Conan the Rebel by Poul Anderson

bade her a stoic good-bye. They were bound for slavery. Her fate might prove worse.
    She was not immediately mistreated. Her guards allowed her to wash – at the end of a leash around her neck. She hated their remarks when she stripped, but cleanliness felt good. She also rinsed her tunic and skirt; they soon dried. Her cuirass and weapons were booty, of course. She shared the men's lentils and walked among them on the march downriver. They tried once or twice to make conversation, but she spoke no word in reply, so they cursed her for a surly she-cur and explained at length what could happen to her later on.
    She gave that small heed. The anguish of captivity drowned all else. She moved as in an evil dream.
    Hard-driving, Shuat brought his troop back to Seyan in three days. This little town of whitewashed mud buildings, at the confluence of the Helu and the Styx, was yet the largest in today's Taia, and the seat of the governor. His palace stood grand on the outskirts, amidst its gardens, close to the military base. Daris was led there and locked in an offside room while Shuat went to report.
    A pair of soldiers soon fetched her forth. 'When you enter the presence, be sure to fall prostrate on the floor,' one warned.
    Daris bridled. 'What, has the governor given himself royal honours?'
    'No, but he is with a wizard-priest of Set.' Dread freighted the man's voice.
    During her journey, Daris had recovered her wits. With them had come resolution. There was no sense in dying for the sake of pride; that would not serve her father's cause. No, let her do herself to it. Let her bide her time, ever alert for a chance to escape or at least to kill a few Stygians. Thus when she was ushered into lie great chamber, she made the required abasement, flat on the iced matting.
    'Rise,' came sibilant from the far end. 'Draw nigh.'
    Meekly, Daris advanced between walls painted with beast-headed human figures. Before her Shuat and corpulent Wenamon sat on stools under the dais of the governor's throne. It was occupied by a shaven-skulled man in a black robe. She was chiefly conscious of his eyes. They smouldered upon her.
    'Halt,' he commanded. She obeyed. Silence waxed in the dimness. She felt as if those eyes probed through garb and flesh to her soul.
    'Aye,' he said at last, 'there is something dire about the destiny of this maiden. What it is, I cannot see. I must convey her to Khemi for my master to examine closer.'
    'When do we suffer the loss of your company, holy Hakketh?' Wenamon asked unctuously
    'At once.' The wizard got up. 'Guards, follow me with the girl. You others, have my servants meet me at the wingboat.'
    Wenamon and Shuat bowed deeply as he swept past them.
    Daris' heart stammered. Sweat broke forth, cold on her skin. To Khemi the Black – for...examination?
    She mustered courage. By river, the forbidden city was two thousand or more miles distant, she knew. In weeks of travel, surely she could find a way to a clean death.
    The path from the palace did not lead to the civilian docks, but to a closely guarded wharf for war craft. None were there at the moment. Instead, Daris beheld a vessel such as she had never heard of before. Almost fifty feet in length, the hull shimmered dull white, metallic. A high prow bore the image of the head and neck of a sword-beaked reptile, whose folded leathery wings seemed to be modelled along the sides. The hull was open except for a smoothly shaped deckhouse, and revealed no sign of mast or oars. In the stern, on an iron-clawed tripod, was a large crystal globe wherein flickered something like fire, red and blue.
    A servile, muscular acolyte, one of several in attendance on way of a ladder moulded into the bulwark, leaving the soldiers to watch in awe. At a word from the magician, a servitor locked a fetter about Daris' ankle, attached to a light chain that in turn was shackled to a ring in the deck. She had reasonable scope for movement, but saw with horror that she would not be able to