That booming voice stirred something in Conan’s mind. He was sure he had heard it before. But the heavily muscled man approaching was unfamiliar. A spiked helmet covered the man’s head, and a chain mail tunic descended to his knees. In his right hand he gripped a great double-bladed ax, in the other a round buckler.
“Who are you?” Conan called.
The brigands were all on their feet now, and Karela was before her pavilion with her jeweled tulwar in hand.
“I am Crato.” The armored man came to a halt an arm’s reach from Conan. Beneath his helm his eyes were glassy and unblinking. “I am the servant of Imhep-Aton. Where are the pendants you were to bring him?”
A chill ran down Conan’s back. He knew the voice, now. It was the voice of Ankar.
From behind Conan the voice of Aberius rang out. “He was telling the truth. There are pendants.”
“I don’t have them, Ankar,” Conan said. “I’m chasing the men who stole them, and a girl I made a promise to.”
“You know too much,” the big man muttered in Imhep-Aton’s voice. “And you do not have the pendants. Your usefulness is at an end, Cimmerian.”
With no more warning the ax leaped toward Conan. The Cimmerian jumped back, the razor steel drawing a fine red line across his chest. The possessed man recovered quickly and moved in, buckler held across his body, ax at the ready well to his side. If a sorcerer controlled the body, the man whose once it had been was an experienced ax fighter.
Conan danced back, broadsword flickering in snakelike thrusts. A slashing attack would leave him open, and that ax could cut a man half in two. Crato continued his slow advance, catching each sword thrust with his buckler. Watching those lifeless eyes was useless, Conan quickly realized. Instead he watched the massive shoulders for the involuntary movements that would foretell the big man’s attacks.
The mailed right shoulder dipped fractionally, and Conan dropped to his heels as the ax whistled over his head. His broadsword darted out to stab through the mail at a thigh, then he was rolling away from the return ax-stroke to come once more erect facing his opponent. Blood ran down the axman’s leg, but he came on.
Conan circled to the other’s right, toward the ax. It would be more difficult for Crato to strike at him, thus. The ax slashed out in an awkward backhand blow. Conan swung, felt his blade bite through bone, and ax and severed hand fell together. On the instant Crato hurled his buckler at Conan’s head and threw himself in a roll across the ground. Conan ducked, beat the round shield aside with his sword, but even as he recovered Crato was coming to his feet with the battle-ax in his left hand.
Blood pumped from the stump in regular spurts, and the man—or the sorcerer possessing him—seemed to know he was dying. Screaming, he rushed at the Cimmerian, ax slashing wildly. Conan caught the haft on his blade and smashed a knee into the other’s midriff. The big Shemite staggered, but his great ax went up for another stroke. Conan’s broadsword slashed into the man’s shoulder, half-severing the ax arm. Crato sank to his knees, his mouth opening wide.
“Conan!” Imhep-Aton’s voice screamed. “You will die!”
Conan’s blade leaped forward once more, and the helmeted head rolled in the dust. “Not yet,” the Cimmerian said grimly.
When he raised his gaze from the headless body on the ground Conan found the bandits had formed a ring around him. Some had swords in hand, others merely looked. Karela faced him with the curved blade of her tulwar bare. She glanced at the dead man, but kept her main attention on the big Cimmerian. Her gaze was oddly uncertain, her head tilted to watch him from the corner of her eye.
“Trying to leave us, Conan?” she said. “Whoever this Crato was, we owe him thanks for stopping you.”
“The pendants!” someone called from among the gathered men. “The pendants are real.”
“Who spoke?” Hordo demanded. The Red Hawk’s bearded lieutenant lashed them with his eye, and some dropped their heads. “Whatever’s real or isn’t, the Red Hawk says this man deserves to die.”
“Twenty thousand gold pieces sound very real to me,” Aberius replied. “Too real to be hasty.”
Hordo’s jaw worked angrily. He started for the smaller man, and stopped with a surprised look at Karela as she laid her blade across his chest. She shook her head without speaking and took the sword away.
Conan eyed the woman, too, wondering what was in her head. Her face was unreadable, and she still did not look directly at him. He had no intention of sharing the pendants, but if her mind was changing on the matter he might yet leave that hollow between the hills without more fighting.
“They’re real, all right,” he said loudly. “A king’s treasure, maybe worth more than twenty thousand.” He had to pause to work enough moisture into his throat to speak, but he would not ask for water. The slightest sign of weakness now, and they could well decide to torture what he knew from him. “I can take you to the thieves. And mark you, men who steal from kings are likely to have other trinkets about.” He turned slowly to catch each man’s gaze in turn. “Rubies. Emeralds. Diamonds and pearls. Sacks bulging with gold coin.” Avarice lit their eyes, and greed painted their faces.
“Gold, is it?” Hordo snorted. “And where are we to find all this wealth? In a palace, or a fortress, with stone walls and well-armed guards?”
“With the men I follow,” Conan said. “Hooded men claiming to be pilgrims. They took five women when they stole the rest. Dancing girls from the court of Yildiz. One of those is mine, but the other four will no doubt he attracted to brave men with gold in their fists.” Lecherous laughter rose, and one or two of the brigands swaggered posingly.
“Hooded men, you say?” Aberius said, frowning. “And five women?”
“Enough!” Hordo roared. “By the Black Throne of Erlik, don’t you all see there are sorcerers in this? Did none of you look closely enough at this Crato to see he was possessed? Didn’t you see his eyes, or listen to him speak? No mortal man has a voice like that, booming like thunder in the distance.”
“He was mortal enough,” muttered a thick-set man with a broad scar across his nose. “Conan’s steel proved that.”
“And what is sought by wizards,” Conan said, “is doubly valuable. Did anyone ever hear of a wizard grasping for something that was not worth a king’s crown?”
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