Part 7 (1/2)

”Have you gone mad, woman?” he shouted. For an answer she sank her teeth into his shoulder. ”Crom!”

He hurled her away from him. She rolled across the ground and bounded to her feet. Still, he saw wonderingly, gripping the rusty sword.

”I need no man to protect me!” she spat. ”I'm not some pampered concubine!”

”Who said you were?” he roared.

Then he had to jerk his sword free of its scabbard as she rushed at him with a howl of pure rage. Her green eyes burned, and her face was twisted with fury. He swung up his sword to block her downward slash.

With a sharp snap the rusty scimitar broke, leaving her to stare in disbelief at the bladeless hilt in her hands.

Almost without a pause she hurled the useless hilt at his face and spun to dash for the dead men by the well. Their weapons still lay about them. Conan darted after her, and as she bent to s.n.a.t.c.h another scimitar, he swung the flat of his blade with all his strength at the tempting target thus offered. She lifted up on her toes with a strangled shriek as the steel paddle cracked against her rounded nates.

Arms windmilling, she staggered forward, her foot slipping in a pool of blood, and screaming she plunged headfirst over the crude stone wall of the well.

Conan dived as she went over; his big hand closed on flesh, and he was dragged to his armpits into the well by the weight of her. He discovered he was holding the red-haired wench by one ankle while she dangled over the depths. An interesting view, he thought.

”Derketo take you!” she howled. ”Pull me up, you motherless whelp!”

”In Shadizar,” he said conversationally, ”I saved you a mauling. You called me a barbar boy, let a man near take my head off, and left without a word of thanks.”

”Son of a diseased camel! Sp.a.w.n of a bagnio! Pull me up!”

”Now here,” he went on as if she had not spoken, ”all I did was save you from rape, certainly, perhaps from being sold on the slave block.

Or maybe they'd just have slit your throat once they were done with you.” She wriggled violently, and he edged further over the rim to let her drop another foot. Her scream echoed up the stone cylinder. She froze into immobility.

”You had no thought of saving me,” she rasped breathlessly. ”You'd have ridden off to leave me if those dogs hadn't tried you.”

”All the same, if I had ridden on, or if they'd killed me, you'd be wondering what you'd fetch at market.”

”And you want a reward,” she half wept. ”Derketo curse you, you smelly barbar oaf?”

”That's the second time you've called me that,” he said grimly. ”What I want from you is an oath, by Derketo since you call on the G.o.ddess of love and death. An oath that you'll never again let an uncivil word pa.s.s your lips toward me, and that you'll never again raise a hand against me.”

”Hairy lout! Dung-footed barbar! Do you think you can force me to-”

He cut her off. ”My hand is getting sweaty. I wouldn't wait too long.

You might slip.” Silence answered him. ”Or then again, I might grow tired of waiting.”

”I will swear.” Her voice was suddenly soft and sensuously yielding.

”Pull me up, and I'll swear on my knees to anything you command.”

”Swear first,” he replied. ”I'd hate to have to toss you back in.

Besides, I like the view.” He thought he heard the sound of a small fist smacking the stone wall of the well in frustration, and smiled.

”You untrusting ape,” she snarled with all her old ferocity. ”Very well. I swear, by Derketo, that I'll speak no uncivil word to you, nor raise a hand against you. I swear it. Are you satisfied?”

He hoisted her straight up out of the well, and let her drop on the hard ground with a thud and a grunt.

”You....” She bit her lip and glared up at him from the ground. ”You didn't have to be so rough,” she said in a flat tone. Instead of answering, he unfastened his swordbelt, propping the scabbard against the well. ”What-what are you doing?”