“Eh?” Malak jerked his hand back from a basket of figs. “Fidesa’s Teats, old man, I am not a foo!.”
Suspicious eyes followed them, covetous eyes that caressed their horses and weapons, speculative eyes that tried to pierce Jehnna’s cloak. Yet they were not many for such a place, and as they came on the source of the smoke, ten patches of ash that had once been huts, Conan saw why there were not more. The villagers had gathered to watch a brutal entertainment.
Six soldiers in boiled leather breastplates and red-crested helms stood leaning on their spears and laughing in a wide circle around a woman who clutched a wooden staff taller than she and as thick as a man’s two thumbs. Her skin, as black as polished ebony, proclaimed her origin far to the south. A tightly bound strip of cloth about her small breasts and a slightly wider bit about her loins were all of the garb on her hard-muscled body, and a thick rope bound about one ankle kept her within a pace of a stake driven into the ground.
“Those men are not Zamorans,” Jehnna said. “This is Zamoran land, is it not?”
Conan did not think that it was the proper moment to explain the border situation to her. The men wore the armor of one of the Corinthian city-states. The mountains, on the border between Zamora and Corinthia, were claimed by both,
and the villages paid such taxes as they could not avoid to whomever sent soldiers, denying the sovereignty of either when there were no soldiers.
The black woman stooped slowly, not taking her eyes from the encircling soldiers, to feel the knot at her ankle. As her fingers touched the rope, one of the Corinthians dashed forward, jabbing with his spear. The woman leaped back as far as the rope would allow, the staff spinning in her hands like a thing alive. The spearman stopped his rush, laughing, and another, behind her, jumped forward. Again she darted away from the spearpoint, then had to dodge yet another.
“What did this woman do to deserve this?” Jehnna demanded. Conan stifled an oath, and gripped his sword hilt more firmly.
A dirty-faced man on the edge of the crowd looked up at Jehnna, frowning. “She’s a bandit.” He twisted his neck, trying to see her face under the edge of her hood. “We took another, and killed him slow, but the soldiers came before we could get to her.”
“They’ll do for her,” another man said, joining the attempt to make out Jehnna’s features. A swollen bruise stood out blue beneath the grime on his forehead. “They shouldn’t have given that stick back, though. She killed a man with it, and near got away.” His gaze slid from Jehnna to each of the others in turn, and his mouth pursed thoughtfully.
“Bombatta,” Jehnna said, “you must stop them. Whatever she has done, these men have no right to treat her so. They are Corinthians, and this is Zamoran land.”
“Bandits and thieves deserve to die,” the scar-faced Zamoran said harshly. “And it is time we were going on.” He snatched for her bridle, missing as she pulled her horse around to face Conan.
“And will you do nothing either?” she demanded.
Conan drew a deep breath, but the situation had gone beyond cursing. More villagers were turning to look at them, weighing the value of their possessions with intent eyes, trying to see if Jehnna were pretty enough for the auction block. Such were not usually dangerous in the open and the daylight, but their blood was heated by the bandits’ raid, and by the soldiers’ cruel sport. The desire was there, writ plain on their faces in licked lips and shifting glances. In moments, soldiers or no, daylight or no, these men would try for fresh prey, and an attempt to leave now would only set off the eruption on the instant.
“Stand ready,” the Cimmerian commanded quietly.
“Bel watch over us,” Malak breathed as Conan moved his horse into the crowd.
Wondering villagers parted slowly before him as he rode slowly toward the soldiers. Casually, nodding to the Corinthians, he rode into their circle. They frowned at each other, at him, obviously unsure what he was about. He drew his broadsword.
“Do not kill her and spoil the fun!” one of the Corinthians shouted. The sable-skinned woman stepped smoothly to the limits of the rope, her staff at the ready and untrusting eyes on his face.
Conan gave her a smile he hoped was reassuring. His blade flashed in the sun, slashing through the rope close to her ankle. Their eyes met; she had not moved a muscle. There was no fear in her, he thought admiringly..
“What did he do?” a soldier called. “I could not see. Did he strike her?”
As casually as he had entered the circle, Conan rode out of it, heedless of the doubtful glances the Corinthians cast at him. Before the Cimmerian reached his companions the black woman took advantage of her chance. Staff moaning with the speed of its whirling, she attacked.
“Ride!” Conan roared.
The thick butt of the woman’s weapon crushed a soldier’s throat before her captors had time to realize she was truly free of the rope. The wooden shaft crashed against a crested helmet, buckling the Corinthian’s knees, then spun to shiver a spear from another’s grasp and rebound into his face with the crunch of bone and a spray of blood.
Shouting villagers scattered before Conan’s waving sword and prancing horse. Bombatta struggled to reach Jehnna’s reins, while she protested, yelling words the Cimmerian could not hear and pointing at the woman who fought.
Three soldiers had gone down in almost the space of as many breaths, and the three remaining hesitated at closing with the woman responsible. She whirled the long staff about her head, giving a high, ululating cry. The three exchanged glances and reached their decision. As one man, they ran. Again the woman gave voice to her battle cry, this time in triumph. Then she disappeared after the soldiers.
Angrily Conan snatched Jehnna’s reins from her hands. She tried to speak, but he booted his horse to a gallop, pulling hers behind, and all she could do was cling to the high pommel of her saddle. Villagers shook fists at them, and here or there a spear or rusty sword, but they made no effort to hinder the speeding riders.
Only when the village was out of sight around a bend in the valley did Conan slow, and return the girl’s reins to her.
She snatched them from his hand and glared. “Why did we leave that woman in the village? She—”
“She has more chance now than she did an hour gone,” Conan barked. “Did we come here to rescue bandits, or to find a key?” He made an effort to control his anger. She had no idea of the danger in which she had placed them, not even now.
A clatter of hooves in the distance brought a growl from Bombatta. “The Corinthians. There’s little chance they will leave us out of their report.”