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

“No cods at all on you,” Jamaran snorted. He nudged the Zamoran with a huge elbow. “I always knew there was more woman than man in him. Likely spends all his hours in Ianthe at the House of the Yearling Lambs.” The two of them roared with laughter, and patch-nose joined in as if despite himself.

All the blood left Tenio’s face, and his narrowbladed dagger flickered into his hand. “I don’t take that from nobody,” he snarled.

“From me you take what I give,” Jamaran said, all mirth gone from his voice, “or I’ll use that blade of yours to make sure you’ve no cods.”

“Curse the lot of you for chattering old women!” patch-nose shouted. “Am I suddenly not good enough to dice with?”

Conan made a sound behind his gag; had his throat not been parched it would have been a chuckle. A while longer and they would kill each other, leaving him only his bonds to worry about.

Flinging his mug across the room in a spray of wine, Jamaran heaved himself from his bench and strode on legs as big around as a normal man’s waist to stand over the Cimmerian. Conan’s icy azure gaze calmly met the dark glower directed at him.

“Big man,” Jamaran said contemptuously, and his foot thudding into Conan’s ribs lifted the Cimmerian from the stone floor. “You seem not so big to me.” Again his foot drove Conan back. “Why does Karela want you kept safe? Is she afraid of you? Or maybe she loves you, huh? Perhaps I’ll let you watch while I enjoy her, if she comes back.” Each sentence he punctuated with a massive booted foot, until Conan lay struggling for breath on the very edge of the hearth. The Cimmerian glared at Jamaran as the shaven-headed man squatted beside him, doubling a heavy fist. “Ten men have I beaten to their death with this. You will be number eleven. I do not think Karela will return—she’s been gone too long already—but I’ll wait a bit longer. I want her to see it. Watching a man killed that way does something to a woman.” Laughing, the huge K

ushite straightened. With a last kick he turned back to the table. “Where’s my mug?” he roared. “I want wine!”

Cursing behind his gag Conan jerked himself out of the coals he had landed in, but his mind was not on his burns. So intent had he been on awaiting his chance for escape that their talk of Karela’s lateness had barely impinged on his thoughts. He knew her well enough to be sure she had not fled with the gold. Boros’ words came back to him. The most beautiful and proudest women of the land were sacrificed to Al’Kiir. Few were the women more beautiful than Karela, and to her pride he could well attest. The fool wench had not only taken those who wanted to raise the god the means to do so, she had delivered herself as a sacrifice. He was sure of it. Now he must rescue her from her own folly. But how? How even to free himself?

He shifted to ease his weight on a burn on his arm, and suddenly his lips curled in a smile around his gag. Careless of searing flame he thrust his bound wrists into the fire. Gritting his teeth on his gag against fiery agony, he strained mighty arms against the ropes, massive muscles knotting and writhing. Sweat beaded his face.

The reek of burning hemp came to him; he wondered how the others could fail to be aware of it, but none of the four so much as looked in his direction. They were immersed in their mugs of wine, and patch-nose kept up his arguing for a chance to win back his loses. Abruptly, the ropes parted, and Conan pulled his half-cooked wrists from the flames, careful to keep them yet behind his back. His gaze sought his ancient broadsword, leaning against the wall behind the drinking men. There would be no chance to grasp it before he came to grips with the men between him and his steel.

With a crash patch-nose kicked over his bench. Conan froze. Snarling the man snatched up his mug and began to stalk back and forth across the room, muttering angrily about men who won and then would not gamble, and shooting dark glances at the other three, still intent on their drink. His eyes did not stray to the Cimmerian, lying rigid on the hearth-stone.

Slowly, so as to draw no attention, Conan slid his booted feet back until he could feel the heat of flames licking about them. To the smell of burning rope was added that of scorching leather, but the latter was no more noticed than the first. Then those cords were burned through as well. There was no time to waste on the gag. Rolling to his feet the big Cimmerian snatched a long, black fire-iron from the hearth.

Patch-nose was the first to see Conan free of his bonds, but the man had only time to goggle before wine sprayed out of his mouth and his skull was crushed by the fire-iron. Shouting, the others scrambled to their feet. Tenio produced his dagger, but Conan drove the fire-iron point-first through the ferret-faced man’s chest and caught the blade as it dropped from the transfixed man’s nerveless fingers. Marusas’ sword leaped into his hand, then the Zamoran was staggering back, trying to scream around the dagger that had blossomed in fountains of scarlet in his throat.

Roaring, Jamaran leaped to grapple with the Cimmerian, throwing bearlike arms about his waist, heaving him into the air. Conan felt the man’s huge fists locked in the small of his back, felt his spine begin to creak. Conan smashed his linked hands down on the nape of the huge man’s bull neck, once, twice, thrice, to no effect. Jamaran’s grip tightened inexorably. In moments, the Cimmerian knew, his back would snap. Desperately he slammed his palms against the other’s ears.

With a scream Jamaran let him drop. Even as his heels hit the stone floor, Conan’s bladed hand struck the huge Kushite’s throat. Jamaran gagged, yet lashed out with a massive fist in the same instant. Conan blocked the blow, winding his arm around the shaven-headed man’s to pull him close. With hammer-like blows the Cimmerian pounded the big man’s body, feeling ribs splinter beneath his fist.

In the night a trumpet sounded the Ophirean army call for the attack. “Company one, ready torches!” a voice called. “Company two, attack! Take no prisoners!” Feet pounded on the floors above; frantic yells rose.

In his desperate struggle Conan had no time to worry about the new danger. Jamaran smashed his head against the Cimmerian’s; Conan staggered, clinging to consciousness. The huge Kushite tried to enfold Conan once more in his crushing embrace, but Conan rammed a knee into his crotch, lifting the man to his toes with bulging eyes. Like thunderbolts the heels of Conan’s hands struck Jamaran’s chin. The shaven head went back with a loud crack as the Kushite’s neck broke, and he fell in a boneless heap.

Conan ripped the gag from his mouth and threw it atop the body of the man who had threatened to beat him to death. A torch was thrust through one of the arrow slits, then another. Putting a hand on the table top Conan vaulted across it to grab his sword hilt, baring the blade by slinging the worn shagreen scabbard away. When soldiers spoke of taking no prisoners they generally slew whatever moved, without questioning whether it was enemy or captive. Conan did not mean to die easily.

A man darted in at the door, sword ready; Conan swung his steel … and stopped a handsbreadth away from splitting Machaon’s skull. Narus rushed in behind the grizzled veteran, and two more of the company.

“You!” Conan exclaimed. “You are the Ophirean army?”

Narus shrugged and held up a battered brass trumpet. “An odd talent of mine, but useful from time to time.” He looked around at the bodies on the stone floor. “Once more you leave nothing for the rest of us.”

“There are more above,” Conan said, but Narus shook his head.

“They lept from breaks in the walls, thinking we were who we claimed, and fled into the night.”

“We’ve still bloody work to do,” Conan told him. “Karela has been taken prisoner, and I mean to rescue her.” Atop Tor Al’Kiir, he thought. Boros said he had seen lights there, and he had no other clue. “We must move quickly, if you will come with me.”

“Mitra, Conan,” Machaon growled, “will you let me say a word? There’s no time for wenches, not even her. We came after you because Zandru’s Hells have come to sup in Ophir.” “Al’Kiir.” Conan’s heart sank. “They’ve raised the god already.”

“I know naught of gods,” Machaon muttered, “but Valdric lies dead of the sickness that consumed him, and Iskandrian has seized the royal palace.”

Conan started in surprise. “Iskandrian!”

“The old general has declared for Valentius,” Narus explained. “And that young coxcomb has taken the name Maranthes II, as if a name could make him a great king. I hear he didn’t wait for funeral rites or even a priest, but took the crown from Valdric’s corpse before it was cold and put it on his own head.”

“Will you stop your nattering, Narus!” Machaon barked. “Most of the nobles think as you did, Cimmerian. They gather their forces, but Iskandrian moves to put them down before they can. He marched with most of the Ianthe garrison an hour after he put Valentius on the throne. If that isn’t enough, Taurianus is talking loudly that the company should join the nobles. He’s telling everyone if Iskandrian wins it means the end of Free-Companies in Ophir.” His tattooed face grew grim. “I’ll tell you, Conan, he’s right on that. Iskandrian will give short shrift to mercenaries.”