their eyes from hers, muttered, and shuffled back to their drinking or to tend their wounds. Jamaran, a huge, shaven-headed Kushite with shoulders broader than Conan’s and the thick fingers of a wrestler, was the last to remain glowering at her, his dark face twisted with anger. A split of his cheek showed where Conan’s fist had landed in the struggle.
“Well, Jamaran?” she said. She knew he wanted to replace her, and take her to his bed as well, though he did not know she was aware of his desires. He had thoughts about the proper place for women; sooner or later she would have to show him the error of his ways or slay him. “Are you ready to dispute my rule?”
Surprise glimmered on his face, and was quickly supplanted by a sneering smile. “Not yet,” he growled. “I will tell you when, my red-haired pretty.” His black eyes ran over her body like a caress, then with incredible lightness on his feet for a man of his size he stalked to the nearest table and snatched up a mug, tossing back his head to drink deeply.
Karela quivered in shocked outrage as she glared at his broad back. Never before had he been so open. She would have to kill him, she thought, after this. But it could not be done now. The temper of her band was too delicately balanced. As much as she hated admitting it, a wrong move now could wreck all she had labored for. With a snarl she released her sword.
It was not like the days in Zamora, she thought grimly. Then none of her band dared to challenge her word, or to think of her as a woman. It was all Conan’s fault. He had changed her in some way she did not understand, some way she did not want to be changed. He had woven a thread of weakness into her fabric, and other men could sense it.
As if her thoughts of him had been a call the Cimmerian groaned and stirred.
“Gag him,” she ordered. “Move, Derketo curse you! I’ll not be bothered by his babblings!”
Conan shook himself as Tenio and Jamaran knelt beside him. “Karela,” he said desperately, “listen to me. These men are dangerous. They mean to bring an evil—”
Tenio tried to shove a rag into his mouth, and screamed as the Cimmerian sank teeth into his hand. Jamaran smashed a fist into Conan’s jaw; the ferret-faced man jerked his hand free, sprinkling drops of blood as he shook it. Before Conan could speak again Jamaran had thrust the wadding home and bound it. As he got to his feet the shaven-headed man kicked Conan in the ribs and pulled back his booted foot for another. Tenio drew his dagger with his undamaged hand, a murderous gleam in his eyes.
“Stop that,” Karela commanded. “Did you hear me? Leave him.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the two drew away from the Cimmerian.
She could feel those sapphire eyes on her. He shook his head furiously, fighting the gag, making angry noises behind it. Shivering, she turned her back to stare into the fire.
Karela knew she could not afford to let herself listen to the young giant. He had always been able to talk her into anything. Did he put his hands on her, her will melted. This time, she told herself, this time it would be different.
The night went slowly for her, and she was aware that it was because of Conan’s eyes on her back. The rest of the bandits took themselves off to sleep, most simply pulling blankets about them on the stone floor, but sleep would not come near Karela. Like a leopard in a cage she paced, and the goad that made her pace was an unblinking icy blue gaze. She would have had him blind-folded, except that she would not admit even to herself that simply his eyes on her could affect her so greatly.
Finally the titian-haired beauty settled before the great hearth and studied the leaping flames as if they were the most important thing in the world. Yet even then she could not escape the Cimmerian, imagining him writhing in the fire, imagining him suffering all the tortures of the damned, all the tortures he so richly deserved. She could not understand why that seemed to make her feel even worse, or why from time to time she had to surreptitiously wipe tears from her cheeks.
At first light she sent Tenio riding for Ianthe with the scarlet surcoat. The rest of the day she spent in ignoring Conan. Food and drink she denied him.
“Let him eat and drink when I have gone,” she commanded.
The men scattered about the room, most devoting their energies to dice or cards, gave her muttered assent and strange looks. She did not care. Not for the briefest moment would she allow the Cimmerian to be ungagged in her presence. Not until she had the five hundred pieces of gold in her hands to taunt him with. Not until she managed to settle herself, and that seemed strangely difficult to do.
Then the sun was making its downward journey. Time for Karela to leave for the hut. The bronze she had left, still wrapped in the blanket from Conan’s bed, outside beneath a tree. There was no one about to steal it, and she would not have it under the same roof with her could she avoid it.
As she was tying the blanket-swathed bundle behind her saddle—and muttering to herself for the sickness it made her feel in the pit of her stomach—Jamaran came out of the lone tower that remained of the ancient keep.
“That thing is valuable,” he said challengingly. “Five hundred gold pieces, you say.”
Karela did not answer him. This morning was no better time to kill him than last night had been.
“I should go with you,” the huge man went on when she remained silent. “To make certain you return safely with the gold. This noble you go to may prove treacherous. Or perhaps something else might delay you, a woman alone with so much gold.”
Karela’s face tightened. Did the fool think she planned to run off with the coin? Or did he think to take the gold and her both? “No!” she snapped as she swung into the saddle. “You are needed here to help guard the prisoner.”
“There are a score to watch him. So much gold—”
“Fool!” She made the word a sneering whiplash. “You must learn to think if you would lead men. That one inside, bound as he is, is more dangerous than any man you’ve ever seen. I but hope there are enough of you to keep him till I return.”
Before Jamaran could speak the furious words she could read plainly on his face, Karela put spurs to her fleet eastern bay, and darted down a narrow path that was little more than a deer track. Many such crossed and criss-crossed in the thick forest, and she was soon gone beyond following.
In truth, she did not think all of her followers were necessary to keep Conan imprisoned. What she had told the big Kushite was true. The Cimmerian giant was dangerous enough to make even her wary, and she prided herself on walking carefully about no man. She had seen him struggle when defeat was inevitable, slay when his own death was certain, win when only doom lay ahead. Bound hand and foot, however, and guarded by twenty men, she did not doubt Conan would be waiting as she had left him when she returned.
Nor did she think Jamaran cou
ld take the gold—or what else he wanted from her—without her steel drinking his life in the attempt. But her pride would not allow the nameless noble to see the open disrespect the shaven-headed man now showed her. Besides, this noble would certainly have other commissions—he had already offered one, though changing it to acquiring the bronze—but he would not likely offer them if he thought she could not keep discipline in her own band.
When Karela reached the clearing where the rude hut stood, the sun was a bloody ball half-obscured by the treetops, and long shadows stretched toward the east. The scarlet-and-black caprisoned warhorse stood alone as before. Slowly she made a circuit of the clearing, within the shaded shelter of the trees. It was a desultory search, she was well aware, but she was also aware of the bronze tied behind her. More than once had she found herself riding forward on her saddle to avoid the brush against her buttocks of the rough wool that contained it. She knew a desperate urgency to be rid of the figure.
With a snorted laugh for her own sensitivity, Karela galloped into the clearing and dismounted. She carried the blanket gripped like a sack, and kicked open the rough door of planks. “Well, Lord Nameless, do you have my …” Her words trailed away in surprise.
The tall nobleman stood as he had at the first meeting, but this time he was not alone. A woman with a scarlet cloak pulled around her, the hood pulled well forward, stood beside him, cool dark eyes studying Karela over a veil of opaque silk.
Karela stared back boldly, tossing the blanket to the dirt floor at their feet. “Here is your accursed image. Now where is my gold?”
The veiled woman knelt, hastily pulling aside the folds of coarse wool. A reverent sigh came from her as the horned figure was revealed. With delicate hands she lifted it to the crude table. Karela wondered how she could bear to touch it.
“It is Al’Kiir,” the veiled woman breathed. “It is what I sought, Taramenon.”
Karela blinked. Lord Taramenon? If half what she had heard of his swordplay were true, he would be no easy opponent. She let her hand drift to the hilt of her scimitar. “There are five hundred pieces of gold to be handed over before it is yours.”
The other woman’s eyes swiveled to her.
“Is she what you seek also?” Taramenon asked.
The veiled woman nodded thoughtfully. “She seems so. How are you called, wench?”
“I am Karela, wench!” the red-haired bandit snapped, emphasizing the last word. “Now let me tell your fates, if you have not brought the coin agreed on. You, my fine lordling, I will sell into Koth, where your pretty face may please a mistress.” Taramenon’s face darkened, but the veiled woman laughed. Karela turned her attention to her. “And you I will sell into Argos, where you may dance naked in a tavern in Messantia, and please the patrons one by one for the price of a mug of ale.”
“I am a princess of Ophir,” the veiled woman said coldly, “who can have you impaled on the walls of the royal palace. Do you dare speak so to one before whom you should tremble?”
Karela sneered. “I not only dare speak so, by Derketo’s Teats, if my gold is not forthcoming I’ll strip you on the spot to see if an Argossean tavern will have you. Most Ophirean noblewomen are bony wenches who could not please a man did they try with all their might.” Steel whispered across leather as her blade left its scabbard. “I’ll have my gold now!”
“She will indeed do,” the scarlet-cloaked woman said. “Take her.”
Karela spun toward Taramenon, had an instant to see him watching with a bemused smile on his face, making no move toward her or his sword, then two men in the leather armor of light cavalry dropped from the dark rafters atop her. In a struggling heap she was borne to the packed-earth floor.
“Derketo blast you!” she howled, writhing futilely in their grip. “I’ll spit you like capons! Codless jackals!”
Taramenon plucked her sword from her hand and tossed it into a corner. “You’ll not be needing that any longer, girl.”
Despite her frenzied striving, the cavalrymen dragged Karela to her feet. Fool! she berated herself. Taken like a virgin in a kidnapper’s nets! Why had she not wondered why there was no horse for the woman?
“I suppose it’s too much to hope for that she’s a maiden,” the woman said.
Taramenon laughed. “Much too much, I should say.”
“Treacherous trull!” Karela snarled. “Catamite fopling! I’ll peel your hides in strips! Release me, or my men will stake you out for the vultures! Are you fool enough to think I came alone?”
“Perhaps you did not,” Taramenon said calmly, “though I saw no one the last time you claimed to have men about this hut. In any case, my shout will bring fifty men-at-arms. Shall we see what your miserable brigands can do against them?”
“Enough, Taramenon,” the veiled woman said. “Do not bandy words with the baggage. There was talk of stripping.” She eyed Karela’s tight breeches and snug-laced leather jerkin, and a note of malicious amusement entered her voice. “I would see that she is not … too bony for my purpose.”
Taramenon laughed, and the three men set to with a will. Karela fought furiously, and when they were done there was blood on her nails and teeth, but she stood naked, heavy round breasts heaving with her effort. Lecherous male eyes probed her beauty, slid along the curves of lush thighs and narrow waist. Dark feminine eyes regarded her more coldly, and with a touch of jealousy lighting them. Pridefully the green-eyed woman stood as erect as the twisting of her arms behind her back would allow. She would not cringe like a shrinking girl on her wedding night for these of any others.
The tall nobleman touched his cheek, now decorated by four parallel sanguinary streaks, and examined the blood on his fingertips. Suddenly his hand flashed out; the force of his slap was such that Karela and the two men holding her all staggered.
“Do not damage her!” the veiled woman said sharply. “Your beauty is not ruined, Taramenon. Now bind her for transport.”
“A taste of the strap will do her no damage, Synelle,” the darkly handsome lord growled, “and I would teach her her proper place.”
The name so shocked Karela that she missed the veiled woman’s retort. Conan’s patroness! Could the woman have learned of her own connection with the Cimmerian and be thinking to dispose of a rival? Well, she had the Cimmerian to bargain for her release, and if Derketo favored her she would have this treacherous noblewoman to hang by her heels beside him.
Karela opened her mouth to make her offer—Conan’s freedom in return for her own—and a wadded rag pushed the words back into her throat Like a starving panther she struggled, but three men were too much for her. With ease that seemed to mock her they corded her into a neat package, wrists strapped to ankles, knees beneath her chin, thin straps laced around and around her, digging deep into her flesh. When one of the cavalrymen produced a large leather sack the memory of her plans for Synelle, including her method of returning her to Conan, flooded her face with scarlet.
“At least she can still blush,” Synelle laughed as Karela was stuffed into the sack. “From her language, I thought she was lost to all decency. Carry her to the horses. We must hurry. Events proceed more quickly than I would like, and we must meet them.”
“I must return to the palace to pay my respects,” Taramenon said. “I will join you as quickly as I can.”
“Do so quickly,” Synelle said smoothly, “or I may put Conan in your place.”
As Karela’s dark prison was heaved swaying into the air, she felt tears running down her cheeks. Derketo curse the Cimmerian! Once again he had brought her humiliation. She hoped Jamaran would slit his throat. Slowly.
XVIII
Conan lay on the dirt-strewn stone floor as he had for a day and a night now, bound and biding his time with the patience of a jungle predator, all of his mind and energies given over to waiting and watching. Karela’s injunction to give him food and water had been ignored, and he was dimly aware of hunger and thirst, but they affected him little. He had gone longer without ei
ther, and he knew he would have both once the men who guarded him were dealt with. Soon or late a mistake would be made, and he would take advantage. Soon or late, it would come.
Brass lamps had been lit against the deepening night, but with Karela gone no one had rehung blankets to cover the tall, narrow arrow slits. Rough clay jars of wine had been passed more freely with the red-haired woman’s departure, and the four brigands who had not already staggered to one of the upper rooms of the tower for drunken sleep were engrossed in drinking more and gaming with dice. The fire on the long hearth burned low; the last of the thick logs that had been stacked against the wall had long since gone into the flames, and no more had been brought from outside. None of them had thought to tend the iron kettle suspended over the flames, and the smell of burning stew blended with the unwashed stench of bandits.
Abruptly Tenio hurled dice and leather dicecup aside. “She should have returned by now,” he muttered. “What keeps her?”
“Perhaps she keeps herself,” Jamaran growled. His black eyes went to Conan, and he bared large, yellow teeth in a snarl. “Leaving us with this one she seems so affrighted of.”
Marusas paused in the act of scooping up the dice. “You think she has run away with the gold? It sounds a tidy sum, but her share of our raids has been as much in the last month alone.”
“Erlik take you, play!” snapped a man with a slitted leather patch tied over where his nose had been cut off. His pale eyes had a permanent look of suspicious anger, as if he knew and hated what men thought when they saw his disfigurement. “I’m twenty silvers down with coin on the table. Play, curse you!” The three ignored him.
Jamaran slammed a fist the size of a small ham on the table top. “And that’s another thing. Why should a woman receive ten times the share that the rest of us do? Let her try our work alone and see what sport the men she tries to rob will have with her. Without us, she’d be no more than a cutpurse, bargaining when she was caught to escape having her cheek branded for a grant of the favors she is so stingy with now.”
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