Part 2 (1/2)

He wrinkled his nostrils, both at the stench and at the message he read in the dangling bodies. If two bandits were all that the local lord could bring to justice, it was one more proof that law sat lightly on this land. Conan was not one to wors.h.i.+p the law when it stood between him and easy wealth, but the Border Kingdom seemed to have neither gold nor law.

It doubtless had archers, though, so Conan took care not to make an easy target of himself as he crossed to the mouth of the valley. The bow was not his weapon of choice, but he had learned its ways well enough in Turan to judge where an archer might lurk.

No arrows or other signs of life came his way before he reached the valley. At the bottom, a stream that almost deserved the name of a river flowed downhill. Beside it was a trail that clearly had borne shod mounts as well as booted feet, and not long ago.

Conan scrambled up the side of the valley as if the trail had been alive with serpents. He would use the trail if the lay of the land forced him to, but otherwise he would leave it to those who wished to make targets of themselves. He had long since learned that he would probably not die in bed from the onset of years. Likewise, he had learned how not to die young from witlings' mistakes.

By mid-afternoon he was well down the valley. He had devoured the rabbit and some wild mushrooms by a small stream. As he washed his hands, he thought he heard a distant bell chiming, but afterward judged it a trick of the wind.

A jagged spur of reddish rock plunged down from the crest across his path. It seemed an impa.s.sable barrier, and Conan reluctantly decided that he must at last strike downhill toward the trail.

He had covered perhaps half the distance when he heard the bell sound again. This time it was no trick of the wind. Indeed, it seemed to come from beyond the spur.

A moment later, he heard a bird calling. Or, rather, a man imitating a bird, not so well that Conan's woods-wise ears could not discern the fakery. Then an answering bird call came from the trees in front of Conan and not more than a hundred paces away.

Conan's sword leaped into his hand. Then he looked at the thick-grown trees and sheathed it again. For close work here, his dagger would serve better. There would be such work, he was certain, and he'd wager against the bird-callers.

But he'd not put the wager down, though, without asking a few questions first. Dropping to hands and knees, Conan began a slow downhill crawl.

He was as he had been by the pool: a stalking cat would have been loud by comparison.

Before he'd covered half of the hundred paces, he heard the bell chiming again. This time he knew the sound for what it really was: a horseshoe striking on rock. Listening intently as the breeze came and went, Conan heard the clinking shoes of several horses. These mounts, too, were beyond the spur of rock, but the volume of their chiming was growing steadily louder.

Had the horses been his, Conan would have m.u.f.fled their hooves before taking them through this bandit-haunted forest. A grim smile crossed his face briefly. Perhaps some of the steeds would be his after this fight.

The approaching hors.e.m.e.n might well have no better claim to their mounts and goods than did whoever was stalking them. If the Cimmerian chose, he might a.s.sist in a change of owners.h.i.+p. He might depart the Kingdom afoot, but with the price of more than one mount in his purse.

Then he could begin his career in Nemedia rather less like a beggar and more like a man whom warriors would trust to lead them aright.

Conan was still cat-silent as he crept down the slope to where he had heard the birdcall. No rolling pebble or snapping twig alerted the men he sought. When he found them, he saw that three of them still had their eyes fixed to the front, as though they had no backs that might be vulnerable. The archer among them was looking to the side as he thrust his arrows point-first into the soil.

None of the men looked as if they had bathed or eaten properly for half a year. Their beards and hair would have done to stuff a mattress, and all of their garb together would barely have made one man fit to appear on the streets of a town. Yet their eyes and weapons were bright, and the Cimmerian knew that he faced no easy foes here, if foes they were to be.

The archer-rising from placing his last arrow to unsling his bow-was the first to see Conan. His eyes widened as he saw the Cimmerian loom over him, and he hastened his movement. Unslinging his bow brought it within Conan's reach. A muscle-corded hand, well-furnished with sword calluses, gripped the curved ash. The archer tried to free his weapon.

He might as well have tried to loose it from the grip of a troll. His eyes widened more.

”Easy, man,” the Cimmerian said. He spoke in a low voice, one clearer than a whisper but carrying no farther. ”Who comes?”

”A caravan for the king,” the archer replied. This drew a glare from one of the others, which faded swiftly as Conan returned it.

”What king?” There were some rulers whom Conan had no wish to turn into enemies. There were also some who had long since put a price on his head.

”The Border king, of course,” the archer said as if addressing a witling.

That told Conan little, but perhaps that little was enough. If he would be shaking the dust of the Border Kingdom from his feet within days, did it matter if he took some of its king's goods with him?

”How many are you, and how set?” Conan asked.

The bandits looked at one another. The sound of the approaching hors.e.m.e.n was now an almost continuous ringing, like tiny forges hard at work.

”I'll not be your enemy unless you give me cause,” the Cimmerian said.

”But I'll be no kind of friend until I know if you're worth befriending.”