Conan The Valiant Part 37

"Captain, if Lady Illyana needs privacy, she needn't stay in the middle of the column. I can take a troop back a ways, to guard her while she works. Or Captain Conan can take some of the villagers-"

Shamil spat an obscenity. "The villagers would run screaming if Lady Illyana sneezed. And I won't spare any of our men. What do you think this is, the Royal Lancers? We'll set sentries and build watchfires as usual, and that's the end of it. You do anything more without my orders, and you go back to Fort Zheman under arrest."

"As you command, Captain."

Shamil and his second in command walked away, stiff-backed and in opposite directions. Bora was about to creep away, when he heard more people approaching. He lay still, while Conan and Raihna emerged into the glow of the fire. The woman wore short trousers, like a sailor's, that left her splendid legs half-bare. The Cimmerian wore nothing above the waist, in spite of the chill upland air. Illyana, Bora realized, had tears in her eyes. Her voice shook as she gripped Conan by one hand and Raihna by the other.

"Is there nothing we can do about Captain Shamil?"

"Watch our backs and hope the demons will come soon to keep him busy,"

Conan said. "Anything else is mutiny. Bad enough if we do it, twice as bad if Khezal does it. We split the men, and we're handing the demons'

master victory all trussed up and spiced!"

"You listen too much to lawbound men like Khadjar and not enough to-"

"Enough!" The one word from Conan silenced Illyana. After a moment, she nodded.

"Forgive me. I-have you never felt helpless in the face of danger?"

"More often than you, my lady, and I'd wager more helpless too. Mutiny is still mutiny."

"Granted. Now, if I can have my bedding-?"

"Not your tent?" Raihna asked.

"I think not. Tonight a tent is more likely a trap than a protection."

"I'll pa.s.s that on to anyone who'll listen," Conan said.

The talk turned away from matters Bora felt he needed to know. Staying low, he crossed the stream, then trotted back to the camp of the villagers.

Bora now led only the men of Crimson Springs, and Gelek of Six Trees had done everything necessary by way of posting sentries and the like.

With a clear conscience if an uneasy mind, Bora wrapped himself in his blankets and sought the softest rocks he could find.

Sleep would not come, though, until he swore a solemn oath. If Captain Shamir's folly slew the men he led, and the G.o.ds spared the man, Bora would not.

Unless, of course, the Cimmerian reached Shamil first.

Seventeen.

CONAN HAD SLEPT little and lightly. Now he inspected the sentries under a star-specked sky. Somewhat to his surprise and much to his pleasure, he found them alert. Perhaps Khezal's discipline counted for more than the laxness of Captain Shamil. Or did the ghosts of comrades dead in vanished outposts whisper caution?

Toward the end of his inspection, Conan met Khezal on the same errand.

The young officer laughed, but uneasily; Illyana's warning was in both their minds. Even without it, Conan had the sense of invisible eyes watching him from deep within the surrounding hills.

"Let us stay together, Captain," Khezal said. "If you inspect the men with me, none will doubt your authority. Except Shamil. He would doubt the difference between men and women!"

"I'll wager your friend Dessa taught him better!"

"She's hardly a friend of mine."

"I've never seen a woman look at an enemy the way she looks at-"

"Captains!" came a whisper from beyond the camp-fire. "We've seen something moving on the crest of that hill." Conan saw a soldier, pointing with his drawn sword into the night.

Conan stepped away from the fire and stared into the darkness until his eyes pierced it. The sky held no moon, but as many stars as he had ever seen. On the crest of a hill to the south of the camp, something was indeed obscuring the stars. More than one, indeed, and all of them moving.

The Cimmerian drew his sword. Khezal sought to stop him. "Conan, we may need you-"

"You do indeed need me, to scout that hill. There's no demon yet conjured who can outfight a Cimmerian. Or outrun him, if it comes to that."

He left no more time for argument, but stalked away into the darkness.

Eremius sat cross-legged atop a boulder on the far side of the valley from his Transformed. With the Spell of Unveiling, he could see them crouching, ready to swoop upon the soldiers like hawks upon quail. He also saw one man already climbing the hill toward the Transformed, as if eager to embrace his doom.

Eremius would do nothing to deny the man his last pleasure.

Looking toward the head of the valley, he sought a glimpse of the human fighters sent there. He saw nothing. Had the men lost their way, gone too far, or merely found places to hide in until they saw the Transformed attacking? It would do little harm if the humans stumbled on the villagers-at least little harm to Eremius's cause. What it would do to the villagers was another matter.

It would still be better if the men could take the soldiers in the rear, as Eremius planned. With the Transformed on one side and the humans in their rear, the soldiers would feel themselves mightily beset.

With Eremius's spells on the other side, they might well feel themselves surrounded. Oh, they would have one road open, one that led into a waterless wilderness of hills. They would learn this only too late, and at the same time they would also learn that the Transformed were on their trail.

Eremius contemplated the coming hours with a pleasure almost as great as he could have gained from contemplating a suppliant Illyana. If his plan gained the victory it deserved, perhaps he would have no need of a captain for his wars. A few underlings, to spare him the tedious work of training the men, but none to command in battle. He would be equal to that task himself!

Eremius scrambled down from the boulder and stepped behind it, then drew the Jewel from its pouch. It would be best if he began the necessary spells now. They gave off a trifle of light, though, and for a little while longer the soldiers would not have a horde of demons to draw their attention.

The staff resting against the boulder quivered, straightened, then floated into its master's hand. Three pa.s.ses of the silvered head over the Jewel, and Eremius stood in a circle of emerald light as wide as he was tall.

He thrust the staff into the ground and began to chant softly.

Conan mounted the slope standing upright. Haste was needed. Also, it was for once desirable that he be seen by the enemy, perhaps to draw them into attacking too soon. He trusted Bora's judgment that the demons did not know archery.

Halfway up the hill, Conan scrambled to the top of a large flat boulder that let him see in all directions. The crest of the hill now seemed empty of movement. He would not have sworn that all the rocks on that crest had been there at sunset, but none moved.

Lighted torches did move in the camp. Conan saw two men joining the nearest sentry post, then two more. Had Khezal awakened his captain over this reinforcing of the sentry posts, or was he leaving the man to dreams of Dessa?

The hills on the north side of the valley were lower than those on Conan's. The Cimmerian could look down upon the crests of several. On one, he saw a faint glow, more like a dying campfire than anything else. He watched it, waiting for it to fade.

Instead it grew brighter. Nor had Conan ever seen coals glowing with the emerald hue of the Jewels of Kurag.

Conan realized he had made a mistake, climbing the hill alone. With a companion, he could have sent a silent warning to the camp, that the magic of the Jewels was about to be unleashed. Alone, he could only alert both sides at once.

"Camp ho! Magic at work on the crest of the white hill! This is Conan the Cimmerian!" He turned toward the crest of his own hill. "You heard me, you sp.a.w.n of magic and camel dung! Come down and let's see if you have the courage to fight a man who's ready for you!"

Torches danced in the camp as men began to run. A hum of voices rose, like bees from a disturbed hive. Before Conan heard any reply, he saw the crest of his hill sprout dark shapes. For the s.p.a.ce of a single deep breath they remained motionless.