Roland Green - Conan The Valiant

"At your pleasure, Captain."

This time Conan recognized the voice as Dessa's. He looked a question at Khezal. The man grinned.

"I've inherited Shamil's responsibilities. Why shouldn't I inherit a few of his comforts as well?"

Bora shifted the sack of charcoal to his left arm and knocked on the door.

"Maryam, it is Bora. I have the charcoal."

The sound of bare feet gave way to a bolt being drawn. Maryam peered out. She wore only a chamber robe of scarlet silk, belted lightly about her with a gold-tasseled cord. The color went well with her dark skin, Bora noticed. He also noticed how much of that skin was revealed. He knew he should not savor such an immodest display, but found it hard to turn his eyes away.

"Come in, come in. Put the charcoal by the north wall."

Bora nearly stumbled over the dyed fleeces on the floor as he entered. Crimson, indigo, a rich green horribly like the emerald fire of the Jewels, they dazzled the eye but laid traps for unwary feet.

At least he needed no guidance to the north wall. It was piled high with sacks of charcoal and salt, pots of spices and herbs, and stacks of brass bowls. He dropped the charcoal on top of the nearest pile and straightened up, stretching to untwist his muscles.

"How much Powder do they plan to make? This looks like enough to baffle every spell from here to the Iranistani frontier!"

Maryam smiled. "Mistress Illyana keeps her tongue between her teeth, as well she should. Certainly no one will have an easy time, sending magic against Fort Zheman."

She knelt to open a small chest. As she did, her robe dropped away, to expose yet more skin, halfway down the ripe curves of her breasts. Bora twisted again, to look away.

When he looked back, Maryam was holding out two cups of wine. "Shall we drink a toast, to your victory?"

"Best make it to my safe return."

She embraced him, clumsily because she was still holding the wine cups. Her lips nuzzled the side of his neck and caressed his throat.

"So they have the sense to take you with them? The gods be praised!"

"I never thought they were fools, Maryam. That big Cimmerian above all. I'm the best guide they could find, without using magic."

They drank. It seemed to Bora that Maryam was using a trifle of magic of her own, for a single cup seemed to make his head lighter than usual. He noted that she only sipped her wine, and had yet to finish her first cup when he was nearly done with his second.

He would have drunk a third, but she put a hand over the mouth of his cup. "No more, Bora. No more. Young as you are, wine can still do you harm."

She set down her own cup and put her other hand over Bora's mouth. She drew her fingers along his lips and across his cheek, then thrust a hand into the open throat of his shirt.

"Maryam. This is not proper."

At least those were the words that formed themselves in Bora's mind. They seemed to stick in his throat, so that only a croak came out. Then he gasped as if he had run miles as Maryam undid the sash of her robe.

As she stood, she shrugged herself out of it. Bora had never imagined that a woman's breasts could be so splendid. Breasts, and all the rest of the dark lushness now revealed.

"Bora," she said, and the word itself was a caress. "Bora, you have never lain with a woman, have you?"

He had no words, but his eyes seemed to speak clearly. Maryam moved to him and pressed herself against him, from shoulder to knee.

"Then you must have a chance, before you ride into the mountains." She continued to press herself against him, while her hands went deftly to work on his clothes.

Presently he had the wits to help her with that work, and at last to follow her to the bed.

Raihna rolled over in the bed as Conan entered. Bare shoulders alone showed above the blankets. He sat on the bed and ran his hand along the curves under the blankets. He knew that Raihna usually slept naked.

His hand ran back up to the edge of the blankets and started to dive under them. Raihna rolled on her back, letting the blankets slide down to her waist. Before Conan could touch what this movement exposed, she caught his hands and held them against her breasts.

"You're all but healed, from that gash at the Red Falcon," Conan said.

"I heal quickly, Conan. I wish the same could be said of Massouf."

"His wound is elsewhere. Has he been whining again?"

"I would not call it that, Conan. He wants to come with us, into the mountains."

"He does?"

"He spoke to both me and Illyana."

"Supposing that he did, what will I hear that you said to him?"

"We will let him come."

"Crom! Where's the Powder?" Conan started to rise.

Raihna shifted her grip, so that he could not do so without some discomfort. She looked at his discomfited expression and laughed.

"Raihna, this is a poor jest. Massouf wants to kill himself."

"So we surmised. Since Dessa jumped lightly into Khezal's bed, he has known she is not for him."

"Then why, by Erlik's yard, can't he find another woman? That little trull isn't the only bedmate in the whole world for a lad like Massouf. He's a fool. It's like my pining away because I can't bed Illyana!"

Something passed over Raihna's face at those words. Jealousy? No, something different, more complicated, and likely to be revealed only in Raihna's own good time. Conan gently disengaged himself from Raihna's grasp and sat down at the foot of the bed.

"You don't love Illyana," Raihna said at last. "Massouf—well, he would not believe what you just said. He loves Dessa too much."

"Conan, Illyana and I—we have never been allowed love. It is our fate. How could we spit in Massouf's face? How, I ask you?" She turned her face to the pillow and wept softly.

Conan cursed under his breath. He could not imagine a world without women, and he would hardly want to live in it anyway. Certainly, though, such a world might be a trifle simpler!

All the sympathy in the world didn't make a man who seemed determined to die a good companion on a dangerous journey. Conan vowed he would do everything in his power to send Massouf back with the soldiers, when they left.

He also vowed that he would do everything in his power to make Raihna remember this night. Gripping her by the shoulders, he turned her over. Her tear-filled eyes widened, but when his lips came down on hers her arms rose. Strong, sword-calloused hands locked behind his neck and drew him to her.

Nineteen

THE MOUNTAIN STREAM plunged from the little cliff, splashed on a flat rock, then flowed into a deep still pool. Where it went after that Conan neither knew nor cared. He knelt by the pool and lifted a cupped hand to his lips.

"Good and clean. Drink up, people, and refill your waterskins too."

"If it is so clean, I think we should bathe as well," Illyana said. She sat down, pulled off her boots, and flexed her long toes with a look of bliss.

"We had no chance to bathe while we marched with the soldiers. Nor will we have any between here and the valley, I fear."

Conan looked beyond the little valley, toward the peaks of the Ibars Mountains. Well to the fore, the Lord of the Winds rose silver-helmeted, its snowcap blazing in the noonday sun.

The Cimmerian sensed no danger lurking close by, but knew that it could not be far away. Precious little they could do about it, either. These mountains could hide enough enemies to overcome them had they still been guarded by a thousand soldiers instead of ten. The sergeant commanding their escort had swiftly realized this, and made no protest against his dismissal two days before. He had made none against their leaving their horses, either. Hill-born himself, he knew a horse in such country gave neither speed nor stealth.

Speed, stealth (all were masters of it save Massouf, and he was learning), the mountains, and Illyana's magic—together these gave them a chance of reaching Eremius and defeating him.