'Where went he?' demanded Yar Afzal.
'The Dagozai did not know; with him were thirty Irakzai of the lower villages. They rode into the hills and disappeared.'
'These Irakzai are jackals that follow a lion for crumbs,' growled Yar Afzal. 'They have been lapping up the coins Kerim Shah scatters among the border tribes to buy men like horses. I like him not, for all he is our kinsman from Iranistan.'
'He's not even that,' said Conan. 'I know him of old. He's an Hyrkanian, a spy of Yezdigerd's. If I catch him I'll hang his hide to a tamarisk.'
'But the Kshatriyas!' clamored the men in the semicircle. 'Are we to squat on our haunches until they smoke us out? They will learn at last in which Wazuli village the wench is held. We are not loved by the Zhaibari; they will help the Kshatriyas hunt us out.'
'Let them come,' grunted Yar Afzal. 'We can hold the defiles against a host.'
One of the men leaped up and shook his fist at Conan.
'Are we to take all the risks while he reaps the rewards?' he howled. 'Are we to fight his battles for him?'
With a stride Conan reached him and bent slightly to stare full into his hairy face. The Cimmerian had not drawn his long knife, but his left hand grasped the scabbard, jutting the hilt suggestively forward.
'I ask no man to fight my battles,' he said softly. 'Draw your blade if you dare, you yapping dog!'