“Since she’s angry with me, talk her into turning back. That will give you what you want. Her away from me.” He did not add that it would also give him what he wanted, and relieve him of the necessity of stealing the pendants from the bandits.
“The temper she’s in, ’tis more likely she’ll order you staked out again, and begin again where first we were.”
Conan touched his sword; his steel blue eyes were suddenly cold. “This time I’ll collect my ferryman’s fee, Hordo.”
“Speak not of ferryman’s fees,” the other man muttered. “An she decides so … I’ll get you away in the night. Bah! This talk of what will happen and what may happen is building towers of sand in the wind.”
“Then let us talk on other things,” Conan said with a laugh that did not touch his eyes. He believed the one-eyed brigand did indeed like him, but he would not trust his life to that where the need of going against Karela’s commands was concerned. “Think you Aberius made these snakemen out of air, to cover his wanting to turn back?”
“He tells the truth with a face that shouts lie, yet this time I think he may actually have seen something. That’s not to say it was what he says it was. Ah, I know not, Conan. Snakes that walk like men.” The bearded bandit shivered. “I begin to grow old. This chasing after a king’s treasure is beyond me. I’d settle for a good caravan with guards who have no wish to die.”
“Than talk her into turning back. ’Tis almost full dark. I’ll leave the camp tonight, and in the morning, with me gone, there will be no trouble in it.”
“Much you know,” Hordo snorted. “With the humor on her now, she’d order us to pursue, and slay any who would not.”
The flap of the striped pavilion opened, and Karela emerged, her face almost hidden by the hood of a scarlet cloak that covered her to the ground. She moved purposefully toward the two men through the deepening purple twilight. The cookfires made small pools of light among the boulders.
Hordo got to his feet, dusting his hands nervously. “I … must see to the horses. Good luck to you, Conan.” He hurried away, not looking in the direction of the approaching woman.
Conan picked up his sword again and bent to examine the blade. It must needs be sharp, but the razor-edge some men boasted of would split against chain mail and quickly leave naught but a metal club. He became aware of the lower edge of Karela’s crimson cloak at the corner of his vision. He did not look up.
“Why did you not come to my tent?” she demanded abruptly.
“I had need to tend my sword.” With a final examination of the edge, he stood and sheathed the sword. Her tilted green eyes glared up at him from within the shelter of her hood; his sapphire gaze met hers calmly.
“I commanded you to come to me! We have much to discuss.”
“But I will not be commanded, Karela. I am not one of your faithful hounds.”
Her gasp was loud. “You defy me? I should have known you would think to supplant me. Do not think simply because you share my bed —”
“Be not a fool, Karela.” The big Cimmerian made an effort to keep a rein on his temper. “I have no designs on your band. Command your rogues, but do not try to command me.”
“So long as you ride behind the Red Hawk—”
“I ride with you, and beside you, as you ride with and beside me. No more than that for either of us.”
“Do not cut me off, you muscle-bound oaf!” Her shout rang through the camp, echoing from tall boulders and the looming cliff. Bandits at the cook fires, and currying horses, turned to stare. Even in the dimness Conan could see that her face had colored. She lowered her voice, but her tone was acid. “I thought that you were the man I sought, a man strong enough to be the Red Hawk’s consort. Derketo blast your soul! You’re naught but a street thief!”
He caught her swinging hand before it could strike his cheek, and held it easily despite her struggles. Her scarlet cloak gaped open, revealing that she wore nothing beneath. “Again you break your oath, Karela. Do you hold your goddess in such contempt as to believe she will not punish a foresworn oath?”
Abruptly the auburn-haired woman seemed to realize the spectacle they were making before her brigands. She gathered her cloak together with her free hand. “Release me,” she said coolly. “Rot your soul, I will not say please.”
Conan loosened his grip, but it was not her plea that caused him to do so. As she tore her wrist free the hairs on the back of his neck were rising in an unpleasantly familiar fashion. He stared through the now black sky at the mountains around them. The stars were glittering bright points, and the moon had not yet risen. The mountains were formless deepenings of the night’s shadows.
“Imhep-Aton follows still,” he said quietly.
“I may allow you some liberties in private, Conan,” Karela grated, rubbing her wrist, “but never again in public are you to … . Imhep-Aton? That’s the name the possessed man spoke, that night in the camp. The sorcerer’s name.”
Conan nodded. “It was he who spoke to me first of the pendants. If not for the man he sent to kill me that night, I’d have delivered them to him, once I had them, for the price agreed. Now he has no more claim on me, or on the pendants.”
“How can you be sure it is him, and not a hillman, or just the weight of night in these mountains pressing on you?”
“I know,” he said simply.
“But—” Abruptly she stared past him, green eyes going wide in shock, mouth dropping open.
Conan spun, broadsword leaving its scabbard as he turned to knock aside the thrust of a spear in the hands of a demon-like apparition. Red eyes glowed at him from a dark scaled face beneath a ridged helmet. A harsh cry hissed at him from a fanged mouth. The big Cimmerian allowed himself no time for surprise. His return blow from the parry opened the creature from crotch to neck, black blood bubbling forth as it fell.