The dagger slashed into the mattress where his chest had been, and the force of the missed stab brought his attacker down on top of him. Instantly he seized the shape—the back of his brain noted a curious softness—and hurled it across the room. In the same motion he leaped from the bed, seized the worn leather-wrapped hilt of his broadsword and slung the scabbard aside. It was then that he saw his assailant clearly for the first time.
“Karela!” he exclaimed.
The auburn-haired beauty rising warily from the floor near the wall snarled at him. “Yes, Derketo blast your eyes! And would she had made you sleep just one moment more.”
His gaze went to the dagger thrust into his mattress, and his eyebrows raised. But all he said was, “I thought you went to Aquilonia to live the life of a lady.”
“I am no lady,” she breathed. “I am a woman! And woman enough to put an end to you once and for all!” Her hand went to her shoulder, and suddenly she was rushing at him, brandishing three feet of curved razor-sharp steel.
Anger blazed in Conan’s icy blue eyes, and he swung his sword to meet hers with a crash. Shock appeared on Karela’s face, her mouth dropping open with incredulity as her blade was nearly wrenched from her grasp. She took a step back, and from that moment was ever defending from his flashing edge. He did not force her back, but every pace backwards she took, he followed. And she could not but move backwards, away from the force of those blows, panting, desperate to attack yet with no slightest opportunity. If he made certain that his sword struck only hers, he also made certain that every blow had his full strength behind it, rocking her to her heels. The cool smile on his face, calm even as he battled her, struck to her heart. It mocked her, wounding more deeply than ever steel could.
“Derketo take you, you over-muscled barbar,” she rasped.
With a sharp ring her scimitar was hurled from her. For a breath she froze, then dove for the fallen blade.
Conan tossed his broadsword aside and seized the back of her tunic as she leaped. Fabric already strained by more than generous callimastian curves split down the front; her momentum carried her partly out of her tunic, stripping her half-way to the waist. In an instant Conan had twisted his fistful of cloth, trapping her arms at her sides. He found he had caught a spitting, kicking wildcat. But, he noted, a wildcat who still had the finest, roundest set of breasts he had seen in many a day.
“Coward!” she shouted. “Spawn of a diseased goat! Fight me blade to blade, and I’ll spit you like the capon you are!”
Easily he pulled her over to the bed, seated himself, and jerked her across his knees. Easily he controlled her frenzied thrashings.
“Oh, no!” she gasped. “Not that! Cimmerian, I’ll cut your heart out! I’ll slice your manhood for—”
Her diatribe was cut off with a howl as his big hand landed forcefully on her taut-breeched buttocks.
A fist thumped against the heavy wooden door, and Machaon’s voice sounded from the corridor. “What’s happening in there, Conan? Are you all right?”
“All is well,” Conan replied. “I’m tending to an unruly wench.”
That provoked furious struggles from Karela, futile against his iron grasp. “Release me, Cimmerian,” she growled, “or I’ll see you hanging by your heels over a slow fire. Unhand me, Derketo shrivel your manhood!”
Conan answered her with a smack that brought another howled curse. “You tried to kill me, wench,” he said slowly, punctuating each word with his calloused palm. “You’v
e been untrustworthy from the first day I laid eyes on you. In Shadizar you’d have let me be slain without a word of warning.” Karela’s shrieked imprecation became incoherent; she kicked frantically at the air, but he did not pause. “In the Kezankian Mountains you betrayed me to a sorcerer. I saved your life there, but in Nemedia you bribed my jailors with gold to torture me. Why? Why a knife for my heart while I lay sleeping? Have I ever harmed you? Is your soul filled with treachery, woman?”
A half-formed plea among her cries penetrated his rage, killing his anger and staying his hand. Karela pleading? Whatever she had done or tried to do, that was not right. As he could not kill her, neither could he bring himself to break her pride completely. He pushed her off his lap to fall with a thump to her knees.
Her tear-streaked face twisted with sobs, Karela’s slender hands stole back gingerly to her buttocks. Then, as if suddenly remembering Conan’s presence, she tore them away again; moist green eyes glared daggers at him. “May Derketo blast your eyes, Cimmerian,” she said jerkily, “and Erlik take your soul for a plaything. No man has ever treated me as you do and lived.”
“And no one,” he said quietly, “man or woman, has ever dealt with me as treacherously as you have without incurring my enmity. And yet I cannot find it in me to hate you. But this! Murder was never your way, Karela. Was it for gold? You’ve always loved gold above all else.”
“It was for me!” she spat at him, pounding a small fist on her thigh. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Your presence turns my muscles to wine. Your eyes on me sap my will. How can I not want you dead?”
Conan shook his head in wonderment. Never had he pretended to understand women, least of all this fierce female falcon. Once more he was convinced that whatever gods had created men had not been the gods who created women.
As she knelt there in disarray, naked to the waist, Conan felt other stirrings than amazement. She was a woman of marvelous curves to brighten the eye, a wonderful blend of softness and firmness to delight the touch. Always she had been able to rouse his desire, though she often attempted to use that to bend him to her will. Abruptly he decided that learning why and how she had come to Ophir could wait. Gently he drew her between his knees.
Her clear green eyes, still tremulous, fluttered open. “What are you doing?” she demanded unsteadily.
He lifted the tattered tunic from her and threw it aside.
Small white teeth bit into her full underlip, and she shook her head. “No,” she said breathlessly. “I will not. No. Please.”
Easily he lifted her to the bed, disposed of her soft boots, peeled the tight breeches from her long legs.
“I hate you, Conan.” But there was a curious note of pleading in her voice for such a statement. “I came to kill you. Do you not realize that?”
He plucked her dagger from his mattress and held it in two fingers before her gaze. “Take it, if you truly wish me dead.”