CONAN AND THEGODS OF THEMOUNTAIN

by

Roland Green

CONTENTS

Prologue , One , Two , Three , Four , Five , Six , Seven , Eight , Nine , Ten , Eleven , Twelve , Thirteen , Fourteen , Fifteen , Sixteen , Seventeen ,

THE DRAGON OF THE CAVES

It came—another screaming, thundering challenge. The echoes had notbegun to die when it charged. Like a heavily laden ship in heavy seas, itlabored through the fungi, trampling some, shredding others. It held itshead low, horns thrusting forward like the ram of a galley. Valeriaremained still as the beast surged between them.

In the next moment, Conan shot forward like a stone from a sling. Hishands gripped the upper horn, and he vaulted clear over the beast'smuzzle, aiming for its neck…

The Adventures of Conan

Published by Tor Books

Conan the Bold by John Maddox Roberts

Conan the Champion by John Maddox Roberts

Conan the Defender by Robert Jordan

Conan the Defiant by Steve Perry

Conan the Destroyer by Robert Jordan

Conan the Fearless by Steve Perry

Conan the Formidable by Steve Perry

Conan the Free Lance by Steve Perry

Conan the Great by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Guardian by Roland Green

Conan the Hero by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Indomitable by Steve Perry

Conan the Invincible by Robert Jordan

Conan the Magnificent by Robert Jordan

Conan the Marauder by John Maddox Roberts

Conan the Outcast by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Raider by Leonard Carpenter

Conan of the Red Brotherhood by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Relentless by Roland Green

Conan the Renegade by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Rogue by John Maddox Roberts

Conan the Savage by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Triumphant by Robert Jordan

Conan the Unconquered by Robert Jordan

Conan the Valiant by Roland Green

Conan the Valorous by John Maddox Roberts

Conan the Victorious by Robert Jordan

Conan the Warlord by Leonard Carpenter

CONAN AND THE GODS OF THEMOUNTAIN

BY

ROLAND GREEN

TOR™

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

Note: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware thatthis book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" tothe publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received anypayment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in thisbook are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purelycoincidental.

CONAN AND THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN Copyright (c)1993 byConan Properties, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portionsthereof, in any form.

Cover art by Ken Kelly

Maps by Chazaud

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

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New York, N.Y. 10010

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN 0-812-51414-9

First edition: May 1993

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

CONAN AND THEGODS OF THE

MOUNTAIN

Prologue

The hunter was of the Leopard Clan of the Kwanyi. He had been bornwith eyes and ears almost as keen as those of the clan totem. He hadsharpened both further by many years spent in the forests between theGao River to the west and the forbidden city of Xuchotl to the east.

Neither eyes nor ears now told of any menace close to him. Nor was itlikely that this stretch of the forest held any. It was near the foot ofThunder Mountain itself. The hunter had learned its paths and streams,its drinking holes and fallen trees, even before his manhood ceremony.

Yet the hunter fled as though all the kin of the dragon he had found inthe forest near Xuchotl were ravening on his trail.

He had kept up this pace every waking moment for three days now. Hehad run until he could neither run, walk, nor stand, only fall senseless tothe ground and sleep like a serpent with a pig in its belly. Then he wouldwake, to drink of the nearest clean water and run once more.

The pace had taken its toll. His dark skin was so caked with dirt thatthe hunter's tattoo of a leopard's paw on his right shoulder and thewarrior's tattoo of a spear on his breast had all but vanished. Only the clanscarifications on both heels remained visible, to mark him and hisfootprints as of the Kwanyi.

His breath came in rasping sobs. His eyes stared ahead, next to blind,so that from time to time, a dangling vine slapped his skin. Once a stub ofbranch tore away his loinguard, leaving him to run on naked save foranklets of sodden feathers and the spear in his hand.

He could have run faster without the spear, for it was the stout weaponof the Kwanyi, a man's length of ironwood sapling with a triangular ironhead as broad as a man's hand. Yet that thought never entered his mind.While he bore the spear, no warrior of the Kwanyi could doubt hiscourage.

The end of the hunter's run came suddenly, in the form of a jutting root.It caught his ankle, and even above the rasp of his tortured lungs, he heardbone snap. Then pain struck him twice, once as his head knocked againsta rotten stump and once in the ankle as sundered bones cried out.

The hunter lay still until the pains eased and he knew that he would notat once become senseless. That would be death. This part of the forest heldfew dangers for a healthy hunter with both wits and weapons. It wasotherwise for a man lying unaware of his surroundings.

When he dared move his head, the hunter rolled over and looked at hisankle. It was already swelling, and the pain was a spear of fire thrust uphis leg. He would not be walking on that ankle again before the rainscame—or ever if the God-Men of Thunder Mountain did not give him theirhealing. Poultices, purges, and the hands of village wise-women could dolittle against such ruin to bone and muscle.

In the next moment, the hunter began to doubt that he would even liveto be spurned by the God-Men. Where he had seen only vines andthick-trunked trees, four men now stood. Each carried a spear; onecarried a bow as well. Their loinguards, headbands, anklets, and tattoosalike named them warriors of the Monkey Clan.

This did nothing to raise the hunter's spirits. Chabano, ParamountChief of the Kwanyi, was himself of the Monkey Clan. He would not havebeen chief for twelve years had he allowed his clansmen to feud at willwith the Leopards, the Spiders, or the Cobras. Yet he had been known toturn a blind eye when those clans suffered some small hurt—such as thedisappearance of a hunter whose fate neither gods nor men could learn.

The hunter twisted himself about again, ignoring the pain in his headand ankle as he drew up his legs and raised his spear.

"Ha, what have we here?" the tallest of the four Monkeys said. "One ofthe Little Cats, it seems."

The hunter bit back a reply of equal sharpness, on the order of "Speakfor yourself, Gelded Baboon." It would be time to seek an honorable deathwhen he had told the four warriors where he had been and what he hadseen there.

"Brothers—" the hunter began.

Spear-butts thudded on mossy ground. "No brother to you," one of thespear-wielders growled.

"Chabano says otherwise," the hunter replied, then started his storybefore anyone else could find insults. He began with finding the deaddragon outside Xuchotl, slain by no cause the hunter could discover.

That gained him the tallest Monkey's attention. "There have been talesof a dragon in that part of the forest. Yet there are more tales that saynothing can kill a dragon. Perhaps the cause you could not discover was

old age, or a bellyache!"

"Listen to the rest of what I have to say, then think that if you wish," thehunter said. "I will say only what I saw, and that as swiftly as I can."

The hint for silence was not lost on the Monkey leader. The next timeone of his warriors tried to interrupt the hunter, a spear-butt came downsharply on the man's toes. A glare cut short his muttered ill wishes, andallowed the hunter to continue.

He told of wondering if accursed Xuchotl might be safe to approach,with its guardian dragon dead. All life seemed to have fled thecity—human life, at least. He spoke of an open gate through which thejungle was already creeping, to claim Xuchotl the Accursed for its own.

"How far did you go?" the leader asked.

"Not as far as I wished," the hunter admitted. "I, too, had heard thetales of the fire-stones within the city. I sought them and found—" Heswallowed. "—I found that Xuchotl's curse had at last destroyed its ownpeople."

He spoke of the bodies of men and women slain no more than a handfulof days before. Some bore the wounds of human weapons, swords andspears and knives, or even of teeth and nails. Others seemed to have beenstruck by lightning, and this in an underground chamber where nolightning could reach save by sorcery.

"It was then that I knew Xuchotl was still accursed, and that I mightjoin the dead if I stayed longer within its walls," the hunter concluded. "Iran from the chamber and from the city. Yet as I ran, I saw that othershad come forth by the same gate not long before."

"The slayers of the folk of Xuchotl?" It was the man who had beensilenced who spoke. Now his tone held respect and curiosity, as well asmore than a little fear. The hunter's pleasure at having won over hislisteners almost made him forget the pain in his ankle.

"That I do not know. I can only say that one was a giant, another aslarge as a common warrior of the Kwanyi. Both seemed well-laden, andboth wore boots."

The Monkey warriors stared at one another, then at the jungle aroundthem. It seemed to the hunter that he could see into their very thoughts ashe spoke.

"I think that is why the talking drums have not spoken of this. Thesorcerers who ruined Xuchotl might have other enemies in our land.Warned that they were discovered…"

The leader nodded. The hunter wondered if he, too, had a throat too dryto let words pass. One of the other Monkeys loosened his drinking gourdfrom his belt and passed it to the hunter.

The hunter poured the ritual drops into his palm and scattered them tothe earth, then drank. When his throat was fit for speaking again, hehanded the gourd back.

"Brother, I hear truth in your words," the Monkey leader said to thehunter. He turned to his companions.

"Make a litter. We bear him to the God-Men. If the drums have notspoken, he must do their work, with our help."

"If the God-Men are as they say—" began a warrior.

"Guard your tongue, lest it wag you into the Cave of the Living Wind,"the leader snarled.

"If the God-Men are as they say," the man persisted, "they likely enoughknow already."

"Then we can do no harm," the leader said. "Perhaps even a little good,by showing that we common warriors understand the evil that magic maydo."

"And if—" the man began again.

"Then they have need of our help against sorcerers who can slaydragons and scour life from Xuchotl the Accursed."

This thought silenced the warrior, but did not seem to please him or hiscomrades. Thinking briefly upon the matter, the hunter decided that thiswas no shame to the Monkey warriors. The notion of sorcerers morepowerful than the God-Men of Thunder Mountain did not please himeither.

ONE

In the forest between dead Xuchotl and the foot of Thunder Mountain,the boot-wearers whose tracks the hunter had seen followed a game trail.

One was a woman, and no southern hills or forests had ever beenbirthplace to one so fair of skin and hair. She wore a shirt and trousers ofsilk that had once been whole and white, but were now neither. Rents inboth displayed the fairness of her skin; and a rag of red silk bound up herhair. The garb, though tattered, still fitted snugly enough to display thesplendor of her breasts and hips.

Her boots had the look of the sea about them. They were of suppleleather, with wide-flaring tops, easily kicked off if one found one's self inthe water. That they were not made for tramping game trails in the BlackKingdoms was evident by how often the woman gritted her teeth.

About her slender waist a silken sash upheld a well-used sword and twoknives. One knife was a seaman's dirk, the other a keen-edged daggerwhose hilt writhed with creatures out of nightmare.

The woman was tall and robustly formed, yet her companionovertopped her by more than a head, and his muscles told of a giant'sstrength to go with that stature. He was similarly clad, with the differencethat his sword was stouter and hung from a broad leather belt, along withthree knives. His hair was black, flowing freely across his broad shoulders,and his eyes were of an icy blue, with the look of the north to them.

Those eyes had been the last sight of more than a few men over theyears. The tall man was Conan the Cimmerian, his companion Valeria ofthe Red Brotherhood. They owed their garb to having once been pirates inBaracha, and their companionship to many curious circumstances.

Most important of those was the battle they had fought for their liveswithin the walls of Xuchotl. It was waged against enemies both animaland human, armed with both steel and spells. In the end, it had cleansedthe accursed city of the very last of its bloody, unnatural life.

It had also given each of them a dagger. Nothing else would they takefrom Xuchotl, knowing too many of the city's secrets to trust loot removedfrom its halls. Those halls reeked of blood shed and spells cast over manycenturies, and terror that would echo in their green-lit vastness when thebones of the dead were dust on the floors of polished stone.

Conan had traveled in the Black Kingdoms before, if not in this jungle,then in others hardly less friendly. He feared neither man nor beast. Yethad the Kwanyi hunter seen the wanderer of Cimmeria, he would havelaughed… for Conan also threw more than a few glances over his shoulderto see what remnant of Xuchotl's evil might be on his trail.

It was taboo among the Kwanyi to leave the dead in the place wherethey died, no matter how great the burden of removing the body. Leftwhere the spirit departed from it, the body might be found again by thatsame spirit and become a yaquele , one of the "walking dead."

So from the time they could bear a burden, the folk of the Kwanyilearned to make litters of whatever came ready to hand. Saplings, vines,even the leaves of the smokebush, had their uses.

A litter able to bear the dead was also fit for the living who could notwalk. The hunter was moving again in less time than it would have takenhim to empty a gourd of beer. Two of the Monkey hunters bore him onlevel ground, trailed by the third, while the leader strode on ahead.

The hunter noted that the leader bore his spear in both hands, heldacross his chest ready to either throw or thrust. This was a hunting party,so the men bore no shields, but it seemed that the leader did not expecttheir visit to Thunder Mountain to be entirely peaceful.

It further seemed that he wanted their presence to be unnoticed. Twicehe raised hand and spear to halt all movement. Once he used the hunters'hand signals to send them all into a thick stand of smoke-bush.

The hunter had no notion of what they were hiding from, or why,although at the first halt he heard the chatter of women and the clatter ofjars in vine nets slung across their backs. No doubt it was a band of thebrew-sisters, taking jars of grain to the brew-house, or perhaps beer downfrom it. So what made the leader as careful not to be seen by them as hewould if they were a war party of the Ichiribu?

The hunter had no answer, or at least none to lift a man's spirits. Hethought of reminding the leader that the God-Men might know that thehunter had asked to come to them.

Would the Monkey warriors presume to deny the wishes of theGod-Men? Or where they carrying out the wishes of the God-Men bycarrying him up the mountain in secret?

Valeria leaned back against a tree of a kind Conan had never seenbefore. Its bark was a nubbly mass of red-and-white stripes, with moldand mushrooms sprouting in cracks between the stripes. It lookedunwholesome to the Cimmerian's eyes, but he reminded himself thatmight be merely because the tree was unknown to him.

He was not without experience in the Black Kingdoms. Indeed, he hadsat on a throne in them and been hailed with the praise-name of Amra theLion. But that was farther south and west than here, not a two-day marchfrom Xuchotl. In time, they might reach lands that Conan knew, or evenrealms where he was known, but they faced a long journey before they did.

Meanwhile, the Cimmerian had less knowledge than he could wish ofthis land and its perils. To be sure, no peril of the jungle could equal whathe and Valeria had faced and survived in Xuchotl. Nor did Conan lack anywoods craft or hunting skills such that might keep a man alive though he

were cast down naked in a desert.

But Valeria was like a fish out of water in this jungle, or rather, a sailorfar from the sea. She would doubtless prefer the rack than admit it, butshe was trusting Conan to lead them both to the sea once more.

She sighed and kicked off first one boot, then the other. Rubbing herbattered feet, she looked about for a stream. None lay close, but a puddleof water from the last rain offered hope.

One slender foot was dipping toward the water when Conan laid a handon Valeria's shoulder. "Best leave standing water alone. Those blistersmight fester or draw leeches."

"They are my blisters, Conan."

"Yes, and it will be my back that bears your weight if you cannot walk.Or would you rather I left you behind?"

That was the Cimmerian's rough jest. From the way Valeria's handdarted toward her Xuchotl blade, it seemed that the jest was lost on her.

"Peace, woman. I was joking."

"Your wit smells no sweeter than the rest of you."

"Take a whiff of yourself, woman, before you complain of another'ssmell. Either of us walking into the Golden Anchor in Messantia wouldclear the place in a heartbeat."

Valeria smiled thinly and kept her feet clear of the puddle. Instead, shepulled a handful of leaves from a low-hanging branch and dipped them inthe water.

"Best not do that either," Conan said. "A blind man looking at thebranch could tell that people had passed by."

"And what would this blind man do with the knowledge?" Valeriasnapped. At least she did not reach for steel this time.

"If I knew that, I would know which way we should go to keep him orhis friends off our trail," the Cimmerian said. "It might slow us a trifle,but—"

"Would to Mitra it did slow us!" Valeria said. She looked at her boots asif they had offered her a mortal insult. "Anyone would think from the wayyou've been driving us along that a whole new tribe of thosebrown-skinned cutthroats and spellmongers was on our trail."

"I can't swear that they aren't," Conan said, then added hastily asValeria's eyes flamed, "but I'd wager against it. If you hadn't insisted that

we search for our clothes, we'd have been out of Xuchotl—"

"If I hadn't insisted on finding our clothes—you know how I wasgarbed."

The Cimmerian grinned. "More sightly than you are now, I swear. Ofcourse—"

Valeria rolled her blue eyes toward the canopy of the jungle with thelook of a woman tried beyond speech and endurance. Then she sighed. "Ofcourse it was quite unsuitable for tramping about in the jungle." That wascertainly true enough, as the garb had been a swathe of silken cloth abouther hips and not a rag more.

"And the folk of Xuchotl had nothing much better in their wardrobes,"she added. "What else could we have done?"

"Nothing, I admit. But it took us time we could have used to putdistance between ourselves and the city. We still have that to do, and thesooner, the better."

"Is that a hint we should be on our way again?"

"With you, Valeria, I can only hint. Crom alone knows what you woulddo if you thought I was giving you an order !"

Valeria rolled her eyes again, and this time she stuck out her tongue aswell. But she also lurched to her feet and eased into her boots. She couldnot entirely stifle a gasp of pain, but Conan paid her the compliment ofletting her finish the work herself.

The Cimmerian added to the curses he had already heaped on the folkof Xuchotl, this one for their wretched footgear. Only sandals—suited totheir polished floors—had been in use for more years than the Cimmerianhad lived. The sailors' boots he and Valeria had worn going into Xuchotlhad been the best things to bring them out again.

But no one could deny that those boots were not made for walking fastand far. In another day or two, he might well need to think of findingbetter footgear, a hiding place where they could let pursuit pass by, or atrail over which Valeria could walk barefoot.

The Cimmerian's own soles were leather-tough and had resisted theburning sands of the deserts of Iranistan, but Valeria of the RedBrotherhood was more at home on a ship's deck. Another day or two oftramping these trails in such footgear and she might truly need to becarried.

Nor was that the only matter preying on the Cimmerian's mind. They

had taken no food from Xuchotl, fearing poison or sorcery. They wouldhave to find victuals before long. A three-day fast was less than wise, evenfor the Cimmerian, when hard marching, and perhaps fighting, lay ahead.

At least he could be sure of the woman beside him. Her courage andskill with weapons she had amply demonstrated, and not only in Xuchotl.That she had survived at all for so many years in the Red Brotherhoodproved her no common warrior. She might lack the Cimmerian's woodscraft, but that could be learned, and again , Valeria's being alive at all wasproof that she learned swiftly when need be.

Would she learn swiftly enough? Only the gods knew, and Conan hadgiven up expecting answers from them in good season. A fine sword, atrustworthy companion—and stout boots—were worth all the priests'prayers that Conan had ever heard.

Ahead, sunlight broke through the forest's canopy to tint a patch ofdead leaves the color of old gold. Conan shaded his eyes with one hand andstared upward. As best he could judge, it was not long past noon.

"We'll see about stopping well before twilight," he said without turning."Sooner, if we find a good hiding place with clean water. I'll set snares,and we can forage for fruits and berries while we wait for the game to findits way to the traps. You're handy enough with knots, I trust?"

"A sailor so long, and clumsy with knots? Conan, you have seagull dungwhere other men have their wits!"

Yet he could hear beneath the indignation relief and gratitude. Valeriawould die before admitting either, of course, so it was best if she neverhad to.

As for the Cimmerian, he would rather die than leave Valeria. He hadsnatched her from the nightmare halls of Xuchotl, saving her frombecoming a sacrifice on behalf of the aged witch Tascela. He would not bedone until they reached not merely the coast, but the sight of a Hyborianship. Between them and that happy moment lay Crom only knew whatperils.

Crom only knew—and of all the gods Conan had ever heard of, the cold,grim lord of the Cimmerians was the least likely to answer the questions ofmewling humans.

It took all four Monkey warriors now to carry the hunter's litter. Theywere well up the slopes of Thunder Mountain, although not on any trailthe hunter remembered. This proved little, as he had been this far up the

mountain only four times in his life, for ordeals and ceremonies thatdemanded the presence of God-Men.

He still would have gladly walked, even with the help of a staff, or with a tuqa leaf to ease the pain of his ankle. He cared little for the sweat andsore muscles of the Monkey warriors, but he cared very much about notbeing helpless. He thought of asking for the staff and a wad of thepainkilling leaves, but one look at the grim face of the Monkey leader slewthat thought at once. The Monkey warrior might have been the image of a yaquele , save for the sweat flowing down him.

Also, the hunter knew he could not walk far even with such aid withoutrisking damage to his ankle beyond the powers of the God-Men to heal.The Kwanyi had small use for a hunter who could no longer hunt. Hewould be as a child so young that he had no right to anything—not even tofood should it grow scarce. The worst that the God-Men or the Monkeyleader—even Chabano himself—might do would be swifter, less painful,and more honorable than such a fate.

The hunter lay back and closed his eyes. Presently he felt the soft, coldtouch of mist on his cheek and heard the cry of the mountain eagle as itsoared in the chill sky found only above the tree line.

Conan's long arm whipped the sling up and over. At the high point of itsarc, the slung stone leaped across the little stream and into themonkey-laden tree on the other side. The monkeys' chattering turned intoshrieks of rage and fear. They scattered, leaves, twigs, and birds' neststumbling in their wake.

One monkey neither cried out nor fled. Struck a deadly blow by thestone, it toppled from its branch, bounced from a second, then stuckfirmly in the crotch of a third. From ground to the dead monkey was theheight of six men taller than Conan.

The Cimmerian cursed the whole race of monkeys and the inventor ofthe sling. Then he saw that Valeria was kicking off her boots.

"Guard my back, Conan. I will have our dinner down in a trice."

Warned of leeches, Valeria leaped the stream, though Conan saw herwince at the pain this gave her feet. Then she was climbing the tree withalmost the agility of the vanished monkeys, in the manner Conan had seenon the Black Coasts—body and legs at nearly right angles, arms grippingthe tree as if it were a lover, well-formed hindquarters in the air.

She moved surely, fingers and toes seeking out the tiniest rough patches

in the bark. The angle of the trunk was just enough to allow her to climbas she did, and it was not long before she reached the monkey. A slap tothe branch did nothing; the branch was too thick. Valeria climbed anotherarm's length, crawled out onto the branch, and pushed the dead monkeyoff.

It thumped into a patch of ferns. Conan crossed the stream, thrust hissword into the patch, and withdrew it with the monkey spitted on thepoint.

"What is there to make you uneasy?" Valeria called.

"In this jungle, less than ferns can hide serpents. An asp bite won't killas fast as the Apples of Derketa, but it's just as sure."

"You, Cimmerian, are as heartening as a priest of Set preparing me forsacrifice."

"Don't kill the bearer of bad news, good lady. It was not my advancesthat drove you from Sukhmet, nor my idea that you should flee into thisjungle."

Perched where she was, Valeria could not draw her dagger. Instead, shemade a face to frighten trolls and reached about her for something tothrow. Finding nothing, she suggested that the Cimmerian harboredunlawful passions for sheep, then started back down.

She took the descent with more care and bent over farther—too far, asshe learned, for her trousers. There was a sharp ripping sound, andValeria suddenly had nothing between her rump and the jungle air.

She finished the descent with as much dignity as she could manage,then hastily backed against the tree. Her face dared Conan to so much assmile. He controlled the urge to roar with laughter with some difficulty.

"Thank you, Valeria," he said when he could trust his voice.

"You are welcome, I suppose," she replied. "A tree is not so far differentfrom a mast, and I have been climbing those since before I was a woman."She glared at him. "Or do you think I was foolish, only to prove I couldhaul and draw my share?"

"I said nothing."

"Conan, you can say more with a moment's silence than most men canwith talking from sunrise to nightfall." She glanced at the monkey. Itsdead eyes stared back at her, and she looked away.

"If you will make the fire, I will skin it. I doubt it much differs from afish."

"It does, but there'll be no fire."

"No… fire ?" She said the word as if it were a solemn curse.

Conan shook his head. "We've nothing by which to strike a spark,nothing to burn if we struck it, and no knowledge of who might see the fireor smell the smoke."

"Eat the monkey raw?"

"Not uncommon in these lands. Monkeys eat much as we do, so theirflesh is commonly wholesome."

"But… raw ?"

"Raw."

Valeria gagged, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up. Sheleaned against the tree and braced one hand against it.

"If I had known that, Conan, I'd have left your cursed monkey for thekites and the ants!"

"Not wise, Valeria. Go hungry too long and the kites and the ants'llmake their meal off of you ."

This time she did bend over, heaving until her face was pale. Then sheremained kneeling, sweat-sodden hair veiling her. Conan gently lifted herto her feet.

"Come, Valeria. Find somewhere to sit, and I will do the honors with aknife. I know which parts taste best uncooked, and I'll also do better workwith the skin."

"The skin? Oh, to wear." To Conan's relief, she no longer seemed mazedin her wits.

"Just so, unless you'd rather walk bare-arse all the way through thejungle—"

She threw a stick at him.

The hunter knew that the voices he heard above him were those of theGod-Men. In the last corner of his mind that remained human, he knew heshould be afraid.

He was not, although he did remember having been afraid when theMonkey warriors carried him up the last few paces of the hill to the GodHouse. The door of the house was of ironwood logs, planked with slabs ofmahogany, and on the planks was painted the crimson-and-sapphire

spiral of the God-Men.

The fear had gone briefly when the door opened and only common mencame forth, in loincloths and headdresses dyed with the same spiral. Theyhad lifted the hunter's litter and borne him within the God House, leavingthe Monkey warriors standing in the evening rain.

Then the hunter had not only been unafraid; he had been ready tolaugh… at the disappointment on the faces of the Monkey warriors. Nodoubt they had dreamed of being greeted as heroes.

It was when he saw the first of the God-Men that he was again afraid,but not for long. The eyes of the God-Man were entirely white, like those ofa man struck blind with the eye-rot and doomed to be cast into the forestfor the beasts to devour if no one would feed and shelter him.

Yet the God-Man moved as surely as if he could count every leg on anant in the dimmest corner of the chamber where the hunter lay. He woreonly a loinguard that might have been of snakeskin, figured in hues of roseand vermilion.

He carried in one hand a staff taller than himself, crowned with agolden spiral, and in the other hand, a gourd. A pungent odor rose fromthe gourd, sour, sweet, and sharp all at once.

Without letting go of the staff, the God-Man knelt beside the hunterand motioned that he should sit up. This the hunter did, and at once thegourd was thrust to his lips. The taste of the brew within was so vile thathe wanted to spit it out. When he found himself swallowing, he wanted togag; when the brew reached his stomach, he wanted to spew.

Then it seemed that he was no longer tasting something vile andtainted, but beer of the most cunning brewing from the best grain andseeds. It went straight to his head as such beer often did, and he no longerfelt pain, not even in his foot and ankle.

He was not wholly at ease over this; the ankle had grown swollen, theflesh turning pallid and noisome matter oozing from it. It should havebeen hurting as if hot irons were at work upon it.

Yet it did not, and soon he was walking whole and hearty through thenightmarish halls of Xuchotl. He was not afraid, for the God-Man waswith him and the magic in the staff would stand against any evil there,living or dead. As he walked, he told the God-Man all he had seen orguessed, and it seemed that the God-Man heard every word and planted itin his memory like a seed in a garden patch. In time, they came out ofXuchotl the same way they had entered, and walked into the jungle. The

walls of the evil city faded into a green mist, and when the mist cleared,the hunter knew he still lay in the God House.

But his ankle still did not hurt.

It did not hurt even when the God-Man made a series of intricatemotions over the hunter's body with the staff. Was it only a fever-fancy, ordid the golden spiral of the staff seem to whirl, like a swirling eddy in astream?

No matter. When the God-Man was done, the hunter found that hecould rise and walk. He did so, and followed the God-Man where he wasbidden, out of the chamber and down a long passage that seemed carvedfrom living rock. The heads of the totemic animals of each clan of theKwanyi hung thick on the walls. The hunter saw that where the rockshowed, it was painted in colors for which he did not wish to find names,let alone utter them.

Then they passed a wall of rocks that seemed bound together more bymagic than by mud. Beyond lay a chamber so vast that the hunter couldbarely make out the ceiling, and could not see the far wall at all.

As for what lay below, after one look, he turned his head away. It wasnot fear of the swirling smoke or what it might conceal. It was only that inhis heart he knew it was taboo for him to gaze upon that smoke, andworse than that for him to see what the smoke hid.

The God-Man pointed to a seat carved from the rock at the very lip ofthe ledge where the hunter stood. The hunter sat down, dangling his legsover the abyss. From above, he heard more voices, and then he was aloneand the voice of the God-Man who had led him there joined the others.

They chanted in a tongue the hunter did not know and beat on a drumthat sounded unlike any he had ever heard. Or was it not a drum but theirstaves pounding on the rock floor? If those staves were shod with iron,they might sound much like that, striking the living rock—

The smoke reared up in a wall before him, like a cobra ready to strike.Indeed, it spread out in such a likeness of a cobra's head that the hunterwanted to cry out.

I am not of the Cobras. I am of the Leopards. Send a leopard for myspirit.

He knew in the same moment that he would not speak, nor would itmatter if he cried out to all the gods of his people. This was a place wheremere mortals were impotent in the face of the older powers under thecommand of the God-Men.

Even then, the hunter did not fear. Nor did he fear when the smokeswirled around him and the scream of a mighty wind tearing at thetreetops came with it. He felt himself lifted as gently as a babe in a slingon its mother's breast.

Then the smoke drew back. The hunter faced crimson-and-sapphirelight, swirling like the smoke. He saw the light rise around him, takingaway his sight, and all of his other senses as well. He never knew themoment when the life was sucked from his body and only an empty huskremained in the stone seat.

"What was that?" Conan muttered. He thought he had spoken only tohimself, but Valeria was more wakeful than he had known.

"I heard nothing," she said. She rolled over and tried for the tenth timeto find a spot where a root of their sheltering spicebush would not dig intoher flesh.

"Ugh," she said. "The planks of a ship's bed are down cushionscompared to this jungle."

Conan held up a hand for silence, and although Valeria looked sulky, sheobeyed. The Cimmerian waited until he was sure that whatever hadreached him on the night breeze would not come again.

"It may have been nothing. But I thought I heard… well, if a spell of evilmagic made a sound, it might have been like that."

Valeria sat up and her shirt slipped from her shoulders. She ignored thedisplay of her magnificent breasts and made several gestures of aversion.

"Are you a spell-smeller, as we call them at home?" she asked.

It seemed to Conan that she would not much care for any answer hemight give. In truth, he also would be happy if he had not suddenly gainedthe power to detect magic. That was almost magic itself, and Conanloathed the idea of finding it within himself.

The Cimmerian had fought more sorcerers and wizards than he hadfingers and toes. But when he had an honorable choice, he gave the wholeaccursed breed a berth many leagues wide.

"I've never been one yet," Conan said. "I'd as soon not be one now. Likelyenough it was just some trick of the wind. I've been away from these landsfor so long that I may not remember all that I thought I did."

Valeria had the look of one who doubts she is hearing the truth, but theCimmerian's blue eyes were steady and he smiled. After a moment, the

Aquilonian woman smiled back, turned on her side, and lay down. Thedisplay of breasts now gave way to a display of well-rounded buttocks.

Conan had no eye for them. He sat cross-legged, sword in his lap,waiting with the patience of one who has watched a Zamboulan countinghouse for three days to learn the comings and goings of its watchmen. Healso waited with more knowledge of the jungle than he had admitted toValeria. Nothing in nature had made that sound, and what was not innature was, more often than not, dangerous.

In time, Valeria's breathing steadied as she slipped deep into sleep.Conan's breathing also slowed, until he might have seemed an iron statuein the jungle night. Only the relentless flickering of his eyes about himbetrayed life.

Whatever stalked them would gain no help from him in its quest, andonly sharp steel if it found them.

TWO

Seyganko, son of Bayu, was not the swiftest, strongest, or tallest of thewarriors of the Ichiribu. He was the best swimmer, which was not a smallmatter in his people's wars against the Kwanyi.

He was also a longheaded sort of man, in spite of his lack of years. Hethought before he used the speed, strength, and height that he had. Thushe made shrewder use of them than his better-endowed comrades.

This earned him some jealousy, and at least once a death-duel, fromwhich he had emerged not merely victorious, but unhurt. It also earnedhim rather more respect from the day of his manhood ceremony to theday Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker read the signs and declared Seyganko worthyto be followed in battle.

From that day forward, Seyganko led. He always led in war when thewhole manhood of the Ichiribu was called forth. He also led as often as notin raids and skirmishes, when no custom or taboo required that someoneelse lead.

Seyganko did not survive all this fighting as unscathed as he had theduel. No man could, against a foe such as the Kwanyi. Their ParamountChief Chabano would have made his warriors formidable with hisspear-and-shield art, even without the aid of the God-Men. With that aid,the chief might have swept the shores and islands of the Lake of Deathclean of all tribes save his own, then marched downriver on a campaign of

conquest.

It was as well for others besides Seyganko that the God-Men andChabano could seldom work together for long, and often barely spoke toone another. It was necessary at all times for the Ichiribu to know ofChabano's schemes and whether or not he was on a friendly footing withthe God-Men.

So that is how Seyganko came to the western shore of the Lake of Deathon the night that Conan sat keeping watch beside the spicebush whereValeria slept.

He and the four men in the canoe paddled as silently as wraiths towithin a hundred paces of the shore. They drove the canoe forward withsteady, practiced strokes, lifting their paddles so skillfully that no splash ordrip betrayed their presence. Clouds veiled the moon, and this was not theseason for the lampfish, whose glow when disturbed often betrayedcanoe-borne warriors.

A hundred paces from the shore, all five men lifted their paddles as one.The canoe glided forward on its own momentum for another fifty paces.By then, its bow was sliding in among the weeds that grew so thick inplaces that a child might walk upon them.

Seyganko led his comrades over the side of the craft with as little noiseas they had made in paddling. Gripping the sides, they kicked silentlyuntil they could sink their feet into the oozy bottom.

Each man wore only his headdress and a snake-skin loinguard, besideshis weapons: a club or a trident, a knife of stone chips set in wood, and anet. Each also wore a generous coating of rancid fish oil. Its reek made anyexcept the Ichiribu gag. It also hid the odor of living flesh from the smallfish known as the eunuch-maker which swarmed along the shores of theLake of Death.

"Remember," Seyganko whispered, "we need no women prisoners. Ifthey flee, do not chase them."

"And if they stay?" one warrior asked with a grin that showed even inthe darkness.

"Remember, too, that a man taking a woman turns his back on theworld," Seyganko said.

" Ho —" the largest of the warriors said. "You need not think where tofind your next woman, Seyganko. Not when—"

"Hold your tongue, Aondo," a third man said. "Or if Seyganko does notchallenge you, I will. You are jealous as well as foolish."

Seyganko could add nothing to those words of wisdom, although heknew that his betrothal to the shaman's daughter Emwaya had indeedaroused much jealousy. Emwaya was the finest woman of the Ichiribu anddeserved nothing less than their finest warrior, but not all men saw that asclearly as she did.

The young chief vowed to look to his back when the huge Aondo wasnear, then crept to the left to his chosen hiding place. The other warriorsfollowed, with only the faintest rustling of the damp grass and the soft chrrr of insects to mark their passage.

They had been in hiding barely long enough for the grass to rise againwhen they heard voices and footfalls on the trail. As was most often thecase, the sounds were those of women and men together— warriorsguarding a band of women, taking food and other comforts to the campwhere the Gao River flowed out of the Lake of Death.

The Kwanyi also kept warriors in the south, guarding their herdlandsand grain fields on the other side of the lake. Chabano would gladly havekept much more strength there, to raid through the pass into theriverlands beyond the mountains. That the Ichiribu ruled the Lake ofDeath with their canoes stood in his way and made his hatred for themburn like a live coal.

Now someone among the Kwanyi on the trail, wiser than his fellows,called for silence. But he called for it in a voice as loud as the others'.Seyganko's keen ears let him measure the distance to the speaker almostas if he had stretched a length of vine between them. If the enemyadvanced another twenty paces farther, they were as doomed as a dog inthe jaws of a leopard.

The, Kwanyi advanced that distance, and Seyganko let them go anothertwenty paces before he put the bone whistle to his lips and blew. If thewomen could run in either direction up the trail, there would be fewer ofthem at hand to distract men like Aondo.

The high-pitched shriek of the bone whistle silenced human foes andjungle creatures alike for a moment. In that moment, the five Ichiribuwarriors leaped from their hiding places and flung themselves at theirenemies.

Seyganko had just enough time to see that none of his comrades wereholding back before he faced two men. Both had the heavy hide shield andthree spears Chabano had given each of the Kwanyi. On open ground, bydaylight, they would have been the Ichiribu warriors match, and even nowthey were no foe to despise. It was not in Seyganko to despise any foe, for

which reason he still lived and his foes mostly did not.

He feinted with his club to draw one man's shield up, then flung his netover the top of the other's shield and pulled hard. The spiked weights onthe edge of the net caught in both flesh and hide. The man howled andstumbled forward, his shield dropping until it no longer protected him.

This time, Seyganko's stroke with his club was no feint. It splintered theman's wooden headdress and the skull beneath it. Instantly Seygankowhirled to stamp on the shaft of a spear thrust at him by the secondwarrior, then closed until his chest was hard against the man's shield.

The warrior was strong; he pushed hard, flinging Seyganko backward.Seyganko pretended to lose his balance and fall on his back. The warriorcharged forward, his second spear poised to thrust downward.

It thrust, but struck only grass and earth. Seyganko had rolled sideways,and as he rolled, he lashed out with both feet. The warrior stumbled,abandoning his spear in a fight for balance, and had no attention to sparefor Seyganko's club. Sweeping in a vicious, low arc, the club darted underthe shield and crushed a knee.

The man reeled again, and this time there was no regaining his balance.Seyganko himself was in behind the shield, and a moment later the shieldfell as the arm holding it shattered under another blow of the club.

With no foes ready to hand, Seyganko could spare attention for hiscomrades. It was hard to pick them out from among the mass ofscreaming, fleeing Kwanyi women and bearers. Most of them were, as hehad hoped, running off inland. Not a few of the Kwanyi warriors werefollowing.

Seyganko called the spirits of his ancestors to curse those Kwanyicowards. Or were they cowards? Might they not be obeying the commandsof Chabano, who could have guessed that such Ichiribu raids had as theirpurpose the taking of captives ?

Seyganko added Chabano to those he cursed. The enemy chief wasshrewd enough to be dangerous even when he could hold few secrets. If hecould teach his warriors to prefer flight to capture, he might keep many ofthem, and each one deadly to the Ichiribu.

An outcry like that of mating leopards returned Seyganko's attention, tothe trail. A spear's length away, Aondo had a woman backed against atree. He had jerked her waistcloth from her and was now stuffing it intoher mouth. And just as he had been warned not to do, he had turned hisback on all else but the woman. A Kwanyi warrior lying bloody on the

ground rolled over, gripped a spear, and thrust upward.

The thrust failed to be deadly, because at the last moment, Seygankotapped the warrior lightly with his club. The spear's point sank only athumb's width into Aondo's buttocks. He leaped into the air with a crymore of surprise than of pain, clapping a hand to his wound.

One hand was not enough to hold the woman. Disdaining any thoughtof garbing herself, she fled into the night. Aondo started in pursuit,dashed head-on into the shield of a Kwanyi warrior too surprised to raisea spear, and found himself in a bare-handed fight for his life.

Seyganko snatched up the fallen spear, the only weapon that couldreach the pair in time. It was the kind of weapon ill-balanced forthrowing; he could have done better with a fishing trident. But his armwas strong and his eye was true. Also, he did not need to kill.

The spear drove through the Kwanyi's thigh with such force that thepoint burst out on the other side. The man howled as if stung by fire antsand flung Aondo away. Seyganko closed the distance to the man, grippedthe spear-shaft with one hand, and swung his club with the other. Theman toppled, Seyganko jerked the spear loose, and Aondo regained hiswits enough to start bandaging his prisoner's thigh with the fallenwaistcloth.

With two captives who would live until Dobanpu could speak to them,the raid was already a victory. Seyganko blew the whistle again andpromised the spirits a generous sacrifice when the other men of his bandanswered.

They not only answered, they came swiftly, and with two moreprisoners, one of them a woman who seemed not unwilling. She washardly more than a girl, the tattoos of womanhood barely healed on herarms and throat. She wore nothing but those tattoos and a feather thatwas bound into her hair behind one ear.

Aondo had already plunged into the water to bring the canoe in closeenough to allow the lifting of the senseless captives into it. He seemed towish to stay as far from Seyganko as possible.

The canoe rode noticeably lower in the water when the last captive wasaboard. Seyganko looked at it, seeking to keep doubt off his face. The nexttime he led such a raid, he vowed, there would be a second canoe lying off,to bring help if needed, and to carry captives. As it was—

"We have no need of you," he told the girl. "Take a garment from one ofthe dead and rejoin your people."

The girl's face twisted in horror and rage, and for the first time,Seyganko had a clear look at her tattoos. They were none he had seenbefore among Kwanyi women.

"You are not of the Kwanyi?" he asked.

The girl seemed to understand nothing except the last word, but at thatword, she made a gesture none could mistake. If all the Kwanyi in theworld had their hearts eaten by leopards and the manhood of all thewarriors devoured by jackals, it would gladden her heart.

Seyganko decided that the girl could come after all. He would not haveon his spirit the memory of leaving her to the vengeance of her captors.

Also, she was rather more comely than most, although far from equal toEmwaya. It would not please Emwaya if he kept the girl himself, but theSpirit-Speaker's daughter had spoken of needing a new maidservant. Thegirl would do well enough for that, and in time she could be dowered andoffered in marriage to a warrior who might not otherwise be able to offerbride-price.

He motioned toward the canoe. The girl looked at the water, no doubtfearing what it might hide. Then she looked back at the land, and her faceshowed far more fear of what might wait for her there. She splashed intothe water, arose dripping, and leaped into the canoe so eagerly that shenearly capsized it.

The canoe remained upright, however. It even remained above waterafter Seyganko climbed aboard with the care of a woman sewing bark fora headdress. With no need for silence, the paddles were swiftly at work,and the laden craft was soon well away from shore.

By then, the warriors were beginning to babble in triumph and relief.All except Aondo. He sat amidships, wielding his paddle with the best butsaying no more than did the senseless captives lying in the slimy water inthe bottom of the boat.

That sight made Seyganko uneasy, and to hide this, he gave only shortanswers to his comrades. They were halfway back to the island before hecould bring himself to join in the banter. Even then, it was mostly out ofprudence; too long a silence and his warriors would think he wasdispleased with their work this night. This would shame and anger them,until they might be less willing to follow him. Leave the loyal unrewardedfor long enough and there would be no more loyal warriors. Then such asAondo would have their moment—nor would they likely be honorableenough to offer an open challenge.

" Ho ," Seyganko said. "I have never seen the women run off like that. Doyou suppose it was catching sight of Aondo that drove them away?"

"If so, I will go without my loinguard next time. They will run to methen, not from me," Wobeku the Swift said. He patted the girl on theshoulder, and did not appear to notice that she stiffened at his touch.

Seyganko hoped that her time among the Kwanyi had not turned herwitless. Emwaya would have enough to do, tending her father after he hadworked his magic on the captives. She would not thank her betrothed forcasting the girl at her hut door like an abandoned puppy—and whenEmwaya was not grateful, Seyganko and half of his tribe knew it!

Valeria awoke from a pleasant dream of being once again aboard a shipat sea. The touch of the Cimmerian's mighty hand on her shoulder was anintrusion. She wanted to shake it off, go back to sleep, and try to find thedream again.

Instead, she put the memory of sun-dappled water and a salt-tangybreeze from her and sat up. She saw Conan's eyes roving and knew thatshe was still as near to unclothed as made no difference.

A brief pass of her fingers through her hair told her that comb andbrush would have been useless even had she possessed either one. A stoutknife, or perhaps a small ax, would be needed to reduce her hair to order.

"Are you well, Valeria?"

"Awake and ready to take my watch, Conan. Is that not well enough?"

"If you doubt—"

"I do not doubt my fitness to mount guard. I may doubt your reasonsfor wishing me asleep and helpless."

Even in the darkness, she could see Conan's massive shoulders quiver ashe tried not to laugh. She realized that in truth she had beensharp-tongued with little cause… and this in reply to an offer made out ofkindness.

Or was it kindness? Valeria had not risen as high as she had in theranks of the Red Brotherhood without knowing much of the ways ofintrigue between men and women, even when the prize was no more thanbedsport. When the prize could be gold enough to buy a ship, or fiftywomen, the intrigues soon grew bloody, and those who did not learnswiftly, died— as often as not, anything but swiftly.

One thing she had learned: a man who offered to spare a woman hershare of needful duties was apt to have a price in mind for this favor. It

was a price she had no mind to pay to the Cimmerian.

Unless he was unlike other men? She had truly met none like him—sofar from home, yet seemingly equal to any danger, as if he were at homeeverywhere. Which was perhaps not far from the truth, if half the tales hetold were so.

No. In such matters, the Cimmerian would be as other men. Unless hewas a eunuch, and Valeria was quite sure he was nothing of the kind. Thewitch Tascela had made that plain enough; she would never have pursueda eunuch as she had pursued Conan.

Valeria stood up, which did further mischief to her trousers. She lookeddown at herself in disgust, then wrinkled her nose at the odor of themonkey's hide.

"How long will it take that hide to be fit for a garment?"

"In this damp heat, curing goes slow. We might have to take it with us,let it cure on the march. Unless we can find a salt lick—"

Valeria spat, not quite hitting the pegged-out monkey hide. Then shepeeled off her trousers and shirt and stood nude for a moment while shearranged the shirt into a loincloth.

"There," she said. "If we'll be in the forest for the most part, the treeswill guard my skin."

She could not mistake the admiration in Conan's voice and eyes. "Thereare insects as well as sun, Valeria."

"What of the spicebush? I thought you said the berries kept away bothfliers and crawlers."

"Rubbed on your skin, yes, it does. But it brings some folk out inblisters."

"Better blisters than insect bites everywhere," she said.

Conan shrugged. "You choice, woman. Make yourself a smelly armful,for all that I care. Best be about it quickly, though. I'd like a trifle of sleepafter you're done."

Valeria wished that Conan had not seemed quite so determined not toembrace her. She remembered the moment of their final victory inXuchotl, when his massive arm's around her had seemed not only proper,but pleasant.

If a time like that ever came again, it would certainly not come tonight.She began plucking berries, crushing them and rubbing the juice on herskin, not excepting those parts of her body that would be guarded, she

hoped, by the shirt-turned-loincloth.

Exposed to the air, the juice of the spiceberries stank like an untendedmidden. It certainly kept both flying and crawling creatures from her,though. It also stung like bees on her blistered feet, then swiftly soothedthem.

By the time she had garbed herself as best she could and sat down,Conan was lying under the bush. There was barely room for him; his feetthrust into the open at one end and his shoulders brushed the lowerbranches.

A scream like that of some wretched soul being obscenely sacrificedbrought Valeria to her feet. The loincloth nearly parted company; sheignored it and drew her sword.

The scream came again, but this time a faint chattering and squeakingfollowed it. Some night-prowler finding prey, or perhaps a mate? Neitherwas any peril to her… she had seen the Cimmerian come awake in an eyeblink, ready to fight a moment later. Even now his hand was on the hilt ofhis sword, although he had the weapon sheathed to protect it from thedampness of the jungle night.

She gazed at that massive hand for some moments, until the dream ofsun and a ship at sea gave way to an image of a silk-draped couch in aperfumed chamber, with wine ready to hand—except that both her handsand Conan's were more pleasantly occupied.

Her stomach twitched, and for a moment, she feared that the monkeymeat was finally going to take its revenge for her hunger. Then thequeasiness passed, and her former fierce pride took its place.

She was Valeria of the Red Brotherhood; she had eaten worse than rawmonkey meat and kept it down in earning her name and fortune. Shewould not let this wretched jungle defeat her, not while that cursedCimmerian was anywhere in sight to laugh at her!

Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker had for himself room enough for half a score offamilies of the Ichiribu. Few among the tribe grudged it to him, for allthat the land was growing scarce on the island.

No one had sweated to build Dobanpu's house; it was a cave burrowingdeep into the hill at the southern end of the island. None doubted that formuch of his work with the spirits—and with other beings mentioned onlyin whispers, if at all—he needed more space than a basket-weaver or atrident-maker. None wished, either, to see or hear much of what Dobanpu

did.

Nor did Seyganko, for all that bringing the prisoners to Dobanpu hadmeant a wearying journey for already tired men to the southern end of theisland, then over the beach and uphill to the cave. It was as well that fewknew how much of the art of Spirit-Speaking he was learning atDobanpu's hands.

Already among the people there were mutterings that a woman such asEmwaya should not learn Spirit-Speaking, which they said was a man'swisdom. If she did, then she should not also wed a war chief, to give himher powers as any woman could if she lay with a man.

What would the wagging tongues say if they learned that Dobanpuhimself was teaching Seyganko? The warrior knew it would be even harderthen to avoid death-duels, or poison in his porridge.

Seyganko sat in the cave with Dobanpu and Emwaya. All three woreheaddresses of feathers and crocodile teeth and amulets of fire-stones. Thefire-stones pulsed like beating hearts, growing stronger each moment asDobanpu and Emwaya chanted the spirits into them.

None of them wore other garb, save a coating of scented oil. ToSeyganko's mind, such garb best suited Emwaya. She was of an age tohave borne at least two children, and would doubtless bear many fine sonswhen she and the warrior at last wed. Now, however, her waist remainedsupple, her breasts high, her long legs well-muscled and strong to wrapabout a man—

A thought entered Seyganko's mind.

I s this the time for such ?

The thought held amusement and pleasure rather than anger. Even hadSeyganko not seen the smile on Emwaya's face, he would have known fromwhence the thought came.

He replied as he had learned, without moving his lips save to return hersmile.

It has been some while.

Dignity before the spirits!

None could mistake the source of that thought, although Dobanpu'sface bore all the expression of a carved lodge mask. The two loversinstantly straightened backs and composed faces, then gave ear toDobanpu's chant as it rose higher.

The chant was drawing echoes from deep within the nighted recesses of

the cave, far beyond the lamplight, when Dobanpu snapped his fingers athis daughter. Lithe and gleaming in the light, she ran swiftly to a nichebehind her father and brought out a basket of small clay pots. The basketwas of reeds soaked in spiceberry juice, the odor intended to drive insectsfrom the herbs, dried fruits, and oils in the pots. Seyganko had no doubt ofits success; it nearly drove him away from the fire.

He drew on a warrior's courage to sit cross-legged and watch asEmwaya drew forth several of the small pots, including an empty one.With pinches of herbs and fruit and a few drops of oil, she concocted apotion and handed it to her father. He dipped a finger in, then licked itoff, for all the world like a brew-sister testing her beer. Emwaya smiled,and this time Dobanpu returned the smile without missing a beat of thechant.

To the rest of the Ichiribu, Dobanpu was a figure of awe, even of terror.His daughter knew him too well for that—and he knew that she knew. Itwas one of many reasons that Seyganko blessed whatever had contrivedthat he and Emwaya be matched one with the other. He need have no fearof his wife's father.

Now Dobanpu stood and spread his arms wide, then raised them highover his head. Smoke began to curl from the pot, foul-smelling and filledwith nightmare shapes dancing on the remote edge of Seyganko's vision.Emwaya lifted the pot, and the warrior wanted to cry out as the shapesseemed to surround her like a hedge of thorns around a cattle pen. For amoment, she was altogether lost to sight, and to Seyganko, it seemed thateven her father's face went taut.

He told himself that the deadliest of the spirits had no visible forms,that these were only little spirits of the woods and waters that Dobanpuhad conjured up to reach the captive's mind. He knew he might evenbelieve this after he saw Emwaya safe and whole.

In the next moment, she darted from the smoke and knelt beside herfather. Her breasts rose and fell with quick breathing as she gripped herfather's shoulder and joined her strength to his. The shapes left the smoke;now they danced in the air above the prostrate form of the Kwanyi captiveon the black stone.

The man was too near death to speak, but the other captive, who hadnot been so badly hurt, had said he served the God-Men. He also said thatthe God-Men had learned something that put even their servants in fear.

He had not said much of this without some persuasion, but the Ichiribuhad men and women expert in such, means. The powers of Dobanpu and

his daughter could be saved for times of greater need.

Thunder burst in the cave. The smoke vanished in a brief scream ofwind. For a last moment, the smoke was so thick about Seyganko that hefought the urge to claw at it. He held his breath that he might not disturbthe spirits by coughing, and his chest grew tight.

The smoke vanished before Seyganko had to breathe. So did the shapes.The warrior watched them whirl downward into the Kwanyi prisoner.Then he gripped one hand with the other so he might not make a gestureof aversion as the dying captive sat upright and began to speak.

With no voice of his own left, he spoke in the spirit-tongue, whichSeyganko did not yet understand. Whatever the spirits were saying hadDobanpu's face twisting in horror, for all that he fought for self-command.Emwaya's eyes were wide, and her hand on her father's shoulder grippedso tight that her nails scored his flesh and her knuckles were pallid.

Thunder came again, this time a distant rumble. Seyganko gazed up atthe ceiling of the cave because he could no longer bear to look at thecaptive. He saw a drop of water fall, to raise a puff of dust from the cavefloor. Another drop followed it, then several more, then a steady stream.

No spirits were in that thunder. It was not the rainy season, but seldomdid more than two or three nights pass about the Lake of Death withoutrain. Seyganko resisted the urge to leap forward and stand in the rainstreaming down through the smoke hole.

It was as well that he did. Dobanpu's work was not done yet. Indeed,Seyganko could have stalked and slain a wild pig in the time theSpirit-Speaker needed to finish with the captive.

The warrior knew when the end came, though. The captive turnedslowly toward Dobanpu. He took a single faltering step forward, then twosurer ones before leaping at Dobanpu as would a leopard on its prey.

He never completed the leap. Dobanpu stood like the doorpole of alodge, but Emwaya flung herself before her father. She moved so swiftlythat Seyganko was barely on his feet before she and the dying,vengeance-driven Kwanyi grappled.

It was a short grapple, for all that the Kwanyi had in life been half againEmwaya's size and strength. He could not feel pain, but he could beknocked down. Emwaya sent him sprawling, then gripped one arm. Hereached over with the other, groping for a handhold in her hair, meetingonly the headdress.

He was still groping when Seyganko brought his club down on the

Kwanyi's already battered head. The last spirit-given life fled, and thespirits followed. Thunder rolled again as they leaped from the body andfled up the smoke hole, defying the rain.

Seyganko saw what might have been a bird with four wings and thehead of a snake, or something even more unnatural. Then he saw Emwayaturn, eyes widening—and was just in time to help her catch her father ashe fell, to all appearances as lifeless as the Kwanyi.

They laid Dobanpu on a bed of rushes; a raised part of the cave floorkept him safe from the growing puddle of rainwater. Emwaya drew abark-cloth blanket over her father and signed to Seyganko that he shouldleave them.

Seyganko desperately wished to ask why, but the answer came in thesame moment as the question. In the Kwanyi warrior, there had been nocommon magic. Only arts that Seyganko did not yet have might healDobanpu and save his knowledge for his people. Seyganko's duties now layamong the warriors, to lead them if need be, or at least to keep them silentuntil Dobanpu spoke again.

Seyganko turned back to make sure that the Kwanyi warrior was dead,or to bind him if life was still in him. Then he fought the urge to makegestures of aversion, or even to flee wildly to the open air.

The Kwanyi warrior was gone. Only the outline of his body in themuddy dust remained. No footprints showed his passing; it was as if hehad become dust himself.

Seyganko looked at Emwaya, and she glanced up from her father longenough to shrug. When I know, I will tell you was in that shrug, and alsothe pride he knew so well.

I will come when I am needed , Seyganko replied.

He thought he saw her smile as he backed out of the cave. He wouldrather not have gone at all. Leaving Emwaya there with what had stolenaway the Kwanyi's body was harder than leaving her in the face of ahungry leopard.

He also knew that a warrior who courts a Spirit-Speaker's daughtermust learn more than most men about the arts of keeping peace with hiswoman.

Conan awoke to find a sharp root jabbing him in the ribs. He thoughthe must have rolled over in the night.

Then he reached full wakefulness and knew that the root was warm, andnot as sharp as he had thought. He shifted and looked up… from thestrong, shapely ankle beside him all the way along the finely turned leg, tothe shirt bound as a loincloth about well-rounded hips, and onward to therest of Valeria.

She left off prodding him with a bare toe and seemed about to smile,Then she shrugged.

"If you think I woke you up for—"

Conan was tempted to grip that ankle and see if Valeria's loinclothsurvived a tumble to the ground. He set the temptation aside. Valeria hadbelted on both sword and dagger over her new garb and looked as ready asever to repay such a rough jest with steel.

Now and for some days to come, Conan had more need of a trustworthycomrade at his back than a woman in his arms. "You woke me because it'sdawn and time we were on the march. True?"

A jerk of the head might have been a nod.

"Any visitors?"

"None I could not face myself, Cimmerian."

"Ah, so you did not slay the seven warriors. You only drained them oftheir power with a woman's—"

The toe jabbed hard into his ribs, and for a moment, Conan was readyto roll clear of a downward slash of her sword. Then the hand left thesword-hilt, her mouth twisted, and a giggle escaped before turning into alaugh. She sat down and began combing leaves and the odd twig from herhair.

"I've killed men for lesser jests, Conan. Remember that."

"Oh, I shall. But if you kill men for small jests, then I may as well die forthe bull as for the calf."

She made a small-girl's face at him and went on combing. In a few moremoments, she had done as much as anyone could without a comb, orwithout hacking her hair off short at the neck.

"As you say, best we were on the march." She licked her lips. "AlthoughI would not refuse some water—"

"We'll stop at the first clear stream we find and drink our fill. If thereare gourds to be had, we can hollow out a few and fill them, too. But fornow, we'd do better away from here."

"You think we're being followed?"

"I've no way to know, but why make ourselves easy prey? The jungle'smuch like the sea—he lives longest who's not to be found where hisenemies expect him."

"So wise in war, Cimmerian?"

Conan was about to make some gruff reply when he realized that therehad been less than the usual mockery in Valeria's voice. He looked at her;she flushed all the way to her breasts and then began muttering curses atthe lack-witted, effete fools of Xuchotl, who kept jewels and finery inplenty but not a single decent water bottle!

THREE

"Ge-qah!"

Seyganko cried the Ichiribu ritual word for death and flung his trident.It pierced the morning air, then the blue-green water of the Lake of Death.

The vine rope tying it to Seyganko's waist had run out perhaps twice aman's length when the trident also pierced the lionfish below the canoe.Instantly, ripples spread about the canoe; then bubbles and blood joinedthe ripples.

The lionfish rose, as long and thick as the canoe, with jaws that could,and sometimes did, swallow a child. Blood and body juices the hue of oldgold gushed from the trident wound.

Those massive jaws still snapped, and teeth as long as a man's fingerclanged together with a noise like a Kwanyi spear on a wooden shield. Thescaly neck plates—with the look of a lion's mane, which gave the fish itsname—flapped, as did the gills.

Seyganko waited until the fish's instinct to attack the first thing it sawwas aroused. That first thing was the canoe, and the long teeth sank intothe hard wood of the dugout. They so nearly met that the warrior knew thecanoe would need patching after this day's work.

The wildly thrashing fish jerked at the rope and sent the trident handlewhipping about. Seyganko ignored bruises as he raised his club, tossed it,caught it in both hands, and brought it down hard between the two platesover the fish's left eye.

"Ge-qah!"

He spoke the truth. The blow to its most vulnerable spot was death for

the lionfish. A shudder went through it from teeth to tail, and its jaws letgo their grip on the canoe. Had Seyganko been fool enough to pull thetrident loose, it might have slipped away into the depths of the lake andbeen lost.

As it was, he would have a fine trophy, and a score of the Ichiribu wouldfeast. Any lionfish this large was not the best delicacy, but it was a menaceto men; eating it would bring some of its strength and fierceness to thosewho ate, and avenge any it had slain.

Seyganko tied the fish to the stern of his canoe with the trident cord, satdown, and began paddling toward shore. Even his strength was not equalto bringing the catch aboard, but in water too shallow for other lionfish, itwould not be attacked before he could summon help.

Seyganko paddled directly for shore, although this meant landing notfar from Dobanpu's cave. He had heard nothing of the man for three days,save that he yet lived and that spirits sent by the God-Men might yet be adanger to him. For these reasons— and also, Seyganko thought, out ofpride—Emwaya had nursed him herself and sent the curious about theiraffairs.

What she would not say to the curious, Seyganko decided, she might sayto her future husband. And the lionfish was worth saving even if helearned nothing from Emwaya. Paddling around the point of the islandwould give other lionfish time to gather, scent the blood trail, and followit. In strength, they had been known to attack a canoe.

It was as well that for the most part, lionfish were solitary creatures,each claiming its portion of the lake and driving off all comers save forfemales in the mating season. Had they commonly hunted in schools likethe eunuch-makers did, they would have eaten the lake bare of all life,probably including human.

The canoe was heavy and clumsy with the lionfish trailing astern, butSeyganko's strong arms and well-balanced paddle drove it swiftly towardshore. As the sun rose, it burned off the morning mist, and soon he couldsee the hill rising from amid the last gray wisps. At last he saw the reedenclosure that let Emwaya draw water, safe from lionfish and crocodiles,and even allowed her to swim when the spirit took her.

Dobanpu must have healed; a dark head broke the water in theenclosure. Seyganko smiled. If Emwaya was in a good frame of mind, shemight let him join her. After they swam together, the most common endwas rolling together in the grass.

Then the head grew shoulders and arms, and Seyganko saw that it was

the form of a woman, but not of Emwaya. The Kwanyi slave girl wasmaking free with the swimming place, as bare as a babe. In the light ofday, and not frightened half out of her wits, she was even a greaterpleasure to see than on the night of the raid.

"Where is your mistress?" he called in the True Tongue. She might hateher old masters with a passion, but she could hardly have been amongthem for long without learning at least a little of their speech.

The girl stood up, shook herself like a dog, then pointed toward thecave. Drops of water silvered by the morning sun sparkled in her hair andtrickled down her breasts as she moved about. Seyganko would havethought her unaware of how well she appeared had he not caught a slylook from the corner of one brown eye.

He grinned. Apart from his oaths to Emwaya, which did not allow himanother woman save with her permission, he doubted the wisdom oftumbling his betrothed's maidservant. He also knew a sure way of puttingan end to her tricks.

"Ho! Woman of Emwaya, I have work for you." Seyganko heaved on therope until the lionfish's tail was above water. "Come and help me haul thisbrute ashore!"

The girl took one look at the lionfish, another at Seyganko, then fledtoward the mouth of the cave, still bare. Seyganko pulled the canoe ashore,sat down on the girl's waistcloth, and was whetting his trident with apiece of ironstone when Emwaya came down to him.

When he could free himself from her grip and let go of her, Seygankoheld her at arm's length. He saw that she seemed paler and thinner thanthree days of any ordeal would warrant. Or at least any ordeal save one.

"Your father—"

"Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker lives. His sleep is now healthy, his dreamsclean. I have fed him porridge and water, and they rest well in his belly."

She spoke as if still in a ritual, but he saw unaccustomed moisture inthe corners of her eyes. He reached up to brush away the tears, and shegripped his wrists as if they were the last things between her anddrowning.

"Seyganko, forgive my weakness. I did not mean you to see me thisway—"

"No, you are not like that wench you have taken into your service. Shemeant me to see her as she was swimming."

"I thought as much when she came uphill bare. What did you say toher?"

Seyganko told the truth, and Emwaya rewarded him with a laugh thatheld some of her usual good cheer. "I will help you with the fish and thenhave words with Mokossa."

"Is that her name?"

"I think it is the name of her tribe, one living beyond the lands of theKwanyi. She is not child-minded, but living among the Kwanyi frightenedher out of most of the wits she had."

"Not so much that she cannot have eyes for a warrior, I warn you."

"Any woman with sense will have eyes for you, Seyganko. I have just toldyou that Mokossa is a woman of sense."

"Do you seek to flatter me, Emwaya?"

"I have done so often enough that I do not need to try again."

If she was able to banter like this, she could hardly have dire news. Itwas in Seyganko's mind to slip his hands under the waistcloth and undoits knot, and the spirits take the lionfish!

Yet something in her voice—

"Did your father learn anything from the servant of the God-Men?"

"I think I can do as well drawing lionfish ashore as Mokossa. Since I donot wish a sodden waist-cloth—"

"Emwaya." He held her by the shoulders, so tightly that he half fearedshe would slap him. "Your father brought strong spirits, and he is not oneto do that lightly. What did he learn ?"

Emwaya shuddered but did not weep or try to pull away. After amoment, she reached up and gently lifted Seyganko's hands from her bareshoulders.

"The spirits were angry at fighting the protection the God-Men put ontheir servants. Also, I think some of them were hurt."

Spirits could be injured, though not as easily or in the same way asmen. Seyganko knew enough of Dobanpu's art to have learned that. If theGod-Men had power to put that kind of guarding on their servants—

"Are they angry with your father?"

"He said he thought not. Some spirits are friends of the God-Men,others their enemies, or at least enemies of the spirits they command."

Tribal feuds among the spirits! Seyganko silently cursed the spirits,those who made them, those who served them—

"The God-Men have learned that Xuchotl the Accursed has fallen."

The words came out as if Emwaya were purging herself of somethingfoul. Indeed, her face seemed more content, and she leaned againstSeyganko and pressed her face into his shoulder. He rested an arm acrossher back, feeling the fine skin and the strength within, but not seekinganything further now.

"How did it fall?"

"It was hard to tell. It seems that a Kwanyi hunter was seeking game farto the east at the time the city fell. He entered unharmed, explored it, sawthat all within were dead, then fled, fearing that its destroyers would comefor him. The God-Men learned his tale and gave him to the Living Wind.They seek to hide this knowledge until they know what use to make of it."

If the God-Men had the wits of a leech, they would be asking Dobanputo join his knowledge to theirs to fight whatever had the power to castdown the Accursed City. Any such being could eat the tribes of the forestas a lionfish ate fingerlings.

The God-Men lacked such wisdom, however. Even if they found it now,Chabano of the Kwanyi would not let them spoil his dreams of conquest.And Dobanpu would most likely refuse to trust the God-Men even if theyand Chabano both asked for his aid. Seyganko hoped he would not have tosay the last in Emwaya's hearing. She knew her father could be proud andobstinate, but she had not granted her betrothed the right to say so.

"Who else knows of this among the common folk of either tribe?"

"That, my father could not learn. Do you think the God-Men might tryto keep this knowledge from Chabano?"

"It might serve them well if they could," Seyganko answered. "It is saidthat Chabano is jealous of the power of the God-Men and seeks to wagehis wars without them. If the God-Men joined with the power thatdestroyed Xuchotl, Chabano would be a babe against them."

"They would be mad to think that such a power could serve them!"

"I know that a shaman can do only so much. You know that as well.Both of us learned it from your father, who was born with the knowledge."Seyganko shrugged. "The God-Men were not so fortunate."

"Curse the God-Men!" Emwaya said fervently. Then it was her handsthat danced down Seyganko's back and under his garments, so that it was

not she who was the first of them unclothed.

Sun-curing would be needed to finish the work on the monkey's hide tomake it a fit garment. Conan held out no great hope of that much sun andoffered Valeria his shirt.

She held it against her, then laughed. "As a night-shift, I might acceptit."

"My hide's thicker than yours, Valeria, and not bred in Aquilonia."

"If I've survived the sun and salt wind at sea, I'll not broil before thishide cures."

"Or rots."

"Does Crom tell you to look always for the worst, Conan?"

"Crom's not a god to tell anyone anything, at least not for the asking,"Conan replied. His grim Cimmerian god was not a jesting matter for him,or for anyone else born in the Northlands, where the name was mighty.

"Is that why you're so often closemouthed?" Valeria asked. Seeing noanswer forthcoming, she threw up her hands and fell in behind theCimmerian.

They had not gone far from their night's camp before a brief but heavyshower soaked them both and left pools of clean water everywhere. Theydrank, then cut still-green branches from a fallen tree with which to makestaffs. With these aiding them, especially the sore-footed Valeria, theymade good progress the rest of the morning.

Noon brought them hungry to the bank of a river too deep to wade.Conan studied its surface, eyeing the swirls in the murky water. Hestudied with equal care the banks of the river, including places whereanimal tracks ended in patches of churned mud and scattered leaves.

"Crocodiles," he said briefly.

Valeria glowered at the water. "I was thinking we could make a raft andlet the river do the work."

"It flows south and west, which is the way we want to go. But we've notools, and the crocs would have us off a floating log before we'd gone half aleague." Conan looked beyond the banks, seeing fallen tree trunks. He sawtoo few for a raft, and some of those too large for even his strength to rollto the water.

"No, I was thinking we should be hunting for a meal, anyway. Share a

beast with the crocodiles, and they may give us safe passage."

Valeria shrugged. "If it works with sharks, it may work with crocodiles.But, oh, that I'd ever be ready to sell my soul for a canoe."

"Sell your body for an ax, and we'd have the canoe," Conan said, thenducked as Valeria lashed at him with a length of vine.

Hunger and the need for silence ended the banter. They found hidingplaces that commanded two of the low spots on the bank, where the junglecreatures came to drink. Conan suspected they might well have a longwait, as the pools of rainwater would doubtless content the beasts as wellas themselves. It might be dark before the animals came, and Conan didnot care to match wits with a crocodile after dark.

As a prophet, Conan failed. It was not yet mid-afternoon when a familyof wild pigs came huffling and snorting through the bushes. There werefive in all: an old boar, a sow, and three piglets following in the wake oftheir elders.

Using the hand signals of the Barachan pirates, Conan told Valeria totake the sow, or failing that, a piglet. That would do for their own food. Hehimself would face the boar—and any crocodile not sated with that muchraw pork was no creature of nature.

Conan thrust that thought aside with the same distaste he felt for allwizardry. Yet he could not forget last night. Had he sensed powerful magicat work not far off ?

It would not have surprised the Cimmerian to learn of such magic. Thetales he had heard in Xuchotl suggested that those who built the citymight have left magic, as well as stones, behind. Old, evil, tainted magic,perhaps drawing on the lore of the nightmare empire of Acheron. Evenlegends did not agree on how far that lore had spread, how long it hadlasted, or how deep it had sunk roots into the minds of men.

Nor did legends agree on how a man became a spell-smeller—the namein the north for those who had some further sense beyond the commonfive— allowing him to discover the working of magic. They did not evenagree that such men existed. Some said that it was only a matter ofrecognizing subtle changes in the natural world, changes that any spellalways made.

Conan had never thought much of such arguments, and less than mostof that one. If such talk could have made sorcerers forsake their craft andturn into honest men, he would have gladly joined it until his throat wasdry. As matters were, he chose not to let his throat dry out in the first

place!

Now the boar was sniffing the air with the care of the scout of a hostseeking an ambush. It scented nothing. The scant breeze was flowing fromit toward the hunters, and both Conan and Valeria had been in the junglelong enough for its smell to partly disguise theirs.

Conan nodded, and Valeria drew her sword. It caught briefly in thescabbard, and the faint scraping as it came free made the boar raise itshead. Again it sniffed the wind, and this time the sow moved to standbetween her piglets and danger.

The danger that struck first was not the human hunters. Conan did notsee the ripple in the stream, but he saw the dripping, tooth-studded jawsburst from the water and close on the sow.

Her squeals raised echoes and sent birds flying and monkeys leapingfrom every tree within a long bowshot. Valeria leaped from cover, heedlessof the boar, sword slashing down at one of the piglets as they scattered.

The boar paid her no attention at first as it lowered its head and triedto gore the crocodile. The reptile, a patriarch of the breed, had flung itselfso far up the bank that it could not return at once to the water. Its clawsgouged mud, and its tail lashed as it tried to fend off the boar, hold on tothe dying sow, and reach the refuge of the river.

At last it succeeded in all three. A bloody swirl in the water marked itsescape. Valeria had just sheathed her sword in the neck of a second pigletwhen the boar turned on her.

Had the boar been a little quicker, the songs sung in later days aboutValeria of the Red Brotherhood would have been rather shorter. But sheturned, freeing her sword, drawing her dagger, and leaping aside from theboar's rush with a speed that rivaled Conan's. The Cimmerianremembered how deadly she had been in the battles in Xuchotl as herdagger slashed the boar's muzzle.

The great pig squealed in rage and pain and drew back. Its hooveschurned up almost as much mud as the crocodile had. It tried to gainfooting on the slippery bank for launching a charge, but again it was atrifle too slow. Conan was within sword's reach before the boar couldcharge. There was no subtlety or art in the way his sword came down onthe boar's thick neck. Swordmasters from Zingara to Vanaheim wouldhave cringed at the brutal strength of the blow, more suited to anexecutioner than a swordsman.

It did not matter to Conan who struck the blow, or to the boar, who fell

dead, or to Valeria, who found the boar lying at her feet.

Valeria turned, the battle-light in her eyes, and brushed her hair fromher face. The movement of her arm lifted her breasts. Altogether she was asight to make a man's blood seethe in his veins, the huntress among herprey, silhouetted against the sun-dappled river.

She stood so that once again Conan did not see the warning ripples inthe stream. The second crocodile was as large as the first, but not as swift.Also, it exhaled a great, foul, hissing breath as it slid up the bank.

Valeria jumped to safety as the jaws thudded shut an arm's length fromher leg. Not watching where she leaped, she landed on a slippery patch,reeled, and staggered hard against the Cimmerian. He clutched at her,drawing her backward with him.

His back came up hard against a red-barked tree. The tree shook andmade a rumbling sound like a mill wheel. Instantly sensing a new danger,Conan stepped away from the tree, turning and loosing his grip on Valeriaas he did so.

The next moment, the ground vanished from under his feet. He plungedinto darkness, taking with him one memory and one hope. The memorywas of Valeria's horror-stricken face staring after him. The hope was thatshe would remember the crocodile at her back rather than fret herselfabout him.

Geyrus, first among the God-Men—or First Speaker to the Living Wind,as he was named in ritual—shook his staff. That was not enough to easehis wrath, so he struck the rod hard upon the silver-shot rock at his feet.

The three Cobra Clan warriors cringed, as if they expected the rock toopen up at Geyrus's command and swallow them. Their eyes showed onlywhites, and they held their shaking hands over their mouths in the ritualgesture of supplication.

They would find no mercy from Geyrus, and deserved none.

"Six slain, three taken, and one of my handmaids as well!" he roared. Hecould make his voice as loud as a lion's if he chose, though not as easily ashe had done in his youth. Then he could have brought Chabano himself tohis knees with mouth-magic!

"Forgive—" muttered one of the warriors.

"There is no forgiveness for such folly!" Geyrus stormed. "Folly enoughin taking her on such a journey at all. Folly ten times worse in losing her to

the lake-swimmers!"

He did not use the lion-voice this time. He needed to save his strength,and also, he did not wish all he said to be overheard.

Even in the very house of the Speakers to the Living Wind, there werethose whose hearts lay first with Chabano of the Kwanyi. They would nothesitate to tell him any secret of the Servants if they thought it would earnthem his goodwill.

"You are dead men," he said more softly. "Yet I am disposed to grantyou as much mercy as you deserve. You may choose your death. Shall Igive you to the Living Wind? Or shall I give you some other death, of myown choosing?"

The mere mention of the Living Wind made one warrior drop to hisknees, a posture he would rather have died than have assumed before ahuman foe. Geyrus smiled tightly so as to reveal only those of his teeththat still shone white and perfect.

Geyrus understood the warriors' terror. The Living Wind played withthose who came to it with unclouded minds, harassing them like a catwith a mouse. Madness and agony came swiftly, and lasted long enough tomake death a craved release.

"So be it. You shall meet the fate of any cobra when it crawls too closeto the leopard's cubs."

Geyrus did not produce a thunderclap as he completed the spell. Thefirst sound the men heard was the growl as the spell-borne leopardsscented prey. Then claws struck golden sparks from the stone as theleopards hurled themselves upon the warriors.

Geyrus had kept his promise. The leopards killed more swiftly than theLiving Wind commonly did. Fangs tore out throats, claws ripped bellies,and screams of fear and agony echoed only briefly about the tunnels. Theleopards were feeding lustily on the corpses as Geyrus dropped the stoutnet across the tunnel.

A time had been when he could have raised a barrier against theleopards entirely by magic. That time of youthful strength was gone, andwould not come again. His best now was bringing the leopards when theywere needed, and returning them when they slept, sated on human flesh.

Geyrus did not pray to any god who had a name among living men. Nordid he pray to the Living Wind—it was no god; that had been plain fromthe earliest days of its Servants.

Instead, he hoped that his not keeping the secret of Xuchotl's fall would

do no harm. It was probably a vain hope, inasmuch as neither Chabanonor Dobanpu were fools. Geyrus consoled himself with the thought that ifthey had been, there would be no challenge, no pride for him in bestingthem. Both a man's first battles and his last should be against worthy foes.

But that girl—lost! She alone would earn Seyganko the slowest deathany man had ever suffered, after he had watched Emwaya die just asslowly. Or would it be better to make Dobanpu's unnatural daughterwatch her betrothed's death before her own?

Time to decide when he had them both in his hands. Either way wouldensure the girl's obedience for the rest of his days. The First Speaker to theLiving Wind would sleep in a well-warmed bed, as befitted a victor.

The disappearance of Valeria's Cimmerian companion was swift andsilent. One moment, Valeria sensed him at her back; the next moment, herfine-honed battle instincts told her that he was not.

She leaped again, nearly losing her last garment. The crocodile hissedlike a pot of stew overflowing into a cook fire and wriggled forward. Itsjaws—as long as a child of twelve—gaped, then shut again with a clang asif made of iron instead of bone.

Valeria knew something of saltwater crocodiles, having once anchoredin a river mouth where they swarmed. She had never been so far from thesea in a land where the rivers also spawned them, but she judged thisbeast to be much like its seafaring cousins. It would be swift in the water,slow on land, tenacious of life, and slow of wits. Doubtless it was cudgelingthose wits for some new way of dealing with her, now that its first lungehad failed.

She could be long gone from the riverbank and any danger from thecrocodile if she was ready to abandon Conan to whatever fate had befallenhim. Or that he has fallen into , she surmised, seeing as the very earthitself seemed to have swallowed him.

This thought made her next leap cautious, and she thanked Mitra whenshe landed on solid ground. Then she kicked off her boots. Blisters or no,she had a better feel for any surface under her—ship's deck or jungleriverbank—when she was unshod.

She drew dagger to match sword and studied her opponent. It wasimpossible for her to seek safety at the price of leaving Conan. Notimpossible in the sense of against nature, as it would have been impossiblefor her to grow wings and fly—but against her nature and all she had lived

by since before she was a woman.

She and the Cimmerian were battle-bound, as surely as by any tie ofblood or by oath sworn before a score of priests of as many gods. Shewould return to serving in a barber's house, or even dance in taverns,before she broke such a bond as she had with Conan.

That he desired her was an annoyance, as a fly buzzing about her headmight have been. But one did not strike oneself on the head with ahammer to swat such a fly!

The crocodile hissed again and lumbered forward. Valeria shifted onnimble feet so that she could watch the whole riverbank as well as herimmediate foe. The one thing she dreaded most was another crocodile.The first one would most likely be off gorging itself on the sow, but wherethere were two of the monsters, there could be three.

She saw no sign of another reptile, but she did see a shallow depressionin the ground where the leaf mold and tangled dead vines seemed to sag. Ifthat place had swallowed Conan, perhaps it might be persuaded toswallow the crocodile.

Then the monster lunged forward with a speed that startled her.Surprise did not slow her, or make her forget that no creature's brain canbe far from its eyes.

As the crocodile lunged, Valeria leaped, and more. She twisted inmidair, with the grace that had caused more than a few to throw silver,even gold her way in years past. She came down astride the crocodile'sspiny back, just behind the massive neck.

Before the crocodile realized that its prey was no longer in sight, Valeriastruck. Her dagger drove hard into the scaly hide, seeking a chink, sinkingin deep enough to hold her. Then she lifted her sword, reversed the blade,and drove it deep into the crocodile's right eye.

The sword was awkward for stabbing, and nowhere else on the beastwould its point have gained entrance. Striking where it did, it reached thecrocodile's life.

The hiss turned into a screaming bellow as Valeria leaped free of thecreature, as desperately as ever she had leaped from shark-infested waterinto a boat. The crocodile's tail thrashed wildly, splintering bushes andscoring the bark of stout trees. The legs spasmed, claws frenziedlyspraying earth and leaves all over Valeria. Then it gave a final lurch, rolledover, and slammed its head down in the depression Valerian had notedbefore.

In an uncanny silence, the earth gaped. With a tearing of vines and asnapping of roots, the crocodile upended. For a moment, its tail wavedagain, as if in its final convulsion the beast was bidding farewell to itsslayer. Then the crocodile vanished.

This time the hole did not. Whatever device or spell had closed itpreviously seemed to be exhausted. It gaped the width of a man's height atValeria's feet. She looked down into twilight, then into a darkness ascomplete as the deepest abyss of the sea.

She swallowed. She could not drive out of her thoughts the notion thatnot even Conan could have survived such a fall… or that if he had, thecrocodile might have finished what the fall began.

She would never know, however, save by going down herself and findingthe Cimmerian, or his body. She refused to contemplate what she wouldface if he were alive but helpless from hurts taken in the fall.

"Conan," she muttered, "my life might have been simpler had you neverleft Cimmeria."

Yes, and doubtless shorter as well.

The voice in her mind was not altogether Conan's, but close enough tomake her start.

So be it. She had been a climber from childhood, and once a sailor hadsaid of her that she had eyes in her fingers and toes. That would help. Sowould a stout length of vine, or several lengths bound and braided tosupport her weight.

The dead vines were too rotted for such work, but there was no shortageof live ones. Valeria had her vine rope before the sun-dappling of the riverhad greatly changed. She finished her labors by tying a slipknot in one endof the rope, slinging her boots by their laces about her neck, and making asword-thong of vine.

The vine would not serve well for either rope or thong as would goodShemite leather, but Valeria was no stranger to making-do. For the climb,she would use the thong to bind her sword across her back, but once onsolid ground, the weapon would come into service.

She had finished all the work she could do in the gods' own daylight, ona jungle riverbank that now seemed a pleasant vantage compared to theblackness at her feet. The rest of her duty lay below.

She breathed deeply until she was as calm as could be hoped. Then shelowered her feet over the edge of the hole and began her downward climb.

FOUR

Conan's fall began with ill fortune, which swiftly changed for the better.Had it been otherwise, the stories of many men and not a few realmswould have been vastly altered.

He was no spell-smeller, or he might have sensed the magic binding theground at the mouth of the pit. Then again, perhaps not. It was oldearth-magic, and the names of those who discovered it had been lost tohuman memory long before Atlantis was even built, let alone before theoceans swallowed it.

The art had not been lost, however. The sorcery known to the builders ofXuchotl partook of it. Nor was the doomed city the only creation to whichthey had turned their magical arts. Deep within the jungle they also builtand wrought mighty works, at a time when the Black Kingdoms were butbands of feuding tribesmen.

It was one of these leavings that Conan had encountered. The earthgaped beneath his feet, he plunged down into darkness briefly lit fromabove, then continued his plunge in darkness deeper yet as the pit closedabove him.

Thrice he struck earthen walls that yet seemed too solid and smooth tobe altogether natural. These blows slowed his fall somewhat, but alsodrove the breath from his lungs. He had just regained it when he struckfor a final time, where the wall of the pit had crumbled under theinexorable thrust of the roots of some forest giant. The blow took himacross the chest and would have cracked, or even crushed the ribs of anylesser man.

With the Cimmerian, it drove out the barely regained breath and tossedhim like a child's ball into the mouth of a tunnel entering the other side ofthe pit. He struck, half slid and half bounced ten paces, then lay therewhile earth quivered, rumbled, and fell from the mouth of the tunnel.

He would gladly have lain until his breath returned, but instinct toldhim that the mouth of the tunnel was only precariously bound by whatevermagic ruled here. Lying thus in momentary comfort could end in swift andfinal burial.

Iron fingers seemed to clutch his chest as he crawled, but the sound ofstill-falling earth drove him onward. He was sweating with more than hisexertions when at last silence fell again, broken only by his harshbreathing.

Probing his ribs with his fingers, he found nothing broken, although hewould wager the price of a good inn that he would have the mother andfather of all bruises by morning. His breathing had slowed, and cautiouslyhe sat up.

Then a rumble and a series of thuds sounded from the mouth of thetunnel. They rose to a crescendo, but faded as swiftly as they came.Something large had followed him into the pit and plummeted all the wayto its distant bottom, as he had not.

He told himself that the sound was too heavy to be Valeria. That keptthe ill-luck thought from his mind that she would surely follow him downif she bested the crocodile. She had that loyalty to a battle comrade thatdefies common sense, and that Conan himself also lived by.

The mouth of the tunnel was now two-thirds blocked by fallenearth—and Conan was thunderstruck to realize that he could see this. Hewas no longer in utter darkness worthy of the deepest slave-pits of Stygia.

He turned and looked down the tunnel. It sloped away into shadow butwas clearly visible for some fifty paces or more. At the very edge of theCimmerian's vision, the walls seemed to turn from earth into stone, andcarved stone at that.

Over all played a subtle light that at one moment seemedsapphire-hued, at the next, as crimson as a fine ruby. Trying to follow thechanges of color made Conan dizzy, and in time he ceased his efforts. Thelight was magic, no doubt, and he was uneasy in the presence of magic.But he would be a cursed deal uneasier in total darkness, and that lightmight give him a way out of here without Valeria's risking her neck toclimb down to him!

Now, if he had some way to tell her that…

Valeria knew that the air had to be cooler this deep in the earth. It only seemed hotter, as though she were climbing down the throat of a volcanotoward the molten rock bubbling far below, ready to turn her to ashesshould her grip fail for a moment.

"By Erlik's thews!" she muttered. "Forget what you've learned about notletting your fancies run wild, you silly wench, and you will fall."

It was not a fancy that sweat covered every bit of exposed skin, turninginto slimy mud where earth had fallen on her from the walls. Her loinclothclung to her, as sodden as a jellyfish, and even her boots seemed to havebecome heavier with the dampness of the air in this pit.

Truth was, she had never climbed so long and with such precariousholds for hands and feet. Compared to this climb, the time she had raced ashipmate from bow to stern over the masthead on a wager was a child'sgame. It did not-help, either, that her life had not been at stake in thatrace.

Groping feet touched a flatter surface. A ledge? Something besides thewall of the pit, anyway… but test it first before putting full weight on it, letalone undoing the rope from its moorings above.

"Hooaaa!" The voice seemed more a specter's than a man's as it floatedup from below like smoke. Valeria's feet groped for purchase on the ledge,until at last she found a spot whereupon to stand. She left the vine rope inplace, though, as she stared downward.

The mouth of the pit was now so far above her that its light barely lether count the fingers of a hand held in front of her face. Beneath, all wasblackness. Or was it? From well below, on the far side of the pit, a dimglow seemed to battle the darkness, like distant fireflies on a moonlessnight.

Except that no firefly ever blinked in those hues of blue and red—nonatural firefly, at least. But the laws of nature might not bind whateverlived down here.

Valeria shuddered. She had no more taste for magic than theCimmerian did, if the truth were known, and for much the same reasons.Magic made honest war skills useless, and made its users more often thannot as twisted as the street of her native village in Aquilonia! Tascela wasthe worst sorceress she had seen, which made her thank the gods that shehad not seen some of the wizards Conan said he had fought.

There would be time to fret over whether Conan had been spinning taleswhen she knew that the voice below was his… and when she had rejoinedhim.

"The sea frees us," she called. It was a password of the Red Brotherhood.Only Conan in this jungle was likely to know the reply.

"The land binds us," came the reply. Valeria's knees quivered with relief,but she did not move otherwise.

"Conan! Where are you?"

"In a tunnel, beyond where you see the light. I—"

A clod of earth bounced off Valeria's head and spun away into the abyss.She looked up. Was it her fancy, or was the hole above smaller, the lightfrom it dimmer?

The light was surely fading; her hand was now only a blurred, fingerlessshape. The glow from below was holding steady, but it could not take theplace of the trickle of daylight from overhead.

"Conan! Something's happening to the light. I'll try to climb down untilI'm opposite you, then throw my rope across. How wide is the pit whereyou are?"

"Wide enough that your pet crocodile didn't stick in its gullet when yousent it down to join me," the reply came. "Best you move quickly, though,if the light's going."

She heard hints of more danger than that in his voice, and was brieflyangry at his hiding the truth from her. Reason replaced anger and told herthat he might not know all the truth himself. If he did, he would tell it towoman, king, or god!

The rope was near its end when Valeria found a foothold on a hugecurving root opposite the mouth of the tunnel. At least she felt the barkunder her feet; the light from above was almost gone. Then Conan's headand massive shoulders nearly blocked the light from the tunnel below. Shesaw now that the mouth of the tunnel was heaped with freshly fallen earth,and understood what Conan feared.

She had not been so desperate for silence since her brief days as acutpurse. Even the faint hiss as the slipknot loosened and the rope camefree seemed to batter her ears like thunder. The end of the rope flew pasther, down into the pit; then she gripped her end and began hauling it in.

She was hauling vigorously when the rope suddenly went taut in herhands. Caught on another root, she thought. Then it began jerking up anddown. Caught it was, but by something alive in the depths of the pit—and,she would wager, not by anything as innocent as a crocodile.

Valeria would gladly have faced a score of crocodiles rather than whatmight even now be climbing from the depths. She did not let fingers orvoice shake, however, to give any hint of her fear. She flung her end of therope across the pit, saw Conan grip it firmly, then heaved with all herstrength on the bight of the vines.

For the longest moment of Valeria's life, it was an even contest whichwould break first—the vine or the grip of whatever lay below. Then,suddenly, the rope shot up like a flying fish. Valeria seized the free end andhastily bound it about her waist.

The rope was covered with a foul ichor that might have oozed from avast pustule, and now she heard slobbering and gulping noises from

below. Not far below, either, and she would have to swing down to crossthe pit. The root offered no foothold fit for a leap.

"Conan!" she called.

"I hear it, too. Jump, Valeria!"

She would drop no farther if she missed her jump than if she swungdown, then climbed. Not as far, indeed, for Conan was drawing in the ropeuntil it stretched taut across the gap.

Valeria braced herself, flexed her legs, pressed her hands hard againstthe wall, and thereby dislodged several more clods of earth. They fell intodarkness, and it seemed that the slobbering and gulping grew louder yet.

The pirate woman took the deepest breath of her life, as if enoughoxygen in her body would float her over the nightmare gap. Then sheleaped.

She was in midair for only a heartbeat, but that was long enough forsomething to reach up from below and pat her. Its touch was as light as akitten's, yet it burned like a hot iron.

Then she was on the far side, clawing up over the tumbled earth,listening to the howl of a hunter balked of prey echo up and down the pitand into the tunnel. More earth fell from the walls and ceiling. Conandragged her the rest of the way over the pile by one arm and her hair.

In the process, her loincloth at last deserted her, and she was bareexcept for weapons and boots as she tumbled at the Cimmerian's feet. Foronce he seemed to ignore that state, dragging her upright.

"Can you walk?"

"I can run, to get away from that !"

The howling in the tunnel had not diminished, and now Valeria heardanother fierce sound joining it.

The walls of the pit were shuddering, as she wanted to do, and she sawmasses of earth the size of a man plunge past. She also heard them strikesomething not far below with an ugly, sodden sound.

Then the roof of the tunnel mouth joined the shuddering, and neitherCimmerian nor Aquilonian needed any further warning. They scrambleddown the tunnel, slowing only when they felt stone under their feet, notstopping until they heard the rumble of great masses of falling earthbehind them.

A mephitic breeze wafted from the mouth of the tunnel—or rather, fromwhere the mouth of the tunnel had been. Whether the whole pit had

collapsed, they could not say. But the way back was now blocked by a solidmass of earth that seemed to glare at them in defiance of any puny effortsthey might make to shift it and escape.

Not that Valeria had the slightest intention of returning by way of thepit, when its inhabitants might still be alive and hungry. Perhaps that wallof earth between her and them was not so dire a fate as she hadthought—unless the pit creatures could carve a path through it, or theyhad kin somewhere in the tunnel beyond.

As to the first, the best course was swift flight. As to the second, keeneyes and keen steel would have to be enough—that, and a prayer or two, ifany god could hear them from these deeps.

She pointed a bare arm down the tunnel. Conan nodded and fell in atthe rear, for the moment the post of greater danger. Valeria recognizedthis, and also that Conan's eyes now roamed over her with concern for anyhurts she might have taken.

But there was hardly a price she would not have paid to be able to climbinto a hot bath!

Conan took the rear guard until they reached a place where the tunneldivided; there were no sounds of pursuit behind or of life ahead. That thiswas no natural tunnel was by now made plainer than ever by the remainsof incredibly ancient tool marks and patches of stain and corrosion thatmight once have been bronze or iron.

At the dividing point, Conan examined Valeria's ankle. It showed anugly dark mark, like the worst sort of burn, but the pain was fading andthe ankle would support her weight. Like his ribs, it would slow neitherweapons nor feet, depending on what seemed the best way of meeting anydanger.

"Now, you will take the shirt off my back, or I'll know why," he said."Garbed as you are, you'd adorn a royal palace, but I doubt we'll be findingmany palaces down here. Their dungeons, perhaps, and the bones of thoseheld in them, but little else."

"You need not soothe me, you son of a he-goat."

"Ha! You've your spirits back. Perhaps you need no clothes then, sincewithout them, you're double-armed, steel and womanhood!"

"Give me that shirt," she snapped, then laughed loud enough to raiseechoes. She looked about her while the echoes died, then almost snatchedthe garment the Cimmerian held out to her.

It came down to mid-thigh. Conan cut the sleeves into strips and boundthem around Valeria's feet to protect the blisters until further walkingtoughened the skin. So clad, with her hair a tangle any honest bird wouldhave disdained to nest in, and her boots dangling from a thong about herneck, Valeria would have been flung into the street from the cheapestwaterfront tavern.

Or she would have been but for her sword and daggers—and also for thelook in her eyes that said any hand touching her against her will would notreturn to its owner intact, if at all.

Conan needed no further warnings in that matter. Indeed, he wasgrateful for the skill and luck that had allowed her to keep her weapons.They would be fighting again before they ever saw daylight, even if thebattle was against foes where steel could do no more than give man orwoman a clean death.

Valeria found little pleasure in her present situation save being alive.Also, the Cimmerian's presence might well keep her so longer thanotherwise. He had been as formidable against natural foes as againstmagical ones, and for rather more years than she had followed thewarrior's path.

Where the tunnel divided, one way sloped upward, the other down.They halted, Valeria set her back against the wall and looked to the rear,and Conan briefly explored in both directions.

Valeria did not enjoy being even briefly alone here in the bowels of theearth. But she could master her fancies now; she would wait for realmonsters to leap from the shadows before she let herself fear. She passedthe brief time of waiting by unrolling the sword-thong from about herwaist and linking sword and wrist securely. She hoped she would have nocall for more climbing, and likewise that the damp air would keep the vinesupple and strong should she need it.

Conan returned swiftly. "The way down leads to water, deeper than I'dcare to try. And that's leaving out what might be in the water."

Valeria held her nose. "Something that reeks like a days-old battlefield,from what's on you."

"That, and more. I saw statues, kin to the oldest idols I saw in the BlackKingdoms. I'm more than ever certain that someone built this warren."

"But why?"

"Like as not, to save a trek through the jungle. Let's hope it's fit to do

the same for us." He looked at the upward-sloping way. "If I'm notaltogether turned about, that leads back the way we came."

"Better the jungle we know than what might be down here," Valeriasaid fervently. "That beast in the pit sounded like something that couldhave eaten Xuchotl's Crawler for lunch and the dragon in the forest fordinner."

Conan said nothing, but took the lead. For three hundred paces, thetunnel sloped upward. Valeria began to hope that it might rise so close tothe surface that they could make a way for themselves. If another tree hadthrust a root down—

Disappointment came swiftly. Not only were the tunnel walls intact,save for one place where a niche had crumbled, but the floor began toslope downward as steeply as it had risen. It also grew as slick as if it hadbeen oiled.

The light did not fade, and Valeria now began to make out paintings onthe wall. Or at least they might have been paintings. They also might havebeen patterns of tiny jewels set into the stone; they seemed to sparkle.Trying to see which, Valeria looked closely at one pattern—and found thatit changed before her eyes, from one beast to another, and then to yetothers.

One beast was a lion, another a great fish, and she hoped that the thirdwas a dragon. The rest were things that she decided she would not care tolook at too closely, let alone meet.

Although the light did not fade, Valeria began to feel moving air brushagainst her skin. Her nose wrinkled at the growing reek of something longdead and thoroughly rotten. She tore another strip from Conan's shirt andbound it over her nose, and the Cimmerian did likewise.

Past a curve where a slab of wall had fallen to half block the tunnel, theycame to a cavern the size of a royal hall. The light seemed to cling to thefloor, so that the roof of the cavern was lost in shadow. The far wall, a goodbowshot away, was likewise dimmed.

The floor of the cavern was almost lost under a carpet of fungi. Theygrew in great slabs, rising as high as Valeria's waist; for the most part,they were pale and flabby but with streaks of a more wholesome browncolor running through them. From their stems dripped a greasy fluid thatturned the soil beneath to a noisome muck, and more than a few of themhad the appearance of being half-eaten.

This time the two explored together. Unspoken but plain was the

agreement that no one should go with unguarded back in this cavern.

As they circled the walls, they found more fungi that looked as if theyhad been gnawed at. One entire patch of soil had been eaten bare, withfresh fungi already sprouting among the rotting fragments of the old ones.

"These things grow fast," Conan observed. "Fast enough, I wager, forsomething to browse on them."

Halfway around the cavern, they found the fungi growing thicker thanever, and the smell of decay the strongest. Valeria stepped forward andslashed at the largest slab with her sword. It fell apart in a crumblingmass of dust and spores, revealing a massive rib—part of the remains ofsome unearthly creature.

"Something did browse on them, Conan," she said.

She could not help looking about the cavern. "Now they're eating it."

"If beasts can eat them—" he said.

Valeria's stomach twisted, and the last of the monkey nearly left her."Birds and monkeys are a good test. Whatever that creature was, it mighthave been born of magic, left over from the days of the tunnel-builders.Who knows what it could stomach that would kill us?"

"True enough, but we've found nothing else to eat, and no water fit todrink. These look like they might have water inside."

"Ah…"

"I'll try a bit first. If my fingers and toes don't turn green and fall off—"

"Ha! A Cimmerian's no better than this beast for testing what commonfolk can eat. I've seen you eating what they served at the soldiers' tavernsin Sukhmet!"

"Better fare than the rations, I'd say."

Valeria threw up her hands in mock disgust. "If you've a belly andbowels of iron, perhaps. I'd rather eat salt beef three years in the cask. ByErlik, I'd rather eat the cask!"

"A trifle hard on the teeth, for my taste," Conan said.

Valeria noted with amusement that he still approached the fungus as ifit were a venomous snake, probing with his dagger, and only then slicing.He was also careful to catch the slice before it struck the ground. When heput it to his mouth, he bit off a portion that might have fit in a thimblewith room to spare.

After a moment's chewing, he swallowed. "Greasy as a Stygian harlot's

hair," he said. "Otherwise, I've eaten worse."

"How long would it take you to remember when and where?"

"Oh, give me a year or so—" He broke off and cupped a hand to one ear.Valeria imitated him, her other hand on her sword, but heard nothing.

"Could be a trick of the echoes in this tomb," Conan said at last. Valeriawished he had not used that word.

The Cimmerian cut off another, slightly larger piece of the fungus anddisposed of it as he had the first. When it went down, he licked his lips.

"Greasier than the first, but nothing else against it," he said. "Wait abit, to see how it sits in my stomach—"

The sound was half growl, half scream, and altogether ghastly. Thecavern picked it up, hurling echoes back and forth until it seemed toValeria that they might be inside a giant drum beaten by a madman.

She would almost rather have been mad than to have seen what camelumbering into the cavern from another tunnel. It was as high as a man atthe shoulders, with great plates of bone jutting from behind its eyes toguard its thick neck. Crimson orbs the size of melons glared at them pasttwo stout horns thrusting forward from the beaked muzzle. With its tail, itwas longer than a ship's boat, and from the way it sank into the ground, itwas as heavy as an elephant.

Another dragon, and no Apples of Derketa to slay it . That was Valeria'sfirst thought. A brighter one followed on its heels. I have good companyfor a last battle .

As if they had been fighting-partners for years, Valeria and Conanspread apart so that the creature could not attack both of them at once.Valeria studied the horns and headplates. If neither were too sharp, theyoffered handholds. Then a good thrust with sword or dagger might servethis beast as it had the crocodile.

Instead of attacking, the beast cried out again. It seemed to wait for ananswer, or perhaps for the echoes to die. Then it still did not attack. Itlumbered forward to the edge of the fungi, lowered its broad muzzle, andbit off a clump.

"That brute's no dragon," Conan called. "It's the fungus-eater."

"Then what killed the other—" Valeria began.

In the next moment, she had what might have been the answer to herquestion. Dim-sighted it might be, but the creature's hearing was keenenough. It turned toward the voices, and Conan signaled urgently for

silence.

Valeria needed no urging. She opened the distance between her and hercomrade still wider. If dim enough of sight, the beast might not be able to see two foes, let alone attack them. Then one of them might die, but theother would have a chance at the kill.

If the creature saw them, it gave no sign of it. Valeria wondered if it wasso scant of sight that it could spy only movement. After a moment, itlowered its head and resumed feeding.

The creature was no dainty eater. It slobbered and crunched its waythrough a patch of fungus as large as an Aquilonian kitchen garden. Itseating, it belches, and its footfalls raised more echoes. A cavalry trumpetin its ear might have won its attention, but scarcely any lesser sound.

Sated, it lifted its head and lumbered toward the body of the othercreature—its victim, perhaps, in a battle to the death over this caveful offood. It reached the body, snuffled noisily about it, then lifted its headagain and gave its challenge louder than before.

Valeria felt as if hot nails were driving into her ears, but she did nottake her eyes off the creature. It might be dim of sight and unable to hearmuch over the sound of its own feeding, but it seemed able to scent thetrace of a stranger.

Silently, Conan waved at her to come closer. Still watching their visitor,she knelt, then crawled on hands and knees through the fungi. TheCimmerian stood as still as a temple image, watching the beast make therounds of the wall, until she reached him.

"We'll have to face him now," he whispered. "He's caught the scent ofsome stranger on his territory. If we don't kill him, he'll hunt us until hecatches us off guard."

Valeria was ready to agree. The beast's jaws were flat, bony plates, withno more teeth than a chicken's beak. They were also large enough toswallow her whole, and strong enough to crack Conan's bones like twigs.

They separated again. They were forty paces apart when a puff of airwafted from the tunnel by which they had entered the cavern. It blew pastthem, and Valeria willed limbs, and even breath to stillness as she waitedfor the beast's reply.

It came—another screaming, thundering challenge. The echoes had notbegun to die when it charged. Like a heavily laden ship in heavy seas, itlabored through the fungi, trampling some, shredding others. It held itshead low, horns thrusting forward like the ram of a galley. Valeria

remained still as the beast surged between them.

In the next moment, Conan shot forward like a stone from a sling. Hishands gripped the upper horn, and he vaulted clear over the beast'smuzzle, aiming for its neck.

Somehow, his iron grip failed him. The leap sent him sprawling acrossthe neck instead of landing safely astride. He slid off and landed rolling,parting company with his sword in midair.

Valeria filled her lungs in a single desperate breath and let out theshriek of a soul in torment. The beast's head turned toward her. The godsmight be thinking it was Conan's day to die and hers to kill, but Valeria ofthe Red Brotherhood let neither man nor god decide such matters for her.

Clearly, the sensing of two enemies was more than the beast's dim witscould endure. It cried challenge again, and began to back away.

"Together—now!" Conan roared.

That drew the beast toward him, but he was on his feet and fully armedagain. Valeria had seen before that the Cimmerian could move forwardand backward with equal speed; now she saw him do it again. As he gaveground, he drew the beast after him, and it seemed to forget that it hadever sensed a second opponent. Against Valeria, that was a deathsentence.

She sprang forward, light-footed as a cat, leaping successfully whereConan had failed. She ended straddling the neck. She gripped the edge ofthe neckplates and lunged to her feet, ready to stab.

As she did, the beast reared up on its hind legs. With the swiftness andagility learned high in the rigging of half a score of ships, Valeriaentrusted her sword to the wrist-thong and gripped the neckplates withboth hands. Both thong and hands did their duty as Valeria dangled fromthe neckplates like a puppet. The beast hissed, growled, and screamed allat once, then tossed its head, trying to rid itself of the distractingnuisance.

This gave the Cimmerian his chance for a stroke at the beast'sunprotected throat. His sword sang as it parted air, hand-sized scales, andthe flesh beneath. Driven by all the strength of two brawny arms, thesword slashed clean through to the beast's life.

Its next cry bubbled and hissed, and sprayed a mist of bloodeverywhere. It did not fall, though, and Valeria heaved herself onto theneckplates. For a moment, she balanced there as if atop a mast swaying ina storm, displaying the grace of one who had done that many times.

Then her sword slashed at thin bone between the crimson eyes. Thenext moment, she was flying through the air as if the mast had snapped.She landed among the fungi, which broke her fall and coated her in theirgrease.

As she struggled to her feet, she saw Conan leading the beast away fromher. It was bleeding generously now, and clearly all but blind, yet it wouldnot fall! Valeria cursed whatever misbegotten sons of flea-bitten apes hadconjured up this creature with its unnatural life.

As if her curse had been a spell, the thing seemed to find new strength.It lunged at Conan, and the Cimmerian had to break into a run to stayahead of it. The jaws clanged and clashed, and the beast swung toward thetunnel from which Conan and Valeria had entered the cavern.

It swung toward the opening, then charged with single-minded frenzy,as if the answer to all of its woes lay in that tunnel. The charge carried itacross the cavern faster than Valeria could have run, and she caught onlya brief glimpse of Conan staying ahead of the jaws.

Then Cimmerian and monster together reached the mouth of thetunnel. Conan's war cry, the creature's last challenge, and the rumble offalling rock blended into one ear-torturing din. Echoes stormed about thecavern, doubling and redoubling themselves.

Valeria knelt and watched a vast cloud of dust belch from the tunnel.Nothing remained visible outside it but the tip of the beast's tail,thrashing feebly. Then the thrashing subsided to a twitching, and even thetwitching ended.

Valeria commanded her hands to stop shaking and her knees to holdher up, and walked toward the fallen tunnel. She had no clear idea of whatshe would do when she reached it, other than seek Conan's body. If it wasonly caught under the beast and not under the fallen stones, she might beable to carve a way through the beast's flesh—

A massive, dark form took shape out of the dust cloud.

Valeria crammed her free hand into her mouth to stifle a scream. Hersword rose in the other, as much good as it might be against a spirit—

"Valeria!"

Valeria's mouth opened, but no sound came out. She did not drop hersword, and she was still rooted to the spot when Conan reached her.

His arms around her were so comforting that she wondered why shehad not asked for them many times already. After a little while, shestopped shaking, and after a while longer, she found her voice again.

"It's as well I didn't need to go after you a second time. I've hardly a ragto spare, and that beast's hide looks too tough to cut up for garments."

Conan shrugged. "I've told you what your best garb is. If you won'tbelieve me, that's only proof that you don't trust men."

"I give men all the trust they deserve," Valeria said with dignity. Sheheld her thumb and forefinger about a hairbreadth apart. "At least thatmuch." She was relieved to see that her hand was steady.

"We'd best be on our way before this uproar draws all our friend's kin,"Conan said. "But there's no going back the way we came. It's solid withfallen stone where it isn't solid with dead beast."

It did nothing for Valeria's spirits to see that the only other way out ofthe cavern sloped sharply downward. But at least there was light as farahead as she could make out, and a dampness in the air that hinted ofwater.

She turned, to see Conan slicing off a clump of fungi as large as ahunting dog. "Rations for the journey?" she asked. Her stomach wanted toheave at the thought, but she was hungry enough that it rumbled instead.

"Why not?" Conan replied, tossing the fungi to her. "If it killed quickly,I'd be dead along with that beast. If I'm still alive at our next halt, I'll say itdoesn't kill at all."

Valeria tucked the mass of fungi under her arm and sheathed hersword. "Conan, you have too cursed many ways of making a woman wishto keep you alive!"

FIVE

Conan led the way down the tunnel. If danger should arise, it wouldmost likely come from another beast, drawn by the din of the first one'sdeath. It could also come with the Cimmerian's blessing, if it waited untilhe and Valeria were safely out of its path!

The tunnel sloped steadily downward, and the air grew damper. It wasnot as foul as one would have expected, though, as far underground as itlay, and with so much death and rottenness about.

Conan found small relief in that. Ancient magic must be all about themhere, shedding light, cleansing the air, and giving life to who-knew-whatmonstrosities besides those they had already met. A sword and theuntamed jungle before him would be his choice, but every step they tookseemed to take them farther into the bowels of this warren.

Clearly, the beast and its kin had passed this way many times. Even thehardest rock of walls and floor was scored by claws and scales. Loose scalesin half a score of hues had drifted like autumn leaves into crannies andwindings of the tunnel. In one place, a bronze post the thickness ofConan's arm had bent almost double under the onrush of something swift,strong, and massive.

Once the tunnel branched, and Conan thought he saw a slight upwardslope in the floor of the branch, at the very limits of his vision. This provedno trick of the light, but fifty paces farther on came a bend, and justbeyond that, a dead end.

Nor was the dead end a natural rockfall. An enormous door of stoneslabs set in what seemed to be a frame of gilded bronze blocked the way.Conan saw that it slid to and fro in bronze grooves that led into niches oneither side of the tunnel.

The least of the slabs had to weigh more than the Cimmerian, and thethinnest metal rods of the frames were thicker than Valeria's legs. Some ofthe rods were wrought in the shape of serpents, and more serpentswrithed across the slabs, some of them painted in tiny jewels, otherscunningly carved.

Conan did not care to think what spells might be needed to move thisdoor. Spells, or perhaps some device that would rival those of drownedAtlantis and make a siege-engine of Khitai seem a child's toy.

"Some of those serpents have green eyes," Valeria whispered. The awe ofthis place and its ancient works was in her, too. "Are they meant to be theGolden Serpents?"

Conan studied the shapes. The gilding was worn in places and tarnishedin more, but, in truth, the eyes of all the serpents, carved or painted, weretiny green jewels. Studying them yet more closely, he saw that the jewelsseemed to glow from within like the fire-stones they had seen in Xuchotl.

"Ha! Perhaps we've found where the Golden Serpents laired in ancienttimes," he said. "They would be cause enough for a door like this. It wouldstop a galley's ram."

"Then let us hope it does its work until we are out of these caves,"Valeria said.

"Woman, where is a true pirate's heart?" Conan scoffed. He thrust aforefinger against Valeria's ribs.

She lightly batted his hand away. "Down in her boots, I confess,although I'll geld you if you breathe a word of it." She rubbed her stomach.

"Her stomach's about to follow." She looked at the fungi under her arm."Are these really fit to eat?"

"They haven't killed me yet."

"Just let me eat my fill, and no doubt you will writhe and die themoment afterward."

The bronze door would have guarded their backs nicely, but who couldsay what lay on the other side? Also, if one of the beasts should catch theirscent and come down the branch tunnel, they would be trapped.

So they returned to the junction of the tunnels to eat. "Tastes like rawsea slugs," Valeria said after a few mouthfuls.

"And how are they? I've heard of them, but also that they're poison ifnot cooked."

"It's not the cooking that takes out the poison. There's a spot in thehead that needs cutting out, or one slug can kill a ship's crew. A cunninghand with a knife can do the work, though, and then the slug's called arare treat in some lands. Mostly farther south than we've sailed, butduring one hot summer, the slugs spawned farther north than usual."

They finished as much fungus as seemed wise, in a silence that wasalmost companionable. Conan vowed that if he and Valeria lived to reacha land with civilized eating-houses, he would buy her a meal she would notsoon forget.

Meanwhile, they had traveled long enough and far enough to be weary.They tossed a piece of fungus for who kept first watch, and Conan won thehonor.

"Need we keep watches at all?" Valeria asked. She pressed a handlightly against the Cimmerian's battered ribs. He drew a deep breath, butnot from any pain her touch gave him.

"I've no wish to end up in the belly of one of those beasts, or to betrampled by one, either. And they may not be all that roam down here."

"Now you have made it certain that I will not sleep for the wakingnightmares you just gave me!" Her pouting, though, was largely pretense.

Conan gripped Valeria's hand and gently thrust it away. "Lose no sleepover me, at least. I've had worse hurts as a boy, falling off a roof my fatherand I were thatching."

"As you wish, Conan," Valeria said. She turned and settled down fromwhere she could watch in all directions. Conan allowed himself a momentto admire the fine, straight back that plunged down from the long neck to

the well-rounded hips. Then he placed his steel ready to hand, kicked offhis boots, and lay down to seek as much slumber as a man might win froma cold stone floor with magic all about him.

The hut where Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker slept when he visited the largestIchiribu village was a place of shadows and subtle odors. It almost seemedto Seyganko that a tame spirit lurked in the grass of the roof, driving outthe light.

The odors mingled grass, cooking smoke, the smoke of fires made withherbs, and the oil that Emwaya rubbed into her skin. Seygankoremembered the first time she had allowed him the honor of rubbing it in.His body tautened with remembered and anticipated desire.

In her corner of the hut, Emwaya sat like a carved image. She wore theplainest of waistcloths and only a single bone ornament in her hair, andher face was somber as she shifted her gaze from her father to herbetrothed.

"You asked what we must do, Father?" she asked.

"In plain words," Dobanpu replied. His voice was the strongest part ofhim remaining, although he had not wholly lost the stout thews and broadshoulders of his youth. He had seen nearly sixty turns of the seasons andoutlived all the children of his first wives, and all but Emwaya from hissecond family.

Some said he had suffered these losses as the price of all the time hehad spent in the spirit world. Even those who said this whispered it. Whenthey spoke aloud, they praised the courage with which he had borne hislosses. They did doubt aloud the wisdom of his teaching his daughter theart of Spirit-Speaking, but only when Emwaya was not in hearing. Somecalled her tongue the deadliest weapon among the Ichiribu.

Dobanpu rose, stretching limbs cramped by long sitting. "Very surely, Iwant to know your thoughts as to what we must do," he said. "I did not goagainst all custom in teaching you my arts to have you sit as mute as thefrog-queen in the tale of Myosta!"

"You asked, I answer," Emwaya said. "We must watch Aondo. Or betteryet, find a way to take his weapons."

"Aondo is needed among the warriors," Seyganko said.

"Even at your back?"

"Properly watched, even at my back," the warrior asserted. "We can do

nothing against him without dishonor and insult."

"If he feels insult, he can challenge you. That will be the end of him."

Dobanpu laughed softly. "Daughter, you have more faith in yourbetrothed's prowess than is wise. Aondo is so strong that it might notmatter if he is as slow as a mired hippopotamus. Remember that whenthe great-jawed one reaches its victim, it is certain death."

"Indeed," Seyganko said. "Also, any man's foot may slip if his luck is outand the spirits not with him. They might well desert me if I dishonored aproven warrior like Aondo by trapping him into a death-duel."

" You speak of what the spirits might do?" Emwaya snapped.

"Yes, and if it is not to your liking, you may ask your father to end histeaching of me!"

Warrior and woman glared at each other for a moment, while Dobanpuraised his eyes to the shadowed ceiling and seemed to be asking the spiritsfor a brief moment of deafness, that he might not hear two whom he lovedmaking fools of themselves. At last it was Emwaya who lowered her eyes.

That, Seyganko knew, was as much of an apology as he was likely toreceive. But Emwaya was now of a mind to listen, and he could speakmore freely.

"Also, I do not think that Aondo is the first of our enemies among thewarriors. The loudest, I grant you. But first? No, I think more dangercomes from one whose name I do not know, but whose presence I canguess."

"A spy for Chabano?" Emwaya asked.

"For him, for the God-Men, or perhaps for both."

"A bold one, if he thinks to serve both," Dobanpu said almostmeditatively. "One hears tales, and more than a few of them, that thefriendship of Paramount Chief and God-Men is a frail thing."

"All the more reason, then, to keep the spy alive," Seyganko said. "Aman who tells tales can be made to bear false ones, to set his masters ateach other's throats."

"You play stickball with lives," Emwaya said, her voice brittle.

"How not, daughter?" Dobanpu asked. "Learn a little more of my artand you will understand why this must sometimes be so. Or else give overlearning Spirit-Speaking, wed Seyganko, bear his sons, govern his houseand lesser wives—"

"And die when the Kwanyi and the God-Men strike, plowing our ashesinto the fields before they sail south to carry all before them!" Emwayashouted. Seyganko thought her about to weep.

Her storms were violent but swift, like those of the Lake of Death. Sheblinked hard, then contrived a smile. "Father, Seyganko. I know the priceof any choice other than the one I have made. It may be the price even if Iwalk the way you bade me. But I do not have to rejoice in what the godshave sent to the Ichiribu."

"No one but a fool would ask you to," Seyganko said gently. He wishedto take her in his arms, but thought the moment unfit. "Do you see anyfools here about you?"

Emwaya laughed aloud. "Not yet."

"Then we go on as we have begun," Dobanpu said. "Indeed, I think thisspy gives us yet more cause to leave Aondo alive. He can hardly be the spy,but I would wager a hutful of mealies and a new canoe that he knows whothat man is. Following the leopard's cub has been known to lead a hunterto the leopard's lair."

Valeria had lost all notion of how long they had been tramping theseendless underground passages. It was not merely an underground city theyhad entered, it was near to an underground kingdom. Already they hadtraversed thrice the distance from one side of Xuchotl to the other.

At least they had done so had they traveled in anything like a straightline. Valeria had barely more notion of their direction than she had of thepassage of time. For all she could say, they might be wandering in circles.

No, that could not be altogether true. Except where they found blindtunnels or stairs leading up to impassable barriers, they had yet to retracetheir steps. They were moving onward, but toward what destination, onlythe gods knew.

This place of cunningly wrought rock, and both beasts and spells ofincredible antiquity, seemed as remote from the sight of the gods as it wasfrom the sight of the sun. If any answers were to be found, she and Conanwould have to find them unaided.

As always when Valeria found her thoughts thrashing about thus, like acat in a sack, she eased herself by taking the lead. The need to be keenlyalert to hidden dangers cudgeled her wits into some sort of order. TheCimmerian doubtless knew her reasons, but courtesy to a battle-comradehad so far curbed his tongue.

Another cave opened before them. Or chamber, rather. It might havebeen a cave once, carved from the rock over the eons by oozing, thendripping, then gushing water. Now the underground stream that had donethe work flowed through a channel carved in a floor of pale, rose-huedstone, polished until it was silken-smooth to the touch and lightly shiningeven in the pale magic-light.

Walls and ceiling were of the natural rock, but squared off, every cornera right angle as neat as any mason could have made. But then, masonshad made them, even if they had doubtless worked with magic instead ofmallets and chisels.

Conan knelt beside the channel and reached down to dip a finger in thewater. "Fresh, as cold as a Hyperborean's arse, and flowing swiftly. Anyonefor a bath before we drink our fill?"

Valeria had doffed her garments ere the Cimmerian had finishedspeaking. She no longer feared Conan's eyes upon her, but found them,rather, a trifle flattering. Since they had left Xuchotl, she had grownsomewhat thin-flanked, yet Conan seemed not to notice. Or perhapspretending not to notice such matters was another courtesy betweenbattle-comrades?

They both splashed merrily about in the channel, deep enough to sit inup to their necks had it not been too cold for sitting at all. Then theydrank, until Valeria could feel her empty stomach filled at least withwater.

Valeria knelt by the channel, clad only in goose-flesh and drops of water,to rinse out her garments as best she could. When she had wrung themdry enough to wear, she stretched and began retying her boot bindings.

"How long have we been down here?" she asked as she finished the leftfoot.

"If our sleeping's any guide, for three days, four at the outside."

"By Set's fangs, it feels longer!"

"That it might, but don't let yourself be careless of judging the time.That way lies madness."

"Tell me what I do not know, Conan! Have you ever been out of the sunso long?"

"Yes."

His tone did not encourage her to ask further. She let it pass. She knewby now that some of his adventures he would boast of in taverns, and

others he would carry as secrets to his grave. She only prayed that neitherhis grave nor hers might be in this godless wilderness beneath the earth.

He stood up and for a moment held her at arm's length, his massivehands almost covering her shoulders. "We can take heart from this much:We've not gone in circles, and we've come far enough to be well beyond theriver. Also, there are more worked and finished passages every day."

"We're closer to the heart of this city?"

"If city it be, I'd wager we are. And where the heart of any city lies, therewill be the treasures and pleasures. Perhaps, in this city, even ways to thesurface!"

His hands lifted from her shoulders, and Valeria knew a moment's urgeto grab them and pull them back to where they had been, or even to otherplaces. She laughed at this picture of herself and Conan tumbling on thehard stone until they rolled into the channel again and cooled their ardor!

"If you can find that much to laugh about in our case, woman, I'll takeyou anywhere!"

Valeria almost replied, "And I will follow." But those would beill-omened words, a promise she could hardly expect to keep. She was ofthe Red Brotherhood, and she had acknowledged no master for too long tochange now.

"Let us see where we have to go to leave this place first, Conan," shesaid. Then she sat and began binding her other foot.

"On them!"

Chabano, Paramount Chief of the Kwanyi, stood at the edge of theplatform in the tree and shouted to the hundred warriors below. Theunderchiefs raised their hands in salute, while the warriors clashed theirspears against their shields.

Then the Kwanyi warriors leaped forward at the enemy. The "enemy"was only a field of stumps, but the charge was not without peril. Chabanohad seen to that.

The first warrior fell even before the charge reached the stumps. Thegrass covering a pit gave under his pounding feet. He did not fall all theway in to impale himself on the dung-poisoned stake at the bottom,however. He flung himself forward desperately, reached the far edge of thepit, and rolled clear. A moment later, he was on his feet and running torejoin his comrades. They were now well ahead of him, but Chabano found

no fatal fault in that.

The warrior's eyes had not been as keen as they might have been, buthis limbs and wits had come to his rescue. He had not even dropped hisspear or shield, a dereliction that would have earned him a beating.

Two more warriors fell at the tangle of vines stretched amongstumps. One of them did not rise swiftly enough. Chabano watchedwarrior's underchief run up behind him and slash him fiercely acrossshoulder with the snakeskin mboqa . The warrior leaped up, madebriefest gesture of supplication, and ran on.

thethethethe

The other fallen warrior did not rise at all, but there was reason for hislying among the vines. Trying desperately to keep his feet, he had rammedhis head into one of the stumps. Doubtless he was senseless; he might evenbe dying, and small loss if he were. Had he thought less of the shame of the mboqa and more of how his tribe needed all of its warriors, he mighthave done otherwise and still be running.

The remaining warriors reached the far side of the field of stumps in adouble line more ragged than Chabano cared to see. The underchiefs, hedecided, would face one of the lesser ordeals tonight.

Now the warriors went furiously through the rite of shield and spear,throwing the small spear, hooking an opponent with the shield, thenlunging with the great spear as the shield-hooking exposed the other anddrew him close. They knew it meant more than pleasing the gods, or evenChabano, who was closer than the gods and therefore perhaps more to befeared. It meant victory, on the day when the Lake of Death was no longerclosed to the Kwanyi by the Ichiribu. Victory, over every tribe in their pathfor as far as they chose to march.

All the Kwanyi would then have their pick of slaves and food, hutsworthy of a chief, and honor among gods and men alike. They would alsohave honor in the eyes of Chabano, who had made them what they wereand would lead them when they became still greater.

Chabano sprang down from his platform. Although he had seen justshort of forty turns of the seasons, his eyes and his wind were those of aman far younger. His feet, painted the red that marked his chieftaincy,danced in the dust as he approached his warriors.

"Hail, Chabano!" the underchiefs called. The warriors repeated thegreeting, then clashed shield and spear again.

"Well done," Chabano said. "Not perfect, but only the gods are perfect."

"Thus say the God-Men," a warrior shouted. One had to be of the

Kwanyi oneself to catch the note of mockery in the man's voice. TheGod-Men were not Kwanyi, and to them, these words would seem full ofhonor.

Empty honor, as empty as their heads.

Only if a Kwanyi warrior had grown so foul of spirit as to spy for theGod-Men would they learn they had been mocked. Chabano refused tobelieve that any of the men he had sworn, taught, and led in ordeal, battle,or rite could be so corrupt.

Even if one had turned, Chabano still had the advantage. He had foundeyes and ears among the God-Men before the God-Men could have foundany among his warriors.

The height of the sun above the trees reminded him that this day's warrites were almost done but his work was not. He slung his shield across hisback with the ritual three twists of the thong and held his spear across hischest with both hands in the customary manner.

"Warriors of the Kwanyi, I must go speak with the gods. This day youhave pleased me. This night you may please yourselves."

That meant an ordeal for the slave women, perhaps for a few unluckyfree women as well. It would also be an ordeal for the brew-sisters, whowould have to work very hard to keep the warriors from growing thirsty.Thirsty warriors had been known to ignore the fact that a woman wore aheaddress of the free Kwanyi.

"Let us go with you as far as the gods allow," said an underchief.

It was a moment to give fear, but not to shed blood.

Chabano slowly lowered his spear until its butt sank into the earth.Without seeming to exert himself, he drove the butt half an arm's lengthinto the jungle floor.

Then he whipped his shield off his back, hooked his spear loose, andcaught it as it flew high. He ended with the spear aimed at the chest of theunderchief who had spoken.

The man knew that any outward sign of the fear thundering within himwould send the spear leaping into his chest. He did not even make thegesture of supplication, although his eyes did not leave Chabano.

"The gods command that we stay here?" the man said. It showed highcourage to make it a question.

"They do," Chabano said. "Do you doubt their word?"

"The gods speak, but do they always speak plainly?" the man persisted.

Chabano decided that such courage deserved the reward of an end tothese fear-jests.

"You have wisdom, more than some I could name, who think that thegods' messages bear only one meaning."

That was mockery of the God-Men which might be dangerous even forChabano should it reach their ears. The chief did not overly much care.

"But when the gods wish me dead, they will have me if all the warriorsof the Kwanyi march with me. If the gods wish me safe, I may go to thisday's speaking alone. Go, and find better company than I shall enjoy for awhile!"

The warriors grinned at one another, hearing the boldness of a chiefwho dared mock even the gods themselves, not merely the God-Men. Thenthey tossed their spears, gave a war cry, and strode off into the jungle.

Chabano waited until the last was gone before he turned onto the pathhe intended to follow. Even after that, he waited for a space, hiding, andlistening to be sure that he alone was taking this path. He did not speak tothe gods, but his eye and ear among the God-Men could tell him morethan the gods ever had.

Conan thought he heard a sound to their rear. He dropped back, lookedfor a place from which to watch unseen, and found none that would hide amouse, let alone a Cimmerian. He contrived to flatten himself against thewall and keep the silence of a cat stalking that mouse.

Then he heard Valeria signaling with the beat of dagger-hilt againststone wall. Conan listened. He heard the code that said, "Come as soon asyou can, but there is no danger here." To any ear but his and Valeria's, itwould seem a natural sound of these haunted depths, or at least nothingthat spoke of human presence.

Conan waited, for about as long as a skilled tavern dancer might take toshed her garments when the watchers bid eagerly in silver coin for eachpiece of silk. Then he decided that once again this city of the dead couldplay tricks with even the ears of a seasoned warrior.

He still walked cat-footed as he came up behind Valeria. She did notstart or make a sound, though; her ears seemed keener now than when shehad first gone underground. Instead, she pointed down the tunnel. Hergesture was more eloquent than words, which were not needed. Conan sawthat a hundred paces farther on, the light turned green.

Now both were as silent as hunting creatures, or prey seeking to escape,

as they crept forward, one against either wall. Both bore steel in theirhands, both set feet down as if they trod on shards of glass, or on sleepingserpents.

They reached the turning where the light changed, and looked beyondit. For a moment, Conan thought they had stumbled upon a sleepingserpent—a monster such as he had fought too often to care to meet again.

Then he saw that it was but a trick of the light that made the serpentseem whole. Only a skeleton remained, although that skeleton stretchedtwenty paces from the tooth-studded skull to the delicate bones of the tail.

It was the light that had deceived Conan, a light that flooded the cave. Alight that seemed to rise like smoke from green jewels piled deep insidethe circle formed by the skeleton. The light of a greater mass of fire-stonesthan Conan had ever dreamed existed.

In the Black Kingdoms, Conan had heard the legend of the Dying Placeof the Elephants. There, it was said, the great gray beasts went to endtheir days. There, ivory to buy a kingdom lay, waiting for some boldadventurer to stumble upon it.

He had never heard of such a tale about the Golden Serpents. Indeed, hehad never heard of anyone who had seen more of a Golden Serpent thanits fire-stone eyes—and it was only a tale that Golden Serpents' eyes andfire-stones were one and the same.

Rather, it had been a tale. Now Conan knew it for the truth. In the skull,as large as a horse's, two vast, green orbs flashed. Their glow was identicalto that of the jewels on the floor.

Conan softly let out his breath and stalked forward. Nothing livingcould have been more silent. In that silence, he reached the skeleton andknelt beside it, studying the eyes.

Now he understood why even such vast creatures as the GoldenSerpents yielded so many fire-stones. Each eye was the size of a platter,and each one was made of twoscore or more stones. Some were as small asacorns, others as large as the finest Bossonian cider apples. All glowedwith that unnatural light.

Conan also understood why the light had nothing of nature in it. Nonatural creature had such eyes; the Golden Serpents were magicians'work. The same magicians who had wrought this maze in the rock, wherehe and Valeria might yet end their days? Perhaps. If so, they were longdead, and their creations likewise.

Then even that small comfort left Conan. A wind colder than any that

ever blew in Cimmeria seemed to play upon his spine. Shreds of flesh stillclung to the serpent's bones. Golden scales still covered a few of thoseshreds, and a faint miasma of decay rose from the greater part of them.

Had it been here since the time of its creators, this Golden Serpent'sbones would have been fleshless, or the shreds of flesh mummified by thesubterranean air. This creature had been living while Conan walked theearth above, perhaps even while he had fought and caroused with theBarachan pirates.

Conan motioned Valeria forward, then moved to where he could lookboth ways. He waited, steel at the ready, for her to study the bones and seewhat he had seen.

Chabano's eyes and ears were those of a warrior half his age. He did notneed these to warn him of his spy's coming, for Ryku seemed as careless asa child of being seen or heard. He was first among the lesser God-Men, theSilent Brothers, but his lack of jungle craft made him anything but silent.

Chabano used the time he gained to place himself high on a branchabove the trail. When the young God-Man came stamping into view like awarthog in rut, Chabano slung both spear and shield, then gripped a stoutvine and leaped from his perch.

The other threw up his hands in dismay as Chabano seemed to fly downon him out of the sky. Then he flung himself back against the mossy barkof a forest tree and began silently mouthing curses.

"Cease," Chabano said. He put the tip of his spear under the man's chinand gently raised the weapon until the man closed his mouth. "Or do youthink the gods will hear you without your masters also hearing?" the chiefadded. "Surely you came as if you feared no human foe."

"I do not," Ryku said. "I am in the land of friends."

Chabano laughed longer than was good for Ryku's pride, but he did nottake the spear away. By the time the chief was done laughing, a drop ofblood showed on Ryku's chin.

"Is friendship then a jest?" Ryku asked. He stood without trying to wipeaway the blood, and met Chabano's eyes.

Again the chief decided there was enough courage here to deserve somereward. "It is not. Nor is it found among all the Kwanyi. At least nottoward you, if it were known why you are here."

"Who would tell?"

"You would, if someone heated a spear and applied it to sufficient partsof your body to unman or blind you," Chabano said. "Do not deny it."

"I do not," Ryku said sturdily, but seeming a trifle bemused.

"As well. Do not, then, tread like an elephant when you come to ourmeetings. Even if you have no enemies, I do, and they might follow you tome."

"As you wish." Then Ryku took a more defiant tone. "One would thinkyou feared that the over-throwers of Xuchotl were abroad in the landinstead of your own warriors!"

"They could well be. Or do your masters know otherwise?"

"I came to tell you that they do not know one way or the other. Theycannot even be sure what magic was wrought to bring down the AccursedCity."

To Chabano, it seemed likely as not that it was the city folk's own magicthat had finally sent them mad, and not outsider's spells. If they had thenfallen on one another and cleansed the city of their foul and useless lives,so much the better.

The folk of Xuchotl had bred for too long, and to little purpose. Nowthey had left what would be a fine city from which to rule these landswhen the Kwanyi under him had done with all their enemies.

That was a dream he would not dwell on, however. Not while this closeto Ryku, who had the rank of Silent Brother but more of the God-Men'sknowledge than a wise man would offend without good cause.

"Then what do the God-Men wish of the Kwanyi?"

"Who says they wish anything?"

"I, Paramount Chief of the Kwanyi, say so. When have you come to mewithout telling me some wishes of your masters? They know not what youbear to me, but you do it nonetheless."

"The First Speaker wishes as before to learn anything you discover ofhow Xuchotl was overthrown," Ryku said. "He also wishes the return ofthe slave girl taken by the Ichiribu on the night of their raid."

This last demand was new. "Nothing more?"

"It is enough for the First Speaker."

Chabano laughed coarsely. "I should say that a wench of that age ismore than adequate for such an old man. What does he want of her?"

Ryku had enough courage, or enough fear of his leader to glare at

Chabano, a thing few did and lived. "Know you not what it is to be a manwith a woman? It will make a fine tale, that the great chief of theKwanyi—"

"—dashed out the brains of a God-Man whose tongue flew too far toolong," Chabano finished. He returned the glare, and Ryku fell silent.

"I shall discover what may be done prudently to return the girl, andthen find men to do it. This is not to be doubted."

"I do not doubt it," Ryku said. He was wise enough to make no promisesfor the masters who did not know of his divided loyalties. "What ofXuchotl's fate?"

"What of it?" Chabano retorted. "To ask me to seek wielders of mightymagic is to ask the snake to hunt the leopard. Only by great good fortunewill I win any knowledge worth having."

Ryku's gestures and face told Chabano that matters were unchanged.The God-Men would not put into Kwanyi hands any of their power, noteven to seek the cause of Xuchotl's doom. They would rather remain inignorance than risk giving others too much knowledge.

There lay the difference between the First Speaker of the Living Windand the Paramount Chief of the Kwanyi. For knowledge, Chabano hadgiven much, and might yet give more. There was another difference, too.The chief knew that the God-Men would use the magic of Xuchotl's foesagainst even the Kwanyi. He would not, if he could help it, give them thepower to doom his people.

Ryku went through the rituals of farewell from hunter to chief, thenwithdrew. He could be heard for a shamefully long distance, but at least heseemed to be attempting silence.

Valeria knelt beside the skeleton and the glowing mass of fire-stonesuntil she saw what Conan had wished her to see. Then she rose. It seemedthat every movement of her joints, every breath she took, had to be loudenough to raise echoes and warn whatever lurked farther within thisnightmare of stone.

She wanted to whisper, but when she tried to speak thus, no soundcame out. Then she took a deep breath, bid fear kiss her hindquarters, andlaughed aloud.

"So the Golden Serpents are no legend after all? This brute lost its scalesa while back, I judge, but the eyes tell the tale."

Conan nodded. "And I'm thinking that it hasn't been dead for as long asthe beast we found dead in the fungus cave."

"I wish it had been," Valeria said. "Even a slab of that fungus wouldseem like a banquet." She looked at the Cimmerian. "What are you staringat? The new shape of my stomach, after being so near empty these pastdays?"

The Cimmerian grinned. "You take it lightly, our sharing these tunnelswith the Golden Serpents."

Valeria blinked—and realized that her eyes were not quite dry. Sheturned away, and Conan did her the courtesy of letting her stand thusuntil she had command of herself again.

"How should I take it?" she said at last. "We are, I think, at that time ofan ordeal when one can either run mad or laugh. I'll laugh, if it's all thesame to you."

Conan's roar raised echoes and made stones fall from the pile. He kissedher roundly on both cheeks, then on the lips, and finished with a smartslap to her rear.

"I'll have to buy that pox-ridden captain a drink the next time I see him.How else would I have won such a comrade if he hadn't driven you intoflight?"

"The gods only know. I'd rather voyage with a bog-troll, as often as not."She knelt and set her boots on the floor.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Conan, this may be our last hoard of fire-stones. Have you forgottenthat I am of the Red Brotherhood, that you have a name among theBarachans, and that good pirates do not leave fine loot to gather dust?"

Conan laughed shortly and joined her at her work. The fire-stones werelight for their size, and enough to fill the toes of their boots was no greatburden.

Magic might be in the stones, of course, magic as evil as any in Xuchotl.They might even draw other Golden Serpents, living ones, to avenge thetheft of their dead mates' treasures.

Valeria did not care. The magic here would slay her and the Cimmerianor not, as fate would have it. It would no longer put her in fear.

As for the Golden Serpents, let them come. A day or two more and shewould be ready not only to spit one on her sword, but to eat it rawafterward!

SIX

"Conan," Valeria whispered, "I smell cooking fat. Or else my wits havefinally parted their mooring lines."

Conan sniffed the air, more damp and mephitic of late than before.They had come, he judged, half a league through scum-coated water thatseemed to both ooze from below and drip from above. He wondered if theywere under a river, or more likely, a lake.

At times, the water was no more than a thin coating of slime on thestone, which made footing treacherous even for two nimble warriors likethe Cimmerian and his companion. At other times, it rose to their ankles,or even to their knees. After the first such place, Valeria slung herjewel-laden boots about her neck. The Cimmerian's greater statureallowed him to keep his treasure riding at his waist. Neither needed theboots to guard leather-tough feet, and indeed, preferred bare toes bywhich to feel out lurking menaces.

When knee-deep, the water seemed sometimes almost solid with plantand animal matter that the ancient magic of these tunnels had beenunable to keep alive. In those places, it exhaled a noisome stench thatmade even the hardened Cimmerian wish for something to bind over hismouth and nose.

He wished even more to know what sort of creature had risen to attackValeria on the day they had entered this maze. Was it a water-dweller, andwere they perhaps approaching the lair of more of the breed?Well-wielded steel was an answer to most creatures, but if the water grewmuch deeper, swordplay would be sadly slowed… to say nothing of whatthis muck could hardly fail to do to their blades—

Conan finished his sniffing. "Your wits are as sound as ever. I smell it,too. Fish oil, I'd wager."

"What do you have to wager with, Cimmerian?"

"Not as much as you, I'll be bound, but—"

It was Valeria who held up one hand and pointed with the dagger in theother. "Stairs?"

Conan's eyes followed the gesture. "If they're not, my eyes are failingme."

Valeria grimaced. "It does seem darker along here." Even her courage

was not proof against the thought of the light abandoning them. Magicalas it was, they owed their lives to it.

"All the more reason to start climbing the stairs, then."

Between them and the entry to the stairs, the water deepened almost toValeria's waist. They pushed forward through the filth, greasy whorls offloating muck drifting to either side as they advanced. Conan had bothsword and dagger drawn now, and held the weapons clear of the water,ready to strike down at the slightest hint of alien presence.

Nothing except muck and foul odors impeded their passage, althoughthey were black and dripping from thighs to feet when they reached drystone. Conan climbed the first few steps, reached a spot where the wallhad cracked and now sagged across his path, and went to his hands andknees.

He could barely creep under the stone. Ten paces farther along, he couldbarely move at all—but the sight ahead made his heart leap with hope.

The stairs wound up into natural darkness that reeked of fish oil,animal fat, and burned grain. In places, the steps had crumbled and wouldoffer precarious footing, even without the darkness. In one place, the stairsseemed to rise up a vertical chimney that would need to be climbed withback against one wall and feet against the other.

Far above, like a single star shining on a rainy night, a dim yellow lightglowed. Firelight, to Conan's eyes, with no magic about it. Rather, it toldof human presence.

The only problem was that he was just a finger's breadth too large topass through the gap and begin the ascent. Even his strength might not beequal to shifting the fallen slab, and could well bring the mass down ontop of them if he succeeded.

Thank Mitra, there was another way, or at least another hope. Gropinginto the open, Conan's hand touched a puddle of congealed grease. Clearly,it had dripped down from above, where what must be a cook fire burnedcheerfully.

Conan started retracing his steps. For a moment, he feared he wouldbecome wedged; then he felt Valeria tugging at his ankles. Her lithestrength made the difference. Conan slid free, coughed dust from histhroat, and stood up.

"You'll have to go first. Slip through the gap, then pass all the greaseyou'll find—"

"Grease?"

"Somebody's done years of cooking up above. The grease must havebeen dripping—"

"Grease?"

"If I want an echo, woman, I'll shout! Go up and see for yourself if youdoubt me."

Valeria shook her head hastily, then grinned. "In truth, why should I besurprised? This is the maddest quest I've ever been on. It woulddisappoint me if it did not stay so to the end."

Conan kept to himself the thought that the quest might be far fromover. They could not be out of the jungle yet, or even into the borderlandsof the Black Kingdoms, where the name of Amra carried some weight. Thepeople above might be friendly and welcoming; they might also greet himand Valeria with spears, or even with that cook fire that now seemed somerry. There were not as many cannibals in this land as legend had it, butthere were enough.

"Well, then. Let's not stand about scratching each other's fleas like apair of apes. Up!"

Valeria scrambled up the stairs and vanished ahead. Conan followed, tosee Valeria's boots and sole garment lying on the stone. She herself wasnowhere to be seen, but from the far side of the gap came the sound ofsomeone desperately trying not to spew.

"You mean to smear yourself with this to pass through the gap?"

"Do you see any perfumed oil about?"

"Ask a foolish question…" Valeria muttered. Then Conan saw her, nudeand pale in the darkness, kneeling to smear grease on the stone at thenarrowest passage. Only when she had finished that work did she begintossing handfuls of the grease through the passage to the Cimmerian.

The stuff reeked like a kitchen-midden, and its touch made Conan'sflesh crawl. Still, he went to work vigorously, smearing the grease on hisskin as fast as Valeria passed it through to him.

"What happens if you still can't make your way past?" Valeria asked.

"Then you climb up yourself and ask the folk above to come down andchip away a passage for me. I'm no more than a finger's breadth too large.It will be no great matter."

He thought he heard Valeria mutter again. "If they don't think I'm awitch or a madwoman, no doubt it will." Then the Cimmerian tossed hisweapons and garments through the gap, lay down, and began his passage.

The grease helped. He was almost through this time before he becamewedged firmly in place. He stretched out both arms for Valeria to grip,and she added her strength and weight to his. He did not budge.

Conan groped with his feet, seeking a stout rest that would let him usethe full power of his massive legs. One foot flailed in the air; the otherfound the wall. Conan willed all the strength of his body into the musclesof that leg, felt himself moving even as the rock flayed skin from his backand shoulders, then felt the rock itself move.

If he had summoned all his strength before, he now summoned that andhalf again as much. He heaved upward and forward, ignoring thewrenching of muscles and the creaking of bones. More skin vanished, andhis lungs seemed filled with red-hot sand as he fought for the breath notmerely to live by, but that he might fight and prevail.

The Cimmerian's strength was equal to the task. The stone did not slipand crush him. Instead, it held firm for a moment—then, incredibly, itopened wider.

Conan thought he heard Valeria utter what might have been either aprayer or an oath. He knew he felt her long fingers gripping his wristsagain, and as the grip tightened, she flung herself backward.

For one more moment, the rock held Conan, and he was not sure whichwould happen first—his pulling free, or his arms wrenching out of theirsockets. Then the tiny widening of the opening, the grease on skin androck, his own strength, and Valeria's desperate efforts all joined to sendhim flying out of the gap. He landed almost on top of Valeria, and it was awhile before either of them caught their breath enough to notice it. Eventhen, the woman did not protest. She only smiled and threw an armaround Conan's neck.

He returned the smile and rolled off, then fought breath back into hislungs and stood up. He felt as if he had been wrestling one of the GoldenSerpents. His skin was scraped from flesh in half a score of places, andmuscles and joints were cursing him roundly. The filth from the tunnelitched and stung wherever it fell on raw places, and altogether he hadhardly felt worse during some of the times he had escaped from slavery.

But he had ignored pain even then because he was free, and now he didthe same for much the same reason. That magic-haunted maze and itsmonsters had done their best to make an end of him, or at least to makethe maze his and Valeria's tomb. Now they were free of it, even if to do nomore than to die on their feet, their blades in hand.

Conan judged that all of his limbs were still attached and could perform

their duties. Then he resumed his garments, except for his boots, which hehung about his neck as Valeria carried hers.

Valeria meanwhile had propped her head on one elbow and wascontemplating him with what appeared to be amusement. Conan returnedher contemplation, although with more than amusement as she had notyet donned even her one scanty garment.

"If you've done looking at me like a buyer at a donkey—" Conan said atlast.

"I'd have you bathed before I bought you," Valeria replied. She held hernose. "Or maybe boiled."

" You could put a he-goat to flight yourself," Conan said. He reacheddown. "Up, woman. We're not done yet."

While standing in the open on the far side of the gap, he had seen atleast two more tunnels leading off from the chamber. The magic lightseemed to glow dimly far down one of them; the other was dark and nohigher than Conan's waist. The stone at its mouth also seemed curiouslyworked, not so much carved as eaten , as if by the acids that thesword-makers of Khitai were said to use upon fine blades to etch cunningpatterns upon them.

He thought of acids that could eat stone, and he remembered what hadnearly taken Valeria, leaving its mark on her ankle. The mark was stillthere, beneath the filth. The thing that had made it might have also madethe tunnel. No, he and Valeria were not done with this ancient maze untilthey stood in the sunlight again.

The first sign that Seyganko had of anything amiss was Emwaya'sstumbling. That would not have told another man much, for Emwaya wasdancing in a circle in the center of Seyganko's hut. It was, moreover, adance so swift and complex that her feet seemed to spurn the earth; eventhe warrior's keen eye could hardly follow their movements.

She leaped—and instead of landing on her toes, she went to hands andknees. Seyganko sprang forward to help her rise. She shook off his handand remained kneeling, then stretched her full length on the reed-strewnfloor of the hut.

Again Seyganko offered aid; again Emwaya spurned it. Then she turnedher head so that one ear was against the floor, and stretched out botharms. Her fingers writhed in gestures the warrior knew came from theSpirit-Speaking rituals.

Emwaya was not sick or hurt, it seemed. But if she had sensed somethreat to the Ichiribu from deep within the spirit world, this was smallconsolation. Seyganko gripped his club and measured the distance to hisspears, although reason told him that mere wood and iron could donothing against such menaces as Emwaya might have heard.

At last she stood, brushing dried reeds from her breasts. Now sheallowed Seyganko to support her, lead her to a sleeping mat, pour beerfrom a jug and offer it. But she sat with the wooden cup in her hand,licking her lips, eyes staring beyond Seyganko into places where he knewhe could not follow.

"From below," she said. "It comes from below."

"What is it ?"

"Have you never heard of the Stone City?"

"That legend?"

"I begin to think it is no legend. It could lie beneath this very village,with spirits from before men were men guarding it."

"It could. But then, it might not—" The wish to banter left Seyganko ashe saw Emwaya's face harden.

" Something has made the spirits uneasy. I cannot say which spirits, orwhere, but I feel danger to the Ichiribu."

"I shall call out the fanda ," Seyganko said. The fanda consisted of sixwarriors of each clan, who took turns being armed, girded, and paintedfor war. Seyganko was not painted, but his war luck was so proverbial thatno one thought he needed the adornment except in great battles.

"Send a messenger," Emwaya said. "You must stay here while I paintyou."

"There is need for haste more than for paint."

"Not when the enemy is unknown spirits."

"If the spirits are coming, then you and your father are needed, not the fanda ."

"We will be needed before long, but the fanda has work, too. They mustguide folk away from danger, keep them from panic, watch for thieves whomight find untended huts a temptation—"

"Perhaps I should do your work and you mine, since you know it sowell."

Emwaya looked hurt, as she seldom did when reminded of the

sharpness of her tongue. Then she actually clung to him. "We each haveour duties, I fear. Now, have you your war paint about here?"

"Yes. You are going to paint all of me?"

Emwaya lowered her eyes. "All. Do not hope that we will have time,though."

Seyganko grinned and began undoing his loincloth. The full ritualbattle-paint included a warrior's loins and manhood. In times past,Emwaya's painting him had ended with much pleasure to both.

Yet something told him that this would not be one of those times.Emwaya spoke of spirits she had not encountered; Seyganko had littledoubt that she spoke the truth.

"Hold on, Conan. My grip is slipping."

Valeria felt the Cimmerian's massive shoulders tighten under her feet.Free to move one hand without falling, she groped for a better purchase onthe stone. It was slick with her own blood, issuing from where her firstgrip had gashed the hand.

At last she thought she had found what she sought. Many years ofswordplay and climbing rigging had given her long arms more strengththan commonly found in a woman. She did not fear falling as long as shehad a good grip.

She had judged correctly, but she was dripping sweat by the time sherolled onto the ledge above. For the tenth time since they had begun theirclimb, she had to brush her hair out of her eyes. Yet she was perched onthe ledge as securely as its crumbling stone allowed. Beyond her lay onlythe chimney, which both of them could climb with little trouble, and thensolid stairs began again.

She tore a strip from her garment and bound her hair with it. Thisreduced the already tattered covering to hardly more than a shred of clothabout her loins. She had, however, quite ceased to care about her garb aslong as it included a sword-belt and her steel.

Having done with Valeria, Conan handed up his boots and weapons,then sprang high and found purchase for both fingers and toes. A momentlater, he was beside the woman on the ledge.

"We'd do better with a thong or a rope to tie to all this," he said, wavinga bruised and filthy hand at their scanty gear and the boots holding alord's ransom in each toe. "Then we could draw it up afterward."

"There's not enough left of my garment for that," Valeria said. "Ofcourse you could always sacrifice the rest of your breeches—"

"Or we could forget about those—"

Valeria put one hand protectively over the boots and the other on thehilt of her heavy dagger. Conan drew back in mock fear.

"By Erlik's untiring tool, woman, don't you know a jest when you hearone?"

"When I hear one, I do. I know not what I heard from you just now."

Conan shrugged and said no more. Valeria hoped he had heard her truemeaning—that she would leave those fire-stones only to save her life. Thata dead pirate had no use for loot, she would gladly admit, but she was notdead yet. Dusty-throated from thirst, hollow-bellied from hunger, filthy, allbut naked, and far from home, or even from safety, she surely was— butnot dead.

Then from above they heard a sound, familiar to anyone who hadtraveled this far south, yet strange, even unearthly in these surrounds.

Close to the cook fire, someone was beating a war drum. As anotherdrum joined the first, the warm yellow glow of the cook fire died anddarkness engulfed the voyagers in the depths.

One drum began the call to the Ichiribu of the Great Village. A secondjoined it, then a third.

Seyganko stood by the hearthstone as the cook-women emptied pots,gourds, and jugs of water onto the flames. They did this with sour looks athim. Not only was quenching the cook fire a dirty task, it was an evilomen. The women feared the spirits… as well as what their kin would sayto cold meals.

Fortunately, they also feared Seyganko and his warriors of the fanda toomuch to disobey. Or was it Emwaya they feared? She stood by a hut on theedge of the hearthfield, arms crossed over her breasts, watching the workwith an unsmiling face.

Indeed, she had not smiled since she had stumbled. Since she had toldSeyganko that the hearthfield was the heart of the danger, she had lookedalmost an evil spirit herself. Fine work it would be if her face drove folkinto the panic she feared and made more enemies for Seyganko.

Do you then think unknown spirits are nothing to be feared?

He heard the question in his mind, but used his body to reply, shaking

his head. He did not wish to reply mind-to-mind when so many other folkmight suddenly demand his attention. Aondo, for one.

Aondo was a warrior in the fanda , and beside him stood another—whatwas his name? Oh, Wobeku the Swift, one who had gone with Seyganko onthe raid that brought back those Kwanyi captives, who told such diretales. Wobeku was one of the fastest runners among the Ichiribu, as wellas a friend of Aondo.

Today Wobeku was not running. He stood lightly on his long legs, and itseemed to Seyganko that his eyes roved about more than was customary.Now he looked at Seyganko, now at the hearthstone— especially the lowerend, where the channel fed melted fat into the earth to nourish the spiritsthere—and now at Emwaya. A man could not be blamed for wonderingwhat Wobeku was seeking.

Seyganko realized that he was about to do what he had just thoughtunwise in Emwaya. Nonetheless—

Have you warned your father?

He needed no warning. He knows what the spirits do, as much as anyman.

Seyganko's reply was a broad smile. Then he waved at Wobeku.

"Your wish, Honored One?"

"A messenger has gone to Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker. Yet he was not asswift on his feet as you. Will you take another message?"

Wobeku's smile was a mask of obedience and pleasure coveringdiscontent that a child could have seen. Seyganko did not smile back.Whatever Wobeku had in mind, it demanded his presence here—whichdid not prove it unlawful, of course.

It was part of the price for the title of Honored One among the warriorsof the Ichiribu. Baring one's back to treachery lest one do injustice to loyalwarriors was a sacred duty. Spirits, as well as wronged kin, might avengeneglecting it.

"Good. Emwaya, daughter of Dobanpu, will tell you what to say."

Emwaya's message was short—just long enough, Seyganko judged, notto make Wobeku suspicious. The warrior saw the messenger nod, thenunbind his feet, set aside all garb and girding save for his headdress,loinguard, and paint, then run. He was beyond the huts in a few breaths,outside the village wall in a few more, and out of sight before thedrumming stopped.

By then, the hearthfield was empty of all but the fanda , Seyganko, andEmwaya. From cracks in the nearest huts, children peered, too curious tobe frightened even if the earth was spewing spirit-serpents. More youngones seemed to be perched in trees and on the wall, and Seyganko heardtheir mothers calling them down.

Then he heard nothing more, save a swelling rumble from underfoot asthe earth trembled and the hearthstone that had stood for five men's livesbegan to crack apart.

Even Conan's eyes took a moment to respond to the sudden darkness.For a moment, he could hear only Valeria's breathing, coming in quickpants like those of a thirsty dog. She was commanding herself well in theface of this new menace, but could not hide all of her disquiet.

Crom did not love the fearful, nor did they live long in Cimmeria.Otherwise, Conan himself might have volleyed oaths. It seemed thatsomeone or something was toying with them, snatching away eachpromise of escape the moment they had come to trust themselves to it.

"Mitra's crown!" Valeria snapped. "If this is the work of the folk above,they'd best be very friendly when we appear. Otherwise, I'll not be."

Conan only grunted. She had spoken for both of them, and any morenoise might be unwise. The folk above might not only be unfriendly, theymight have listeners giving ear to what lay below.

He also did not trust this pit's walls to stand firm if shaken by loudnoises. Not that they would remain unshaken if he and Valeria continuedto climb—as they must—the road back now being closed. But it made littlesense to shake them otherwise.

A moment later, Conan knew that his caution had had no purpose. Athunderclap tore at his ears, earth streamed down about him, and lightreappeared above. Then a chunk of stone the size of a good ale barrelplummeted past him.

Without a word, Conan snatched Valeria back against his chest, thenflung himself hard against the wall. Even a shallow niche might save themfrom being crushed like grapes in a winepress by the next stone.

The wall that had seemed to be raw earth was as unyielding as the stoneof the tunnels below. Conan groped with a free hand and felt more of thesame under his fingers.

Perhaps there was rock under the soil. Perhaps roots had bound the soilas hard as rock. And perhaps the binding was magical, and if the spells

vanished, the whole shaft would come down on their heads.

Another, smaller piece of stone came down, and after that, hardly morethan coarse gravel. It came in a steady stream, though, mingled with clodsof earth. Dust filled the shaft; Conan clapped his free hand over his face,and Valeria tried to make a mask of her hair.

It was not enough; the dust set her to coughing desperately. Nothingmore fell, but Conan had guessed the truth about the listeners above. Ahead appeared, silhouetted against the blessed sunlight shining throughthe enlarged hole.

"Who goes there? Name yourselves, or be called enemies of theIchiribu."

The tongue was close enough to what Conan had learned in the BlackKingdoms that he could understand the meaning. The voice was that of aleader and a warrior, accustomed to being obeyed. Conan saw no reasonto argue at length, not when the shaft might yet come down on his head.

But he and Valeria would not begin well by seeming to be beggars. Inthis land, only beggars or weaklings gave their true names for the asking.Wise men knew not to give that precious knowledge to those who mightwork magic with it.

"We are no enemies to the Ichiribu, whatever our names. Let us climbup to you, and you may see for yourselves."

Conan could not make out the man's look, but his reply was to silentlydraw his head back from the opening. The brighter light showed the upperportion of the shaft clearly, in spite of the drifting dust. The mouth lay adistance a good ten times the Cimmerian's height, and the shaft offeredfew handholds.

Once there had been a stairway spiraling up to the surface. Conan sawthe holes where its beams had been thrust into the walls, and even theremnants of one or two of the beams themselves. None of this was of theslightest use to him and Valeria as long as the magic binding the shaftwalls did not weaken. When it did, the shaft would doubtless fall on theirheads, with more stones from above to mark their tomb.

"Conan," Valeria whispered, "do we go back?"

"How?" Conan asked. "Even if we could, the folk up there have heard us,likely enough seen us, too. They'll think we were demons and block the pit.What would you wager on finding another way out before we starve?"

"And if the folk up there are cannibals—"

"They'll have to eat a fair amount of steel before they eat us," Conansaid. Valeria replied with a grin, then reached into her boots and pulledout a handful of the fire-stones.

"Would it help to throw a few of these up to the watchers?" she asked.

"It couldn't hurt," Conan said. He returned the grin. "But I thoughtthese were your hoard."

"And I thought we wouldn't need the help of the—Ichiribu, they said—tosimply climb out of this demon-spawned pit!"

Conan took the largest of the stones in his hand, balanced it, thenshifted slightly so that he could throw freely without falling back down thepit. Legs braced, he swung his arm in three great circles. On the fourth,his hand opened and the stone soared up the pit, a blazing green star asthe sunlight struck it.

It fell outside the mouth of the pit, unheard and unseen by theCimmerian. He knew the moment the watchers by the pit mouth saw it,however, from the outcry they raised. Hyenas fighting over carrion wouldhave been quieter.

Conan could make out no words in that din. He could only discern whatwas most likely the voice of the leader, rising above the others and at lastbeating them down. He also heard what sounded like a woman, or a youth,apparently speaking with the leader.

Then Valeria cried out, blinking away tears, and even the Cimmerianfelt lighter at heart. A stout oxhide rope with a loop at one end wasdangling from the mouth of the pit.

It slid down to within a spear's length above Conan's fingertips. Hecupped his hands and called up. "Too short, I fear. Another man's lengthwill be enough."

"I'd best go up first," he told Valeria. "I speak their tongue, and some ofthe tribes think a woman warrior's bad luck."

"If they fill you with spears—"

"Then they'll have no fire-stones," Conan reminded her. "From the dinthey raised, I'd say they'll do more than hold off their spears for thatprize."

What Valeria clearly wanted was to believe that nothing would happento Conan that would leave her alone in this noisome darkness. Just asclearly, Conan could give her no real assurance, and would not insult herwith a false one.

Conan pulled the looped rope over his head and set it firmly under hisarmpits. "Pray that these are no pygmies," he said, "or I may be downagain faster than I went up!"

Then, to the folk above: "Haul away!"

"Whoever is down there knows the True Tongue," Seyganko said. "Thatsays human to me."

"Spirits can take human form, is that not so?" Aondo offered.

Emwaya looked as if she would prefer to lie, but nodded.

"Then why not speak so?" Aondo asked.

Emwaya frowned. She had explained to Seyganko the reasons whySpirit-Speaking did not use human tongues, so he knew that the folkbelow had to be human. She could not explain the same to Aondo withoutgiving the whole fanda too much knowledge of Spirit-Speaking.

Then the man below shouted again: "Well, are you going to haul awayor not?"

Seyganko raised his club and struck it against his shield three times. Onthe third blow, the men on the rope began to move back from the pit.

"Heavier than a man!" someone called, taking one hand from the ropeto wipe his forehead.

"Either pull or let one who will take your place!" Seyganko snapped. Theman looked ready to quarrel, then seemed to think better of it andreturned to his work.

If what rose from the pit that yawned where the hearthstone had stoodwas a man, he was larger than any Seyganko had ever seen, save onlyAondo.

A closer look told the warrior that the newcomer's skin was pale underits coating of filth, his hair straight, and his eyes an eerie blue. There weretales of lands to the north that were inhabited by such blue-eyed giants, arace considered human for all that. Here, no doubt, was such a one.

"Now will you tell us your name?" Seyganko ordered.

"When I have drunk, and you have brought up my woman," the giantreplied.

"Your woman?" someone asked.

"You think I travel this forest with no comforts?" the man said,

laughing. His teeth were very even and none of them filed into points."Also, if you want more of these—" he pointed at the fallen jewel "—theyare down there."

Someone clutched at Seyganko's arm. It was Emwaya, staring at thejewel as if it were a cobra about to strike. Seyganko put a hand on hershoulder and turned her around so that the giant could not see her face.Then he waved to the men to lower the rope again and shouted to thenearest hut for women to bring water.

"What is it, woman?" he whispered when he was sure that none paidhim and Emwaya any attention.

"Those are Fire Eyes of the Golden Serpents," Emwaya said. Her breathseemed to come quickly, as if she had been running. "The man says theyhave more of them."

"So? They are fine to look at, not as fine as you when oiled and lying ona pallet, but—"

"The Golden Serpents bred in Xuchotl. The tales of the city say the folkadorned themselves with the Fire Eyes."

"Then—"

"It could be that we have taken the destroyers of Xuchotl among us!"

"We have done no such thing," Seyganko protested.

"You think we can put them back in the hole and cover them up easily ifyou are wrong?"

Seyganko studied the man's heavily muscled limbs, his iron weapons,and the easy, alert way he stood. "No. If they are spirits, they would not go.If they are human, they might not go and it would be unlawful to forcethem."

"Then what—"

"Have your father summon the spirits to the dance-drum. At once,before these folk have spent a night among us. The man knows the TrueTongue. He may know our ways as well."

For the first time in Seyganko's memory, Emwaya obeyed one of hisorders without hesitating, let alone disputing him. She ran off, for this wasno message to be given to one who might take it to others than Dobanpu.

Then Seyganko stepped forward to greet the woman who rose from thepit. She was even fairer than the man, with hair the color of fresh grainand a form that a goddess would not have disdained.

She had strange-looking footwear of leather slung about her neck, andfrom the way she unslung it, it was heavy. Then Seyganko and all of the fanda saw the Fire Eyes within the footwear and it made it seem like twotiny volcanoes bubbling with molten green stone.

The warriors sucked in their breath, and some gripped weapons. Thewoman bringing water did more; she halted in mid-stride and barelycaught the water jug as it toppled from her head. The water itself made apuddle at her feet. She looked at it for a moment, then turned and ran.

The foreign woman looked ready to draw a weapon. The giant laid ahand on her bare shoulder and smiled thinly. "You kept your promise, upto the moment when the woman took flight. I'll keep mine." Then heturned to face Seyganko.

"I am Conan of Cimmeria, a free lance." He used the word for a warriorwhose vows set him apart from any tribe or clan. It was an honorablestatus, and claiming it falsely was heavily punished.

"The woman is Valeria of the Red Brotherhood," Conan went on. "She isa free woman, oath-bound to me. She speaks not the True Tongue, save inher heart, which I know is good. We both ask for guest-friendship amongthe Ichiribu, and promise to aid them as far as it is in our power to do so."

Seyganko tried not to look at the Fire Eyes. If their power had beengreat enough to snatch those from Xuchotl…

It could be great enough to make the Ichiribu rulers of all the landsabout the Lake of Death, even to the slopes of Thunder Mountain. It couldalso cast them down more completely than Chabano or the God-Mendreamed of.

Seyganko felt a chill, as of oncoming rain, when he next looked intoConan's blue eyes.

SEVEN

Ryku had often wished to be an insect upon the wall of a conclave of theSpeakers to the Living Wind, as the God-Men called themselves. Now hehad all but achieved that wish. He had at last attained the self-commandthat let a man's presence pass unnoticed by the Speakers—or even, it wassaid, by the Living Wind itself.

He clung like an ape on a branch to a pinnacle of rock that forked justenough to offer a man-sized niche. One side of the fork supported hisback, the other hid him from what lay below.

Eight of the Speakers were gathered in a circle around a great globe ofsomething that could be no natural substance. The globe was as tall as aman and as clear as water, likewise seeming as hard as rock. Yet it wasalso light enough that two of the Speakers' servants had borne it on a litterinto this cave and placed it where it now stood.

It said much about the power which the Speakers expected from theglobe that the servants were mute and deaf slaves, used only for the mostsecret matters. Once, it was said, the Living Wind had given the Speakersspells that would silence tongues and block ears, but could also beremoved when the need for them had passed. Now that knowledge waslost, and hot knives and needles served in place of magic.

That meant there were fewer of the secret servants with each passingyear. The Kwanyi gave up a fair number of stout young men and women,some came from the lesser clans, others had been slaves and prisoners—allof them now in the service of the God-Men on Thunder Mountain. Theclans expected that at least the free tribesfolk would be returned alive andhealthy, and they were not generous even with slaves to be mutilated orslain. They had become less generous in such matters since Chabanobecame the Paramount Chief.

A First Speaker who could wield the ancient knowledge might gain astronger friendship from Chabano. Or if the Paramount Chief continuedto insist that he himself rule in the alliance of wizards and warriors, theFirst Speaker might cause the Kwanyi to turn to another to lead them.

A breeze stirred the dank air of the cave. Ryku felt it blow cool on hisskin, drying the sweat on his brow. He knew that the Living Wind could becalled out from its cave by sufficient Speakers' magic. It was not lawfulthat he know this, being only a Silent Brother, but he did, and he knewmuch else of the Speakers' arts. Law had always lain lightly upon Ryku,called Son of Nkube.

Ryku had never seen the calling of the Living Wind, however. He wouldnot have known that the Wind would be called had one Speaker not beenindiscreet. Even now he wondered that the Speakers had no spells bywhich to learn of the presence of spies and eavesdroppers.

Perhaps that, too, was magic so ancient that living men no longercommanded it. Or perhaps the Living Wind was enough alive that it couldseek out enemies itself, and punish them.

That thought so disturbed Ryku that he nearly toppled from his perch,and sweat broke out all over him though the wind grew stronger with eachmoment. He should not be here—and when the Wind had come and gone,

he would not be here.

The tunnel on the far side of the cave began to glow in the crimson andsapphire hues of the Living Wind. The light did not flicker; the swirlingessence of the Living Wind was not yet in the tunnel. It could not be far,though.

Ryku licked lips suddenly as dry as month-old porridge and fought hisway back to some measure of self-command.

The serving wench held out two wooden bowls to Valeria. One heldsalted fish, scaled, gutted, and beheaded as deftly as Valeria had ever seenin the captain's room of a waterfront tavern. The other held a pungentstew of more fish, boiled together with grain and nuts that she had nevertasted. Behind the wench, a boy held a third bowl, of piping hot yams.

"No more, thank you," Valeria said. She used some of what little sheknew of the Black Kingdoms' tongue. The girl seemed not to understand,only smiling and shaking her head, then holding out the bowls again.

Valeria frowned. Had the Ichiribu sent a witling to serve her and theCimmerian? She tried patting her stomach, then holding her handstogether well out in front of it. She wanted to tell the girl that she hadeaten of their excellent fare nearly to the bursting point.

The girl smiled and almost pushed the bowls into Valeria's lap. Valeriaraised a hand to push the girl away, then felt her wrist seized with afamiliar iron grip.

"Wait, Valeria."

The Cimmerian used more Black Kingdoms' speech, as well as handlanguage. The girl looked at Valeria and shook her head. Conan nodded.Then girl and Cimmerian both erupted in laughter.

Valeria flushed and covered her anger by holding out a hand for thesalted fish. She probably would burst if she ate more, certainly if shedrank any more of the Ichiribu beer to wash down the fish. She would stillbe cursed if she would seem loutish.

The girl served Valeria, kneeling gracefully. She wore a waistcloth thatrevealed nearly all of a long-legged, firm-breasted figure, with the supplewaist and firm arms of a girl only just turned woman. Valeria noticed thatConan's eyes roved over the girl with unmistakable admiration.

She prodded him in the ribs, nearly spraining a finger against hislayered muscles. "I thought you didn't care for black wenches," she

whispered.

"Remember the ones about the fort? They file their teeth to points.These folk—their wenches look more like women and less like sharks."

"If you are so wise about woman, Conan, tell me what the wench wasdoing. I thought I said 'no more' plainly enough."

"Oh, you did. Then you used the gestures that said you were with child.The wench thought you needed more, for yourself and the babe."

"With child?" Valeria's jaw dropped so that she was not sure the wordscame out in sensible speech. Conan's grin told her that, unfortunately,they had. "I've not had a chance in years!"

"Small wonder, then, you're out of temper with men. None have shownthey can tell a fine woman when they see one, so of course—"

"You clatterjawed Cimmerian oaf!" Or at least Valeria started to saythat, with the intent of following it with a slap. Instead, she doubled upwith laughter, upsetting her bowl. Conan patted her on the shoulder.

"Easy, woman. I was jesting."

Valeria almost wished he were not. She did wish that his hand wouldlinger, so she reached up and held it with both of her own. She knew thatConan could break her grip as if she were a child, but she hoped he woulddo no such thing.

He did not. He left his hand on her bare shoulder long enough for theserving wench to raise her eyebrows, then wink at the boy. A momentlater, Valeria and Conan were alone.

"They'll be listening," he whispered. "If you come closer, they'll hearnothing of what we say."

Valeria was ready to come as close as the Cimmerian could wish, butshe sensed that this was not the time. She also heard a warning in hisvoice, and wanted to curse aloud in frustration. Had they, after all, not found safety among the Ichiribu?

Now the air in the cave whirled and moaned, as if it sought to flee theLiving Wind and cried out in fear of its pursuer. Ryku clung to his perchwith arms and legs alike, and could have wished for a tail like a monkey.All thought of concealment had long since left him.

It did not matter, for the Speakers had no care or thought to give toanything save the globe in the center of their circle. The globe… and theLiving Wind they were bringing into it.

The light of the Living Wind now seemed an eye-searing flood, pouringfrom the tunnel like a stream in the rainy season. But no stream everleaped like a fountain to pour downward and vanish into a globe thatsomehow remained as clear as a mountain pool for all the light that itswallowed.

Then Ryku saw the globe quiver, once, twice, three times. He looked atthe eight-footed bronze bowl that held it, each foot of the bowl wrought inthe form of a gilded fish, and saw that the bowl was also quivering. Thenhe blinked and spared a hand to rub his eyes, for he thought he saw palegreen smoke rising from the vessel.

A moment later, the wind seemed to redouble, something that Rykuwould not have believed possible. He came within a hair of losing hisperch. He resumed a two-handed grip, closed his eyes… and opened themagain when he smelled smoke.

Shadowy shapes now danced furiously within the clear globe, which wasturning an angry crimson, with hardly a tint of sapphire. Some of theshapes might have been called human, others were serpents, still othersthings for which there was no name outside of nightmares… where Rykumost earnestly hoped they would remain.

But even if they came forth from the globe as living flesh, he must facethem open-eyed and unflinching. How otherwise could he hope for thepower of a Speaker, that would gain him what he most craved?

The smoke was rising from the bowl, and from the eight legs. The legsseemed to glow as if they had been heated over a forge, and Ryku thoughthe saw one of them bending. Had the weight of the globe suddenlyincreased out of all measure, because of the Living Wind entering it?

The eight Speakers certainly saw the smoke, and from their looks, it wasobvious they knew that it meant something fearful. Or perhaps it was onlythe smell; when a whiff blew past Ryku, he nearly spewed.

He had barely commanded his stomach when all eight legs of the bowlseemed to melt at once. Smoke disgorged from the dissolving supports,from the bowl, and, as it seemed, from the globe itself.

Courage worthy of front-rank warriors and a lifetime of dedication heldthe Speakers to their task about the globe. Neither availed them againstthe Living Wind run wild.

The smoke vanished as if a giant mouth had sucked it all in at one gulp.The bowl and the eight legs became a bubbling pool of molten bronze,searing the eyes as would the mouth of a volcano. The globe wavered,

impossibly enough held in midair by powers Ryku dared not imagine.

Then the Speakers or their powers, or both, failed, and the globe fell. It splashed into the molten metal, and gobs of liquid bronze flew about. TheSpeakers' discipline could not hold against such pain. They screamed andleaped like monkeys beset by bees, or like warthogs attacked by driverants.

The globe wavered again. The shadow shapes within took a more solidform—two humans, a man and a woman—and then vanished. By this time,the substance of the globe was melting down into the searing metal andfeeding a great tongue of liquid fire that reached out toward the circle ofSpeakers.

The Speakers' silence had broken; now their courage faltered. Yet stillthey did not run. They opened their circle wider and held their staves withboth hands at waist level. Their chanting grew louder, for all that it camefrom throats raw with pain and fear.

The tongue of fire gathered itself and leaped. Crimson flames as thin asthe air wrapped themselves about one of the Speakers' staves. The Speakerdropped it with a cry, but it did not fall.

Instead, the flames whirled the stave up to the ceiling of the cave andheld it there while they consumed it. Not even an ash drifted to thefloor—but when the flames fell back, they seemed sated, like a well-fedanimal.

Far worse was the feeding of the liquid metal. It, too, leaped, to land ina spreading pool about the feet of another Speaker. In a moment, the manhad no feet; in another moment, no legs.

In the moment after that, knowledge of what was happening reachedthe Speaker's brain, as did the agony of being burned alive. Burned? Rykuwished that so innocent a word could describe what was happening to theSpeaker.

The Living Wind had this much mercy: the Speaker did not take long todie. Before he began to scream, the fire had already eaten him almost tothe waist. Then it swept up past his belly and to his chest, and when it atehis lungs, he fell silent.

His head bobbed briefly on the surface of the liquid fire, now shot withstreaks of black as well as crimson. Then it vanished, too, and smoke in adozen colors swirled over the metal, hiding any bubbles.

Like the flames, the liquid fire made Ryku think of a sated animal as itwithdrew toward the tunnel. The crimson flames followed, and as both

elements vanished from the cave, the wind died.

The seven living Speakers stumbled out the way they had come. Someseemed blinded; they gripped the shoulders of those ahead to guide theirstumbling feet. Others coughed as if mortally sick in the lungs.

Half-blinded, stifled, his own eyes and lungs assaulted by inconceivablestenches and smoke, Ryku clung to his perch until the last Speaker wasgone. It would have been much simpler to let go, fall to the floor of thecave, and die a clean and natural death by breaking his head.

Simpler, and very foolish. Now there was something he had not dared tohope for: a vacant place among the Speakers. Add to this the loss of thescrying globe, with little knowledge gained from its use, and even the FirstSpeaker would know that peril unseen in years faced the God-Men ofThunder Mountain.

If Ryku came forward to show how he might prevent Chabano fromusing this peril against the Speakers, he might receive a hearing. Hemight even receive initiation as a Speaker. Then it would be his right towield the power of the Living Wind.

He barred his mind to the thought that in spite of all the forbidden lorehe had studied, he might do no better than the Speaker who had died sobrutally. If he let himself dwell on that, he would fall from his perch anddie!

Valeria was as fine a woman as the Cimmerian had ever held this close.But he did not hold her out of passion, and what he whispered in her earwas most likely not going to make her warm for him.

"We've been guested with food and shelter," he said. "That means we'renot likely to be slain by treachery."

"You leave much unsaid," Valeria replied.

"So do the Ichiribu. I know more of their speech than I have let on, sothere've been wagging tongues where I could hear. They're none too happyabout where we came from, or the magic in our coming."

"What magic? Neither of us could cast a spell to so much as trim ababe's nails."

"We broke the guardian spells on the entrance to the tunnel under thehearthstone. Then we broke the hearthstone—we, or the spells as theywent awry. There's too much power about us for their peace of mind."

"Sea demons drown their peace of mind! We're no danger to them.

Unless they turn us into one by trying to kill us—"

She broke off as Conan's grip tightened like iron, and he laid a fingeracross her full lips. "Don't even think that for long. There's a smell of theirhaving a Spirit-Speaker among them."

"A what?"

Conan explained. Spirit-Speakers were no more to his taste than anyother sort of magic-wielder. During his time in the Black Kingdoms, hehad learned something of them, as he had learned something of everyother kind of man who could be friend or foe. He owed it to this as muchas to anything else that he had survived being a ruler in the BlackKingdoms, an occupation that often killed men born and bred in theselands.

"Now," he finished, at last relinquishing his grip on her, "this man's notyet our enemy. He may hope to make us friends, to him, to his tribe, oreven to both. The way they talk of him, he seems to be a shrewd oldfellow."

"Let him be shrewd enough to learn that we mean him no harm, and I'llpraise his wisdom in songs."

"Valeria, I've heard you sing. Do you want us at blood feud with thesefolk, after all their cattle fall dead?"

Valeria growled. It sounded like a she-badger defending her young.Conan laughed softly. "If I said you shame the nightingale, you'd call meastray in my wits. But the truth is, our Spirit-Speaker will surely want usto help him or his folk against some foe they call the Kwanyi. I'd wagerthese Kwanyi hold the shores of this… Lake of Death, or so it's called."

"Do you know why?"

"No, and I'd be easier in my mind if I did. But if I start asking questionsoutright, I'll make these folk believe we're spies. If I tell them about wherewe came from, they'll think we're the ones who overthrew Xuchotl."

"We are, and not ashamed of it! Or are these folk fool enough to thinkthat city of madmen was so great a loss?"

"Who said a word about their missing it? No, they'd no use for it, andshunned it as we might have. But they can't help wondering what magiccast it down. We speak of what we did, and… Do you want to learn whatthey do to witches in this land?"

Valeria's mouth opened without letting out a sound, but she shook herhead. Conan wrapped his arm around her shoulders again. She eased

herself back against his chest and closed her eyes.

"Most likely we'll be put to some kind of test. It could be as simple as mybedding you before all the tribe—"

"Another jest like that and you'll be bedding no woman anywhere!"

"—or something like dancing on a drum."

"There's not a drum in the world stout enough to bear you, Conan.Surely you mean a drum-smashing contest?"

"In these lands, they make their drums large enough and stout enoughfor me and another to dance upon. Each man tries to make the other fall,and the one who falls dies."

Conan felt Valeria go limp in his arms, and he cursed his waggingtongue for finally scaring her into a faint. Then he heard her breathingsteadily, and gently he shifted her to one arm so he could see her face.

Her eyes had drifted shut, and her mouth was slack. A moment later,the Cimmerian heard a soft burble from the full lips. He lifted the sleepingValeria and laid her on the sleeping mat to the right of the hut's door.Then he lay down on the mat opposite, kicked off his boots, and stretchedlike a cat.

The Spirit-Speaker would keep his own counsel until a time of his ownchoosing. Valeria had the right notion about what to do until that time.

EIGHT

Valeria did not know what a Spirit-Speaker commonly looked like. Norwas this the time and place to ask, even if Conan knew. Not when theCimmerian was talking with Dobanpu, Spirit-Speaker to the Ichiribu.

Dobanpu was no longer young, but his presence almost made Valeriaforget that he dealt in potent magic. Even more, he made her unawarethat she was in a cave, when she had thought she would rather be impaledthan again plunge beneath the earth!

Flanking Dobanpu were a young woman with the look of blood kin—adaughter, likely enough—and an Ichiribu warrior. Even one unfamiliarwith the Black Kingdoms could tell that here was a man of rank. Iridescentfeathers flowed from his spear and headdress, and he wore a necklace' ofwhat seemed to be mother-of-pearl and what were most certainlyleopard's teeth.

He was not of the same towering stature as the Cimmerian, but he did

not need to be. Indeed, by the way he stood and moved, he made Conanseem almost uncouthly large. He also made Valeria aware, as she had notbeen before, that the Black Kingdoms produced some very comely folk.

The talk now seemed to be between Conan and the youngchief—Seyganko, his name was, and the daughter was named Emwaya.Valeria glimpsed another figure in the shadows of the cave and recognizedthe girl who had attended them and who had thought Valeria was withchild.

Conan had been right about their being spied on. But then, this hardlysurprised Valeria. The folk of the Black Kingdoms might live a simple lifecompared to Aquilonians, but they were hardly simpletons!

She turned her attention back to the two warriors. As much as shecould judge, when she understood perhaps one word in ten, a challengewas being offered. It seemed that it was from Conan to Seyganko, but wasSeyganko accepting or refusing?

No, he was looking at Dobanpu. The woman Emwaya was trying tocatch her father's eye and Seyganko's at once—and Valeria knew that shewas betrothed, wed, or at least in love with Seyganko.

Dobanpu was not returning all the looks cast at him. Indeed, he sat assilent as if he had himself become a spirit. Then he said one word, whichto Valeria seemed to be a name.

"Aondo."

Seyganko's face held what had to be displeasure. Emwaya, on the otherhand, appeared to be struggling to hide her joy. Valeria looked away, tomake the woman's task easier. Once in her life had she felt that waytoward a man, but he was dead, his bones beneath a distant reef, with thesurf and the starfish alone to mourn him.

The parley seemed to be done. Then Conan half turned and whisperedto Valeria, "Bow, and stretch out your arms."

Mystified but trusting, Valeria obeyed. She kept her eyes on the cave'sfloor long enough to count the trails left by snakes. They were the trails ofsmall snakes, such as seers and wise-women in Aquilonia often kept aboutthe house to give auguries and eat insects.

Seeing that bit of home in this distant land made Valeria easier in hermind, for all that she also remembered how long she had been gone fromAquilonia. She had been some years a woman and a wanderer even beforeshe had met the man who now lay beneath the reef—and that was enoughyears ago that she needed two hands to count them.

Now as she knelt there with her arms stretched out, hersword-toughened muscles began to burn and her hands began to shake.Her knees also reminded her that the sand was harsh and that beneath itwas hard, cold stone.

Then she felt a gentle touch at the back of her neck, draping somethingabout her shoulders. She smelled what might have been a mixture ofviolets and ripe apples, if this land grew either.

"Rise," Conan said.

She rose, stretching as she did so as to ease her cramped muscles. Shewas proud to see that she did not tremble, let alone stagger. She also feltanother kind of pride when she noticed that Seyganko was eyeing herrather as she had eyed him—and then she observed the frown onEmwaya's face as the woman saw where her man's gaze had wandered.

Dobanpu spoke again, this time calling another name—"Mokossa." Thegirl came from the back of the cave, and Dobanpu pointed at the cave'smouth. The girl ran to it, then seemed to halt and wait.

Conan put a hand at the small of Valeria's back and eased her along.Outside, they found that it was raining. They stopped under the overhangof the cliff to watch the rain beating the water of the lake into a vast grayexpanse of tiny dancing splashes.

Valeria examined the wreath hanging around her neck. The flowersseemed dried and living at the same time, and even had it not come fromDobanpu, she would have smelled magic about it. She started to lift it overher head, but the girl Mokossa frowned and Conan put a hand on hiscompanion's shoulder.

"Easy there, Valeria. It's safe enough, and better for you even if I lose."

"I might believe you if I knew what it was."

"It marks you as vowed to me, as this marks me the same to you."

"This" was a stout band of what appeared to be snakeskin about theCimmerian's left wrist. By some quirk of the light, or perhaps of magic, itwas in the same colors as Valeria's wreath.

"I see. Or at least I see what you are wearing. Will you tell me what youmight win or lose, or leave me to guess it for myself?"

Conan frowned. "It's not easy to tell it quickly—"

"Then take as much time as you need, and half the night besides. I havenothing better to do, of course, than listen to a Cimmerian's tales."

"No, you don't," Conan agreed with infuriating cheerfulness. Again the

urge to geld him warred with the urge to laugh, and laughter won.

They sat on a fallen log that seemed to have once been roughly carvedbut was now half-rotted and altogether covered with moss and ferns.Conan drew a borrowed whetstone from a borrowed pouch at hisborrowed belt and began to work on the edge of his sword. The blade, atleast, was not borrowed.

It seemed that Conan was to submit to the gods' judgment of him bychallenging an Ichiribu warrior to various contests. They would throwspears and tridents, duel with club and shield, run, jump, climb, swim,paddle canoes—

"No bedding wenches?"

"I doubt they could find enough, and a godless man is taboo to thewomen about here anyway."

"Is a godless woman taboo to the men?"

"You're not as godless as I am, it seems."

Valeria could think of no sufficient reply, so let the Cimmeriancontinue.

"I need not win every contest, but I must meet a picked warrior in everyone and show skill in all. Otherwise, they may name me a man lacking thegods' favor, or even a coward."

"Small fear of that." Valeria had a sense of much left unsaid, andperhaps to remain so.

But the Cimmerian was honest, she would give him that. He frowned.

"If the gods favor me through the other contests, we end on thedance-drum. There the winner has the final blessing of the gods. The loserdies. If I win, all is well. If I lose—" he shrugged "—I suppose I'll not be kingof a Hyborian realm, but that's not so great a loss."

"Not to be a king?" Had Dobanpu conjured away the Cimmerian's wits?

"A throne, woman, is something a man sits on.

You're an archer. You know how easy it is to shoot a sitting bird—or asitting king."

"I've not been in the habit of shooting at kings, but you may have theright of it." Then her light tone broke. "So, Conan—if you lose—"

"I die. You live. If you don't fight to save me or avenge me—"

"I did not come here from an Iranistani harem!"

"Nor are you going to one. You must vow yourself to a new man, but youmay choose him. I also think you may ask the help of Dobanpu and hisdaughter Emwaya. Seyganko, too, knows the warriors of the Ichiribu andseems to have a good head and heart. I'm glad I'm not to fight him. Hisfolk will need him in the coming war."

"So who are you fighting?"

"Some stout fellow named Aondo. They say he's larger than I am—"

"They've matched you with an ape?"

"The ape would be the loser," Conan said. That again hinted of pastbattles against uncommon foes, but Valeria took no heart from it. Whatshe wanted was assurance that she would not be at the mercy of theIchiribu if Conan lost—and that assurance, she realized, was not to beforthcoming.

She took more comfort from an undoubted truth— that Aondo was notlikely to best the Cimmerian in a fair battle. Was there anything she coulddo or leave undone to keep the fight fair?

Precious little, she realized, and some of the comfort washed away withthe rain on her skin. Silently she cursed her folly in fleeing south when shehad left the fort. The next time she had to flee from unwanted embraces,she would look where she was going and try not to end in a land where sheknew neither law, tongue, nor custom… and was at the mercy of another'sknowledge of all of them!

Ryku had not recognized the First Speaker among the circle of eightwho had sought to conjure the Living Wind into the globe. Yet now theFirst Speaker showed signs of vast weariness in the way he slumped on hisgilded stool. His eyes were cast on the lion's skin on the floor, but theyseemed as vacant as if he had at last become truly blind.

—Or had seen what even those who were called God-Men were notmeant to see.

As custom demanded of a Silent Brother, Ryku was prostrate before theFirst Speaker. He lay thus until the chill of the stone floor began to creepthrough his limbs toward his heart. It had to be only his fancy, but thestone seemed colder than ever before. It was as if the Living Wind hadleeched the warmth of the earth from all about it.

It was as well that his face was to the floor when that thought passedthrough his mind.

"Arise, Ryku."

Ryku could not scramble to his feet quickly enough. The chill stone hadstiffened his limbs, but he contrived to rise without loss of either balanceor dignity.

"I have summoned you here because the Speakers to the Living Windhave need of you."

"This is an honor I have not dared hope—"

The First Speaker held up a hand. Ryku saw that the hand was thinnerand paler than it had been the last time he had seen the man. It alsoseemed to tremble slightly.

"Spare me your modesty. You are not unknown to Chabano, ParamountChief of the Kwanyi." It was not a question.

Ryku judged that this moment held opportunity as well as danger. Healso judged that he should hold his tongue.

"Have you promised him anything in the name of the Speakers?" Thistime it was a question that demanded an answer.

"I have not." Which was entirely true, Ryku not being a fool.

"Will he believe you if you promise now?"

Ryku's confusion was not altogether feigned. "What am I to promise?Chabano is no fool, as I am sure you do not need telling, First Speaker."

"Indeed, I do not need to be told what I already know. You may promisehim, in my name, some part of what he has asked for but not beengranted."

"What must he give us?"

"You are bold, bargaining with me."

"I speak thus only to remind you of Chabano's ways, Master. He is asbold as a leopard slipping into a cattle pen to pluck the newborn calf fromits mother's teat. He is as hungry, also, and as fierce when balked of whathe seeks."

"If I thought that Chabano commanded spirits, I would say he has madehimself your master. A praise-speaker could not have done better."

Ryku was silent. If the old man would spend both their time speaking inriddles—

"But if Chabano commanded spirits, he would have done for himselfmuch of what he has asked of us in years past. So I do not doubt that you

speak the truth as you believe it to be."

"No man can speak otherwise, Master."

The look the First Speaker gave him reminded Ryku that Chabano wasnot the only man who could quell disobedience or strike terror into thedisloyal without raising his voice. He was tempted to prostrate himselfagain.

The First Speaker crossed his hands over a bronze medallion resting onhis belly. "You may go to Chabano, Silent Brother Ryku. You may promisehim aid from us, and ask that he tell us who has come among theIchiribu."

"The conquerors of Xuchotl, perhaps?"

The First Speaker's look said that was something best not spoken aloud.Ryku tried to look humble.

"We have… ways… of learning this," the First Speaker went on. "Yetthose who are masters of magic would know if we used these ways. Theywould know our powers, and that they might be in peril from us. Eyes thatsee and ears that hear without magic give no warning, and Chabanocommands those."

Ryku now fought to look not merely humble, but surprised andadmiring. In truth, he could admire one part of the First Speaker's pose. Amore cunning way of pretending that nothing had happened to the seeingglobe was hard to imagine.

Best I not take the First Speaker too lightly, even in this moment oftriumph.

"Indeed, Chabano has often spoken of how no bird lays an egg withouthis knowing sooner or later," Ryku said. "I think he boasts, but he surelyknows the use of spies and has them among the Ichiribu."

"Then go you and bid him use them for us," the First Speaker said. "Go,and if you return with the knowledge we seek, you may be raised to therank of Speaker."

A new Speaker was chosen from the Silent Brothers only when an oldSpeaker died, and as yet there had been no word put out of such a death.Nor would there be, Ryku suspected, at least not until it became necessaryto explain why Silent Brother Ryku was being honored.

It would be necessary, he swore. He would not fail, now that he hadbeen offered as a free gift the opportunity for which he would have shedblood, and not only that of other men!

Ryku prostrated himself again until given leave to rise, then swiftlydeparted the First Speaker's chamber.

Chnggg!

Conan's spear sank deep into the stump that was his target in thespear-throwing contest. Sank so deep, the Cimmerian judged, that itstruck a knot and rebounded. The shaft quivered so fiercely that it jerkedthe iron head from the wood. The spear dropped to the ground, kicking updust.

Conan turned to Aondo and raised a hand in salute. The Ichiribuwarrior had won the spear-casting contest, although by the slenderest ofmargins. Had it not been for that last cursed knot—

From behind Conan, Valeria strode to his side. She now wore anIchiribu waistcloth and the wreath showing her to be his vowed woman,as well as the leather bindings on her feet. Much travel, then sunny daysupon the island of the Ichiribu had darkened her northern fairness, butnot otherwise marred her looks.

"What now, Conan?"

"Today, nothing more. Tomorrow, the canoe, the fish-hunting, and thenat night, the drum-dance."

A shadow passed across Valeria's face. "Conan, I am as deft with acanoe paddle as any of these folk. More so than you, I think."

"Likely enough. But it's not life or death if I lose anything save thedrum-dance. Aondo won the wrestling—"

"Because you let him win, to muddle his wits with false hopes."

"Woman!" the Cimmerian said, looming over her in mock fury. "Do Ihave no secrets from you?"

"No," Valeria replied with an impudent smile that made her look almostgirlish. "After as much time as I've passed with you, I'd be a fool if it wereotherwise."

"You're no fool, that's as certain as anything can be," Conan said. Thena disquieting thought made him frown. "Unless you've offered to paddlethe canoe in my place?"

"And if I have?"

"Answer me. Have you offered to take my place in the canoe?"

"Yes."

"Crom! If only they had the wits to refuse—"

"They accepted."

Conan wanted to pick up Valeria and shake some sense into her, knewthat he would shake their friendship to pieces if he did, and contentedhimself with a volley of oaths. It set all the birds calling, and not a fewchildren wailing. Women, even warriors drew back from the Cimmerian,leaving him alone with Valeria, well out of anybody else's hearing.

"Did Emwaya suggest this?" he growled.

"This what?"

He struggled for fair words. "This… taking my place."

"No. She has ben not unfriendly, but we've not been among these folklong enough for me to give that kind of ear to one of them. Especially to awizard's daughter."

"You've not lost all your wits, at least."

"What mean you by that, Cimmerian?" Valeria's voice held an edge,

"If they are letting you take my place in one of the contests, it meansthey regard you as a warrior."

"So?"

"A warrior of rank."

"Better still."

The Cimmerian lost the struggle to keep an edge from his own voice. "Awarrior sworn to me as a blood-brother. Such may take another's place inthe contest. That is the law."

"I knew—"

"Woman!" the Cimmerian bellowed. "Did you know that if you do that,you are judged along with me? That your fate marches in step with mine?If I lose the drum-dance, you die with me!"

Conan had expected anything but that Valeria would throw her armsaround him, then pull his head down with a firm grip on his hair, and kisshim soundly.

"All the gods be praised! I did not know I could so easily avoid sittingand waiting to be thrown to some warrior like a bone to a dog!"

Conan decided that Valeria was actually saying what he had heard, andthat neither of them had gone mad. He much doubted that if thedrum-dance went against him, there would now be any tame submission

to death. Valeria was not so made.

But that submission had never had any purpose, save keeping her alive.If it was her free choice to fling herself into a last battle at his side, then sobe it—and the worse for the Ichiribu if they took the verdict of thedrum-dance seriously!

NINE

Valeria still did not understand much of the Ichiribu tongue. She couldread faces well enough, though, and she read in all around her thecommon thought that she was mad.

For the tenth time since she had sat down in the canoe, she raised herpaddle, letting it find its own balance in her long-fingered hands. Themorning sun gilded the drops of water that fell from the paddle blade intothe lake.

This morning, Lake of Death seemed a monstrously false name for suchfine water. The surface sparkled, emerald-tinted with flashes of azure, andrippled softly under the light breeze. Sun flashed from the rose- andsnow-hued wings of whole flocks of birds beating their way high above theisland of the Ichiribu toward the distant shore.

She put the paddle down and, again for the tenth time, gently rockedthe canoe to test its balance. It was as fine and light a dugout as she hadever known, both the inside and the bottom scraped and oiled until theywere as smooth as the back of her hand. Smoother, likely enough, with allthat she had done since fleeing that captain's embraces.

Conan was not far wrong. She might have wasted years in that dismalborder settlement, until time had taken the strength and grace from herand the Red Brotherhood would no longer have her back.

Or she might have died from a fever, from a fall from horseback, or bythe arrow or blade of some bandit unworthy to scrub the bilges of a RedBrotherhood ship. Died, without ever feeling a deck under her feet, seeinga sail swell with the wind, hearing the chant of rowers as they took a shipout of harbor—

She blinked and thrust the past from her. For now, she could live onlyfrom one moment to the next, from one stroke of the paddle to the next.Otherwise, Conan would have a mark against him, those with doubts ofthe pale-skinned strangers would rejoice, and she would have thrown herlife into the scales for nothing.

From twenty paces to starboard, Aondo bared misshapen teeth in amocking grin. Then he raised his paddle and thrust it back and forth in anunmistakable gesture.

Valeria replied in kind, biting her thumb, then pretending to throw itoverboard and spitting after it. Aondo's grin wavered, then vanished asthe onlookers onshore laughed. Valeria even heard one or two besidesConan shout her name as if it were a war cry.

Fifty paces to port, the two older warriors judging the race sat in thesterns of their canoes. Each of the judges' canoes had four paddlers,although one of the boats was hardly larger than the stout craft Aondo waspaddling alone.

Aondo, Valeria decided, was once more determined to strut and crowlike a cock on a dunghill, and much good might it do him! She had chosena canoe that she was sure she could handle over the whole length of therace. It did not matter where else Aondo might be ahead as long as she ledhim past the finishing mark!

Onshore, the drums began. The Ichiribu drums were the "talking" kind,able to send complex messages, but today they had no such task. Theywere to spur her and Aondo on to greater efforts—and their steady, deeprumble was already reaching down into her belly, filling her as if withstrong wine.

Valeria tossed her head, her hair brushed her shoulders, and the twojudges raised their tridents. When those tridents came down—

Spray jetted into rainbows as the judges flung their tridents. Therainbows had not faded when Valeria's paddle plunged into the water,driving her canoe forward.

She paddled as she had learned to, head up so that her arms had freeplay and all the muscles of her upper body could feed the arms. Aondo, shesaw, was hunched over, as if that would urge his canoe faster through thewater. His strokes were not as smooth as hers, but his stout thews madethem formidable.

There was not a spear's length between the two canoes as they passedthe first mark. Valeria already felt sweat streaming down her face andbody, and her headband growing sodden. She thanked Mitra that she hadworn only the briefest of loinguards, apart from binding her hands withleather against blisters.

The race spanned six marks, about a league or a trifle more in Valeria'sjudgment. She had fallen farther behind than she liked by the second

mark, and by then, her hair was as sodden as her headband.

She was not gaining by the third mark—halfway along—but neither hadshe lost any more ground. Aondo also was dripping sweat, and his canoeseemed to be lower in the water than it had been. Was the water splashedfrom his vigorous strokes finding its way aboard?

The judges' canoes were keeping up well, but Valeria did not expectmuch of the judges. She was many things that were strange to theIchiribu, and honor might not outweigh ignorance when it came todeciding her fate. She would do as she had done before—wager all on herown skill and strength and leave the rest to the gods.

Dip, thrust, lift, twist slightly to the other side, dip, thrust, lift, twistagain. Her thigh and belly muscles joined her arms and shoulders inshrieking protests. Dip, thrust, lift, twist a little harder this time to shakesweat from her eyes, which had begun to burn as if they were filled withhot wax.

Aondo's canoe had been steering an uncertain course for some timenow. His thrusts seemed almost frantic, but they had lost none of theirpower. His canoe was no longer settling. Had he somehow managed to bailit out when Valeria's eyes were elsewhere? Or had it been only her wishfulfancy that it was low in the water?

It was no fancy that his steering was growing still more erratic. Valeriastared at the Ichiribu warrior. In a moment when he thought himselfunobserved, she caught him staring back at her. The malice in that starechilled her blood and seemed to turn the sweat upon her into ice. If he hadany voice in her fate, she would be begging for death long before deathtook her.

Her sweat-dimmed eyes made out something else, too. Aondo wassteering a course that was gradually taking him across her bow. Beforethey reached the next mark, she would have to either back water or strikehim—and if she struck him, she would forfeit the race.

Rage did not blunt Valeria's wits. She had to surprise her opponent.Aondo was as strong as an ox, but not much quicker of thought. Shewondered who had counseled him to this treachery, doubted she wouldlearn, but knew one thing: the man was not in Aondo's canoe.

Valeria subtly altered the force and angle of her strokes so that hercanoe began to drift quite as subtly to starboard. She felt a surge ofstrength as she saw Aondo actually slow his pace, and she knew that herdeception was working. He thought she was exhausting her strength andwould have no reply to his scheme.

As they approached the fourth mark, the canoes were barely a sword'slength apart. Aondo was halfway across Valeria's bow now, paddling onlyhard enough to keep the distance. A few missed strokes and he would belying across her path like a log.

But it was Valeria who missed a stroke, by intent, but making it seemthe error of one at the end of her strength. She lost ground, but only by afew paces— then her paddle churned the water, and she shot underAondo's stern.

Aondo screamed something that Valeria doubted was praise andstabbed wildly at the lake with his paddle. It struck the water on thewrong side, and he had completed his stroke before he realized this.

His canoe swerved sharply, until it had almost reversed its course.

Valeria was clear by then, past Aondo and into open water. She did notcare if he spent the rest of the day spinning around in circles, or jumpedoverboard to be eaten by the lionfish and crocodiles. She only cared thatthe fourth mark was passing her to port, and now it was time to spend herstrength freely. She would not allow herself even a moment's doubt thatshe still had that strength.

Her paddle seemed to dive now, then leap over the canoe to dive on theother side. Each thrust seemed to raise the canoe as well as thrust itforward. Water gurgled at the stern, spray made rainbows at the bow, andValeria knew she was kneeling in a hand-breadth of water in the bottom ofthe craft.

She would not allow herself a moment to look back at Aondo, either.She was already giving the race everything that was in her. Aondo couldno longer make any difference. The world shrank ever more swiftly to theendless rhythms of her paddle strokes, the water churning past, the fifthmark vanishing astern, the sixth and last now in sight—

Aondo was there again, to port now. He seemed to have no treacheryleft, but too much strength for Valeria's comfort. Comfort no longermattered. Her world was no more than one stroke after another, andnothing else mattered as long as each stroke carried her toward the mark.

Was Aondo larger, meaning that he was closer? Valeria would not wastea single moment to even look. It would make no difference. None at all.She would dip the paddle, lift it, twist—and it had begun to seem that awhite-hot band was locked about her waist and thighs—

"Hoaaaaa, Valeria!"

There was only one voice in the world like that. Valeria did not know if

Conan was hailing her victory or urging her to greater efforts. She had notthought she had any more strength in her, but the Cimmerian'sthunderous cry proved her wrong.

She raced along in a cloud of spray, her paddle flying from side to sideand up and down, almost too fast for her eye to follow. She was onlymuscle and sinew, bone and breath, with no human senses left in her.

"Valeria!"

She heard Conan's voice again, but this time it was almost instantly lostin the din of other voices. They were shouting her name from the shore,from the lake, even, it seemed, from the sky.

"Valeria!" The Cimmerian cut through the din. "You won!"

Valeria wanted to join the shouting. Instead, she found that her mouthseemed packed with wool. She opened it, but only a frog's croak came out.She bent forward, cautiously because she feared that her eyes would popfrom her head and roll about on the canoe's bottom.

The canoe rocked and spun about. She clawed for her dagger, in thehalf-mad notion that Aondo was seeking to avenge his defeat by murder inplain sight of all his tribe.

Then a large, sword-calloused hand gripped her wrist and pulled heraround. Conan stood beside her canoe, up to his chest in the water. Withhis free hand, he plucked the paddle from her grip and tossed it into thebottom of the canoe. She saw it float.

Then she saw the cloud-flecked blue sky as the Cimmerian lifted her outof the craft and carried her in his arms toward the shore. She felt the coolwater of the lake soothing her feet and arms, and found the breath for along sigh.

They reached the shore. The servant girl Mokossa ran forward with agourd of water. Valeria sipped, fearing that her throat and stomach wouldnever be the same again. The water stayed down, however, and she drankthirstily.

By then, she could even stand, with Conan's help. She leanedcomfortably against him as the Ichiribu began shouting her name again.

In the middle of the shouting, she heard a familiar growl in her ear."You didn't have to go to such lengths to have me carry you ashore! Somewomen haven't the sense the gods gave a fly!"

It was too much effort to even think of gelding him, and as for biting orkicking him—there was a victor's dignity to think of.

Thoughts of that dignity also kept Valeria from falling senseless, aspleasant as the idea seemed. Instead, she held out her hand for anothergourd, and this time emptied it over herself.

Wobeku entered Aondo's hut with care, hands in front of him and hisweapons left at the door. Aondo was not easy-tempered at the best oftimes, and these were anything but that.

A slave girl leaped up and ran into the corner of the hut at the sight ofWobeku. She made the sign against the evil eye as she did so.

Casually, Aondo sat up and reached for the girl. She squealed inunfeigned terror as his massive hand closed on her ankle. She did not darefight, however, as Aondo drew her to him and across his lap.

"Wobeku does not have the evil eye. Repeat that ten times."

"Wobeku-u-u-u does n-n-not—aiyeee!"

Aondo's hand had come down hard on the girl's bottom. She squealedagain and tried to wiggle free.

Wobeku cast his eyes up at the smoke-reeking shadows at the roof ofthe hut. It was no concern of his how Aondo treated his women. However,he did not have much time, even if the last rounds of the duel betweenAondo and Conan the Tribeless had been put off until tomorrow.

The girl was rubbing her bottom with one hand and her eyes with theother when Aondo was done with her. She crawled into the farthest cornerof the hut and cowered there. Wobeku wasted no sympathy on her. Hadshe seen any of several women who had seriously displeased the hugewarrior, she would have called herself fortunate.

"She must go," Wobeku said.

"Who are you—" Aondo snarled. Then he frowned. "Only outside?"

"Yes. Did you think I was fool enough to come between you and one ofyour women?"

"You do not know as much as you do by being that big a fool, I mustsay." Aondo turned to the girl. "Go! I will send Wobeku to bring you back."

The girl did not seem much pleased at this prospect, but obeyed.Wobeku himself was hardly pleased at being called on to carry messagesfor this overgrown boy, whom the gods had given two men's strength andhalf a man's wits. Like the wench, though, he would obey, but out of hoperather than from fear.

"Aondo," he said when the two warriors were alone, "you were shamedtoday."

"You dare—"

"I dare repeat what all will say before tomorrow's sunset."

"Who cares what they say before sunset? After the next sunrise, no onewill say anything against me. They will be too busy burning the witch-manConan."

"You are confident."

"I am Aondo."

"Being Aondo did not make you faster than the woman Valeria."

"I know ways to slow any woman."

That much was truth. Aondo knew how to slow a woman so that shenever moved again, save when her kin bore her to the burning ground.

"I know how to slow any man. Above all, the man who will dance on thedrum with you tomorrow night."

"I need no such help."

"Who said anything of help? You are Aondo, who can win without help.What I offer is friendship."

"You, a friend to any man? I will tell all the Ichiribu that you havepromised friendship. Then they will laugh until they choke."

Wobeku grew hot, and his hands became fists. He dared show no moreanger before Aondo. He was indeed a man alone more often than not, andfew would even think of avenging him should Aondo slay him here.

"If friendship is a word that rings false in your ear, call it a trading offavor for favor."

"I do not give up Valeria."

"Who said anything of asking mighty Aondo to give up his chosenvengeance?" Wobeku assumed a look of vast innocence. "She will not beharmed, I swear it. But without harming her, I can make your victory evenmore sure than it is already."

"Suppose you did this favor?" Aondo asked. "What do I do for you?"

Wobeku wanted to dance in triumph. The trident had sunk deep. Nowto heave on the line and haul in this lionfish!

"There are many among the Ichiribu who will talk to you, but not tome."

Wobeku did not add that many of those did not talk as much to Aondoas in his presence, thinking the hulking warrior too foolish to rememberwhat they merely said. There was truth in that thought, but not so muchthat Aondo would be useless as a fresh pair of eyes and ears.

"This is so."

"It is also true that sometimes I need to know about matters that peoplewill not speak of before me. I will tell you when such matters arise. Youwill watch and listen, and tell me what you see and hear."

"Who else learns what I tell you?"

"The gods alone."

"Not Dobanpu?"

"Never the Spirit-Speaker, nor any of his kin!"

That was another truth. Aondo looked so relieved to hear that Wobekuwas not spying for Dobanpu that Wobeku knew the big man would notthink any further. The moon would turn to mealie porridge before Aondowondered if Wobeku might be spying for the Kwanyi.

"Gods! Put me on the rack rather than let me endure this!"

Emwaya made soothing noises as Mokossa rubbed oil into Valeria'saching limbs. Conan laughed. Valeria glared.

"You'll not be laughing this time tomorrow night, Cimmerian. Aondowill take a deal of dancing down."

"Not more than I'm fit for, I'll wager."

"How much?"

"What are you wagering, woman?"

This time Valeria's glare ended in laughter. "I know what you would have me wager, Conan."

"Has Emwaya taught you the art of hearing thoughts?"

"Conan, some of your thoughts make such a din a babe could hearthem, and I'm well past that age!"

"Indeed you are," Conan said, running his eyes approvingly overValeria's nude form. She might say that every one of her muscles ached asif she had been racked, but nothing of this showed on the clear skin.

"Pity you can't take my place on the dance-drum," he continued. "Youdance better than I, and clad as you are now, you'd fuddle the wits of a

better man than Aondo."

"I already have," Valeria snapped. "Or have you honestly forgotten thatthe drum-dance is man's magic among these folk? They would not take mydancing as a jest, I am sure."

Conan made a rude suggestion as to where the Ichiribu could takeanything they did not like. Emwaya seemed to catch his tone, if not hismeaning. She raised her eyebrows but could not hold back laughter.

At last Valeria—as slippery as an eel, her body laved with scentedoil—was half-asleep on her pallet. The Ichiribu women departed; Conansat down beside Valeria and rested a hand on her hair.

Drowsily, she rolled over, and with eyes still half-closed, nipped his handlightly. He snatched it away and glowered at her in mock fury.

"Oh, have it your way, woman. Anyone would have thought you cared about what happened to me tomorrow night!"

Valeria bit her lip. "Would you believe me if I said that I do?"

"Any man who believes a woman deserves to be bitten harder than Iwas."

"That would not be difficult to contrive, Conan."

The Cimmerian sat down on his own pallet and kicked off his boots."Tomorrow night we can drink late and laugh long over these fears.Tonight I'm for a good sleep."

Valeria was snoring even before the Cimmerian lay down. As Conanrolled over on his pallet, he heard a distant murmur that swelled to anangry drumming of rain on the hut.

The sky had vanished twice over, once behind the clouds and a secondtime behind the rain, when Ryku slipped through the darkness to meetChabano.

He had no fear of being tracked on such a night, save by the magic ofthe Speakers. The rain would do for any natural enemies, and the FirstSpeaker should guard against any idle curiosity by his underlings. If hedid not, or if Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker had become curious, then Ryku'shopes of realizing his ambitions would end before they were well begun.

Ryku told himself that this bleak mood was due only to the rain, not tothe promptings of spirits. Then lightning flashed, illuminating a solidfigure standing against a tree. So solid did the Kwanyi chief appear that itwas hard to tell who upheld whom, the tree or the warrior.

"Hail, Chabano. You came swiftly."

"Your message came in good time. Now I am here. Speak."

"I have news. I may promise more aid to the Kwanyi—"

"You will have no place among us for mere promises, Ryku."

"That is not my hope. You asked me to speak. Will you listen if I ambrief ?"

"You sing loudly for so small a bird."

"The honey-finder also has a loud song, and the bear does well to listen."

Chabano imitated a bear's growl, but thereafter was silent as Rykuexplained what the First Speaker wished and what he was promising.

"My spies among the Ichiribu did not swear to serve the God-Men,"Chabano said at last.

Ryku wished the spies' oaths devoured by lionfish, but aloud said only,"Then can they not swear new oaths? If they are wise enough to be yourspies, they must also be wise enough to know that the God-Men mean theKwanyi no harm."

"I myself do not know that," Chabano said. "Or do you say I lackwisdom?"

Ryku judged that almost any words he spoke now were likely enough tobe his last. He shrugged instead.

Chabano laughed. It was laughter that drowned out the rain and evenwarred against the thunder. "I do not know much about the God-Men," hesaid at last. "But you will tell me more, true?"

Ryku nodded.

"I rejoice. And my spies swore oaths to me, so they will obey even if itaids the God-Men. Did. you not know that?"

Ryku confessed ignorance.

"Then you have as much to learn about the Kwanyi as I have about theGod-Men. Perhaps more.

Remember that, and guard your tongue when next we meet."

Ryku was ready to swear potent oaths to do so when he realized that hewas about to swear to the darkness. Chabano had vanished, as silently as acobra for all that he more resembled the honey-seeking bear.

TEN

The verdant hills on the western shore of the Lake of Death had longsince swallowed the sun. Now moon-silvered clouds were swallowing thestars. A wind blew from the lake onto the island of the Ichiribu, gentle fornow, but with a hint of strength to come.

On the summit of the highest hill on the island, Conan stood on one sideof the dance-drum, contemplating Aondo standing on the other side. Bothwore no more than loinguards, leather braces on their ankles and wrists,and looks of grim determination.

At least Aondo had donned such a look. Conan had merely allowed hisface to assume its natural expression, which others had told him was grimenough for any occasion.

"You look ready to challenge the gods themselves if they give you half anexcuse," a woman had told him some years ago in a distant land. She hadintended it as praise, being one who doubted the gods' very existence.

Conan's own beliefs did not go that far. He merely doubted everythingthe priests said about the gods, and waited for the gods to speak forthemselves. As they had so far remained silent, he felt he had good causeto rely on his own skill and strength.

He took on a more lighthearted expression and studied Aondo. Theman's wits were nothing to boast of, but his look of being as slow as amired ox was deceptive. Conan had seen too much of Aondo's swiftness intheir previous contests. Also, Aondo knew the art of the drum-dance fromboyhood, while Conan's life—and now Valeria's, curse the woman!— hungupon the Cimmerian's learning it within a few moments.

There was nothing more to learn about Aondo. Conan turned hisattention to the drum itself.

It was a monstrous creation, a rough circle a good twenty paces across.The drum-frame was made of timber stout enough for building a wargalley or the roof of a temple. In the torchlight, the drumhead had therusset hue of well-tanned oxhide, but a sheen as of tiny scales hinted ofsome other origin. Knowing how many strange beasts this part of thejungle seemed to harbor, the Cimmerian refused to let this unsettle him. Ifthe drumhead would support his weight until he had won life and freedomfor himself and Valeria, he did not much care if it was made of the hide ofcreatures from the moon!

From behind the circle of onlookers, Dobanpu and Seyganko steppedforward. Conan though he saw Emwaya and Valeria somewhere in the

circle, but the crowd was too thick for him to be certain. It seemed thateveryone who could walk or be carried had contrived to be here tonight,from babes in arms to venerable grandsires.

The wind gusted, and the torches flared, their smoke coiling serpentlikeabout Conan. He smelled exotic resins and herbs, like nothing he hadencountered in the Black Kingdoms. The tribes of the Lake of Death, hewould wager, were apart even from their kinsfolk nearer the coast.

Time to learn more about them when he had won. He raised his armsand clasped his hands over his head in the signal that he was ready. Aondodid the same.

From somewhere beyond the circle of torchlight, a drumming began. Itwas not that of one of the great talking drums, this one—it might havebeen a child tapping away. But it was the ritual signal for the dancers totake their place.

Conan found the notched timber that served for a ladder, but disdainedit. Instead, he gripped the edge of the drum, flexed at the knees, andsoared onto the drumhead in a single leap.

The drum boomed like all the drums of all the war galleys in all thefleets of the world sounding the stroke at once. It seemed to Conan thatthe flames of the torches themselves froze for a moment. Certainly hecould read surprise on every face… including Aondo's.

The Ichiribu champion at least had the wits not to attempt Conan'sfeat. He climbed by way of his notched log, and only then leaped into thecenter of the drum.

Once more the thunderous booming rolled out across the hilltop until itwas lost in the darkness over the lake. Conan rode the drumhead by againflexing his knees, for now the art seemed no more difficult than balancingoneself on a ship's deck, easier than standing on the back of a horse. Hedid not expect it to remain that easy.

Wobeku watched with a sober eye as the two dancers began the seriouswork of the night. He doubted that Aondo's greater experience wouldoutweigh his natural arrogance. Nothing could keep him fromunderestimating his opponent—and against this Conan, that would befolly.

So much the better. The more Aondo owed to Wobeku, the more plianta tool in the hands of Chabano's spy the warrior would be. The more talesWobeku could bear to the Kwanyi chief, the higher his place when the

other tribe at last ruled the lands about the Lake of Death.

Wobeku patted the pouch at his belt. It seemed the common warrior'spouch, which might contain a spoon and eating gourd, a bone needle andsinew for mending garments, or a few strips of sun-dried meat and saltedfish.

It contained all of these things, to deceive the casual searcher. Belowthem, it also held the two lengths of a short blowgun and a fish-skin pouchof darts for it.

The blowgun was not the man-tall weapon of the tribes of the forests tothe south. Its range was less than half that of a good spear-throw. But itwould not need range tonight, when its victim suspected nothing.

Nor would it need to do more than pierce her bare skin for the poison todo its work. The art of keeping cobra venom potent in the air was knownonly to the God-Men, and the darts were part of their gifts to Chabano. A small part, considering that Wobeku had only three darts. Was the spellfor preserving the venom so difficult to bring about, or were the God-Menmerely being closefisted with their magic as was their custom? Yet whenone dart would do the work, three should be ample. The prey wouldsuspect nothing, and cobras were not so rare on the island that anyonewould suspect more than ill fortune, until it was too late. Too late for bothWobeku's prey and her bond-mate on the dance-drum.

The breeze now held a chill hint of yet more rain. Conan was sweatingin spite of this. So was Aondo, and the sweat of both men was pouringonto the already-smooth drumhead, causing their footing to be even lesscertain.

More than Aondo's sweat was making the Cimmerian fight to remainon his feet. At unpredictable intervals, the Ichiribu warrior would flinghimself down on his knees, or even on his belly, then slap the drumheadwith both massive hands to begin his rise. These gestures gave thedrumhead whole new kinds of movement, also unpredictable.

Conan himself foreswore such tricks. He learned swiftly that nomovement of the drumhead put him in much danger of losing hisfooting… as long as he was prepared for it, at least, which meant feet wellspread and legs ready to be either loose or rigid, as the drumheaddemanded.

The drum-dance was unlike anything the Cimmerian had done before.But it called on skills that he had honed for a good few years, until they

were as keen as the edge of his broadsword. From the yarn of these skills,he could weave victory.

Or at least he could avoid defeat. With his fine tricks, Aondo waswasting strength that Conan was saving. Yet the warrior seemed no sloweror weaker than he had at the beginning of the duel. What, Conanwondered, would be the judgment of the Ichiribu if the drum-dance endedwith both men still on the drum, unable to move a finger?

He laughed, and laughed again when he saw that this made Aondofrown. No doubt the man was cudgeling his wits to guess what trick theCimmerian might be preparing. Conan laughed a third time, at Aondo'sfolly. The man would only take his attention from his opponent's nextmove, which was the surest way to lose.

For Conan, the world had shrunk to the drumhead and the man whostood on it with him. So had his concentration on his foe always beenforemost in a fight for life, since he was old enough to win by skill ratherthan by sheer youthful strength, and perhaps with the favor of mercifulgods. So it would be tonight.

Conan leaped high, twisted in the air, came down on all fours, androlled. Rolling, he rolled again onto his hands and knees, thrust hands andfeet hard against the drumhead, and rebounded into the air. When helanded, he was standing again.

He was also close to the edge of the drum. Aondo gave a ragged roar oftriumph as he saw victory glimmering close. He, in turn, leapedinsensately, making the drumhead dance madly.

Conan deliberately allowed the movement of the drumhead to shift himperhaps a spear's length toward the rim. He was in no danger fromanything save the frame giving way. By custom, that ended the duel untilthe carpenters had finished repairing the timbers.

Aondo, however, was in danger of exhausting himself if he continued toleap about like a flea on a hot griddle without driving Conan off thedrumhead. He seemed to have forgotten an ancient law of fighting: do not,if you can help it, wager your chances of victory on something you can doonly once.

Just as deliberately, Conan shifted his footing, so that now the leapingdrumhead slowly pushed him away from the rim. The thunder of the drumwas outshouting the wind; soon it would outshout any thunder roaringdown from above. Conan wondered how the folk watching could bear thesound, and saw that they had indeed widened their circle.

Valeria and Emwaya were standing side by side now, within arm'sreach of one of the torches blazing atop poles thrust into the ground.Conan spared Valeria a glance and a wave, saw her return the wave, thenwhirled to see Aondo trying to close the distance between them.

It broke laws, customs, and taboos of every kind for one dancer to touchanother. Yet crowding close to your opponent was allowed. If it gave himless space to move, it might even give you victory.

It might also provoke him into striking you, thereby losing. Conanwould wager much that some such thought was in Aondo's mind. Yet thewarrior had his face set in a sweat-dripping mask of such ferocity that itappeared he might be ready to strike the first blow.

Conan saw this plainly, then set the notion aside. Such a victory wouldnot be honorable or give him and Valeria a sure place among the Ichiribu.Also, Aondo might be too good a warrior to die merely because he couldnot guard his temper.

If Valeria's fate had not been linked to his own, the Cimmerian wouldhave utterly rejected the notion. As it was, he would leave such a trick forwhen he might truly need to save both himself and his companion.

Aondo had closed the distance still more in the time Conan had neededto decide. Now the Cimmerian could almost reach out and touch him.Aondo was too tall to leap over, so Conan waited until the warrior leaped.

Then he stamped hard, both feet thundering on the drumhead. Aondocame down on the vibrating hide, swayed, and in struggling for balance,turned away from Conan.

The moment his opponent's eyes were elsewhere, Conan took his longestleap of the duel. He came down six good paces on the other side of Aondo.Now it was the warrior who had his back to the edge of the drum.

Conan opened the distance still more, seeing Aondo again ready to lashout in madness and fury, thereby ending his life with dishonor. Then, justas the Cimmerian thought the madness seemed to be ebbing from thewarrior's face, a woman's shrill scream pierced the drum-thunder.

Valeria was standing beside Emwaya, eyes fixed on the drum, when shefelt rather than saw the young woman move. Emwaya seemed almost tofloat two or three paces without touching the ground. As she came intoValeria's sight, the pirate saw that Emwaya's face was drawn.

Then, suddenly, Dobanpu's daughter broke into a sweat equal to that ofthe two duelists, threw up a hand, seemed to pluck something from the

air, and screamed.

Valeria drew sword and dagger with deadly speed and scant regard forthose standing close. A circle opened around her and Emwaya, as if theIchiribu wizard's daughter had suddenly burst into flames.

Instead, Emwaya was staggering, shaking her hand, and opening andshutting her mouth without making a sound. Valeria saw her eyes roll upuntil only the whites showed, then saw her fall to her knees, hands shakinguncontrollably, arms beginning to spasm.

"Snake!" someone shouted.

Valeria whirled, trying to look in all directions at once and slash topieces anything that looked remotely like a serpent. As she did so, she sawa red, swollen patch on Emwaya's hand—the hand, she recalled, thatEmwaya had used to pluck something from the air.

Instantly, Valeria altered the object of her search. She was not lookingfor a man or a weapon. Rather, she was looking for a certain cast ofcountenance. Assassins had a look that was hard to mistake for anythingelse. Assassins who had just struck down the wrong person had an evenmore distinctive look, unless they were adepts of a kind she did not expectto find among the Ichiribu.

She found a face that bore that look, a face she recognized, although shecould not put a name to it. The man was frantically scrabbling to hide anobject he held in his hands behind the women in front of him.

Valeria knew what fate awaited her and Conan if she slew an innocentfrom the ranks of the Ichiribu. So she reversed her dagger and threw ithilt-first. The hilt was of the best Nemedian artistry, with a weightedpommel intended to do just such work as she had put it to.

The man—Wobeku, she remembered his name now—saw his danger intime to avoid the worst of it. He ducked, the dagger struck a glancing blowand flew off into the crowd, and a cry warned Valeria of trouble to come.For the moment reckless of danger, she raised her sword and screamedcurses and warnings in every tongue she could command.

The Ichiribu might not understand, but they knew a madwoman whenthey heard one. They made a path for Valeria, where she wanted it. Shelunged forward just as Wobeku raised what had to be a blowgun.

Neither steel nor blowgun dart found its mark. Golden fire wassuddenly all about her, raining from the sky like water. Her blade seemedto slice deep into a thick wall of honey, and eye-searing sparks flew fromthe steel.

At the same moment, the golden fire wrapped itself around somethingsmall, which had to be the dart hurled at Valeria. It had no metal in it, letalone good Aquilonian steel; it emitted a pale green flash and was gone.

Then the golden fire arched high, forming a bow linking Emwaya's handto the blowgun held by Wobeku. It was Wobeku's turn to show the whitesof his eyes, and also to drop the blowgun and take to his heels.

The golden fire brightened until Valeria had to first squint, then closeher eyes. It brightened still more until she wanted to drop her sword andclap her hands over her face. She heard screams all around her, and hopednone of them were Emwaya's.

As the golden light poured over the hilltop, Conan was sure of twothings: Aondo had known of the treachery; Dobanpu was at work fightingit.

The warrior danced all around Conan, maneuvering the Cimmerian sothat he had to either face the light or turn his back on his opponent. Thatwould have mattered little in most fights; the Cimmerian's hearing couldall but pick out the fall of a single leaf.

Now the footfalls of his enemy were lost in a din that seemed like theend of the world: the drum booming, the crowd screaming in fear andrage, and thunder that seemed to rise from the earth as well as roll fromthe sky. Conan closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and judged Aondo'sposition from the reek of the man's sweat.

His judgment was flawed, but good enough. Aondo brushed theCimmerian's arm. In that moment, he might have gripped and thrownConan with none to see it. Aondo's wits were unequal to such a stratagem.He had been led to expect a helpless opponent, but had found Conannothing of the kind, and his own vision dimmed as well.

Then the golden fire diminished until the human eye could endure it.Conan opened his eyes, sprang high and to one side, and deliberatelydropped to his knees.

Aondo gave a bull roar, mingling fury and triumph, and hurled himselfat the Cimmerian. A gasp of horror at the broken taboo rose from allaround the drum.

Conan did not meet Aondo body to body. Instead, he dropped evenfarther, slamming the drumhead with his massive chest. Aondo's balancevanished. He tried to recapture it by flinging himself forward, on top ofConan, who turned a complete somersault that took him forward out from

under the warrior's lunge.

The big tribesman saw that nothing would save him from going overthe edge. This time his roar was pure fury. In turn, he somersaulted as heflew over the rim of the drum. He landed almost between two spear-armedwarriors rushing forward to restrain him.

They might as well have tried to restrain a mad elephant. One giganticfist broke a spear with a single blow, another stretched the other warriorsenseless on the ground. Aondo kicked the fallen man in the ribs for goodmeasure, then put his head down and plunged through the crowd.

Even the warriors gave way for him, but closed ranks again to barConan's path as the Cimmerian leaped down from the drum in pursuit. Heraised a fist, ready to add to the numbers of those lying senseless.

Valeria pushed through the crowd from the other side, with some helpfrom the hilt of her sword and a deftly wielded elbow. Then she yelped insurprise as Conan threw his arms around her.

"Gods above, Conan! You're worse than the rack or Mokossa with theoil!"

He held her at arm's length, staring into her eyes to be sure that reasonand life still burned there. Then he laughed raggedly.

"That scream wasn't yours?"

"Not the first one, at least. It was Emwaya crying out. She caught apoisoned blowgun dart aimed at me."

Conan felt strength flowing back into his limbs, but his wits seemed asslow as Aondo's. "Darts?"

"It was Wobeku," Valeria said, then continued with an explanation thatgradually penetrated Conan's understanding. By the time she was finished,he had regained not only strength, but breath.

"Where's my sword?"

"Conan—"

The Cimmerian picked Valeria up with a hand under each armpit andheld her with her feet off the ground. "Woman, I asked for my sword. Iwish to use it to kill Aondo and Wobeku. Is that so hard to understand, orhave you taken something to addle your wits?"

Valeria threw her head back and laughed until Conan had to join her,which broke his grip. She landed lightly and turned.

"Conan, here is your sword."

It was Seyganko holding out the Cimmerian's blades, belt, and sheathes.Behind him stood a half dozen Ichiribu warriors, none of them carryingless than two spears and a trident, and many carrying clubs, throwingsticks, or cords with stones knotted into the end.

Conan's first thought was that he had forfeited his life in some way, andthat they were handing his weapons back to him so that he might wage anhonorable fight at the end. Then he saw that the bleak looks of thewarriors were not aimed at him. All except Seyganko's, at least.

Conan prudently armed himself before speaking. "Seyganko, I hope Imay join your warriors in pursuing those dishonorable—"

"The Ichiribu will judge their dishonor even more harshly than you, Iswear," Seyganko said. Indeed, he swore several oaths that Conan knewwell to be highly potent in the Black Kingdoms, and several more theCimmerian did not know but which rang true.

His help in the pursuit would plainly be unwelcome. What else wasthere to do?"

"How fares Emwaya?"

Seyganko seemed to struggle for self-command. Then: "She is in thehands of her father and the gods. It would have been an easier matter toheal her had Wobeku not dropped the weapon that wounded her. It wouldalso have been child's play to destroy him."

The fallen weapon of Wobeku was something the Cimmerian did notaltogether understand. But then, the whole thing reeked of magic, soperhaps he lost nothing thereby. He resolved not to treat Wobeku ashelpless prey merely because the man was weaponless, and continued hisattention to Seyganko.

"As it stands, Wobeku has fled," Seyganko continued, "and Emwaya lieswithout suffering, but also in much danger in spite of her father's bestskill. If you think your gods have power in this land, pray to them."

Conan nodded. Seyganko lifted a hand, and one of his warriors gavehim a spear. "I swear by this weapon—this bringer of death to thetreacherous— that I will not harm you or your shield-woman. Whatevercomes of tonight, you and she may leave these lands unharmed. But ifEmwaya dies, do not think to find a friend in me, or in any who followme."

Seyganko whirled then, as lightly as a dust devil of the Kozaki steppes.The band strode off into the darkness, which seemed twice as deep nowthat the golden fire was gone.

Wobeku ran as though the Living Wind was howling at his heels. Heknew that there would be no hiding on the island; the women and childrenwould gladly join the hunt for him if necessary. Indeed, imagining whatthe women would do to him if Emwaya died nearly made him stumble.

He prayed, as much as he had the breath to do, that he would eitherreach his hidden canoe or that the warriors would catch him before thewomen did. He crossed the ridge above the north shore of the islandbefore he realized that his prayer had been answered. Now it was alldownhill to the canoe.

The easier going made it possible to trade speed for silence. It was hardto believe that any warriors could have crossed the island in time to bebeating him to the shore, but men often died from what they did notbelieve. Wobeku kept away from the trails, and from slopes with loosestones or thick brush that might betray him with the sound of his passage.

It helped more than a little that halfway down the slope the rain beganin earnest. The lightning flashed about him as brightly as the goldenspirit-fire Dobanpu had hurled.

The God of Manhood deliver him! He had missed both victory anddeath so narrowly that he wanted to howl like a hyena at the thought. HadEmwaya not caught the dart, Valeria would now be dead. Dobanpu wouldnever have spoken to the spirits for her, and her death would have beenthe end of Conan. Even had they not been spirit-bonded, clearly the twowere vowed companions, and the heart would have gone out of the bigman, leaving Aondo with an easy victory.

Had Wobeku not then dropped the blowgun, however, Dobanpu wouldhave turned the death tearing through Emwaya's body back on him! He would be dying the death of the cobra's bite, knowing—if he knewanything—that when he breathed his last, the whole tribe would becheering and drinking ale, Emwaya most of all!

He did stumble, in fear and fury, and nearly went full length on therain-slick ground. The misfortune was his salvation, though.

From where the canoe was hidden, two boys sprang up, spears heldready. They were just old enough to guard the flocks and carry the lesserspears, the bidui boys, as the Ichiribu called them.

It was taboo for a full warrior such as Wobeku to slay them, or even tofight them. Wobeku had not broken any taboos as yet tonight, as Valeriawas clanless, if not a witch. He also did not care to start making any

transgressions now. Worse things than being given to the women wouldcome to him if he slew these boys, and most of them would come after hedied.

Wobeku crept forward with his hunter's skill, using the bushes forcover, and also to protect himself somewhat from the rain still pouringdown. The thunder and rain drowned out any sound he made.

Closer to his canoe, he saw that the craft was safe, even if half filled withrainwater. A smaller canoe was drawn up on the shore next to it. The boysmust have been caught in the downpour and paddled for shore, then seenthe hidden canoe and thought it marked a secure landing place.

Bold boys, to be out on the lake after dark, especially on a night likethis, with a drum-duel being fought on the hill. They would not frighteneasily. Did he have anything with him—?

The brush crackled and crunched behind Wobeku, as if a great stonewas rolling downhill. He looked behind him, nearly fell out from beneaththe bush, and cursed aloud.

Aondo was stumbling down the hill, blood running from half a score ofcuts. He must have run blindly into a thorn thicket at some point in hisflight, for he was not only bloody, but next to naked. He held a spear inone bloody hand, and a club was thrust through the belt that was nearlyhis only garment.

The bidui leaped up as Aondo burst into the open. Both boys raisedtheir spears, and one also unslung a stone-rope tied around his waist.

"Give me that canoe," Aondo said. At least that was what Wobekuthought he said; it sounded more like a beast's growl than a human'svoice. The boys looked at the big man as if he were indeed less thanhuman, and therefore something that they might have to fight.

It happened in the space between one breath and the next. The bidui with the stone-rope began to whirl it about his head, while his comradestepped forward. He held his light spear aimed boldly at Aondo's chest,hoping to give his friend time for a good cast. Perhaps he also hoped topenetrate Aondo's madness and remind him of the taboos.

Aondo's fist smashed into the boy's face. The youth flew backward as iftossed by an ox. The sound of his skull striking a rock on the shore waseven louder than the crashing of the thunder, or so it seemed to Wobeku.

The second boy made his cast, but the rope only caught Aondo's armand the stone bounced harmlessly against the big man's chest. Aondotossed his spear to his unhampered hand and flung it. The boy died,

pinned to a tree like a mouse pierced by a snake's fangs.

Wobeku gave Aondo no time to savor victory or to lament the doom hehad earned. The smaller man burst from his cover, covering the groundtoward the shore in strides that were almost leaps.

Half-mad as he was, Aondo still sensed another's presence. Bothstrength and speed had left him, though. He could do no more than drawhis club and begin to raise it before Wobeku flung his own spear.

It pierced Aondo's belly, and the warrior's breath hissed out of him.Then he gripped the spear-shaft and seemed to realize what it was, andwhere it was.

Wobeku, meanwhile, reached his canoe and slashed at the vine rope. Itparted, he lifted the paddle and thrust at the water, and Aondo gave a crysuch as the ears of men were not meant to hear, nor likely enough the earsof the gods, either. Then the big warrior leaped from the bank straightinto the stern of Wobeku's canoe.

The canoe shattered like a stick struck with an ax. Aondo plungedunder the water, then thrashed to the surface, blood and splintersspreading around him. Wobeku flew through the air, landing headfirst inwater so shallow that he nearly dashed his brains out on the rocks at thebottom.

Aondo screamed now at the pain of his belly wound. Then he screamedagain as something vast, dark, and long slipped out of the night andgripped him around the waist. He rose half out of the water, armsthrashing wildly at what held him; he even pulled the spear from his bellyand thrust it down.

Nothing helped. Spray mingled with the rain as the crocodile thrashedits tail, moving away from the shore. Aondo went with it. For a moment,his chest and head were still above water, then only his head; thenWobeku heard a gurgle and saw nothing but a swirl of foam.

Wobeku staggered out of the water, knelt on the shore, and spewed.When he could stand, he could see only the rain and the biduis' canoe. Itwas small even for him, and would never have held Aondo, but Aondowould never again need a canoe.

Wobeku did. No one on the island, after the boys' bodies were foundand no sign of Aondo was seen, would doubt that it was Wobeku who hadcursed himself by the three deaths. Out on the lake, Wobeku would notneed to submit to any judgment save the gods'. They knew that he wasinnocent, at least of the boys' blood.

If the gods knew anything, which was a question Wobeku did not expectto have answered tonight. He slid into the canoe, tested the balance of theboy-sized paddles, cast off the vine, and pushed hard away from the shore.By the time he had settled to a steady rhythm, sign of the shore itself waslost in the rain. Wobeku was alone with the lake, the gods, and his fear ofwhat Chabano would say of this night's work.

The clay jug in the corner of the hut held good ale—almost as much as itdid when it had first arrived this morning. Conan's throat was as dry asthe Iranistani uplands, and he doubted that Valeria's was otherwise, butneither of them seemed ready for drink stronger than water.

A clear head for a fight was always as well, but had they to fear anymore fighting tonight? Conan trusted Seyganko, who had sworn oaths itwould shrivel a man to break that the Cimmerian and Valeria would notbe harmed even if Emwaya died.

Conan was not much for prayers, but what few he remembered of howto remind the gods that somebody needed help, he was muttering tohimself. Valeria had prayed aloud to all those gods lawful in her nativeAquilonia, and was now embarked on prayers to the gods of Shem andZingara.

Whether she believed or not, she was praying so fiercely that even a godcould likely enough not tell the difference. Also, Conan thought that even agod would think twice before rejecting a prayer uttered by anyone withsuch a look upon her face.

Footfalls loud enough to challenge the rain thudded outside. A warparty coming for them after all? Conan laid his sword across his knees,saw Valeria do the same, then realized that it was only two pairs of feet.The rain had slackened.

"Enter!" he called, his voice sounding like a dotard's. He pointed at thebeer jug and the cups, and Valeria was filling the cups when the grasscurtain at the door parted and Seyganko and Mokossa entered.

One look at their faces told Conan the news they brought. He leaped up,feeling as if he could dance down Aondo all over again and then huntWobeku all the way to the sea. He gripped the visitors' hands so hard thatthe girl squealed, and even Seyganko fought not to wince.

"Yes, it is true. Emwaya will live, heal, and be my bride."

"How fares her father?" Valeria asked. "I owe him my life, too."

"It will be as well if the Ichiribu need no Spirit-Speaking for some days,"

Seyganko said dryly. "This night has not ended as we had expected when itbegan."

"Meaning that Conan and I aren't dead?" Valeria snapped. Conan put ahand on her shoulder; she shook him off.

Seyganko looked genuinely ashamed. "My tongue fails me in my time ofneed. No. We wished Conan to win. But we did not wish such disorderamong our folk." He seemed to need his spear as a staff for a moment.

"Aondo and Wobeku have both fled. In their flight, they killed two bidui boys and stole their canoe. We must find the taboo-breakers, or theirspirits will curse the Ichiribu. Our fields on the island and the mainlandalike will be barren. Our cows will go dry. The fish will swim downriver,beyond our reach."

He went on reciting a litany of disasters until Mokossa boldly grippedhis arm. "Oh," Seyganko said as if suddenly awakened from a daze. "Therecan be no welcoming feast, not until the taboo-breakers are taken. But thegods will forgive us for offering you and your shield-woman companions,for this night and for any other nights as you may choose."

Conan held laughter inside; Seyganko was clearly in no merry mood.Now he knew why Mokossa had interrupted Seyganko's lamentations…and also whom she intended that Conan's partner should be tonight.

Then the Cimmerian could not hold back laughter, because Seygankowas gazing at Valeria as if she were a rather distasteful duty that he mustperform for the good of his tribe. Mercifully, Seyganko had enough senseto join in the laughter instead of taking offense.

"My thanks to the Ichiribu, and I mean no insult to their fine women,not to any of them," Conan said. "But my shield-woman and I are vowed,as I have told you. Also, we know each other's ways."

"May we at least send more beer?" Seyganko seemed to be almostpleading as he looked at Valeria.

"As you wish," Conan replied. He glanced at the door-curtain, and in amoment he was alone with Valeria. A Valeria who had, while his back wasturned, removed the waistcloth that was her only garment. He sawnothing he had not seen a score of times before… but now, for the firsttime, it made his blood sing.

He stepped forward; Valeria held up one hand. He gripped it, and shepressed her other hand hard against his chest.

"You are going to have to prove that, you know," she said as he drew hercloser.

"Prove what?"

"That you know my ways."

He laughed and kissed her, and this time, her lips opened under his."We have all night. If I don't know them at first, by Erlik's brass tool, I'llknow them by morning!" He lifted her, and she nestled against his chestfor a moment before raising her face for more kisses.

ELEVEN

Something's taken the bait," Conan said.

Valeria sat up in the stern of the canoe and reached for her trident. Shewas clad in an Ichiribu waistcloth, a necklace of lionfish teeth, and abroad hat made of leaves tied with vine to a reed frame.

Conan squatted amidships, letting the fishing line feed over the side. Hewore a leather binding to protect his hand from the flax-and-sinew line, aloin-guard, and a dagger. His sword and Valeria's, as well as her bow, layin the bottom of the canoe, wrapped in fish skin, inside oiled leather,inside waxed linen.

Neither of them cared to leave their weapons ashore on such anexpedition as today's. Nor did they care to risk them rusting or taking updampness. Wobeku might not be the only traitor among the Ichiribu, andthere were still warriors with doubts about the two strangers. The nearestsmith who could replace, or even repair their blades was at least a month'stravel from the Lake of Death.

At last the fish finished its run. Conan braced himself and beganhauling it in. Valeria crouched, trident ready, its line coiled lightly in thestern and knotted firmly to a peg driven into the bottom of the canoe.

The fish was a fighter, but Conan wasted no time playing with it. Hejudged the line would bear any strain the fish could put on it, and hauledaway with a will.

Ripples spread around the canoe as the fish's thrashing reached thesurface. Valeria's eyes roved about, watching for the first patch of scaleslarge enough to give her trident a mark. Her movements lifted her breastsin a way Conan would have found agreeable, had he spared attention forsuch matters now.

Suddenly, the fish leaped. The trident was as swift, and blood and foamtook the place of the ripples as the fish thrashed out its life an arm's length

from the boat. With Valeria gripping the tail and Conan the head, theyheaved it aboard, a grisku , as the tribe called it—a third the length of thecanoe and weighing as much as a newborn calf.

Valeria made a face as the grisku gave its last wriggle. "All that work forone of those? You know they taste like glue."

"The Ichiribu like them, so we won't have to eat it. Besides, you knowwell that the more fish we bring back, the less anybody will suspect us."

"I trust the Ichiribu. Don't you?"

"Most of them, yes, as much as I trust any foreigners when I'm nearlyalone among them. It takes few enemies to make trouble then."

"In that case, let us make our enemies fewer, Conan. You've beenhammering the idea of our fighting the Kwanyi into my ears night andday."

"Not every night, Valeria. Some nights we've passed otherwise."

She sniffed. "If I do lower myself to take a great loutish Cimmerian tomy bed, the least he can do is not to throw it in my face by daylight."

"Where would you have me throw it?"

Valeria made a vulgar gesture and gave an even more vulgar reply. Thenshe laughed. "I've no quarrel with the Ichiribu, and we'll reach the seafaster if we wait until the rains. A war with the Kwanyi seems as good away of passing the time as any."

"Better than most. If half they say of Chabano is true, his eye is on anempire. That could bring him down on my old friends toward the coast ifhe goes unchecked."

"They're not my friends," Valeria protested, but to Conan the protestseemed feeble. Like him, she was one to think twice before walking awayfrom a good fight, even more so when one owed a debt as she and he didto the Ichiribu.

Moreover—

"I've been thinking," he said. "If Dobanpu thinks it well, we can explorethe tunnels beyond the Ichiribu island. If they reach to the Kwanyi shoreof the lake, we can climb into Chabano's bedchamber some night."

"What of the Golden Serpents?"

"What of them?" Conan asked, shrugging. "With enough good men atour side, no serpent will pass. Besides, the more Golden Serpents, themore fire-stones."

"Indeed." For a moment, Valeria's blue eyes seemed to take on agreenish hue as her pirate's soul warmed to the thought of such booty.

Geyrus, the First Speaker, assumed the pose of meditation. Out ofrespect, Ryku did the same. He doubted that the gesture would deceive theFirst Speaker, but it might delay an open breach.

If the First Speaker really intended to come down from ThunderMountain to meet Chabano, only a little delay would be needed. Thepresence of Kwanyi warriors, added to his own new skills, would makeRyku proof against anything untoward that Geyrus might intend for him.

The two men remained in the posture of mediation for so long thatRyku began to suffer from both impatience and stiffening limbs. The FirstSpeaker had kept his promise, giving Ryku most of the knowledge of a fullSpeaker. What had not been taught, Ryku had contrived to learn on hisown, as well as certain arts that not even the Speakers acknowledged.

This had taken its toll of his body, however. He had gone sleepless asoften as not, endured thirst, hunger, and both great and little pain, anddriven his body to its uttermost limits. Or what he had believed were itsuttermost limits, before he began the final steps to the Speakers' arts. Nowhe knew that he had been hardly more than a youth thinking himself aman.

It seemed that the moon must have turned from full to dark and backagain to half-bright before the First Speaker broke the posture. WhenRyku saw Geyrus's eyes, he wished it had indeed taken that long, or evenlonger.

"Ryku, I am not pleased with how little knowledge of the Ichiribu youhave gathered from Chabano."

"I have been as zealous in seeking what the Kwanyi know as I have beenin studying the Speakers' arts. You have praised my zeal in the second. Iask for no praise in the first matter if my best has been less than youwished, but I swear—"

"Do not use vain oaths in the Cave of the Living Wind," Geyrus saidsharply.

That was asking of Ryku what the other Speakers hardly seemed to askof themselves. Did Geyrus mean to put fear in him by such childishbullying? Or did the First Speaker know something about the Living Windthat he had not told Ryku?

That second thought made the air of the caves seem even more chill

than common. It also made Ryku ransack his memory and knowledge forsome art that might let him find the answer to that question. He knew—assurely as he knew he was alive— that Geyrus would not tell him freely, if atall.

"If I can use no oaths, may I use my wits?"

"Your tongue has grown sharp, Ryku."

"I trust that my wits have not grown dull. I would beg the right to comewith you when you go to meet Chabano. I believe he may speak more freelyto me than to you, if he is given the opportunity to do so without hiswarriors knowing it."

"They still fear the God-Men?"

"Yes."

"As indeed they ought to," Geyrus said, rising to his feet. As always, hewas taller than one expected, seeing his many years and believing theymust have shrunk his limbs. "Very well. If Chabano thinks to trade rottenfish for fresh, he must be taught to think more clearly."

Geyrus departed, without bidding Ryku to follow. The Silent Brotherreturned to the posture of meditation, but with his thoughts very muchelsewhere.

Had Chabano found himself knowing less of matters among theIchiribu than he had expected to do? This seemed not unlikely. Doubtlesshe had spies in the herdlands and fieldlands, even on the island itself. Justas certainly, those spies might have fallen prey to the Ichiribu, or simplyfound it difficult to send messages to their master.

It would be as well to learn about this. Geyrus would not forever containhis wrath if he learned he had made a fool's bargain. If Ryku learned thetruth before his master did, he could at least flee to the Kwanyi, offeringsilence in return for protection.

Ryku doubted that Geyrus would challenge Chabano himself over onefugitive, or indeed over anything else. Geyrus was old, and his judgmenttwisted by the loss of that wretched girl, but he was not yet a fool.

Which meant that Ryku should go to the meeting prepared to use thearts of a full Speaker, so that whichever side he chose to aid would havecause to be grateful to him.

The lamp bowl held mixed tallow and fish oil, with herbs crumbled intoit. Valeria thought she had smelled sweeter middens, but Seyganko and

Emwaya seemed to inhale the scent hungrily. Conan was as indifferent toit as he was to every other discomfort, great and small.

Valeria marveled that a man could learn such endurance. But then,Conan had learned in the harsh school of a life where one endured or died.Even when he was a free youth in his native Cimmeria, its stony fields andsnowbound winters must have begun the lessons.

"Valeria and I will give the warriors of the Ichiribu any knowledge ofour fighting arts that they wish to learn in order to make themselves abetter match for the Kwanyi on land," Conan said. "You have also seenhow much Valeria knows of the art of fighting from boats."

"We have," Seyganko said. "You used the words 'wish to learn'? Not'need to learn.' "

"I have a pretty fair and wide experience of war, and much of it in theBlack Kingdoms," Conan replied. "I did not win the name Amra by sittingon a golden stool and fondling my concubines."

"No doubt this displeased your concubines," Emwaya said. Valeriaunderstood enough of the Ichiribu tongue now to smile at the youngwoman. Emwaya sometimes seemfed almost young enough to be Valeria'sdaughter, at other times old enough in wisdom, if not in years, to be hergrandmother.

"The Kwanyi are there and I am here," Conan said. "And being here, I'mnot one to insult my hosts by saying that they are children in war.Chabano has not made the Kwanyi invincible. But there are war skills thatI can teach, those that will save the Ichiribu many warriors when we meetthe Kwanyi in battle."

Seyganko nodded. "I am sure of that. Conan, I will proclaim that youspeak with my voice in teaching war skills. I ask only one favor in return."

"What is it?"

"Give over this notion of marching through the tunnels, out of the gods'daylight and through who-knows-what evil magic, to strike the Kwanyi."

Emwaya turned and stared at her betrothed. Then she spoke sharply,words that Valeria did not understand but whose meaning she sensed as awoman. Seyganko had surprised Emwaya, and she was even moredispleased at the surprise than at the suggestion.

Emwaya went on for some time. It seemed to Valeria that Conan washolding back laughter, that Seyganko much wished to be elsewhere, andthat Emwaya would slap her betrothed's head from his shoulders for aShemite brass piece.

Neither Conan nor Valeria offered Emwaya any coin at all, so Seygankowent unmolested until the woman ran out of breath. Valeria remaineduneasy until Emwaya at last collapsed into Seyganko's arms, tears runningdown her cheeks. Doubtless her anger had wearied her more than it hadhim; the poison was out of her body, but she had not yet regained herstrength.

"Conan," Seyganko said. He took what seemed half the night before hefound his next word. "It seems that Emwaya believes, as you do, in thematter of the tunnels."

The Cimmerian continued to feign a temple image. Judging that he hadgood reasons for this, Valeria sought to do likewise.

"She and I will submit this matter to her father," the warrior chief wenton. "Will you abide by his judgment?"

Conan nodded. "I've no wish to insult you, Emwaya, but your fatherlikely enough knows more of this than he has had time to teach you." Helooked at Emwaya, and Valeria saw the Ichiribu woman try to meet thoseicy-blue eyes and not quite succeed.

"I trust we've no need to wait to begin my instructing the warriors?" theCimmerian concluded.

Seyganko took Conan's meaning—that he might keep all his authorityover the Ichiribu warriors to himself if he spoke against Conan again.Valeria shifted sideways so that she was within reach of Conan, and alsofaced Seyganko.

The Ichiribu warrior, being no fool, could recognize a battle that he hadlost before it was joined. "Any oaths you need, I will give, Conan, that youmay teach the Ichiribu to walk on their hands and hurl spears with theirtoes!"

"That might be no bad thing should it make the Kwanyi laugh so hardthat other warriors could slit their bellies while they laughed," Conan said."Come at dawn tomorrow, and tell me all you know of the Kwanyi way offighting. Then I will be more sure of what the Ichiribu could most wiselylearn from me."

"We can begin that tonight—" Seyganko began eagerly, then foundEmwaya covering his mouth with two fingers in the ritual gesture forsilence. She smiled and laid her other hand on his knee.

"We will begin tomorrow, when we are all rested and fit," Conan said,and the suggestion seemed to act as a command on the visitors.

When the curtain had fallen behind them, he let out his laughter in a

roar that made the hanging billow as if in a gale. "There's a woman whohasn't been well-bedded in a while and who won't have it put off for talk ofwar!"

"And here is another," Valeria said, slipping an arm through Conan's.

"What, not well-bedded? You insult me, or was it some other womanwrapped around me like a vine last night?"

"You know as well as any man that one night is like one meal. Man orwoman, you cannot live on it forever."

He turned to her, and she rose so that he could undo the waistcloth,throwing her arms around him as he did so.

This would not last, she knew. Neither of them could long endure apartnership in which they could not be sure who led and who followed. Butfor now, she could follow him with pleasure—and not only to the sleepingmat.

Wobeku wondered that the torches did not draw swarms of insects thatwould sting and bite, whether the pests flew or crawled. It was not thetorches themselves, he was sure. They smelled and looked much the sameas any others.

The God-Men—the Speakers to the Living Wind, as they calledthemselves—must have worked magic. Potent magic, too, when oneconsidered how many insects a single torch could draw out of the jungle!That was one difference between the island and the mainland, andWobeku would have to endure it until Chabano's victory took him homeagain.

Better gnawed by insects than dead , he told himself, then cast his faceinto a form suitable for receiving Spirit-Speakers, or whatever theGod-Men were. As a fugitive among the Kwanyi, he had barely the right toask such questions; he would have a long wait for answers.

At least Chabano's wrath had come and gone swiftly, and when it haddeparted, Wobeku had not lain dead on the floor of the Paramount Chief'shut. That Aondo had been a fool, and that Wobeku had not broken taboo,undoubtedly counted for much. It counted for more that Chabano killedfewer men out of hand these days, even when in one of his famous rages.

Now Wobeku stood among the twelve warriors surrounding Chabano,and all thirteen pairs of eyes were fixed on the torchlit path from whencesix men were approaching. The newcomers wore the ceremonial garb ofGod-Men, with complete cloaks and headdresses of crimson and sapphire

feathers, loin-guards of leather tooled and gilded, wrist braces of silver,and staves that seemed to be worth a good herd of cattle each.

One of the God-Men wore the less ornate garb of a Silent Brother butbore the First Speaker's oxhide shield, with its ornaments of GoldenSerpents, eight of them forming a pattern it was best not to look upon forlong. If one did, one began to think that the serpents lived, or at least thattheir eyes glowed green.

The five companions of the approaching First Speaker divided, threeplacing themselves on one side of their leader and two on the other. TheFirst Speaker himself advanced toward Chabano. He seemed to have nofear of being within reach of so many spears, but then, perhaps his magicgave him good assurance.

What the Living Wind was, not even the Kwanyi wished to ask, lest theyreceive disquieting answers. That it made the God-Men powerful, all knewso well that there was no need for questions on that matter.

Wobeku followed the lead of Chabano and his companions in clashinghis spear against his shield, in the salute of honor to a Paramount Chief.The First Speaker returned the salute by thrusting the butt of his staffdeep into the earth—whereupon Wobeku felt as if the ground under hisfeet had turned for a moment red-hot.

Again Wobeku followed the lead of those around him; none of them somuch as flinched. Yet he noticed that Chabano seemed more wary, andthe First Speaker was unsmiling; it seemed that the man was displeased,and moreover, ready to make his displeasure felt.

"Hail, Geyrus, First Speaker to the Living Wind!" Chabano said, layinghis spear and shield on the ground. For a moment, Wobeku thought thechief would prostrate himself, but he did not even kneel.

He rose to his full height and crossed his arms on his chest.

"Hail, Chabano," Geyrus said in a chill voice barely above a whisper.

"First Speaker," Chabano said sharply, "you have summoned me. I havecome. You, it seems, are here in anger. What cause is there for thisanger?"

"You have lied to me," Geyrus said.

Wobeku was not the only man to suck in his breath. Any common mancalling Chabano a liar to his face would have thrown his life away. Hewould be fortunate to die on the spot, instead of suffering impalement orworse.

"If so, I have done so with good cause," Chabano snapped.

That seemed an equally grave insult to Geyrus. Staves rose, and thefaces under the headdresses looked more like demon-lodge masks thanWobeku found pleasant. He had sometimes wondered which would havethe victory in a contest of swiftly thrown spears and swiftly cast spells. Hehad not expected to learn the answer by being part of such a battlehimself.

Geyrus seemed to struggle with the urge not to strike Chabano dead onthe spot, and mastered it. His tone was still harsh when he replied.

"Oh. Am I worthy of the knowledge of what cause you claim for lying tothe Speakers to the Living Wind?"

"Yes. There are those in your caves on Thunder Mountain whose eyesand ears serve our enemies. It is best we find ways of speaking the truth toeach other without their hearing it."

To Wobeku, that made perfect sense. To Geyrus, however, it seemed tobe an insult almost past bearing. Wobeku gripped his spear until hisknuckles grew pale in fear of what he saw on the First Speaker's face.

Yet nothing passed the man's lips. At least not until the rage left hiscountenance. His shoulders sagged then, and he seemed to age ten yearsbefore Wobeku's eyes.

"Do you trust your own folk?" he asked, as one might ask the price of agoat.

"Yes," Chabano replied. One could almost see his chest swell with prideat the loyalty of the Kwanyi.

"Then let us go to your nearest village, and there we will see to thisspeaking of the truth. If there have been lies told—"

"Silence!" Chabano roared. Geyrus did not take offense; he seemed torealize, as did Wobeku, that the order was not aimed at him. It was aimedat the warriors around Chabano. Several of them were from that "nearestvillage," and their faces said plainly that they did not care to hostGod-Men.

Chabano's power, it seemed, was not without limits.

"Great Chief—" one warrior began.

Chabano turned and struck the man across the face with an open hand.Then he snatched the man's spear from his grip, broke it across his knee,and pointed at the ground. The man flung his shield on the jungle floorand prostrated himself on it.

Chabano did not lift a weapon. Instead, he brought one heavy foot downhard on the man's back, several times. Each time the breath huffed out ofthe man, and Wobeku saw him biting his lip until it bled.

"Be grateful for my mercy," Chabano said. "You will carry a spear againfor the war, but avoid my sight until then."

The warrior rose, unaided, for his comrades drew back from him as ifhe carried pox on his skin. Bent and stumbling like one sick or aged, helurched down the path and out of sight.

Wobeku did not watch him go. His instincts told him that this clashwas not yet done, and that the heart of the matter was still Geyrus's will.He did not dare watch the First Speaker too closely, but he tried to followthe man's eyes from one warrior to another. If Geyrus raised his staff, or ifhis eyes lingered on one man longer than on the others…

Neither staff nor eyes gave Wobeku a clue. But he was fortunatenonetheless. He was well out to the left of Chabano and so could see themen behind the chief without appearing to look at them. There were threeof them, and now one of them was breathing with unnatural slowness. Hiseyes seemed to have turned crimson and sapphire. His spear was risinginto throwing position, as if drawing his arms with it.

Then suddenly the spear leaped up. The warrior leaped with it—orrather, his death-grip on the weapon drew him with it until his feet nolonger touched the ground.

Those who saw the spectacle were mute from surprise, or perhaps frommagic. All except Wobeku.

"Chief! Behind you!" he screamed. The warning did its work. Chabanowhirled, flinging up his shield and thrusting with his spear.

The chief's spear only stabbed air. Wobeku, with more time to aim,struck home. His spear sank into the warrior's side, halfway up his ribcage. The man reeled, turned halfway toward Wobeku, and seemed aboutto laugh at the sight of the Ichiribu warrior cringing away.

Wobeku could not help it. The other's eyes were now pools ofcrimson-and-sapphire fire, and a faint mist in the same hues seemed tocling to both his weapon and his hands. Then the crimson of theGod-Men's magic gave way to the crimson of blood, pouring from theman's side and mouth. He choked, reeled again, and fell with the spearstill protruding from his side.

Wobeku knew that the man would shortly have company in death:Chabano and all his companions. Nor would Chabano seek to escape that

fate by fleeing. It would be futile. Geyrus would have his life, no matterwhere he fled.

Wobeko himself also had fled once before. It was not in him to do soagain, any more than he could have slain the bidui boys.

He was so concerned with meeting a warrior's death that he did not seeChabano step forward, perhaps with the same thought in his mind. Thechief had his spear raised, and the muscles of his right arm tautened as hemade ready to hurl it into Geyrus's throat.

Wobeku saw the First Speaker raise his staff in both hands, holding itout in front of him. He saw Chabano's spear stop as if it had encounteredthe rock of a mountain. He saw the iron point begin to smoke—and a chillhand seemed to grip his heart and bowels as he saw that the smoke wascrimson and blue.

Then he saw the Silent Brother stride up, swing his staff high in bothhands like a woman swinging a mortar, and bring it down across the FirstSpeaker's staff.

Wobeku knew in the next moment that death had come for him. Flamesshot up from the First Speaker's staff. They also rose from the Speakerhimself, as if his body were a pile of straw. They were of all colors and nocolors, without smoke but not without heat.

The leaves above the First Speaker turned brown and would haveburned had they not been sodden with rain. Common, lawful smoke rosefrom the jungle floor where the heat seared the mat of dead leaves andvines. Somehow the color of the smoke consoled Wobeku for his comingdeath. He would not die in a place abandoned by the gods.

Then a moment came when he began to think that he might not dieafter all. Chabano staggered back, dropping his spear with its half-meltedpoint but seeming otherwise unharmed. He stumbled over Wobeku'svictim and nearly fell, but two of his warriors caught him.

Three others, Wobeku among them, saw that the flames enveloped thetwo staves and the First Speaker, but not the Silent Brother. They also sawthat this did not please the other Speakers. Indeed, they were staring withtheir pale eyes at the spectacle as if it went against all they had beentaught was possible.

It very likely was. Wobeku snatched a spear from a warrior toogape-jawed and wide-eyed to tell one end of it from another, raised theweapon, and threw it.

This time he took his victim, the Speaker just to the right of Geyrus, in

the throat. The man dropped his staff, went to his knees, clawed at historn throat and the spear in it, then bent so far forward that his headdressfell off. As it struck the jungle floor, so did he, toppling onto his side andkicking out what remained of his life.

Wobeku's swiftness seemed to restore life to the other warriors—that,and a few sharp words from Chabano in the tone that meant disobediencecould yield death. In moments, the remaining Speakers were surroundedby warriors holding spear-points at their throats or stomachs. Thewarriors kept them motionless until the First Speaker was only ashes onthe jungle floor.

The Silent Brother gathered the staves from the surviving Speakers'unresisting hands, then spoke to them in a tongue Wobeku did notunderstand. He only sensed in the voice age beyond anything he haddreamed of. It held echoes of times before Atlantis, of times even beforethe gods had judged that men, not beasts, should rule the earth.

This done, the Silent Brother turned and knelt to Chabano. It seemed toWobeku that he would have prostrated himself had that not meant settingdown his armful of staves or turning his eyes from the Speakers. TheIchiribu renegade also noticed for the first time that the Silent Brother'seyes had the pallid hue of a full Speaker's.

Chabano looked from Wobeku to the Silent Brother and nodded.Respect for a chief was all very well, yet keeping those Speakers bound byfear, never mind of what, was more needed now.

"I am Ryku," the Silent Brother said. Understanding came to Wobeku.Such a name had come to his ears without his knowing what it meant. Sohad tales of Chabano's spy on Thunder Mountain, although these werewhispered. Ryku and the spy, it seemed, were one and the same.

"Hail, Ryku, friend to the Kwanyi," Wobeku said. It seemed the leastfoolish thing he could say.

"You are not of the Kwanyi," Ryku said. "Are you the eyes and ears ofChabano among the Ichiribu?"

"Before I answer that question," Chabano said with dangerousmildness, "you must answer one."

"Ask, my chief."

Chabano seemed to take the words at their value and to ignore Ryku'stone. "What did you say to your comrades?"

"I told them that if they did not swear obedience to me in all mattersconcerning aid to the Kwanyi, I would allow your warriors to slay them

here and now."

"And did they swear?" Chabano waved a hand, and warriors' handstightened on spear-shafts.

Whatever the Speakers swore, they swore it fervently and at length.Before the oath was half over, Ryku bade the Kwanyi warriors to lowertheir spears. When it was done, he spoke a sharp word and the Speakersscurried off up the trail as fast as their aged legs could carry them.

Chabano looked eloquently at his warriors, and they retreated withsimilar speed in the opposite direction. The chief, the God-Man, and thespy were alone in the jungle.

"My thanks to both of you," Chabano said. "A chief's thanks is worthmuch, and it will be worth more the longer I rule." He cast a sharp look atWobeku. "Although had you been as swift some time ago as you weretoday, you would not be here."

Ryku asked that this be explained; Chabano acceded to the request witha mildness that amazed the fugitive warrior. But then, even a ParamountChief did not stand upon rank with a God-Man who seemed to have madehimself a full Speaker upon his own whim.

Or was it that becoming a God-Man was easier than the tribes had beenled to believe? That would have been a cheering thought, had Wobekuwished to follow in Ryku's footsteps.

As his ambition was to be high among the Kwanyi when they ruled allthis land, he was not so cheered. Fumble-fingered God-Men would not beof much use to the Kwanyi in the face of Dobanpu's Spirit-Speaking.Dobanpu's mastery was no tale, and the vengeance he would wreak onWobeku would be no light one!

TWELVE

The Ichiribu and the Kwanyi took time to gird themselves for battle.This did not entirely arise because of each of their new allies, althoughthose played a part.

Wobeku found that while the warriors kept their distance, few doubtedhim. He had, after all, saved Chabano, the Paramount Chief whom all hadfollowed for twelve years. Even those who followed Chabano out of fearmore than from love knew that the Kwanyi would be doomed without him.The man who saved him had placed the tribe greatly in his debt.

Ryku was also regarded with some gratitude, but likewise with morethan a little fear. He also had saved Chabano, and moreover, had castdown the greatest of the God-Men. In so doing, however, he had madehimself a yet greater God-Man.

It was as well for Ryku that he did not go among the warriors moreoften than when Chabano summoned him. He remained, nine days out often, in seclusion on Thunder Mountain, putting the Speakers, the SilentBrothers, and the servants and slaves in as much order as his powers andthe time allowed. Had he come to the villages too often, someone mighthave served him as Wobeku had served one of the Speakers—which wouldhave saved the Kwanyi a deal of trouble in days to come, but they wereonly a tribe of stout fighters, not seers who could foretell the future.

Conan had a busy time among the Ichiribu, for all that most of themthought him favored by the gods, if not in truth sent by them.

The Kwanyi had been invincible on land since Chabano had taughtthem the art of fighting in a line, with the tall shield and the great spearthat a man could thrust as well as throw. It was not to be expected thatthe Ichiribu could learn that art, even from the Cimmerian, well enoughand soon enough to face their foes in full array.

So Conan set about teaching them how to use their old weapons in newways. They had a fair number of archers and slingers, who could gall andtorment the flanks of the Kwanyi ranks. Their fishing tridents were notdespicable weapons against the Kwanyi spear, either, if they couldcontrive to fight two warriors against one.

Valeria also taught them how to fight from their canoes with more skillthan before. What she did not know about the handling of small boats, itwas probably not given to men—or women—to know. Even the mostseasoned fishermen of the Ichiribu soon said loudly that Conan'sshield-woman and vowed lover was worth almost as much as theCimmerian himself.

"We must be the ants, and the Kwanyi the warthog," Conan said, untileven Seyganko wearied of hearing it for all that he knew it was true. "Theyare a bigger warthog than we can be. Fight them tusk to tusk, and we aredoomed. Sting them a thousand times, and the doom will be theirs."

The skill the Ichiribu showed in learning what he taught left Conan ingood heart. He would have been still more confident had the matter ofmarching through the tunnels not remained dangling in the wind.

Dobanpu agreed that if the spirits allowed, this would be a cunning anddeadly trick, that of making warriors sprout from the ground. He wouldnot say more, other than that he waited for a sign from the spirits.

He continued to demur, and Conan's temper grew short. "Is it thespirits who've turned mute?" he asked Emwaya one morning. "Or is ityour father?"

"If I knew the answer to that, it would still not help us," the girl replied."No man can force the spirits, and my father is almost as difficult to makespeak when he chooses to be silent."

"If he chooses to be silent for too long, he may be choosing the end ofhis folk," Valeria snapped. Both the visitors could see that Emwaya herselfwas uneasy at her father's reluctance to speak. Neither doubted that shetold the truth.

"He knows this also," Emwaya said, and withdrew with as much dignityas she could contrive,

"Wizards!" Conan said. He made the word sound like a particularly foulobscenity. Then he looked at the sky. The sun shone, although through ahaze that promised rain for later in the day.

The rainy season drew closer with each sunrise, and Conan was of amind to leave the tribes of the Lake of Death to their own devices ifDobanpu did not speak before the downpour began in earnest. The riverswould run high then, and the rain would make pursuit difficult.

"If you have no work before noon, let us take a canoe and go fishing,"Valeria suggested. "One of the large ones, I think."

Conan laughed. The large canoes, they had discovered, were somethingof a burden for two paddlers. But they were also broad of beam. With asleeping mat or two laid in the bottom, they made a good place for hotloving.

They paddled closer to the Kwanyi-held shore than usual on a fishingexpedition. This was not Conan's notion, still less Valeria's. It had comefrom Emwaya, who had appeared at the shore as they were loading thefishing gear and mats into the canoe.

"May I come with you?" she had asked.

Conan and Valeria had frowned. They would have more gladly beenalone, but neither wished to offend Dobanpu's daughter and Seyganko'sbetrothed. Also, Conan, at least, had heard in Emwaya's voice a hint of

something more than wishing to amuse herself on a tedious day.

"Be welcome," Valeria had said, and had sent a bidui boy for an extramat and water gourd.

Emwaya proved herself a strong if not an overly skilled paddler, and thecanoe made good time to the usual fishing spot. As Conan and Valeriaslackened their stroke, Emwaya pointed toward the Kwanyi shore.

"Can we go closer?"

This time, Conan did more than frown. "The Kwanyi are not completelandlubbers. If they see suspicious-looking folk bobbing about off theirshore, they may find a canoe or two to fill with warriors."

"I will lie down, so that none may recognize me."

"What about us?" Valeria asked. "Or have Conan and I turned your huefrom the sun without anyone's telling us?"

Emwaya might know potent magic herself, and to offend her was tooffend a master of still more potent spells. But neither she nor her fatherseemed quite as wise in matters of war as Conan could wish.

They bargained, as Valeria said afterward, like a captain and a ship'schandler haggling over the price of a galley's fittings. In the end, they haddrunk half the water to ease throats dry from talking, and agreed on whereto go. It was nearer the shore than Conan liked, farther than Emwayawanted, but would serve the purposes of both.

Above all, they could not readily be caught against the shore by canoescoming in from the lake. Canoes coming out from the land they could seein time to keep their lead, and having a third paddler would help.

"Remember, too, that I can summon aid from the island if we seem tobe pursued too closely," Emwaya said. She said no more, and Conan didnot ask further. He was still none too easy over having such as Dobanpu asa friend. Sorcerers, he had to admit, might remain friendly, or at leastharmless—but he could count the ones who had done so on the fingers ofone hand. Those who had sooner or later been deadly foes, on the otherhand—all the fingers and toes in the canoe could hardly number them .

They reached their intended spot. Conan, having the sharpest eyes ofthe three, studied the shore. It showed no sign of human presence andprecious little sign of any other animal life. Only a spit of sand withfurrows where crocodiles had basked hinted that these placid watersmight hold peril.

Conan and Valeria threw over their lines and readied their tridents.

Emwaya lay down on her mat in the bow and appeared to fall asleep. ToConan, her breathing seemed less regular than sleep commonly yielded.The way her hands spread palm-down, fingers opened, against the hull ofthe canoe also hinted of an unrestful mood.

To the Cimmerian, she seemed to be listening for something. What, hedid not know. Remembering that the tunnels might well honeycomb thebottom of the lake, holding the-gods-knew-what ancient evil, he chose notto try to guess.

The sun climbed to its peak, then began sinking. No fish had taken thebait. Indeed, Conan had seen no sign that anything at all lived in this partof the lake. That was not an agreeable thought, but one he kept to himself.Valeria, easier in her mind, had actually gone to sleep.

Suddenly Emwaya sat up, brushing tangled hair out of her eyes, onehand gripping the side of the canoe. She looked wildly about her, thenseemed to discover something off to port. Conan looked where she did, butsaw nothing save the lake's surface, unrippled by even a breath of wind ora leaping fish. He was still staring when Emwaya sprang up, threw off herwaistcloth, and plunged over the side of the canoe.

Conan's roar would have stunned any fish within a good distance. Itwoke Valeria. Instantly alert, she took in the danger at a glance. Sheclutched the anchor stone, wriggled clear of the coiled line, then flung thestone overboard. "Two will be better at finding her than one, Conan. Thecanoe can fend for itself."

The anchor line hissed as it ran out, but when it reached its end, thecanoe still drifted freely. Conan looked into the lake, sensing a depth therehe had never before encountered. A depth into which Dobanpu's daughterhad plunged, and into which Conan and Valeria had to follow her if theywere to—

Emwaya's head broke the surface. In a few strokes she was alongside,pulling herself half out of the water. Drops sparkled in her hair, sleekeddown from the dousing, and glowed on her shoulders and breasts. Hercountenance took away any thoughts of her beauty, however.

"Come and see for yourselves," she said. "Be warned. You will not likewhat you find."

"My life's been full of unpleasing sights and it's not over yet," Conansaid. He swung his legs over the side of the canoe, slipped into the water,then held the craft steady while Valeria dove over the side.

"Stay close to me," Emwaya ordered when Valeria surfaced. "It is my

intent to protect you from what lies down there."

Conan could not help but feel that he would rather be sure of more thanher intent. But Emwaya had at least this virtue, rare in magic-wielders:she would not promise miracles.

Conan filled his lungs and plunged under the surface, Emwaya behindhim and Valeria in the rear. They were a canoe's length below when Conansaw what Emwaya meant.

It was as if they were suddenly swimming through a vast globe of liquidcrystal. The water was utterly transparent, utterly without color, all theway to the bottom of the lake.

That bottom, Conan judged, had to be twice the height of a ship'smainmast below them. No wonder the anchor had not found purchase.Indeed, he could see the anchor stone dangling uselessly from its line, wellclear of the bottom.

In that transparent void, nothing moved. Nothing lived, either—not thesmallest fish, not even a scrap of the weeds that choked some portions ofthe lake. Conan looked down at the bottom.

It, too, was bare of life. But it was not featureless. Across theCimmerian's field of vision ran what looked like a deep trench. Into thattrench had tumbled blocks of stone that showed the unmistakable signs ofhuman shaping. Even from high above, Conan saw that much. He alsothought that he saw carved on some of the stones the writhingserpent-shape he had seen rather too often in the tunnels.

That was as much as he could fathom before a burning in his lungs toldhim that it was time to seek air. He kicked toward the surface, andEmwaya and Valeria followed.

When Conan broke into the sunlight, Valeria was there before he hadfinished taking his first deep breath. Emwaya was nowhere to be seen, andas Conan filled his lungs, he began to think of diving back down to findher.

"Valeria, if Emwaya's in trouble—"

"She'll need us both even more now. And remember, I owe her my life."

"True enough. I was thinking more of the need for one of us to reach theisland and tell of what happened."

Valeria looked less out of temper and seemed about to climb into thecanoe when Emwaya broke the surface. Her arms flailed about wildly, andher breathing was a desperate rasp. Conan and Valeria each gripped an

arm and upheld her with her head clear of the water.

The panic left her eyes as breath filled her lungs again. She lay back inthe water, trusting her friends, and her gasping turned to steadybreathing. At last she slipped out of their grasp and climbed into thecanoe.

"What is it, Emwaya?" Conan asked.

"My father would know—would say it—better. But… under the lakebottom is one of those tunnels."

"That's the trench that collapsed?"

"Yes. But—in the tunnel—somewhere beyond where it collapsed, there issomething."

"A flooded tunnel, I'd wager."

The jest seemed to frighten Emwaya. "Do not speak lightly of suchmatters, Conan. I—it seems to me that what is there lives."

"How can that be?" Valeria asked. She had finally caught the sense ofthe conversation. "Everything else in the water for a good thousand pacesseems to be dead. Worse, driven away."

"Yes. What is in the tunnel—it lives by eating the— the word is taboo,but will you understand 'life-force'?"

"The life-force of everything that comes close to it?" Valeria had herhand on her dagger as she spoke.

"Such—beings—have lived. We, my father and I, thought they were alldead."

"It seems that at least one isn't," Conan said briskly. He picked up apaddle. "My thought is, let's return to the island and tell your father, if hehasn't already smelled it out for himself."

"I should dive again, to learn more of what it might be," Emwaya said.

Valeria hugged the Ichiribu woman. "You barely reached the surfaceafter your second dive. Go down for the third time and it won't take anyancient magical monster to eat your life-force. You'll drown, and we willbe left to explain to your father and Seyganko. I'd rather fight the monster,myself."

Valeria's words were clumsy and her accent harsh, but Emwayaunderstood the sense of them, and the goodwill in Valeria's embrace."Then so be it," the young woman said. "Let us be off, before it senses us."

It was not the largest of the Golden Serpents, but it was the last and theoldest. It and one other had outlived all the rest of their kind, for themagic in the burrows they had found beneath the lake had changed them.

They had once eaten flesh. Now they ate the life-force that animatedflesh, even including water-plants. They could draw it from a creaturebeyond the sight of their jeweled green eyes, and with it, feed their ownstrength.

Then it came about that the other ancient serpent grew weary, and itsown life-force began to ebb. The last of the Golden Serpents had no senseof mercy, or of any human notion. It knew only that if the other wasallowed to die, its life-force would not feed the one who survived.

So the Golden Serpents fought, and the last one killed its comrade. Thelife-force entered it, and it found new strength. But the battle had madegreat disorder in the magic that bound the tunnels, holding them up andlighting them. A long stretch of tunnel collapsed. Yet the magic heldstrongly enough that water did not pour in and drown the last of theGolden Serpents.

But the tunnel was fallen, and to find a way back through it would meandigging through much rock. The Golden Serpent was not a keen-wittedcreature, but it knew that neither its strength nor its teeth would be equalto that task. So it rested, drew life-force from the creatures of the watersabove, and from time to time sought a way around the fallen stones.

It found one site that seemed likely to be easily made large enough forpassage. But there was no trace of anything living, of anything that wouldrepay the effort to open the way.

At least not at first. Then a time came when the Golden Serpent sensedlife-force again in the tunnel—strong life, too, like that of the two-leggedcreatures who had cast the ancient spells on these tunnels. It was so faintthat the creatures must be far away.

But if life had come once more into the depths, it would not leave. TheGolden Serpent worked at the barrier so that it would be easily breachedwhen there was prey worth having on the other side. They would walk upto the barrier and then there would be no escape. There would, however,be new strength for the Golden Serpent. Strength, perhaps, to let it leavethis hiding place and be abroad in the world again, where life-force couldbe had everywhere.

Even those days might come again when the two-legs brought livingcreatures to the Golden Serpent, that it might feed on flesh. To have both the living flesh and the life-force from it— If one could use the word

"ambition" of a creature without human wits, one might say that this wilyscheme was the Golden Serpent's greatest ambition.

As he hauled the canoe onto the shore, Conan noticed that there werefewer people about than usual. He found nothing amiss in that, until hesaw that the same was true all along the path leading up to the village.

When he saw what seemed half of the tribe around the hole where thehearthstone had been, he knew that something was wrong. Emwaya hadbeen sweating and tight-lipped all the way up from the shore, but Conanhad taken this as weariness after her strenuous swimming. Now hesuspected worse.

He knew worse when he saw women and children loading stones andearth into baskets, and fanda warriors carrying the loaded baskets to theedge of the village. To ask a fanda warrior on duty to perform women'swork could mean a death-duel, or at least a harsh judgment from thecouncil of the tribe. Yet here was everyone old enough or young enough tostand on their feet unaided, digging out the shaft which led to the tunnels.

"I think Dobanpu has spoken," Valeria said, almost whispering.

"Likely enough," Conan agreed. "Are you game for another little ramblein the depths?"

"To go hunting Emwaya's life-force eater?" She looked both weary anddisgusted with herself. "Ah, well. I have heard they have a proverb inKhitai: 'Be careful what you wish for. The gods may grant it.' It seems wewished a trifle too hard for the opening of the tunnels."

"It's done past undoing," Conan said. He unbuckled his belt and handedit and his weapons to Valeria. "Take these to the hut. I've some knowledgeof this kind of work that the Ichiribu may find handy."

THIRTEEN

The last of the fifty warriors vanished into the jungle just as dawntouched the hills to the east. Wobeku looked after them, his face set. Hedoubted that he would deceive Chabano, and indeed, he did not.

"So fearful of the lives of men not of your tribe?" the chief asked. Thenote of mockery was plain. So was his real intent.

"The Kwanyi are my tribe now," Wobeku said. "Does its chief doubtoaths sworn to him in the presence of Ryku the First Speaker?"

"No."

There was nothing else that Chabano could say. He might doubt Ryku,as Wobeku certainly did. To put these doubts into words that othersmight hear was not a chief's wisdom.

"I trust the men you are sending against the herdlands and grainlandsof the Ichiribu," Wobeku said. "They will do the work of far more thantheir numbers in confusing the enemy. They can neither lose those landswithout starving, nor defend them without so many of them at hand thatthey can defend nothing else. No, what grieves me is that I cannot go withthem."

"You are needed here, Wobeku." Left unsaid was that Wobeku was notyet so trusted by the Kwanyi warriors that he would be safe out of thechief's sight.

"I was a bidui boy for years, in the herdlands," Wobeku insisted. "Then Iwas of the fanda that guarded the grainlands. I know every hut, everyvalley, every spring in those lands. If I went, even as a simple guide, themen you have sent will do better work. More of them will also live to boastof it to their women."

"Wobeku, when we have won, there will not be enough women to hearall the boasting we shall do. Nor will there be enough beer to keep ourthroats wet for it."

Wobeku knelt, rose when dismissed, and turned away. Not until he wasout of the chief's sight did he dare make even the smallest gesture ofaversion.

Chabano might tempt the gods. That was a chief's right. Wobeku wasno chief, and much doubted that he ever would be, even if Chabano cameto rule all the lands to the Salt Water. He had dreamed of such thingswhen he had agreed to serve Chabano, but those were the dreams of ayounger man.

Now he had seen more years, and more truths about the world. Wobekuwould be quite content to end his life with sons to sing the death-song forhim, women to wash his body, and cattle and fields enough to provide afeast for his friends when the smoke of his burning had risen to the gods.

He thought he would ask for the woman Mokossa as his first prize of thevictory. She seemed not only a pleasure to the eye, but intelligent andhealthy, a breeder of worthy sons.

Conan was inspecting the warriors of the tunnel band when a bidui boy

came to summon him to Seyganko. From the boy's face, it was urgent thatthe Cimmerian lose not a moment.

He motioned to Valeria, and she laid her pouches on her shield andover. Even after a night spent with little sleep, Conan took pleasure inlithe grace and sure movements. He took even more pleasure inknowledge that she would be at his back when they plunged intomagic-haunted passages beneath the lake once again.

ranherthethe

"Valeria, can you finish my work here? Will you see that all the menhave what they were ordered to bring and are sober, not astray in theirwits and the like?"

"I think that only a drunkard or a madman would have offered himselfto this quest," she said with a wry smile.

"Or men who think Dobanpu speaks the truth," Conan said.

"I am surprised to find you among them," Valeria whispered.

Conan shrugged. "Call me one who has not caught Dobanpu or hisdaughter in a lie as yet. That puts them leagues ahead of most of thesorcerers I've met." He patted her shoulder. "Just pretend to know whatyou are doing—"

"The way you do on the mats?"

"Woman, was it my pretending that made you howl like a she-wolf lastnight? Half the village heard you, or so I've been told."

Valeria made a sound that was half curse, half laugh, and turned away.Conan saw her bare shoulders quivering as silent laughter took her. Thenhe hurried off to Seyganko.

He found the war leader on hands and knees beside an upturned canoe,studying the bottom as though the secrets of the gods, or at least of victoryover the Kwanyi might be found there.

Seyganko seemed drawn with doubt as he led Conan aside. Part of ithad to be the burden of leading so many men into a war that neither theynor their tribe might survive. Conan was not vastly older than Seyganko,but he had borne that burden more often than the other, and knew that itgrew no lighter with the years.

The other part of Seyganko's unease came out swiftly. "We have seenKwanyi warriors in the forest on the edge of the herdlands and grainlands.Goats have been found slain, and at least one herdsman has vanished."

Conan nodded. This was a matter of the higher art of war, of which heknew more than he cared to admit, less than he wished. What he both

knew and could admit to, however—

"Never fight a war believing that the enemy will wait for you to descendon him like a chamber pot from a high window. Chabano seeks to drawwarriors away from the attack on him."

"He will do so if we are not to leave our herds and fields defenseless."

"Herds can walk, can they not?"

"Yes, but—"

"Send enough warriors to protect the herdsmen while they drive theherds and flocks south into the hills by the river. Then the Kwanyi willhave to make a two-day march across open ground to come at them. Youhave archers, and they do not. How many of the Kwanyi do you think willreach the hills alive?"

"Ah." Seyganko's smile was brief. "But the fields are not yet harvested. Ifthey are burned—"

"And are the burners to be allowed to do their work without havingtheir throats slit by night?" Conan asked, acting more patient than he felt.He hoped that the burden of leadership had not fuddled Seyganko's wits.

"That also can be done," Seyganko said. This time, his smile lasted."Some of the grain, indeed, we can harvest and carry off to feed the herdsand flocks. We shall eat it in one form or another, and perhaps also theherds and flocks of the Kwanyi."

Conan clapped Seyganko on both shoulders, and the two menexchanged vows to guard each other's women if one of them did notsurvive the war. Then Conan returned to the shaft more swiftly than hehad gone, and just in time to see Emwaya fall in line with the warriorsabout the hole.

Conan rolled his eyes up to the sky, muttered something that mighthave been "Women!" and frowned at Valeria. She shrugged and made agesture eloquent of the futility of arguing with either her or Emwaya.

"Very well," Conan growled. He turned to face the troop, forty stoutwarriors and Emwaya.

"I'll go down first. Anything that will support my weight or let me passwill be enough for any of you. Aondo was the only one among you biggerthan I, and he's now food for the crocodiles."

"I never thought I'd feel sorry for a crocodile," a warrior called, "but thecreature's doubtless died by now."

The men's laughter was good to hear. "No one else start down until I

call and the ladders and ropes are in place," Conan added. "If I catchanyone using the bracing timbers for a ladder, I'll pluck him off themmyself and throw him down. Then anyone who slips will have a softcushion on which to land!"

The men were still laughing as Conan knotted the rope about his waistand began his climb down into the darkness.

It had come again, the presence that meant both flesh and life-force forthe Golden Serpent. It was, as far as the serpent could judge, in the sameplace as before. But it seemed stronger, as if the creature were larger.

Or could there be more of the two-legs? Were they coming down fromabove to offer themselves to the hunger of the Golden Serpent? Or couldthey perhaps be coming down to hunt the Golden Serpent itself?

The serpent did not have a mind that could hold thoughts shaped intosuch words. But it knew the difference between prey and enemies.

It also knew that when the time came for it to strike, even those whocame to hunt would find themselves the hunted. This had been so for aslong as it could remember—and those memories went back to before itlived in these burrows far below the earth.

One of the warriors, with instincts sharpened in the jungle, hunting andfighting, began gathering up the fallen clods of earth. Conan held up ahand to stop him.

"Leave be, friend. There are no Kwanyi down here to track us by whatwe leave behind. If anything lives down here, it will have other ways offinding us. Save your strength to see that we find it first."

The magic light still illuminated the tunnels. It seemed dimmer,though. Or was that merely because the light below the stairs had diedalong with their guardian spells? Farther along the tunnel, the glowseemed as bright and unnatural as ever.

Conan and Valeria were the only ones of the band who looked to be atease. The Cimmerian saw hands clenched on spears, or fingering amulets,or even held behind backs to make gestures of aversion in the hope thatthe Blue-Eyed Chief; as they called him, would not see.

Conan coughed dirt and dust from his throat and stood before the men."I won't say there's nothing to be afraid of. That's calling you fools, whichyou are not. What you are is stout warriors of the Ichiribu, a folk who are

among the best fighters I've ever seen."

That would not pass any spell of truth-sensing, but nobody down hereexcept Emwaya was fit to cast one, and she would hold her peace.

"Watch where you put your feet. Hold your tongue and send messageswith your hands. Drink lightly of your water, and eat sparingly. Do notwander off, even if you think you see a whole kingdom down that sidetunnel.

"Remember above all that surprising the enemy doubles your strength.We'll be surprising the Kwanyi by coming from a place they don't evenknow exists. Imagine what that will do for our strength!"

The warriors imagined it, and the thought seemed pleasant. They werestill looking above and to their rear as they formed their line of march, butthey were also smiling. All except Emwaya.

The Golden Serpent set its teeth into the first of the stones in its pathand began dragging it to one side. It sought to do this quietly, knowingthat most of the prey beneath the earth were keen of hearing.

Except for the two-legs, of course. Its memories of those were not assharp as of beasts who had shared the burrows with it more recently. Itdid remember that the two-legs were nearly blind without light, andalmost deaf under any circumstance.

If the flesh and life-force it sensed belonged to two-legs, it could workswiftly. The stones could be moved about until, at the right moment, theserpent could strike even more swiftly. Again, the thoughts of the GoldenSerpent did not take those exact words, but one such as Emwaya wouldhave interpreted them so.

One such as Emwaya would also have discerned that the work of theGolden Serpent was agitating the spells in the tunnels beneath the lake.The agitation spread out like ripples around a thrown stone, to reach faralong the tunnels in all directions, even to the shores of the Lake of Death.

Chabano was entangled with one of his slave women when themessenger entered. He intended to finish with the woman; then he sawthe messenger's face. The man was a proven warrior, a leopard-toothwearer, and what could give him such a countenance could not be a lightmatter.

He slapped the woman on the rump. "Go, and swiftly."

The woman looked stricken, perhaps with disappointment, andcertainly with fear. Displeasing Chabano had meant death to slave women,even in the past year.

"Go!" he shouted and raised a hand for a less gentle slap. "It is not yourfault that the gods have sent bad news!"

The woman could not depart swiftly enough. Even her necklace of beadsand her waistcloth remained behind. Chabano sat up and glowered at thewarrior. As befitted one of his rank, the man did not flinch.

"The earth has cracked in two places along the shore."

"I felt no earth-trembling."

"Nor did anyone else, my chief. I have sent for your principalwarriors—"

"Wobeku?"

"No."

"Send for him at once!" The man turned to flee, now at last frightened."Wait!" Chabano commanded. "How wide are the cracks?"

"One might be natural. It is no deeper than a man's height and no widerthan a boy's arm. The other is wide enough to swallow an ox, and no onecan see the bottom. Yet…"

The man licked his lips. Chabano felt the urge to strike him but knewthat would only make him more fearful.

"If they cannot see the bottom, what can they see?"

"Worked stone, perhaps—perhaps stairs ."

" Stairs ," echoed Chabano. He stood and girded on his loinguard, thenpointed to his headdress. The warrior handed it to him, likewise spear andwar club.

Accoutering himself gave Chabano time to think. There were legends ofcities beneath the lake, or even below the jungle… and there wasDobanpu's power, no legend. Yet if the legends held a grain of truth, themagic of those old cities had made Dobanpu's magic seem that of a child.

This was not the Spirit-Speaker's work, likely enough. But it smelled ofmagic, and in matters of magic—

"Go and summon Wobeku to the council. Then you yourself go toThunder Mountain and bear the news to Ryku. Take warriors you trustwhen you go to the mountain, so that if Ryku wishes to come among us, hewill have proper guarding."

And so that any treachery he may be devising can be seen at once.

The messenger thumped his head five times on the floor, then ran as ifall his kin would be impaled if he slowed.

Alone, Chabano took down his finest shield, the one with strips of goldand ivory woven into the ox hide. It soothed him to feel the richness underhis hands, and his thoughts now came swiftly and clearly.

Gods or men might have opened these cracks. Both fissures would bearwatching, and he would set warriors to that task. Meanwhile, the greaterpart of his warriors, as well as Ryku, would draw back to the slopes of themountain. Then when the enemy showed himself, it would be time tostrike—with Ryku's command of the Living Wind, or with the spears of thewarriors, as might seem best.

A battle was certain, and in Kwanyi lands, which Chabano had hoped toavoid. But there was this to ease his mind: the lion bites more easily onewho thrusts his head into the lion's jaws.

FOURTEEN

Beyond where the light began again, the tunnel broadened so much thatConan's band could trot four or five abreast. A spear held upright wouldhardly touch the ceiling, and the floor was of the familiar sullen, grayishrock, without beauty but as smooth as marble.

Conan cared for none of this. Such spaciousness hinted that they werecoming to the heart of whatever lay beneath the Lake of Death. That alsohad to be the heart of whatever magic had for centuries kept the earthfrom taking back this underground maze.

The Cimmerian dropped back to speak to Emwaya, who was keeping upwith the warriors, for all that she seemed to be sleepwalking for longstretches. She was so when Conan fell in beside her. He matched his strideto hers and left her in peace; no good ever came of disturbing even themost benign sorcerer at work.

After time enough to consume a small joint of mutton, Emwaya shookherself like a wet dog and looked at Conan with waking eyes. Then shenodded her head.

"It lives, and it is ahead of us. I think it has grown stronger than it was."

No need to ask what "it" was, or if it was dangerous. The life-force eaterwas about the only living thing that Emwaya would be sensing, and likelyenough the thing most to be feared. But to forty warriors, a Golden

Serpent—or one of those beasts that were kin to both dragon andrhinoceros—would be only healthy exercise.

Conan hurried back to the head of the line. Seeing him hasten thus,some of the warriors quickened their pace. He drew his sword and held itat arm's length across the front rank of Ichiribu.

"Pass that and you may get the flat of it across your thick skull!" hesaid, pitching his voice to carry without being loud. Even so, it raisedechoes that made a few men look uneasily about them. It also caused theeager ones to slow their pace.

"Well and good," Conan said. "This tunnel may go straight under thelake to bring us out in the quarters of Chabano's women. It may also windlike the trail of a drunken crocodile. Reckon that we've a good way to go,and guard your wind!"

After that, Conan had no problem with the over-eager and was able tofollow his own advice, stalking along in silence. Nothing seemed to hint ofdanger, but his eyes were never still and his hand never far from the hilt ofhis sword. From time to time, he also looked back to see if Emwaya hadsensed anything else untoward.

The band's pace was that of the Ichiribu warrior when the ground waslevel and endurance rather than great speed was most urgently required.Conan judged that they must have covered a good two leagues before theyhalted for a brief rest.

The Cimmerian set guards and put those warriors carrying gear—ropes,hooks, torches, and heavy hunting spears—to inspecting their burdens.The others he allowed to sprawl at their ease. A black look or twodiscouraged broaching water gourds, and no one as yet was hungry.

"We must be a good halfway to the Kwanyi shore," Valeria whispered. " If we are marching in the direction I think we are."

"I think we're on that route myself," Conan said. "Of course, we couldboth be—"

He broke off as a sound that was neither sob nor scream but hadsomething of both in it reached him. He whirled to see two warriors dropweapons and shields and leap to support Emwaya. Her legs weretrembling, unable to hold her upright, her eyes were closed, and as Conanwatched, she clapped both hands over her ears.

What she was hearing might have been heard with the ears of hermagic. The next moment, everyone heard it with the ears of his body.

Stones cracked and crumbled, then fell with crashes that filled the

tunnel with thundering echoes. Emwaya was not the only one now withhands held over ears.

Conan's bellow rose above the stone-noise and raised echoes of its own."The next man who drops a weapon, I'll give it back sideways!" Warriorshastily slung shields and raised spears.

Then, without orders, they began taking battle formation. The baggagebearers dropped their loads and formed a circle around the gear. Emwayawas half carried, half dragged into that circle and deposited with littleceremony on a rolled-up rope ladder.

"See to Emwaya," Conan said. That was his last order for a time. Noneof his words could have been heard, and indeed, none were needed.Something far too close and far too large was slithering over rock, hissingas it came.

The messenger ran up to Seyganko as if his loin-guard had caught fireor a leopard swam the lake to pursue him. Before the man could speak,Seyganko saw what none among the Ichiribu had seen in manyyears—Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker running.

He ran up to Seyganko at a fine pace for a man his age and waited onlylong enough to catch his breath before speaking. "We must launch thecanoes at once. There is more danger than I had thought."

"You do not think, father of Emwaya, if you believe we can launch thecanoes now. Hardly half of them are loaded, and more than a third of thewarriors are not yet on the shore."

"Then we set out with what is ready to hand."

Seyganko realized the depth of his anger only when he felt the shaft ofthe trident in his hand crack. He forced himself to speak more calmly.

"Who is in danger?"

"Those who have gone below. I must be closer to them than I am here,to aid Emwaya against the peril."

"What peril?" Seyganko did not have it in him to call his betrothed'sfather a liar, as Dobanpu did not have it in him to lie. But he would becursed if he would fling the tribe half-ready into battle without knowingwhither he flung it!

"What lives beneath the lake—where Emwaya found no life—it lives,wakes, and moves upon those who have gone below. Emwaya will need myaid if the warrior's weapons are to slay it."

Seyganko knew that these near riddles were as much as he would hearwithout forfeiting time he and his warriors might not have. Still—

"Dobanpu, take a canoe and six of the strongest paddlers ready to hand.Guide them where you wish. I will order the others to gather as swiftly aspossible, then come after you with two more canoes."

Dobanpu also seemed to realize that he could expect no more. Hedeparted at a brisk trot.

Seyganko raised his voice, calling the messengers and drummers of the fanda to him. As he ran down to the shore, Dobanpu's canoe was alreadypushing out into the lake, and the drummers were hard at work. The rattleand boom of the talking drums rolled across shore and water as Seygankoleaped into a canoe and seized the nearest paddle.

Twenty or thirty picked warriors would be enough to guard Dobanpuagainst any human foe. It was drawing on toward sunset, and the Kwanyifeared the lake even more by night than by day.

As for other foes—if Dobanpu was not their equal, then the fewerwarriors the Ichiribu lost, the better. The tribe would not long outlivetheir Spirit-Speaker, but the warriors could still take a good toll ofChabano's men. That would give them honor among the gods, and thethanks of those tribes downriver whom the Kwanyi might then be tooweak to conquer.

Seyganko's paddle dipped deep as he raised his voice in the oldest andmost potent of the Ichiribu war chants.

Ryku heard the signal drums from the lookout post on what the Kwanyicalled Great Gourd Hill. It neither grew large gourds nor had the shape ofone, so Ryku had always wondered how it came by its name.

It was, however, the perfect spot for a keen-eyed watcher to look all theway to the island of the Ichiribu. With a trifle of aid from Ryku, some ofthe watchers had gained more than human sight; they could even seecanoes putting out from the island.

This, the drums told him, was just what was happening. Ryku placedthe wooden tablet he had been studying in the herb-steeped deer hide thatprotected it from both damp and magic alike. He wrapped the hide aboutthe tablet and put it in the carved chest that stood in one corner of hischamber. That chest was the one thing he had brought with him when hecame to Thunder Mountain. It was a gift from the man whom he hadcalled Father, and always made him feel less clanless and kinless.

Now the very gods could not do that. He was First Speaker to the LivingWind, for all that he seldom used the title. His clan and his kin were alikenot of this earth, and thus it must be. Had he risen to the rank of Speakerby other means, he might have felt some kinship with the other Speakers,but as matters stood, they also were alien and untrustworthy.

Ryku stepped out of his chamber, touched the pouch at his belt for goodluck, and unbound the reed curtain over his door. The hanging fell backacross the door as he turned and walked away, toward the Cave of theLiving Wind.

The slithering ended in a crash that sounded like a battering ramstriking a stone wall. In the next moment, Conan knew that his ears hadnot lied.

From a side tunnel to their rear, stones larger than a man rolled in dustand thunder. Smaller stones flew as if hurled from a siege-engine. Somecrashed against the far wall, spraying shards in all directions. Othersstruck flesh. Shards and stones together left three warriors lifeless and twomore limping or holding useless arms.

Those two were the first prey of the Golden Serpent as it lunged from itslair into the tunnel.

Its teeth sank into one, and the man howled in agony for a dreadfulmoment before going limp. The teeth were as long as Conan's fingers, setin a jaw the length of a horse's head, and it hardly mattered if they werevenomous or not.

The other man died as a tail thicker than his own body swept himagainst the wall. He did not scream, but the cracking of skull andcrunching of bones were loud enough to tell plainly of his fate.

Other men did cry out, though, at what they saw then. Around the twobodies a sickly green light flickered. It was what one might have seen overa noisome swamp, the sort said to be haunted, one to which wise mengave a wide berth. It was the color of the scum on the most stagnant waterof such a swamp. If he had ever seen a less wholesome color in his life,Conan could not remember it.

What he did remember was that Emwaya was in the rear, and that herfate and that of all of them were entwined. He turned back, to reach herjust as she leaped from the arms of the men holding her. She ran at theGolden Serpent, raising high overhead one hand and clutching the amuletabout her neck with the other.

The creature hissed loudly enough to cause echoes, and its toothed jawsgaped so that Conan had much too clear a view of its mouth. The mouthwas green and ridged, except where it was smeared with the blood of theserpent's first victim. Far back in the mouth, the swamp-glow flickered.

A brighter light blazed from the Golden Serpent's many-jeweled eyes. Atanother time and place, the jewel-light might have been lovely. Now it wasonly one more horror.

At Emwaya's gesture, the serpent reared half its length from the floor.Its horned muzzle crashed against the ceiling, shaking loose dust andpebbles. Its tail thrashed about, nearly striking down one man bolder thanthe rest in retrieving his baggage.

From nose to tail, the creature seemed longer than a small galley, andthicker around the middle than a good-sized tree. The golden scales wereas large as good pewter serving platters and overlapped as cunningly aswas the best Aquilonian plate armor. Some were faded to a pale yellow,even to a near white. Conan saw that many had been cracked, or had evenbroken clear across, then healed.

The boldest warrior of all ran past Emwaya, shield slung, spear in bothhands. He leaped and thrust in a single fluid motion, and his spearheadvanished between two pallid scales.

The Golden Serpent shook like a tree in a gale. Still gripping his spear,the warrior flew into the air, legs waving. The serpent's head dipped, andthe jaws closed on one of the man's feet. The warrior did not cry out.Instead, he mustered all his strength to drive the spear in deeper.

He succeeded, in the moment that the serpent's teeth severed his leghalfway up the calf. He screamed then, but did not fall. He remainedsuspended in the air, held up by nothing anyone could see, while thetoo-familiar greenish light played about the blood spraying from thestump of his leg.

At last he fell, still gripping the spear. His fall jerked the weapon fromthe serpent's neck, and greenish blood spurted forth. Where it struck thefloor, smoke rose, and where it fell on the corpse of the man crushed bythe tail, the flesh charred to ashes and crumbled from the bone.

If Conan had ever doubted the stark horror of the magic lurking inthese depths, he doubted no longer. He also doubted that he would everagain put himself in danger for fire-stones.

Emwaya staggered back into his arms, her hands held in front of her ina warding gesture. "Quickly," she whispered. "Have another man throw a

spear."

"You!" Conan called. The iron self-command in his voice steadied thewarriors. The man addressed drew back and put all the force of his bestthrow behind the spear. It struck not far from the wound made by the firstwarrior.

A scale cracked across; this time the blood only oozed out. As Conanwatched, the wound from the first spear closed. Only a smear of blood onthe serpent's neck showed that it had ever taken any hurt. Another smearwas already drying on the floor, not far from the corpse of the man whohad lost his foot to the serpent. That man's bones were even now showingthrough his flesh, and through the green foulness that played over andaround it.

Emwaya drew in a great, rasping breath. "We must keep it coming atus, and wound it each time it comes. We must keep our distance, too. Itheals itself somewhat each time it is wounded, but not altogether. It willlose strength; I will see to that."

"How long will it take to die?"

The Golden Serpent hissed in challenge, pain, and defiance. The hissagain raised such echoes that Emwaya could not have made herself heardhad she shouted into Conan's ear.

As the serpent withdrew some ten paces or so, Emwaya spoke urgently."It will die swiftly if my father comes to join his Spirit-Speaking to mine.We can take from it the power to steal life-force, which is how it heals as itdoes."

Conan thought uncharitable words about sorcerers. It seemed that thebreed was always with you when you did not want them and somewhereelse when you did.

"Ho!" he shouted, raising his sword. "We've need to fight this beast byretreating before it. Baggage men, take the rear rank. The best spearmen,take the foremost. Guard Emwaya at all costs, and for the love of everygod, don't close with the monster !"

Faces showed that the bravest warrior needed no urging on that lastpoint. Conan snatched up a spear from the baggage and joined the rearrank as Valeria ran to stand beside Emwaya.

As if they were all of a single mind, the band drew back ten paces.Encouraged, the serpent lowered its head and came on, but it did notlunge so boldly this time. A spear and a trident flew. The spear sank deep,the trident glanced off the horn on the nose. The trident-thrower would

have dashed forward to retrieve his weapon but for Conan's wordless roarthat halted him in his tracks.

This was likely enough as strange a battle as Conan had ever fought.Overgrown snakes were not uncommon—too common by half if thewounds he had taken whilst battling them were any measure. But he hadnot before fought a serpent that had its own magic, nor fought one asleader of a band of warriors.

A good band, too, he thought as he saw one of the slingers wind up andhurl his stone. It flew true, striking one of the blazing green eyes. Conanexpected the eye to shatter rather than burst, but it did neither. Instead, itmerely quivered like jelly, turned misty and pale for a moment, thenblazed green once more.

The creature hissed, and this time, anyone could tell that it was in pain.Emwaya bit her lip until blood came, then screamed out a warning.

"Be ready, everyone. He'll lunge again!"

The warning was life to at least three men. The great head crasheddown where they would have been standing had they not joined theretreat. Twenty paces to the rear, the band stood again, save for two menwho remained behind to thrust spears in deep. Again Conan's roar savedone from folly as the man struck at the beast's nose with his club. Thewarrior rejoined his comrades without his club or spear, but with a wholeskin.

Then the band put another thirty paces between itself and the GoldenSerpent, while Emwaya not only waved both arms, but chanted loudenough to drown out the sound of the creature's hissing. The two spearsremained in the wounds longer than before, and the gush of blood thatpushed them out also flowed longer.

Victory could be theirs, Conan realized, for all that this was a battle thatonly a madman could have dreamed. Victory might be the last man of theband standing beside the dead serpent, but they would have it!

Then the hissing raised echoes again, Emwaya called a sharp warning,and the deadly dance began once more.

FIFTEEN

The canoes were not the lightest or the swiftest among those of theIchiribu, although their canoe-builders were honored among all the tribesaround the Lake of Death for their skill. Nor were the paddlers the

strongest and most skilled.

Seyganko had simply ordered the first score of paddlers into the firstthree canoes, and all of them had set out under Dobanpu's guidance.Before long, Seyganko thought he might have done better to have waited,picked the best paddlers and canoes, and then made swifter progress. Ifthey were slow in reaching their destination, Emwaya might die. Dobanpuhad made that plain.

A little while later, however, Seyganko saw that the canoes were flyingacross the water as if the paddlers were tireless gods who never missed astroke. He looked back to the Spirit-Speaker, sitting in the stern of theircanoe, and saw a faint smile on the man's face.

Seyganko felt shame that his mistake had been recognized, but alsopride that Dobanpu considered him worthy of help in undoing it. Or wasit entirely Emwaya's safety that moved her father?

The paddles indeed flew back and forth so swiftly that as withwell-thrown spears, the eye could hardly follow them. Nor did the warriorsseem to sweat or grow short of breath. Seyganko remembered uneasilythat such spells as doubled a man's strength could also weaken him forsome time afterward. These warriors would have to fight as well as paddlebefore another day's sun had set.

Meanwhile, they were crossing the Lake of Death at a speed neverbefore known, save to birds. At a shout from Dobanpu, Seyganko raisedhis paddle, and the men of his canoe ceased their efforts. The other twocanoes drew up alongside and also drifted to a stop.

Then, before Seyganko could speak or even move, Dobanpu stood up inthe stern of the canoe, gripped the amulet about his neck tightly, andflung himself overboard. He cut the water without a sound, not even thefaint clooop of a diving fisherbird. For a moment, they saw his legsthrusting him down into the depths; then those depths swallowed him.

A clamor arose from those warriors who had breath left with which tospeak.

"Why, the old fool!"

"Where is he going?"

"He'll drown!"

"No, the lionfish will have him first!"

"He can't swim!"

Seyganko shouted for silence. "My woman's father can swim, that is

certain. There are no hungry fish in this part of the lake, because of thevery thing he has gone to fight. As for the rest— I would not call anySpirit-Speaker a fool. Not when I thought he might come back andremember what I said.

"And if you still think otherwise, keep your tongue between your teeth.Or have you forgotten who may be listening over there?" Seyganko pointedat the Kwanyi shore. Those who had not already fallen silent did so now.

The Golden Serpent had taken the lives of two more warriors beforeConan's band mastered the art of fighting it. That made ten dead or hurtpast fighting, and the rest were growing uneasy. Facing a foe who couldnot be gravely hurt, and—it seemed—not be killed, for all that Emwayapromised otherwise, was nothing to hearten a warrior.

Yet the warriors lost none of their speed or cunning. They darted aboutthe serpent like flies about a horse's head, stinging with the sameremorseless persistence. Some even sang war songs between lunges at theserpent, until Conan commanded them to save their breath.

This disciplined courage pleased Conan, although it did not altogethersurprise him. He had known for years that the Black Kingdoms raisedwarriors fit to stand in battle anywhere in the world. He had not expectedto find so many this far inland, but he rejoiced that he had. Perhaps therewould be more than one man left standing when the Golden Serpentbreathed its last.

A cry rose as Emwaya stumbled on the glassy floor. But Valeria wasstanding over her, sword in one hand, a borrowed spear poised to throw inthe other. Five more warriors were in front of Emwaya before Conan wasable to count them. The young woman herself shook her head andclenched her teeth, but her hair had saved her skull, and her handscontinued their movements, fighting the Golden Serpent's unnatural life.

She was on her feet in the next moment, and Conan saw that theserpent had not lunged for her or her defenders. Was it learning thedangers of well-wielded iron, or was its strength finally ebbing?

Conan knew the perils of believing that a foe was weak or foolish. Yet hefound it hard to believe that anything short of Thunder Mountain itselfcould resist the battering his band had given the Golden Serpent.

Suddenly thunder crashed once more through the tunnel. Conan sworethat he saw the Golden Serpent rise a handbreadth from the floor. Heknew that he saw shields snatched from warriors' arms and cracks appear

in the ceiling. Then fragments of stone rattled down everywhere aboutthem, and a dripping-wet Dobanpu stood before them—on the far side ofthe Golden Serpent.

The serpent might have been shaken. The warriors certainly were. Yetthe beast was swift to coil and lunge at Dobanpu. The Spirit-Speakerstood to meet the assault, only fingering his amulet. Valeria and ahalf-score of warriors cried out in horror, and Conan himself was notsilent.

The lunge fell short of Dobanpu. An arm's length from the man, thegreat fanged head was dragged to a stop, as if a noose had tightened aboutit or the air had turned solid. Dobanpu raised a hand, and coruscatinggolden light arched from Emwaya to him. It sank into him and vanished,leaving no trace except for perhaps an odd glow in his eyes, and Conancould not be sure that was not a trick of the light.

Then Dobanpu turned, and with a speed startling for a man of his age,ran down a side tunnel that no one had noticed before. Again men gaspedin horror, but Emwaya only frowned.

"Has your father gone mad?" Valeria snapped. Conan shook his head. IfEmwaya was not afraid, Dobanpu must have some scheme in mind. Tomake it succeed was another matter.

"What must we do?" he asked the girl.

"He will lead the creature to a place he has sensed, I think. He usedmuch power in coming here, so he will not be able to kill it unaided. But inthat place he seeks, he will find a way of ending its life."

Conan cursed himself for expecting a straight answer from anymagic-wielder. Valeria glared at Emwaya.

"You want us to follow that thing down some burrow where it mightturn and rend us? Trusting only to your father's wizardry?"

"Yes."

"Cimmerian—"

"Call me names afterward. Meanwhile, would you wager two hairs ofyour head on our surviving if Dobanpu dies?"

As always, Valeria saw reason. She leaped out in front of the warriorsand waved her sword. "Come on, you dogs' leavings! It's turned its back tous, and that means it's fleeing!"

The warriors might not have understood all of Valeria's words. Thosewho understood might not have believed that she spoke the truth. All

understood and believed that they should not let the Blue-Eyed Chief'sshield-woman shame them by leading the charge. War cries echoed nearlyas loud as the thunderclap of Dobanpu's appearance, and the Ichiribuwarriors plunged after their foe.

Ryku gazed down into the whirlpool of light that was the LivingWind—or at least its outward form. He stood on the outermost rim of theledge, rather than sitting in the First Speaker's seat.

He had never felt at ease in that seat, and now it was more importantthan ever that he do nothing to make himself feel uneasy. It might be onlya tale that the Living Wind could sense when those in its presence wereafraid, or unsure of themselves, but such tales often held bits of truth.

Also, Ryku did not altogether like what he saw now when he gazed downinto the Living Wind. That it was unveiled by the smoke, long a traditionin the ritual, mattered little. Indeed, he had not called up the smoke,thinking it an outworn custom.

The hues of the Living Wind were still crimson and sapphire, swirling inpatterns that both held and repelled the eye. But the crimson now seemedthe color of old blood, while the sapphire was growing steadily paler.

Also, there was a distant sound that seemed to be everywhere andnowhere at the same time. It was a sound hard to find words to describe.To Ryku, it seemed that if bees could chant war cries, the sound might berather like what he was hearing.

Even the smell of the Cave of the Living Wind had altered. It had alwaysbeen fresh and cool, in spite of being far below the slopes of ThunderMountain, with few natural passages for air. Now the odor of the jungleseemed to be overtaking the cave, or at least the odor of some sort of life.

Why not? Ryku told himself that the Living Wind had earned its namefairly, so why should it not take on some of the qualities of life when itbegan to change?

He had to use all of the disciplines he had learned so as not to be uneasyat that thought, nonetheless. Yet again, why should it be a surprise?Mighty and ancient magic was being wielded in this land, magic leftuntouched for centuries, and the very gods of Thunder Mountain might bewaking.

Ryku now thought he had calmed himself enough to sit down in thechair of the First Speaker. Let the gods wake , he told himself. Let themwake, and they will see that I am their friend and my enemies are theirs.

Then I will not even need Dobanpu, not when I have gods for friends .

Emwaya seemed to be speaking to her father without words, and hergestures guided the war band on the trail of the Golden Serpent. Theymight not have needed that guidance, for the creature now hissed almostcontinuously, and left smears of blood that grew thicker as it writhedalong.

Conan held his tongue. He would not allow his own hopes to rise, letalone those of the band. False hope made warriors careless, and carelesswarriors died in the face of less formidable foes than the Golden Serpent.

The band certainly ran faster with Emwaya guiding them than theywould have dared otherwise. Indeed, Conan did not know how far they hadcome, or how much longer some of the warriors could keep up the pace.Those with baggage were beginning to breathe hard, and some of thosewith slight wounds clearly would need rest before long.

Conan did not like to think of dividing the band, leaving the baggageand the lightly wounded behind. Once divided in these depths, could theband ever unite again? Also, the Golden Serpent might have ways ofdoubling back on its tracks, to fall on such easy prey.

A familiar smell began to tickle the Cimmerian's nostrils. Not one heremembered with pleasure, on the whole, although the giant fungi hadcertainly saved him and Valeria on their first journey underground. Butwhen one has fed off something for so long, the smell lingers in memory.

They were approaching another cave full of the giant fungi. Conanwondered what purpose that might serve, as the Golden Serpent wasplainly a meat-eater. Emwaya was too lost in speaking with her father toanswer to anything save a shout in her ear, and Conan had no wish tobreak her bond with Dobanpu.

The floor sloped more sharply downward now, and the patches of greenblood were not only thicker, but fresher. The warriors had to slow theironrush, to avoid stepping in the still-fuming green patches of death andagony. One warrior was unlucky enough to go down nonetheless, butleaped up at once, holding a blistered hand over his head like a trophy.

"It bleeds! It bleeds, and does not stop! Come, brothers, and we shallmake it bleed to death!"

Then the tunnel bent sharply, and now the blood smeared the walls aswell as the floor. Conan took the lead again, with Valeria just behind him.Around this bend, the serpent might be lying in wait, even if Dobanpu was

alive and well, as he seemed to be, judging by the way Emwaya looked.

Then a sudden battering-ram stroke of the serpent's head caught anunsuspecting warrior to Conan's left. No teeth pierced the man, but thehorn caught his shoulder and hurled him against the wall. Conan heardhis skull crack.

The Cimmerian leaped and thrust in the same motion. His swordslashed deep through scales into the flesh under the serpent's throat. Thescales parted, and blood spurted from a gash a sword's length wide,deeper than any wound the beast had taken thus far.

This time, the hiss was nearly a roar, with an ugly, bubbling note. Bloodsprayed Conan, Valeria, Emwaya, and several warriors. As it had not donebefore, it stung. Conan blinked his eyes clear, wiped off his mouth with theback of his hand, and glanced at his sword-blade. There was no harm to itas far as he could see.

Then they heard Dobanpu calling from beyond the serpent, "Have fireready! When I lead the beast among the earth-fruits, you must cast fireupon them!"

Conan and Valeria spent no time in wondering at the sense ofDobanpu's call. The serpent now writhed in a broader patch of tunnel,half-choked with the fungi. Emwaya's eyes also discouraged questions.

"Flint and steel to the fore! And a torch! Hurry!" Valeria shouted.

A man ran up from the baggage bearers. Valeria struck a spark withflint and steel into the dried, oil-soaked grass at the head of one of thetorches. It blazed up, with flame that was no natural yellow or orange, buta violet hue as sickening as the serpent's blood, as sickening as the magicthe creature used for eating life-force.

Valeria held the torch at arm's length as the serpent backed slowlydeeper into the fungus. Conan stood beside her, sword and spear alikeready. He saw Dobanpu raise a hand and fling what seemed to be a gobbetof the serpent's own blood into its face. He saw the serpent lunge forward,then halt, its head buried deep in a mass of the fungi as tall as two men.

Before Dobanpu or Emwaya could speak, Valeria flung the torch. Itsoared over the serpent's back and plunged into the piled fungi.

Flames puffed up, of the same virulent purple hue as the torch-flame.Thick smoke of similar color rose above them. The Golden Serpentquivered from nose to tail, then flung its head up as if trying to pierce theceiling to seek the open sky.

It failed. As the monster rose, Conan saw that smoke and flames were

pouring from those wounds still open. Green blood turned black; thengolden scales around the wounds also blackened. Smoke rose up fromthroat and body, and at last began pouring from the eyes.

When smoke belched from the serpent's mouth, Conan threw an armaround Valeria's shoulders and drew her close. He could feel hershuddering. He sheathed his sword, dropped his spear, and drew Emwayaclose with his other arm.

They stood that way as the flames they had kindled with the aid ofDobanpu's magic devoured both the fungi and the Golden Serpent. Thebrute was tenacious of its life to the end. Not until the scales were mostlyfallen from the flesh did it stop writhing. Even then Conan thought heheard a faint scraping in the middle of the roaring flames, as if the serpentwere still twitching feebly.

That was the Golden Serpent's last sign of life. Smoke was rising sothickly now that Conan and others were binding strips of cloth acrosstheir mouths and noses. Some wetted the strips as well. Emwaya staredinto the smoke, with it plain on her face that she feared for her father.

Then the smoke eddied and disgorged the staggering figure ofDobanpu. He was coughing like a man in the grip of lung-fever, and sonearly blind that he all but spitted himself on Valeria's sword as he rushedup. Valeria and Emwaya held the Spirit-Speaker while he coughed hislungs clear, then gave him water. When he could speak, he nodded histhanks and then gasped:

"We must hasten from here! I do not know how long this fire will burn,nor how much smoke it will yield. The whole underground may becomeunfit for life."

"I rejoice!" Valeria cried. "We are saved from the Golden Serpent onlyto stifle like rabbits in a burrow!"

"Save your breath for running," Emwaya said, "and you may not findyourself short of it!" It was the first time in a long while that she hadspoken with her old sharpness. Conan took that as a favorable omen;Valeria seemed to think otherwise.

She did follow Emwaya's advice nonetheless. Like the others, she wassilent as they hurried back up the tunnel, the smoke thickening behindthem.

"Wobeku," the Kwanyi warrior said, "a messenger has come from thewatchers of the great crack in the earth."

Wobeku sat up and shook sleep from his head. One of these days, theymight use some honorific for him. At least they had given over calling him"the chief's Ichiribu."

"What is the message?"

"He smells smoke."

"Smoke, as from a fire?"

"So he said."

Wobeku rose and girded himself for battle. When that was done, he wasfully awake. It was also then that he noticed that the jungle was moresilent than usual. Many of the common night birds and insects did not livedown by the Kwanyi shore, but the jungle was neither lifeless nor silentunder the moon.

Until now. Wobeku felt a chill in his loins. He sensed that he was aboutto be called on to fight a foe not wholly of this earth.

"See that the drums warn Chabano and Ryku," he ordered. "Have theguards at the lesser crack drive the logs we have ready into it." That wouldbe of no avail against unearthly foes, but if anyone human tried to comethrough that crack, he would face a long night of ax-work before hesucceeded.

"Gather the guards about the great crack," he concluded. "Not too close,but every man is to be fully armed. The baggage boys and the women areto take the trail back to the villages. At once!"

The man almost made the gesture of respect to a chief before heremembered to whom he was making it. Instead, he nodded and ran off.

Wobeku did not run, but he moved at a brisk trot as he headed downthe trail toward what he knew might be his last battle. The drums weretalking before he was halfway to his post.

SIXTEEN

Conan's band would have gladly run from the smoke faster than theyhad run from the Golden Serpent. There was no need to stop and thrust aspear at the swirling purple wall hard on their heels.

If only they could breathe! Heat followed the smoke, and long tendrils ofboth smoke and heat seemed to clutch at the fleeing men like jungle vines.Conan ventured a look behind him, took one of the tendrils squarely in theface, and nearly coughed himself into a fit.

His feet kept moving by a will of their own, however, until his wits ruledthem again. He did not falter or fall, and neither did most of the band.Those who did, their comrades lifted and carried along.

No one wanted to see a comrade overtaken by this new peril. It wasimpossible to imagine living within that purple murk, even had notstrange shapes lurked there. Conan had seen them, Valeria had seen them,and even Emwaya and Dobanpu admitted they were there.

The two Spirit-Speakers did not, however, say what those shapes mightbe. That was about as much as Conan expected of any sorcerer, and hewas not much for being rude to those who had saved his life. So hefollowed Emwaya's advice to keep his breath for running.

"Here we turn," Dobanpu called. He pointed at a narrow slit in the wallto the right. Dried mud lay on the floor about it, and a smell of jungle rotwarred with the smoke-reek.

As an escape route, it looked unpromising. But Dobanpu seemedconfident, and so far, he had proven trustworthy. Also, Conan had no wishto wait for the fire to burn itself out. Already there was more smoke andheat than all the fungi in all these caves could have produced. Magic wasin this fire, magic of a kind that sensible men escaped as quickly aspossible, even if they did have a momentarily friendly sorcerer incompany.

"Up!" Conan shouted, pointing at the gap. It was a measure of hisauthority, or of their desperation, that four warriors plunged in withouthesitation. Four more followed, carrying the rope ladders and otherclimbing gear. Before any more could go, Emwaya darted in.

Dobanpu's howl caused her to thrust her head back into view. "Father, Ican climb faster than you. Who knows what lies above, or what arts wemay need against it? Be ready to help me if I call."

Then she vanished. Dobanpu looked about wildly, no longer a sorcerer,but a father seeing his child plunge into danger. "Valeria!" Conan called."I'll take the rear. You join the vanguard and see to Emwaya!"

Valeria left with the next handful of warriors. The men were, in fact,now disappearing so fast that Conan wondered if the way to the surfacewas easier than he had dared believe. If they found stairs—

"Conan!" Valeria called. "There are stairs up to the surface, and open sky above! Make haste!"

Conan needed no urging. The tendrils of smoke seemed to curl about hisankles, then his knees, then his waist. He drew his sword and hacked at

them as if they were living foes, and saw them retreat. But his sword wasgrowing hot to his touch, and he knew that if the main mass of smokesurrounded him, he was lost.

Dobanpu shouted three harsh syllables, then reeled against the wall as ifthe blood had rushed from his head. Conan watched the wall of smokedraw back as the Golden Serpent had done, and felt the heat diminish.Then he all but flung the Spirit-Speaker through the gap and followedhim.

The stairs were there, and—incredibly—the Cimmerian could indeed seestars shining above. He dragged Dobanpu toward the rise, but theSpirit-Speaker held back.

"I must restore the guardian spells on these stairs," he gasped, "or thesmoke-bringer will follow us, catch us halfway up, burn us in mid-stride—"

"As you wish," Conan said. Arguing with a sorcerer was more futile thanfighting with one. The Cimmerian had won battles with many sorcerers,but had won arguments with few.

This spell called for more than three times three syllables. WhenDobanpu was done, the gap behind them was yet dark with smoke, but thetendrils did not escape. The air in the stairwell remained musty but cleanas Conan and the Spirit-Speaker mounted.

They had just caught up with the rearmost warrior when, from above,Emwaya screamed.

The scream floated across the dark lake to Seyganko's canoe. Everyonein the three leading canoes heard it, but only Seyganko heard it in hismind. He desperately sought a message in the scream.

Emwaya! What is the danger? Where are you?

No answer came. He knew that for her cry to reach him this far out inthe lake, she had to be close to the shore. Also, she had to be on or close tothe surface of the earth.

This gave neither knowledge nor consolation. He thrust his paddle indeep and looked behind him. Then he gave his war cry with all the breathin his body, and thrust again with his paddle.

Without magic, with nothing but their strength and their sweat, theother warriors were overtaking him. A hundred of the Ichiribu's bestfighters had gone to the mainland, to defend the herds and crops. Of therest, four hundred had taken to their canoes to challenge the Kwanyi on

their own shore. Only a handful remained behind to guard the island.

As if Seyganko's war cry had been a signal, torches sparked to life in thebows of the oncoming canoes. It seemed as though a line of fire wasadvancing across the lake behind Seyganko.

He held his paddle aloft like a spear until the leading canoes werealmost abreast of his craft. Then he tossed the paddle, caught it, and gavehis war cry again. This time, the warriors gave it back to him so that itseemed to fill the night and the lake, from shore to shore. If the Kwanyihad not known what was coming, they could hardly be ignorant of it now.

Seyganko began paddling again. The brief sense of triumph left him ashe realized that he had heard nothing more from Emwaya, neither withhis ears nor with his mind.

Conan took the stairs two at a time, for all that they were crumblingand moss-grown. Once he nearly missed his footing and fell back. Hegripped a root with one hand and caught himself in time so as not tosquash Dobanpu like a grape.

The stairs ended at a man's height from the surface, but to pickedIchiribu warriors, that distance was but a child's leap; they had alreadyreached solid ground by the time Conan joined them.

The first thing he saw was a warrior falling with a Kwanyi spear in histhigh. Conan snatched the man's shield and drew his own sword, thenwhirled, searching for Emwaya and Valeria.

He found them by a tree lifted half off the ground by its gnarled, twistedroots, each root thicker than the Golden Serpent. Valeria was hacking atthe spears of half a dozen Kwanyi warriors, while two other warriorsalready had Emwaya. Had their comrades so eager to close with Valerianot blocked them, they would have by now made off with the girl.

The warriors whirled to face Conan, tangling their shields one withanother in their haste. This was fatal to one warrior left unshielded. Conanbrusquely slashed the man's head from his shoulders, then leaped back togive him room to fall.

The rest of the Kwanyi formed their shield-line. In the next moment,they learned that others besides themselves could master that art, and notonly by the tutelage of Chabano the Great. Conan beat down one spearwith his sword, hooked his shield around the edge of a second man'sspear, and kicked upward. He was barefooted, but his soles were as toughas leather and the kick had all the power of his leg behind it.

The man screamed and reeled against a comrade, who fell out ofposition. Conan feinted at that man, forcing him to raise his shield. Thenhe slashed under the shield, taking the man's leg below the knee.

A spear thrust past Conan's ribs, nearly gouging his side, and hewhirled again to chop the spear-shaft in two with his sword. Then hecharged the man like a bull, driving the shield back against his opponent'schest until the man lowered it to see clearly. The man's last sight was ofConan's broadsword descending to split his headdress, hair, and skull.

Valeria cut down another opponent, and the last of the Kwanyi warriorstook only a brief look at the odds they faced after the death of their friendsbefore fleeing into the night. Conan swung his shield hard into the back ofone man holding Emwaya and heard the spine crack. Valeria leaped onthe other, jerked his head back with fingers twined in his hair, and slashedhis throat.

Emwaya stood free, clasping her arms across her breasts, her eyes onthe ground for a moment. Then she seemed to shrug a great weight fromher shoulders.

"Father?"

Dobanpu strode up and put out a hand to touch his daughter as if notquite believing she was real. She gripped the hand and smiled.

"I am well, I think."

"Time to be sure later," Dobanpu said. He gripped his amulet with onehand and his belt pouch with the other. "The God-Men may not be whatthey were. I have sensed quarrels that perhaps have weakened them. But ifthey still command the Living Wind—"

Kwanyi war cries interrupted him. Conan threw down the shield, wipedhis sword on it, and drew his dagger.

"The Living Wind can wait. Someone close at hand still commandswarriors!" He pushed Emwaya into her father's arms, then called toValeria.

"Find a path to the shore and see if we can draw back toward it. Thisplace is worthless now. We want our backs to the water!"

Fleet-footed as ever, Valeria vanished into the night. From the junglebeyond, Kwanyi warriors came bursting through the undergrowth.

Wobeku led the warriors attacking the enemy who had sprung from theearth. Not only his honor drove him forward to that place; he knew that if

the Kwanyi gained the victory with him at their head, he would have awarrior's name among them.

Had he run faster, he might have plunged among the Ichiribu beforethey could order their ranks. He would then have died but would have wonwith his life sufficient time for his comrades to strike the scattered enemy.Then not even the Cimmerian's swiftness, skill, and steel might have savedthem.

Wobeku instead brought his men to the field as Chabano had taught.He put them into their proper line before he ordered the advance, andonly darted out ahead of it at the last moment.

Behind him, the Kwanyi line came out of the trees somewhat disorderedby encounters with the underbrush. The first volley of light spears wentmostly astray. One spear even gouged Wobeku's leg. He howled out hisfury at that fool in a war cry and let the Kwanyi come up with him.

A swung stone cracked against his shield. Wobeku stepped forward andducked his head. This time, the stone-swinger looped the line around thetop of Wobeku's shield and jerked. Wobeku did not let go of the shield.Instead, he let himself be drawn forward, then leaped and lunged. Thestone-swinger died with Wobeku's spear in his belly.

" Yaygo !" Wobeku cried, the ritual proclamation of a man's first kill of abattle.

The next moment, someone nearly won the right to cry that over him.The Kwanyi at his right suddenly vanished, fallen into the crack in theearth. An Ichiribu warrior darted forward in his place, locking shieldswith Wobeku and thrusting desperately over, under, and around.

Wobeku took two minor flesh wounds before he was able to riposte withhis own spear. It gashed the Ichiribu's belly, but not mortally. The mandid not flinch from the pain, either. He kept on thrusting, less skillfullywith each passing moment, but with no diminished courage.

This was the kind of battle that to Wobeku showed Chabano to be awise chief. When engaged in an each-man-for-himself fight, Wobeku hadoften been unable to press home for the kill. He had feared, with reason,for his flanks and rear. In the Kwanyi shield-line, his flanks were safe, evenin such a small battle as this. Had there been the usual second line behindhim, his back would also have been guarded.

Wobeku thrust again—and nearly stumbled as his thrust encounteredempty air. He stared at the space where his opponent had been, then sawother Kwanyi doing the same. As if by magic, the Ichiribu had vanished.

Before the Kwanyi sprawled only a few bodies and fallen weapons, barelyhalf of them Ichiribu.

Chabano's warriors lived, with no one to fight. Wobeku waved his greatspear, ordering a few men over to the crack in the ground to see whatmight lie within. They found nothing, save footprints that made it plainhow the Ichiribu had come.

Come by magic? And if come by magic, had they vanished by the sameway? Wobeku knelt and began searching the ground with a hunter's skills.In the dark it was not easy, but he knew that torches would only give anylurking Ichiribu a mark.

His nightsight at last pierced the darkness, showing footprints leadingoff toward the shore. There were many of them, and some showed the heelscarifications of Ichiribu clans.

Wobeku called the best trackers forward, gave them fresh spears, andsent them on. Their orders: to find where the Ichiribu had gone and sendword back, but to refrain from fighting them. A messenger also ran backto the drummers, and soon the drums began talking again.

Whatever the Ichiribu had done below the earth, it was done. Now theylikely intended to hold the shore for their oncoming comrades. Wobekuintended to show the enemy band that it needed more than its back to theshore for safety.

A retreat at night over unknown ground was the hardest of allmaneuvers in war, or so Conan had heard claimed by those who hadearned the right to speak. He had also been both warrior and captain inenough such affairs to believe this the truth.

With ill-ordered men, it was said to be impossible, but the Ichiribuwere not ill-ordered. Every man still on his feet when they broke off thebattle reached the shore. Some were stumbling, two were carried bycomrades, but all were present.

Of warriors fit to fight, however, Conan saw that he had barely twenty.The battle with the Golden Serpent had taken its toll even before theKwanyi had struck. Many Kwanyi had also surely died, but nevertheless,he did not doubt that his band faced heavy odds.

The plan for this battle called for the Ichiribu to command the trails tothe shore so that they might ambush Chabano's warriors as they hurledthemselves into battle. Coming to the shore in disarray, Chabano's menwould lack time to form their potent shield-line.

Plans, Conan sometimes thought, were for gods, priests, and clerks.Warriors had to make do with luck and a keen edge on their blades.

A glance lakeward encouraged the Cimmerian. With torches blazing,the Ichiribu canoes were racing toward the shore. They would be visiblenow all across the Kwanyi land, even as far as to Thunder Mountain. TheKwanyi would know what they faced, but that knowledge might drivethem to haste.

Haste in war was a two-edged sword. Be there first, and victory mightbe yours. Be there first but disordered or weak, and your vanguard at leastwas men thrown away.

A scraping sound made Conan whirl, sword ready to slash at thedarkness. A shape took form out of that darkness, and Conan lowered hisblade.

"Seyganko. Well met."

"As are you, Cimmerian. How fares Emwaya?"

Conan smiled. The war leader of the Ichiribu would ask for his womanfirst. The Cimmerian wondered if he himself would have such a womanagain. There had not been one such since Belit—and Valeria was not thesort to fill those shoes!

"Weary, but well. Valeria guards her. How came you here without ourseeing you?"

"The canoes with me doused our torches and paddled in silence, I havebrought thirty warriors. Surprise is worth much."

So it was, but the hundreds of other warriors now doubtless paddling incircles while waiting for Seyganko's signal were also worth something. DidSeyganko seek surprise or glory—glory bought with the Cimmerian'sblood?

No good ever came of a quarrel between chiefs on the verge of a battleto the death. Conan held his tongue, knowing that if Seyganko had beenoverbold, the young chief would also not see another sunrise.

"Good. Go ask Dobanpu how far forward it is wise for them to come."

"Dobanpu?"

"Also weary, but well. He fears that the gods of Thunder Mountain maybe taking a hand in matters tonight. Best not send your men beyond hisprotection."

Seyganko clearly wanted to know more, but Conan urged him off to theSpirit-Speaker, who could make more sense in relating the battle

underground than could the Cimmerian. Conan himself found a stump nottoo rotten to support his weight and sat down to clean his steel.

It was not in nature for this lull to last. His band had thrown down achallenge to both men and more than men, and both sorts of foe would becoming on in strength before the night was much older. Conan knew,however, that no man was ever the worse for facing any foe with a cleansword.

SEVENTEEN

The drums, the messengers, and the sightings of his own eyes weregiving Chabano uncertain tidings. He nonetheless kept his place at thehead of the warriors racing downhill toward the shore.

The drums and his eyes told him that the Ichiribu were on the wayacross the lake. Messengers told him that by some treachery, or perhapsby some magic, an enemy war band had sprung from the earth and washolding a landing place for the main body of oncoming warriors.

Chabano hoped it was not treachery. It would make enemies for himamong the kin of those warriors who had died if trusting Wobeku hadshed Kwanyi blood. At least the dead could not number more than ahandful, even if Wobeku had contrived their demise.

At Chabano's back there trotted more than five hundred Kwanyiwarriors. Each bore the shield and three spears he had devised and taughtthem to use so well. When they reached the shore, it would hardly be abattle at all.

He did wonder that he had not heard from Ryku. The First Speakercertainly had to know all that was happening, including the magic beingunleashed— and not all of it by that doddering Spirit-Speaker Dobanpu!

It did not matter greatly. Dobanpu might have power over Wobeku'sblowgun. He would hardly have as much power against five hundred of theKwanyi's best. There would be spears through the man's throat, heart, andbelly before he could speak enough spirits to slay a goat!

Conan had led the Ichiribu ambush party up the path from the shore.Now he crouched under an arching root, trying to find the men he had led.The fewer he found, the better they had learned the art of concealment.

He found one and whistled softly, then pointed to a bush that wouldhide him better. The man thumped his head three times on the ground.

Conan was ready to curse him for putting courtesy before obedience, butthen the man half rolled, half slid into his new hiding place.

He had just vanished when the stamping of many fast-moving feetreached the Cimmerian's ears. Conan drew his dagger and rested his freehand on a pile of small stones he had chosen from a stream-bed.

This would be close work, too close for swords, and the more silent, thebetter. If a few-score Kwanyi died before they even knew they faced death,Chabano would have a busy time rallying those who survived beforeSeyganko had all of his men ashore.

That would strain even Chabano's discipline, although the ambushparty would be all but juggling live vipers. But then, most battles endedthat way, no matter how one began them.

The sound of the Kwanyi on the march swelled, then began to fade. Inmoments, silence had taken its place. Few ears but Conan's could haveheard the softer sound of many men breathing, and commands given inwhispers instead of in shouts.

"They're still coming," he murmured to the man next to him. "Pass theword, and have every man look to his rear as well."

If Chabano had grown suspicious, he might well be halting his maincolumn while light-footed scouts beat the bushes ahead and on either side.The Kwanyi would lose time that way, but they might save warriors. Theywould certainly put Conan and his men in peril.

Conan whispered another command. "When you attack, forget silence!Shout and scream, crack your lungs, burst your throats—"

"Make them think a score are a thousand?" his companion whisperedback. The Cimmerian nodded.

Now the sound of marching Kwanyi came again, this time a shuffle asthe warriors advanced at a walk. Conan gripped a stone and balanced it,ready to throw.

The first Kwanyi appeared. Conan let him pass, and likewise the ninemen after him. The tenth man took the flung stone in the mouth. Hestaggered back, spitting blood and teeth, into the reach of anotherIchiribu. This one held a short spear, which he thrust into the Kwanyi'sback.

"Yah-haaaaaa!" Conan roared as he leaped onto the path. He thrustover a lunging spear-point and into a man's chest before the victim couldget his shield positioned. He snatched another stone and flung it far upthe path, into the shadowy mass of warriors now crowding forward to the

attack.

The faster the warriors crowded forward, however, the less room therewas for them to move and fight. Conan had done his best to find a placewhere the trail was narrow and the ground to either side of it nearlyimpassable. Chabano was helping by letting the need for haste rule hisjudgment.

Conan and half a dozen companions kept the head of the column in playfor a good while. A moment came when Conan threw his last stone, heardit strike a shield, and drew his sword. With sword and dagger both leapingin his hands as if they had life of their own, he carved away at the frontrank of the Kwanyi.

Through the gap Conan made, his companions plunged, thrusting withspears and lashing about with war clubs. Meanwhile, stones, tridents,fallen branches, and any other weapon that came to hand also made theirmark on the Kwanyi flanks.

What Conan hoped the most now was that Chabano himself wouldcome forward. Tribal custom and the Paramount Chief's own temperwould drive him into a duel with Conan. For that duel, there could be onlyone outcome.

The ambush could end the battle, and even the war, in an Ichiribuvictory. Conan drew back a trifle, keeping his guard up, shirting about tomake himself a difficult target for spears, and seeking for any sign ofChabano.

At last he caught sight of a man who undoubtedly was the chief—in thevery same moment that the earth shook underfoot.

Ryku had performed all of the rituals for calling up the Living Wind asif he had sucked them in with his mother's milk. Pride and courage flowedthrough him. He knew he courted no danger in performing the ritualsalone, such was his power at last.

Yet the colors of the Living Wind had not returned to their normal hues,save briefly. Again there was an umber tint in the crimson, a paleness inthe sapphire. The strange sounds and stranger scent were gone, but thememory of them lingered in Ryku's thoughts. He had to force thesethoughts back, as one forced back a boar caught on one's spear, lest theydisturb his confidence.

Now came the most demanding ritual of all. Sending the power of theLiving Wind entirely outside Thunder Mountain had been done. It could

be done again. If it was done, the Living Wind would fall on the Ichiribuand they would be gone without the wetting of a single Kwanyi spear.

No, Ryku told himself, he would not allow the word "if" in his mind. He would call up the Living Wind and send it forth.

He sat straighter and raised his staff in one hand, a gourd of cunninglymixed herbs in the other. He hung the gourd from the end of the staff anddipped into it, catching a pinch of the herbs between thumb andforefinger.

Ritual and good sense alike told a Speaker to begin with only a smallmeasure of the herbs. Ryku leaned forward, opened thumb and forefingerand let the herbs float out into space. They vanished almost at once, lostagainst the swirling colors of the Living Wind, so that he did not knowwhen they reached it.

He did know, though, when the whole cave shook like a gourd flungagainst a stone wall. He clutched his staff with one hand and reached forthe gourd to draw it to safety.

A whirling column of crimson and sapphire, as bright as ever, leapedupward from the Living Wind. It approached the gourd, touched it, thensnatched it from the end of Ryku's staff.

Ryku cried out, rose to his feet and hastened to the ledge to see,amazement bordering on fear sweeping through him, weakening thediscipline of his mind. He lunged for the gourd as the column begansinking, taking the gourd with it.

He touched it, too—but the column rose again, and now it had becomecrimson-and-sapphire flames that wrapped themselves around his wrist.He cried out, an animal scream of agony, as the flames ate through hiswrist.

The pain and his all-encompassing fear made him forget that he stoodon the very brink of the ledge. He staggered, and one foot came down onempty air. He threw out his remaining hand toward the stone, feltfingernails scrabble and break, then plunged.

What Ryku had felt before was as nothing to what he felt when theLiving Wind swallowed him. But by then, the roaring of the tumult wastoo loud for anyone to hear his screams.

"To me! Back down the trail! Now, you goats' bastards!"

Conan's shouts rallied the Ichiribu ambushers. Some of them plunged

off into the forest, their way back to the path barred by the enemy. At leasthalf of the survivors joined the Cimmerian.

With more speed than dignity, they sprinted down the trail, for all thatit was shaking beneath them. A tree toppled across their rear, mercifullystriking no one. Conan halted then, letting the others go on while hestudied the Kwanyi.

He had been afraid that in a panic to leave the hillside, the enemywould rush his men, sweeping them away by sheer weight of numbers.Now that was not to be, for all that Chabano had taken the lead. Theywere coming on at a good pace, leaving older warriors and boys to gatherup the wounded and dead, and perhaps to protect their line of retreat.

Very surely, Chabano's death would take not merely the heart, but thehead from the Kwanyi… which would all be very well if Conan had thefaintest notion of how to bring it about. A personal challenge would onlyend with the Cimmerian sprouting a score of spears before Chabano evenheard him!

The Cimmerian brought up the rear of the ambush party as it ran downthe trail to rejoin its comrades. He had never cared for running, but therewere times when a good pair of legs was a man's best weapon.

As the Ichiribu ran, they noticed that the earthquake seemed to havepassed, but a strange glow was rising into the sky from the direction ofThunder Mountain.

Chabano let a dozen or so warriors go before him, leaping over thefallen tree ahead. This was no time for him to risk a spear from somedesperate Ichiribu lying behind the tree.

No spears came. Chabano leaped high, as he had done when a boy.Landing sent a sharp pain through one knee that reminded him he was not a boy, but he did not stumble. His spear was over one shoulder and hisshield on the other arm, and he was well in front of his warriors when hesaw the sky change color.

It turned crimson and sapphire—and Chabano remembered that thosewere the colors of the Living Wind. It seemed that Ryku had sent hispowers forth after all, and not a moment too soon! If the Kwanyi had tofight all the way down the trail and then face the full strength of unshakenfoes, tonight's battle would leave neither tribe with enough men to peoplea village!

"Waaa-yeh!" he shouted. The Kwanyi took up the cry and obeyed the

command. Feet drummed on hard earth, men screamed in sheer animaldelight, and spears clashed on shields.

Meanwhile, the glow above no longer covered half the sky. It wasshrinking as the colors grew clearer and brighter. It also seemed that thecolors whirled and danced, like an eddy in a stream. Then they shrank stillfurther, into a globe almost too dazzling to look at.

Chabano raised his spear and shield so that the Living Wind might seehis marks of rank and know who to obey. Ryku had done well indeed. Hewas giving over the power of the Living Wind to Chabano himself! Thepoor fool Ryku—he could not imagine how little hope there was of everhaving it returned.

Chabano's joy overcame him. He flung his spear straight into the sky asthe globe of whirling crimson and sapphire plunged for him. Light andspear met—and where the spear had been, only charred splinters anddrops of melted iron remained. They showered down about Chabano, andsurprise as much as pain made him cry out when a drop of metal burnedthrough skin into the flesh of his shoulder.

The warriors behind him cried louder, and he knew that some of themwere turning to run. He whirled, unslinging his light throwing spear,vowing to put it through the first man he saw breaking from the column.But instead of one, he saw a dozen men running, and that was the lastthing he saw. Before he could throw his spear, the Living Wind was allabout him.

As Ryku had done, Chabano screamed while the Living Wind devouredhim, but no one heard his screams. With some, it was because they alsowere dying, but with most, it was because they heard only the bloodthundering in their ears as they fled.

Most of Conan's men had reached the shore when they saw the fire onthe hill. The Cimmerian himself was still on the trail, with one companion.He sent the man onward and sought a good hiding place to see whatmight come next.

The earth shook again, more fiercely than before. Conan heard thecrackle of falling trees and the screams of Kwanyi warriors caught underthem. He also heard other Kwanyi crying out, and not with war cries.

As little as he liked the thought of approaching potent magic, he likednot knowing what enemy he faced even less. Sword in hand, he rose fromhis hiding place—then knew he need not take a step to find the answer to

what was happening up the trail.

A being of crimson-and-sapphire light swirling together, withsomething of a man's shape but as high as a temple, came striding downthe path. Where its—call them feet—struck the earth, smoke rose: themephitic purple smoke that Conan remembered from underground.

Those same powers from underground were now loose on ThunderMountain. Why, Conan neither knew nor cared. He hoped only that theKwanyi, enemies that they were, had fled for their lives. Death in suchguise, he would not wish upon a Stygian!

Conan plunged downhill from the trail, knowing that the being couldfollow him at will if it chose, but hoping that it would follow the easierpath of the trail. The specter seemed solid enough not to wish to ploughthrough trees thicker than its legs all the way to the shore.

If Conan had been running for his own life, a Cimmerian's reluctance toturn his back on a foe might have slowed him. Running for the lives ofValeria and all of his Ichiribu friends, he plunged down the hill as if itwere level ground in daylight.

The magical light from the monster eased his way somewhat, but therewere still many shadows, and too many trees lurking in those shadows. Henearly stunned himself twice, left patches of skin and more than patches ofhis clothes on bark or twigs, but still had his weapons as he staggered,bloody and cursing, onto the open shore.

He had reached the open a trifle to the north of where the Ichiribu werenow gathered. The light of their torches made it plain that they werearrayed to meet a human foe.

Conan cursed louder than before. Spears snapped up and heads turned.

"Into the canoes!" he shouted. "You can't fight with spears what'scoming downhill. Seek the water, and hope the thing can't swim!"

A slim figure with smoke-darkened fair hair ran from the circle."Conan! We thought it had taken you!"

The Cimmerian and his shield-woman had time for only the briefest ofembraces before they broke apart, each to lead a band of warriors into arear guard.

Seyganko was shouting orders to the other warriors to run for thecanoes when Dobanpu stepped forward. From the way Emwaya wasclutching her father's arm, the old Spirit-Speaker was clearly aboutsomething of which she did not approve. Seeing Conan, Dobanpubeckoned.

"Conan! Bid your shield-woman guard this foolish daughter of mineuntil I have done my work."

"Your work?" Conan knew he must sound like a witling, but in thismatter, he understood no more than one.

"I cannot command the spirits to drive off the Living Wind, still less todestroy it. I might have had that power once, or even now, had I notfought the battle underground. But I can contrive a battle of the spirits sothat they will do the work for me, like elephants crushing an enemy'svillage."

"He must—" Emwaya shrieked.

"You must be silent now, and afterward, a good Spirit-Speaker to theIchiribu," Dobanpu said. "Also, a good wife to Seyganko, who deservesone."

Then Dobanpu cast aside his headdress and other garb. Clad only inamulet, loinguard, and pouch, he walked with the dignity of a king ofkings toward the foot of the trail.

He reached the beginning of the rise a few heartbeats before themonstrosity did. There was a moment when the man and the creation ofmagic seemed to stare at one another. Then Dobanpu leaped, as lightly asany bidui boy, soaring high.

He soared higher than any man could have done with unaided muscles,spending the last of his magic to strike the specter in the chest. Conanexpected to see Dobanpu rebound from the being, to fall like a torn doll tothe ground, and to be crushed to pulp. Instead, he seemed to stick to thebeing, like a fly caught in honey.

Then smoke swirled up around him… and he was gone. For a moment,Conan thought he saw with half dazzled eyes the dark shape of a manwithin the shape of the monster. Then even that vanished.

A moment later, so did the being itself. It vanished with a roar ofthunder that Conan did not doubt was heard in Bossonia. The windblast itflung out snapped grown trees at the base, tossed canoes end over end,and knocked nearly every man on the shore flat on the sand and gravel.

Conan and Valeria dug in fingers and toes and clung to the beach asthey would have clung to the yard of a ship in a gale. Closing their eyesagainst the hurled sand and gravel, they could only judge what else mightbe happening by the noise, and most of that was the wind.

At last the wind died out. The shouts and cries did not, however. Conanraised himself on hands and knees and saw the Ichiribu hastily running

from a stretch of the shore that was now covered with molten rock. Thelava was pouring from a gap in the earth where Conan judged the beinghad stood in the moment of its destruction.

As the stream of lava reached the lake, steam erupted. More steamseemed to be rising from inland, doubtless from the stairs where Conan'sband had climbed from the tunnels. Then Valeria gripped Conan's armand pointed out over the water.

The lake itself was in turmoil, whirlpools appearing and disappearingwithin moments, spray rising, live fish thrashing and more than a fewdead ones bobbing on the surface before they were sucked out of sight.Some of the Ichiribu canoes were ablaze, engulfed by the lava, while othersbobbed on the lake, swept away by the churning water.

Conan would wager a good deal that the tunnels far below had finallylost their magic and were now losing their long battle against the weightof the earth. That would put an end to the fire and any air-breathingcreatures alive down there, but what of those shadowy water-dwellers?Would they also die with the magic, or live to infest the Lake of Death?

Conan shouted to one fool of a warrior ready to dive into the lake toswim to a fugitive canoe. Then he saw Seyganko striding along the shore,waving men back from the water.

Conan brushed sand and gravel off Valeria and let her do the same forhim.

"You're bleeding," she said. "I think there are salves somewhere downthere."

"I'm better off bleeding, I think. I'm for staying well away from thewater until we've asked Emwaya what happened."

"If she knows."

"You saw her face. Her father told her what he was going to do to… tothe Living Wind, I'd wager."

Valeria shuddered. Then her sword was in her hand as a warrior withKwanyi headdress and Ichiribu tattoos rose slowly from the bushes.

"Wobeku!" Conan and Valeria said together.

The traitor kept his hands in plain sight. "Great chiefs, do with me asyou please when you have heard me out. I wish to yield the men under meto the mercy of the Ichiribu and their chiefs. I can also name thoseunderchiefs of the Kwanyi who may listen to talk of peace between ourtribes."

Conan and Valeria looked at each other. They knew of the clan rivalriesamong the Kwanyi. If Chabano was dead, as seemed likely, the Ichiribumight use these rivalries to impose a victor's peace.

"Was it you or Aondo who slew the bidui boys?" Valeria asked.

"Aondo."

Somehow to Conan that had the ring of truth.

"This is a matter for Seyganko and Emwaya," he said. "Lie down onyour shield so none will put a spear through you until we return. Bid yourfolk stay out of sight. And pray to the gods that you are telling the truth!"

Wobeku swore several potent oaths with a certain dignity that Conanthought did him some honor, then assumed the pose of submission. "Nowwe'd best make haste to Seyganko, before someone skewers our would-bepeacemaker," the Cimmerian grumbled as he broke into a trot. "And hereI thought our work was done!"

"We can't seek out the river until the lake's fit to sail on," Valeriareminded him. "Nor am I one for sitting idle while others work."

"But then—"

She slipped an arm around his waist. "Downriver to the Trading Coast.I've still those fire-stones, and as long as no Golden Serpent comes withthem, they may buy us a ship."

"Buy you a ship," Conan said. Her touch was as warming to his blood asever, but he knew too much about the other sides of her nature. "Two of uson one ship would divide the crew. I'm for turning landsman anyway, untilthe Barachans have forgotten the name of Conan the Cimmerian."

" They may forget it," Valeria said with a complacent smile. " I will not."

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