The startled brigand stumbled aside as Conan started past, then whirled, his broadsword coming out, at the whisper of steel leaving leather. Hordo’s tulwar darted toward him. Conan beat the curved blade aside in the same motion as his draw, and the bearded man danced backward down the slope with surprising agility for one of his bulk. The scar that ran from under his rough leather eye-patch was livid.
“You have muscles, Cimmerian,” he grated, “but no brains. You think above yourself.”
Conan’s laugh was short and mirthless. “Do you think I intend to displace you as lieutenant? I’m a thief, not a raider of caravans. But you do as you think you must.” His broadsword was a heavy weapon, but he made it sing in interlocked figure eights about his head and to either side.
“Put up your blades!” came Karela’s voice from behind him.
Without taking his gaze totally from Hordo, Conan took two quick steps to his left, turning so he could see both the bearded bandit and the red-haired woman. She stood in the entrance of the pavilion, her emerald cape drawn close to cover her from her neck to the ground. Her green-eyed gaze regarded them imperiously.
“He sought your tent,” Hordo muttered.
“As I commanded him,” she replied coldly. “You, at least, Hordo, should know I don’t allow men of my band to draw weapons on each other. I’d have killed Aberius and Talbor for it. You two are more valuable Shall I let each of you consider it the night with his hands and feet bound in the small of his back?”
Hordo seemed shaken by her anger. He sheathed his sword. “I was but trying to protect you,” he protested.
The muscles along her jaw tightened. “Think you I need protection? Go, Hordo, before I forget the years you’ve served me well.” The one-eyed man hesitated, cast a sharp glance at Conan, then stalked off toward the fires.
“You talk more like a queen than a bandit,” Conan said finally, replacing his sword in its worn shagreen scabbard. She stared at him, but he met her gaze firmly.
“Others end at the headsman’s block, or on the slave block, but none of mine has ever been taken, Conan. Because I demand discipline. Oh, not the foolishness soldiers call discipline, but any command I give must be obeyed at once. Any command. In this band the Red Hawk’s word is law, and those who cannot accept that must leave or die.”
“I am no hand at obedience,” he said quietly.
“Come inside,” she said, and disappeared through the entrance. Conan f
ollowed.
The ground inside the striped pavilion had been laid with fine, fringed Turanian carpets. A bed of glossy black furs, with silken pillows and soft, striped woolen blankets, lay against a side of the tent. A low, highly polished table was surrounded by large cushions. Gilded oil lamps illumined all.
“Close the flap,” she said. Her mouth worked, and she added with obvious effort, “Please.”
Conan unfastened the flap and let it drop across the entrance. He was wary of this strange mood Karela seemed to be in. “You should be more careful with Hordo. He’s the only one of this lot who’s loyal to you instead of to your success.”
“Hordo is more a faithful hound than a man,” she said.
“The more fool you for thinking so. He’s the best man out there.”
“He is no man, as I mean a man.” Abruptly she threw back the emerald cape, letting it fall to the rugs, and Conan could not stop the gasp that rose in his throat.
Karela stood before him naked, soft auburn hair falling about her shoulders. A single strand of matched pearls hung low around the curve of her hips, glowing against the ivory skin of her sweetly rounded belly. Her heavy, round breasts were rouged, and the musky scent of perfume drifted from her as she stood with one knee slightly bent, shoulders back, hands behind her, in a pose at once offering and defiant.
He took a step toward her, and there was suddenly a dagger in her hand, its needle blade no wider than her finger but long enough and more to reach his heart. Her tilted green eyes never left his face. “You walk among my rogues like a wolf among a pack of dogs, Cimmerian. Even Hordo is but half wolf beside you. No man has ever called me his, for men come to believe the calling. If a woman must be a man’s slave, then I’ll be no woman. I’ll walk behind no man, fawning for his favor and leaping to his command. I am the Red Hawk. I command. I!”
With great care he lifted the dagger from her fingers and tossed it aside. “You are a woman, Karela, whether you admit it or no. Does there have to be one to command between us? I knew the chains of slavery when I was but sixteen, and I have no desire to wish them on anyone.” He lowered her to the furs.
“An you betray me,” she whispered, “I’ll put your head before my tent on a spear. I’ll … ah, Derketo.” For a time she made no sounds that came not unbidden to her lips.
XII
The private thaumaturgical chambers of Amanar were in the very top of the tallest tower of the keep, as far from the room of sacrifice as they could be and still remain within that dark fortress. He knew that Morath-Aminee was in no way limited to the columned room in the heart of the mountain, but distance yet gave an illusion of safety.
The walls of the circular stone room were lined with books bound in the skins of virgins, and light came from glass balls that hung from sconces glowing from a minor spell. There was no window, nor any opening save a single heavily barred, ironbound door. The scent of incense hissing with colored flames on the coals of a bronze brazier warred with the odor of a noxious brew bubbling in a stone beaker above a fire stoked with human bones. On the tables, dried mummies waited to be powdered for philters, among carelessly scattered ewers of deadly venom and bundles of rare herbs and roots.
The necromancer himself stood watching the boiling brew, his attention rapt. The dark liquid began to froth higher. With but a moment’s hesitation he removed the amulet from his neck. A chill climbed his backbone at being even so barely separated, but it was necessary. Before the black froth reached the rim of the beaker, he lowered the amulet by its chain until serpent and eagle alike were covered. The silver chain grew colder, bitter metal ice searing his preternaturally long fingers. The froth sank, but the black liquid bubbled even more fiercely. The stone of the beaker began to glow red.
“Hand of a living man, powdered when dry
Blood of an eagle, no more to fly