The Sword of Skelos by Andrew Offutt Page B

to cling to a dagger and conceal it—and with it, to save his life when she could have fled, armed. Perhaps she had another, Conan mused. He realized that he had never checked her boots for concealed sheaths. No other part of her clothing or body was unknown to him.
    “Here, stop that!” he objected, when Chestnut lightly leaped a long ridge of blown sand, to come down with a jolt that made his rider’s teeth clack.
    The horse’s tail streamed behind like a tawny banner and his blowing mane snapped at Conan’s face, stinging. His garments blew and fluttered. He did not glance back. There was no reason to believe the pursuers could catch up. All he had to do was keep galloping…
    Forever?
    Hardly. Perhaps for hours, perhaps not so long. Eventually Ironhead and Chestnut must slow. They were surely less fresh than the mounts of the green-robes, who must dwell or have their tents pitched nearby. Then Conan and Isparana must face their enemies, or be carved from behind. It would be nice to come upon a jumble of rocks or one huge, scalable one, from which he could fight off more even than five attackers.
    Biting his lip, Conan lifted his head enough to send his squinting gaze this way and that. He saw only rolling sand, and the long, tall acclivities were only sand, or perhaps sand drifted against stone hills worn smooth beneath.
    Chestnut floundered up one such long slope now. Conan glanced back as Chestnut topped the slope. The pursuing quintet had not quite reached its base. Conan saw that one was unsteady in his saddle. The wight whose right arm he had chopped, the Cimmerian assumed, was weakening from loss of blood.
    Over the sandy slope Chestnut kicked and dragged himself. Below and ahead, Isparana was galloping to a far higher dune or hill, not yet worn down by gritty, ever-shifting sand. She was guiding Ironhead so as to make the descent at a slant, to save the horse. Conan made a barbarian’s decision, just as he had when he had attacked the leader of six men who had every reason to believe him easy prey.
    His chestnut mount grunted when his master’s left fist tightened and pulled the gathered reins. Descending, the horse was not happy to swerve leftward. It did, hooves slipping. Conan hung on, trying to lean leftward, uphill, while he continued to drag the rein in that direction; More than reluctant, fighting, Chestnut was now re-ascending the hill. Conan nearly lost his seat and his calves bunched to cling to the horse. They would quiver for an hour, later.
    Now—
    Now Chestnut again topped the summit and without a sound Conan loosed his two-legged grip, kicked with both heels, and clung again.
    After emitting a grunt of outrage, Chestnut plunged down the incline a few ells to the left of the tracks of his assent.
    Flee and be overtaken
, Conan had thought. Turn while his pursuers couldn’t see, and plunge down upon them while they were put at disadvantage by their assent, and he could surely reduce the odds with a totally unexpected attack. Once he had plunged past them it was up to the
jazikhim
whether to pursue, or be pursued, or give it up.
    One man plunged down the slope to attack five.
    “Haragh!” one of them bawled, or something like; perhaps it was “by Yog!” He had seen their quarry plunging down at them with the momentum of an avalanche. There could be no mistaking his grim purpose, however lunatic. His fellows looked up. Eyes and mouths went agape.
    About all they were able to do was halt their mounts. One turned aside at an angle; though the down-rushing attacker was but one, the green-robed wight instinctively sought escape.
    Leaping, slipping, sliding and lunging again, Chestnut kept his feet only by rushing with his own increasing momentum. The horse hurtled down like a diving eagle that had spotted its prey. Conan manhandled him into the narrow gap between the bunched quartet and the single
jazikh
who was turning from them. That man was to Conan’s right.
    The Cimmerian felt a sword’s