Roland Green - Conan The Valiant

Conan chose a piece of wall to guard his back, stood before it, and raised his sword. "Ho, children of Fort Zheman. Who wants to be the first to become a man by facing me?"

The shutter swung open and Yakoub peered over the windowsill. Illyana's room lay exposed to his gaze.

So did Illyana. She wore no bedgown, and the blankets had slipped down to her waist. The curves of her breasts were subtle but enticing. They cried out for the hands of a man to roam over them.

Between those breasts shone a great emerald. For a moment, Yakoub wondered at her wearing such a jewel to bed. Then the breath left him in a single gasp as he realized what he beheld. The Jewel of Kurag lay within his grasp, as defenseless as its mistress.

Seemingly as defenseless. Yakoub reminded himself of sorcerous defenses, to quell a rising sense of triumph. He climbed over the windowsill and crouched in the shadowed corner. Illyana did not stir.

From the hall outside rose the uproar spawned by

Captain Shamil's visit to Raihna. If that did not wake Illyana, no sound Yakoub intended to make would do so. He rose to his feet and stalked toward the bed.

Five paces from the bed, a fly seemed to creep into his ear. He shook his head angrily, resisting the urge to slap it. The buzzing grew louder, then faded into silence.

Yakoub looked at the woman on the bed and shook his head. He had been deceived about her wealth. That was no emerald on a gold chain gently rising and falling with her breasts. It was a mere piece of carved glass, cleverly mimicking an emerald to the careless eye. Its chain was only brass, no richer than the pommel of a common sword.

Such a woman would hardly pay well for a night of pleasure. Nor indeed would she have need to. The tales of her being fat and ugly were even less truth than the tales of her wealth. She was past youth, but not past fairness, even beauty. She would hardly be buying men for her bed. Rather would she have them seeking to buy her for theirs!

Best leave now, and seek her again knowing what she was and how slender his hopes were. As slender as the long fingers of the hands that rested lightly on the edge of the blanket, or the fine hair that flowed across the pillow.

The desire to leave with dignity filled Yakoub. He drew a silver ring from a finger of his left hand and placed it next to the green glass. It rolled down between the woman's breasts, to rest on her belly just above the navel. The curves of that belly were also subtle and exquisite.

Boldly, Yakoub rested one hand on the curves of belly. Bending over, he kissed both nipples. They filled his mouth with sweetness, as if they were smeared with honey.

Illyana sighed in her sleep, and for a moment one hand crept across her belly to rest on his. Yakoub knew no fear. Had he seen his death approaching in that instant, he would not have moved from its path.

Another sigh, and the hand rose. Yakoub withdrew five paces, half-expecting to hear the fly again. He heard nothing. In silence he retraced his steps to the window, gripped the rope, and began to climb.

Between them, Conan and Raihna dealt with Shamil's four loyal friends or fellow plotters in as many minutes. All were disarmed and only one wounded.

By then some dozen or more additional soldiers had mounted the stairs. Few were fully sober, fewer still eager to close with Conan and Raihna. Some seemed full of zeal for tending the wounded, at a safe distance from the fight. Most contented themselves with standing about, swords raised and ferocious looks on their bearded faces.

"If black looks could kill, we'd vanish like a puddle in the noon sun," Conan taunted them. "If that's all you can muster, what are we fighting about? If you have more in your arsenal, let's see it!"

This brought a couple of the laggards forward, to be disarmed swiftly and painlessly. Conan spared a glance for the doors to his comrades' chambers. Both remained shut and bolted.

Conan hoped Dessa and Massouf would have the wits to stay inside and Illyana to not only stay inside but cast no spells. He would not see honest soldiers enmeshed in magic without good cause. Besides, the smallest smell of magic about the party would lead to more questions than Conan was happy about answering.

The lack of any will to press the fight was becoming plain. Some of the veterans Conan remembered from the evening's drinking appeared, to lead away the wounded and some of those befriending them. As long as they felt their captain's eye on them, however, a few soldiers were determined to make at least the appearance of fighting.

Conan was now prepared to meet and disarm every one of them if it took until dawn. The wine was entirely out of him. Raihna, on the other hand, had worked herself into a fine fighting passion.

"What do we face here, my friend?" she shouted at Conan. "If this is the best Fort Zheman can do, we'll only die from stumbling over their fallen swords!"

Taunted into rage, a man slashed at Raihna. She twisted clear and his rage blinded him to his open flank. Conan's fist took him behind his right ear and he crashed to the floor.

"This will soon pass beyond a jest," Conan said. "I have no quarrel with any of you save your captain and not much with him. He's been led astray—"

"No woman lies to me without paying!" Shamil roared, waving his bandaged arm.

"Who says otherwise?" Conan asked. "But I wonder. Is it Raihna who lied? Or is it someone else?"

Caught off-guard, Shamil let his face show naked confusion for a moment. He could have no notion that he had been overheard, cursing his deceiver. Then the arm waved more furiously.

"The woman lied, and so did this man! They may not be the only ones, but they're here! Avenge the Fort's honor, you fools, if you can't think of mine!"

The veterans, Conan observed, were altogether unmoved by this argument. The recruits were not. Six of them were pushing forward to within sword's reach of the Cimmerian when a voice roared at the foot of the stairs.

"Ho, turn out the guard! Captain to the walls! Turn out the guard! Captain to the walls!"

A leather-lunged veteran mounted the stairs, still shouting. Behind him ran Under-captain Khezal, sword belted on over an embroidered silk chamber robe that left his arms and chest half-bare.

The scars revealed made Conan think anew of the man, for all his silk clothes and scented beard. It was a wonder he still had the use of his arm, or indeed his life. Conan had seen men die of lesser wounds than the one that scarred Khezal's chest and belly.

"What in the name of Erlik's mighty member—?" Shamil began.

"Captain, there's a messenger outside, from Crimson Springs. He says they were attacked by demons last night. Some of the villagers died. Most fled, and are on their way here."

"Demons?" The captain's voice was a frog's croak.

"You'd best go ask him yourself, Captain. I can settle matters here, at least for now."

Duty, rage, wine, and pain seemed to battle for Captain Shamil. Duty at last carried the field. He stumbled off down the stairs, muttering curses until he was out of hearing.

With a few sharp orders, Khezal emptied the hall of all save himself and Conan. Raihna had returned to her room, to finish clothing herself. The others still slept or hid.

"Will you keep the peace from now on?" Khezal asked.

"It wasn't us who—" Conan began.

"I don't care a bucket of mule piss who began what!" the man snapped. "We're facing either demons or people in fear of them. Either is enough work for one night. I'll not thank anyone who gives me more."

"You'll have no trouble from us," Conan said. "By my lady's honor I swear it."

Khezal laughed. "I'm glad you didn't swear by your—maid's—honor. That little brazen's been eyeing everyone in the garrison, from the captain on down. I'd ask you to keep her leashed too, if there was any way to do so with such a woman."