Conan the Destroyer (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 6)

“The god of my land is Crom,” Conan replied, “the Dark Lord of the Mound. At birth he gives a man life and will, and never another gift. He will not pay heed to votive offerings, nor listen to prayers or pleadings. What a man does with the gifts Crom has given him are his own affair.”

“But the altar?” Malak prompted when he fell silent.

“This is a different land, with different gods. They are not my gods, but Valeria believed.” Frowning, Conan released the dragon amulet. “Mayhap her gods listen, as the priests claim they do. Perhaps I can do something to help her fate with them.”

“Who knows what will sway gods,” Malak said, shrugging. The wiry thief lifted himself from the hole and sat crosslegged beside the leather sacks. “Even the priests do not agree, so how can you—” The clatter of galloping hooves from beyond the hill cut off his words.

With a yelp Malak snatched for the leather sacks. In an instant he had thrust several of the gems into his mouth—his face contorted painfully as he swallowed—and tossed the sacks into the hole. Desperately he began shoveling dirt back in, kicking in stones, anything to fill it before the riders arrived.

Conan put a hand to the leather-wrapped hilt of his broadsword and waited calmly, cool blue eyes watching the hill for the first of the newcomers. They could be anyone, he told himself. They could be concerned with matters other than Malak and himself. But he did not believe it.

ii

As a lone horseman in black nasaled helm and gold-chased ebon breastplate crested the hill, Malak laughed shakily. “One man. He may be big, but we can handle one man, if he tries—”

“I heard more than a single horse,” Conan said.

“Erlik take them,” Malak groaned. Jamming the broken-handled shovel under the edge of a small boulder, he levered the stone toward the hole. “Our horses,” he panted. “We can outrun them.” The boulder toppled into the narrow pit, plugging it.

Conan snorted, but gave no other answer. The watcher’s horse was weighed down with as much armor as its rider, it was true. The two of them would gain a lead, but a short-lived one, he knew. Their mounts were the sort available on short notice to men who had obvious need of leaving Shadizar quickly, though each had cost as much in gems as a king’s charger. At a gallop the animals would founder inside half a league, leaving them afoot to be run down at their pursuer’s leisure.

The watcher had stopped on the crest of the hill.

“What does he wait for?” Malak demanded, tugging two daggers from his belt. “If we are to die, I see no reason—”

Abruptly the black-armored warrior raised his arm, moved it from side to side. Over the hilltop burst more than fourscore yelling armored riders, an ebon wave that split to either side of the man who still sat with upraised arm. At a dead gallop the warriors roared to the right and left, sweeping out to encircle Conan and Malak at a distance of three hundred paces.

“You would think we were an army,” Conan said. “Someone thinks we are dangerous, Malak.”

“So many,” Malak moaned, and cast a regretful glance at their horses, now whinnying fretfully and dancing as if they wished to run. He seemed ready to run with them. “The gold for hiring these would keep a man in luxury for months. Who would have thought Amphrates would become so angry?”

“Perhaps he did not like having his gems stolen,” Conan said drily.

“We did not take all that he had,” the wiry thief muttered. “He could be grateful that something was left. He could spend a coin or two for incense in the temples, to thank the gods for what remained. He did not have to … .”

The Cimmerian was barely aware of his companion’s tirade. He had learned long since to listen selectively to the small man, simply no longer hearing Malak’s moans of what could have been or should have been, but obviously was not.

At the moment the steely-eyed northlander was intent on four of the encircling warriors, four men who had ridden together and now fumbled with a long bundle one of them bore before his saddle. He glanced back at the hilltop. Another rider, masked, now sat beside the first, watching what occurred below.

Abruptly the tall watcher raised a curled brass horn, like the hunting horns used by nobles. A loud note rang from the hilltop, and the four who had worked at the bundle suddenly unfurled it between them and broke into a gallop, straight for the two men afoot. Four others galloped out to join them.

The big Cimmerian’s frown deepened. It was a net they held, and the outriders bore long clubs, as if they would cut off a quarry that sought to evade capture.

Malak took two nervous steps toward the horses.

“Wait.” Despite Conan’s youth there was a note of command in his voice that stopped the smaller man. “Wait for them, or we are meat for the taking.” Malak nodded grimly and tightened his grip on his daggers.

Closer the horsemen thundered. A hundred paces. Fifty. Ten. Shouts of triumph broke from the charging warriors.

“Now,” Conan said, and leaped … toward the net. Groaning, Malak followed.

As he leaped, the Cimmerian’s broadsword finally left its worn shagreen scabbard. Driven by massive shoulders the blade sheared through a corner of the net. The rider who had held that corner galloped on with a startled yell, holding only a fragment of thick rope. The warrior following behind dropped his reins and drew the curved tulwar at his belt. Conan ducked under the slash, then thrust up, his steel sliding under the black breastplate. The impaled warrior seem to leap backwards from the saddle of his charging horse.

Even as the man fell, Conan tugged free his bloodied steel and spun, warned by a primitive instinct for danger. The face looming above him was twisted with rage beneath the dark helmet’s rim, contorted as if the man wished he swung a sword rather than a club. Yet that thick billet, longer than a man’s arm, could crack a skull if landed hard enough, and the club-wielder swung with a will. The Cimmerian’s blade flashed upward, through flesh and bone. Club and still-clutching hand sailed through the air. As the shrieking man grabbed his scarlet-fountaining wrist with his remaining hand, his horse bolted, carrying him away. Hastily Conan sought for a new enemy.

Malak was grappling with one of the net-carriers, attempting to pull him from the saddle. One of the small thief’s daggers darted into the gap between helmet and breastplate. With a gurgling scream the horseman toppled, carrying Malak to the ground with him. The dark-eyed thief bounded quickly to his feet, daggers at the ready. The other man did not move.

For a frozen instant Conan and his companion faced the five remaining of their attackers. The net lay abandoned on the ground, now. The two who had helped bear the net rested their hands on their sword hilts. Those with clubs seemed more hesitant. Suddenly one man threw down his club; before his sword was half drawn another blast of the horn rang out. The sword was resheathed with an oath, and all five galloped back toward the encircling line.