Part 22 (1/2)

He bit his lip, and the scream died unborn. The swordcut he had suffered from that young fool Mikus's blade was not the first battle wound he had taken. It would not be the last, even though victory was dawning before him. No usurped throne was ever held without fighting.

But G.o.ds, the pain! No wound had ever hurt so much. The count would have prayed that no wound would ever hurt so much again, but he doubted that his prayers would be answered. He could not even shape his lips to the proper names of the lawful G.o.ds.

Chills gripped his heart and belly, almost making him forget the pain.

Had magic entered into him so much that he was unclean in the sight of the G.o.ds? Had he done what was forbidden and now was cursed with this dreadful pain from a simple sword-cut, and might he be cursed with worse-?

Count Syzambry still did not scream, but he groaned.

From what seemed a vast distance away, a voice that might have been a ghost's uttered sounds without words. Count Syzambry thought he heard what might have been ”sleeping draught.” and even ”Pougoi magic.”

Pougoi magic. Yes. That was it. The magic of the tribe's wizards was making him hurt so much. The same magic would take away the pain.

It would take away the pain or he would not be the friend the Pougoi expected. It had been his intention to arm the Pougoi and use them to uphold his throne. He would still do that if their wizards would heal him. If they did not, he would say nothing.

But he would heal himself, or seek the aid of the leeches and surgeons.

The healing would take longer that way, but vengeance lost no sweetness with the pa.s.sing of time.

Yes, the time would pa.s.s, his wound would be gone, and he would use the power of the throne to arm all the enemies of the Pougoi. Then those enemies would fall upon them and cast them down, even their beast.

It would not do, after all, to leave the beast alive and a prey to someone who might think he was meant to rule in the Border Kingdom.

A voice spoke again, with nothing remotely like sensible words. A rim of cold metal pressed against the count's battered lips. He smelled herbs and strong wine, then tasted them as the cup was tilted to trickle the potion into his mouth.

For a moment he thought he would choke. He did not, and the cup was empty almost before he became used to the harsh taste. He was already sliding down into sleep as the cup left him, although even after he slept, it was a while before the pain no longer troubled his dreams.

The last sounds from the battle of the palace were long since left behind. Nothing but the sounds of the night disturbed the march of Conan's band of survivors. The night breeze whispered across the bare hillsides, and in the forests below, the night birds called to one another.

Once a wolf howled, long and harsh. The reply came not from another wolf but from something that seemed as vast as a mountain and growled like the heaving earth during the battle. Conan saw the fear-stricken looks on his men's faces and growled curses under his breath.

As they skirted a field of straggling grain, Raihna dropped back to walk beside the Cimmerian.

”The G.o.ds seem far away tonight,” she said. Her face was such a mask that it seemed the movement of her lips would crack it.

Conan lifted a hand to wipe blood-caked dust from her cheek. ”They're never as close as the priests seem to think. We're alive without their help, so I'm wagering on our-”

”Hsstt!”

Raihna did not grip Conan's arm this time. There was no need for it.

Both had seen alike: a line of shadowy figures straggling out of the forest. The faintest of moonlight was enough to reveal swords and spears, as well as ragged clothes, scanty armor, and no banner or device that Conan recognized.

Raihna ran like a doe up to the head of the line, waving the men to a halt as she went. They halted, not without a clattering of weapons and thumping of boots that would have alerted trained men below.

The men below, Conan judged, were even less battleworthy than the recruits of the Second Company had been. He saw them staggering with weariness, sometimes falling out of line to drink from leather jacks.

He saw them alternately gathered into ragged clumps like bunches of grapes or strung out like a serpent. He saw all of this as he walked along the line of his band, warning the men to be silent, but ready.

”I'm going down when they're all in sight,” he told Raihna at last.

”When you see me draw my sword or hear me shout Count Syzambry's war cry, come at a run!”