Part 43 (1/2)

Illyana finished binding up her hair and started to pull off the Jewel-ring. Conan reached for it, to put it in his belt pouch. Illyana looked down at his left hand and drew back.

”No, Conan. Your other hand. You've cut this one.”

”So I have,” the Cimmerian said. He held up the bleeding hand. From the look of the cut, it must have been an edged stone, so sharp that he had not felt it. ”I'll wash it out and bind it up. I've cut myself worse shaving. It will be healing before we reach the mountains.”

”That is not so important. Even were it far deeper, I could heal it with little use of the Jewel. No, the danger is letting blood fall on the Jewel.”

”Does it get drunk if that happens, or what?” Conan's light tone hid fear crawling through him. Illyana had spoken in a deadly sober tone.

”One might call it getting drunk. It is certain that when blood falls on it, a Jewel becomes much harder to control. It is said that if a blood-smeared Jewel then falls into water, it cannot be controlled at all.”

Conan shrugged and reached for the ring with his right hand, then stuffed it into his pouch. It was in his mind to ask how Illyana proposed to keep the Jewel free of blood while they were battling the Transformed or whatever else Eremius might send against them.

The words never reached his lips. Illyana sat on the edge of the pool, thrusting her long legs over the edge until her feet dabbled in the water. She raised her arms to the sun and threw her head back. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and belly rose and tautened, as fine and fair as a young girl's.

She held the pose and Conan held desire for a long moment. Then she slipped into the pool, to bob up on the far side, next to Raihna.

Conan rose and began to stride back and forth along the edge of the pool. Another such display by Illyana, and he was going to find it a burden to be a gentleman!

As desire left Conan's mind, an idle thought entered it. Suppose the Jewels were indeed living beings, with their own wills? And suppose they offered Illyana magic and bedmates, in return for her obedience?

Never mind the Jewels. Suppose Master Eremius had the wits to offer such a bargain?

Conan's thoughts ceased to be idle, and the mountains about him ceased to look peaceful. Uneasily and suspiciously, he pondered whether he had just guessed Illyana's price.

”Now follow me. Run!” Yakoub shouted.

The twelve men obeyed more swiftly than they would have even two days ago. Once more Yakoub knew that until now Eremius's captains had been the one-eyed leading the blind. By himself, he could do only so much to change this.

But if he taught twelve men everything he knew, then each of them taught it to six more and they to six beyond that-well, inside of two months all of Eremius's men would be decent soldiers. Not the equals of the Golden Spears or other crack units of foot, but as good as most irregulars.

If only he could train them with the bow! But Eremius had pa.s.sed judgment on that idea.

Yakoub writhed within as he remembered Eremius's words. The sorcerer had been surprised to see Yakoub appearing and offering to train his men. He had even allowed his pleasure to show, when the training started to bear fruit.

Grat.i.tude was beyond him, however. So was what Yakoub considered military wisdom.

”In these mountains, Master, an archer is worth three men without a bow.”

”We shall not be in the mountains much longer.”

”Even in the plains, an archer has value against hors.e.m.e.n.”

”No hors.e.m.e.n will dare close with the Transformed.”

”Perhaps. But if you have to retreat, a rearguard of archers-”

”There shall be no retreats when we march again.”

”You are-you have high hopes, Master.”