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

“And so you both were captured,” Jehnna said breathlessly. “It was a brave thing you did, a thing such as romances are made of.”

“He was my battle companion,” Zula said simply.

Jehnna jerked a nod, as if reaching a decision. “You will come with us.”

“No!” Bombatta shouted. “Mitra’s mercies, Jehnna, will you endanger everything? Remember the prophecy.”

“I remember nothing that says I cannot have a woman with me.” Jehnna’s tone was firm, but still she turned to Conan. “Say that she may accompany me. You have Malak and Akiro. I have only Bombatta, and he shouts at me of late. He never shouted at me before.”

“She could not even keep up with us on that Corinthian sheep,” Malak laughed.

Zula eyed him calmly. “I will ride you into the ground, little man, even after you attain full growth.”

Conan touched the amulet on his chest. Bombatta could be right; perhaps they did endanger the fulfilling of the prophecy, and thus the rebirth of Valeria. But there was the matter of the omen. A life to be repaid. “I will not say no,” he said finally.

Bombatta cursed, but Jehnna overrode him with her enthusiasm. “Then you will ride with me, and be my companion.”

“I will ride with Conan,” Zula said. “And so with you.” Jehnna smiled as if she had not caught the distinction the ebon woman made.

“Let us all ride, then,” Conan said, and turned his horse once more down the canyon.

In the sanguine glow of the gem Amon-Rama studied the moving figures. Two more, he thought, and concentrated his study on the rotund, yellow-skinned man with the wispy gray hair and mustaches. There was power there. A wizard. His thin mouth twisted in a malevolent smile. Not enough power. Merely more sport.

“Come to me,” he whispered. “Bring the One to me.”

“ … And when you have carried this key and this treasure to Shadizar,” Zula said, “what then?”

Jehnna looked at the other woman in surprise. She had never thought of such a question. “Why, I will live in the palace, as I always have.” That brought a vaguely dissatisfied frown to her face. But what else was she to do? “This is my destiny,” she said firmly.

Zula only grunted.

Feeling ill at ease without knowing why, Jehnna let her eyes travel ahead, to wiry, laughing Malak and round-bellied, wise-eyed Akiro, to broad-shouldered Conan, riding in the lead as they wended their way around a snow-tipped mountain. Bombatta still brought up the rear, his gaze always on the heights, searching for danger in the fading, reddishgold light that announced the imminence of dusk.

It was the Cimmerian who held her thoughts, however. He was so different from what she had expected. Akiro, and even Malak, had their places in the stories her dressing maids told, but the tall northlander fit nowhere in those tales of handsome princes and lovely princesses. And it was not just him. He made her feel very peculiar, indeed, in ways she did not recognize. None of her feelings seemed to correspond to what she imagined she would feel like if he were to recite long poems to her eyes. It was difficult to imagine him doing that, in any case. Or to see him giving her a single, golden rose for her to weep crystal tears over while he went far away. Conan might rather sweep her fiercely to his saddle before him and … and what? She was not sure, but she was certain that whatever he would do would be something not in the stories.

Zula, she thought, might have useful advice, but something made her feel awkward about simply asking. But perhaps if she made her way to it in slow steps … .

“Women warriors,” she said abruptly, “are strange to me. Are all women of your land warriors?”

The dark woman nodded. “Our mountains are surrounded by enemies, and we are few. Too few to allow us your ways, where only men are warriors, and some few women who want to be. All of us must fight, if we would live.”

“I did not know there were women in my land who are warriors,” Jehnna said, diverted for the moment. “Could I be a warrior?” It would certainly be a different thing than living the rest of her life in Taramis’ gardens, she thought.

“Perhaps,” Zula replied, “if you were willing to accept hard training, and if you have the heart. It is a harsh life, though, and you must ever be ready for death. Your own, or that of someone close to you.”

The sadness in the other woman’s voice reminded Jehnna of her purpose. “T’car,” she said softly. “You called him your battle companion. Was he your … your true love?”

“My lover, you mean? Aye, he was my lover, and in all ways as good a man as I have ever known.”

“How … how did it begin? Between you and T’car, that is.”

Zula laughed, as if at a fond memory. “Many women wanted him, for he was a proud and handsome man, but I told them they must fight me if they would lie with him. None of them could stand against me, and when T’car saw, he took me into his hut.”

Jehnna blinked. It certainly did not sound like any of the stories. “So you simply decided he would be yours, chose him. Do men like that?”

“Some men, child, if they know themselves men. Others have not the stomach for it.”

“And which of the men riding with us would you chose? Malak, perhaps?”