Part 5 (2/2)
”But they did not?”
”All but a handful who fled died. Those who fled spoke of a giant, conjured from stone and set loose among them. Our foes seem to have more spells at their command than we had thought.”
”Or more men?” Aybas withheld a sigh. ”Look you, Brother. All the G.o.ds be witness, you and your comrades know more of magic than I had thought mortal men had it in them to apprehend. But I know rather more of war and battle as they are waged outside these hills. Rather than fear sorcery, fear lest the caravan has taken some of the Friends prisoner and forced them to reveal what they know of our plans. Bid the men who take the princess to retreat by a different route, to hide by day and march by night, to speak to no one, and to delay for nothing save the end of the world!
”That will do as much against our enemies as any spell you can cast or any score of folk you might...”- he would not say, ”let your pet slaughter”-”take up.”
”Will you never be done with insolence, Lowlander?”
It was in Aybas's mind to say that his insolence was a child's compared to that of Count Syzambry. But he held his peace. Let the wizards find out what manner of man they had bound themselves to when the count ruled in this land. It would be a harsh lesson, and by then Aybas would be well-hidden, far from the Border Kingdom.
”Forgive me again if I give offense. It is not my wish to do so. But it is very much my wish that work so well begun should not fail now through simple mischance.”
”The message you set forth will be sent, Aybas. Will that content you?”
”Entirely.” Aybas knew that he would not have won more had he offered the wizards the treasury of the priests of Set!
The clouds that had loomed overhead through the twilight pa.s.sed on without dropping more than a cupful of rain. Conan saw lightning and heard the crash of thunder to the west as the storm moved on, but the caravan made a dry camp.
Although Conan had no duties once he had unpacked Raihna's baggage, he took his share of the camp duties nonetheless. It was plain that some among the men had guessed that he and Raihna were once lovers. It was plainer still that all wished to know more about this man to whom they most likely owed their lives.
So Conan drank as much as he wished and could have drunk more than was wise. He brought his sword to the armorer to be examined for nicks.
Cimmerian work was not often seen by armorers from the south, and Cimmerian swords wielded with deadly effect by the sons of Cimmerian smiths hardly ever. Conan and the armorer had a pleasant enough chat over the wine.
He helped a groom oil leather saddlebags that showed signs of cracking.
He helped two newly hired boys repack vials of herbs and simples nastily scooped up from the ground where they had fallen during the fight. He helped another boy with a potter's deft hands for clay mend a broken jug that held something foul-smelling beyond all belief.
”This will give King Eloikas a great power against his enemies, or so it is said,” the potter explained.
”Phaugh!” Conan said, yearning for fresh air or, at least, the closing of the jug. ”What will he do? Invite them all to dine and then unstopper this jug at the banquet? Surely enough, the stink will slay them all.”
The potter frowned and did not reply. Conan felt a chill of unease deep within. Was King Eloikas dabbling in sorcery? Even if he did so because his enemies had begun it, Conan wanted no part of such duels of magic.
If Raihna was going toward the place of such a duel, he was honor-bound to follow her as far as she went. But he would hope that it was not too far, or that if it was, a stoutly wielded sword could win him free again.
In twenty-three years of life, the Cimmerian had learned that sorcerers seldom made a good end. They also made an even worse end for far too many other folk before they came to their own.
”Forget that I asked,” Conan said. ”I bear King Eloikas no ill will. I will even bear his ill-smelling gifts, if I must.”
The potter's frown eased. They chatted briefly, and then Conan moved on to the hut where the wounded lay. There were five of them now, for one had died since reaching the village. As Conan entered, the leech was kneeling beside a man who was clearly taking his last breaths.
Man? Boy, rather; hardly older than Conan had been when he first felt the lash of the slaver's whip. A boy, dying far from home and clearly fearing that he had not done well in his first and only battle.
Conan knelt beside the lad's pallet. ”Easy, there. What is your name?”
”Rasmussen, Cap... tain.”
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