The galley. It had survived both fire and storm after all. “Perhaps we might help these men,” Conan said. “How far off are they, and in which direction?”
Baotan waved a hand to the south. “Half a day. Maybe a day.”
Far enough that they might not know Foam Dancer had also survived. But if that was so, why the horses? Perhaps there was something here that Jhandar feared. Conan felt excitement rising.
“Use our campfires this night,” he said to Baotan. “Akeba, Tamur, we ride at first light.”
Yasbet appeared from the dark to nestle her hip against Conan’s shoulder. “It grows cold,” she said. “Will you warm me?” Ribald laughter rose from the listening men, but, oddly, a glare from her silenced them, even Tamur and Baotan.
“That I will,” Conan said, and as he rose flipped her squealing over his shoulder.
Her squeals had turned to laughter by the time they reached her tent. “Put me down, Conan,” she managed between giggles. “’Tis unseemly.”
Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck rose,
and he whirled, staring into the dark, at the headland.
“Are you trying to make me dizzy, Conan? What is it?”
Imaginings, he told himself. Naught but imaginings. The galley and those it carried were far to the south, sure Foam Dancer and all aboard had perished in the storm.
“’Tis nothing, wench,” he growled. She squealed with laughter as he ducked into the tent.
Che Fan rose slowly from the shadows where he had dropped, and peered at the beach below, dotted with campfires. There was no more to learn by watching. The barbarian was abed for the night. He made his way across the headland and down the far slope, gliding surefooted over the rough ground, a wraith in the night.
Suitai was waiting at their small fire—well shielded by scrub growth—along with the six they had chosen from the uninjured to accompany them. The men huddled silently on the far side of the fire from the Khitans. They had seen just enough on the voyage to guess that the two black-robed men carried a sort of deadliness they had never before encountered. Thus they feared greatly, and wisely, although still ignorant.
“What did you see?” Suitai asked. He sipped at a steaming decoction of herbs.
Che Fan squatted by the fire, filling a cup with the same bitter liquid as he spoke. “They are there. And they have obtained horses from that dung-beetle Baotan.”
“Then let us go down and kill them,” Suitai said. “It may be more difficult if we must find them again.” The six who had accompanied them from the galley shifted uneasily, but the Khitans did not appear to notice.
“Not until they have found what they came to seek,” Che Fan replied. “The Great Lord will not be pleased if we return with naught but word of their deaths.” He paused. “We must be careful of the barbarian called Conan.”
“He is but a man,” Suitai said, “and will die as easily as any other.”
Che Fan nodded slowly, uncertain why he had spoken such a thing aloud. And yet … . In his boyhood had he learned the art of appearing invisible, of hiding in the shadow of a leaf and becoming one with the night, but there was that about the muscular barbarian’s gaze that seemed to penetrate all such subterfuge. That was nonsense, he told himself. He was of the Brothers of the Way, and this Conan was but a man. He would die as easily as any other. Yet … the doubts remained.
XVIII
Tugging his cloak closer about him against the brisk wind, Conan twisted on his sheepskin saddle pad to look behind for the hundredth time since dawn. Short-grassed plain and rolling hills, so sparsely grown with a single stunted tree was a startlement, revealed no sign of pursuit. Disgruntled, he faced front. The pale yellow sun, giving little warmth in the chill air, rose ahead of them toward its zenith. The Vilayet lay two nights behind. No matter what his eyes told him, deeper instinct said that someone followed, and that instinct had kept him alive at times when more civilized senses failed.
The party rode well bunched, half of the Hyrkanians leading strings of pack horses, cursing. The small beasts, seeming little larger than the hampers and bales lashed to their pack saddles, tried to turn their tails into the wind whenever they found slack in the lead ropes. The men not so encumbered kept hands near weapons and eyes swiveling in constant watch. It was not unknown for travelers to be attacked on the plains of Hyrkania. Traders were usually immune, but more than one had lost his head.
Tamur galloped his shaggy horse between Conan and Akeba. “Soon we shall be at the Blasted Lands.”
“You have been saying that since we left the sea,” Conan grumbled. His temper was not improved by the way his feet dangled on either side of his diminutive mount.
“A few more hills, Cimmerian. But a few more. And you must be ready to play the trader. One of the tribes is sure to be camped nearby. Each takes its turn guarding the Blasted Lands.”
“You’ve said that as well.”
“I hope we find a village soon,” Yasbet said through clenched teeth. She half stood in her stirrups then, seeing the amusement that flitted across the men’s faces, sat again hastily, wincing.
Conan managed to keep a straight face. “There is liniment in one of the packs,” he offered. It was not his first time to do so.
“No,” she said brusquely, the same answer she had given to his other offers. “I need no coddling.”