Conan and the Death Lord of Thanza by Roland Green

Lysinka had not thought she was speaking lightly, merely prudently. The Thanza Rangers were not an enemy who needed to be fought to the death. A dozen dead, and the rest would flee, to be picked off at leisure.
    “Can we speak of being cut off from the mountain, when we still seek it?”
    Grolin’s hard look told her that she had challenged his authority in front Of both bands, something that she had vowed (at least to herself) not to do. She spread her hands.
    “Very well. Let us march swiftly, then, and if possible silently as well.”
    “It shall be so.”
    As the bands moved out, Grolin fell back to walk beside Lysinka, even daring to rest an arm lightly on her shoulder. She did not shrug it off, having no wish to add lesser offences when he had forgiven a greater.
    “Be sure of this, my dear lady,” he whispered. “The men would not forgive me for turning away from a battle when we are this close to a sworn enemy. My power over them would weaken, and soon your band would be prey, not friend.”
    Lysinka thought that an empty threat, unless Grolin’s men were such fools that they would fight rival bandits when the Aquilonian levies were practically upon their doorstep. If they were, she was not sure questing in their company was altogether wise.
    But the work was begun; let them see it through to the end. Besides, she had no fear of losing authority over her folk, whether they fought the Aquilonians, evaded them, or flew over them and dropped pine-cones on their heads!
    It takes time, skill, and luck to hide an ambush from the war-wisdom of a Conan or a Tharmis Rog. Grolin and Lysinka lacked all three.
    So it came about that Conan, marching at the head of the Rangers, suddenly spoke out of the side of his mouth to a man marching beside him.
    “Take my place. Slow the advance but otherwise act as if there’s nothing wrong. I have to speak to the captains.”
    The man, who looked to be a mixture of Shemite, Bossonian, and hardened cutpurse, frowned. “Is there anything wrong?”
    “There will be, and with you, if you question my next order.”
    Conan barely spoke above a whisper, but the look in the ice-blue northern eyes would have silenced an entire temple chorus in full song. The man jerked his head as Conan stepped out of line and appeared to seek the shelter of the trees.
    Instead, he waited until the march of the column brought Klarnides and Nestorinus abreast of him. Then he emerged and fell into step beside the two captains.
    “I’ve seen signs of an ambush ahead. Up there, where the trail turns to the right, around that brush-grown spur. They are waiting for us atop the spur.”
    “There?” Nestorinus raised an arm. The Cimmerian pulled it brusquely down. The captain glared.
    “How dare you touch a—?”
    “Assert your true birth some other time,” Klarnides snapped. He looked as if he wanted to ask Conan, what to do but dared not, in the presence of Nestorinus.
    “Keep on. They’ve likely chosen a worse spot for themselves than for us,” the Cimmerian said. “If they’re few, we can charge them, and I’ll lead. If they’re many, we’ve cover to the right.”
    “And if they’re on both sides?” Nestorinus sneered.
    “Then we charge to the left, as before, only you can lead,” Conan said. His grin was wholly mirthless, and Nestorinus seemed to be holding his hand only because Klarnides had a firm grip on the other captain’s sword arm.
    The message ran up and down the column. Conan saw several men look dubiously for safe paths of flight, find none, and apparently decide that safety lay with their comrades. That was a good beginning for the Rangers today. If it was enough to bring victory, there would be time to teach them the rest of a warrior’s skills.
    “They are two to our one, and we strike only one flank,” Fergis said. “Is Grolin—?”
    Lysinka put a finger to her lips, then her lips to her comrade’s ear. “Grolin seems to fear a rival among his men. He would neither