The Sword of Skelos by Andrew Offutt Page A

scarf shifted their glance to the woman. Conan’s right arm whipped across his middle. His fingers closed on the hilt of his sword and, reversing the same motion so that it became all one flowing act, he whipped his arm back to the right. His point destroyed the staring fiery eyes.
    At the same time he kicked his horse with both heels, and held them clamped.
    The accoster screamed, lifting both hands uselessly to his bloody sockets. Two of his companions loosed shouts while another cursed. A third, just bringing his sword up, was struck so hard by the shoulder of Conan’s horse that he was knocked from his saddle. His scimitar went flying. Others scraped from their sheaths while Isparana freed herself of the pack horses.
    Whirling his sword high to gain force, Conan drove for the green-robed man who was a little apart from the others. That would-be rapist proved to be strong of thews within his loose desert robes; with a frightful scraping clangor his blade met and stayed Conan’s.
    Behind the Cimmerian, a fourth of the
jazikhim
or nomadic raiders reined in close, and his sword swept up above Conan’s broad back. Conan was blocking a cut, kicking his opponent’s horse hard enough to hurt his own booted toes, and slashing the man’s sword arm just at the wrist. At a strange gurgling sound behind him, Conan clapped heels and bent low. Chestnut leaped forward and his rider, hanging on with both legs, looked back.
    It was easy to understand that a man had been about to strike him from behind, and would have succeeded but for interference; the interference took the form of a little seven-inch dagger. Isparana had hurled it strongly enough to pierce his left upper arm. With the light hilt and half the blade standing from the flesh between tricep and bicep, the man forgot Conan and kicked his horse around to make for the woman.
    “THANKS, ‘sparana,” Conan shouted; “RIDE, ‘sparana!”
    Three men came at him from two directions, though one had a wounded sword arm. Conan bullied his horse into driving between them, dodging the slash of the nearest while being unable to strike back. He saw that Isparana had eluded the man she had wounded and was riding south, at speed.
    As none of the desert men bore a bow and thus could only pursue, Conan yanked Chestnut about and raced after her.
    Behind him, no less than six men screamed their rage and frustration. Two were wounded; three were not. Howling their rage, those five gave chase. The sixth, their blinded leader, floundered about, calling after them. His horse whickered, and hurried after the others.
    Eight horses galloped southward on the desert, in a long line.
    The four pack horses stared after the others. One whickered and pawed the sand. The second lunged forward. The first allowed himself to be led from behind. The four broke into a trot along the wake of the other eight.
    The blinded man, staggering and stumbling, crying out, blundered into their path. The first pack horse swung around him. The second and third trampled him. The four sumpter beasts of Conan and Isparana trotted after them, and twelve horses hurried south on the desert, strung out in a line nearly a league long. The blinded man had ceased crying put.
    Ironhead and Chestnut ran well. Both horses had spent much time on the desert, and were accustomed to such strange terrain that yielded beneath every hoof-fall. Conan glanced back to see the howling
jazikhi
pursuers. They sped with green robes flapping and their whirling swords flashing in the sunlight. Leaning over his mount’s neck to distribute his weight and lessen the wind resistance of his massive frame, the Cimmerian called after the Zamboulan, again and again.
    Stupid to expect her to slow and let him catch up, Conan thought, since her horse had a lead and bore less weight. Yet he wished she were armed. He wished he could pass her the long blade slung behind his saddle; the mountain-man’s knife that had been Khassek’s.
    Still, she had contrived