Already that sibilant battle cry was going up around the camp. Men leaped to their feet around the fires, on the border of panic as scores of scalyskinned warriors poured out of the night. Alvar stared, and screamed as a spear pierced him through the chest. A swarthy Iranistani turned to flee and had his spine severed by a massive battle-ax in claw-fingered hands. Bandits darted like rats searching for an escape.
“Fight, Crom blast you!” Conan shouted. “They can die, too!”
He ran toward the slaughter in the camp, looking for Karela. Almost at once he spotted her in the middle of the fighting. From somewhere she had acquired a tulwar, though not her jeweled blade. Her cloak now dangled, bunched, from her left hand as a snare to catch other’s weapons, and she danced naked through the butchery, red hair streaming, a fury from the Outer Dark, her curved sword drinking ebon blood.
“Up, my hounds!” she screamed. “Fight, for your lives!” Roaring, Hordo dashed in behind her to take a spear in the thigh that had been meant for her back. The one-eyed brigand’s blade sought his reptilian attacker’s heart, and even as the creature was falling he tore the spear from his leg and waded into the fray, blood over his boot.
Before Conan loomed another of the scaled men, his back to the Cimmerian, his spear raised to transfix Aberius, who lay on the ground with bulging eyes, his gap-toothed mouth open in a scream. Battles are not duels. Conan slammed his sword through the creature’s back to stand ou
t a foot from its chest. While it still stood, death-shriek bubbling forth, he planted a booted foot on its agony-arched back to tug his blade free.
The saurian killer fell twitching across Aberius, who screamed again and wriggled free with a glare at Conan as if he wished the Cimmerian were in the scaled one’s place. The weasel-faced bandit grabbed the dying creature’s spear, and for a bare second the two men stared at one another. Then Aberius darted into the fighting, shouting, “The Red Hawk! For the Red Hawk!”
“Crom!” Conan bellowed, and plunged into the maelstrom. “Crom and steel!”
The battle became a kaleidoscoping nightmare for the Cimmerian, as all battles did for all warriors. Men battling scaled monsters flickered before him and were gone, still locked in their death struggles. The cloud of battles covered his mind, loosing the fury of his wild north country, and even those scaled snake-men who faced him knew fear before they died, fear at the battle light that glowed in his blue eyes, fear at the grim, wild laughter that broke from his lips even as he slew. He waded through them, broadsword working in murderous frenzy.
“Crom!” If these scaly demons were to pay his ferryman’s fee, he would set it high. “Crom and steel!”
And then there were none left standing among the night-shrouded boulders save those of human kind. Conan’s broad chest was splattered with inky blood, mixing with his own in more than one place. He looked about him wearily, the battle fury fading.
Reptilian bodies lay everywhere, some twitching still. And among them were no few of the bandits. Hordo hobbled from wounded brigand to wounded brigand, a red-stained rag twisted about his thigh, offering what aid he could do those who still could use it. Aberius sat hunched by a fire, leaning on his spear. Other bandits began to make their dazed way in from the darkness.
Karela strode across the charnel ground to the Cimmerian, the cloak discarded, tulwar still gripped firmly in her hand. He was relieved to note that none of the blood that smeared her round breasts was her own.
“It seems Aberius saw nothing after all,” she said when she faced him. “At least we know now what you felt watching you. I could wish you had gotten your warning somewhat earlier.”
Conan shook his head. It was no use explaining to her how he knew it had not been the gaze of these things he felt on him. “I wish I knew whence they—”
He broke off with a sudden oath, and bent to examine the boots of one of the dead creatures. They were worked in the pattern of an encircling serpent, its head seeming surrounded by rays. Hurriedly he went to another body, and still others. All wore the boots.
“What takes you, Conan?” Karela demanded. “Even if you need boots, surely you could never wear something that came from these.”
“No,” he replied. “Those who stole the pendants from Tiridates’ palace wore boots worked with a serpent.” He tugged one of the boots from a narrow foot and tossed it to her.
She stepped aside to let it fall with a grimace of distaste. “I’ve had my fill and more of those things. Conan, you can’t believe these … these whatever they are, entered Shadizar and left, unhindered. The City Guard is blind, I’ll grant, but not as blind as that.”
“They wore hooded robes that covered them to their fingertips. And they left the city at night, when the guards on the gates are half asleep at best. They could have entered the night before and remained hidden until it was time to do their work at the palace.”
“It could be as you say,” Karela admitted reluctantly. “But what help that is to us, I cannot see.”
Hordo limped up and stood glaring at Conan. “Two score men and four, Cimmerian. That’s what I led into these accursed mountains on this mad quest of yours. Full fifteen are food for worms this night, and two more like not to last till dawn. Thank whatever odd gods you pray to, we took a pair of them alive. The amusement of putting them to the question will keep you from being staked out in their place. And I’ll tell you, for all my liking, if they tried I’m not sure I’d stop them.”
“Prisoners?” Karela said sharply. “I’ve little love for these creatures dead, none alive. Give them to the men now. Come dawn we’ll be riding out of these mountains.”
“We abandon the treasure, then?” The one-eyed bandit sounded more relieved than surprised. “Fare you well, then, Conan, for I see this will be the last night we spend in company.”
Karela turned slowly to give the Cimmerian an unreadable look. “Do we part, then?”
Conan nodded reluctantly, and with a rueful glare at Hordo. He had not meant her to find out so soon. In fact, his plan had been to leave in the night, with one of the prisoners for a guide, and let her discover him gone come morning.
“I continue after the pendants,” the Cimmerian said.
“And that girl,” Karela said flatly.
“Company,” Hordo muttered, before Conan could speak further.
Toward them marched those of the bandits who were able to walk, not one man without at least one bloody bandage, and every one with his weapon in hand. Aberius marched at their head, using his spear like a walking staff. The others wore purposeful looks on their faces, but only he had a spiteful smile. Ten paces from where Conan stood with Karela and Hordo, they stopped.