Part 5 (1/2)
”As you wish, miner of my name and destroyer of my house. May you have much joy in it, before Lord Houma's men burn it over your head.”
”Lord Houma may have fewer but wiser men if he tries that,” Conan said.
”Now, I want a room tonight, and food and wine for-” He looked at the women.
”One,” with a nod to Pyla.
”Two,” smiling at Zaria.
Thebia grinned and put her hands behind her back. Her young b.r.e.a.s.t.s rose, quivering. Conan pointed at her bandaged thigh. ”You want to be the third, with that? Oh, very well. I'm no great hand at arguing with women.”
”Just as well, then, that our northern friend took herself off,” Pyla said. ”Otherwise, she might be joining us. I much doubt that even a Cimmerian can do justice to four!”
Two.
”THAT'S A BOW in your hands, you son of a cull!” Conan snapped. ”It's not a snake. It won't bite you. Even if it did, that's not half of what I'll do to you if you don't string it now!”
The gangling youth turned the color of the dust underfoot. He looked at the cerulean sky overhead, as if imploring the G.o.ds for mercy. Conan drew breath for more advice. The youth swallowed, gripped the bow, and managed to string it, gracelessly but without dropping it again.
One by one, Conan took his recruits through the art of stringing the powerful curved Turanian horsebow. Certainly, some were destined to be midden-sweepers. Others already knew everything that Conan proposed to teach them.
He would not ask how they had learned the bow. Among the mercenaries of Turan, the life of a soldier began the day he took the copper coin of enlistment. What he had been before, no one asked. It was a custom that Conan thought wise, and not only because his own past would not have borne the weight of too much curiosity.
At last Conan spat into the dust and scowled at the men. ”Why the G.o.ds addled your wits, making you think you could be soldiers, they only know. I don't. So I have to do what King Yildiz pays me for. That's turning you into soldiers, whether you like it or not. Sergeant Garsim!
Take them on a run, ten times around the range!”
”You heard the Captain,” shouted Garsim, in a voice that could have been heard in King Yildiz's palace. ”Run!” He flourished his stick until it whistled, then fell in behind the recruits with a wink to Conan. Although Garsim could have been grandfather to some of the recruits, he could easily outrun any of them.
As the recruits vanished through the gate, Conan sensed someone behind him. Before he could turn, he heard Khadjar's voice.
”You talk to those men as though you have heard your own words from others.”
”I have. Captain. Sergeant Nikar said much the same when he was teaching me archery.”
”So old Nikar was your instructor? I thought I saw his touch in your draw. What happened to him, by the way?”
”He went home on leave, and never reached it. A band of robbers disappeared that same month. I'd wager Nikar won a fine escort.”
”Would you wager on your archery against mine? Five arrows a turn, three turns?”
”Well, Captain-”
”Come, come, oh defender of dancing girls. Did I not hear of your winning free hospitality at the Red Falcon two nights ago? Your purse should be ready to burst with the weight of unspent coin!”
Conan was ready to burst with curiosity, as to how the Captain had learned so much so soon. He only said, ”It was no dancing girl I defended, at least at the start. It was a northern woman, and a fine fighter if a trifle overmatched against four.”
Khadjar laughed. ”Most would be, save yourself. I trust the lady was grateful?”
”Not so a man would notice it,” Conan said. He grinned. ”The dancing girls were, though. So grateful that I much doubt I am fit to shoot against you.”
”Conan, you say a mere three dancing girls have drained your strength?