Conan the Triumphant (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 4)

Taramenon plucked her sword from her hand and tossed it into a corner. “You’ll not be needing that any longer, girl.”

Despite her frenzied striving, the cavalrymen dragged Karela to her feet. Fool! she berated herself. Taken like a virgin in a kidnapper’s nets! Why had she not wondered why there was no horse for the woman?

“I suppose it’s too much to hope for that she’s a maiden,” the woman said.

Taramenon laughed. “Much too much, I should say.”

“Treacherous trull!” Karela snarled. “Catamite fopling! I’ll peel your hides in strips! Release me, or my men will stake you out for the vultures! Are you fool enough to think I came alone?”

“Perhaps you did not,” Taramenon said calmly, “thought I saw no one the last time you claimed to have men about this hut. In any case, my shout will bring fifty men-at-arms. Shall we se

e what your miserable brigands can do against them?”

“Enough, Taramenon,” the veiled woman said. “Do not bandy words with the baggage. There was talk of stripping.” She eyed Karela’s tight breeches and snug-laced leather jerkin, and a note of malicious amusement entered her voice. “I would see that she is not … too bony for my purpose.”

Taramenon laughed, and the three men set to with a will. Karela fought furiously, and when they were done there was blood on her nails and teeth, but she stood naked, heavy round breasts heaving with her effort. Lecherous male eyes probed her beauty, slid along the curves of lush thighs and narrow waist. Dark feminine eyes regarded her more coldly, and with a touch of jealousy lighting them. Pridefully the green-eyed woman stood as erect as the twisting of her arms behind her back would allow. She would not cringe like a shrinking girl on her wedding night for these of any others.

The tall nobleman touched his cheek, now decorated by four parallel sanquinary streaks, and examined the blood on his fingertips. Suddenly his hand flashed out; the force of his slap was such that Karela and the two men holding her all staggered.

“Do not damage her!” the veiled woman said sharply. “Your beauty is not ruined, Taramenon. Now bind her for transport.”

“A taste of the strap will do her no damage, Synelle,” the darkly handsome lord growled, “and I would teach her her proper place.”

The name so shocked Karela that she missed the veiled woman’s retort. Conan’s patroness! Could the woman have learned of her own connection with the Cimmerian and be thinking to dispose of a rival? Well, she had the Cimmerian to bargain for her release, and if Derketo favored her she would have this treacherous noblewoman to hang by her heels beside him.

Karela opened her mouth to make her offer—Conan’s freedom in return for her own—and a wadded rag pushed the words back into her throat. Like a starving panther she stuggled, but three men were too much for her. With ease that seemed to mock her they corded her into a neat package, wrists strapped to ankles, knees beneath her chin, thin straps laced around and around her, digging deep into her flesh. When one of the cavalrymen produced a large leather sack the memory of her plans for Synelle, including her method of returning her to Conan, flooded her face with scarlet.

“At least she can still blush,” Synelle laughed as Karela was stuffed into the sack. “From her language, I thought she was lost to all decency. Carry her to the horses. We must hurry. Events procede more quickly than I would like, and we must meet them.”

“I must return to the palace to pay my respects,” Taramenon said. “I will join you as quickly as I can.”

“Do so quickly,” Synelle said smoothly, “or I may put Conan in your place.”

As Karela’s dark prison was heaved swaying into the air, she felt tears running down her cheeks. Derketo curse the Cimmerian! Once again he had brought her humilation. She hoped Jamaran would slit his throat. Slowly.

18

Conan lay on the dirt-strewn stone floor as he had for a day and a night now, bound and biding his time with the patience of a jungle predator, all of his mind and energies given over to waiting and watching. Karela’s injunction to give him food and water had been ignored, and he was dimly aware of hunger and thirst, but they affected him little. He had gone longer without either, and he knew he would have both once the men who guarded him were dealt with. Soon or late a mistake would be made, and he would take advantage. Soon or late, it would come.

Brass lamps had been lit against the deepening night, but with Karela gone no one had rehung blankets to cover the tall, narrow arrow slits. Rough clay jars of wine had been passed more freely with the red-haired woman’s departure, and the four brigands who had not already staggered to one of the upper rooms of the tower for drunken sleep were engrossed in drinking more and gaming with dice. The fire on the long hearth burned low; the last of the thick logs that had been stacked against the wall had long since gone into the flames, and no more had been brought from outside. None of them had thought to tend the iron kettle suspended over the flames, and the smell of burning stew blended with the unwashed stench of bandits.

Abruptly Tenio hurled dice and leather dicecup aside. “She should have returned by now,” he muttered. “What keeps her?”

“Perhaps she keeps herself,” Jamaran growled. His black eyes went to Conan, and he bared large, yellow teeth in a snarl. “Leaving us with this one she seems so affrighted of.”

Marusas paused in the act of scooping up the dice. “You think she has run away with the gold? It sounds a tidy sum, but her share of our raids has been as much in the last month alone.”

“Erlik take you, play!” snapped a man with a slitted leather patch tied over where his nose had been cut off. His pale eyes had a permanent look of suspicious anger, as if he knew and hated what men thought when they saw his disfigurement. “I’m twenty silvers down with coin on the table. Play, curse you!” The three ignored him.

Jamaran slammed a fist the size of a small ham on the table top. “And that’s another thing. Why should a woman receive ten times the share that the rest of us do? Let her try our work alone and see what sport the men she tries to rob will have with her. Without us, she’d be no more than a cutpurse, bargaining when she was caught to escape having her cheek branded for a grant of the favors she is so stingy with now.”

“Without her,” Tenio rebutted, “what are we? How much did we get on our own? Now you moan about only fifty golds in a month, but you didn’t never get ten before her.”

“She’s a woman!” the huge Kushite said. “A woman’s place is in a man’s bed, or cooking for him, not giving orders.”

Marusas laughed and tugged at his drooping black mustaches. “I would like riding her myself. Much fun in breaking that one to bridle, eh?”

“’Tis more than the pair of you could do together,” Tenio sneered. “I don’t like taking orders from a woman no better than you, but she puts gold in my purse, more than I’ve seen before. And I know I’d have to keep her tied hand and foot or risk waking with my own dagger in my throat. Or worse.”