One of them had a dead comrade's headdress wrapped around his arm as a bandage. He also showed dark beads of blood on his lower lip, where he had bitten it to stifle a cry of pain.
The Afghulis gathered around Conan, eyes gleaming in their dark faces. They had braided their beards and tied them roughly with scraps of cloth, then drawn scarves over their necks and chins. That was the Afghuli mark of having sworn to conquer or to die.
Conan had sworn no such oath. Indeed, he had seldom fought any other way, and it was not in him to do so tonight. The greatest kindness the Turanians might show him was a quick death, and that, he could always procure for himself.
"Anyone who has water, give it to your horse."
Conan said. "Archers, don't shoot unless you have a good mark, and take a horse before you take a rider."
The Afghulis nodded. Conan hardly doubted that he was telling them what they already knew, and that they needed no reassurance, he knew as well. But a chief among the Afghulis always spoke to his assembled men before the battle, if only to prove that fear had not dried his tongue past speaking.
"If we are divided, the meeting place is at the Virgin's Oasis." He gave distances and landmarks, then asked, "Questions?"
Farad spoke up. "Yes. Whenever did the gods allow a woman to come into this desert and remain a virgin?"
"A long time ago, or so I've heard," the Cimmerian replied. "Men were less than they are today, in that time, and of course, none of them were Afghulis."
Bawdy laughter all but raised echoes, so that Conan held a finger to his lips. "The Turanians are not all asleep, and not all who wake are fools. Speed and silence now, or we'll keep our lost comrades company."
In silence the Afghulis bowed, then turned to tend their horses.
Only the dead remained high on the ridge, hands stiffening over the hilts of daggers thrust between their ribs according to the Afghuli custom. Thus the harsh gods of that still harsher land would know that a friend's steel had pierced their hearts, and that their ghosts would be friends to the living, even watchful on their behalf.
If the ghosts of the Afghulis' dead watched this night, they saw nothing, or at least sent no word to their living friends. Below on the desert, neither Afghuli nor Cimmerian saw shadows creep across a distant sand dune, then sink silently to rest. They did not see a messenger slipping away from the outer line of the watching Turanians, also creeping shadowlike until he was beyond seeing from the rocks.
Far out beyond the crests, only ghosts might have seen him mount a horse held ready by four riders who bore the lances and shields of Turanian regular cavalry and the colors of the crack Greencloaks. Only ghosts might have seen him ride off into the night, until he met a slim, youthful-looking Turanian captain not far from where the shadows had come to rest.
And only ghosts might have heard his message to the captain, or noted the captain's thin face split briefly in a wry grin.
Three Afghuli archers climbed on the highest boulders remaining after the battle. They were fewer in number and with less command of the slope below than Conan could have wished. But he now led fewer than he had at dawn, and of those, not all were fighting-fit. Warriors did the best they could with what they had, and if the end came sooner because what they had was not enough—
Conan asked two Afghulis to repeat the directions to the Virgin's Oasis. They both knew the way. Then he scrambled onto the boulders with the archers, as Farad led the others out into the open.
Neither drums, trumpets, showers, nor even the mating-cat squall of a frightened sentry greeted the Afghulis' appearance. It began to seem that they would either enjoy good luck or face a trap.
Conan swallowed a Cimmerian war cry. Glad to defy alert opponents, he refused to alert sleeping ones. Instead he slapped Farad's mount on the rump and swung into his own saddle. He raised one hand in a cheerfully obscene Afghuli gesture, waited until the three archers scrambled down and mounted, then spurred his horse forward.
The riders streamed down the slope at a brisk trot, raising a ghostly cloud of dust. In the chill of the desert night, the breath of men and horses added will-o'-the-wisps of vapor to the dust.
They passed dead men lying stiff and silent, doomed men still moaning against their coming death, and a few who Conan thought might have been shamming. There was no time to send those last to join their comrades, for all that this would leave them alive in the riders' rear. This was a ride for life. If it became a battle, it would most likely be one lost because it took place at all!
Once they were clear of the shadow of the rocks, the moon gave enough light to permit avoiding holes and cracks in the ground. They held their speed down to a trot. The horses might not be able to keep up a canter. If they could, best to save it for when the Turanians sighted them. The Turanians could not have drawn back so far that even by night the escape would remain forever invisible.
Or could they? As one rise gave way to another without an attack or even a warning cry, Conan began to wonder. His band had punished the Turanians soundly in today's fighting. Had they drawn off to lick their wounds while they waited for reinforcements?
A trap still seemed more likely, but there seemed no need to warn his men. The Afghulis appeared more alert than ever, riding with bows strung or tulwars drawn, eyes ceaselessly roaming the night, heads turning at any slight sound heard above the thud of the horses' hooves.
They had been moving now for long enough to empty a jug of wine worth savoring. Conan felt a familiar itch between his shoulder blades that hinted of danger close in time and space. He raised a hand, and the Afghulis reined in and gathered around him.
Night-keen eyes roamed again, studying every hillock and the mouth of every ravine for signs of lurking danger. Only a dry wash was too deep in shadow to spy out. Conan studied it until he was sure that he saw something move within the shadows, and was equally sure that it was only his imagination. He had stood sentry too often not to know that the night will listen to a man's fears and, if he stares into it long enough, show his what is not there.
Conan pointed toward the north, away from the wash. "I want to ride well clear of that. Men on that flank, grow some more eyes if you can. Otherwise you may never see the Virgin's Oasis, let alone a living virgin!"
Low chuckles rose into the night along with the steam from the horses, and the band moved off again.
The young captain cursed softly at the noise the sentries made sending the message. Their quarry might not be as desert-wise as Turanian veterans, but they were seasoned warriors and no fools in any kind of land.
Then he cursed again at the message. The Afghulis were indeed no fools, and they had a very watchful and longheaded warrior leading them, even if he were not the man the captain thought he was. Two of the three bands the captain had placed ready would now find it hard to come up with the Afghulis.
The captain was not much of a one for prayer, as few gods promised much (their priests promised more, but who could trust a priest?), and fewer still kept their promises. However, he did briefly ask Mitra to consider his probable fate if tonight more of his men died trying to take alive the wrong man.
The Afghulis' leader certainly seemed to be the one the captain sought. But the captain had not been able to get a true and complete description of the leader. Part was because few of the men who had a close look at him yet lived. Part was not wishing to raise suspicions of the leader's identity in the minds of the captain's own men.