“It could work,” Tamur breathed. “Kaavan One-Father watch over us, it could work.”

Akeba nodded. “I should have thought of that. I’ve heard this is done on the southern frontier.”

“But the trade goods,” Sharak complained. “You’ll not abandon—”

“Will you die for them?” Conan cut him off, and ran for the hobbled pack horses. The others followed at his heels, the old astrologer last and slowest.

The nomads wasted no time once Conan’s idea was explained to them, hastily fumbling in the dark with bridles, finishing just as roaring horsemen burst from the among the Hyrkanian yurts. Conan wasted but a single moment in thought of the gold from their trading, and the greater part of his own gold, hidden in a bale of tanned hides, then he scrambled onto his mount with the others, lashing it into a desperate gallop. Death rode on their heels.

As they entered the tall, scrub-covered sand dunes on the coast, four men rode double, and no spare horses were left. The sweat-lathered mounts formed a straggling line, but no man pressed his horse for fear of the animal’s collapse. In the sky before them the sun hung low; the two-days’ journey had consumed less than one with the impetus of saving their lives.

Conan’s shaggy mount staggered under him, but he could hear the crash of waves ahead. “How much lead do we have?” he asked Akeba.

“Perhaps two turns of the glass, perhaps less,” the Turanian replied.

“They held their animals back, Cimmerian, when they saw they would not overtake us easily,” Tamur added. His breath came in pants almost as heavy as those of his mount. He labored the beast with his quirt, but without real force. “Ours will not last much longer, but theirs will be near fresh when they come up on us.”

“They’ll come up on empty sand,” Conan laughed, urging his shaggy horse to the top of a dune, “for we’ve reached the ship.” Words and laughter trailed away as he stared at the beach beyond. The sand was empty, with only the cold remains of fires to show he had come to the right place. Far out on the water a shape could be seen, a hint of triangularity speaking of Foam Dancer’s lateen sail.

“I never trusted that slime-spawn Muktar,” Akeba muttered. “The horses are played out, Conan, and we’re little better. This stretch of muddy sand is no fit place to die, if any place is fit, but ’tis time to think of taking a few enemies with us into the long night. What say you, Cimmerian?”

Conan, wrestling with his own thoughts, said nothing. So far he had come in his quest for a means to destroy Jhandar, and what had come of it? Samarra dead, and all her slaves. Yasbet taken by Jhandar’s henchmen. Even in small matters the gods had turned their faces from him. The trade goods for which he had spent his hundred pieces of gold—and hard-earned gold it was, too, for the slaying of a friend, even one ensorceled to kill—were abandoned. Of the gold but two pieces nestled in his pouch with flint, steel, Samarra’s pouch and a bit of dried meat. And now he had fallen short by no more than half a turn of the glass. Muktar had not even waited to discover that Conan lacked the coin to pay for his return voyage. Though, under the circumstances, a show of steel would have disposed of that quibble.

“Are you listening?” Akeba demanded of him. “Let us circle back on our trail to the start of the dunes. We can surprise them, and with rest we may give a good account of ourselves.” Muttering rose among the Hyrkanians.

Still Conan did not speak. Instead he chewed on a thought. Yasbet taken by Jhandar’s henchmen. There was something of importance there, could he but see it. A faint voice within him said that it was urgent he did see it.

“Let us die as men,” Tamur said, though his tone was hesitant, “not struggling futilely, like dungbeetles seized by ants.” Some few of his fellows murmured approval; the rest twitched their reins fretfully and cast anxious backward glances, but kept silent.

The Turanian’s black eyes flicked the nomad scornfully; Tamur looked away. “No one who calls himself a man dies meekly,” Akeba said.

“They are of our blood,” Tamur muttered, and the soldier snorted.

“Mitra’s Mercies! This talk of blood has never stayed one Hyrkanian’s steel from another’s throat that I have seen. It’ll not stay the hands of those who follow us. Have you forgotten what they will do to those they take alive? Gelded. Flayed alive. Impaled. You told us so. And you hinted at worse, if there can be worse.”

Tamur flinched, licking his lips and avoiding Akeba’s gaze. Now he burst out, “We stand outside the law!” A mournful sigh breathed from the other nomads. Tamur rushed breathlessly on. “We are no longer shielded by the laws of our people. For us to slay even one of those sent by the shamans would be to foul and condemn our own spirits, to face an eternity of doom.”

“But you didn’t kill Samarra,” Akeba protested. “Surely your god knows that. Conan, talk to this fool.”

But the Cimmerian ignored all of them. The barest glimmerings of hope flickered in him.

“We will face the One-Father having broken no law,” Tamur shouted.

“Erlik take your laws! You were willing to disobey the edict against revenging yourself on Jhandar.” Akeba’s thin mouth twisted in a sneer. “I think you are simply ready to surrender. You are all dogs! Craven women whining for an easy death!”

Tamur recoiled, hand going to the hilt of his yataghan. “Kaavan understands revenge. You Turanians, whose women have watered your blood for a thousand years with the seed of western weaklings, understand nothing. I will not teach you!”

Steel slid from scabbards, and was arrested half-drawn by Conan’s abrupt, “The ship! We will use the ship.”

Akeba stared at him. Some of the Hyrkanians moved their horses back. Madmen were touched by the gods; slaying one, even in self-defense, was a sure path to ill luck.

Sharak, clinging tiredly to his mount with one hand and his staff with the other, peered ostentatiously after Foam Dancer. The vessel was but a mote, now. “Are we to become fish, then?” he asked.

“The galley,” Conan said, his exasperation clear at their stupidity. “How much before us could Jhandar’s henchmen have left the camp? And they had no reason to ride as we did, for no one was pursuing them. Their galley may still be waiting for them. We can rescue Yasbet and use it to cross the sea again.”

“I’d not wager a copper on it,” Akeba said. “Most likely the galley is already at sea.”

“Are the odds better if you remain here?” Conan asked drily. Akeba looked doubtful. He ran an eye over the others; half the nomads still watched him warily. Sharak seemed lost in thought. “I’ll not wait here meekly to be slaughtered,” Conan announced. “You do what you will.” Turning his horse to the south, he booted it into a

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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