Chapter 39

He had not hoped much from the solitary rider he had glimpsed from his tower, but all was grist that came to his mill. With a practised eye he took in Conan's worn mail and dark, scarred face, and his conclusions were the same as those of the riders who had passed the Cimmerian on the road--an empty purse and a ready blade. 'Who are you, knave?' he demanded. 'A mercenary, riding for Argos,' answered Conan. 'What matter names?' 'You are riding in the wrong direction for a Free Companion,' grunted Valbroso. 'Southwar…