Part 33 (2/2)

Illyana colored slightly. ”It did not. I thought I was past making such a foolish mistake. I believe I am. Yet the spell was not wrought as I intended. Was it my failure-or the Jewel's own will?”

The dawn sky seemed to darken and the dawn wind grow cold. No gesture of aversion Conan could think of seemed adequate. He emptied his cup at a gulp, poured it full again, and held it out to Illyana. After a moment, she took it. Although she only seemed to sip, when she handed the cup back it was two-thirds empty.

The wine gave more color to Illyana's cheeks. It also seemed to strengthen her own will, to say no more of what might be happening to her Jewel-still less that held by Eremius.

Conan set the wine cup down and rose. If Illyana wished to say no more, it was not a whim. He would honor her judgment that far.

For no sorcerer before her would he have done this. Illyana, though, had her wits about her more than any other sorcerer, besides a true sense of honor.

It was still a cold thought to take to war, that sorcerers might not truly be masters of all the magic they called to their service.

Fifteen.

IN THE TWILIGHT behind Bora, a child wailed. Was it the same one he had rescued in the village, after her parents fled in panic? Bora was too weary to care.

Indeed, he was now too weary to flee even if being the new leader of his village had not chained him like an ox to a millstone. It was a burden to put one foot in front of another swiftly enough to stay ahead of the women and children.

To slough off that burden, to sit upon a rock and watch the village file past-he was almost ready to pray for it. Almost. Each time he was ready for that prayer, he thought of the whispers of the villagers.

Bora knew he was one of those men who became heroes because they feared whispers behind them more than swords and bows in front.

The twilight crept up from the valley, deepening from blue to purple.

Even finding good footing would be hard work before long, Yet they could not stop. With darkness, the demons' master might unleash them again. Even now they could be on the prowl along the villagers' trail, thirsting for blood-

”Hoaaa! Who approaches?”

The shout came from the archer sent ahead to strengthen the scouts. The other archers of the village marched in the rear, where the demons were most likely to attack.

Bora was loading his sling when the reply came, in an unexpectedly familiar voice.

”Kemal here. I'm with soldiers from Fort Zheman. You're safe!”

Anything else Kemal said was lost in the cheers and sobs of the villagers. Bora himself would have danced, had he possessed the strength. He had just wit enough to walk, not run, down the path to Kemal.

His friend sat astride a strange horse. ”Where's Windmaster?” was Bora's first question.

”He was too blown to make the return journey. Captain Conan procured him a stall and fodder, and a new mount for me.”

Bora saw that his friend was not alone. A ma.s.sive dark-haired man sat astride a cavalry mount, and behind him a fair-haired woman in male dress, with a warrior's array of weapons openly displayed. Beyond them, the hoof-falls and blowing of horses told of at least part of a troop at hand.

Relief washed over Bora like a warm bath, leaving him light-headed and for a moment wearier still. Then he gathered from somewhere the strength to speak.

”I thank you, Captain Conan.”

The big man dismounted with catlike grace and faced Bora. ”Save your thanks until we're well clear of this hill. Can your people march another mile to water? Have they left anyone behind on the road? How many armed men do you have?”

<script>