A chorus of protests rose, and to Conan’s amazement more than one gnarled and scarred face was filled with fear. With a satisfied nod Karela slammed the tulwar back into its sheath and strode away toward her tent. Men half-fell in their haste to get out of her way.
“The second part of your oath,” Conan shouted after her. “You struck me. You’re foresworn before Derketo. What vengeance will the goddess of love and death take on you, and on any who follow you?”
Her stride faltered for an instant, but she went on without turning. The doorflap of the red-striped pavilion was drawn behind her.
“You’ll die easier, Conan,” Hordo said, “if you watch your tongue. I’ve a mind to rip it out of you now, but some of the lads might want to hear if you babble more of this supposed treasure.”
“You act like whipped curs around her,” Conan said. “Have none of you ever thought for yourselves?”
Hordo shook his shaggy head. “I’ll tell you a tale, and if you make me speak of it again I’ll skewer your liver. From whence she came no one knows, but we found her wandering naked as a babe, and little more than one she was, in years, but with that sword she now wears clutched in her fist. He that led us then, Constanius by name, thought to have his sport with her, then sell her. He was the best of us with a sword, but she killed him like a fox killing a chicken, and when two who were close to him tried to take her, she killed them, too, and just as quick. Since then we’ve followed her. The looting she leads us to has always been good, and no man who did as he was told has ever been taken. She commands, and we obey, and we’re satisfied.”
Hordo went away then, and Conan listened to the others talking as they drank around the fires. Amid coarse laughter they discussed what sport would be had of him. Hot coals were much talked of, and the uses of burning splinters, and how much of a man’s skin might be removed and yet leave him living.
The sun blazed higher and hotter. Conan’s tongue swelled in his mouth with thirst, and his lips cracked and blackened. Sweat dried on his body till no more came, and the sun scored his flesh. Aberius and another fish-eyed rogue staggered over and amused themselves by pouring water on the ground beside his head, betting on how close they could come to his mouth without letting a drop fall where he could reach it. Even when the clear stream was so close he could feel the coolness of it on his cheek, Conan refused to turn his head toward it. He would not give them so much satisfaction.
In time the other man left, and Aberius squatted at Conan’s head with the clay waterbottle cradled in his arms. “You’d kill for water, wouldn’t you?” the weasel-faced man said softly. He glanced warily over his shoulder at the other bandits, still drinking and shouting of what tortures they would inflict on the big Cimmerian, then went on. “Tell me about this treasure, and I’ll give you water.”
“Ten—thousand—gold—pieces,” Conan croaked. The words scraped like gravel across his dry tongue. Aberius licked his lips eagerly. “More. Where is this treasure? Tell me, and I’ll convince the others to set you free.”
“Free—first,” Conan managed.
“Fool! The only way you’ll get free at all is with my help. Now, tell me where to find—” He squawked suddenly as Hordo’s big hand snatched him into the air by the scruff of his neck.
The one-eyed brigand shook the rat of a man, Aberius’ feet dangling above the ground. “What are you doing?” Hordo demanded. “He’s not for talking with.”
“Just having a little sport,” Aberius laughed weakly. “Just taunti
ng him.”
“Taunting,” Hordo spat. He threw the smaller man sprawling in the dust. “It’s more than taunting we’ll do to him. You get on back to the rest.” He waited while Alberius scrambled, half-crawling, to where the other brigands watched laughing, then turned back to Conan. “Make peace with your gods, barbar. You’ll have no time later.”
Conan worked his mouth for enough moisture to get out a few painful words. “Letting her do you out of the gold, Hordo.”
“You don’t learn, do you, barbar?”
Conan had just time to see the booted foot coming, then the world seemed to explode.
IX
When the Cimmerian regained consciousness, it was black night and the fires were burning low. A few brigands still squatted in muttered conversation, passing their stone jars of kil, but most were sprawled in drunken snoring. There was a light in the pavilion—Conan watched Karela’s well-curved silhouette on the striped tent wall—but even as he watched it was extinguished.
The rawhide cords had tightened until they dug into his wrists. Feeling was almost gone from his hands. If he remained there much longer he would not be able to fight even were he to get free. His massive arms corded. There was no give to his bonds. Again he pulled, his body knotting down to the rippled-iron muscles of his stomach with the strain. Again. Again. Blood stained his wrists from the cutting rawhide, and wet the ground. Again he pulled. Again. And there was a slackness to the cord at his left wrist. No more than a fingers-breadth, but it was there.
Suddenly he froze. The feeling that had come in the camp with Karela, of eyes on him, was back. And more than back, for his senses told him the watcher was coming closer. Warily he looked around. The men by the low-burning fire had sunk into sodden mounds, making as much noise asleep as they had awake. The camp was still. Yet he could still feel those eyes approaching. His hackles rose, for he was sure the bearer of those watching eyes now stood over him, staring down, but there was nothing there.
Angrily he began to jerk at the rawhide binding his left wrist, harder and harder despite the quickened flow of blood and the burning pain that circled his wrist. If there was something standing above him—and he had seen enough in his life to know that there were many things not visible to the eye—he would not lie for it like a sheep at slaughter.
Rage fueled his muscles, and suddenly the stake tore free of the ground. Immediately he rolled to his right, clutching that cord in both hands and pulling with all his might. Slowly the second stake pulled out of the hard-packed earth.
Conan’s bones creaked as he sat up. The lacerated flesh of his wrists had swollen to hide the cords. Diligently he worked to loose them, then freed his ankles. The craving in him for water was enough to send another man for the nearest water-bag, but he forced himself to work some suppleness back into his stiffened muscles before he moved. When he rose, if he was not at full strength he was nonetheless a formidible opponent.
In pantherine silence he moved among the sleeping men. It would have been easy for him to slay them where they lay, but killing drunken men in their stupor was not his way. He retrieved his sword and dagger and fastened them on. His red Turanian half-boots he found discarded by the coals of a burned-out fire. Of his cloak there was no sign, and he had no hope of recovering the coins from his purse. He would have to search every man there. Still, he thought as he stamped his feet to settle his boots, as soon as he could get to their horses he would be back on the trail of the pendants. He would take the precaution of scattering the rest of the mounts before he left. There was no need to leave the brigands able to pursue.
“Conan!” The shout rolled through the hollow as if launched from a dozen throats, but there was only one shape approaching the camp.
The Cimmerian cursed as bandits stirred from their sodden sleep and sat up. He was in their midst with no way out short of fighting, now. He drew his broadsword as a light appeared in Karela’s striped tent.
“Conan! Where are the pendants?”