Conan the Defender (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 2)

“How magnificent you are,” she breathed, “with the sweat of combat still on you. You defeated him, didn’t you? Garian could not stand against one such as you.”

Hastily he searched the room, flipping aside each tapestry on the wall, putting his head

out of the window to make sure no assassin clung to the copings. Even did he look under the bed, before her amused smile made him throw the coverlet back down with an oath.

“What do you look for, Conan? I have no husband to jump out accusing.”

“You have a king,” he growled. One look at her, golden breastplates barely containing her swelling orbs, narrow strips of golden silk tangled about her thighs, proved she could carry no weapon greater than a pin.

“A king who can talk of nothing but tariffs and grain and things even more boring.” A sultry smile caressed her lips, and she let herself fall backwards on the bed, breathing deep. “But you, barbarian, are not boring. I sense power in you, though afar as yet. Will you become a king, I wonder?”

Conan frowned. That sequence of words seemed to touch some deeply buried memory. Power. That he would be a king. He thrust it all from his mind. A fancy for children, no more.

He laid his sword across the bed above Sularia’s head. It would be close to hand there, let come who would. The blonde twisted to gaze at the bare blade, wetting her lips as if its closeness excited her. Conan clutched the golden links that joined her breastplates in his fist and tore them from her. Her eyes darted back to him, the icy sapphire of his commanding the smouldering blue of hers.

“You have played a game with me, woman,” he said softly. “Now ’tis my turn to play.”

Neither of them saw the door move ajar, nor the woman in gray veils who stood there a time, watching them with eyes of emerald fire.

XV

As Conan walked through the Palace the next afternoon, Hordo ran to join him.

“’Tis well to see you, Cimmerian. I had some niggling fears when I did not meet you in the taverns last night.”

“I found something else to do,” Conan smiled.

Hurrying slaves thronged the corridors, keeping near the walls to leave the center free for strolling lords and ladies, of which there were some few in richly embroidered velvets and satins, hung about with gold chains and emeralds and rubies on necks and wrists and waists. Nobles gave the warrior pair curious looks, men haughtily disdainful, women thoughtful.

Hordo eyed them all suspiciously, then dropped his voice and leaned closer to Conan as they walked. “Mayhap you took time last night to reconsider what occurred yesterday. Even now Garian’s torturers may be heating their irons. Let us to horse and away while we can.”

“Cease this foolish prattle,” Conan laughed. “Not two glasses ago I exercised at swords with Garian, and he said no ill word to me. In fact, he laughed often, except when his head was thumped.”

The one-eyed man’s stride faltered. “Cimmerian, you didn’t … . Mitra! You do not crack the pate of a king!”

“I cracked no pate, Hordo. Garian’s foot slipped on leaves blown by the breeze, and he struck his face with his own hilt in falling. A bruise, no more.”

“What men like you and me account a bruise,” Hordo said, raising a finger like one of the philosophers at the Thestis, “Kings account a mortal insult to dignity.”

“I fear you are right,” Conan sighed. “You do grow old.”

“I am too,” Hordo began, and snapped his mouth shut with a glare as he realized what the big Cimmerian had said.

Conan suppressed the laughter that wanted to escape at the look on the bearded man’s face. Hordo might call himself old, but he was very ready to thump anyone else who named him so. Then the Cimmerian’s mirth faded.

They had come on a courtyard in which a score of the Golden Leopards stood in a large circle about Vegentius, all including the Commander stripped to the waist. A small knot of nobles stood discreetly within an arcade on the far side, watching. Apart from them, but also among those columns so she should not seem to watch, was Sularia.

Vegentius turned within the circle, arms flexing over his head. “Who will be next?” he called to the men around him. “I’ve not worked up a sweat as yet.” His bare chest was deep, his shoulders broad and covered with thick muscle. “Am I to get no exercise? You, Oaxis.”

A man stepped forward, dropping into a crouch. As tall as Vegentius, he was not so heavily muscled, though no stripling. Vegentius laughed, crouching and circling. Oaxis circled with him, but not laughing.

Abruptly they rushed together, grappling, feet shuffling for position and leverage. Conan could see that the slighter man had knowledge, and agility. Even as the Cimmerian thought, Oaxis slipped an arm free, his fist streaking for Vegentius’ corded stomach. Perhaps he remembered who it was he struck, for at the last instant the blow slowed, the impact bringing not even a grunt from the grinning Vegentius.

The bigger man was under no such restraints. His free hand axed into the side of Oaxis’ neck with a sound like stone striking wood. Oaxis staggered and sagged, but Vegentius held him up yet a moment. Twice his fist rose and fell, clubbing the back of the other’s neck. The first time Oaxis jerked, the second he hung limp. Vegentius released him to crumple in a heap on the flagstones.

“Who comes next?” the huge Commander of the Golden Leopards roared. “Is there none among you to give me a struggle?”

Two of the bare-chested soldiers ran out to drag their companion away. None of them seemed anxious to feel Vegentius’ power. The big man continued turning, smiling his taunting smile, until he found himself facing Conan. There he stopped, his smile becoming grim.