"Indeed, and most of my men, better than I. There is such a way, longer and rougher."
"Does it offer more or less to ambushers?"
"Less, if my memory serves."
"It had better still serve for more than remembering which wench is willing, my friend. I suggest that you send six of your Greencloaks with me and my Afghulis, and we ride the main route. Those waiting will have to strike at us, or let us strike their comrades from the rear. Meanwhile, you take the rest of your men by the longer route."
Khezal looked at his men and then at the desert ahead. He nodded.
"I mislike the danger to you, but it's no worse than you have survived. Just bring my Greencloaks back safe, or at least give proof of their honorable passing."
"If they pass any other way, I shall go with them," Conan said.
"Do not be too eager to go where there is neither wine, women, nor good battles," Khezal said with a grin. "We shall never be able to properly celebrate our victories on this quest, I fear. I still do not wish to turn down cups to absent comrades!"
"How fare you, Captain?" Danar asked, when the dim oil lamp allowed him to recognize his superior.
Muhbaras started. He had expected Danar to be physically and mentally a ruin, already halfway to death. He had not expected the young soldier to be concerned about his captain's health!
The younger man grinned. "I have not been mistreated, save for eating bread that is mostly husks and shells. I think it is what they feed to those half-men in the fields."
"No doubt," the captain said. He gazed at the walls and the ensorceled rush screen with what he hoped was an eloquent glance.
Danar shrugged. "I know the walls have ears and probably eyes. If you have any last gift for me, it is that you do not think me a fool."
Muhbaras assured Danar that he thought no such thing. He wished he could assure himself that there was some way of giving Danar a lawful or even easy death, and that he could communicate it to the man. Without some preparation, it would be hard to do anything swiftly enough to avoid the notice and wrath of the Lady of the Mists.
The captain knew he could not face that peril. He did not care what happened to him, save that his death would doubtless put Ermik in command of the mission to the valley. Then every sort of dire fate would loom over the men.
It was possible that Danar might have to face a hard death, for the sake of his comrades. How to tell him that, and how to sleep at night after it happened?
I grow too old for intrigues, Muhbaras decided. Give me a last battle against a worthy foe, and I will not care if I survive it.
"Do you know if the Lady seeks your—'life essence' or whatever they call it in their priest-talk?" the captain asked.
Danar shrugged again. "Perhaps, hence the good treatment. Perhaps not, also, if they think it has been corrupted by unlawful lust."
"Knowing that a woman like one of the Maidens is fair is never unlawful," Muhbaras snapped. "Only a blind man could avoid doing so, and I am sure the Lady does not wish to be served by blind men or eunuchs."
It was Danar's turn to look meaningfully at the walls. "No," he said, but he did not meet the captain's eyes. Also, there was something in his voice, even in that single word…
I will not even think the question, "Did anything happen between you and the Maiden, more than glances?"
Wrapped in a kerchief in his belt pouch, Muhbaras had a small bronze knife, suitable to rest under a lady's pillow but capable of letting out life if applied in the right place. Now he pulled out the kerchief and bent over Danar, seemingly to wipe sweat or perhaps dew from the soldier's forehead.
Before he could touch Danar, the younger man's hand seemed to float up and grip the captain's wrist. It was a grip that would have looked gentle from a few paces away, but was actually as unbreakable as an iron shackle without more effort than the captain cared to make.
With his mouth only a hand's breadth from his captain's ear, Danar whispered, "Guard yourself for my comrades, and do not worry about me. I have other friends."
The words left as much mystery behind as ever, but the tone was that of a man walking to meet his fate with firm step and open eyes.
May I do as well as Danar, if my time comes while I am within reach of the Lady of the Mists.
After that there was nothing to say but formal words that would make easy hearing for listening ears, a final grip of forearms, and the captain's departure. He even deferred his prayers of thanks to Mitra until he was not only outside the chamber but out of sight and hearing of the Maidens on guard.
Even farther along the path, he wondered if the madness was spreading. And if so, was this the Lady's ultimate prize—or did she have something still worse in hand for the Valley of the Mists and all within it?
Khezal added one stratagem to the plan he and Conan had conceived. He detached a dozen or so Greencloaks to remain behind both of the other bands, to ride in circles and raise a prodigious cloud of dust.
"Even the most desert-wise tribesman will think that the more dust, the more men," Khezal said. "More unfriendly eyes will be on them, fewer on the rest of us as we slip off about our lawful occasions."
Conan made a Cimmerian gesture of aversion. Khezal nodded. "That is not all they will do, either. Once they have thrown dust in our enemies' eyes, they will follow us by yet a third route. Slowest of all, it will still let them come to the aid of either of the other bands. They may even be able to slip behind an ambush and turn it against those who laid it."
Conan grinned, and this time made an Afghuli gesture for hailing an honored chief. There was not much he could teach Khezal about arraying men for battle, and he would waste no more time trying.
Instead he signaled to his men, as one of Khezal's sergeants rode out with the dozen dust-raisers. The two Afghulis cantered up and drew rein, the Green-cloaks assembled under the watchful eye of Sergeant Barak and their captain, and the dust rose high.
It also rose thick, thanks to the dropping of the wind. Thus Conan led his men off down the dry wash that opened their chosen route with little fear of unfriendly eyes counting them, let alone seeing them. He still kept his eyes searching the rocks and ridges to the left, while Farad searched to the right, and Sobrim studied their Greencloak comrades.
Conan did not think that cold-blooded treachery was in the Greencloaks. But no discipline could keep from a soldier's mind the thought of avenging a comrade or kin, and men with such losses might well be riding at Conan's back. It was a circumstance he had survived more than a few times, but only by taking nothing for granted.
Then the dry wash gave on a real valley, with rocky slopes rising, it seemed, halfway to the sky on either side. The floor of the valley was level, fit for quick movement if one cared little for the endurance of one's horses.
Conan held the pace to a trot while he studied the slopes. The rocks could hide a small army of ambushers, but there were broad stretches of ground where a dog could not hide and a surefooted horse could descend at a good pace.
So far, Khezal had not sent them into any place where aid could not reach them—if aid were sent.
Farad seemed to read the Cimmerian's thoughts.
"So far, that Khezal lad seems well enough to obey."
"The 'lad' is only a trifle younger than you are, Farad."
"In years only, or in battles?"
"Talk to him sometime, when our comradeship is a trifle farther along—"
"I will be too old to do more than croak like a marsh frog if I wait that long."
"Did anyone ever tell you that interrupting your captain is ill done?"