Part 13 (1/2)

”I don't know. But what the master said-I've seldom heard a speech that smelled more of long practice. He spoke like an old beggar who's been asking for alms on the same temple steps for twenty years.”

”Maybe this happens every third crossing,” Conan grunted. ”With this floating lumberpile, anything's possible.”

”I need no rea.s.surance!” Raihna's whisper was fiercer yet. ”I need to know that you're not a fool.”

”Woman, you can warn me without insult. If the master's plotting anything, he's outnumbered.”

”How so?”

”You're worth two of him, and as for me-” He shrugged. ”You be the judge.”

”You great Cimmerian oaf-” Raihna began. Then she laughed softly. ”The G.o.ds be with you.”

”With all of us, if the master has any friends aboard,” Conan said. He was ruefully aware of the help the soldiers might have given. Well, only the G.o.ds had foreknowledge, and they only if the priests told the truth, which likely as not meant mat no one knew what lay before him!

Loosening his sword in its scabbard, Conan strode aft to join the master.

By the time Conan reached the stern, the two hands were lowering the skiff into the water. The master, paler than ever, stood watching them.

Watching the master, Conan saw that his hand did not stray far from his dagger. Nor did his eyes stray far from the peasant family. In their turn the peasants had their eyes on the master, with the attention of a cat watching a bird's nest. Gone were the dull-witted stares with which they had come aboard.

Conan felt more than sweat creeping down his spine. Raihna had most likely seen clearly. Something was afoot.

The skiff splashed into the river. One of the hands set the oars into their locks, while the other held the line. The master turned to Conan.

”With two stout fellows at the oars, the skiff will turn us about in good time. Then we can steer again, and seek a landing.”

In the shallows by either bank the s.h.i.+mak had hardly more current than a millpond. Here in midstream matters were otherwise. The ferry was already well downstream from the pier on the far side.

Not far downstream, Conan saw that the banks rose steep and high on either side. A man landing there would have a fine scramble before he reached open ground. In that time he would be an easy target for archers on the river. Farther downstream still, if Conan remembered rightly, lay rapids, their fangs mostly drawn at this season of low water but not harmless to this ferry...

The second hand climbed into the skiff and took his oar. The master reached into the shadows beneath the platform. He came out with a stout purse in one hand. A hooded peasant woman stepped forward, hands raised as if to beg for alms.

Conan drew his sword and raised it hilt-first. He and Raihna had agreed on that signal to be ready for a fight but let others begin it. The master scurried for the edge of the deck, thrusting his purse into the bosom of his s.h.i.+rt as he ran. At the edge of the deck he drew his dagger and leaped.

As he leaped, so did the peasant woman. The hood flew back, revealing a gap-toothed, hook-nosed brown face whose curling black beard no woman had ever grown. A long knife leaped from under the robes to slash at Conan.

It reached only where Conan would have been. A backward leap took him clear of danger. He tossed his sword. It came down with hilt cleaving to his hand as if it had grown there.

From over the side came the crunch of wood and shrill curses. Eager to escape, the master had leaped too swiftly and come down too heavily.

One foot had gone straight through the bottom of the skiff.

”I hope you swim better than the sergeant,” Conan shouted. Then it was time to think of his own opponents, three ”peasants” advancing with the air of trained fighting men.

Not only trained but trained to fight together. Conan saw this in their movements and in that saw danger. Three men were not enough to overcome him swiftly, or indeed at all. They were doomed. They could also well take long enough dying to let their comrades reach Illyana and Raihna.

First of all, let us make this one and not two. Again Conan leaped backward, his sword cleaving the air to discourage too close a pursuit.

He hoped for no more; a swordsman could hardly strike accurately without his feet firmly planted.

The arcing gray steel did its work. The three let Conan open the distance. One tried to close, drawing a second dagger. A desperate parry brought the dagger up as Conan's sword descended. The dagger flew with a clang and a clatter. A moment later the man sagged to his knees, clutching at his useless arm. Clear sight left his eyes as the blood left his body.