Part 9 (1/2)
Conan managed a chuckle. ”But these were gifts from King Yildiz to King Tiridates, gems that no man has ever seen before. And the same on the casket,” he embroidered.
Abruptly Karela burst through the close-packed circle of men, and they edged back from the rage on her face. Gone were the makes.h.i.+ft garments she had acquired at the Well of the Kings. Silver filigreed breastplates of gold barely contained her ivory b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and a girdle of pearls a finger wide hung low on her hips. Red thigh boots covered her legs, and the tulwar at her side had a sapphire the size of a pigeon's egg on the pommel.
”The dog lies,” she snarled. The men took another step back, but there was raw greed on their faces. ”He seeks no gemstones, but a slave girl.
He told me so himself. He's naught but a muscle-bound slave catcher for some besotted fool in Shadizar. Tell them you lie, Conan!”
”I speak the truth.” Or some of it, he thought.
She whirled on him, knuckles white on the hilt of her sword. ”Sp.a.w.n of a maggot! Admit you lie, or I'll have you flayed alive.”
”You've broken half your oath,” he said calmly. ”Uncivil words.”
”Derketo take you!” With a howl of rage she planted the toe of one red boot solidly in his ribs. He could not contain a grunt of pain. ”Think of something lingering, Hordo,” she commanded. ”He'll admit his lies soon enough then.” Suddenly she spun on her heel, drawing her sword till a hand-breadth of razor-sharp blue steel showed above the worked leather scabbard. ”Unless one of you has a mind to challenge my orders?”
A chorus of protests rose, and to Conan's amazement more than one gnarled and scarred face was filled with fear. With a satisfied nod Karela slammed the tulwar back into its sheath and strode away toward her tent. Men half-fell in their haste to get out of her way.
”The second part of your oath,” Conan shouted after her. ”You struck me. You're foresworn before Derketo. What vengeance will the G.o.ddess of love and death take on you, and on any who follow you?”
Her stride faltered for an instant, but she went on without turning.
The doorflap of the red-striped pavilion was drawn behind her.
”You'll die easier, Conan,” Hordo said, ”if you watch your tongue. I've a mind to rip it out of you now, but some of the lads might want to hear if you babble more of this supposed treasure.”
”You act like whipped curs around her,” Conan said. ”Have none of you ever thought for yourselves?”
Hordo shook his s.h.a.ggy head. ”I'll tell you a tale, and if you make me speak of it again I'll skewer your liver. From whence she came no one knows, but we found her wandering naked as a babe, and little more than one she was, in years, but with that sword she now wears clutched in her fist. He that led us then, Constanius by name, thought to have his sport with her, then sell her. He was the best of us with a sword, but she killed him like a fox killing a chicken, and when two who were close to him tried to take her, she killed them, too, and just as quick. Since then we've followed her. The looting she leads us to has always been good, and no man who did as he was told has ever been taken. She commands, and we obey, and we're satisfied.”
Hordo went away then, and Conan listened to the others talking as they drank around the fires. Amid coa.r.s.e laughter they discussed what sport would be had of him. Hot coals were much talked of, and the uses of burning splinters, and how much of a man's skin might be removed and yet leave him living.
The sun blazed higher and hotter. Conan's tongue swelled in his mouth with thirst, and his lips cracked and blackened. Sweat dried on his body till no more came, and the sun scored his flesh. Aberius and another fish-eyed rogue staggered over and amused themselves by pouring water on the ground beside his head, betting on how close they could come to his mouth without letting a drop fall where he could reach it.
Even when the clear stream was so close he could feel the coolness of it on his cheek, Conan refused to turn his head toward it. He would not give them so much satisfaction.
In time the other man left, and Aberius squatted at Conan's head with the clay waterbottle cradled in his arms. ”You'd kill for water, wouldn't you?” the weasel-faced man said softly. He glanced warily over his shoulder at the other bandits, still drinking and shouting of what tortures they would inflict on the big Cimmerian, then went on. ”Tell me about this treasure, and I'll give you water.”
”Ten-thousand-gold-pieces,” Conan croaked. The words sc.r.a.ped like gravel across his dry tongue. Aberius licked his lips eagerly. ”More.
Where is this treasure? Tell me, and I'll convince the others to set you free.”
”Free-first,” Conan managed.
”Fool! The only way you'll get free at all is with my help. Now, tell me where to find-” He squawked suddenly as Hordo's big hand s.n.a.t.c.hed him into the air by the scruff of his neck.
The one-eyed brigand shook the rat of a man, Aberius' feet dangling above the ground. ”What are you doing?” Hordo demanded. ”He's not for talking with.”
”Just having a little sport,” Aberius laughed weakly. ”Just taunting him.”
”Taunting,” Hordo spat. He threw the smaller man sprawling in the dust.
”It's more than taunting we'll do to him. You get back to the rest.” He waited while Alberius scrambled, half-crawling, to where the other brigands watched laughing, then turned back to Conan. ”Make peace with your G.o.ds, barbar. You'll have no time later.”