“And then, from Remo, I learned that I am the last daughter of the Acheron Royal House. It meant that whoever I thought I was, was an illusion. Khalar Zym wanted me for my blood. You wanted me as bait. And though you were willing to treat me as an equal at the Shaipur outpost, and even though you confided in me your plan, I did not feel I served you well.”
The barbarian grunted. “I had seen you fight. You are an ally. We are here, so your effort was what we needed.”
“You may think so, Conan.” Tamara’s eyes sparkled for a second. “You are a terrible weight to drag through the water, but that is all I felt I had done. So when you were ill and I had a chance to ply what I had learned in the monastery of the healing arts, I was determined that you would not die. I owed you that much and . . .”
Conan nodded. “. . . and I was your only link to your past.”
“Yes. And by caring for you, I proved that who I had been was not an illusion. I was Tamara of more names than a barbarian needs, not some vessel bearing the tainted blood of an infamous lineage. Unless I kept you alive by my skills, I was nothing, just a very frightened woman all alone.”
The Cimmerian stood, setting his sword and whetstone aside. Tamara imagined, for a moment, that he would come and take her into his arms. She wanted that, desired it, hungered for his warmth and strength. And for just another moment, it appeared as if he might do exactly that.
But then he half turned from her and studied the shadows in the corner of his cabin. “I have been alone for much of my life, Tamara Amaliat Jorvi Karushan. There are times when that makes life simpler. Others create obligations and demands. Others fail. Avoiding all that creates a life of freedom.
“But it does not always make life
A chill ran down Tamara’s spine. She had always been alone, but she had never
He faced her. “You and I have an obligation to each other. To the world. We are linked by a chain not of our forging, but created by Khalar Zym. He has severed you from your family, and me from mine. But he has brought us together. We have each other, and I believe that means that unlike him, we are not alone.”
“But his daughter . . .” Tamara’s eyes narrowed. “No, no, I see your point. Had he a true family, if he were not alone, he’d not be pressing a quest to re-create a past that was stolen from him.”
“So he does those things to others which had been done to him. His family was taken, so he took mine, took yours, took others, and will take more.” Conan gave her a half smile. “But you and I, we will not let that happen.”
“No.” Tamara reached a hand toward him, then let it drop. “I want to ask you to remain with us, to take me to Hyrkania. I will not.”
“Because you know I will not agree?”
“Because I fear you might, to be a good friend to me, to assuage my fears and, thereby, allow Khalar Zym to kill more people.”
“You do not need me to keep you safe, monk.” Conan laughed. “I would only keep Khalar Zym safe from you.”
“I hope that is as you say, Conan.” Tamara glanced down, hiding a smile. “And I pray we never have to learn if it is the truth.”
CHAPTER 27
The Cimmerian came instantly awake catlike, and reached for his sword. It had not been a loud sound, or one particularly pernicious, but it had been out of place. He slid from his bunk and on bare feet padded his way up the stairs to the main deck, and again up to the wheel deck.
The helmsman had vanished, and save for water splashed between the wheel and taffrail, nothing appeared out of order. Bare steel in hand, the barbarian ran to aft rail and looked down, expecting to see the man’s body floating on the placid surface. He saw half of it, and only by the dint of its being silhouetted against a massive, malevolent golden eye.
Conan hammered the ship’s alarm bell with his sword’s pommel. “To arms! Rise now, or die in your berths!”
He vaulted from the wheel deck to the main and cleaved one man from shoulder to hip with a slash. Conan then spun and threw himself feetfirst down the companionway. He caught a man in the back, between the shoulders, and pitched him forward into the others. Conan landed heavily on the stairs and lost hold of his sword, while the others crashed below him. It didn’t matter. In the ship’s close quarters, a sword would be useless, whereas the dagger he plucked from a downed warrior’s belt would answer very well.
A bass voice barked a command. “Get the girl to a boat!”
From the shadows rose the Kushite general Conan recalled from his village. Snarling, the man rushed at him, reaching out with thick-fingered hands. Conan dodged left, letting the dagger in his right hand trail. The edge scored a line along Ukafa’s leather breastplate, but the larger man spun away before Conan could shift his wrist and draw blood.
The Kushite drew his own knife and crouched. “I have killed lions with this blade, Cimmerian.”
“And in the Black Kingdoms, I was known as Amra.” Conan relished the way recognition widened the man’s eyes. “But this lion is not yours to kill.”
The two of them moved through the mid-deck, cutting around pillars, tucking hammocks hung from rafters. The sailors who had slept there had fled to the main deck. From the sound of it, a massive battle raged. Bodies slammed to the deck above, reverberating like thunder in dark depths. Here and there blood seeped down, invisible in the shadows, though its scent overrode the stink of sweat and bilgewater.
Ukafa lunged. Conan twisted, spinning inside the man’s thrust. The Cimmerian forced Ukafa’s arm against a stanchion. Something snapped and the Kushite’s dagger sailed free, but the larger man entangled his fingers in Conan’s hair and whirled him away. Conan flew across the deck and slammed into a post, wrapping around it then spinning off again, his knife vanished.
He came to rest against a bulkhead for an eyeblink, then twisted. Ukafa’s kick snapped planking. Conan kicked to the side, catching the Kushite’s planted leg, and spilled him to the deck. In a heartbeat he pounced on Ukafa’s back and struck him three times, each a mighty blow, to the side of his head and face.
Roaring, Ukafa heaved himself from the deck and slammed Conan into the deck above. He lowered himself to do it again, so the Cimmerian slipped back, jamming both feet against the giant’s right heel. Ukafa began to fall. Conan grabbed his right wrist, twisting it to snap another bone, then flung the Kushite through a bulkhead.
Ukafa came up, eyes tight with rage, fists balled. He limped forward, lips peeled back, revealing filed teeth. “I should have slain you in Cimmeria.”
“Not even then could you have managed it.” Conan took a half step toward him. “This lion is your last.”
The Kushite drove at him, arcing in punch after punch. Conan ducked the lefts and blocked the rights, driving his elbow into the man’s broken forearm. The armor made it impossible for any blows to damage his body, so Conan concentrated on his head. Stiff right hands slowed Ukafa’s advance. Left hooks twisted past slow rights to batter his head around. As the man sought to bull-rush him, Conan gave ground, then stopped and drove the Kushite back.
Had another man—a