Abruptly his mount stopped, nostrils flaring, and gave a low, fearful whicker. Conan tried to urge the animal closer, but it refused, even taking a step back. He frowned, unable to see anything ominous. What would frighten a horse he had been told was trained for the hunting of lions?
Dismounting, he dropped his reins, then watched to be sure the animal would stand. Its flanks shivered, but training held it. Satisfied, Conan approached the burn. And loosened his sword, just in case.
At first his booted feet stirred only ashes over blackened soil and rock. Then his toe struck something different. He picked up a broken wild ox horn with a fragment of skull attached. The horn was charred, as were the shreds of flesh adhering to the bone, but the piece of skull itself was not. Slowly he searched through the entire burn. There were no other bones to be found, not even such cracked bits as hyenas would leave after scavenging a lion’s kill. He extended his search to the area around the char.
With a clatter of hooves Arvaneus galloped up, working his reins to make his horse dance as he stared down at Conan. “If you fall behind, barbar,” the hawk-faced man said contemptuously, “you may not be so lucky as to find others to take you in.”
Conan’s hands tightened on the horn. The gems, he reminded himself firmly. “I found this in the ashes, and—”
“An old ox horn,” the huntsman snorted, ‘‘and a lightning strike. No doubt it signifies some portent to one such as you, but we have no time for wasting.”
Taking a deep breath, Conan went on. “There are tracks—”
“I have trackers, barbar. I have no need of you. Better you do fall behind. Leave us, barbar, while you can.” Wheeling his mount in a spray of rocks and dirt, Arvaneus galloped after the fast-disappearing column.
There was a sharp crack, and Conan discovered that the ox horn had broken in his grip. “Zandru’s Nine Hells!” he muttered.
Tossing the shattered remnants of horn aside, he knelt to examine the track he had found. It was only part of an animal’s print, for the stony soil did not take tracks well. At least, he thought it was an animal’s print. Two toes ending in long claws, and scuffings that might have indicated the rest of the foot. He laid a forefinger beside one of the claw marks. The claw had been easily twice as large as his finger.
He had never heard of a beast that made tracks as large as these. At least, he thought, Jondra did not hunt this. Nor did he think he would warn her of it. What he knew of her suggested she would leap at the chance to hunt an unknown creature, especially if it was dangerous. Still, he would keep his own eyes open. Swinging into the saddle, he galloped after the hunting party.
Sooner than Conan expected, he caught up with them. The column was halted. Men held the horses’ heads to keep them silent, and the carters held the oxen’s nose-rings so they would not low. Tamira paused in beating dust from her short white tunic to grimace at Conan as he walked his horse past the cart of tenting. From somewhere ahead came a faint, steady pounding of drums.
At the front of the line Jondra and a handful of her hunters lay on their bellies near the crest of a hill. Leaving his horse at the foot of the slope, Conan made his way up to them, dropping flat before his head overtopped the hill. The drumbeat was louder here.
“Go, barbar,” Arvaneus snarled. “You are not needed here.”
“Be silent, Arvaneus,” Jondra said softly, but there was iron in her tone.
Conan ignored them both. A third of a league distant another column marched, this one following a knife-edge line, caring not whether it topped hills or no. A column of the Zamoran Army. Ten score horsemen in spiked helms rode in four files behind a leopard-head standard. Behind came twenty drummers, mallets rising and falling in unison, and behind them … . The Cimmerian made a rough estimate of the numbers of sloped spears, rank on rank on rank. Five thousand Zamoran infantry made a drum of the ground with their measu
red tread.
Conan turned his head to gaze at Jondra. Color came into her cheeks beneath his eyes. “Why do you avoid the army?” he asked.
“We will camp,” Jondra said. “Find a site, Arvaneus.” She began moving backwards down the slope, and the huntsman slithered after her.
Conan watched them go with a frown, then turned back to peer after the soldiers until they had marched out of sight beyond the hills to the north.
The camp was set up when Conan finally left the hill, conical tents dotting a broad, flat space between two hills. Jondra’s large tent of bright scarlet stood in the center of the area. The oxen had been hobbled, and the horses tied along a picket line beyond the carts. No fires were lit, he noted, and the cooks were handing out dried meat and fruit.
“You, barbar,” Arvaneus said around a strip of jerky. “I see you waited until the work was done before coming in.”
“Why does Jondra avoid the army?” Conan demanded.
The hawk-faced man spit out a wad of half-chewed meat. “The Lady Jondra,” he snapped. “Show a proper respect toward her, barbar, or I’ll … .” His hand clutched the hilt of his tulwar.
A slow smile appeared on Conan’s face, a smile that did not extend to suddenly steely eyes. There were dead men who could have told Arvaneus about that smile. “What, huntsman? Try what is in your mind, if you think you are man enough.” In an instant the black-eyed man’s curved blade was bare, and, though Conan’s hand had not been near his sword hilt, his broadsword was out in the same breath.
Arvaneus blinked, taken aback at the big Cimmerian’s quickness. “Do you know who I am, barbar?” There was a shakiness to his voice, and his face tightened at it. “Huntsman, you call me, but I am the son of Lord Andanezeus, and if she who bore me had not been a concubine I would be a lord of Zamora. Noble blood flows in my veins, barbar, blood fit for the Lady Jondra herself, while yours is—”
“Arvaneus!” Jondra’s voice cracked like a whip over the camp. Pale faced, the noblewoman came to within a pace of the two men. Her close-fitting leather jerkin was laced tightly up the front, and red leather boots rose to her knees. Arvaneus watched her with a tortured expression on his face. Her troubled gray eyes touched Conan’s face, then jerked away. “You overstep yourself, Arvaneus,” she said unsteadily. “Put up your sword.” Her eyes flickered to Conan. “Both of you.”
Arvaneus’ face was a mosaic of emotion, rage and shame, desire and frustration. With a wordless shout he slammed his blade back into its scabbard as if into the tall Cimmerian’s ribs.
Conan waited until the other’s sword was covered before sheathing his own, then said grimly, “I still want to know why you hide from your own army.”
Jondra looked at him, hesitating, but Arvaneus spoke up quickly, urgently. “My lady, this man should not be among us. He is no hunter, no archer or spearman. He does not serve you as … as I do.”