Conan Chronicles 2 by Robert Jordan

Author:Robert Jordan [Jordan, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781405512312
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2011-10-06T04:00:00+00:00

XI

Conan’s skin crawled as he walked across the dusty courtyard of the house where his company was quartered. The hairs on his body seemed to move by themselves. Bright sunlight streamed from the golden globe climbing into the mourning sky; chill air seemed to surround him. It had been so ever since he woke, this strangeness, and he had no understanding of why.

Fear the big Cimmerian dismissed as a cause. He knew his fears well, and had them well in hand. No fear could ever affect him so, who had, in his fear years, faced all manner of things that quelled the hearts of other men. As for the image, and even Al’Kiir, he had confronted demons and sorcerers before, as well as every sort of monster from huge flesh-eating worms to giant spiders dripping corrosive poison from manibles that could pierce the finest armor to a dragon of adamantine scales and fiery breath. Each he had conquered, and if he was wary of such, he did not fear them.

“Cimmerian,” Narus called, “come get yourself a cloak.”

“Later,” Conan shouted back to the hollow-faced, who was rooting with others of the company in the great pile of bales and bundles that had been delivered by carts that morning.

Synelle had finally seen to the needs of the Free-Company she had taken in service. Bundles of long woolen cloaks of scarlet, the color of her house, had been tumbled into the courtyard, along with masses of fresh bedding and good wool blankets. There had been knee-high Aquilonian boots of good black leather, small mirrors of polished metal from Zingara, keen-bladed Corinthian razors, and a score of other things, from a dozen countries, that a soldier might need. Including a sack of gold coin for their first pay. The mercenaries had turned the morning into a holiday with it all. Fabio had kept Julia running all morning, staggering under sacks of turnips and peas, struggling with quarters of beef and whole lamb carcasses, rolling casks of wine and ale to the kitchens.

Fabio found Conan by the dry fountain. The fat, round cook was mopping his face with a rag. “Conan, that lazy wench you saddled me with has run off and hidden somewhere. And look, she hasn’t swept a quarter of the courtyard yet. Claims she’s a lady. Erlik take her if she is! She has a mouth like a fishwife. Flung a broom at my head in my own kitchen, and swore at me as vilely as I’ve ever heard from any man in the company.”

Conan shook his head irritably. He was in no mood to listen to the man’s complaints, not when he felt as if ants were skittering over his body. “If you want the courtyard swept,” he snapped, “see to it yourself.”

Fabio stared after him, open-mouthed, as he stalked away.

Conan scrubbed his fingers through his hair. What was the matter with him? Could that accursed bronze, the evil of it that Julia claimed to sense, have affected him from beneath

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