Part 8 (2/2)
Raihna's archers on the roofs began shooting. Raihna screamed at them to stop. They heard, but they did not obey at once.
”No more blood, you witlings!” Conan roared. ”No more blood and we can still win free of this!”
”Tell that to-” someone began.
Conan did not spend time in arguing. He leaped high, clutched the ankles of the nearest archer and brought him down with a crash on the hut's roof. Rotten timbers and thatching gave under the man's weight and he plunged through the roof in a cloud of dust. From inside, Conan heard curses that proved the man was shaken rather than hurt.
”Mistress,” a man called in a more moderate tone. ”Garzo is hurt to death, and two others have shed blood. That says nothing of the pack animals hurt or slain. We owe the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds for that!”
”We owe King Eloikas the safe arrival of his goods!” Raihna snapped.
”We will fight or not as it will help us honor our bond. You swore to obey me in that. Will you stand foresworn in the face of the enemy and before a man who knows how to use strength and wits?”
This speech drew an eloquent silence. Conan knew that Raihna's power over her men was fraying. He hoped that the last few strands would hold until either Count Syzambry saw reason or the fight began in good earnest.
A whistling warned Conan in time. He flung himself one way, Raihna the other, as arrows from the hill sprinkled the village. More pack animals screamed. A mule cantered down the street, blood gus.h.i.+ng from its throat. At the corner, it collapsed. A scrubby but stout-legged pony broke into a gallop, toward the count's men. Arrows jutted from its flanks and rump. As it pa.s.sed the dying mule, more arrows sprouted from it and it reared, then also collapsed.
”I'd wager they're trying to keep us here if they can't beat us down,”
Conan told Raihna.
”Keep us here until they can bring up more men?”
”Why not? I'd also wager that if none come before nightfall, we can win clear then. For now, they seem to lack the stomach for a close fight.”
”We can hardly win free with the animals to consider.”
”There are times-”
”There are times when you are too free in telling me how to do my work, Conan!”
”Truth is truth, whether I speak or stay silent.”
Raihna shook her head as if that could make matters otherwise. Then she wiped her eyes with a tattered sleeve. The movement lifted b.r.e.a.s.t.s that her garb hardly hid. Bruised, grazed, and dusty as she was, Raihna could have walked into any tavern and danced her way to a purseful of silver.
The archery now slackened from both the hill and the valley side of the village. Conan swung himself onto a roof and lay low enough to be invisible, high enough to see clearly.
The count was waving his arms so wildly that he seemed to have more than two. After a moment Conan realized that Syzambry had the wits to know what he faced here: men who could defend themselves well enough if they had warning of an enemy's plans. Commanding his men by silent hand signals, Syzambry must be hoping for surprise.
That he was planning on attacking at all raised Conan's hopes.
Syzambry's men from the hill had lost half of their strength and were past fighting, or they were still fleeing. The count had barely the means with which to attack a foe standing on familiar ground, well-armed and under captains who knew their work.
Conan remained on the roof for some time. The vermin swarming in the thatch left their customary haunts for tastier prey. They drew no response from the Cimmerian, not even a twitch. He had learned the art of silence and stillness while fighting the mountain tribes of the Turanian frontier. Against them, to move was to die.
A whistle, a thump, and the smell of smoke at last made Conan move.
Looking to the right, he saw smoke curling up from the thatch of the next hut.
Fire arrows!
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