Conan the Marauder Read Free Page A

turned to the men by the fire. "Give the prisoner some of the dried food from his saddlebag." He turned back to Conan. "At dawn we ride. Your journey shall not be easy. You may not
    survive it. This means little to me. I shall know more when we reach the great camp."
    The officer left and one of the others, a man tattooed from shoulders to knees in animal designs, tossed a few strips of dried meat near Conan. The Cimmerian had to inch over on his side and pick up the strips with his teeth. Boria had called him "prisoner" instead of "slave," and that might mean something. He choked down one of the tough, leathery pieces of meat.
    "Water," Conan called. The tribesmen ignored him. Boria finished cleaning the bone he had been gnawing on, then spoke to the man who sported the elaborate tattoos. That one rummaged in his saddlebags and brought out a shallow bowl. He filled this with liquid from a skin and set it near Conan, who wrinkled his nose at the smell but knew better than to be finicky about what he ate and drank. There was an ordeal ahead, and he would need all his strength in order to meet it.
    The bowl was not filled with water but with fermented milk, whether that of sheep, cow, goat, yak or mare, Conan neither knew nor cared. The steppe peoples lived largely off their flocks and milked the females of all their animals. He noticed that the bowl had been cut from the top of a human skull. Awkwardly he emptied the vessel. Bound as he was, there was no possibility of finding comfort, but with the coming of night, he did his best to sleep. His fitful rest was tormented by stinging insects, and dawn came all too soon.
    "There is no need to tire our horses with your bulk," said Boria as he fastened a halter around Conan's thick-muscled neck. "You who dwell in cities and villages are accustomed to using your feet. Keep up with us, or you will be dragged."
    When the men were mounted, they set out at an easy trot, their path taking them eastward. Conan ran with the remounts, carefully judging the gait of the slowest horse and pacing himself with it. If these arrogant riders hoped to see him dragged gasping upon the ground, they were in for a surprise. Conan was a matchless runner, and he kept up easily.
    As the morning progressed, the Hyrkanians would occasionally glance back at him and each time they did, their eyes went a bit wider to see him trotting with the horses, his tether swinging loose, his breathing light. To these men who never walked more than a score of paces save in dire emergencies, it was inconceivable that a man could keep pace with a horse. At this easy pace, Conan knew mat he could run all day. To a Cimmerian hillman, running came as naturally as breathing or fighting.
    But Conan knew, too, that he had trouble when Torgut took his tether from the man who had been holding it. "Our prisoner looks bored and low in spirits. Perhaps some exercise will improve his humour." With that, the Hyrkanian kicked his horse's flanks and the beast began a steady lope.
    As the tether drew taut, Conan lengthened his stride. He had expected that something like this might happen. He could trot as long as any horse. At this speed, he could run longer than any other man, but not as long as a good horse. If the Hyrkanian put the animal to a rapid gallop, Conan would have to take desperate measures or be dragged. Sweat began to run into his eyes and-his breathing grew deep and hard. He was far from exhausted, but he would reach that state eventually.
    The other riders drew level, laughing and shouting at this rare sport. Conan caught Boria's cool, evaluating gaze as the tall, dry grasses flashed by him. He considered catching the rope in his teeth and trying to bite through it. Success would be unlikely; he had never encountered rope so thin and yet so strong. And they would only drop another noose around his neck anyway.
    Torgut looked back and saw that Conan was keeping up. Fury knotted his features and he lashed his horse's rump with