“Twice now,” Conan said softly, “have I heard the taking of a soul spoken of. Once I knew a man who could steal souls.”
The captain made the sign of the horns, against evil. “How did you know such a man?”
“He stole my soul,” Conan said simply.
Haranides laughed uncertainly, not sure if this were a joke. “And what did you do than?”
“I killed him, and took back my soul.” The Cimmerian shivered. That reclaiming had not been easy. To risk the loss again, perhaps past reclaiming, was fearful beyond death. And the same would happen to Velita, and eventually to Karela, could he not prevent it.
Hordo groaned again, and sat up, sagging his broad back against the stone wall. At the clank of his chains he stared at his manacles, then closed his eye.
“What happened, Hordo?” Conan asked. “Amanar had you brought hence by S’tarra, saying you meddled. In what?”
Hordo’s scarred face contracted as if he wished to cry. “She was gone so long from the camp,” he said finally, “and you, that I became concerned. It was near dark, and the thought that she must either remain the night in this place or find her way to camp through that blackness … . At the gate they let me in, but reluctantly, and one of the scaled ones ran calling for Sitha. I found the chamber where thrice-accursed Amanar, may the worms feast long on him, sat on his throne of golden serpents.” His one eye closed again, but he spoke on, more slowly. “Musicians played, men, though their eyes never left the floor. Those snakeskinned demon-spawn came, and beat me down with clubbed spears. The mage shouted for them to take me alive. Two of them I killed, before my senses went. Two, at least, I know.”
He fell silent, and Conan prodded him. “Surely Amanar didn’t have you imprisoned merely for entering his throne room?”
The bearded face contorted in a grimace of pain, and Hordo moaned through clenched teeth. “Karela!” he howled. “She danced for him, naked as any girl in a zenana, and with as wild an abandon! Karela danced naked for the pleasure of that … .” Sobs wracked his burly form, choking off his words.
The hackles stood on Conan’s neck. “He will die, Hordo,” he promised. “He will die.”
“This Karela,” Haranides said incredulously, “she is the Red Hawk?”
Redfaced, Hordo lunged to the full extent of his chains. “She was ensorceled!” he shouted. “She knew me not. Never once did she look at me, or cease her dancing. She was spell-caught.”
“We know it,” Conan said soothingly.
The one-eyed man glared at Haranides. “Who is this man, Conan?”
“Don’t you recognize him?” The Cimmerian laughed. “Haranides, the Zamoran captain we introduced to the hillmen.”
“A Zamoran officer!” Hordo snarled. “Can I get my hands free, at least I’ll rid the world of one more soldier before I die.”
“Think you so, rogue?” Haranides sneered. “I’ve killed five like you before breaking fast in the morning.” The bandit and the captain locked murderous gazes.
“Forgetting your chains for the moment,” Conan said conversationally, “do you intend to do Amanar’s work for him?”
The glares shifted to him. “We’re going to die anyway,” Hordo growled.
“Die if you want,” Conan said. “I intend to escape, and let Amanar do the dying.”
“How?” Haranides demanded.
The Cimmerian smiled wolfishly. “Wait,” he said. “Rest.” And despite their protests he settled down to sleep. His dreams were of strangling Amanar with the black pendant’s chain.
XXVI
Karela woke and looked about her in confusion. She lay on a silk-draped couch, not in her pavilion, but in an opulent room hung with scarlet silken gauze. Silver bowls and ewers stood on a gilded table, and the finest Turanian carpet covered the floor. Sunlight streamed in through a narrow window. She was in Amanar’s keep, she realized, and at the same moment realized she was naked.
“Derketo!” she muttered, sitting up quickly.
Her head spun. Had she taken too much wine the night before? For some reason she was sure she had spent a night inside the fortress. There was a vague memory of wild music, and a girl’s sensual dancing. She put a hand to her forehead as if to wipe away perspiration, and jerked it back down with another oath. The room was cool; she was cool. Quickly she rose to search for her clothing.
Her golden breastplates and emerald girdle were carefully laid out on her scarlet cloak, atop a chest at the foot of the couch. Her crimson thigh-boots stood before the chest, and her jeweled tulwar leaned against it. She dressed swiftly.
“Who was that girl?” she muttered beneath her breath as she tugged the last boot on, pulling the soft red leather almost to the top of her thigh. The dance had been shamelessly abandoned, almost voraciously carnal.
But why should that be important, she wondered. More important was to see that she watched her drinking in the future. She did not trust Amanar enough to spend another night in that keep. Her cheeks flamed, only partly with anger. She was lucky she had not wakened in his bed. Not that he was not handsome, in a cruel fashion, and powerful, which had its own attractions, but that would be a matter of her own choosing.