Haranides waved him to silence. He could see what was unusual about this hollow between two hills. Black-winged vultures, their bald heads glistening red from their feeding, stood on the ground warily watching the quartet of jackals that had driven them from their feast.
“Wait here until I signal,” Haranides commanded, and walked his horse down into the hollow. He counted the ash piles of ten burnt-out fires.
The jackals backed away from the mounted man, snarling, then snatched bones still bearing shreds of scarlet flesh and loped away. The vultures shifted their beady-eyed gaze from the jackals to Haranides. A half-eaten skull showed the thing on the ground had once been a man, but it could never have been proven by the scattered bones, cracked by the jackals’ powerful jaws. Haranides looked up as Aheranates galloped down the hill.
“Mitra! What’s that?”
“Proof there were bandits here, lieutenant. None else would leave a dead man for the scavengers.”
“I’ll bring the men down to search for—”
“You’ll dismount ten men,” Haranides said patiently, “and bring them down.” He could afford to be patient, now. He was sure of it. “No need to grind what little we might find under the horses’ hooves. And lieutenant? Tell off two men to bury that. See to it yourself.”
Aheranates had been avoiding looking at the bloody bones. Now his face abruptly turned green. “Me? But—”
“Now, lieutenant. The Red Hawk, and your glory are getting fur
ther away all the time.”
The lieutenant stared open-mouthed, then swallowed and jerked his horse around. Haranides did not watch him go. The captain dismounted and slowly led his horse through the site of the camp. Around the remains of the fires was scruffed ground where men had slept. Perhaps fifty, he estimated. Well away from the fires were holes from the pegs and poles of a large tent. Four other holes, though, spaced in a large square, interested him more.
A short, bowlegged cavalryman trotted up and touched his sloping forehead. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the lieutenant said I was to tell you he found where they had their horses picketed.” His voice became flatly noncommittal. “The lieutenant says to tell you there was maybe a hundred horses, sir.”
Haranides looked to where two men were digging a hole in the hillside for the remains of the body. Aheranates apparently had decided he should search rather than oversee their work as ordered. “You’ve been twenty years and more in the cavalry, Resaro,” the captain said. “How many horses would you say were on that picket line? If the lieutenant hadn’t said a hundred, of course,” he added when the man hesitated.
“Not to contradict the lieutenant, sir, but I’d say fifty-three. They didn’t clear away the dung, and they kept the horses apart enough to keep the piles separate. Some would be sumpter animals, of course, sir.”
“Very good, Resaro. Go back to the lieutenant and tell him I want … .” He stopped at the strained look on Resaro’s face. “Is there something else you want to tell me?”
The stumpy man shifted awkwardly. “Well, sir, the lieutenant said we was mistaken, but Caresus and me, we found the way they went when they left here. They brushed their tracks some, but not enough. They went east, and a little north.”
“You’re sure of that?” Haranides said sharply.
“Yes, sir.”
The captain nodded slowly. Toward the Kezankian Mountains, but not toward the caravan route through the mountains to Sultanapur. “Tell the lieutenant I want to see him, Resaro.” The cavalryman touched his forehead and backed away. Haranides climbed the eastern hill to stare toward the Kenzankian Mountains, out of view beyond the horizon.
When Aheranates joined him, the lieutenant was carrying a stone unguent jar. “Found this down where the tent was,” he said. “Someone had his leman along, seems.”
Haranides took the jar. Empty, it still held the flowery fragrance of the perfume of Ophir. He toss it back to Aheranates. “More like than not, your first souvenir of the Red Hawk.”
The lieutenant gaped. “But how can you be certain this was the trull’s camp? It could as easily be a … a caravan, wandered somewhat from the route. The man could have been left for some errand and been slain by wild animals. He could even have had no connection with those who camped here at all. He could have come after, and—”
“A man was staked out down there,” Haranides said coldly. “’Tis my thought was the dead man. Secondly, no camels were here. Have you ever seen a caravan lacking camels, saving a slaver’s? And there is no staking ground for a coffle. Thirdly, there was only one tent. A caravan of this size would have had half a score. And lastly, why have you lost your fervor for pursuing the Red Hawk? Can it be your thought that she has a hundred men with her? Fear not. There are fewer than fifty, though I grant you they may seem a hundred if it comes to steel.”
“You have no right! Manerxes, my father, is—”
“Sir, lieutenant! Prepare the men to move out. Along that trail you thought not worth mentioning.”
For a moment they stood eye to eye, Haranides coldly contemptuous, Aheranates quivering with rage. Abruptly the lieutenant tossed the unguent jar to the ground. “Yes, sir!” he grated, and turned on his heel to stalk down the hill.
Haranides bent to pick up the smooth stone jar. The flowery fragrance gave him a dim picture of the woman, one at odds with the coarse trollop with a sword he expected. But why was she riding toward the Kezankian Mountains? The answer to that could be of vital importance to him. Success, and Aharesus would smooth his path to the top. Failure, and the King’s Counselor would give him not a thought as Tiridates had his head put over the West Gate. Placing the jar in his pouch, he went down to join his men.
XI
As the bandits climbed higher into the Kezankian Mountains, Conan stopped at every rise to look behind. Beyond the rolling foothills, on the plain they had left a day gone, something moved. Conan estimated the lead the brigands had, and wondered if it was enough.
“What are you staring at?” Hordo demanded, reining in beside the Cimmerian. The outlaws were straggling up a sparsely treed mountainside toward a sheer-walled pass in the dark granite. Karela, as always, rode well in the lead, her gold-lined emerald cape flowing in the wind.