Gray-flanked mountains reared about him, cut with a hundred narrow valleys that could serve as roads for attack and an endless string of pinched passes where ambush could blossom in blood, but he found it hard to keep his mind on anything but the bandages, smeared with foul-smelling ointment, that covered the gashes the ape-creature had opened. Worse than the stench, they itched with a fury. Surreptitiously he scratched at the linen folds wrapped around his chest. “Do not do that,” Jehnna said briskly. “Akiro says they must not be disturbed.” “They are foolishness,” Conan grumbled. “I have had scratches such as these before. Wash the blood off, then let the air to them. That’s all I ever needed before.” “They are not scratches,” she said firmly. “And this grease stinks.” “’Tis a pleasant herbal smell. I begin to wonder if you have sense enough to take care of yourself.” She went on, oblivious to his dumbfounded stare. “You will leave your bandages alone.
