Part 4 (1/2)

In spite of the din, Conan heard in Moti's voice the tone of a man ordering a rearguard to stand and die. The tickling spider-legs of danger on Conan's spine became sharp hooves. Two years ago he would have drawn his sword.

Pyla cast aside her breast plates. They clattered to the floor amid cheers, as the northern woman turned for the door. Conan followed her with his eyes, and saw that the silk-clad man was doing the same. Pyla, Zaria,

and Thebia might have been carrion birds pecking at ox bones for all he saw of them.

The woman could avoid the dancers only by pa.s.sing close to her watcher and his guards. The man saw that in the same moment as Conan. His fingers did a dance of their own. Conan had taken two steps when one of the guards thrust a thick leg into the woman's path.

In the next moment Conan knew she was a warrior. She dropped both jug and basket to free her hands and save her balance. When she knew that her balance was lost, she twisted in midair and crashed down with both hands free. Rolling, she drew a dagger from one boot and uncoiled like a snake.

The lordling leaped from his chair, one hand on his sword hilt and the other held out in what Conan much doubted was friends.h.i.+p. As his guards also rose, the woman gripped the lordling's hand, then held on as she twisted again. The man's pearl-sewn shoes were no aid on the wine-slick floor. He sat down with a thump.

Conan was now close enough to hear the woman say, ”Forgive me, my lord.

I only wished-” Two of the guards turned toward him. Conan's instinct to draw his sword seethed and bubbled beneath a skin of civilization.

The lordling contemplated the ruby stains on his clothes, then he contemplated the woman. His voice rose to a screech. ”She attacked me!

My clothes are ruined! Do your duty!”

The woman had her back to one of the guards. As his comrades drew swords, he drew a club. It came down to meet the flat of Conan's out-thrust sword. Conan's ma.s.sive right arm easily .held the sword, as the club slid down to strike the woman a glancing blow to her shoulder, instead of a stunning one to her head.

The woman rolled again, giving Conan fighting room. For a moment he had no need of it. The lordling and his guards seemed bemused at being opposed. Conan shot a quick glance at Moti. Sweat streamed from the innkeeper, and his white-knuckled hands gripped the handle of the maul.

Conan much doubted that he would drink again at the Red Falcon. The lordling had put Moti in such fear that he would see an honest customer attacked. Conan would call no man a coward without proof, but neither would he be bound by his host's fears.

”This woman no more attacked you than a she-mouse,” Conan growled. ”If we're to talk of attacks, what about that great barge of a foot I saw thrust at her?”

The woman unwisely turned to smile at Conan. One guard had recovered his wits. His sword rasped free, thrusting clumsily but hard at the woman. She whirled, enough so that steel intended to pierce her belly only raked her ribs. A red stain spread across the side of her tunic.

The guard nearest to Conan owed his life to the Cimmerian's scruples about cutting down a man who had not yet drawn. A stool, flung like a stone from a catapult, took the guard's legs out from under him.

Conan's boot crashed into his ribs, then into his belly. The guard doubled up, trying to spew and breathe and scream all at the same time with precious little success.

By now, more than half of Moti's customers had recalled urgent business elsewhere. One guard retreated among the empty tables and benches. Two others and their master charged Conan, staying close together rather than spreading out. They also took their eyes off the woman.

b.l.o.o.d.y ribs and all, the woman sprang onto a vacant table. The closest guard turned on her, his sword snaking toward her thigh.

”Don't kill her, you fool!” the lordling screamed.

The guard's reply was hardly respectful. Conan knew a moment's sympathy for the man. No order could be harder to obey than to take a she-lion alive. No man but a fool gave it, save for better cause than wounded vanity.

The woman drew a second dagger from her boot, then sprang down. She landed so close to the guard that he lacked room to use his sword.

Before he could open the distance she locked his sword arm with one dagger, then thrust the point of the other up under his chin. His outraged scream turned into a gurgle as blood sprayed from his nose and mouth.

”Look out, woman! Behind you!”

The guard who had retreated was advancing as his dead comrade took all the woman's attention. Conan could only shout a warning. The lordling and one guard were coming at him. Both seemed to know the curved Turanian sword well enough to demand the Cimmerian's full attention.

Greater speed and longer reach could too easily be set at naught by ill-luck.

His warning to the woman might still have been too late. By the G.o.ds'

favor, the guard tried to obey his lord's orders to take the woman alive. He closed and grappled her from behind, one arm around her throat, one gripping her right arm. She wriggled like an eel, trying to stab backward. His mail turned away one dagger, and he hammered her wrist against the edge of a table until she dropped the other.