Conan and the Death Lord of Thanza by Roland Green Page B

quarters, and the Bossonian longbows saw to it that not all of the Rangers who began the climb finished it.
    It was Klarnides who found the wits to rally the Rangers’ archers. He bid them find a place on the flank of the enemy’s bowmen and shoot as fast as they could nock and draw.
    “We’ll have the field when this is done!” he shouted. “You’ll have your arrows back and theirs too!”
    As he fought his way out of the circle of bandits, Conan heard Klarnides’s shout and raised another battle cry of his own in answer. He hoped the young Aquilonian was not tempting fate by such optimism. He also knew that worse lies had been told to hearten better soldiers than the Thanza Rangers!
    Now Tharmis Rog was bringing up more men, and Conan knew that he hardly needed to fear laggards among the Rangers this day. The battle was going their way, and nothing turned green soldiers into seasoned veterans faster than a victory.
    But as Tharmis Rog came up, a slim figure in grey and green darted down from above and met the master-at-arms. He was not a slow man, yet he seemed helpless as a baited bear before the newcomer. In a moment Rog was on the ground, helpless with a bloody leg and a bloodier arm.
    Conan strode forward, to stand over his friend; and for the first time, he realized that the slim figure was a woman. From out of a tanned face too thin for beauty but too fine to forget, stared eyes the exact hue of his own.
    Conan raised his sword. “Ho, north-eyed lady! Have you a name? I sing for chiefs I kill.”
    “I am called Lysinka of Mertyos,” the woman said. “But do not put it into a song even if you live to sing it. I’m sure you crack stones and make cows go dry when you sing.”
    Her voice was low and rough, not one Conan would have expected to move him, yet it did. He heard in it a rare quality—a willingness to die rather than flee that matched his own.
    “I do not sing for soldiers I kill,” she said. “But honour demands that I know your name.”
    Conan started to say, “Sellus,” then decided that this woman deserved the truth in her last moments of life. “I am Conan, a Cimmerian.”
    “That name is not unknown to me. But why does a wolf run with the Aquilonian dogs?” she asked. All the while her light broadsword was describing gentle circles in the air close to one booted foot. Conan remained aware of it every moment, even as he met the woman’s eyes. He had seen how swiftly that blade could move.
    “Because I swore an oath, and these men need me to bring them safely out of the forest.”
    “You swore yourself in bondage to babies?” The scorn in her voice would have cut a lesser man like a whiplash.
    “Who have you sworn oath to?” Conan asked. “You do not look like one to desert your followers either. So why do we not do our duty to them and settle this?” Lysinka replied with her blade. It leaped up so fast that even Conan’s eyes barely followed it. He needed all his speed to leap aside from her thrust without trampling the prostrate Tharmis Rog. Conan struck down at her lunging blade, but she swept it clear in time. She followed through into spinning completely around so swiftly that she was facing the Cimmerian before he could even think of striking at her back.
    As she came out of the spin, however, Conan had more to worry about than his opponent’s honour. She had a dagger in her hand; and as Conan moved to parry a thrust, she tossed it and threw.
    It was aimed at his throat, and only neck muscles as tough as the Cimmerian’s could have deflected the steel enough to save him from a mortal wound. As it was, he felt blood trickle, but none of the weakness that would have come from a vital wound. He advanced on Lysinka, and she laughed and gave ground before him.
    The two fighters circled each other three times before they closed in again. Conan thought that his back was safe, because his own men were there, and also because Lysinka did not seem the sort to allow treachery.
    For