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

“Do not do that,” Jehnna said briskly. “Akiro says they must not be disturbed.”

“They are foolishness,” Conan grumbled. “I have had scratches such as these before. Wash the blood off, then let the air to them. That’s all I ever needed before.”

“They are not scratches,” she said firmly.

“And this grease stinks.”

“’Tis a pleasant herbal smell. I begin to wonder if you have sense enough to take care of yourself.” She went on, oblivious to his dumbfounded stare. “You will leave your bandages alone. Akiro says that his ointment will heal your wounds completely in only two days. He said I must keep an eye on you, but truly I did not believe it.”

Conan twisted in his high-pommeled saddle to glare back at the wispy-haired wizard. Akiro met his stare calmly, and the others were watching him as well. Malak and Zula wore looks of smug amusement. Bombatta seemed lost in thought, but his eyes rested on Conan in a fashion that made it clear he would not have wept had the ape-inflicted gashes proved fatal.

“I must say you do not seem grateful,” Jehnna continued. “Akiro labors to make you well, and you—”

“Mitra’s Mercies, girl,” Conan said abruptly “do you have to go on so?”

Hurt clouded her face, and the look in her big eyes made him feel it was his fault. “Forgive me,” she said shortly, and let her mount fall back. Malak replaced her.

“Sometimes,” Conan told the small thief, “I think I liked that girl more when she was affrighted of her own shadow.”

“I like them with more to fill the arm,” Malak said, and flinched at the Cimmerian’s cold gaze. “Ah, look you, it’s not the girl I want to talk of. Do you know where we are?”

Conan nodded. “I know.”

“Then why are you not turning another way? Inti put his hand over us! Another league at most, and we’ll be getting close to the village where we found Zula.” The wiry man made a sound half sigh and half groan. “They’ll not be glad to see us again, Cimmerian. It will be luck if we get no more than a fistful of arrows from ambush.”

“I know,” Conan said again. He looked back at Jehnna. She rode with her head down and the hood of her pale cloak pulled far forward to hide her face. Every line of her spoke of a deep sulk. “Must we ride all the way back to the village?” he called.

Jehnna jerked erect, blinking. “What? The village?” She looked around, then pointed to the east, to a strait pass rising between two dark, snow-capped peaks. “We must go that way.”

“Praise all the gods,” Malak breathed, and at that moment two-score mounted Corinthian soldiers burst upon them with longswords gleaming in their fists.

Conan wasted no wind on curses; he had not a moment for it in any case. His broadsword came into his hand barely in time to block an overhand strike that would have split his skull. He kicked a foot free of its stirrup to boot another Corinthian in red-crested helm from his saddle, and as if it were all one motion slashed open his first attacker’s throat. He saw Malak bend beneath a flashing blade to sink his dagger under the bottom of a polished breastplate, then another cavalryman was upon him.

“Conan!” The shrill scream reached him even as he engaged. “Conan!”

The one glance the Cimmerian could spare was enough to freeze the breath in his throat. A laughing soldier had his hand tangled in Jehnna’s dark hair, and their two horses danced in a circle, only her frantic grip on the tall pommel of her saddle keeping her from being unseated.

One glance Conan could spare, and when his eyes turned back to his opponent the Corinthian gasped at what he saw in those icy sapphires, for it was his own death. The man was no mean hand with his long cavalry sword, but he had no chance against the grim northland fury he faced now. Thrice their blades met, then Conan was turning away from a bloody corpse that toppled to the rocky ground behind him.

Desperately Conan raced his horse for Jehnna. The slender girl had loosed one hand from her saddle to clutch at the first in her hair; her other hand had only a precarious, clawed hold on the pommel. The horses pranced and circled, and the Corinthian threw back his head in gales of laughter.

“Erlik take you, dog!” Conan snarled, and stood in his stirrups so that his backhand blow had all the strength of his massive body driving the whipping blade.

So great was his rage that he barely felt the shock as his razor steel sheared through the laughing soldier’s neck. Mouth frozen forever in mirth the Corinthian’s head flew from his shoulders; blood fountained from a torso that remained erect for moments longer, then rolled over the rump of the prancing horse. Fingers twisted in Jehnna’s hair almost pulled her from her saddle before they slackened in death. She slumped across the pommel, sobbing wildly and staring with bulging eyes at the headless body beneath her horse’s hooves.

It took Conan no more than an instant to take in the situation on the small battlefield. Malak now rode one of the smaller, Corinthian horses, and even as the Cimmerian looked he leaped from that to another, pulling back the rider’s head by the red crest on his helmet and slitting his throat. Flashes and roars accompanied Akiro on his mad dashes about the narrow valley. Every time the rotund wizard found time to breathe he began the arm motions that heralded his major displays of power, but each time horsemen in polished breastplates would close about him and, with a shouted curse, Akiro would startle them with a burst of light and a clap of thunder. The deflagrations and deafening bangs hurt no one, though, and the old man was finding less time after each to try his greater wizardries. Zula and Bombatta each attempted to fight to Jehnna’s side, but flashing tulwar and whirling staff were hard pressed simply to keep back the soldiers who strove to cut them down.

In the first fury of battle the very numbers of the Corinthians made it inevitable that the balance of dead would favor the Zamorans, but there were simply too many riders in red-crested helms. And dying bravely and stupidly when there were alternatives was one custom of the cities that had never found favor with Conan.

“Scatter!” he roared. Two cavalrymen closed with the big Cimmerian; his blade swept in a circle, severing a sword

arm at the elbow, axing deep into the second man’s shoulder. He wrenched his steel free without slackening his bellow. “Scatter! They are too many! Scatter!” Seizing Jehnna’s reins, Conan booted his horse toward the narrow pass she had indicated as the way they must go.

Three Corinthians spurred to put themselves in the fugitives’ way. Surprised grins of anticipation blossomed on their faces when Conan did not wheel in another direction; the grins turned to consternation when the Cimmerian galloped straight into them, his tall Zamoran mount bowling over a smaller animal. The Corinthian screamed as his thrashing horse rolled atop him, grinding him into the stony ground.

Stunned, the pair remaining fell back on defending themselves rather than attacking. Burdened with pulling Jehnna’s mount behind him, Conan knew he would have been hardpressed at best to fight a way past. Cold and methodically deadly, he taught them of their fatal mistake. He rode on from two fresh corpses—and one Corinthian screaming and coughing frothy blood—with eyes locked on the narrow pass, eyes as grim as death.

He could not afford to look back, and the knowledge gnawed at him. What if he did look back, and saw one of the others in need? He could not ride back to help. Jehnna must be gotten to the treasure, then to Shadizar with treasure and key, for Valeria. And even without Valeria, he knew he could not abandon the girl. She would get her throat cut, or be dragged behind a boulder by a cavalryman who thought it safe to ignore the unequal fight for a time. Teeth clenching till his jaw ached, he rode, and tried not to hear the sounds of battle fading behind.