Conan the Relentless Part 8

"I do not say that you lie," the count said. "But without the royal men watching you, much might have happened against the king's good. Against your good, Mistress Raihna, if you value your reputation as an honest captain."

"Nothing happened," Raihna said. "Certainly nothing that bears on the matter of Princess Chienna's abduction. The first we knew of it was when your man summoned my guard."

"Yes, and if he had let my men into your camp, we would not be standing here glaring at each other like two packs of wolves over a scrawny stag." The count's eyes gave the lie to the soft-seeming words.

"The guard had my orders, and I have orders from King Eloikas. One of them is to let no one question the men or search the baggage unless he bears a royal writ."

Count Syzambry sniffed. "A n.o.bleman such as I bears such a writ by birth. You need have no fear of disobeying the king by obeying me."

"Forgive me, my lord, if I seem doubtful," Raihna said. "We are strangers in this land. We know not its laws or customs, so we cannot judge the truth of what you speak."

Conan saw that she wanted to add, "And we cannot judge whether you are a count or not," but drew back from such an insult.

"I am the judge here," the count said. It was next to a snarl. The fingers writhed again. Conan eyed the distance between himself and the count. The man had made a serious mistake, perhaps without realizing it. He stood between where Conan and Raihna stood and those of his archers who had good shots at the opposing captains.

With only a trifle of luck, Conan could have the little man off his horse and down in the dust before the archers could shoot. If that came to pa.s.s, the fight would take a very different path.

The count glanced at Conan again. The Cimmerian tried to look as harmless as a lamb and to stand as motionless as an oak tree. From the rider's change of countenance, Conan thought he had succeeded.

The count opened his mouth to speak. His intended words died unuttered as a pack mule brayed in the village. Shouts echoed the mules, some of them in voices Conan recognized. Others were the voices of strangers shouting "Steel Hand!"

Conan looked to Raihna. She nodded. He whirled toward the village. The count gave a wordless yell, and Conan heard crossbows c.o.c.king.

Conan continued to whirl, scooping up a stone as he did. He flung the stone with the force of a sling, driving it into the flank of Count Syzambry's horse. The roan squealed and reared, catching the count unready. He clutched frantically at the saddle, the mane, the reins, anything that would keep him from tumbling to the ground.

Meanwhile, Conan's free arm looped around Raihna's supple waist.

s.n.a.t.c.hing her off the ground, he ran for the cover of the village.

Behind him, the count was still struggling to keep his saddle, never mind control his mount.

"If that little jackal in man's shape shields us for a moment longer-"

Conan began. The whistle of arrows cut into his words. Arrows and bolts began sprouting from walls and kicking up dust.

Count Syzambry screamed curses. His mount screamed in pain. Conan judged that some ill-aimed shot had struck home in the roan. The archery slackened but did not cease.

Ahead, a vacant hut offered a gaping window. Conan flung Raihna through it like a wharf man flinging a bale aboard ship. Then he followed, landing almost on top of her.

"Ekkkh, Conan!" Raihna gasped. "Watch my fingers if you want my sword in this battle!" Conan stepped back as Raihna sprang nimbly to her feet and drew her blade. Outside, the archery had ended and the count's curses were dying away.

The din from the rear of the village had redoubled. It was still more the hurling of insults and war cries than the clashing of steel. Conan set his shoulder against the sagging door of the hut. Wood and leather gave with a ripping crack, nearly tumbling the Cimmerian onto the ground. Recovering himself, he led Raihna toward the rear of the village.

Conan allowed himself only a glance at the fight there, sufficient to tell friend from foe. The men who had come down the hill numbered at least a dozen; enough to hold Raihna's at bay, not enough to press home an attack.

The attackers also lacked the wits to post flank guards. Conan and Raihna took full advantage of this error. They hurled themselves against the flank of the enemy, wielding the flat of their swords like berserkers. All of Conan's instincts told him to leave foes dying, not merely stunned. But everything he had learned of warcraft since his youth told him that Count Syzambry would stop at nothing to bring him down were he to slaughter the count's men.

Himself and Raihna and Raihna's men. Alone, Conan knew that he could show all the counts of the Border Kingdom a clean pair of heels. He doubted that any Border Kingdom lordling's writ ran far into Nemedia or Aquilonia!

But with duties to Raihna and her men, Conan was not free to wreak b.l.o.o.d.y havoc among the count's men. He had to use his strength and speed to put them in fear without littering the village streets with their corpses.

This he did with terrifying skill. At least it terrified the count's men, who gave way as quickly as if Conan had actually butchered half of them. He cracked heads, broke sword arms, kicked men in the stomach, and punched them in the back of the neck. Beside him, Raihna did the same with somewhat less strength, but hardly with less speed or effect.

Together they rolled up the enemy's line as quickly as thieves rolling up a stolen tapestry. Those of the count's men who had time to see the fate of their comrades did not wait to meet their own. They turned and fled out of the village and up the hill.

Raihna's archers on the roofs began shooting. Raihna screamed at them to stop. They heard, but they did not obey at once.

"No more blood, you witlings!" Conan roared. "No more blood and we can still win free of this!"

"Tell that to-" someone began.

Conan did not spend time in arguing. He leaped high, clutched the ankles of the nearest archer and brought him down with a crash on the hut's roof. Rotten timbers and thatching gave under the man's weight and he plunged through the roof in a cloud of dust. From inside, Conan heard curses that proved the man was shaken rather than hurt.

"Mistress," a man called in a more moderate tone. "Garzo is hurt to death, and two others have shed blood. That says nothing of the pack animals hurt or slain. We owe the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds for that!"

"We owe King Eloikas the safe arrival of his goods!" Raihna snapped.

"We will fight or not as it will help us honor our bond. You swore to obey me in that. Will you stand foresworn in the face of the enemy and before a man who knows how to use strength and wits?"

This speech drew an eloquent silence. Conan knew that Raihna's power over her men was fraying. He hoped that the last few strands would hold until either Count Syzambry saw reason or the fight began in good earnest.

A whistling warned Conan in time. He flung himself one way, Raihna the other, as arrows from the hill sprinkled the village. More pack animals screamed. A mule cantered down the street, blood gushing from its throat. At the corner, it collapsed. A scrubby but stout-legged pony broke into a gallop, toward the count's men. Arrows jutted from its flanks and rump. As it pa.s.sed the dying mule, more arrows sprouted from it and it reared, then also collapsed.

"I'd wager they're trying to keep us here if they can't beat us down,"

Conan told Raihna.

"Keep us here until they can bring up more men?"

"Why not? I'd also wager that if none come before nightfall, we can win clear then. For now, they seem to lack the stomach for a close fight."

"We can hardly win free with the animals to consider."

"There are times-"

"There are times when you are too free in telling me how to do my work, Conan!"

"Truth is truth, whether I speak or stay silent."

Raihna shook her head as if that could make matters otherwise. Then she wiped her eyes with a tattered sleeve. The movement lifted b.r.e.a.s.t.s that her garb hardly hid. Bruised, grazed, and dusty as she was, Raihna could have walked into any tavern and danced her way to a purseful of silver.

The archery now slackened from both the hill and the valley side of the village. Conan swung himself onto a roof and lay low enough to be invisible, high enough to see clearly.

The count was waving his arms so wildly that he seemed to have more than two. After a moment Conan realized that Syzambry had the wits to know what he faced here: men who could defend themselves well enough if they had warning of an enemy's plans. Commanding his men by silent hand signals, Syzambry must be hoping for surprise.

That he was planning on attacking at all raised Conan's hopes.

Syzambry's men from the hill had lost half of their strength and were past fighting, or they were still fleeing. The count had barely the means with which to attack a foe standing on familiar ground, well-armed and under captains who knew their work.

Conan remained on the roof for some time. The vermin swarming in the thatch left their customary haunts for tastier prey. They drew no response from the Cimmerian, not even a twitch. He had learned the art of silence and stillness while fighting the mountain tribes of the Turanian frontier. Against them, to move was to die.

A whistle, a thump, and the smell of smoke at last made Conan move.

Looking to the right, he saw smoke curling up from the thatch of the next hut.

Fire arrows!