villagers that none remarked the clop of hooves along the path that led from the road to Shadizar. As the headman thrust his torch into the pile of firewood, the horse, a stocky Hyrkanian sorrel, nosed his way among the rearmost members of the crowd.
The smaller sticks caught fire and blazed up with a cheerful crackle. Nyssa looked down silently, her rheumy old eyes glazed with resignation.
Feeling a nudge and hearing a snuffling sound, one villager, munching an apple, turned and recoiled. The nudge was from the velvety nose of Ymir, who was begging for a bite of the apple. The man’s startled gaze traveled along the horse’s back to encompass a giant figure astride the beast. Conan rasped:
“What goes on here?”
“We burn a witch,” replied the man shortly, with a scowl of suspicion.
“What has she done?”
“Put a curse upon us, that’s what, so three children and a cow died, all in the same night. Who are you, stranger, to question me?”
“Had there been a feud between you?”
“Nay, if it be any of your affair,” replied the man testily. “She used to be our healer; but some devil possessed her and caused these deaths.”
The larger faggots were now catching fire, and the rising smoke made Nyssa cough.
“Men and beasts die all the time,” ruminated Conan. “What makes you think these deaths unnatural?”
The man turned to confront Conan. “Look you, stranger, you mind your business whilst we mind ours. Now get along, if you would not be hurt!”
Conan had no love of witches. Neither had he any idea of civilized laws and rules of evidence. But still it seemed to him that the villagers were venting their grief on the aged crone more because she was old, ugly, and helpless than because they had reason to think her guilty. The Cimmerian seldom interfered in others’ affairs where neither honor drove nor profit beckoned. If the villager had spoken him fair, he might have shrugged and gone his way.
But Conan was impulsive and easily roused to anger. And the protection of women, regardless of age, form, or station, was one of the few imperatives of his barbarian code. The villager’s threat tipped the balance in the old woman’s favor.
Conan backed his horse a few steps, wheeled the animal, and rode away from the crowd. Then he swung Ymir around, swept out his scimitar, and heeled the horse. As Ymir broke into a canter, headed straight for the tree to which the witch was tied, Conan uttered a fearful scream—the ancient Cimmerian war cry.
Startled faces turned; the villagers scrambled out of the way. Several were knocked down by the plunging beast.
Reaching the fire-ringed victim, the frightened animal rolled its eyes and reared. Conan soothed Ymir as he leaned into the smoke to smite the bindings that encircled the tree. The strands parted easily, for the villagers had thriftily chosen old and rotten rope for the burning.
As a collective growl arose from the thwarted peasants, Conan extended his free arm, roaring: “Catch hold, grandmother!”
Nyssa seized the brawny forearm and clung to it as, with a mighty heave, Conan swung her up on the horse’s withers, before the saddle.
“Hold on!” shouted Conan, pressing the oldster against his chest and urging Ymir into a run again.
Once more the crowd, which had started to converge and advance, parted and scattered. Even as Conan plowed through them, he saw some of the more active men run to their crofts. As Ymir carried his double burden away from the village, Conan glanced back. Raging, the men were reemerging with scythes, pitchforks, and a couple of spears.
“Where do you want to go?” Conan asked the witch.
“I have no home to call my own,” she replied in a quavery voice. “They have already burned my hut.”
“Then whither?”
“Pray, whither you go, sir.”
“I’m bound for Yezud; but I cannot take you with me all the way.”
“If you will return to the main road and turn left, you will soon come upon another track,
The smaller sticks caught fire and blazed up with a cheerful crackle. Nyssa looked down silently, her rheumy old eyes glazed with resignation.
Feeling a nudge and hearing a snuffling sound, one villager, munching an apple, turned and recoiled. The nudge was from the velvety nose of Ymir, who was begging for a bite of the apple. The man’s startled gaze traveled along the horse’s back to encompass a giant figure astride the beast. Conan rasped:
“What goes on here?”
“We burn a witch,” replied the man shortly, with a scowl of suspicion.
“What has she done?”
“Put a curse upon us, that’s what, so three children and a cow died, all in the same night. Who are you, stranger, to question me?”
“Had there been a feud between you?”
“Nay, if it be any of your affair,” replied the man testily. “She used to be our healer; but some devil possessed her and caused these deaths.”
The larger faggots were now catching fire, and the rising smoke made Nyssa cough.
“Men and beasts die all the time,” ruminated Conan. “What makes you think these deaths unnatural?”
The man turned to confront Conan. “Look you, stranger, you mind your business whilst we mind ours. Now get along, if you would not be hurt!”
Conan had no love of witches. Neither had he any idea of civilized laws and rules of evidence. But still it seemed to him that the villagers were venting their grief on the aged crone more because she was old, ugly, and helpless than because they had reason to think her guilty. The Cimmerian seldom interfered in others’ affairs where neither honor drove nor profit beckoned. If the villager had spoken him fair, he might have shrugged and gone his way.
But Conan was impulsive and easily roused to anger. And the protection of women, regardless of age, form, or station, was one of the few imperatives of his barbarian code. The villager’s threat tipped the balance in the old woman’s favor.
Conan backed his horse a few steps, wheeled the animal, and rode away from the crowd. Then he swung Ymir around, swept out his scimitar, and heeled the horse. As Ymir broke into a canter, headed straight for the tree to which the witch was tied, Conan uttered a fearful scream—the ancient Cimmerian war cry.
Startled faces turned; the villagers scrambled out of the way. Several were knocked down by the plunging beast.
Reaching the fire-ringed victim, the frightened animal rolled its eyes and reared. Conan soothed Ymir as he leaned into the smoke to smite the bindings that encircled the tree. The strands parted easily, for the villagers had thriftily chosen old and rotten rope for the burning.
As a collective growl arose from the thwarted peasants, Conan extended his free arm, roaring: “Catch hold, grandmother!”
Nyssa seized the brawny forearm and clung to it as, with a mighty heave, Conan swung her up on the horse’s withers, before the saddle.
“Hold on!” shouted Conan, pressing the oldster against his chest and urging Ymir into a run again.
Once more the crowd, which had started to converge and advance, parted and scattered. Even as Conan plowed through them, he saw some of the more active men run to their crofts. As Ymir carried his double burden away from the village, Conan glanced back. Raging, the men were reemerging with scythes, pitchforks, and a couple of spears.
“Where do you want to go?” Conan asked the witch.
“I have no home to call my own,” she replied in a quavery voice. “They have already burned my hut.”
“Then whither?”
“Pray, whither you go, sir.”
“I’m bound for Yezud; but I cannot take you with me all the way.”
“If you will return to the main road and turn left, you will soon come upon another track,
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