Roland Green - Conan The Valiant

To slough off that burden, to sit upon a rock and watch the village file past—he was almost ready to pray for it. Almost. Each time he was ready for that prayer, he thought of the whispers of the villagers. Bora knew he was one of those men who became heroes because they feared whispers behind them more than swords and bows in front.

The twilight crept up from the valley, deepening from blue to purple. Even finding good footing would be hard work before long, Yet they could not stop. With darkness, the demons' master might unleash them again. Even now they could be on the prowl along the villagers' trail, thirsting for blood—

"Hoaaa! Who approaches?"

The shout came from the archer sent ahead to strengthen the scouts. The other archers of the village marched in the rear, where the demons were most likely to attack.

Bora was loading his sling when the reply came, in an unexpectedly familiar voice.

"Kemal here. I'm with soldiers from Fort Zheman. You're safe!"

Anything else Kemal said was lost in the cheers and sobs of the villagers. Bora himself would have danced, had he possessed the strength. He had just wit enough to walk, not run, down the path to Kemal.

His friend sat astride a strange horse. "Where's Windmaster?" was Bora's first question.

"He was too blown to make the return journey. Captain Conan procured him a stall and fodder, and a new mount for me."

Bora saw that his friend was not alone. A massive dark-haired man sat astride a cavalry mount, and behind him a fair-haired woman in male dress, with a warrior's array of weapons openly displayed. Beyond them, the hoof-falls and blowing of horses told of at least part of a troop at hand.

Relief washed over Bora like a warm bath, leaving him light-headed and for a moment wearier still. Then he gathered from somewhere the strength to speak.

"I thank you, Captain Conan."

The big man dismounted with catlike grace and faced Bora. "Save your thanks until we're well clear of this hill. Can your people march another mile to water? Have they left anyone behind on the road? How many armed men do you have?"

"I—"

"Curse you, man! If you're leading them, it's your duty to know these things!"

"Conan, be easy with him," the woman said. "This is his first battle, and against no human foe. You've no call to behave like your chief Khadjar with a drunken recruit!"

Even in the twilight, Bora recognized the looks passing between Conan and the woman as those between bedmates. He blessed the woman for giving him at least a chance not to make a fool of himself. Captain Qonan could hardly be more than five or six years older than Bora, and his accent showed him no Turanian. Bora still felt a greater desire to win the approval of this man than he had felt with any other, save his father Rhafi.

"We certainly will march on to water. We have few waterskins and those mostly empty. We also need food. At sunset, all those who left the village last night were still with us. Above forty of our men and some half-score women are armed. Only a dozen or so have bows or good swords."

Conan jerked his head in what Bora hoped was a nod of approval. "Good. Then we won't be having to send patrols up the hills into the demons' jaws, to save your laggards. What of the other villages in your land?"

"What—oh, will they need rescuing?"

"Of course!" The captain bit off something surely impolite.

"Here." The woman handed Bora a waterskin. The water was cool with evaporation and pungent with unknown herbs. Bora felt the dust in his mouth dissolve and the fog blow from his head.

"Bless you, my lady."

"I am hardly a lady. Calling me Raihna the Bossonian will be enough. My Cimmerian friend is plain-spoken but right. We need to know the fate of the other villages."

Water or herbs or both seemed to be filling Bora with new strength, with tiny thunderbolts striking each limb in turn. "I sent messengers to all the villages I thought within reach. Three returned, three did not"

"What of the demons?" The way the man said the word, he seemed to know that they were something quite different.

"They burned our village with their magic. We saw the smoke. They did not pursue us. That proves little about the other villages, though. We would have been on the road many hours before they were."

"If they believed your messengers at all, before it was too late," Conan said. His lips curled in a smile that to Bora seemed better suited to the face of a demon.

Then the smile warmed. "Bora, you've done well. I'll say so, and I'll say it where I'll be heard."

"Will you speak for my father Rhafi, against those who accused him of rebellion? Our carpenter Yakoub went to Aghrapur to speak also, but he has not yet returned."

"What did your father do? Or was it something he left undone?"

Bora retold the tale briefly. The Cimmerian listened, with the air of someone smelling a midden-pit. Then he looked at the Bossonian woman. She seemed to be smelling the same pit.

"Our friend Captain Shamil has a real art of charming people," she said. "Bora, can you ride?"

He wanted to say "Of course." Prudence changed his words to, "If the horse is gentle enough."

"I think you will find Morning Dew's gait pleasing. Mount and ride among your people, urging them onward. Captain Conan and I will post our men here until you have passed, then join your rearguard."

"Why can't you join them now?" Bora knew he was nearly whining, but could not help himself.

Conan stared hard at him. Perhaps it was meant to be only a curious look, but the Cimmerian's eyes were an unearthly shade of ice-blue. Bora had never imagined, let alone seen, eyes of such a shade. Their regard made him feel about ten years old, standing before his father ready for a whipping.

"Simple enough, Bora," the' captain said at last. "There's scarcely room on this trail for your people, let alone them and my troop. Would you rather have them taking to the fields in the dark, or trampled by our horses?"

"Forgive me, Captain. As you said, it is my first battle. I still don't know why the gods chose me, but—"

"If the gods want to answer our questions, they'll do it in their own good time. Meanwhile, Raihna's offered you a horse. Are you fit to ride?"

Bora stretched and twisted. All his limbs pained him, but each had enough life to make riding a possibility if not a pleasure.

"If I am not, we shall learn soon enough." He reached for the reins the Bossonian woman held out to him.

As Bora's fingers touched the leather, he stopped as if conjured into stone. Borne by the night wind and perhaps more, a nightmare chorus of screams tore at his ears.

Screams, from the throats of men, women and children in mortal agony. Screams—and the howls of the demons.

Bora bit his lip until he tasted blood, to keep from screaming himself.

Conan and Raihna might also have been statues guarding the gates of a temple. When they finally spoke, however, their words held a calm courage that seemed to flow out of them like water and wash away Bora's fear.

These folk could be put to death. They could not be put in fear. Bora started to thank the gods for sending them. Conan had to shake him to gain his ear.

"I said, the demons must have overtaken a band of your neighbors! Either they were closer than we thought, or someone is—sending—the sounds of that battle to us. Raihna has a—friend—who can learn which."

"With the help of the gods, yes. I'm sorry, Bora, but I'll have to ask for my horse back."

Without further words or touching the stirrups, Raihna was in the saddle. In another moment she had turned her mount and was trotting off downhill.

"Bora," Conan said. "Get your people off this trail. All except the rearguard. My men are coming up. Move, by Erlik's beard!"