Part 1 (1/2)

The Flame Knife.

1. Knives in the Dark

The scuff of swift and stealthy feet in the darkened doorway warned the giant Cimmerian. He wheeled to see a tall figure lunging at him from the black arch. It was dark in the alley, but Conan glimpsed a fierce, bearded face and the gleam of steel in a lifted hand, even as he avoided the blow with a twist of his body. The knife ripped his tunic and glanced along the s.h.i.+rt of light chain mail he wore beneath it Before the a.s.sa.s.sin could recover his balance, the Cimmerian caught his arm and brought his ma.s.sive fist down like a sledge hammer on the back of the fellow's neck. The man crumpled to earth without a sound.

Conan stood over him, listening with tense expectancy. Up the street, around the next comer, he caught the shuffle of sandaled feet, the m.u.f.fled clink of steel. These sinister sounds told him the nighted streets of Anshan were a deathtrap. He hesitated, half-drew the scimitar at his side, then shrugged and hurried down the street. He swerved wide of the dark arches that gaped in the walls that lined it.

He turned into a wider street and a few moments later rapped softly on a door, above which burned a bronze lantern. The door opened almost instantly. Conan stepped inside, snapping:

”Lock the door!”

The ma.s.sive Shemite who had admitted the Cimmerian shot home the heavy bolt and turned, tugging his curled blue-black beard as he inspected his commander.

”Your s.h.i.+rt is gashed, Conan!” he rumbled.

”A man tried to knife me,” answered Conan. ”Others followed.”

The Shemite's black eyes blazed as he laid a broad, hairy hand on the three-foot Ilbarsi knife that jutted from his hip. ”Let us sally forth and slay the dogs!” he urged.

Conan shook his head. He was a huge man, much taller than the Shemite, but for all his size he moved with the lightness of a cat His thick chest, corded neck, and square shoulders spoke of primordial strength, speed, and endurance.

”Other things come first” he said. ”They're enemies of Balash, who knew I quarreled with the king tonight.”

”You did!” cried the Shemite. ”This is dark news indeed. What said the king?”

Conan picked up a flagon of wine and gulped down half of it. ”Oh, Kobad Shah is mad with suspicion,” he said. ”Now it's our friend Balash. The chiefs enemies have poisoned the king against him; but then, Balash is stubborn. He won't come in and surrender as Kobad demands, saying Kobad means to stick his head on a pike. So Kobad ordered me to take the kozaki into the Ilbars Mountains and bring back Balash-all of him if possible, but his head in any case.”

”And?”

”I refused.”

”You did?” said the Shemite in an awed whisper.

”Of course! What do you think I am? I told Kobad Shah how Balash and his tribe saved us when we got lost in the Ilbars in the middle of winter, on our ride south from the Vilayet Sea. Most hillmen would have wiped us out. But the fool wouldn't listen. He began shouting about his divine right and the insolence of low-born barbarians and such stuff.

One more word and I'd have stuffed his imperial turban down his throat.”

”You did not strike the king?” said the Shemite.

”Nay, though I felt like it Crom! I can't understand the way you civilized men crawl on your bellies before any copper-riveted a.s.s who happens to sit on a jeweled chair with a bauble on his head.”

”Because these a.s.ses can have us flayed or impaled at a nod. Now, we must flee from Iranistan to escape the king's wrath.”

Conan finished the wine and smacked his lips. ”I think not; h.e.l.l get over it He knows his army is not what it was in his grandsire's time, and we're the only light horse he can count on. But that still leaves our friend Balash. I'm tempted to ride north to warn him.”

”Alone, Conan?”

”Why not? You can give it out that I'm sleeping off a debauch for a few days until-”

A light knock on the door made Conan cut off his sentence. He glanced at the Shemite, stepped to the door, and growled: