Then he strode forward to strike the new foes, but leaped backward as arrows hailed about him, and one tore at his left forearm. The wound would slow him by nightfall, but the battle would not last that long, and he had fought all day with half a dozen such wounds.
The arrow did the Cimmerian no great hurt. What nearly ended his career was a dying Girumgi who had been lying directly behind the Cimmerian. As Conan retreated, he grabbed Conan's ankles and jerked. Most men might as well have tried to shift the Kezankian Mountains, but the tribesman was a large man with the strength of the dying, and he caught Conan off balance.
Conan toppled, lashing out as he did. His fist grazed the man's jaw, but his head did not graze a protruding rock. A skull less thick than the Cimmerian's would have cracked open. Even the Cimmerian saw flame-shot darkness—and then the dying Girumgi rolling on top of him, dagger thrusting for his throat.
It never reached its goal. Suddenly a slight figure stood behind the tribesman, and a gold-hilted sword descended like the wrath of Crom. The tribesman's skull split apart, and his dagger thudded harmlessly on Conan's chest.
By now the Cimmerian could focus his eyes well enough to recognize the swordsman.
"Khezal. By Erlik's helm, you are timely come!"
"You must be seriously hurt, my friend. Such courtly speech from you goes against nature."
"Would you like me to rise up and strangle you to prove otherwise?"
"Hardly. I might ask for some of those jewels—"
"From my share, perhaps. If you take any from the Afghulis' portion, I will drop you headfirst down a dry well and then bury you in camel dung!"
Khezal pretended to cringe, then turned his head to listen to a distant sound beyond the reach of Conan's ears. (They were still ringing, and his stomach was grateful for being nearly empty.)
"That's the sergeant who was besieging your runaway Afghulis," Khezal said.
"What is he doing here?"
"When I learn, you will be the first to know. But he just told me that he and his men have driven off the horses of the tribesmen in the valley, and are pursuing the fugitives on foot."
"Better them than me," Conan said. He tried to sit up, and the ground swayed only moderately.
"Ho, a litter for Captain Conan!" Khezal shouted.
"I've had worse hurts falling out of my cradle," the Cimmerian grumbled.
"That was not so far to fall as it will be now with you full-grown," Khezal said. He pushed the Cimmerian back down. The fact that the Turanian could do it and that Conan did not care to resist proved to Conan that perhaps he should leave the rest of the battle in Khezal's hands.
It was, after all, thoroughly won, even if it would be a while before he knew exactly how, What would take longer to discover, he feared, was whether this was the last battle of the quest into the Kezankian
Mountains—or, as he very much suspected, only the first of many.
That was too sobering a thought for a man with an aching head, so Conan found a comfortable position and waited for the litter.
Captain Muhbaras rode down the path from the gate to the Valley toward his quarters. He normally walked, the path being rather too steep for horses, and a warrior's dignity prohibited an ass.
Tonight, however, he would lose even more dignity by falling on his nose and perhaps rolling down the hill than he would be riding an ass. His legs had not felt so weak since the first time he did a dawn-to-sunset march with a full pack.
The Lady of the Mists had been appraising him as a man. This he now could no longer doubt. She had also been doing it in full view of Maidens who might be neither loyal nor discreet. Thus whatever was in the Lady's thoughts might already be no secret.
Having a sorceress contemplating one in such a manner could hardly end happily, even if one had no thought for one's personal honor. The tales were many and various about the fate of a witch's lover, but none of them held much hope of avoiding a harsh fate.
However, offending the Lady of the Mists held out no hope of safety for Muhbaras's men. He had risked them to save his honor once, and by a miracle or the whims of a sorceress who was yet a woman, he and they alike had escaped. This good fortune would not come a second time.
Muhbaras bore that thought as one might bear a wounded comrade at the end of a long day's battle, as he rode down the trail into shadows little relieved by the lanterns at the door of his quarters.
"So the Girumgi are at least toying with rebellion?" Conan asked.
"So it would seem," Khezal replied.
"One mystery solved," Conan grunted, and poured more wine into his cup.
"Are you sure—?" Khezal began.
"I am sure you did not learn war from Khadjar and your father to serve as my nurse," the Cimmerian growled. "My head barely aches. I see only what is held up in front of me. I have not spewed or fallen asleep."
"Which proves that Cimmerian heads really are harder than stone," Farad put in.
Conan threw up his hands in mock disgust. "Since my head is fit to hold thoughts, shall we think what to do next?"
The prisoner Conan had taken was from the Stone Clan of the Ekinari. The son of the chief of the Ekinari was sworn blood-brother to the chief of the Girumgi. This explained why Ekinari rode with Girumgi, but not altogether why they had not fought side by side.
"Even had you known the tribal speech, you could not have got from that man answers he did not know himself," Khezal went on. "Nor did it help matters that the rest of the Stone Clan or whoever were his comrades ran off as it fifty demons were at their heels."
"Demons, or perhaps all the surviving Girumgi," Farad said.
"Few enough of those, by Mitra's favor," Khezal said.
Being overconfident had brought better captains than Khezal to lonely graves, but Conan thought in this case the Turanian had the right of it. It seemed that Khezal was not the only one to march to the sound of Oman's battle.
The Greencloaks had been industriously besieging the fugitive Afghulis when the battle sounds rose. Convinced that the battle had to involve Conan coming to rescue them, the leader of the Afghulis called for a parley and offered truce terms.
The Afghulis would release all their hostages without ransom and return their weapons. In return, the Greencloaks would swear not to harm the Afghulis until they had fought and won against the common foe who was surely not far away.
The Greencloaks accepted this offer, and the truce was sworn to last until both sides were released from it by their respective captains. It seemed that the Greencloaks were as sure of Khezal's coming as the Afghulis were of Conan's, and also wished to join in battle under their beloved captain.
So Afghuli and Turanian rode out together, and made havoc in the rear of the tribesmen in the valley. They had a good plunder of weapons, horses, and baggage, and the bodies of some fifty tribesmen were feeding the vultures. The new allies had lost no more than seven, and Conan could see the stone cairn where they lay in the light of a dung fire.
Khezal was still a man to ride with, more so than ever now that the wisdom of years and the experience of many battles had joined his native wits. It was as well to have such a comrade on a quest, particularly one that showed every sign of sprouting new mysteries as fast as the old ones were answered.
Conan had sworn to ride north to aid Khezal in the Kezankian Mountains, and he would not break that oath if all the tribes of the desert and all their intriguing chiefs and chiefs' sons stood in his path. But he would not expect to come back alive, either.
Ten
They were four days' ride north of the battle against the Girumgi. The Kezankian Mountains were peering over the northern horizon, with the eternal snowcaps of the higher peaks glinting pink at dawn and sunset. The breeze told of a world beyond the desert, at which Conan and the Afghulis rejoiced.