Conan Chronicles 2

by Robert Jordan

  “Bandits and thieves deserve to die,” the scar-faced Zamoran said harshly. “And it is time we were going on.” He snatched for her bridle, missing as she pulled her horse around to face Conan.

  “And will you do nothing either?” she demanded.

  Conan drew a deep breath, but the situation had gone beyond cursing. More villagers were turning to look at them, weighing the value of their possessions with intent eyes, trying to see if Jehnna were pretty enough for the auction block. Such were not usually dangerous in the open and the daylight, but their blood was heated by the bandits’ raid, and by the soldiers’ cruel sport. The desire was there, writ plain on their faces in licked lips and shifting glances. In moments, soldiers or no, daylight or no, these men would try for fresh prey, and an attempt to leave now would only set off the eruption on the instant.

  “Stand ready,” the Cimmerian commanded quietly.

  “Bel watch over us,” Malak breathed as Conan moved his horse into the crowd.

  Wondering villagers parted slowly before him as he rode slowly toward the soldiers. Casually, nodding to the Corinthians, he rode into their circle. They frowned at each other, at him, obviously unsure what he was about. He drew his broadsword.

  “Do not kill her and spoil the fun!” one of the Corinthians shouted. The sable-skinned woman stepped smoothly to the limits of the rope, her staff at the ready and untrusting eyes on his face.

  Conan gave her a smile he hoped was reassuring. His blade flashed in the sun, slashing through the rope close to her ankle. Their eyes met; she had not moved a muscle. There was no fear in her, he thought admiringly.

  “What did he do?” a soldier called. “I could not see. Did he strike her?”

  As casually as he had entered the circle, Conan rode out of it, heedless of the doubtful glances the Corinthians cast at him. Before the Cimmerian reached his companions the black woman took advantage of her chance. Staff moaning with the speed of its whirling, she attacked.

  “Ride!” Conan roared.

  The thick butt of the woman’s weapon crushed a soldier’s throat before her captors had time to realize she was truly free of the rope. The wooden shaft crashed against a crested helmet, buckling the Corinthian’s knees, then spun to shiver a spear from another’s grasp and rebound into his face with the crunch of bone and a spray of blood.

  Shouting villagers scattered before Conan’s waving sword and prancing horse. Bombatta struggled to reach Jehnna’s reins, while she protested, yelling words the Cimmerian could not hear and pointing at the woman who fought.

  Three soldiers had gone down in almost the space of as many breaths, and the three remaining hesitated at closing with the woman responsible. She whirled the long staff about her head, giving a high, ululating cry. The three exchanged glances and reached their decision. As one man, they ran. Again the woman gave voice to her battle cry, this time in triumph. Then she disappeared after the soldiers.

  Angrily Conan snatched Jehnna’s reins from her hands. She tried to speak, but he booted his horse to a gallop, pulling hers behind, and all she could do was cling to the high pommel of her saddle. Villagers shook fists at them, and here or there a spear or rusty sword, but they made no effort to hinder the speeding riders.

  Only when the village was out of sight around a bend in the valley did Conan slow, and return the girl’s reins to her.

  She snatched them from his hand and glared. “Why did we leave that woman in the village? She—”

  “She has more chance now than she did an hour gone,” Conan barked. “Did we come here to rescue bandits, or to find a key?” He made an effort to control his anger. She had no idea of the danger in which she had placed them, not even now.

  A clatter of hooves in the distance brought a growl from Bombatta. “The Corinthians. There’s little chance they will leave us out of their report.”

  “They will leave out the dark-skinned woman,” Akiro observed drily, “and make us many more than we are. To be driven off by a large party of armed men is one thing, to be defeated by a single woman another.”

  Jehnna looked from one to another of them. “We had to do it,” she maintained stubbornly. “That woman could not have deserved to be tormented.”

  “Which way?” Conan asked, breathing heavily.

  Jehnna pointed silently down the valley. At least, the Cimmerian thought, it was not back toward the village. There was no talk among them as they resumed their journey.

  X

  The valley down which they fled from the village led into another valley, that into yet another, and the third into a twisting, steep-walled canyon scattered with huge boulders, some half-buried in the stony soil. The Karpash Mountains loomed about them, gray peaks often capped with snow, their dark lower slopes sparsely spotted with stunted trees.

  Conan eyed the sun, halfway to its setting now, and thought of the time left. Only three more days, and they had not even found the key yet, much less the treasure. And if they did not return to Shadizar with both by the night of the third day … Face grim, he touched the golden dragon amulet hanging at his neck.

  Malak brought his horse up beside the Cimmerian. “We are being followed, Conan.”

  Conan nodded. “I know.”

  “There is only one, but he’s getting closer.”

  “Then we had best dissuade him,” Conan said. “You and Akiro keep on with the girl. I will catch up to you.” He dropped back until he rode with Bombatta at the rear. “We are being followed,” he told the scarred man.

  “I know,” Bombatta replied.

  “Let us convince him not to, you and I.”

  Bombatta frowned doubtfully at Jehnna before giving a reluctant nod.

  As the others continued on their way, the two men swung their horses from the line of march, one to either side. Two of the great boulders that dotted the valley shielded them from whomever came up the trail after them. Jehnna twisted in her saddle to look back, but Conan motioned quickly for her to turn back. The follower must be given no warning that he was discovered. The girl and her two companions disappeared behind another bend of the canyon. Conan drew his sword and rested it across the saddle before him. He did not have long to wait.

  Stones rattling beneath shod hooves heralded the approach of their pursuer, and Conan frowned at the noise. The man did not seem to care if he was detected. The Cimmerian exchanged glances with Bombatta, and the two set themselves.

  The first glimpse of a horse appeared between the boulders that hid them, and Conan charged out. “Hold!” he shouted, and then his jaw dropped in surprise. Beside him, Bombatta began to curse.

  The ebon-skinned woman from the village started and stared, then drew herself up. Her horse, two hands shorter than theirs, bore a Corinthian military saddle, and behind it hung a leather waterbag. “I am Zula,” she announced proudly, “a warrior of the People of the Mountain, who live to the south of the land called Keshan. I would know the name of he who gave me my life again.”

  “I am called Conan,” the Cimmerian said, “of Cimmeria.”

  Zula peered at his face intently. “I did not truly believe your eyes before. Do many people in this Cimmeria have eyes like sapphire?”

  “Erlik take his eyes,” Bombatta snapped, “and you as well, woman! You have heard his name. Now be on your way, and bother us no more!”

  The woman did not look at him, or seem even to have heard him. “I will ride with you, Conan of Cimmeria. Perhaps I can repay the life you gave me.”

  Conan shook his head slowly. This talk of a life to be repaid was so strong a reminder of Valeria that it must be an omen, but of what kind? “What I did was not done to save your life, but rather to allow us to escape that village without having to fight our way out. You owe me nothing.”

  “Reasons do not matter,” she said. “Only actions. And for your actions I live and am free, where else I would be dead or captive.”

  Before Conan could frame an answer they were joined by Jehnna and the others.

&nbs
p; He gave the two men with her a withering look. “Did I not say I would catch up to you? What if there had been a score of villagers on our trail? Is this how you look after Jehnna?”

  Malak grinned weakly and became engrossed in study of the pack horse’s lead rope. Akiro shrugged, saying, “I am too old to make a woman do what she does not wish to do.”

  “Do not be silly, Conan,” Jehnna said. “Malak said there was only one, and you agreed. My ears are not failing.” She shifted her attention to Zula. “The villagers called you a bandit.”

  “They lied,” the dark woman replied scornfully. “There is a smaller village four leagues to the south, from which these people stole several young women. With other warriors I took payment for the recovery of these women. In the night we came, firing storage huts to draw the attention of these dogs who call themselves men. The women we found, but T’car, who was my battle companion, took a spear thrust and could not escape, and I could not leave him.”

  “And so you both were captured,” Jehnna said breathlessly. “It was a brave thing you did, a thing such as romances are made of.”

  “He was my battle companion,” Zula said simply.

  Jehnna jerked a nod, as if reaching a decision. “You will come with us.”

  “No!” Bombatta shouted. “Mitra’s mercies, Jehnna, will you endanger everything? Remember the prophecy.”

  “I remember nothing that says I cannot have a woman with me.” Jehnna’s tone was firm, but still she turned to Conan. “Say that she may accompany me. You have Malak and Akiro. I have only Bombatta, and he shouts at me of late. He never shouted at me before.”

  “She could not even keep up with us on that Corinthian sheep,” Malak laughed.

  Zula eyed him calmly. “I will ride you into the ground, little man, even after you attain full growth.”

  Conan touched the amulet on his chest. Bombatta could be right; perhaps they did endanger the fulfilling of the prophecy, and thus the rebirth of Valeria. But there was the matter of the omen. A life to be repaid. “I will not say no,” he said finally.

  Bombatta cursed, but Jehnna overrode him with her enthusiasm. “Then you will ride with me, and be my companion.”

  “I will ride with Conan,” Zula said. “And so with you.” Jehnna smiled as if she had not caught the distinction the ebon woman made.

  “Let us all ride, then,” Conan said, and turned his horse once more down the canyon.

  In the sanguine glow of the gem Amon-Rama studied the moving figures. Two more, he thought, and concentrated his study on the rotund, yellow-skinned man with the wispy gray hair and mustaches. There was power there. A wizard. His thin mouth twisted in a malevolent smile. Not enough power. Merely more sport.

  “Come to me,” he whispered. “Bring the One to me.”

  “… And when you have carried this key and this treasure to Shadizar,” Zula said, “what then?”

  Jehnna looked at the other woman in surprise. She had never thought of such a question. “Why, I will live in the palace, as I always have.” That brought a vaguely dissatisfied frown to her face. But what else was she to do? “This is my destiny,” she said firmly.

  Zula only grunted.

  Feeling ill at ease without knowing why, Jehnna let her eyes travel ahead, to wiry, laughing Malak and round-bellied, wise-eyed Akiro, to broad-shouldered Conan, riding in the lead as they wended their way around a snow-tipped mountain. Bombatta still brought up the rear, his gaze always on the heights, searching for danger in the fading, reddish-gold light that announced the imminence of dusk.

  It was the Cimmerian who held her thoughts, however. He was so different from what she had expected. Akiro, and even Malak, had their places in the stories her dressing maids told, but the tall northlander fit nowhere in those tales of handsome princes and lovely princesses. And it was not just him. He made her feel very peculiar, indeed, in ways she did not recognize. None of her feelings seemed to correspond to what she imagined she would feel like if he were to recite long poems to her eyes. It was difficult to imagine him doing that, in any case. Or to see him giving her a single, golden rose for her to weep crystal tears over while he went far away. Conan might rather sweep her fiercely to his saddle before him and… and what? She was not sure, but she was certain that whatever he would do would be something not in the stories.

  Zula, she thought, might have useful advice, but something made her feel awkward about simply asking. But perhaps if she made her way to it in slow steps …

  “Women warriors,” she said abruptly, “are strange to me. Are all women of your land warriors?”

  The dark woman nodded. “Our mountains are surrounded by enemies, and we are few. Too few to allow us your ways, where only men are warriors, and some few women who want to be. All of us must fight, if we would live.”

  “I did not know there were women in my land who are warriors,” Jehnna said, diverted for the moment. “Could I be a warrior?” It would certainly be a different thing than living the rest of her life in Taramis’ gardens, she thought.

  “Perhaps,” Zula replied, “if you were willing to accept hard training, and if you have the heart. It is a harsh life, though, and you must ever be ready for death. Your own, or that of someone close to you.”

  The sadness in the other woman’s voice reminded Jehnna of her purpose. “T’car,” she said softly. “You called him your battle companion. Was he your … your true love?”

  “My lover, you mean? Aye, he was my lover, and in all ways as good a man as I have ever known.”

  “How … how did it begin? Between you and T’car, that is.”

  Zula laughed, as if at a fond memory. “Many women wanted him, for he was a proud and handsome man, but I told them they must fight me if they would lie with him. None of them could stand against me, and when T’car saw, he took me into his hut.”

  Jehnna blinked. It certainly did not sound like any of the stories. “So you simply decided he would be yours, chose him. Do men like that?”

  “Some men, child, if they know themselves men. Others have not the stomach for it.”

  “And which of the men riding with us would you chose? Malak, perhaps?”

  The black woman snorted. “That has no humor even if it is meant to be a joke. I would choose Conan.”

  “Because he saved your life? Jehnna felt a flash of anger, and could not understand it. “Why not Bombatta?”

  “That one would be brutal, thinking it made him seem strong, yet. I could bend him to my will like bending a reed. Conan can be strong and gentle at the same time, and he would not bend easily if at all. As well lie with a rabbit as with a man you can bend too easily.” Zula gave her a sidelong glance; Jehnna knew her face was flushed, and the other woman’s obvious amusement made her color deepen. “Do not worry, child. I will not try to take him from you.”

  Jehnna found herself stammering. “Take him … but he is not… I mean …” She drew a deep breath and tried to sit very straight in her saddle, as Taramis did at her most imperious. “Do not call me child,” she said frostily. “I am a woman.”

  “Of course. Forgive me, Jehnna.” Zula was silent for a time before continuing. “Among my people there is a custom at the death of a lover. I will lie with no man for one year from the day of T’car’s dying. He would have done the same had I died.”

  It was Jehnna’s turn to ride in silence, mulling over what had been said. Little of it seemed to be of any use to her. There were no women to challenge over Conan, even if she knew how to fight them, and even if she was sure that was what she wanted. As for the rest…

  “Zula, thrice now you have spoken of lying with a man. What does that mean?”

  The black woman’s face went slack with amazement. “By all the gods,” she breathed, “You are a child.”

  Jehnna opened her mouth for an angry retort, and froze with it open. Before them lay another mountain, or rather half of a mountain, for its top had long since disappeared. Even from below it was plain that a vast crat
er holed that truncated peak.

  “Conan,” she whispered, then shouted it, “Conan! The key! I can feel it pulling me! The key is in that crater!” Eagerly she urged her horse to a gallop.

  XI

  “Wait, Jehnna,” Conan called for the tenth time, but he knew it was already too late. She had outdistanced all of them, and even as he spoke she topped the crater’s rim and disappeared.

  Cursing, he sped after her as fast as his horse would take the mountain slope. The others were strung out behind him in a long line, but he could not wait for them. Over the rim he galloped, and gasped as he started down the other side.

  At the bottom of the mammoth pit lay a lake unruffled by any breeze, its dark blue speaking of great depth. On either side of the glassy waters rose sheer walls. Below him was a small beach of black sand, rushes growing on its edges. Jehnna’s mount was already halfway to the water in its headlong plunge. And on the far side of the lake stood a palace of crystal, an impossible structure of glittering facets that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

  By the time he caught up to her, Jehnna’s panting horse had its muzzle in the lake, and the girl stared with eager eyes at the distant crystalline towers. The crater’s deepness created an early dusk on the sands.

  “The key is in that palace?” Conan said.

  She nodded excitedly. “Yes. I can feel it, pulling me.”

  “We must leave the crater, then,” he told her, “and go around the side of the mountain. There is no way from here except to swim.”

  The others began to arrive, first. Bombatta and Zula almost together, then Akiro, and lastly Malak, with the packhorse.

  “Are you all right, child?” Bombatta shouted at the same instant that Zula cried, “Jehnna, are you unharmed?” The scar-faced man and the ebon woman glared at one another.

  “This is the way,” Jehnna said insistently. “This is the proper way.”

  “How?” Conan demanded.

  Even Bombatta looked doubtful. “We could go around, child. It can make no difference.”