Conan shrugged as the one-eyed man trailed off doubtfully. “You must do as you will.” Hordo still looked uncertain. Conan sighed. He would not like seeing the burly bandit dead. Purple twilight was already giving way, night falling as if the inky air had jelled. The bandits around Karela continued their cheering. “I’ll be away, now,” the Cimmerian went on, “before they notice my going.”
“Fare you well,” Hordo said quietly.
Conan slipped into the caliginous night. Scudding clouds obscured the lustrous moon as he hurried along the stony slope. Before the full mantle of night enfolded that tenebrous vale, he wanted to be as close to the walls of the fortress as he could.
Abruptly he stopped, broadsword coming firmly into his hand. No sound had reached his ear, no glimmer of motion caught his eye, but senses he could not describe told him there was something ahead of him.
The darkness ahead seemed suddenly to split, fold and thicken, and there was an elongated shadow where there had been none. “How did you know?” came Imhep-Aton’s low voice. “No matter. Truly now your usefulness is ended. Your pitiful efforts are futile, but as a rat scurrying beneath the feet of warrior in battle may cause him to trip and die, so may you discommode those greater than yourself.”
The darkling shape moved toward Conan. He could see no weapon but an outstretched hand.
Of a sudden rock behind him grated beneath a boot. Conan dropped to a full squat, felt rather than saw a pike thrust pass above his head. Grasping his sword hilt with both hands he pivoted on his left foot, striking for where the pike-wielder must be. He felt the point of his blade bite through chain mail and flesh at the same moment that he saw his attacker’s red eyes glowing in the night. The falling pike struck him on the shoulder, the rubiate glow faded, and he was tugging his sword free of a collapsing body.
Desperately Conan spun back, expecting at any moment to feel the sting of Imhep-Aton’s steel, but before him he saw three shadowy shapes now, locked in combat. A sibilant shriek broke and was cut off, and one of the shadows fell. The other two fought on.
A cascade of small stones skittering down the slope heralded the arrival of more S’tarra. On the fortress walls torches began to move, and the great gong tolled into the dark. The portcullis began to clank noisily open.
Conan could see two pairs of glowing eyes now, approaching him slowly, well separated. Could the beings see in that dark, he wondered. Could they recognize him? He would not take the chance. The shining sanguinary eyes were located thusly, he calculated, so the pikes must be held so.
Silently, with a prayer to Bel, god of thieves, the Cimmerian sprang toward the closer S’tarra, his sword arcking down for where he hoped the pike was. With a solid chunk his blade bit into a wooden pike-haft. He kicked with the ball of his foot, and got a hissing grunt in reply. Reversing the swing of his broadsword, he spun it up and then down for the joining of neck and shoulder. The grunt became a scream.
Conan threw himself to one side as the second pike slashed along his ribs. The dying S‘tarra grappled with him as it fell, pulling him to the ground. The other stood over him, triumph heightening the glow of its eyes. A howl burst from its fanged mouth as the Cimmerian’s steel severed its leg at the knee, and the S’tarra fell beside the first. There was no time for precision. Like a cleaver Conan’s blade split between those red eyes.
From the fortress pounding feet were drawing nearer. Quickly Conan jerked his sword free and ran into the night. The bandit camp had been roused as well. As he ran closer he could see them gathered at the edge of the light from their fires, peering toward the keep, where the gong still sounded. He circled around the camp and, cutting a piece from his breechclout, wiped his sword and sheathed it before striding in.
The brigands’ eyes were all toward the sounds of S’tarra approaching; none but Hordo saw him enter. Conan tossed the scrap of rag, stained with black blood, into a fire and snatched a cloak from his blankets to settle around his shoulders and hide the gash in his side.
“What happened?” Hordo whispered as Conan joined the others. “You’re wounded!”
“I never reached the keep,” Conan replied quietly. “S‘tarra were waiting. And I discovered who watched from the mountain.” He remembered the second light. “As least, I think I did. Later,” he added as the other started to question him further. S’tarra were entering the camp, Sitha at their head.
The bandits backed away, muttering, as the reptilian creatures strode into the firelight. Only Karela stood her ground. Arms crossed beneath her round breasts, the red-haired woman confronted the massive bulk of Sitha. “Why do you come here?” she demanded.
“S’tarra have been slain this night,” Sitha replied. Its crimson eyes ran arrogantly from her ankles to her face. “I will search your camp and question your men to see if any were involved.” The bandits’ muttering became angry; sword hilts were grasped.
“You may die trying,” Karela said coldly. “I’ll not have my camp searched by such as you. And if your master has questions, I’ll answer them of him, but not of his cattle.” She spat the last word, and Sitha quivered, claw-tipped hands working convulsively on the haft of the huge battle-ax.
“You may find,” Sitha hissed malevolently, “that answering questions for my master is even less pleasant than answering them for me.” It spun abruptly on its heel and stalked from the circle of light, followed by the rest of the S’tarra.
When the last of them disappeared into the dark, Karela turned to face the bandits. “If any of you were involved in this,” she said sharply, “I’ll have your ears.” Without another word she strode through them and disappeared into her striped pavilion.
Hordo let out a long breath and pulled Conan aside. “Now what happened out there?” The brigands were breaking up into small knots, discussing the night’s events in low voices. Aberius stood alone, watching Conan and Hordo.
“I slew three S’tarra,” Conan said, “and Imhep-Aton slew two. Or was perhaps himself slain, but I don’t believe that.”
Hordo grunted. “He who sent the man Crato against you? A second sorcerer in this Mitraforsaken valley is ill news indeed. I must tell her.”
Conan grabbed the one-eyed man’s arm. “Don’t. She may well tell Amanar, and I do not think these two have any good will towards each other. Whatever comes between them may give you the chance to get
her away from here.”
“As with the hillmen and the soldiers,” Hordo said slowly, “you will bring the two to combat while we slip away. But I think me being caught between two sorcerers may be worse than being caught between the others.” He barked a short laugh. “I tell you again, Cimmerian, if you live, you’ll be a general. Mayhap even a king. Men have risen from lower stations to become such.”
“I have no desire to be a king,” Conan laughed. “I’m a thief. And Imhep-Aton, at least, has no animosity toward you or Karela.” Though the same, he reflected, could hardly be said of himself. “The keep is too much stirred for me to enter this night. I fear Velita must bear another day of Amanar. Come, let us find a bandage for my side and a flagon of wine.”
Speaking quietly together the two men walked deeper into the bandit camp. Aberius watched them go, tugging at his lower lip in deep thought. Finally he nodded to himself and darted into the night.
XXIV