semblance of a trot.

Before he had gone a hundred paces Sharak caught up to him, using his staff like a switch to chivy his shaggy mount along. “A fine adventure,” the astrologer said, a fixed grin on his parchment face. “Do we take prisoners when we reach the galley? In the sagas heroes never take prisoners.”

Akeba joined them in a gallop; his horse staggered as he reined back to their pace. “Money is one thing,” the Turanian said. “My life I’m willing to wager on long odds.”

Conan smiled without looking at either of them, a smile touched with grimness. More hooves pounded the sand behind him. He did not look around to see how many others had joined. One or all, it would be enough. It had to be. With cold eyes he led them south.

XXII

One horse sank to its knees, refusing to go on, as they passed the first headland, and another fell dead before they were long out of sight of the first. Thick scrub grew here in patches too large to ride around. There were no paths except those forced by the horses.

Conan grimaced as yet another man mounted double. Their pace was slower than walking. Keeping their strength was important if they were to face the galley’s crew, or Jhandar’s henchmen, but the horses were at the end of theirs. And time was important as well. They must reach the ship before Yasbet’s captors did, or at least before they sailed, and before the pursuing Hyrkanians overtook them. The nomads would have little difficulty following their tracks down the coast.

Reaching a decision, he dismounted. The others stared as he removed his horse’s crude rope bridle and began to walk. Sharak pressed his own mount forward and dropped off beside the big Cimmerian.

“Conan,” Akeba called after him, “what—”

But Conan strode on; the rest could follow or not, as they chose. He would not spend precious moments in convincing them. With the old astrologer struggling to keep up he plunged ahead. Neither spoke. Breath now was to be saved for walking.

Where the horses had struggled to pass there were spaces where a man might go more easily. Akeba and the Hyrkanians were soon lost to sight, had either chosen to look back. Neither did.

There was no smooth highway for them, though. Even when the sandy ground was level, their boots sank to the ankles, and rocks lay ready to turn underfoot and throw the unwary into thornbushes boasting black, finger-long spikes, that would rip flesh like talons.

But then the ground was seldom level, except for occasional stretches of muddy beach, pounded by angry waves. For every beach there were a pair of headlands to be descended on one side and scaled on the other, with steep hills between, and deep gullies between those. Increasingly the land became almost vertical, up or down. One hundred paces forward took five hundred steps to travel, or one thousand. The horses would have been useless.

Of course, Conan reasoned, sweat rolling down his face, grit in his hair and eyes and mouth, he could move inland to the edge of the plain. But then he would not know when he reached the beach where the galley lay. He would not let himself consider the possibility that it might no longer be there. Too, on the plain they would leave even clearer traces of his passage for their hunter, and most of the time gained by traveling there thus would be lost in struggling to the beaches when they were sighted.

A crashing in the thick brush behind them brought Conan’s sword into his hand. Cursing, Akeba stumbled into sight, his dark face coated with sweat and dust.

“Two more horses died,” the Turanian said without preamble, “and another went lame. Tamur is right behind me. He’ll catch up if you wait. The others were arguing about whether to abandon the remaining horses when I left, but they’ll follow as well, sooner or later.”

“There is no time to wait.” Resheathing his blade, Conan started off again.

Sharak, who had no breath for speaking, followed, and after a moment Akeba did as well.

Three men, the young Cimmerian thought, since Tamur would be joining them. Three and a half, an he counted Sharak; the old astrologer would be worth no more than half Akeba or Tamur in a fight, if that much. Mayhap some of the other nomads would catch up in time, but they could not be counted on. Three and a half, then.

As Tamur joined them, plucking thorns from his arm and muttering curses fit to curl a sailor’s hair, fat raindrops splattered against the back of Conan’s neck. The Cimmerian peered up in surprise at thick, angrily purple clouds. His eyes had been of necessity locked to the ground; he had not noticed their gathering.

Quickly the sprinkling became a deluge, a hail of heavy pounding drops. A wind rose, ripping down the coast, tearing at the twisted scrub growth, howling higher and higher till it rang in the ears and dirt hung in the air to mix with the rain, splashing the four men with rivulets of mud. Nearby, a thick-rooted thornbush, survivor of many storms, tore lose from the ground, tangled briefly in the branches around it, and was whipped away.

Tamur put his mouth close to Conan’s ear and shouted. “It is the Wrath of Kaavan! We must take shelter and pray!”

“’Tis but a storm!” the Cimmerian shouted back. “You faced worse on Foam Dancer!”

“No! This is no ordinary storm! It is the Wrath of Kaavan!” The Hyrkanian’s face was a frozen mask, fear warring plainly with his manhood. “It comes with no warning, and when it does, men die! Horses are lifted whole into the air, and yurts, with all in them, to be found smashed to the ground far distant, or never to be seen again! We must shelter for our lives!”

The wind was indeed rising, even yet, shaking the thickets till it seemed the scrub was trying to tear itself free and flee. Driven raindrops struck like pebbles flung from slings.

Akeba, half-supporting Sharak, raised his voice against the thundering wind and rain. “We must take shelter, Cimmerian! The old man is nearly done! He’ll not last out this storm if we don’t!”

Pushing away from the Turanian, Sharak held himself erect with his staff. His straggly white hair was plastered wetly to his skull. “If you are done, soldier, say so. I am not!”

Conan eyed the old man regretfully. Sharak was clinging to his staff as to a lifeline. The other two, for all they were younger and hardier, were not in greatly better condition. Akeba’s black face was lined with weariness, and Tamur, his fur cap a sodden mass hanging about his ears, swayed when the wind struck him fully. Yet there was Yasbet.

“How many of your nomads followed, Tamur?” he asked finally. “Will they catch up if we wait?”

“All followed,” Tamur replied, “but Hyrkanians do not travel in the Wrath of Kaavan. It is death, Cimmerian.”

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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